I place my camera on top of the pine dresser.
“Why don’t you both go sit on the bed?” he says, his eyes fixed and stark.
I take Poi-Poi’s hand and squeeze it, catching Navid stealing a glimpse at Ella’s white T-shirt—worn tighter than usual, no bra—the heels on her shoes lifting her a couple of inches higher than they might have six months ago. Ella flicks her kinked hair and bends down to adjust the strap on her shoe, her skirt riding like a raised flag, alerting him to her delicious danger and knowing how much he likes it. He smiles and strokes Ella’s cheek.
“I like your shoes.” Poi-Poi smiles.
“Thanks,” Ella says, “they’re new.”
“Turn that down a little.” Navid points to a shoddy plastic CD player, its sound homegrown and tinny.
Eyes on Ella as she twists down the music, he paws at the camera’s tripod—unscrewing and lengthening its legs so its height matches the bed. Ella fingers a lonely strand of hair. Is she flirting? Did he catch her nervous laugh earlier, the twitch of her upper lip that I know to mean she’s stirred, or fearful? An arch in her back hinting at sex. Is she acting? Or does she mean it?
Navid rests his hands on his hips, concentration fixed. His tongue curled at the edge of his lip. Poi-Poi bounces up and down on the bed.
“I want new shoes too,” she demands.
Nobody answers.
I start to wonder how putting a lens between myself and the world has been a protection against more than physical danger. It has shielded me, offered opportunity to combat illness, and protected me from terrible things: demonstrators, grieving mothers, and families forced to leave their homes. For a moment I worry that the very thing that has helped balm my struggles will now be used against me.
Navid wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
“There,” he says evenly. “We’re good to go.”
Ella smiles.
We’re good to go.
Go slow.
Go? No.
Yes, go.
Go. Go. Go.
Leave.
Run—
I can’t leave, I say, the Flock watching from the Nest.
Navid finds an edge on the bed and glazes over, I think with either anticipation or thrill—it’s hard to tell.
“You’re so pretty,” he says, catching Poi-Poi’s free hand. “Isn’t she pretty?”
Ella and I turn away.
“Thank you,” she says. “Is Shaun coming to watch too?”
“Not today, baby,” Navid says.
I stand, the Body needing to orient itself. Steady its shake. My feet fixed firmly on the floor.
The music, now low, takes a turn from dance to R&B. Poi-Poi begins to swing both my and Navid’s arms in time to the rhythm. A swaying back and forth of our hands not unlike a mother and father walking their little girl to school.
Urgh. Go. Go. Go. Leave. Run—
Dolly is ordered to stay inside the Nest while Oneiroi keeps watch. Runner waiting by the Light, just in case. I stare down at Poi-Poi, hating myself for what I’m about to do.
Navid turns to Ella. “Here,” he says, handing her a bundle of clothes and suddenly standing. “Take her next door and help her get ready.”
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the Banana Hater cuts me a glance. I note a tasseled lamp has been planted in the center of the room, along with posters of Justin Bieber, Katy Perry, and Chinese pop stars whose names I don’t know. In the far corner a thirteenth birthday party balloon sits deflated.
There is a girl slumped on the pink mattress.
“Don’t mind her,” the Banana Hater says with a dismissive hand, “she’s wasted. Had enough K to blow a mule.”
K? I voice in my head.
Special K, Runner informs me, ketamine. Horse sedative: completely knocks you out cold.
“She’ll come back around soon enough,” the Banana Hater says, turning the page of a gossip magazine. “Shaun said to let her sleep it off.”
A shudder runs through my body.
I stroke the arm of the wasted girl. A white tag around her wrist like on a newborn baby: Líang. 14? written in green ink.
With her age unknown, I wonder if she was ever held in her mother’s arms. Or if her assumed fourteen years have been lived in motherless fear. Did her mother sell her out? Or was the woman seduced by Tao’s money and lies that spoke of taking care of her baby girl, more opportunity, more fun?
She stirs.
Get the photographs over with, then we leave and go straight to the police, Runner says.
Momentarily calmed, knowing this will be our last time here, I drop down on the mattress, Poi-Poi at my side.
“See you later,” the Banana Hater says, magazine now rolled and held like a baton. “I need food.”
I sense Ella hesitate as she unfolds the bundle of clothes—a white pleated gym skirt, a tank top, bobby socks, and pumps. Two hair baubles meant for two pigtails. A cheerleader.
“I’ll dress myself,” Poi-Poi sings, “I do it all the time.”
My heart snags on shame, then shrivels to the size of a nut.
What are we doing? Oneiroi shouts.
Quiet, Runner orders, pointing. Keep watch of Dolly.
Both asleep—the wasted girl on the pink bed and Dolly in the Nest—I feel my envy rise at their lack of witness to this sordid event.
Focus, Runner says, digging me in my rib, buck up.
Nodding, I shrug back into myself and take out my phone, my focus on the wasted girl’s name tag.
Tap, tap.
“What are you doing?” Poi-Poi asks.
“Just practicing before I photograph you,” I say, turning away, tears slowly releasing.
Stupid fucking crybaby, the Fouls scoff.
Navid is sitting on the satin sheet waiting for us.
“She needs more makeup,” he says, spinning Poi-Poi like a prima ballerina on pointe. “And her hair—it’s too limp. Curl it.”
I make a face and reach in my pocket, feeling for whatever weapon Runner has hidden. This time brass knuckles.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, confused.
I don’t answer.
“I said, what’s wrong?”
I shrug.
He stares.
“Time of the month?” He snickers.
Silence.
“Hey!” he demands, a little too aggressively.
“Nothing,” I answer. Quick and sharp.
“For fuck’s sake. You girls: moods like fucking yo-yos.”
I throw him a black look.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, you’re not,” he spits, “one minute you’re all happy and ‘Oh, I’ll help you, Navid,’ next, you’ve got a face like fuckin’ thunder. Snap out of it.”
Attempting calm, Ella steps in.
“Come on,” she sweetens, placing her hand on Navid’s shoulder, “let’s do this.”
Navid nods his head, exasperated.
“That’s more like it,” he says, taking Ella’s waist before turning to me.
I force a smile.
Ella finds a set of curlers in the bathroom and plugs them into the wall while Poi-Poi shakes the fat red pom-poms.
“Look!” she says, waving them high, forming an X with her body. “I’m a cheer girl!”
“Yes, you are, Britney,” Navid says. “Can you cartwheel? Do a split?”
Not a split, not a split.
Poi-Poi doesn’t correct him with regard to her name. She is too high and too fizzy from all the attention. She drops down and slides. Legs wide open. Cheer girl scissors.
“Can Tinker Bell come in the photograph with me?” She sparkles.
“Sure, baby,” he says, turning to me, “that’ll be cute, right?”
Silence.
“Right?!” he shouts.
“Right,” I say.
Navid positions Poi-Poi on the bed. Hair freshly curled. Lips fully glossed. Cheerleader costume in place. A wandering cat.
Senses alive, I make my way across the room. Gut in knots. Everything in my periphery heightened in sound, color, and smell. Joss sticks. Whitewashed walls, satin sheets, red pom-poms. An R&B loop. My mind attempting to focus, buck up.
“Ready?” Navid says.
“Ready!” Poi-Poi sings.
I reach for my camera, the heat from the overhead light burning my neck. Ella catches my eyes, fear plain in hers.
Focus, buck up, camera. Camera button. Light burning my neck. Light burning my neck.
Burning. My. Neck.
“Let’s go,” Navid says.
Focus, buck up, camera. Camera button.
Press.
Flash.
He traces his hands down the length of my body and pulls up my nightdress, fingers stroking the humble puppy fat on my nine-year-old thighs. I pretend to be asleep and pull Nelly closer. Her cuddly trunk resting beneath my chin.
Crying, I turn away.
“Shhhh, Xiǎo Wáwa. Be a good girl,” my father says. “This is what all daddies do when mummies go to heaven.”
Flash.
I silence my mouth, imagining it stitched up with wool. This the first of many silences. Mini deaths. Jabbing strikes of fever cut through my vagina, my eyes watering with each thrust. I scramble behind my bedroom wallpaper, hundreds of tiny printed balloons. Why is he doing this? Is this really what all daddies do when mummies go to heaven? I don’t know.
The question rolls over and over and over in my mind until the words become one: Isthisreallywhatalldaddiesdowhenmummiesgotoheaven? Now the question makes no sense at all.
Flash.
His release comes quickly, the sticky mess pouring down my nonvirginal thighs.
Suddenly, another little girl joins me. She smiles and straightaway I can see she looks just like me. Same eyes, same hair, same nose. Same face shape.
I’m Dolly, she says, stroking my head, tucking Nelly tighter beneath my chin. Don’t cry, it’ll be over soon. Promise. Just close your eyes.
I do as Dolly says and squeeze my eyes tight.
Flash.
My stomach cramps from the size of him, my face wet with shock. Finally, he gets up to leave as quickly as he arrived, not bothering to wipe away his crime. And like a shadow, a dark mysterious force committing the worst act imaginable to any little girl, he abandons my young, burdened body. The stench of rotting meat drifting from my bed like plague. Please stay, I whisper as he closes the door behind him.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock—
I step back from the tripod, my hands shaking.
Navid takes my hand.
“Well done,” he says, stroking my cheek. “You did it. Welcome to our little family.”