Chapter 25 Chapter 24: A Simple Stew
At four thirty, with the afternoon light beginning to soften, I retreated into the bathroom for the sacred ritual of preparation. I took a long, deliberate waterdrop, reading myself for the evening ahead. I let the steamy, near-scalding water wash over me for a long while, closing my eyes and just enjoying the enveloping warmth and the therapeutic splashes against my skin, willing the tension of the last few days to spiral down the drain. After washing my hair ferally with a wild berry shampoo that smelled of ice cream and sweets, I turned off the water and then worked a thick, luxurious hair mask through my strands, deciding to leave it in as I continued my routine, letting its deep conditioner work its magic.
Standing in front of the reflector, a snuff wrapped around me, I noticed something both unsettling and fascinating. Just as in my crazily short Nate cycle, where I’d watched muscle definition carve itself onto my frame daily and felt the rough shadow of a beard coming in, so it seemed now with this new Polli cycle. My hips looked subtly broader, my breasts felt heavier, more swollen, and the curve of my face seemed softer, rounder. Even my hair, slicked back with the mask, felt longer and thicker than it had just days ago. My body was still writing its own rules at a breathtaking pace.
I carefully plucked my eyebrows into a more defined arch, then laid my chosen clothes and underwear out on my bed like a uniform for battle. I went back to the waterdrop to rinse out the mask, the water running silky smooth over my now-glossy hair.
I dried myself meticulously, the soft snuff a gentle caress against my nervous skin. I put my best underwear on, a delicate string, which would be invisible under the sleek lines of the dress. Then I started on my makeup. I have never used much, and most of the products I owned where relics Joel had helped me buy during his Polli era, their colours and textures a testament to a shared past. But tonight, it was critical to look my absolute best. Each stroke of foundation, each sweep of shadow, was an act of building confidence, layer by layer.
About halfway through, meticulously lining my eyes, I heard the familiar grumble of the family's porty in the driveway, followed by the front door opening and closing. The domestic sounds felt like an intrusion from another world.
A soft knock came at my door, and my mother entered without waiting for an answer. “Are you getting ready for your interview?” she asked, her eyes taking in the battlefield of cosmetics and the dress laid out on the bed.
“Yes, Mum. It’s a dinner date at a really posh restaurant, so I won’t need any dinner here,” I said, keeping my voice light and focused on the reflector.
She didn’t leave. She, sort of hovered in the doorway, a silent, anxious presence. After what felt like an eternity, she asked, “When do you have to be there?”
“Seven o’clock. But I want to get there early, just to make sure I’m composed.”
“How are you getting there?” The question was pointed, layered with concern.
“Hopper. There’s a stop just over from the restaurant. It’s simple.”
“I’ll get your father to take you.” It wasn’t an offer; it was a decision.
“It’s O.K., Mum, really. I’m fine with the hopper.” I didn’t want the pressure of their scrutiny, the silent judgment in the confined space of the porty.
“He will take you,” she insisted, her tone brooking no argument. “It will save you time.” It was an excuse, a thin veil for her need to be involved, to exert some control over the situation she clearly didn’t understand.
She left me to my makeup, and I could feel the words she hadn’t said hanging in the air, an apology, another warning, a plea. I heard her call my father’s name on her way down the stairs, her voice tight with purpose.
With a little more time now guaranteed, I really went to town on the makeup, perfecting the smoky eye, adding a highlight to my cheekbones. Finally, I bathed myself in a cloud of van-in perfume, the scent elegant and sophisticated.
Then came the dress. I handled it with reverence. What a dress. I had never owned anything like it. The worm-thread was impossibly soft, cool and slithery against my skin. I stepped into it and drew it up, the fabric hugging every new curve as if it had been woven just for me. The cut was flawless, and the colour, a deep, shifting lilac that bled into midnight blue, was perfect. Staring into the reflector, the person looking back was no longer a frightened Polli or a confused freak. She was formidable. She was ready.
I took a deep, steadying breath, the soft whisper of the worm-thread dress, a constant reminder of the persona I was putting on. I went down to the kitchen, where my family was finishing off their quick evening meal, a simple stew that smelled of herbs and home, a world away from the haute cuisine I was heading toward.
At first, no one noticed me. They were focused on their plates, the clink of cutlery the only sound. But then my father looked up. His fork paused halfway to his mouth, and his expression was hard to read; it wasn't anger or pride, just a kind of blank, stunned silence as he took in the complete transformation.
My mother followed his gaze. “Nanda…” Her voice was a soft exhalation of air. “Your… You’re beautiful.” She looked at my father, her eyes pleading for confirmation. “Isn’t she, Geo?”
My father answered with a gruff, non-committal “Yes, dear,” before quickly returning his attention to his stew, as if looking at me for too long might be dangerous.
My mother stood up, her own meal forgotten, tears welling in her eyes. She came over and enveloped me in a huge, a full-bodied one loaded with a desperate, aching love and care. But it felt strained, the embrace of someone trying to bridge a chasm they themselves had carved. I could feel the tension in her arms, and the word freak still echoed in my head, a cold counterpoint to her warmth.
The journey in the porty was painfully quiet. The hum of the engine filled the space where conversation should have been. My father, perhaps sensing the unbearable weight of the silence, turned up the sound box when the dieball results came on, the commentator’s excited voice shouting about goals and victories that felt like they belonged to another lifetime. He tried to make some conversation about a player's stats, but his words fell flat, landing between us like stones. Otherwise, he was mostly silent, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, right up until he pulled up to the restaurant's kerb.
The Belis: best restaurant loomed before me, its gleaming doors a portal to a different world. The silence stretched for a beat too long.
“Thanks for the lift, Dad,” I said, my voice sounding too bright and brittle in the cramped space as I reached for the door handle.
He didn't look at me. His hands stayed on the wheel, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Don’t mess this up,” he said, his voice low and flat.
The words were a physical blow. I flinched, then slammed the door to his porty hard, the sound a sharp, final retort. I didn't look back. I marched over to the door of the restaurant, my head held high, using every ounce of willpower to keep my composure.
Luckily for me, I was early, which gave me precious time to flee to the opulent, marble-lined restroom and powder my nose, my hands trembling slightly. Staring into the gilded reflector, I took a shaky breath. Hormones are a strange thing. I was sure my father’s words would not have cut so deep in my Nate cycle; I would have brushed them off with a grunt, armour-plated by testosterone and masculine bravado. But then again, I thought, dabbing at my eyes to preserve my makeup, he probably would never have said it if I were a Nate. The criticism was reserved for this new, vulnerable, Polli version of me, a version he clearly didn't know how to understand, or love.