Stephanie de Velasco: Tiger Milk

I’m hungry. You have any money?

No, really, none.

With our last few cents we buy a packet of Yum Yum ramen noodles at a ninety-nine-cent shop and then stroll on down the street all slick and cool, crunching away on the dry noodles like potato chips. Further down there’s nothing but peep shows, porn theatres, and kebab shops. There are lots of women standing around down here, but none of them are wearing striped stockings, they’re in shiny leggings or leather skirts that lace up the side.

Tasty. That’s what Jameelah said last time. The laces look just like strands of black liquorice. I’m not so sure I think that’s funny.

Sometimes there are girls the same age as us standing here. Today one of them looks familiar to me but I can’t place her. She’s wearing one of the skirts with the liquorice laces, striped tights, and a tank-top with spaghetti straps. She’s holding a leash that’s dangling in the gutter, soaking up water from a puddle, and on the other end of the leash is a huge black dog. The dog has on a red handkerchief instead of a collar and its mouth is hanging open. I’m pretty sure that if it could talk it would hit us up for spare change. The girl is sitting on the kerb rummaging through her army rucksack and she looks up at us suspiciously. She has dark makeup around her eyes and her dyed-black hair is parted in the middle and her arms are covered with scabs. I’m letting the last few Yum Yum noodle crumbs dissolve in my mouth when Jameelah grabs me by the t-shirt. A car comes around the corner and the girl with black hair quickly jumps up and pulls her dog out of the street. The driver leans out the window and grins at us, his face is all red. Jameelah gives him the finger, but the girl runs after the car and together with her dog jumps into the backseat.

Shit, I think looking at the ground. The pavement is dotted with old pieces of gum.

Give me the tobacco.

Jameelah reaches into her jacket pocket and then walks over and leans against the wall of the nearby building, she tucks one knee up and props her foot against the wall behind her. I crack a smile. Now we really do look just like all the other girls around here. Jameelah winks at me and nods at a guy across the street who’s leaning against a signpost and looking across at us. He’s tall and thin, wearing skinny jeans and a pair of those idiotic-looking horn-rimmed glasses. He looks kind of sweet though and I can’t imagine he could possibly be waiting across the street because of us.

I shake my head at Jameelah.

I’ll bet you, says Jameelah, I’ll bet you he comes over here.

She waves at him and I see his eyebrows arch. He hesitates for a second and then crosses the street with an awkward grin on his face.

Him, I ask.

Jameelah nods without taking her eyes off the guy.

Watch this, she whispers.

As the guy gets closer I start to feel a little strange. But that’s normal, you always feel a little strange at first, it happens every time, it’s just part of the whole thing. Jameelah takes my hand and we saunter toward him.

Hey, says Jameelah.

The guy looks us up and down and grins.

What are you staring at, says Jameelah.

I’m not staring, he says.

He’s pretty old, he must be thirty. He looked younger from far away because of his clothes. He’s barely got any hair left, with just a bit of fluff above each ear.

Our last two classes of the day were cancelled, says Jameelah.

Aha, he says, so what are you up to then?

I’m Stella Stardust, says Jameelah, and this is my friend Sophia Saturna. I’ll bet you have one of those apartments with wooden floors and stucco moulding and all that stuff, right? And tons of old vinyl? You definitely look like the type of person who collects records.

No vinyl but a lot of CDs, the guy answers, shoving his hand into his jeans pocket, do you know what CDs are?

Nah, we’re walking talking MP3 players you know, at night we plug giant thumb drives into our ports, kind of like in the Matrix, you know? We keep them on our nightstands right next to our kiddie cassettes and the music is downloaded automatically onto our internal hard drives along with everything else, like our homework assignments, telephone numbers, French vocabulary lists, everything.

The guy looks at Jameelah and laughs out loud.

What’s so funny about that, says Jameelah, barely able to keep from laughing herself.

Shaking his head, he stares at her like he’s watching the climactic scene of the most interesting movie ever. For a second I think he might actually believe Jameelah’s bullshit. Belief is wanting things to be true that you know are impossible. And this guy is one of those people, the type of guy who wants to believe everything because he spends all day taking care of boring shit, emailing and crunching numbers and sucking up to clients, yeah, he probably has to meet with clients constantly and once in a while when he’s running back and forth to the copier he stops and asks himself why he bothers with it all. He’d much rather lose himself in our lies.

What do I have to do to see these ports, he says folding his arms across his chest.

It’ll cost a hundred euros, I say.

Jameelah winks at me and her eyes guide my gaze to her left hand. She forms a circle with her pointer finger and thumb.

I actually never do this kind of thing, he says as we climb into the backseat of his car which is parked at a nearby garage.

We never do this kind of thing either, Jameelah says giggling. She picks up a pile of glossy magazines on the seat and tosses them into my lap.

Are you rich, I ask.

He laughs.

No, not really, he says adjusting his rearview window so he can see us.

There’s no such thing as not really. Are you rich or not?

I don’t talk about money, he says trying to sound all slick and cool.

Jameelah looks at me and rolls her eyes.

What an idiot, she whispers.

The apartment is incredible, exactly the way we imagined it would be, gigantic, full of beautiful furniture, kind of like what you see at Ikea except more expensive, and there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. He must have a cleaning lady I think to myself.

Do you guys want ice cream, he asks.

I don’t like ice cream, I say, though it’s a lie.

Right, we don’t like ice cream, says Jameelah opening her rucksack, where’s the kitchen anyway, she asks, and do you have any milk?

There’s a tall CD rack next to the bed. The guy really does still buy CDs. From the far corner of the place I hear the sound of utensils clanging. Jameelah and the guy are in the kitchen. Then Jameelah slides across the wooden floor in her stockings and stops in front of me.

Hey, she whispers, Sophia Saturna.

She smiles, nods at the silk scarves hanging from the rungs of the cast iron bed frame, and looks at me inquisitively. I nod and push play on the CD player and the music is decent so I turn up the volume. Jameelah slides back toward the kitchen, balancing herself like a newborn foal taking its first steps across the pasture. I have to laugh because I know that couldn’t be farther from the truth. All of a sudden the apartment goes dark. A disco ball hanging from the ceiling starts to spin and tiny flecks of light dance on the walls. The guy must have taken off his t-shirt in the kitchen because his upper body is naked when he reappears. The tiny points of light spin across his skin and it reminds me of Friday nights at the ice skating rink. There’s no hair on his chest, I bet he shaves it. He holds out a glass for me and smiles. He looks like a nice guy somehow, but that just makes me feel kind of sorry for him.

Jameelah takes off her top, hops onto the bed, and starts jumping up and down on the mattress. I toss my t-shirt on top of Jameelah’s things and join her. Our heads bob up and down as we jump. The guy stands in front of us and takes cautious sips from his glass of Tiger Milk.