Metamorphosis, Page 2

Five months earlier

  “Your hair is hideous. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  How hard was it to keep your most ominous thoughts—yet honest nonetheless—to yourself, and only to yourself, instead of announcing shamelessly to the world?

  It couldn’t be too hard, but when you had such a lecherous mouth as Nadirah, you knew that a painstakingly fierce practice and determination were necessary in order to diminish the natural habit.

  She’d learned that it was wise to follow up a harsh critic with an equally helpful advice, which she always did by quickly amending her negativity with a consolation such as, “At least your toes are nice,” but who cares about toes, really?

  She’d also learned that it was wise to give an insightful advice, and she did try that in multiple occasions. In this case, she would say, “Maybe you should try some hair styling product,” but no one cares. They had long since gone with tears in their eyes and rage on their faces.

  Since then, she had given up trying to be the rude yet nice person, and opted to be the mute yet nice person.

  At least, she had gotten rid of the rude trait, which didn’t sound too bad.

  But it seemed that instead of reaching toward the nice factor, her reputation began to slide into the snobbish and arrogant character.

  Well, at least she wasn’t openly creating havoc with her sharp tongue.

  How dreadful.

  More than that, she was ashamed to herself for not following the advice of an elderly person that she met at her grandmother’s soiree. He was nice enough to bear with her antics, and even if she was being exceptionally rude with a person that was significantly older than her parents were, he didn’t mind at all. On the contrary, he gave her some very insightful comments.

  He knew about her ability of rewinding conversations. He knew about her uncontrollable urge of criticizing a human being. He even knew that she wasn’t content with her life. She had no friends, at least, none that didn’t share the same blood as her.

  She knew how unwise of her to unlock her vault of secrets thoroughly to a stranger, much less the mother of all secrets— her unique ability— to anyone but her relatives, yet the grandfather, who never told her his name, proved to be such a gentle person to lean on, which she often yearned from her late grandfather.

  “Rather than blatantly criticizing a person,” he used to say, “You should take a moment to rethink about your words, and try to counter it with an equally helpful advice. None likes to be compared to a jackfruit’s rag, but they always love to find a substitute to cover their bloat, even if they insisted that there are no such things.”

  Nadirah spluttered into a huge laughter at the soothing consolation, and even more when he said, “One day, you’ll find a friend that wouldn’t care for your imperfection, wouldn’t care for your blatant remarks, and of course, most importantly, wouldn’t care about your so-called freakish ability,” he smiled. “It’s just a matter of time, but when it comes, it is vital for you to recognize it at once, for such an opportunity often appeared once in a blue moon, and if you missed it,” he sighed, “Then you might as well miss it.” But then he smiled encouragingly. “I expect you won’t.”

  “You don’t know for sure,” she retorted back, “I am conceited.”“Glad for you to recognize your imperfections,” he laughed, “Isn’t that enough to prove your brightness?”

  What should one say, when one was complimented in such a twisted way?

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, “I adore you, so I might give you a clue.”

  She held her tongue, rigidly waiting for the clue.

  Yet the answer was both odd and foreign to her ears, because the only thing he said was, “Follow the butterfly,” and how on earth would a butterfly lead her to the perfect friend of her life?

  “Not only would you find a friend,” he added, “You would find a journey that you would cherish, and you might even experience your own metamorphosis.”

  That did it.

  Ever since that day, she had clamped her mouth shut from unnecessary criticizing, and concentrated on searching for the butterfly, whatever that meant.

  Unfortunately, she had been clamping her mouth for as long as she remembered, to the point that her freedom of speech that once had been dangerously buttery smooth, had went on a rocky road and transformed itself into chunky peanut butter.

  Not that she cared—her incompetence in the mechanism of speech had proven useful in more than several occasions, too useful that time seemed to stretch farther than necessary, because of her lack of social life.

  What should one do, when one had too many times in her hands?

  She admitted that she liked to read. She liked to learn new words. She liked to study the plot. However, if there was anything that none knew and only she—and possibly her cousins—was that she could recite an entire book flawlessly with her eyes closed. The words seemed to engrave forever in her heart rather than floating about in her brain.

  It was truly an advantage in her part—she could rewind any conversations she heard within the radius of her own ears to her heart content, and even memorized every word that she saw without breaking a sweat.

  Call it skill, call it talent, but Nadirah had a hunch that it was more than that.

  What could it be? She concluded by recognizing herself as a freak.

  After all, her grandmother often greeted her guests with the phrase, ‘Welcome to the House of Freaks!’ incredulously so, and her cousins had adopted the name and greeted the bewildered guests with an equally wacky phrase, “Welcome to the World of Freaks!’

  None of the guests really knew what lied beneath the phrase—they never really displayed their level of freakiness to any of them, saved for those occasional outbursts or two. She liked to think that perhaps, in their minds, the freakiness really referred to their freakishly tight relationship, rather than the actual freakiness of their abnormal life.

  Admittedly, their bond was great, but she couldn’t be exempted from being envious.

  Her other cousins shared the same abnormal life with their siblings, but her, being the sole child in the household, were left alone in the cold night in a house that consisted of only her and her normal parents.

  At least her cousins treated her like their own sister, thus she didn’t have much to complain. That was why visiting her grandmother’s house was always blithely blissful.

  That, and the fact that her grandmother’s library was phenomenally humongous and amazingly stocked with countless of leather-bound books.

  From the tales of Napoleon to the tales of the Islamic Prophets, she had it memorized by heart. The life in the ancient age had always enthralled her, mesmerized her with the delicate language and fashions, so much that she intercepted those qualities right into her real life. She loved to prance around the house with her petticoat, but of course, never to the eyes of the strangers. She loved to gaze at the articulate historical remnants, but of course, never to abduct them and lock them in her room. She loved to speak with such impeccable manners and bombastic words, but of course, only to…only sometimes, if she could speak at all, of course. Which she couldn’t. Not without pausing for several minutes in order to concoct the sentence in her brain and out from her mouth.

  Basically, she loved everything from the 19th Century, and it drove her mother crazy.

  Yet, why was it that the one who met the psychiatrist was she?

  Oh yes, her lack of enthusiasm concerned her parents, and so she was sent to the hole of the shrink.

  Acknowledging about her state of mind was not such a devastating action, for feeble as she was, she was intrigued by the idea that she might suffer from a mental disorder, resulted by her own negativity and unsocial life.

  However, she knew that admitting it aloud would probably shorten the lifespan of her parents, so she decided to be a good girl, showing improvement in her chart in order to release her parents from the tension of forking their hard earn cash on the overpriced doctor.
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  She liked the doctor, but the friendship wasn’t cheap.

  It was a good thing that the doctor’s upcoming house party was free—providing you have an invitation—and Nadirah had decided to attend, forcefully so by her cousin Widad, who wanted to have a piece of the party for herself.

  She didn’t mind. Arguably, it was nice to have a companion to the party and enjoy the free food, rather than having none and filling the stomach with some typically bland meal from the fast-food restaurant.

  “Hey.”

  Widad abruptly snapped her fingers right in front of Nadirah’s face, and while she wasn’t supposed to be startled, she startled anyway.

  She was about to say, ‘I am perfectly aware of my surroundings, thank you,’ but the word that flew out of her mouth sounded something like, “What?”

  “Yes, I know that I haven’t said anything,” Widad smugly smiled, “I’m just checking out if you’re still in this world with me. I wouldn’t want you to miss my spectacular remark.”

  Nadirah doubted that Widad’s spectacular remark would prove satisfactory when she had her as the companion.

  “Oh, I know,” Widad sighed matter-of-factly, and Nadirah touched her cheek, wondering if her face wasn’t as inscrutable, “My creative juice doesn’t flow that well when talking to you. But,” she hastily skimmed the hanging clothes on the rack—outrageously so if one might add—that for a second, Nadirah shuddered for the fate of the fabric and potentially her own, since it might provoke the lioness side of the boutique’s assistant, thus chasing them away from the boutique, or worse, banning them forever from the store, and she really, really wouldn’t like that.

  Yet that seemed unlikely. Not when you had Widad here to hypnotize the assistants persistently that they were framed for such act, so it was a good decision to scratch the thought from her head because such thing would be impossible to happen if Widad was by her side. Furthermore, Widad was rattling around like a rattle and Nadirah only caught halfway into the speech which sounded like, “—a girl. So tell me,” she unlatched a one-piece garment from the rack and laid it on an invisible body, if there was an invisible body, but Nadirah doubted there was any, but anyway, Widad hadn’t stopped talking, “Isn’t this pretty?”

  She stared at the garment, examining the bodice, scrutinizing the decorations, trailing the stitches, gawking at the frocks—

  Widad snapped her fingers again, taking Nadirah back into reality before she could lose herself in the world of frills and bows.

  “Now tell me about this dress.”It should be noted that today was Widad’s 3rd Anniversary of flying solo, and in commemoration of such event, it had been their tradition to spend the entire day in a mall that was filled with countless of expensive guilty pleasures. Granted, it had only been three years, but it felt as if the tradition was long established since they were children, or maybe it was, since it had only been formalized three years ago.

  Rebellious and hot-blooded, Nadirah wasn’t certain about Widad’s true intention, except that she was going to prove to their grandmother that she would become a spinster until the end of her life if she were to wait for the prince in shining armor instead of hypnotizing the first person she met with her love charm.

  She was surprisingly adamant about the whole turnabout, much more certain than her college graduation.

  Truthfully, there was no explanation as to why she needed to act that way, since indeed, she had only reached the mere age of eighteen.

  If she were a woman who reached the unpleasant age of twenty-eight without a partner, then Nadirah would have understood.

  Human was such a complex creation.

  Moreover, if there was anything more that she couldn’t understand, it was the fact that Widad had been hinting her interest in a frilly dress.

  Nadirah wondered if all those boiling blood had went to Widad’s head, and in her attempt of cooling down the blood system, she obeyed the queen and ran her hand over the fabric, vaguely answered, “Silk?”

  Apparently, that was not the answer Widad had in mind, because she too was taken aback, and after a short glance with a gentle caress of the fabric, she said impressively, “I suppose it is, different label sure can make you blind—”

  “Or cotton—”

  “You’re not serious, are you?” Widad narrowed her eyes.

  Nadirah nonchalantly smiled, expressively insinuated her lack of talent in differentiating types of fabrics.

  “Cotton feels coarse.” Widad enunciated the words slowly, “Silk feels soft.”

  Funny, that. Nadirah had always thought that almost all of her clothes consisted of fabrics that felt both coarse and soft at the same time.

  What was she wearing all this while?

  It was not her concern anyways.

  Her impression of the dress was her main concern at the moment apparently, because Widad was getting impatient as she repeated, “Now tell me about this dress!”

  Honesty was not Nadirah’s strong virtue any longer. “You don’t like this,” that sounded harsh, “…type of clothes.”

  “I don’t,” Widad made no effort to hide her resentment, “But you do.”

  “I do,” Nadirah raised her brows, “So?”

  “So,” Widad echoed her word, her face glowed underneath the soft fluorescent pink lights, “Wear this to the house party.”

  Nadirah was tempted to retort with a ‘Have you gone insane?’ or at least, ‘Are you out of your mind?’ or ‘Are you nuts?’ for the sake of it, but decided not to because that was such a mouthful and possibly didn’t worth her saliva.

  She glanced at the lovely garment, back to Widad’s eager face, again at the splendor dress, and finally back to Widad’s beleaguered face—most probably sparked by the long seconds she’d wasted for her single reply—before finally answering, “Nah.”

  Not such an amiable reply, but the word alone conveyed her utmost reluctance in agreeing with her cousin.

  “What do you mean by, nah?” she mockingly mimicked her tone, yet Nadirah found it to be exceptionally endearing. Nevertheless, if it were anyone else, she had long unleashed her vilest glib tongue to the imbecile prat.

  “Clothes,” she surveyed the hanging racks, “I have them.”

  “Of course you do,” Widad rolled her eyes.

  Nadirah wondered if one day the pair of eyes would roll all the way back to Widad’s head, rotting and messing with her brain, and Nadirah further wondered about the corruption of her own brain that permitted such diabolical thinking to trespass her mind.

  She blamed it on Zahari.

  Zahari’s hobby was badmouthing Widad, you see.

  “Who doesn’t?” continued Widad.

  If Nadirah didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought that Widad was blessed with the special talent of reading her mind.

  Widad wasn’t that blessed, thankfully.

  Nadirah stared at Widad intently, watching her as she examined the one-piece thoroughly, checking every single detail—defective merchandise didn’t sit too well with Widad, even a stray thread can get on her nerves—while concocting a simple sentence in her mind.

  Taking a deep breath, Nadirah spluttered, “Why are you buying me stuff? I’m not the—”

  “Yes, it is I who is the rebel,” she lazily intervened, waving the garment in front of Nadirah’s figure to have a good measure, “But it is you who is going to the house party.”

  Nadirah wanted to retort with ‘So do you,’ but her words came off as, “House party…” she turned over as Widad measured the garment on her back, “Is just…a house party.”

  “House party,” Widad replied scathingly, “Is not just a mere house party. Not when I’m attending. Especially with you. We must look equally mesmerizing. Wait,” she called a nearby assistant who’d nearly succeeded in escaping the likes of her cousin, but alas, it wasn’t possible under the clutches of Widad, “What do you think of this dress on her?”

  Upon closer inspection, it should be noted that the a
ssistant wasn’t trying to unleash himself from the clutches of Widad, but rather, he was attempting to flee before the entire population of this store could blame him for unconsciously infecting them with his feverish virus. Nadirah wasn’t certain if his nose was red underneath the half-mask on his face, but judging by his watery red eyes, it did look dangerously infectious.

  “It looks good,” he answered, and judging by his coarse voice, Nadirah had no doubt that she might be the next great contender for the flu since she had weak body resistances.

  “See?” Widad said triumphantly, oblivious to the danger state of her health.

  But one would expect such things from her since she was not Zahari, or at least, possessed the same ability like Zahari. Nevertheless, she did possess a much more lethal weapon than he, and she was using it now when she icily said, “It looks good, and don’t,” she jabbed her forefinger at Nadirah warningly, “Say that you don’t like it, because you obviously do. Now,” she tossed the garment literally on Nadirah’s head, “Hold this. I need to find some other options.”

  Nadirah pulled the garment away from her head, half-wishing that she was at least as tall as the mannequin was. That way, she could top her cousin and piled all those revenge on her head, and not only that, she would have the great advantage of buying her clothes straight from the mannequin if the clothes had been sold out. She could demand even, although she wasn’t sure how she would fare in the demanding department…

  It was not until much later did she realize a pair of eyes gazing intently at her. It might due to the amusing fact that she was pretending to be a dazed mannequin, or her cold manners toward another human in sight; nonetheless, the staring was annoying at its best, so she swiveled her attention to the masked assistant, haughtily said in her customer pride, “We are still browsing.” So shoo. “So shoo.”

  She didn’t mean to openly chase him away, treating him like a stubborn feline, and she was halfway trying to amend the sentence with a much more hideous concoction, when the assistant swiftly cut her off with his not quite brittle yet not quite daze voice, “Yes.”

  Something must have knocked him on the head, because his tone started to change into a much more compromising state, “But I let you know,” he pointed at the piece of garment in her hands, “That is our store’s exclusive dress. Limited edition, only one in production and the lucky one,” his eyes flickered to the garment, “Is in your hand. Better grab it fast.”

  “Oh,” she grinned, “Hot from the oven.”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “Oh,” she wasn’t sure why she was grinning, but it seemed appropriate and highly ironic, and might’ve been a little dry, although that wasn’t her intention, “So I am lucky.”

  He contemplated on answering, overwhelmed by the dryness most probably, but he replied with a polite, “Yes.”

  “Well—”

  “You like it, don’t you? I can see it from your face.”

  Nadirah touched her cheek again, dreading the fact that she definitely wasn’t as inscrutable as she liked. “Maybe I should wear a mask,” she answered, much honestly than sarcastically, but she was reminded by her sudden danger in being too honest, so she quickly amended, but unfortunately, it came out as, “Like you,” which came out as dry and insensitive anyways.

  She never had been good with amending her words.

  She should have known that by now and memorized it in her heart to never, ever amend her words.

  But she hadn’t been amending her words for years, so that was odd. It felt as if something was unlatching in her heart, revealing the contents for the world to see.

  Her Pandora box.

  She shook her head, and concentrated on the assistant.

  Strangely, the assistant wasn’t pissed at her insensitivity. She didn’t see him tearing up, although that might due to his eyes already watering down by the virus, but those said eyes were crinkling into a smile, smugly said, “I have my reason, as obvious as it is.”

  “Why don’t you take your day off, then?” the words felt like butter, smoothly spreading out from her mouth. “That’ll save our lives.”

  Oh no.

  “I have,” he answered, “And I was just trying to exit the door when your sister drags me over.”

  “My cousin,” she corrected him. “You should leave. You wouldn’t get paid for doing overtime anyway.”

  That was conspicuously blatant, and again, she wasn’t intending on shooing him like a mighty empress.

  But she just did.

  “You’re right,” his voice was strangely strangled—with what, Nadirah couldn’t tell. Maybe he was affected by her remark? She hoped not. Maybe he can read her mind? Impossible.

  Well, nothing was impossible, but she sure hoped that if there was a tiny impossibility left in this world, it would be this.

  “But if it helps, I truly think that you’d look spectacular wearing that.” He must have smiled under the mask, but it was hard to see, and before long, he had politely excused himself and out of the door, leaving Nadirah quite pink in the cheeks and a sudden lemming toward the little dress.

  The assistant certainly was an expert in negotiating, and she wondered if her gullibility was worse than she thought.

  She needed to bury that trait down, along with this stupid Pandora box.

  “So I think—” Widad stopped sidetrack, craning her neck left and right. “Where’s that assistant?”

  “Dismissed,” Nadirah was still dazed, lovingly staring at the dress.

  “Why?”

  “Sick.” Obviously.

  Widad hastily nodded, beginning to pile a truckload of frilly clothes on Nadirah’s hands, “So I think—”

  “This,” Nadirah gestured to the exclusive dress, “Will suffice.”

  Widad’s lips curled into a smile. “I know you like that all along.”

  She liked that all along, but not enough to buy it.

  Now, she wasn’t so sure. She might as well love it, but she opted not to reply.

  Yet, it would be quite a mood-breaker to not answer, so she tried to steer the conversation to the converser—a great trick she discovered when one was unwilling to discuss about oneself, “You?”

  “Me?”

  “Yours?”

  “Oh,” she smiled secretively, “Mine is not here.”

  Of course, it would be a nightmare if Widad were to show interest in the overly sweet Métamorphose collections. She would be caught dead before wearing any of these frilly dresses.

  “Not your store,” Nadirah stifled a chortle, “Of course.”

  Widad laughed tauntingly. “Not mine, but yours.” She had always been the woman of elegance and simplicity, and Nadirah knew that the thought of pastel and overwhelming decorations were not Widad’s cup of tea. She was about to retort on the blandness of Widad’s high taste, when a foreign voice pierced their ears with her gentle, “Excuse me,” which ultimately saved Nadirah from further fooling herself with the future useless amending nonsense.

  Not that she needed that. She had always bitten her tongue before uttering the amendment aloud.

  Except that one minor slip with the male assistant, of course. That was a special case.

  They swiveled their head, only to see a smiling assistant handing them a decorated basket. “Would you like a basket?”

  “That’s not necessary I’m afraid,” Widad took no notice of the assistant’s mannerism, and instead, absentmindedly unloading the pile of clothes onto the assistant’s hands. “We’re ready to pay.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, staring down at the garments. “All of these?”

  “Of course not,” Widad laughed incredulously, her finger pointing at the garment in Nadirah’s hands. “This one.”

  “Oh.” The way the assistant pronounced the word was tactfully suspicious that Nadirah felt a cold slosh of anxiety splashing all over her face. It was probably due to her sudden premonition of Widad’s future behavior toward the assistant, because her skin was fu
rther prickled as the assistant added, “But—”

  “I know, I know,” Widad deliberately shook her head in such a regrettable manner, “I would have liked to buy all of these,” she reluctantly pointed at the mountain of clothes, desperately thinking of a way out, “But my father freezes my account.” She was proud of her deceiving lie—Nadirah could tell—and even more so as she sighed dramatically, “What to do.”

  Again, the assistant squeezed a loud, “Oh,” in an unmistakably apprehensive and mundane demeanor, yet she wasn’t admitting defeat, as displayed by her repeated, “But—”

  “So that is why,” Widad grabbed the garment from Nadirah’s hands, “I demand a discount.”

  Nadirah half-expected the assistant to continue with her oh and but exclamations, but she did no such things, except for widening her eyes and nearly spat in such a flabbergasted way. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look,” Widad was on the verge of utilizing her advantage, but she wasn’t as cruel, but she wasn’t as nice either, “I was entitled for a 50% discount if I were to shop here,” she said smugly. “Call your boss if you need confirmation.”

  “Which boss, exactly?” asked the assistant, unconvinced.

  The question teleported Widad to the state of disbelief, and as she grunted impatiently, she ground out, “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Just call any of the executives in this company and mention my name, remember,” she stepped in front of the assistant, attempting to let the assistant swallowed her name, “My name is Widad, and can you please deliver my message, it says, I’m going to claim my discount.”

  The assistant was thoroughly intimidated by the unexpected blow by Widad. Her hot-blooded rebellious blood was no longer visible, but instead, was replaced with a soul of Widad’s underlings, and she did resemble them greatly when she squeaked, “Yes, miss.” She tossed the pile of clothes on a nearby assistant, and quickly made her way to her desk without sparing a glance at the perplexed assistant. He might have been new, since he stared at the cousins, discouragingly ground out, “What should I do with these?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not the worker,” answered Widad flatly.

  He glimpsed at Nadirah, his face probably matched the blankness of her own, and upon seeing that, every honest thoughts about the inexperience assistant vanished, and she found herself helpfully suggesting, “Put it back.”

  He considered for a while, and simultaneously shrugged, “Okay.”

  He left their sights, possibly missing Widad’s nearly intelligible mumbling. “Inexperience workers…who are they hiring nowadays?”

  Nadirah snorted, disparagingly said, “It feels…as if she was…trying to—”

  “Say something? She was trying to distract us, I’m sure,” she said loathsomely, proceeded to continue her mumbling. “Sleazy assistants.”

  Nadirah nodded, contemplating for a while.

  Then she decided to ask, albeit a few seconds later, “Do you know the boss?”

  Widad smiled coyly, which answered her question more than words combined. “Of course I do,” her tone lowered into a whisper, “And of all people, I would think, you,” she placed her hand on Nadirah’s shoulder, “Would know better.”

  Nadirah was tempted to stay muted, yet staying muted meant that Widad’s point had failed to deliver, so she replied with a mere, “Oh.”

  Widad opened her mouth yet again to unleash more of her self-appreciation, but abruptly closed as the previous female assistant reluctantly approached them, forcefully stretching her lips into a bearable smile. “Yes, Ms Widad is entitled for a 50% discount in this store,” she hesitantly said, “You are our special guest.”

  “I told you so,” Widad sneered, yet it was unclear to whom the sneering was intended to.

  “But—”

  “What’s with the excessive buts?” Widad nearly shrieked, hotly if she may add.

  “But this dress,” the assistant spluttered, “Is not catalogued yet.”

  “Then why did you hang it on the rack?”

  “I—” the assistant was clearly abashed by her faulty, or maybe it was due to Widad’s cold tone, or maybe she was ashamed by her inability of conjuring a snide retort, or maybe it was because of a different reason altogether, since all she answered was, “I don’t know how it ends up here.” She made a great effort in composing herself, “But it has not—”

  By this time, Nadirah had learned that Widad’s current hated word was but.

  It was up to her to save the day from prolonging the unnecessary bickering, but it was easier said than done.

  No, for Nadirah, said was no easier than done. She truly didn’t know what to say, but she truly sympathized the assistant, despite how hideous her eye makeup was.

  She can feel her Pandora box creaking open.

  “Can’t you do it now?” as in, wipe your eyes from those clumpy spider legs?

  They had no idea how hard it was to contain those words from bursting out of her mouth.

  The assistant took a long breath, apologetically informed, “It would take some time.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” replied Nadirah in one breath, in one go, zooming as a bullet train that it sounded muffled than comprehendible.

  Really, it truly mattered for her to see the assistant sporting a more neutral and subtle eye shadows.

  “How long will it take?” Widad impatiently tapped her feet, oblivious to Nadirah’s diabolical interpretation of the words. It didn’t help that Widad decided to shoot daggers at the assistant’s poor eyes, which ultimately indicated the similar intention between the two of them, even if it was not.

  “At least,” the assistant gnawed her lips, dreading the answer, “An hour.”

  Nadirah decided to distract her attention to the nicer part of the assistant, which lied on her shoes.

  Her shoes were lovely.

  Yet she couldn’t continue to stare at the bottomless pit, could see? So Nadirah raised her head and decided to focus her attention to the entire facial structure of the girl, and saw that the assistant’s face was churning uneasily, probably readying herself for the lioness attack.

  She was wrong. Widad was a slithering snake, not a feisty mammal.

  Widad’s voice was low and dangerous as she asked, “Why does it take so long?”

  “It’s a new piece,” the assistant was sweating, and her voice was all over the place, “Just arrived this morning, I need to inspect it further—”

  “Miss,” Widad’s eyes landed on the assistant’s nametag, “Lily,” she smiled sweetly. “Forget the 50% discount.”

  “P-pardo—”

  “We’ll pay full cash.”

  “But the price has yet to be determined—”

  “Double,” said Nadirah instinctively. “She’ll pay,” she pointed at Widad, “Double.”

  Nadirah grinned at the glare from the Queen of Snakes aka Widad.

  Could a snake glare, she wondered? Well, this one could.

  “Well yes, I’ll pay,” Widad nearly choked from uttering the word aloud, “Double.” She cleared her throat, “But please,” her smile had morphed into the sugary sweet and everything nice with a cherry on top that was exquisitely alluring type, “Just jot down the brief information, then we will pay, and then, you’ll do your little…” she smacked her lips distastefully, “Work.”

  The assistant said nothing, but her head flailed upside down like a robot nodding.

  “And if you,” Widad lowered her eyes, “Need anything, just call me.”

  The assistant again, said nothing, but continuously nod.

  “We’ll take this now, and,” Widad wasn’t finished, “You will give us the minimal price required.”

  “Okay,” finally, she croaked, her hands reaching out for the garment, and once it was safe in her hands, she quickly ran to the cashier’s desk.

  “Can’t wait?” Nadirah asked teasingly.

  “Can’t be bothered,” she sighed, but looked at her grudgingly. “Can’t be left out?”

  “Nop
e,” Nadirah grinned, “Too amusing to miss. But,” Nadirah knew that it was hazardous to stand on her cousin’s evil side, so she made every effort of abashing Widad with sweetened compliments, “You were good. Handy, you were.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” she giggled, and that concluded on Nadirah’s effort of getting on the good side of the bad side.

  And the box ceased to rattle.

  She supposed she should tightly close the Pandora box now, and burn it to pieces.

  It didn’t take more than five minutes for the assistant to gather the important details and store it in their file storage, and before Widad could unleash more of her sugary sweet fake nature, she found herself paying the standardize price for a one-piece, happily exiting the store with her cousin, who was also happily carrying the carrier bag.

  At least, she thought Nadirah was happy.

  Nadirah was happy, she was always happy to have another addition to her Métamorphose collection. She loved the store, not because of the label, but rather, the store was the only place that reinforced the idea of a 19th Century fashion in their tailored creations. Their clothes were not exactly Gothic, not exactly Lolita, not exactly Elegant Gothic and Lolita or anything in between, but it was simply, 19th Century fusion with the 21st Century, elegant, feminine, frilly, bows, and all of that jazz.

  Okay, it might’ve been Lolita, but if she didn’t feel like a Lolita, then it might as well not be a Lolita, right?

  Nadirah decided not to think further, for she feared of having the misconception of Lolita in general, and so she decided that she was not a Lolita, because no Lolita would think of herself as a non-Lolita, and even if she was a Lolita, she wasn’t technically one. She didn’t go to a tea party, although she wondered if one needed to go to a tea party to become a Lolita. Truthfully, she really wanted to experience those tea parties, despite the fact that she knew how she couldn’t possibly say anything to the host, much less to her tea companions without strangling herself about their wacky coordination—

  She decided again that if she thought she wasn’t a Lolita then she wasn’t a Lolita.

  Furthermore, her obsession wasn’t entirely due to the apparent theme of the Victorian Era’s fashion; in fact, it was mainly because their stores incorporated the enchanting butterflies as their trademark.

  Follow the butterfly.

  Nadirah was more than willing to follow the advice, especially when it concerned the great store of Métamorphose that was not restricted to Lolita only. Or Gothic. Or anything in between. Or…yes.

  She was affirmed to that idea, and she didn’t think about it when Widad made her own grand selection in her favorite couture boutique. But when Nadirah was back in her sheltered home, in her snug room, rearranging her precious clothes in her two-door wood closet, she was quite perplexed about the whole matter.

  She wasn’t sure why, but she could sense that something was oddly wrong about her newly acquired dress, especially when compared to her other clothes.

  And everyone knew that her clothes were all the same label.

  Métamorphose, naturally.

  She wondered if her Lolita’s sixth sense had awakened and now telling her that the dress was not entirely Lolita.

  How could that happen? How could she let that happen?

  No, she was not referring to the dress being not entirely Lolita.

  Nor did she refer to the awakening of her Lolita sixth sense.

  Actually, she didn’t know what she was referring to—her mind was too fazed to even conjure a coherent thought.

  Therefore, with all respect, she quickly brought her dress and went to see her cousins at the recreation room.

  As per usual for a close-knitted family, the family of Widad was having one of their gathering moments at her parents’ house. Arguably, their house was a few hours away from here, but since today was the start of the school holiday, they had decided to stop by before visiting their grandmother’s house, giving them a reason for convoying together, which would make the grandmother very happy indeed.

  That was also the reason for Widad’s ulterior demand of accompanying her to the house party. She liked to attend various functions and events, so to speak, and unlike Nadirah, she basked in the sparkling attention rather than shying away from the lights. Thus, upon hearing the news of the invitation, Widad couldn’t resist but demand to be tagged along.

  Nadirah was always thankful that she had Widad by her side to garner the entire spotlight, leaving her to stand in the dark, because she truly couldn’t handle the blinding lights.

  How negative, but she liked the darkness.

  Oh dear, she was leaning toward the instinct of a Gothic now.

  She shoved the thoughts away, her senses perking up for the presence of the twins. Nadirah really didn’t want to disturb Widad with this matter, because she knew that in the end, the one who would feel very much disturbed would probably be the assistants at Métamorphose. And she wouldn’t like that. At all.

  She was relief to find Najhan leisurely lounging on the sofa, his eyes deeply immersed in the television commercial, which meant that he wanted to be disturbed.

  His eyes flickered toward Nadirah, blinking rapidly. “Humor me.”

  “Alone?”

  He sighed.

  “Where’s Najwan?”

  He shrugged.

  “With Widad?”

  He gagged.

  Her eyes wandered idly, carefully constructing a sentence. “Care to be disturbed?”

  She was fairly proud of herself for the beautiful sentence she’d just concocted.

  He grinned. “How can I help you?”

  She smoothed her new dress in front of her cousin, rashly asked the question she had rehearsed, “Does this look like Meta to you?”

  “Of all the things—” Najhan grunted, but then he paused like he usually do, probably counting the birds in his brain, because his eyes weren’t exactly on the dress. However, as if reading her mind, he abruptly glanced at Nadirah, back to the dress, back to her again before finally at the dress, croaking, “I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” Nadirah was more than used to Najhan’s bizarre antics—she too possessed her own wacky moments, so his dopiness wasn’t her big concern. She signaled him to wait, and went to grab for her other Meta one-piece in the closet in her room.

  Moments later, she reentered the recreation room, bearing the other one-piece and laid it down on the couch, side by side with her new one-piece.

  “Now?”

  “Difference?”

  “Yeah?”

  He arched his brows, silently skimming the fabric. His muttering was nearly intelligible, but Nadirah could decipher it all the same, which sounded like, “I’m not Zahari.”

  Nadirah tilted her head thoughtfully, pondering over the option. “He’ll notice?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You?”

  “What?”

  Nadirah wasn’t certain whether it was due to their strikingly similar weakness in the power of speech, but they understood each other well just by uttering a word and no less. So, it wasn’t such a difficult task of communicating with him unlike others in their league. “See?”

  “Oh.” He cupped his chin with his knuckles, his eyes concentrating on the garment, yet his face was thoroughly ambiguous. “Well,” it was hard for him to convey his thoughts, so patience was a definitive necessity during the brainstorming of his part, “Well.”

  “Different,” Nadirah interjected, because she knew how people like her needed a handicap at some point in a painful conversation, but she also knew how people like her often resented the insensitive act of cutting through their words, so she added, “Right?”

  He nodded, oblivious to the psychological manipulation.

  Yet what she wanted was a valid point, and for the sake of rummaging into his brain, Nadirah deliberately skimmed the garment, distressfully hinted, “I think...”

  “
Stitches.”

  She had succeeded.

  “Stitches,” his face was thoroughly blank, the blankest look to ever grace a human’s face. Truthfully, blank was a synonym word to be associated with him, for he was always blankly happy, blankly confused, blankly exhilarated, and while it was definitely blankly odd, he continued his sentence with an equally blank voice, “Is that the word?”

  Nadirah was tempted to retort with something that concerned the word blank, but she knew that it will forever be her personal joke and none would understand, so she just nodded and echoed, “Stitches.”

  “Does Meta’s stitches…” Najhan indulged in his favorite blank expression again, which made Nadirah wondered if the mask of blankness was actually his hidden ability rather than a natural habit—perhaps it was supposed to ward others off his life, much like her sister’s ability of hypnotizing others under her spell. However, that couldn’t be true. It was definitely unintentional of him to display such a rigid exterior, in fact, Nadirah wagered he didn’t realize of his static persona, since none could really see the face that one’s make during a candid conversation unless we were in a dance studio that were surrounded with mirror walls, but anyway, he continued, “Differs?”

  She didn’t know for sure.

  Admittedly, she didn’t have an extraordinary vision like Zahari, nor did she have the ability of recognizing clothes that were made by famous designers like Widad. She just wore the clothes for her own pleasure and nothing more, with the pleasure being the ancient fashion and a truckload of butterflies.

  She signaled him to wait again nonetheless, and reentered seconds’ later, holding another dress in her hand.

  Words were not needed when concentration engulfed their presences, and after a thorough examination, they nodded simultaneously, understanding each other’s suspicions.

  The connection didn’t stay for long, it quickly wavered as they startled by the loud bursting of the door, revealing a duplicate image of Najhan hanging at the doorframe.

  “What are you doing?” Najwan approached the two of them, curiously gazing at their experimental items. “Looks like fun.”

  There was a painful silent.

  Nadirah decided to break the ice. “Uh…we,” she gnawed her lips, “Are trying to…” she wandered, her gaze meeting Najwan, “We are trying to spot—”

  “The differences of the stitches,” finished Najhan.

  “Yeah,” she grinned, mentally impressed at Najhan. “That.”

  Najwan bended himself slightly to have a closer look, conveniently asked, “Can I see?”

  Nadirah gave him some space to let him inspect the garments thoroughly with his senses, and as he sat on the floor and briefly examined the three garments, he blatantly asked, “Well, surely this store has more than one tailor?”

  “Yes, but—” again, it was hard for Najhan to part with his beloved blank expression, yet for some reason it wasn’t as rigid, which might be contributed by the sturdy presence of his twin, “Style does not differ.”

  Nadirah nodded absentmindedly, waiting for the next outburst, but when it retained its silence atmosphere for a good couple of seconds, she raised her head, only to discover that her comment was the most sought-after by the twins, since she indeed, was the expert for everything concerning Métamorphose.

  A few more seconds evolved into an exactly full minute.

  “Meta is famous for the style,” she finally answered, which was true.

  Najhan nodded and pointed at her new dress. “This,” he further repeated the action by pointing at the rest of the clothes, “Doesn’t match the others.”

  Najwan considered the answer, and after a few seconds ruminating on the possibilities, he stared at Nadirah, glinting wickedly, “You’ve been conned then?”

  She shrugged. “The assistant said…” she tried to remember the exact conversation, subconsciously rewinding the entire words until the right one popped into her head, echoing in her ears.

  “It’s a new piece, just arrived this morning, I need to inspect it further—”

  “New piece,” she repeated, pointing at her new dress.

  “Might have been mixed up with some other stuff, then,” said Najwan.

  “But,” she quickly pointed out, “The other one said…” Again, she rewound the conversation, her head ringing with the voice of the stranger.

  “That is our store’s exclusive dress. Limited edition, only one in production and the lucky one is in your hand. Better grab it fast.”

  “Exclusive, limited, one,” she echoed the words in her head, deliberately imitating a dictionary robot.

  “So it is,” Najwan scratched his head, confounded by the whole mystery.

  “But he’s sick,” she pointed out again.

  “Well, he might be in a daze then.”

  That was plausible.

  “Or maybe—” Najhan’s infamous blank pause appeared yet again, and she wondered if anyone had the nerve to actually mock him for his vulnerability at school or anywhere of that sort, “He’s…”

  It might be the never-ending pause, or maybe the pause prompted her to break from her shell, because she found herself dryly muttered, “Dumb?”

  The situation called for it, she sincerely couldn’t help herself.

  The halfway-open Pandora box. That must be it. The looseness of the lid made her mouth had a mind of its own.

  She blamed it on the dumb, half-masked male assistant.

  Najhan narrowed his eyes, gravely continued, “Maybe…” the blank expression graced his face again, but this time it was adorned with a small sighed and a short sentence, “It doesn’t matter.”

  Nadirah stared at him in disbelief, her head unconsciously drumming with multiple insults, jamming the road to her mouth, waiting to be squeezed out like a jumble of vintage stuff in a garage sale, but thankfully, Najwan saved her from potentially surrendering to the power of her mind as he hurriedly said, “Maybe this is Meta’s new style.”

  “Yeah,” Najhan nodded, perfectly accordant to his brother. “Test the…” he wrinkled his nose, searching for the right word. “Water. Is that it? Water?”

  She smiled at his reply, but abruptly, the corners of her lips stretched down heavily as she stared at her clothes. “New style…”

  “You don’t like it?” asked Najwan.

  “Love it.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “None.”

  “Then wear it,” he said matter-of-factly, flummoxed at her lack of enthusiasm. “It’s pretty, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Najhan suddenly burst into laughter, “And it’s free, anyway.”

  Najwan lowered his voice, menacingly whispering into the stillness of the night, “Widad wouldn’t know if she’s been conned.”

  “True,” Najhan acceded, “But if people ask…” he scowled, glancing sideway at Najwan, cueing him to finish his sentence, which Najwan faithfully obeyed with his remark, “Aside from the label, you couldn’t confirm the authenticity in front of those die-hard suspicious Meta fans.” He laughed quietly. “Widad will surely act like them if she knows this.”

  “Right,” Najhan nodded. “Good thing,” he grinned, “You’re not Widad.”

  “Or else she’d haul this dress right this second and demand a refund,” Najwan snorted, shaking his head like a civilized person that he never really was.

  “Refund,” Najhan was boiling in mirth, “Double I expect.”

  Nadirah smiled, thinking that she might as well join in the fun. “Make it triple.”

  The room burst into laughter as they made more fun of each other, breaking the noisy house of cheerfulness with more mirth from the fountains of youth.

  She really needed to glue the lid of that Pandora box.

  chapter 2