It was late, and they were just leaving an awards ceremony where Zhinu had been nominated for Most Popular Potential Idol, which – what did that even mean? She was the best at not being a superstar yet? Well, apparently she wasn’t even the best at that, because she hadn’t won. Her mother was angry about that. In fact, she was so incensed that she had insisted that they skip the after-party to make some sort of point. ‘Create mystery around yourself,’ she said, as if mystery was what someone who had the potential to be a potential idol needed. ‘Make them thirst for you. Overexposure cheapens.’
Her mother had owned a haberdashery before she had started managing Zhinu full-time, but she spoke like a PR exec. who’d hatched from a high-rise in the city, craving black coffee and nicotine from their first breath. Zhinu had no idea if her mother knew anything about what she was talking about or if she merely just willed everything she said to be true. Either way, it was somewhat working. Zhinu had gone from singing in local pageants to award shows in just three years. Still, Zhinu wished she was at the after-party; she didn’t care that she hadn’t won. What was the point of sucking it in, pushing it out and singing songs that rhymed ‘kiss me’ with ‘miss me’， written by forty-seven-year-old men who leered at both her and her mother, if she couldn’t even get wasted with her peers? She might have even made friends. Years of home schooling and music classes, in which her mother pitted her against everybody else, had made her social life sparse. She had hoped at least that, by the time her （mother’s） dreams were within reach, she would be able to connect with someone, anyone. However, by now she’d acquired a reputation for being an ice queen. She kept herself to herself at industry parties, because she found that, when she tried to interact with people, her mother interjected. Her mother maintained that it was important to remain aloof, that cliques were for the weak, and that the more isolated you were, the more powerful you were. She was of the notion that having people around you sapped at your essence and diffused your energy.
Zhinu wondered if her mother had created this philosophy when Zhinu’s father had died. Her mother and father had met young, in a small village, and so much of her was in him and him in her. Her father brought out a tenderness and a playfulness in her mother that withered in his absence. Their friends soon fell away from her after he died. She became a bare bones version of herself and her sharp tongue, which had been sweetened with love, lashed like a blade. She couldn’t help it. Softness reminded her of her lost love. Perhaps believing that solitude was the source of her power was a survival mechanism, maybe it comforted her? Maybe isolation was a gift she felt she was bestowing on her daughter – she wanted Zhinu to avoid the hurt she had endured. All Zhinu knew was that she missed her father, and who her mother had been when she was with him.
It took a few moments for Zhinu to notice that the world had come to a stop. She turned from the window and was welcomed back to reality with her mother’s colourful cursing at the hapless chauffeur – together with Bingwen’s ad libs – and angry honks outside the car that indicated that it had stopped moving.
‘Did you not think to check if the car was up to standard before deciding to drive it?’
The poor driver pleaded with Zhinu’s mother as he held his phone to his ear. ‘I’m so sorry, madam. I am arranging an alternative mode of transport right away. This has never happened before . . .’
‘And it shall never happen again! I will see to it that you’re fired!’
Bingwen jumped in: ‘You are carrying precious cargo . . .’ Zhinu knew he was referring to himself and her mother. ‘ . . . not a truck full of slaughter-house chickens! I should have known by your suit that this would be a shit-show. How could I expect someone who can’t even get his uniform tailored to be competent?’
Zhinu rolled her eyes. ‘Bingwen, settle down. Don’t be a dick. Your shirt literally has a torn-up hem and holes in it. I can see your entire nipple.’
Bingwen turned around and slowly lifted the sunglasses he was wearing for reasons unbeknownst to anyone. ‘Are you slut shaming me?’
‘I’m style shaming you.’
‘It’s actually the reclamation of peasant identity and it’s not only subversive but it’s extremely chic. I’m glad the traditional princess look works for you, but some of us like to dress outside the box . . .’
‘I’m sure the box is grateful.’
Bingwen made a sound that could only be described as a hiss.