At school, we played on astroturf. The school board poured concrete over the grass when the fire ants took over. Before the green sprouts of nylon were laid down, we ran through the grass and fell on top of the fire nests. I was no stranger to the small mounds of busy creatures. At my black-and-white, beneath the rambutan tree, I disturbed the nests with a long stick and watched the ants disperse in random patterns. They sputtered and malfunctioned until I euthanized them with the garden hose. I never let them crawl on my skin. There was something serene in this destruction; to inflict the undoing of a home. At school, I fell on a nest in the grass and ran my fingers through the rubble, crumbling the soil and sand between my thumb and forefinger, wondering where the ants would go. Then there was an itch. I scratched at the fleshy part of my thigh and waited for the whistle that called us in from break time. The itch started to burn. It felt like the top layer of my skin was shorn off, and the exposed flesh was raked over hot coals. I howled as the flames spread up my body, crippling my fingers like an arthritic, the crumbs of soil buried under my fingernails.


A teacher sent for the school nurse. “How many times have I told you to be careful in that grass?” the nurse tutted as she iced my hands and legs. I knew the routine. I ran through the grass a lot. Oscar Maguire, a classmate and frequent flier in the fire ant-rehabilitation-unit, was receiving a thick layer of hydrocortisone all over his left side, from his cheek to his collarbone. The nurse unbuttoned his shirt to attend to the itch on his torso. I watched unabashedly, pleased at the sight of his porcelain belly. His tan, like mine, stopped at the clavicle. Oscar swung his legs on the edge of the seat. His knees were bruised in purple clouds. His legs narrowed out beneath them and the thigh was taught to the bone. There is nothing on him to squeeze, I thought. Oscar caught me looking and flashed a wan smile, then jumped at the sting of hydrocortisone and the cold hands of the school nurse.


* * *


I was pleased that I was only bitten on the limbs. The first time I fell into a nest before I knew what the fire ants could do, the flames raged up to my forehead. I should’ve known after that to steer clear of the nests. But I couldn’t stop myself, I had ulterior motives. There was a dry patch in the expanse of grass where we played before the concrete was poured and the astroturf was laid. The brush was brittle, the soil was parched and cracked, the nests were teeming and plentiful. Boys rough-housed in this part of the grass far from hawk-eyed teachers with zero tolerance for violence. They bit, kicked, and swung each other around by the collar. I never joined in but I stayed close. I understood the sudden burst of rage; the need to claw and punch and draw blood. What I couldn’t grasp was the dissolution of this temper. Where did that fury go? Surely it could not dissolve. I thought it would metastasize like cancer and infect the whole system. As soon as the bell rang, the boys threw their heads back and cackled, wiped each other’s bloody noses, and limped back to class on gammy feet, as if they hadn’t been strangling each other moments before. Oscar joined in the rough-housing on occasion. Because his stature was slight, he ended up face-first in the nests promptly. I timed my own collapse strategically so we’d end up with the nurse together.


* * *


In class, there were too many flailing arms and flying pencils to take a good look at Oscar Maguire. He was popular, so his time was taken up by pretty girls and clammy boys vying to be his sidekick. I drew pictures of mermaids and read chapter books under the table to stop myself from staring in lessons. At the nurse’s office, he was mine to peruse. I watched his eyelashes flutter like snowflakes on top of burnt amber eyes. His skin was fair and buttery, not sickly or pale. His hair was blonde but warm, not white nor brassy. His cheeks did not redden with exertion, he had no freckles, his body hair was lighter than his skin. He stood straight and seemed to glide across the classroom. Oscar Maguire was a doll. “Does it still hurt?” The nurse asked with a furrowed brow. My hands and legs were covered in hydrocortisone and the swelling had gone down. I pointed at a small patch of untreated skin on my knuckles and winced. “Just a bit more on here I think,” I said with my eyes locked on Oscar. “It’ll hurt less soon.”


* * *


I begged my mother to organize a playdate with Oscar Maguire. She knew his mother from a social club. “Does Ariel need to come too?” My mother asked with a pointed smile as she packed a pool bag with sunscreen and swimsuits. I had been taken with mermaids for some time, dazzled by the neither-here-nor-there predicament of belonging in water and feeling called to land. As an only child, I preferred non-sentient companions that bent to the whim of my dreams. In the playroom, there were several Ariel dolls in various stages of decay. The dolls spent most of their time in the water, so I couldn’t afford to be precious with them. The chlorine splintered the nylon hair so quickly that there was always an understudy. I watched the fire-engine-red mane of Ariel du-jour billow in urgent clouds on underwater expeditions. When I swam before lunchtime, the morning light filtered through the water and bounced diamonds off of the emerald fabric tail. I refused to wear goggles. Goggles spoiled the dream.


There was hesitation to my aquatic preoccupations from my father. He tried to replace Ariel with plastic fish and diving hoops, but those toys held no magic—they were not born of a conundrum. The suggestion to leave Ariel at home was preposterous because there was no game worth playing in her absence. My mother conceded that Ariel could wait at the bottom of the bag, under stacks of towels and sunscreen, until I really needed her. “I don’t think you will need her, though. You’ve been very excited about going to Oscar’s house.” In the car I watched hedges of bougainvillea collide from the window. The slideshow of magenta, fuchsia, and lilac suggested a new adventure. Perhaps this gamble would tether me to a world beyond the red nylon hair stuck in cracked tiles at the bottom of the pool.


* * *


I was a known swindler in the nurse’s office. I conjured a host of ailments to avoid confrontation with a disgruntled teacher or an insulted classmate. The headache was my go-to until I was old enough for painkillers. When I got off the bus in the morning and the school day stretched before me like a year without rain, I went to the nurse’s office to lie down and rest. At first, I invented pain. Then it seemed to follow me like an old friend: a dull throb on my right temple that alerted me to my own weariness. When I got turned away with two painkillers, I conjured nausea and a sore throat to secure a half-hour of peace with the scuffle of the nurse’s plimsolls on the linoleum. Staring at the ceiling fan, I dreamed of alternate realities. The worlds I invented were typically underwater but there was a new vision taking shape in my mind. It came in globs, like wax in a lava lamp.


I saw the world through Oscar Maguire’s eyes—I walked through the halls and puffed out my chest in response to the giggling girls. I joined in with the rough-housing boys like a lion and took fire ant bites to the face like a stoic. I was unstoppable. There was no need for fictitious tonsillitis or respite from the corporeal. On my back in the nurse’s office, I knew that what I needed was a compass. If I were to step inside Oscar’s brain—just for a moment—I’d be pointed due north and the invented pain would subside.


 * * *


I lingered in the foyer at Oscar’s townhouse. The bay windows stretched on forever and white-hot light seared the back of my neck as I wrung my hands and bit my lip. Oscar’s older brother was big and brawny with a thick layer of hair on his arms. I thought the hair looked like moss. I wondered if it was cool and damp. I wanted to touch it and find out. I changed into my swimming costume in the bathroom and struggled with the zip on the back. It was a one-piece, to shield my Irish skin from searing in the Singapore sun. The Maguire’s wore swimming trunks. I was embarrassed by my juvenile attire. The big and brawny brother with shoulder blades like airplane wings tore through the water as though it had done him wrong. I watched the muscles contract and release as he showed off the butterfly.


The way his body moved was of interest to me, but I was more interested in Oscar. There was the torso I had glimpsed in the nurse’s office. His tummy poked out over the waistband of his trunks but it looked firm. On his back, there was a constellation of moles that I wanted to connect with my index finger. Oscar jumped in and wrestled with his brother, they slammed each other beneath the surface and the water splashed and exclaimed in their wake. I stood at the edge of the pool and glanced over at the mothers gossiping on the deck. The beach bag was hidden behind a sun-lounger, but I could still see the pointed fins of a mermaid’s tail jutting out at the very bottom.


 * * *


“We’re going to Chinatown this morning to draw pictures of the shop-houses. Did everyone bring their watercolor pencils?” I had forgotten mine. I stayed up late the night before and drew pictures of the seabed by the otherworldly glow of a green night light. “I’m not feeling well,” the dull throb in my head returned at the thought of sweating in my school uniform and lining up on the pavement for warm apple juice. It was a fine day to lie on my back in the nurse’s office and dream of somewhere else.


“I’ve got a set, we can share,” Oscar said with a warm smile. The throb went away as I sat next to my friend on the school bus to Chinatown and tried to figure out how his brain worked. His pupils fixed on whoever was talking: a boisterous classmate or a cajoling teacher. Our school was in an undeveloped part of Singapore, surrounded by lush greenery and tropical wildlife. The Angsana trees gave way to blocks of squat buildings in primary colors as we rode further into the city. Oscar’s eyes did not glaze over and turn towards the window to watch the magic happen.


 * * *


I couldn’t get in the pool. The Maguire brothers seemed to command all the water. I was afraid that if I added myself to the equation, the pool would rupture and the bottom would fall out, sucking us all into the ground forever. But I was more afraid of the boys. My reluctance went unnoticed as I busied myself with the chlorine filter. It was jammed with rotten leaves. I rescued the crumpled foliage and straightened them out in a neat line in front of the pool. “Lunch break!” his mother called and the two boys leaped out of the water to rush inside for Nasi Lemak, fresh from the hawker center down the road.


The older Maguire shoved fistfuls of rice into his mouth with his hands, then vaulted back in the pool for a swim. “It takes me a long time to eat too,” Oscar said, pointing at my untouched meal. His plate was empty but he sat with me as I nibbled on fried anchovies dipped in sambal.

 “I need her,” I said to my mother as the dishes were put away. She sighed, then brought in the beach bag to give me Ariel. I combed through her coarse hair and shot into the water, safe in the knowledge that if the bottom fell out of the pool and I was pulled into another world, I’d have the perfect companion to explore it with.


 * * *


“Buddy up, and pick a shop-house to draw.” I won Oscar as my buddy because we were sharing watercolor pencils. The other boys hummed and hawed then wandered off in pairs of two. “You can pick which house we draw, I don’t mind,” Oscar said. He walked with his nose in the air and his hands clasped behind his back like a wise old man. I shook my head at the immediate options. The perfect subject materialized as a triplet, at the very end of the cul-de-sac we were given to roam. Three glorious shop-houses in deep ocean colors: aquamarine, sea-foam green, and teal. We knelt on the edge of the pavement and started to sketch. Oscar’s hand was unsteady and impatient, so I linked my fingers over his and showed him how to shade for depth.


There was a pain when our fingers touched: a sting akin to the fire ant bites on my face, but less urgent and more hopeful. We sat there quietly for some time. “When we’re older, and we live here, I’ll paint the shutters red,” Oscar announced with his head cocked to one side. I was glad I hadn’t defected to the nurse’s office. I sketched in a bed of sand and seaweed that flowed up the ornate shutters of the sea-foam center house. “That’s not real,” Oscar said. I smiled. “I know, but we can pretend.”

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