“Good.” My aunt exhaled, drawing out her breath. She set down her cigarette and reached behind her desk. “Now hold out your hands.”
I quailed, sensing something ominous. “Why?”
Gu Ma held up a rattan rod, so lean that it curved when she waved it. Harmless looking, but I knew better.
I took a step back. “Why are you holding a cane?”
“Chan Kiu Factory adheres to the highest standards,” she said. “The seamstresses need to believe that I’ve punished you. Otherwise, they’ll be suspicious about why you still work here.”
My mouth went slack. Even Ah Ma had stopped caning me long ago. “But, Gu Ma—”
“The longer we dally, the harder I’ll strike. Hold out your hands.”
I balled my fists at my sides. When I was little, I would run to the bathhouse and lock the door, hiding from Ah Ma’s wrath until she grew angry at someone else. But there was nowhere to hide in Gu Ma’s office.
I did as she asked and shut my eyes. A sharp whack stung my forearms. Two more followed, equally as intense. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out.
When I opened my eyes again, Gu Ma was bending down to inspect her handiwork. Three tomato-sized welts had formed where she’d struck me. “You’re dismissed.”
Anger flared in my chest, but I smothered it. I was afraid to talk back to Gu Ma. If she kicked me out of the house, where would I go? I didn’t have money to return to Tunglam, and even if I did, how could I face Mama? Simply thinking about it shamed me.
I retreated back to my corner, my arm smarting. I held my breath to contain my temper, and a thousand icy pinpricks crept up my skin, the feeling before I turned invisible.
Stop,I thought. I couldn’t vanish here in front of everyone.
I let out a slow exhale, curling my toes into my shoes as I clenched the edge of my workstation. Finally, the glittering cold faded. I was whole again.
Around me, the sewing machines churned.
I hid a smile.Having this curse does not make you special,Mama had warned, but how could it not? This was my secret, my seed of strength.
No one could take it from me.
By the end of the month, I was sewing twelve slippers a day. I was still the slowest in the factory, and thanks to my lead foot, I was constantly in danger of impaling my fingers while threading the needle. But finally I’d receive my pay.
First I’d ask someone to help write a letter to Mama, then maybe I’d buy new underwear and socks, a bag of jelly candies and a soda. The possibilities were endless. Or I could save my wages for what I truly wanted: a record. One I could keep in my room and touch and listen to as much as I wanted. One I could call my own.
When it came my turn, Mrs. Dang had no paper envelope to give me. “Madam Chan is keeping your salary,” she said. She swept me aside. “Next!”
I refused to budge. “What?”
“How do we know you won’t run off with the money and not come back? Madam Chan treats every worker in this factory as aninvestment.” She spoke the word glacially, as though I were too dumb to understand. “You’ll get your pay when you’ve proven yourself. Next!”
But she’s my aunt,I wanted to protest. Of course I couldn’t.
I stumbled away from the crowd of weary seamstresses waiting for their wages.
Sui Chan caught me by the arm. “You’re sewing too fast,” she said. “You need to go slower to work faster.”
That made no sense. “What?”
“Too fast, you don’t have as much control over the machine,” she explained. “When you go slow and steady, you can turn the fabric more easily. Like this, see?”
The machine purred under her hands like a cat. She made it look so easy.
“I’m Sui Chan.”
“I know.”
