String Bridge Read Free Page A

some punch and a wince to this hyper-city soundtrack.
    “It’s stuck!” Tessa cries, dragging out the words in a teary and unnerved whimper. Her chewing gum is embedded high up her left nostril. She leans herself forward and her head back so that I can see via the rearview mirror.
    “Oh Tessa,” I whine, furrowing my brow, trying to comprehend whether the jolt I just felt is from Tessa’s legs flailing about, or from a car hitting my rear bumper bar. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the latter. My eyebrows remain together so long that the skin-crease tattoos itself between them. Another corporeal proof of exhaustion to add to my list.
    I never asked for this career-driven life—to become another rodent in this stinking patriarchal and hypocritical nation, hanging from faulty strings of bureaucratic security. But this country is blessed with a persuasive charm that I still, to this day, cannot put my finger on. What drew me here? Was it really just my father’s Greek roots? Was the need to keep returning to a land that oozes with unidentifiable mystique a habit merely instilled by ritual family visits? Or did the alluring Sirens’ song succeed in tempting me here, in view of smashing me against their jagged cliffs? They didn’t succeed with Odysseus. Perhaps I’m their next prey, knowing very well that song would undoubtedly cause me to stray from my anticipated path.
    I bite my tongue, swallowing the urge to yell at Tessa’s stupidity. But I will not get angry. Yes, you’re flustered and late. But you can’t undo what is done. Just calm her down. Calm yourself down . I take a deep breath and watch Tessa through the mirror, squinting with concern. She keeps trying to get the gum out, but seems to be pushing it up even farther in her eager effort to hook it with her pinky finger.
    “Honey!” I snap, then immediately lower my volume at the shock of my frenzied voice. “Stop it. You’re going to make it worse. When we stop the car, I’ll help you get it out, okay? I can use my tweezers.”
    She sniffs outward, as if trying to dislodge it, and nods. A bubble escapes from her gum-free nostril. How could I possibly scold her? She’s a child. Every child sticks things in holes, and are bound to make silly, experimental mistakes. I certainly did. Such as when I scratched my dad’s gold Gibson electric guitar with my mother’s box cutter. I was only four, sitting in the corner of a rehearsal studio, listening to my parents bash out their gothic guitar riffs, vocals, and synthesiser samples, in passionate determination, oblivious to the world around them. I decided to make memory cards out of a brown box I found abandoned in the corner, and I needed a table. So I found the next best thing—the back of Dad’s guitar. Boy, did I pay for that. Not from Dad, from Mum. For blunting her knife. She whacked me on my backside several times with a rolled-up amplifier cable in front of all the rehearsal studio staff. Of course, she regretted it once her bipolar-induced rage died down and we got home. The rest of the night I was pampered with pizza, chocolate and ice cream, accompanied with her mascara-tinted tears and desperate pleas for forgiveness.
    “What on earth inspired you to shove it up your nose, Tessa?” I ask, scrutinizing the dormant vehicles in front of me and wondering how much longer we’re going to idle in this skanky heat.
    “I was just smelling it, Mummy. But it’s an alien. It’s from Mars. It went inside to make babies!”
    “What? What are you talking about?”
    “Mummy, I want it out. It’s hurting me!”
    “We’ll be there soon.” I swivel around in my seat so that I can look her directly in the eye, riding the clutch so that the car doesn’t stall as I inch forward with the traffic. “Look at me. How much does it hurt?”
    “Lots?” she replies and shrugs her shoulders.
    “How much lots? A lot-lots, or just a little-lots?”
    Tessa hums a nasal “um” looking out the window. She