Jul 20, 2016
Cecilia runs over in a grey crop top, tight knee-length skirt and shiny black flats. I should have told her that I was planning to take her to the seaside. When she gets into the car I'm surprised: glittery eyeshadow, beautifully done eyeliner, lipstick that looks really good on her. All dolled up at 11.30pm. "Looking good!" I marvel. "My roommate was like, why are you so dressed up at this time of night, I was like, it's my birthday, indulge me, okay?"
In the car she plays Like A G6 and Justin Bieber's Sorry and we both sing along, unashamed. She's never been to Labrador Park, but she told me she wanted to go somewhere with water. (I was confused: "a water cooler? A vending machine?") We get out of the car and the salty wind greets us, caresses our faces, tousles our hair. Bright lights from the oil refinery island beyond. Songs are still blasting from her phone; we sit facing the sea. "Oh my gosh, I'm spending midnight of my eighteenth with you!!! I don't think I've ever celebrated at midnight outside before. I'm usually just sleeping." I open a bag of potato wheels but when I attempt to reach for my laptop the entire packet falls on the floor and it's all gone. "Should we let the fish eat them?" she asks, and throws a cupped handful of wheels into the water, white dots being carried by the wind. "oh no, it's still too close to the shore, I think we should stop." "It's at night, they can't see them!!" Bending over guffawing at the ridiculousness of it all.
We bin the rest of it and take a walk eastward, pop music announcing our arrival to the lizards and trees. "No fishing" signs, but the old men clearly don't care. "Which part of 'No Fishing' don't they understand," she grumbles. We stop at a lookout point. "Please don't let there be people," but there is, a middle-aged man with a rod. "Ugh." We occupy the space anyway. She's having a hard time finding a comfortable position with her skirt, so she lies down. "Oh my God can you help me take a Tumblr picture!!! HA. Forgive me, I'm being such a teenager." I open the camera app on her phone; no more music now, just the sound of iPhone camera snaps. She peruses the pictures - "I look like I'm dead!! Okay take me sitting up instead." "Your label is showing." She adjusts her skirt, but allows the small of her back to show. More photos in landscape, up close, in monochrome. I play with the camera angle so that the fishing uncle at the back doesn't get in the picture. "Oh the clouds behind you look really good," I notice, and snap a few candid shots of her with the sky. "Oi! Stop it! Stop taking! Unglam!" She laughs, snatches the phone from me.
Three boys come over with fishing rods. I notice that she isn't talking anymore. She keeps her gaze low, sits up straight, adjusts and readjusts her skirt from the back. She doesn't want anything to show anymore. I don't pay any attention to our intruders at first, but when I notice her discomfort I take a better look at them. Spectacles, caps, a kopitiam cup. Their fishing rods are still in their cases; they look out to the sea and assess the waves in soft, casual conversation. They look younger than me, and harmless. I realise how trusting I am of Singapore, how I project my own innocence and my narrow perception of Singaporean society on the strangers around me. But Cecilia hasn't been saying a word. She's still adjusting her skirt, keeping her gaze down. "Wanna go?" I ask. "Yeah." Her strides are long and quick, even in her tight skirt, even with her blistered foot.