Of Gods and Fame

My name is Nanaja Garfield and I suppose my life was fucked from the start. Being born with frizzy hair caught halfway between red and brown and ears the size of satellites obviously wasn’t enough of an anchor to drag me down, because they decided to throw in a perpetual sense of unrelenting angst and a family that belonged on a television screen.

My dad was originally from England, though he spent a lot of his time studying in Iraq, and my mother was an artist from Australia. They met and fell in love, and eventually, my three brothers and I came along. Somewhere along the way they must have decided that it would be hilarious to set their kids up for endless years of relentless bullying, because we were all named after Sumerian Gods — of which my dad had read a lot on during his stay in the Middle East.

And not only was I bullied all throughout my years at school (Na-na-nana-ja), but for the first section of my life, I didn’t even know how to pronounce my name. So when my fifteenth birthday came around and I finally got around to asking what my name meant and what on earth possessed them to think that it was adorable, I was met with an answer that would only fuel more built up angst and a severe identity crisis.

I was named after the God of sex and war. Which, y0u know, might have been cool had I not been born with ears that could be used to swim across the Atlantic and hair the colour of dehydrated piss — I may as well have had neon lights taped to my legs that read ‘Not worth it’, and then further up, ‘Have you looked at her?’ My friend Joey told me that it was a curse; that I was destined to be a virgin forever — though judging by the maturity of guys my age (Joey included, I liked to tell him), that really wasn’t something I was currently too concerned with.

What I was concerned with, however, was the fact that it was the first day of my University break and I was stuck inside my dad’s bakery with a mop in my hand and an unpleasant scowl on my face. My arms were aching and there was a puddle in front of me that had formed when I’d sloshed the mop out of the bucket too quickly, and as I kept trying to wipe it up, more and more of the warm soapy water splashed up against my legs. I was frustratingly aware of the fact that I smelt like artificial lemons and my hair was gaining its own gravitational orbit, and for that reason I was thankful that the shop was empty. I’d rolled the blinds down to block out the sun — as well as curious onlookers, so when the door swung open I was unprepared.

When I looked up, I was sure that the chemicals in the detergent had finally gotten to my brain, because the person standing in front of me was not a person that should be walking into a crappy, under-priced bakery containing anything less than a few hundred thousand dollars and a video camera. I must have stared a little bit because his eyes widened and he took a step back against the closed door, and when he spoke I was unprepared for that too.

“You got any chocolate eclairs?”

I stared silently, the mop laying limp in my hands as I took him in; took in the gentle sweeps of coffee-coloured hair and the whisper of stubble against his chin; the light blue of his eyes and the firm crease of his jaw. And then a red hue started to work its way up the back of my neck, curling around my cheeks and darkening my ears.

“Can you see any chocolate eclairs?” I asked roughly, gesturing toward the empty display trays with my spare (soggy) hand and narrowing my eyes at him. “I think the sign on the door should have indicated that well enough,” I continued, pointing to the red ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door.

His lips curled up in amusement. “Your opening hours say nine to six,” he said simply, blue eyes sparkling. His eyes glanced pointedly toward the clock on the wall above the cash register, and I reluctantly followed his gaze to see that it was only four-thirty.

Flushing a furious pink, I pushed the mop down in the bucket, mortified when more water splashed up against my legs. He looked like he was fighting back a laugh, his lips pursed in a way that could have only been attractive on someone like him. “Special circumstances,” I grumbled quietly — which were, of course, the fact that I was hot and wet and couldn’t be bothered operating the store for much longer.

“What’s your name?” he asked blithely, his lips quirked into an amused smile.

I sighed, putting the mop back in the bucket and trying to ignore the fact that I was wearing my older brother’s overalls in front of the world’s biggest heartthrob — and covered in soapy water, nonetheless. “Nanaja,” I said grumpily, batting away a strand of my dark hair and refusing to look at him. “My parents were obsessed with mythology,” I begrudgingly added as means of explanation.

He was fighting back a grin now, looking downright gorgeous with his cheeks slightly red and his eyes sparkling. “What’s she the God of?” he asked amusedly, lips still slightly curled at the corners.

I sighed, cursing my family for giving me a name that caused conversations to start. I’d have much preferred Betty or Janice; so as to simply get an: ‘oh, you poor soul’ instead of this constant hounding conversation in which I had to explain that I — with my big ears and frizzy hair (genetics could not have screamed ‘virgin’ any louder) — was named after the God of war and sex.

“She was the God of War,” I said simply, unwilling to say the rest. My previous reactions had ranged from a quick look up and down and a confused, raised eyebrow to a crappy pick up line involving my experience, or lack thereof.

He raised a sardonic brow and looked me up and down, taking in my clenched fists and haughty glare with a look that said he was trying not to laugh. “Sort of fits, doesn’t it?”

I glared at the ground furiously, tugging up the baggy sleeves of the shirt I was wearing underneath the overalls. “We can’t all be movie stars,” I grumbled finally, not noticing the way he had grown stiff.

After a few bouts of tense silence I finally looked up to see him tugging on the end of his shirt and looking uncomfortable. “You know who I am?” he said eventually, blue eyes gazing into mine forcedly.

It struck me then how mortified he seemed at the thought of being caught out; at the fact that a stranger might know his name and what he did for a living. Sure, he’d been on a few magazine covers and his former relationship with his costar Melody Lewis had been broadcast all over the news, and sure, I knew more than a few people who had a shirtless picture of him plastered above their bed. But if he really hadn’t wanted any of that — hadn’t wanted people to know his name wherever he went, he wouldn’t have forced his way into the spotlight.

And so I answered, but when I did, it was with a cautious tone. “Of course.” There was a pause in which he looked awkward. “Doesn’t make this store any more open.”

His lips curled into a smile as he relaxed a bit. “Not even for a Golden Globe?” he joked.

I stared. “You only won that because you took your shirt off.”

He laughed; lips forming an amused smirk. “Looked that good, did it?”

I flushed furiously, my gaze subconsciously trailing down to his stomach as though I could see through it, and when I raised them back up again he was looking at me with laughter in his eyes. “About as good as that shirt looks with those socks,” I said finally, a red hue flooding my cheeks as I realised that I’d resorted to the lowest of lows — insulting him on his fashion.

He smiled. “You’re alright, Nanaja,” he said softly, his dimples showing as he grinned at me.

I looked at the ground, not sure how to take his words.

“I better get going,” he said finally, and I glanced up to look at him. “My sister lives just around the corner and she’s been craving chocolate eclairs all morning.” He smiled. “Last pregnancy it was peanut butter and banana sandwiches, so at least this little guy’s more fancy.” At my silence, his smile fell a bit. “I’ll see you around, Naja.”

When he walked out of the store, I never thought I would see him again. And I was okay with that — okay with my relatively secluded life and the fact that he probably wouldn’t even remember my name.

But I should have remembered that nothing ever seemed to go the way I planned.