The Compound

by Aisling Rawle

The truth is, we weren’t interested in getting to know each other—not yet. We were assessing who was the most beautiful and who might cause trouble. At the same time, we were analyzing what our own place in the group might be. Within minutes of speaking to the girls, I knew that I was one of the most beautiful, and one of the least interesting.

It was one of the most entertaining parts of the show, actually: they pushed people into couples, and otherwise tried to get you to forge relationships with the other residents, only to see if you were willing to sacrifice those same people in order to get better prizes.

I thought that we had lost some crucial bit of power, not from the act of being judged, but by showing that it meant something to us.

It was easier now, to talk without revealing personal information. It limited your conversation, but if you just emptied your brain and said whatever came to mind, it was enjoyable in its own way.

“I have things, sure. Do you know, they keep sending me wigs? Long and straight. One of them was pink.” She touched her hair, which she usually wore naturally. “I wore a black one for a little bit. I keep dropping hints for things—a bonnet, conditioner that works for my hair, darker concealer. But then I kept getting gifted these clothes—stuff I’d never wear. When I put the stuff on, I don’t look like myself.” She looked at me steadily. “I look like a Black version of you.” “I’m sorry, Jacintha. I’m sorry they did that.” “There wasn’t even a Black resident here for the first three years. I don’t know how much this feels like progress.”