7

My favorite superhero is Nancy Drew. When I turned 10, my aunts Khim and Reggie gave me The Clue Of The Tapping Heels (#16) and The Mystery Of The Tolling Bell (#19) for my birthday, and a literary best friend for life.

I’ve played with Encyclopedia Brown, flirted with The Three Investigators and quickly dumped the Hardy Boys (Frank and Joe can never man up to Nancy, George and Bess), but no one has spotted me for more than 30 years since like the sleuth from River Heights. The cases that had Nancy and her girls crisscrossing America and trotting the globe, whether behind the wheel of her blue convertible, on the saddle of a palomino, steering a speedboat/helicopter/propellor plane/ATV/insert other adventure vehicle, hiking/skiing/parachuting/running from assailants, were more than just mysteries to tween me. They were travelogs, the first guidebooks and cultural almanacs to places I eventually got to visit as a grown-up - Paris, Tanzania, the Arizona outback, Hawaii, Hong Kong, more. I also vicariously lived so much American life to complement Who’s The Boss, Fresh Prince Of Bel Air, Charles In Charge and other sitcoms that informed my burgeoning enamorment of everything Starred and Striped. Nancy Drew took the guesswork out of landing in Chicago alone for college, never having been to the States before, and also ensured no country was too outré or uncanny to set foot in.

When I was younger, I lusted for the powers of Wonder Woman. Now I knew Nancy’s wit (and the unwavering sisterhood of her friends) was all a girl ever needed. Around the time I met Nancy was when I decided I wanted to be a reporter, although then, I called it “travelogist” because I didn’t know what profession it was that had you going about meeting people and places and telling their stories. This job, I would formally learn in journalism school, required a Carolyn Keene-approved keen observation of details and inflections and allusions. I was schooled by the best in the business but Nancy Drew was my sensei and sensibility. The first thing I’ll notice about you is if you’re left- or right-handed, your accent, if you’re married, if you wear contact lenses, if you care that your glasses are smudged… I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s not intentional, it’s innate.

That’s why I start tingling once a half-slip out of place clues to some sort of sublime subterfuge stirring, usually in the realm of birthday surprises. At best, I might mis-guess venue or not deduce everyone who will be there, and sometimes bluffs have been successfully called against me. I don’t mean to spoil the hard work but trust me, the fun I derive from figuring it out makes it worthwhile. I enjoy the game afoot.

It didn’t matter that I was going to have a Circuit Breaker birthday, because I never put all my eggs into one birthday basket. I try to live my best life everyday. More so than ever in these times, the opportunity to wake up each morning and achieve is the raison d’être. And with everyone having to deal and cope with what Circuit Breaker means to their lives and families, I hardly wanted any energy to be focused on me. And there was not a blip on the horizon.

Mostly.

This morning, I was shocked by a delivery of Plain Vanilla cupcakes from Ernie and Mari Ani, who had already plowed me with pizza the day before. Then a bottle of organic Grenache Syrah showed up from Wei. Girls from the gym deposited a total of 10 slabs of my favorite Chalk Farm cakes (one set had pre-sprung two days prior).

Before I left for the store, my mother quietly said with some uncertainty, “I should finish cooking by 7, so let’s eat then?” That, plus her wondering the night before if I’d like the lamb or the steak, sent triggers down to my toes. My birthday dinners have always been masterminded by Mom with a firm hand, and she tells you what and when, at volume. She does not demur. Game = afoot. Later in the day, Mom said 7.30pm would be better for dinner. Dad uncharacteristically glided out of the store without saying a word. He texts at 6.45pm saying he was hungry and we should eat right away. This much I figured: the gym girls were sending dinner over - their brownie deke roused that suspicion. But instead of the Geylang Lorong 29 Fried Hokkien Mee I expected to find at home, because that’s where I’ve had my last two birthday dinners with this bunch — tubs of buttermilk fried chicken and jambalaya, and a massive salted caramel yellow birthday cake from Soul Kitchen?

What Would Nancy Do?

Nancy would dig into all that soul food with aplomb, wondering what facet of her own soul deserved all this kindness and generosity. She would learn that a French biodynamic red gracefully wings Southern fried chicken. She would conclude that Plain Vanilla makes the best cupcakes in Singapore. She would plan to languorously eat all the cake for the next two weeks. She would confirm that Circuit Breaker does not trip on life, but jolts much thankfulness and joy into being. Case closed.