“Time to talk, Ronnie.” Marco appeared at Ronnie’s side as she wiped her last empty table for the fourth time. “No more stalling.”
Ronnie followed her boss, reluctantly entered the office, and waited as he closed the door behind her.
“Have a seat.”
Ronnie complied, as she hadn’t earlier that day. What had she been thinking?
Marco walked around behind his desk and leaned on it. “You and I both know that I could fire you for your attitude earlier today.”
Ronnie looked down at her hands, biting her tongue against any retort.
“But I’m not going to. You’re young, but I believe you have the makings of a valuable employee.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was tired and she didn’t look up. “I don’t know what I’d do if—”
“But I’m going to ask that you seriously consider several options for increasing your productivity with us.”
“What do you mean?”
Marco pushed back his chair and settled into it, propping his feet up on his desk. He stifled a yawn. “Well, from what you said earlier, you need to make more money. There are many ways to do that, but you have to be open-minded, willing to try new things. You can’t be so set in your ways, especially if you want to earn enough money for school.”
“But stripping—”
“Listen, Ronnie.” Marco gave her a rueful smile. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t view dancing as appealing. Fine. I’m not going to force you into anything. But there’s a reason for the saying, ‘try it, you’ll like it.’ I believe that you would come to enjoy it very quickly—and would really enjoy the money. I hope you’ll change your mind eventually because, frankly, I think you’d be a big draw for the club.”
Ronnie looked down again. “You implied that stripping wasn’t the only thing you wanted to suggest.”
“That’s true.” Marco swiveled in his chair and looked out at the deserted stages, his voice oddly distant. “You probably don’t realize it yet, but our club is well-connected. Not only in this city—we’re well connected in the world of magazines, movies, and other media. Movie producers are in here all the time, and you served one of them recently without knowing it.”
“I did?”
“And as he was leaving, he approached me to ask if you’d be interested in speaking with them. They want to give you a screen test.”
Ronnie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding.”
Marco laughed. “I’m serious, Ronnie. This could be a big break for you. Several of our girls have been approached over the years, and I will tell you that for those who’ve made it, this is a lucrative way to supplement your income.”
“Would I have to move to California?”
“No, no.” Marco waved a hand, chuckling. “These are independent producers that work from everywhere. The one I spoke to is based here in Atlanta. They put out dozens of movies a year, and the average shoot is only a few weeks. We’d work out a schedule to grant you leave during those weeks, as we like to see our girls succeed in this area.”
“A few weeks? What kind of movie can be shot in a few weeks?” Ronnie stared at the look on Marco’s face, and comprehension flooded her. “Give me a break, Marco! Do you really think that if I’m not interested in stripping, that I’d be interested in porn movies?”
“Ronnie, Ronnie, these aren’t hard-core porn films. These are independent adult-entertainment productions. Don’t judge them so quickly—they may not be at all what you’re thinking.”
“You really had me going there for a second.”
“Just check it out.” Marco wrote a name and number on a slip of Challenger letterhead and handed it across the desk. “Don’t be so judgmental before you know what it’s really about.”
“Yeah …” Ronnie studied the paper and let out a long sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
“It just seems like … like everyone wants to push me into this stuff. I wish someone would recognize that that’s not the reason I’m here. I’m here so I can go to college. I wish you all would consider what’s right for me. But you just don’t care. You don’t care about me, or my plans, or what I want for my life.”
“Ronnie, who do you think got you the interview at Georgia State?”
Her head shot up, her mouth opening in astonishment.
Marco smiled and leaned forward. “I told you, we’re very well-connected in this city.” He stood and walked over to her chair. “We want to help you, Ronnie. We do care about you. We consider our employees a family, and that’s what a family does.”
ELEVEN
Tiffany slung a small purse over her shoulder and cocked her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? You’ve been talking about seeing this movie for weeks.”
Ronnie didn’t move from the kitchen table. The noontime sun was flooding in the bay window alcove, beckoning her. She forced herself to shake her head. “I can’t. I have to work tonight, and this afternoon is the last free time I’ll have to fill out the paperwork before the deadline.”
“Oh, come on. You can do it tomorrow. You have until five.” Tiffany playfully tried to push her out of her chair. “Stop being so serious and get out and live for a change!”
Ronnie laughed but clutched the tabletop in a vise grip. “And I’ve got to save up for a car, Tiff! I can’t afford to go to lunch and the movies and go shopping—I can barely afford to pay my share of the rent for this palace you call an apartment, much less get my own near the school.”
“It’s just a cheap matinee, and you don’t have to buy anything if you don’t want to. Just come with us.” Her voice grew plaintive. “It’s been more than a month, and we haven’t done anything fun since you got here.”
“I—I can’t, Tiff. I have to get my GED. And tomorrow I have that big interview at Georgia State. That’s why I’m here at all, remember?”
“Yeah,” her friend sighed, “I know. I know. But promise,” she wagged her finger in Ronnie’s face, “as soon as you get that paperwork filed, we go out and get dinner somewhere or go downtown and have some fun. And you have to stop being so stubborn and just let me pay.”
Ronnie lifted her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Once isn’t going to kill me.”
“Good.” Tiffany leaned over and hugged her friend. “Good luck with all the paperwork. See you tonight at the office.” She grinned and sashayed out the door.
“What did you call this thing again?” Ronnie looked over at Tina, who was also applying her makeup at the women’s powder room mirror. The room was crowded. Two other waitresses gushed over another young woman, who was perched on the edge of a lounge chair, her hands clenched in nervous fists.
“Amateur night.”
“But if they’re actually on stage, how can they be—”
“Think of it like a talent contest. Teachers or secretaries or lawyers—whoever—go onstage for two minutes, and just try it out.” Tina turned back to the mirror. “Whoever wins the contest gets five hundred bucks. Half a grand for two minutes ain’t bad.”
“So it’s just for fun?”
“Some people just do it for a lark … for kicks, you know? But this is how the managers find a lot of new talent. You win the contest, you definitely get hired. Probably here, but also sometimes at one of their affiliate clubs.”
“It sounds nerve-wracking.” Ronnie eyed the other girls, who were heading out the door. “How do people even hear about it?”
“That girl,” Tina nodded in the direction the group had gone, “knows two of the waitresses, and they convinced her to come try it.”
“Well, if the other waitresses are so eager for their friend to try it, why aren’t they going up there themselves?”
Tina capped her lipstick with a click and gave Ronnie a look. “Oh, honey. They are.”
Ronnie sat in the sparse waiting area of the admissions office, reading the multipage application, brochures about student activities, the college catalog.
“R
onnie Hanover?”
She looked up as a very tall man stepped toward her, a welcoming look on his face.
“I’m Vance Woodward. Why don’t you come into my office?”
“Okay.” She moved toward the door, surprised that he politely waited for her to enter first.
Inside the office, she stopped short and found herself smiling in delight. The walls, tables, and bookshelves were laden with vintage Americana—trinkets and collectors’ pieces from dozens of companies that had been around for years. Even the chairs in front of the standard-issue desk looked as if they were from an old soda parlor.
The admissions officer seemed amused at her reaction. “I probably go overboard as a collector.”
“No, no, I love it!” She ran her hand over an old gramophone by the door. “I’ve never seen—I mean—how did you get all of this?”
Mr. Woodward gestured her toward a seating area around a coffee table. She perched on the simple sofa, while he pulled up one of the vintage chairs.
“Oh, I started collecting when I was a kid and just never stopped. It finally drove my wife crazy, so she insisted I bring most of the stuff to the office. We hit a bad financial patch a few years back and had to downsize to a smaller house, so I guess I can’t blame her.”
He sat back and reached for a pad of paper on a nearby table. “Now, Ronnie, let’s get one thing out of the way. You missed the call that we had scheduled last week, and I’d like to know why. There’s a passage in the Bible that says ‘out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaks,’ and, similarly, I believe that what is in someone’s heart will be shown by their actions. When you don’t make a scheduled appointment, I can only assume that you’re either careless or unmotivated—neither of which characterizes the students we’re looking for.”
Ronnie’s mouth was dry. “I do care, Mr. Woodward. I want to go to college more than anything. That’s why I wanted to meet with you. And thank you for taking the meeting.”
“You’re welcome.” The admissions officer inclined his head. “So what happened?”
“My boss stopped me as I was about to make the call, and insisted I come meet with him that minute. I did everything I could to get him to wait—I really did—but I was worried he would fire me. And there’s no way I’ll earn the money for school unless I keep this job.”
“Can your family help you?”
“No. No, my family isn’t … helping me.”
“Do they live nearby?”
“No.” Ronnie took a deep breath. “They live a few hours south. I’m here on my own.”
“Have you graduated from high school yet?”
“No, I had to drop out. But I’m going to get my GED in the spring, so I’ll be ready for school by the fall. I’m living up in the suburbs with a friend, and I have a good job so I can pay the tuition. I’m going to make this happen, one way or another.”
Mr. Woodward sat back in his chair and nodded slowly. “It sounds like you’re a very motivated young lady.”
Ronnie looked down, suddenly close to tears. “Thank you.”
“Well, remind me to get you some financial aid information when we’re done. I think you might be able to get some grants to help with the costs. Now—”
“Grants? I was assuming I’d have to take out a loan.”
“Perhaps not—or not as much of one. The school sometimes gives grants to those in financial need … such as those whose parents can’t afford to help pay for school.” He smiled. “We’ll get you that information shortly. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a few standard questions to ask about your academic record and activities, and then I’d be glad to answer anything I can for you.”
Twenty minutes later, he looked at his watch and rose to his feet. “It certainly sounds as if you are the sort of student we’re looking for. I can’t promise anything until the applications are reviewed, but I’d say you have a very good chance of admission.” He smiled down at her. “And frankly, I’d say you have a very good chance of success in life, as well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He walked her out the door of his office and asked his secretary to get her a packet of financial aid materials.
“Please call me if you have any further questions, or need help in the process. That’s what we’re here for.” When Ronnie nodded silently, he gave her an intent look. “I’m serious, Ronnie. It sounds like you’re swimming uphill, and you might need a boost from time to time. Don’t hesitate to call.”
“All right … and thank you.” Ronnie turned as the secretary approached.
“Here you are.” She handed over a large manila envelope. “That should have everything you need. You might want to go relax in the library for a few minutes and look through the materials. If you have any questions, you could just run over to the financial aid office. It’s not that far away.”
“I’ll do that.” Ronnie slotted all the papers she’d received into the envelope and hugged it to her chest. “Thanks for all your help, really.”
“My pleasure.” The brisk demeanor melted into a smile. “Good luck, Miss Hanover.”
The campus library was nearly deserted for the holidays, as Ronnie pored over catalog after catalog, flyer after flyer. So many classes! So many activities! Her eyes soaked in the pictures of international skylines: Paris … Shanghai … Sydney. An international exchange program—now that would be an adventure.
She flipped through the course catalog. To work in physical therapy, she could concentrate in premed … or maybe physical fitness … Four years of it! Maybe she’d even go on to get a masters degree! The tingle of excitement made her jumpy. She wanted to start classes now. She gave a little snort of amusement. Yeah, except for that little hurdle called a high school diploma.
She turned to the next booklet, and her smile faded. Well, she would have to face reality at some point. Maybe if Mr. Woodward was right, she’d be able to get some grant money and take out fewer loans. She ran her fingers down the costs of tuition, materials, room and board, jotted some notes in her notebook, and pulled the financial aid materials from their envelope.
Ten minutes later, her note taking slowed, and then stopped. Ronnie read the fine print again, and again, then laid the packet on the desk and buried her head in her hands.
Parental agreement! She more than qualified for a “financial need” grant, but there was no way that her family would cooperate. Seth would never allow her mother to disclose their finances to the financial aid office, much less cosign a loan application so she would have enough to live on while she completed her degree.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight as the full reality hit her. She was going to have to be a part-time student. No four-year degree for her. She was going to have to keep working at The Challenger, and juggle day classes with night work.
If only she could find a way to get one of those grants.
TWELVE
Sherry pulled into the church parking lot and stopped the minivan in a spot by the front door.
“Okay all of you—out!”
Her voice was cheerful but firm. Five hours of raucous grade-schoolers was about all she could take. The science museum was kid-friendly, but still … thank goodness the parents took turns on field trip duty.
The chattering kids—all but Brandon and Genna—wrenched open the minivan doors, and scattered to the cars and vans dotting the parking lot. Several parents that Sherry didn’t recognize were standing or sitting on the church steps.
One woman glanced toward Sherry’s minivan, did a slow double take, and headed her direction.
Sherry rolled down her window, shivering a bit as the December air crept into the toasty vehicle.
The woman had an incredulous smile on her face. “Sherry—Sherry Rice?”
“I’m sorry, do I—”
“I’m Jo Markowitz, Sherry! From Harvard?”
“Jo!” Sherry jumped out of the minivan and hugged her old college friend. “I haven’t seen you in—gosh—eight, nine years?”
“Not since homecoming that first year out.”
“Right, right! What’re you doing here?”
Jo glanced at the church building behind her, a tinge of disbelief in her voice. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Sherry gave a small laugh. “Yeah, I bet you could.”
Jo watched a Volvo station wagon pull into the parking lot. A red-haired boy sat in the rear fold-down seat, his hair poking out at wild angles.
“Well, that’s my son. Hopefully he didn’t electrocute himself at SciTrek.”
“Um …” Sherry smiled. “I did see him try that electrostatic demonstration one too many times.”
“Well, that accounts for the hair. Plus, he’s a boy.”
The Volvo doors swung open and the kids bounded out. The redhead caught sight of Jo’s waving arm and ran up to her, nearly knocking her over with an enthusiastic hug. He immediately started chattering about all they had seen and done during the day, until Jo gave him a good-natured “noogie,” pressing his face into her side to silence him. He howled and batted at her hands.
She released him and pointed toward Sherry. “Blake, this is Sherry Rice, one of my old friends from college. Can you say hi?”
He looked down at his toes, suddenly shy. “Hi.”
“Hi, Blake. I have a son about your age. His name is Brandon.”
The little face lit up. “I know Brandon! He’s on my basketball team. But … his last name is Turner.”
“That’s my Brandon. My married name is Turner. You know, Brandon’s in the van … why don’t you say hi?”
Jo gave her a direct look. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Listen, what’re you doing now? Could you take the time for coffee?”
Sherry hesitated, covering her indecision by looking at her watch.
When Sherry nodded, Jo pointed down Tenth Street. “You know that coffee shop in the bookstore? The kids could amuse themselves in the children’s section while we talk. I’ve got a commitment in a few hours, but until then.…”
Sherry shivered again. “That sounds great.”
The Lights of Tenth Street Page 10
