by Portia Moore
I can get my heart broken, that’s what.
Get swept up into a world I couldn’t possibly last in and get spat back out to a life—though not perfect—I’m content with. I have hope still.
I follow the blonde woman downstairs, through the apartment, into the master suite. I see a row of four garment bags laid out on the bed, four sets of heels set on the floor below them. In the bathroom, I can hear the sound of tools being set out and things being moved around.
“You have your choice of dresses,” the blonde woman explains. “The shoes that go with them are underneath each bag.” She gestures to a matte-black shopping bag and a smaller one that’s a bright blue, sitting on the bed behind them. “Your choices of lingerie and jewelry are in those.”
I stare at it all, wide-eyed. I look to her, trying to think of something to say. Her face is cool, emotionless, impassive. She almost looks bored, and that makes my stomach flip. Is this all normal to her? A part of her job for Vincent to take girls off the street and turn them into women fit to be on his arm? I realize she hasn’t even felt the need to tell me her name, like she knows I won’t be here long enough for it to matter.
“Would you mind telling me your name?” I say as politely as I can.
“Andrea,” she says, almost impatiently. “Go ahead and try them on, Ms. Carlisle.”
I walk to the first garment bag and unzip it. The first dress is black, made of a stretchy, tight material that comes to mid-thigh, cut down low enough that I’ll need a special bra to wear it. I set it back down, and Andrea shakes her head. “Try them all on,” she demands. “Mr. Jamison wants to be sure you choose the one that is the most flattering. Tonight is an important night for him.”
I didn’t think my eyes could get any wider, but they do.
He’s taking me to something important? How? Why? After one night together, can he possibly think that this is a good idea? How can he know I won’t embarrass him? Because I’m not entirely sure that I won’t.
“I don’t…have anything on underneath this,” I say hesitantly.
Andrea rolls her eyes. “I’ve already seen it,” she says shortly. “Now hurry up. Mr. Jamison is very strict about being on time.”
I put the black dress on first, stepping into the red-bottomed, six-inch strappy heels that are paired with it. I don’t even want to think about how much just this outfit costs, and there are three more, along with underwear and jewelry, sitting on the bed. I walk to the full-length mirror and look at my reflection, thinking wryly that being so broke for the last several months has its benefits. I’m still curvy, but my stomach is the flattest it’s ever been.
I step out of it with some effort, trying to forget about the fact that a stranger is watching me change. I reach for the next dress, a red silk halter dress with a short, flirty skirt and similarly low-cut neckline. I try on the third—a hot pink, spaghetti-strap sheath with ruching on the sides—and then the last one, a white bandage dress with straps that cross over my chest and back, a keyhole that shows off my breasts to their best advantage, and a mid-thigh hemline. It hugs me tightly, and from cleavage to hemline, it is covered in pearlescent sequins that shimmer with every movement. The heels that go with it are red, strappy sandals with the familiar red bottoms, six-inches high. Andrea nods as I look at myself in the mirror.
“That one,” she says firmly, reaching for the matte shopping bag. She fishes out a strapless, low-cut push-up bra, a pair of cream-colored, smooth lace panties, and three jewelry boxes. I stare at them, the familiar robins-egg-blue color as distinctive as the red bottoms of my shoes. Swallowing hard, I reach for them and open the first.
The first is a pair of diamond chandelier earrings set in rose gold. The second a matching bracelet, a rose gold bangle with diamonds set into the metal at even intervals. The third is a rose-gold cocktail ring in the shape of a tropical flower, the leaves and stem covered in dozens of pave diamonds.
This is worth more than years of what I’d make at Funbags. I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I’m in a dream because this isn’t reality, not mine.
“Take it off,” Andrea says impatiently. “Marco is waiting for you.” She holds out the black silk robe that I’d discarded earlier, and I obediently wiggle back out of the dress and slide the robe on, belting it securely around me. At least I won’t have to be naked in front of Marco.
Marco, it seems, is waiting in a large well-lit bathroom, tools and makeup set out evenly along the counter, a chair waiting for me. He throws a hairstylist’s cape around my neck and fluffs out my blonde hair, running his fingers through it as he shakes his head. He glances at Andrea. “You tell Mr. Jamison; he brings her to me next week. This blonde, it’s atrocious. Who dyes your hair, Baby Doll?”
I stare at him. No one had ever called me that, except maybe my father when I was four or five. I’m a doll being dressed up and made over for a very rich man’s pleasure, and I know I should resent it, I should hate it. But no one has ever put this much effort into me.
“I dyed it myself,” I say, my face red with embarrassment. “A box dye I forgot the name of it.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so horrified. He touches my roots. “You’re a natural blonde, yes?”
I nod. “It’s a beautiful color, your natural one. Some highlights are all you need.” He looks at Andrea again. “Tell Mr. Jamison,” he repeats. “She comes to me; I make her hair worthy of royalty.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as Marco sprays mist and runs gel through my hair, curling it piece by piece and pinning the sections to my head as he works his way around. I watch, mesmerized, as he starts on my makeup once my hair is all curled and pinned. The sensation of the brushes moving across my face is soothing, and I feel myself relaxing a little as he blends concealer, adds blush, contours my cheekbones, and then begins to dust eyeshadows from a palette across my eyelids, after telling me sternly to close my eyes and not move.
He tells me to open them again a few minutes later, but I can’t really see. He stands in front of me, carefully running a mascara wand over my eyes, putting something on my lids, running the wand over them again. Finally, he tells me to close them once more as he begins to unpin my hair, and then he pulls the cape off of me with a flourish. “Voila!” he announces. “Open your eyes, Doll.”
I open them slowly and gape at my reflection. Dena had done a good job on my hair and makeup, but it’s nothing compared to this. I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. My hair falls in perfect, thick curls around my face, soft and shiny and bouncy hair that any man would die to bury his hands in. My skin is flawless, my cheekbones look high and sharp, shimmering in the light. He’s done my eyes in gold shadows that make my boring brown eyes that I’ve always hated suddenly look as if they’re glowing, and he added subtle faux eyelashes and thick mascara to make them stand out even more, with just a flick of liner. My lips are a soft rose color, full and pouting.
He’s transformed me from an ordinary girl into something much, much more.
Andrea returns, carrying a garment bag, heels, and the bag with my undergarments and jewelry. “Here,” she says coolly. “It’s after seven. You’ll need to dress quickly.”
“I’ll be outside,” Marco says quickly. “I’ll clean up once you’re done.”
I slip on the lace panties and hook the bra with some effort, sliding the dress up slowly, careful not to catch it on anything. I step into the sandals, carefully buckling them. Looking at the robin’s-egg blue boxes on the counter, I swallow hard, my heart pounding. With my fingers shaking, I open the first one, slowly sliding the chandelier earrings into my ears, and then adding the bangle and the ring.
I stare at myself in the mirror, sparkling and shimmering from every angle, and I try to commit it to memory. After all, this has to end soon. The clock will strike midnight, and Cinderella will have to go home. But I can enjoy it, just for now.
Chapter 16
Rain
Three years earlier<
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I can’t stop thinking about the kiss as I ride my old bicycle home. I feel like a jumble of emotions, foggy and dizzy, and halfway down the street that leads to my house I stop, pulling off on the side of the road and leaning against a tree.
I kissed Zach.
Zach kissed me back.
Zach stopped us.
We can’t be together.
I press my hand over my chest, feeling my heartbeat against it as I try to breathe. My first kiss. His lips against mine, the taste of salt on his mouth, the way his tongue brushed over mine for a brief second. That gasp when he felt my lips move against his. For that brief, shining moment, he wanted me. He didn’t even try to deny it.
I can feel frustration well up inside of me, and the hand on my chest clenches into a fist. I’ve relied on Zach for so long, my best and only friend. Since the day we’ve met, he’s been everything to me, and that’s why this hurts so much. I have to start my own life, one that doesn’t depend on him. Maybe he’ll see that not being together isn’t the only thing that can threaten our friendship.
I take a deep, slow breath. The idea of losing Zach is terrifying. I don’t want to hurt him; I could never do that. But maybe the idea of having some things of my own, some interests and friends outside of Zach isn’t such a bad one. Maybe if he sees me as a whole person, one who isn’t completely wrapped up in him, I’ll be more interesting. More desirable.
I get back onto my bike, pedaling quickly towards my house. After my parents are asleep tonight, I’ll sneak out to meet him, just as we planned. Usually I go in whatever I happen to be wearing that night—jeans and a t-shirt, sweatpants. I never pay attention, really. But as the wheels spin in my head, I decide that tonight will be different.
When I walk into the house, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table grading papers. She looks tired, her thick blonde hair up in a bun on top of her head, several pieces falling out around her face. My dad is nowhere to be seen, so he’s either asleep or out drinking. I can see the redness around my mother’s eyes from the fight earlier, and I feel my heart clench in my chest, a hard fist beating underneath my ribs.
I loved my father when I was younger. But seeing him treat my mother how he does makes me almost hate him.
I will never let anyone treat me the way he treats her, I think, for the thousandth time. I will never let a man break me down like this.
My mom looks up as I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge, digging around for a snack. Zach brought me a bag of frozen mozzarella sticks in the haul last time, and I want some of them before Erin eats them all.
It’s another reminder of the special things Zach does for me. My friend—my best friend—and now the first boy I’ve ever kissed.
I need to get more friends, to hang out with other people so I can gauge if the way Zach treats me is really just like a friend, or if it’s more. I think as I scatter the last handful of cheese sticks on a baking sheet and turn on the oven.
He doesn’t treat me like a friend, he treats me like a…a sister.
I know Erin’s favorite snacks. I know her favorite color, and that she hates cherry flavored things, especially lip balm, but loves fake banana flavors. My heart sinks to my stomach.
No, I tell myself firmly as I shove the food in the oven a bit more forcefully than necessary.
Guys don’t kiss girls that they think of as sisters like that. I felt him wanting me in that kiss. For just a second, he couldn’t hide it.
“Can I use your shower tonight?” I ask my mom casually as I set a timer on my phone.
She glances up from the papers, and I think all over again how tired she looks. She’s too young to look like she does, exhausted and haggard. My mother is beautiful and vibrant, but my father is driving her into an early grave.
“Why?” she asks suspiciously.
I shrug, trying to look innocent. “It’s bigger, that’s all. I strained a muscle in my neck in gym today. I wanted to sit in the shower for a little while under the hot water.” It’s definitely a lie. I always make an effort to do as little in gym class as possible. The idea of me doing anything athletic enough to sprain or pull anything is a joke, but my mom doesn’t know that.
“Are you okay?” she asks, looking concerned, and I feel a stab of guilt for worrying her.
“Yeah! Yes,” I say quickly. “Just sore, that’s all. I’ll be fine after a hot shower.”
She looks at me for a moment more and then glances back down at her papers. “Alright,” she says finally. “Make sure you take some ibuprofen for it.”
I see the regret in her face as her eyes flick up to my face again and then back down to her work. She’s picked up a second job as a waitress at a restaurant to cover everything with my dad not working again. I know she hates that she has to work so much that she misses out on time with Erin and me.
“Our girls are basically raising themselves! Don’t you know how much I want to be home with them? Even when I am home, I’m not really here! It’s like they’re fucking orphans, Jim!”
Hearing my mom swear is always a shock. I never used to hear one bad word cross her lips. Now they’re usually coming through the walls during those late-night fights, or in the afternoons when she doesn’t know I’m home yet. It feels like I’m listening to another person, someone else’s mom. Not mine.
Except it is.
I sit at the table with her to eat my mozzarella sticks, knowing she’ll be grateful to have the time with me, even if we can’t really talk. When I’m done, I wash my plate and the others in the sink, and then I wander off to her bathroom, checking first to make sure that my father isn’t sleeping when I step through their bedroom.
He’s not, which means he’s out getting wasted. He won’t be home until two or three in the morning, when she’s already asleep. He can slip into bed without getting “bitched at”—his words, not mine—and by the time he wakes up tomorrow, she’ll already be at work.
They’re like ships in the night, who wreck whenever they pass each other.
The reason I wanted to shower in my mother’s bathroom is actually because I want to use some of her stuff. Her lotion and elegant perfume. I don’t want to smell like a fruity ten-year-old.
Plus, the shower in her bathroom is just all-around better. Mine has low water pressure and feels like it’s spitting on me, but the previous owner of our house installed a good showerhead in the master bath, and it’s like standing in a rainstorm instead of the trickle from the gutters. I close my eyes as the hot water pours over my scalp, feeling as if I’m getting a massage. It’s almost like going to the hairdresser.
I borrow a little of her shampoo and conditioner that smells like flowers, and I shave with her razor, running my hand gleefully over the smoothness of my leg as I rinse off the soap. She has body wash that smells like sweet almonds, and I stay in the shower until the water runs cold, enjoying the sweet scents rising up in the steam.
One day, I’m going to be able to buy these things for myself. One day I’ll be able to get something like soap without looking at the price tag.
But what am I going to do to make that happen? I really don’t have a clue what I want to do with my life. It doesn’t seem like I should know right now, but I think I should have some type of idea, I realize, as I step out and towel-dry, wincing. All of our towels are worn and threadbare, about as comfortable as rubbing sandpaper over wet skin.
I can’t be a teacher like my mom; they make next to nothing. I know that doctors make a lot of money, but I hate the sight of blood. Lawyers do too, but the idea of arguing all day makes me cringe.
I’ve got time to figure it out, I tell myself as I wrap myself in the thin towel and walk over to the bathroom sink. But I’d need to soon. Next year I’d have to start applying to colleges, and if there’s any way for me to escape this life, that’s my best option.
I reach under the sink and pull out a can of mousse, quickly scrunching some into my wet hair. I pull it up into sections and blow-dry it one at a tim
e the way I see in magazine articles, running a brush through it until it falls in long, silky blonde layers around my face. My hair is boring—all one length. It’s naturally curly, but I never wear it that way. I want to do something interesting with it, but we can’t afford haircuts at good salons. The best we can do is a trim at the cheap salon by Walmart once every two months.
But the mousse at least gives it some volume. I grab my mom’s body lotion, which smells like vanilla sugar, and rub it all over until my skin feels buttery soft, and then spray a little vanilla perfume over that. I wrap the towel around myself tighter and hurry back to my room.
I’m not sure what I’ll say if my mom notices I’m wearing her perfume, but as I expected, she doesn’t even look up when I hurry past the kitchen. It hardly looks as if she’s even made a dent in the stack of papers she is grading, and I can see the slump to her shoulders that tells me she’s exhausted. She’ll be in bed soon, grading with some sitcom on in the background to keep her awake.
I carefully shut the door behind me and scan through my closet for something to wear. There’s one dress, a red and black-striped skater-style dress that I bought from a thrift store that I’ve never worn. It falls to about mid-thigh, and I always feel a little awkward in it. But it seems like the kind of thing a guy would like. I quickly slip out of my jeans and t-shirt, and pull it on over my head, looking in the mirror on my wall.
I look feminine. Pretty, even. I snatch up my high-top Vans and shove my feet into them, lacing them up. Now I look a little more like myself. But still—more girly than usual. I turn to the side, evaluating my legs. They look long and lean, my thighs slim, my calves defined from all of the walking and bicycle riding that I do. My waist is narrow, my hips accented by the flare of the skirt. I touch my chest, thinking about Brigit. I don’t have boobs like her, not yet anyway. I keep hoping they’ll grow. But maybe Zach doesn’t care about that.
