“What’s the rush, girl?” Leesa, one of the owners of the Hilo Bar and Grill, asked me without even turning around.
“I’m fifteen minutes late, in case you hadn’t noticed,” I responded through my huffing and puffing as I tied my apron and pulled my blonde dreadlocks up in a ponytail.
Leesa was standing at the enormous kitchen stove stirring a pan full of red meat and vegetables. I could smell the pineapple relish she’d probably spent all afternoon preparing, and I felt my stomach clench up because I hadn’t eaten since eight that morning. The sauce she had on a back burner made a gentle bubbling noise, and through the doors to the front of the restaurant I could hear laughter and dishes clinking.
“And what’s that fifteen minutes going to do?” she asked, laughing, as she turned to look at me. “Is it going to mean all of our customers quit eating here? Is it going to pollute the beach or stop the waves from rolling in?”
I sighed. Even though I’d been in Hawaii for three years now, I still couldn’t manage to adopt the native’s lax view of time. Leesa was constantly lecturing me to slow down, enjoy myself more, take it easy, and as much as I wanted to follow her advice, I just didn’t have it in me to hang loose the way the Hawaiians did.
“Alright,” I said. I smiled back at her as I reached into a drawer and grabbed a handful of flatware. “I’ll slow down, but I do want to get everything set up before the rush starts.” I filled salt and pepper shakers, as well as rolled table settings. It wasn’t long before Heidi, one of the other dinner-shift waitresses, came in and set up the tables as I got the items ready for her to take out to the main dining room. We sang the newest Pitbull song as we worked, my iPod cranked on the kitchen speakers. Heidi chimed in with the chorus each time she reentered the kitchen. I did the rapping parts and Leesa looked at us both and smiled.
I had worked at The Grill, as it was called around town, ever since I’d come to Hilo. I’d started off working full time, and then when I qualified for in-state tuition, I enrolled in classes at the university and cut back on my work hours. At twenty-one, thanks to taking classes year round, I was now a sophomore in college, and the de facto head waitress at The Grill.
The swinging door from the bar area to the kitchen opened and Leesa’s husband, Raoul, peeked in, his eyes lighting up when he saw her leaning over to get a pan from underneath the large stainless steel island. I looked at him and pointed my index finger in his direction.
“Don’t even think about it, mister,” I chastised.
“What?” he responded, barely able to take his eyes off of his wife’s ass. Leesa stood up, turning and fixing him with a scowl.
“Listen to him,” she reprimanded. “You’re a dirty old man, you know that?” Raoul threw his hands up in surrender. “I’m just admiring the most beautiful thing in the room,” he said. “And I’m not a dirty old man if I’m looking at equally old women.”
I tried to smother my laughter as Leesa’s face grew red and her lips pursed tightly. Muttering to herself in a mixture of Hawaiian and English, she stomped off into the storeroom.
I glanced at Raoul. “You are in so much trouble.”
He walked over and gave me a one-armed hug, his face somewhat pale, even beneath his dark complexion. “How are you sweetheart?”
“I’m good. Classes start tomorrow so I registered for everything today. How’s it looking out front? You seem tired, has it been arough day?”
He headed over to the stove and took a spoon out of a drawer underneath the cooktop, then dipped it in the large vat of bar-b-que sauce on the burner. He winked at me, placing his finger over his lips. “That. Is like nectar of the gods,” he whispered as he closed his eyes and savored the tangy sweetness of the best bar-b-que sauce this side of Honolulu. He put the spoon into the sink and crossed his arms as he leaned against the counter. “Heidi’s got the front handled, but it’s starting to pick up. You want to come help out at the bar until your section starts seating?”
“Sure,” I said. “But let me check on Jack before I head out there.”
“Just bring him on out front,” Raoul responded. Jack was the one thing I’d brought with me to Hawaii after I left my old life. Well, the one thing I’d brought that I got to keep. I’d lost everything else the night I ran, and the fact that he’d been with me through it all made him even more special. But he was also a fifty-pound dog who wasn’t really supposed to be in a restaurant.
Raoul whistled sharply, the sound echoing around the hard surfaces of the kitchen, and Jack came scrabbling across the hard tile floor to him. “That’s right, keiko,” Raoul said, reaching down and patting Jack on the head. “You come up front with me and the other guys, these women might give you a nice bed, but we’llgive you beer.”
I frowned at Raoul. “You know he’s not supposed to go past the back porch. You’re going to get a health code violation for sure.”
“Ah, hell,” he responded as he started walking toward the front of the restaurant, Jack hot on his heels. “The last time that health department guy stopped in you were still in diapers, and I gave him so much free Beachside Porter he had to leave his car here and walk home.”
Nick
Gabe and I spent the first half of the day surfing, and then the remainder standing in fucking lines trying to get the classes we needed at the university this semester. We were tired and sweaty and if ever a beer was needed it was then.
I’d moved to Hawaii a few weeks earlier, after spending the last year at my folks’ place in Northern California. Gabe had been here three months or so, coming straight to Hawaii after his commission was up. When I got to Hilo we rented a two-bedroom apartment near campus, and I’d spent the last few weeks on the beach and laying low, getting a feel for the place. This was my first real night out since I’d moved, and while I was a little unsure about the whole bar scene, Gabe had promised me that the bars atnight here were as mellow as the beach during the day.
We pulled up to the Hilo Bar and Grill and hopped out of my truck, making sure that our shortboards were locked up in the bed before we headed inside.
The Grill was right on the beach, with a deck on the sand, facing the water. The air around the deck was hazy with moisture, and the dark-tinted windows reflected the setting sun. It looked like the perfect place to decompress after a long day. We headed inside through the main doors, my stomach rumbling as we stepped in and I smelled beef grilling and the yeasty odor of microbrews. Burgers and beer. It didn’t get much better than that.
Then I saw her . . . and realized it could get a whole lot better and a whole lot worse all at the same time.
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Rouge
Copyright © Leigh Talbert Moore, 2012
Chapter 1
A trumpet blast, followed by silence. We were all frozen on our marks. Center stage, my arms were raised in a V, and the insides of my eyelids turned from pink to black as the lights went out and the curtain fell, sending the odor of musty velvet swirling around us. Applause filled the house, but on our side was the swift click-clack of tap shoes, the whisper of tights against taffeta, fishnets and feathers. I dropped my arms and exited stage right.
The glare of the spotlight had dazzled my eyes, but I’d done this so many times, I could find my way blind. I caught the small hand waiting for me in the wings as I passed. Not so small anymore, I thought as we navigated the maze of boxes and discarded scenery back to my dressing room.
The odor of grease paint and cigar smoke drenched everything, and my throat was dry from singing and from the cornstarch used to absorb the damp. The rosin that kept us from slipping on the glossy stage floor crackled beneath my feet as we passed dancers speaking in low voices about what worked and what didn’t and whose fault it was.
The dark passage we followed turned into a dimly lit hall lined with tiny dressing rooms where most of us lived.
Secretly, of course, as this was not Storyville, and our New Orleans theater would be shut down if it were discovered so many single women lived here together. Prostitutes, they’d say, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But I was born here, and the rest had no other options. So we all kept the secret.
I lifted the handle on our tiny door, and we pushed inside, both speaking at once.
“Oh, Hale!” Teeny’s voice was breathless. “You were like a dream—”
“Help me get this thing off.” I interrupted, easing into the chair and trying to hold my head still as I pulled pins from my enormous headdress. “It must weigh fifty pounds.”
She hurried over, her small fingers searching my scalp for the remaining pins.
“Like a real queen of the stage,” she continued as she removed the last tiny instrument of torture and lifted the enormous mélange of cut glass and feathers from my head. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Beautifully wicked.” I slid my fingers into my hair and rubbed my scalp. “I’m going to have a headache the rest of the night.”
I straightened up and peeled off my fake eyelashes as Teeny’s hands smoothed my dark brown locks behind my shoulders and down my back.
“I’ll never sing like that,” she said.
“Let’s hope your dancing can cover for it.” My tone was sharper than I’d intended, and I glanced up at her bright blue eyes. Her blonde hair was streaked with auburn highlights that on some days shone bright red. Every day she grew more beautiful, and she was only twelve. My head hurt worse. I had to get us out of here.
“We’ll get back to work on that tomorrow,” I said in a gentler tone.
“I don’t know why you’re so worried about getting me in the show.” She turned and placed the headdress on its stand beside my mirror.
“I know you don’t,” I muttered.
In my dressing mirror, I watched as she lay across the small trundle we shared, wondering for the thousandth time if I’d made a mistake begging Rosa to let her stay that night, years ago, when she’d shown up starving at the back door. For six years she’d slept in my bed, shared my food, worn my outgrown clothes. She’d never cost the show a penny, but soon she’d be required to pull her own weight—one way or another.
A gentle knock interrupted our conversation. “Miss Ferrer?” A tenor voice called through the door.
“Freddie,” I whispered. “Hide!”
Teeny jumped up and ran to the corner behind the dressing screen as I grabbed my red velvet robe. It was practically a dress with a broad collar and wide cuffs, and I pulled the button closed, tight in the center of my chest.
“Mr. Lovel,” I smiled as I opened the door wide.
Freddie Lovel was not the first of my male admirers, but he was the first Gavin, the theater owner, had sent to visit me. And as such, I gave him special attention. Not to mention he was closest to my age and quite rich.
“You were incredible tonight,” he said, handing me a huge bouquet of red roses. “So beautiful.”
“For me?” I took the bunch in my arms. “You shouldn’t have.”
He caught my hand and pressed the tops of my fingers to his lips. “I could listen to you sing all night.”
“Mr. Lovel, you’re too kind,” I said, gazing into his gray eyes.
His cheeks colored and he looked down at the black top hat he clutched in his other hand. “Please call me Freddie,” he said.
“Then you must call me Hale.” I searched for something large enough to hold the huge bouquet.
“I’ll have to borrow a vase.”
“I’ll buy you one.” Freddie jumped, suddenly inspired. “I’d buy you anything…”
My heart rose at his words. It was obvious I was the first cabaret performer Freddie Lovel had ever courted, but that increased my hope. Freddie could be our ticket out of this place for good.
I widened my eyes and filled my voice with amazement. “But you hardly know me! Surely you’re just overcome by art or the music—”
“Oh, Hale,” he sighed, moving closer and taking my hand again. “If only you knew how I felt. I can never repay Gavin for introducing us.”
“But you’re not saying you’d think of me, a cabaret singer, as worthy of your affections.”
Freddie’s dark brow creased. “It’s not like you could help your circumstance. Reconstruction forced many gentle people to do what they had to for survival.”
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Very Bad Things
Copyright 2013 © by Ilsa Madden-Mills
It was time for the dog and pony show.
Mr. Cairn politely moved aside and took a nearby seat on the stage, along with our second headmaster and various esteemed, contributing alumni who helped make BA one of the top private schools in Texas. I nodded, giving them my practiced fake smile and turned to face the audience. With the glare of the bright spotlight in my face, it was hard to see much past the first row, but I saw my parents and my best friend Mila, along with her parents.
I also made out Drew Mansfield, my once secret crush since seventh grade—may he rot in hell for screwing me and then dumping me last year. He’d shattered my heart, and I dreaded seeing him and his crooked smile at school, day in and day out. In the cafeteria. In class. At debate.
The rest of the audience sat in darkness. Waiting.
Watching the perfect girl.
I’ve stood in front of the podium too long because I can see Mother glaring at me, covertly motioning with her hands for me to start. Dad’s lips have thinned, and I can see the impatience settling on his face. He probably had an important meeting at the courthouse to get to. Was that my future? To follow in his footsteps, blindly doing whatever society expected? Or would I turn out like Mother? Clawing my way to the top of the network ladder, reaching for stardom on national television.
Is that what it took to be happy?
The audience began murmuring, becoming antsy. After all, they expected me to deliver a rousing speech about the merits of BA, proving to them that the forty-two thousand dollars a year they paid was worth it. I couldn’t disappoint them, yet my mind went blank as I stared into that dark abyss, that giant hole of emptiness. Maybe I could have stood there all day, refusing to face my future, but it wasn’t permitted.
I commanded myself to smile again and turn on the charm, but my body rebelled. Shit. That had never happened before. And stage fright wasn’t a possibility, not when I’d been in front of people and on display my entire life, just like Mother’s precious china. No, my body’s unwillingness to perform was entirely new. On edge, I tried again, digging deep inside the core of me, searching for the Nora they expected to see, for the girl people claimed was brilliant. Nothing. I licked my sudden dry lips, shocked by my body’s refusal to obey. Where was the girl who could win an Academy Award for her depiction of a well-adjusted person?
I couldn’t let them see the real me, the one that was obscene and gross. They’d hate me; they’d be disgusted by me. As they say here in Texas, they’d ride me out of town on a rail.
Panicked, I fiddled with my note cards, shuffling them around on the podium. I had to give this speech flawlessly, and if it wasn’t dazzling and worthy of the Blakely name, Mother would be mortified. She would punish me.
I tried to smile for the third time but got nothing. Just nothing. Not even a facial tic. I began to wonder if I could move at all. I felt frozen in place, like someone had zapped me with a ray gun.
Is this where it would all end? Was I going to break down and let this audience see my shame? God, please no. I hung my head, remembering my sins. My ruin.
My now sweaty hands gripped the note cards as my heart pounded, so loud that I would swear the people sitting on the front row could hear the blood whooshing through my veins. They were all staring at me like I’d lost it. I had.
I’d finally stepped off the razor’s edge I’d been walking for years.
I closed my eyes and thought of Weissnichtwo, rolling the word around in my head, letting the syllables soothe me. My words always made me feel better. Only it didn’t work this time because I’d broken wide open. Like a cake that’s been baked too long, I was done.
Finished.
I released my note cards to the floor and watched as they fluttered down like frightened little birds, escaping at last. I raised my head and faced the audience. Clearing my throat, I leaned over the podium until my lips were right on the microphone and delivered my new opening remarks, “Fuck Briarcrest Academy, and fuck you all.”
Finally, some of the pain and darkness that had been wrapped around my soul fell away.
I smiled for real this time without even trying.
It felt good to be bad.
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Camouflaged (Hiding From Love #0.5) Page 12
