by Nina Lemay
Blood rushes to my face, and I cover the notebook with my forearm—a gesture I’ve perfected to an art form since middle school.
She scoffs and goes back to taking notes.
I sit there, my heart pounding, the giddy feeling torn to shreds. Instead, a different sort of thought creeps into my head like the black vines on my drawing: I look at Prof. Leary up front at the lectern, and envision him in the peanut gallery, drooling on my legs as I dance. His bony, spotty hands groping for my breasts. I imagine the girl next to me sneering whore while pretending to sneeze, because she already knows that a surprise is waiting for me at my locker at the end of class.
Underneath my hoodie, my skin crawls.
Something needs to be done. Today, first thing before work, I’ll stop at the ghetto hair salon a block from my apartment and buy myself a wig. The craziest wig imaginable, waist-length platinum curls, or a black dominatrix bob, something so different no one would recognize me.
And I’ll give the stupid camera back, I think, not without a shiver of regret.
My night is even shittier than the last one. I scan the room in anxious paranoia and jump whenever anyone talks to me. Maryse measures me with a suspicious look.
“What’s up with your hair?”
Self-conscious, I tug at the ends of my wig: it’s caramel blond with lighter streaks, cheap-cheap from the hair place by the metro. Up close it’s too shiny and fake-looking but in the darkness of the club it’ll do. It has wispy eighties bangs I can’t tame into looking marginally acceptable no matter how much I try; I brush them to the side with a nervous gesture that’s turning into a tic.
“Nothing. It’s just a wig.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Why? Your real hair is so nice.”
“Exactly,” I say grimly. “It’s too nice. It’s too unique, it’s noticeable.”
She nods. “I see. Don’t wanna get recognized?”
“Yeah. Something like that. My school is like three blocks down.”
She gives a shrug. “Just go work with us, to the club on the South Shore. It’s not as nice but—”
“Everyone speaks French there. I can’t lose this place, I need the cash.”
“Well, if you think a wig’s going to help,” she says, subtly rolling her eyes.
“Better than nothing,” I mutter.
“Then maybe you should also cover your tattoos.”
Right. I gulp as I examine my arm and shoulder, my hip. Then again, no one at school has seen all of my tattoos. Well, almost no one—but when I hooked up with that one guy, I only had the forearm piece.
God, now there’s something I’d like to forget.
There’s not a chance I could cover up my ink with makeup. So I just make a mental note to start wearing long sleeves at school.
Hiding more of myself, with every passing day. Dividing my life into two, Hannah the good university student, and Alicia the stripper. One wears oversize sweats, the other wears G-strings. One wears holey Converse sneakers, the other towers in eight-inch clear platform heels… like the fucking Taylor Swift song I used to love so much in middle school. I related to it. What a laugh riot. I can’t even hear it anymore without cringing.
In that stupid wig, I feel ugly. I pin the bangs to the side with a hair clip and look like an eighth-grader with a bad haircut. My self-confidence is shot. I can’t slip back into my Alicia character no matter how I try. I remain Hannah, who doesn’t fit into this place.
No one would pay a red cent to dance Hannah.
It’s all because of Emmanuel. He’s the one point where my two lives collide. I grit my teeth in useless anger.
I finally get my first client near midnight, a clean, sweater-over-shirt type who probably has a wife and a couple of daughters close to my age. This one, it turns out, is a talker.
“You’re from here?” he asks as I settle onto his lap, carefully sideways, balancing on his thigh. “Are you sure you’re from here? Alicia can’t be your real name.”
“I don’t look like an Alicia?” my smile is frozen to my face.
“I don’t know. Maybe. But you don’t dance under your real name, do you? None of you girls do. It’s all Diamond and Cherry and Mercedes.” His lip curls in disdain.
“No,” I say. I can’t keep that personable expression on my face much longer, so I get up, trying not to shoot to my feet too fast, and turn sideways, arching my back. The stupid plastic wig hair falls into my face; it smells like old Barbie dolls gathering dust in a storage box.
“At least yours isn’t as ridiculous,” he says.
I let the hair fall over my face to hide my scowl.
“You’re not like these other girls. They’re all so fake here.”
I turn my back to him and bend over, running my hands down my legs. That way he can’t see me roll my eyes, and maybe the sight of my ass wigging inches from his face will shut him up. No such luck.
“You don’t have enormous fake tits,” he says. “I hate enormous fake tits. If you’re gonna do that at least be subtle, a D or a double D. Who do they think they’re attracting anyway?”
I don’t answer. I know if I open my mouth something totally unacceptable will come out.
“But you’d never do something like that to your body,” he says, an affirmation more than a question. I know exactly what he expects me to say, what role he wants me to play: it’s Stripper with a Heart of Gold Monday for him. Usually I have no trouble keeping up. Usually this is the moment when we cross the threshold from one or two dances to the half-hour, the hour, with a big tip at the end.
But I just can’t bring myself to say it. “No,” I finally mutter.
It’s more than enough for him. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re better than that. You’re going somewhere, you won’t be dancing here till you’re forty-five, right?”
Well, you’re well over that threshold and you’re still coming here, I think, but wisely keep my mouth shut.
“You’re a nice girl, aren’t you? I bet you go to school.”
This is my cue to spin a lie. Yes, of course I go to school. Pick a program, something not so complicated he won’t buy it or start trying to test me with sly questions, but something sophisticated enough: psychology, sociology. Hell, literature.
“No, I don’t, actually,” I say with a vicious thrill. “I did but I dropped out when I got this job.”
He’s silent for a few moments while his brain tries to process this dissonance. The song fades out at exactly three minutes. The silence lingers. I turn around and straddle him, my knees propped up on the armrests of the chair that dig into my skin. I wish the next song would start already. I can tell he’s about to call it quits and regret wasting the potential money.
Finally, he huffs. Looks up into my face. “You deserve better than this place. I want to take you out, proper. To a nice restaurant. We’d have dinner, a nice bottle of wine.”
“Sorry. I don’t meet people outside.”
Unless I can’t help it, apparently.
He sighs noisily. “Of course you don’t. You’re not like that.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I knew it. I knew you weren’t like that.” He starts to wiggle in the chair, trying to subtly adjust his crotch. “I’m sorry I asked. Didn’t mean to insult you. You’re so pretty.”
“Yeah, and I lied earlier,” I say, feeling generous. “I do go to school.”
“I knew it,” he repeats. “You’re amazing. Your body is perfect, never gets your tits done, okay?”
“I won’t.”
“You’re so skinny. You never see girls that skinny anymore. I bet you’re one of those girls who can eat anything and not gain an ounce?”
“Yeah. I eat like a horse.”
“You’re beautiful. What do you study?”
“Huh?”
“In school.”
“Computer science,” I say, first thing that pops into my head.
“And you’re smart too. You look smart.”
&nbs
p; “Thank you.”
“You’re just perfect in every way. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you, baby. Do you want another song?”
“Yeah. Keep going, don’t stop.” He looks up at me, hopeful. “Can I see your pussy?”
“We keep our underwear on.”
He fumbles in his pocket. “Even if I tipped you extra?”
I tell him the dance is over.
The next day I only have one class, and I end up sleeping through my alarm. So instead of going, I head to the nearest drugstore to have my archaic roll of film developed. The guy at the counter gives me a look like I’m insane, but takes it.
I know that we’re supposed to do this ourselves, but I have no idea how to set up a darkroom. And one thing I don’t want to do is use the one in the art department.
Never know who I might run into.
Wednesday, I have time to pick up the photos on the way to class—to the class. The guy at the counter hands me one of those envelopes and I pay him with fives folded lengthwise, pretending not to notice his smirk as I turn around to leave.
On the metro ride to school, I go through the pictures. They’re shit, every single one. Blurry. Out-of-focus. A couple are so bright I can’t see a damn thing. And the final one looks okay—except it’s cut across the center and the right half is entirely black. I guess I could hand them in and claim it’s my new form of high art that they plebeians simply don’t understand.
But even I’m not shithead enough to do that.
As I exit the metro, I throw the envelope with all the pictures into the trash.
I expect to be the last one to get there. I drag my feet all the way to the classroom, dreading the moment I have to walk through the door and see Emmanuel there, at the front of the room. With his little attendance clipboard, with his smile and with all the girls practically ripping his clothes off with their eyes.
But when I get there, it’s just him, leaning over his Macbook with a focused look. A projector screen is rolled out over the dry-erase board behind him. When he hears my steps, he looks up, and his expression shifts—almost imperceptibly, but I see it. The smile becomes a little less professional and distant, and his shoulders slump a little, as if in relief.
“’Annah,” he says. Like he’s genuinely happy I’m here. Forgetting the H, again.
Surprised to see me, perhaps? I bite back the scathing question and nod hello before shuffling to the farthest end of the big table.
But he doesn’t let it go.
“So how was it?”
I tense. Needles prickle all the way up my spine. “How was what?”
“The camera. Did you get a chance to try it out?”
I nod again, stiffly. Of course the camera, what did I think he was talking about?
“And?”
I give a shrug. “Sorry. I have nothing to show you. I threw them all out.”
“Why?”
“Because they were shit.”
The words hang in the air between us, unnecessary, ugly and crude. I’m the one who feels like shit. I am shit.
“You just need to learn how to use that camera. You can’t just point and click, it’s not an iPhone.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I’ll bring the camera back next class. I never should have taken it.”
“Hey, it’s no trouble, especially if you—”
I can’t take it. I cut him off. “I can afford my own. We both know that, don’t we?”
For a moment, he looks hurt, and I—I want to curl in on myself, into a little ball of shame and misery, and disappear.
“I know you just wanted to help out,” I say. My voice is tinny. “But you don’t have to do that. You don’t have to give me special treatment.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to start thinking you want something in return.”
He sighs, shakes his head. Rubs his eyes. “Hannah—”
The door opens, and the two scrunchie girls burst in. They throw their bags on the table, laughing at something they were just talking about. The small space is filled with their presence. Emmanuel shifts uncomfortably.
“I’ll be happy to talk about this some more after class, if you need to,” he says in his even, calm teacher voice.
“That’s okay,” I say, as neutrally as I can, keenly aware of the girls’ eyes on me. My face is flaring. Can they see it? “I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“Actually, I really think it might help,” he says, a note of firmness in his voice that sends a trill of alarm down my spine. “I want you to do well in the class.”
“Of course,” I mutter, and sit down.
I don’t really remember what the first real class is like. Emmanuel shows some slides of famous photographers and their work. He goes over light and exposure techniques of which I probably would have understood nothing even if I had been paying full attention.
I intend to be the first one to bolt the second class is over. Which shouldn’t be hard since I didn’t even take my laptop out of my bag. As everyone else starts to fumble with their things and slide back their chairs, I grab my backpack, sling the camera bag over my shoulder, and shoot from my seat.
His voice stops me when I’m already at the door. The sound of my name on his lips whispers against the back of my neck. He has a way of saying it, Hannah, like a breath. Like my name is actually something unique and beautiful. It infuriates me.
But I stop.
Audrey pushes past me unceremoniously, giving me a hate-filled glare over her shoulder. It takes me a beat to process—me? What have I done? It can’t be because of—because of him.
She can have him if she wants, him and all of his attention. Anything that makes him leave me alone.
Others shuffle out, the last girl fumbling interminably with her notebook, zipping and unzipping her stupid laptop bag a million times. All the while, I’m debating if I should just go—not like he’s going to run after me and stop me. But I can’t. Don’t antagonize him, he can ruin your life. I grit my teeth.
I hate this. I hate this whole situation.
I hate him.
Finally, it’s just us. I glance sideways at the half-open door; every so often students hurry past. I don’t know if I want to be in a closed room with him.
He sits on the corner of the table and runs his hands through his hair. “Can you tell me what the problem is?” he demands, dropping his teacher voice.
“You’re seriously asking me?” I reply in a quiet snarl. “You think I’m the problem?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, I don’t need your help.”
“…and I don’t want anything from you. I’m sorry if your job has made you so jaded that you think that’s all a man could ever want from you.”
Blood rushes to my face. I throw a paranoid glance around, but there’s no one outside the door. His gaze follows mine.
I can’t believe myself, but I’m the one who, finally, walks over and shuts the door.
Now we’re alone. What have I done? My heart speeds up and I have to wipe my palms on my pants. He’s not actually going to—what? Threaten me? Attack me? I feel idiotic for even thinking it.
Then again. If he decided he could get away with it…
“I know you’re thinking it. I can see it in your eyes.” He sounds strangely bitter.
I square my shoulders. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Well, let me tell you what I’m thinking, then. I don’t want to make your life difficult. I’m not going to report you—”
“There’s nothing to report me for. I’m not breaking the law,” I snap.
“…I’m not going to out you. I have no interest in that.” The look in his eyes is calm and sad. “I want you to complete your semester, and pass the class. The last thing I want is to cause you problems.”
“And yet that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
He sighs and starts to pace the room, which
is only three or four strides long in either direction.
“Let me tell you something. Emmanuel,” I pronounce his name the French way, enunciating every syllable. He stops and turns to face me.
“You underestimate me. I know exactly what’s on your mind. You think that I’m somehow special, different from the other students, that we have some kind of connection, you and I. Because I danced for you and maybe, for a moment, you thought I was hot and I was acting like I found you hot. Maybe you saw something in my eyes or on my face that made you think I liked you. Well, I have news for you, I do this every night, several times a night. I give men what they want and make them fall in love with me a little bit. I look at them and I dance for them and I make them feel special, like they’re the only guy to ever walk in that place and get a dance from me. And the only reason they feel that way—the only reason you feel that way—is because I wanted you to.”
I pause to draw in a breath. My head is spinning a little and my heart thrums angrily. In the back of my head, a panicked voice trills in alarm, but it’s too late to stop the stream of words. “Well, I’m not whatever you imagined in your head I was. I’m not some manic pixie dream girl. I’m not a stripper with a heart of gold. You don’t know the real me. You only liked my projected illusion, and the real me has nothing to do with it.”
I half-expect the usual spectrum of emotion to flicker over his face in rapid succession: disappointment, disillusionment, and then the inevitable conclusion, the typical result of thwarted male entitlement: rage. But instead he just listens, his head slightly tilted.
“So who does, then?” he asks, his voice devoid of anger, filled only with notes of gentle curiosity.
“Who does what?”
“Who does know the real you? And how does one qualify?”
“You still don’t get it. The real me isn’t likable. I’m misanthropic, I have no friends because I have no idea how to maintain a friendship. I don’t think I can make a meaningful connection with another person at all, and I don’t even know if I’m interested in trying. So I wasn’t sent to your class by some guardian angel of yours, to breathe new happiness and joy into your life. We just had some shitty luck, that’s all. And you know what? I shouldn’t have to drop the course because you can’t seem to get over it.”
