More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  I wasn’t sure if her speech was doing anything for my self-esteem, but Jayla seemed to mean every word. I managed to force a little smile in her direction. She just tossed that day’s candy-colored wig and shrugged, turning her attention back to her sushi.

  “Oh, and another thing . . . ” she said, dipping a piece of roll into her dish of Kikkoman.

  “Yeah?”

  “You want to think of a name. A stage name. I mean, you’re Alice, right? But that girl on the stage — that hot new girl everyone wants to see . . . what’s her name supposed to be?”

  I didn’t have an answer.

  I knew I’d have to give it some thought.

  * * *

  The next few days were a lot tougher.

  My lack of dancing experience quickly reared its ugly head. I had none, save for a quick turn on a wedding dance floor with a second cousin once or twice, which certainly didn’t count. I’d watched breathless as Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire cut it up at least a million times on TV, but that was an entire world away from what I found on the DVD I got from Billy.

  The routine was taught by a cheerful woman who introduced herself as Kiki . . . an enthusiastic and astoundingly flexible Asian woman with a fantastically contoured gymnast’s body. The routine itself, though clearly designed for beginners, took more than a little time to wrap my head around. I gradually began to understand it, though — when it came right down to it, the dance was really just a lot of counting.

  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Again and again and again.

  Perfectly simple in theory . . . much harder than it sounded in practice. Each count meant a step, or a shimmy, or a turn around the pole (I had to make do with a broom handle). And if you lost your count . . . well, it was all over. Find the remote, hit the button, start all over again.

  There was another problem, beyond the counting. At first I’d tried to do the routine in the soft plaid jammies that I usually used for slouching around the apartment . . . but to be honest, I really wasn’t feeling it. The frayed fabric swished around my legs, completely throwing off both the count and my timing. It wasn’t until my eyes fell on the plastic bag containing my Amateur School outfit that I realized the piece of the puzzle that I’d been avoiding.

  I need to take this seriously.

  So I’d pulled out the shopping bags of accessories I’d bought — the lace thong I’d found on sale at Pink; the mile-high black platforms I’d borrowed from Jayla for the occasion. I wasn’t normally much of a heels-and-thong type of girl . . . but then again, my mother had told my whole life that I wasn’t. I realized that if I was going to pull this off, I needed to reevaluate what exactly my definition of normal was.

  I tied the shirt over the little rises on my chest that passed for my boobage. No new surprises in that department, but I found myself suddenly missing my bra. The thong was a pretty new experience as well . . . I’d only worn one once, briefly, during a particularly embarrassing birthday party game of truth-or-dare. This time the choice was all mine, though, and I tried to embrace the sensation of fabric between my . . . well, between my butt cheeks. It was going to take a little getting used to.

  Next was the plaid schoolgirl mini; clearly it had been designed by the same fashion mastermind that made 90% of modern women’s Halloween costumes. Once I finished pulling it on, though, I had to admit: the overall effect was more than dramatic. My legs seemed to extend for miles, I had the slightest whisper of actual cleavage for once . . . and I actually felt pretty good about showing my tummy to the universe. Or, at the very least, to Kiki’s ever-smiling face on my TV.

  It wasn’t all exactly uncomfortable — but it was certainly a very different kind of comfortable than the one I was used to, and I could tell that my feet were going to be complaining pretty soon. Nevertheless, I wobbled my way out of my bedroom and positioned myself once again in front of the living room television, then smiled at the frozen image of Kiki paused on the screen.

  Okay . . . I’m ready now. Let’s do this.

  Though the steps still seemed odd, and I tottered quite a bit on the new platforms, I suddenly felt in control. The clothes now matched the dance. I found myself throwing the entirety of my body into the routine . . . letting my feet guide me in new and unfamiliar ways; falling to my knees, grinding on my broom-handle pole for Kiki, for an imaginary audience . . .

  And ultimately, I realized . . . for myself. I was just a girl dancing alone in her apartment, but it felt like something more, somehow — some new and wild blossoming of a blocked-off part of me. I was beginning to see myself as someone new. A — dare I say it? — sexual person.

  Someone worth watching. Someone worth fantasizing about.

  Did Ginger Rogers ever felt that way with Fred?

  I couldn’t be certain. But whatever it was . . . that feeling . . .

  Part of me liked it.

  * * *

  That is where I left my past.

  In front of the soft glow of the television, in front of Kiki’s rhythm of overly cheerful encouragement. That is where I truly began to free myself from myself — from the sad, isolated girl who I was. The girl I never wanted myself to be.

  My past. I stopped taking orders from it, letting it push me and pull me around. I stopped letting it mold me against my will into a lukewarm person of least resistance.

  I didn’t realize it then, but I realize it now.

  Now.

  For me, my now begins on that stage, at Mirages.

  At Amateur School.

  Chapter 3

  We pull into the Mirages parking lot well after sundown. The darkness lends the club a very different atmosphere. The electric thrill that rushes through me is mysterious, exciting . . . maybe a little bit scary.

  The MIRAGES sign is fully lit. It’s a hot neon outline of a woman’s finger, six feet high, pressed to a pair of enormous illuminated lips . . . I’m reminded immediately of Lauren Bacall’s famous words to Humphrey Bogart, and I smile. The sign is supposed to reference the secrets taking place inside, I suppose, but it occurs to me that what happens inside is no secret at all. Or, if it is, it’s the worst-kept secret in the universe . . . just an intersection of lust and money. I know full well that the old Alice wouldn’t be here. She’d avert her eyes, stick her nose back in one of her medical textbooks or something.

  But the old Alice isn’t here tonight.

  I silently mouth the syllables I’ve been practicing the entire day: Veronica. Veronica Kane.

  It’s my new name for the evening, courtesy of myself. Jayla had found it amusing: the first time she’d heard it, she’d given me one of her Jayla Smirks.

  “Are you serious?” she’d asked. “Really? Veronica? Doesn’t sound much like no schoolgirl to me. How about Ronnie?”

  I’d made a face at that. “No. No nicknames. It’s gotta be Veronica. It sounds . . . elegant.”

  She’d thrown up her hands in defeat. “Okay, fine. Veronica Kane it is. I’ll phone it in to Billy. Very pleased to meet you, Veronica.”

  I’d just laughed at her in return. Perhaps she’d been right. But who cares? I love it.

  I take one more look at the Mirages sign, at that huge pair of perfect and dazzling lips. A startling realization hits me: tonight I’m just as much a part of Mirages as that sign. And Veronica Kane, nervous as she may be, finds that more than a little exciting.

  Jayla, much to my surprise, is still Jayla. “My middle name,” she’d told me. “My first name is actually Beatrice,” she’d said, scrunching up her face like the name tasted bad. “But I only ever use that name on my driver’s license.”

  Same name or no, she’s a person transformed. It’s plain to see from just the briefest glance at her face. Or for that matter, my own. From the smooth canvas of our foundation, to the stark drama of our overemphasized eyes, to the slicks of wet gloss coating our lips, well . . . it’s obvious. We’re both completely different people tonight.

  I flip down the passenger-side vanity mirror for one last q
uick check of my makeup, but there’s barely time for me to give myself a good-luck pucker. It’s time. My heart is already beating a furious 8-count inside my chest.

  “Are you okay?” asks Jayla.

  I breathe heavily, then nod. Veronica Kane is as ready as she’ll ever be.

  “Let’s go,” I say, hoping it sounds brave.

  We walk to the back door together, wearing our matching Mirages T-shirts, gym bags swinging from our shoulders. Eddie, the big-armed bouncer guarding the door, gives us a smile and a nod, and swings the door open for us with a well-muscled arm.

  We step inside. It all looks a bit familiar — it’s the same employee-only staging area that I saw at my first interview with Billy. At night, though, it’s a completely different place. I take a few steps forward to the big metal door separating the main floor of the club from the employee area, open it a crack, and peek out into an entirely new world.

  It’s darker. It’s brighter. The lights are a frantic iridescent smear and the music is incessant. I poke my head out a bit further. The customers are already gathering for Amateur School — button-down Brooks Brothers businessmen with their sleeves rolled up; a group of polo-T and khaki fraternity brothers trying to out-goof each another . . . even a few couples looking excited yet naughty, like they’re doing something bad.

  I feel a tap between my shoulder blades. “Come on, girl,” says Jayla. “Don’t give them any free samples. Let’s get ready.”

  I let the door swing closed behind me and follow Jayla into the club’s dressing room. It isn’t exactly small, but it seems cramped somehow — partly from the rainbow array of costumes, feather boas, and stray bits of sequined underwear strewn around all corners of the room; partly from the small army of dancers getting ready for yet another night’s work. It’s all business in here — glowing vanity lights, polished mirrors, and the cornucopia of accessories needed to turn Plain Janes into sizzling runway idols. A couple of the regular dancers smile a quick hello to Jayla and I, but it’s obvious that everyone’s on a tight schedule.

  Jayla points to a nervous group of girls standing in the corner, doing last-minute primping and chattering excitedly. Their costumes are instantly familiar: more sexy Halloween-costume schoolgirls, each dressed in the same Amateur School outfit as the one in my gym bag. “Those are your girls,” says Jayla. “Maybe you should say hi and get your costume on. I’ve got to get changed too.”

  I walk over to the girls and introduce myself. I’m the only Veronica Kane of the group, and saying my new name out loud gives me an odd swell of pride. The rest of the gals have chosen decidedly more traditional dancer names: there’s the towering Tawny, with her stunning-and-twinkly bejeweled manicure; the cheerfully-curvaceous Chica, with a Jayne Mansfield bosom that makes me die just a bit from jealousy; a petite-and-pigtailed girl named Trixi, who seems far more interested in the soft glow of her phone than anything else around her. They all seem friendly enough, but it’s obvious that everyone’s suffering from a very real case of the butterflies. Incredibly, they actually seem more nervous than I am.

  Well, time to get ready. I unzip my gym bag.

  My makeup is already taken care of, and I say a silent thanks to Jayla for her help. We’d spent hours getting ready that day. Most of the time was spent on me . . . while I’d always taken care of basic necessities of hygiene, the barely-there wardrobe for my dance debut required me to shave up further between my thighs than I’d ever had to dare before. The makeup was a real nightmare as well — I’d never before had to pluck so much, or spend so much time wiping off misapplied dabs of mascara. Still, Jayla had been there, every step of the way — she truly knew what she was doing.

  Fortunately, it all looks great now. I smooth out the fabric of my skirt, check for any stray bits of lint or fuzz . . . and then realize that I’m ready: Amateur School is truly in session. It’s not exactly Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, true . . . but I get the sense that a young Ella Raines wouldn’t look at all out of place in the skirt I’m wearing. I look at my reflection in the soft glow of the vanity lights in front of me, and I see a rock-video schoolgirl fantasy from the wrong side of the tracks. Miss Veronica Kane . . . you’re looking fantastic this evening.

  I take my place with the rest of the girls, and we chatter excitedly, trying to stay calm until the big moment arrives. I have to admit, we all look completely amazing: a traffic accident waiting to happen. I smile at the thought, and marvel at how incredibly guilt-free I feel. Poison Schoolgirl — Starring Veronica Kane. She’s taken control tonight. . . and I’ve decided to let her do what she wants.

  The sudden appearance of Billy’s bearded face in the doorway startles me just a bit, but it’s apparently no big deal — despite their various stages of undress, none of the regular dancers seem to pay him any particular mind. He looks at us and flashes us a reassuring Caribbean Pirate smile. “Okay there! Amateur School — five minutes! Glad you made it, Veronica. Just in time. You girls look great! Everyone clear on the dance order?”

  We nod. I double check the schedule hanging on the wall, just to be sure there haven’t been any last-minute changes in the schedule.

  Nope.

  I’m still going on first.

  I feel my pulse beginning to quicken, but my rising anxiety is blissfully interrupted in the nick of time.

  “Hey ladies!” says Trixi, waving her pink rhinestone-studded phone insistently. It’s picture time, apparently: she smiles and herds us together for a group shot with a few excited waves of her hands.

  “Girls, honestly, whatever happens out there . . . we look amazing tonight, and we’re going to want to remember this.” There are no objections. She hands the phone to one of the regular dancers and takes her place next to us, flipping up a fold of her skirt to show some thigh and striking her best come-hither pose. I follow her lead — I put my hands on my hips and raise an eyebrow, giving the camera lens a smoldering glare of lust.

  The photo is incredible — amateur night or no, we look like we’ve done this all our lives.

  I laugh. “Amazing! But I don’t want to see that on Tumblr, okay?”

  Trixi smiles. “You won’t. But seriously, girl: even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  My . . . mother.

  I feel a sudden chill at that.

  I know Trixi means it as a joke, and I pull my mouth into a smile, but to be honest the mention of my mother strikes an unexpected chord inside me. Her stern and disapproving face . . . I try and shake the thought of it away. But it’s no use.

  It’s the last thing I need at this moment. My mind starts to run wild with questions:

  What would she say about this? What would she say about YOU?

  Suddenly, Veronica Kane is gone. I’m Alice again. I’m back at the hospital, at the side of her bed; searching my consciousness for that one little whisper, that one little smile, that rare and wonderful softness on her face when she’d told me about discovering my Book.

  Wasn’t that a kind of permission? That permission — I have to know it had been real.

  But permission for what, exactly?

  Permission to go on with my life as I wanted?

  Permission to become the person I truly desire to be?

  But even if that smile meant what I thought it meant . . . could my mother really have permitted THIS?

  I catch another glimpse of myself in the dressing-room mirror. I’m not looking at not Veronica Lake now, or an Amateur Schoolgirl. I’m just looking at plain old Alice. Alice, in some ridiculous heels and fishnets, wearing about an inch of makeup, on her way to shake her ass to Britney Spears.

  I feel myself begin to sway unsteadily on my borrowed platforms. My face in the mirror seems suddenly haunted.

  “Veronica.”

  I need to sit down . . . I just need a minute, and I’ll be f —

  “Veronica!”

  I turn. Billy has poked his head in again. He’s looking right at me.

  “That’s you, right? It’s
Veronica tonight, isn’t it? You’re up next.”

  He points at the hallway leading to the stage door.

  The stage.

  I swallow — hard.

  This is it.

  I look around for Jayla. She’s on the other side of the dressing room in a Moulin Rouge-inspired bustier-and-top-hat ensemble, fussing with an uncooperative boa. I find myself wishing we could trade costumes. She gives me a cheery wave, blows me a kiss. The other girls wish me luck, but it’s easy to read the expressions on their faces. They’re glad it’s me going first and not them.

  Billy leads me down a hall and up a short flight of stairs to the stage door; I do my best to keep up on my towering heels, which are, as predicted, already beginning to make my calves ache.

  “One last piece of advice, okay?” he says. “Don’t focus on them. Just focus on you. The less you seem to care, the more they’ll love you.” He looks at me, concern suddenly clouding his normally cheerful face.

  “You really ready for this?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath and nod. “I’m ready.”

  A few minutes ago, it wouldn’t have been a lie. Right now, though, it’s all a mess in my head . . . the costume and the routine and Kiki and my Goddesses and the unpaid bills and Jayla and the face of my mother . . . they’re all swirling maddeningly together. I feel drained.

  There’s no time to dwell on it, though. There simply isn’t any more time. Billy pushes open the door, and I’m hit with a sudden crushing wall of sound and light. The ear-splitting noise is instant and incredible . . . and the only thing now separating me from it and the wild crowd of testosterone in front of me is a thin piece of velvet curtain.

  The voice of the deejay booms over the speakers as the opening beats of Baby One More Time begin to blast through the curtain and vibrate my ribcage.

  “YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE — MIRAGES IS PROUD TO PRESENT OUR VERY FIRST STUDENT FOR THE EVENING. WOULD YOU PLEASE PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR . . . VERONICA!”

  The crowd erupts in hoots and cheers, and I step forward into the hot lights.

  In a sudden rush, I feel Veronica come back.