Wherever the Dandelion Falls (16 page)

Faye frowned. "What flowers?"

Now I was confused. Hadn't the flowers been from her? I gave up understanding anything that was going on in my social life.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "This wine is good," I said, lifting my glass to my lips.

She gave a strained smile of appreciation and finished her glass.

As soon as the check was brought back for her to sign, she zipped into herself and picked up her purse. I felt guilty that I'd ruined a nice evening with my ignorant question. We said a quick goodbye at the door. I was sad that I probably wouldn't see Faye again.

But Faye's foot dragged on the concrete as she turned back to me. She had a sheepish, uncertain look on her face. "Riley," she said, calling me back from the steps I hadn't taken away yet.

"Yeah?"

She clasped her hands together in front of her hips, bracing herself. "Would you ever
want
to go on a date with me?"

My heart sped up. I hadn't gone a date with a girl since I'd decided to get serious about my future, which I always thought would be with a man. But looking at Faye, seeing the first hint of shyness I'd ever seen in her face, seeing her lipstick-moist lips spread with wistfulness, I let myself crack open a little. I wanted to see her again, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't find her attractive. She was stunning. I liked talking to her. And she possessed a confidence I hoped I could absorb.

Remembering the brave way Faye had told me to consider if I liked a person or the idea of a person, I decided to whittle away at my carefully constructed, constricting ideas about who I could like. I did like Faye. And I knew she liked me.

So, steeling myself against the surge of anxiety that would come when the word left my mouth, I nodded. "Yeah.”

"Yeah?" Faye asked, the corners of her mouth lifting with hope.

"Yeah," I said, steadier this time.

Now her face was positively elated, and she took a few steps back toward me. "Does Saturday work for you?"

I didn't need to look at my mental calendar before I said yes.

She almost giggled with delight, and I felt buoyant, knowing I'd made her that happy,

"Okay," she said. "Want me to pick you up? Or should we meet somewhere?"

"You can pick me up," I said, knowing it would make her happy.

Faye's smile was blinding now, which helped settle the butterflies in my stomach. "Great," she said. She took a few steps backwards before saying, "I can't wait."

Then she turned and clicked away, her heels confident and easy as they tapped along the pavement. She looked back once before she got to the corner, throwing me one last smile.

The Private Pleasures Booth was a terrarium of experimental and unapologetic sexuality. It was set up with a large window facing the hall, where the girl — or girls — working it would look out and try to entice customers. Once she secured one, she drew a shade and focused her attention on the customer behind the glass in front of her. Aside from a tiny slot the customers fed bills through, the glass wall was solid and comforting. Not that I'd ever touch it without gloves. There were often streaks of semen on the other side, and although I trusted the other girls more than the customers, I didn't know what fluids were on my side.

Perhaps the more exhausting thing about the Private Pleasures Booth was that it was a veritable Pandora's box of sexual indulgence. I never did anything illegal like penetrate myself with my fingers or an object. Other girls swore they could smell a cop for miles, but I didn't trust myself to recognize one at any distance, so I kept it as clean as the situation allowed.

I had seen and heard things I had never considered to be sexual in the Private Pleasures Booth: men asking me to call them Daddy, asking me to shame or humiliate them, asking me to pretend to be a twelve-year-old girl or a Navy commander or an animal. I was fine with most things, but refused to play any character under fourteen. I wondered if I was helping or encouraging people with harmful fantasies; were these men sleeping with underage girls on the outside, too, or were their urges satisfied by paying a grown woman to play-act with them? It was a dilemma I never resolved.

I sighed as I held the doorknob to the small, sweaty room that was the Box. I liked my job, and I didn't mind the warmth of the room. I was just tired, like anyone would be tired on a Wednesday. The guilt from avoiding my sister's calls for a few weeks now wasn't making me feel any perkier.

My friend Callie - stripper name Stella - was in the Box today. When I entered the Box, immediately enveloped in the heat and humidity, she turned to me. I gave her a tired smile from under my wig, and I couldn't help but notice her face looked a little puffy. Looking closer, I saw that her nose was chapped and red from being wiped with a Kleenex.

Great. There was no way I'd be able to spend four hours in the Box with her and not get sick.

That was probably the biggest day-to-day drawback of my job, aside from the secrecy of it: I got sick often, being in such close, humid quarters with other girls. That and it was difficult to find someone to fill in at the last minute if I had to call in sick. Management had strict rules about who was allowed to fill in for dancers; it had to be someone on staff who was the same height, weight, and cup size. Luckily I had a few girls who could spot for me and needed hours, but Callie, at five foot two, weighing less than one hundred and ten pounds with size C breasts and dark, olive skin, didn't have anyone who could cover for her. I felt bad for her and gave a little pout.

I immediately began wiping down the poles with an antibacterial wipe, but I knew getting sick was inevitable. I steeled myself, hoping this time the cold would only last a few days and wouldn't be too hard to work through. Once when I had been sick, my head had been pounding so hard from the combination of heat, music, and exertion from dancing, I had slept for almost twenty hours after my shift. Hopefully this time wouldn't be as brutal.

"How's the crowd?" I asked as I started wiping the second pole.

"Okay," Callie said, sounding stuffed up as she bent backwards in front of one of the windows.

"Anyone here for a while?" I asked.

"Window four has been dropping quarters for about fifteen minutes," Callie said, walking towards the pole I had just cleaned. "You should give him a little show and see if he sticks around."

"Sure," I said. "Sorry you're sick."

Callie sniffled and shrugged, pressing her back against the pole and sliding down with an arm raised over her head. "I'll try not to breathe on you."

"Thanks," I said.

But in the end, I did get sick. I was out for three days, only leaving my bed when I absolutely had to. Justine was a sweetheart, bringing me soup and Kleenex and various concoctions she swore would shorten the stay of the savage virus that throbbed through me.

At least once on each of those days, Kimi called me. Once I accidentally answered, because I was groggy from too much cold medicine and thought it was Callie calling to say Nora would cover my shift. I told Kimi my head hurt too much to talk, which was partly true, but mostly I wasn't ready to craft more lies about my work for her. I could hear her sympathetic pout on the end of the line, asking why I'd been sick so often lately. I told her stuff was just going around, and left out the neon pink petri dish I was wriggling around in on a daily basis.

A week later I was finally feeling better, just in time for my standing appointment with Dr. Turner. Now that Justine knew about my job, I didn't mind her seeing me "in costume," at least as far as my face was concerned, so I didn't have to put on makeup on the bus or in a coffee shop near Dr. Turner's house. I had just applied liner to my upper eyelids after finishing my foundation when I heard my phone buzzing on the coffee table. Seeing it was Kimi again, I sighed. I would have to talk to her at some point. If I talked to her now, maybe I'd get out of an hour-long chat that would leave me feeling lame in comparison to her perfect East Coast life.

"Hey, I can only chat for a bit," I said, hunching my shoulder up to hold the phone against my ear as I applied mascara. "I'm meeting someone and he doesn't like when I'm late."

"Someone you're dating?"

"No."

"A booty call?"

I was surprised that she asked me so directly. She and I hadn't talked about sex much. She knew I'd slept with Damon the summer I was fifteen, but she didn't know any details, other than that I had gone on the Pill shortly after. She knew I'd dated a girl in college and considered myself bisexual, but the specifics of how I'd come to that conclusion had never been discussed. I knew even less about her sex life, other than that she never talked about it. I knew she
had
sex with her boyfriend John, but not how often or what kind or if she enjoyed it as much as I had in my past relationships.

I decided to respond to her candidness with my own. "Kinda."

I could hear Kimi's judgmental frown through the phone. "Why are you letting him boss you around?"

I had a choice to make. I could bluff and let Kimi continue thinking I was on the straight, constricting path towards being a neuroscientist, or I could tell her the truth, letting go of anything that she might want to compete with. Kimi was the last person in the world — well, my world — who would accept money in exchange for sex.

I remembered how good it felt to tell Justine and have her respond so respectfully and positively. I was desperate to feel that kind of relief again. Perhaps the love Kimi had for me as her sister would allow her to be as compassionate and supportive as Justine.

I took a breath.

"Because it's his money so he gets to decide when we meet."

"His money?"

"Yeah."

"What's he paying for?"

"Me."

There was a long pause as Kimi's mind put things together.

"Your booty call is paying you?"

"Yeah."

I could hear the wheels turning in her head through the phone. "He's
paying
you."

"Yep."

"And you're sleeping with him?"

"Uh huh."

Kimi let out a soft gasp. "Riley… do you realize what you're doing?"

I learned ten years ago that the quickest way to infuriate Kimi was to roll with every push she gave, not bothering to resist.

"I'm having sex for money."

"Also known as
prostitution
." She enunciated the word with obvious distaste, as though she had to pinch her nose as she held the word up to my face, showing me the revolting mess I was rolling around in.

"That's the legal term for it, yeah." I found myself shrugging, even though she couldn't see me.

"You're above that, Riley!" she gasped.

"I don't think so."

"Oh my God, Riley, you are so, so smart and capable. Why do you think you have to do something degrading like that? Do you need money? I can help you out!"

"Degrading how?" I asked, trying not to sound challenging. If I didn't play into her drama, she'd eventually see I wasn't doing anything wrong.

"You're selling your body!"

"I'm providing a service, just like cleaning or gardening or microdermabrasion. It happens to be sex."

"But it's dangerous!" Kimi protested.

"I use protection. My client gets tested regularly, as do I. I'm not an idiot."

"How long has this been going on?" Kimi demanded.

"About six months."

"
Six months
?" Kimi exclaimed, "Why didn't you tell me?"

I wanted to say
Because I knew you'd react like this
, but I wanted to stay calm. "It's just work. It's not a big deal."

"It
is
a big deal!"

"Not to me," I shrugged. I knew I wasn't telling the whole truth, but it was the truth I wanted Kimi to believe. I had become somewhat of an expert in getting people to believe things.

"I call all the shots, I make good money, I get good exercise, and I only have to work a few hours a week."

"But you're a
prostitute
!"