Calling Maggie May (11 page)

“Don't be silly,” I said. “Obviously I was wasting my time with him.” I looked down at my shoes, suddenly abashed. “Mostly I'm just a little embarrassed that I couldn't tell after talking to him for fifteen minutes, while you spotted it from across the room.”

Shawn shrugged lightly. “It's kind of a sixth sense. You pick it up with experience. Hey,” he said. “Keep an eye out for Miss Irma for a second, will you?”

I was confused, but I checked around for her. She seemed to be in the other room, so Shawn brought a silver flask up to his lips and took a swig, then pressed the flask toward me wordlessly, raising his eyebrows as if in offer. I was nervous, but I couldn't help a little thrilled shiver from going up my spine. Here I was, at a party, and someone was offering me a sip from their flask! As if he really believed I was one of the cool kids.

I giggled a little and took it from him.

“I'll keep an eye out for the Dragon Lady,” said Shawn, “but try to keep your head down just in case. Don't draw attention to it.”

I nodded and unscrewed the cap, but it's harder than you might think to keep your head down while at the same time tipping it back so liquid can slide down into your mouth. Plus,
since the bottle was opaque, I couldn't really judge how much was in it, so it was really hard to figure out the best angle. I did my best, but wound up misjudging and sent a big mouthful of the stuff right down my throat. I was prepared for it not to taste too good, but the burning sensation it left in my throat took me by surprise. I tried to choke it back, but it was too late. . . . I choked and coughed and the stuff came right back up and all over Shawn's shirt.

I don't know if I've ever been more embarrassed in my entire life. This is why I can't have nice things! Because I spit up on them. So basically I wanted to die and was so close to just bolting for the nearest exit or screen or potted plant, but Shawn was really nice about it. He just laughed and said, “Guess you're not too experienced with whiskey, either.” I blushed really hard at that, because I get tired of always being the innocent one, but he just rubbed my lower back gently, which made me feel a lot better, and said that it reminded him of his first time drinking whiskey.

He told me he was small as a kid, bullied by older boys, and didn't get any respect. He noticed that the older kids drank alcohol, and he thought if he did too, it would make him seem tough and cool and he wouldn't get picked on anymore. Well, there was this guy, a neighbor and an old friend of the family, who used to have him over all the time when his mom wasn't
home, like, to babysit him. They played video games together, talked about school and stuff.

Then one day, the guy offered him some whiskey, so he took a small sip and it almost made him gag. The guy offered him more, and Shawn didn't want to seem like a wimp, so he kept accepting it. At first he tried to take really small sips, but even that made his eyes water. So finally he just took a swig and held it in his mouth, looking for an opportunity to spit it out. The guy kept offering him more, so he took a couple more swigs. Then the guy snuggled up and tried to kiss him, and Shawn spat whiskey all over him.

Shawn laughed at this point. “The dude was so pissed,” he said. “I felt like an idiot.”

I couldn't help laughing too, even though, now that I think about it, that's a pretty horrible story. But I guess, based on what Ada was telling me earlier in the night, pretty much everyone has a story like that. Maybe it's not such a big deal. I don't know. I always feel so sheltered around these people! Like I don't know a thing about the world. But then I think about all my old friends sitting around the geek table, and most of what they know of the world was compiled from newspaper articles in preparation for debate-team meets. I guess maybe it's not so bad to occupy the middle ground.

Shawn offered me another swig of whiskey, but I really
didn't even want to try it again. I could still feel that awful burning in my throat. Shawn noticed my cup of ginger ale on the table behind me and he said, “Here, try it this way. You'll like it better.” And he poured some in. I was nervous to try it again, but it did taste better with the pop. I could still feel the burning in my throat a little, but it didn't instantly make me want to gag. And the flavor on my tongue wasn't bad at all. The whiskey cut the sweetness of the pop in a good way.

“Better?” he said.

I giggled and smiled. “Much better.”

“I'm glad we met,” he said. I realized that his hand was still on the small of my back. “You're a cool kid—you know that?”

I couldn't help grinning. No, I hadn't known that. Cool kid was about the last way I ever would have described myself. But there I was, sipping whiskey at a fancy party and talking to the prettiest boy there, and I thought,
Maybe he's right. Maybe I am a cool kid.

I took another sip of the whiskey.

“Did you swallow it?” said Shawn. “Or are you just storing it up in your mouth?”

I let out a giggle.

“No,” I said. “I swallowed it.”

“Good,” he said. He cast a quick glance around the room, clearly scouting for Miss Irma or her goons, but when he
didn't spot them, he leaned in closer and he kissed me!

Honestly, I was so surprised I didn't know what to do. I just froze up completely, which is pretty embarrassing given that kissing people is one of the things I do for a living. I can only imagine that he was wondering how I make any money at all at this gig, given how I reacted. But it was different! Different because he is cute. Different because I like him. Different because I wasn't expecting it. But maybe most of all different because . . . Well, let's just say that I was confused.

As my senses started to come back to me, I pulled back. Shawn let me go, and he looked pretty embarrassed.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to—”

“No!” I interrupted. “It's not that. You didn't . . .” We were both babbling pretty stupidly at this point. I stopped and took a deep breath. “It's just that I, well, I thought you were . . . I mean, aren't you . . . ?”

“Gay?” he supplied.

“Well, yeah. I mean, back there, with that guy . . . And Ada said . . .”

Shawn grinned. “Haven't you ever heard of ‘gay for pay'?”

“What?” I said. I hadn't. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it's a job. It's not who I am. Do you fall in love with all the men you date for this job?”

I made a face. “Definitely not.”

“Are you attracted to all of them?”

“Hardly any.”

Shawn shrugged. “Same for me. And these clothes you're wearing . . . Is this how you dress in your normal life?”

I laughed. “No. I only dress this way because Miss Irma told me to.”

“Because the Japanese schoolgirl thing is what the clients want, right?”

I nodded.

“I bet you're not even Japanese.”

“Nope.”

“So you understand, then. This stuff isn't who I am.” Shawn grinned. “When I'm with a guy, I just close my eyes and think about how much money I'm making.”

“So you never enjoy any of it at all, then?” I asked. “You've never gotten any pleasure whatsoever from a date?”

Shawn sipped his whiskey. This line of questioning seemed to make him uneasy.

“I enjoy it exactly as much as I need to,” he said at last. “For the client.”

I was about to apologize for asking a kind of rude and nosy question when Shawn noticed something behind my left shoulder.

“Shit,” he said. “The Dragon Lady is on the prowl. She'll
be pissed if she sees us flirting with each other instead of the clients.” He gave me a mischievous smile and tugged at my elbow. “Come with me.”

He pulled me toward the edge of the room, then slid open a glass door that opened onto a pretty garden and patio. A small group of kids were already clustered around on the patio furniture, talking quietly and trying to muffle their giggles. Shawn slid the door shut behind us. It was chilly outside in the night air but not too bad. Especially since once I shivered, Shawn wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. Then I felt a lot warmer.

“Come on,” he said, nudging me toward where the other kids were assembled. I wished I'd remembered Ada's introductions better, but I couldn't remember who was who, and it was hard to even make out people's faces in the darkness. The only people I was sure of were Jen and her roommate, Beth.

Shawn nodded to the crowd like he knew them all, then found a seat on a bench near them and pulled me down onto his lap. I noticed they were passing a couple more flasks around, and some of them were smoking pot out of a little pipe, too. Everyone was quiet except for one girl, who seemed to be wrapping up a story she was telling. I couldn't figure out what had happened, exactly, but it was clear she was describing a very bad date. When she was done, a boy immediately jumped in
and started telling a story he described as “his worst date ever.” It was really bad! He got into a car with a guy and the guy took him out of the city so he had no idea where he was; then the guy wasn't happy with the sex, I guess, so he . . . well, raped him with a beer bottle. Then he left him in the middle of the woods somewhere. And he didn't even pay him! The kid had to walk all the way into the city while in a lot of pain before he could get a cell signal.

Then another boy jumped in with his worst-date story, about how he showed up at what seemed like a perfectly normal date with a client he knew well, but this time the client had invited a whole bunch of other men without asking, and they were all drunk and rowdy and got violent, and there was nothing he could do.

Then a couple of girls told their worst-date stories. Eventually they started to run together in my mind, maybe because of the effects of the whiskey. Not getting paid or paid enough was a common complaint, and being forced to do things that they explicitly said were off the table. Plus, clients getting violent or unpredictable, or treating them like disposable objects. It should have all been really scary and depressing, but it was hard to get too upset with the whiskey warming my belly and Shawn's arms around my waist. And everyone was sort of laughing and telling these stories like they were funny
anecdotes rather than horrifying personal experiences. A big part of me felt terrible for them, and grateful that nothing that bad had ever happened to me. But another, smaller part felt a little . . . maybe jealous isn't the right word. But in some small way, I wished I had a story of my own to contribute, if only so I could feel more like part of the gang. There was something really comforting about that sense of shared camaraderie. I almost felt like people were sharing their worst stories to make each other feel better about what had happened to them. Like if they all went through it together, or if there was always someone who had it worse and survived, then it must not be all that bad.

Eventually, someone told a story that was particularly horrifying because it was her worst time, and it was also her first time. Not losing her virginity, but her first time having sex for money. I couldn't believe she'd actually continued with this profession after what had happened to her (let's just say it involved box cutters; I don't really want to think about it beyond that), but I guess, from the way she told it, she didn't have a lot of options.

But that was good in a way, because people shifted from telling worst-time stories to first-time stories. Maybe everyone in the group realized that after that one, we needed a change of mood. Something a little less grim. Not that the first-time stories were all rainbows and sunshine. There was still a lot
of stuff that made me cringe. But it was more in the spirit of laughing together than staring in silent horror.

I was starting to feel pretty drunk at that point, but I happened to notice Ada and Damon slipping outside together. I hoped they would come over and join us, but instead they made their way to a bench at the other end of the garden and sat there talking quietly together. Occasionally, one of Ada's delicate bell-like giggles drifted through the chill night air over to me. I felt bad for my earlier flare of jealousy. Ada's life is hard. She doesn't get a lot of chances to just be happy and content. I was glad that she was enjoying the evening, even if Irma was undoubtedly pissed.

I had lost track of the conversation while watching them, but at some point Shawn squeezed me gently and said, “What about you? I bet you have a good first-time story.”

“Oh,” I said, blushing. “Well, yes. It was good, but not very interesting, I guess. He took me to the restaurant on top of the Space Needle. It was incredibly romantic, and I had a really wonderful time.” I looked down, feeling almost guilty for having had such a good experience, compared to everyone else.

One of the girls laughed. “Was he at least gross-looking? Tell me he was really ugly.”

I giggled. “You can judge for yourself,” I said. “He's right over there.”

Everyone turned to follow my gaze.

“Damon?” said Jen's roommate, Beth. “Your first time was with Damon?” She sounded incredulous.

That's when I remembered I wasn't supposed to tell anyone what happened with Damon. I clapped my hands over my mouth. “Oh my God,” I said. “I wasn't supposed to tell anyone that. It was a secret.”

“A secret?” repeated Beth. “Why would it be a secret?”

“I don't really know,” I explained. “Ada just said I shouldn't tell anyone. Although I guess she didn't mean you guys. It's really just Miss Irma who isn't supposed to know.”

“Miss Irma? Why not?”

I was really feeling the whiskey in my veins now. I was having trouble focusing on the conversation and my memories of Damon and what Ada had said about not telling anyone and the feeling of Shawn beneath me and around me. I felt confused. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.