Positive (5 page)

He gave her a once over, his eyes hovering at
her breasts.

She crossed her arms. "You're looking for a
bartender?" she asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, waving his hands. His
thin hair, combed over the bald spot on top of his head, flapped as
he moved. "We only put the ugly girls behind the bar." He put two
fingers to his chin and stroked the stubble there, staring at
her.

She
snorted.
I'm a
teacher
, she thought.
Well, sort of
. "I'm
really just here for the bartending job," she said, feeling heat
spread across her cheeks anyway.

"Pretty girl like
you, you'll make a ton of money up on that stage. Five-hundred
dollars a
night
," he said, his eyes burning
into her. "What do you say?"

She shook her head.

He folded his arms and cocked his head. "Do you
even know how to make drinks? What's in a Long Island iced
tea?"

She bit down on her lip. Her shoulders
slumped.

He touched her arm. "You're too pretty to be
behind a bar. What do you say?"

Chapter 10

David smiled across the table at Wes. "Thank
you," he said, and squeezed his hand.

Wes blinked at him, then laughed lightly. "For
what?"

David sighed. "For making me feel so welcome at
the support group." He took a sip of his latte. They sat in a booth
in a quiet upstairs corner of the wine bar. Other conversations
floated around them, insulating them in their own little world,
walled off by oak paneling and the scent of apple cinnamon candles.
Their meetings at the wine bar were becoming a nightly habit and,
David hoped, maybe something more. Neither of them could afford
anything more than a watery latte; the bar's crowd ate prime rib
while drinking thirteen-dollar glasses of wine.

Wes squeezed David's hand back and smiled
sadly. "Have you told anyone else yet?"

David shook his
head. "I can't. I don't even know
how
to tell her. She used to be my
best friend." Tears dribbled over the stubble on his
cheeks.

Wes tugged at the ponytail at the nape of his
neck, an eyebrow raised. "You mean your roommate?"

Taking a deep breath, David leaned forward. His
ringtone for Josalee cut through the air like a knife. He wrestled
his phone out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear. "Hey JoJo,"
he said, his voice cracking.

"Where are you?" she asked.

He swallowed hard. "Out with Wes," he said. He
plucked at the corner of the bar's menu. "Everything
okay?"

Wes raised an eyebrow at him, then took a sip
of his own latte. Grimacing, he added more sugar to it.

"Yeah," Josalee said shakily. "I just...
haven't talked to you in a few days."

He felt like he was being pulled into a
whirlpool. "I know," he said. He turned the mug of his latte around
and around. Its ceramic bottom grated against the wood of the table
like a dresser being pushed across a hardwood floor.

He heard her take a deep breath. "So are you
guys having a good time?" she asked.

David blushed and glanced away from Wes. "It's
not like that. Well, not yet." He peeked up at Wes from underneath
his lashes.

"Sorry," she said. "I mean, you guys have been
spending a lot of time together."

David shrugged. "We'll see," he said, and wiped
a streak of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm
being rude, though, so let me go." He and Wes locked eyes across
the table.

"Oh. All right," Josalee said. "Have fun." She
hung up.

David put his phone down and took a deep
breath, then looked up at Wes. "So I guess there's something I need
to tell you."

* * * * *

Josalee stared at her phone in her hand. Her
eyes burned and she pressed the pads of her fingers to them,
holding in the tears. As she sucked in a deep breath, her phone
went off. She squinted down at it, wiping the tears from her eyes,
and snatched it up. "Kimie," she gasped.

"Live and loaded," her younger sister
said.

She inhaled slowly through her nose, blinking
back more tears. "What's up?"

"We haven't talked in a while," Kimie said. "Is
everything okay?"

She imagined her
sister sitting in her college dorm room, at a desk piled high with
textbooks and papers.
If I
can't talk to my own sister, who
can
I talk to?
she thought. "I'm in trouble, Kim," she said. "But you
can't tell Mom and Dad."

She could almost hear Kimie straighten in her
seat. "Like what kind of trouble?"

"Last time I told
you anything, when I told you about the musician I was dating, you
went
straight
to Mom and Dad. You can't do that this time,"
Josalee said, her eyebrows furrowed. "You have to
promise."

Kimie snorted. "Is this about your gay
roommate? The one you're in love with?"

Josalee's eyes widened, then she squeezed them
shut. She kept them closed the entire time she talked.

* * * * *

Ingrid stared at the strip club owner, her
lipstick painted mouth gaping.

"Most of the
girls here pull in five-hundred a
night
—
the dancers, I mean.
My bartenders only pull in about $300," he went on. "Don't look so
shocked. I'm telling you because you're a pretty girl and you're
probably in a jam since you're here." He smiled at her, flashing
his nasty teeth.

She fought the urge to crinkle her nose, and
instead stared at his receding hairline. "Look," she began, then
paused, a hand on her hip. "I never got your name."

"Prez." He smoothed his hair over his head.
"And before you turn me down, hear me out. The girls here pick
whenever they want to work. There are two stages, so you'll never
have a slow night. Guys come here to see the girls dance, not to
watch them serve drinks." His neck seemed to retreat further into
his torso as he talked, and his head bobbed up and down. Ingrid
pressed her lips together. "How about this?" he continued. "You
dance tonight and see how you do. If you hate it, I'll put you on
as a bartender. I'd hate to do that to you, though. You'd look a
lot prettier with a lollipop in your mouth. Hell, I think I'll call
you Candy."

Her jaw dropped.

Prez shrugged. "I'll be at the door to the
dressing room." He left the office.

She wrapped her
arms around herself. The sludgy grind of an electric guitar slammed
into the walls of the club
—
a
welcome change to the rap. She thought of the bills piling up on
the kitchen table, then tried to see herself shaking her ass in her
underwear. She bit down on the inside of her lip, her white teeth
drawing blood.

Five-hundred bucks
, a little
voice insisted.
That's half
your rent right there
. She squeezed her
eyes shut for a moment.

Then she followed Prez to the dressing
room.

Chapter 11

"Hey, are you working tonight?" Victor asked
Ingrid. He leaned against the door frame of the master bathroom and
watched as she applied a coat of mascara to her lashes.

She glanced at him, then returned her attention
to the mirror. "Yeah, why?" She teased her lashes with the brush,
building up the volume.

"This bar's really got you dressing up, huh?"
He studied her tight jeans, heels, and her black, silky tank
top.

"What are you trying to say?" she snapped,
whipping her head around to face him.

"Oh,
now
I have your attention?" He
pushed off the door frame and stomped out of their
bedroom.

She rolled her eyes and returned to her makeup
routine. Her hands shook as she unscrewed the cap of her liquid
eyeliner, remembering a night years ago when they walked out of a
movie theater, hand in hand. The movie had been about a guy's
bachelor party, and she jokingly asked Victor what he would do for
his.

"I'd never go to
Vegas and fuck a bunch of strippers, if that's what you're getting
at," he'd said, squeezing her hand. He scrunched up his nose. "I
like good girls. Clean girls.
Teachers
."

She blinked back
tears at the memory and capped the eyeliner.
It's only temporary
,
she reminded herself. She tossed the liquid eyeliner into her
makeup bag and pounded down the stairs, brushing past Victor. She'd
have to finish her makeup at the club. She slammed the front door
behind her.

* * * * *

Ingrid crawled into bed, her ears ringing with
the music from the club and her knees sore and bruised from
practicing on the second stage. She smiled, thinking of the piles
of ones and twenties in her purse. Prez hadn't been completely
truthful; on a weeknight, she could only hope to make $200, but on
a Thursday, Friday, or Saturday, she might see almost $600. As they
practiced simple pole tricks, Bambi recommended she come in every
night. "You'll get better at pole tricks that way," the dark haired
girl said with a wink.

Ingrid was
quickly learning they were called "pole tricks" for a reason; the
pole itself spun on its own, and the girls were really only limited
by their fear of heights. "I mean, there's more to it," Bambi
called as she climbed to the top upside-down, her bare breasts
poking down at Ingrid. "You'll get the hang of it." She turned
herself right-side-up, then spun rapidly down the pole, her body
moving to the music, her legs out. The crowd around Stage 1 thinned
as people gathered around Stage 2 to watch the girls who didn't
seem to care whether anyone watched. Even though she fell more than
anything else, Ingrid made around
$250
—
on a Tuesday
night.

She lay on her side next to Victor, whose chest
rose and fell rhythmically. She fell asleep smiling.

* * * * *

When she woke up the next afternoon, she made
herself a bagel and sat at the kitchen table, her laptop open in
front of her. Her email was empty except for a few advertisements
from Victoria's Secret, where she bought some lingerie to fit in
with the other dancers after a few nights of dancing in her own
boring underwear.

She called Josalee. "Hey," she said when
Josalee answered. "I'm sorry I let you go so fast the other day. I
have to tell you something." She heard Josalee sniffle on the other
end. "Jo? Is everything okay?"

"No," Josalee sobbed.

"I'll be right over," Ingrid said, standing and
grabbing her car keys.

She found Josalee with her head down on her own
kitchen table. Ingrid sat next to her and rubbed small circles on
her back. "What's wrong?"

Josalee laughed
bitterly and lifted her head. "I
knew
I shouldn't have told Kimie.
I
knew
it." She sat back in her seat and looked at Ingrid with
large, watery eyes. "She told my parents, and then my father called
me. He yelled at me mostly in Japanese, but I know the words for
'whore' and 'bastard.' And then he said whatever's wrong with my
baby is my own fault." Tears flowed down her cheeks and snot burst
from her nostrils.

Ingrid glanced around the kitchen table for a
napkin or tissue. The screen of Josalee's laptop caught her eye.
"Are you pregnant, Jo?" she asked, gaping at the WebMD
page.

Josalee nodded, blotting her eyes with the
corner of her tee shirt. "And something's wrong with my baby," she
wept. Through her tears, she told Ingrid about her blood
work.

Ingrid ran a hand through her hair, biting down
on her lower lip. She stood and grabbed a paper towel off the roll
above the sink and handed it to Josalee. After pacing for a moment,
she took a deep breath and sat once more. "Damn, Jo." She rubbed
her friend's back again. "I'm sure it'll be okay. Your parents will
come around." Josalee snorted. "Well, okay, maybe they won't, but
fuck 'em. You've got us. I bet David's excited!" She tilted the
other woman's chin up and smiled. "Right?"

Josalee pulled her chin away and looked down at
the floor. "David doesn't know."

"Why not?" Ingrid asked. Josalee broke down
again, tears splattering onto her clothes. "Are you guys fighting?
What, he doesn't like the guy?"

"No, Ingrid,
David
is
the
guy!" Josalee spat.

Ingrid's blue eyes widened. "What? When?!" she
blubbered. "I thought he was gay!"

"He
is
, Ingrid. That's why
my father said my baby is cursed." Josalee stood and turned the
burner underneath her tea kettle on. The stove clicked and flames
burst around the metal, hissing. She pulled out two mugs and set
tea bags in them.