Tell Me Everything

sure my tits are big enough to hold attention. Start Tuesday, shift is nine to midnight. Perfect. I'll go to high school during the day and come here in the evening. I feel queasy, afraid I might be crossing a threshold, the one that lured my mother down a rabbit hole, but I'm desperate. I'm basically on my own since mom signed my custody over to Rudy's father last year. She and the man who raised me were running from the cops and I've been fending for myself since. Rudy is turning into an asshole and even his father knows it's time for me to move on. You're too good for my son, mija, he tells me. Save up for first and last and I'll co-sign an apartment for you, okay? But where will that go? I've been earning minimum wage at check and go, yet at this rate it's going to take months to set aside enough for a place of my own. Plus, my middle-aged boss keeps hitting on me. I turned down his advances last week and he fired me. This peep show, I decide, is going to be my get-out-of-jail-free card. Six months, I promise, and I'll have enough to break free. Three nights later, when I enter the back half of the building where the live action goes down, ready for my first shift, the smell slams into me. It's as if the whole place has been doused with undiluted Clorox. The fumes make me cough every breath a reminder of how squalid the big guy is. The lighting is harsh, the industrial carpet matted and piebald. I've already washed my hands three times since I arrived and resolved never to use the toilet. The peep show is built in the shape of a large rectangle split in half by the dressing room. On one side is a stage fronted by half a dozen little booths for customers to watch what happens on that stage. An identical layout is on the other side. Two girls work the adjoining stages at once, dancing to music that thumps loudly from the overhead speakers like a migraine. Backstage, in front of a vanity to get ready, I put my clothes on a chair to provide a barrier between my butt and the seat. I'm nervous, but determined. My hand shakes, and I smear my lipstick but fix it up before anyone notices. I'm wearing a long-sleeve, white stretchy lace top that ties at my sternum, showing off a lacy bra that I adjust, making sure it pushes up my boobs. The matching lace pants with bell-bottoms sink low on my hips, accentuating the g-string. I didn't have to shop for stripper costumes for this job. I have three or four of mom's passed down to me from the time I was young, as if they're some kind of inheritance. Call it weird or disorienting nostalgia, but as I filled out, she loved having me dress up in her old get-ups. In some ways, they are my inheritance. The only source of power she has to share with me. My mother's looks and her ability to attract men are the only security she's ever known. Whether she meant to convey that particular message, it's the one I've learned. This outfit is my favorite of hers. I've even taken her stage name, Frankie. I didn't tell her about this job when we talked on the phone a few days ago, though. I don't want to know what she'd think about this choice. It'd break her heart to think of me in her world. All my life, my mom tells me I can be anything I want. To dream big. The world's my oyster. But she frames my future choices in gauzy terms with no instructions on how to get there. She doesn't tell me to focus on school or to create a path to whatever I might desire. I don't even know what my options are. Clearly, if she knew how to make a better life, she would have done so herself. Now, looking back, I just wish once in a while she'd compliment me on my resourcefulness, intelligence, or resilience. I'd like her to see me as someone with potential. But the only praise she gives me is the one she considers the highest compliment. You're so beautiful. If this is my only source of power, I'd better learn to use it. Like other peep shows, the platform where I'll be dancing is separated by glass from the small private booths where the customers are. That glass barrier is one of the reasons I considered the job in the first place. It'll keep me apart and isolated. Customers won't be able to touch me. Frankly, after being with Rudy, I'm starting to think that all men should be held behind glass. Here, I'll be able to close my eyes and dance the hours away pretending I'm not there. Imagining I'm somewhere else. It'll be like the customers don't even exist. Next to me at the makeup table, Tina, my co-worker, is also getting ready. Hey, I say, looking for an ally or some guidance. I'm tired of feeling so damn alone. Tina ignores me, putting on fake eyelashes.