Working Girl (10 page)

“That’s a weak excuse.” She stops me from completing my sentence, mainly because she’s heard me recite the same thing over and over, so she knows exactly what I’m going to say. “Because we know the truth. They’re
all
after sex, Presley. The brain in their pants is always bigger than the one in their head. Besides, when was the last time you let yourself live? You spend every waking hour with your nose stuck in a book, trying to better yourself. You deserve something, Presley. Even if it’s just for fun.”

“But Momma—”

“I don’t give a shit if your Momma is dying,” she whispers, casting a look over her shoulder, making sure that none of the other girls are around. If they overhear us, they’ll go straight to Big Earl. That’s the way it works around here: no information is sacred—especially when it’ll buy you a couple of days in Big Earl’s good graces. Any one of the girls would kill for this kind of leverage over Momma and me. It may seem like we’re all one big happy family, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s all for one, and each for themselves. “All the more reason for you to live now, while you have the chance.” We both know what she means. Big Earl will find out soon enough, and it will change the course of my life without a doubt.

EVEN WITH EVERYTHING GOING ON
at home, I manage to make it through my first semester. Not only did I score A’s in all my classes, I’ve been able to keep Emerson at a safe distance. Neither has been easy, but I’m thankful beyond belief when I hand in my Bookkeeping 101 final.

I share pleasantries with my professor and start making my way out of the lecture hall, but I don’t make it far before I hear my name.

“Presley!”

It’s his voice, and for a moment I consider stopping. Instead, I pull out my headphones and pop them into my ears, blasting music in order to drown him out.

I’m thinking he’s given up as I approach the library, but the hand that grabs my arm lets me know that I am sadly mistaken. Spinning around so that I am face to face with Emerson, I hold my breath. His jaw flexes as though he’s trying to bite back his annoyance and I take out my headphones, stuffing them back into my pocket, studiously avoiding his gaze. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asks, slightly breathless from the chase I just put him on.

I shrug. “I wasn’t aware that I was avoiding you.” I barely recognize my own voice, dripping with venom.

“That’s bullshit. You’ve barely said anything to me since the day we went to the movies.”

My throat dries out and feels like sandpaper as I swallow. How is he so in tune with everything? It’s infuriating. “Well, I have said
something
to you. Avoiding you would constitute totally ignoring you.”

“What is it with you?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“I could ask you the same.”

“Jesus Christ, Presley. I just want to get to know you.”

“Why?”

“Well, at first it was because I thought you were cute, I’ll admit that. But now . . . well, now I’m not so sure myself.”

His brutal honesty strikes me. I owe him the same courtesy. Honesty. Be honest.
Tell him, Presley
. “I’m trying to do you a favor.” I back away from him, hoping to create a little distance between us. His cologne is intoxicating and it’s clouding my mind. “I don’t have time to deal with someone who’s just chasing me.”

“Who said anything about me chasing you? Yeah, sure, that may have been my game in the past, but maybe—just maybe—I actually see something in you. Something that makes me
want
to know you. Something that makes me think we can be better, together.”

Part of me believes him. Or rather,
wants
to believe him. But the other part of me, the realistic side, knows it’s a crock of shit. A line that I refuse to listen to. “You just like the idea of me—the mystery. You like that I won’t give in to you. Golden boy can’t seem to get the shy girl to give him the time of day. It’s nothing but the thrill of the chase.”

He shakes his head in disagreement. “Don’t tell me what I’m doing.”

“Then leave me the fuck alone.” Biting my bottom lip, I turn and bolt into the library before he has the chance to say anything else. Every word I said, I believed. There’s no reason for this nonsense to have gone on this long. Why would a boy who could have any girl he wanted want to get to know me? It just doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not about to take a chance based solely on lust.

Finding a seat in the back, I throw my stuff on the table, drop into the seat and attempt to calm myself. Somehow he always manages to work me up. It can’t possibly be good for me to react in such a way. But I do because I can’t control my emotions around him.

Once my breathing steadies, I pull out my book and start doing my reading for class. I attempt to study for the next few hours before I have to take my last final but thanks to Emerson, I can’t seem to focus on anything but him. It’s maddening, and it makes me hate him for real. Even though I keep my attention on the pages in front of me, my eyes keep reading the same line over and over again.

Unable to shake the feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, I give up. Tossing my books into my bag, I almost don’t notice the paper airplane that lands on my table. Confused, I look and see no one but it doesn’t matter. The flutter in my stomach tells me who flew that damn plane at me. I think about throwing it in the trash without reading it, but something inside of me won’t allow it. With shaking hands, I open the paper and see the poem scrawled in familiar messy penmanship.

Friendship

My eyes roll as I read the title. Another Ralph Waldo Emerson original. He really needs to get some new material. He’s going to wear me out on Emerson poems. Not that it stops me from reading it.

True love transcends the unworthy object,

And dwells and broods on the eternal,

And when the poor interposed mask crumbles,

It is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth,

And feels its independency the surer.

The words tug at my heartstrings. Strings that I thought I could numb. Anger washes over me and I crumple the paper up and toss it carelessly into the trashcan next to my table. Pulling the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I bite back the tears that are threatening to escape.

I just can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t right. Boys don’t do shit like this just because they like girls. There is
always
a motive. There’s got to be a reason Emerson is pursuing me. After all, there’s nothing special about me.

I’m just the daughter of a brothel whore.

I’M SITTING IN FRONT OF
the window of our apartment reading. Tonight is a peaceful night. Neither Momma or I have a shift across the street. She’s sitting on the couch, watching one of her ‘stories.’ Momma has always loved daytime soap operas. Growing up, whenever she had downtime, I’d be sitting next to her as she watched
Days of Our Lives
and
The Young and The Restless
. The acting was terrible, but it gave her the ability to lead a romanticized life, whereas I preferred to read about mine.

Since most of the girls are living in the brothel at the moment, the house is quiet. They’ve apparently all synced their cycles now. I should enjoy it while it lasts because soon enough we will be overrun with them, Momma and I will be forced to share a bedroom again. Of all the things I hate, I hate having to share a room with Momma the most.

The television snaps off, and I look up from the page I was on. Momma looks at me smiling. “Come”—she slaps the cushion on her right—“sit with me.”

I do as she asks, like a good daughter would, and she immediately pulls me in close to her. I rest my head against her chest, listening to her heart beating underneath my ear. “You were the only thing in my life I did right, Presley.”

With tears glossing my eyes, I look up at her. Momma has never been one to shower me with love and affection and moments like this are few and far between. Sure, she takes care of me, feeds me when she can, and she does her best, but love isn’t something I’ve ever had in abundance.

“I know this life hasn’t been easy for you, baby girl, but I love you.”

“I know you do, Momma,” I choke out.

We both sit in silence, clinging to each other while our unspoken words hang in the air. “I want you to understand something about me, Presley. I never wanted this for me—for you.” Her hand smooth’s my hair as she continues to speak. “I’ve never really told you about my past, or how I ended up here. But now that you’re not a teenager anymore, I think it’s time you understood.”

I shake my head. “Momma, you don’t—”

“Yes, I do.” She takes a deep breath before starting. “I had an average childhood . . . ”

The beginning of her story hurts me more than it should. Hearing that her childhood was average ignites something I’m not sure I can deal with. I’m envious of her. Jealous of my own mother. For she was afforded something I’ve never had.

“But then when my daddy died when I was eight, my momma found a new boyfriend. She was crazy about him. So much so, she figured she might as well allow him to visit me at night.”

My heart drops to the bottom of my stomach. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I struggle to breathe thinking about Momma as a child, being visited late at night.

“I was so scared that first time. But every time after that got a little easier. The longer it went on the better I got at it. By the time I was twelve I prided myself on my ability to make Momma’s boyfriend squirm and moan. It made me feel like an adult, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that teenage boys loved it just as much as men.”

“Oh, Momma,” I groan into her shoulder.

“As I got older, I developed a reputation. I didn’t understand what the issue was. But when I was a senior in high school, I realized that there wasn’t a guy in my class that I hadn’t touched in some way and suddenly I didn’t feel any emotions anymore. No remorse. No pride. Just pure emptiness. I’d become a shell of a girl, and sex started to become the only time I felt alive.”

I’d always hated my mother for this life, but listening to her story I realize that she didn’t choose this life.

It chose her.

“What about my father?” I ask, seizing upon her moment of honesty. I’ve asked in the past, but Momma has never talked about it. She always brushes it off, making me think that there is a possibility that she knows who he is. So now, with her letting me in, I want to know.

“I’m not sure who your father is, Presley.”

With her words, I deflate. In a weird way, I was hoping to at least know his name— even though there is no chance of me ever having any sort of real relationship with him.

“Once I started working at the brothel, I never slept with anyone outside of my clients. I’ve never loved anyone, until you.”

I’ve always assumed that my father was a Joe, but knowing without a doubt that I will never know for sure causes my heart to break a little more. A sob escapes my throat, and Momma grabs the sides of my face and makes me look at her.

“Presley, I spent my whole life pushing love away. Being devoid of emotions is not a good thing, I realize that now. I never stood a chance after that first night with Momma’s boyfriend. But you do. I know you’re scared. You’re scared that you’re not going to escape. But I also know that you’re stronger than I was . . . than I am. So fight, Presley. Live. Let love in. Because the fact of the matter is, love isn’t the sort of thing that will push you into this life. My past is.”