Chapter 1: Andrea
I don’t realize just how much time I have left when out of the blue, on this otherwise dull Halloween night, I receive a text message.
I grab the device on my belly to check who it is. Probably Mom.
Relief and disappointment both run through me when I see that it’s not Mom, but an unidentified sender with a potential job offer. I dance at local clubs and do the occasional private party. So, while a little strange in the way it comes, it’s really nothing extraordinary. Except I really need to gig like this more often, so it’s a blessing, I think.
Intrigued, I sit up on the bed and type a reply. We text a bit more before I decide to tell Donna.
“Sis!” I call out to my roommate, who is watching TV in the living room.
“What?” she hollers.
“Come check this out!” I shout back.
“Ugh!” she complains, then I hear her feet stomping on the hardwood floor as she trots towards the bedroom.
My phone dings again.
“What can possibly not wait until I’m done with my Criminal Minds episode?” Donna asks. She’s joking, of course. I always give her a hard time for loving it so much, to which her defense is that it might one day help her in solving a crime.
I purse my lips and hand out my phone to her.
“Hey, do you perform at private parties?” Donna reads the initial text message aloud, then skims the back and forth in silence.
I can tell it’s unsettling her by the way her smile deforms into that face she makes when something rubs her the wrong way, even if she can’t pinpoint it right away. I pretend not to notice.
“She wants to surprise her husband for their anniversary,” I say with excitement.
“I see…” she says, handing back the phone, which dings with a new text.
“I want our panties and bras to match. Got anything black and red?” I read aloud.
“No problem. Got lots of black and red stuff.” I say as I type back.
“You know this woman?” she asks.
“No,” I say, still typing. “Hell, I don’t even know that it’s a woman,” I joke.
“Now, that would be weird,” she retorts.
“Look, if I had a rule of knowing all my clients before I contract with them, I pretty much wouldn’t have a job. Not making as much, anyway,” I say.
“I know,” she says.
Silence. The weather in the room seems to shift.
We have a strong bond, so we can tell each other anything. But I’m stubborn as a mule, so I know she’s considering what would be the best approach. The suspense is killing me.
“She got a name at least?” she finally asks. “Maybe I missed it when I skimmed through the texts.”`
“Hasn’t said.” I say.
“Seems weird how a complete stranger would ask you to dance for them without so much as an introduction, don’t you think?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, putting the phone down on the bed for the first time since she came into the room.
“An unknown number, and no name… they might be hiding something else,” she continues.
“Well, the unknown number is kind of a given… it being a new client and all, and I never really asked for a name,” I explain. “I was just thrilled to get a new gig.”
“Right, but this kind of gig usually comes from a recommendation and a heads up from the client you do know,” she argues.
Maybe whoever gave her my number just didn’t get around to that heads up,” I reason. I’m aware that my sister from different parents is just worried about me. The look in her eyes is one of loving concern.
“They must know who you are to make such a move,” she goes on. “Yet you know nothing about them. They made sure of it. The number is not a typical phone number, It has only five digits.”
She’s right, but I don’t want to feed her paranoia. Maybe she works at one of those companies that send out promotional messages and she hacked into it. Still, I need this gig, and I won’t let her, or myself, for that matter, talk me out of it.
“I’m sure whoever it is has a rep to protect so they got one of those to cover their tracks,” is all I’m able to come up with, and immediately regret it. So I turn it into a tease. “But hey, who said TV crime procedurals don’t teach anything?” It’s so hard, keeping a straight face when I see her peeved expression.
“Oh, no, you didn’t…” she says, raising her eyebrows in feigned indignation. Then she picks up a pillow and starts hitting me.
I burst out laughing and grab another pillow.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist!” I shriek among guffawing fits.
She can’t help but be infected by my laughter. It’s a full-on pillow fight by now.
After a minute or so, we lie in silence on the bed.
“Oh, my stomach hurts,” I say finally.
“Me too, sis,” she says.
My phone dings yet again.
“It’s the address,” I say.
I screenshot the message with the address and send it to Donna.
Her phone dings.
“Doing a private party at this address. Just in case I go missing. LOL,” she reads it aloud.
“Very funny,” she says, no longer smiling.
“Relax, sis, I’ll be okay,” I reassure her.
“Andy, please don’t do this,” she pleads. “ I don’t like it.”
“I haven’t worked in a bit and this fun we’ve been having since we moved to Boston has hit my bank account pretty hard,” I say. “And it’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
“But I feel this one’s different. Gave me the heebie-jeebies as soon as I read the text,” she explains.
“And if it’s about money,” she continues, “I can always take on more hours at work.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You’re already killing yourself by working full-time. Plus, we moved out here so I can fulfill my dream of becoming a proper dancer and have fun in the process.”
“You can dance and we can have fun back in Chicopee, where it’s cheaper,” she suggests.
“Hell, no!” I burst out, my voice an octave sharper. “Not like this, baby!” I start swaying my hips in a sensual rotating motion and lifting my top off my chest.
Her pout seems to be turning into a smile.
“And the prudes wouldn’t tip as good!” she squeals, obviously unable to repress the laughter in spite of her ominous feeling.
She knows all about prudes, having been raised by a couple of them. Down to the fact that some would still attend activities of the kind that would include acts like me, if only to preach the gospel to those lost souls.
“I still don’t like it,” she says.
“You’re getting worked up over nothing,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
“Will you?” she says, seemingly asking more the universe than me.
“I’ll keep in touch,” I say, approaching her. “I promise,”
We linger on each other’s eyes a few seconds, words unnecessary.
And that’s that. After twelve years, she knows I’ll do whatever I get into this hard head of mine. No amount of reasoning and no pleading eyes will stop me, no matter how logical or beautiful.
“Okay, I guess,” she lies through a forced smile.
I snap out of my reverie and smile back at her.
“Okay. Pepper?” I ask, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Hopefully, this will be the end of it.
“Okay, Salt,” she plays along, seeming to melt by a name only I call her. And we truly are like salt and pepper.
“Now kiss me, silly,” I tease her, throwing an arm around her neck. “You’re the boyfriend I may never have.”
“Asshole!” We burst out laughing again.
My phone dings yet again. It’s Mystery Customer, of course.
“So are you free tonight? I know this is last minute, and I’m sorry. If you help me, I’ll make it worth your while.”
We both read it and look up from the screen at each other. I give her an apologetic look before responding.
“Not a problem. I’ll be there.” I type and hit send.
“Tonight?” Donna says, then gets up and starts getting her work clothes ready.
Silence.
All of a sudden, she looks like she could explode any second now.
“Why the long face?” I ask after a few seconds. She looked so happy a moment ago.
“What long face?” she says without looking at me and keeps browsing the closet.
“Look at me,” I say. Even to myself, it sounded more like a demand. I didn’t back out.
After a while, she stops and does what I asked.
“That one,” I say, pointing a finger at her face and making a long face of my own, trademark pursed lips included.
“Nothing. Your mind’s made up, so what does it matter?” she says, obviously frustrated.
“I thought we agreed it would be fine,” I say after a few moments.
“No. You decided it was fine. No point in telling you any different. And who knows, maybe it will. Only one way to know for sure, right? Do what you want. It’s your life anyway,” she says and goes back to picking out her clothes.
“You know what? I can’t do this,” I say, exasperated and perplexed as to why this is such a big deal.
“Do what?” she asks, ripping a blouse off a hanger.
“This conversation,” I say, as if stating the obvious.
“Then why are you doing it? I told you it didn’t matter either way, since you’re so determined,” she says.
“’Cause it’s obvious that it does matter—” I say.
“But you’re doing it anyway, right?” She cuts me off.
I’m just looking at her, words stuck somewhere in me, unable to come out.
The hurt look in her eyes tells me she’s taking my silence as admission.
It dawns on me that her feelings matter to me more than I’m comfortable admitting to myself, let alone to her. So I say nothing.
“There. Doesn’t matter,” she sentences and starts getting out of her normal clothes.
I just sit there speechless, still looking at her, taking her in as if seeing her for the very first time.
Just a minute ago, we were laughing it off. I know that she was trying to be supportive of my decision despite her objection to it. But she knew I would go. It was settled.
Then how did the air become so tense and charged with so many conflicting emotions?
For just a second, I feel like jumping off the bed and holding her and telling her that I’m sorry for making her feel so scared and helpless over a stupid job. That I never want to do it again. I feel like texting the stranger back to reject the offer even if it means going back on my word and closing out the doors this opportunity may have opened. Suddenly, it becomes crystal clear that Donna’s friendship is far more important than the pursuit of a dream that could very well never come true. I hesitate when, surprised by my own thoughts, I stop to ask myself why I would do that.
I open my mouth but the words never come out.
“Tell you what,” she resumes, now fully in her work outfit. “It’s me who doesn’t have the time or energy for this right now. It’s 7:30. I gotta go to work. Like I said, do what you want. I don’t care anymore,” she says before storming out the door and slamming it behind her.
This only aggravates me. Just not for quite the same reasons she may think.
