She turned on to Franklin Avenue and found a parking spot near the north end. She’d have to walk a bit. She felt her hair. It was only halfway dry. She thought that it looked prettier when it air dried. Like that beach waves hairstyle the girls at school wore. Her waves were more prominent when she went without blow-drying her hair. But she wished she could have blow-dried it tonight. She was cold, her teeth chattering before she even stepped out of the car.
She felt tiny beads of sweat forming under her arms, and then realized in horror that she had forgotten to shave! It was only a bit of stubble under her arms, but she hadn’t shaved her legs in four days. She thought for a split second that she should just go home. But she wasn’t sure when she would have another free night like this and knew she couldn’t waste it.
It doesn’t matter, Clara told herself, even though in that instant she wanted to cry.
She took deep breaths feeling the quickening of her heart, afraid that it would turn into pounding that people would see through her coat. She didn’t want to appear as an amateur. They wouldn’t want her then. But she didn’t want to look used up either. She was confused trying to figure out how best to come across. What would they like? Aggressiveness? She was only able to be that way when she was crazy. She didn’t feel crazy now, just afraid. But she knew she couldn’t hang back in the shadows either. She would never meet anyone like that. The other women, the ones with the experience, they would take everybody, leaving her alone on the street rejected and lost.
“Get a grip,” she said out loud angrily, and exited her car.
She walked down the street, hands shoved as deeply as they would go in her coat pockets. Her head and face were freezing; she thought about her damp hair and worried about getting sick. She couldn’t afford to get sick. She needed to work. She thought about putting the hood over her head, but she was afraid it would make her look less attractive. She didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing, so she continued to walk slowly down the street, looking in shop windows. Most had been boarded up. She passed by the prostitutes leaning into car windows, talking sweetly to the shadowed faces within. Just as she had expected, the street buzzed with vehicles slowly searching up and down for an after-dinner dessert.
“You lost, baby?” she heard a woman say to her from behind.
“No,” Clara answered, then hurried along down the street.
She walked three more blocks before turning around. She thought she should just keep walking up and down the street until someone noticed her. She was afraid, though, that no one would and that she would go home empty-handed.
A car passed by her for the second time. She recognized its shiny chrome features. It pulled up near the curb, and the person inside rolled down the window.
“Do you need a ride home?” a deep voice asked from within the vehicle. “You don’t look like you belong here.”
“Why do you think that?” Clara asked. Her hands shook inside her coat.
“Because those women are prostitutes. And you’re clearly not a prostitute,” the man said. He hung his head out of the window and smiled.
He wasn’t unattractive. He had dark hair and dark eyes and was dressed in an expensive dark suit. There was darkness all around him, and Clara thought that made sense. He matched the seediness of his surroundings.
She noticed he looked much older than her, and it frightened her.
“I . . . I n-need money,” she stammered. She shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets.
“Are you homeless?” the man asked.
“No,” Clara replied. “But I will be soon if I don’t pay my bills.”
The man scrutinized her. He looked concerned, but Clara thought he was faking it.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Why does it matter?”
He didn’t respond and she was afraid he might go. All she wanted was to crawl into his warm car.
“I’m seventeen,” she said.
“Seventeen?” the man said chuckling. He looked her over. “Where are your parents?”
“I don’t have any,” she replied.
He was silent again. Thinking.
“Come here,” he said after a moment. Clara obeyed.
He scrutinized her face. So young. She looked scared, and he liked it.
“Aren’t you afraid of bad people out here? Aren’t you afraid someone will snatch you up and do horrible things to you and then kill you?” the man asked. He didn’t sound like he was trying to scare her. He asked her in a matter-of-fact way.
Clara considered his questions. Was she concerned about those things? People went missing all the time, especially poor, inconsequential people. Who would care that she’s gone? Beatrice. Beatrice would care. And Evan would, too. But were two people enough to make her turn around and get back into her car? She thought that they weren’t.
She stood at her full height. “I’m not afraid of those things.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up and his lips curled into a grin. “Oh? And why not?” He sounded like he was trying to hide his giddiness, but Clara could hear it in his voice. Did he want to make her disappear?
She looked straight into his black eyes. “Because I’m not sure my life is that important.”
She thought he might see the complete brokenness in her and leave. Who wants to spend an evening with someone who isn’t any fun?
The man looked her over. “So this is what desperation looks like,” he said thoughtfully.
Clara bristled. “I’m looking at it too,” she said hotly.
The man chuckled. “What do you mean?”
“You’re out here looking for a whore. That’s how desperate you are to sleep with someone,” she said. She knew she was saying all the wrong things, but she figured she already lost her chance with him.
“True,” the man replied. “I guess I am looking for a whore.”
Clara stared at the ground and shuffled her feet.
“But I found you instead,” he said quietly.
Clara’s heart dropped. He didn’t see her as a whore. She wasted her time on him, and the hour was growing late. She would go home without anything.
“Seventeen you said?” the man asked.
Clara nodded.
“You know what that makes me, don’t you?”
“What?” Clara asked.
“A man with no conscience,” he answered.