Chapter Eleven
Night Falls
When night comes knocking, chaos erupts. Girls run between one another’s rooms, stealing lipstick and dresses and nail polish. Someone tests her vocal chords like she’ll be singing all night, and somewhere in the house, a piano plays. The pitter-pat of bare feet morphs into the firm click of heels, and Poppet orders me to sit at the vanity.
I’ve barely digested my dinner—chicken-stuffed ravioli in a bittersweet red sauce—and showered the day’s work off my body, and now Poppet is attempting to apply foundation to my face.
I gently push her hand away. “We work tonight, right? For money?”
Poppet dives toward my face again, this time with blush. “Yes, we work tonight. But you won’t make squat if you don’t let me do your makeup.”
I dodge her deft hand a second time and rush toward my drawer. As we scrubbed bathroom floors, Poppet explained what I’m to do tonight. Customers, men and women alike, will come to be entertained. I figured I might be doing something along those lines since the place is called Madam Karina’s Home for Burgeoning Entertainers, but before now, I was waiting for the actual job choices Ms. Karina—er, Madam Karina—mentioned before we left Detroit.
Though it appears there’s only one position I’ll hold here, Poppet assured me there isn’t any funny business. “Customers keep their hands to themselves,” she said. “They only want to have fun and watch us perform. And to get rip-roaring drunk, of course.”
I’ll say it once more for the people in the back, Wilson says. We need to get out of here.
I ignore him. The job is fine by me. I need the money, and I need Dizzy. Though I’ll admit that already I question how long I can live with these girls and their bullying. Every time one of them upsets me, Wilson sits up straighter. If he’s going to stick around, at the very least I want him lying down.
Now where’s the fun in that?
I grab my makeup and jewelry and return to the vanity. I smear on black shadow and purple mascara and ghostly powder. Then I finger-brush my orange wig, and Poppet lends me a dress. At first she encourages me to borrow a pink one, but I insist on the black.
When I’m done, Poppet appraises my work, sucking on her bottom lip. “All the girls have a shtick. At first I wasn’t sure about all this”—she waves toward my piercings and heavy makeup—“but hey, maybe this is your look. It could work.”
“That’s good, because I’m not changing a thing.”
Poppet grins. “Accept yourself and all that, right?”
“Right.” I study Poppet’s plunging neckline and blond locks made frizzier with hair spray. She has on a fluffy blue dress and looks kick-you-in-the-face sexy. Her eyebrows are thick and three shades darker than her dye job, but she’s still beautiful. I tell her so, and she blushes.
“You really do, Poppet,” I add. “And you’ve been nice to me. What can I do to repay the favor?”
Her face scrunches up. “Repay the favor? What do you mean? We’re friends. This is what friends do.” Almost instantly, she withdraws into herself. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know we’re not actually friends. But it seems like we could be.”
I reach out to touch her arm. Stop myself when I remember I don’t do such things. “I think it’s okay if you call me friend. I mean, I’m okay with it if you are.”
Now I’m the one waiting for her to laugh. To point a finger in my face and say she was joking and that she’d rather hang herself than make an alliance with the likes of me. But she doesn’t. Instead, she throws herself around me. I stiffen and keep my arms pressed tight against my sides as she hugs me. It feels wrong. It feels wrong.
It feels amazing.
“Come on, it’s nearly time. We can’t be late.” She waves me along, and we make our way to the back left of the house. I’ve never been to this part before. All the rooms are on the right, and the kitchen is left front. We’re behind the stairs, I think. There’s a doorway with a curtain. Poppet pulls it back, and we step inside.
Nine girls race across the space. One runs to the corner and plugs something in. Instantly, a thousand multicolored Christmas lights flip on. Music starts playing. Big band stuff—trumpets and tubas and soulful crooning. A train cruises around a track that hugs the room’s perimeter near the ceiling, releasing a beautiful choo-choo every few minutes. On the left side of the room is a bar, and behind it stands Cain, wiping down the counter.
There are beanbag chairs in the corner. A piano near one wall. A microphone. A violin on a stand. And small stations throughout the room with a chair or two and a hint of privacy. The smaller spaces are separated by bead curtains, all illuminated by the Christmas lights. I take everything in, realize I’ll be spending an entire evening down here.
And I fall in love.
As the girls scramble across the room, fluffing pillows and fluffing themselves and powering up a retro jukebox, Poppet grabs my arm. More touching. I don’t pull away.
“Follow me,” she says. “I forgot to show you something.”
Right outside the curtained doorway is a metal box mounted to the wall. The contraption has twelve sections like postal boxes, with a horizontal slit cut into each smaller square. There’s a number on each one.
Poppet points to a box number. “That one is mine.” She points to another one. Number ten. “I think this one is yours. Since you replaced…”
My head whips in her direction. “I replaced someone?”
“Never mind about that.” Poppet avoids eye contact. “What you need to worry about is getting the bronze coins customers pick up at the front. Each person receives one coin, and at the end of the night they slip the coin into the box of the girl they liked best. The more coins you get, the more money you’ll make.”
My pulse races. I figured we’d all be paid the same, and now I learn I basically have to compete with the other girls? No wonder everyone hates me. I’m competition. Replacement competition, by the sound of it. I think about the girl I came in after. About where she went and why.
Poppet must see how nervous I am because she adds, “Remember, this place is somewhere customers go to forget their troubles. Just pretend you’re in a dreamworld, and they’ll dream along with you. There’s no room for worry inside Madam Karina’s Home for Burgeoning Entertainers.” She finishes her speech with a flirtatious smile.
I hear Mercy yelling, and Poppet giggles. “Come on!”
I shuffle after her, lifting the black dress so I don’t trip on the fabric. A heartbeat after we enter the room, Madam Karina bustles in, black marker in hand. She inspects the space and then barks a few orders at Mercy. Then she grabs my arm and tugs me toward her.
Before she says anything, she writes a big black 10 on the back of both my hands. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend more time together, Domino, but the key tonight is to ensure the customers are entertained. Remember your gifts, and keep a smile on your face.” She looks around, licks her lips nervously. “You make them happy, understand? Don’t disappoint me.” Her grip on my arm starts to hurt, and I’m suddenly remembering how much I hate physical contact. She glances down at where she’s holding me and shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You’ll be great, Domino. Just have fun, okay?”
Uncertainty flickers inside my chest, but I push it down where it belongs. “I’ll make you proud.”
Madam Karina releases me and stands tall. She’s got eight inches on me, easy, but right now she seems tall enough to cast a shadow on the moon. Her face opens, and her head falls to one side. “Well, that was the perfect thing to say. I didn’t mean to… I apologize.”
“It’s okay.” I grin to reassure her I’m all right. Because I am all right. And I’d do just about anything to keep her smiling at me like that. Her smile makes me feel peaceful. No, that’s not the right word. Her smile is soothing? Warm?
Healing.
That’s it.
She cups my cheek in her hand and looks at me like my mother once did, and my heart swells like a balloon begging for a needle. Wilson wraps himself around the two red, pulsing halves instinctually and holds them in place. He doesn’t want to let her in. And I don’t want to fight him.
So I move away from Madam Karina and join the other girls, who have formed a line. The madam marks their hands and claps twice above her head like she’s about to perform a dance. Then she swooshes out.
I look at Candy, who’s a couple of girls down. She has two perfect circles of blush on her cheeks, false lashes, and white tights. She looks like a living doll. When she sees me inspecting her, she rolls her eyes and jams a hush finger against her lips. Totally unwarranted since I wasn’t going to say anything.
Behind us, the music picks up. Drums now, beating wildly. A man singing about love under the Brooklyn Bridge.
And then the curtain pulls back.