I bite my tongue as Ariel stares me down. After a minute of silence, I quietly watch her get up from the loveseat and stalk over to the fireplace mantle, reach up and knock over a picture frame, her eyes never leaving mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying my best to keep the annoyance out of my voice and remain calm.
“Say something offensive,” she states again, her hand slowly moving to a small, metal statue of the Eiffel Tower that Brian and I got on our honeymoon.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, clasping my hands together tightly in my lap as Isabelle looks back and forth between us from her spot on the floor in the middle of the room, like she’s watching a tennis match.
With a flick of her wrist, Ariel knocks over the statue.
“Say gang bang!” she orders, moving down the mantle, her hand now hovering over another picture frame.
“No.”
Everything inside of me is screaming to get up and fix what she’s messed up, needing the order restored almost as much as I need air to breathe. If everything is where it’s supposed to be, nice and neat and tidy and perfect, I can pretend my life hasn’t become one big, horrifying mess. I can look around my nice and neat and tidy and perfect home and forget all of the chaos that surrounds it.
With a smile, Ariel tips over the picture frame, and I can’t take it anymore. I jump up from the love seat and race over to the mantle, quickly righting everything she messed up, making sure all the items are facing east.
While I’m busy at the mantle, Ariel moves to the wall where a large painting of Paris at sunset hangs. She rests her hand against the lower right corner.
“I can do this all night, honey. Say. Gang. Bang.”
My eyes widen and my hands start to shake, and before I can tell her to stop being so childish, she bumps the painting until it’s hanging all askew on the wall.
“STOP MESSING UP MY THINGS!” I scream, quickly clamping my hand over my mouth, mortified by my outburst.
“There you go. That’s a start. Next time, try calling me an asshole. It’s very therapeutic.”
“Saying off-color things is not going to make me feel better about what happened tonight. We made a mistake, and it’s better if we just forget about it and move on,” I inform her.
“The latest study found people who liked more swear words and used them most often were least likely to lie. Swearing is the unfiltered, genuine expression of emotions, and those who do it frequently were found to be more sincere,” Isabelle explains quietly from her spot on the floor.
“See?” Ariel asks, pointing at Isabelle. “It’s science. You can’t argue with science.”
Moving next to Ariel, I straighten the painting on the wall, taking a step back nodding in approval when it’s perfect again.
“Like I said, let’s just forget this entire night ever happened.”
Moving back to the love seat, I sit down and recross my legs.
“Or, we could come up with a new plan. Like capitalizing on this stripping thing. We misunderstood, and we made a mistake. Next time, we’ll be more prepared,” Ariel states, coming over to sit down next to me.
“We are not going to be strippers, have you lost your mind? I’m a housewife and the president of the PTA. You owned an antique store, and Isabelle is a librarian. We are not strippers. I have no desire whatsoever to take my clothes off in front of a bunch of strangers.”
Even through my argument, the memory keeps popping back into my mind of that one moment at the party when a thrill of excitement went through me at the idea of doing something so scandalous. The freedom I felt, the giddy anticipation that coursed through me and made my heart beat faster, and the idea that I didn’t have to answer to anyone but myself. That I didn’t have to be perfect.
“You’re lying. Holy shit, you’re totally lying. I can see it written all over your face!” Ariel exclaims.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I scoff. “And I’m fairly certain Isabelle would never agree to something so preposterous.”
Isabelle bites her bottom lip, pushes her glasses up with one finger and shrugs.
“Tonight was . . . amazing!” she says in a breathy voice.
Ariel throws her head back and laughs while I sit staring at Isabelle, in shock.
“Sweetie, you almost fainted when you found out what the balloons were for,” I remind her gently.
“Okay, so that was a little shocking. But it’s only because I didn’t do enough research. Or, the right kind of research. There are a lot of reference materials I can find online about stripping, and, I don’t know, it might be kind of fun.”
“And by research she means porn. We need to watch porn,” Ariel says with a nod.
Everyone in this room has lost their minds. That’s all there is to it.
“I think we need to just stick to the original plan of hosting princess parties for little girls. We can print up flyers and design a website. It’s a wonderful idea and much more our speed,” I tell them.
“The only speed you know is uptight. You need to let loose, be wild, go crazy. Have you even lost your shit over what Brian did to you yet? Have you screamed, cried, thrown things, and cursed the ground he walks on? Gotten drunk and had a one-night stand to get him out of your head? Things don’t always need to be so neat and tidy. Life is messy. You’re never going to survive this if you don’t get your hands dirty,” Ariel explains.
“You don’t understand. I have a daughter. I can’t afford to get messy or lose my . . . mind. If things are neat and tidy, I’m still in control.”
The footsteps stomping down the stairs and across the hallway to the doorway of the sitting room cause Isabelle and Ariel to turn their heads and give me time to swallow back my tears and get myself under control.
“I need five dollars for lunch tomorrow, Cynthia,” Anastasia says with a bored look on her face as she leans against the doorjamb and picks at her black fingernail polish, which has started to chip off.
“Okay. Let me just—”
“Did you just call your mother Cynthia?” Ariel interrupts, walking over to stand in front of Anastasia.
“It’s fine, Ariel, I can—”
“That is her name,” Anastasia replies to Ariel with a roll of her eyes as I get up from the love seat and walk over to them, before the discussion gets out of hand.
“Listen, Morticia Addams, where I come from, we don’t call our mothers by their first names. Show some fucking respect. Your mother is busting her ass and losing her mind trying to keep a roof over your head and food in your mouth, and she doesn’t deserve your bullshit. And while you’re at it, wash that black shit off your eyes. You look like a street hooker.”
I’m frozen in place as I watch Anastasia drop her hands down to her sides and lose all of her cockiness as Ariel continues to stare her down.
Anastasia mumbles a quick, quiet apology to me under her breath, turns, and races back up the stairs. Instead of the usual slamming of her bedroom door, I hear her footsteps move to the bathroom across the hall from her room, followed by the shower being turned on.
“How did you do that?” I ask in wonder, still staring at the spot where my daughter was standing.
“I spoke to her like an adult. You can’t tiptoe around everything with teenagers or they’ll walk all over you.”
It suddenly occurs to me that that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been sheltering my daughter from everything bad that has happened, lying to her in order to protect her, and all it’s done is hurt her and our relationship. Tears fill my eyes and my heart breaks right in half knowing I’m the reason our relationship has been so strained lately. Knowing I’m the reason her life is no longer colorful, and every word she speaks to me is one filled with annoyance. I can blame Brian for this mess until I’m blue in the face, but I’m the one who has been living with her head in the sand, perpetuating the lies I’ve told myself and my child.
“We haven’t really talked about what her father did. Obviously she know
s he’s gone, and she knows that money has been tight, for the most part, but she doesn’t know the full story. I thought I was doing the right thing,” I say as Isabelle gets up from the floor and wraps her arm around my waist.
“I’m not a mother, so I don’t know the first thing about raising a daughter, but she probably already knows everything,” Ariel says. “As much as you want to deny it, the entire neighborhood knows. Do you honestly think someone hasn’t said something to her? I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that’s why she’s dressing the way she is and acting like a little asshole. She knows you’re lying to her and is doing everything in her power to piss you off and get you to say something to her.” Ariel’s soft voice suggests a sweet side that I didn’t even know she had.
The doorbell chimes, interrupting our discussion, and I’m glad for it. I need a break from thinking and worrying about this. Ariel and Isabelle follow behind me out through the foyer, and I can’t hide my complete shock when I open the door and see John standing there. Along with mortification that one of my neighbors was witness to what went on this evening.
“John, what are you doing here?”
He gives me a sheepish smile and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a large bundle of cash and holding it out to me.
“After I sobered up, I realized the huge mistake I made, and I feel awful about it. It’s not the original amount we agreed on because, well, even though I feel bad, the party still didn’t have strippers. But you ladies deserve something for your trouble,” he explains.
Ariel moves around me and takes the money from his hand, quietly flipping through it and counting what’s there.
“A thousand dollars? For huddling in the corner and losing our shit?” she asks.
“Like I said, I feel bad. I guess I should have explained a little better what was required. And hey, the guys loved the three of you, even if you didn’t take your clothes off. They thought it was hilarious,” John says with a laugh.
“Hey, tell that guy I kicked in the balls I’m sorry,” Ariel apologizes.
“Actually, that’s who gave me the cash and told me to get my ass over here. I guess he gets off on the rough stuff. Who knew?” John reaches into his pocket again, pulling out a small, square card and handing it to me. “Look, I don’t know if this is something you guys are thinking about doing going forward, or if this was just a fluke, but with some coaching, I think it’s a great idea, and I think you guys could really make a killing on it. Go to this place tomorrow at noon and ask for Tiffany.”
I take the card from his outstretched hand and look down, realizing it’s a business card.
“Is this the same Tiffany who can swallow a balloon without gagging?” Ariel inquires.
“Yep, that’s her. She’s actually my daughter’s Sunday-school teacher. Great gal. Really nice.”
John apologizes again, wishes us a good night, and walks back across the porch, heading down the driveway and onto the sidewalk toward his house.
I quietly close the door, turn around, and lean my back against it as I stare at Isabelle and Ariel, who spreads out the money in her hand like a deck of cards and holds it up.
“If a Sunday-school teacher can do it, so can an antiques dealer, a housewife, and a librarian. Cheesy princess parties for snot-nosed little brats where we’d make a couple hundred bucks every so often, split between the three of us, or this?” she asks, fanning herself with the money.
I look down again and read the shiny black business card with hot pink lettering in the center out loud: “Charming’s Gentlemen’s Club.”
Looking back up at Ariel, I stare at the money she’s still fanning her face with.
“What do you think, OG?” she asks with a smile.
“OG?”
“Original Gangster, Old Girl, Head Bitch in Charge, however you want to say it,” she tells me.
“I’m not an old girl,” I complain.
“You’re thirty-two, I’m twenty-eight, and Isabelle is twenty-five. You’re the oldest bitch in this room and our elder. We will respect your wishes and defer to your decision. What say you?”
I look back and forth between Ariel and Isabelle, who both look hopeful. Glancing up toward the ceiling—I can still hear the upstairs shower running—I think about my daughter and that five dollars she needs for lunch. As well as the five dollars she’ll need every day for the rest of the school year, and clothes, shoes, food, extracurricular activities, and a home that continues to provide running water and electricity.
“I guess you’re right. It’s time to get my hands dirty.”
Chapter 7: A Prude, a Mouth, and a Librarian Walk into a Strip Club . . .
“This wasn’t a good idea.”
Ariel sighs and turns to face me in front of the door to Charming’s.
“What did we agree on the way over?” she asks, crossing her arms and tapping her foot.
It’s my turn to sigh as I glance nervously around the empty parking lot and hug my purse tighter to my chest before bringing my eyes back to hers.
“Well, you said that I should stop being so uptight and broaden my horizons, but I never verbally agreed to that,” I respond petulantly.
“Actually, Ariel asked you if she should book an appointment with a doctor to have the stick surgically removed from your ass and said that you need to stop being such a twat, and you refused to repeat it, but she made you nod your head,” Isabelle pipes up from behind us. “In many cultures the head nod is used to indicate agreement, acknowledgment or acceptance.”
“I rest my case,” Ariel smiles, turning back around and pounding her fist against the door. “Just because we’re here doesn’t mean we’re going to actually be strippers, even though we all know that’s the best decision. We’re just here to get some advice from Tiffany, have her show us some sweet dance moves, and go from there.”
Before I can grab her arm, drag her away from the club and convince her this was a mistake, the door flies open, and we all immediately take a step back.
“We’re closed.”
The man standing in front of us who takes up the entire doorway speaks with a growl. Which is fitting, since he looks like a wild animal. He’s well over six feet tall, and with the white, tight tank top he’s wearing, all of his muscles are bulging out all over the place. His dark brown hair is on the longer side, hanging messily down around his forehead and ears, and he has scruffy stubble on his face. He quite literally resembles a bear, and I’m more than a little afraid, with the angry look on his face, that he might bite.
“He could squash my head like a nut with those biceps,” Ariel whispers in my ear as I try and remember how to speak, as well as my manners.
“Good afternoon, sir. We have an appointment with—”
“We’re closed,” he cuts me off.
“Pardon me, but if you could just—”
“We’re closed,” he interrupts again, his brown eyes narrowing with irritation.
“Listen, numb nuts, it’s not our fault the steroids have gone to your brain and most likely shriveled up your penis, which has made you angry. Just let us in so we can meet with Tiffany,” Ariel tells him.
His reply is an actual growl, this one rumbling from deep in his chest. I should probably fear for all of our lives right now, but this is getting ridiculous.
“Did your mother not teach you any manners?” I huff.
“We’re. Fucking. Closed. You’re fucking welcome.”
He takes a step back and starts to slam the door shut when Isabelle quickly pushes me out of the way, jumps forward, and sticks her foot in the doorway to stop the door from closing.
“Excuse me, but as we’ve been trying to tell you, we have an appointment. Tiffany is expecting us, and if you’d be so kind as to show us where she is, we’ll be glad to leave you alone.”
The hulk of a man stares her down, and I half expect Isabelle to scream and run back to our car, considering this man could probably snap her tiny body in half like a twig if he wa
nted to. But she holds her ground until he finally gives in.
With a grunt, he turns and stalks back into the club, leaving us standing by the open door.
“Holy shit, look at you growing some balls!” Ariel exclaims, patting Isabelle on the back.
“I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never done something like that in my entire life. I feel like I could do anything right now. I know it’s probably just an adrenaline rush, which is a stress hormone secreted from the adrenal glands on the kidneys and plays a major role in preparing the body for a fight-or-flight reaction in threatening environments, and it will wear off in about five minutes, but it’s so exciting!” Isabelle rambles as Ariel moves forward, grabs her arm, and leads her inside the club.
“Excellent. Then we have five minutes to meet Tiffany, get our instructions, and get you naked, since you’re feeling so free right now,” Ariel states as I follow behind them.
As soon as we come to the end of a long, dark hallway, a room of at least eight thousand square feet opens up in front of us. I’m surprised to see that the inside isn’t as seedy as I expected it to be. There’s a stage all along the far wall, with a black velvet curtain draped down along the back. The center of the stage juts out into a catwalk leading to a small square stage with a pole in the middle. The edges of the stages are lit up with hot pink and soft white lights, the same color lights shine down from the ceiling.
Instead of rickety chairs and beat-up tables, all around the room are small, round, black tables with a hot pink candle in the middle of each one. Each table is surrounded by elegant black-leather club chairs with high arms and deep seats.
“This is the fanciest strip club I’ve ever been to,” Ariel mutters as we continue moving into the club and taking in our surroundings.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Even though I’ve only heard that voice two other times, I’d recognize it anywhere, and so would my stomach, going by the butterflies that are flapping around inside of it as I turn around.
Standing a few feet away in the dimly lit room are PJ, with an annoyed look on his face; the angry bodybuilder glaring at us like he wants to kill us; and another man with a huge smile on his face.