I let my heart guide me.
“I’m sure,” I tell him.
I’m all in.
I text my brother. Yeah. I landed the role.
Act Eight
Only a week into my job and the manager of Phantom has already badgered me twice about amplifying my sex appeal on the aerial hoop, dangling from the ceiling.
My act, apparently, is too tame for the Vegas nightclub. But if I shake my ass anymore, I might as well walk down the strip to a triple X joint. Honestly, they probably pay better.
I knot the straps around my long knee-length coat, hiding my costume: a black corset, matching underwear, and fishnet stockings. I wobble in my five-inch silver stilettos as I depart from the club. I try to comb my fingers through my tangled dirty-blonde hair that poofs around my oval face.
Last time I tried to hang from the hoop, my hair in a bun, the manager cursed me out and called me Virgin Mary. Unfortunately the nickname has stuck around the workplace. But I’d rather not be fired in my first week, especially since John stuck his neck out to help me.
The upside: I’m in the air ninety-nine percent of the time at Phantom. And one of the girls gave me the address of a gym with circus apparatuses. I’ve signed up for a couple classes. Maybe I can strengthen my skills while I’m here.
And a plus has been the location. Right in the heart of The Masquerade. I only have an elevator ride down to The Red Death, where I plan to meet up with Camila and drink to surviving my very first week in Vegas.
Just as I exit the elevator, my phone rings. I read the caller ID: SHAY.
I’ve been screening his calls more than usual this week. I shelter my anxiety and slip into the nearest hallway bathroom, pressing the phone to my ear. “What’s up?” My eyes flit to a couple girls who fix their makeup by the mirror.
“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says. “I get why you’re lying to your parents because they’d flip their shit. But you’ve already told me the truth, so what the hell, Thora?” I hear the sound of a bouncy ball being tossed at a wall.
I picture him lying on the floor, against his bed. Throwing and catching the blue rubber toy. The Cincinnati gym, where we practiced together as teens, had a bouncy ball dispenser in the front, and we both spent way too many quarters for handfuls of them.
I say under my breath, “I’m just scared you’re going to tell me that I’m making a mistake.”
He’s silent. Biting his tongue, maybe. “You’re going to miss conditioning tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Have you called the coach?”
“I sent him an email.” I swallow a lump.
He exhales heavily. “So how has it been? They don’t make you wear heels, do they?”
I glance down at the uncomfortable silver stilettos that neither fit my personality nor really my body, my toes aching. “They’re not that bad,” I say optimistically. “I’ll wear them in.”
He laughs. “Yeah right.”
I realize how this conversation—and most of them lately—have been circumnavigating around me. Friendships go two ways. “What about you?” I ask.
“I’m not wearing heels any time soon.”
I smile. “No, I mean, how are you? Is conditioning going well? Are the freshman looking good?”
“They’re okay. It’s same-old-same-old, you know—well, I guess you don’t know.” The bouncy ball sounds like it pops hard against the wall.
“Shay,” I whisper, resting my hip on the sink counter. “Do you ever dream that you’re meant to do something…more?”
“I like my life here,” is all he says. “It was going fine until…” He sighs in frustration. “I’m just used to you being around.” I hear the ball bounce on a floorboard. “I have other friends, but you’re the one who annoys me the least.”
I smile wider. “It’s because I’m your only friend that’s a girl.” And probably because we are best friends in most ways.
I can feel his smile too. “Be safe, okay?”
“I will. Be happy, alright?”
“I am,” he assures me.
“Okay.” Someone else begins to call me. I check the ID. “My mom is on the other line.”
“Don’t hang up on her,” Shay tells me quickly. “Your parents have been pestering my parents who’ve been pestering me about you. They just want to know how you’re doing.”
“What do I say?”
He sighs again. “Tell her that everything is going great. Your dreams are coming true. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.”
I roll my eyes. “Helpful.”
“You asked,” he reminds me. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I switch calls before I lose her. “Hey, Mom.” The girls in the bathroom readjust their purses and strut out the doors, inadvertently giving me more privacy.
“Hi, honey. I just wanted to call and see how practice has been.”
I check my watch. It’s late, especially in Ohio. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I ask, confused and concerned.
“I’ve been up,” she admits, her tone gleeful. “So…has it been everything you hoped it would be?” Her excitement rings over the line. She’s happy for me. For my non-existent success.
The lie festers in my stomach. You can do this, Thora James. “It’s been…amazing.” My voice turns wistful almost. “I can’t believe I’ll be a part of Amour in five months.”
Five months. That’s how long they’re giving Elena to train for the show. That’s how long I have to land a role before my parents fly out to Vegas to “see” me perform.
“We’re so proud of you, Thora,” she says. “Your father has been telling everyone at work.” I sense her face stretching into a blinding smile. My parents are both chemical engineers—so I’m guessing I was the talk of the lab.
My daughter is in the circus. That big one in Vegas. It’s highly competitive, you know.
I close my eyes before they well. “Thanks, Mom. I love you both.”
She repeats the sentiment before we agree to talk more often. Then we hang up.
I feel awful. Like I need to absolve my sins in a confessional and do charitable deeds. I’ll make things right with them. I just need some time. I do my best to shed my guilt and leave the bathroom.
Act Nine
1:18 a.m.
After I make it to The Red Death, I check my phone for the time, the number illuminating my screen. Back at Ohio State, one in the morning was followed by sleep. Here in Vegas¸ it almost feels like the beginning of the night.
Just like last time, the female hostess mans the podium. “Are you single?!” she asks over the loud bass, glow stick necklaces stacked beside her in boxes.
“Yeah, I’m single!” I shout back, and she hands me a blue one. I fasten it around my neck and skirt past the drunken Vegas nightlife, shrouded mostly in darkness. A few elbows and hips bump into me as they dance, intoxicated on something stronger than alcohol.
By the time I arrive at the lit-up bar, a bachelorette party swarms the other end, swamping Camila’s attention. Flagging down the second bartender also proves near impossible. I wait patiently while those around me grow more and more frustrated and just wander off.
“Oh man, not another bachelorette party,” a guy says as he sidles to the open space beside my stool. He wears black leather pants and nothing else. Lanky with defined, cut muscles. “Hey!” He leans forward and taps the bar. In the red overhead lights, I suddenly make out his face.