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.