Violet Grenade

by Victoria Scott

  The only other furniture besides our beds is a small vanity and a single dresser. Poppet notices me eyeing the dresser and says. “You’ll get the bottom drawer. Cain already put your things in.”

  I leave the bed and open the drawer. When I see my wigs, makeup, jewelry, and most importantly, Dizzy’s shirt, I smile with relief. I’d almost forgotten about my belongings. But now they wink up at me, reminding me why I’m here.

  Candy leaves the room and, when Poppet’s back is turned, I slip the sixty-four dollars and change from my pocket—minus the fifty cents it took to call Ms. Karina—into the back of the dresser. Once I’m satisfied that it’s hidden, I close my drawer and turn to Poppet. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She glows. “Shoot.”

  “How do we get paid? I mean, what kinds of jobs are available? And when do we get the money?”

  The girl pulls her blond hair into a half pony and then removes her nightshirt. Pink nipples the size of silver dollars stand at attention. I blush until she shrugs on a white tank and black Victoria’s Secret sweat shorts. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through that tonight. Or maybe Madam Karina will.” She claps her hands with excitement. “You’re going to love it here, Domino. It’s so much fun. Well, the days aren’t that fun, but the nights make up for it. Right now, though, we have to get our assignments or we’ll be docked. Oh, and you can’t wear that. Borrow something of mine until you can get things of your own.”

  This girl’s all right, Wilson decides. I approve.

  Poppet finally pauses in talking, opens the middle dresser drawer, and pulls out a plain black V-neck.

  “Why do you keep calling Ms. Karina Madam?” I ask as she hands me a shirt. “And do we get paid for these assignments?”

  She laughs her broken glass laugh, and I decide broken glass laughs aren’t so bad. “It’s just a term of endearment. All the girls use it. And, no, we do our jobs to keep things nice around here.”

  When I try to hand the shirt back, insisting I have one, she shoves it into my chest. “I saw what Cain brought in. No offense, but you need something clean. Mr. Hodge will get upset if he sees you out of sorts.” She waves toward the stained gray shirt I came here in. It’s the best one I’ve got. The one I wore to try and spring Dizzy from jail. “Come on, we gotta go.”

  I tear the thing off and stand exposed in my pale yellow bra, the one with wiring that digs into the underside of my left breast, and replace it with Poppet’s shirt. It’s loose. Not because Poppet is bigger than me, though she is—everyone is bigger than me—but because her chest is three sizes larger than mine. It reminds me of that movie, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

  And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say, her small breasts grew three sizes that day!

  I reopen my bottom drawer and pull off my green wig. Grab my orange one instead. Poppet’s mouth opens in a circle of black when she sees my real hair matted to my head.

  “Your natural color is pretty.” Poppet twists side to side like she’s three instead of sixteen, or however old she is.

  I ignore the comment and bounce on the balls of my feet like I’m ready to go. She takes my cue, and we find the other girls. Mercy, our Point, yells for us to move our rears when she sees us. We jog over as I count the girls. There are ten of us, nine wearing Carnations, one with an orange wig and soft black V-neck that makes me feel like I’m being hugged.

  Mercy calls out assignments, which are more or less chores, to the others before looking at Poppet and me. “You two. You’re on bathrooms. Next time don’t be late or you’ll be sleeping outside.” She pushes black bangs out of her eyes. There’s a scar on her forehead. “New girl, if you finish early you’ll help the others with their assignments. And if I see your freak ass slacking for one second I’ll deduct a week’s pay.”

  All eyes turn to me, and heat creeps up my neck. “I won’t slack.”

  Mercy sighs. “My God, don’t even open your mouth. Just shut up and work. That’s it.”

  I nod.

  “Don’t nod at me, either.”

  My teeth snap together as a couple of girls laugh. Mercy is singling me out to prove a point. I wonder how she got to be the Carnations’ Point Girl.

  And whether someone else wouldn’t be a better one.

  We would be better, Wilson whispers.

  I clean beside Poppet for hours and then help scrub the floors. Every few minutes Mercy barks at me to work harder, leaving muddied footprints in her wake. The girls glare at me with disdain as if it’s my fault Mercy is targeting me.

  We’re almost finished with the floors when Raquel glides over. She has short brunette hair and a long neck. Raquel smirks at me before kicking over the bucket of dirty water. It sloshes over my knees, soaking my jeans. I jump to my feet, fists curled, breathing hard through flared nostrils.

  “You’d better keep Mercy off my back, new girl.” Raquel turns to leave.

  I imagine grabbing her by the hair and taking her to the ground. But I shake the thought from my head. This is exactly what Wilson would want, and I have to keep him quiet at all costs. So I bite my lip, do my internal counting, and crouch down to sponge the water away.

  Mercy walks by and sees the mess.

  “Jesus, Domino. You are worthless.”

  Wilson lifts his head, and I grit my teeth.

  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 loo
ks 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.

  Chapter Twelve

  Customers

  Customers stream into the room. Some bashful. Some pushing their way forward. I count seventeen in all. Too many for this tight space. Musky cologne and scented lotions assault my nose as the guests make their way to the bar, talking over themselves. There is one female to every four men. And the ages range from a pair of early teen boys to a woman in her sixties.

  The Carnations descend upon them like flies on crap, each one donning her pink silk flower proudly. I stand staring at them idiotically, curious as to what the other girls—the ones ranked higher than the Carnations—are doing tonight, and why I don’t even have the lowest ranked flower to wear.

  Then I recall Dizzy in detail. Dizzy bringing me wild-rice soup when I had the flu. Insisting on feeding it to me bite by bite so he could put a spoonful into his own mouth before giving me a turn. I must have told him a dozen times that he was going to catch what I had. He didn’t care. Soup is for sharing, Domino Ray. And I’ll catch what you have any ol’ day.

  Later that night he left to try his luck with a new girl. Or maybe it was a boy. Sometimes I didn’t know with Diz. A part of me wished he’d stayed home, or that he remembered I was allergic to the mushrooms in his beloved wild-rice soup. But that’s not the point. The point is, Dizzy cares.

  I straighten my wig and approach the bustling at the bar. Cain is more alive than I’ve seen him. He’s practically grinning as the women dote on his strong forearms and that precious dimple in his cheek. The patrons pay Cain with silver coins, and I spot a teenage girl with a fistful of them. Included in her palm is a bronze coin. The one she’ll deposit in the box outside.

  No one approaches the teen girl. They’re too busy flirting with men in suits and the older women with heavy handbags. When the girl turns and faces me, I realize why. She’s missing
the bottom half of her right ear. In its place is a flat stretch of hairless skin. I approach her immediately. Not because she’s an easy target, but because I can’t stand the thought of no else doing it. If she came here to be entertained, it’s probably because she’s lonely. And that’s a feeling I know well enough.

  “Hey, my name’s Domino. What’s yours?” I sound like I’m in kindergarten.

  The girl smiles and turns the right side of her face away so that I see only her left. “I’m Katy.”

  I swallow, unsure of myself. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  Her brows pull together in a question.

  “You don’t have to turn your face away like that.”

  Katy curls her fingers around her thumbs and glances down.

  I’m drowning here. I haven’t had much social interaction outside of Greg and Dizzy in the past year, and I have no idea how to amuse this girl. “I’ve never played the piano before, but maybe we could try it together?”

  She points to her scar. “I don’t have much of an ear for music.”

  I cover my gut and laugh once, hard. “Oh, my God. That was really funny.” While the other girls drape themselves over the people at the bar, slowly inviting them to certain corners of the room, I motion Katy toward the piano. I’m three steps away when a girl dives in front of me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she snarls.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I was going to play the piano with one of our customers.”

  The girl looks to the ceiling and groans like I’m a complete moron. She has a mustache she’s trying to hide under a layer of powder. “You touch only the things you’ve helped pay for.” She flicks her hand. “So go away, little dog. Go sniff somewhere else.”

  I turn to Katy, trying to maintain a smile. “Umm, maybe we could just talk?”