Calling Maggie May

by AnonYMous

  I fidgeted in my seat, trying to take this information in.

  “But if all they care about is my race,” I said slowly, “why did that man complain about me?”

  Miss Irma leaned forward and steepled her fingers on the desk.

  “Try to understand, my dear,” she said. “When clients ask for an Asian girl, they are not talking about skin color. Not really. What they want is the fantasy in their head. The fantasy they have been fed. You know this fantasy, because it has been fed to you too. They want a dragon lady. They want a kung-fu princess. They want a Japanese schoolgirl.”

  “But I’m not Japanese.”

  Miss Irma cocked an eyebrow at me. “For the right price, you can be Japanese enough.” She stood up and stepped out from behind her desk.

  “Come with me. I will show you something.”

  I got up and followed her into another part of the house. She opened a door and I noticed immediately that things were different here. The decor in most of the house was just normal, tasteful suburban, like the houses of most of my classmates. But in this part of the house, it was totally different, like something out of a Chinatown tourist shop or a Hollywood back lot.

  Right away I was dazzled by all the red and gold in the room. Once my eyes adjusted to that, I was able to pick out other details: lacquer and jade and porcelain and bamboo. Dragons and peacocks and cranes and Buddhas. It was like a Pier 1 Imports had exploded all over her living room.

  “Tell me,” said Miss Irma. “What do you notice?”

  “I . . . well . . . it’s all Asian stuff,” I said. “A lot of it reminds me of stuff my mom has lying around, or stuff I’ve seen when we visit family in Taiwan.”

  “And the rest?”

  I felt a little embarrassed to say what I thought about the other stuff, but a look from Miss Irma reassured me that she wouldn’t be offended.

  “It looks more like stuff I’ve seen in some Asian restaurants, I guess,” I said. “Kind of a mishmash of different countries and cultures and styles.”

  “Very good,” said Miss Irma. “Perhaps you have guessed that I entertain clients in these rooms.” So I had been right that she didn’t have the clients visit her in that antiseptic office downtown. “Some of them have known me for a long time. They have certain expectations.”

  “But it’s not real,” I said. “It’s all stereotypes.”

  Miss Irma shrugged. “What does it matter? We give them a fantasy, and they give us money. Everyone is happy that way.”

  She sat down on one of the low, cushioned benches and indicated that I should do the same.

  “When I was young,” she said, “almost as young as you, I worked in an Oriental massage parlor. It was run by a man, and he made it a very hard life. Not like you girls have now. Others who started with me couldn’t take it. They let men abuse them until they were all used up. But I stayed focused. I saved my money. I learned how to keep books, how to keep police away. I studied and used my head. One day all the other girls worked for me.

  “You’re like me, I think. A smart girl and hardworking. Keep your head, study what the clients want, and give them their fantasy.” She leaned forward and patted my knee. “You will do better than the others.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I admit, I didn’t feel totally comfortable with her suggestions. Miss Irma was so different from my mom, but in some ways they were remarkably similar. Always full of directions of how I should act and behave to be pleasing to anyone but myself.

  Luckily, Irma didn’t seem to expect me to say much of anything. When she had said her bit, she simply handed me a plain white envelope. I was surprised when I saw it and didn’t reach for it immediately. Strangely enough, I had almost forgotten why I had come in the first place—not to receive lessons in making myself appealing to men, but to pick up my payment.

  I was embarrassed to look through the envelope in front of Irma. It seemed rude, so I let her show me out her front door before I stopped and checked it. And as I flipped through the bills inside, I suddenly felt a lot better about our conversation and my new vocation. Living up to the images my mom and Miss Irma expected felt like being stuck in a cage, but having an envelope full of cash that I earned through my own work . . . that felt like freedom.

  Sun, Dec 21

  I got a text from Ada today just as I was helping clear the table from lunch. It couldn’t have come at a better time. Mom was hassling me again about why she didn’t see me working on my homework so much anymore, what’s going on with my grades, and why am I so disobedient, blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, so when Ada texted to see if I wanted to go shopping with her, I texted right back that I would meet her downtown.

  Of course Mom the busybody wanted to know who I was talking to and why. Out of instinct, a lie rose to my lips about how it was someone from my English class, and we’re working on a group project, and I have to go meet them at the Starbucks a few blocks away. But the words died in my throat. I just thought, I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do it. I am sick of leading a double life.

  So I just told her. I mean, I didn’t say, “It’s my hooker friend and she’s helping me pick out clothes I can wear while turning tricks.” But I did say, “It’s a friend. I’m meeting her to go shopping.” Which, as far as Mom is concerned, might as well be the same thing. She nearly hit the roof when I said that. It stunned her silent for a second or two at first, and I could read on her face the internal battle she was waging between telling me off for disrespecting her and telling me off for doing something fun with my weekend when my grades were so disappointing. And maybe also joining the battle was the nosy part of her who couldn’t bear to imagine I might have a friend she didn’t know about.

  But that was only a moment or two before she burst forth with her battle cry. The approach she went with was the grades—how I wasn’t going anywhere until I had done all my homework and brought my grades up, etc., etc. Which almost made me laugh. As if there was ever really an “until.” In my whole life, even when I was doing really well, my grades have never been good enough for me to deserve going off and doing something fun by myself. There would always be another task for me to complete, another thing I’m just not doing quite well enough at.

  Well, I’m tired of living in her prison. If she wants me to stick around a minute longer, she’s going to have to chain me to the radiator. And until she does that, I will go where I please. Her guilt trips can’t affect me anymore.

  Sun, Dec 21, later

  Back from my shopping trip with Ada. After the scene earlier today, Mom is currently not speaking to me, which is a relief. I bet that won’t last, though.

  But the shopping trip! It was . . . well, it was definitely fun. But it was also, I don’t know . . . I guess I couldn’t help being a little disappointed. For so long, my fantasy was that I could become a little more like Ada. She is so beautiful and glamorous and sophisticated, and I’ve always been so bad at any of that stuff. Just dumpy and geeky and nothing anyone should have any reason to notice. A big part of why I got into this whole lifestyle in the first place was so I could be more like her: gorgeous and mysterious and set apart from all the other girls at school.

  I wanted to make money so I could buy clothes and makeup like hers and not have to rely on her hand-me-downs. That was what the money was for. I didn’t really have anything else I wanted or needed. But now . . .

  After what Irma told me the other day, that’s not really an option, is it? She was pretty clear about what the clients would expect from a girl like me. I’m supposed to look cute and young, like a schoolgirl, because that’s their fantasy. Well, that’s not my fantasy! But since when has anything I wanted ever mattered?

  But I suppose if what I wanted was to be noticed, this new look will at least help me accomplish that.

  I met up with Ada, and we stopped for coffee first while I told he
r about what had happened with Miss Irma and I explained to her all about the “look” I was supposed to have now. Ada nodded and seemed to understand. She talked about it in another way, too. She said that when you think of it as playing a character, sometimes it was easier to get through a date. A bad client couldn’t touch you or hurt you the same way if the person on the date wasn’t really you. I guess that makes sense. I just wish I got to play a cooler character.

  Ada did make me feel better about it. She thought the schoolgirl outfits were cute, and she wished she could get away with them. I don’t really believe her, but it was nice of her to say. And she did take me to some stores where I could get stuff that looked better than I was expecting. I’ve seen the schoolgirls in Taiwan, and believe me, they don’t look like anyone’s fantasy. The school uniforms are almost as dowdy as my regular school clothes: plaid skirts down to the knee and shapeless white blouses that make everyone look puffy. And knee socks that are always slipping down. The stuff Ada picked out for me was like that, but the sexy version, I guess. The skirt was much shorter, the socks went up higher, and the shirt was a lot more formfitting. I came out of the dressing room feeling a bit shy, and Ada said I looked really cute.

  I bought a few outfits along those lines, plus some decent makeup; then we went back to her place to play dress up. I stayed a couple of hours until it started to get dark, and then I got a little nervous about my parents waiting for me at home. I could call them, of course, but I wasn’t quite ready to face that conversation yet. Instead, I asked Ada a question I’d wondered about before.

  “Why aren’t your parents ever home?” I asked her. “Do they work a lot?”

  Ada barked out a laugh. “Work? I’m the only person in this household who works.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I just stared at her.

  “So they just . . . ,” I began.

  “There’s no ‘they,’” she said. “I don’t have a father.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Did he die?”

  “Beats me,” she answered in a hard voice. “Maybe. I don’t have the slightest idea who he is, and neither does anyone else, as far as I know.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s here. Around. She always is.”

  “Why haven’t I ever seen her?”

  Ada shrugged. “She’s in her room. Doesn’t come out much.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What does she do in there?”

  “Mostly lies around in bed.” Ada hesitated. It was clear she wasn’t used to talking about this. “She’s not . . . healthy,” she said at last.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Ada got up and moved around the room, picking things up at random and putting them back down. She seemed agitated, and I kind of hated myself for bringing up the conversation. It was none of my business. Why had I insisted on prying like my mom would? I was just about to tell Ada that she didn’t have to say anything more when she spoke again.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “She wasn’t always like this, though she was never what most people would call a normal mom. She used to get . . . episodes, where she would take to her room and not talk and hardly move for days at a time. Then, after a couple of days, she’d snap out of it and put some clothes on and go to the store and get some groceries. Then, one time, she just . . . didn’t come out of it.”

  “She’s been like this ever since?”

  “Not exactly. Sometimes she gets up and comes out and even tries to make some food. But it’s not like before. The truth is, it’s better for me when she keeps to herself,” she said in a rush of breath. “She’s easier to deal with that way.”

  I nodded as if I understood, though I didn’t really. But at least I realized I didn’t really want to know any more, and Ada didn’t seem to want to give me more details than she already had.

  It was getting late anyway, so I told her I had to catch the bus home and I got out of there.

  Tues, Dec 23

  Now that I have some new clothes, Miss Irma has suggested (via Anne) that I expand my page on the website to include more than just my old head shot from the day I started. It’s funny. I didn’t even realize Miss Irma had a website. I never thought before about what she did with that photo that Anne took. Now it seems obvious. Who doesn’t have a website these days?

  Immediately after I found out, I went to look for it online, but I couldn’t get into the site. You need a password. The front page is surprisingly discreet, though. It’s not like those porn sites that throw up a million pop-ups and start automatically playing a video of a girl and a horse (okay, maybe that was just one site I stumbled on to). You wouldn’t have any idea what it was promoting if you didn’t already know. There isn’t even anyplace for entering your credit-card number. Just a form requesting your username and password but no way to sign up. I wonder how the whole thing works.

  I’m honestly not sure about this, though. Do I really want seminaked pictures of myself on the Internet? That seems like the kind of thing people warn you about. Like, what if I want to become a Supreme Court justice or something at some point? Although maybe that ship has already sailed. Maybe once you start having sex for money, all regular ambitions are closed to you.

  Still, it does seem like crossing a line of some sort to let someone take pictures. Right now I could stop tomorrow and no one would really know. Miss Irma has my real name, but she seems pretty good at keeping secrets, or else her whole business would fall apart. The clients know me only as Justine, except for Damon. And then there’s Ada. As a group, that seems pretty safe. And even if Damon tried to tell someone at some point, he wouldn’t have any proof. Just his story. Maybe it’s better to keep it that way. . . .

  I don’t know. I’ll ask Ada.

  Wed, Dec 24

  Last day of the semester today! Tomorrow we’ll all go get dim sum in the city, and I’m looking forward to it. We don’t really celebrate Christmas, but going into Chinatown is our tradition, since everyplace else is closed that day. We always have a huge meal and see loads of family and friends.

  I’m so glad for a break from school! Except, spending 24-7 with my parents isn’t much better. Especially since they saw my grades from this semester:

  Chemistry: D

  American History: C+

  Calculus: D

  French: B-

  English: C

  Art: B

  Not good. Mom hasn’t even really yelled at me—she just cries a lot and won’t speak to me. Boy, you’d think I’d murdered someone! I think she’s trying to make me feel guilty. Annoyingly, it’s working.

  I just have to keep reminding myself that I don’t care. I don’t care about school, and I don’t care about my mom’s stupid messed-up priorities. If she’d ever taken the time to really get to know me, she wouldn’t be so surprised at how I’ve been acting lately.

  At least Mark is home for school break. Now that I don’t care about being the perfect daughter, it doesn’t bother me so much that he is better than me at everything. It makes me feel a little better, actually. At least my parents have one kid they can’t complain about. He’s been really good at cheering Mom up, telling her all about his classes and how well he is doing and how all his professors love him.

  I hope tomorrow everyone will be able to forget how awful I’ve been and just have a good time.

  Mon, Jan 5

  Back to school today. Mark went back to college right after New Year’s, which left me climbing the walls with Mom and Dad all weekend. I’m almost glad to have a reason to get away from them.

  I wish I had a better reason than school, though. Ada says it’s normal that things get quiet with Irma’s business over the holidays and that it will pick up again soon. I hope she’s right. I need something to think about other than school.

  I found out at lunch today that Jenny and Eiko and everyone went to the movies t
ogether on New Year’s Day and didn’t invite me. Not like I care. But still. In a way, we were never very close, but for a long time, they were the only friends I had. I guess they noticed that I’ve drifted away from them. And maybe also that I’m not exactly keeping up my “nerd” image, what with my last report card.

  I wonder if Ada would go to a movie with me.

  Wed, Jan 7

  I still haven’t been scheduled for any new dates. It’s annoying, because I spent all that money on the new clothes, thinking I would make it back pretty quickly. But it’s hard to make it back when the phone doesn’t ring. Maybe I should get those photos done.

  I asked Ada about it and she said it’s probably a good idea. She told me more about how the website works, too. Apparently, it’s all done by word of mouth. Everyone who signs up with Miss Irma has to come with a reference, and they never even hear of Miss Irma unless someone is willing to vouch for them. Ada says a lot of Miss Irma’s clients are famous, and they could have their whole careers ruined if some nosy journalist found out what they were doing. So everything has to be really locked down.

  Anyway, she said I would get a lot more dates if I put up a full photo shoot instead of just a head shot. So I said okay, but then Ada was like, just so you know, it will be expensive.

  Of course. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I would be expected to pay for all this, and of course Anne never mentioned it. But it shouldn’t surprise me, after being charged for Irma’s phone and the car service. I’m guessing the money for this will come out of my next date. I wonder when I’ll ever actually start earning money from this work.

  On the other hand, if I don’t do it, it looks like I’ll never have another date again. And that’s no way to make money.