by AnonYMous
I giggled and smiled. “Much better.”
“I’m glad we met,” he said. I realized that his hand was still on the small of my back. “You’re a cool kid—you know that?”
I couldn’t help grinning. No, I hadn’t known that. Cool kid was about the last way I ever would have described myself. But there I was, sipping whiskey at a fancy party and talking to the prettiest boy there, and I thought, Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a cool kid.
I took another sip of the whiskey.
“Did you swallow it?” said Shawn. “Or are you just storing it up in your mouth?”
I let out a giggle.
“No,” I said. “I swallowed it.”
“Good,” he said. He cast a quick glance around the room, clearly scouting for Miss Irma or her goons, but when he didn’t spot them, he leaned in closer and he kissed me!
Honestly, I was so surprised I didn’t know what to do. I just froze up completely, which is pretty embarrassing given that kissing people is one of the things I do for a living. I can only imagine that he was wondering how I make any money at all at this gig, given how I reacted. But it was different! Different because he is cute. Different because I like him. Different because I wasn’t expecting it. But maybe most of all different because . . . Well, let’s just say that I was confused.
As my senses started to come back to me, I pulled back. Shawn let me go, and he looked pretty embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No!” I interrupted. “It’s not that. You didn’t . . .” We were both babbling pretty stupidly at this point. I stopped and took a deep breath. “It’s just that I, well, I thought you were . . . I mean, aren’t you . . . ?”
“Gay?” he supplied.
“Well, yeah. I mean, back there, with that guy . . . And Ada said . . .”
Shawn grinned. “Haven’t you ever heard of ‘gay for pay’?”
“What?” I said. I hadn’t. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s a job. It’s not who I am. Do you fall in love with all the men you date for this job?”
I made a face. “Definitely not.”
“Are you attracted to all of them?”
“Hardly any.”
Shawn shrugged. “Same for me. And these clothes you’re wearing . . . Is this how you dress in your normal life?”
I laughed. “No. I only dress this way because Miss Irma told me to.”
“Because the Japanese schoolgirl thing is what the clients want, right?”
I nodded.
“I bet you’re not even Japanese.”
“Nope.”
“So you understand, then. This stuff isn’t who I am.” Shawn grinned. “When I’m with a guy, I just close my eyes and think about how much money I’m making.”
“So you never enjoy any of it at all, then?” I asked. “You’ve never gotten any pleasure whatsoever from a date?”
Shawn sipped his whiskey. This line of questioning seemed to make him uneasy.
“I enjoy it exactly as much as I need to,” he said at last. “For the client.”
I was about to apologize for asking a kind of rude and nosy question when Shawn noticed something behind my left shoulder.
“Shit,” he said. “The Dragon Lady is on the prowl. She’ll be pissed if she sees us flirting with each other instead of the clients.” He gave me a mischievous smile and tugged at my elbow. “Come with me.”
He pulled me toward the edge of the room, then slid open a glass door that opened onto a pretty garden and patio. A small group of kids were already clustered around on the patio furniture, talking quietly and trying to muffle their giggles. Shawn slid the door shut behind us. It was chilly outside in the night air but not too bad. Especially since once I shivered, Shawn wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. Then I felt a lot warmer.
“Come on,” he said, nudging me toward where the other kids were assembled. I wished I’d remembered Ada’s introductions better, but I couldn’t remember who was who, and it was hard to even make out people’s faces in the darkness. The only people I was sure of were Jen and her roommate, Beth.
Shawn nodded to the crowd like he knew them all, then found a seat on a bench near them and pulled me down onto his lap. I noticed they were passing a couple more flasks around, and some of them were smoking pot out of a little pipe, too. Everyone was quiet except for one girl, who seemed to be wrapping up a story she was telling. I couldn’t figure out what had happened, exactly, but it was clear she was describing a very bad date. When she was done, a boy immediately jumped in and started telling a story he described as “his worst date ever.” It was really bad! He got into a car with a guy and the guy took him out of the city so he had no idea where he was; then the guy wasn’t happy with the sex, I guess, so he . . . well, raped him with a beer bottle. Then he left him in the middle of the woods somewhere. And he didn’t even pay him! The kid had to walk all the way into the city while in a lot of pain before he could get a cell signal.
Then another boy jumped in with his worst-date story, about how he showed up at what seemed like a perfectly normal date with a client he knew well, but this time the client had invited a whole bunch of other men without asking, and they were all drunk and rowdy and got violent, and there was nothing he could do.
Then a couple of girls told their worst-date stories. Eventually they started to run together in my mind, maybe because of the effects of the whiskey. Not getting paid or paid enough was a common complaint, and being forced to do things that they explicitly said were off the table. Plus, clients getting violent or unpredictable, or treating them like disposable objects. It should have all been really scary and depressing, but it was hard to get too upset with the whiskey warming my belly and Shawn’s arms around my waist. And everyone was sort of laughing and telling these stories like they were funny anecdotes rather than horrifying personal experiences. A big part of me felt terrible for them, and grateful that nothing that bad had ever happened to me. But another, smaller part felt a little . . . maybe jealous isn’t the right word. But in some small way, I wished I had a story of my own to contribute, if only so I could feel more like part of the gang. There was something really comforting about that sense of shared camaraderie. I almost felt like people were sharing their worst stories to make each other feel better about what had happened to them. Like if they all went through it together, or if there was always someone who had it worse and survived, then it must not be all that bad.
Eventually, someone told a story that was particularly horrifying because it was her worst time, and it was also her first time. Not losing her virginity, but her first time having sex for money. I couldn’t believe she’d actually continued with this profession after what had happened to her (let’s just say it involved box cutters; I don’t really want to think about it beyond that), but I guess, from the way she told it, she didn’t have a lot of options.
But that was good in a way, because people shifted from telling worst-time stories to first-time stories. Maybe everyone in the group realized that after that one, we needed a change of mood. Something a little less grim. Not that the first-time stories were all rainbows and sunshine. There was still a lot of stuff that made me cringe. But it was more in the spirit of laughing together than staring in silent horror.
I was starting to feel pretty drunk at that point, but I happened to notice Ada and Damon slipping outside together. I hoped they would come over and join us, but instead they made their way to a bench at the other end of the garden and sat there talking quietly together. Occasionally, one of Ada’s delicate bell-like giggles drifted through the chill night air over to me. I felt bad for my earlier flare of jealousy. Ada’s life is hard. She doesn’t get a lot of chances to just be happy and content. I was glad that she was enjoying the evening, even if Irma was undoubtedly pissed.
I had lost trac
k of the conversation while watching them, but at some point Shawn squeezed me gently and said, “What about you? I bet you have a good first-time story.”
“Oh,” I said, blushing. “Well, yes. It was good, but not very interesting, I guess. He took me to the restaurant on top of the Space Needle. It was incredibly romantic, and I had a really wonderful time.” I looked down, feeling almost guilty for having had such a good experience, compared to everyone else.
One of the girls laughed. “Was he at least gross-looking? Tell me he was really ugly.”
I giggled. “You can judge for yourself,” I said. “He’s right over there.”
Everyone turned to follow my gaze.
“Damon?” said Jen’s roommate, Beth. “Your first time was with Damon?” She sounded incredulous.
That’s when I remembered I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone what happened with Damon. I clapped my hands over my mouth. “Oh my God,” I said. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that. It was a secret.”
“A secret?” repeated Beth. “Why would it be a secret?”
“I don’t really know,” I explained. “Ada just said I shouldn’t tell anyone. Although I guess she didn’t mean you guys. It’s really just Miss Irma who isn’t supposed to know.”
“Miss Irma? Why not?”
I was really feeling the whiskey in my veins now. I was having trouble focusing on the conversation and my memories of Damon and what Ada had said about not telling anyone and the feeling of Shawn beneath me and around me. I felt confused. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
“I’m not sure. Ada just said she’d get in trouble if Miss Irma knew. I shouldn’t have said anything. But you guys won’t tell, will you?”
Everyone laughed a bit at that, which I didn’t understand. One of the boys said, “Believe me. I don’t think any of us is so loyal to Miss Irma that we’re going to rat each other out to her. There’s no good that can come of that. We’re much better off standing together.”
I nodded, feeling incredibly grateful.
“That’s right,” I said, remembering Ada’s words. “We need to look out for each other.”
Just then I caught the distinctive smell of expensive perfume carried toward me on the cold night air.
“What are you doing out here?” came a familiar voice. A voice with a very distinctive Chinese accent.
Everyone got really quiet, and I could almost feel my neighbors sitting up straighter. I kept replaying the conversation in my head, trying to figure out what Irma could have heard.
“Do you think I throw a party every year so you have a chance to talk together?” she went on. “If you want that kind of party, you can throw it yourselves. Right now this is not fun times. You are on the clock, and your job here is to make as many men want you as possible.” She paused, but no one moved. “I’m not saying this just for me,” she said. “The harder you work, the more we all benefit. Go on, now.” She motioned toward the sliding door. “Get back inside and get to work.”
A chorus of quiet, shame-faced “Yes, Miss Irma’s” came from the group as people got to their feet and headed back toward the door. I stood up, feeling a little unsteady, and as Shawn stood up behind me, I stumbled forward and my feet went out from under me. I tumbled in a heap on the hard concrete of the patio, but it didn’t hurt all that much. I said, “Ow,” anyway. Then, as I realized how ridiculous I must look, I started laughing.
Miss Irma froze and stared down at me. “What’s going on here?” she said softly, her voice laced with danger. No one said anything, though I noticed a few people making their way quietly toward the door.
“Stand up,” said Miss Irma severely. I managed to get to my feet, but the ground seemed to be swaying. I steadied myself on the patio table next to me. Miss Irma leaned in very close to me, looking up into my face. Then she sniffed. “Just as I suspected,” she said. “You reek of liquor.” She turned to face the others who remained. “And what about the rest of you? What have you been up to out here?”
No one answered.
“Idiots,” muttered Miss Irma. “I give you so much, and this is how you repay me. You want us all to be out of a job, I suppose? You would prefer to go back to living on the streets, sleeping in Dumpsters, giving blow jobs for food? Is that what you want?”
Still no one answered, but they shuffled guiltily.
Miss Irma grabbed me by the arm and shook me. “Can you walk? Do you need a hospital?”
My head was still swimming a bit, but I didn’t feel that bad. I was just upset that she was yelling at me. “I’m okay,” I said quietly.
“I bet,” she said. “Fine. Where’s your little friend? Ada.” She looked around behind her. “Ada!” she called out sharply.
“I’m right here,” said Ada, and I had never been so glad to hear her soft, low voice.
“Can you get her home?”
Ada nodded.
“And have you been drinking?”
“No, Miss Irma.”
“You are sure?”
“I haven’t had anything to drink.”
Miss Irma gave her a long sniff. “Fine,” she said. “She’s your responsibility. Take her home, and if there is any further trouble, you will all answer to me.”
After that point, I can put together only bits and pieces. Flashes of me and Ada in a taxi, and trying to find my keys, and then next thing I knew I was waking up in bed and feeling like something you scrape off the bottom of your shoe.
Sun, Feb 15, later
Today has been so awful. Physically I feel a bit better than I did this morning (though still not 100 percent), but emotionally, mentally, I feel completely drained.
When I woke up this morning, based on what I remembered of the night before, I had some little hope that maybe I’d managed to sneak in and get to bed without my parents ever noticing. That was a nice fantasy while it lasted. I guess I temporarily forgot who my parents are. I learned exactly how wrong I was when I got dressed and went downstairs to dig up some breakfast. Mom and Dad were waiting for me, and the minute I saw their faces, I almost turned around and went right back up to my room. The way I was feeling, all I wanted was to drink a huge glass of water and maybe make myself some hot food. The last thing I wanted to deal with was getting yelled at in Chinese.
The weird thing is, they didn’t really yell. I guess we’re past that now. They didn’t even act all that disappointed, like Mom did during our last big conversation. Mostly they just seemed worried. Concerned. Which was even worse. I used to feel guilty every time I did the slightest thing wrong, and I hated that feeling, but it’s nothing compared to the guilty feelings I had today.
I sat across from them, starving and parched and feeling trembly and weak, and let the Chinese wash over me, exerting just enough energy to understand what exactly they were worried about. Of course their first question was the obvious: Where were you last night?
So I told them, accurately, if not completely, that I was at a party.
Then they wanted to know if there was alcohol at the party. I guess my drunken state when I got home was less obvious to them than it was to Miss Irma. But then, they have less experience with that type of thing.
Lying seemed pointless, so I told them yes.
They were quiet for a little while. Then my dad said, “Since when do you go to those kinds of parties where there are kegs and no parents?”
I knew it was rhetorical, and my role at this point was just to sit there and look sorry for the shame I had brought on our household, but I couldn’t help almost laughing a little, if only internally. It just occurred to me at that moment that my parents were picturing me at a normal high school party. The kind of party that normal high school kids get into normal amounts of trouble for. How would they know any different?
I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t help thinking, If only you knew. It’s so
much worse than you are even thinking, and you are already so upset.
Once they had said their piece, I finally got some food and started to feel a little better, so I was going to go back up to my room on the pretense of “doing homework” and take a nice long nap, but Mom and Dad had other ideas. I guess they had been talking while I ate, because afterward they cornered me and had a whole new plan in mind. I don’t recall all the details, but I know it involved me never leaving the house again for pretty much anything but school. No extracurriculars, no meetings, and definitely no going out with friends.
And since they can’t trust me anymore to tell them the truth about my life, Dad says he’s going to meet with all my teachers on Monday to find out what my assignments are, and we’ll go over my progress on them all every night. Oh, and I almost forgot the best part—if I don’t obey these new restrictions, they’re going to send me to Taiwan to live with my grandmother and my aunts!
No way. There’s just . . . no way. I can’t let that happen. I don’t know anyone in Taiwan except a couple of family members, and I barely know the language. It would be just like prison.
And what about Ada? I can’t just abandon her. I finally made a real friend. Someone who cares about me, and I care about her. Not just someone who tolerates me sitting with them at lunch or is willing to do group work with me in class. I know Ada acts tough, and she’s pretty street-smart, but she is so alone in the world. She needs someone looking out for her.
I have to get away from here. Now.
Sun, Feb 15, later
I’ve calmed down a bit now. After my last entry I started throwing clothes into a suitcase so I could run away, but as I went through my stuff, I started to think over all the things they had said. I get so frustrated with how they try to control me, and I wish they would just relax and let me make my own decisions about my life, but I guess I have to ask myself if I’m making good decisions.
It’s easy to be brave in theory, but some of the stories people told at the party should probably worry me more than they did. What will I do if some client wants to hurt me? If someone wants me to do drugs that leave me confused and not sure how to react? The drinking last night made me realize how out of control you can be when altered by chemicals. In a situation like that, I might not make the same decisions I would make when sober.