“Okay, babe. One leg, then the other,” she said, as she shimmied the tight suit over my thighs. “Turn around, I’ll lace you up.”
I turned, keeping one hand on my churning gut. I watched as the tighter Angela tied the ties, the higher my breasts swelled over the top of the scalloped bodice. That’s when Matilda ducked backstage, the sight of her taking the rest of the air out of my lungs. She smiled at Angela and threw open her arms.
“You’re a champ, Angela!” she said, leaning in to whisper to her, “I think you’re almost ready to guide. Leave us alone for a bit, my dear.”
Angela left, beaming. So she would be a S.E.C.R.E.T. guide soon. I wondered what that felt like.
“Cassie, look at you!” said Matilda.
“I feel like a sausage. I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”
“Nonsense.” Matilda tugged me completely out of earshot of the other girls to give me some last-minute instructions.
“Tonight, you’ll have your pick, Cassie.”
“Pick of what?”
“Of men.”
“Which men?”
“Men from your fantasies. The ones you’ve thought the most about over this past year. The ones who’ve vexed you, and who’ve left you with lingering thoughts of them. Those men.”
“Who? Which ones? They’re here?” I almost yelled.
Matilda clapped a hand over my mouth. The cold dread pooling in my gut was quickly replaced by nausea.
She gave me a look. “Well, obviously you know who one of them is.”
“Pierre?”
My heart leapt at his name. Matilda nodded, a little too somberly, I thought.
“Who else?”
“Who else had you swooning?”
I flashed back to tattooed flesh, a white tank top lifted to expose a rippled stomach … the way he laid me across that metal table … I closed my eyes and swallowed.
“Jesse.”
I was sure I’d never see either of them again, hence my ability to behave with such abandon. Knowing they’d be in the audience, I was certain I’d freeze.
“But do Pierre and Jesse know about each other? And am I supposed to pick one of them and reject the other? I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this, Matilda. In fact, I know I’m not. I can’t go through with this. I can’t.”
“Listen to me. They don’t know about each other. All they know is they’ve been invited to a legendary burlesque show along with the rest of the community. They have no idea you’re performing. And they won’t know it’s you onstage.”
“How are they not going to know it’s me?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a Veronica Lake–style platinum blond wig. She spun it around on her fist.
“First, you’re going to be wearing this,” she said. Reaching back into the bag, she added, “And one of these.” She pulled out a sleek, black cat’s-eye Mardi Gras mask.
“Remember, Cassie. You’re playing a part,” she said, speaking slowly and deliberately while expertly fastening the wig over my hair. “You can be nervous up there. The old Cassie might have thought she’s not worthy of the attention, or that she’s not beautiful or sexy enough to pull it off. But the woman wearing this wig and this mask would never think that. And the men watching her would never believe it. Because she knows not only that she can captivate a man, but also that she’s got the whole room in the palm of her hand. There,” she said, carefully placing the mask over my eyes and stretching the elastic around the back of my head and releasing it.
“Gorgeous. Now, go be this woman!”
What woman was she talking about? I wondered—until moments later I smacked into her in the backstage mirror.
The girls were gathered in front of it, making last-minute adjustments to their costumes, hair and makeup. I stood among them, equal to them, I thought, no better or worse, just someone taking joy in my body. Just then, Steamboat Betty muscled her way to the front of the pack to aggressively adjust her breasts in her bodice.
“The girls are restless tonight,” she said, probably not referring to Les Filles de Frenchmen.
Kit and Angela beamed at me like proud mothers. Then they raised their braceleted wrists at me and gave them a shake. I shook my charms back at them, the collective tinkling like music to my ears.
The band started up. I could hear the MC announce this year’s Les Filles de Frenchmen Revue, reminding the men to “give generously” but to “behave respectfully or you’re out on your ass.”
Angela yelled, “Hurry, Cassie, we’re on!”
I took one last deep breath and looked around at my fellow performers, all of us beautiful in our own way, with our wigs and moles and falsies. Each of us was playing a version of ourselves, an exaggerated, alternative and riskier version. Maybe that’s what all women do, from time to time. Beneath our everyday costumes, we’re all filled with the same fears and anxieties. Angela must have them, and Kit too. But looking at them now, I couldn’t picture them hesitating at the red door of the coach house, frozen in fear. The feeling flooding my heart at this moment was gratitude, and some hope that if they were able to step through their fears, I could do it too. I just had to believe I could.
I took my first steps. I found the tempo, counting out the beats audibly, until the line forward-kicked in unison out of the wings and onto the stage, shaking our gloved hands like Fosse dancers. The crowd, darkened behind the bright floodlights, went crazy, which injected us with a kind of performance adrenaline that transferred from one girl to the next, hitting me full force.
“See?” whispered Angela. “I told you they’d love you!”
The first few minutes of the dance were a blur as I adjusted my eyes to the lights and continued to remind myself that no one knew it was me, mousy Cassie from Café Rose. We broke off in our dance pairings onstage, my disguise making it easier to turn my back to the crowd and slowly bump back and forth, following Angela’s lead, as the snare drum beat in time to our choreographed gyrations. She was my partner and it was so thrilling to be boldly in tune with the raunchy music and the beautiful Angela Rejean that I began to relax into my body and improvise a little. At one point I was shaking my butt so fast it caused Angela to throw her head back and let out a whoop. When Angela turned and pranced off the stage right into the crowd, I followed her without thinking, mimicking the way she’d grab a tie and fling it behind a man’s head, or mess up his hair, and maybe his wife’s too. The women in the audience were having as much fun as the men, our exuberance inspiring them to stand and deliver their own shimmy to the enthusiastic crowd. Some of them were tourists, lucky to stumble upon this local celebration. But I recognized a lot of Café regulars, the musicians, shopkeepers and eccentrics out to cheer on this little pocket of beauty in our bruised and troubled city.
Angela and I performed our choreographed kick-step for the crowd. Then she winked and whispered, “Go along with me, Cass,” before she spun, tossed her pink boa around my neck and yanked me into a full-on kiss.
An explosion of clapping and yelling followed as Angela’s mouth lingered on mine, and then she finished the kiss with a flourish, nudging me back to my own space. My knees quivering, I tried to continue my choreographed two-step, showing off the garters high on my thighs, but her kiss had thrown me off, bringing the crazed crowd to their feet. I spotted Kit and Matilda sitting together near the bar, clapping and whistling like proud dance moms.
When I turned to blow a kiss to the audience, my eyes rested on a familiar gaze. It was Jesse, occupying a prime table near the front, with a grin on his face that would melt an iceberg.
“Well, hello,” he said, leaning back into the chair, taking in the full length of me with a tilt of his head.
How had I forgotten how sexy this man was? This time he wore a snug plaid shirt and jeans, a white undershirt peeking underneath. That undershirt. His lean concave stomach, his casual hand resting on the hair that leads to … “Oh my God,” I said, standing in front of his table. His confuse
d expression reminded me he didn’t know who was beneath the wig and mask. I glanced nervously around the room. All eyes were on us. I smiled at Jesse again and froze. Angela took my arm and turned me around for our dual butt-shimmy move. I glanced over my shoulder at him. He was clearly thrilled to be on the edge of the spotlight, a front-row spectator. When we’d finished our little number, he and everyone else in the room erupted into hoots and hollers.
Emboldened by my anonymity, I turned around and leaned forward, placing both hands on his shoulders, and giving him a good long look at the impressive cleavage my dress had enhanced. To any onlooker, it would have seemed we knew each other and were exchanging pleasantries, but when I leaned in, I whispered, “The things I’d like to do to you.”
“Whoa, right back at you, baby,” he whispered, his hot breath in my ear.
So this is how it works, I thought, taking a finger and placing it under Jesse’s stubbled chin. When I brought his eyes to meet mine, I thought I saw a flash of recognition cross his face. I pulled away quickly, and he threw his head back, laughing, loving the flirty attention. Who was this bold woman doing these bold things? This wasn’t me. But it was me! And Jesse had had a hand in liberating me.
By this point, all the girls had made their way down from the stage and were working the crowd into a frenzy. Two were now hovering directly over Jesse, who had an expression of pained pleasure on his gorgeous face. Suddenly the girl with the corkscrew curls threw her boa around his neck. I watched her tug him to his feet. While the crowd screamed, he willingly trailed behind her and out the door, the whole time wearing the grin of the luckiest guy in the room. I had had my chance and I hadn’t picked him. I smiled and said a silent, wistful goodbye to my lovely intruder.
I followed my duet partner, Angela, farther into the audience. When she moved behind a wide post, I lost sight of her, and moments later locked eyes with another ardent audience member, Pierre Castille, who was leaning cross-armed against the wall, regarding me with a bemused expression, his bodyguard next to him. Here was my choice. What power you have when you’re fully in command of your own body, I thought. With my hands on my hips, my chin lowered and my shoulders thrust forward, I strutted towards Pierre in rhythm with the drummer’s beat. I closed the distance between us, reminding myself I was the girl in the platinum wig and black mask. I could see his Adam’s apple bob. At three feet away, I placed a gloved finger between my teeth and pulled off my glove with one tug. I tossed it over my shoulder as the crowd behind me erupted. Then I pulled off the other glove, this time spinning it in my hand. Inches from Pierre, who was now grinning, I reached out and gently slapped him with it, once, twice.
“I hear you’re a bad, bad boy,” I whispered, in that same breathy voice I had used on Jesse.
“You heard right,” he said. He hungrily took me in and then reached out for my waist, as though I belonged to him. As my Prince Charming, when he had claimed me it was part of the role, the fantasy. But his grasp now felt brutish, unkind.
Angela stepped in and scolded him. “Ah, ah, ah. She’s not yours, mister. Remember that.”
All eyes were on me, even though the other girls had reassembled in a line and were tapping out a goofy number on their way back to the stage. I broke the spell by turning around. With my back to Pierre, I did a little burlesque wiggle, curling my body like smoke in front of him for the edification of the audience. Finally, the spotlight moved away from us and back to the action onstage, giving Pierre the opportunity to gather the strings of my bodice as though he had me on a leash. With a yank, he tugged me backwards to him, his mouth hovering at my ear.
“I thought I’d never see you again, Cassie.”
My eyes shot open behind my mask. “How—?”
“Your bracelet. I recognized my charm.”
“You mean my charm,” I said.
“I like you better as a brunette,” he said.
I turned around quickly. My breasts brushed his chest. My heels put us almost eye to eye. I felt a sexy toughness swell inside me.
“Well, I liked you better as Prince Charming,” I said. I might have been wearing a mask, but I could finally see beneath his. While mine hid a few common fears and insecurities, below his surface I sensed menace; women served a purpose, and when he was done with them, he would discard them. He was lovely for a fantasy night, but beyond that, I couldn’t imagine a life at his side.
“I’m not yours,” I whispered. “If anything, it’s the other way around.”
Just as the spotlight found us again, Pierre reached a hand to my cleavage and tugged it open. He dropped dozens of gold coins down the front of my bodice, letting a few tinkle to the floor for effect. It shocked me and left me feeling icy cold. The crowd seemed unsure whether to clap or to boo Pierre. The spotlight turned to the stage again, where the ladies were doing their high-kick finale.
“Let go of her,” said a voice in the dark. “Or I’ll kick you hard in the teeth.”
I saw a figure approaching, silhouetted by the lights. But I didn’t need some man coming to my rescue. I jerked my bodice out of Pierre’s grasp and smacked backwards into Will Foret, who placed a warm hand on my waist to steady me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I said. The snare drums were drawing the finale number to a close.
Will turned to Pierre, who was still leaning arrogantly against the wall. “This isn’t a strip club, Pierre.”
“I was just rewarding this beautiful dancer with the proper currency,” Pierre responded, his hands raised in surrender.
“You grabbed her dress. That’s not allowed.”
“I didn’t know there were rules, Will.”
“That’s always been your problem, Pierre.”
Applause broke out in full now, and everyone around us took to their feet in a standing ovation for the girls onstage.
Pierre brushed one sleeve and then the other, straightened his jacket, then offered me his arm.
“This is over, clearly. Let’s get out of here, Cassie.”
At the sound of my name, Will turned to me, his mouth open. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or disappointed.
“Cassie?”
I pulled off my mask.
“Hi,” I said, hands on my bodice. “What can I say? Last-minute replacement.”
Will stammered, “I—I thought—I … Holy shit. You look incredible.”
Pierre’s patience was wearing thin. “Can we go now?”
“Yes,” I said. But at that moment, I saw Will’s shoulders drop, the same way they had at the Ball after Pierre scored the winning bid. Turning to Pierre, I added, “You can go. Anytime.”
I took a tentative step towards Will to punctuate the fact that I was making my choice.
“It’s you,” I whispered. “I pick you.”
I watched Will’s expression soften into a relaxed victory, made complete when he slid his hand into mine and squeezed it, a gesture so intimate it made me feel faint. Will wasn’t taking his eyes off mine. Winning became him, I decided.
Pierre laughed and shook his head, as though Will had greatly misunderstood something important.
“Nice guys do finish last,” Will said, looking only at me.
“Who said we were finished?” Pierre replied.
After a lingering look at me, and a cocky smile, Pierre disappeared into the crowd, his bodyguard trying to keep up with him. I was glad to see him go.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Will said, pulling me through the crowd.
As we passed Matilda and Kit’s table, they both shook their wrists at me. I shook back. Then I spotted Angela, prancing back to the stage. She, too, turned and gave me a shake, her charms dazzling in the spotlight.
“Hey, she has the same bracelet as you,” Will said.
“She does.”
A hand reached for my arm. It was that of a squat, middle-aged woman wearing an oversize They Do Everything Better in New Orleans T-shirt. “Where can I buy a brac
elet like that?” she asked, or rather, demanded. Her accent was New England; Massachusetts or Maine.
“It’s a gift from a friend,” I said. But before I could pull my wrist away, she had one of my charms pinched between her thumb and forefinger.
“I’ve got to have one!” she screeched.
“You can’t buy it!” I said, easing my wrist out of her grasp. “You have to earn it.”
Will pried me away from her and led me past the clog of spectators still at the door. Outside in the brisk winter’s night, he threw his coat around my bare shoulders, then pressed my back against the window of Three Muses, unable to wait any longer to kiss me. And kiss me he did. He kissed me deeply, wholeheartedly, stopping every once in a while as if to see if it was actually me who stood in front of him shivering in his embrace. I wasn’t cold. I was waking up, my body shuddering to life in his arms. It is one thing to be gazed upon by a man you desire, quite another by one you love. But—I had to ask, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
“Will … about you and Tracina …?”
“It’s over. It’s been over for a while. It’s you and me, Cassie. It should always have been you and me.”
We let some tourists pass while I took in this heart-stopping information. You and me. We walked a few steps farther and Will stopped me again, this time pressing me up against the redbrick wall of The Praline Connection, where a couple of the wait staff inside raised their eyebrows. Will Foret and Cassie Robichaud? they must have been thinking. Kissing? On Frenchmen?
Will’s hands, his smell, his mouth, the love I thought I saw in his eyes, all made such sense. I wanted him, all of him. He was already in my head and heart and now my body wanted him too. When he stopped me in the street again and held my head in his warm hands, searching my eyes for an answer to his unspoken question, I knew he heard my wordless yes. We practically sprinted the remaining half-block back to Café Rose, where Will’s hands shook so much he couldn’t unlock the door without dropping the keys, twice.
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