Page 6 of The Toy Maker

“What do I need to do?” A job description would have been a nice addition to the newspaper ad, not that I would have been able to see it.

She smirked, turning back to her clipboard. “Just put on some lingerie from the closet next to the bathroom and meet me by the vanities in ten minutes. I’ll give you instructions after that.”

Instructions? My chest tightened as I thought about the skin-tight, mostly invisible lingerie that the girls were skipping around in.

I didn’t know what Kat had planned, but I doubted it would be comfortable.

THREE

After diggingthrough a closet filled with lingerie, I decided on a simple lace push-up bra and whatever underwear would cover the most of my body. The girls pointed me to the dressing rooms and warned me to hurry if I still wanted a place in the show.

It wasn’t the plan, but nothing in my life ever went to plan. Nerves swirled in my stomach, trying to snap me out of the trance I was in. But it was useless.

I needed the job to keep myself from living a nightmare. It was only a matter of time before another one of Mom’s marriages fell through and when it did, I’d be on the hook to provide for her. When I was done, I stumbled around like Bambi until I found Kat sitting in front of a golden vanity.

Beauty products littered the table, and spare thongs hung off the sides of the mirror. I held an arm over my waist, clinging to the slight privacy it afforded me.

I coughed to get her attention, and she swirled around.

“Tara!” Her smile managed to calm my nerves just a few seconds before all hell broke loose. She looked me up and down and motioned for me to spin.

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as I let her inspect my outfit choice. I had limited options over the years to experiment with fashion, or lingerie, and her narrowing eyes didn’t instill much confidence in my abilities. I felt like a doll awaiting judgment by grubby-handed six-year-olds that just discovered you could change Barbie’s clothes.

Mentally, I was already home, eating Cheetos on my couch and watching trashy reality TV.

“You look fine for today, but if you get the job, you’ll have to get much braver.”

My shoulders fell. I didn’t want to burst her bubble, but indecency laws existed for a reason. I almost worked up the nerve to ask how much bolder when another girl stole Kat’s attention.

The neon pixie who showed me the way to the back frantically waved around a dirty towel. “Amy just puked her guts out on Jesse,” she whined.

Jesse must have been important because the look on Kat’s face said they were in SlutCon 1. Suddenly, she started barking orders to the girls around her. I watched as they scurried to complete the tasks she demanded to be done.

“Find Macy and tell her to be ready to go in five.” I figured Macy worked as the understudy for whatever role Jesse could no longer fill.

“Macy is home with the flu,” the neon girl exclaimed with panic in her eyes.

“Then get Jesse into the showers and make sure she is prepped to be on stage in five.”

Mass hysteria washed over the girls who flocked to their leader in a time of crisis.

“There’s no way.”

“Her hair took thirty minutes to do!”

Kitty’s face was shrouded in anxiety. She floundered under their needy looks and seemed to be overwhelmed by the sudden changes. “Then we move the opening act.”

When all the girls left to adjust their wardrobes, Kat noticed me standing beside her.

“Looks like you get to prove your worth faster than I thought,” she remarked slyly.

I wanted to ask what she meant but before I could, she pulled one of the Cherries aside and demanded I be taken to the changing rooms.

“And tell Amy she’s sitting out for the night,” Kitty barked. “The last thing we need is her getting sick on everyone else.”

The Cherry assigned as my keeper grabbed my arm and dragged me to the back. She tossed a washcloth-size piece of fabric at my face and commanded me to strip.

My eyes widened, and I scrambled to come up with something to say. “I’m not really keen on being naked in front of women,” I explained with a nervous laugh. I started retelling my history in the middle school locker rooms, but the look she gave told me she’d rather die than listen. I continued anyway, “One time in middle school, I was changing out of my gym clothes and?—”