Page 94 of By A Thread

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“What do you think?”I asked, stepping carefully out of the dressing area on five-inch, white, patent leather, stiletto platforms.

Faith was spinning slow circles in a salon chair parked in front of a kitschy makeup mirror while skimming profit reports. She stopped and put down the paperwork and made me do a twirl.

This was not like Fairy Godfather Linus’s makeover. No. This particular transformation involved a checkered long-sleeve shirt with snaps knotted between my breasts, cheeky blue boy shorts that were already climbing their way up my ass, and sparkly blue pasties that I hoped no one else would see.

“Don’t pick the wedgie. Wedgies get more tips,” she insisted when I tried to do exactly that.

I sighed through gritted teeth and tried not to think about what I was going to be doing in about nine minutes. Gulp.

“You look great,” she said. She stood and shoved her hands into my hair ruffling it.

“Should I go heavier on the makeup?”Maybe level it up to Clown or Mime so I could at least have part of my body disguised.

“No. Wholesome is good on amateur night. You look like someone I’d take home to Mom if I were a man… or a lesbian.”

“Tequila,” I said weakly.

“Tequila, girl.”

We both shuddered.

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the makeup chair. “I’ll get you some water. You’re gonna sweat up there, so stay hydrated.”

I was already breaking out in a cold sweat.

There was a closed-circuit TV in the dressing room that showed the tables around the stage and bar. It had gotten more crowded since I’d arrived. I tried not to calculate how many eyes would be seeing my boobs tonight.

The backstage area was cleaner and cheerier than I thought it would be. I’d unfairly pictured strung-out naked women slumped in metal chairs, chain-smoking cigarettes and dusting each other with body glitter.

There was definitely glitter, but the only dancer I’d seen had arrived in her minivan from her Pilates class with a fresh fruit smoothie. She wasn’t even here to dance. She was MC-ing amateur night. The rest of the amateurs were corralled into a secondary locker room location so I could have my breakdown in peace.

There was a long, low sofa along one wall buried under a mound of furry pink pillows. Five vanities decorated with pictures and personal trinkets like high school lockers took up the opposite wall. There was an open wardrobe area, much smaller thanLabel’s Closet but just as neatly organized and containing just as many sequins. Soft, pink-toned lighting gave everyone a fresh, dewy-looking complexion and oil diffusers filled the room with the delicate scents of peppermint and eucalyptus.

Faith returned with a glass of cucumber lemon water, and I guzzled half of it.

“I don’t feel so good,” I confessed.

She leaned down, putting her hands on the arms of the chair. “Listen here, Ally. Lots of people dance for money. Prima ballerinas, Jane Fonda, Laker Girls, back-up dancers, Rockettes. All women who make money by moving their bodies. There’s nothing remotely shameful about it,” Faith insisted. “You aren’t doing anything wrong. And anyone who tells you that you are is—”

“Part of the patriarchy,” I finished for her. We’d had this discussion a few times before.

But never while I was already half-naked and planning to get more naked.

“That’s my girl.” She squared me off to face the mirror. “Do you love to dance?”

I nodded.

“Lemme hear you, babe. Do you love to dance?” she asked again.

“I love to dance,” I said. I did. I really did. The only real difference, besides the hungry audience with fistfuls of cash and dirty fantasies, was that I’d be doing this dance with no bra on.

“You love the music, the lights, the dancing. And that’s all you have to think about. You’re going out there and you are celebrating your body. You’re doing this for you. Not them. They’re allowed to watch, but this is all about you.”

“All about me,” I said, more firmly this time.I wondered if Faith had ever considered a career in life coaching.

“Good girl. Now who has the power?” she asked.