Days turned into weeks without Michelle noticing much.  Her bruises faded and she made more money.  She began to purchase her own bottles of Grey Goose vodka, fine champagne, and expensive shoes.  Her diet (1 part comfort food, 3 parts alcohol) along with dancing every night began to melt her body fat, leaving her leaner than she’d been in years.  In the closet at her parents’ house, her baglike, sea-foam green bridesmaid dress hung, waiting for her. 

Eventually, the weather began to warm.  Michelle noted this with tepid disinterest, spiced only by the knowledge that spring would bring summer, and summer would bring July seventh, and Jake’s wedding to Rachel.  She tried to ignore this knowledge most of the time. 

At The Caribou, she still talked to Samantha, avoided Julie, and had a nodding acquaintanceship with Princess, who only seemed to grow thinner and more disoriented.  Angel, Bunny Lu, and the rest of the girls (many of whom seemed to be a revolving procession of types rather than actual individuals) were indifferent to her, and she to them. 

Michelle started to wonder vaguely about the other girls.  Could the stereotypes be true?  Could all of these girls have been molested as children?

“Hey, Princess,” she asked in the dressing room one night during a slow period.  “You mind if I ask you a question?”

Princess was sitting next to Michelle at the mirror, haphazardly applying deep red lipstick.  She blinked twice and turned to focus on the ballerina.  Pressing her lips together in a smile, she shook her head.   

“Why this?” asked Michelle.  “I mean, why are you doing this?  What led to it?” 

Princess craned her neck, appearing to concentrate intensely on what Michelle was saying.  After a moment, she reached into her little makeup bag, pulled out a pad and paper, and started writing.

Is only thing I no how to do, was the note she handed to Michelle.

“That can’t be true,” Michelle said.  “How old are you?”

Princess wrote, 19.

“Did you go to high school?”

Princess nodded.

“And graduated?”

Another nod.

Michelle tried to imagine herself fresh out of high school and stripping.  “This can’t be all you know how to do.  There’re a thousand things you could do.”

Princess looked at her with a surprising smirk.  She shook her head no and pointed to her voice box, then started writing.

Not smart or rich enugh for colege.  Can’t be waiter.  This pays much mony.  I live well.  She smiled as Michelle read her note.  Her grammatical and spelling errors might have been endearing if the girl were twelve years younger.  As it was, they only highlighted her situation, and how fried her brain must be already at nineteen.

Michelle also knew that Princess was not only a stripper, but a prostitute.  She continually had sex with customers in the private rooms for extra money.  She was such an asset to the club that no one would fire her, even when she and a customer would leave a sofa stained with semen. 

However, somehow, despite everything Michelle had ever been taught about prostitutes, she couldn’t think of Princess as a bad or amoral person.  Perhaps this meant that she, Michelle, had also become amoral, but she couldn’t quite believe that either. 

One more question.  “How did you lose your voice?” 

Princess had gone back to her make-up, but she stopped.  She wrote another note and handed it to the ballerina, this time without eye contact, then returned to her reflection.

Born this way, the note said.  Michelle didn’t press further.

Several days later, Michelle knocked on Sam’s door. 

“Sam?” she called.  “It’s almost five, we’re gonna be late.”

She heard rustling from the inside, and after a few moments, the door opened.  “Jeez what took you so—” she began, but stopped when she saw the figure in the door. 

“Hello,” said a thin Asian man.  “Sorry to keep your friend.”  He wore close-fitting jeans and a red t-shirt.  His hair was long and tied into a low ponytail, and his smile glowed. 

“No problem,” Michelle said, allowing the man to pass.  He waved to her, still smiling as he reached the stairs and disappeared. 

“Sorry, honey,” Sam said as she exited the apartment and locked the door behind her.  “Let’s get going.  We can still make it on time.” 

Michelle wasn’t sure if it was happening more often, these strangers emerging from Samantha’s apartment, or if she was simply becoming more sensitive to it.  With difficulty she followed her neighbor through the streets.  Each step Sam took seemed to carry a bounce which drew her down the sidewalk with inhuman speed.  Occasionally, she would release a shrill whistle in strange melodies Michelle had never heard.

At The Caribou, different girls, strangers, some awkward, most young, made their way through the crowd.  It took a moment for Michelle to remember why they were here.  It was amateur night, and she found herself laughing.

“What’s so funny?” asked Samantha as they walked toward the dressing room.

“I don’t know.  I really don’t.”

The regular girls danced until eight, when the contest started.  Michelle watched as many amateurs as she could.  One girl in particular caught her eye.  She was almost-too-young-looking, and it looked as though she was a true amateur.  She had no idea what she was doing, but she had latte skin, full lips, and a head of thick black hair.  There was something about the way this girl moved.  Almost no one looked away.

Michelle was in a vodka-haze by the time the winners were decided.  The young Hispanic girl who had captured her attention came in second place, losing out barely to a thirty-something blonde Pam Anderson look-alike.   

A few hours remained after the amateur contest.  Michelle danced and drank at intervals, eventually following Samantha back to their apartment building.  As her neighbor unlocked the door on the street, Michelle slumped against the brick wall.

“Why do you do this?” she asked.  Her face was shiny and her makeup was smeared.

“Do what?” Sam said as she opened the door.  The two women entered the building.

“Dance,” Michelle said.

As they neared the top of the stairs, Sam turned around and looked down at her.

“Well.  That’s a long story.”

“Tell me.”  Michelle’s voice was too loud; it echoed like a bell through the empty hall.

Sam stood two steps higher than Michelle with her arms crossed.  The top of the ballerina’s head came about even with Sam’s navel.  “You want to hear it?”

Michelle nodded.

Sam glanced to the side.  “All right.  You better come in.”

Filed under: Michelle, Princess, Samantha, The Caribou, dancing by Jade