Gemma had never been to Vegas. She changed her clothes in the bathroom at the bus station. The sink area was inhabited by a white woman in her fifties with a granny cart. She was sitting on the counter, eating a sandwich wrapped in greasy white paper. She wore dirty black leggings on narrow thighs. Her hair was teased up high, gray and blond. It was matted. Her shoes were on the floor—pale pink vinyl stilettos. Her bare feet, with Band-Aids on the heels, swung in the air.
Gemma went into the biggest stall and dug through her case. She put on her hoop earrings for the first time in nearly a year. She wiggled into the dress she'd bought—short and black, paired with leather platform heels. She got out the red wig. It was unnaturally sleek, but the color looked good with her freckles. Gemma took out the makeup box, closed her bag, and went to the sink.
The woman sitting on the counter didn't remark on the change of hair color. She crumpled her sandwich wrapper and lit a cigarette.
Gemma's makeup skills came from watching online tutorials. For most of the last year she'd been wearing what she thought of as college-girl makeup: natural skin, blush, sheer lips, mascara. Now she brought out fake eyelashes, green shadow, black liner, base, contouring brushes, eyebrow pencil, coral gloss.
It wasn't really necessary. She didn't need the cosmetics, the dress, or the shoes. The wig was probably enough. Still, the transformation was good practice—that was how she thought of it. And she liked becoming someone else.
The other woman spoke as Gemma finished her eyes. "You a working girl?"
Gemma answered, just for fun, in her Scottish accent. "No."
"I mean, you selling yourself?"
"No."
"Don't sell yourself. So sad, you girls."
"I'm not."
"It's a shame, that's all I'm saying."
Gemma was silent. She applied highlighter to her cheekbones.
"I did that job," the woman went on. She lowered herself off the counter and stuffed her messed-up feet into the shoes. "No family anymore and no money: that was how I started, and it's no different now. But it's not a way up, even with high-rolling guys. You should know that."
Gemma shrugged into a green cardigan and picked up her case. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine, honestly." Dragging the bag behind her, she headed for the door—but she stumbled slightly in the unfamiliar shoes.
"You all right?" the woman asked.
"Oh, yeah."
"It's hard to be a woman sometimes."
"Yeah, it pretty much sucks, except for the makeup," Gemma said. She pushed through the door without looking back.