My night is even shittier than the last one. I scan the room in anxious paranoia and jump whenever anyone talks to me. Maryse measures me with a suspicious look.
"What's up with your hair?"
Self-conscious, I tug at the ends of my wig: it's caramel blond with lighter streaks, cheap-cheap from the hair place by the metro. Up close it's too shiny and fake-looking but in the darkness of the club it'll do. It has wispy eighties bangs I can't tame into looking marginally acceptable no matter how much I try; I brush them to the side with a nervous gesture that's turning into a tic.
"Nothing. It's just a wig."
"Yeah, I can see that. Why? Your real hair is so nice."
"Exactly," I say grimly. "It's too nice. It's too unique, it's noticeable."
She nods. "I see. Don't wanna get recognized?"
"Yeah. Something like that. My school is like three blocks down."
She gives a shrug. "Just go work with us, to the club on the South Shore. It's not as nice but—"
"Everyone speaks French there. I can't lose this place, I need the cash."
"Well, if you think a wig's going to help," she says, subtly rolling her eyes.
"Better than nothing," I mutter.
"Then maybe you should also cover your tattoos."
Right. I gulp as I examine my arm and shoulder, my hip. Then again, no one at school has seen all of my tattoos. Well, almost no one—but when I hooked up with that one girl, I only had the forearm piece.
God, now there's something I'd like to forget.
There's not a chance I could cover up my ink with makeup. So I just make a mental note to start wearing long sleeves at school.
Hiding more of myself, with every passing day. Dividing my life into two, Alaska the good university student, and Sky the stripper. One wears oversize sweats, the other wears G-strings. One wears holey Converse sneakers, the other towers in eight-inch clear platform heels... like the fucking Taylor Swift song I used to love so much in middle school. I related to it.
What a laugh riot. I can't even hear it anymore without cringing.
In that stupid wig, I feel ugly. I pin the bangs to the side with a hair clip and look like an eighth-grader with a bad haircut. My self-confidence is shot. I can't slip back into my Sky character no matter how I try. I remain Alaska, who doesn't fit into this place.
No one would pay a red cent to dance Alaska.
It's all because of Elizabeth. She's the one point where my two lives collide. I grit my teeth in useless anger.
I finally get my first client near midnight, a clean, sweater-over-shirt type who probably has a wife and a couple of daughters close to my age. This one, it turns out, is a talker.
"You're from here?" he asks as I settle onto his lap, carefully sideways, balancing on his thigh. "Are you sure you're from here? Sky can't be your real name.
"I don't look like an Sky?" my smile is frozen to my face.
"I don't know. Maybe. But you don't dance under your real name, do you? None of you girls do. It's all Diamond and Cherry and Mercedes." His lip curls in disdain.
"No," I say. I can't keep that personable expression on my face much longer, so I get up, trying not to shoot to my feet too fast, and turn sideways, arching my back. The stupid plastic wig hair falls into my face; it smells like old Barbie dolls gathering dust in a storage box.
"At least yours isn't as ridiculous," he says.
I let the hair fall over my face to hide my scowl.
"You're not like these other girls. They're all so fake here."
I turn my back to him and bend over, running my hands down my legs. That way he can't see me roll my eyes, and maybe the sight of my ass wigging inches from his face will shut him up. No such luck.
"You don't have enormous fake tits," he says. "I hate enormous fake tits. If you're gonna do that at least be subtle, a D or adouble D. Who do they think they're attracting anyway?"
I don't answer. I know if I open my mouth something totally unacceptable will come out.
"But you'd never do something like that to your body," he says, an affirmation more than a question. I know exactly what he expects me to say, what role he wants me to play: it's Stripper with a Heart of Gold Monday for him. Usually I have no trouble keeping up. Usually this is the moment when we cross the threshold from one or two dances to the half-hour, the hour, with a big tip at the end.
But I just can't bring myself to say it. "No," I finally mutter.
It's more than enough for him. "Of course you wouldn't. You're better than that. You're going somewhere, you won't be dancing here till you're forty-five, right?"
Well, you're well over that threshold and you're still coming here, I think, but wisely keep my mouth shut.
"You're a nice girl, aren't you? I bet you go to school."
This is my cue to spin a lie. Yes, of course I go to school. Pick a program, something not so complicated he won't buy it or start trying to test me with sly questions, but something sophisticated enough: psychology, sociology. Hell, literature.
"No, I don't, actually," I say with a vicious thrill. I did but I dropped out when I got this job."
He's silent for a few moments while his brain tries to process this dissonance. The song fades out at exactly three minutes. The silence lingers. I turn around and straddle him, my knees propped up on the armrests of the chair that dig into my skin. I wish the next song would start already. I can tell he's about to call it quits and regret wasting the potential money.
Finally, he huffs. Looks up into my face. "You deserve better than this place. I want to take you out, proper. To a nice restaurant. We'd have dinner, a nice bottle of wine."
"Sorry. I don't meet people outside."
Unless I can't help it, apparently.
He sighs noisily. "Of course you don't."
"You're not like that."
"No, I'm not."
"I knew it. I knew you weren't like that." He starts to wiggle in the chair, trying to subtly adjust his crotch. "I'm sorry I asked. Didn't mean to insult you. You're so pretty."
"Yeah, and I lied earlier," I say, feeling generous. "I do go to school."
"I knew it," he repeats. "You're amazing. Your body is perfect, never gets your tits done, okay?"
"I won't."
"You're so skinny. You never see girls that skinny anymore. I bet you're one of those girls who can eat anything and not gain an ounce?"
"Yeah. I eat like a horse."
"You're beautiful. What do you study?"
"Huh?"
"In school."
"Computer science," I say, first thing that pops into my head.
"And you're smart too. You look smart."
"Thank you."
"You're just perfect in every way. Prettiest girl I've ever seen."
"Thank you, baby. Do you want another song?"
"Yeah. Keep going, don't stop." He looks up at me, hopeful. "Can I see your pussy?"
"We keep our underwear on."
He fumbles in his pocket. "Even if I tipped you extra?"
I tell him the dance is over.