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Her spine straightens before she walks out of view, speaking as she goes. “I don’t smoke anymore.”
Liar. But that’s all right. Everyone has to lie about something.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my high-waisted jeans. Checking it, I read the message from my friend, Audrey.
Audrey: Still on for drinks?
Hesitating, I glance again at the bills that fill the room. It’s not financially wise to go out and spend money on overpriced drinks, not at this time. This city in particular loves to overcharge for watered-down, sugary excuses for cocktails.
But at the same time, I know I can’t put a dent in the studio’s debt with fifty bucks. And if I’m going to blow the money on something, I might as well use it to cheer myself up.
Me: Yeah. See you at Tsar’s in a bit.
Walking from the office puts me in a short hallway. To my right is the restroom; to my left is the main dance area. It’s a beautiful space with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, strips of circular lights crossing above like a thousand tiny stars. Once upon a time, we would have a waitlist of students, and the room would be packed with girls in tutus as they bent and bowed to the pleasant music.
But that hasn’t been the case for years now, if these overdue bills are any indication.
The worn wooden floor creaks as I cross it. My steps echo, muffling once I reach the threadbare carpet near the front door. The entryway has a few aged chairs and a display with untouched sheets of upcoming programs. Glancing through the glass windows, I can see my mother leaning beside the door. She’s hugging herself, staring upward at nothing.
I don’t see a cigarette in her fingers. Did she take a few puffs and then stamp it out already? Opening the door gives me the distinct whiff of tobacco, which answers my suspicion. But I don’t say anything to her about it.
I’ve hurt her enough today.
Instead, I tell her. “I’m going to meet Audrey.”
She crinkles her brow. “Not downtown, I hope.”
“It’s fine, Mom. You worry too much.”
Scowling at me, she crosses her arms even tighter. It makes her black puffer jacket squeak like a mouse. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t worry enough. Especially about you.” She gives me a pointed look and now it’s my turn to recoil. “Bad things happen downtown, Galina. Very bad things happen to stupid people who put their noses where they shouldn’t.”
I give her a sideways smile. “Are you calling your daughter stupid?”
Blustering, she waves her hands at me. “Fine! Do what you want. But call me if you need a ride. Don’t drive drunk.”
“I won’t.” Kissing her on the cheek, I back away. “Make sure you eat dinner, mamochka. Your cheekbones could cut glass.”
That gets a pleased laugh out of her. With a final wave, I jog toward my light blue Prius. Once inside, I connect my phone to my current favorite playlist. Something extra loud and extra bouncy, the kind of sweet pop music that can give you cavities just from listening. It’s a stark contrast to the gritty streets I’m driving on. Tsar’s Lounge is near the docks, so close that you can’t help smelling the ocean.
My mom is right. It is a rough area, but I’ve never had any issues. Sometimes guys hit on me, but what girl doesn’t deal with that? It’s never gone too far.
Now, Audrey, she once smashed a glass on a guy’s head because he grabbed her ass when her engagement ring was on full display. No one pressed charges on either side. Partly because her now-husband Josh is a lawyer specializing in witness protection cases, but mostly because it would have been a waste of energy.
The cops around here don’t pay attention unless they’re being bribed to do so. And that night, nobody wanted to cough up the extra cash to make them care.
I park my car along the curb. The last belted-out lyrics about dancing the night away are cut off abruptly when I open my door. Tsar’s Lounge is squat, like a hulking gargoyle with its old stone. Blue lights flash through the curved windows, outlining the bodies of the people hovering outside. There’s a cloud of smoke around the group. One of them whistles at me as I pass and I ignore him, not bothering to roll my eyes.
I’m not even dressed in anything revealing, just jeans, low red heels, and a white tank-top.
“Hey, baby doll!” a bald guy with gauge earrings yells. “You want some company?”
I cringe violently. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was hot or ugly; I hate being flirted with.
Flirting leads to feelings, feelings lead to dating, and dating … Well, that’s just the road to disaster.
And the last thing I need in my life is more trouble.
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