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Bulls-fucking-eye.
This job is mine.
I have to watch the other girls. Some are really good, some are okay, and one is terrible. It takes another hour as I lean back in my chair with my legs crossed on the table. After everyone is done, the judges stand up. “Okay, here is the list for the next round. If your name isn’t called, you may leave and better luck next time. Rosie, Emilida, Selina, Regan, and... Blair,” she announces, and people grumble but get up and leave.
All apart from us five.
She looks at us when the others depart. “Now onto singing, you just need to be passable. We don’t need another headliner, we already have two.” She looks at Lexi and Allegra. “We need a strong dancer and someone who can do backup. Pick a song” —she jerks her head to the music desk in the corner— “and then perform for us. Sing for us like you would the customers, put everything into it. Your job depends on it.”
She sits back down and chooses the first girl. I end up last due to the list. There are at least two girls who are better singers than me, and they were good dancers too, so I know I need to knock it out of the park. I could sing some upscale pop song, something sexy, but I watch the judges closely, and they seem disappointed when people do. They want something real, something raw.
Well, fuck it.
When it’s my turn, I feel their gazes as I stand in front of the desk. I hover over a rock song before I close my eyes and, for once, I let myself feel vulnerable. These ladies will watch and know something about me after, but if it gets me the job... if it shows them the heart they clearly want, then fuck it.
I hit play, and the slow beat of Kesha’s “Praying” starts as I turn and get on stage, holding the mic. Others put flair on it, danced or swayed, but not me. I hold still and keep my eyes on the crowd. I can’t see past the lights, thank God, and I start to sing. My voice is raw and vulnerable. I glide over the lyrics I have sung a thousand times in my own head. Music was my escape, and never has a song resonated with me as much as this. The lyrics are ripped from my very soul, laying it bare. You can hear my secrets in my voice, the breathy quality giving them away.
I know the pain, the horror in these words.
I close my eyes as I hit the high note, and when the song ends, I stand on stage with my chest heaving and tears in my closed eyes. I force back the wetness in my eyes before I open them, and then other lights come on, letting me see every single person watching me. Some faces are shocked, some are devastated, and others are confused... all apart from the judges.
Allegra has an understanding gleam in her eyes, a sadness.
Lexi looks sad but proud.
They know what that meant. They know my deepest, darkest secret.
The manager nods at me and stands and starts to clap. I swallow nervously, licking my lips, and get down, tucking my shaking hands in my pockets to try and deflect the sympathy I see in their gazes.
Without even looking away from me, the manager smiles. “Blair, welcome to the family.”
My heart leaps at that. The job is mine!
After that it’s a blur. The other girls leave, some even congratulate me. Allegra pats me on the shoulder as she passes. “Welcome to the team, kid. Before the week is through, I bet we’ll know everything about you.”
I almost snort. Don’t count on it.
Lexi hugs me. “You were incredible. That song... I felt it in my soul. I felt your conviction, and your dancing? The best I’ve ever seen, I’m so glad you’re with us.”
The manager shakes my hand as well. “I’m Serina. Welcome to the team. I’ll get you the employee handbook, which basically says don’t turn up drunk or high, and always be on time for your shift and ready to practice—anything else, we don’t care. Got any issues, come to us. You are one of us now.”
I nod, and after signing paperwork and getting my key card, locker, and tour, I leave with a giant smile on my face.
I’m a burlesque dancer.
Stage name...Darling.
* * *
Instead of heading home, I decide to get food to celebrate.
Still flooded with adrenaline and excitement, I wander down to the cafe at the corner. The neon sign in the slightly dirty window says it’s open. It has old-style curtains running around the base of the windows, and the door is on the corner with the cafe shaped like a triangle. I step inside, and a bell chimes overhead. My eyes widen as I look around. I double-check the name and grin, it makes sense.
Taste of America.
It looks like the diners you see in the old-fashioned movies, with red and checked seats, a white checkered floor, and a silver counter running along the back wall before the kitchen, which peeks through the silver serving window. Before the counter are cherry red leather stools, whereas on top, napkin holders and plastic menus wait for customers. There are road signs and old pin-up pictures all over the walls. It’s almost too busy, but they somehow pulled it off.
It’s pretty quiet at this time, between dinner and tea, with only a few of the booths along the windows occupied. There are some tables scattered to the left counter where it bulks out a bit, and the doors for the toilets are behind them.
