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3
WHITNEY
I sit at the back of the bus, preferring the heady fumes of exhaust over the smell of BO that still lingers near the front of the public transport due to the muggy heat of the day. Squirming uncomfortably in my seat, I forcefully press my knees together as I relive the conversation with Ilya once more, the way his finger beneath my chin made my heart stop and my core tighten scandalously. His entire proposition was exceedingly bold, presumptuous, and demeaning even. And yet, I can’t seem to stop myself from entertaining the idea.
I let Ilya fuck me, and all my financial troubles go away. Mom could stop working overtime and maybe even enjoy a day off knowing that my schooling is paid for, my housing, my food. It’s an odd position to be put in, knowing my mother would be horrified if she knew how I was paying for things and at the same time reaping the benefits of me selling my body to a complete stranger in order to make life more liveable. And not just any stranger, anolderstranger, because I’m confident Ilya is older than me. While I would bet he’s still in his twenties, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s well past college age, a fact I’m only more confident about after remembering the way he backed off slightly when I told him I was still seventeen when we first met.
I tear violently at my thumb nail as I consider the deal I should find entirely repugnant morally. I do, of course–find it offensive. And still, I’ve never been more tempted to demean myself. Because saying yes would mean I have a real shot at earning a degree from Rosehill and becoming a prima ballerina. And I would give almost anything to achieve that dream. The added bonus of the relief it would bring my mom only makes it that much more appealing.
But am I really willing to give up my virginity to a complete stranger, to sell my body for three whole years, in order to make my dream come true?Yes. If I get right down to it, I think I would. But I don’t know that my pride will let me. I’ve fought tooth and nail, worked my fingers to the bone, and spent countless nights sleep deprived to scrounge by for this long. It feels wrong to simply stoop to such degrading means now. I just don’t know how I’m going to keep on with my studies if I don’t. Mom was right. This is a pivotal moment where I need to face the fact that I’m not going to get a scholarship. And I can’t earn enough working two minimum-wage jobs to cover four years of Rosehill’s tuition.
What I wouldn’t give to have someone to talk to about it all. But there’s no way in hell I’m about to tell my mother about Ilya’s offer. She would never let me accept it if she knew. And none of the Rosehill friends would understand my financial struggles. Tori and Tammy come from a family with means, as do most of the students. They would probably just suggest I get a loan or scholarship–like the college is handing those out at the local popsicle stand.
The house is quiet when I finally arrive home. Mom’s shift at the diner started almost two hours ago now, leaving me in the apartment and alone with my thoughts as I change clothes to get ready for my own shift at the nearby McDonald’s where I’ve been working as many hours as they will give me all summer long.
Despite the fact that I wash my uniform polo shirt after every shift, I still smell like fry oil as soon as I slide the red fabric over my head. I tuck my pixie cut into the baseball cap that allows me to avoid a hairnet on shift, then head out once again, locking our apartment behind me before I make the fifteen-minute jaunt to work.
“Hey, Whitney,” Rico greets as I clock in and take up a headset to start my shift.
“Hey, Rico.” I give my favorite fry cook a curt wave, my mind still a million miles away as I take up position near the payment window and prepare my register.
Falling into the monotonous routine of greeting a customer, taking their order, telling them to pull forward, then accepting their money leaves plenty of room for my thoughts to wander as I work, and hours tick by at a grueling pace as I silently debate what I’m going to do about Ilya.
He said he’d give me time to think, and in the same breath, he all but told me I needed to make a decision now. I don’t know what the consequences might be if I take to long–or even if I turn him down–but I get the sense that he’s not someone to fuck with. The memory of him laughing when I suggest that someone might steal his car comes to mind from our first encounter. And the way he warned me today that he’s dangerous, I might have shrugged it off at the time, but something in his tone tells me he wasn’t joking.
The Russian accent, the fancy cars, the excess money he has to put me through college, the ominous energy that seems to surround him like a dark cloud–it all points to the fact that he’s likely involved in the Bratva that all but runs Englewood and the majority of the Central and West Side of Chicago. And if I had to guess, I would say he must be high up in the ranks.
I could wind up thoroughly regretting my decision to accept his deal. Then again, I wonder how much I might regret turning him down too. My self-respect tells me there’s no way in hell I’d sell my body for money.But in a way, aren’t I doing that every day when I push myself beyond my limits just to scrape a living?Maybe that’s just my way of justifying a deal I know is no better than prostitution.
“Whitney!” David, my night manager, snaps, coming around the corner as I close the window on another customer after handing them their change.
I spin, startled from my thoughts to take in his furious expression. His ruddy face darkens to a deeper shade of red as he shoves a finger in my face.
“That’s two special orders you’ve put into the computer wrong tonight,” he growls, stepping closer until I’m pressed against the wall of my tiny alcove. “I don’t want to have to keep fixing your mistakes, so get your head out of the clouds andlistento the customers. Then put whattheywant into the order directions. You hear?”
David’s breath smells like rancid coffee, and I fight down a wave of nausea as I turn my face away from him, holding my breath.
“I didn’t do anything–”
“One customer asked for no onions. You put ‘no lettuce.’ They actually got back in line and had us remake the fucking burger! And you rang in two Big Macs for an order that should have only had one.”
I give David a deadpan stare, fighting to contain my irritation. I read back both of those orders to the customers. If they were wrong, they should have told me before I sent the order. But David’s one of those the-customer-is-always-right types, willing to bitch out his employees rather than recognizing that sometimes customers are just plain dumb. I know I can’t say that though. It will only piss him off further and maybe get me sent home early, which is definitely not something I can afford this week.
“Get your shit together, Carlson, or I’m sending you home,” David snaps.
“Yes, sir,” I hiss as my eyes narrow into a glare.
David whirls on his heel and leaves me there, back against the wall, as I grind my teeth. A side glance from Rico tells me he heard the whole exchange, but he doesn’t say anything. And he won’t–at least not until he sees me on my next shift without David. We all hate the power-hungry night manager who gets off on scolding us like children, but god knows he has ears like a bat and would probably fire Rico just for offering me consolation.
With Ilya’s offer fresh on my mind, I’ve never been so tempted to talk back, to quit on the spot and give David a piece of my mind while I’m at it. Then I could call Ilya and simply accept his agreement, put all this inner turmoil behind me. But a decision that monumental shouldn’t be made in a moment of anger.
Fighting down my roiling resentment, I get back to work. Still, as I get on the headset once again and punch in my millionth kid’s meal of the night, I know I’m going to call Ilya. I haven’t made up my mind about the full offer, but I need to speak with him more about it. Maybe with more details, I’ll feel better about my decision one way or the other. And Ilya at least owes me a full explanation if he plans to have me enter into some official contract. Talking might even give me the opportunity to lay down a few of my own ground rules. At least I can hope.
Plan in place to call as soon as I’m off work, I push thoughts of Ilya from my mind as best I can and focus on my intensely boring job.
My shift ends at midnight, but the employee slated to take over my position at the window doesn’t show until almost 12:20, and David refuses to let me go until Hannah gets here. So by the time I finally clock out and storm through the glass double doors, leaving our 24-hour location without a backward glance, it’s nearly 12:30 in the morning. I’ll really be putting Ilya’s “day or night” call to the test.
Fingers shaking slightly as I pull up his contact information, I punch the call button before I lose my nerve, then press my phone to my ear as I walk purposefully home.
