“Tessa Turner.”
“But what’s your real name?”
“That is my real name.”
“It sounds like a stripper name.”
“Then I guess I was meant for the job.”
He didn’t give her any preparation after he hired her. Once he deemed her boobs “big enough” and legs “dancer-like” enough for his taste, he instructed her to “just watch a couple of the others” and, between cigarette puffs, suggested she go out and buy herself some heels, “and a thong wouldn’t hurt, too.”
Tessa wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, or maybe scream, she wasn’t sure. But she knew this was her best option, and she was willing to take her chances. Anything she could do to get away from home, make some money, and have a real chance at supporting herself.
The club itself was laughable: maximum capacity probably shouldn’t hold beyond 40, as if they were ever able to muster up that big of a crowd in middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. The tables creaked when any ounce landed on top of them — beers and fries were never safe, but at that point, it didn’t even matter; customers were too interested in the show anyway. Plus, the wobbly tables were good for business: the more spilled, the more refills sold, the more wallets dropped and loose change scattered. The whole building reeked of cheap cologne and Windex that at least kept the worker’s stations clean, never mind the grime where the customers sat.
They had some old costumes in the back that her new boss instructed her to look through if she couldn’t get something of her own before tomorrow’s first shift. Tessa was sure they had never been washed. Sorry, not costumes. Uniforms. This was her job, this was her performance.
Tessa rummaged through the hangers and bins of old shimmery fabrics small enough for a toddler. She almost missed the tight, revealing leotards she never felt comfortable in.
These heels didn’t quite fit right. She was so used to being en pointe, yet the angle of the shoe caused her toes to curl unnaturally, squeezing themselves inhumanly into the open front of her new sparkling platforms. Her toenails were never painted before, barren compared to her coworkers. She had never before been exposed. She was battered and bruised.
It was embarrassing. She didn’t belong here; she had potential, she had a future ahead of her, and she gave it all up for this. Suddenly her get-rich-quick scheme felt like a joke, she was in way over her head. Of course, she could just go home and tell her parents the truth, that she couldn’t return to the University of Arts because her leg didn’t recover quickly enough, that she wanted to get a job to support herself, that she didn’t even like ballet, she just did it to make Mom happy.
But she could never own up to that. She was in too deep, anyway. At least this way she could keep dancing and didn’t have to live up to the potential everyone expected her to carry out.
Cindy Rodi is a third-year English major and music minor at Penn State. She is in Schreyer Honors College, and she is an active member of the Blue Band as a piccolo player. She loves writing, and even works at the Penn State Writing Center as a peer tutor. In her free time, she enjoys makeup, crafting, music and Netflix. She can be found on Instagram @cindyrodi.