Page 1 of A Certain Appeal
CHAPTER
1
“It is aredacteduniversally acknowledged, that athrobbing redactedin possession of athick redactedmust be in want of aredacted.” Andrea bites out each “redacted” with a distaste that grows more resigned with every repetition, the final utterance leaving her on little more than a throaty British sigh. A Mad Libs sheet hangs limply between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, the page held away from her, as though to keep the vulgarity she so thoughtfully “redacted” from staining her white blouse.
She lowers her reading glasses to hang from the gold chain at her neck, eyes shifting to study each of us in turn. The Twins carry on with their stretches on the far side of the dressing room, Ginn slouching and bored in a front split, Tonic doing her best to look shocked as she holds cobra pose. Ming sits at a makeup station, feigning innocence, a row of false eyelashes dangling from her fingers like a cigarette.
“Dare I ask how this ended up on table two?” Andrea’s narrowed eyes land on me, and her lips flatten to a matte red line. With her severe black bob and alabaster skin, she looks like a cartoon villain even when she’s smiling; her current expression has me wondering which of us she plans to turn into a coat.
I shift side to side, the weave of my fishnets pressing into the ball of one foot, then the other. Ming did the Mad Libs last weekend, when I brought in the pad to play with between shows. She filled in every noun with the word “penis,” inspiring a debate about whether the repetition was funny or if she’d drained the novelty from the word. I argued she should have diversified, but now I’m not sure; Andrea’s lilting West Midlands accent gave the piece an almost musical quality, even with the substitution.
Still, I keep quiet, trying to feel her out. As the general manager of a venue with a burlesque show, Andrea deals with this degree of raunch on a near-nightly basis. Hell, she’s just as nasty as Ming.
She releases the page, letting it drift to the surface of the low file cabinet beside her. “I don’t care what you get into while you’re down here, but don’t bring the juvenile humor upstairs. It’s beneath you.”
Ming’s brows shoot up, and I choke back a laugh at the suggestion she’s above anything, let alone a dirty Mad Lib.
“Why are you grillingusabout this?” Ginn props her chin in her hands, elbows on the ground between her legs. “It could have been the guys in the band, or Jane—”
“The boys have more creative words for ‘penis,’ ” Andrea counters. I arch a brow at Ming, who rolls her eyes. “And Jane is a gentleman.”
“Plus, he dots his i’s with little circles,” I add brightly, hoping to defuse the tension. “He does it on our rent checks. It’s charming.”
Before Andrea’s eyes can properly beseech the ceiling fordeliverance, a gasp sounds from the supply closet across from us. The door swings open to reveal Jane, who’s the picture of refinement in his vest and trousers, the pale gray wool a striking contrast with his dark skin. The little closet is where he warms up his voice; I didn’t expect him to hear me.
Jane sags against the door frame, hand smoothing the Bic-close shave of his head as he sighs with dreamy affectation. “Kitten Caboodle, do you really think so?”
“You know I love your i’s, darling.” I blow him a kiss. He mimes catching it, clutching it to his heart, then tugs the door shut with a dramatic swoon.
His performance breaks us. The Twins collapse forward in their respective bends, giggling madly. Ming releases her wicked, machine-gun cackle that reduces me to snorts of laughter. Even Jane’s muffled chuckle comes from the closet.
“I’m sorry, Andrea.” I dab below my eyes to check that my makeup hasn’t run. “It was my fault. I used the pad as a writing surface when I did tonight’s reservation notes and a page must have fallen out.”
Andrea’s hands go to her broad hips. “Well, be careful. Our guests are here for a specific brand of titillation, not potty language.” She peers at the offending page. “For heaven’s sake, Ming, get a damn thesaurus.”
We dissolve into laughter again, Ming’s roar setting the beads of her shimmy belt rattling against the metal folding chair.
Andrea finally smirks. “Whatever am I going to do with you all?” She points at me. “You’re supposed to be the reliable one.”
“Hey, I just pick up panties,” I say, palms up in innocence.
She rolls her eyes. At a burlesque show, the responsibilities of the stage kitten can generally be reduced topick up what the others take off.In my two years here, my role has evolved to take on duties Andrea prefers not to do herself, talent wrangling included. But there’s only so much I can do about Ming’s base level of smut.
Andrea nods at the notes I hold. “There haven’t been any reservation changes, so what you have is current. Girls, have a great show.” Her smile drops. “This one counts.”
I open my mouth to ask what she means by that, but she shakes her head, patting me on the shoulder.
“Pop a pastie, luvs!” she calls, turning down the hallway.
“Pop a pastie,” we chorus, the others already back to their stretches and makeup.
I watch Andrea make her way down the hall, her usually purposeful stride more of a trudge. A sliver of anxiety weaves into my preshow jitters, but I have to shelve my concern. We have half an hour left, and there are a few things to cover before we’re stage-ready. “Ladies, family meeting.”
Ginn and Tonic look up expectantly. The aerialists are “Twins” in stage name only, as evidenced by their vastly different coloring, and have been been performing together since high school. They are also a rare exception to the show’s focus on classic burlesque, performing their peels suspended above the stage.
Ginn pulls her red hair into a messy bun. “Fire away, Kitten.”
“Should we get Jane?” Tonic asks.
