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Samantha

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to move in this, Tressa.”

I smack my lips as I finish coating them in cherry-red lipstick and glance down at the dress that’s clinging to my body like someone has wrapped me in shiny black Saran wrap. “I can barely walk. How am I supposed to…dance in it?”

“You know, Sam, you’re my best friend,” Tressa says with that tone that lets me know there’s a but coming. “But sometimes I wonder if you have something wrong with your brain. You’re not dancing in it. You’re dancing in lingerie. You’re just wearing that into the club.”

“Er, right.” I frown and twist my body and feel the tiny excuse for underwear that I have on underneath the dress that is so thin and tight it’s basically like wearing another layer of skin. It’s nothing I’d ever be caught dead in. Normally it’s sweat pants, a T-shirt and Uggs. Yes, I still wear Uggs. They’re comfortable.

“You can still pull out if you want,” Tressa says. “I won’t hate you for it.”

“Right. Except that I can’t. Not unless you want us to get evicted next week.”

I’ve been living with Tressa since I was 16 when I ran away from home. You could say my parents were less than ideal. But I’m three months behind on our rent, and now that I’m 18, Tressa came up with the brilliant idea of having me join her at the strip club to make money off of my “fresh virgin ass.” Her words. Not mine.

She’s been dancing for three years now, so she knows the ropes. She’s prepped me on what to expect, but I’m still shaking as we go out to her car. She’s right; I do want to pull out, but I also want to have a place to live and I don’t see any other way of managing that. There’s not exactly a big market for girls who wish they were artists and think they can paint.

Tressa, who looks as calm as she usually does, glances over at me as she drives. “So, what do you say when they ask you your name?”

“I tell them it’s Roxy.”

“And if they ask you if that’s your real name?”

“I tell them they only get to know my real name after becoming a regular,” I reply, remembering what she told me this afternoon. “And if they want to be a regular, they have to have seen me at least ten times.”

“And…?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow. I think for a second, then it comes to me.

“And tip well.”

Tressa nods and clicks her tongue against her teeth. “That’s my girl.”

Tress is my best friend, and I think it’s because we’re complete opposites. She’s everything I’m not: confident, boisterous, comfortable in her own skin and fully aware of her own sexuality.

I, on the other hand, am shy, quiet, and have about as much experience with guys as I do with machine guns. The only reason I even have a boyfriend right now is because of her. Richard, or Dick as Tressa calls him, and I have been dating for a week and a half now. He’s friends with Tyler, Tressa’s boyfriend of two years, and she convinced me to give him a try so we could go on double-dates.

He’s okay, I guess. There’s no spark, but I’m starting to wonder if “the spark” really even exists or if it’s all just a big lie told by Hollywood and romance novel authors to get girls to spend their money.

My hands are shaking as Tressa pulls into the club and parks. Leave it to Beavers. I shake my head. I guess there are more comedians in San Diego than I realized.

“Tressa…what if I make like…fifty dollars?”

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