12. Lizzie
12
LIZZIE
D ay of the competition. Earlier that day.
D amn, am I exhausted .
It has been weeks since Dillan and I hooked up, and I spend every moment I’m not working practicing for the competition and sewing my costume. Each night I pass out before my head hits the pillow, and it takes me longer to get out of bed the next morning.
My thoughts of that night with Dillan Maxwell become less and less frequent as more important things take its place. Marlene had had a bit of a setback when one of the girls she hired decided not to take the job, and another had quit after only a week. As such, she had asked several of us to work overtime to fill in, and since that often means a lot more money, I immediately offered.
I don’t usually have regrets, but after working about seventy hours in one week, I definitely wish I hadn’t volunteered to work more.
“You don’t look so good,” Pippa comments when I shuffle out of my room.
“I don’t feel it,” I admit. “I’m flippin’ tired.”
“I’m not surprised. You’ve been working yourself to death. Elizabeth Caroline Moore, you need a break.”
“Not possible. Things are just amping up at work. Not to mention I won’t get any vacation days for some time.”
I open the refrigerator, but my stomach churns at the idea of eating anything. The competition is tonight, and I’m a nervous wreck.
“I get that, but you need to rest when you get home,” Pippa says. “You’re burning the candle at both ends.”
“I’m fine, Pippa Mildred Sanchez. I promise.” I close the refrigerator without grabbing anything.
“I’m not dropping this.”
“But I said the magic word,” I whine. Yes, I actually whine.
“I don’t care.” Pippa sounds more serious than I’ve ever heard her before. “That word doesn’t work when it comes to your health.”
“My health is fine,” I insist.
“Doubt it. You’re super pale, and you’ve barely been eating. Your boobs look smaller.”
“They do not.”
“They sure do.”
“Stop looking at my boobs .”
“Ooookay.”
“I’m just not hungry.” It’s too damn early for such a serious conversation. I’m irritated with her for starting on me the second I woke up. “Get off my back, Pippa. I’m not in the mood.”
She raises her eyebrows at my tone.
My words had come out much harsher than I intended. I sigh and rub my tired eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
Pippa pulls me into a hug. “I know. And I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. I’m just really worried about you.”
“Once the competition is over, things should ease up a bit. I hope.”
“You hope?”
“I mean, we’re still busy, and one of the girls left, so staff-wise we’re a little short…”
“Lizzie, you can’t keep going this way. I know you want to work, but saving money shouldn’t come at the expense of your health.”
“I can handle it, Pippa.”
She huffs in annoyance. “Clearly, you can’t! Over the last few weeks, I’ve seen a perfectly healthy woman start to waste away.”
My annoyance resurges, and I’ve got to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at her again. “You’re being dramatic. I don’t look that bad.”
“You don’t look great either. At least promise me you’ll get some sleep tonight. You’re not working tomorrow, and I want you to take full advantage.”
Sleep sounds wonderful, and since I really can’t argue with the idea of staying in bed all day, I concede with a nod. “Done. I promise.” It will also help that I finished sewing my costume and will be purchasing the next ones, even if that means more spending and less savings for my studio.
That seems to satisfy Pippa, and she gives me another hug. “All right, good.”
I t takes me a lot longer to get ready for work than usual. By the time I reach the club, I’m alert with nervous, twitchy energy. The second cup of coffee had likely been a mistake because I can’t sit still. Of course, nerves also have something to do with it.
I got this, I tell myself as I put my stuff down at my changing station. I’ve practiced for weeks. I know all the moves. And my costume is killing it.
I’m wearing a knee-length, fringed sequin dress that I’ve attached with snaps so I can remove it with a single flick of the wrist. Black hold-ups, French knickers (instead of a thong like most dancers would wear), and pasties for my nipples are the basic equipment. There are also black gloves that reach above my elbows, a half mask, and a wig. It’s the striking statement piece I’ve been searching for: The red bob is the perfect 1920s hairstyle and burns like fire in the stage lights. It not only brings a touch of theatricality to my burlesque costume but also serves as my secret weapon. It grabs attention, frames my face, and will make the whole performance pop. Ha! Lots of eyeliner and heavy makeup hide the shadows of tiredness under my eyes.
The first time I look at myself in the mirror, fully styled, I hardly recognize myself. Not only is my appearance dramatic and sexy as hell, it’s also fairly unique.
I’m going to do great.
I’ve never had so much riding on a dance competition before. Five thousand dollars is a hell of a lot of money and would go such a long way. I’d be able to afford the security deposit on a studio without having to dip into my savings. Not to mention it’d give me some measure of job security.
The dressing room is filled with nervous, excited energy as the other girls start to arrive. Alexis and Lori are on either side of me, and though we typically get along, today is filled with tense silence. Normally, we’re all incredibly supportive and encouraging to each other (apart from Bella), but today feels different. Today, there’s a lot of money at stake.
Bella is unusually upbeat and chipper when she strolls in. Unfortunately, her natural smugness is also amped up. “Hello, ladies. You ready for today?” she asks.
There are grumbles and greetings, but I ignore her completely, too focused on working on the finishing touches of my wardrobe.
I scan the room, proud that my costume choice is different to the others.
“Isn’t the point of this to show skin?” Bella asks with a haughty sneer as she passes my station.
“Actually, no .” Explaining to Bella, a former stripper, that burlesque isn’t the same as stripping feels like teaching advanced calculus to someone struggling with basic addition. Clearly, she hasn’t quite figured it out yet. “And, Bella, just this once, how about you mind your own business?”
Typically, I never engage in her pettiness, but today is not the day to cross me. I’m running on nerves, caffeine, and very little sleep. If I can barely contain my snippiness with Pippa, I sure as hell won’t be able to with Bella.
She seems delighted that I’ve taken the bait. With a predatory grin, she pauses and directs her attention to me. “Oh, does the newbie have something to say?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I set down my mask and whirl to face her. “Do you really have nothing better to do than to try and put all of us down all the time? Are you really so self-conscious that you can’t stomach the thought of other people having the spotlight? If so, here’s a tip: fucking knock it off. We’re all tense. We’re all tired of hearing your bullshit. We’ve got better things to do than be dragged into your selfish insecurities.”
Boom . Take that, Bella.
I don’t know what she expected me to say, but it clearly wasn’t that. Her smug smile drops, and her mouth falls open slightly in surprise. It’s so quiet in the room that you can hear a pin drop as the other ladies either stop to see what’s happening or continue about their business as if they hadn’t heard.
“Selfish? Insecure?” she repeats, her voice rising several octaves. “I’ll have you know, Elizabeth , that I’m perfectly confident, thank you very much.”
“Cool. Good for you. How about you shut up then and leave us alone?”
I purposefully turn away from her, done with the conversation. My stomach has begun to churn again. I hate conflict and confrontation—both make me physically ill. In fact, snapping at Bella is entirely out of character for me. Between that and my grumpiness with Pippa, my tolerance for bullshit is incredibly low at the moment. Deep down, I hope and pray Bella will move on, and for once, luck seems to be on my side because Marlene, the club’s manager, enters the room.
She must have heard what’s going on because all she says is, “Bella, move along and get ready for the competition. We don’t have time for arguing.”
Marlene is one of the few people Bella listens to, and I let out a small exhale of relief as she follows our supervisor’s instructions. I half-expect Marlene to pull me aside and talk to me, but she apparently doesn’t find it necessary. All she does is pat me on the shoulder as she walks past, giving me a reassuring smile.
Once she’s out of earshot, Alexis leans toward me and whispers, “That was awesome. You’re totally my hero.”
I laugh for the first time in days, guilt and anxiety melting away.
After that little squabble, the energy seems to lighten a bit. The girls start talking to each other again, offering tips and suggestions to one another. Except Bella, of course. She remains at her own station, ignoring everyone else.
As time slowly ticks by, my stomach grows more uneasy. Even as I put my mask over my eyes, my hands are shaking, and the room spins. I don’t realize I’m swaying until Lori’s arms come around to catch me from stumbling.
“Whoa, Lizzie, you all right?” she asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I assure her, brushing off the concern. “Just a bit nervous.”
“Don’t worry about it. And don’t let Bella get into your head,” she says, helping me secure my dress with the numerous strategically placed snaps. “You look amazing, your titties are on point, and I know your dancing is going to be great. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you win.”
“Thanks, that’s very sweet of you. You look great too.”
And she does. She’s dressed in a flowing lingerie number that accentuates her hourglass figure and large breasts. “Thank you! Where did this dress come from, by the way?” Her gaze glides admiringly over my costume. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“I made it myself,” I say, unable to hide a bit of pride singing in my voice.
Lori appears impressed. “Oh, you totally are going to win!”
Normally, I’d have graciously accepted the compliment with a witty remark, but I don’t feel up to it. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll get sick all over myself.
Marlene pokes her head into the room, and when her eyes land on me, I know it’s time. “About fifteen minutes,” she says.
I got this.
I’m going to win.
The words play on a loop in my brain as I head for the stage.
Already, I can hear the crowd whistling and roaring with excitement. Their energy is enough to push away my nerves and finally give me the boost I need. With every step, I find my confidence return, and by the time I’m taking my place, I’m ready.
Three or four more girls before me, and then it’s my turn.