2. Naomi
NAOMI
I tug at the hem of my skirt for the eleventh time in as many minutes.
It is, technically, the only part of this work uniform that actually fits.
The “approved” black top gapes over my cleavage like it’s trying to fall off and the flats they said were “absolutely mandatory for health and safety” feel like they’re manufactured from petrified wood.
You could park a freaking Mini Cooper in my cleavage and nobody would even notice the car.
From the neck up, I look like myself. From the neck down, I look like a cocktail waitress at a mafia-run casino.
I try a spin in the full-length mirror, checking all the angles.
The black skirt is clingy, shorter than anything I ever wore in LA, and has a habit of riding up whenever I move.
There’s no hiding my hips or my ass. Both of them are present, accounted for, and, at this moment, staring back at me in the reflective glass with more confidence than I actually feel.
The moment is interrupted by the unmistakable thump of my mother’s footsteps pounding up the stairs.
June Bardot does not tiptoe, she invades.
Her fists rap once on my door before she bursts in with the energy of a woman who has spent a lifetime herding daughters and putting out the emotional fires they start.
“God above, Naomi, is that the skirt they issued you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s already halfway across the room, hands reaching out to pinch the hem between her fingers. “This is a cocktail napkin, not a skirt. Are you sure they don’t have you confused with the entertainment?”
I dodge her hands and snatch at the waistband, laughing. “It’s the uniform, Mom. It’s required. They want ‘upscale, non-threatening, and on brand.’” I do jazz hands on the last phrase. “And before you ask, no, I do not get tips for showing extra thigh.”
My mother squints at me, skeptical. “I’m going to find your old ballet tights,” she mutters, already mentally ransacking the deepest recesses of my closet.
“Hopefully they can hide a little of what that skirt is displaying.” She tugs the skirt down another half-inch, as if the fabric will surrender to pure maternal will.
My mother and I look nothing alike, except for the hair. She’s all soft edges and a faded prettiness that hints at prom queens and picnic dates, a gentle fortitude radiating from her every pore. I am not gentle. My figure is the definition of “problematic.”
She steps back, hands on hips, and gives me the kind of head-to-toe scan usually reserved for drug sniffing dogs at the airport. “Wear a cardigan,” she decrees. “You’ll thank me. It gets cold in air conditioning and some of those rich weirdos will get ideas.”
I roll my eyes, digging around my closet for the ancient black cardigan I haven’t worn since the third week of community college. “I’m working, not dating,” I remind her. “And the dress code is non-negotiable.”
My mother doesn’t buy it, but she’s distracted by the parade of shoes lined up under my bed. She bends down to straighten a pair of boots, then stands and smooths the front of her own slacks with a sigh.
The doorway darkens as Casey appears, grinning at the familiar scene.
My little sister has always been the queen of entrances, and tonight she’s in rare form.
I can’t believe she got the bleach-blonde hair with pink tips past June Bardot.
More power to her, I guess. Her ripped vintage t-shirt, and tight jeans looks like they might be cutting off circulation.
I’m not surprised to see the glittery phone case clutched in one hand.
“Well, well, well,” she purrs, arms folded and leaning against the doorframe, “if it isn’t the grand debut of Silver Spoon Falls’ very own cocktail dominatrix.”
Our mother snorts in exasperation, slapping her palm against her forehead. “Casey, for heaven’s sake.”
“Just saying what we’re all thinking,” Casey chirps, then points at my shoes. “You wearing those clunky flats? You’ll never catch a sugar daddy in orthopedic footwear, Nomes.”
“That’s the whole point,” I roll my eyes dramatically. “I’m there to serve drinks, not audition for The Bachelor Leather and Lace Edition.”
Casey giggles, which makes me want to both punch her and hug her, and in our family, that’s basically how we say I love you.
She flops onto my unmade bed, catlike, and starts scrolling her phone without breaking eye contact.
“You’re gonna see so much weird shit tonight,” she announces, her voice pure delight.
“Is it true that they have, like, a dungeon?”
“That’s the rumor.” I tell my sister. “But I won’t really be seeing any of that stuff. My job is to serve drinks in the bar area. The rest of the club and the play areas are all off limits to the bar staff.” I regurgitate the spiel Roman Sterling gave me.
My mother ignores me as her voice drops into her, I really don’t want to hear this tone. “Casey Lynnette, stop with your questions. This is a respectable job?—”
I choke on my own spit. “The ad said ‘exclusive’ and ‘private club,’” I interject. “They didn’t say respectable.”
My mother shoots me a death glare. “You know what I mean. It’s honest work. There’s nothing wrong with waitressing. It paid my way through college.”
Casey looks up, phone still in hand. “You worked at Applebee’s, Mom. Not, like, the world’s swankiest BDSM playground.”
“That’s enough,” June says, voice steely and I notice the sweat breaking out on her forehead. My ever-supportive mother is trying to keep her cool but I can tell it’s wearing on her.
But Casey’s on a roll. “Are you gonna have a stage name, like ‘Red Robin’ or ‘Mistress Bardot’? That would be iconic.”
“Pretty sure they just call me ‘Naomi,’” I reply.
“But thanks for the confidence boost.” I pull on the ancient cardigan and button it up, only for it to gape at the chest anyway.
My girls are not easily contained. At least it will mostly cover them so I don’t walk through downtown Silver Spoon Falls looking like I’m about to stand on the street corner and look for business.
I check the mirror again and try not to cringe.
My cheeks are flushed, not from embarrassment but from the persistent, throbbing hum of anxiety that comes with starting anything new.
When I left for California, I pictured myself walking all the red carpets.
When I came home, I pictured myself teaching high school drama and dating some guy with a Subaru and a rescue dog. I never once imagined this.
Casey picks up a pillow and hugs it to her chest. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re rich and infamous.” She flashes me a rare, earnest smile. “For real, Nomes. You got this.”
Even my mother softens, the battle over.
“Call when you’re on your way home, even if it’s late.
And don’t accept drinks from anyone unless you pour it yourself.
” That’s easy to promise. Raven and Roman Sterling made it very clear that I’m there to serve the members drinks, not make friends or participate.
“Yes, Mom,” I say, giving her a sideways squeeze.
She takes a step back and beams at both of us, but there’s a flicker of worry behind her smile. I think she wants to say something else but she just pats my shoulder, straightens my cardigan one last time, and leaves.
Casey lingers, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So… if you catch anyone famous doing something scandalous, you have to tell me, okay?”
“Not happening,” I say, scooping up my purse. That was another thing the Sterlings insisted on—I had to sign an iron-clad NDA.
She grins. “Not yet, anyway.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile, and head for the stairs. Behind me, I hear Casey call out, “Go break a leg, Mistress Bardot!” as my mother shushes her.
It’s not Hollywood, but it’s home. And that’s even better. When I moved away after high school, I had no idea how much I’d miss my family and hometown.
I thought I’d find fame and fortune in Hollywood but all I found was utter disappointment.
I tried out for every freaking part my agent could find.
I did it again, and again, and again, until I learned that “sexier” just meant “skinnier and less like yourself.” The acting gigs dried up as soon as I ran out of patience, and the bills didn’t stop just because I was out of work.
One month I was background in a car commercial, the next I was eating cold noodles at midnight and calling my mom to beg to come home.
By the time I actually admitted defeat and bought a one-way ticket home, the version of Naomi Bardot who left Silver Spoon Falls at nineteen was already dead. All that was left was the girl in the mirror, praying her new job wouldn’t require latex gloves or pole dancing skills.
I pause in my makeup, stare at myself, and try to picture any possible future version that doesn’t look so…
temporary. The only thing I can conjure is tonight, and maybe tomorrow, and then the next day after that.
“One shift at a time,” I tell my reflection, and she rolls her eyes but lets me finish the mascara anyway.
“Naomi! You’re going to be late if you don’t get moving!” Mom’s voice is a rocket blast from downstairs, and I can practically feel her hovering by the front door, clutching the Tupperware of dinner she’s definitely packed for me.
I throw the last few essentials in my battered purse, lip gloss, wallet, pepper spray, breath mints, and two pens then I snap the bag closed.
I pause at the doorway and look back at my childhood bedroom.
It still looks like a Pepto Bismol bottle threw up in it, it’s still plastered with theater posters and old Playbills and there’s a weird comfort in knowing I’ll probably never get around to redecorating.
At the bottom of the stairs, my mom is waiting with a bright orange Tupperware bowl in hand. The smell of her homemade chicken salad hits me before her lecture does.