Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“No, but I can wait,” I call back, stowing my bag beneath the mail organizer. “Need help?”
“Just pour yourself some iced tea, hun,” she says, as if that’s the extent of her ambitions for my adult independence.
I set the table, methodically spacing the silverware, arranging napkins with a fastidiousness I catch from the inside but am powerless to stop. Dad is stationed in the living room, body formed to the contours of his La-Z-Boy, TV remote in a permanent nest of cheez-dust and golf tees. He’s watching something loud and brainless, letting it fill the space where conversation might otherwise try to take root.
At 6:30 sharp, Mom calls us to eat. The dinner is a Greatest Hits compilation: chicken breast, salad, some jiggly dessert involving marshmallows and canned pineapple. The three of us sit, exchanging the usual pleasantries. My role here is as prescribed as my job, just with a higher sugar content.
“So, how was work?” Mom asks, spearing a cherry tomato with surgical precision.
“Good. The firm has a big class-action going, so everyone’s a little frantic.” I arrange the words to sound busy but not overwhelmed, as if being a paralegal is the sort of thing that never stains your soul or makes you wish you could climb out of your own skin.
Dad doesn’t look up. “Your boss treating you alright? You’re not letting those lawyers run you ragged, are you?”
I smile. “They’d fall apart without me.”
He grunts, which in Dad-ese is basically ‘proud of you, kid.’
Mom leans in, lowering her voice like we’re plotting a heist. “Your cousin Matt got engaged. His fiancée is a dental hygienist. Isn’t that nice?”
“So happy for them,” I say, because that’s what I’m programmed to say.
Mom seems about to launch into a wedding registry tirade while throwing in hints about why I should think about getting my own fiancé, but I cut her off gently. “I’ve got a huge presentation to prep for tomorrow. I might go upstairs, if that’s okay?”
“Of course, honey. We don’t want to keep you,” she says, and Dad echoes it with another grunt, this one indicating permission to leave the table before the end of Wheel of Fortune.
I clean my plate, rinse it, and thank them both in the same breezy, undisturbed tone I’ve honed over years of hiding my frays. I’m three steps up the staircase when I hear Mom already phoning someone to share the news that I have ‘a big day tomorrow.’ If only they knew the truth.
Once I’m inside my bedroom—still pink around the edges from a previous life—I flip the lock, then wedge my desk chair under the handle for insurance. The walls are plastered with reminders of who I was supposed to be: honor roll certificates, a watercolor of Lake Itasca, a shelf of decapitated Breyer horses. I ignore them, heading instead to the closet, where I kneel and feel for the false panel in the floor.
Underneath: a steel box, a webcam the size of a robin’s egg, two ring lights, and a battered makeup kit. I know it looks like I’m John Wick retrieving weapons and cash from a buried vault, and I am in a way, except that my weapons aren’t guns and ammunition. My weapons are lights, camera, and action, and I love it. Don’t get me wrong because the first time I set this up, my hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the camera. Now it’s a ritual: I snap the tripod together, check the angles, make sure nothing in the background will betray me. My laptop comes out next. I place it on my desk, angled so the camera never captures my face, only from the chin down—shoulders, collarbones, the necessary flesh.
I shed my work uniform as my heart races: blouse unbuttoned, skirt peeled away, hose abandoned in a limp coil. Next comes the transformation. Smoky shadow on my lids, a perfectly-drawn cat-eye, and a pink lipstick that emphasizes my pillow pout. I strap on a black lace bra that hugs my huge girls, and a matching G-string that bisects the perfect peach of my ass. The ring lights go on, and poof! Eliza Shaw vanishes. In her place is BunnySnowGirl, performer extraordinaire.
I breathe in once, twice, and let my heartbeat settle into the rhythm of anticipation. Then I open my laptop, navigate to the cam site, and log in. The username is one nobody in St. Cloud would recognize, but in certain online circles it’s practically a legend. I see the private messages lighting up already: three regulars, two new ones, all eager and chatty. Their requests range from the vanilla to the super X-rated.
I check my boobs, tuck a golden strand of hair behind one ear, and then smile coyly.
When the chatroom window opens, I say, “Hey, darlings. Did you miss me?” My voice is lower, breathier, the first real part of me to show itself all day. And just like that, the day’s numbness slips away. Here, no one asks about my cousin’s engagement, or if my boss is nice. Here, I get to choose who I am, every second.