9. Blair

W hen I was a little girl, wanting to grow up too fast, I never realized that part of adulthood is dealing with never-ending piles of laundry. Like, how in the world does one never fully complete that task? It's the same thing with dishes, and I'm tired of this cycle. Maybe I should get us paper plates. At least then, I would never have to worry about a sink full of dishes again.

My entire morning has been spent returning our house to clean and orderly. When I finally finish deep-cleaning every room in our house, I reward myself with an iced coffee and five minutes of reading. Between work, school, and now tutoring, I never have time to read recreationally. Five minutes turns into ten minutes and then an hour. It's not my fault I get lost in the pages and can't escape even if I try.

Unfortunately, I can't mentally live inside of fictional worlds forever, and I have to face reality. I work tonight, and I know every dime will need to go toward our bills. My dad does the best he can. But since we moved and he accepted a new job at a different factory, he hasn't been making as much money, which is now even tighter than before.

I walk into the kitchen to see what still needs to be paid to keep us afloat. I like to keep all the bills pinned to the fridge with magnets so it's constantly in my face and reminding me to work harder and harder. Right now, we have two overdue payments that are top priority—electric and Wi-Fi.

Spinning around, I spot the shoebox I forgot to put back under my dad's bed while I was cleaning. Grabbing it, I meander to my dad's room and kneel beside the bed, sliding it underneath. Something fights me from pushing it back. Lifting the blanket, I find a shoebox in the way—looks like with work boots, based on the photo on the box—and push it, nearly launching it across the floor because it's a lot lighter than I expected.

Lying down on my stomach, I wiggle under the frame, grab on to the box, and pull it out. Sitting up, I crisscross my legs and set it in my lap, carefully placing my hands on the lid. I bet it's full of old photos. It wouldn't be the first time I found a bunch of pictures and memorabilia in a box.

When I lift the lid off of the box, my body chills, and my chest tightens so much that I can't breathe. The lid quivers in my hand as I fully process what I'm looking at.

Stacks of folded papers fill every inch of the box, all stamped with red ink. It's packed to the brim with late bills that I didn't even know existed. Pinching my brows together, I read where they are from and become even more confused. They're all medical bills, but that doesn't make sense. Dad hasn't said anything about going to the doctor. I know he hasn't been feeling one hundred percent lately, but he hasn't had an appointment on our shared calendar for months, so where is all of this coming from?

My ears begin to ring, and I feel like I'm going to be sick. Kicking my foot out, I come into contact with the little trash can by his bed. Dammit.

The full bin topples over, and all the contents spill out, including the endless wrappers of M you can keep everything covered."

I bite down sharply on my bottom lip, and the pressure begins to burn as I process what she's saying right now.

I'm not actually considering this, am I?

Kudos to the girls who dance. I will be the first person to cheer them on, but I physically don't know if my anxiety will let me get on that stage.

She smiles sympathetically and stands up. "I don't want to pressure you. But if you decide to, I need to fill a few time slots. So, I need to know within the next five to ten minutes."

My palms start sweating as I nod. "O-okay." As Margo is about to leave, I stop her. "Can I ask a question?"

She perks up instantly. "Yes, of course."

My eyes fall to my lap. I can't bear to hold her stare as my ego sinks to the floor. I'd love to stay behind the bar, but I desperately need the extra cash. "H-how much would I make?"

"That would depend on how long you're onstage and if the crowd likes what they see," she states casually.

Music floods the room as the door opens, and Chantel, one of the main dancers, walks in.

"Chantel, how much did you make from your last dance?" Margo asks her, and Chantel sashays over to us.

Her lips tip up, and a gleam of curiosity flashes in her eyes. "Blair, are you considering getting onstage? Oh my God! Yes, please! You would kill it out there!"

"Chantel, focus, please." Margo laughs.

She waves her hands. "Yeah, yeah. So, off the last dance, I made about five hundred dollars in tips, give or take. Average-size crowd, average excitement. But as a newcomer, you would rake in the cash."

Five hundred for one dance? That's more than I would make all night from bartending. Maybe letting go of this fear will feel freeing. It will be like taking ahold of a small piece of control in the chaos that has become my life.

Meeting Margo's eyes confidently, I say, "I'm in."

Margo claps and cheers, "Fuck yes! Chantel, get her ready. She's taking the stage in an hour. I'll get your announcer card ready. Do you want to go by Blair?"

When I stand to my feet, a bizarre wave of excitement tingles across my skin. "No. I'll go by Belle."