Jasmine Read online

  “Sure,” I said. Did I do okay? I wondered.

  I bundled up in my sweats and was about to leave.

  “Jazz,” he said. “You are my muse, baby. We are going to rock this town.”

  His words rang in my head as I crossed the parking lot to my car. The autumn sun hung swollen and red, just glancing off the mountains in the distance. I had never felt so in love before, in love with myself, with life, with the universe, and every living thing. I wanted to call somebody, but who? Not Mom, she wouldn’t understand what I was feeling. Life was one big disappointment to her; she wouldn’t be happy for me. I hadn’t made any close friends at school; I didn’t really know anybody in town. At that moment, I made a vow to change that—meet people, make a friend. Maybe I’ll find a friend in the show, I thought.

  As I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building, my neighbor, Mrs. Meacham, was unloading bags of groceries from her trunk. Mrs. Meacham was a retired schoolteacher in her late sixties. Her daughter had moved to Los Angeles and she was living alone.

  “Mrs. Meacham!” I called out. “Let me help you.”

  As we climbed the stairs to the second floor apartments, Mrs. Meacham asked, “Are you just getting home from school?” She knew I was a student at UNLV.

  “Actually, I’ve had the most amazing day,” I said.

  “Well, isn’t that wonderful,” she said as she unlocked her apartment door. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “Sure,” I said. “As long as you let me help with the cooking.” Grateful for the audience, I poured my story out as I unpacked the groceries and boiled the pasta.

  “Does this mean you’ll be dropping out of school?” Mrs. Meacham asked.

  “Hell, no!” I said. “Sorry. It’s just that my mom never finished college. Ever since I was little, I knew that I had to go to college and learn about business so I wouldn’t end up driving a bus like her. But being a dancer is like being an athlete. I know I won’t be able to dance forever. I need to figure out how to make a business out of it.”

  “Smart cookie,” Mrs. Meacham said.

  “Mom, you’re not going to believe it,” I said into the phone. “I made it! I’m in the show. Five nights a week. I’m making enough money to pay rent and tuition—no more student loans!”

  “Wait until I tell your Grandma!” Mom said. “She never believed in you. But I did, didn’t I? When does it open? We’ll come out for a visit, Grandma and me.”

  “Um,” I said. Oh shit! I never thought Mom would actually come to Vegas to see me dance.

  “We’ll do a little gambling, a little shopping.” Mom was still talking. “It’s been too long since we took a vacation. And Grandma misses you.”

  “It’s too early, Mom,” I lied. “Eddie—that’s the director—he’s still making changes. I’ll call you when everything is ready. Bye, Mom.”

  Somehow Eddie had found five other dark-skinned dancers to back me up. Some days I wondered whether we were being exploited—the black chicks were the naked ones on stage—but on other days I felt so grateful for the opportunity to make some money and pay down my debt, while doing what I loved.

  We rehearsed every day for five hours, finally quitting at nine thirty p.m. Then I drove my ten-year-old Miata the two miles back to my one-bedroom apartment at South Cove. I lived on the second floor overlooking the pool. Generally, the place was pretty quiet except for the occasional drunken pool party—then the howls and crash of glass meeting cement would echo in the courtyard, making it hard to concentrate on my homework.

  I was late to class on more than one occasion. Professor Weed seemed to be keeping an eye out for me and would unlock the door as I approached. As usual, there were one or two guys sliding in right behind me.

  One day, as he called my name for roll call, Professor Weed said, “See me after class.”

  There was a line of students waiting to talk to Weed. I hung back and waited until they were gone.

  “You wanted to speak to me?” I asked.

  “Jasmine, your grade on the last test was quite disappointing,” he said. “Not up to your usual standard. You haven’t taken advantage of my office hours. Is there anything going on? Anything I can help you with?”

  Pervy Weed, I thought. That’s what you want—to get me alone in your office.

  “I’m sorry, Professor Weed,” I said. “It’s my job—I’ve been working nights to pay for my rent and tuition.”

  “Can you cut back on your hours?” Weed asked. “Maybe a little more time to focus on your studies?”

  “No,” I said. Oh, hell, tell him the truth, she thought. “I’m dancing in a show on the Strip. We’re opening next week and I have to be there from eight to twelve, five nights a week. We’re off on Mondays and Fridays. I promise I’ll catch up.”

  “I see.” Weed shuffled through papers for a long minute and then looked up.

  “Jasmine,” he said at last. “I’m sure this is a great opportunity for you. Clearly, you are a talented dancer. But you need to make a choice. I would recommend that you focus on your schoolwork right now. Finish your degree and then dance for a few years. Dancing is the kind of career that won’t last that long. Five, maybe ten years if you are lucky. Your degree in accounting will last you a lifetime.”

  “I’m sure you know this,” Weed said, “but grades matter to get a good job with a top accounting firm, or even in a corporate accounting department. They’re looking for A students. I know you have the potential. I don’t want to see it go to waste.”

  Maybe Weed wasn’t such a perv after all? Maybe he actually saw me as a gifted student? Maybe I was just exhausted, but I started to tear up. I was under a lot of pressure.

  “I’m sorry, Professor Weed. I truly am. I appreciate your faith in me. I really want this. And I will make it up to you.”

  FOUR

  ONCE THE SHOW OPENED, THINGS SEEMED TO FALL INTO place. We performed Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday at ten p.m. Stage call was at eight, and I was in bed by one a.m. I spent my afternoons at the library and wrote a couple of extra papers to improve my grades. I was feeling pretty good about things.

  Eddie had lied about putting my name on the marquee. Instead they added the words “Exotic, Erotic” and the silhouette—a caricature, really—of a black woman. That was probably better, anyway. Ginger’s warning about maintaining my anonymity came to mind every time I returned home to find a rowdy pool party going on. The whistles and catcalls were bad enough without them thinking that I was working as a stripper. And I certainly didn’t want Mom Googling Bacchanal and stumbling upon illicit videos. The ones on the Bally’s website were bad enough, even though it looked like they were shot slightly out of focus.

  But all in all, I was pretty proud of myself. I was dancing in a hit show, earning combat pay, and maintaining an A- average. I felt like I had really hit my stride.

  The show had been running for several weeks, and the late show was a sell-out every night. It was a Thursday night and the dressing room was buzzing about a Christmas party at Eddie’s house.

  “Are you going?” my friend Katrina asked. Katrina was a big Swedish blonde, in her thirties; she stood at least six feet in heels. She spoke with a bit of a lilt—she was from Minnesota I think.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” I said. “All I have are my sweats.”

  “You should keep a dress and heels in your bag,” Katrina said. “You never know when it might be date night.”

  “Date night!” I said. “I haven’t had a date in two years.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t walk around in sweats all the time,” Katrina said, laughing.

  “Who has time?” I asked. “I can’t even imagine trying to fit a boyfriend into my life right now.”

  “Who’s talking about a boyfriend?” Katrina said.

  I was heading to the stage door when Eddie came around the corner. He was dressed in his usual getup: black jeans, mock turtle, and expensive-looking Italian leather j
acket.

  “Jazz!” he said. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Really, where had he looked?

  “Big party at my place tonight—can I give you a ride?”

  I felt like such a slob in my sweats and Uggs. “Um,” I said. “I’d love to, but I can’t go like this.”

  “No,” he said, “Of course not. Go to Rousso’s shop in the mall—use my house account.” Eddie pulled out his phone and texted the shop to say that Jasmine was on her way.

  “Eddie, what are you doing?”

  “It’s done,” Eddie said. “The girl is expecting you. Get yourself something pretty. Something sparkly. It’s Christmas!”

  “Eddie, I can’t accept this,” I said.

  “It’s Christmas,” he repeated.

  Okay, it’s Christmas; my boss sent me shopping as a Christmas gift. As creepy as it seemed that Eddie had a house account at a women’s dress shop in Bally’s, I couldn’t resist the urge to splurge. Every day as I walked past the fancy, high-end shops in the casino and drooled over the dresses in the windows, I fantasized about what it would be like to have money some day. I had always wondered what it would be like to walk in and slap down some plastic and pick out whatever I wanted. Here was my chance! And you know what, I liked it! I didn’t care that the shop lady was eyeing me like I was a call girl. I found a hot little number in dusty blue silk, a pair of strappy sandals and some dangly crystal earrings. I felt pretty, and suddenly, I was in the mood to party. I didn’t want to think about the possible strings attached, any expectations that Eddie might have.

  In front of Eddie’s place, I parked my Miata next to someone’s Bentley. Whatever—nobody told me not to! The house was all lit up and music was coming from the pool area out back. The front door was unlocked and I walked in like I owned the place. I thought, if only Mom could see me now. This was a lifestyle that I could get used to. A waiter in a tux approached with a tray of glasses of champagne. I took one and walked down a long, tiled hallway toward the music.

  Outside the stars sparkled in the sky and the moonbeams bounced off the ripples in the pool. There were people dancing, laughing, and circulating on the pool deck. A few people had stripped off their clothes and were floating in the pool. I stood by the bar holding my glass, hoping I would recognize someone and they would rescue me. I saw Eddie sitting on the stairs in the shallow end talking to Katrina. When he saw me, he stood up and climbed out of the pool, completely naked. He was walking toward me. I looked for a place to hide, but it was too late.

  “Jazz!” he said. “You came.”

  I didn’t know where to look. “Uh, hi,” I said. Man, this is awkward.

  “Come in the pool,” he said. “The water is nice.”

  I made some feeble excuses—it was a new dress; I had just done my make-up—to no avail. The next thing I knew, he was tugging at the zipper on my dress.

  “Eddie!” I cried. “Cut it out. You’re getting water on me!”

  “My dress, right?” Eddie said. “My store account?”

  Just then, I realized what a mistake I had made by accepting the dress. I felt everyone watching as he unzipped my dress and it fell to my ankles. Sure, I have gotten used to performing topless on stage but here I am off the clock! I have boundaries!

  Eddie took my hand and dragged me toward the steps into the pool. He was giving me no choice.

  “Wait, my sandals!” I don’t want to ruin these babies, I thought. I slipped them off and followed him down the steps and into the pool. I just wanted to disappear into the dark water. And you know, he was right. The water was nice. It had been a long week of work and school and my muscles were sore. It felt great to float and gaze up into the night sky. Well, it would have felt better if his hands hadn’t been all over me. One minute I felt like a million bucks in my pretty silk dress and heels. The next I was just a piece of meat being manhandled by a brute. He was pulling at my panties and groping my vagina.

  “Eddie!” I cried. “Cut it out.” I pushed his hands away.

  “What’s the matter, baby?” he asked, grabbing my arm. “Just lie back and relax. Look up. Enjoy the stars.”

  “I think I need to get out of the pool,” I said. I pushed him away and swam toward the ladder.

  “Jazz,” he said. “Come back. I promise I won’t touch you.”

  I clung to the ladder and thought, what do I do now? I need a towel or a robe. Why did I get into the pool? How do I get out of here gracefully?

  A waiter walked by.

  “Do you have towels?” I asked.

  “No ma’am,” he said. “Just drinks.”

  He offered me a glass of champagne and I took it and downed it, still clinging to the ladder. My head was starting to spin.

  Suddenly, Eddie was right behind me.

  “Jazz, baby,” he said. “Don’t go. The water is nice, isn’t it?”

  Oh, God, please get away from me, I thought. “I’d like to get out. Are there any towels?”

  “Let me get you another drink,” he said. “Relax. Everything is okay.”

  I don’t remember anything else that night.

  FIVE

  I WOKE UP IN A STRANGE BED, NAKED. I PRESSED MY hands to my eyes to block out the bright sun and racked my brain. Where am I? How did I get here? Slowly the memories came back—the show, the dress, the party, and the pool. I must still be at Eddie’s house, I thought. But where are my clothes? I got up and found the bathroom. There was a pink (!) robe hanging on the back of the door. I slipped it on and washed my face and tried to fluff up my hair. Where are my clothes? I wondered again. Where is my bag? Please tell me nothing happened last night! But I felt sore and bruised and I feared the worst. Maybe I slipped and fell? I hope I didn’t embarrass myself last night. All I could think was that I wanted to go home and climb into bed and block the whole night out of my memory.

  I poked my head outside of the bedroom door and smelled coffee. I tiptoed downstairs and there was Eddie, standing in the kitchen in a white terrycloth robe with his back to me. He turned around.

  “Good morning!” he said.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Where are my clothes?”

  “You had a little too much champagne last night,” he said. “I tucked you into bed. Your clothes are on the sofa.” He pointed toward the living room. “Everything is cool. Do you want some coffee? A bagel?”

  Everything is cool? What is that supposed to mean? My head was pounding and I ached all over. I needed to put something in my stomach. “A bagel would be great.”

  Eddie had set the table out by the pool. I dug my sunglasses out of my bag and walked outside. The warmth of the sun soothed my throbbing temples. What day is it?

  Eddie brought out a tray. “How do you like your coffee?” he asked.

  “Black, please,” I said.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “Why did you put me to bed naked?” I asked.

  “You fell asleep in the pool,” he said. “What was I going to do, try to put your clothes back on?”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “I only had one glass of champagne—maybe two.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “What day is this?” I asked. “Do we have a curtain call at eight?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s Friday. We’re off until tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. I felt stupid for not knowing that it was Friday. I finished the bagel and took a couple of sips of coffee. “I guess I’ll go then.”

  I gathered my clothes and dressed in the powder room. I could only find one earring. I was bummed—I really liked those earrings. But I didn’t want to go fishing around upstairs—God only knows what I’d find—some other girl’s earring, I suppose. I hung the robe on the back of the door. I wondered, briefly, to whom it belonged, but then quickly dismissed the thought. I wanted to flush the whole night from my memory bank. I hadn’t been fired, as far as I could tell. I wanted to leave on a high note.

  “Th
anks Eddie,” I said as I opened the door. “Nice party.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  Right after Christmas, Eddie disappeared. The rumor I heard was that he was in L.A. working with Beyoncé on her new tour. Geri, his lead assistant, took over.

  January kicked off convention season and the show was sold out through April. Maybe it was the pressure of starting a new semester or maybe the routine of school, library, the Strip, and home to crash had caught up with me, but something wasn’t right. I didn’t have my usual level of energy; I felt heavy and sluggish. It got harder each day to get out of bed in the morning and I had taken to napping in the library.

  The first time I stumbled on stage, nobody seemed to notice. Then it happened a second time, and Katrina caught my arm to steady me.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  I nodded, but I wasn’t so sure.

  That night, after the show, Katrina approached me in the dressing room.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she said. “You look tired.”

  I looked at Katrina warily. Had Eddie said something to her about me after the party? Did she know that I had woken up in his bed? Did everybody know?

  “I’m exhausted,” I said. “Maybe I’ll take a week off—go home for spring break.”

  As the plane circled over Newark airport, I had never felt so happy to see the Manhattan skyline in the distance. I reminded myself that I was living my dream—I was a professional dancer—why did I suddenly feel like I just wanted to move back home? I told myself, you’re just tired. Going to school and working full-time would tire anyone out. Maybe I should cut back on my class schedule? Or take a semester off? But the show was slated to run for years and I didn’t want to put off college indefinitely. No, better to graduate on schedule and then things would get easier.