Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72973 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72973 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Then you’ll be happy to hear I need to work an extra shift in the morning.”
Keeping her attention on the cash she’s taking out of the register so she can put it in the safe. “For how long?”
“Permanently if possible.”
Her gaze darts to me, and I see a rare flicker of concern. “You work nights over at that dance place and afternoons here. When do you plan to sleep?”
I widen my smile and lift my chin. “Sleep is for the dead.”
She stares at me for what feels like a solid minute before she says, “I’ll let you work half the morning shift.”
“But –”
She shakes her head firmly. “Only from nine to twelve. I don’t need you dropping dead in my diner.”
It’s better than nothing.
A group of construction guys come in, and knowing I have to get back to work, I swallow my pride and ask, “Can I get an advance for the next two weeks?”
Sylvia’s eyes narrow on me, which has me adding, “Please. You know I’m good for it.”
“I’m not a bank,” she mutters as she takes the amount I need from the stack of bills in her hand.
I feel a flicker of relief, but it passes quickly because it’s only a temporary fix. At the end of the day, I’m still dead-ass broke, and no matter how hard I work, I can’t drag myself out of the poverty I was born into.
When Sylvia hands me the cash, I give her a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
She gestures with a nod of her head to the booths and tables. “Get back to work.”
I tuck the money into my apron’s pocket, and while I take orders, I do the math and hope that paying half of the gas bill will have them turning it back on.
At least I can pay Winston the overdue rent.
Just before my shift ends, I find a fifty-dollar tip at one of my tables. I do a little happy dance because it means I can buy coffee and the extra blanket I’ll need for winter and put the rest toward the gas bill.
I try to remember who was sitting at the table, but I’ve served so many people today I give up and decide just to be thankful for the customer’s kindness.
When I push the cleaning cart into the restrooms near the studios, a couple of dancers linger in front of the mirror.
After applying a fresh coat of lipstick, the one nearest to the door says, “I saw Madame Stafford and Mr. La Rosa heading toward her office earlier.” She wags her eyebrows at her friends. “He is H.O.T.”
Moving to the first stall, I get to work and scrub the toilet, not paying much attention to the conversation.
“You can say that again,” another girl sighs.
“I didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger, so he’s still fair game,” Lipstick girl says.
Her friend shakes her head while scoffing, “The man is filthy rich. What makes you think he’ll give any of us a second glance? He can pick any woman in the country. Besides, if it hasn’t happened by now, it will never happen.”
Lipstick girl waves her hand over her well-toned body. “No man has ever said no to all of this. I just need an opportunity to get his attention.”
Her friend shakes her head again, and when I flush the toilet after scrubbing it, she shoots an uninterested glance my way before saying, “Let’s go.”
The dancers leave the restroom, and I continue working while I think about the new owner of the ballet company. The name was changed to La Rosa Opera Ballet a while back, and every ballerina I’ve encountered practically drools over the new owner, whom I haven’t seen yet.
Hey, whatever rocks their boat.
When I’m finished with the stalls, I quickly wipe down the sinks before mopping the floor. Pushing my cart out of the restroom, I head down the hallway, glancing into all the studios. Sure everyone has left for the day, I go to where my locker is and change into tight-fitting shorts and a cropped t-shirt.
Every night when the place has emptied out, I steal thirty minutes to dance. It helps ease my stress.
Ever since I was little, I’ve always loved dancing. I used to put on silly shows for Tyrone, and he used to clap his hands as if he’d witnessed the most epic performance.
A smile tugs around my mouth as I walk to the nearest studio.
Tyrone is a saint. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t have him as a neighbor.
In the studio, I connect my cell phone to the speakers so I can listen to my personal playlist while I dance.
As Alive by Sia starts to fill the air, I walk to the mirror and lock eyes with my reflection.
Deep breath in…and out.
I’m in control of my life.