CHAPTERONE
EM
Four years ago—Em 14
I’m not a nice girl.
Today, for instance, I snuck out of school to be in this oh-so-trendy café just before eleven, dressed in my shortest skirt. The one that barely covers my underwear. The one I got sent home for wearing on a mufti day at school. Only this time it’s not an accidental result of mismanaged laundry but a choice.
The meeting has to go well.
My hands tremble as I sit at the booth farthest from the entrance, the one that gives me a clear view of everyone who walks through the door. It’s ten minutes until go-time and my head is so clouded with anxiety I can’t think straight.
I have to be on my best behaviour. I need the job.
Without many other customers in the room, it’s hard to find anything to distract me as time crawls onwards. I straighten my skirt, new doubts assailing me about its length.
I don’t have many options but the A-line maxi dress it was up against in the final challenge now seems like it might have been better. At least then the girl behind the counter wouldn’t hike up her eyebrows and purse her lips when I catch her staring.
The change in expression is so obvious I expect her to mouth the word, “Skank.”
Luckily, it’s a different girl, a whip-thin server with stringy blonde hair, who brings me my coffee. She’s got the kind of figure I’d kill for, skin and bone, straight up and down.
The kind of girl who could hang out with the boys without getting a thigh pinched because there isn’t the meat to do it. Who wouldn’t have her large breasts groped for having the poor judgement to grow them out in front, where everyone can see them, instead of being able to tuck them away beneath a loose shirt.
“Thank you,” I say, then add when she sees me staring, “I love your hair. That pink streak is really cool.”
I wince as I hear myself gushing, but she smiles a little at the compliment, enough to make me feel good about giving it in the first place. She nods, her eyes widening the longer she stares at my face, then she turns away before I can get a fix on what disturbed her.
Probably nothing. Mum often says I read things into situations which just aren’t there, so I turn back to my coffee.
Latte is my favourite. The creaminess always makes it taste like a treat, even when it’s a dollar cup from the petrol station on the corner. Now, in this bougie café, it’s a true indulgence.
If Mr Braxen doesn’t turn up to meet me like he said he would, I’m just about to drink my lunch money for the week. The two marshmallows on the side are a pleasant touch, but I can’t help wondering if they’d knock a buck or two off the price if I gave them back.
Oh, well. I’m not about to try that here. It’s hard enough to beg for consideration in the shops where I know the owners understand food poverty and desperation. The patrons here would never be involved in something so… emotionally distasteful.
They walk in and out of the place in their crisply styled clothing, clutching their leather briefcases and name-brand bags, on their way tosomewhere importanteven if that somewhere is just back home to their multi-million-dollar house.
I know the price tags for the properties around here. When my mother worked for Mr Braxen during yet another failed attempt to get clean and stay that way, he used to tell me loads of interesting things about his life in the richest suburb in Christchurch.
He was always telling me how much things cost, how much he earned, how generous he could be to his friends.
I sure hope he thinks of me as a friend.
Hope he gives me the job like he hinted he would. I need the money.
My stomach shrinks into a tiny ball at the thought, nerves pulling it so tight my midriff throbs. I grab the oversized coffee cup with both hands, giving them something to do, though half the vessel is taken up with foam, making it lighter than it appears.
When I get it to my lips, my throat seizes so I can’t swallow.
A blunt would take the edge off, but a rigorous hunt through the refuse in the flat turned up empty. Just another reason I need to earn some money. With a recession biting, nobody gives away free drugs any longer. Not even to pretty girls who don’t mind wandering hands.
A man walks inside, business suit rumpled, and I jerk upright, wondering if that’s him. It takes a split second to compare the man to my internal reference, and I relax again. This guy must be in his mid-twenties, tops. He doesn’t give off an aura of old money and privilege, which is the main thing I remember about Mr Braxen.
Well, that, and he’s in his late thirties at least. Probably forties. Not that you can tell by looking at him because money helps witheverything,but a simple calculation gives me the answer.
The birthdate on his profile said 1979 and I can’t see why he’d lie.
