Chantal Fernando - Toxic Girl

With that, he turns away and mounts his motorcycle. I don’t watch him ride away; instead, I turn and walk home, his comments replaying over and over in my head.

I’m having lunch the next day, under a tree, when Grayson joins me. “Is this going to be our lunch spot for the rest of the semester?” he asks casually, sitting down and pulling out a red apple.

“It’s going to be mine,” I reply, giving him a pointed look. He smiles, taking a bite of his fruit.

“Tell me something about you,” he says, turning his body to face me.

“Like what?”

“Anything,” he replies, staring at me with kind eyes. I sigh, and give in, racking my brain for something to tell him, and come up with nothing.

He laughs. “You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

I shrug. “I don’t really have anything to say.”

“I seriously doubt that,” he says. A group of three guys walking over toward us causes me to puff out a sigh. “What’s wrong?” Grayson instantly asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

He follows my line of sight and nods knowingly. “Don’t worry about them; they’re harmless.”

“Hey, Grayson, who’s the hottie?” the first guy asks.

Grayson turns to me. “Paris, meet Jake, Trent, and Daniel.”

“Hi,” I say, not sounding very friendly at all. I don’t meant to be rude, but I don’t want people to know me here. I want to be anonymous. It’s safer for me that way, and it sure as hell is safer for my reputation. I don’t want people talking about me. Sure, I’m strong enough to handle it if it happens, but that doesn’t mean I want it to happen. That’s why I left Melbourne, for a fresh start. It seems that hanging around Grayson isn’t helping me achieve my goal of being invisible.

“She’s taken,” Grayson adds, not looking at me.

“I’ll bet,” the one named Trent replies. He narrows his eyes on me slightly, watching me as he continues. “You going to come hang with us?” he asks Grayson.

“I’ll see you later. Paris and I need to talk about something,” he answers. They each give Grayson a handshake and then leave, one giving me a curious look.

“What do we have to talk about?” I ask curiously.

Grayson leans back against the tree and closes his eyes. “You don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to.”

“So you’re happy to sit here in silence?” I ask.

“Sure, comfortable silence sounds good to me,” he replies, pulling out his iPod and offering me one of the earphones. I smile and accept it from his hand. When I put it in my ear, I nod my head in approval when I hear the voice of Ed Sheeran.

Grayson turns to me, his face so close we’re almost touching. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says softly.

“A deal?” I ask, staring into his eyes.

“You tell me your favourite song. If it’s on here,” he says pointing to his iPod, “you have to go on a date with me.”

I smirk, because there is no way in hell my favourite song is on there. “And if I win?”

“Then I won’t ask you out again,” he says, and my face drops slightly. He’s giving up on me already? I mentally curse myself, because this would be the best option.

“I’ll wait until you tell me you want to go out with me,” he adds, nibbling on his bottom lip.

“Okay, you’re on.”

“You can’t make up a random song, you have to promise that it’s your actual all-time favourite song,” he says, his dark eyes sparkling with humour.

“You want to pinky promise?” I joke, holding out my pinky.

He tilts his head and looks like he’s thinking it over. “Yes. I think we should. I know you don’t want this date,” he says, looking amused.

I roll my eyes and hold out my little finger, the nail covered in purple polish. He links his pinky with mine, and we shake on it.

“Okay, hit me with it,” he says, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

I smirk and tell him. “Jesse by Joshua Kadison.”

He pauses, and then bursts out laughing. “That is not your favourite song.”

I gasp. “Yes it is! It’s a classic.”

He smiles now, a confident smug smile. “Looks like we’re going on that date.”

What? No way in hell he listens to that. He scrolls down on his iPod and plays the song. Well, shit.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night,” he says, and I visibly cringe.

“I have to work tomorrow night. How about the night after?” I ask, wringing my hands.

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “So where do you work?” he asks after a few moments of silence. Why did I mention work? Sometimes, I talk without thinking.

“Oh, just a bar,” I say, flicking my hand out. Like it’s no big deal.

“What bar? I like bars,” he says, as he slowly draws my hand into his.

“Why, are you going to stalk me?” I tease, trying to divert the question. I stare down at our entwined hands and wonder how the hell this happened. I am trying to appear standoffish, bitchy even, but Grayson still seems eager to get to know me. Why? It makes me slightly suspicious, because I can’t understand why he’s so interested in me. There are so many beautiful girls around, and I know it wouldn’t be hard for him to get their attention.

“No,” he says, “I think I do enough of that at uni.”

“True,” I reply, teasing.

He holds his hand to his heart dramatically. “Are you saying you don’t enjoy my company?”

“You’re okay,” I say, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly. Grayson flashes me a crooked smile and releases his hand from mine. I feel a pang of disappointment, until he reaches up and takes a long lock of my hair, pulling gently.

“You have the most beautiful hair,” he mumbles. “It’s so blond; it’s almost white.”

“Th- thank you,” I stutter. He smiles, and we continue to listen to music in silence, our bodies grazing. I feel so aware of my arm touching his, of every slight movement. I close my eyes, feeling more relaxed than I have in a long time.

“Don’t fall asleep. We have to get back,” he says, gently pulling out the earphone.

I open my eyes and sit up straight. “I could have slept nicely.”

“Me too,” he adds. We stare at each other for a few intense seconds, before he stands up and holds his hand out to help me up. I offer my hand, and he pulls me up until I’m standing. “Let me walk you to your next class?”

“Okay,” I say.

“And Paris?”

“Yes?” I ask quietly.

“Can I have your phone number?” he asks, dimples popping.

“Ummm, okay.”

His grin bursts forth, and I like it.

Too much.

Why can’t I control myself around him?

* * *

The following night, I head into work. Growing up, never in my wildest dreams did I think I would end up stripping for a living, but here I am. My parents died in a car crash when I was thirteen. My mother’s younger sister, Veronica, took me, my sister, and my brother in, and I hated living under her roof. She never liked us, and at the time, I had no idea why she wanted us living with her. I thought that she must have felt obligated, because it was either we go live with her or be put in foster care. I realised soon it was because of the money my parents left us. As our guardian, Veronica was in charge of our money. I haven’t seen a cent of it. When my brother Brody turned eighteen, he took my sister London and me and moved us in with him. Veronica didn’t want to let us go, but somehow, Brody worked out a deal with her. I’m pretty sure it involved paying her a lump sum of money each month.

Brody never spoke about it with me. We moved back into our family home, which had been rented out all that time. Brody paid for all the bills, until London and I were old enough to work part-time jobs to help out. Everything was going okay until Brody met Elizabeth. They were married within six months, and London and I both left the month after that. Elizabeth made it clear we weren’t welcome. I’m not sure if Brody knew the extent of her bitchiness. How someone as kind as my brother could end up with a witch like her, I will never know. London and I never really got on, even as kids, and without Brody there to hold us together, we went our separate ways.

I had moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment, started uni, and worked at a supermarket to make ends meet. Money was really tight, and I was struggling. I met a guy at uni, and we started to date. Everything was going fine, until it wasn’t. Mark turned out to be a total douchebag. I wanted to finish my degree so I could get a good job, and I needed extra money desperately. Toxic is a well-known strip club, with several different locations. Toxic girls are known to be beautiful, stacked, and talented. They don’t accept just anyone to work at the clubs, and that’s just me stating facts, not being egotistical. With my long white blond hair, big blue eyes and double d’s, let’s just say they welcomed me with open arms. When Brody found out where I worked, he cut me out. He said he never wanted to see me again. I’m sure Elizabeth put him up to it, but either way, I gave him what he wished for.

I haven’t spoken to him since. It hurt then and it still hurts now, but life goes on.

After six months of working, studying, and saving, I left Melbourne and moved to Perth. My manager at Toxic made sure I already had a job when I arrived. Different state, same shitty occupation. I transferred universities, found an apartment, and here I am. I may be a stripper for now, but I know I’m going places. I’m going to get my degree, work my ass off, and be proud that I achieved something all on my own. I’m going to be a history teacher. Someone with a respectable job, doing something that she loves. I want to be that person so badly it almost hurts. I will be that person.

I stare at my reflection, and puff out a sigh. My long hair is teased, like a puffy white cloud, my blue eyes rimmed in black kohl. Red lipstick, the colour of blood, paints my lips. My dress is tacky, black lace and tightly fitted, over a red bra and thong. It’s pretty much lingerie. Heels so high they should be illegal cover my feet, making my legs look like they go for miles. I look nothing like I do during the day. This costume is a mask. A slutty mask. I clear my mind, knowing there is no point dwelling or playing around with ‘what ifs’. I’m here because this is where the decisions in my life have led me, and although I might not be exactly proud of what I do, it’s a means to an end.

And I won’t be here forever.

“Snow, you’re on,” Temptress, another dancer, calls out to me.

“Okay, thanks,” I reply, my voice dead even to my own ears. I stand up, forgetting myself as I become Snow. I block out everything and concentrate on one thing; getting through the performance. I take in a few deep breaths, and then down the tequila shot sitting on the dressing table. I wince as the liquid slides down my throat, but I need the liquid courage. I fix up my lipstick, and then walk out onto the stage.

Snoop’s “I Wanna Fuck You” starts to play. I keep my back against the pole, facing away from the audience. I concentrate on the feeling of the cold metal against my skin. The lights turn on; they are dim but enough that I can be easily seen. A few men whistle, and then start to yell out as I swivel my hips, slowly lowering myself down the pole. When I’m crouching low, I sit forward onto my knees, and then spin so I’m facing everyone. The cheers get louder, and I try to tune them out as I raise my hands and hold onto the pole, opening my thighs as wide as they can reach. Then, in one sharp move, I pull myself up and spread my legs out, so I’m doing a split. Lowering myself to the ground, I sit there for a few seconds, before I lift myself up until I’m standing. I walk around the pole, so the men have an unobstructed view of my ass. I lift the lace dress off me and throw it on the floor. More catcalling. I bend over and hold onto the pole, sticking my ass out, wearing nothing but my thong and bra. I start shaking my ass, like you see on music videos. The men seem to love it by the looks on their faces when I turn back around.

Classy bastards.

I stand up straight and step closer to the pole, pulling myself up and wrapping my legs around. When I’m steady, I lean backwards so I’m hanging upside down. Yes—I’ve picked up a few tricks along the way. My huge boobs push up into my face, almost suffocating me. The men call out lines I’m sure they would never say to any other woman, or at least I hope not. I pull myself upright and swirl around the pole, then slide down and do a little shimmying. I undo the back of my bra and let it drop. This is the part I hate the most, the part where I have to go into that place in my head to perform. The red lace lands on the floor, and the whistles and catcalls get louder than ever. I avert my gaze and gyrate my hips sensually, and then turn back to work the pole some more.