Chapter 1 "It is a redacted universally acknowledged, that a throbbing redacted in possession of a thick redacted must be in want of a redacted ." Andrea bites out each "redacted" with a distaste that grows more resigned with every repetition, the final utterance leaving her on little more than a throaty British sigh. A Mad Libs sheet hangs limply between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, the page held away from her, as though to keep the vulgarity she so thoughtfully "redacted" from staining her white blouse. She lowers her reading glasses to hang from the gold chain at her neck, eyes shifting to study each of us in turn. The Twins carry on with their stretches on the far side of the dressing room, Ginn slouching and bored in a front split, Tonic doing her best to look shocked as she holds cobra pose. Ming sits at a makeup station, feigning innocence, a row of false eyelashes dangling from her fingers like a cigarette. "Dare I ask how this ended up on table two?" Andrea's narrowed eyes land on me and her lips flatten to a matte red line. With her severe black bob and alabaster skin, she looks like a cartoon villain even when she's smiling; her current expression has me wondering which of us she plans to turn into a coat. I shift side to side, the weave of my fishnets pressing into the ball of one foot, then the other. Ming did the Mad Libs last weekend, when I brought in the pad to play with between shows. She filled in every noun with the word "penis," inspiring a debate about whether the repetition was funny or if she'd drained the novelty from the word. I argued she should have diversified, but now I'm not sure; Andrea's lilting West Midlands accent gave the piece an almost musical quality, even with the substitution. Still, I keep quiet, trying to feel her out. As the general manager of a venue with a burlesque show, Andrea deals with this degree of raunch on a near-nightly basis. Hell, she's just as nasty as Ming. She releases the page, letting it drift to the surface of the low file cabinet beside her. "I don't care what you get into while you're down here, but don't bring the juvenile humor upstairs. It's beneath you." Ming's brows shoot up, and I choke back a laugh at the suggestion she's above anything, let alone a dirty Mad Lib. "Why are you grilling us about this?" Ginn props her chin in her hands, elbows on the ground between her legs. "It could have been the guys in the band, or Jane-" "The boys have more creative words for 'penis,'" Andrea counters. I arch a brow at Ming, who rolls her eyes. "And Jane is a gentleman." "Plus, he dots his 'i's with little circles," I add brightly, hoping to defuse the tension. "He does it on our rent checks. It's charming." Before Andrea's eyes can properly beseech the ceiling for deliverance, a gasp sounds from the supply closet across from us. The door swings open to reveal Jane, who's the picture of refinement in his vest and trousers, the pale gray wool a striking contrast with his dark skin. The little closet is where he warms up his voice; I didn't expect him to hear me. Jane sags against the door frame, hand smoothing the Bic-close shave of his head as he sighs with dreamy affectation. "Kitten Caboodle, do you really think so?" "You know I love your 'i's, darling." I blow him a kiss. He mimes catching it, clutching it to his heart, then tugs the door shut with a dramatic swoon. His performance breaks us. The Twins collapse forward in their respective bends, giggling madly. Ming releases her wicked, machine-gun cackle that reduces me to snorts of laughter. Even Jane's muffled chuckle comes from the closet. "I'm sorry, Andrea." I dab below my eyes to check that my makeup hasn't run. "It was my fault. I used the pad as a writing surface when I did tonight's reservation notes and a page must have fallen out." Andrea's hands go to her broad hips. "Well, be careful. Our guests are here for a specific brand of titillation, not potty language." She peers at the offending page. "For heaven's sake, Ming, get a damn thesaurus." We dissolve into laughter again, Ming's roar setting the beads of her shimmy belt rattling against the metal folding chair. Andrea finally smirks. "Whatever am I going to do with you all?" She points at me. "You're supposed to be the reliable one." "Hey, I just pick up panties," I say, palms up in innocence. She rolls her eyes. At a burlesque show, the responsibilities of the stage kitten can generally be reduced to pick up what the others take off. In my two years here, my role has evolved to take on duties Andrea prefers not to do herself, talent wrangling included. But there's only so much I can do about Ming's base level of smut. Andrea nods at the notes I hold. "There haven't been any reservation changes, so what you have is current. Girls, have a great show." Her smile drops. "This one counts." I open my mouth to ask what she means by that, but she shakes her head, patting me on the shoulder. "Pop a pastie, luvs!" she calls, turning down the hallway. "Pop a pastie," we chorus, the others already back to their stretches and makeup. I watch Andrea make her way down the hall, her usually purposeful stride more of a trudge. A sliver of anxiety weaves into my preshow jitters, but I have to shelve my concern. We have half an hour left, and there are a few things to cover before we're stage-ready. "Ladies, family meeting." Ginn and Tonic look up expectantly. The aerialists are "Twins" in stage name only, as evidenced by their vastly different coloring, and have been been performing together since high school. They are also a rare exception to the show's focus on classic burlesque, performing their peels suspended above the stage. Ginn pulls her red hair into a messy bun. "Fire away, Kitten." "Should we get Jane?" Tonic asks. "Nah. We talked songs on the ride in. Ladies," I direct to the Twins, "you're trying the new aerial number with the silks, right?" "Silks!" they chime. "N'kay. I'll have them ready." I jot a note beside the set list. At the top of the page, the club's name, Meryton, is spelled out in fine, looping lettering, with "the Meryest Burlesque Revue in NYC" printed below. "It's Ming, Twins, Jane, then Twins, Ming, Jane, for the eight o'clock," I say, citing the performance order. "We have three confirmed bachelorette parties for that show. Ming, the one at table five chose the 'naughty' theme-I'm sure they'd appreciate a little extra attention. They'll be the ones with the dick straws and the bride in the phallus-tipped tiara. And that was two separate synonyms for 'penis'; I hope you're taking notes." "I like what I like," Ming sniffs, and dabs at a blob of pearlescent body paint in her belly button. "And you do like penis," says Ginn. " Anyway ," I interrupt, "that's all I have. Anyone need anything?" Ming cranes her neck, rubbing the dislodged body paint over the swells of breast cresting the cups of her bra. "Did Andrea bring our bubbles?" I glance at the file cabinet, where Andrea deposits the preshow prosecco and stems, but the only thing breaking up the gray metal surface is Ming's Mad Lib. That anxiety from earlier tightens around my middle. Andrea might have been distracted by the Mad Libs, but it would take more than that to sideline her from bringing down a bottle. "I'll go." On my way out, I check in with Jane. "I'm going upstairs. You need anything?" He straightens his tie with a broad smile. "No, I don't, but thanks for checking first," he croons, each word a note on the scale. Turning, I point to my back, where my corset stays hang in need of tying. "If you'd be so kind?" "Do you have the ladies where you'd like?" he sings, higher this time. I peek at how I've situated my boobs. With an overbust corset, you have to be careful. Too low, they're smooshed; too high, they look like a butt trying to smother you. "Should be good. Pull?" Jane yanks, I grunt, and he ties a quick bow in the back, double-knotting it. I take a few breaths to make sure I get sufficient oxygen, and thank him. I linger in the doorway. "How much did you catch with Andrea before? She seemed . . ." "More tightly wound than usual?" Jane offers. At my nod, he crosses his arms, resting a shoulder against the door frame. "I wonder what that was about. She wasn't even this ruffled the night the chef quit." I chew the inside of my lip. Scheduling changed last month, with acts and shifts no longer booked more than two weeks in advance. The announcement resulted in a minor exodus from the front of the house, costing us two servers and the chef with less than an hour before service. Andrea didn't bat an eye, promoting the sous on the spot and delegating food-running duties to Jane and me between our stage appearances. While the evening's extra tips were appreciated, the new scheduling threw Jane into a panic. I have a day job, but the steady pay from Meryton keeps him afloat most months. Without it, he'd only be left with side gigs and his voice lesson students. They're not enough to cover his half of the rent, no matter how charming his "i"s are. Jane's thoughts must end up in the same place, because his brown eyes go distant, familiar lines of worry creasing his forehead. Crap. I shouldn't have said anything. "I'm sure it's nothing." I force a confused frown. "You're singing Prince and . . ." "'Little Red Corvette' and 'Light My Fire.'" He smiles, which eases some of the tightness in my middle. "We talked about it earlier, space case." I feign a pout at the cheeky insult, then continue to the hallway, trying to ignore the twisting in my gut. I pause at the full-length mirror on the door of the walk-in freezer-the ladies are definitely where they need to be, and Jane's help with the corset has given my athletic frame the defined waist I'm otherwise lacking. The front of my dark, wavy hair is pinned into a series of rosettes, and I fluff the bit I left loose in back for a little more oomph. Tonight's lip color, a high-gloss stain named Rouge Deluge, brings out the hint of blush that warms my otherwise fair complexion. Brows have been shaped, false lashes adhered-ah! The snipped waistband of my fishnets peeks above the waist of my black undies. I re-situate it, running my fingers around the top of my satin bikini to make sure the band hasn't bunched up anywhere else. That sorted, I scoot to the adjoining room, where the five members of the show's band play poker with our emcee, Johnny Ryall. The guys are in matching dark suits, and Johnny is in one of his remarkably hideous tuxedos. Tonight's crime against taste is a mint-green number with black piping at the cuffs and lapels, paired with a black ruffled shirt. I don't know where he finds the things. Walking by, I get a few mumbled "Kitten"s in greeting. I take no offense to the brusque salutation; their poker games are intense. If this hand doesn't finish before showtime, they'll keep their cards in their pockets while they're performing and wrap it up at intermission. As I push back the heavy curtain separating the talent space from the downstairs landing, I have to sidestep two women in black minidresses waiting for the restrooms. They do a double take, making zero effort to conceal their examination as I cross to the stairs. "Is that a corset ?" one asks, directing the question more to her friend than me. "I don't know how anyone wears those," the other woman replies. "Oh, they just take some getting used to." I start up the stairs. "Enjoy the show!" Halfway up, I stop to give the butterflies a chance to settle. It's been at least three hundred shows for me: one each Friday, two on Saturday nights, and a few special events through each year. The first glance at the crowd makes me catch my breath even when I'm not constricted by a corset. I interact with the crowd more than the other performers, playing the part of "Kitten Caboodle" as I hawk souvenirs during set breaks. The persona is as much an act as anything Jane and the girls do onstage, and when I'm on the floor, I'm on. It's exhausting and freeing at the same time, where I'm on the spot but have all the answers . . . if for no other reason than I'm only asked the same handful of questions. If I had a Meryton bingo card, the corset comment downstairs would be on it, along with How do they do that? after a performer does a tassel twirl, and some tired iteration of Will you be getting naked, too? I climb the rest of the stairs and place my hand on the green, egg-shaped light fixture at the end of the railing. We all do it at the start of any performance, the ritual predating me. I don't know if it's meant for luck or simply habit, but the muted warmth under my palm settles the loitering jitters, leaving me with only midgrade anxiety about Andrea's earlier behavior as I take in the scene. The guests for the first show are filing in, settling at their tables more quickly than the ten o'clock crowd does. This show's audience is generally tamer, too; eight's early for a New York Saturday, and this is usually folks' first stop of the night. It also explains the concentration of bachelorette parties. Andrea always schedules them early. Hen parties devolve notoriously fast; the least we can do is provide a base layer of solids before they start drinking in earnest. Waiters bustle among the tables on the elevated platforms at the back of the room, igniting tea lights and pouring champagne into the flutes of a soon-to-be-seated party. A narrow aisle separates the tables from the rest of the dining room, where two- and four-tops fill the remainder of the space, nudging the small stage. It's a tight fit, but that's part of the fun. Performers have to get from the stairs to the stage via whatever path they can forge; anyone in their way risks becoming part of the production. The lights of the dining area are down low, softening the edges of guests and muting the wear and tear of the club itself. But I know where to look. The bubbled spot in the damask wallpaper to the left of the stage; the mismatched sconces along the far wall; the worn velvet upholstery on the banquette seating in back. Usually, the lived-in touches add to Meryton's charm, but paired with Andrea's odd behavior downstairs, they fuel a concern that's simmered on the back burner since I started working here. There is no way this place makes money. The jazz shows get a decent showing, and the English tea service offered weekdays does all right, but the weekend burlesque revue keeps Meryton afloat. This is Tribeca; any business that isn't flourishing is liable to be turned into a pilates studio or a baby boutique. With the club's owner's out-of-nowhere change to scheduling, I can't help but think he might be angling that way. My stomach pitches at the thought, but I summon a smile and head for the hostess station, twinkling my fingers at guests as I pass. A gal with a hot pink, saucer-sized, "maid of honor" pin beckons to me with her phone, and I join the group for a photo, recruiting a waiter, Esteban, to snap the pic. I press on, but my steps falter when I spot Andrea looking over some papers at the far end of the bar. Usually, she'd be mingling with guests or helping the hostess, armed with a dirty martini and her crimson smile. The martini's there, off to the side of the paperwork, but the closest thing to a smile is the crescent of lipstick at the glass' rim. My chest goes tight again. She could be looking at anything: order forms for the kitchen, bar stock, toilet paper inventory. But the tension rolling off of her says otherwise. I sidle over with a conciliatory grimace. "Sorry again about the Mad Libs." She waves off the apology, barely looking up from the paper. "I shouldn't have been so snippy about it." Her voice is flat, doing nothing for the sensation in my chest. I press my hands into prayer, playing up some kicked-puppy eyes. "Do we get bubbles or are we on the naughty list?" Her dull expression sharpens. "The prosecco! I'm sorry, pet." She takes off her glasses, squeezing the bridge of her nose. "Michael! Be a luv and get Kitten a bottle for downstairs?" The bartender holds up his index finger to let me know it will be a moment, and gets back to a guest. Excerpted from A Certain Appeal by Vanessa King All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
