The fireman dances on—not half as well as Channing Tatum, but he does hold a certain appeal. Kya and Blaire pull me to my feet, and I forget my past self and scream along with the rest of them because, well, staring at half-naked men is fun.
Four more male strippers step onstage and dance behind the fireman. One is a policeman, one is a construction worker, and the other two I’m not sure about since they’re wearing jeans and tight T-shirts. Are they supposed to be plumbers? Cable installers? Hot dads? I imagine one of them giving me a good deal on a really great wireless plan, and suddenly I’m drooling for this updated version of the Village People.
The five of them strip down to G-strings, and the crowd goes berserk. Money is flung at them, danced up to them, and personally tucked into their little suits which seem tailored to accommodate the bills.
Blaire encourages me to get out my cash and I do, though I’m too embarrassed to try tucking it into anyone’s underwear. It’s just as well. There are women who want the attention I don’t. The blonde next to us and the construction worker are tangled up tighter than Christmas lights.
Just when my newfound enthusiasm begins to wane and I’m thinking I’ll put away my money and see if I can find a quiet corner somewhere to get a glass of wine and read a book on my phone, one of the strippers—one whose costume I couldn’t define—comes right up to me and wiggles his G-string-clad junk in my face.
“Oh, okay,” I say and hold a stack of dollars out to him while covering my eyes. Kya and Blaire laugh, and I turn my head so the bouncing junk doesn’t poke me in the nose.
“Marissa?” A deep, male voice says my name with surprise.
I glance up past the black-clad gyrating package. “Alec!” I yell.
He bends down to me, smiling. “Marissa Ryan! Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s you!”
My stripper hops down off the stage. For a minute I worry he’s going to get in trouble with the other strippers for breaking up the show—do they have a union? But I see they’ve already dispersed into the crowd for lap dances and twenty-dollar-bill seductions.
“How are you?” I yell to Alec over the music.
Blaire rolls her eyes, and she and Kya give me matching you’re-being-a-drag looks. I guess you’re not supposed to treat the strippers like people.
“Marissa! It’s so good to see you!” He gives me a big, slightly greasy naked-chest hug and then keeps an arm slung over my shoulder. I guess he’s gotten used to interacting with people while wearing so little. “You know, this is the absolute best English tutor in the whole world right here,” he tells Kya and Blaire. They nod. It’s something like what they expected. “Seriously. You saved my ass.”
“I’d like to be doing something with your ass right now,” Blaire mutters under her breath.
Ignoring them both, I turn to Alec. “I’m really glad I was able to help. But, um, how do I ask this delicately? Uh—”
“Why am I a stripper if I got a bachelor’s degree?”
“Well, yes.”
“I’m working my way through med school right now.”
“You are? Wow, Alec, that’s fantastic!” I’m surprised when a twinge of jealousy pinches me. I could’ve gone to medical or dental school as planned and not entered the real-job world when Kya and Tarek did. I like my job at the paper, I remind myself.
He nods, his smile wide. “It’s just so great to see you! I’ve wanted to thank you for the longest time. And here you are.”
I smile, my heart swelling with pride. Alec has found his path to happiness, even if it’s paved with singles.
“That’s great, Einstein,” Blaire tells him as she takes my arm and physically pulls my attention away from Alec. “But this is Marissa’s bachelorette party, and it’s time to move on over to the party room.”
His eyes light up. “You’re the bachelorette?”
I nod.
“Ha! Well, that’s great! I’m working your party.”
“The hell you are!” Blaire shoulders forward with clenched fists. Alec steps back.
Kya shakes her head vigorously. “No, no, no, no.”
“There’s a party?” I ask, glancing between the three of them.
“Oops, sorry.” Alec covers his mouth with a hand. “I didn’t know it was a surprise.”
Blaire and Kya exchange tight-jawed looks and whisper furiously at each other, but when Alec leads us toward the mystery party, they follow. We stop short of a closed door in a dark hallway. Kya looks at me excitedly and Blaire gestures for me to go inside. Even Alec looks like he’s holding his breath.
With so much expectation focused on me, the urge to run away starts turning my feet from the door.
Kya catches my shift in direction first. “Uh, Marissa. It’s that way.” She points where only the top half of my body is facing.
“I know.” I swallow and put my hand on the knob. Sometimes the only way to get over something is to barrel straight through.
Chapter Three
I open the door to the dark room, the lights go up, and what must be well over a hundred people yell, “Surprise!”
Confetti and streamers fall on me, and I laugh, catching some in my hands. I didn’t know I had this many friends. As I start to focus on faces in the crowd, I see women from different periods in my life starting with elementary school and seeing me through high school, college, and beyond. I can’t believe Kya and Blaire put this together. And at a strip club. The idea of some of these people coming to a strip club at all—and specifically, for me—causes a puddle of queasiness to pool in my belly. Studying the faces in the room, I wonder how Blaire and Kya managed to get some of them here at all.
I rub my forehead. What am I saying? Blaire must have lied, of course.
My theory is confirmed when my Southern Baptist ninth-grade-friend ConstanceDylan (one word) hugs me and says, “What an interesting place to celebrate your impending forever union.” Her eyes go soft with pity, and she pats my hand. “But I understand.”
Strip clubs aren’t my thing, but it’s not such a stretch to believe an engaged woman would have her bachelorette party at one. I smile back at her and shrug.
She keeps her sad smile and squeezes my hand. “You do you, Marissa.”
I blink at her. “Thanks, it’s great to see you, ConstanceDylan. And thanks so much for coming.” I move on to greet my other uncomfortable guests.
“Mrs. Hobbes!” I stop short in front of my retired gray-haired sixth-grade teacher who’s in her seventies.
“Oh, Marissa, I’m so happy for you, my dear.” She takes my hands in both of hers.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Hobbes. You always were my favorite teacher.” I glance at the room with its flashing neon lights and pulsing music—at a lower volume than in the main room, but still, I wouldn’t have pictured this as how Mrs. Hobbes would spend her Saturday night. Is there a back entrance or something that somehow bypassed the mostly naked men? Did Mrs. Hobbes walk into a quilting store and a back panel opened up and delivered her here? Or did she have a wild streak she’d managed to hide from the administrators and students of Washington Middle School?