The Butterfly Clues by Kate Ellison Page B

and the manager told me to look around the club, talk to the girls. So, can I? Talk to you about the club, I mean?” I don’t know where to look as I speak to her. My eyes keep gravitating down toward the sparkly purple thong hugging the sides of her waist, capped in hot pink fringe and swaying gently as she moves.
    I tug at my Gap tank top and just-barely-above-the-kneelength jean skirt (from eighth grade), Mom’s tacky old heels from the eighties, suddenly aware that I must look, to her, like a child, a narc, a visitor from a foreign land.
    But her face relaxes. She runs a hand through her hair. “Oh. Yeah, sure. I mean, it’s the same here as anywhere, but …” She shrugs, then bends over to remove her black rhinestone-studded high heels, one by one, wincing slightly and motioning to a hallway in front of us. “I’m heading to the break room right now if you wanna come. Quieter there. Easier to talk.”
    A security guard grants us entrance into a cordoned-off hallway. I tap tap tap, banana so so softly.
    “Duck,” the redheaded girl warns me. “Ceiling’s too low.”

    There are five girls in the break room, six including me, and we’ve just finished making introductions. The girl who reminds me of Keri Ram is named Marnie, and the others introduce themselves as Suzie, Randi, Lucy, and Lacey. I can’t help but assume they’ve all got made-up names. They reapply makeup, toy with different styles of too-small lacy G-strings, spray perfumes onto their wrists and ankles and necks. Two of them finish smoking their cigarettes at nearly the same time, both pulling new ones out of separate packs almost immediately after stubbing out the old, becoming visibly less twitchy as soon as they relight. For some reason, seeing this relaxes me a little—they’re nervous, too. Masking it as best they can. Just getting by.
    Lacey has a mole on her cheek. She has just finished giving me a rundown of club rules. Nails must be painted at all times. No full nudity on the pole. Two sick days a month, suspension for no-call no-show. No drugs.
    “But don’t worry”—Suzie exhales a cloud of smoke—“they’re so not that strict about that.”
    “So, you feel pretty safe here?” I try and steer the conversation toward Sapphire. “I mean, nobody creeps you out?”
    “Once in a while there are situations—you know how it goes.” Marnie shrugs. “Sometimes someone makes it past security, comes charging into the dressing room all lit up. But nothing crazy. Same shit as everywhere, you know?”
    “And the customers aren’t allowed to touch us,” says Lacey. “No hands. Not that that stops most of them from trying. If they try to get up onstage or anything we’re allowed to throw a shoe at their heads. It’s in our contract.”
    “But that doesn’t usually happen?” I ask, working at the hem of my skirt. There’s a slightly twisted expression on Randi’s face; she’s staring at me through the mirror.
    Lacey continues, furrowing her brow: “Most of them definitely try to see how far they can get—usually some drunk old guy with a lot of money who thinks he can do whatever he wants. But the bouncers are usually on top of it.”
    “And,” says Marnie, “we got some great regulars, too.” She pulls a wad of sweaty cash from between her symmetrical cantaloupe boobs and zips it into the interior of the black leather purse slung across her chair. “Moneybags in business suits, dumb frat boys with a trust fund. Bachelor parties.”
    “I hate bachelor parties.” Lacey pouts.
    Marnie ignores her. “You’ve got such a baby face, you’ll do great. Wednesday’s costume night—put on a school girl outfit, or some cat ears … the guys’ll love it.”
    The dead cat flashes into my head. It keeps doing this: assaulting my field of vision, not letting me forget. The big question—the reason I came here in the first place—stretches itself long between my teeth and practically leaps from my mouth. Time to go for