Free The Year of Yes by Maria Dahvana Headley Page B

think about exploding tits.
    BEHIND ME, THERE WAS SOME ACTIVITY, and it didn’t take long to figure out that it was a table full of kids, daring each other to approach me. School uniforms, like beacons shining out of the dark. Faces scarred by inept shaving. No one in their right mind would think these prep-school boys were done with puberty. I could hear them poking each other, trying to get up their courage. I was wearing a white wrap-around sweater and jeans, and I couldn’timagine they really thought I was a stripper. The strippers looked to have been allotted three inches of cloth each. That, and as much silicone as their hearts desired.
    A skinny, freckled kid plunked himself down at my table. He blinked at me for a moment, then suddenly grabbed my glass of wine and slugged a sip. He looked triumphant. He weighed ninety pounds, at most. I grabbed it back, imagining my arrest for providing alcohol to a minor.
    “Who are you?” I said.
    “Peter.”
    “Peter what?”
    “VanHeu…” He reconsidered. “You wish.”
    “Peter YouWish,” I said, “you’re too young to be here.”
    “My friends want to know if you’re…” He dissolved into stammering giggles.
    I gave him the best evil eye I could muster. Not so hot, considering my lower lip was starting to tremble.
    “They want to know if you’re wearing a bra.”
    “None of your business.” A lacy bra that had cost too much money. I’d bought it that afternoon, and put it on in the dressing room, full of optimism for the evening.
    “Like, would you, like, give my friend Matt a lap dance?” he blurted, shoving a wad of ones at me. I shoved them back, but not before I noticed that there was a platinum card tucked into the cash.
    “No. Never. Absolutely not.” I decided then that the yes policy definitely did not include the underage. I hadn’t realized that I’d needed to make a rule about ninth graders.
    “The girls won’t. They say they’ll get arrested. We’re only allowed to sit quietly and drink soda.”
    “I don’t even know how you got in here.”
    “Bribed the bouncer. Duh.”
    I could see one of the kids doing homework at the table. Maybe this was what you did after school, if you were a kid in New York City.
    They were all clustered around my table now, sweating and shuffling their feet. Being surrounded by adolescent boys is like being surrounded by a flock of seriously awkward hummingbirds, and discovering, belatedly, that you are the feeder.
    “What’d she say?” they clamored.
    “She’ll do it,” said Peter YouWish.
    “She won’t,” I said. “Move it.”
    “I have my allowance,” offered another kid.
    “Me too,” said another.
    I wondered blurrily if there was a niche market in stripping for schoolboys. You’d travel from private school to private school, disguised as a substitute teacher. Four-inch-long plaid skirts and knee socks would hold no appeal for these kids. They saw them all the time. A Sexy Substitute, though, could make a killing.
    Finally, the Boxer arrived, holding a beer. The kids scattered like marbles. He looked at them, bemused, and then leaned across the table.
    “Need a drink?” The kids had managed to siphon my entire glass. The Boxer, for some reason, acted like this was perfectly normal. My pride hurt. If this was a test, if he thought I couldn’t deal with this, he was wrong. I was brave. And maybe he was going to apologize. And maybe he was going to morph suddenly into someone he wasn’t. In a foolish little corner of my mind, I still had hope. The alternative was too depressing.
    “Wine,” I said. I was already half-drunk. I might as well keep going.
    A stripper in a neon pink G-string had started to twirl, sensing the arrival of someone who might actually tip her. Over the God mic, a voice informed us that this girl was a stockbroker during the day and a stripper at night. Cannonballs. Or bowling balls. My brain dragged me to a bowling alley, where a guy in an embroidered shirt and