Please Daddy by Dani Wyatt
Chapter 2
Kezia
“Please don’t screw up again.” Genevieve, one of my ‘sisters’, fixes the sparkling hair piece at the back of my head, then spins me around by my shoulders to stare into her glaring blue eyes. “Got it? I really don’t want to find myself on rations for a week because some dude figured out we lifted his wallet.”
She’s three inches taller than me but it always feels like more. She’s older as well, but I’m not sure by exactly how many years because I never have birthdays and don’t even know how old I am for sure.
From what I can put together, I’m around nineteen. But I look younger, and that—along with the genetic jackpot I won from whomever my birth parents were—is the reason I’m on task with lulling unsuspecting men into watching me dance while others in our group take care of business.
If you can call thievery business. In my family, we do. Among other things.
“When am I not on rations?” I reply to Genevieve, who for a second gives me a sympathetic look. Then she shakes her head and is right back to business as my stomach twists and growls, reminding me that I had not earned a morning meal.
In my world, everything is bartered or earned. Mother and many of our pseudo ‘fathers’ in the clan made it clear last night my performance did not meet their standards and the take was short, as well as my tips.
When I questioned that perhaps it wasn’t my dancing that was lacking but the efforts of the others that move through the crowd with their trained fingers, what I earned was the absence of morning rations.
Genevieve drops her voice. “Don’t let them hear you crabbing or you know Mom’s favorite saying…” She pauses and we finish in unison: “If you think things are bad for you now, they can always be worse.”
The people I call mother and father are not the ones that birthed me. That’s no secret in our lifestyle. They are my third set of ‘parents’ since I came to be with the nomads that are my family.
I used to think someone among us must have some solid information about who I am and where I came from, but I gave it up long ago. The most I know, from something I overheard years ago, is that I was born in Roscommon County, which is where we are now.
Doesn’t much matter, it’s probably not the truth and even if it is, I don’t know my birth parents’ names or a birthdate, and how would I get to anyone or anyplace to find out more? I don’t drive, I’m watched all the time, and everyone is so afraid of the consequences of leaving, no one is willing to even talk about it.
I wiggle my toes in the dirt under my feet. My off-white skirt is permanently darkened around the hem from years of dancing around on the ground, the delicate floral embroidery just another of the skills I’ve been taught since I was young enough to understand the poke of a needle.
My mother’s voice cuts through the summer breeze as she comes out from her tent, her dark eyes already on us. She’s always been able to intimidate with few words or a hard back hand, but under the outer crust is a layer of loyalty and duty to her family that makes it hard to hate her.
Besides, the women in our group, older and younger alike, are not at the top of the food chain and they are as likely to take the brunt of a stick or a back hand as any of the children.
“Get her ready. We’re on in fifteen minutes,” she grumbles, eyeing me up and down. “I want her shirt off her shoulders. Tighten the corset and push her tits up.” She snaps her tongue over the front of her teeth, leaving it for a moment in the space where one of the incisors is missing before grunting and walking toward some of our other group members who are getting their musical instruments tuned and ready for the first performance of the day.
The layers of my skirts make my hips look full. One of my male father figures, the one who is nominally in charge of me and Genevieve, always said I’d make more money if my tits matched my hips, like it was some sort of fault of my genetics that made his life harder somehow.
Which is ironic, because one of the things he always says hypnotizes men, is my eyes, which are a genetic anomaly. Something called heterochromia or something like that. My right iris is nearly three-quarters this odd, reddish brown while the other small part is a shocking blue which matches the entirety of my left eye. People stare, point and it makes me feel like some sort of alien but for my so-called father, it’s been a boon.
His name is Thadius, but even when I was traded to this family when I thought I might be around twelve, I knew the rules. And from that first day, I referred to him as Papa, as I did the other elder men lest I take twelve lashes for disrespect.
All I’ve ever wanted to do is dance. Even in my most distant memories with my other ‘adoptive’ families, I was twirling and pointing my toes.
Little did I know that what felt joyful and natural to me, would be viewed simply as a skill used for filling the pockets of the group and nothing more.
Still, when I lie on my blankets covering the ground at night, my head on a rolled-up pile of clothes that second as my pillow, I dream of pointed ballet slippers and white tulle. I know I’m far too old to ever pursue the dream of being a real ballet dancer, but I would settle for simply allowing it to be something I do for my own pleasure instead of the pursuit of misdemeanor petty theft.
Or felony theft, depending on how much is in a wallet or the value of a watch.
Despite the hollow feeling that takes me over just before the performance begins, the day is a wonder. One of those days that’s hard to describe. The air is the perfect temperature to keep you warm while the breeze cools you at the same time.
The white fluff of the clouds drift around on a sky that seems an impossible blue, making you feel like maybe dreams really do come true.
Genevieve adjusts the string that tightens or loosens the neckline of my blouse, the trim the same color as the sky. She moves the fabric off my shoulders and tightens it into place.
“Being the pretty one is fun isn’t it?” she teases, both of us knowing in our life, whatever you have to offer will be exploited for the greater good.
“Every day is a Mardi Gras,” I answer as I inhale, pulling in my stomach as her fingers move down the lacing of my corset, driving the flesh of my bosom overflowing out of the now lower neckline of my gauzy top.
When she’s finished, I take a long moment to draw a breath. I’ve learned to breathe shallow and often, but I know later in the day, when the sun is high and the temperatures rise, I will be close to passing out.
As I catch my breath, I look at the ground. Then when my eyes drift back up, Marco, a newer member of one of the families in our group, comes near, towering over me. Tension builds in my stomach. He’s been paying far too much attention to me since he arrived and there’s a dark edge to his eyes that makes me uneasy.
“Ladies.” He addresses us both but keeps his nearly-black eyes on my chest. All the other younger, single girls in our clan have been falling all over themselves since he joined us. Snickering and saying dirty things about what they’d like to do with him.
I nod as he licks his lips. Most of the time around him I just wish I was invisible.
“Nothing to say?” he asks.
I’m not much of a talker outside of my family, and he’s taken to trying to force the issue. But I’m not playing whatever this game is, so I just shake my head.
Genevieve pipes up. “We have nothing to say. Unless of course you have something interesting to talk about…” She’s not considered the one of the prettiest girls in our clan, but she’s got a confidence I wish I had.
Marco gives her a sidelong, indifferent glance, and opens his mouth as if he has some witty comeback prepared, but my father’s voice comes over, calling us to the entry of the fair where we perform and with a bite into his bottom lip, Marco moves away with his guitar slung over his shoulder.
“What’s the name of this town again?” I ask, and Genevieve draws her brow tight. Her dark eyebrows pull together, and the hint of dark girl-stache under her nose twists with her lips as she thinks.
She’s nearly my opposite. Taller, thicker, dark everywhere, with hands that are used to doing the same work as some of the biggest men in the families, and although we should be rivals, we both understand no one has it much easier than another in our life.
“Millington. Why do you care?”
I shrug. “One place blends into another. It’s nice to know which is which.”
I don’t tell her the real reason. One of these towns close by must be where I was born. Perhaps someone, someday, will recognize my eyes and claim me as their own.
A girl has to have dreams.
A loud clap next to my head shocks me back into the moment.
“Five minutes.” My father’s voice booms around the makeshift camp we’ve set up on an empty scrap of wooded land, behind where the fair will be going on for another day after today, then we’ll be gone. “If you want lunch, I suggest you put a bit more effort into today than you did yesterday.”
“Yes, Papa,” I answer, setting my hands on my hips just below where the corset is cutting into my flesh, the gnawing in my belly making me feel nauseous.
The last thing I do before following the trail of others out into the crowd, their violins, guitars and flutes ready for the show, is look up at the sky, asking as I do each and every day for answers.
Who am I?
Someday, I hope I will know.