It Girl: A Novel

I drop the fifth veil, sapphire, and the jewels of my necklace glisten alone against the bare skin of my shoulders, my collarbone, my  dècolletage. I gleam like the sensational new statue, Manhattan's infamous lady of burnished gold who spins forever and ever at the top of Madison Square Garden. And as the music winds on, I, like her, spin and spin. I don't grow dizzy, practiced as I am, but I can tell that they do. Fox Mustache at the side of Mrs. Astor is smirking, and Mrs. Astor is hiding half her face behind her rapidly fluttering fan. But she's not hiding her eyes—no, she's still looking.

I drop the sixth veil. Fuchsia. Someone cries out now—"Well, I never!"—from farther back in the room. I bite down on my lower lip to stanch my smile, and I keep dancing. The music is fast now, and so are my steps. Bold! Bright! Fresh! That's what the papers declared as this new century came roaring in. Faster than the subway train that will soon make thunder under Manhattan's busy streets. Livelier than the jaunty notes of ragtime that bumped the waltz back into the last century. All of it new, the papers hailed, as they'd declared mine to be the face of this fresh century. The face enchanting enough to gain entry into this party of the Four Hundred. To dance before Mrs. Astor herself—something that, last century, would have never been possible.

I pluck the seventh veil. Gold. Hundreds of eyes go wide, taking in the warm sweep of my navel, my hips. My glorious figure that has made me the most in-demand artists' model on this island, the most sought-after doll to dance in the footlights of Broadway. I can feel it, the power I wield. I stand before them, my entire body thrumming, holding them in my thrall. And then the last notes play, and I raise my scarf before my body once more, ripping the view from their ravenous eyes. And they groan, as if in physical pain, when I take the sight of my figure from them, and I fly from the room. But as I go, I hear the place erupt. Applause, cheers, scandalized chatter. They loved it. They were shocked and horrified—and yet entirely seduced.

Like Salome, I could have whatever I want from them in this moment. But I want a very different ending than the one she got.

CHAPTER TWO

Pittsburgh 

December 1897

I'Ve learned how to hide my disgust. The sight of the men, their sounds, especially the way they smell—the reek of their skin, their breath, their desire. "You win more bees with sweet honey," Mamma always chides. So sweet honey I try to be, even when the task tastes like sour vinegar.

Rent collection day means I've got to knock on each of these boardinghouse doors and deal with whatever I find staring back at me. Mr. Jonas stands before me now, and he might just be the worst of them. His whiskey breath hits my face in a warm wave, but I keep my gaze steady. I resist the urge to recoil as he says: "I got it somewhere in here. Why don't you step in, and we'll have a look?" The short, thick man creaks his door open wider, offering just enough room for me to pass between him and the doorframe. There's no way I'm stepping into his room.

"That's quite all right, Mr. Jonas. I can wait." My voice is courteous but firm as I remain where I am, feet planted in the hallway, where any number of our fellow boarders might be able to overhear our exchange. Or my cry for help, should I need to holler.

"Suit yourself," the man responds, his stubbled face making plain his disappointment. "Give me a minute."

I nod, flashing a bland smile as he slumps his shoulders and lumbers deeper into his room to scrounge up the two dollars he owes for December rent.

Just get it over with, I think to myself, fidgeting where I stand outside the doorway. Each month it's the same: Mamma and our landlord, a crusty old man by the name of Mr. Leonard, have worked out this deal by which I traipse up and down the hallways of this dingy boardinghouse, collecting the two dollars due from each of its tenants. The place is filled with male boarders, save for Mamma, Kit, and me squeezed into our room on the second floor and one other couple—they claim to be brother and sister, but Mamma tells me she has her doubts.

"My girl can collect it all," Mamma suggested to Mr. Leonard. "Save you hours of haggling and irritation. Look how pretty she is. No man would ever tell her no."

When Mr. Leonard agreed to the idea, Mamma, ever the opportunist, slipped in: "In exchange, you just give us a break on ours, and we'll call it square."

So here I stand, every month, collecting rent in exchange for a quarter lopped off our bill. And each month I loathe it more than the last. These men have landed here in this dirty, dark boardinghouse for a reason. No wives, no children—at least, not any in sight. Not here in these single rooms that smell of coal dust and sweat and defeat.

Each month at collection time Mamma has me wash my face and tuck my nicest white blouse into my knee-length navy skirt. She ties back my hair with a ribbon and reminds me to smile. "You are to be sweetness itself, you hear?"