1
Nova
My favorite song comes on the ancient kitchen radio and I crank the volume, knowing full well that I’m tempting the wrath of my sisters. It’s Sunday morning and the breakfast rush is in full swing, our tiny island restaurant packed with hungry tourists and locals. I’m in the kitchen, waiting for our cook to finish plating the order for table nine, giving me approximately thirty seconds of free time before I have to carry out the plates.
Ignoring the stern, yet amused, look from the cook, I throw my hands up over my head and weave my hips in a figure eight to the beat. There’s a mop leaning against the wall and I whirl it into a dance, pretending it’s a handsome boy who finds me dazzling. A memory flits through my mind of my mother humming along to this song while driving her beat-up old station wagon and my steps slow.
The vision weaves my happiness through with melancholy, but I force my smile to stay in place, even as I replace the mop against the wall. It might just be me and my two older sisters now running the restaurant our parents opened as newlyweds, but I have to be grateful for what I’ve got. Being sad never solved anything, right?
“Order up!” shouts the cook.
“Looks incredible, Marcel.” I pick up the plates, pirouette toward the door and blow him a kiss. “Just like everything else you make.”
His blush sends me into the bustling dining room with a giggle.
I set down the plates in front of two sunburned college kids, hoping I can get back to the kitchen before the song ends—Sundays should be for dancing!—but I’m brought up short when I see my sisters talking to some men at the hostess station.
There are two of them. They give off an air of importance, like a lot of the businessmen who come to our exclusive island on vacation. Tommy Bahama shirts, loafers, expensive sunglasses. They all look the same. But these two seem to be discussing something important with my sisters. Something a lot more important than breakfast.
On cue, both of my sisters turn and pin me with a look.
Then they trade a sly glance with each other.
A sense of foreboding settles in my belly when they point me out to the men.
One of them lets out a low whistle, shaking his hand like he’s been burned and the other nods enthusiastically. What is happening here?
My feet are frozen in cement as my sisters approach me with a sense of urgency. Purpose. When they reach my sides, each of them takes an elbow and hustle me into the kitchen, shoving me toward the small alcove where we store supplies.
“Order up!” calls Marcel, eyeing my sisters suspiciously. Normally they never enter the kitchen unless it’s to yell about the food taking too long.
“The food can wait,” says my oldest sister, Raquel.
“Yes,” Constance pulls the rubber band out of my long, blonde hair and fluffs it with a discerning eye. “We have far more important things to discuss.”
“Like what?” I whisper, getting the urge to run.
“Did you see the men we were speaking with?” Raquel asks.
“The businessmen?”
“Yes, the businessmen, Nova.” Constance exaggerates the words, as if I’m a simpleton. “They’re looking for an escort.”
I gasp when Constance unties my apron and tosses it aside, then begins hiking up my skirt to an indecent length. “W-what’s an escort?”
My sisters turn wide eyes on each other and laugh gleefully.
Oh goodness. There’s a terrible pressure in my belly. My sisters have always been best friends…with each other. I tend to keep to myself, but not by choice. When I was a child, they told me I could bring our parents back from the dead if I plucked a flower from the highest cliff on the island. Only when a stiff wind almost knocked me off did I realize they were lying. As more time passed, their confusing resentment toward me only grew. I’m not sure what I did to make them hate me, but I’ve learned to do my job and make myself scarce.
Truth be told, they scare me a little.
Now, Constance glances over her shoulder to make sure the cook isn’t within earshot. “Ah, little Nova. An escort is a woman paid by a man to…” She nudges Raquel with an elbow. “How would you phrase it, sis?”
“He pays her to have sex. With him.” She pouts dramatically. “Do you know what sex is, little Nova?”
“Yes,” I breathe, my knees starting to tremble. “I…I think so. Mostly. You didn’t tell them…” I swallow hard. “You didn’t tell them I would be their escort, did you?”
“What?” Constance slaps a hand to her chest. “Of course we didn’t!”
My relief almost sinks me to the ground.
“We told them you would be an escort for their friend.”
An invisible hand squeezes my throat. “I don’t want to. Please tell them I—”