The Auction

Eleni

I push the hangers holding my every-day clothes to the side and stare at the few special-occasion dresses I’ve accumulated over the years. I can’t wear my prom dress. The long, glittering baby-pink dress with the lacy sleeves seemed perfect when I picked it out, but I’d stick out like a sore thumb on the ferry. I don’t really want to wear my birthday dress. It stops at my knees, so I might be able to hide it under a long coat, but I picked out the yellow polka-dotted dress because it looked so cheerful, and I don’t want to think of this virginity auction every time we go out to dinner for Mama’s, Baba’s, or my birthday. That leaves me with my funeral dress. I pull the black sheath from the closet and hold it up to my body. It is sleeveless, with just wide straps holding it up, and the skirt doesn’t flare nearly as much as my birthday dress. Every time I wear it to a funeral, I get a little nervous that people might think it’s too sexy because of the fitted top.

Perfect.

I slide the dress over my head then prop a little hand mirror up on my desk to do my hair and makeup. I want to seem sexy, but not too sexy, right? Because these men at a virginity auction probably want innocent girls. I swipe on a soft gold eyeshadow over my blue eyes, then apply one of my darker pink lipsticks. Good. The dusty lip really brings out my cupid’s bow…I think. I don’t tend to wear a lot of makeup. Most of the customers we get in The Greek Corner are locals I’ve known forever or commuters who wouldn’t care if I was wearing a mascot suit. And Frank.

That anger simmers back to life in my belly, and I pull my hair up into a bun quickly. A few curls tumble down to frame my face, and I cross my fingers that looks charming. I can’t sit around here any longer. It’s already after midnight, and I can’t spend another day watching my parents endure Frank Lombardi torture. I grab the kitten heels I usually pair with this dress, shove my phone and wallet into a small purse, yank on a jacket, and crawl out onto the fire escape. The night air is brisk, but it’s not cold enough to touch the fire inside me. I barely need my jacket as I stride down the city streets toward the subway station. All of my worries melt away. Maybe, after we get out from under Frank’s thumb, Mama, Baba, and I will all go back to Parikia.

No. We may have buried a coffin for Christos, but I don’t really believe he is dead. Not totally. And I wouldn’t leave New York City until I know that my brother is gone, not just lost.

The subway and ferry rides pass in a blink. I get a rideshare to the club address I pulled up on my phone before I left, and the sedan drops me off in front of a glittering club with the name Piacere written in twinkling lights on top. There’s a line out the door, but almost everyone in the line is a man. At the very front stands a muscular male in a black T-shirt with the word “staff” on the back. I take a deep breath and pray all the movies and TV I watched were right about how this works as I march up to the bouncer.

“Hi.” My voice sounds breathless to my own ears. “I’m here for the, um, auction?”

The bouncer looks me up and down. In case it’ll sell my story, I open my coat to show the dress underneath.

He snorts. “Yeah, that makes sense. Head inside. Ask for Carla.” He unclips a velvet rope over the door and waves me through.

Inside, loud, bass-heavy music thumps through hidden speakers loud enough to shake the floor under my feet. A long, deep red stage runs the middle of the room, studded with golden poles. A few beautiful women in little more than their underwear spin and twist on the poles, to the cheers and dollar bills of the men in the low tables around the stage. To one side, a dark wood bar occupies most of a wall. To the other, I see a packed dance floor and other, higher tables. I blink as my eyes adjust to the darkness then stumble toward the bar.

“I need to see Carla,” I say to the first bartender who makes eye contact with me. 

He points me through a door, and I pray I don’t have to answer any more questions. This is already overwhelming.

Thankfully, the music is quieter in the back room he pointed me to, and Carla is easy to pick out from her crisp suit, clipboard, and the way nearly a dozen other girls around my age and a little younger mill around her. I walk up.

“I’m here for the auction,” I say. “My name is El—” I stop. I’m in a sex club. I probably shouldn’t use my real name.

Carla looks me up and down like the bouncer did, then presses a finger to her ear. “Last minute entry, looks to be early twenties, great body, no dress sense. Called El.” 

I blush. “I’m sorry?”

She releases her ear. “Don’t worry, it’ll be cute. We’re starting in a couple minutes. Drop your coat, and I’ll send you out with everyone else. You’ll be after Marissa. Come back here when you hear that name. Watch until then.”

I nod and drape my coat over the arm of a low, leather couch. She ushers most of the girls back out to the front of the house, and I sit at one of the tables as the dancers leave the stage.

Watching the auction is sobering. The first girl, who I think is pretty, goes for a scant two thousand dollars. When the next girl comes out in a sexy dress, the jeers of the men around me grow almost deafening. Several of them chant for her to take it off, while others holler that she couldn’t possibly be a virgin, dressed like that. The girl eventually shimmies off the top of her dress to reveal her bra, and still only goes for twenty-five hundred dollars. I chew on my thumbnail. That’s not enough for Frank.

The next girl, a pretty blonde in a white dress that highlights her curves just a little, goes for nearly five thousand. Am I worth more than that? I have to be.

Carla grabs my arm. “El? I’m gonna need you to come with me.”

“What?” I lurch to my feet. “Am I being kicked out?”

The rest of the girls stare at me. I flush. I don’t even know what I did wrong, but I’ve just lost the last chance to save my family.

Carla drags me back through the door to the back rooms, but she leads me to a different room along the hall. I don’t even look where we’re going. I just stare at her face, trying to figure out what’s going on. She smiles apologetically, nudges me into a room, and closes the door between us. What’s happening? I don’t seem to be kicked out, but—

A familiar voice behind me says, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”