The Position (8 page)

When I finally get my contact lenses, I can hardly believe it’s real. The world comes into crisp focus, filled with the details I’ve been missing for years. I gaze around the office in wonder, pointing out pictures on the walls and the people milling about in the mall beyond the front doors. Liz laughs and hugs me.
 

“Welcome back to the world of the seeing!”
 

I decide to splurge on a pair of new glasses as well. I settle on a rimless pair that are feminine and classy. Liz is elated.
 

“I can see your face!” she exclaims, jumping up and down like a little kid. “My God! I never realized how sexy your lips are! You look like Angelina Jolie!”
 

I laugh in amazement. It’s my face. And it’s actually pretty.
 

Next, Liz drags me downstairs to a salon where we sit in the waiting chairs flipping through hairstyle magazines. Liz searches for pictures of women who have hair like mine, wavy and thick. Each time she points out a picture I stare at it as if it were part of some secret society of women who know how to work it. How am I ever going to become one of them?
 

The hair stylist is a stocky gay guy named Francis who has a short buzz cut. When he wraps the smock around me and studies my hair, he clicks his tongue with disdain. “Sweetie, what the fuck? Are you Sleeping Beauty or something? Snoozing for twenty years while your hair grows into waist-length split ends?”

I flush with embarrassment. *Who do you think you’re kidding?* my mother’s voice chides inside my head. *You’re not fooling anyone! There are the haves and the have-nots, and you will never have anything nice!* Thankfully, Liz chimes in as well.
 

“What was she doing? Putting herself through college without a bit of help from anyone, is what. Not everyone gets to spend their time at fraternity mixers and rock concerts, you know. Some people are too busy busting their asses.”
 

I didn’t even know Liz was aware of that part of my life. Travis must really like her. The stylist tilts his head to the side and looks at me in the mirror, as if seeing me in a new light.
 

“Well, you go, girl!” he shouts, suddenly inspired. “Let’s give you the style of the century! What are you thinking?”
 

Liz chimes in again. “I’m thinking just past the shoulders, layered, framing the face kind of thing?”
 

“Hell, yeah!”
 

The stylist chatters nonstop as he cuts, but my thoughts are miles away. I watch, speechless, as huge swaths of hair fall to the ground, piling up all around us. I watch it in a daze. That hair was on my head when my mother kicked me out of the car in the desert, five miles from home, and made me walk through the summer heat. It was there the night they got drunk and my mother passed out with a lit cigarette in her hand and nearly burned the place to the ground. And it was there the time my father whipped me with his belt until the blood was seeping through my shirt.
 

Good fucking riddance. I’ve been carrying that hair around long enough.

He blow-dries and styles my hair, pressing his lips together in deep concentration. When he’s finally finished, the stylist spins the chair around to face the mirror, eyebrows raised in suspense. My hair falls in undulating waves just past my shoulders. Instead of hanging heavy over my skull, it’s full of life and body. Long bangs are swept off to one side. I stare at my reflection in disbelief. How is it possible this is me?

“Do you like…?” he asks gleefully.
 

Unable to speak, I nod, dazed. Liz stands beside the stylist, gazing at me in the mirror. There are tears in her eyes.
 

“Girl,” she whispers, “you’re stunning.”
 

The last thing Liz insists I do before leaving the mall is to buy myself a few sets of sexy underwear and bras. “I swear, just knowing it’s under there makes you feel like Cleopatra,” she says. “It reminds you that you’re a sexy beast. And at the end of the day, you’re the only one you need to convince.”
 

I have absolutely no idea what bra size I am, since all of my bras have been ill-fitted and secondhand. So Liz has a woman who works in the lingerie department measure me. She comes up behind me and wraps a tailor’s tape measure around my back and my boobs. Then she leads me around the store pulling out an armload of bras just my size.
 

Liz wants to come in while I try them on but I make her wait outside. I’m not girly in that way. But Liz is a good sport about it. She takes a seat just outside the changing room where bored husbands and boyfriends usually sit.
 

The first bra I try is black and it fits better than I thought possible. It pushes up my boobs and makes them look full and awesome. I stare at them, remembering Travis. The thought that I might actually be desirable sends a shiver through me. In that moment I realize how much I want to be touched. Touched all over my body. And I want to explore a body; to make a man groan with pleasure. I want to join the land of the living.
 

That evening, Liz goes through her closet and pulls out armload after armload of clothes for me to try on. She knows just what goes together and what doesn’t, and she even writes a few notes down for me.
 

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she says, holding up a lovely blue dress. “In fact, once you get started in fashion, you’ll never, ever go back.”
 

I watch her with such intense gratitude it’s almost painful. No one has ever gone through this much trouble for me. Everything feels different. I feel lighter. My hair is lighter. My body feels lighter. Like I’ve finally shed the tattered old me and now I am fresh and new.
 

Before leaving Liz’s house, I fold everything very carefully, knowing how wrinkled clothes can get in my car, and put them in bags. The dresses and nicer blouses I leave on the hanger to drape over my arm. When she walks me to the door, chattering excitedly and raving about how beautiful I look, I feel the tightness in my throat. I turn to look at her, tears brimming in my eyes. She smiles warmly, and soon tears are filling her eyes as well.
 

“Your world is going to change,” she says, her voice breaking.
 

I drop the bags and throw my arms around her.

Chapter Thirteen

On Monday morning, I get up super early. My heart is running sprints in my chest and my hands are actually shaking with nerves. I pick out Liz’s business casual blue dress, throw a hair dryer and toiletries into my duffel bag, and head to the YMCA. I don’t even try to sneak in this time. I just pay the woman at the counter for access to the showers and locker rooms. After all, this is the new me.

After securing my things in a locker, I let myself take a long, hot shower. It’s strange not feeling the heavy weight of my hair on my back, and I love it. I wash and condition my new hair and scrub my body with a wonderfully scented oatmeal soap that I picked up in a bath store in the mall. Then I stand at the mirror wrapped in a towel and blow-dry my hair. I’m amazed at how quickly it dries and how easy it is to style. Then I rub lotion over my arms and legs, enjoying the smooth texture of my skin, appreciating my body for the first time.
 

When I pull on the blue dress, I smile at how it fits to my every curve, showing off my hourglass figure rather than hiding it away. The hem falls just above my knees. My exposed legs shimmer from the milky lotion.
 

Pulling on a pair of pumps, I practice walking back and forth in the bathroom until I no longer wobble. The heels are relatively low, so it doesn’t take long. Then I drop my bag off at my car, leave my bike chained up, and head for the bus stop. As I walk, a man in a passing car leans out of his window and whistles at me. I’m so shocked I stop and stare after him. At the bus stop, several businessmen gather to wait. They all throw glances my way, giving me broad smiles and nods. I feel like I’m in a dream.
 

It’s still early when I arrive at the building and stride through the lobby. I can feel the eyes on me; the heads turning. When I reach the elevators I see a crush of people fighting their way on, and I hang back. I do this every morning. Elevators make me nervous enough without being smashed up against strangers, unable to move.
 

Finally, the doors to another elevator open. This one is empty. I step inside and press the button for the top floor. Just as the doors are nearly closed someone throws a hand into the gap, forcing them open again. I catch my breath. It’s Lazarus.
 

I grasp for the handrail to steady myself. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it pulsing in my ears. He’s in the middle of a conversation on his phone, but as he slips into the elevator, our eyes meet. My stomach leaps when I catch him glancing at my breasts, which are not exposed but very pronounced in the dress. There’s a coy smile on his face and I realize that he’s being flirtatious. He doesn’t even know who I am.
 

“Because I can’t be in two places at once, obviously,” he says irritably to whoever is on the phone. “And I’d rather go to Paris than Perth.”
 

I watch him, waiting to be recognized, but other than a few stolen glances at my legs, Lazarus is completely distracted. When the elevator opens on our floor, he heads briskly to his office without looking back. With a pit in my stomach I push through the doors and into the hushed reception area of Lazarus & Smith. Christian is standing at the reception desk arranging a series of folders and sipping coffee. He doesn’t recognize me, either. I know this because he *actually smiles*.
 

“Good morning! Can I help…” Then he freezes and gawks at me, incredulous. It takes him several moments to speak. “M-Michaela?” he stammers at last.
 

“Hi Christian.” I act as casual as possible, but my whole face feels like it’s on fire.
 

“What happened to you?” Christian drops into his chair and gapes at me. “I didn’t even…whoa.”
 

I shrug. “Just wanted to clean up my image a bit.”
 

 
“A bit? Are you kidding?” he chokes out. Then he’s quiet for a moment. He shakes his head and sighs. “Well, shit.”
 

“Well shit, what?”
 

He rubs his face in frustration, but I have no idea why. “Here we go again.”
 

When I step into Lazarus’s office, he’s at his desk, still on the phone. “If you can set up the meeting I’ll talk to him,” he grumbles, stooping over his computer and working the mouse with one hand, searching for something. But when I walk through the room to my little office at the back, I hear his voice falter with confusion.
 

“But his budget is way too low. I can tell…tell you…uh…excuse me! What are you…?”
 

I can’t help but smile to myself. Then I take a breath and turn to face him. Doubt flickers in his eyes and he looks at me with curiosity. Slowly, he recognizes me, and I’m surprised to see his expression darken. His jaw steels as he stares at me.

“Yes, I’m here,” he says into the phone, but his voice has lost its forcefulness. “That’s fine but don’t commit to anything.”

 
With a little nod I head to my desk and turn on my computer, just like I do every day. I feel like I’m holding my breath as I make a careful list of Lazarus’s appointments. Is he happy with the way I look? He seems almost angry about it. I take in a slow careful breath at last, and it quivers as I release it. I hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake. But why would it be a mistake? How pathological could this guy be? Even though I try not to, I glance up at him briefly. My heart does a backflip. He’s still staring right at me, unblinking.
 

I’m aware of my whole body. I feel my breasts filling the dress and my exposed legs visible to him beneath the desk. A thrill shoots through me and goose bumps break out on my skin. Whether it’s a mistake or not, one thing is certain: he has noticed me. Jude Lazarus has noticed me.
 

When he’s finally off his call I pick up the printout of his agenda and walk into his office, just like I do every morning. But today is unlike any other. Instead of shuffling through papers or scrolling through documents on his computer, Lazarus sits motionless, gazing at me, his eyes piercing.
 

My whole body goes cold with nerves and I feel my legs shaking. But I don’t want to let it show. “I have your agenda for the day.”
 

Lazarus raises his eyebrows. “Can I ask what all this is about?” he says in a low voice.
 

I smile and look self-consciously down at my dress. My sudden-sprung curves. “Eva told me I should pay more attention to the way I look. That I should be more fashionable.”
 

Lazarus wipes at his upper lip and I realize, with shock, that *he’s* nervous. His eyes move slowly over my body, shamelessly taking in every square inch. The sensation of being looked at—admired—is so new to me that I can’t get the stupid smile off my face. It’s a giddy sensation and I’m drunk with it.
 

“Is that what Eva told you?” he says flatly. “That’s just brilliant.”
 

He forces himself to look away, rubbing his face and swiveling his chair a half turn toward his desk. He rests his elbows on the desk and runs both hands through his hair. I’ve never seen him so unnerved.
 

“Are you okay?” I ask hesitantly. “Did I do something wrong?”
 

Lazarus sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t look up. “No, Michaela. I just liked you the way you were, that’s all.”
 

“You could’ve fooled me,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
 

Lazarus lifts his head now and looks at me. He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
 

I feel the red flush on my cheeks and shift my gaze to the window. The sun is ridiculously bright and the glass tower across the street twinkles blindingly.