More Than A Maybe Read Free

of an exam.
    “Me? Never!” she said, giving me a maybe-too-innocent batting of her eyelashes.
    Those eyes. That was another thing about her — they were always made up so perfectly. No matter how sleepily she had to drag herself to class, Jayla always had her makeup in place. Nothing too elaborate, but she obviously knew what to do with a powder brush. Those eyes held as much fascination for me as those of the Goddesses I watched under my covers each night. My mother hadn’t seen the need to teach me the ins and outs of cosmetics, beyond the simple application of lipstick. Besides, she’d always assured me, it was frivolous.
    Jayla was addicted to coffee — and it was because of our shared lust for the hot brown stuff that we finally had our first good conversation, at the little campus café next to the medical science building. I liked her immediately . . . we clearly ran with different crowds, but it was always a blast to hear about the clubs she’d just been to, or who she was currently sleeping with. On the reasons for that perpetual sleepiness of hers, however, she’d always been weirdly evasive.
    That is, until the day that I called her and told her I was quitting school. She’d rushed over to meet me instantly.
    “What!?” she said. “No way. I don’t believe it.”
    I poked at the foam at the bottom of my latte cup. “It’s true. I’d keep going if I could. That’s what mom wanted. But with the funeral expenses . . . her hospital bills . . . ”
    Jayla stared at me. “There must be something you could do . . . the financial aid office, or . . . I mean, shit, you’re a great student!”
    I could only shake my head. “Not great enough for scholarships. I’ve been to see them like three times. They say there’s nothing they can do for me. I can apply for a grant in the future, maybe. That should cover a semester’s worth of textbooks. If I’m lucky.”
    Jayla bit her lip and stared off into the distance. I could see that she wanted to tell me something . . . but I could also tell it was difficult for her.
    She reached out and touched my hand. “Look. I don’t tell a lot of people this, but . . . okay, look: money’s tight for me, too. I know that I sleep a lot in class. That isn’t by accident, and it’s not just the fact that I’m sometimes kind of a club rat. Actually I have a part-time job.”
    I smiled. “You’re a secret agent.”
    Maybe it was just the tension of the situation, but we both laughed at that. It seemed to give her all the permission she needed.
    “I’m a dancer,” she said simply.
    It was probably just  naiveté , but it actually took me a moment to process what she said. What it meant.
    “You mean . . . for money?” I asked, as the sudden understanding sent my eyebrows furrowing together.
    “Well, not for free!” she said, raising her voice.
    She seemed to take it as an accusation. For all I know, maybe it was one.
    “You know what? Never mind,” she said, pulling her hand quickly away from mine.
    I felt immediately awful — like I was confirming some long-suspected fear about me. I immediately started backpedaling.
    “Jayla . . . that’s not what I meant. Really. I just . . . please understand, I just have no idea about that kind of thing. It’s a world away from how I grew up.” I took a deep breath, and as I did, I saw her face begin to soften. “Seriously. Please. Tell me more. What do you do? How does that work?”
    My interest seemed to satisfy her, and I saw her smile return as the warmth came back into her voice. “It’s not really that complicated. I take off my clothes and men give me money for it. Hell — women too, sometimes.” She shrugged. “Simple.”
    Simple. It was like hearing the word for the first time. I’d been told by my mom that women who took off their clothes for money were stupid, or trashy, or even traitors; any number of a dozen cruel things.
    But I also knew Jayla. She was nothing like that. Besides, more than a few