I smile, because I feel shy and he sounds a little nervous, too. “It’s a beautiful place. It’s...very neat.”
“Yes. I like neat.”
“I’m not a neat person,” I confess.
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’ll learn. Drink?” he says, heading for the kitchen. “Sparkling water? Apple juice?”
“Juice, please.”
He gives me a glass, then hands me a pink-and-white notepad and a pen with a kitten ornament on the top. I clasp it with happiness. Then I notice what he’s written at the top in his large, flourishing script.
Babygirl’s Rules.
I turn the pad to face him. “What is this?”
His lips thin at my sassy tone. “Your rules. I told you there’d be rules.”
“But it’s blank.”
“Yes. I’m going to tell you what they are and you’re going to write them down.” He gestures toward the kitchen table and we sit.
I glower at him, because I know what the first rule is going to be.
Sure enough, he says, “You have to eat proper food. You can’t have strawberry milk for breakfast. You can’t have white bread and jam for lunch. You can’t eat Pocky or cookies or anything sweet unless you’ve been good, and I say when you’ve been good.”
I pillow my forehead on my arms and groan. “But everything I like is sweet.”
“I noticed. Write it down.”
“I won’t be here all the time,” I protest. “How often will I stay over, once a week?”
He smiles, but it’s not a friendly smile. “That’s cute. You think my rules are just for when you’re here. What did I say about obeying me at all times?”
For some reason I feel myself tingle. My body, the traitor. I write down the rule.
A thought seems to occur to him. “Did you bring snacks with you today?”
I screw up my nose in a moue of annoyance, then go and get my bag and hand it to him. He digs around and starts laying out all the treats I’ve stuffed into it. His eyes are wide as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Four Rice Krispies Treats. Six boxes of Pocky sticks. Six. Three bags of candy. Four packets of Mini Oreo cookies. Where did you think you were going, a gulag? I have food here, you know.” He scoops them all up.
“Not the pink Pocky. At least let me have the pink Pocky,” I say, whimpering as if I’m about to die of starvation.
“Oh, kitten. Why are you wasting your breath.” He takes the lot and puts them in a cupboard. A high cupboard. Damn him for being so tall.
“All right, what’s next?” he says, sitting down. “You have to wear a wrapper when you go up to the stage and as soon as you come off.”
“I have to what?” I deadpan.
“It’s chilly down in those dressing rooms and it’s like an icebox in the corridors in winter. It’s not much better in the summer. You’re sweaty when you come offstage. You could catch cold in that little costume.”
“None of the other girls wear a wrapper.”
“I know, and it’s a miracle you don’t all get ill every other week. I can’t make them wear one but I can make sure you do.”
“I’ll look silly.”
“You can have one with kittens or something on it. I’ll buy it for you.”