Please, Daddy (Love, Daddy)

If you can call thievery business. In my family, we do. Among other things.

“When am I not on rations?” I reply to Genevieve, who for a second gives me a sympathetic look. Then she shakes her head and is right back to business as my stomach twists and growls, reminding me that I had not earned a morning meal.

In my world, everything is bartered or earned. Mother and many of our pseudo ‘fathers’ in the clan made it clear last night my performance did not meet their standards and the take was short, as well as my tips.

When I questioned that perhaps it wasn’t my dancing that was lacking but the efforts of the others that move through the crowd with their trained fingers, what I earned was the absence of morning rations.

Genevieve drops her voice. “Don’t let them hear you crabbing or you know Mom’s favorite saying…” She pauses and we finish in unison: “If you think things are bad for you now, they can always be worse.”

The people I call mother and father are not the ones that birthed me. That’s no secret in our lifestyle. They are my third set of ‘parents’ since I came to be with the nomads that are my family.

I used to think someone among us must have some solid information about who I am and where I came from, but I gave it up long ago. The most I know, from something I overheard years ago, is that I was born in Roscommon County, which is where we are now.

Doesn’t much matter, it’s probably not the truth and even if it is, I don’t know my birth parents’ names or a birthdate, and how would I get to anyone or anyplace to find out more? I don’t drive, I’m watched all the time, and everyone is so afraid of the consequences of leaving, no one is willing to even talk about it.

I wiggle my toes in the dirt under my feet. My off-white skirt is permanently darkened around the hem from years of dancing around on the ground, the delicate floral embroidery just another of the skills I’ve been taught since I was young enough to understand the poke of a needle.

My mother’s voice cuts through the summer breeze as she comes out from her tent, her dark eyes already on us. She’s always been able to intimidate with few words or a hard back hand, but under the outer crust is a layer of loyalty and duty to her family that makes it hard to hate her.

Besides, the women in our group, older and younger alike, are not at the top of the food chain and they are as likely to take the brunt of a stick or a back hand as any of the children.

“Get her ready. We’re on in fifteen minutes,” she grumbles, eyeing me up and down. “I want her shirt off her shoulders. Tighten the corset and push her tits up.” She snaps her tongue over the front of her teeth, leaving it for a moment in the space where one of the incisors is missing before grunting and walking toward some of our other group members who are getting their musical instruments tuned and ready for the first performance of the day.

The layers of my skirts make my hips look full. One of my male father figures, the one who is nominally in charge of me and Genevieve, always said I’d make more money if my tits matched my hips, like it was some sort of fault of my genetics that made his life harder somehow.

Which is ironic, because one of the things he always says hypnotizes men, is my eyes, which are a genetic anomaly. Something called heterochromia or something like that. My right iris is nearly three-quarters this odd, reddish brown while the other small part is a shocking blue which matches the entirety of my left eye. People stare, point and it makes me feel like some sort of alien but for my so-called father, it’s been a boon.

His name is Thadius, but even when I was traded to this family when I thought I might be around twelve, I knew the rules. And from that first day, I referred to him as Papa, as I did the other elder men lest I take twelve lashes for disrespect.

All I’ve ever wanted to do is dance. Even in my most distant memories with my other ‘adoptive’ families, I was twirling and pointing my toes.

Little did I know that what felt joyful and natural to me, would be viewed simply as a skill used for filling the pockets of the group and nothing more.

Still, when I lie on my blankets covering the ground at night, my head on a rolled-up pile of clothes that second as my pillow, I dream of pointed ballet slippers and white tulle. I know I’m far too old to ever pursue the dream of being a real ballet dancer, but I would settle for simply allowing it to be something I do for my own pleasure instead of the pursuit of misdemeanor petty theft.