Working Girl by A. E. Woodward

my eyes keep reading the same line over and over again.
    Unable to shake the feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, I give up. Tossing my books into my bag, I almost don’t notice the paper airplane that lands on my table. Confused, I look and see no one but it doesn’t matter. The flutter in my stomach tells me who flew that damn plane at me. I think about throwing it in the trash without reading it, but something inside of me won’t allow it. With shaking hands, I open the paper and see the poem scrawled in familiar messy penmanship.
    Friendship
    My eyes roll as I read the title. Another Ralph Waldo Emerson original. He really needs to get some new material. He’s going to wear me out on Emerson poems. Not that it stops me from reading it.
    True love transcends the unworthy object,
    And dwells and broods on the eternal,
    And when the poor interposed mask crumbles,
    It is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth,
    And feels its independency the surer.
    The words tug at my heartstrings. Strings that I thought I could numb. Anger washes over me and I crumple the paper up and toss it carelessly into the trashcan next to my table. Pulling the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I bite back the tears that are threatening to escape.
    I just can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t right. Boys don’t do shit like this just because they like girls. There is always a motive. There’s got to be a reason Emerson is pursuing me. After all, there’s nothing special about me.
    I’m just the daughter of a brothel whore.

I’M SITTING IN FRONT OF the window of our apartment reading. Tonight is a peaceful night. Neither Momma or I have a shift across the street. She’s sitting on the couch, watching one of her ‘stories.’ Momma has always loved daytime soap operas. Growing up, whenever she had downtime, I’d be sitting next to her as she watched Days of Our Lives and The Young and The Restless . The acting was terrible, but it gave her the ability to lead a romanticized life, whereas I preferred to read about mine.
    Since most of the girls are living in the brothel at the moment, the house is quiet. They’ve apparently all synced their cycles now. I should enjoy it while it lasts because soon enough we will be overrun with them, Momma and I will be forced to share a bedroom again. Of all the things I hate, I hate having to share a room with Momma the most.
    The television snaps off, and I look up from the page I was on. Momma looks at me smiling. “Come”—she slaps the cushion on her right—“sit with me.”
    I do as she asks, like a good daughter would, and she immediately pulls me in close to her. I rest my head against her chest, listening to her heart beating underneath my ear. “You were the only thing in my life I did right, Presley.”
    With tears glossing my eyes, I look up at her. Momma has never been one to shower me with love and affection and moments like this are few and far between. Sure, she takes care of me, feeds me when she can, and she does her best, but love isn’t something I’ve ever had in abundance.
    “I know this life hasn’t been easy for you, baby girl, but I love you.”
    “I know you do, Momma,” I choke out.
    We both sit in silence, clinging to each other while our unspoken words hang in the air. “I want you to understand something about me, Presley. I never wanted this for me—for you.” Her hand smooth’s my hair as she continues to speak. “I’ve never really told you about my past, or how I ended up here. But now that you’re not a teenager anymore, I think it’s time you understood.”
    I shake my head. “Momma, you don’t—”
    “Yes, I do.” She takes a deep breath before starting. “I had an average childhood . . . ”
    The beginning of her story hurts me more than it should. Hearing that her childhood was average ignites something I’m not sure I can deal with. I’m envious of her. Jealous of my own mother. For she was afforded something I’ve never