Shark Girl

One must be lucky to mingle with the rich and powerful and avoid their snares. I was not so lucky.
  
I made my first entrance to their circle as just a Shark Girl. The agency fitted me with fins and a set of false teeth. I stood by the pool with an arrangement of Black Sea sashimi and smiled politely at the party guests, most of whom kept their distance with a wary glance.
  
It wasn’t until my shift break in the kitchens that I realized my shark teeth had cut into my bottom lip and my smile was covered with blood. A fine line of it trickled down my neck suggestively.
  
“That’s true commitment,” one of the cooks said, dabbing at my lip. My hand fins were too slippery to hold the rag. “But keep your blood out of the hors d’oeuvres. Otherwise, they’ll get a taste for it.”
  
I found this to be true.
  
While very few of the rich consume actual blood – the exceptions being those on that Eastern European youth elixir kick this spring – they will bleed you dry.
  
By the end of that year, I went from Shark Girl to Grecian Statue to Back-Up Firecracker (in case the first girl caught ablaze). From there, it was Weekend Fling to Second Mistress to First.
  
His name was Gerald and I thought we’d marry – for love, or at least to have someone to hold onto in the Panic Room.
  
But he left me for an Olympic gymnast. Not a real one, just another hired girl at a party in a borrowed unitard holding a tray of Spanish goat cheese. The gold medal around her neck wasn’t real either, just plated tin.
  
There are no winners here.
 

 

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Front page image by Anita Carril.

 

GHOST WRITER is a project by Tracy Danger Mumford. New sections are released every other Sunday. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying the new one’s up, sign up here:


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