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some tea from a swan-shaped teapot.
    â€œSashay, I wish I could have seen you then,” I said. “I’m sure Rudee’s right.”
    Her smile made me feel like such a child. She slipped through a beaded curtain and returned with a long silver tube, from which she extracted a yellowed poster of a woman who looked part cloud, part whipped cream, her eyes glowing through all this motion and flashing like little jolts of amber lightning. The image of a young Sashay was magical, and underneath in ornate script was written:
Sashay D’Or. La Reine Des R ê ves
    The Queen of Dreams
    One Show Nightly at the Lido De Paris
    The same eyes looked at me as she rolled up the poster. “To work, we’ve both got a show tonight!”
    From a gigantic shipping trunk, she pulled out miles of assorted fabrics and tossed them here and there. She draped me with each one then stood back, shaking her head, pouting, murmuring little “mmms” and “ ouis ” and “ nons ” as she worked.
    â€œIt’s all scarf, Mademoiselle Mac, it has nothing to do with buttering your little cheeks with blush or balancing you on a pair of pumps with heels like La Tour Eiffel. It’s not the scarf with the perfect little origami folds. And none of that awful whiplash look, wrapped around your neck like a maypole. Mon dieu, non .”
    I agreed with everything, trying to stand still as she wrapped and unwrapped me in layers of satin, silk, cashmere, and chenille till I thought my neck would break out in hives. If my mom could see me now....
    â€œAnd you don’t want to look cold. One doesn’t buy a watch for its ability to tell time, oui ? We must drape, casually, elegantly, with that certain ‘oh I don’t really know how it fell like this’ look. Once over each shoulder, a little toss to one side then the other. A little pouffe in the front, et voila ! Oh yes, and let your hair fall in your eyes. It says ‘so what.’”
    I knew that part would be no problem. I can do “so what.” Looking in the mirror, I felt silly but more ready for Le Moulin D’Or than I had been an hour ago. I was going to ask what to expect at the club when Sashay glanced through the curtains and spotted Rudee’s taxi. “Our carriage is here, ma petite .”

Eleven
    As we zoomed to the club, Rudee kept glancing back in the mirror with, I thought, a mixture of amazement and amusement. Sashay swept me though the backstage door, down a dark hallway behind the stage, to her dressing room. From inside the club I could hear the blah-blah of voices and the occasional too-loud laugh, mixed with the sound of some old song that everyone but me remembers. As Sashay did a few salad-tossing moves with my hair, she whispered some last minute instructions.
    â€œThey’ll be the ones on the balcony; you can’t miss them. It’s dark up there. Remember what Rudee said. Just listen and don’t try to talk to them. You’ll be subbing for Michelle the cigarette girl. If anyone asks, just say she’s sick.”
    She must have read my expression as she looped a tray around my neck filled with every brand of cigarette on display. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to smoke to sell them. They’ll order from you all night.” Sashay kissed me on both cheeks and whispered, “ Bonne chance . Meet me here after the show.”
    I turned to push my way through the heavy curtains beside the stage, and for a moment, my courage faltered. What am I, a kid from Upper Mandeville, California, who isn’t old enough to drive, never mind smoke, doing here? Will I fool anyone? At that moment, the curtains parted and a small, elegantly-dressed waitress with a tray full of empty glasses almost knocked me over. “Oh, excusez-moi , go ahead, doll.” She smiled and held the curtain open into the club.
    My mouth went dry, and my heart skipped a few beats. The murmurs I had