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against the aquarium glass to get a better look at her legs and breasts? The harsh plastic of the fake mermaid tail? Her mother’s biscuits and her father’s old car and egg salad on Sundays?
    She knew she couldn’t stay at Whale Cay forever. But she sure as hell didn’t want to go home.
    In the early hours of morning, just as the sun was casting an orange wedge of light across the water, Joe climbed into bed, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke. She put her arms around Georgie and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
    Georgie didn’t answer, and although she hadn’t planned on responding, began to cry, with Joe’s rough arms across her heaving chest. They fell asleep.
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    She dreamed of Sarasota.
    There was the cinder-block changing room that smelled of bleach and brine. On the door hung a blue star, as if to suggest that the showgirls could claim such status. A bucket of lipsticks sat on the counter, soon to be whisked away to the refrigerator to keep them from melting.
    Georgie pulled on her mermaid tail and slipped into the tank, letting herself fall through the brackish water, down, down to the performance arena. She smiled through the green salty water and pretended to take a sip of Coca-Cola as customers pressed their noses to the glass walls of the tank. She flipped her rubber fishtail and sucked air from a plastic hose as elegantly as she could, filling her lungs with oxygen until they hurt. A few minnows flitted by, glinting in the hot Florida sun that hung over the water, warming the show tank like a pot of soup.
    Letting the hose drift for just a moment, Georgie executed a series of graceful flips, arching her taut swimmer’s body until it made a circle. She could see the audience clapping and decided she had enough air to flip again. Breathing through the tricks was hard, but a few months into the season, muscle memory took over.
    Next Georgie pretended to brush her long blond hair underwater while one of Sarasota’s many church groups looked on, licking cones of vanilla ice cream, pointing at her.
    How does she use the bathroom? Can she walk in that thing? Hey, Sunshine, can I get your number?
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    That afternoon, as the sun crested in the cloudless sky, Marlene, Georgie, and Joe had lunch on Femme Beach. Marlene wore an enormous hat and sunglasses and reclined, topless, in a chair. She pushed aside her plate of blackened fish. Joe, after eating her share and some of Marlene’s, kicked off her shoes and joined Georgie in the water, dampening her khaki shorts. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
    â€œMarlene needs a place where she can be herself,” Joe said eventually. “She needs one person she can count on and I’m that person.”
    â€œOh,” Georgie said, placing a palm on top of the calm water. “Is it hard being a movie star?”
    Joe sighed. “She’s been out pushing war bonds, and she’s exhausted. She’s more delicate than she looks. She drinks too much.”
    â€œYou’re worried?”
    â€œSometimes she’s not allowed to eat. It’s hard on her nerves.”
    â€œIs this why the other girls left?” Georgie asked, looking out onto the long stretch of water. “You could have mentioned her, you know. You could have told me.”
    â€œTry to be open-minded, darling.”
    â€œI’ll try,” Georgie said, diving into the water, swimming out as far as she ever had, leaving Joe standing knee-deep behind her. Maybe Joe would worry, she thought, but when she looked back, Joe was in a chair, one hand on Marlene’s arm, and their heads were tipped toward each other, oblivious to anything else.
    What exhausted Georgie about Joe’s guests is that they were all important. And important people made you feel not normal, but unimportant.
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    That night the other guests went on a dinner cruise on the
Mise-en-scène
, while Joe entertained Marlene, Georgie, and Phillip. They were