I thought about the conversation Diane and I had that day, after we left Fat Larry’s.

“Girl, I swear, I was you about a year ago. You remember, I was sneaking in and out of my cousin’s dorm room, barely able to eat and shit,” Diane shook her head at the awful memories she described. “I just got tired of tryin’ to play it straight,” she admitted.

“Yeah, but the ride-I mean look at you, girl. You’ve got to tell me what you doin’ to get paid like this.”

“It’s simple,” she said. “I dance at this little club called Ecstasy on Friday and Saturday nights,” she said calmly.

I leaned in to her.

“What you mean, you dance at a club? What kind of dancin’ are we talkin’ ’bout here?” I wanted to know.

“I’m an exotic dancer,” she said without so much as a whisper to her voice.

“What?” I screamed.

She didn’t seem the least bit phased by my shock. It was as if we were discussing Larry’s chicken. “Say what you want, but I never leave with any less than five hundred dollars a night,” she said and eased back in her seat. I could sense she was studying my reaction. I let the figure roll around in my head. “I know what you’re thinking,” Diane said.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Had she said five hundred dollars a night? For two nights worth of work she made one thousand dollars? That’s almost triple what I make for working eighty hours.

She pulled her hair behind her ears and leaned toward me. “Yeah, I do, Jada. Your ass thinkin’ ’bout that paper. And you wonderin’ if you can do it.”