"No, thank you,” I murmur. “This is perfect."
"It is going to hang off your shoulders terribly.”
"Even better," I say with a smile.
She finally throws her hands up in defeat. "Do you need anything else to go with it?"
"Do you happen to sell any wigs?"
The clerk points toward a corner shelf, looking defeated. I walk over and grab a brown toupee. Wrong color for my hair, but that’s the point. I place it on my head. It sits crooked on my scalp and looks fake, but men wear fake hair now. They won’t know unless they touch my scalp.
"That shade does not even match your skin tone," the clerk tries to tell me one last time.
"I’ll take it anyway," I reply.
I carry everything into the fitting room to try them all on. Standing in front of the mirror, I stare at a person wearing an awful wig and a massively oversized suit. Ok it’s a cute fit I’m not going to lie.
Paying the tired woman at the front, I hurry out the door.
I need to waste some hours before the meeting, so I find a quiet corner booth in a nearby restaurant to eat a hot meal. The wait feels endless as I nervously drink some tea, my eyes meeting the clock on the wall at intervals. After what feels like forever, the hands of the clock finally hit nine-thirty.
Grabbing my bags, I go into the restaurant’s bathroom to change into my new outfit. It’s as bad as it was the first time. I adjust the terribly fitted suit and straighten the fake hair one last time in the mirror. The ridiculous reflection staring back gives me a strange boost of confidence.
After paying for my meal, I walk out to the street to flag down a passing cab, handing the driver the address written on a slip of paper. He frowns at the destination. "That is a really rough neighborhood for a ride this late at night."
"I am well aware," I tell him. He doesn’t buy it, but he nods. The driver drops me at the curb and speeds off the moment the door closes, clearly eager to escape.
I’m standing outside a massive abandoned factory. The street around me is dark and quiet, only a handful of beat-up cars parked near the entrance. I move quickly to a rusted dumpster and crouch behind it.
Men start arriving in groups, their voices low with thick Georgian accents. I count about twenty heading through the main doors. I wait several extra minutes in the shadows, certain that nothing is going to creep up on me and take me by surprise, before quietly slipping inside behind them.
The interior of the building is dim, with massive concrete floors and thick metal beams holding up the ceiling. The men stand around in small groups to smoke and talk quietly among themselves. I keep my head down and walk forward confidently to blend into the crowd.
Sadly, my disguise isn’t enough to hide me from everyone.
"Hey. You," a deep voice calls out.
I freeze in my tracks.
A large man walks over, giving me a once-over, a look of disgust on his face. "What in the world happened to you?"
Another guy standing nearby burst out laughing. "Look at this pretty boy over here. What are you even doing in a place this dangerous?"
A third thug steps closer to join in on the fun. "Seriously, did you get lost on the way to a fashion shoot?"
I force my voice to sound low and tough. "I am just here for the meeting." My answer only makes them laugh much harder.
"Which specific group are you working with?" the first man demands.
"I am with the north side crew.” The lie falls from my lips easily, having prepared for this outcome.
"The north side?" he repeats suspiciously. "Who exactly sent you here?"
"I have been working around the area for a while," I answer vaguely.
The guy steps close enough for me to see the dark bags under his eyes. He looks me up and down, a tired frown taking over his face. "You don't belong here," he mutters. "You look soft and way too pretty for this kind of work. Are you even eighteen yet?"
"I am twenty-two," I lie again.