Dulce: An Excerpt from Aya de León’s ‘Side Chick Nation’
Fiction by Aya de Leon
S he walked through and slipped out the door on the far end. In the hall on the other side of the VIP lounge was a coatrack. A blonde bobbed wig hung next to a leather coat and a silver scarf. Dulce grabbed the wig and scarf and ducked into the stairwell to put them on. She pulled her long hair into a loose braid. Fortunately, she’d blown it out for her date tonight, otherwise, she’d never have gotten the wig over the tight curls of her natural hair. As it was, the braid stuck out, too thick to tuck underneath. She wore the silver scarf like a shawl, covering her shoulders and her long braid at the nape of her neck. She crisscrossed the scarf in the front to reveal her cleavage, while concealing the distinctive turquoise-sequined bustier of her dress. It was an ombre fabric, which darkened to navy at the above-the-knee hemline.
Now, she could walk openly through the hallway, peeking out from under the bangs of the bobbed blonde wig. She spotted one of her boyfriend’s crew, heading right toward her. Her heart hammered in her throat. Hopefully, he was looking for a brunette in a lighter blue dress, not a blonde in silver and navy.
As he approached, he looked her up and down mechanically.
The door to the VIP room behind her opened, and the movement caught his eye. In the split second he was looking beyond her, she picked up her phone and used it to shield her face. She had gotten the oversized version of the smartphone, and it covered her well.
When he looked back at her, he saw nothing but blonde hair and the Dominican flag phone case, as unremarkable as her caramel skin.
As he walked past, she could smell the mint on his breath as he chewed gum with his mouth open. And under the mint smell was a slight hint of weed.
Behind her now, he was asking the folks in VIP if they’d seen a girl come through.
“Yeah,” a woman’s voice said.
Dulce didn’t dare turn around, but used her phone like a mirror to look over her shoulder.
“I think she went that way,” the woman said, pointing in the other direction.
“Where’s my scarf?” her friend asked, as Dulce crept around the corner to the walkway between the buildings.
The moment she was on the walkway, she yanked off her stiletto sandals and took off running, the silver scarf flying half-loose behind her like a superhero cape.
She opened the stairwell in the other building, and began to run down. But on the landing two floors below was a couple going at it.
The woman had her dress hiked up and his pants were below his hips as he pounded between her thighs.
They were blocking the stairwell, and she wouldn’t be able to get past. She stepped into the fifth floor hallway to take the elevator. There was another VIP room on that floor. Dulce grabbed a cheap faux leather jacket hanging on the rack outside the VIP room. As the elevator dinged, she shrugged off the scarf and put on the jacket, tucking her braid beneath the collar. Then she quickly slid her feet back into her stiletto sandals. The elevator doors opened, and she pressed in with a group of women wearing ten different clashing perfumes.
The knot of cash was starting to itch her cleavage. Dulce had plenty of time to hunch under the coat and adjust it, as the elevator stopped at every floor.
A pair of drunk guys got on one floor down and proceeded to hit on all the women in the elevator. On the second floor, the guys blocked the women from exiting and kept pressing the door open button, demanding to get their phone numbers.
“We’ve got a fucking hostage situation,” one of the girls said.
“Pendejos,” another woman mumbled under her breath.
Dulce pulled a lipstick out of her pocket.
“I’ll give you my number,” she said. “I think you’re hot,” she said to one guy. “And I have a girlfriend who would love you,” she said to the other. “But you better fucking call me.” She recalled the phone number for the pizza place down the street from her apartment, and wrote it across his forearm.
“Don’t give me no fake number,” he said. “I’m a call you right now.”
He dialed the number.
Dulce’s felt the panic rise in her chest, but she stayed cool, and turned to the timer app on her phone. She hit one of the sounds, and her phone made the sound of a strumming guitar.
“So suspicious,” she said. “Who broke your heart?”
She laughed and grabbed his phone, hitting the end call button. Only the girl next to her heard the faint woman’s voice: “Hello, Mariana’s Pizza.”
“And now I got your number too,” Dulce said. “So pick up when I call.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mariana,” Dulce said, and followed the crowd off the elevator.
