Ciarra had tried to bum a smoke off of Aria one day the previous week. When Aria told her that she didn’t have any, Ciarra had put two and two together and realized that Aria didn’t have any money. Suddenly the tables flipped from “you help me” to “I’ll help you.” She promised Aria that she could find work for her and that it didn’t matter how old she was or wasn’t.

Without Ciarra needing to say what the work was, Aria knew. There was no other reason to beat around the bush about it. Before she accepted, Aria weighed the burden of her circumstance against her conscience. She felt the malaise of the stigma that came along with prostitution. She didn’t want to wear the scarlet letter of it. But at the same time, she wasn’t particularly identified with her body. It had been used on multiple occasions by men already. She found herself unable to care about something that never felt like it was hers. Besides, it wasn’t like she would be spoiling something that was pure to begin with. In fact, part of her liked the modest kick of empowerment that she felt in response to the idea that as opposed to giving it away for free, she would be getting something in return for it. If they didn’t care about her at all, at least she’d be able to use them mutually in order to buy food and clothes and eventually get a place.

What made Aria hesitate was not her conscience; it was knowing that Ciarra was no philanthropist. Ciarra’s “love,” like so much of the “love” Aria had been given throughout her life, was more like a spider’s web, designed to ensnare. She could feel the sense of forced allegiance in the pretense of caring that Ciarra had fashioned to disguise her own need for power and control. Aria did not want to give in to it. But she was also in a lose–lose situation. To turn Ciarra’s help down was to establish herself as a foe from the get-go and to suffer the consequences. Aria eventually accepted Ciarra’s offer, hoping not only to get a leg up on life, but also to stay safe from the covert fascism of Ciarra’s social game.