Bo came back the next day, and she gave herself to him again, and on the next day, and on every day until her mother returned.

She could remember the second man, but the others all seemed to blur into one faceless male entity. The mathematics teacher, Mr. Loge, the shy little boy who’d been so surprised when she’d not pushed him away, the sailors and soldiers, all giving her what she wanted and did not want, desperately did not want, but had to have.

Of course, no one understood, because she didn’t understand, either. When her mother found out about it, she called her a filthy tramp, and Vy supposed that that was right. So she quit high school and came to New York. In New York she could start fresh, get a job, meet someone nice. But it was only a continuation of the same. In every office there would be at least one man who could recognize her, see this thing that burned inside of her. How? How could they know? She looked no different from the other girls, she dressed well, she was proper and ladylike. Still they knew. And they would tell, afterwards. And that would be the end of the job.

Now it was too late to go back, even if there were anything or any place to go back to. She still had this hungry thing that could not be cut out of her, and it still needed to be fed.

Forget that you ever wanted a normal life, she told herself. You’re not sick or neurotic or tragic. You don’t long for love or tender words. You’re just a beat doll who can’t get along without a good time. It doesn’t matter who does it, just so there’s some variety!

Irene patted her hand. “We’re goin’ now, Vy,” she said. “It’s about time for you, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“See you back here in about an hour?”

“Maybe.”

She got up and walked down the narrow aisle. The mirror threw back the reflection of an overdressed blonde. Vy looked away: all she needed was a scarlet letter sewn to her dress or a sign reading WHORE. Of course, that was good. People had to be able to pick you out from the crowds of normal women. . . .

The cold February wind knifed into her. As she walked toward the taxi stand, she thought, I’ve got ten years left, maybe less. Then I’ll have to lower my rates. A year or two of that, and I won’t be able to give it away. No one will want Vy then. Look at Jewel. Poor old Jewel, she’s just about finished.

What do you do when you’re finished and no one wants you?

“James Hotel, please.”