Hey, people! My first published Fiction Press thingy.

Songs: Dirty Little Secret (All American Rejects)

Live While We're Young (1Direction)

Halo (Beyoncé)

Va Va Voom (Nicki Minaj)

Rumor Has It (Adele)

Smooth (Santana)

I was lucky. Well, not really, but I could have been assigned the prostitute assignment. That's the girls you see doing the inappropriate dances next to the magician, to 'distract him'. I'm the assistant that gets sawed in half, and switches places in a closed curtain with the magician. I'm usually dressed in a long, sultry-yet-modest black dress. Sometimes white.

Maybe I should explain. I'm the assistant to the next big Harry Houdini. I don't know his name- he has us call him Mr. Mask. Well, he doesn't say thing. His manager, Mr. Jameson, tells us what to do. We're basically his slaves. Mask never says much of anything. He always has a rather disturbing mask on to "promote tension", according to Jameson. See, I was the first person to be hired by Jameson. I lived in San Francisco at the time. Mask dude was doing an expo at the Cow Palace. I worked at a coffee place across the street. Jameson saw me, and liked my 'charm' and 'beauty'. So he hired me-that's why I don't have a dress like a prostitute job. All of us had crappy lives. Some of us have abusive parents. Some have been raped multiple times. Some of us come from orphanages.

Who is 'us' you might ask? "Us "is the company of the magician's assistants. We perform at concerts, expos, even on TV. We travel across the country in a trailer. There are beds, bathrooms, ad a kitchen and fridge. It's like a tour bus with living space. Also, Jameson is extremely cheap, so we shop for clothes at Goodwill and get our food at local grocery stores. All in all, my life sucks.

"Chop chop, girls!" Jameson clapped his hands. We all groaned. "We need to practice in three minutes!" We were going to be performing in Madison Square Garden. Maybe I didn't get this clear enough- Mr. Mask is FAMOUS. Like, Simon Cowell, or Psy from Oppa Gangem Style famous. Everyone knows him. Kids try to imitate his hand gestures when they're in the bathroom at school. He's just famous. We've even performed for the President's daughters.

"Yes, Mr. Jameson," Claire Bryson smiled. She has short blonde hair, and a thin (all of us are skinny) body. She's also really short.

"And Manda, honey, put more effort into the table dance," Jameson patted Amanda Ramirez's cheek. Butt cheek, to be precise. But who's counting. Manda is the prude of the group. And she has to do a table dance. Two of us lift a curtain and she "disappears" from the table. She actually disappears down a trap door behind the table, which you don't see because of the curtain. Nifty, huh?

"Y-yes, Mr. Jameson," she stuttered. Manda has a crush on Jameson. He's maybe five years older than us (we're about twenty, nineteen at the youngest), and he's like 25. She doesn't care. If it were any of us other not naïve people, we would have taken Jameson aside and fucked him. But this is Manda, so she has to make him "fall in love" and all of the crap. Jameson left the room.

"Right, girls. Let's move!" Izzie yelled. Izzie Sanders is the leader of the group. You might think that it would it be me, considering that I was first hired. You're right- we're, you could say, co-leaders. Izzie and I are best friends, inseparable. As we got dressed (which didn't take long), we all joked around. Little did I know that that practice would change my life. Forever.