Muriel Avenue Sluts

By Maggie Hasbrouck

Complete with duct tape, wasp spray, and a healthy dose of sexual tension, MURIEL AVENUE SLUTS is a decidedly feminist coming-of-age story about a seventeen-year-old girl whose mother is a prostitute. #stopslutshaming

Julia Turnbow’s mother gets paid to have sex; that’s just how it is. When Jules turns eighteen she‘l

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie Hasbrouck
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370118847

Maggie Hasbrouck

Maggie Hasbrouck is a professional artist who also writes books. She lives in Atlanta GA with her dog, six chickens, too many cats, and a couple of humans. Her favorite books are ones that ask tough questions, and her favorite paintings are ones that make her cry. Her dream vacation involves riding all the worlds greatest Ferris Wheels.

Book preview

My mother and every other woman who lives on Muriel Avenue gets paid to have sex; that’s just how it is.

When I was in the fourth grade and just beginning to grasp the true nature of my family’s business, snot-nosed Tyler Williams had shoved it in my face. We were barely one week into the school year, and my entire class was crammed into the musty basement cafeteria of Penn’s Landing Elementary School. The smell of pine-scented cleaner and canned spaghetti hung in the air and Tyler had been sitting so close to me, I could see tiny beads of sweat on his neck.

So. He pushed up the sleeves of his dingy, button-down oxford. You have a space between your two front teeth.

I know. My tongue went right to it.

Anyway, he said. Where do you live?

What’s it to you, I should have said. Muriel Avenue, I answered.

Tyler went blank for just a second, and then he puffed out his chest and smiled like some kind of stupid lizard or maybe a blowfish. Muriel Avenue? He turned to look directly at me.

Yeah. I took a bite of my cheese and mustard sandwich.

So, he announced to the entire table, you’re a slut.

No kidding, I thought. Yeah, I said with a mouthful of cheese sandwich. I mean technically I’m still too young, but my mother's a real Slut. Somebody in the family has to be, or you don’t get to live there.

Tyler narrowed his eyes and ran his hand over his stubbly, blond buzz cut. I couldn’t read his expression, not quite. Then he leaned his miserable face into mine. Your mother’s a real slut, he said with a crisp, hard snap. A good-for-nothing, piece-of-trash slut.

And then I’d gotten it; I’d felt it in the pit of my stomach.

Growing up on Muriel Avenue, Tyler wasn’t the only kid who picked on me, but he was certainly the most consistent. The form of his insults varied from year to year, but the substance was always the same: I came from trash and would soon be trash myself. Future slut and slut face were his favorites, but for a brief time in the eighth grade, he had become enamored with ho girl.

Any idiot knows the difference between a Slut and a whore, I told him a hundred times.

All trash, he’d say.

I’d gotten used to his constant stream of so-called insults, but I couldn’t bear whore. Not that there’s anything wrong with being one, it’s just that it wasn’t true, and that drove me crazy. In the very last week of our eighth-grade year, I finally snapped.

I sat down next to Tyler in the lunchroom for the first time since fourth grade.

Listen to me, jackass. I slapped my hand on the table. Here’s the difference between a whore and a Slut.

Nobody asked you, ho girl. His lips and chin were greasy from the cheesesteak sandwich he was eating.

A whore has sex for money. I made sure to talk loud enough for all of Tyler’s friends to hear me. Anybody who’s got the money can hire one.

Get away from me. Tyler gave my shoulder a little shove.

I scooted closer to him and raised my voice. First of all, Sluts get paid for haircuts or massage services, or some other legitimate business, not sex. That was stretching the truth, but it was the lie we all lived by.

Bullshit, Tyler said.

A Slut, I continued, has maybe two or three gentleman callers with regular standing appointments, men who are lucky enough to be chosen. There’s a waiting list, and it’s not short. Men have to earn the privilege of spending time with a Muriel Avenue Slut.

In your dreams. Tyler stood up and glared at me. Fucking whore.

That’s the last time you’re going to call me that. I stood up and leaned into him. Or if you like, I whispered into his ear, next time, I’ll tell your friends all about your father’s extracurricular activities.

Tyler Williams had been worried enough about his father’s dirt not to risk another lunchtime visit from me. He still called me every variation of Slut that his tiny little brain could think of, but he gave up on whore. Someday I’ll tell him it had all been a bluff.

Tyler was an ass, but he had gotten one thing right: my future was practically written in stone. My mother and my grandmother and great-grandmother before that, had all become professional Sluts on their eighteenth birthdays. And in seven short months I, Julia Margaret Turnbow, would do the same.

MAYBE

Outside my bedroom window, the maple trees had barely started to leaf out, and I could see straight through them to the fog rising off the river. Just like every other Saturday morning, I poured myself a bowl of cold cereal and went over to Anna’s. Anna was my best friend—connected at the hip, my mother always says. We’d lived next door to each other our entire lives. Right below us was the big kitchen and The Blue Lounge, and from our front windows, we could see all of Muriel Avenue.

Anna was in the living room with her little brothers, Brick and Obo. Tiny metal cars and headless Barbie dolls were placed strategically all over the floor. I stepped my way carefully to the couch and sat down next to Anna, who was watching Smoothiefreak videos on YouTube and painting her toenails.

Did you eat? I asked.

Nah. She didn’t look up.

Want some cereal? I held up my spoon.

I’m not hungry, she said.

It’s almost ten thirty, I said. Are you sick or something?

No. She kept painting. I’m just not hungry.

Okay, I gave Anna the once over. She had bags under her eyes, and her face seemed kind of pale, which made me worry. Anna’s always been a little fragile. She was born five weeks premature, tiny and completely bald. She spent ten days in an incubator with tubes up her nose before she was finally allowed to come home. Then when she was five, she got really sick and ended up back in the hospital all over again.

Remember that winter when you had pneumonia? I said.

Barely.

I was a wreck, I said.

So I’ve been told. Anna blew on her wet polish.

It was because those awful nurses said I was too young to visit you, I said. I mean, talk about cruel.

But you did visit me. Anna stopped blowing on her polish and gave me a look. You brought me cold French fries in that little purse you had.

Only because my mother got so sick of my wailing that she had sex with some big shot at the hospital. After that, I was allowed to visit you all I wanted.

I didn’t know that, Anna laughed. She’s something, your mother.

Yeah, something. I leaned back into the soft couch.

What made you think about all that? Anna said.

I don’t know. I shrugged. A Barbie head went flying across the room. Have you been like, feeling sick or something?

I told you, no. She glared at me.

Sorry, I said. It’s just lately you seem, I don’t know…

What? she snapped.

Nothing, never mind. I just worry about you sometimes.

Well don’t. Anna picked up a bottle of frosty pink and gave it a vigorous shake. Anyway, Marla’s replacement is moving in today.

Already? Marla Collingsworth had just announced her resignation last Sunday. It didn’t happen very often, but occasionally a Slut would just up and quit. I’m tired of the cold, and I’m not afraid of earthquakes, Marla had said. I’m going to California. There were plenty of girls who wanted to take her place. Just like for gentleman callers, there was a waiting list to become a Muriel Avenue Slut.

Do you know anything about her? I said.

Her name is Vivienne St. Claire. Anna had moved on to her fingernails. She does acupressure, which is like acupuncture without the needles. How cool is that.

Yeah, cool. I took a bite of my cereal. Is she French or something?

Maybe. Anna wiped a little smudge of polish from the side of her finger. She’s tall with streaky blonde hair and pouty lips.

You met her already?

She was over last week for an interview, Anna said.

How come nobody told me about it?

It’s not like I sat in on her interview, Anna said. Anyway, my mom liked her a lot.

Oh. I poked at my cold cereal.

Audrey, Anna’s mom, had as much clout on Muriel Avenue as my mother did, which was saying a lot. Either one of them would be at the head of the line to interview a prospective new resident—after Barbara, that is. Barbara was the oldest working Slut on Muriel Avenue, and she was the boss of just about everything. In my mind, she was the queen.

They’re all having breakfast down at The Teahouse, Anna said. You should go meet her.

Come with me?

Anna looked at her brothers, engrossed in their game; it had spilled into the kitchen and now included towers of plastic cups and a good month’s worth of unwrapped tampons. I can’t, but go ahead, she said.

The one disappointment was that Vivienne wasn’t French; she was born and raised in Louisiana. Other than that, everything about her was perfect. Almost exotic. She’d passed all her interviews with flying colors, and all the Sluts, even Barbara, seemed to adore her right from the start.

Despite the near-constant drizzle, everyone on the block helped with the move. We all wanted to get in good with Vivienne. She was by far the most exciting thing to happen around here since Marilyn English had started showing up at The Blue Lounge.

My mother didn’t approve of allowing women to patronize Muriel Avenue. We’re a men’s club, she had said. Our gentlemen don’t want to worry about some woman’s prying eyes when they’re here. I don’t care how butch she is.

I don’t think she’s so butch, I’d told my mother.

Those tailored pantsuits and all that turquoise jewelry, my mother had said. What do you call that? I never answered. I didn’t know anything about lesbians, butch or otherwise.

Either way, my mother’s opinions didn’t really matter. Marilyn English had been courting Barbara, and Barbara liked her. She came every Monday, drank gin and tonic, and eventually earned her way into the coveted Schoolhouse. The Schoolhouse was the center of everything. It had arched windows, wide front steps, and a real live bell tower. There was general disagreement as to whether or not it had ever been an actual schoolhouse, but from the outside, it definitely looked like one. As for the inside, I couldn’t say. The Schoolhouse was for adult business only. Approved gentlemen, accompanied by their personal Sluts, were the only ones allowed inside.

The exciting part was that Marilyn English wasn’t the Australian business tycoon that she pretended to be; she was a detective with the FBI. According to my mother, she’d been investigating us. Lord knows for what, my mother had said.

It didn’t matter. Thanks to Barbara, who—according to my mother—was a brilliant businesswoman, we did everything by the books. We didn’t even fudge our taxes. Rumor had it that Detective English was crazy about Barbara. So much so, that she had strung out the investigation months longer than it needed to be, and when it had all been over, she’d asked Barbara to go away with her. My mother said Detective English wasn’t the first person to have their heart broken by a Muriel Avenue Slut.

Anyway, Vivienne was not with the FBI; she was one of us. She wore sumptuous fake eyelashes and pinned her hair up in a swirl on top of her head. Her things smelled of incense, and she had a huge collection of jazz music.

By mid afternoon, all her belongings—including a red velvet sofa and a ton of pillows—had been moved upstairs. Still, there were boxes everywhere. My big brother Tellow was in the kitchen messing with the pipes under her sink, and I was loading six boxes worth of CDs onto a pair of built-in shelves.

I could alphabetize these for you, I offered.

Oh. Vivienne put her hand on my arm. That would be wonderful, thank you. Little shivers went up the back of my neck.

Sure, I said trying to sound casual. I like to organize things.

Well then, you are just the person I need. She gave my arm a little squeeze. Careful though, or I’ll take advantage of you.

Okay, I said, and I felt myself blush. I mean, I can help with whatever you need.

I was in and out of Vivienne’s apartment all weekend, me and everyone else. While Vivienne floated around like a movie star, we all tried to be charming and helpful. Tellow fixed the plumbing in her kitchen, repaired loose shower tiles, and hung a fancy ceiling light in her bedroom.

He’s being awfully useful, Anna said.

Yeah, no kidding. I rolled my eyes.

I bet he’s already got a thing for her. She gave me a look.

No doubt. I tore the tape off another large box. While all the adults were drinking and gossiping in the other room, Anna and I were holed up in Vivienne’s bedroom, unpacking her dresses. We’d gotten through five boxes worth of silks and velvets, dark greens, purples, and black lace before everyone had to get ready for work. The Blue Lounge is always packed on Sunday night.

You two are angels, Vivienne said when she saw her closet all neat and organized by color. Then she kissed us both on the cheek. I could smell the sweet tang of wine on her breath.

I can come back tomorrow to help you with rest of your things. I mean, if you want.

You’re too sweet, Vivienne said. But don’t worry about all this, just come visit me.

Okay, I said.

Good, Vivienne said and then she hugged me. Anna was already out the door, so it was just me who got the hug. Right there in her bedroom, with her glamorous eyelashes and her face all flushed from drinking, Vivienne St. Claire hugged me.

PUNCH

Anna and I had it all figured out. We were going to share a flat in one of Muriel Avenue’s sturdy, brick row houses—a corner unit with lots of windows. The plan was to work together, splitting shifts when we had children. We’d join a private pool, get a dog, and vacation together, too, at Niagara Falls.

Nothing had changed, not really, but lately I’d been thinking about boyfriends. Nobody on Muriel Avenue had a real boyfriend, but in a selfish kind of way, I wanted one. In seven months, I’d be old enough to be a working Slut. Gentlemen would compete for my attention and spend hundreds of dollars for a trip to The Schoolhouse with me. But before that happened, before I got paid to have sex, I wanted to do it with someone who actually loved me.

Monday at school, I was thinking about boyfriends and sex and love and how strange it all seemed when I heard a familiar hiss: Slut girl. It was Tyler Williams. I was on my way to chemistry class with this guy Charlie, who had been going on about a test or quiz or something.

Slut girl, Tyler said for the second time.

I bristled but didn’t let myself turn around. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Slut girl. Tyler kept at it.

What did you say? Charlie stepped in front of Tyler, causing a little traffic jam in the middle of the hall.

Tyler smiled his stupid, I’m-so-clever smile and gave Charlie a little push. Then Charlie hauled off and punched him in the face.

Shit. Tyler raised his hands in surrender. What’s your problem?

You and your stupid bullshit, that’s what, Charlie said.

I just stood there with my mouth half open. Like half the kids in my class, I had known Charlie since kindergarten. He was just a regular guy; I’d never given him a second thought.

That was satisfying. Charlie put his hand on the small of my back and steered me away from the gathering crowd.

You didn’t need to do that. I pushed my glasses up my nose. I mean, I can take care of myself. We stopped outside of chemistry.

I know, he said, but I was just so over his stupid shit. Charlie was a little taller than me, his eyes more gray than blue, and his nose was almost too big for his face. He smiled at me with half his mouth, and my stomach did a little flip-flop.

It did make me happy to see that little trickle of blood coming from his nose. I smiled back at Charlie and felt the blood rush to my ears. He had a tiny scar on his right cheek and a smattering of little freckles that looked like they were floating just under his skin.

Yeah, it was, Charlie said, and then he cocked his head. You um, have a little gap between your two front teeth.

I know. My tongue went right to it.

It’s kind of cute, Charlie said.

Oh. I couldn't think of anything else to say; my brain went completely blank.

Well, right, see you around. Charlie smiled at me with his whole face.

I looked at the ground and tried to walk casually into chemistry class. And then, without missing a beat, I started thinking about sex.

I couldn’t wait to tell Anna all about Charlie and stupid old Tyler, but when I got home she was nowhere to be found, so I decided to go visit Vivienne. I took her flowers from the kitchen garden. A welcome present, I said when she opened the door.

Her hair was up, and her makeup was on, but she was still in her bathrobe. It was pink terrycloth, and it was open in a way that made it hard not to notice her cleavage. I looked away as quickly as I could.

Oh, how lovely. She opened the door wide. Come in.

Despite the bathrobe and the cleavage, I said yes. I was dying to be Vivienne’s friend.

GENTLEMEN

Vivienne put the flowers in water, and we shared some smoked almonds and Spirit Lifter tea.

Help me paint my bedroom? Vivienne asked.

Sure, I said.

We spent the next three hours painting her bedroom walls a dark royal plum. I told Vivienne all about the ways of Muriel Avenue, how all the kids that grew up here played a game called Knights and Bootleggers, how boys were given non-traditional names and girls had a big coming-of-age party when they turned eighteen. I explained how all the Sluts shared the fur coats they wore to The Schoolhouse because it was too difficult to keep track of who owned what. I told her about Barbara’s Christmas party and fireworks on Halloween and how every holiday ended up with a big bonfire in the courtyard.

I can’t wait, Vivienne said. She had changed into tight capris and an old button-down shirt, but I could still see her cleavage.

Vivienne, I learned, was the youngest of six children and she’d run away from home when she was fifteen. Her father was a preacher. She’d had a brief job as a lingerie model and then she’d become a makeup artist. Now, acupressure was her passion.

Although I also love astrology, she told me.

I don’t know much about it, I said. Except that, I’m a Scorpio.

Oh, that’s interesting. Vivienne raised an eyebrow.

Is it? I said.

Mm, quite. She smiled.

I wanted to know all about Scorpios and why Vivienne thought they were interesting. I wanted to know what her sign was and what it all meant, but it was late, and she still needed to shower and dress for work.

Thank you again for all your help, she said. You really are an angel.

Anytime, I said, and as I walked out the door, I was already thinking up excuses to come back tomorrow.

At home, I was filling my mother in on the details of Vivienne’s childhood and hinting around that I wanted to dye my hair, when Tellow stumbled through the front door. He fell onto his hands and knees and let out a strangled moan.

Jesus, what happened? My insides clutched. Blood was dripping from his face onto the floor, and his shirt was ripped and streaked with dirt. I ran over and put my hand on his back. I was afraid to look at his face. Can you move?

Help me to the couch, he whispered.

My mother disappeared into the kitchen and then reappeared with a bag of ice. Silently, she handed it to me.

What happened? I asked again. I didn’t know where to put the ice; his eye was so swollen I could barely see it. His lip was busted wide open, and it was bleeding down his neck something awful. His shoulder, too, was bloody and caked with tiny pieces of gravel. I handed the ice to Tellow, and he put it on his eye.

Shit. He grimaced. The guys in the parking lot… I think I have a broken rib.

What guys? I asked. My mother still hadn’t said a word.

Gentlemen, Tellow said in a low voice. He didn’t look at my mother.

Who? What gentlemen would do this to you? Why would anybody want to hurt you? My head was spinning, and my mother just stood there, towering over the couch and staring down at Tellow. Mom, you have to do something!

Ask him again who did this to him, she finally said. Then ask him why.

With his one good eye, Tellow was half crying, half staring back at my mother.

What’s going on? Why are you being like this? I wanted to shake her.

Your brother, my mother said, got what he deserved.

"Mom, Tellow practically whispered. They beat the shit out me. Grant, Jimmy, Mr. Beck and Eddie, they wouldn’t stop."

My stomach turned. I knew all those men. I had served them drinks and laughed at their jokes. Beck was a policeman, and Eddie has been my mother’s Sunday morning for years. Mom, you can’t let them get away with this.

She looked at me with the same cold eyes she had looked at Tellow with. Nobody, she said, lays a hand on one of my children without my say so. She narrowed her eyes. Those men did exactly what I told them to do.

I felt a panic rising inside my chest. My mother had gone crazy. I don’t understand. What’s wrong with you? What are you talking about?

Ask your brother, she said. And just like that, she left the apartment.

I started to cry and Tellow sort of patted my back. Don’t worry, he said. She’s not mad at you.

I got wet towels from the bathroom and did my best to clean up Tellow’s wounds. What’s going on between you and Mom? What did you do?

Nothing, Tellow mumbled.

Tell me, I said.

Tellow closed his eyes, or at least his good one. I tried to blackmail Eddie, he said. I just, you know, mentioned to him that it would be a shame if his wife knew how much time he spent over here.

"You said that to him? Are you crazy?"

Stupid is more like it. Tellow shook his head. I told him I wanted a thousand dollars.

Jesus, what were you thinking?

What I was thinking, is that Eddie is, like, richer than God, and he gives mom a little spare change every so often, and we’re supposed to be all so fucking grateful. Tellow threw his bloody towel onto the coffee table. They take advantage of us, Jules. I’m telling you; I didn’t ask for anything we don’t deserve.

Shit. I looked at my brother’s wrecked face, and I should have felt terrible for him, but all I felt was numb. I don’t even know what to say to you.

When my mother came home, Tellow took his ice and skulked into his room.

Go to bed, my mother said.

Mom… I protested.

I have to get ready for work. We’ll talk about this later.

Yeah, right. I climbed into my cold bed. My pillow was lumpy and uncooperative, and my mind kept buzzing. I couldn’t decide who was worse—my mother, Tellow, or the men who had beat him up. I couldn't wrap my mind around my mother turning on Tellow. She was strict with us, and I knew Tellow had done a stupid thing, but still. I tried to imagine her, with her picture-perfect lipstick, holding court in one of the private dining rooms and giving her orders. I need the four of you to beat the living shit out of my son. She must have said it, or something like it, and it made me ill.

And then there was Tellow, my perfect brother. He had been willing to ruin our lives for a pocket full of cash. How long would gentlemen keep coming to Muriel Avenue if it meant risking blackmail? How soon would everything fall apart because of my own dick-brained brother?

My mother always said that it's hard to be a man in this world. Men were supposed to have good jobs, be strong husbands, and wise fathers. They were never supposed to ask for help or show any kind of weakness. It was too much pressure for most of them; that was why they needed us.

We take care of our gentlemen so they can be what the world needs them to be. We treat them like kings, stroke their egos, and keep all their little secrets. We do everything for them, and they turned around and beat my brother to a pulp.

I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get warm, so I opened my window and climbed outside. Balancing on the wide trim between the first and second floors, I shimmied around the corner toward Anna’s. From there, it was an easy step onto the deck that bordered her kitchen. I’d done it a thousand times before.

Her apartment was dark, so I climbed over to Anna’s bedroom window. I was hoping you’d come. Anna closed her window behind me. What happened with Tellow?

Was my mom here? It wasn’t even chilly, but I was shivering.

Yeah. Anna put a blanket over my shoulders. She was crying her eyes out.

My mom was crying?

Yeah, big heaving sobs, Anna said. And all I could make out was that something happened to Tellow, and your Mom hates herself.

I shook my head. She was full of surprises, my mother. Tellow got the shit beat out of him by Jimmy, Grant, and them. And get this, my mother put them up to it.

Your mom? Why? Anna said.

He tried to blackmail Eddie for a thousand dollars. I shut my eyes. I can barely stand to think about it.

I can’t believe Tellow would… She hesitated.

Be such a dick-brained idiot? I opened my eyes.

Yeah, something like that, she said.

I can't believe my mother would be so cruel, I said, and I pulled Anna's blanket tight around me. It makes me sick to my stomach.

Yeah, Anna said. But in a way, it’s kind of too bad he didn’t pull it off.

What are you talking about?

I mean, I know it would be a disaster and all, she said. But what if it wouldn’t? Think about all that money. I’d like to get my hands on a thousand dollars.

Yeah, I said. But you should have seen Tellow. Those guys were brutal.

Anna put her arm around me. You should sleep here tonight.

Snuggled in Anna’s bed, under her thick wool blanket, I finally warmed up. The knot in my stomach loosened and my nerves settled down. Guess what else happened today? Between my