I push a cart of buffet-caked dishes between scattered tables at Don’s Smorgasbord.

“Angela,” a regular greets me.

“Hey, Shel. How are ya?” I pluck plates of gnawed chicken bones and dessert-crumbed remnants from the table. “Where’s Jennie?”

“Bathroom.” He pulls a fancy pen from his front pocket, scribbles on a napkin, and tucks a hundred-dollar bill inside. “Call me. I’m opening a 5-star. You’d be great.”

I’d never held a hundred-dollar bill. “Thanks. But I can’t accept this.”

He winks. “Between me and you, you’re worth every penny and then some.”

I slip the napkin into the back pocket of my required black slacks. “Okay. I’ll call next week.” I’d give anything to be outta this hell hole.

I push my cart past him. He taps where I’d tucked the napkin. Surely an accident. I don’t look back.

The rest of the evening I push and collect. Two spinning carousels of cheap comfort food and an economical fee mean customers stay and eat for hours.

Finally, I dump the last of my scraps into the compost bin and pile the dirty dishes onto the dishwasher’s tray.

“Wanna go to Weekends?” Rachel asks.

I’d love nothing more than to hang out with my best friend, but I can’t even think. “I’m beat.”

Rachel’s shoulders drop. She’s a hostess. Not as physically demanding as working the floor. “You’re gonna miss the Madonna Dance-Off.”

“Sorry. If you make it through I’ll come to the finale. Pinky promise.”

I toss my apron over my shoulder and dart outside before I change my mind. Working at fifteen is bad enough, but the reason why makes it worse.

Mom’s arm dangles out of our brown sedan. She balances a lit cigarette between red-tipped fingers. I work to keep us from getting kicked out of our dumpy apartment. By proxy, my income funds her daily pack of Marlboros.

I drop into the tattered passenger seat.

She holds out a palms-up right hand. “Tips?”

“My back aches, my heels are blistered, and I had to clean bathroom puke. Thanks for asking.” No way she’s getting one dime of Shel’s insane tip. That’s all mine.

“Stop acting like you’re the only one who’s had a shitty day. Wanna know about mine?”

“Nope.” I pop in her Neil Diamond CD. Then I wait for it. The slap barely stings. Not much room for momentum in the front seat.

“You ungrateful little bitch. Cleaning damned rich folks houses all day is a helluva lot harder than picking up a few dirty dishes.”

She peals outta the parking lot. Rachel’s standing by her car. She X’es her arms over her chest. Our secret signal that she’s heard every word.

The next morning, a ringing doorbell awakens me. The clock shows 10:00 am. Mom’s long gone cleaning at the community college. The one I’ll never attend—even if I wanted to.

I slip a pair of cheer shorts under my long t-shirt and scrunchie my hair into a messy bun.

I glance through the door’s peephole—Shel Turner.

My trembling hand unbolts the door. “Hi. I didn’t know you knew where I lived.”

He wide grins. “You told me you and your mom lived by the college in an apartment. I put two and two together. Only one Catt on the mailboxes. Helps to track someone down when they have a unique last name.”

“Oh, yeah.” My burning question follows. “Why’re you here?”

He places a toned arm on the door frame. “Remember I told you last night about that 5-star? I’m heading over there today. When I passed by here on the way, I had a last-minute idea. How ‘bout you come with and check it out? I could pay you triple what you make at Don’s.”

Triple. Sounds too good to be true. I like it. “Okay. Let me change and write my mom a quick note. What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“No name yet. We won’t be gone long. You’ll be back in no time. Hurry up.”

“Okay.” I dart to my room and swap my cheer shorts for pleated ones and my oversized T for a collared shirt.

When I exit my apartment, Shel’s on the phone. “Cameras set? Good. On our way.”

The one side I hear of the conversation gives me pause.

“You look great.” He opens a sleek black sports car’s passenger door.

Shel and Jennie have been coming to Don’s since I started. Always nice to me. “Thanks.” I slide into the front seat and click the seat belt.

“Radio’s all yours. Put on whatever music you like. Just not too loud so we can chat.”

“Okay.” I turn the dial to my favorite pop station. “So, where’s the restaurant?”

“Just a few miles down the road. Closer to you than Don’s.” He puts a hand on my knee. “You have more potential than table busser.”

I don’t like his hand on me. I scooch toward the passenger door. “Thanks.” Even though the word comes out, thanks isn’t what I’m feeling. Claustrophobic is.

His hand inches to my mid-thigh. “I can give you the opportunity to never bus a table again.”

I’m frozen. I want to push his hand away and jump out of his moving car. Instead, I do nothing.

Soon the car pulls into an empty parking lot next to what looks like an abandoned old building.

“We’re here. Don’t mind the outside. It’s the inside that matters. I can’t wait to show you.”

I slink out of the car and follow behind him. What kind of man shows up at a teen girl’s house unannounced? What’s worse, what kind of idiot teen girl goes with him and leaves no one any clue as to where she is?

Shel unlatches multiple deadbolts. We enter a dark, musky, dining room.

It really is a restaurant. A short burst of relief rushes through me.

“Main dining room from back in the day. But it’s not the focal.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward another door full of deadbolts. Three to be exact.

I didn’t notice how many were at the building’s entrance, but this door isn’t an entrance. It’s a destination.

He fumbles with the first.

I beg the universe that he won’t have the right key.

“Got it.” He puts a key in lock number two. Click. Open.

One lock left. One key between me and a known unknown.

He unlatches the final deadbolt and pushes the door open.

My worst fears materialize.

A mattress covered with a red satin spread lays in the middle of the room. Positioned on two corners sit umbrellaed stage lights. At the two others, bulky cameras on tripods.

He pulls me close and whispers, “My 5-star isn’t a restaurant. It’s a 5-star production company.”

I pull my sweaty hand from his and stumble backward.

He lifts his palms in surrender. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna force you to do anything. We’ll start slow. Most of the girls feel more comfortable that way. I’ll bring one or two in for your first time if that makes it easier. You won’t even know I’m here.” He pauses to allow an awkward silence. “Angela, what are your dreams?”

I stare at the mattress. Teacher. My whole life I’ve wanted to be a teacher. Help girls like me have a chance to follow their dreams. My only chance could be here.

He points where I stare. “You don’t have to tell me. But I know you have one. And this is how I help you make it happen.”

x x x

Like most of my fiction, this story is inspired by real life. Fortunately, Angela chose NOT to take Shel’s offer. And for her, she eventually clawed her way out of poverty and obtained her teaching degree. But for many, a story like hers doesn’t end well.

Shel, let girls go. And not saying he’s a good person by any means, but many predators don’t. Like, Shel, they prey on the ambitions of the impoverished.

Years after this interaction, I tried to locate Shel and turn him in. But I don’t think that was even his real name. And I’m pretty sure Jennie was his accomplice, not his wife.

It’s our job as parents, community members, and humanitarians to be on the lookout for bad actors. Educate your teens, share resources, and most importantly, tell stories like this.

Because even though Angela didn’t fall victim, she was left a Shel of her former self.

If you, your child, or anyone you know, has or is at risk of being sexually victimized, please contact a reputable resource such as She’s Somebody’s Daughter.

You aren’t alone.