“Bonita, is that you, dear?” Mrs. Dorsey’s musical voice calls out from the kitchen.

I drop my mop bucket, heavy with cleaning supplies, on the ground inside the front door and bite back a sigh. “Yes, Mrs. Dorsey. It’s me!”

No matter how many times I’ve told her to call me Nita, Mrs. Dorsey always falls back to calling me by my given name, Bonita. I have no idea what on earth convinced my mom that Bonita was a good name for her oldest daughter. Maybe the epidural was stronger than usual that day. It might explain why my younger sisters got normal names like Liliana and Maricela—names that won’t raise eyebrows on resumes and at interviews—and I was stuck with Bonita.

Bonita isn’t the name of a woman who just defended her dissertation. But you know what it is the name of? Dogs. So many dogs. Do you have any idea how many dogs I’ve met named Bonita?

Mrs. Dorsey appears from the kitchen, all glitz and glamor as usual. She’s wearing a crisp off-white suit on this normal, boring Tuesday. Tasteful diamonds circle her wrist and her neck. Even her eyeliner is perfect. She kisses me on the cheek, the light sweet scent of her expensive perfume following her as she takes my bucket from me. “Come sit in the kitchen with me, Bonita. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Dutifully, I follow Mrs. Dorsey into her beautiful kitchen. She drops my bucket by the fridge and points to a seat at the counter. I take a seat and wait to hear what she has to tell me this time. Mrs. Dorsey is one of those people who never leaves the house, yet somehow knows everyone and everything going on in this town. Sitting with her when I need to be cleaning is always worth the tea she’s going to spill.

“I heard Maricela made it into the engineering program she’s been trying to get into.”

I nod, looking down at the granite counter separating us. “Yes. We’re still trying to figure out how to swing it,” I lie.

We, in fact, had long ago determined there was no way in heck Maricela could go anywhere other than the local community college before transferring to the state school to finish out her degree. Since our parents died, it’s been all I could do to finish college myself while keeping the three of us fed and the mortgage paid. Between my precarious spot as an adjunct professor at the community college, and my million side jobs—like this one cleaning Mrs. Dorsey’s house on Tuesdays—I made it through without Maricela and Liliana taking on more than a few hours a week to pay for the fun stuff like prom dresses and class trips. Tuition at an Ivy League school is not in the cards for her, even with financial aid.

Mrs. Dorsey, sharp-eyed as always, raises an eyebrow. “That’s what I thought.” She heads to her coffee pot and pours two cups of coffee. “So I have this former tenant who just became head of HR for a mining company that operates outside of town—”

“That’s really sweet Mrs. Dorsey, but—” I start as she places a cup and a fancy bottle of creamer in front of me.

“Young lady, let me finish, please.”

I hide my smile so she can’t see my face. “Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s been put in charge of a new project and they’re looking for young women like yourself for a high-paying position.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, Mrs. Dorsey, really. But my doctoral work is in history. I really don’t think a mining company would be interested in—”

Mrs. Dorsey eyes me and sighs. “Bonita, sweet girl, they don’t want your mind, they want your body.”

Oh.

OH.

It’s no secret how Mrs. Dorsey came into the money she has. Her gentlemen “clients” past (and probably present) have paid her well for her, um, services. I feel my face grow warm, but Mrs. Dorsey’s gaze remains steady.

She brushes her hair away from her perfect shoulders, takes a sip of her coffee and continues on. “I wouldn’t normally recommend someone go into this line of work, but there is a lot of money to be made for the amount of time they’re asking in exchange. Money that could easily cover the difference between financial aid and the expected family contribution of an engineering degree for a deserving young woman with lots of promise.”

My heart begins to beat faster. Am I really considering this?

“How much money?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“One hundred, fifty thousand dollars for two weeks a month, four hours a night.”

I suck in a breath. It’s three times what I make right now. And I could still keep teaching my classes. One hundred fifty thousand dollars? I cannot be seriously be considering this. Can I?

“I don’t know much about the people she works for, but she seems really happy.” Mrs. Dorsey looks down at her mug and then back at me. “She originally worked a very similar contract for them. It might be something worth looking into. She’s holding interviews tomorrow.”

I cannot be seriously considering this. I stare down at my untouched cup of coffee.

“Think about it, Bonita. Will Maricela get the same education here in town as she would out of state? Yes. But we both know that this is more. This would give her connections. A step up. The ability to move beyond this place.” Mrs. Dorsey waves a hand in the air, motioning around us and I know immediately what she means. As usual, it’s all about names. Whether it’s a first name or the name of the University printed on your degree. Names can tie you down, but they can also give you a hand up.

“I can’t—”

“You don’t need to decide now. Just think about it.”

I nod and escape the kitchen without another word, determined to ignore the treacherous part of my brain that has latched onto this idea. I scrub, sweep, mop, and wipe until my arms are tired and sore. Mrs. Dorsey’s words follow me around her house.

“There’s no shame in doing whatever is necessary to support your family,” she says later as she hands me what she owes me. Paper-clipped to the cash is a dark gray business card. Printed at the top are the words ‘Dr. Honey White, Director of Human Resources, Dvergar Mining Company’ with an address and phone number in smaller print at the bottom.

“Just think about it.” Mrs. Dorsey says, her eyes holding mine. “The interviews will be between nine and eleven.”

I nod and shove the whole thing in my pocket where it sits, like a weight against my leg the entire drive home.