STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  Tightening my sash, I skip over to Hunter’s crate-desk in the corner of the room.

  “Not bad today, Quinn,” he says after a slurp of his soda. “I see you took my advice, alternating your poses. By the looks on their faces, the class seems pleased with your variety. It’s good to give them different angles. Challenge their skills.”

  “And the eyes.” I smirk and lean closer. “Though I think Billy must have it out for me for something else.” I imitate Billy’s glare. Hunter chuckle-coughs then pats his chest.

  “So what’d you say we increase your hours like you asked? Sabrina has moved on to bigger and better things. She worked the same hours, but the opposite days of the week. You think you can make it here every day?”

  Thank God for morning classes.

  “Can I? That’d be perfect!” Unable to contain my excitement, I throw my arms around his extra-large torso. He returns my hug with a quick pat on my shoulder, reminding me how awkward he must feel. I’m half his age. In a bathrobe. Whoops.

  I back off, my cheeks burning.

  “Thank you.”

  He nods. “You can start full week on Monday.”

  Feeling sort of high, realizing I’ve just increased my weekly income from two hundred dollars to four hundred, I don’t notice anyone trailing me in the hall until he speaks.

  “Why’d you say that?”

  I turn. I’m not sure who I expect, but the person standing a few feet from me in the dim hallway, holding his sketchpad up against his chest is the last I thought would want to talk to me, especially after these last two hours. Billy tucks a strand of blond hair behind his ear, toned muscles in his arms straining. I raise my brow.

  “Say what?”

  He steps closer, shoes scuffing against the grimy linoleum floor. “You said I have something out for you.”

  I continue walking. “No I didn’t.”

  “I was standing right behind you.” He exhales impatiently. “I heard you.”

  Oh. Hm. One point for him.

  I don’t turn, just wait.

  “What’d you say it for?”

  “How else am I supposed to interpret your dirty look in there?”

  “Dirty look?” He’s standing beside me now, sketchpad at his side. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Listen. It’s no big deal.” I start for my changing room. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  Gently, he touches my arm.

  “Wait. Um…” Squinting down at me, soupy black pupils dilated, he says, “I’ve taken a lot of life drawing classes. Actually, it’s all I’ve taken. And I’ve never seen a model manage such a vacant stare as you.”

  “Vacant?” A laugh bumbles out of my mouth. “Obviously you misunderstood my silent demands to keep your glaring eyes to yourself.”

  Billy slides the sketchbook from under his arm. “Wanna see?” He flips mid-book to a drawing of eyes. Just eyes. My eyes. Almond-shaped. Low-arched eyebrows which I hate because they’re too thin. But something’s different about my eyes. They look hollow. Vacant, as he said.

  I don’t know what to say. Do my eyes really look like that?

  “Second to last pose,” he says, flipping the book closed. I start walking and he follows. “Most models change their body position, but not their expression. It’s like you suddenly became a character. Were you in drama club back in high school or something?”

  “Not the drama type.” I shrug and point to the book. “You’re pretty good. Do artists run in your family?”

  A funny look comes over his face with my last word: a slight bulge to his eyes, a pinch of his lips—I’m guessing there’s something to it, but instead of pursuing it, I wave off my question and say, “Guess I was spaced-out or something.” We reach the door to my tiny changing room.

  “Too bad.” With a cautious smile, he sticks the pad back under his arm. “I was going to ask if next time you could pull off the surprised look. I could use the extra practice on facial expressions.”

  I point at him and repeat Hunter’s words: “No influencing the models.” Then I duck into my room and leave him spluttering at the door.

  ~*~

  “You take pictures and read?” I’m standing in front of Torrin, tugging my sweater over my head. Sitting on the tree ring outside the art building, he flips a page in his book. “All for fun?”

  He looks up, grinning.

  “By your tone,” he says, “you’d think I was hunting aliens or something. Reading and photography are normal pastimes, you know.”

  “True. But the thing is…you seem too cool to be doing such normal things like reading.” I flip the book over, glance at the title. “High Performance Rowing?”

  He stands, towering over me. “Well, if you think I’m cool I must be doing something right.” He chuckles and nudges my arm with his elbow. “You ready, Smokey?”

  I cringe. The tree beside us ruffles its leaves at the same time.

  “Would you please stop calling me that?”

  “Nope.” We start in the direction of the buildings set at the base of the hills. “Not until you quit that nasty habit.”

  The air’s colder today. I shove my hands in my pockets.

  “I did quit.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “I saw you smoking the day before last.”

  “And I haven’t had one since.” I grin. “That was my last one. Cold turkey. That’s how great I am.”

  “Two days?” He leans closer, sniffs my hair. I push him away.

  “Better than nothing, right?”

  He leads me through a courtyard of colorful roses—the sweet fragrance upping my good mood to great—toward the large gymnasium doors.

  “Two days is close to nothing.” He kicks a rock. It hurdles down the sidewalk and comes to rest below a sign. Oleksik Gymnasium. Named after Amber Oleksik, daughter of Carson Oleksik, basketball champ of the seventies. According to Dad, she led Pacific Rim to the National Championships four years in a row. “I’ll stop calling you Smokey if you last a week without a cigarette.”

  “Deal.” I hold out my hand, smirking with confidence. I can easily go a week without a stupid cigarette. He takes my hand in his and shakes it then pulls a ring of keys from his pocket. One slides into the lock.

  My forehead wrinkles.

  “Who’d you sleep with to get those?”

  He glares at me. “What is it with you thinking I’m some sort of man-whore?”

  “Last I checked, admin didn’t just hand out keys to random students.”

  “Random?” The lock clicks and he yanks open the door, sending a gust of warm, stuffy air crashing against my face. It feels good in comparison to the winter air outside. Holding the door, he lifts his chin, signaling me to enter. “Nice to know you think so highly of me.”

  “So?”

  “So…?”

  “Do you work here too?”

  “Nope.” Keys into pocket.

  “Are you somebody’s son?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  I bite my lip. “That’s really annoying.”

  “Just showing you how it feels.” He looks down at me with a look that dares me to challenge him. I could, but decide to play nice.

  “You don’t like my charisma. Duly noted.” I step inside and he laughs.

  “Is that what you call it? Charisma?”

  Down a long hallway, past a trophy case, he leads me through a glass door. It’s quiet and awkward and I’m not really sure why I’m here anyway.

  “If I tell you how I got the keys, will you be nice to me for the rest of the day?” he asks, bumping my elbow with his.

  “I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  The hallway forks and we veer left. No lights are on, but a window at the end of the hall filters in enough sunlight to see.

  “I was recently suspended.”

  Now this is intriguing. I lift my eyebrow. “Listening…”

  “Not from my classes, but from the team. My coach was livid at firs
t, but since I was sort of in charge of the team and I’m so lovable and all—”

  I snort.

  “Anyway, he insists I still practice on my own to keep up my times.” Torrin lowers his voice. “So he slipped me a key.”

  “How’d you get suspended?”

  He feigns a glare. “I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

  I hold up my hands. “As far as I’m concerned you’re a virgin.”

  Silence.

  He fumbles with the keys in his pockets. I recognize a diversion when I see one. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to tell me. Maybe he did something really horrible. Or maybe he’s afraid I’ll make fun of him. Most likely I would.

  “Sort of in charge,” I venture. “What team are you captaining?”

  Instead of answering, he gestures to the room we’re now standing in front of—spacious, but looking crowded with three long rows of workout machines, all the same.

  I glance up at him. He’s watching me.

  “Rowing machines?” I ask. A table sits against the stark white wall. He tosses his book onto it. “So you’re captain of…getting people to work out?”

  “The rowing team, brainiac.” He taps my head. “Crew. This is where we practice when the weather’s bad.”

  “You’re a rower?” Looking him over, it makes sense: broad shoulders, muscular arms, tan skin…the ridiculous book he was reading.

  “Varsity oarsman,” he corrects and shrugs out of his jacket. He flings it to the table beside his book. My stare moves blindly across the seagull on the front of his green T-shirt; Pacific Rim’s mascot.

  “And this is what you wanted to show me?”

  For some reason this makes him laugh. “Oh, you’ll probably be wishing I only wanted to show you this.” He tugs at the edge of my sweater. “It gets pretty hot in here. You may want to take this off.”

  “Huh?” I scan the room again thinking I missed something. Workout machines, a drinking fountain in the corner, one Pacific Rim banner on the otherwise plain white walls. He straddles the machine to his right. “You want me to work out with you?”

  Deliberately, he raises an eyebrow. “Worried you can’t handle it? That your smoking habits’ll hinder your stamina?”

  “No, it’s just…” My hands begin to fidget and I can’t stop them. “I’ve never worked out on a machine before,” I say, but I’m really thinking I don’t want to embarrass myself if I try.

  He sits on the seat, slips his shoes into the straps in front of him then looks up at me. Right into my eyes. Straight-faced.

  “It’s never too late to start,” he says, and then waits.

  Three seconds later I pull off my sweater, toss it onto the table and sit on the machine next to him unsure if I should relax or be scared—he looks a little serious rocking back and forth on the seat. Competitive.

  “Ready?”

  “No.” Wide-eyed, I glance over the machine and all its parts: stirrups, handles, gliding bars that could probably slice off my finger if I got too close. “You have to show me what to do.”

  His mask of determination cracks and he gives me a quick rundown: feet in the stirrups, overhand grip on the handles, push with legs, pull with arms and then we’re moving. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  The bottom of the machine glides forward and back with the seat. I point to it.

  “Why does it move like this?”

  “Simulates rowing on water. There’s a quicker catch which allows you to row at a higher stroke rate because only the mass of the erg is moving, not the mass of the person on it.”

  I catch myself before saying “huh?” again, but really I have no idea what he’s talking about. With a nod, I motion to the sea of machines around us and ask a more elementary question.

  “You have this many people on the rowing team?”

  “No. Those ergs over there, against the wall, are connected together for team training. They all slide together to simulate a crew of eight. We have a small squad, only twenty-five.”

  Backward. Forward. My breathing picks up.

  “Twenty-five is small?”

  He’s gliding at the same pace as me, which I have a feeling is much slower than he’s used to. He looks rather bored.

  “Compared to most schools. Some east coast teams are twice as big as ours.”

  After only a minute, sweat beads on my forehead. It’s as humid as Florida inside my shirt.

  “I see now…how you were able…to run up that hill…without getting winded…yesterday.”

  “You’re making it harder on yourself.” Torrin climbs off his machine and kneels beside mine. “Keep your arms straight right at the catch and use your legs to start the drive.”

  I scowl at him, struggling against the awkwardness of getting my arms and legs to move in sync. I’m not really coordinated enough to be doing this.

  “English. Please.”

  “Keep your arms straight until you get back there. Then pull back.” He puts one of his hands on my elbow, locking it straight and the other on my knee. I push with my legs again, letting his hands guide my limbs, shaking my head.

  “You make it look so easy.” I try again. Backward. Forward. And again. Then his face brightens.

  “There. Like that.” He raises his hands to show me he’s not helping. The rhythm carries me. I feel like I’m flying. Or gliding across water. I focus on the wall in front of me, the hum of the machine parts working together. “Imagine a team of eight doing it together.”

  I smile. I can imagine it. Everyone’s movements in sync. I sneak a quick glance at him. He’s still watching me.

  “Are you, like, waiting for me to eat it or something?”

  He shakes his head and laughs.

  “I didn’t really want you to work out with me. I only wanted to show you how it feels.”

  I slow to a stop, tilt my head with a smirk.

  “Just when I’m getting the hang of it. Afraid I’m going to catch up to you? Maybe beat you?”

  “Keep going if you want.” He brushes the hair from his forehead and I consider his offer for a second because, to be honest, it’s kind of fun gliding back and forth. But then, unexpectedly, his fingers press against my neck. “Feels good, huh?”

  His fingers are really warm. Is that what he’s referring to? Suddenly, I don’t know. The room turns a little fuzzy.

  “Getting your heart rate up,” he clarifies, sensing my confusion. I blink hard to right the room. My racing heart must be from the exercise.

  “I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered,” I say. “Because either this is your subtle way of telling me I’m a fatso or an excuse to touch me.”

  “A fatso?” Very blatantly, he looks me up and down then pushes his shoulders back. “I think you mean gain some muscle. And yes, you caught me…” He leans in and whispers, “I was dying to touch your carotid artery.”

  I cram the sleeve of my T-shirt up to my shoulder and flex my imaginary bicep. “Go on, feel’em. They don’t look like much, but these babies are strong.”

  He fights back a smile and squeezes my arm. “I bet you’d school some of the first-years on the team.”

  I laugh, pulling my sleeve back down. “I wouldn’t last three minutes on this thing.”

  “I’d sort of feel bad torturing you like that anyway.” He cradles Zoe’s owl in his hand. The fluorescent lighting doesn’t do much for the little guy. His bronze-colored wings look old and dingy with years and years of black grime between its folds.

  “Why’s this so special to you?” he asks, lifting it up a little. There’s a softness in his tone. Like he isn’t just asking to make casual conversation. Like he’ll actually listen to why I’m so protective over this stupid owl and care about my answer or me or both and this is unacceptable.

  I must fix this.

  Without a word, I slip my feet out of the stirrups and climb off the machine. I’m at the door when he says my name. Halfway down the hall when he tugs on my arm.

  “Why do you
do that?” Torrin’s voice echoes in the empty hall. His hand is holding my arm gently, not at all like Derek does. I can’t have this. I can’t. I shouldn’t have ever come here with him.

  I draw in a shaky breath and pull my arm away.

  “Do what?”

  “Walk away every time I ask you something personal?”

  I stare hard at him. “Why do you do that?

  He blinks. “Huh?”

  “Ask so many questions.”

  His mouth drops open then closes and five long seconds pass before he says, “It’s what people do, Quinn. When they’re getting to know each other.”

  I shake my head and spin toward the door.

  “You don’t want to get to know me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two hundred dollars this week. Plus three hundred twenty-three from my savings and the ninety-two from the returns. I have four weeks to make twenty-five hundred eighty-five dollars.

  I get off the bus, Loyola’s tan walls glittering bright in the sunlight, and spot a quarter on the sidewalk.

  Twenty-five hundred eighty-four dollars and seventy-five cents.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “If Derek’s your boyfriend, how come you guys don’t ever kiss?”

  Gross. That thought makes me throw up a little in my mouth. But it’s not something I have to worry about—he’s not usually the kissing type.

  Lathering soap in circles on my arms, I shrug to Nikki even though she’s in another shower stall.

  “I don’t know. Do we really have to talk about him?”

  “You never want to talk about him.”

  Holding my breath, I let the stream of hot water hit my face for a second.

  “So.”

  “So don’t you think it’s weird? Why do you even bother with him when you don’t like him?”

  Obviously she doesn’t remember our horrid first week: guy in dining hall slipping me his phone number, different guy from Psych 101 sitting next to me for three days straight then following me into Garrett Hall with a pansy-ass smile on his face. Who knew freshman boys could be such horndogs.