STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  “First house?” I whisper, folding my arms over the tightness inside me.

  “Relax, Smokey.” Torrin chuckles and slides his hands into his pockets. “I only told him that so we could get inside.”

  ~*~

  “You can’t tell me that wasn’t cool.”

  Torrin turns on the blinker as he pulls up to the bus stop. His smile is still bright and wide. He hasn’t stopped talking about the house.

  I grin wryly.

  “Cooler than Batman’s house?”

  He slides the car into park and looks over at me.

  “Wayne Manor.”

  “It’s really weird you know that.”

  He shrugs and I release my seatbelt. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home? I have time before I meet the team for dinner.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Thanks for coming with me.” He faces me, eyes glinting, and he deserves more than this. I focus out the windshield, gripping the owl in my fingertips. Here goes nothing.

  “This was my sister’s necklace. She died a year ago and it was her favorite and that’s why I freaked out about it. I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t really think you were talking to me to get in my pants, I only said those things because, I don’t know, I guess I’m sort of in a place right now where I don’t know what I want. Oh, and my dad’s from Ohio too. Kind of a coincidence.” I climb out of the car, shut the door, and lean in the window. “Maybe that’ll hold off your questions for a while.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “We have a new R.A.,” Nikki says when I get back to school. She’s sitting on a bench next to Matisse—who’s looking like a moron with mascara stripes down her face. Supposedly Connor left today. I’d like to feel sorry for her, but I know better.

  “Another one?” I slip my ID card out of my back pocket and swipe to open the door. “What happened to Tandy?”

  Nikki shrugs. “Caught smoking weed, I think. Anyway, her name’s Lindsey. She’s sort of a freak.”

  I quirk a brow. “Judgmental, much?”

  “Watch, you’ll see.”

  The Commons, the circular room connecting the boys’ and girls’ halls, is booming with thunderous music; the heavy-metal type that’s impossible to decipher the lyrics or melody or anything other than relentless screaming. I mean, the plants are vibrating.

  I glance at Nikki with a maybe you were right look. She’s got her fingers in her ears and is mouthing the word “freak” over and over.

  In the corner of the room, a grungy boy/girl figure with long, matted, dreadlocked hair stands on a chair with his/her hands in a bird’s nest of wires. I assume it’s a girl because Nikki told me so, but, truthfully, without that knowledge I’d be stumped. The person is small, close to my height, though the combat boots and muscular arms are playing tricks with my mind.

  A spark shoots from the wires like a bolt of lightning, and then the music cuts short.

  “Dammit!” The person turns, and the memory of her tight features and recognizable blue irises stabs the inside of my brain. “Oh. Apologies,” she says. “I didn’t mean to say that in front of students.”

  I glare hard at her to see if she recognizes me too, but she just smiles so I don’t think she does. And the more I think about it, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t. It’s not like I actually saw her in person.

  “We’ve heard worse,” Nikki says. The girl flips one of her long dreadlocks behind her shoulder.

  “Tandy said this speaker was blown. I thought it’d be an easy fix.”

  “Sounded loud enough to me.” Nikki rubs her ears for dramatic effect. I point to the clump of wires dangling from the speaker.

  “Was it supposed to spark like that?”

  “I hope so,” she says and jumps off the chair, landing with a hollow thump. “I’ll have to summon one of my friends to bring me the right tools. There’s nothing but a butter knife and a screwdriver in here.” With an extended arm, she crosses the room. “Lindsey. Resident advocate at your service.”

  “Assistant,” Nikki corrects, nudging me discretely as if to say told you.

  “I like advocate,” Lindsey says with a casual shrug. “It has a nicer ring to it.”

  I shake her hand. “Quinn, and Nikki.”

  Matisse shuffles in behind us looking pathetic as ever and Lindsey’s eyes get all huge like she’s going to have to do some advocating.

  I point over my shoulder. “That’s Matisse. Don’t worry about her. She’s being melodramatic because her boyfriend moved away today.”

  Nikki hits my arm and Matisse winces.

  “What?” I look between the three of them. “I don’t want our new advisor to think something serious happened.”

  “Good night, you are hopeless.” Nikki wraps her arm around Matisse and guides her down the hall. I wave to Lindsey then leave her and her blue eyes in the Commons as I fall into step beside Matisse. She’s blubbering something about Connor and a long distance relationship and visiting and I don’t care.

  I poke Nikki and whisper, “Did she look familiar to you?”

  “Who?”

  “Our new advocate.”

  “No. Why? Did she to you?”

  I wait for Nikki to pass Matisse to Bellamy in their room, kick off my shoes, and flop onto my bed. Nikki shuts our door.

  “The news. Covering my dad’s bullshit. She was in the crowd.”

  She sits beside me. “How can you tell it was her? There were tons of people there.”

  “How could I not with those ridiculously blue eyes. And dreadlocks? How many people do you know with dreadlocks? It was definitely Lindsey.”

  “So she was at Pacific Rim. Big deal. Half the town probably was.”

  I stretch my arms up to the ceiling. Nikki’s right; half the town was likely there. She pats my knee. I roll my head and look at her. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined confronting John Kingsley II?”

  “What would you say if you could?”

  I laugh. “Probably a whole lot of nothing because I’d be punching the crap out of him.”

  She laughs too. “Why don’t we go find him? It might make you feel better to give him a piece of your mind. Or at least to introduce his junk to your kneecap.”

  It’s not that I haven’t considered confronting Kingsley. Back in the fall, it’s all I thought about—how satisfying it would be to pummel him. But…

  I shake my head. “He’s not worth my time.”

  ~*~

  Zoe.

  I look at her. She looks at me.

  Her knee bumps mine as she joins me on the pew and I smile because it feels like decades since she’s touched me. Her face is round, eyes full of life, not sad and teary like everyone else’s in the church. I tip my chin, wondering why she’s sitting beside me. And because she’s my sister and we can read each other’s thoughts, she points to the front of the church where her coffin rests.

  She wants me to go see. So I do, this time with hurried steps because she just wants me to see the coffin is empty—which I already know since she’s behind me—and I really want to sit back down to be close to her again. Only the coffin isn’t empty.

  It’s me in there.

  Naked.

  With leaves and twigs tangled in my hair.

  Save me.

  Dripping with sweat, I wrench upright in my bed. Gasping. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, fucking God. I hide my head in my pillow and try to suffocate myself because that would be much easier and painless than having these stupid dreams over and over, but I can’t breathe and I hate that feeling so I gasp for air again.

  And again. And after a few minutes my lungs aren’t struggling anymore.

  I guess this is what I get for letting thoughts of a boy drift me off to sleep.

  It won’t happen again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sunday. The room is hot, laced with the stench of sweat and old carpet. I follow Derek past the air hockey tables, dance pads, and basketball hoops to the back of Taffy’s Arca
de. Even before slipping coins into the machine, he’s in the zone. Blood-orange light bathes his face, clings to his cheeks as he leans close to the screen.

  “I stopped by your room yesterday afternoon.” His finger jabs the red, circular button. A zombie rounding the corner of a building explodes into pieces. “Nikki said you were out.”

  Actually, my exact words were ‘meeting a friend from Steamers’ which I’m sure she withheld from Derek just to piss him off. By the tight line his lips are set in, I’d say it worked.

  “I grabbed some lunch with a friend from work,” I lie, resting my hand on the edge of the machine. Without looking, he elbows it off. I sigh. As much as I’d like to forget about Torrin right now, I can’t help but compare the two. And their vast display of manners.

  Derek crouches over the plastic shotgun, squinting one eye as he focuses and pulls the trigger. A zombie bursts into a red pile of mush. He kills three more then, once his time runs out, stands straight, his face close to mine. I struggle to not take a step back.

  “A friend?”

  I raise my voice over the machine’s earsplitting bomb blasts. “Jealousy isn’t attractive, Derek.”

  “Neither is acting slutty.”

  “If that’s what you call eating a ham sandwich...”

  A strange, quiet minute passes and then he notices a group of gamers across the room half-circled around some game called MadWorld.

  “The guys are here,” he says, rubbing his hand over his short, brown hair. “Stop by my room later?”

  I don’t know why he’s with me. Or what he sees in me. It’s a good thing I don’t care.

  And at least I’ve been seen with him, so today’s mission is complete.

  “Yeah, sure. Call me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lindsey lowers onto the couch across from me and folds her arms.

  “The school gave me a list of names,” she says. “All students I’m responsible for.”

  The rest of the Commons is empty, only leftover chocolate wrappers from the group of annoyingly chatty girls who obviously wanted to gossip in private by the way they got up as soon as I sat down—which means Lindsey must be talking to me. So much for finishing these algebra problems before work.

  “Lucky you,” I say and close my book, silently cursing Nikki for gabbing on the phone with someone from Spanish for over an hour. Lindsey pulls a folded piece of paper from her back pocket, her tangled, spaghetti-like hair spilling over her shoulder.

  “Anyway,” she props her clunky black boots on the coffee table and says, “I came across your name. Montgomery?” Her voice lifts like it’s a question. Like she’s asking if it’s correct. Like maybe it was a mistake and whoever generates those lists meant to type Monterey or Montebello or any other name that starts with M and won’t be the source of “trouble” on her floor.

  I should be so lucky. Plus…I already went through that “trouble” back in November when Tandy was R.A. Most people on our floor have moved on from the Montgomery Scandal to more pressing rumors like Bellamy’s pregnancy (not true) and Derek’s alcohol abuse (still not sure about that one).

  Without a word, I tuck the book under my arm and stand, itching to get out before she can say any more about it, when suddenly her eyes narrow.

  “Montgomery…as in Dean Montgomery? Of Pacific Rim?”

  I cringe. “Former dean.” The door is only a few steps away. Looks like I’ll have to finish my homework in the library. I turn, the words, “I should go,” fumbling off my lips.

  “It’s your family’s fault, you know.” Her words slam into my back; not harsh-toned which catches my attention even more. Hand on the door, I stop. Turn slowly.

  “What’d you say?” Of all the remarks over the past few months, the whispers—Did you hear about Quinn’s dad? Why can’t our dean be that giving? I bet Dean and Kingsley were sleeping together too. (That last one sometimes makes me chuckle.)—I’ve never heard one so pointed at me.

  Lindsey crosses her twiggy legs, doesn’t glare at me like I expect she might and says, “I said it’s your family’s fault—your dad’s fault.” She looks off to the door, cheeks flushing pink. The sound of blood rushes into my ears, the underside of my arm aching from its pressure against the book. I can’t believe admin actually appointed her R.A. Her voice, soft and unapologetic, floats across the room. “Obviously, your life is screwed up because of it.”

  “I hate to let you down, but my life was screwed long before my dad’s incident at Pacific Rim.” Ten months before, to be exact, when Zoe let thoughts of a boy steal her life. The Kingsleys were simply the icing on the cake. I don’t know why she cares anyway. Without giving her a chance to respond, I swing the door open wide.

  ~*~

  The thing about balancing with your eyes closed is after a few minutes you start to forget which way is up and which is down. Fifteen minutes into the last pose of the day, I start to sway, my head spinning in tiny circles. To make things worse, my arms ache like hell. I guess I didn’t think this position through. With my arms draped over my head, I can actually feel the blood percolating out of them. I wiggle my fingers discretely a few times when Hunter’s voice fills the room.

  “Quinn, do you need a break?”

  I clench and unclench my fist, mumbling, “I can last.” He nods and resumes instruction on shading technique—lock your wrist, the elbow and shoulder should move the pencil. The ceiling holds my attention as Hunter shuffles around the room once more and I let my thoughts drift back to the tree house and Torrin, wondering if somehow this job will shape who I am. Make me more comfortable in my skin. Or, at the very least, able to tolerate standing in long lines.

  Finally, Hunter claps his hands and announces the end of class.

  “See you next week,” he calls out to me as I tighten my robe and head for the exit. I swing open the door, waving, and just as I round the corner head-butt directly into the chest of—

  “Derek?” I stumble backwards and he catches my wrist.

  “Whoa.”

  “What’re you—how’d you know I was here?”

  His gaze skitters down my robe, settling on my exposed collarbone. “I think a better question is why you’re at Pacific Rim prancing around in a granny robe.” He fingers the end of the sash and sneers. “Which is hot by the way. Maybe you could come to our next gamers’ meeting and show us what you’ve learned here…”

  My dad isn’t any secret to Derek either. Practically everyone in Garrett Hall followed the TV coverage. Grimacing at his suggestion, I flick his hand away from me.

  “Did you follow me?”

  “Seriously, what’s with the robe?”

  “It’s for work,” I say, cringing at the fact he’s the first one I’m telling about this. His eyes skim my face, the shame burning in my cheeks. “This is my job. I model for art classes.”

  His eyes narrow, mouth opens to respond. I brace myself for an asshole-comment when Billy appears from behind me, brushing past with an inspection of my face.

  “Everything okay?” he asks tentatively, cradling his sketchpad in front of his chest. Billy’s concern for me even though we’ve only talked a handful of times should make me feel better, but instead the air in the hallway vanishes. All these people, paying attention to me, checking up on me…it’s too much. I nod to Billy and look away.

  A silent second passes then, with one last glance at Derek, Billy says, “See ya, Quinn,” and meets up with a pair of girls down the hall. Derek lets out an exaggerated sigh.

  “That your friend?”

  “He’s an art student,” I say, watching the last of the freshmen trickle out from the classroom and disappear down the stairs.

  Derek’s face hardens. “The one you went out with Saturday? The one you ditched me for?”

  Please. I never ditched him. “Is that why you followed me? To see who I’m hanging out with?” I match his stance: arms crossed, knuckles white. “Or was it to catch me doing something? And why wait two hours? Why n
ot just barge into the room in front of everyone while you’re in prime jerk-mode?” Without waiting for his answer, I start toward my changing room. One, two steps then I’m quickly yanked backward. Gusts of hot breath blast my ear.

  “Were you doing something?”

  “It’s called a job. Let go of me.” Unexpectedly, he does, sending my body forward a step. I brace myself against the wall, turn to face him. “It’s what you’re going to have to get when you decide to stop playing video games with your lame-ass friends and grow up.”

  His hard expression doesn’t budge as he reaches for my arm, words snapping off his lips. “You done here? I’ll drive you back to school.”

  And have him act like a real boyfriend, escorting me around? Pass. I wiggle my hand out from his clammy grip.

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home.”

  Slowly, his upper lip curls. “And treating your boyfriend like shit in the meantime? Jesus, are you like this with all the guys you date?”

  Just then the door down the hall clicks shut. Torrin stops, eyes widened—just barely, but enough to know he heard Derek call himself my boyfriend. Shit. A second passes, Torrin’s fingers twitching against his sides. Then with a stoic glance at me, he exits the building.

  “Torrin. Wait!” I start down the hall, my flip-flops slapping against the linoleum. I make it to the door, half-opened when Derek suddenly steps in front of me, palm braced on my shoulder.

  “Hold up,” he says, flicking his gaze to the cluster of tree rings surrounding the building. “You know that guy?”

  I sidestep through the entrance, scanning for Torrin. “Not now, Derek.”

  “Okay, when? You don’t ever want to talk to me. Or hang out.” He shoves his hand through his hair. “What’s your deal?”

  “What’s your deal? And what made you all of a sudden decide to care? Where’s the Derek who flirts with other girls and ignores me and doesn’t even bother to—” Ugh, this is such bad timing. “Look, I have to go.”