Stripped

by Zoey Castile

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. I swallow the dryness in my throat and squeeze my hands into fists. My entire body flashes the way it does when you get in trouble. I’ve only been in trouble twice in my life. Once for shaving off my cousin Sky’s eyebrows. Another time for getting a B in Chemistry.

  Principal Papadopoulos holds up his hands in an attempt to silence my stream of verbal diarrhea. His face softens now that his back is to the students, watching us from the window. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Huh?” is my response. Four years of English undergrad and a master’s in Education from Columbia, and I, Robyn Flores, go with “huh?”

  “We met once before,” he says.

  I strain my eyes trying to recall having met him. I’ve seen the new principal before, walking down the hall or from the back of the assembly auditorium and behind the rippled-glass window of his office, but in the few months since he took over after Principal Roth had a heart attack, I’ve never had a reason to see him face-to-face.

  It never occurred to me that our new Principal Papadopoulos was so young, and so attractive. I mean, he’s my boss, so, no.

  Up close I can admire the sharp square of his jaw. The meticulous trim of his short dark beard, and his styled jet-black head of hair. The sumptuous honey brown of his eyes. Is that what people mean when they say “Roman nose”? I wonder. He’s breathtaking, really. And the tailored suit does wonders for his upper body. Why would the universe surround me with two hot guys on the day when I’m the biggest mess this side of the Hudson River?

  And yet, I have no memory of having met him before. Not even a little.

  “Lily and Dave’s engagement party last year,” he says casually. “I told you I was applying for jobs.”

  “That’s right! What a great party,” I say, and it hurts to keep up this smile. No wonder I can’t remember. I drank so much champagne that night, I remember a blur of a man talking about having graduated from NYU with David, and then getting his master’s at Harvard. A terribly distorted memory surfaces, like seeing something behind warped glass. Did he give me his number? No, that couldn’t have been him because that would make this terribly awkward.

  “I suppose I’ll be seeing you at their wedding,” he says, his bearded smile tilting at one corner.

  “Yup.” I nod, and wish he’d just tell me if I still have a job or not. “Thank you for looking after my class. I’m really terribly sorry I’m late.”

  “Look,” he says, shoving a hand into his pocket. “I get it. You’ve been having a rough couple of weeks.”

  “Try months,” I blurt out.

  “Months, then,” he says. His face expresses concern. This man hardly knows me. How can he be concerned? “I don’t know what’s going on. It seems personal. But whatever it is, you have to deal with it. It doesn’t set a good example for the kids. I need you to show up on time.”

  “Mr. Pap—”

  “Lukas,” he interrupts me. “It’s a lot easier to remember than Papadopoulos or Principal Platypus as the kids have so charmingly decided to name me.”

  My face feels like I have a third-degree burn. I’m so happy I could cry. Instead, I settle for a half-snort and half-hiccup.

  “So, I’m not fired,” I say, just to clarify.

  “Fired?” Lukas says. “These kids love you. Besides, I’ve been there.”

  I shift my weight to the side. I feel more comfortable with him now that we’re on a first-name basis. Plus, according to him we’ve met, even if I have no memory of it. He made me laugh, and is trying to chip away at my clearly professional exterior. I recognize the technique from school. But I won’t be talked to like I’m one of my problem students. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Tell me, Lukas. What am I going through that you’ve been there?”

  Lukas shifts uncomfortably under my unwavering stare. Now it’s his turn to blush. He laughs nonetheless. “I’ve been a little scattered . . .”

  I look at his shiny black leather shoes, the tapered cut of his pants, the pristine ironed white shirt that I’d never be able to keep stain-free. Scattered is not the word I’d use for him.

  “Robyn,” he says, this time dropping the understanding grin. “As much as I’m trying to not be that guy, this is still a warning.”

  “I understand.”

  “Don’t just say you understand. Be here. Okay?”

  I nod, feeling that this is such a strange way to get reprimanded, but at least I still have a job.

  “And . . .”

  “There it is,” I say, smiling. I was waiting for the catch.

  “I need a volunteer for Sunday’s bake sale.”

  “I’m there.” I have Lily’s wedding stuff, but I’ll be there. Late.

  “I’ll let you get back to class,” Principal Platypus—Lukas— says, switching back to his smooth, cool persona. I try not to think of how easy it is to be two kinds of people.

  For now, I take the hand he extends, like an olive branch.

  FALLON

  I wake from strange dreams. I was in the middle of my best set. The Yankee Doodle bit always gets the most hoots, hollers, and, most important, dollars.

  In the dream, I was in the middle of a dance when the scenery changed. I was naked, except for my thong. I was flanked by Revolutionary War soldiers. Everyone has the naked-in-public dream. Doesn’t that mean anxiety or something? Well, in the dream, I’m in a field with the founding fathers. I need to stop drinking at work and beg Luis to stop listening to the Hamilton sound track during practice.

  I shake my head, and grimace at the taste in my mouth. I feel the bed for Yaz, but she’s abandoned me in the middle of the night for her more comfortable bed.

  Typical.

  I pull the white comforter off me and lie there spread out ass-naked on my king-size bed.

  Though I’m not much for having girls spend the night (the morning after is never not awkward), I wish I could turn on my side and wrap my arms around another warm, equally naked body.

  Plus, my morning wood is aching. I drag myself out of bed and take a piss.

  I shake, flush, and groggily move to the sink to brush my teeth.

  I’ve been in Astoria for a little over two weeks, and New York for a month, but it still doesn’t feel like home. Before this we were in Miami, and before that, Vegas, and before that, Atlanta. Atlanta was by far one of the dirtiest cities I’ve ever been to. Sex dirty, not hygiene dirty. But that’s a different story.

  I want to go back to Boston. It’s been years since I gave myself time to see my brothers and sister, not to mention show my face to my old man. Fallon Senior has never approved of my lifestyle. Not the girls or the drugs or the money. I don’t care for drugs anymore, but there’s still the money and girls and booze. My family is staunchly Catholic, and even though my siblings don’t go to church on the regular, they still aren’t strippers.

  I’m a stripper and I fucking love it.

  At least, I did for many years. The last ten months have been a series of existential life-crisis moments that have snuck up on me. Crisis or not, I ended up in New York, New York, following Ricky and the boys because they’re my family.

  I go into the kitchen to make a shake. I scoop vanilla protein powder into my bottle, and shake until there are no clumpy bits left. It’s not the eggs and bacon I want, but it will do. These muscles weren’t built in a day. Plus, I haven’t exactly bought anything to cook with. There’s a neat pile of takeout bags near my garbage I have to remember to throw out.

  Usually, I’d room with a few of the guys, but this time around feels different. I was glad I’d picked this apartment out of the shit show that was Craigslist. The girl in 6A makes it worth it just for the eye candy, even if she does have a sexy Tasmanian devil thing going on. And, well, isn’t actually interested in me. But a man can dream.

  At that moment, I get a text from Ricky. Rick Rocket is our leader. He’d probably describe himself as our alpha, but I don’t like to think of myself as follo
wing a pack. Ricky was the one who scouted out the members of Mayhem City, all-male revue. My whole life changed one night because of Ricky. I owe him everything. Back then I was bartending at a dive tucked away in Somerville. We got a mix of truck drivers, locals, and college kids who couldn’t afford to live in Cambridge proper. Saturday nights were the wildest because it was all college kids. The bouncers looked the other way at fake IDs as long as the girls were cute. The hotter the clientele, the more dick-bag dudes would come in and try to buy them drinks.

  On that night, Ricky and his crew waltzed right in. I was busy slinging drinks. I’d been bartending since I was seventeen, when I realized bagging groceries for $5.75 an hour wasn’t going to give me the kind of life I wanted. I was good at bartending, too. Even now, I can make two drinks at the same time and light your cigarette while throwing the shakers in the air. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  It wasn’t my proclivity for bartending that made the girls turn up on Saturday nights. It was simply just me. I was slimmer then, but still built. I’d been a runner all my life, and in many ways, the vagabond life of a touring male stripper just made sense to me. I loved the attention, and I loved giving it right back. My biggest rule was that I was never fake. I just love making women smile. There’s something beautiful about every single one of them. The shape of their eyes. The color on their lips. The way they flip their hair or twirl it around their fingers. I love that they take time and that is a gorgeous thing.

  At the bar, I loved the way the girls would lean into me and say their drink. Loved the jealous irritation on the poor schmo paying for the drink, because most of the time, the girl kept looking over her shoulder at me.

  Around midnight on every shift, things got crazy. Two hours till closing time, and I knew which songs to pick to keep the vibe going. I was never supposed to, but I always did give out free shots. I’d hop up on top of the bar and invite a handful of girls to bring along with me, like Coyote Ugly and shit. Somehow, I’d end up with my shirt missing and my bar full of dollar bills.

  That was the night Ricky noticed me.

  Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if Ricky’s car hadn’t gotten a flat tire down the road. If he hadn’t decided to walk to the nearest bar and look for help. If he hadn’t stayed because he’s a make-lemonade kind of guy. If he hadn’t picked me and given me a job that would change my whole world.

  Life’s just funny that way, I think as I get a text from the man himself.

  Ricky: Wake up, Princess.

  Me: What?

  Ricky: You still mad about the new guys? I’m just testing them out . . . You’ll get your spot back.

  Me: K.

  Ricky, like most people, hates one-letter responses. They aren’t responses. They’re dismissive. But I do it anyway because I want any excuse to be passive-aggressive.

  Ricky: Stop being a dick. I need you to cover a party this weekend.

  Me: Fuck that.

  Me: Get Wonderboy and his twin.

  Me: What’s his excuse this time?

  I knew before Ricky could answer that the latest member of Mayhem City was flaky. I didn’t want to hire Vinny and Frank Suave in the first place, but I was outvoted. Whenever a new member of our group is added in a new city, all of the six original members have to vote unanimously since we add new guys in every city. For New York, because the location is bigger, we hired on six more guys, plus a couple of emergency backups. I was fine with the first four, but Vinny and Frank are twin brothers so they came together like obnoxious, fake-tanned salt-and-pepper shakers.

  Ricky: Always jumping the gun. I double booked Vin and Frank by accident.

  Me: It’s my first Saturday off in months.

  Ricky: You’re off today! We were off for a week last month.

  Me: Driving cross-country in a van with you smelly fucks isn’t a vacation.

  Ricky: Will you do it or not?

  I wait a half hour before answering.

  Me: You know I will.

  Ricky: Then why you gotta give me so much shit?

  Me: See you at the gym?

  Ricky: Nah, I have a date.

  Me: The girl or the guy?

  Ricky: Both.

  Me: Dog.

  Ricky: Someone around here has to get laid.

  I grunt and throw my phone on the bed and look for something clean to wear. I absentmindedly smile at the memory of 6A this morning. Well, since I wasn’t going to go on a date with my super-cute and incredibly intense neighbor, I might as well work. This apartment is one of the nicest places I’ve ever lived in, but people did not kid when they talk about New York rent.

  I rummage through the laundry bag for my favorite sweatpants. My entire wardrobe is sweatpants, windbreakers, and white and black T-shirts. I’m well aware that I’m a walking ad for a sports magazine, but I like to keep a low profile. As soon as they started making money, some of the other guys bought $800 shoes and $100 T-shirts. The temptation was there, but I just put that money in the bank. And by bank, I mean a fireproof safe in my closet. There’s over ten years of savings and almost half a million dollars in there. I’d have more if I hadn’t bought my car outright, and if I wasn’t paying for my sister’s private school and my father’s medical bills.

  Those things mattered. Those are the reasons I want to keep doing what I’m doing.

  But after Mary finishes school and after my dad gets better, then what am I supposed to do with all this cash? I push the thought out of my head, though it’s getting harder every day. Everything in life is just a countdown to whatever comes next.

  Once, I felt like I was working toward a goal, but now? Now I’m just going through the motions.

  “Where the fuck is it?” I dump all of the neatly folded clothes onto my bed. My favorite sweats are missing. Not just my sweats, but also one of my outfits for work. I go back to the hamper to make sure I hadn’t left something out. I understood a sock being missing, but then it occurred to me—6A.

  I dress quickly, hook the leash to Yaz’s collar, and head out the door in search of my ridiculously gorgeous neighbor.

  3

  Lady in Red

  ROBYN

  I keep looking at the clock all day. My students were extra well behaved after they’d seen my one-on-one with Principal Lukas. There is nothing worse than the pity of thirty-five ten-year-olds.

  When the bell finally rings, I grip the sides of my desk. I made it through another day. Why is it getting harder to just make it through the day?

  I shove my things in my purse, and get ready to leave.

  “Hey,” Lily says, knocking on my door.

  I take a deep breath and turn to my best friend. Unlike Lily, I don’t look as polished as I had in the morning. Not that polished was a word I’d use to describe myself today. Lily’s white blouse fits her slim frame, and her high-waist plaid pencil skirt gives her the look of an extra on Mad Men.

  My hair has come undone, and my dress had acquired a collection of stains. If I weren’t in an elementary school, they would be questionable.

  “Is there glue in your hair?” Lily asks, reaching for a clump on my head.

  I duck. “Is it doing a There’s Something About Mary?”

  Lily shakes her head. “I think you’re more in Ghostbusters slime territory. Know what? I’m going to leave it before I give you a giant bald patch.”

  I laugh. It feels good to laugh like this, and the thought almost makes me want to cry. I hoist my overstuffed bag onto my shoulder. It makes me lean to the left with its weight. I wish my insurance covered a chiropractor. Otherwise I’ll look like a question mark before I hit thirty.

  Lily and I walk out of school.

  “You missed lunch,” Lily says. “Want to get a bite?”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I have to catch up on the lessons for tomorrow. What about tomorrow after work?”

  Lily’s face falls for a moment. Then, she gets that disappointed look I can’t bear. “Tomorrow after work I have my next dress fitt
ing, which you’re supposed to go to.”

  I shut my eyes. We reach Lily’s car. I grab Lily’s hands and squeeze. “Right. I’m the worst maid of honor. I’m Made of Dishonor. I’ll do better, I swear.”

  “You should write terrible puns for a living,” she says.

  “I switched my creative writing major for a reason.”

  We get in Lily’s car. For a moment, I consider telling Lily not to drive me home. It’s not far, but it’s the least bit of time we get to spend together as our lives go in opposite directions. To get up and walk home would solidify that distance, and even if Lily’s life is going to change forever in three weeks, we still have today.

  “Okay,” Lily says, pulling out of the parking lot and turning right. “Fill the bowl. What did Lukas say to you?”

  “Why didn’t you mention the new principal was a Tom Ford ad? I mean, he’s a little odd. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Are you serious? Haven’t you heard all the other teachers talking about him? They’re like cats in heat.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, but you’re the only person I talk to.”

  “We have to do something about that. You can’t alienate everyone in school.”

  “Fine, at your bachelorette tea party, I’ll be extra chatty and make new friends.”

  Lily smiles and turns a corner. “I thought you’d met Lukas before. He was at my engagement party. Are you really that out of it?”

  “You know, it’s funny. He actually reminded me that we met there last year. Is that weird? That was the first thing he said to me. I didn’t remember him at all. But some guy did give me his number and I’m, like, fifty percent sure it was him.”

  “That night was made of champagne,” Lily says. “I have a vague memory of him popping in. I thought he had a girlfriend then, though.”

  “Then that makes it a triple-shot latte of awkward.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No. Honestly, it probably wasn’t him. He did ask me to cover the bake sale on Sunday.”