So I turned to Justine with a confident smile and said, “Sure."
Chapter 6: Tumbling Down
Justine and I had just settled into the couch with a bottle of Pinot and a spread of Tim Burton movies when the there was a knock at the door. Justine lifted her eyebrows, asking if I was expecting someone. I shrugged and got up, feet chilly on the bare floor. When I opened the door, I was stunned to see Faye in the hall with a sheepish look on her face.
"Hi," she said, eyes darting somewhere around my knees. "I, um, I wanted to bring you these," she said, looking down to where she had a plate of chocolate cookies pressed into her stomach. "Sorry for being all stressed out the other night."
Bewildered but pleasantly surprised by her apology, I tilted my head and smiled. "That's okay. Thanks."
Faye held the cookies up to me, still avoiding eye contact. I looked at her embarrassed expression and how hard she was trying to do the right thing and felt bad for her.
Wanting to encourage her, I opened the door wider. “Want to come in? We just started Edward Scissorhands."
Faye peered into the apartment. Justine leaned over the sofa and gave a little wave. "C'mon in," Justine said. "I'm Justine."
"Hi," Faye said. "Um, thanks, but I think I better..." She took a step back, not finishing her sentence as she gestured toward the stairs. Then she seemed to change her mind. “Sure.”
She walked forward and held her hand out to Justine, who rose halfway out of her seat to take the handshake and the plate of cookies.
"Make yourself at home," Justine said, scooting over.
I sat down next to Faye, feeling the thrill of her side pressed against mine as we watched. I wanted to touch more of her, to thank her for coming over and for being so courteous.
She and Justine were commenting on how hot young Winona Ryder was and how bad they felt for Edward as the movie went on, but Faye didn't talk to me. I would have felt invisible, had it not been for the fleeting looks Faye gave me from time to time, little smiles interspersed with rubbing my knee under the blanket or scratching my arm affectionately. All her nonverbal cues were reassuring. By the end of the night, I wanted her in my bed so bad.
But when the movie ended, she stood and said goodnight, offering to recycle the empty wine bottle on her way out. I didn't want to object, since it was normal to enjoy a night on the couch with a pretty girl and not have sex. But I was mystified as to what was going on in her head.
I watched her walk down the stairs and disappear before closing the door and turning back to the couch.
"That your booty call?" Justine said, wiggling her eyebrows.
I clucked in disapproval. "She's not a booty call. We talk."
"Before or after?"
"Before."
Justine gave me a skeptical look and turned back to the TV. "Sounds like a booty call to me."
She picked up another cookie and took a bite. "You should keep her around though. Especially if she keeps bringing us cookies."
I gave Justine a playful smack on the arm. "She's not a booty call," I grumbled.
"If you say so."
I decided to return Faye's kind and flirtatious gesture the following day. Around lunchtime, I baked a batch of cookies and put them on a Faye's plate to take back to her. I knew she'd see right through it, but it was all part of the little dance we were doing.
When I got to Faye's apartment building, another tenant was leaving and he held the front door and gate for me so I wouldn't have to ring up for Faye to let me in. I fluttered up the stairs, excited. Conveniently, I'd left a few hours before my shift so if she wanted to hang out and chat or, I dunno, maybe have sex, we could.
When I knocked on the door, I heard scrambling inside. I pictured her messy little studio with its piles of laundry and stacks of dishes. Maybe she did her little clean-up dance every time someone knocked.
"Who is it?" she called.
"It's Riley," I replied, cheerful.
I heard more scrambling and tripping and the whispering of fabric against fabric. Then the door rattled and she jerked it open a few inches.
Her hair was messy and she had a sweatshirt thrown on, neckline uneven around her collarbone. "Hi," she said in a stage whisper. "What's up?"
Beaming, I said with a guilty smile, "I made too many cookies."
I held the plate out to her and she startled, taking in my gift.
"Oh," she said. "That's— that's really sweet. Thanks."
Hesitantly, she reached for the plate and was forced to open the door a little wider to slide it inside before returning it to its previous position of being just ajar enough for her to peer out.
"What are you up to?" I asked, hinting that I wanted to hang out.
Faye grew flustered. "I'm, uh- I'm- Now's not a good time," she muttered, face disappearing for a moment as she looked over her shoulder.
And just then, I heard her toilet flush and the sink turn on. When it shut off, I heard a girl's voice, high and nasal as it emerged from the bathroom, saying, "Faye, can I borrow a clean pair of panties? You got mine all-"
The girl stopped abruptly as Faye's face reappeared, avoiding eye contact.
I was so stunned, I couldn't filter myself as my thoughts raced.
"Are you — are you fucking someone else?" I gaped. "Really, Faye?"
Faye looked lower towards the floor, brushing her hair out of her face. "It's not like you and I are dating," she hissed, trying not to let the other girl hear. "I'll call you later, okay?"
Incredulous, I just stared at her. What was she planning to do, shower off and then see if I'd be up for her second — or was it third? — round of the day? No way. I was no one's sloppy second.
No matter how offended and curious I was about the other girl, I was glad Faye had the door in a death grip so I couldn't attach a face to the voice that had pierced through the fun new thing I thought Faye and I had. Apparently Justine had been right. I was just a booty call. Possibly one of many Faye had.
I swallowed, preparing to say Don't bother when my filter fell back into place.
I gave a stiff shrug and said, "If you can fit me into your busy schedule."
Then I turned and left, knowing Faye wouldn't try to follow me.
Faye arrived at my apartment right on time. We'd planned to hang out, but I had no idea if we were going on a date or not, which made me anxious. My anxiety tripled when she rang the doorbell and I opened the door to see her standing in the hall. She was so beautiful and happy and calm.
"Do you like trampolining?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
"I've never been."
"Okay. Do you have yoga pants or something?"
"Uh huh."
After inviting her inside, I grabbed my yoga pants and a t shirt and put them in a bag. It felt odd, gathering workout gear for a maybe-date, but then again, I wasn't sure what lesbians did on dates. In college, my dates with Maggie had mostly been in our dorm rooms or somewhere on campus.
After winding down a road that felt like it was in the middle of the forest but was actually just near Crissy Field, we parked and Faye kept a respectful distance from me as we walked to the front of the old airplane hangar. Faye paid, not looking at me while she did, as if she didn't want to remind me that we were on the cusp of some kind of romantic interaction.
Loud music was playing from speakers tucked high in the metal rafters. It felt like a school dance, speakers playing candy pop songs from the last thirty years. The people around us were mostly our age, with a few teenagers and two or three kids that could have been ten or eleven. A few fatigued parents waited on couches on the floor level.
Faye led me to the changing room, where we changed into our workout gear. When I emerged, Faye was waiting for me outside, hands busy behind her head as she secured her long, sleek hair into a braid. She grinned and offered to do my hair for me.
Her offer made me nervous, but I let her sit me on a bench and run her fingers through my hair, a few strands catching in the c
revices of her knuckles as she put in a tight french braid. My scalp tingled and I felt alarmingly calm. When she tied it off, I was certain it was the most perfect braid my hair had ever been in.
As we ascended the stairs to the trampoline pit, Faye grew more excited.
"This is one of my favorite places. I come here sometimes with my colleagues to blow off steam after work."
It felt nice, to be included into something Faye did to reduce stress, even if this was maybe a date and the point of a date was not to reduce stress. The maybe-date was creating enough stress to warrant reducing, so I appreciated it.
As we reached the entrance to the trampoline pit, the music changed to a song that I didn't know but clearly excited Faye. "I love this song!" she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the pit.
The pit was actually an expanse of trampolines linked together by bright blue connector mats. A dozen other jumpers were bouncing around, trying to do cool tricks, with a few people succeeding and earning enthusiastic clapping from their friends. As I stepped onto the stretchy black material, I felt something exhale within me. We were doing something ridiculous and fun that would make us sweaty and relaxed. I thought maybe Faye had planned this to help me be less nervous. Wouldn't that have been sweet of her?
But as I looked at her face as she bounded over the black rectangles, urging me to join her with her hand, I realized that she had no other reason to come here than the fact that she loved this place. While at first I had been self-conscious, knowing I was just a poor foot placement away from looking clumsy and awkward, when I saw her face and heard her giggle as she hopped across the squares, my nervousness left me and I was pulled into her joy.
We jumped until our legs and abs hurt and our lungs were burning from exertion. I was damp with a light sheen of sweat, as was she. We stumbled off the trampoline court, and she offered me some water from her water bottle. After a brief pause, noting the smudge of her lipstick around the rim of the bottle, I took it.
We changed out of our workout gear, and she suggested we go get some food. Ravenous, I agreed, and we drove back into the city and found a nice pizza parlor on Chestnut Street. We inhaled a pie together and washed it down with wine she chose for us.
When the check came and Faye took it before I had time to pull out my credit card, some of my uneasiness crept back in. If we were hanging out as friends, why was she paying for everything? Why had she sent me flowers? I felt young and inexperienced for not understanding basic unspoken social language.
So I repeated a question I'd asked her before. I glanced at the spot where the bill had just been whisked off the table and said, "Are we on a date?"
Faye blinked and looked to the side. Suddenly she looked as young and uncomfortable as I felt. It was weird to see her go from looking thirty to looking fifteen in the space of five words.
Then she opened her mouth and said, small and hurt, "I'm not a predator, you know. I can hang out with girls as friends."
I felt guilty. I tried to explain my reasoning.
"Oh I know. I just thought, with the flowers and stuff..."
Faye frowned. "What flowers?"
Now I was confused. Hadn't the flowers been from her? I gave up understanding anything that was going on in my social life.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "This wine is good," I said, lifting my glass to my lips.
She gave a strained smile of appreciation and finished her glass.
As soon as the check was brought back for her to sign, she zipped into herself and picked up her purse. I felt guilty that I'd ruined a nice evening with my ignorant question. We said a quick goodbye at the door. I was sad that I probably wouldn't see Faye again.
But Faye's foot dragged on the concrete as she turned back to me. She had a sheepish, uncertain look on her face. "Riley," she said, calling me back from the steps I hadn't taken away yet.
"Yeah?"
She clasped her hands together in front of her hips, bracing herself. "Would you ever want to go on a date with me?"
My heart sped up. I hadn't gone a date with a girl since I'd decided to get serious about my future, which I always thought would be with a man. But looking at Faye, seeing the first hint of shyness I'd ever seen in her face, seeing her lipstick-moist lips spread with wistfulness, I let myself crack open a little. I wanted to see her again, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't find her attractive. She was stunning. I liked talking to her. And she possessed a confidence I hoped I could absorb.
Remembering the brave way Faye had told me to consider if I liked a person or the idea of a person, I decided to whittle away at my carefully constructed, constricting ideas about who I could like. I did like Faye. And I knew she liked me.
So, steeling myself against the surge of anxiety that would come when the word left my mouth, I nodded. "Yeah.”
"Yeah?" Faye asked, the corners of her mouth lifting with hope.
"Yeah," I said, steadier this time.
Now her face was positively elated, and she took a few steps back toward me. "Does Saturday work for you?"
I didn't need to look at my mental calendar before I said yes.
She almost giggled with delight, and I felt buoyant, knowing I'd made her that happy,
"Okay," she said. "Want me to pick you up? Or should we meet somewhere?"
"You can pick me up," I said, knowing it would make her happy.
Faye's smile was blinding now, which helped settle the butterflies in my stomach. "Great," she said. She took a few steps backwards before saying, "I can't wait."
Then she turned and clicked away, her heels confident and easy as they tapped along the pavement. She looked back once before she got to the corner, throwing me one last smile.
The Private Pleasures Booth was a terrarium of experimental and unapologetic sexuality. It was set up with a large window facing the hall, where the girl — or girls — working it would look out and try to entice customers. Once she secured one, she drew a shade and focused her attention on the customer behind the glass in front of her. Aside from a tiny slot the customers fed bills through, the glass wall was solid and comforting. Not that I'd ever touch it without gloves. There were often streaks of semen on the other side, and although I trusted the other girls more than the customers, I didn't know what fluids were on my side.
Perhaps the more exhausting thing about the Private Pleasures Booth was that it was a veritable Pandora's box of sexual indulgence. I never did anything illegal like penetrate myself with my fingers or an object. Other girls swore they could smell a cop for miles, but I didn't trust myself to recognize one at any distance, so I kept it as clean as the situation allowed.
I had seen and heard things I had never considered to be sexual in the Private Pleasures Booth: men asking me to call them Daddy, asking me to shame or humiliate them, asking me to pretend to be a twelve-year-old girl or a Navy commander or an animal. I was fine with most things, but refused to play any character under fourteen. I wondered if I was helping or encouraging people with harmful fantasies; were these men sleeping with underage girls on the outside, too, or were their urges satisfied by paying a grown woman to play-act with them? It was a dilemma I never resolved.
I sighed as I held the doorknob to the small, sweaty room that was the Box. I liked my job, and I didn't mind the warmth of the room. I was just tired, like anyone would be tired on a Wednesday. The guilt from avoiding my sister's calls for a few weeks now wasn't making me feel any perkier.
My friend Callie - stripper name Stella - was in the Box today. When I entered the Box, immediately enveloped in the heat and humidity, she turned to me. I gave her a tired smile from under my wig, and I couldn't help but notice her face looked a little puffy. Looking closer, I saw that her nose was chapped and red from being wiped with a Kleenex.
Great. There was no way I'd be able to spend four hours in the Box with her and not get sick.
That was probably the biggest day-to-day drawback of my job, aside from the secrecy of it: I got sick often
, being in such close, humid quarters with other girls. That and it was difficult to find someone to fill in at the last minute if I had to call in sick. Management had strict rules about who was allowed to fill in for dancers; it had to be someone on staff who was the same height, weight, and cup size. Luckily I had a few girls who could spot for me and needed hours, but Callie, at five foot two, weighing less than one hundred and ten pounds with size C breasts and dark, olive skin, didn't have anyone who could cover for her. I felt bad for her and gave a little pout.
I immediately began wiping down the poles with an antibacterial wipe, but I knew getting sick was inevitable. I steeled myself, hoping this time the cold would only last a few days and wouldn't be too hard to work through. Once when I had been sick, my head had been pounding so hard from the combination of heat, music, and exertion from dancing, I had slept for almost twenty hours after my shift. Hopefully this time wouldn't be as brutal.
"How's the crowd?" I asked as I started wiping the second pole.
"Okay," Callie said, sounding stuffed up as she bent backwards in front of one of the windows.
"Anyone here for a while?" I asked.
"Window four has been dropping quarters for about fifteen minutes," Callie said, walking towards the pole I had just cleaned. "You should give him a little show and see if he sticks around."
"Sure," I said. "Sorry you're sick."
Callie sniffled and shrugged, pressing her back against the pole and sliding down with an arm raised over her head. "I'll try not to breathe on you."
"Thanks," I said.
But in the end, I did get sick. I was out for three days, only leaving my bed when I absolutely had to. Justine was a sweetheart, bringing me soup and Kleenex and various concoctions she swore would shorten the stay of the savage virus that throbbed through me.
Wherever the Dandelion Falls Page 11
