STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  Oh my God.

  Is this what people will see? Surely she was a model for one of the classes here.

  I wonder what her story is, if she posed naked out of desperation like I’m about to. Or if she enjoyed baring it all. I can’t see her face, but I wish I could. Like that’d change the way I’m feeling right now: dizzy and disoriented.

  “Coming?” Hunter spouts, looking back to see why I’m no longer directly behind him. I could throw up at any second. I really could.

  Attention on the naked girl, I step into the classroom. She looks like a Sia, exotic and curvy in a fair-skinned way. Next to Sia I’d look like a praying mantis. Stiff. Awkward. Stick-like. The light from above hits the canvas, illuminating Sia’s ass. Something to look forward to.

  Heavy curtains cover the huge bay windows and odd-shaped wooden boxes scatter the floor. Some people are straddling them. Like horses. Huh. A counter spans the back wall, several easels draped with white sheets stand in the corner, and in the middle of the room a low wooden platform is lit by a—

  Floodlight? Seriously?

  “All right, artists,” Hunter barks, stepping toward a makeshift desk of stacked up crates. He turns on a radio; a low piano melody starts up. “This is Yanni. He once said, ‘There are no rules.’ Let his words inspire you.”

  Someone in the corner lets out a groan. I think it’s one of the boys in the back. The shaggy blonde. Hunter then gestures to me.

  “And this is Quinn. Our model for today.”

  A roomful of eyes fall on me. Prying, inquisitive eyes. Some are looking at my face. Others scanning my entire body, up and down, squinting hard like they’re trying to see through my robe. All of a sudden, I feel very naked.

  My legs start to go rubbery. I lift a half-smile and look to Sia for support.

  “Go ahead, Quinn. Once you pose, they’ll find an angle they like. One minute gestures first, class. Be ready.”

  I look over my shoulder. Hunter is eyeing the clock, his face serious, which is a tad disappointing. I’m not sure what I was hoping for. Sympathy, perhaps? Understanding or compassion to help my legs move toward the platform? The nauseating tang of turpentine and charcoal burn in my nose.

  “You can drop your robe over there.” Impatiently, Hunter points to an upright screen in the far corner of the room. My pulse thrums in my ears. The room suddenly whooshes around me.

  Then I turn. And run out the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I was little, eight or nine maybe, the steps in front of Kingsley Library were my favorite place to play. Steep and vast. I’d pretend to assemble the limestone blocks of the pyramids at Giza while Dad worked in his office, pulling his hair out over budgets and enrollments. I’d build my way to the top then magically become Rapunzel and, with my mile-long hair, sit on the top step anticipating the return of my handsome prince.

  I was a stupid little girl. No one told me back then that princes were death traps. I learned that from Evan. Zoe learned that from Evan, too. Only, she never lived to talk about it.

  Here on those steps, a low, cement bench rests to the left of the library entrance. Kingsley Library—named after John Kingsley, my dad’s former frat-buddy. A few years back, the man donated a chunk of money to the school and got his name on a fancy plaque stuck to the side of this building.

  I hate the Kingsleys, but love this bench. It overlooks a huge grassy span. I used to roll in that grass with my sist—

  I look up to the blue sky and stick my tongue out at her. It’s so like her to invade my thoughts at a time like this. When it should be about me. I cradle her necklace in my palm—her favorite one, which she should be wearing right now six feet below in the Shadow Hills Cemetery. Red ruby eyes sparkle back at me from the owl’s round face. These rubies are the only reason Zoe liked the necklace. Look at the way they stare at you. A death glare.

  Running out on that job was a mistake. A big one. I have only a month left to figure out how to make fifteen hundred dollars—the balance of my Loyola tuition. Which my parents can’t afford. Because of the stupid Kingsleys.

  From my bag, I find Derek’s forgotten pack of cigarettes and stick one between my lips. I have a couple of items from Christmas still with tags attached that, hopefully, I can return—a too big shirt from Aunt Sharon, a picture frame I know was bought at a boutique in the mall from my cousin Janie because it’s the only place she ever shops for gifts, and a pair of aviators from my parents I don’t like and have been meaning to exchange anyway. That’ll add at least a hundred to my balance, I hope.

  “You’re in my spot.”

  Startled, I jump as a dark shadow falls over my lap.

  “And you’re blocking my sun.” I take a drag of my cigarette thinking: if only this boy/man/whatever knew this has been my spot since I was eight. Then I pick up my bag and stand.

  Gently he touches my arm, chuckling.

  “You don’t have to leave. I was only kidding.” With the sun shining bright behind him, it’s impossible to see who it is though the voice sounds vaguely familiar. I turn, taking him in: skin kissed by the sun, sharp chin, recognizable hazel eyes that tilt down at the corners.

  “Are you following me?” It’s red T-shirt guy from earlier.

  “No. Are you following me?” I must have a funny look on my face because he holds up his hands and adds, “Kidding again. Sit back down. Please. I was just teasing.” He grins at me and my stomach does this little flip and I curse it. So what if he looks like that. “I’m willing to share,” he says.

  I roll my eyes and drop my bag.

  “How nice of you.”

  Without another word, he joins me on the bench, a noticeable two feet of space between us, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Head back and eyes closed, his arms latch above his head lifting his shirt to show a row of tan, muscular abs. My gaze skirts away.

  I could sell candy in the dorms. Start a fundraiser: Save Quinn’s Education!

  Right. As if Dad patronizing the news wasn’t humiliating enough. Condoms would sell better than candy anyway. I could organize a car wash. Only that’d require me to clean, which Nikki was right—my deficiencies shine in that area. Or apply at the strip club downtown. I might have to.

  In the distance, a couple is fighting. It’s like watching a silent movie. Their faces twist with exaggerated angry expressions. The guy, capped in a black beanie, puts his palm to the girl’s cheek. She says something and pushes his hand away. Crying, she takes a step backward. The guy reaches for her, but misses. Then she turns and stomps away. Maybe he cheated, or told her he was moving away, or said he didn’t love her anymore. It doesn’t really matter.

  Save yourself.

  With the breeze, I can smell the boy to my left. A muted combination of Right Guard and sweat. I hate to admit it, but he actually smells good.

  I take another drag of my cigarette and watch him. Face completely relaxed, it’s obvious he enjoys the warm sun and rhythmic scuffling of shoes. After a minute, his lips twitch up at the corners.

  “Get out your phone.” His voice is low, husky. I pull in a long drag, letting the smoke stream out my nose.

  “Why?”

  He shrugs, eyes still closed.

  “So you can take a picture.” He licks his lips, cracks a smile. “Then you can stare at me all night if you want. Fall asleep to the sight of my face.”

  I duck my head, look away. “Wow. Pretentious, are we?”

  “You know you want to.”

  I snort. “Please.”

  He sits up, laughing, and extends his hand to me. “I’m Torrin.” I just stare at it because people usually expect me to shake their hand and when I don’t they get this stupid deer-in-the-headlights look and I find that amusing.

  “Quinn.”

  Stupid look. One point for me. He scratches his temple.

  “So, Quinn…is there a fashion trend I don’t know about?”

  “Fashion trend?” There’s no way he’s talking about me. I’m dressed compl
etely normal—dark jeans and a cute striped sweater I stole out of Nikki’s closet. So I glance at his outfit: faded jeans and a T-shirt with some undecipherable sports logo on the front. Typical guy outfit, same as Loyola boys wear when traipsing from class to class. I meet Torrin’s gaze. He grins and points at my chest.

  “Your sweater’s on backwards.”

  I peek down. My hair covers my face. The tag is sticking out under my chin. “Jesus.”

  “Thought maybe you meant to wear it like that.”

  God. “I was, um…” Think, think, think. “…in a hurry.” There. Not a lie at all. I was in a hurry to put my clothes back on. I stick the cigarette in my mouth and struggle with my sleeves, fairly certain I can spin the sweater around without looking like a complete idiot.

  He reaches toward my mouth, pinching the cigarette. “Let me hold that for you.”

  “Thanks.” And then my cigarette is flying through the air. It lands with an amber spark against the cement steps below. “Hey.” I scowl. “What the hell?”

  “A girl like you shouldn’t be smoking. It looks off.”

  I shove my arms into my sleeves, tug the bottom of the sweater down. God, I feel sorry for any girl he dates. He seems like the controlling type. He’d get along great with Derek.

  “And a guy like you should mind his own business. It’s rude not to.” I snatch my bag and lumber down the steps.

  “You’ll thank me one day for saving you,” he says from behind me.

  “I’ve already been saved.” As I walk toward the bus stop, I find another cigarette in my bag and light it. Then I wave it in the air for Mr. Annoying to see.

  To the students bustling around, it might appear I actually enjoy the ashtray taste in my mouth. It would look like that, even though cigarettes disgust me almost as much as Derek’s fingers slipping into my underwear.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I think you should tell her goodbye, Quinn,” Mom says, rubbing my knee. “It’ll give you closure.” Her words pull my attention from the stained-glass window in the chapel, its colors blurring together from the tears.

  “I don’t want to see her.” My fingers wind around the stretchy black material of my dress. I’ve had this dream enough to know that no matter what I say, how much I object, I’ll be down the aisle and standing beside my sister eventually. But it’s worth a shot. Maybe this time will be different? Maybe after a year my mind will get tired of replaying this moment over and over and over? “I don’t need to see her.”

  Mom pats my knee again. “Come on. I’ll walk you up there.”

  I stand, despite the protest in my legs.

  “I can go myself.” With a slowness I can’t erase from my step, I make my way up to the front of the chapel. My arms cradle the gaping hole in my chest, the feeling that I can never—will never—be whole again.

  As I near, my stomach churns; a disapproval on its part for what I’m about to do. Carefully, I lean over the wooden casket. Last time I had this dream, Zoe was in pink. A jumpsuit of some sort. Today it’s something different, but familiar: the exact blue dress she wore twelve months ago. A dress so hideous that even the pastor made a face. White lace lines the scooped-neck. The hem at her knees is creased in perfect ruffles. If she had on patent-leather shoes she’d look almost like the American Girl doll I had when I was six. Plastic. Frozen.

  A dainty silver chain drapes around her wrist, a bracelet I’ve never seen before. A bracelet so plain and simple Zoe would’ve never been caught dead wearing it. Only she is dead. And wearing it.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper under my breath, resisting the urge to take it off her.

  All of a sudden, her eyes open and I cringe against what’s coming. Slowly, she rolls her head, looks right at me—piercing blue irises now a dull, lifeless gray. Her lips part and I inhale a slow breath, awaiting the two words.

  “Save yourself.”

  I wrench upright in my bed. Gasping. Searching for anything to bring me back to the present. To my dorm room with Nikki breathing heavily across from me. The moonlight glowing outside the window. I snatch my pillow, bury my head, and will the tears away.

  That day when she encouraged me to say goodbye, Mom never told me the sight of Zoe lying there with her blue eyes sealed and lips shut into a thin line would haunt me in my dreams. Or that I’d notice she was missing her favorite necklace. Mom hadn’t told me losing my only sister would be like losing a part of me, the part which made me feel like everything in life would be okay.

  It was that day, as I stood before her silk-lined casket, that I understood Zoe’s mistake: she’d fallen in love. Given everything to Evan, then swallowed it away with an entire bottle of sleeping pills two days after he broke up with her.

  And it was then, as I braced my trembling body against the wooden shell, I vowed with my then warm lips to never make her mistake. I would never fall in love.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Hi, sweetie,” Mom’s recorded voice plays into my ear, strained—even more so than usual. “I thought you might still be awake, but I guess I missed you. It’s only nine. I hope you’re not coming down with anything. How’s the job search? Any interviews yet?” There’s a small pause, a shaky breath, just long enough to think how glad I am I didn’t tell my parents I had a job yet.

  “Well,” she continues, “your dad and I need to talk with you. It’s about school. Why don’t you call me in the morning? Before class if you have a chance.”

  She says “bye” and that she loves me and she’ll talk to me tomorrow, but my mind is already racing. What could’ve changed about school?

  Maybe my parents found a way to pay my tuition.

  Maybe I won’t have to get a job after all.

  ~*~

  “What do you mean you can’t afford Loyola anymore?” I press the phone harder to my ear, praying I heard her wrong. Chattering voices muddle the crowded walkway, the dining hall just ahead of me.

  “Sweetie,” Mom says, “with all the legal fees pouring in, we barely have enough to cover half the monthly tuition. I know you said you’d get a job and pitch in, but your dad and I don’t expect you to pay fifteen hundred a month plus our portion. That’s close to three thousand dollars.”

  “So what are you saying? I have to drop out? Move home? Transfer to a community college?”

  I can’t imagine how horrible that would be. And then I can; it all comes back. Zoe’s face staring at me from the library wall. Whispered warnings from the tree dedicated in her memory chasing me incessantly around campus—

  I will hurl myself off a cliff before ever setting foot at Oceanview. Sure I could go to another community college—Preston is less than an hour away, but that would mean either getting an apartment or commuting with a shit-ton of gas expenses.

  I’m screwed either way.

  “Your tuition is paid through the end of this month,” she tells me. “Then, yes, if we can’t pay for next quarter by then, you’ll have to start at OCC. I already talked to a counselor. Your credits should transfer easily.”

  “God, Mom. This sucks.” I reach the dining hall and lean against the stone exterior wall, squeezing my temple tightly with my thumb and index finger. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Me neither, baby doll.”

  Connor and Matisse pass by to my right. Every school has one: the perfect couple. They’re like the real-world version of some happily-ever-after Disney movie. He’s absentmindedly playing with her hair. I look away.

  “What about a scholarship? Or financial aid?”

  I can almost see her shaking her head when she says, “I checked with the office. It seems all financial aid funds were used up for this year.” She draws in a breath. “How about you come home for the weekend? We can discuss it in more detail then.”

  “Fine.”

  I slump down to the sidewalk, bury my head in my arms. “Three grand,” I say to no one. How the hell am I supposed to make that much in less than a month?

  Okay. Think, thi
nk.

  I have maybe two hundred in my savings account and probably twenty or so in my change jar. Add in my Christmas returns and I’m down to twenty six hundred.

  Ugh. I shake my head. There’s only one way to make close to that.

  Just then someone kicks my shoe. I look up. Derek.

  “I’m not going to Sociology,” he says, sliding his fingers through his hair. “I’ll be in the computer lab with Kennedy. Sign me in?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I reach my hand out so he can help me up, but he’s already turned, walking down the path where his gamer-buddy, Kennedy Ryan, is waiting near the adjacent building.

  ~*~

  “Can I have another chance?”

  Hunter’s office is depressing. There’re no windows and some dumbass thought painting a giant Nemo sticking out of an anemone would be a great way to counterbalance. There’re other animals, too. A manta ray swimming close to the sandy bottom, a jellyfish floating near the top, and I have to look away before the urge to pick up a paintbrush and stab myself in the eye becomes too much and I do it.

  Across the desk Hunter taps his pen against his chin, bushy brows drawn together, weighing my apology for running out on him.

  Finally, he sighs.

  “My students had to draw me after you left.” He drops his pen, pauses just long enough to allow me a mental visual before he adds, “Clothed, of course.”

  “Like I said, I’m really sorry.” I lean forward, resting my hands on his desk. “But I swear I’ll make it up to you. I’ll come early, stay late, help you with other things—cleaning brushes or straightening the classroom.”

  I will grovel on my knees if I have to.

  “Well…” He removes his glasses, rubs his weary eyes. “It just so happens I’m desperate for the help. I’ve had a heck of a time finding models this year.” He stands and I start to feel that bubble in my chest rise. A sense of calm. Like everything’s going to work out. “You can start next Tuesday.”