by Zoey Long
Chapter 7: Carrie
I wipe my bottom lip with the pad of my thumb as I turn to leave him, attempting to wipe the evidence of our kiss right from my mouth. Or wipe it in. I can still taste him on my lips, smell his aftershave on my skin, whatever cologne he wears that smells like vetiver and wood. The simple act of trying to wipe away the evidence in public turns me on. My lips feel chapped and puffy. I’m excited and wet between my legs, I feel slippery as I walk. I look over my shoulder as I walk across the field to the main campus to see if anyone else is around. I kind of want other students to see me right now. I just had Adam Clark’s tongue in my mouth again. He looks like a fucking GQ model. A surge of excitement shoots between my legs as I bite my lip hard, kind of like pinching your cheek when you think you’re dreaming. I tighten my coat around my waist again. It’s always coming apart, this coat. My legs feel more energized, the muscles lighting up as they engage.
I take out my phone and immediately begin to text Alexis.
“Dude,” I write in all capital letters. My darkly painted thumb hovers over the send button, shaking with adrenaline. I erase the text immediately and put my phone back in my pocket. I can’t tell her. I can’t tell anyone. Not if I want this to continue.
The words: meet me at the train station at seven ring elatedly again in my ears.
I book it to my dorm room to swap out some papers and get my laptop. I know Alexis is probably just getting out of bed. She schedules all of her classes for the afternoons. She can’t wake up early to save her ass. I like early morning. It’s always been hard for me to stay asleep once the sun rises. I take my ID out of my wallet and hold it up against the security system and it beeps me in quickly.
The hallway smells like new paint and stale carpet, the fluorescent lights overhead make the stark white walls look almost blue. The walls are lined with doors painted a deep, hunter green. I stop at the door to my room and balance my messenger bag on my hip, looking for my keys.
“What’s up, lady?”
Alexis appears suddenly next to me in nothing but her pajamas and slippers. She obviously just woke up. Her hair is tied back in a disheveled ponytail and her dark brown eyeliner is smeared on her lower lash line, still on from the night before. I continue to root around for my keys, giving her a small smile.
“What’s up with you?” she asks. “Oh, let me guess. You’re probably jittery from your morning coffee, been to the gym already? Rehearsal? All three? I really don’t know how you do it.”
She laughs, yawning. I nod, still rooting blindly for the keys with my fingers, wishing I’d remember to keep them in a separate compartment instead of willy nilly at the bottom of this humongous bag. The tips of my fingers finally find metal and I grab the set of keys amid lip balms and lipsticks and pens and papers.
“So I’ll see you tonight, right?” she asks, her eyes sleepy, not really looking at me.
“What? Why? What’s tonight?” I ask. I put the key in the door and turn the knob, angling my body toward the inside of my room, hoping she’ll get the hint that I want to go inside. She looks at me wide-eyed with those gigantic blue eyes of hers.
“Dude. It’s Dan B’s show, did you forget?” she asks, incredulous. “How could you forget? It’s their first solo show, come on. The Bitter End? Starts at 8 pm. Hello?”
Right. That vapid bass player she met in a coffee shop that she’s desperately trying to bone. Tall, stoned, greasy black hair and day old stubble, skinny jeans and plaid shirts. So not my type. Alexis is always meeting random dudes in the city and agreeing to go to their music shows or their poetry readings or art openings.
“They’ll be someone there for you, too!” she always assures me. “His friends are hot!”
I usually end up agreeing to go, against all my better judgment, fooling myself into thinking it might be fun. A night out in New York City has to be more fun than staying on campus, right? Wrong. I’m never happy when I agree to accompany her to these things. I usually end up drinking a glass of heartburn-inducing red box wine out of a solo cup, standing alone in my cocktail dress and heels when everyone else is in jeans and converse sneakers. I stand confusedly looking at some kind of pastiche mixed media art piece on the wall while some skeeve tries to get my number, or offer to make me a fashion model. Great way to spend a Friday night. I’m aching for some intellectual stimulation. Someone interesting for once. I’ve never met a guy my age who was interesting. Not really. They’re all just trying to get in your pants.
“I have plans tonight, actually,” I say, hoping that just this once she’ll let me slide.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she asks. No such luck.
“I have rehearsal,” I lie.
Alexis rolls her eyes so hard that her light, ice blue irises disappear completely for a moment behind her head before rolling back down again. She stretches her arms up above her head and I can see a peek of her flat stomach between her white tee shirt and stretch pants. The higher she stretches, the more I can see.
“How old are you? You’re twenty-one, right?” she asks, arms overhead, already knowing the answer.
“Almost, why?”
“You act like you’re thirty,” Alexis is laughing. I don’t even know what that means. If it means I’m more interesting than Dan and his smelly bandmates, I’ll take it. “How many theatre classes are you even taking right now? Six?”
“I’m a theatre concentration, don’t get on my case about rehearsal.”
She rolls her eyes again, not quite as hard as the last time. Alexis can’t argue with rehearsal. She knows it happens all the time and that it goes on all night.
“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine,” she concedes. “The show must go on. Carrie must prepare. Appear. Blah Blah. Whatever. Yes. See you later.” She smiles though.
I give her a light hug and go into my room, shutting the door behind me. I press my palm to the door for a moment, enjoying the quiet. I can’t believe I didn’t tell Alexis. She’d freak. She’d be chartreuse with envy. I can hear my own breath against the door and I swear I can still smell the woody spiciness of Adam on my clothes, in my hair. I wonder if Alexis could smell him, too.
My reflection in my full length mirror looks flushed, my lips swollen. Anyone else would think I’ve just been walking briskly in the cold, but I know better. The gums behind my front teeth are swollen slightly from kissing him so hard. I smile, lift my red dress up, slip my hand under my black tights. My fingers slip easily into my slit, I’m wet, but not soaking. I rub my clit lightly for a few seconds, gasping even though it’s my own hands on me, still watching myself in the mirror. My cheeks get pinker in the next few moments, the old school radiators hissing on in the background.
By that night, I’m back in my dorm room thumbing wildly through my closet trying to find something suitable to wear on a date. Is this a date? I think it is. I’m so excited I feel sick to my stomach. If it is, I certainly can’t acknowledge it as such. How old is he, anyway? He looks young, I’d be very surprised if he was thirty. The plastic hangers clack hard one after the other as I scroll through all of my outfits left to right, finding nothing and starting anew. No, he’s probably an adjunct in his mid-twenties at the oldest, making a few thousand dollars a semester while he waits for his freelance business to take off. That’s my guess. I check the time on my phone, heart racing a bit. I have just under an hour to get ready.
A key scratches in the lock and the gold knob turns with a squeak and a click. A tall figure in jeans and a black sweatshirt waltzes in the room looking completely exhausted, her thick-rimmed black glasses sloping down almost completely off her nose. I know she’s been down in tech theater again. She works on any and every production they can get her to agree to. I’m surprised to see my roommate Michelle again since the morning.
“Hey,” she says, balancing a paper plate covered in plastic wrap in one hand while shutting the door with the other. I can't see what she has in her hand, but by the looks of it, i
t's a hummus and cucumber wrap. She sits in her desk chair, clicks on the small lamp, and plunks the plate down in front of her. It lands with a decided thud.
“Wow, that looks lethal,” I say, laughing.
“I don’t even think this qualifies as food, did you hear how hard it slammed down?” She unwraps the sandwich and plunks it against the plate a few more times for comedic effect. “I could probably spackle walls in stage B with this shit. Hummus, my ass. But I’m starving. And this is what they feed us. Forty thousand dollars a year, can you believe that?”
She takes a bite of it with the kind of gusto one reserves for their first meal in many an hour.
“How long have you been in rehearsal?” I ask her. I think I’ve chosen a simple black dress and boots, but I haven’t decided completely. I hang it back up in the closet.
Michelle chews and swallows. “Fifth day in a row. The only reason I’m out now is because Fincher insisted I go eat something.”
I shake my head. I pick up the black dress again and lay it out on the bed before turning back to find my knee high boots. Kneeling in the bottom of the closet, rooting on the floor, I realize quickly that I have no idea where these shoes are. I let out an exasperated sigh.
“Whatcha looking for?” Michelle asks, dabbing herself with a napkin.
“My... never mind.”
“What shoes do you need this time?” she teases, watching me throw one random shoe after the other up and over my shoulder. “And where are you going, anyway?”
I see a hint of brown at the very back of the closet and grab onto the pair I need. That’s the question I’ve been dreading since she walked in the room.
“Eh, nowhere. Party,” I reply. I’m dying to tell her I’m headed to Adam’s place. Everyone knows he’s the most gorgeous teacher Earnsley has ever had.
“That’s cagey,” she laughs. “On campus?”
I laugh at that. She does too. We both know that security tends to break up any party about twenty minutes after they start, asking us to keep the noise down, willfully ignoring the pot smell and bathtubs full of ice and beer.
“Alexis, she...” I begin. That’s all I need to say for her to go off on her own rant. I place my heavy boots on the floor next to the bed. They land with a thunk.
“Oh god, that Dan guy? The bass player who never showers? She’s still trying to get with that guy? The one from the band? I’m sorry, Carrie. I’m so relieved that she doesn’t try to get me to go with her on these wild goose chases anymore. I think it’s because when people ask me what I think about the show/art/etc, I tell the truth. Do you remember that pretentious sculpture exhibit last year, the one with pieces that looked like they came straight out of Catherine O’Hara’s work in Beetlejuice? I don’t think that was intentional,” Michelle chuckles. She finishes her sandwich and throws it out under the desk, wiping crumbs from her jeans. “This is why I’m glad I don’t have time for dating, honestly. Dating on this campus is such a nightmare. And in the city, it’s even worse.”
My face flushes at the thought of dating a guy on campus. I’ve thrown my red cotton dress over my head and I’m reaching for my black wiggle dress.
“God, I need a shower,” she says. “That’s exactly what I need. I have a date with this nice warm shower and that bed, right over there. Early night for me. I’ll probably be asleep when you get back. Have fun.” She says the last bit in a teasing voice, a sing-song tone that mocks Alexis and her adventures.
“Can you zip me up?” I ask her before she disappears, motioning to the back of my satin dress, hanging open.
“Sure thing,” she says, taking a stand behind me. “Zip it up, zip it down, hang the lights, take them down, set it up, strike it down, all day, all night, jack of all trades, that’s me.”
I hold my hands on my hips and hear the high pitched squeal of the zipper as it runs up the length of my back. She affixes the closure at the middle of my shoulder blades.
“Woo hoo,” she says, whistling playfully as I turn around. “That’s one hot dress, lady. I hope you’re not trying to impress any of Dan’s friends. They don’t deserve it.”
Michelle cocks her head to the side, regarding me head to foot with her unmistakable stage production eye. “Matte red lips, I think,” she says. “Pops against the black.” She nods and goes to shower.
I walk over to the rectangular mirror that hangs above my dresser and reach for my cherry red matte MAC lipstick, the one I treated myself to last semester when Cleopatra wrapped. My hair is hanging in loose waves past my shoulders and I decide to leave it loose. I look beautiful.
I head to the train station alone at 6:30, giving myself plenty of time to meet up with Adam. The train station is walking distance from campus, and although there’s a shuttle that runs there every half hour or so, I think I need the walk. My head cycles through every scenario imaginable on my way up to meet him. Will we go to dinner? A club? A bar? His place? What will happen there? What do I want to happen? I know he wants me, too. Will we have sex? Will he have booze? The air is crisp and cool, and by the time I reach the station, my cheeks are nearly numb.
I don’t see him at first and my heart sinks, thinking he’s chickened out.
“Well, hello,” a voice says behind me.
I jump and turn to see Adam, in the exact same clothes he was wearing that morning. I feel silly for a moment for dressing up, but then I remember he’s not a student. He doesn’t have a place to shower or change his clothes. Duh.
“Nice lipstick,” he offers.
I’m shocked at first at this overt compliment. He’s never complimented my appearance so openly before.
“Thank you, it’s new. Sort of,” I reply.
“Looks good.”
I start heading toward the ticket machine after a few moments of silence spent looking at each other. I find the act of looking at him all too enjoyable.
“No, no,” he says. “I have a ticket for you already.” He takes two tickets out of his wallet to show me.
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I smile at him, starting to wonder if the ticket is round trip or one way…
We head to the platform and he lets me go ahead of him up the stairs. He’s making the conscious choice to stand markedly far away from me while we wait for the train into the city, understandably concerned that we’ll see students from Earnsley or faculty on their way home.
I keep looking over my shoulder from one end of the platform to the other. I see a few students I know, but they’re all distracted on their phones or mid-conversation with other people. I try not to make eye contact with anyone or draw any unnecessary attention. I want to wave them down and make them wonder, but I don’t want to piss Adam off, not when we haven’t even had the chance to be all alone yet. I stare down at the concrete platform, willing the train to come soon. I look at Adam, his hands are in his pockets, as if he’s protecting himself from touching me by accident. It’s cute. My hands are also in my pockets, although I’ve placed them there for warmth. I move slowly next to him, not saying anything, inching closer and closer until there’s less than an inch between us. I smirk and savor this moment, not looking at him, before I deliberately bump my wool coat covered shoulder into him.
He looks at me, startled at first but then laughs, asserting his footing again. I smile. I do it again, a little harder this time.
“Carrie, stop that.”
He’s telling me to stop but he’s still smiling a huge, unrestrained grin that I can’t say I’ve seen before this. It’s delightful and makes me feel warm in the center of my chest. Seeing him like that in this moment makes me forget that we’re teacher and student, makes me think that he’s just a hot guy that I’m seeing. It’s hot that he’s my teacher though. Way hot. Yeah.
The seven pm train to Grand Central Station is arriving ON TIME.
The recorded announcement plays overhead and I look down the track and see two yellow lights, signaling that the train is about to arrive. I fe
el Adam’s hand on mine, pulling me toward him.
“Mind the gap,” he says.
My arms tingle again at his touch. Jesus, if this guy can make my body tingle with a benign touch, imagine what he can do touching me other places. The train arrives and we head to the very back, into a car with hardly anyone else in it. I don’t see any students or teachers I know, just a couple of older women talking to one another, taking no notice of us whatsoever. We snuggle into a two-seater. Well, snuggle isn’t really the correct word. It’s just as close as I’ve sat next to him before. Our knees are practically touching. I move my leg nonchalantly toward his so that our legs are most decidedly touching. He doesn’t move away.
“I wanted to take you to my place,” he says suddenly. I look at him, surprised, raising my eyebrow.
“Is that so, Mr. Clark?”
“No, no. Not… no,” he stumbles. “I wanted to show you some more of my work. The photography. All of it is at my place. It just so happens that I... work out of my studio apartment.”
“I’d love to see your work. I told you that.” This is too good. I might spend the night after all! My mind races, thinking about Adam shirtless.
“Of course, we don’t have to go to my place.”
“So, is the ticket you bought me round trip or...” I ask, with a smirk. He looks at me confused, moves to defend himself immediately.