Rikki

by Abigail Strom

  If he was asking that, he couldn’t know I’d been staring at him.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you too cold with the window open? I forgot to ask you before.”

  “Oh, no. This is perfect. I like it cool enough to make blankets seem, you know, necessary. It’s snugglier that way.”

  I couldn’t be absolutely sure in the dark, but I thought his mouth did the quirking thing.

  “Snugglier?”

  “Yes. A scientific term conveying the sensation of having a cat on your lap, or putting on clothes warm from the dryer, or lying under the covers with a cool October breeze on your face.”

  “Ah. Okay, then. Well… good night.”

  “Good night.”

  He turned his head again and closed his eyes, but I couldn’t go on lying on my right side facing him. What if he caught me staring at him again? So I shifted onto my left side, pulled the blankets up to my chin, and drifted slowly toward sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  The scent of coffee woke me up.

  I love coffee. I started drinking it when I was fourteen, aided and abetted by Charlotte in spite of dire health warnings from Beth. By sixteen I was addicted.

  Now I sat up in bed and looked around for the source of the exquisite aroma.

  Sam was nowhere to be seen, but over in the corner by the radiator, on top of a bookcase, there was a coffee maker with a full pot.

  I didn’t know the procedure. I desperately wanted some of that glorious liquid, but I didn’t see any mugs out and I didn’t want to start poking around Sam’s room looking for them.

  Luckily my quandary didn’t last too long. The door opened after a minute and Sam came in, his hair damp and his skin freshly scrubbed. With my powerful deductive reasoning skills I concluded he had just come from the shower.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “More than my next breath of oxygen.”

  He smiled and went over to the coffee maker, stopping on the way to take two mugs out of a cabinet hanging on the wall.

  “How do you take it?”

  “Cream and lots of sugar.”

  “How much is a lot?”

  “Two packets.”

  “I don’t have packets. I have a sugar bowl.”

  “Two teaspoons, then.”

  “Level or heaped?”

  “Level, I guess. But you don’t have to make my coffee for me. I can—”

  “I’ve got it covered,” he said. He pulled a carton of half-and-half out of his mini fridge, added some of that along with sugar to one of the mugs, poured in the coffee, stirred it, and brought the cup over to me.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling oddly shy as I took the mug from him. Accepting a cup of coffee from a guy after the spending the night in his room seemed incredibly intimate, even though nothing intimate had happened between us.

  I took a sip. “Wow, this is good. And strong.”

  “Too strong?”

  “No such thing.”

  Sam was drinking his coffee at his desk, the chair swiveled around so he was facing me. “So what’s on your agenda today?” he asked.

  “Language lab and history.”

  “And you’re done by three?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then four o’clock is definitely okay? We can meet in the art studio upstairs?”

  I’d forgotten about the modeling thing. In the light of day the idea seemed a lot scarier than it had last night, but I wouldn’t go back on my agreement.

  “Sure. Of course.”

  We sipped coffee.

  A few minutes later, having finished my coffee and gathered up my things, I said goodbye to Sam and left his room. I closed the door behind me, turned around, and found myself face to face with Jason.

  Whose room, apparently, was across the hall from Sam’s.

  Jason looked as startled to see me as I was to see him. We ran into each other occasionally, of course, in the dining hall and common areas. He and Andre and Claire had started a band, and Tamsin and I had watched them practice a couple of times. They had booked their first gig at a club downtown for a few weeks from now, and the entire dorm had promised to go.

  Since that one conversation about Velvet Crush—a rare burst of courage goaded out of me by Sam—I hadn’t really spoken to Jason. He was extraverted and I wasn’t, and he always seemed to be already talking with someone when I saw him. It’s easier to approach someone who’s sitting alone with a book than someone who’s part of a group, and Jason never seemed to be alone—or to be reading a book.

  I’d hoped that watching his band practice might give us an opportunity for conversation, but so far that hadn’t happened. Claire and Andre usually came over to talk to me but Jason never did.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like me; it was more that I just wasn’t on his radar. He was an equal opportunity flirter but as far as I could tell the only girl who really caught his attention was Dyshell.

  I couldn’t fault him for that. Every time I saw her she was more beautiful than I remembered, and to add insult to injury she was really sweet—and smart, too.

  I still had a crush on Jason but I wasn’t heartbroken that he didn’t notice me. It was a situation that felt very familiar. From Derek in junior high to a few guys in high school, my serious crushes had always been unrequited. I’d dated some, and I’d gone to my prom with a really nice boy named Aaron, but none of the guys who asked me out had ever lit my fire. By the third or fourth date things always fizzled out, and even my prom night had only ended with a few long kisses in the front seat of Aaron’s car. And meanwhile, the guys I really liked went out with other girls.

  So I hadn’t been at all surprised that Jason didn’t notice me.

  But now, finally, he was looking right at me—when I was standing in my pajamas outside Sam’s room.

  “Rikki,” he said after a moment.

  “Jason. Hi.”

  His eyes went from me to Sam’s door and back again.

  “So you and Payne, huh? I didn’t realize.”

  “Oh, no. I mean… no. Not like that. No, no, no.”

  “Okay.” Jason looked a little confused. “Just a hookup, then?”

  “What? No!”

  “Okay,” he said again, looking more confused. “You don’t seem like the hookup type, so I was surprised. But then…” He paused. “You know what? It’s none of my business.”

  I took a deep breath. “Tamsin and Oscar wanted a night to themselves and Sam’s got an extra bed, so he let me crash in his room.”

  “Oh.” He looked slightly less confused. “That makes sense.”

  The door opened behind me and Sam was there.

  “Hey,” he said, looking at Jason. “I thought I heard voices out here.”

  “I was just explaining that you let me crash in your spare bed,” I said quickly.

  Jason grinned at me. “So I wouldn’t think you were whoring it up?”

  “Hey! No slut-shaming. I thought we decided that was a Bracton dorm rule.”

  “Sure, but you and Sam weren’t up to anything last night, so—”

  “But if we were that would be okay. Theoretically,” I added quickly. “I mean, Sam and I are just friends. But, theoretically, if he and I were—”

  Jason was still grinning. “I get it,” he said. “Theoretically, if you guys were boning, that wouldn’t make you a slut. This is a sex-positive dorm.”

  “Exactly.” I could feel myself turning red. “Okay, I’m going upstairs now.”

  I turned away and started down the hall. I’d gone about ten steps when I heard Jason say, “Damn, she’s cute.”

  I didn’t walk up the stairs to the third floor.

  I floated.

  At least one guy in this dorm thought I was cute. Maybe even cute enough to be distracting if I modeled for a sculpting project.

  I couldn’t remember the last time a guy I thought was cute had r
eturned the compliment.

  Of course I wasn’t naïve enough to believe it meant anything beyond that. A month at college had immersed me in a world of actual relationships and hookups as opposed to theoretical ones—the kind I’d always specialized in—and just about everyone here was way beyond the oh-my-God-he-said-I-was-cute stage.

  But, still. It made me happy.

  * * *

  The first blip in my happiness came when classes were over and I was back in my dorm room, trying to decide what to wear for Sam’s sculpting thing.

  I finally chose my black one-piece bathing suit, but the more I thought about it, the more awkward I felt. I mean, yes, I wouldn’t be naked… but while it’s perfectly normal to wear bathing suits in situations where everyone is, like at a pool or a beach, the more I tried to imagine wearing one in an art studio, with Sam sitting there fully dressed, the more I hated the idea.

  Not because I hated my body or anything. My body was fine. Not spectacular, not hideous, pretty much like the rest of me. But I didn’t have the kind of body that made me wish bathing suits could be worn on all occasions.

  There was still time to back out if I wanted to. But I’d promised, and Sam was starting to be a real friend of mine, and I didn’t want to let him down.

  I pulled out my phone and called him. “So, I have a favor to ask.”

  “You want to back out,” he said, sounding resigned.

  “No! Absolutely not. But there’s something you could do to make me more comfortable.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you need. What is it?”

  “I want you to wear a bathing suit, too.”

  There was a pause.

  “You want me to wear…”

  “A bathing suit. Yes.”

  “While I’m sculpting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, exactly?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’ll feel weird if I’m sitting there in a bathing suit while you’re fully dressed. But if we’re both in bathing suits then it won’t be as weird.”

  “It’ll be weird for me.”

  “Well, then, it’ll be equally weird for both of us, which is better than me feeling weird all by myself.”

  I could hear his sigh over the phone. “Okay, fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see you at four.”

  * * *

  I was up there ten minutes early, but the door was locked and I had to wait in the hall. I didn’t have to wait long, though, because Sam showed up right after me. He let us in and I took a look around the room.

  It was a nice space. There were wood floors and big windows, which of course made sense for an art studio, and because we were on the top floor there were skylights, too.

  One side of the room was empty except for a cabinet and a wooden platform like a stage; the other side was crowded with chairs and easels and art supplies. The temperature was warm enough that I didn’t dread spending time in just a bathing suit.

  “So,” Sam said. “How do you want to do this?”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. “However you want to. I mean, aren’t you the artist? Just tell me how I’m supposed to pose or whatever, and—”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant the, uh, disrobing.”

  “Oh. Right.” I thought about it. “Well, we don’t need to make a big deal of it. You go over where you’re going to be, and I’ll go over where I’m going to be, and we’ll… disrobe.”

  “Okay.”

  When I opened the cabinet next to the platform I found cushions and bolts of cloth and other things I assumed were props for models. With my back to the room I kicked off my sneakers, shimmied out of my sweat pants, and pulled off my T-shirt. I shoved my clothes on a shelf without bothering to fold them and then turned around.

  Sam was standing there in swim trunks. They were blue with some kind of…

  “Oh, my God.”

  He looked alarmed. “What?”

  “That’s the Death Star. And an X-Wing fighter. You’re wearing a Star Wars bathing suit.”

  Now he looked annoyed. “Do you want me to make editorial comments about your bathing suit?”

  He had a point. “Not really, no.”

  “Okay, then. If you’ll grab some cushions and have a seat on the platform I’ll get things set up over here.”

  “Right. Will do.”

  There were five cushions in the cabinet. They were different sizes, colors, and materials, and since I didn’t know what Sam wanted I grabbed them all. After I tossed them onto the stage I sat down to wait for Sam.

  He’d set up a chair about ten feet away and now he was pulling over a table with a big block of clay on it.

  The first thing that occurred to me was that Sam looked really, really good in that Star Wars bathing suit. His body was gorgeous—way higher on the guy scale than mine was on the girl scale.

  The second thing was a question. How in the world you could turn a big block of clay into something resembling a human figure? Of course I knew it was possible, because Rodin and Michelangelo, but still. It seemed like a huge undertaking.

  Once Sam got everything arranged to his satisfaction he looked over at me.

  “Do I really have to wear this the entire time?” he asked. “Can I at least put my shirt back on?”

  “Not unless I can.”

  “I feel stupid working in a bathing suit.”

  “So do I.”

  He shrugged and let it go. Then he came forward a few steps to study me, his head on one side and his arms folded.

  I just sat there, feeling weird. No one had ever just stood and looked at me before.

  What was he seeing? What was he thinking?

  Finally he spoke. “I want you to be comfortable, but I want a twist in your body too.”

  “A twist?”

  He came toward me, and for some reason goose bumps swept over my skin.

  “Could you lie down on your right side, facing me? Arrange the cushions however you want to make it comfortable.”

  I did as he asked, lying down with my knees bent and my head resting on a cushion.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now, can you keep your lower body where it is but turn your upper body so you’re looking at the ceiling?”

  Once I’d done that I couldn’t see Sam anymore. “Is this all right?”

  “That’s great. Do you mind if I…”

  “What?”

  “Adjust your arms a little?”

  My arms were down at my sides. “Um, sure. Go ahead.”

  He came into my field of vision and leaned over me. He was close enough that I could smell the faint, clean scent of his deodorant and see a tiny trace of dried shaving cream on his jaw.

  The last time we’d been this close was that day in the high school library. The time before that was in the closet at Sharon’s eighth-grade party. Now, like then, my heart thumped against my ribs.

  Then he put his hands on my left arm.

  My muscles went weak and my bones seemed to be made of air. My stomach felt hollow, like everything inside it had been scooped out. All that was left was a kind of languorous heat that rippled through my body from the place where his fingers touched my bare skin.

  He bent my arm at the elbow so my forearm rested across my waist. Then he let me go and stepped back, and I missed his touch so much I was afraid I’d surge up toward him like a wave cresting out of the sea.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  My voice, miraculously, delivered a calm response. “Yes.”

  “Could you stay like that for an hour?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, great. Let me take a picture so we can get you in that same pose the next time.”

  I heard the click of his phone camera and then the scrape of his chair against the floor. After that there was silence, and I assumed he’d started working.

  My heart was still pounding.

  Sam and I were just friends. He was involved with Mena, and I was crushing on Jas
on. There wasn’t anything romantic between us.

  So what the hell had just happened to me?

  Last night I’d told myself that Sam and I had an intellectual connection, not a physical one. But that was obviously a lie. My body responded whenever Sam was near, and what’s more, it always had.

  I had to figure this out.

  Back in eighth grade and in high school, I’d hated Sam. That hadn’t stopped my body from reacting to him.

  Conclusion? Apparently you could react physically to someone you weren’t interested in—whether because you hated him or because you were just friends.

  It had to be a pheromone thing. Some kind of primitive hormonal—

  “So what’s up with you and Jason?”

  Neither of us had spoken for several minutes, and I was so startled I almost moved. I stopped myself in time and said to the ceiling, “Me and Jason?”

  “It just seemed like there was something going on this morning. When you were in the hall?”

  I thought about it. The memory, though still pleasant, felt strangely distant. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Suddenly I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Just… there’ve been exactly two times in the last month that Jason noticed me, and you were the cause of both of them.”

  “I was?”

  “The first time was that night in the dining hall. The Velvet Crush T-shirt?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Since then, nothing. Until this morning, when I came out of your room and saw him. So you instigated both my conversations with Jason. I guess I should thank you.”

  “I guess I should say you’re welcome.”

  There was silence again for a couple of minutes. Then:

  “So why were those your only two conversations?”

  I almost moved again. “Huh?”

  “I know you’re interested in him. Aren’t you?”

  “Well… yes.”

  “Okay, then. Why haven’t you done anything about it?”

  I stared up at the ceiling, which hadn’t been painted in a while and featured an array of spots, streaks, water stains, and cobwebs. One of the skylights was in my line of vision as well, providing a glimpse of gray sky.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m not very proactive when it comes to guys.”

  “Not like Tamsin?”