Rikki

by Abigail Strom

  It was only nine o’clock and my parents weren’t getting here until ten. I was wondering if I should go downstairs for breakfast or to the coffee kiosk on campus, where they made a truly awesome mocha latte, when my phone rang.

  It was Charlotte. “Hey, there, college girl.”

  “Hey, mom. Are you guys on the road?”

  “Actually, sweetie… I’m afraid we won’t be able to come this weekend. Would it be all right if we rescheduled?”

  After Sam had talked about his dad yesterday I was predisposed to paranoia. “Oh my God. Is one of you sick?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. We’re both completely fine, I promise.”

  “Oh. Well, then, what happened?”

  Charlotte hesitated. “Something came up. It’s rather complicated, so we’ll tell you all about it when we see you in person. How would next weekend be?”

  Next weekend was earmarked for midterm prep.

  “Could you come the weekend after that?”

  “Of course. We’ll see you then, Rikki. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I now had a free weekend on my hands, which would probably have made most college kids ecstatic. But I loved my moms and I missed them, and the truth was, I’d really been looking forward to their visit.

  “If they’re not coming, could you get my laundry out from under the bed, please? I’m out of clean shirts and I’m going to have to resort to a slightly dirty one.”

  Tamsin was sitting up with her blanket over her knees. She was still woebegone from her breakup with Oscar, and the sight of her sad, makeup-free face filled me with sudden energy.

  “You’re not putting on a dirty shirt. We’re doing laundry right now.”

  “Laundry? It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. I should be asleep.”

  “But you’re not—and everyone else is. All the washers and dryers will be free. Let’s go.”

  She did a little more protesting but she was too demoralized to put up a real fight, and I got her down to the laundry room in ten minutes.

  “I hate morning people,” she grumbled, trying to get the change machine to accept her five dollar bill.

  “I know.”

  “That includes you.”

  “I know.”

  The machine finally took her crumpled bill and spewed forth a stream of quarters.

  “I don’t really hate you,” she said, making her T-shirt into a hammock and shoveling quarters into it. “I’m just grumpy.”

  “I know.”

  She carried her quarters over to the washers and put them in the slots of two machines. “I thought I would hate you when we first met. We’re so different, you know? But now I kind of love you.”

  “You need soap,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, right.”

  She used four of her quarters to get two boxes of detergent from the dispenser on the wall. She brought them over to the washers and started to dump her clothes in, but I stopped her.

  “You should put the soap in first, then start the washers so the soap can dissolve in the water. Then you put your laundry in and let the cycle finish. That way you won’t get those clumps of detergent on your clothes.”

  “Wow, that’s smart.” She did it that way, added her clothes after a few minutes, and then sat down on one of the plastic chairs to wait. “Do you ever wish you were a lesbian?”

  “All the time,” I said.

  “I mean, all my best friends are women. Women are awesome. I’d be crazy not to want to spend the rest of my life with a woman.”

  “That’s not the way to look at it. Beth told me not to think about who you’d want to spend your life with or be in a relationship with, but who you’d want to have a one-night stand with. Not that she was encouraging me to have one-night stands, but she said it’s a good way to tap into your sexual identity. You said you’d want to spend your life with a woman, but would you have a one-night stand with a woman?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Well, then, you’re probably straight. Sorry.”

  Tamsin sighed. “It sucks to be straight.”

  “It sucks worse to be gay,” I said, thinking about my parents’ coming-out stories.

  “You’re right. I know it does. I guess we always think someone else has it easier, huh?” Tamsin sighed again. “What I meant to say is that relationships suck.”

  “You know, I hear that a lot.” I grinned at her. “That’s why it’s good to have friends.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday afternoon was my next session in the art studio, and I was putting on my bathing suit and congratulating myself on how comfortable I felt with this whole thing now when my phone rang.

  It was Sam. “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Okay, so… you know how I hit a rough patch last time?”

  “My hips? Sure, I remember.”

  “Well, I’m going to be working there again today, and on your stomach, and—”

  “If you want me to develop washboard abs by four o’clock you’re out of luck.”

  “Will you cut that out? Your stomach is perfect.”

  First my hips, now my stomach. I was starting to like this whole modeling thing.

  “Okay¸ then, what’s the favor?”

  “It’s just… your bathing suit. It’s a one-piece, and it kind of… it doesn’t… conform to your body exactly.”

  “What do you mean? Of course it conforms to my body.”

  “Not exactly. Where you’re curved, for example, it kind of… stretches from curve to curve instead of following the line of your body. Not a lot, or anything, but—”

  “I’m not going nude, Sam. Not unless you go nude too.”

  “I’m not saying nude. I’m just wondering if maybe you have a two-piece bathing suit? Just while I’m working on your stomach and, uh, torso area.”

  I didn’t have a two-piece, and I was about to say so when I thought of something.

  “I might be able to figure something out. See you at four.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Rikki.”

  I didn’t have a bikini, but I did have bra and panty sets. Wasn’t that like a bikini, at least in terms of skin coverage? And I could bring my one-piece as a backup in case it was too embarrassing to pose in my underwear in front of Sam.

  It shouldn’t be embarrassing, I reminded myself. We were just friends. He was with Mena. And it was all for the sake of art.

  Maybe if I kept on repeating those things, I could drown out the voice inside my head—the one telling me this was my chance to make Sam Payne eat his words.

  If you model for me, it’ll just be about the sculpture. I won’t be distracted by anything else.

  Go ahead, the voice whispered. Distract the crap out of him.

  The question was, which bra and panty set? Whichever one was most like a bikini, probably. Plain cotton in some dark color, blue or black or—

  I’d been rooting around in my underwear drawer, and now I paused. There at the bottom was my graduation gift from Sharon. Our present to each other had been to go into a fancy lingerie store, the kind where they measure you to make sure you really do know your correct bra size, and buy each other whatever we wanted.

  Sharon had bought me this.

  It was so perfect and beautiful I hadn’t even worn it yet. The tag was still on, attached by a tiny gold safety pin.

  It was beige lace and fit me perfectly. The color was so near to my natural skin tone that was as close to wearing nothing as I could get.

  Which would be ideal for an art modeling situation. Right?

  I undid the little gold safety pin and removed the price tag. Then I shed my clothes and tried on the set.

  There was a full-length mirror on the back of our closet door, and I went over to look at myself.

  It was definitely the nicest lingerie I’d ever owned. It really fit, for one thing. When the saleswoman had measured me it turned out I was a 32C, not a 34B as I’d always
thought, and it really had made a difference. This bra cupped my breasts like it was in love with them, and the lace was so soft it felt like butterfly wings against my skin.

  The panties were nice, too. They were bikini-style and fairly skimpy, which would serve the interests of art, but they weren’t racy or anything. They covered my whole butt since I refused to wear thongs, and even though they were flattering they didn’t look like they were trying too hard. The bra and panties together just looked like what they were: beautiful, well-made, elegant lingerie.

  The only question was, did I have the guts to wear this in front of Sam?

  Yes. I did. Because friends, and also because art.

  And not at all because I wanted to prove that I could distract him.

  Sam was there before me again, already in his swim trunks. He was standing with his back to me and he didn’t hear me come in, which meant I had a few seconds to look at him before he knew I was there.

  I wasn’t a sculptor, but it would have been hard to imagine a male body more worthy of being immortalized in clay or stone or marble than Sam’s.

  After a moment I cleared my throat.

  “Hey,” he said, turning around. “Did you find a two-piece bathing suit?”

  “Yeah, about that—”

  He jumped in before I could finish. “You know what? It’s okay. I was thinking about it before you got here and I’ll be fine working with the one-piece. You don’t have to—”

  “But I did. I mean, I found something that’s just as good. If it won’t embarrass you.”

  “Embarrass me?”

  “It’s… well… it’s underwear.” I went on in a rush. “It’s a bra and panty set, which is exactly like a bikini if you think about it. I brought the one-piece as a backup in case it’s too weird. Okay?”

  “I guess…” He paused. “I mean…” He paused again. “If you’re really okay with that…”

  “I am. Or at least I think I am. How about you keep your back turned until I get into position?”

  “Of course,” he said, turning around immediately.

  I wasted no time slipping out of my sweats and T-shirt and getting the stage set up. I got myself into position, took a few deep breaths and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

  I was very grateful to be staring up at the ceiling when Sam turned around, because I didn’t want to see him when he saw me. This whole thing was awkward enough without adding eye contact into the mix.

  When the silence had stretched out for what seemed like a long time I said, “Okay, now I’m nervous. Is this all right?”

  I heard his throat clear.

  “Yeah, it’s… yeah.”

  I waited to see if he’d provide any more information than that, but he didn’t. When I heard the scrape of the chair I knew he was starting to work, so I figured everything was all right.

  I was piercingly aware of my body. The temperature of the room was fine, not too hot or cold, but I was sensitive to every draft, feeling the air against my skin like a touch.

  “Rikki?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to adjust you. Your position is a little off.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or I could try to talk you through it. If you turn your shoulders a little to the—”

  “No, it’s fine. It’ll be easier if you do it.”

  “All right.”

  I could hear him crossing the room toward me, and my heart started to beat faster. Was he seeing me as an inanimate object, a still-life he was sculpting into clay, or a flesh-and-blood girl?

  He came into my field of vision and I blinked up at him. He was frowning a little, his brows drawn together, and his eyes didn’t meet mine.

  His hands on my shoulders should have been familiar, since this was the third time we’d done this. But it felt like the first time he’d ever touched me.

  His palms felt cool, or maybe my skin was warm. When he was done adjusting my shoulders his right hand moved to my left wrist, sliding down my arm to get there.

  I stopped breathing.

  He hadn’t done that before. Had he? I was almost positive that the other two times his hand had lifted completely off my shoulder before settling on my wrist.

  This time his hand moved down my arm in one long, slow stroke.

  My stomach muscles tightened.

  The brush of his palm against my bare skin made me quiver. I tingled all over, not just where he was touching me, and low in my belly and between my legs there was a warm, restless ache.

  My eyes had been on his face this whole time, because he wasn’t looking at me at all. But now, after he moved my arm into the position he wanted, his eyes met mine.

  I wasn’t ready for it. I could feel my face—my whole body, really—turn scarlet.

  It didn’t last long. Sam let go of my wrist and backed away, out of my field of vision, and my body went slowly back to normal.

  Neither one of us said a word the whole rest of the session. Finally Sam said, “Okay, all set,” and when I sat up I saw he had his head down, focused on arranging the damp towel over his project. I pulled on my clothes and got the stage cleared and it wasn’t until I was halfway out the door that I called out, “See you later, Sam.”

  He muttered something back, but I was moving too fast to hear what it was.

  * * *

  Two days later, Tamsin and Oscar got back together.

  Oscar wasn’t my favorite person on the planet, but he and Tamsin looked so radiant with joy as they sat across from me in the dining hall that I couldn’t help being happy for them. And that was the reason—or at least so I told myself—for the offer I made as we were eating dessert.

  “Do you guys want me to ask Sam if I can stay there tonight?”

  My suggestion was met with enthusiastic assent, and since Sam wasn’t in the dining hall I pulled out my phone to call him.

  “Hey, Rikki. What’s up?”

  “I have a big favor to ask you. Tamsin and Oscar are once again an item, and I was thinking about giving them the room tonight if you don’t mind me staying with you.”

  I held my breath, but he answered right away.

  “Sure, that’s no problem. I’m happy for Tamsin.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I thought you weren’t crazy about Oscar?”

  “Yes, they’re right here.”

  “Oops. I’ll ask again when I see you tonight.”

  “That’s great. Thanks, Sam.”

  Tamsin and Oscar were already celebrating.

  “No smoking,” I reminded them as I slid my phone back into my pocket.

  “Not a puff,” Tamsin assured me. “We promise.”

  * * *

  About an hour later I knocked on Sam’s door. I’d packed a bag, this time—or rather my backpack, so it wouldn’t look like I was moving in—with pajamas and clothes for tomorrow and toiletries and books.

  “Sorry about the call before,” he said when he let me in. “I didn’t realize you were right there with them. So are you really happy about this?”

  “I really am,” I said as I sat down on the bed I was starting to think of as mine. “I mean, yes, Oscar’s not the guy I would pick for Tamsin if I was in charge of her life, which thank God I’m not, but he seems to make her happy, so I’m happy for her.”

  “That’s one of the things I like about you,” Sam said.

  I pulled out my laptop and my astronomy text book. “What is?”

  “You’re not judgmental. You’re opinionated, but even when you disagree with someone you don’t judge.”

  “I don’t know about that. It’s hard to be completely non-judgmental. I’m sure I’m not perfect in that regard.” I paused. “Do you think you’re judgmental?”

  “Hell, yes. It’s one of my many flaws.”

  His phone buzzed, and when he saw the screen he grinned. He tapped something in and then put it aside again.

  “Text?” I couldn’t help asking, even though it was none of my business.

&nbs
p; He nodded. “Mena’s reminding me to bring my toothbrush. Izzy’s gone home for a few days and Mena’s got the room to herself. She invited me up there, so you have yourself a single tonight.”

  I was very, very glad that he turned away toward his desk just then. Because for the first few seconds after he delivered that news, I was sure my face showed exactly how unwelcome it was.

  By the time he turned around again I had my expression under control—or at least I hoped I did.

  “I know you’ll enjoy the peace and quiet,” he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I’ll be back early in the morning, but I’ll try not to wake you if you’re still asleep.”

  “Okay.”

  He crossed the room to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Are you good? Do you have everything you need?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Have a good night, Rikki.”

  “You, too.”

  Once the door closed behind him I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was a knot of pain inside of me and I was determined to ignore it.

  I made myself write an essay about comets through sheer force of will. But during the hour it took me, the solitude that Sam had thought was such a gift—one introvert to another, I guess?—pressed on me like the weight of the earth above you when you’re deep underground.

  I managed to finish the essay somehow, congratulating myself on my self-discipline as I closed my laptop. Still calling on self-discipline, I grabbed my toiletry bag and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, doing an exceptionally thorough job.

  But once I was back in Sam’s room I could no longer keep the thought-demons at bay. Images flooded my mind—images of Sam and Mena together upstairs.

  There was a good chance that Sam would lose his V-card tonight.

  Maybe he was losing it right now. Like, right this second.

  I had to stop thinking about this. It was time to get into bed, pull up a favorite book on my phone, and try to lose myself in a fictional world. Middle-earth, Hogwarts… any place would be better than here.

  But when I reached into my backpack for my pajamas, I discovered that I’d packed the top but not the bottoms.

  I remembered that Sam kept his pajamas in the bottom drawer of his bureau. I was sure he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed them again.