by Zoey Castile
Plus, plus! Stranger danger. How can I caution my students about getting into strangers’ cars when I’m minutes away from doing the same?
“It’s really nice of you to offer,” I start. I want to close the door and get to work. I want to hit the restart button for the hundredth time this week. I want to stay and talk to him because I feel a bud of something wonderful flowering in my chest. And that can’t happen. Not right now.
“But?”
“But, it’s totally fine. I usually walk. I’m not very late anyway. Sorry about the laundry mix-up.”
He nods once, a suspicious grin on his lips. It turns to a yawn, which he tries to stifle.
“Sorry, long night,” he says. “Okay, 6A. Have a good day at work.”
He walks away, and I start to close the door when he whirls around. I catch the doorknob just before it slams on the hand he reaches out to me.
“Would you want to get a drink Saturday night?”
I want to say yes.
For the past year, I’ve been complaining about how hard it is to date in New York City. All of the dating apps in the world weren’t able to give me a One True Match. I’ve waded through a Sea of Douche Bags for so long that I haven’t just lost interest in going on another bad first date—a part of me has lost all hope in finding any semblance of love.
Could it be this easy? I give him a quick glance from head to toe. Honestly, he deserves more than a glance. He deserves a thorough inspection.
“All the single ladies,” my mind hums.
Single ladies. That’s when it hits me. “I’d love to but I have a work thing.”
“On a Saturday night? Where’s that New York hospitality you never hear about?”
My fifth alarm goes off.
My mind is frazzled, tugging between the mess in my apartment and the potential in the hallway.
“Say yes,” my heart urges.
He has a sequin thong in his laundry bag. And a girl’s shirt. DO NOT ENTER, my mind practically screams.
When there’s a war between my heart and my mind, then my mind always wins.
“I really have to go,” I say.
I’m too old to date guys like this, anyway. He just got home at seven in the morning after partying. Then, a ray of light hits the beautiful stranger standing in my hallway. It’s downright angelic, is what it is. He doesn’t even look tired. His eyes have a mischievous glint, like one night with him could turn my world upside down. His body is tan and the sweat that’s dried on his skin fills my senses. His lips—they’re full and slightly parted as he patiently waits for me to close the door. His foot taps ever so slightly, and it’s the only sign that he’s perhaps nervous. But then I see something else that adds to the decision that, no, I should not be seeing a guy like this. I did not imagine the glimmer in his eyes. The glimmer is, in fact, everywhere.
“Also, you have glitter on your neck,” I say.
He looks confused for a moment, then gives me an understanding closed-lip smile. An understanding that the glitter had to come from somewhere, someone. He nods again and watches me close the door.
“You know where I live if you change your mind,” he says quickly.
After I shut the door I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I look through the peephole and my heart gives a little tug because he’s still standing there. He looks like he might knock again, but he hesitates. Instead, he smiles and shakes his head. He picks up his laundry and shoulders the weight, grabbing his duffel bag with his free hand.
Then he’s gone.
I don’t have time to pine for him, even though a sick, twisted, sexually deprived part of me wants to.
But my phone goes off again. This time it’s not my alarm. It’s my best friend, Lily, calling. Lily teaches in the classroom next to mine. I told her if I wasn’t in the teachers’ lounge by seven thirty, to call me.
I let the phone go to voice mail, and hurriedly pour the salvaged coffee into my travel mug. I rummage through my laundry while scalding my tongue with coffee. It’s okay. Taste buds are overrated. So are hot men with glitter on their necks and bedazzled thongs and women’s clothes in their laundry.
I shoot Lily a text. Traffic! Cover for me, please!
Lily responds with a side-eye emoji. Hurry up. Principal Platypus is patrolling the halls.
That’s when I see it, and an involuntary grin spreads across my face.
At the top of my laundry stack is my favorite red spring dress.
I put it on.
FALLON
“She totally went through my clothes,” I tell Yaz when I walk into my apartment.
Yaz, my five-month-old husky pup, barks in response. She runs around the laundry I drop at the foot of my bed. I take my clothes off on the way to the bathroom, leaving a bread-crumb trail for no one. Once upon a time, this Prince Charming wouldn’t be coming home alone after a night of work. Wouldn’t have gotten turned down for a “work thing.”
“ ‘Also, you have glitter on your neck,’ ” I say, trying to mimic 6A’s voice. It isn’t high-pitched, the way her sweet, soft face gives the impression it would be. It’s a perfect, rough alto. The kind of voice I can picture whispering dirty nothings in my ear.
Having spent the night surrounded by hundreds of women with high-pitched screams, the sound of her voice is a welcome reprieve.
I kick off my sweatpants and run the water. I’ve started a downside list of living in New York. My place in Boston was brand-new and three times as big for the same price. Astoria’s got its charm, I suppose. Greek coffee and baklava at any time of the day is a pretty sweet deal.
Downside #1 is that it takes five minutes for the water to turn hot. I love hot showers, and I’m not just talking about the times I have someone in there with me. I’m talking scalding-hot water. Feel the steam in my pores. Feel my muscles unwind after a night of acrobatics.
It’s the only way I feel clean after having bills shoved down my pants. Don’t get me wrong. I love money. I love having it launched at me from willing MILF hands, fingers that have mapped every inch of my hard-earned muscles. I work for that paper. But I still need a shower.
Fucking glitter. Ruining my life one sparkle at a time.
I scrub my face and neck, knowing how hard it is to get rid of this stuff. Glitter is the herpes of the makeup world. On that note, I think of 6A in her pretty silk kimono instead.
Wrong. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.
Her in that robe was the hottest wet dream I’ve ever had come to life; it was a gift from the gods themselves. She kept pulling it tighter around her full breasts and tiny waist, like she thought I had X-ray vision. I wish I’d been able to say something clever.
Well, if I’m wishing for stuff, I’d wish that she’d said yes. I pause and marvel at that. She said no to me. I must be losing my edge.
After a night of “yeses” I finally have one no. And it sucks. I haven’t had a girl turn me down since I shot up a foot and had my braces removed in the eleventh grade.
I push the bath curtain aside and pull the cabinet mirror toward me. I wipe away some of the steam and take a look at myself. I’ve got some serious dark circles under my eyes. I resigned myself a long time ago to a life of sleeping in the day and working at night. It’s part of the glamorous life I live.
I wink at my own reflection. That wink has gotten me out of speeding tickets, brought in thousands of dollars in tips, and earned me passing grades up until I dropped out of high school. There was a time when I didn’t have to say a single word to get a date. A wink, a smile, and it was over.
Zac Fallon, lady-killer. Not literally, of course.
What has New York City done to me? I don’t have the attention span. I work, I go home, I go to the gym, I go to work again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
My buddy Ricky likes to remind me that at thirty, I’m over the hill. Ricky himself is thirty-nine, but still thinks like a horny nineteen-year-old. Maybe I am old. Maybe I look tired. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I’m just n
ot for her.
As if sensing my distress, Yaz barks from the living room.
I push the mirror back into place, leaving a soapy trail on the glass.
Once I’ve rinsed the glitter out of my pores, I replay my interaction with 6A. Incredulous. Judgey. She was so fucking judgey. You know what? I probably dodged a bullet with that one. There’s no point in getting tangled up with someone when I don’t know how long I’m going to stay in this shit city.
As the waterfall of metallic New York water washes the suds away, I truly convince myself that I was never interested in her. Not in her high cheekbones that turned perfectly pink when I winked at her. Not in the thick, long black hair that tumbled around her shoulders like waterfalls of ink. Not even in the round and perky tits she kept trying to cover with that flimsy robe.
I hope she’ll wear the red dress.
I turn off the faucet and watch the tiny whirlpools of suds and glitter run down the drain.
“Fuck.” I’m hard. I’m hard just thinking about her in that silk robe. In that red dress. I don’t even know her name and I’m hard as fuck.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good hard-on. I spent six hours with hordes of women grabbing at my dick and nothing happened. There was a time ten years ago when the touch of a woman, any woman, during one of my sets would have me saluting my flag.
That went away right quick. Self-control and all that.
But here I am, like a maypole reaching toward the sky, and I blame her. Judgey, rude, messy, gorgeous, sexy—
She wasn’t just the girl who stole my laundry. She was the girl who saw right through me. My dick is a fucking masochist.
I turn the water back on. Hotter this time so steam can rise. It’s been a while. Not because I don’t have opportunity. I always have the opportunity. But because, lately, I feel worn and torn most of the time.
I groan into the rising mist. I rub my hand up and down my shaft. I hold on tighter to myself and to the fleeting memory of a woman who doesn’t want me. Think of the way her nipples pushed against silk. If that thin tie had come undone around her waist I would’ve been able to see everything that she was hiding.
“Oh shit,” I grunt, and shiver despite the heat, releasing my load into the drain as 6A’s full dick-sucking lips come to mind.
When my legs stop trembling, and the water rinses me clean (well, relatively clean), I dry off and jump into bed. Tomorrow is the beginning of June, and the New York chill refuses to let go. I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about the fact that the hottest girl I’ve seen in this city has been living one floor above me. Then, I think about work—there’s so much that needs to get done. So much to decide. The show gets bigger every day. . . .
Yaz barks, then climbs up on my chest and passes out. At least Yaz wants me.
Rick and the club will have to wait until Monday. I haven’t had more than three days off in a row, let alone a weekend, in about five years. I give myself permission to think of 6A once more.
That heart-stopping, breathtaking, world-changing face.
Okay, that’s it. No more. Tomorrow I can forget about her.
Okay, once more. “She could be the girl,” I say, touching the chilly part of my bed. She could keep my sheets warm. She could be a reason to be in this damned city. I could be charming and sweep her off her feet. I can’t wait to see her again.
But another voice, a strange, sensible voice that’s been quiet most of my life, whispers, “No. It’s just the past coming to haunt you. She’s just the girl who took your laundry.”
2
You Give Love a Bad Name
ROBYN
“I’m here!” I shout down the hallway.
My voice echoes in the empty corridor of P.S. 85. Lukewarm coffee trickles down my wrist as I grip my travel mug like it’s the Olympic torch and I’m late to the finish line.
Thirty minutes late to be exact.
The only medal I’m going to win is a gold in Being Fired. Principal Platypus is nowhere in sight, and so I run where Lily is, pacing between our classrooms.
My soles are like horse hooves clopping on cobblestones. The closer I get, the better I can see the disappointment and anxiety in Lily’s brown eyes. Lately, I don’t know who I’m more afraid of letting down—Lily or my parents. Lily is like the sister I never had. She’s an only child, too, and we’ve been best friends since we both tried to start our own Spice Girls cover band in junior high school. She’s been taking care of me more than I’d like to admit. Covering for my recent string of tardiness is just another thing on the long list of favors I have to pay back.
There was a time when our roles were reversed.
Adulthood, thy name is Lily Shang . . . soon to be Lily Cohen.
I stop suddenly, dropping my weekender purse on the ground. It’s full of uncapped markers, a packet of birth control pills, notebooks, worksheets for today, and an extra cardigan.
When did Lily and I trade places? Was it only four years ago I was holding her hair back while she puked her brains out on the F train platform?
I try to catch my breath before taking a long, desperate drink of coffee.
“Nice dress,” Lily says, almost surprised that I’m wearing something other than the black slacks and button-down look I’ve been recycling for days.
I force myself to not think about my neighbor, Sexy Glitter Neck. The red dress was at the top of my laundry bag, and that’s the only reason I wore it. It’s a simple cotton dress that comes up to my knees, but the color is rich, and with the cardigan over it it’s the most professional I’ve looked in a while.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out.
“Don’t thank me just yet.” Lily silences me with a glance toward the doors. “Principal Papadopoulos is in there.”
“Shit,” I hiss at the floor. “Shitshitshit.”
“Robyn,” she says, sounding concerned. “What is going on with you? You’ve been late practically all month. Do you want to get fired? I can only take advantage of Lukas and David’s friendship for so long.”
“Of course I don’t want to get fired. What kind of a question is that? I just—”
I don’t want to get into it, but I know she’s worried about me. Me who was always on time. Me who wouldn’t leave the house if my eyeliner wasn’t even on both eyelids, and everyone knows how fucking hard that is. Me who promised to plan her bachelorette party and then dropped the complete and total ball.
“Not now, Lily,” I say, too tired to argue. “Please. You can yell at me during brunch on Sunday.”
“You only say that because I can’t yell at you in front of David’s family.”
“This is true.”
“Here,” Lily says, resigning herself to the “we’ll talk later” that has overtaken our friendship in the last year. She wets her thumb on her tongue, and wipes off some of the blush on my cheek.
I grimace, feeling more like one of her students, only these kids have their shit together.
“Deep breaths,” I tell myself. I’m probably not fired. Platypus can be nice, I’ve heard . . .
“Wish me luck,” I say.
But Lily has already left me to go back to her classroom.
* * *
I have yet to have a one-on-one with Principal Platypus.
Shit! I am not a ten-year-old and therefore cannot get away with that. It’s Papadopoulos!
I straighten up before I open the door to my classroom, trying to think of the excuses I can give for being late.
Insomnia. I forgot the worksheets for the day. I couldn’t leave the house without makeup to make me look less tired. Damn the patriarchy! While I’m at it I can blame the subway, because the N decided to skip stops and go express. I could blame the cyclist who got in my way, the dogs that tangled their leashes around my legs, the crossing guard who was on her cell phone and definitely about to cause a traffic accident with me at the center, and the weatherman for making my hair frizz. I might as well blame the stars. Yes, I blame the sta
rs. In their astronomical distance, I blame them most of all.
When I look down at my dress, there’s a coffee stain. That, the stain, I will blame on myself.
When I open the door, all eyes turn to me.
“Ah, Miss Flores,” Principal Papadopoulos says cheerfully. “Thank you for joining us. I do believe this was meant for you.”
Some giggles and jitters break out among my kids because the principal is holding a whoopee cushion in his hand.
I turn to them. “I am so sorry. I will definitely have a conversation about this.”
“Not to worry, I’ve taken care of it,” he says, getting up from my desk. He buttons his suit jacket and extends his hand.
I reach out to shake his hand, but I’m too late because he’s not actually trying to greet me. He’s gesturing to the hallway, but I can’t stop moving forward, so I end up karate-chopping his gut.
My students cringe visibly as Principal Papadopoulos clutches his stomach where my hand dug in.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” I clap my palm over my mouth.
He clears his throat, and tries to give me a reassuring smile. “I’ll live.”
“I’ll say,” I say nervously. “It’s like hitting a ton of bricks—I mean because of your abs—I mean—oh no.”
My students lose it. They’re reveling in my embarrassment. My sheer stupidity. My chaos.
“I think we should take this outside,” he tells me. He isn’t smiling. Why would he? I just accosted my boss and then pointed out how hard his abs were in front of the most mature ten-year-olds in the world.
I follow Principal Papadopoulos out into the hallway. The minute the door closes, my students rush it. Their faces are plastered against the glass. Now I know what fish in the aquarium feel like. Exposed, on display, with nowhere to hide, and people tapping their fingers on the glass to get their attention. I’ll never tap the glass at the aquarium ever again, I can say that much.