STRIPPED Read online

  “Thank you,” I gush. “Thank you.” I shake his hand then head for the door. “If it’s not too much to ask...” I turn, face him. “Would you be able to increase my hours? Or maybe you have openings on Mondays or Wednesdays too?”

  He takes a swig of soda and chuckles politely.

  “Let’s see how you do next week at two days, and then we’ll talk.”

  With an hour to kill before the next bus back to Loyola, I head across campus to the library where the sun will be shining bright and warm over the concrete steps.

  “What’s up, Smokey?” a voice calls from the library bench up ahead. At first I’m pissed because someone’s already taken my spot and now I won’t get to sit in the warm sun, but then I see who it is. My lips curl into a frown.

  “You’re in my spot,” I call up the steps.

  Torrin laughs, flipping his magazine closed. I climb the stairs and head for the library door.

  “Wait.” He jumps off the bench and strides toward me. “Where are you going?”

  My hand hovers over the metal handle.

  “Clearly you must be brain-dead if you think I’m going to sit with you so you can insult me or steal my cigarettes or criticize my wardrobe choices.”

  “Listen.” He takes another step. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Did we?” I inhale. “Don’t tell me you’re wearing Axe body spray. You actually fell for those stupid commercials?”

  “Okaaay…or maybe there is no right foot with you.”

  Silence. He chuckles awkwardly and shifts on his feet. It’s my turn to say something, so I don’t. Uncomfortable silences are quite entertaining.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “I promise I won’t insult you,” he says. “And you can smoke a whole pack if you want.”

  I lift an eyebrow, considering. The sun does feel good.

  “And the criticizing?”

  He scans me up and down. “Everything looks to be on straight.”

  Not a promise to never criticize again—very Quinn-like. One point for him.

  “I’ll sit,” I say, brushing past him with a grin. I take his place on the seat, shoving his sports magazine away from my leg. “But you can’t talk to me.”

  A beat of silence then, “Are you always like this?”

  I don’t answer. The bench is warm. I close my eyes. Aside from the boy moving to sit a few feet away and the repulsive plaque behind me, this is just what I’d planned.

  Pages ruffle beside me, flipping idly every thirty seconds. Typical guy. Only looking at the pictures.

  “If you don’t remember my name,” I say, watching orange smear into red behind my eyelids, “you can just ask.” The pages quiet.

  “Huh? I thought you said we couldn’t talk.”

  “Technically, I said you couldn’t talk to me. But I’ll rescind so you can get my name straight.”

  “Quinn,” he says and I open my eyes. He tucks his magazine into a gym bag on the ground. “I know your name.”

  “So you’re just one of those annoying people who call others by stupid nicknames like Smokey?”

  Pause, pause, pause. And this would be where he gets up and says something like he doesn’t need to take this or that I’m rude or, if he’s polite, he’ll just make an excuse to leave and won’t bother me again. And then I’ll have the bench to myself.

  His head inclines. “Maybe.”

  I nod and look out to the grass. Nobody’s on it today.

  “I don’t really smoke that much.”

  “Since I know nothing else about you, except you sometimes wear your clothes backwards, that’s whatcha get.” He grins, spreading his arms wide across the back of the bench. “Unless you want to tell me something else? Let me take my chances at a name that doesn’t offend you?”

  I cross my legs. That would require me to care. Which I don’t.

  “You really need to work on your pick-up lines.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe I’m not the only pretentious one here?”

  I snort. “Me, pretentious? Right.” I tug my hair into a ponytail, securing it with a band from my wrist. If I’m pretentious I would’ve had the guts to stand naked in Hunter’s class the first time, saving me the humiliation of begging for my job back and losing a week’s worth of pay. “If you knew me you’d know how stupid that really is.”

  He looks over my shoulder, his gaze going hazy like he’s considering something in that very moment. Then his stare meets mine.

  “If you knew me,” he says, sitting up, “you’d know being pretentious is a front. A mask with much more behind it.”

  In a strange way this feels like a challenge. To know him. To find that out. I don’t say anything.

  “So, Miss Unpretentious, what class did you just come from?” He holds up his finger. “Wait. Let me guess. You look like the sciency type. Marine biology? Anatomy?”

  I shake my head, smiling because I’m so not the sciency type.

  “I don’t go to school here. I work in the art department. Well, sort of. I start next week.” Then I feign a glare. “Are you insinuating I look like a nerd? That could be considered an insult.”

  “Far from it.” He chuckles and at the same time rubs up and down on his biceps. “What will you do in the art department?”

  “The art director hired me to help him out.” Sort of true—without me, Hunter said so himself: he’d have to be the model. “I’m not exactly sure what he’ll have me do.”

  “So you like art?”

  I shrug. “Appreciate it. And suck at it.” I pull a pack of gum from my purse and stick a piece in my mouth. Unexpectedly, he reaches over and takes a piece too. I almost say something about manners, but his fingers brush against mine and suddenly my sarcasm is gone. “I’m more into photography,” I say. “What about you?”

  He sticks the gum in his mouth then leans forward, distracted by something in the distance. A rose bush or guy listening to his iPod. I can’t tell what he’s looking at.

  “Do you have your phone?” he says.

  “I’m not going to take a picture of you.”

  He holds out his hand. “Cough it up.” I scowl and he wiggles his fingers in anticipation. “I’m not going to steal it if that’s what you’re worried about. I have better things to do than take things from pretty girls.”

  My stomach did not just flutter. No. That was an air bubble.

  I slip my phone from my pocket to distract myself and set it in his hand. Right away he starts pushing buttons. He reaches down near his foot, presses another button then shows me the screen. A picture. The palm tree in the distance shoots up in the background. The tip of his tennis shoe, blurry in focus, sneaks in the bottom corner of the frame.

  He sets the phone back in my palm.

  “That makes two of us.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Twenty miles inland and the city bus drops me off at Caroline Park. It’s cold and I make the mile trek to my house slow, even though the freezing air is biting at the base of my neck. When I approach my house, something in the front yard catches my eye. I stand before it, skimming my eyes back and forth over the metal, tracing the words FOR SALE, letting the ugly feeling inside me build until I can’t stand here anymore.

  I barge through the front door and drop my bag on the floor.

  “I sorta thought someone would have the courtesy to pick me up at the bus stop!” I don’t know who I’m yelling at; the front of the house is completely empty. And I don’t even know why I’m acting all upset about walking from the bus stop when I’ve been doing it every month since moving to Loyola. It’s the sign stabbed into the grass out front that has me pissed off.

  “Mom has the car,” Dad says, emerging from the kitchen. A folded newspaper tucked under his arm tells me he’s been searching for jobs, which also explains the row of creases gouged into his forehead. “She went to the store to get stuff for dinner. But she had a couple of stops to make.” He crosses the room and folds his big arms around me,
and I don’t even have time to take a deep everything’ll-be-okay breath because the sharp smell hits me. The scent that brings back a blurry haze of memories: slamming doors, voices in our house screaming words I’d never thought possible. Nine years have passed and I still recognize that smell.

  It can’t be. Dad hasn’t had a drop of whiskey since I was in third grade. I remember the exact day because he missed my spring play to attend his first AA meeting. Uncle Andy came in his place, cheered me on as I pranced around in my squirrel costume singing some song about nuts. The exhaust fumes from the bus ride must be messing with my senses. What time is it anyway? Nine? Ten in the morning?

  No, no, no. Can’t be. Impossible. He wouldn’t.

  “She should be back soon,” he adds as I try to find the courage to ask of he’s been drinking—

  Wait a second. The car? As in one? I wriggle out from his hold.

  “Where’s your car?”

  Dad’s aged so much in the last few years, but especially in the past two months. Gray hair, wrinkles inching out onto his temples…he’s starting to look more like Grandpa, thick mustache and all.

  “I just told you, pumpkin. Mom has my car.”

  I steal a quick breath, resisting the urge to scream the words, “Okay then, where’s her car. You have two.” I pretzel-fold my arms. He nods, tossing the paper to the buffet stand beside us. It bumps an old picture of our family. Zoe’s wearing a purple fedora and isn’t smiling.

  “Someone from her book club bought it.”

  “You sold Mom’s car?” My stomach tightens. Zoe learned how to drive in Mom’s Cadillac. I sat in the back and giggled every time she veered into another lane, my whole body vibrating from the row of bumpy reflectors. Let Zoe concentrate, Mom would say. Turn left, sweetheart. No. Your other left.

  “We were in a tight spot,” Dad says. “Needed the money. It’s just a car, Quinn.” He pats me on the head and shuffles to the couch.

  It isn’t just a car. It’s a link to Zoe. How can he not see that?

  I can’t ask about the sign outside yet. This is already too much.

  “Tell Mom I’ll be in my room,” I say, then climb the stairs. My bed groans as my weight lowers onto the old mattress. I bury my face in my pillow.

  “Mom doesn’t know Brett’s signed up,” Zoe whispers. She plops down next to me on my bed, twirling a new beaded bracelet—wooden beads she linked with twisted copper wire. “You two are gonna be sneaking outta your cabins at night, making out under the stars.”

  “We haven’t…” My head falls, and I look away from her. “I haven’t kissed him yet.”

  She blows a big, pink bubble with her gum, and then pops it.

  “At all or with tongue?”

  “With tongue.” I tug at the frayed edge of my pillowcase. “He tried yesterday after school, but I sorta freaked out.”

  She steals the rubber band off my wrist and twists her long hair into a bun, thinking. Then she lifts one eyebrow.

  “Define freaked out.”

  I roll onto my stomach, stealing the moment to erase the jealousy from my expression. I know it’s there. She will too. “When I felt his tongue pushing on my lips I pulled away.”

  She tilts her head, sending a strand of hair over her forehead. “Why?”

  “’Cause it felt like a snake was trying to get in my mouth! And I didn’t know what to do.” My face grows warm, which I hate. “I didn’t want him telling all his friends I was a sucky kisser or something.”

  She laughs. “Don’t worry. You guys are gonna be at camp for the whole week. I’m sure he’ll try it again.” With a sparkle in her blue irises, she sits up straighter. “Do you want me to show you how?”

  “Yuck!” I shoot up, scooting toward the edge of the bed. “I’m not kissing you!”

  She nudges me with her foot, makes a fist and holds it up. “Not me, ding-dong. On our hands.”

  ~*~

  “Since when do you eat tofu?” I ask, pressing my fork into the spongy white square on my plate. Little white bubbles ooze out of it. Ew.

  Mom covers her mouth with her hand. “It’s cheaper than meat,” she says around bites. I stab a piece with my fork, put it to my nose and sniff.

  “Smells like cardboard.”

  “It’s soy,” she says. Beside me, Dad cringes as he swallows a squishy bite. Mom notices, but continues to me, “And I’m still learning how to prepare it. Apparently, it’ll taste like whatever you cook it with. Put some more sauce on it.” She passes me the bottle of sweet chili sauce. I flood the red onto my plate, turning it into a murder scene which grosses me out even more. Finally, I draw up the nerve to say what I’ve been thinking all day.

  “How long has the house been for sale?” My stomach growls and I reluctantly stick a piece of tofu in my mouth. It’s mushy and tasteless and disgusting. I chase it with a sip of water.

  “We just got it up this week,” Dad answers and takes his empty glass to the counter to refill his Coke.

  “And you were planning on telling me when?”

  Mom tucks her golden hair behind her ear and avoids my question altogether. “This house is too big for the two of us. We don’t need four bedrooms.”

  My fork clanks loudly against my plate. I stiffen against the hard, wooden chair.

  “You mean you can’t afford it.” I don’t mean for my words to snap, but they do. And I kind of feel bad, but only until Mom answers.

  “That, too.” She stares down at her plate, lifting the lettuce as if the solutions to her problems are hidden somewhere in her skimpy salad. “We found a house to rent on the other side of town. It’s small, but with only the two of us we’ll make do. And it’s a two bedroom so if you have to move back, you can still have your own room.”

  She doesn’t even try to lessen the blow or anything; she just says it. If you have to move back. Before I can process it, she’s saying more and more things I can’t stand to hear.

  “It has a cute front porch with a weeping willow in the front yard and—”

  “And Zoe’s things?” My face grows hotter. “You going to get rid of those too?”

  Dad sits back down with a full glass.

  “Quinn,” he says, “it’s been a full year. We can’t keep her stuff forever.”

  “Of course we’ll keep the important things,” Mom chimes in. “Her pictures and a few of her trophies—”

  “I can’t listen to this right now.” I push away from the table, my chest so tight I can hardly breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I inhale through my nose, but the air is thick and won’t go in. My dead lips open to draw in a lungful, but even that doesn’t work. Upstairs, I sneak into Zoe’s room. It’s the first door on the left. The door latches behind me and I lean against it, gasping.

  Not much has changed in the last twelve months: surf pictures still cover her walls, green glow-in-the-dark stars speck the ceiling, white mini-blinds hang crooked from the time she tripped and fell into them. But her desk is clean, not littered with junk and paper and open bags of Sour Patch Kids like it used to be. The floor too—absent of laundry piles, both clean and dirty, higher than my calf.

  I lie on her bed, letting the tears stream down my face, searching the room for air. How can Mom and Dad get rid of everything that connects us to Zoe? Throw them away like they’re meaningless things?

  The bed is perfectly made, but beneath the blankets and sheets I feel an indent. Her indent. I scoot up to the pillow and lie perfectly still and try to fit into this space that was hers, but I’m too thin and awkward and I don’t.

  Once the hold on my lungs loosens, I dig through her drawer of shirts searching for one in particular. Faded blue V-neck with pleats on the sleeves. It wasn’t Zoe’s favorite, but she wore it all the time, and I want something she wore all the time. I find it resting neatly under a stack of tank tops.

  I scour the rest of her room in search of anything else to salvage from the future of a donation bin. On her bookshelf, I find a pi
cture; we’re eating frozen bananas with Mickey Mouse ears on our heads. I look about six, Zoe eight. In the nightstand drawer, I find her old iPod, and sitting atop the windowsill a seashell from one of our beach trips—drilled with a hole and dangling from a spiral of wire. She stayed up all night making this, trying to get the wire to curve perfectly.

  I wrap the items in the shirt and stuff them into my bag.

  That night Zoe is in all black, blazing stare red and jewel-like—a death glare like the owl’s.

  Save yourself.

  The stairs creak as I shuffle down, needing to get away from Zoe’s room. I’ve never really slept great here—not for the past year anyway. It’s like the air is old now. Hollow, if air could be that.

  The house is pitch-black. I breathe in. Out. When we were kids, Mom would leave nightlights on throughout the house: in the bathroom, at the top of the stairs, near the kitchen. Now she turns everything off, even unplugs the microwave and coffeemaker in effort to save electricity. For her bill, not the environment.

  In. Out. There’s no light from the moon tonight, but I know every step, every corner. The familiarity of the curved staircase. The sharp left turn. The light switch below Dad’s Ohio State diploma hanging on the wall in the dining room.

  Ohio State is where Dad met John Kingsley. Roommates in the dorms as freshmen, friends ever since. Up until two months ago, anyway, when Dad was caught by administration approving school credit for John Kingsley II when no classes were really taken. Dad says Pacific Rim was in need of a good athletic boost to increase student interest in the school, up admissions which had been steadily decreasing over the course of a few years. Without more money, the school was threatening layoffs.

  I never met John Kingsley II. Our dads used to spend time together only when Mr. Kingsley was in town for business. Always just the two of them playing poker or going to fancy dinners at Greensleeves. Families never came. And during the news coverage back in November, John Kingsley II’s picture remained concealed. It was chicken-shit he never came forward publicly, but it doesn’t matter now. Dad’ll get another job soon—hopefully—and the Kingsleys are out of Dad’s life.