Chapter 5
FROM:Roger Ludermore [email protected]>
SUBJECT:FWD: JULY PROFILE OF ORGASMR APP
FROM:Roger Ludermore [email protected]>
SUBJECT:disregard previous about orgasmr app, was a scam
Charlotte tried not to blink as Jackie traced her lash line with a sharp black pencil. Her eyes watered from the strain until Jackie’s face swam before her.
“Please do not stab me, I can’t pull off an eye patch.”
“I won’t stab you if you stop whining,” Jackie chided.
Charlotte missed everything about their Friday night ritual. First came makeup application as they blasted pop music—Hailee Steinfeld belted about self-love from her laptop. Next Jackie would berate her for having nothing to wear, then she’d bully Charlotte into borrowing an outfit. Last, they would replenish their cocktails and toast to the night ahead, and to the morning that felt like it would never ever come.
In college, the beginning of the night was the best part. Anything could happen at Hein: They might fall in love with a stranger, or tell the perfect joke, or have the best sex of their lives. Their giddy anticipation held a certain magic before it could be crushed by parties discovered too early or too late. Hell was other people’s jungle juice.
No roommate would ever come close to Jackie. During the magical three years Charlotte lived with her, they learned about color theory and riot grrrl punk and bell hooks and mysterious UTIs. Every problem was a shared problem, and Jackie encouraged her to take up space in their home. They covered the walls of their apartment with reprints of 1970s concert posters: Debbie Harry’s sultry red lipstick, Patti Smith scowling in a black leather jacket with nothing underneath, Grace Jones’s sharp profile against a bright yellow background. A magnet on the fridge held up a postcard of the Clash’s London Calling album cover.
Charlotte used their decor as inspiration. When she wasn’t preoccupied with homework, she messed around with graphic design and layout. Sophomore year she created posters for Jackie’s late-night radio show: Punk Power Hour with DJ Slaughter, aggressive pink lettering over a high-contrast black-and-white photo of Jackie behind the mic. The poster was a smash hit, and folks around campus took notice. She was asked to make urgent, eye-catching posters for Hein’s Sex Education Club and obnoxious, blocky prints for student bands who paid her in meal plan points. Her artwork spoke for her all over campus. On the page she could be loud, chaotic, and colorful. It felt like Jackie’s influence, or maybe Charlotte just needed her help unleashing her inner defiance.
Charlotte and Jackie were more than friends—they were sisters. They bickered like sisters too. In college they hashed out their issues directly; Jackie insisted on it. But now something was off, a crevasse Charlotte hadn’t noticed until her foot stepped out into empty air.
Why didn’t Jackie tell her about her dad? When did Charlotte stop knowing the important events in her best friend’s life? Or was she being melodramatic? Did Jackie not tell her, or did Charlotte not ask?
“That’s good news,” she blurted out. “About your dad, I mean.”
“Stop talking or I’ll mess up,” Jackie murmured. She licked her thumb to correct a smudge at the corner of Charlotte’s eye. “Okay, that’s done.” She whipped out a mascara wand. “Next!”
Charlotte bit her lip, not sure if she should press Jackie on her deflection. Jackie had always been better at dealing with other people’s problems than facing her own. Maybe she truly didn’t want to discuss it. “None on my lower lashes. I don’t want to be a trash panda.”
“Righto, will skip. Blink?” Jackie coaxed the wand over Charlotte’s upper lashes and made a satisfied noise. “Ugh, that makes such a difference. Your lashes are so light.”
“Part of the whole being-blond thing, I’m afraid.”
Jackie took Charlotte’s jaw in her hand. She moved her head from side to side, studying her face. “I’m thinking no lipstick. Anything I put on you will just wind up all over Reece’s face.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jackie smirked but didn’t comment. “We’re almost done. I’ll give you a lollipop if you can sit still a little longer.”
Charlotte stuck out her tongue.
“Mature,” Jackie teased, but she didn’t laugh. Charlotte stayed still as she smoothed a hint of pink paint across her cheeks with her fingertips. “There. You’re finished.”
Charlotte slid off the bed and examined her reflection in the mirror. It never failed to blow her mind how few products Jackie needed to transform her. Her face looked brighter, her eyes bigger and more vibrant. The woman staring back at her was symmetrical and poised, the makeup subtle but effective.
The exhausted woman who’d arrived on campus yesterday afternoon, harried and dusty, had vanished. She’d been replaced by a dewy blonde with big brown eyes.
“You’re a miracle worker.” Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows at Jackie. “What do you think?”
“Gorgeous. What are you wearing?”
“I have nothing that will impress you. Jeans and a tank top.”
“And let me guess, your loafers.” Jackie sighed. She turned to consider her bookshelf of options. “I can’t believe you have no going-out clothes. The shoes we can’t help, but at least you’ll be comfortable. Here, try this on.” Jackie thrust a short-sleeved button-down in her direction.
Charlotte stripped off her tank top and put on the shirt, running her hands over the linen. It looked vintage, a beachy beige with thin blue vertical stripes. She left the top three buttons undone to reveal the pale column of her throat. Her explosion of messy curls balanced out the boyishness of the fit.
“Beautiful,” Jackie decided. “I want to take you sailing and name our children after the royal family.”
Charlotte plucked at the collar. “I feel a bit like Taylor Swift’s date on the Fourth of July.”
“You should be so lucky to date Taylor Swift.”
She turned around to face her friend. “Thank you. You know my style better than I do.”
Jackie chucked her under the chin. “Correct!” Then she turned around to mull over her outfit options, fists at her hips.
Charlotte had an easier time finding her words without Jackie looking at her. It felt wrong to just drop the conversation about her dad when Jackie chose to bring him up in support group. She had to at least try.
“And I mean it about your dad,” Charlotte said to her back. “I wish you’d told me.”
“You’ve been busy,” Jackie said nonchalantly. “Help me pick an outfit?”
Well, okay then.
Charlotte tried not to take the avoidance personally. She folded her arms across her chest and looked at Jackie’s bookshelf of clothing. “You’re going to be dancing. You’ll want something that will move well.”
“And that won’t stink.” Jackie picked up a black T-shirt with the college radio station’s logo on the front. The fabric had thinned from so many washes. “Fuck it, I’m going full 2011.” She paired the shirt with a high-waisted miniskirt and Converse high-tops.
Charlotte checked her phone while Jackie dressed.
“Any updates?” Jackie asked as she wiggled her ass into the skirt.
TEXT MESSAGE FROM MATT LARSEN TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:07 PM:Doors are open!
TEXT MESSAGE FROM REECE KRUEGER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:09 PM:I think I’m too old for house music. don’t tell anyone
Charlotte bit back a smile at the unfamiliar sight of Reece’s name in her notifications. He’d fired the first volley. She bit her lip before typing her response.
TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO REECE KRUEGER, 9:12 PM:I’m telling literally everyone.
“Helloooooo.” Jackie watched her expectantly. “News?”
“Matt says the doors are open.”
“Awesome.” Her best friend set up shop at the mirror to work on her makeup, leaving Charlotte in her own little world on her screen.
Reece was typing…She watched the thinking bubble appear and expand as his text arrived.
TEXT MESSAGE FROM REECE KRUEGER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:13 PM:traitor
Delight quivered up her spine. It had been years since her college hookup days, but she remembered this dance like it was only yesterday. If someone was into you, they’d strike up a conversation between eight and ten p.m. via text, the tone deceptively chill. Over the course of the evening, they’d touch base, ask where you were, keep checking the pulse of your interest. Eventually someone suggested a place to meet up, usually neutral territory where you’d flirt and make out before relocating somewhere more private.
The fact that Reece reached out to her confirmed that this wasn’t just a one-way fantasy. He was interested. He could have texted Jackie, his actual friend, but he’d chosen to text her. And god help her, he knew how to banter. Her last girlfriend, Merielle, texted like an artificial intelligence bot coded by a fourteen-year-old. And it wasn’t like the gentlemen of NYC Tinder offered scintillating conversation…
“How do I look?” Jackie stepped back from the mirror and twirled around.
After dinner, Charlotte had brushed out Jackie’s hair and woven it into a double French braid. Paired with her outfit and signature red lipstick, the hairstyle made Jackie look like a babysitter who would teach your kids about socialism but still get them to bed on time.
“You look amazing. Very sophomore year but with more self-esteem.”
“I should hope so.” Jackie hopped up onto the bed next to her, careful not to spill her drink. “Let’s take a selfie before we sweat it off.”
Charlotte closed out of her texts and handed Jackie her iPhone. “You do it, your arms are longer than mine.”
Jackie took the phone without complaint. She held it aloft at a flattering angle. Charlotte smiled and willed herself to relax into this moment of happiness.
It’s a Friday night. I am twenty-one. Jackie Slaughter is my best friend. We are going to a party.
There is no train ticket in my wallet. There is no Monday morning meeting to prep for. There is no text message to send my landlord about fixing the radiator.
I am safe. I am home.
Jackie took a bunch of pictures. She flicked through them and laughed. “We look like a lesbian Odd Couple reboot.”
“We haven’t aged a day,” Charlotte decided. “I’ll send them to you.”
“Please do. Everyone on Instagram needs to see how much fun we’re having. And get a new phone, that crack is terrible.”
TEXT MESSAGE FROM REECE KRUEGER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:45 PM:don’t tell me if they play Carly Rae at Acronym, it’ll break my heart
Acronym occupied an old Victorian on the south edge of campus. The house looked a little worse for wear, its paint chipped and the front path overgrown. For decades the student newspaper tracked a conspiracy theory that the administration didn’t invest in Acronym’s maintenance because queer alumni were less likely to donate to Hein’s endowment. Every year, shingles fell from the roof like dead skin.
Students did their best to reattach shutters and freshen up the peeling paint. Baby gays like Charlotte taught themselves how to fix squeaky hinges and install new banisters. All the DIY repairs gave Acronym the look of a beloved pair of jeans, patched over and well worn.
What the house lacked in refinement, it made up for with its charm. To walk through its rooms was to visit an ad hoc museum of queer history at the university. Concert posters from Queen to Dua Lipa lined the hallways. The names of residents covered the bathroom walls, decades of signatures written in looping permanent marker. Abandoned shoes littered the entrance. A fresh pot of coffee and a snack always waited in the kitchen.
By the time Charlotte and Jackie arrived for the disco, every room at Acronym was packed. The house purred with pop music and laughter. All of the undergrads wore sequins, and alumni danced among them like they hadn’t heard music since 2013.
Charlotte paused just inside the front door to breathe in the powerful nostalgia of take-out food and incense. More than any other place on campus, Acronym felt like home. While Hein University had a wonderful arts program, Charlotte chose the school for its queer community. The first time she entered the program house, eighteen years of shame and defensiveness lifted from her shoulders. At Acronym, the front door was always open, and the people were always kind.
Jackie beelined to the kitchen. Charlotte zigzagged through the crowd to catch up. They found Matt sitting on the counter beside a student she didn’t recognize, most likely a senior if he was still on campus.
“Hey, ladies! Glad you could make it.” Matt shook their hands in greeting, one after the other.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Jackie yelled over the music. “Booze?”
He pointed to the kitchen island behind them.
Jackie immediately set about making cocktails. Charlotte turned to the student by Matt’s side and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Charlotte. She/her.”
The student took her hand and shook it firmly, wide-eyed and fabulous in a green jumpsuit. A cluster of enamel pins nestled on the breast pocket, including a transgender flag and an old-fashioned video camera. “Wynn, nice to meet you. He/him is good.”
“Wynn was telling me about his summer plans,” Matt said. “He’ll be right downstairs from me at the Human Rights Campaign, filming election spots and interviewing activists.”
“No way, that’s awesome.” Charlotte raised her voice to make sure she could be heard over Ariana Grande blaring from the living room. “Matt’s a good guy to know. He’ll take care of you.” She nodded in Matt’s direction.
“I can tell.” Wynn’s eyes were a lovely blue threaded with silver. He looked at her with reverence, the way Charlotte used to stare at returning Hein alumnae. Now Charlotte was the queer adult, forging a path into the real world. Impostor syndrome licked at her loafers.
“What about you, what do you do?” Wynn asked.
“I work in media.”
“Dope, where?”
“The Front End Review. It’s mostly tech stuff, lots of Silicon Valley stories.” Wynn’s eyes widened even more. Charlotte took in his misplaced awe.
It didn’t feel right. Acronym was a place to be honest.
She checked to see that Jackie was out of earshot before she leaned in and added, “Honestly, I hate it!”
The world didn’t end. No one screamed or dropped their drinks. Wynn just laughed, nodding politely. This was small talk at a party, not an interview. No one actually cared all that much. Charlotte grinned at Wynn as the last murmurs of her anxiety quieted in her brain.
Matt watched her with what looked like pride. “Media’s the worst,” he said diplomatically.
Right on time, Jackie returned with cocktails. She handed one to Charlotte before turning to Matt and Wynn. “This party’s wild! I had no idea so many people from our year had come out.”
“It’s 2018,” Matt drawled. “Everyone worth knowing is gay.”
Jackie took Charlotte’s hand and gave it an energetic yank. “I wanna go dance!”
“Jio’s out there.” Matt pointed through the archway into the living room. “They were in the front last time I saw them.”
Charlotte had a second to wave good-bye to Wynn and Matt before Jackie tugged her out of the kitchen. They quickly found Jio voguing on the dance floor with a trio of delighted seniors, their red sequined blouse catching the lights.
“LADIES!” Jio screamed when they recognized the girls in the dark.
“JIO!” Jackie immediately dragged them into doing the bump. Charlotte laughed and did an unimpressive two-step beside them. She sipped her drink, just happy to be in the middle of things.
The miracle of Acronym returned to her as the night went on: The more she danced, the less she cared about how silly she looked. She threw herself into a Janelle Monáe track, rolling her shoulders and lip-syncing when she knew the lyrics.
“YEAH CHARLOTTE!” Jio yelled. They clapped as she dragged her hand back through her hair to keep it off her face. “SHOW US WHAT YOU GOT!”
The student controlling the aux cord put on ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” and everyone started screaming. Wynn and Matt raced in from the kitchen, inexplicably wearing flower leis. Charlotte leaned down so that Wynn could guide one over her head.
Jackie tugged on its purple petals and pulled Charlotte around to face her. They giggled and did the twist. To everyone’s amazement, the usually subdued Matt did a spot-on version of the Carlton.
“THAT’S MY FIANCé!” Jio pulled Matt down to their level for a long kiss, both of them sweating and radiating color under the disco ball.
This flavor of pure, unbridled happiness existed in the real world. Charlotte had found it in brief, magical nights at Cubbyhole and Stonewall and other gay bars in NYC. But queer college discos were a special kind of miracle, free and safe and innocent. No one touched her ass or yanked her back against his crotch by her hips. No one asked her who let her in or demanded she prove that she belonged.
She didn’t need to vouch for her bisexuality; no one counted gold stars here.
Charlotte ran her fingers through her curls and let her eyes drift closed as she danced. The disco ball sent a kaleidoscope of color across her eyelids: the neon pink of freedom, the radiant orange of excitement.
Several glittering minutes or years later, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She read the incoming text, swaying from side to side as Cardi B blasted from the speakers.
TEXT MESSAGE FROM REECE KRUEGER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 10:51 PM:where you at? it’s team hammer’s time to shine!!
TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO REECE KRUEGER, 10:52 PM:Acronym! Cardi B! Sequins!
Reece sent her a GIF of three kittens wearing party hats. Her laugh spilled out of her like frothy champagne.
Jackie tapped her on the shoulder. Her eye makeup had begun to bleed, runaway mascara dusting her cheeks. “Pee break?”
Charlotte nodded. She followed her friend through the crowd and up the stairs to the second floor. Mercifully, they didn’t have to wait in line for the bathroom.
As Jackie wiggled out of her tight skirt and settled on the toilet, Charlotte examined the graffiti on the walls. Thousands of names and messages sprawled across the faded wallpaper in overlapping ink.
Dante Evans, 1999.
Cherise + Tanya 4ever
We’re here we’re queer go fuck yourself!!
On the back of the door, just beside the lower hinge, she found her signature. Charlotte Thorne, the cursive letters forming a thick green vine. A rose bloomed at the tail of the e of “Thorne,” its red petals faded with time.
A mason jar of markers still sat next to the sink. She seized a red pen and squatted on the floor to touch up the color.
Jackie flushed. “How you doing, Char?” she asked as she washed her hands.
“Wonderful.” Charlotte sucked her bottom lip between her teeth as she doodled. The red wasn’t the same shade as the original. She must have used a different brand way back when. This marker would have to do.
When did she draw this? End of sophomore year, probably. It took Charlotte a while to feel like she had the right to make her mark on the house. After she met Jackie, before she met Ben. That radiant window of time when she felt like she belonged somewhere at last.
“It’s not too rowdy for you here?”
Charlotte shook her head. The atmosphere at Acronym never bothered her. Her brain wrote it off as an exception to her usual noise and crowd sensitivity. If anything, she wanted to blend into all this bright chaos.
Jackie peered over her shoulder at the door. “That’s still there? Jeez, that’s incredible.”
“The whole door is intact.” Charlotte popped back up on her feet. “Is yours?”
Her best friend pointed to the lip of plaster above the shower. Jackie’s signature was less artistic, just a jumble of letters following a dramatic, swooping J. She left her mark the night she came out to her parents over the phone. Jackie said the supportive, anticlimactic conversation still deserved a symbolic memorial—after all, her parents’ kind reaction didn’t discount the terror she felt when she told them she was pansexual.
“You still need to design a tag for me,” Jackie pouted. “You’ve owed me one for like a decade.”
Charlotte snorted. “Seven years, tops.” A fleck of glitter stuck to Jackie’s cheek, and she brushed it away with the side of her thumb. “Besides, there is nothing wrong with your chicken scratch.”
“Coward.” Jackie turned to the mirror to fix her red lipstick. “You just don’t like to draw anymore.”
The accusation landed funny in Charlotte’s chest. She dropped the marker back in the mason jar. “No comment.”
Her phone chimed where she’d left it on the sink. Jackie glanced down at it and raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you popular. Roger again?”
“It’s Reece,” Charlotte said. “He wants me to join him at the hockey party.”
Jackie’s eyes lit up. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Charlotte could think of a million reasons not to go. The kid DJing at Acronym had great taste in dance jams. She didn’t want to ditch Jackie, especially because she could tell something was off between them, though maybe she was overthinking it. Ben was out there too somewhere, strutting around campus like a peacock. And it could be Roger texting her next time with an important task.
“I’m here to spend time with you,” Charlotte said.
Jackie folded her arms across her chest. “Sweetheart, I know that’s not the reason.”
“It’s not a good idea.” The words came out of her unsteadily. She fought the urge to grab the marker again and draw all over the counter. Flames, maybe, in pink, purple, and blue. Anything other than having this conversation.
Jackie studied her in the mirror as she neatened her braids. “Why is it not a good idea?”
The question was too large and too small to answer. Charlotte remembered the way Reece looked at her at dinner all soft and vulnerable, the way he smiled…
“I screwed it up the first time around.”
A sly grin snuck across Jackie’s face. “So you admit you want a second time around.”
“I don’t need you to make me feel stupid,” Charlotte growled. “I already feel like an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole.” Her best friend extended a hand. Charlotte took it reluctantly. Jackie tugged her in front of the mirror and grabbed a Kleenex to touch up her eye makeup. “It’s not your fault that Ben messed with your head so much you couldn’t see straight.” She swept up some runaway eyeliner, her breath spilling across Charlotte’s face. She closed her eyes and let Jackie work her magic. “Besides, Reece didn’t have his shit together then. That boy drank more vodka out of his thermos than water.”
It was hard to reconcile the Reece attending the reunion with the Reece she knew as an undergrad. The day they met at support group, he wore hockey team sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt she was pretty sure doubled as his pajamas. If the 3Ds got together before noon, he arrived viciously hungover, and on one occasion still drunk. At twenty-one Reece was already gorgeous, but he had a frenetic air of distraction and hunger around him like he was afraid to sit still.
It made the sex fantastic: desperate and intense and absorbing at a time when Charlotte wanted to forget herself. He always tasted like spearmint with a streak of hard liquor. He kissed with his teeth.
Now he was contained, somehow. Present and patient.
That new wisdom made him even more dangerous.
“I don’t know if I can do this again,” Charlotte breathed.
“Honey, you never did it in the first place.” Jackie wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close. “You never let that boy matter to you. Not really.”
Charlotte wasn’t so sure about that. Not when she remembered the surge of emotions in her gut when he got to the reception last night, or when he walked away from her in the hallway, his fists clenched at his sides.
Her old attempt to wall Reece out of her heart had been a fool’s errand all along. Somehow he wove himself through the bricks with his precise, gentle questions and his sense of adventure. Cups of coffee and late-night grins. A firm core of strength and resolve hid underneath his silly exterior, the genuine concern of a big brother.
It wasn’t nothing, what she felt. She just didn’t know what to call it.
Jackie shook her head. “Charlotte. Just let it go. It’s gonna be okay.”
“Are you sure?”
Jackie’s palm found her back and rubbed in comforting circles. “Reece is a big kid now,” her best friend reassured her. “He can handle himself.”
The true question floated across Charlotte’s mind in black permanent marker scrawl.
But can I?
“Besides,” Jackie added, “the two of you deserve some fun.”
Fun sounded amazing. Neon red and electric blue. Simple and hungry and satisfying.
Was it that simple? Could she just reach out and take what she wanted? Could she lean into the skid of reunion and actually enjoy herself, instead of crashing into a guardrail?
Yes. Yes, I can.
Charlotte took a deep breath. She didn’t know why she hesitated: This moment had a strange inevitability to it.
“Okay. I’m going.”
Jackie planted a wet kiss on her cheek, leaving behind a perfect print of her red lipstick. “That’s my girl.”