Page 35 of The Summer List

Naomi

I’m touching Andrea’s hair.

I’m wearing plastic gloves that are three sizes too big and sliding globs of slimy purple goop between my fingers, but still, I’m touching her hair, and I think the contact might have me on the verge of cardiac arrest.

That might also be due to the view I have of her bare lower back as she sits facing away from me on the edge of the tub. I almost hit the floor tiles when she called me in here and I found her wearing nothing but a pair of baggy old sweatpants and a dark red towel draped over her shoulders and chest. She has a couple hairclips securing the fabric in place, but it still feels like every inch of my body is hyperaware that there’s nothing but a swath of terrycloth covering her boobs.

The thought makes me cringe at myself even as an ache starts to build somewhere low in my stomach. I’m supposed to be dyeing her hair, not imagining what she’d look like if one of the hairclips popped open and the edges of the towel slipped down a few inches.

She trusted me enough to ask for my help, and in return, I’m acting like a total creep.

For about the millionth time in my life, I marvel at how simple it must be to be a straight guy, to have your attraction to women considered normal even when it shows up at an inconvenient or inappropriate time. If I was a straight guy, people would take it as a given that I’d be fighting not to drop my gaze to the soft skin of Andrea’s lower back, but as it stands, I have to worry about being the predatory lesbian turning an innocent moment of ‘girl time’ into something gross simply because I’m thinking about how pretty she is.

And how hot she is.

And how much I wish I was touching more than her hair.

I shriek as purple flecks splatter the towel and the front of my shirt. It takes me a second to realize I squeezed the clump of her hair I’m gripping too hard and sprayed us both.

She glances over her shoulder and gasps before covering her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Oh no,” she says between giggles. “It’s on your face. Go wipe it off before it turns your skin purple.”

I rush to the mirror above the sink and see I’ve sprouted a violet-coloured goatee. I lift a hand to wipe the goop away, forgetting I’m still wearing the gloves coated in dye. I end up with a huge smear streaking my chin.

Andrea doesn’t bother holding back her laughter now. She cackles as I rip the gloves off and lunge for the toilet paper. I pull off a long strip and dampen a wad in the sink before scrubbing at my face.

“Is it really going to dye my face purple?” I demand, my eyes bugging out when I see the faint mauve stain on my chin. I scrub harder.

“Not forever,” she assures me. “Try some soap. You got it fast enough that I don’t think it’ll stain, and if it does, it won’t last long.”

I grab the bar of soap from its little gold dish beside the tap and start rubbing it in circles along my chin and jaw. My skin looks clear after I’ve rinsed off, but I still go in for another round with the soap to be safe.

“Make sure you leave some skin on there,” Andrea says with a snort.

Before I can stop and ask myself if it’s way too nerdy to make a Shakespeare reference, I raise my fist in my best Lady Macbeth impression and recite, “Out! Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”

My cheeks burn with regret an instant later.

Andrea keeps laughing from her perch by the tub. “Wow. Tell me you’re going to be an English major without telling me you’re going to be an English major.”

I risk a peek at her and see she’s swung her legs around so she can face me.

“You know Macbeth?” I ask.

She makes a show out of rolling her eyes. “I did take four years of high school English. I have a general awareness of Shakespeare. I even performed in A Midsummer Night’s Dream in grade nine.”

I straighten up from where I’ve been hunched over the sink and turn to face her. “Oh my god, really? Who did you play?”

She chews on her lip for a second before she answers. “Puck.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. Somehow, I can picture it perfectly: Andrea leaping around the stage in some kind of leafy ensemble with a pair of little horns on her head.

“Did you lose a bet or something?” I ask.

I doubt she was a drama club kid in high school.

“Um, excuse me, but I specifically auditioned for the role of Puck.”

---