Page 25 of Switch!
“Sorry,” Raymond says. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I was planning on jumping in right after you.”
I open the door a crack and see that he’s not wearing anything except for a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s holding a razor, the remnants of shaving cream on his face. Why didn’t he wait his turn? Did I forget to lock the door?
“I need a towel,” I say.
Raymond turns around to get one, but none hang on the rack. “Sorry. I started a load of laundry this morning but haven’t moved them into the dryer yet. Here.”
To my horror, he undoes the towel around his waist. I quickly avert my eyes.
“Don’t be shy! You’ve been in a locker room before, right? Your mother isn’t home. It’s just us guys.”
I hold out my hand, intending to put the towel on behind the shower door, but never feel cotton touch my fingers. When I look to see why, Raymond is holding the towel open for me, his naked body on the opposite side.
“Come on,” he says. “No need to be modest. Let’s trade places.”
I cover my privates as best I can with one hand and open the shower door. Then I step into the towel, or try to. Raymond starts rubbing me with it instead, like he plans on drying me off from top to bottom. I don’t like the idea. Not at all. I’m still using my hands to cover myself in the front. His are going everywhere else. When I feel fingers slide between my butt cheeks, I snatch the towel away, shove past him, and hurry to my room. Then I lock the door and press my back against it.
“Are you okay?” I hear Raymond say from the other side. “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’m just shy. You can use the shower now. I’m done with it.”
“Will do!”
I don’t feel safe enough to move until I hear the water squeak on. Then I scramble to put on clothes. My job interview isn’t for another two hours, but I don’t care. I’m leaving the apartment before he gets out of the shower, and I’m not coming home again until he’s gone.
— — —
“I don’t think Raymond is a good person.”
My mother just got home from work. I know she’s tired and wants to get off her feet, but this feels too important to wait.
“What do you mean?” she asks, setting food she brought from the diner on the kitchen counter.
“Something bad happened.”
She reaches for a pack of cigarettes, but when she sees my face, she sets them aside. “Are you okay?”
My voice is shaking as I try to explain. “I was in the shower today and Raymond—”
“Oh,that,” she says, sounding relieved. “He told me.”
I stare in disbelief before I manage to splutter, “He did?”
“Yes. He called me during lunch and apologized for embarrassing you.” She’s smiling like it’s all a big joke.
“He’s a creep,” I snarl. “He wanted to dry me off!”
“He mentioned that too,” my mother replies tersely, clearly not appreciating my tone. “Raymond comes from a family of boys. His father raised him and his brothers on his own. Without women around, they didn’t feel the need to cover up as much. It’s no different than a locker room.”
“He touched my butt.”
That gets her attention. “What do you mean?”
I swallow before answering. “With his fingers.”
My mother grabs her cigarettes and doesn’t speak again until smoke is on her breath. “He tried to put a finger inside of you?”
The question makes my face burn. We’ve never had the kind of relationship where we talk openly about sexual things. When I turned thirteen, she gave me a book about puberty, told me how important safe sex is, and left it at that. “No,” I say, unable to meet her eye, “but I felt like maybe he wanted to.”
