Naked. Megan Hart

      Desiree’s brows rose up to meet her hairline. She looked around at the others, classmates who were getting restless in anticipation of sloppy joes and afternoon recess. She looked back at me, then took my hand and laid it next to hers. Against the pale gray desktops, our fingers stood out like shadows.

      “Miss Dippold didn’t know anything about my drawing,” Desiree said. “She meant it’s cuz we’re both, you know.”

      “Both what?”

      Now she gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes at me. Her whole tone changed. “Because we’re both black.”

      It was my turn to blink rapidly, trying to take all of this in. I looked around the room, at a sea of white faces. Caitlyn Caruso was adopted, too, from China, and she looked different than the other kids. But Desiree was right. She’d pointed it out as if I should’ve known all along.

      I was black. This revelation stunned me into silence for the rest of the day, until I went home and took down all our family albums to flip through page after page of photos. I was black! I’d been black my entire life! How had I never noticed it before?

      The answer was simple—my parents had never said so, never made it a big deal. I’d been brought up to appreciate diversity. I had little choice. Born to a white mother and a black father, I’d been adopted as an infant by parents in a mixed marriage, though of religion, not race. My nonpracticing Jewish mom had married my fallen-away Catholic dad and they’d raised two sons together in a haphazard clash of holidays until they divorced when I was five. We never talked about the color of my skin, or what it meant, or if it should mean something.

      Desiree didn’t stay long in our class. Her family moved again a few months later. But I never forgot her for pointing out to me what I should’ve known my whole life.

      But here’s the thing about people like Nadia, who pride themselves on being color-blind—in the end, all they see is color. Nadia hadn’t introduced me to her boyfriend because we both liked to draw, or we both listened to Depeche Mode, or even just to be polite. Carlos and I knew it.

      Nadia didn’t get it. She chattered on between us, dropping names as if I should know them, referencing hip-hop songs. Carlos caught my gaze and gave me a small shrug she didn’t see. He looked at her with obvious affection, though, stopping her finally with a single murmured, “Baby.”

      Nadia laughed, looking confused. “Huh?”

      “If you don’t let me eat some of this food, I’m going to pass out.”

      “Carlos works out a lot,” Nadia confided as her boyfriend began to decimate the buffet table. “He’s always hungry.”

      I was saved from having to comment by the kerfuffle arising in the living room. I’d still been aware of Alex Kennedy at the corner of my vision. He hadn’t strayed from the fireplace. The man he’d been talking to had raised his voice and his hands, gesturing and pointing. Accusing.

      This would not be the first time drama had exploded at Patrick’s house; throw a party for a bunch of queens and there are never enough crowns to go around, as he was fond of saying. I wasn’t the only one who turned to watch, either. Alex, instead of engaging in the back-and-forth, only shook his head and lifted his beer to his lips.

      “You…you’re such an asshole!” cried the other man, voice wobbling in a way that made me cringe in sympathy and embarrassment for him at the same time. “I don’t know why I ever bothered with you!”

      It was easy enough for me to see why he’d bothered. Alex Kennedy was a smoking-hot piece of yum. He stood, stoic, in the onslaught of another round of insults and accusations, until finally the other man stormed off, followed by a few clucking friends. The entire incident had taken only a few minutes and had turned only a couple of heads. By far not the most exciting or dramatic argument ever to hit one of Patrick’s parties, and in fact likely to be forgotten by the end of the night by everyone but the two men involved.

      Well, and me.

      I was fascinated.

      He doesn’t like girls, I reminded myself, and dug into the roast beef, diet be damned. And when I looked up from the carnage of my plate, Alex Kennedy was gone.

      It was a good party, one of Patrick’s best. By the time midnight rolled around, I’d had my fill of goodies and gossip and had to hide my yawn behind my hand so nobody would accuse me of being the old lady I sometimes felt I’d become. Karaoke had begun in the living room, where so many people were dancing both the menorah in the window and the Christmas tree in the corner were shaking.

      Was that…? Oh, no. It was. I covered my eyes with a hand and peeked through my fingers as a man took center stage to sing along with Beyoncé’s runaway dance-club anthem from a few years before. The one about putting a ring on it. Oh, and he was dancing, too, keeping perfect time without missing a step. He probably had his own clip up on YouTube. Everyone clapped and shouted, but I looked to the corner by the fireplace for the object of his attention. Yep. Alex Kennedy.

      Somehow I didn’t think a ring had ever been put on any part of him but his cock.

      “Perk up,” Teddy advised, and filled my glass with wine I didn’t want. “Party’s not over yet.”

      I groaned and leaned against him. “Maybe I should just head home.”

      He shook his head with a laugh and patted his pocket. “Got your keys.”

      I lifted my glass. “If you hadn’t insisted on keeping this full…”

      We both laughed. I’d spent so many nights in their guest room his insistence on me staying had almost nothing to do with the fact I’d been drinking. Now, though, as I watched through the arched doorway to the living room-cum-dance floor, I wished I’d been smarter and not planned ahead to spend the night; I wished I could walk from here, but it was too cold and dark and too long a way. I wished I could hitch a ride with someone, but though a few guests had already left, most were still in full-on celebration mode and none of them lived out my way.

      I hid another yawn. “I think I need some coffee.”

      Teddy frowned. “Poor Livvy. Always working so hard.”

      “If I don’t, nobody else will do it for me.” I shrugged.

      “Well, I’m impressed. Striking out on your own. Quitting your job. Patrick didn’t think you’d stick with it.” Teddy looked momentarily uncomfortable, as if he’d spilled a secret.

      “I know he didn’t.”

      “He’s proud of you, too, Liv.”

      I wasn’t so sure Patrick had a right to pride in my accomplishments, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I let Teddy hug and pet me a little, because he’s like a cuddlier version of the Borg from Star Trek. Resistance is futile. Not only that, but I’m a sucker for a big man in a Santa sweater; what can I say?

      I handed him my glass of wine. “I’m going for some coffee. Or at least a Coke or something.”

      I could’ve just gone to bed, but with the party still in full swing it was unlikely I’d be able to sleep. Patrick’s kitchen was kitschy cute, complete with a swinging-tailed kitty clock and retro-looking appliances. Well, except for the space-age espresso machine, the fancy kind that steamed milk and used those special pods. I’d never learned to use it and in fact didn’t dare touch it in case I dialed something wrong and sent us all back to the Stone Age. I’d be the one to step on the butterfly.

      I knew he had a regular coffeemaker someplace, but a search of the cabinets didn’t turn one up. Patrick never got rid of anything—and I mean never, not his favorite T-shirt or a lamp with a broken switch. Hell, obviously not me. He hoarded belongings and people like the Zombpocalypse was coming and the only way to survive was by building a new civilization out of outdated wardrobes, nonfunctioning appliances…and past lovers. I knew he still had that coffeemaker.

      Maybe