Trapper and Emmeline by Lindsey Flinch Bedder Page A

was no accounting for taste. “Are you planning to go out with him?”

    She looked uncomfortable. The Guido was the first of her potential dates that I’d actual y met.
    “It’s stil early in the week, Trap. For my first date, I want something… less unambiguous than a dinner date. Like an innocent study session. With him, it would not be innocent at al . He would jump me like a turnstile.” Her eyes fluttered to mine, shy. “Stil , I’m curious about him. He wears more jewelry than I do. We would make one blinged-out pair.”
    “Keep me informed,” I said. “I like how guys are just grabbing you before they say hel o.”
    She laughed. “I think they do that if they can’t remember my name in time.”
    “We are one weird couple.”

    In our own way, we were being methodical about Emmeline’s wardrobe. It was a little like she was in training—she gave reports on how rarely she noticed what she was wearing, and I cheered her on. After several weeks, she reported that she didn’t care about her hemlines anymore. She was taking stairs, sitting down and even bending over without rearranging her clothes. There was an element of the absurd, and we both knew it: Could she really be that precise about something she wasn’t supposed to be noticing?
    But there was truth to it also. She was pul ing down her skirts less often. When getting out of a chair, less and less often would she primly keep her knees together. She no longer groaned when men stopped and stared up her legs in front of our park bench. She no longer anxiously squeezed my hand when we walked over a vent in the sidewalk. Wind on the streets no longer made her clench her teeth or giggle, depending on her mood.
    After four weeks as boyfriend and girlfriend, we even started talking about the skirts less. This made me happy, not because I didn’t like talking about how the skirts made her feel—I lived for those reports! She gave fewer details, and dwel ed more on other topics, because we no longer had the sense that the Great Experiment would be over in a few days.
    Emmeline’s rules felt permanent.
    One of our rules was no underwear at the library. Consequently, we spent a lot of time at the library, where we teased each other and got riled up for sex at my apartment later. Being so diligent about studying helped our grades, and it distracted everybody else around us.

    That morning I found Emmeline horsing around in the library foyer with our friend Mike and another guy I didn’t know.
    She was pressed against Mike tighter than a tattoo. Their arms hooked behind each other’s backs, each hand grasping the other’s neck. They were trying to trip each other by wrapping their legs together. The friend was smiling at them with jealous interest from the side.
    “Trapper!” she said, when I walked up.
    “Hi, honey!” I gave her a kiss and then pul ed back. I didn’t want her leaving Mike’s grip.
    She was wearing a wraparound jeans skirt, low on her hips, which was closed with two buttons. She was more than wearing it, she owned it. It rocked on her hips as she moved, with the split showing most of her thigh. And I loved her top, a shiny black silk number with straps over her shoulders. It looked like lingerie and she later confirmed it was; regular blouses weren’t doing it for her anymore. The front of the shirt veered down to her sternum, and then exposed her even further with strategic patches of sheer, open lace. The firm orbs of her breasts were covered only by modest little lace-trimmed triangles of silk. As she tussled with Mike, her breasts shimmied back and forth entrancingly. They surged out of her top when she pressed against his chest.
    “This is Tim,” Emmeline said. “He’s in our Poli Sci class too.”
    I shook Tim’s hand.
    He said, “We were having a political discussion. Emmeline said she’d trip Mike up.”
    “Literal y!” she laughed.
    Mike tried to leverage her around again. He looked down her front without any