Poetic Letters

Rich Girl II

Roseanne

I sleep late the next morning.

Normally on a Saturday, I would be up and out of bed by nine a.m., working on college applications or volunteering at our local animal rescue. But my body is boneless. So relaxed that I don't even shift to find comfortable spots. I'm just plopped face down in the center, arms curled under my favorite pillow, a dreamy smile tilting my lips.

Lisa.

Thinking her name makes me sensitive. Everywhere.

My thighs rub sinuously on the sheets, my nipples tender from her mouth.

Last night was the first time I've ever hooked up with someone. I don't know much about physical intimacy. But I know instinctively that none of my acquaintance could have done this to me. None of them could have talked to me like that, touched me with such precision and care...or been so animalistic afterward.

Can I lick it up?

I exhale roughly into my pillow remembering her face pressed between my thighs, her wet mouth reflecting the moonlight. Who knew I could be turned on by things like that?

No. No, it's only with Lisa.

It's as though my body was waiting for her to arrive and turn the key in my ignition.

What am I going to do about this girl?

I would like to think I live in an open-minded world with non-judgmental people. But I don't. I've been born and raised in upper-crust Boston. Tradition is carved into every inch of my identity, along with everyone I know. Dating an underground fighter from Southie will not merely be frowned upon. People will try and stop it. My circle doesn't like change. They like the status quo and reject anything that threatens it.

There is no doubt in my mind that I'm the main topic of conversation among my friends right now. Word that I went home with Lisa has probably already spread beyond my inner circle to the rest of the school. Seulgi will need to save face somehow-and I'm sure that means I'm going to be the victim.

In other words, school on Monday is going to be a real delight.

Stretching my arms above my head, I grab my phone on my bedside table to check the time-and see dozens of texts from my friends, including Seulgi. I ignore all of the ugly opinions about my behavior, focusing on their grudging concern and fire back quick messages to let them know I made it home fine. Then I leave my phone face down on the bed and pad downstairs for breakfast.

Halfway down the staircase, the sound of low, hushed male voices brings me up short.

One of those voices belongs to my father, but I don't recognize the other.

Brow pinched, I continue down the stairs and peek around the door into the dining room-and I have to slap a hand over my mouth to contain my gasp. Sitting at one end of our eighteen-seat banquet table is my father. And Boston's most notorious criminal.

Christopher Yu.

My heart pumps in a wild rhythm in my chest. What is he doing in our house?

Ever since I was a little girl, I've read about Christopher Yu in the news. He's been in prison once-for a long stretch-and he didn't clean up his act upon release. The consensus among the public is he only got smarter. Better at hiding his crimes in plain sight. What in the world is he doing meeting with my father?

Staying as quiet as possible, I remain out of sight and listen to their conversation.

"There are going to be a lot of eyes on this development, Park. But only until you've awarded the contract. Then everyone goes home. Nothing to see here, right?" Christopher shifts some papers. "You pick one of the obvious firms for the job and once no one is looking, right before the contract is signed, you quietly switch to our company."