“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Britta chirps to Justin, pulling her phone out of her knitting bag. “I follow you on Instagram! I love your feed so, so much.”
“Oh. Well, thanks.” Justin casts a slightly flustered look my way. I answer him with an “I told you so” smirk. I warned him way back when that there could be uncomfortable consequences to posing nearly naked on social media. Seeing him squirm in his chair as an under-aged girl pulls up his latest shot on her phone—Jus standing on his porch in a scarf and jeans and nothing else—and passes it around the circle is poetic justice at its finest.
“I knitted three beanies last year for your hats for the homeless drive,” Britta prattles on, “and I’m already figuring out what to work on for this year. It was amazing to see how many hats you got.”
“Yeah, it was amazing. Thanks for being a part of it.” Jus smiles at the clearly besotted teen before fetching his current project from his messenger bag. “So, what’s everyone working on? I’m halfway through a unicorn hat for my friend’s daughter, and then I’m going to start on some Star Wars stuff.”
We go around the circle, introducing ourselves and our works in progress, and I learn that Melanie, the newbie next to me, is indeed struggling with a scarf. I offer to help her adjust her tension—she’s got her yarn so tight she can barely get the tip of the needle through to loop another stich—so I’m distracted when Priscilla starts her description of her latest piece. But by the time she rises from her chair to sashay over to Justin to offer him a closer look at the net she’s working on for her Catchers of Men series, I’m picking up on the pick-up attempt loud and clear.
“The installation is going to feature mannequins tangled in the nets I’ve knitted,” Priscilla says, holding up her work, until it becomes a screen separating her and Justin from the rest of the group. “They’ll hang from the ceiling to give the viewer the sensation that he might be snatched up in a net any moment. It’s going to be a really visceral, almost claustrophobic experience. I’d love to have you over to take a look at things before opening night. It’s so rare to meet a man who’s into sports and needlework. I’d love to get your unique take on the piece.”
On the word “unique” she presses her hand to Justin’s chest, above his pectoral muscle, but a little lower than his shoulder.
It’s a weird place to touch someone, I think critically, even as I try not to let the fact that Priscilla is fondling Justin like a piece of meat get to me. Justin and I are here as friends, and he’s free to allow himself to be fondled by anyone he pleases. And as irritating as she is, Pris is very, very pretty. With her long, blond hair, willowy figure, and cosmopolitan style, she’s actually way more Justin’s type than I am. It makes sense that the two most beautiful people in the room should gravitate toward each other.
I’m trying to get used to the idea that Justin might decide Priscilla is worth taking out for a test date when he leans down to dig through his bag, casually brushing her hand away from his chest in the process.
“Sounds interesting, but I’m crazy busy this time of year,” he says, pulling out another ball of yarn he clearly doesn’t need at this point in his work. “But you should ask Libby to go. She’s got an amazing eye for art. The kids in her class place in the elementary art show every year, even though they’re the youngest in their division. Don’t they, Libs?”
“They do,” I say, not missing the glare Pris shoots my way. “But you can’t really compare kindergarten level projects with what Priscilla does at her gallery. I’m sure I wouldn’t have much of value to contribute, but if you want me to swing by next week, Pris, I can.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Priscilla’s lips curve in a constipated looking grin as she sways back to her seat. “But that’s so kind of you to offer. You are such a sweetheart, Libby. The little people you teach are so lucky to have you there to wipe their noses and kiss their booboos.”
“Thanks,” I say, her comment leaving a sour taste in my mouth.
On the surface it seems like a nice thing to say, but I can’t help feeling like she intended the comment to make me feel small. Dana has been trying to instruct me on the finer points of shade—even though she insists that most white people struggle with the concept of shade, as well as its proper execution—but my shade-dar still isn’t the best. I make a mental note to ask Dana later if I was shaded, and to inquire as to how I might have shaded Priscilla in return if I were of the mind to retaliate in kind, and turn my attention back to my afghan.