“Secret?” he asked. Halfway through a swallow, his voice was an octave higher than usual.
“For your muscle tone,” said Carla Sue.
Lance had one arm crooked around his tray. The exertion of keeping his arm flat on the table exposed long cords of well-defined sinew. Carla Sue held her hand a half inch above that arm as if tempted but not daring to stroke it. Her fingers were long and elegant. The nails were short, shorter than Becky kept hers, but neatly manicured. Lance shot another glance at Freddy. This time Freddy winked.
“It must be the eggs,” said Carla Sue.
“Eggs?” Lance guffawed. “It’s not eggs ma’am. It’s hard work.”
“I work hard, too,” said Carla Sue. She rolled up her sleeve and placed her bare arm alongside Lance’s. Lance recoiled, but could move his arm only so far before it lodged against the side of the tray. Carla Sue persisted. She laid her arm right on top of his, wrist to wrist, elbow nestling into elbow. Lance felt the warmth of her skin. A chill rolled up his arm and coursed down his spine. He wanted to move, but his arm was wedged between hers and the tray. It would take effort to extricate himself; he did not want to appear impolite.
“But even allowing that you’re a strong man and I’m just a weak little girl, I don’t have your tone.”
“Maybe you don’ work right,” said Freddy.
“Now that is a distinct possibility,” said Carla Sue. She looked at Lance with her lips trembling between a pucker and a pout. “I follow the regimen, but the regimen just might not be right for me. I think I need a coach.”
“Well—” Lance felt himself melting under the intensity of her blue eyes, the earnestness of her milky smile.
“Lance a good coach,” said Freddy. “He know the body, the human body. He can coach you real good.”
“Freddy—”
“Could you, Lance?” Carla Sue squeezed his hand. “I truly would appreciate it.”
“Well, you see—”
“Sure he could,” said Freddy. “You just name the time.”
“I usually work out about nine,” she said. “It leaves me plenty of time to cool down before bed.”
“At nine I’m supposed to—”
“He’ll be there,” said Freddy.
“The exercise room at nine this evening. See you then.” Carla Sue sailed out of the wardroom before Lance’s stammering could resolve into a negative response.
“What did you do that for?” asked Lance.
“You need to get your mind off Becky.”
“But I’m supposed to help you with your project. I do every night.”
“I don’ need your help tonight.”
“I can’t exercise with her. People will get the wrong idea.”
“There’s no idea to get.”
“But she’s Jaeckle’s girlfriend. You remember what that guy said back at the Cape.”
“Lance, my frien’,” said Freddy. “That guy don’ know shit. You work out with this lady at nine, eh?”
“This is how you do it,” huffed Lance between pulls on the rowing machine. “Extend and pull, extend and pull. Full range of motion.”
Carla Sue, wearing a white Danskin to set off the remains of her tan and hot-pink leg warmers to bulk up her nonexistent calves, floated beside his shoulder. She and Lance were the only people using the exercise equipment. In the farthest corner of the ex/rec room, Chakra Ramsanjawi and Hisashi Oyamo were at their nightly game of chess. Carla Sue could feel them staring in between moves.
“You try,” said Lance. He released the belt and drifted off the rowing machine.
With her ankles and knees primly pressed together, Carla Sue positioned herself over the machine and pulled herself onto the seat. She cinched the belt at the last hole, but her waist was so thin that some play remained. On her first pull, she rose slightly off the seat.
“Extend,” said Lance.
“I can’t,” Carla Sue said with a helpless trill. “I’m bobbing against this belt like a cork.”
“Oh,” said Lance. He brought one hand to his chin and inspected the situation. “Belt’s as tight as it will go.”
“I know that,” said Carla Sue. “I’m too slim.”
“Try again,” said Lance. He spun so that he had a proper view of the seat and Carla Sue’s butt. Carla Sue tugged at the oars.