by Tom Perrotta
“Crazy motherfucker,” chuckled Dumell. “How long were you stuck in there?”
Julian shrugged. It had only been a couple minutes—his house key cut right through the tape—but it felt like forever. The stench of that open toilet had been seared into his nostrils for months afterward. He could still smell it now if he tried hard enough.
“Too fucking long,” he said.
Julian shot another hateful look at Mrs. Fletcher. He wanted to say something mean, to let her know what a horrible bully she’d brought into the world, but she was standing up now, not even looking in his direction as she headed off to the rest room with Dr. Fairchild in tow.
“Damn,” said Dumell, who was watching the women walk. His voice was low and appreciative. “She looks good.”
“Which one?” asked Julian.
“Damn,” Dumell repeated in that same soft voice, which wasn’t really an answer.
* * *
With only one stall and limited standing room, the women’s rest room at PLAY BALL! wasn’t ideal for girl talk. Eve made a magnanimous after you gesture, inviting Margo to avail herself of the facilities. She checked her phone while she waited—there were no texts or emails of note—and reminded herself that it was rude to speculate about the particulars of the professor’s anatomy.
It’s not important, she thought. Gender’s a state of mind.
Margo flushed and emerged with a slightly tipsy smile on her face.
“Mission accomplished,” she announced in a singsong voice, turning sideways so Eve could slip past. “Your turn.”
Eve really did have to pee, but she was overcome with a sudden attack of shyness the moment she sat on the toilet. She had no problem going with strangers nearby, but it was harder when people she knew were within hearing range. It was all because Ted, in the early days of their relationship, had once teased her about the force of her stream.
Jesus, he said. Who turned on the faucet?
Years later, when their marriage was falling apart, Eve had mentioned this incident in a couple’s therapy session, to which they’d each brought a list of unspoken grievances. Ted had no recollection of making this comment, and was mystified that it could have bothered her for so many years. It was a dumb joke, he told her. Just let it go already. But here she was, seven years divorced, and still brooding about it.
“Eve,” said Margo. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of Dumell?”
“Dumell?” Eve repeated, trying to buy some time. The truth was, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to Dumell. They hadn’t interviewed each other yet, and he didn’t talk much in class. She didn’t even know if Dumell was his first name or his last. She mostly just thought of him as Worried Black Guy, though she’d been impressed tonight by how attentive he was being to Julian Spitzer, who looked like he was getting pretty drunk.
“Yeah,” said Margo. “Do you like him?”
“He seems nice.” Eve discovered to her relief that it was easy to pee while holding a conversation. “Kinda low-key.”
“I think he’s handsome,” Margo said. “He’s got really nice eyes.”
Eve wiped and flushed and exited the stall. She understood her role now.
“So,” she asked, washing her hands in that slightly theatrical way she adopted when other people were watching. “Do you have a crush on him?”
“Maybe.” Margo was gazing into the cloudy mirror, applying her lipstick with the concentration of a surgeon. “And by maybe I mean definitely.”
“Wow.”
“I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Is that allowed?” Eve inquired. “The teacher-and-student thing?”
“Who cares?” Margo scoffed. “Do you have any idea what they pay me? Anyway, we’re all adults, right?”
If they were going to swap secrets, this would have been the time for Eve to mention Amanda, to bond with Margo over their illicit crushes, but she wasn’t drunk enough to say it out loud.
“I’m just glad he’s tall,” Margo said. “I don’t think it would work with me and a short guy. I mean, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t, but a lot of men get freaked out by tall women.”
“They’re such babies,” Eve said. “What doesn’t freak them out?”
Margo nodded, but without much conviction.
“I’ve never actually been with a man before,” she confessed.
“Oh,” said Eve. “Wow.”
“I liked women when I was a man. At least I tried to. But now . . . that’s not really working for me anymore. I think I’m ready to branch out.”
“Good for you.” Eve gave her an encouraging squeeze on the arm. She wanted to say, I know exactly how you feel, but once again the words stayed put.
“So what should I do?” Margo asked. “How do I seduce him?”
“Maybe you should just talk to him first. Get to know him a little.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Or you could sit on his lap and stick your tongue in his ear. That works, too.”
* * *
Something happened to Julian in the men’s room. He wasn’t exactly sober going in—nowhere near it—but he could still walk and think straight. But when he came out, he was totally fucking WASTED. It was like that whole second pitcher caught up with him in the course of a single piss.
Getting back to the table was an adventure worthy of a video game, and Dr. Fairchild seemed to have taken his seat.
“ ’Scuse me,” he told her. “No offense, but that’s my spot.”
Dumell pointed across the table. There was an empty chair next to Mrs. Fletcher.
“Why don’t you sit over there?” Dumell told him. “Spread the love.”
Dumell was giving him a badass military stare, like, Just do it, motherfucker. Julian wasn’t so hammered that he couldn’t take a hint.
“Chillax, bro.” He winked at Dumell and then gave him a thumbs-up, which he realized, even as he was doing it, was a little too much of a good thing. “I got your back.”
There was something else he wanted to say, but he couldn’t remember what it was, and the next thing he knew Mrs. Fletcher was standing next to him with her arm around his shoulders, offering to drive him home. Julian didn’t want to leave just yet, but Barry said he didn’t have a choice.
“You overdid it, kiddo. It’s time to go.”
“I’m not drunk,” Julian protested, but even he didn’t believe it.
They escorted him out to the parking lot like a criminal, Barry on one side, Mrs. Fletcher on the other. It was actually a relief to get out of the bar, to breathe some fresh air.
“I drank that whole pitcher,” he told them. “All by myself.”
“You’re a champ.” Barry helped him into the passenger seat of Mrs. Fletcher’s minivan. “You’re not gonna get sick, are you?”
“No way, Jose.”
“All right.” Barry nodded solemnly before he shut the door. “Don’t let me down.”
Mrs. Fletcher smiled at him as she slid the key into the ignition. Not a happy smile, but one of those What are we gonna do with you? smiles. It was weird being in the van with her. Like she was his mom. Or maybe even his girlfriend. Why the fuck not?
Brendan would not like that, he thought.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Buckle your seatbelt,” she told him.
He felt okay at first, except that the world kept lurching at him through the windshield. Too many trees and headlights and storefronts. It was better to focus on Mrs. Fletcher’s face. She had a nice profile.
“You think they’re gonna hook up?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Dumell and Dr. Fairchild. I think he likes her.”
Mrs. Fletcher turned and looked at him, as if he’d said something interesting.
“Did he tell you that?”
“Kind of.”
“Well,” she said, after a brief hesitation. “It’s n
one of our business if they do. They’re both adults.”
Julian nodded. He liked the sound of Mrs. Fletcher’s voice. And he liked the tight shirt she was wearing, the way her boobs swelled against the buttons.
“What about us?” he said. “We gonna hook up?”
“You’re drunk,” she told him.
“You’re really pretty. Do you even know that?”
“Julian,” she said. “Let’s not do this, okay?”
“Why not?”
“I’m forty-six years old,” she told him. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”
He wanted to tell her that age didn’t matter, but something went badly wrong in his stomach, and he had to ask her to pull over.
“Right now! Please.”
She heard the urgency in his voice and swerved to the side of the road. He jumped out of the van, hand clamped over his mouth, and puked into a nearby storm drain, which was better than leaving a disgusting puddle on the sidewalk for dogs to sample in the morning.
“Oh, fuck.”
He was down on all fours, gazing through the metal grate into the dark abyss below, when he realized that Mrs. Fletcher was crouching next to him, rubbing his back in a slow circle, telling him to relax, that he’d feel better when he’d gotten the poison out of his system.
“Poor baby,” she said.
“You have great boobs,” he told her, right before he puked again.
PART THREE
Gender and Society
A Bouquet of Red Flags
For the most part, Amber and her mom got along really well. They texted each other several times a day and spoke on the phone at least twice a week. And these weren’t short calls, either. Once they got started, they could talk for an hour straight without coming up for air.
Unless there was something urgent to discuss, their conversations followed a well-worn path. They always began with an update about her brother—what he was eating, how he was sleeping, how things were going for him at school, how many new Matchbox cars he’d acquired—because Amber missed him a lot and still felt guilty about going away to college, leaving her mom to care for him as if she were a single parent, even though her father lived in the house. He’d never really bonded with Benjy; he acted like there was no point in even trying, and everybody let him get away with it, including Amber.
When they’d exhausted the topic of Benjy, her mom would ask a few questions about Amber’s schoolwork, and then Amber would reciprocate, giving her mom lots of room to ramble on about anything that occurred to her, no matter how trivial—the weather, a story in the news, the quality of the produce she’d bought at the supermarket. There was always some discussion of her mom’s allergies and a segment devoted to any unusual activity in the neighborhood: who got a new car, whose dog was in a clown collar, who had switched from oil heat to natural gas. Amber listened patiently, because she knew how lonely her mother was, and how small her world had become.
It was the least she could do.
At the same time, Amber dreaded these phone calls, because they inevitably drifted to the awkward subject of boyfriends—specifically, her mother’s inability to understand why Amber didn’t have one. It made no sense: Amber was pretty, she was smart, she had a big heart and a warm personality. Yes, her mother understood that she had a demanding schedule—academics, softball, the various clubs and organizations she belonged to—but young people could always make time for a little romance. Amber’s mother certainly had, when she was her daughter’s age. She’d been a very popular young lady, if she had to say so herself.
You should go on some dates, her mother would say, as if this were a brilliant idea that had just occurred to her, rather than a suggestion she’d made a hundred times before.
Trying to keep her frustration in check, Amber would explain, for the hundredth time, that no one went on dates anymore, that it wasn’t a thing people her age actually did.
I literally do not know a single person who’s been on a date, she would protest. This wasn’t literally true, but she didn’t want to muddy the waters of the argument with a more nuanced position.
And then came the Big Significant Pause. Every frigging time.
Amber, honey? Is there something you want to tell us? You know your father and I will support you no matter what.
It was all because she’d gone to her senior prom with Jocelyn Rodriguez, a softball teammate and one of the few out kids in her high school. Neither one of them had a date, so they decided to go as friends. Lots of girls did that. But they looked so good together, so totally plausible—Joss in a tux, with her short hair slicked back, Amber girly in a pink dress—that everyone simply assumed they were a couple, Amber’s parents included. Even Joss seemed to think so, because she was pretty disappointed when Amber wouldn’t make out with her during the slow dances.
Jesus, Mom. How many times do I have to tell you? I like guys. There just aren’t any good ones here.
Well, that’s your problem right there, honey. You’re going in with a bad attitude. You have to give them a chance.
At that point in the conversation, Amber was tempted to list all the guys she’d hooked up with during freshman year—eight or nine, depending on how you looked at it, and every one an asshole in his own special way—but she didn’t want to be slut-shamed by her own mother. And besides, she was done with all that. No more drunken hookups. No more getting naked with sexist jerks who had no interest in her as a human being.
Maybe if you dressed a little more feminine, her mother would say. You look really pretty in dresses. Those skinny jeans aren’t always so flattering.
It was like they were actors in a play that never ended, doomed to keep performing the same depressing scene over and over again. But that was about to change, Amber thought, as she took a deep breath and reached for her phone.
* * *
Becca was supposed to visit that weekend. It was all set. She’d arranged for a ride from Haddington with a girl in her class who had an open invitation to crash at the Sigma house, and Zack had agreed to sexile himself for a couple of days, not that it was much of a sacrifice on his part. His on-and-off relationship with the mystery girl (who was supposedly not fat, though that’s how I always thought of her) was back on again, and he hardly ever slept in our room anymore anyway. Most of the time it felt like I was living in a single, which would have been great, except that I missed having him around. Even when he was there, things weren’t the same. I mean, we got along fine, but we didn’t joke around or laugh as much as we used to. He seemed a little distant, way more interested in whatever text he’d just received than in anything I had to say. It was pretty fucking annoying.
Dude, I asked him one night. Are you in love or something?
What? he said, chuckling to himself as he tapped out a reply.
Forget it, I told him. It’s not important
I was excited about seeing Becca after all this time, but also kinda nervous. She was the one who’d been pushing for a weekend visit—I was fine with waiting until Thanksgiving—but now that it was a done deal I figured I’d make the best of it. I was juiced about getting laid, because after almost two months at BSU, I’d had exactly zero sex (except solo), which did not seem like an auspicious start to my college career.
But fucking a girl is one thing, and spending a whole weekend with her is another, and Becca and I had never been one of those couples that hung out together very much, or had a lot to talk about when we did. So I can’t say I was all that crushed when she Skyped me on Wednesday with her eye makeup smeared from crying and told me that the visit was off. Her parents had talked it over and decided that she was too young to be spending the weekend with a college guy—even if the college guy was actually her high school boyfriend—and wanted to know why, if I was so keen on seeing their daughter, I didn’t just come home for the weekend and hang out with her there.
“Damn,” I said. “That really sucks.”
“I know. I wanted to sleep with you so
bad.”
“Yeah, me too.”
She sniffled and wiped her nose, staring at me with this wounded bird expression.
“It’s not such a terrible idea,” she said.
“What?”
“You could take the bus, right? And your mom would be really happy to see you.”
“You want me to come home?”
“Why not? I’ll split the cost with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not the money.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I knew I was in dangerous territory. There was no non-asshole way to tell her the truth, which was that I was happy enough to see her if I didn’t have a choice, but even happier not to if I did.
“Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
And then, like ten minutes after we hung up, Amber called. I hadn’t heard from her since the meeting of the Autism Awareness Network, where I’d humiliated myself by crying like a little bitch.
“What are you doing on Saturday night?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
She made a sound like the buzzer on a game show.
“Wrong,” she said. “We’re going on a date.”
* * *
Amber was painfully aware of the mismatch between her politics and her desires. She was an intersectional feminist, an advocate for people with disabilities, and a wholehearted ally of the LGBT community in all its glorious diversity. As a straight, cisgender, able-bodied, neurotypical, first-world, middle-class white woman, she struggled to maintain a constant awareness of her privilege, and to avoid using it to silence or ignore the voices of those without the same unearned advantages, who had more of a right to speak on many, many subjects than she did. It went without saying that she was a passionate opponent of capitalism, patriarchy, racism, homophobia, transphobia, rape culture, bullying, and microaggression in all its forms.
But when it came to boys, for some reason, she only ever liked jocks.
It kind of sucked. She wished she were more attracted to men who shared her political convictions—the tree-huggers, the gender nonconformists, the vegan activists, the occupiers and boycotters, the Whiteness Studies majors, intellectual black dudes with Malcolm X eyeglasses—but it never seemed to work that way. She always fell for athletes—football players, shotputters, rugby forwards, heavyweight wrestlers, even an obnoxious golfer, though he was definitely an outlier—almost all of them hard-drinking white guys with buff, hairless chests, marinated in privilege, unable to see beyond their own dicks. And of course they used her like a disposable object, without regret or apology, because that’s what privilege is—the license to treat other people like shit while still getting to believe that you’re a good person.
