The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid

by Kate Hattemer

  “Maybe they’re comfortable.”

  “There’s no way pants that tight are comfortable.”

  “Maybe she likes them.”

  “Look,” I said, feeling attacked, “I’m trying to support you. His ex-girlfriend was a bust. He needs a new one. A new one by the name of Jiyoon Kim.”

  Jiyoon raised the Super Soaker. I instinctively shielded my eyes, but she was aiming lower. “A lovely platinum,” she said, then blotted my armpits with a towel.

  I craned to examine my pit hair. It was as luxuriant as before—we’d renounced the razor back in October—but it was now the crusty yellow of a cheap bleach job. “Awesome,” I said.

  “Phase three,” said Jiyoon, brandishing the bottle of blue dye.

  I closed my eyes as she began to paint on the dye. “Well,” I said, “I have a confession. I was texting Andy last night.”

  “Who texted who first?”

  “He texted me.”

  “Ooh.”

  “But it was on Triumvirate business.”

  “Yeah, sure. Just like it was Triumvirate business for his knee to have sex with yours at Town Meeting. Damn, Jem! Hold still! Do you want blue pit hair or a blue armpit?”

  “I had to shudder! That was gross!”

  “You’re the one who had knee sex onstage. Why’d he text you?”

  “He had an idea for Powderpuff fan gear, but then we kept talking.”

  She grabbed my phone and tapped in my pass code, which was her birthday.

  “Hey,” I protested. “I do have two armpits.”

  “It can wait,” she said, scrolling through the conversation. “Hmm. Interesting. Nice, you let him text last. Playing hard to get?”

  “I fell asleep.”

  “I should have known. No way you intentionally restrained yourself.” She crawled to my other side. “Well. That was flirtatious. Definitely flirtatious.”

  I pretended my smile was due to ticklishness. She knew better.

  “You like him, don’t you?” she said. “You actually like him.”

  “No! No.”

  “Don’t lie to Great-Aunt Dotty.”

  “The way Great-Aunt Dotty lies to me?”

  Jiyoon smirked. “Perhaps.”

  “He’s cute,” I admitted.

  “And he’s also Andy Monroe.”

  That was not the awestruck tone in which most people would have said that sentence.

  “What do you mean by that?” I said.

  “Is he really good enough for you?”

  “He’s Andy Monroe! Of course he’s good enough!”

  “Never mind,” she said grimly. “You’re in too deep to save.”

  Jiyoon actually had a chance with Paul. But Andy and I would never happen, no matter how many flirty texts we sent, no matter how much our knees got it on. “I’m Jemima Kincaid,” I said. “I’m the Mildred. I’ve kissed one boy ever.”

  “What, and that makes him better than you? This isn’t some game where you get points for romantic contact, where if you kiss someone, you level up—” She broke off, and I knew we were both imagining how to design a card game with that premise. “The fact that he’s had a bunch of girlfriends doesn’t mean he’s better than you.”

  “It’s more the fact that he’s Andy Monroe,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “You are truly a lost cause. Okay. I’m done. Let the dye set for thirty minutes, and then it’s my turn.”

  She didn’t believe me, but I was right. There was capital in high school. Sexual capital. And you got it with experience. If you were a girl, you could also have too much experience, sure, but you didn’t have to worry about that if in your whole eighteen years you had kissed only one boy and nobody at school even knew because you met him during a whirlwind, highly romantic weekend at the National Academic Quiz Team Championships in Chicago junior year. And even if he was legit cute—not cute relative to Quiz Team boys but cute cute—and even if you and he maintained a correspondence fraught with longing for several months, thereby proving his feelings were true and he hadn’t just been trying to get some at the Quiz Team tournament, well, even then. Even then you didn’t have much to go on.

  Andy and I weren’t on the same level. He could have had any girl he wanted—I bet even Gennifer would have traded up—but Chawton boys weren’t interested in me. My mom, in the grand tradition of nerd moms everywhere, claimed I intimidated them. Like there were hordes secretly in love with me but I was too menacing a presence. I was too attractive. Too smart. Too fun. Right. Because that made sense.

  Jiyoon Super-Soaked the dye off my pits and I flung up my arms in front of the bathroom mirror. The blue was startling and hilarious and I loved it. “I cannot wait till everyone at school gets an eyeful,” I said.

  “Even Andy?” said Jiyoon.

  “Even Andy,” I said.

  Convincing myself as much as I was convincing her.

  Andy had to switch our Thursday meeting to the evening because he had a lacrosse game after school. No problem! I texted. Starbucks, after all, did not subscribe to the Chawton dress code. That evening, after alerting my mother that I’d need a ride, I put on jeans and earrings and a soupçon of makeup. And a stretchy, clingy V-neck.

  I tested it by bending over in front of the mirror. I’m well endowed, chesticularly speaking. That is, I have big boobs. I’m not going to tell you the cup size, because if you’re skinny, you’ll be like, Ha, ha, I didn’t even know they made bras that far down the alphabet! I’ve never particularly liked the ol’ bosoms—they’ve always been a source of awkwardness and discomfort, of high-tech swimsuits and higher-tech sports bras, and as for the guys who address all conversation to my chest, let me just say, Hi, communication orifices up here—but as I leered at my own cleavage, I suddenly saw their advantage.

  Not that my appearance mattered for a Triumvirate meeting.

  Gennifer was already there. “You look good,” she said suspiciously.

  “That’s such a surprise?”

  She was saved from answering—or I was saved from her answer—by Andy’s arrival. “Hey there,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said in a strangled tone.

  Why had I worn blush?

  Shouldn’t I have anticipated I’d be able to take care of that on my own?

  It had been a full week since the Patellofemoral Fornication Incident, alias Kneegate, as Jiyoon and I had deemed that fateful Town Meeting after determining that knee sex sounded way too Teutonic and gross. I was still hung up on it. There’d been another Town Meeting on Tuesday, and my stomach had gotten so churny beforehand that I’d almost thrown up. But Gennifer had ended up sitting between me and Andy. Talk about a cockblock. A knee stymie. Okay, that was awful. There had to be a better pun—

  “Jemima,” said Gennifer. “Jemima! Hello. We’re trying to get started here. Is the prom website ready to go live?”

  “That link you texted us looked good to me,” said Andy. “Nice work, Kincaid.”

  “I did nothing,” I told him. “It was all Paul.”

  “You hired the contractor,” said Andy. “That’s not nothing.”

  “Is it ready?” Gennifer said sharply. “Should I email it out?”

  “Oh, um, Paul wants to do one more test or something?” I said. I’d checked in with him after school, but in my current state, the details were hazy. I needed to get it together. Nothing was happening with Andy. I sat up straighter, hiked up my shirt, and licked off some lip gloss to tone down the try-hard effect.

  Andy was staring at me.

  And I was licking my lips.

  What was wrong with me?

  “The site should be ready by early next week,” I said, frowning in my best impression of Dorcas the Octogenarian Troll. “Let’s get it out promptly so people can start making their lists.”r />
  “Sweet,” said Andy. “Who’s on yours, Kincaid?”

  “Why would you care?” said Gennifer.

  “It’s called polite conversation.”

  “Moving on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Social Comm is developing decor ideas to fit with the Last Chance theme—”

  Okay.

  This was a small table, yes.

  Andy had long legs, yes.

  But Kneegate was happening.

  Again.

  I tried to look attentive, but I heard nary a word from Gennifer. I was busy evaluating three possibilities:

  1. Andy didn’t know it was my knee. He thought it was a weirdly warm table leg.

  2. Andy knew it was my knee, but, like a normal person, he considered knee-to-knee contact unremarkable.

  3. Andy was doing it on purpose.

  But if he was, why?

  Was it an erotic experience for him (too)?

  Or was he messing with me?

  AHHHHH!

  I wished I’d worn a skirt. And what if he’d been wearing shorts? Mmm. Andy in shorts.

  “How was the lacrosse game, Andy?” I heard myself asking.

  “Um, hel-lo, I was speaking,” said Gennifer.

  “Great. We won, twelve–nine. And it was warm for once. It felt good to get out there and sweat.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Oh.

  “So, to summarize, we’re going casino,” said Gennifer. “Which isn’t totally Last Chance, but it is chance, and that’s about as good as it’s going to get.”

  Andy shuffled in his seat. His knee bade farewell to mine.

  Damn.

  “What’s going on with Powderpuff?” Gennifer said.

  “I hate that name,” I said. “Like we’re supposed to stop after each play and powder our noses.”

  “It’s a tradition,” said Gennifer. “Andy, you’re working on teams?”

  “I’ve talked to all the guys,” he said. “They’re all assigned to either Team Tiger or Team Angel.”

  “What about the girls?” said Gennifer.

  “We’re almost done,” said Andy. “Some are more obvious than others. Kincaid, for example, is very much a Tiger.”

  “I thought it was random,” I said.

  “What am I?” said Gennifer.

  “Hmm,” said Andy. “Now, this takes some thought.” His eyes raked her. She duck-faced and posed with her hand on her hip.

  “It’s not random?” I said again.

  They ignored me. “This is a tough one,” said Andy. “Some of you could play for either side. I’m going to have to say…”

  Angel, I thought fervently. Angel.

  “Tiger.”

  Gennifer hmphed. “Looks like we’ll be playing together, Jemmy.”

  “Guess so, Ghen.”

  She flipped her binder closed. “That’s it for now, right? Chairman apps are due in a week. Do we have a second candidate?”

  “Wait, we have a candidate already?” I said. “Who is it?”

  “According to the Triumvirate Handbook, we’re not supposed to know until the application deadline,” said Gennifer.

  “But you know!”

  “We should tell her,” said Andy to Gennifer.

  “You know too?”

  “Because it’s—” said Andy.

  Gennifer, unwilling to be scooped, cut him off. “It’s Mack.”

  “Mack?”

  They both nodded.

  “Your brother? Your boyfriend?”

  Mack was the worst.

  “That’s the one,” said Andy.

  “Well,” I said, “this reeks of corruption.”

  Gennifer shoved away her skinny vanilla latte. “Jemima, do you wonder why you don’t get told stuff? You turn everything into a big deal. Everything. A qualified junior has chosen to run for chairman. And?”

  “Mack Monroe is one triumvir’s brother and another triumvir’s prospective life partner—”

  “They’re never getting married,” said Andy at the same time as Gennifer said, “We’re not even engaged yet.”

  She glared at him.

  “And,” I said, “he’s running for the highest office in the land, unopposed! Yeah, that’s not at all fishy!”

  “Chill,” said Gennifer.

  “We need to rustle up another candidate!” I said. “Make an announcement in Town Meeting! Target juniors we consider promising! Have teachers make recommendations!”

  Gennifer raised a finger. I shut up. Such is the power of Gennifer Grier’s gel-manicured hand. She opened her binder. “Allow me,” she said. “Triumvirate Handbook, chapter four, section one-point-three: ‘Candidates for chairman shall nominate themselves. The Triumvirate shall make it widely known that they are soliciting applications, but neither need nor ought concern themselves with the identities of the candidates. The chairmanship shall rest upon the premise that the cream rises to the top.’ ”

  She thwacked it shut.

  “Applications are open for another week,” said Andy, conciliatory. His knee nudged mine.

  “May the cream,” said Gennifer, “rise to the top.”

  I had spent all of Saturday in Maryland at a rec league soccer tournament, and I was exhausted. The house felt deserted. My mom was probably asleep. I showered, pulled on sweats and a ratty tank, and inhaled cold leftover sausage, an entire sleeve of saltines, and three grape Popsicles that had been in the freezer so long that most of their syrup had melted to the bottom of their waxy sleeves. #cleaneating, #fitlife, #blessed, etc.

  My phone buzzed. I’m bored, you’re immobile. First driving lesson tonight?

  I considered it while I rummaged around in the freezer. By the time I’d found another Popsicle, this one in a truly advanced state of decomposition, I knew I wanted to go. I sent Jiyoon a quick text.

  It’s okay if I have a driving lesson with Paul tonight right?

  I wasn’t sure what I was asking: Was it okay that I wasn’t hanging out with her? Or was it okay that I was hanging out with the guy she (putatively) liked? I got a row of weeping emojis back, then texts:

  No, go ahead

  Feel free to spend Saturday night with the coolest guy ever while I sit at home

  NO PROBLEM AT ALL

  Ha. I knew it.

  You definitely like him

  You’re a total goner

  Pause. Typing bubbles.

  A single blushing emoji.

  I laughed aloud. Got her. Well, I would have to perform some reconnaissance. I texted Paul that I was free.

  See you at 9:37, he said.

  He pulled into my driveway at, you guessed it, 9:37. By the time I got out, he was leaning on Prudence’s hood, wearing his usual hiking boots but some sweet tan skinny jeans and a black T-shirt. I hadn’t bothered to change. “Yo,” he said. It was clearly an ironic yo.

  “Yo,” I replied, also ironically. “Nine-thirty-seven, huh?”

  “I’m against the ghettoization of numbers that aren’t multiples of five.”

  “How manic pixie dream boy of you.”

  “Gross,” he said, making a face. “It kind of is.”

  I got into the passenger seat. “Thanks for the lesson.”

  “Yeah, I looked this up, and it’s illegal. You have to be twenty-one to teach someone to drive.”

  “We’ll be scofflaws,” I said.

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a license that could get revoked.”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

  “However, I’m willing to risk it all. Whoa! Whoa! Wow.”

  I was stretching. Soccer, for whatever reason, always made my shoulders stiff. “What?”

  “Is that a thatch of blue armpit hair?”

&nbs
p; “Oh!” I’d forgotten. “Yep. Jiyoon and I dyed each other’s.”

  “Jiyoon did it too?”

  “Yep,” I said, smirking internally.

  “That’s so cool. I want to do that to mine. Though that’d miss the point, since men are culturally permitted to have pit hair. Right?”

  “Yes! You get it!”

  “You two are amazing.” He shook his head, apparently overcome by our coolness.

  We whizzed down Route 50 in old Prudence, her engine whirring and revving, the wind whistling in through her seams. Most of the cars that I’m in are like sealed pods. “I was texting Jiyoon earlier today,” I said. Super casually.

  “Oh?”

  “Yep.” Oops. Now what? I should have thought this through. “She’s really funny,” I added.

  “I am aware.” He pulled into the big, empty parking lot of a closed Home Depot. “This’ll give us a lot of space to practice. Want to switch seats?”

  He got out. I shimmied over with the agility and grace of a warthog. It was weird to be so close to the controls. “I’ve never sat in the cockpit of a car,” I said when Paul got in the passenger seat. “I feel so powerful.” Suddenly the windshield wipers started, making me jump. “Ahh! Did I do that? Make them stop!”

  Paul reached over and flicked something. “Careful. Power corrupts.”

  “So how do I make it go forward?”

  Prudence, it seemed, was a “stick.” Paul explained the mechanics, the main takeaway being that somehow, with two feet, I was supposed to deal with three pedals.

  “That makes no sense!” I felt a rush of nerves. Driving was already harder than I’d expected. “Who came up with that?”

  “That’s how it works.”

  “That’s like having glasses with three lenses,” I said. “Or a glove with six fingers. Or—”

  “Or a piano with eighty-eight keys. Humans are capable of remarkable feats of coordination. Even you, Jemima. Okay, press down the clutch and the brake, and turn the key in the ignition—”

  “Oh my God. It started. I started a car.”

  “Now slowly let out the clutch as you slowly push the gas—no, slowly!”

  The engine revved and then, with a grisly cough and a jerk forward, died.

  “That’s called stalling,” he said. “Let’s try again.”