“So because the system hates women, I secretly want to join in?” I asked. It was so messed up. Especially because it rang true. Did I want to be the girl who acted like a guy? Did I pride myself on not being like other girls? Kind of. Yeah. “Ugh,” I said. “I’ll think about it. New topic. You took neuroscience in college, right?”
“Yeah.” He ripped open the cereal box.
“In the human brain,” I said, “is there a sex faucet? Has that been discovered yet?”
Crispin choked on the handful of Rice Chex he’d stuffed in his mouth. “Back up.”
I thought he’d know what I meant. “When you started, like…”
“Yes…”
“Was it just on all of a sudden?”
“Are you having sex?”
“This is totally hypothetical. Come on. I’m the Mildred.”
“My year,” he said darkly, “the Mildred’s libido was almost too functional.”
Why I was asking: I had been fine before. I’d been capable of interacting with males without wondering what it’d be like to be alone with them in the back seat of a Jeep Grand Cherokee. Now—well, there was a faucet, and it had been turned on. I couldn’t stop thinking about sex. The guys I saw on TV. The guys in my classes. The guys teaching my classes, which was more than mildly disturbing. Even when I was alone in my room, not a single guy in sight, I’d find myself cupping my own breast. Just, like, doing a Taylor series approximation with my right hand, feeling myself up with my left.
“Say there is a sex faucet,” I said. “How would one go about turning it off?”
“Death?” said Crispin.
“Thanks.”
He rearranged the groceries. “I don’t know about any sex faucet, except the one called puberty. But listen. Think about what you want.”
“What I want?” I wanted everything. That was the problem. I wanted to live through all the R-rated scenes I’d ever seen, and the ones I’d squeamishly closed my eyes through. I wanted a boyfriend. I wanted Andy.
Oh, and I wanted to win our last Quiz Team tournament and I wanted A-pluses in all my classes and I wanted to learn to drive and I wanted Jiyoon to beat Mack. I wanted Jiyoon to respect me again. I wanted to be just like the other girls. I wanted the Tigers to win the Powderpuff game, preferably with me scoring the winning touchdown.
I used to be content, damn it! Damn it. Life was a lot easier when I didn’t want so much from it.
“I’m going to make you tell me what’s going on,” said Crispin. “I’ve got to bounce now. But think about what you want, Bump. Think carefully. And then, only then, take the steps you need to take to get there.”
Half an hour after Crispin left, Paul texted me to see whether he could come by at 9:17 for a driving lesson. It was ridiculously irresponsible of me, given incomplete homework, un-crammed-for exams, etc., but when I saw his headlights in the driveway—at 9:17, natch—I jogged out. “Hi.”
“Yo,” he said. “Shh.”
“What? I have to be quiet? Why do I have to be quiet? Are you—”
He put a finger to his lips. I shushed. He swung out onto the road and I relaxed into Prudence’s somewhat grimy passenger seat. Paul had the radio set to the classical-music station, basically background music as far as I was concerned, though as we started whizzing down Route 50, the windows whistling wind above the shiny strings, it sounded pretty good.
“And that,” said the plummy voice of the announcer, “was Bach’s glorious Concerto for Two Violins, played by—”
Paul jammed off the radio. “What’d you think?”
“About what?”
“Bach’s glorious concerto or whatever.”
“You’re into classical music?”
“No. Not yet. But I believe in the exposure theory. The more time you spend around something, the more you like it.”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned from three years of Latin class with Mack Monroe, it’s that the opposite is true.”
He shrugged, and I felt the same chagrin as when I’d derailed his and Jiyoon’s philosophical discussion with a joke. Why did I have to be the way I was? “How’s the Last Chance Dance site working from your end?” he asked. “Still good?”
“Seems so.”
“I’ve checked a few times and it seems bug-free. Lots of data coming in. It’s all encoded, obviously. But I still can’t believe people are submitting such personal information.”
“We’re used to it. We give the internet personal information all the time. Passwords, credit-card numbers, mothers’ maiden names, Social Security numbers—”
“How often are you putting your Social Security number into a website?”
“When I’m asked.”
Paul banged himself on the forehead. “We need a modern home ec course. Not how to bake biscuits but how to navigate the internet without ruining your life.”
“I’d take that.”
“You’d fail that.”
“I’d get a Chawton F—a B-minus.”
The Home Depot parking lot was empty except for a few orange carts. We switched seats, and I started Prudence without stalling. I did it three times in a row.
“You’re actually getting good,” said Paul.
“Always the tone of surprise.”
“Try a loop around the lot. A slow loop.”
We set off. I could do it! I could operate a car and traumatize neither myself nor my passenger! “I can’t wait till my dad sees this,” I said, hanging a beautiful turn around a pole—
“Whoa!” said Paul, his arm snaking up to the grab handle. “Whoa. Whoa. That was an extremely tight turn. No, don’t look at me!”
“Was it really too tight?”
“Eyes on the road, Jemima! Okay. That’s better. It’s just that Prudence enjoys having both of her mirrors.”
“You know what this reminds me of?” I said when we came to a halt.
Paul, who had gone a faint green, swigged from his water bottle. “What?”
“Puberty.”
He spurted water all over the glove compartment.
“Controlling the car, but not knowing where it is?” I said. “Not knowing how to make it do what you want it to do? It’s dead-on when you pubesce, if that’s a word—”
“Not one they taught in SAT prep.”
“—and you’re like, I know my body—I’ve had it for thirteen years! And then you walk into a doorframe or sit on a doughnut or wake up to discover large boobular protrusions on your very own torso and it’s like, Nope.”
“I wouldn’t know what you mean,” said Paul, “having never been awkward, clumsy, or self-conscious in my life.”
“Oh, please. You? You of all people?”
He shook his head. “Jemima Kincaid: Unfiltered.”
But I didn’t think he meant it in a bad way.
“How was last night?” The question just fell out. I’d been dying to ask him, especially since harassing Jiyoon by text had yielded nothing more than that it was fun and cool.
“It was fun,” said Paul. “It was cool.”
“God. The two of you. A match made in hell. For me, I mean.”
“Once the filter goes, it’s gone,” remarked Paul. “She didn’t already tell you all about it?”
“No.” I knew it wasn’t a law that you had to tell your best friend everything you were doing. I hadn’t told Jiyoon a thing about Andy. But I still felt betrayed. “We’ve been weird lately.”
“Because of the chairman thing?”
“You know?”
“She told me.”
“Yeah. Exactly. She didn’t tell me.”
“Why don’t you take another lap?” said Paul.
Carefully, I drove the perimeter of the lot. We were both quiet. When I stopped and shifted back to first, Paul said, �
��I’m not in this friendship, obviously. So I don’t want to speak out of place. But maybe you guys should talk.”
“Yeah.”
“My mom’s always warning me that things get weird with friends at the end of senior year. It’d be a shame if you two—if your friendship got hurt.”
“What did you think when Ji told you she was running for chairman?” I said.
“I thought, That’s so freaking ballsy,” he said. I drew in a breath to launch into my well-worn diatribe on using terms for male genitalia to mean “brave,” but before I could start, Paul said, “Sorry. I’m trying to stop equating balls to positive attributes.”
“Do you think she has a shot?”
“Who knows? She’s Jiyoon. She’s the shit. If anyone can take down that dickhead, it’s her.”
“Can I do another lap?”
“Go for it.”
I drove. And I felt so, so weird.
Sure, there was a warm squiggle of pride for my best friend, for the way Paul’s voice got reverent when he said, She’s Jiyoon. She deserved a guy who thought she was the shit.
But most of my feelings were ugly, unshowered, bed-headed, zit-creamed feelings.
Like: Does Paul think I’m the shit?
Like: What does he see in her that I don’t?
Because I didn’t think she had a shot in hell of taking down Mack. She was brilliant and hilarious and creative—I adored her, obviously—but to most of Chawton, she fit a type. She was a Quiet Smart Girl. A Quiet Smart Asian Girl, as she had pointed out. Not saying I’d have won a chairman election last year, but I had more…
Charisma?
Electability?
Whiteness?
What was wrong with me?
“I have to be all proud of her,” I said. I felt that pressure behind your eyes when you’re not crying but your voice gets thick. “And I am proud.” I really was. “I want her to beat Mack so hard he’s embarrassed to come to school. I want her to, like, rub his face in the sand of the arena. I do.” I really did. “But I wish she’d told me.”
“I got you,” said Paul. “I’d feel the same way.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh.”
“Want some water?”
“The same water you backwashed when I said puberty?”
“It’s less than five percent backwash.”
“Sure. I’d love some water.”
I drank. He grinned. I grinned. “I think you’re ready for the road,” he said.
“What?” I bounced in my seat. “A real live road?”
“Okay, chill. Remember the three Ds of driving.”
“Defensive, Deliberate, and Definitely not freaking out under any circumstances.”
“Take note of that last one.” He directed me to the edge of the parking lot.
“Watch out, Virginia!” I cried.
“We’ll just go on the access road to the strip mall. It’ll be empty this time of night. Barely different from the parking lot.” He sounded like he was convincing himself.
“Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy.”
He took a deep breath. “Look left, look right, look left, and turn out of the lot.”
I made the turn and shifted to second. Whee! I was whizzing along at a pace I’d never dreamed possible!
“The speed limit’s twenty-five, so you might want to speed up.”
I looked down. I was going eleven.
“And shift to third—nice.” His voice was relaxed, but he had both hands soldered to the grab handle. “Okay, stop sign coming up, so you’ll want to—”
“Stop?”
“Delete that question mark.”
I stopped. I shifted to first. I looked both ways and turned right. Paul set a hand in his lap, which I interpreted as a major victory.
Two right turns later, we returned to the lot. I leaned back, exhausted. “What’d you think?”
“You were good.”
“Really?” I said, even though I’d said that about twenty times that night. I needed affirmation these days.
“Really.” He yawned. “Let’s go home. Get out. I’m driving.”
It was late when I got home, after eleven, and Jiyoon was all about her eight hours, so I figured I’d leave her a long voice mail, like a podcast with an audience of one. I was mentally scripting it while her phone rang, so I was thrown for a loop when she picked up.
“Huh?” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Uh, you called me? And I picked up?”
“Right. That’s how this works. Hi. Why are you awake?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Where are you?” She sounded muffled.
“In Min’s coffee-table fort.” She giggled. “My life is pathetic. I’m lying under a table that’s draped with a Star Wars sheet. Every time I shift position, I get stabbed in the back by a stormtrooper.”
“You’re a candidate for Chawton School chairman. That’s not pathetic.”
“Ah,” she said. “That’s why you’re calling.”
“And you’re dating Paul Cunningham.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“He says, quote, ‘She’s the shit.’ Which, you know, I heartily second.”
I hoped this was the end of our low-key fight. It was a good sign she’d picked up my call. Communication had not been hopping the past few days.
“Hmm,” she said.
I took a deep breath. I had to do it. “I want to apologize,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of you. For who should run against Mack. You were right in front of my face. I should have thought of you.” I had the urge to explain myself further, all the stuff about how I had assumed Jiyoon and student government went together like peanut butter and spaghetti Bolognese, but I had googled “how to apologize for being potentially a tiny bit sexist/racist” before making this phone call, and the internet had been very clear that I should not, under any circumstances, excuse or justify my behavior. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I think…I know I have a lot of privilege. And sometimes I don’t see it.”
She was quiet.
I waited.
Sometimes with Jiyoon you had to wait.
At last she let out a huge whoosh of breath. “Thanks for apologizing.”
“Yeah, well…” There was an awkward pause. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“We all do,” said Jiyoon—rather graciously, if you ask me. “It’s a messed-up world we live in.”
“Can I tell you how proud I am of you, though?”
“For dating Paul?”
“Ha! You are dating.”
“Neither confirm nor deny.”
“We’ll come back to that. No, though, I meant because you’re running for chairman. I’m so freaking proud. You’re going to smash him. Do you have a battle plan yet? A platform? Rhyming slogans?”
“Ha. Right. I can’t even sleep. I feel like I’ve jumped out of a plane. There’s the way I’m supposed to act, the Asian Girl on Scholarship act, quiet and respectful and good at math—”
I snorted. Jiyoon sucks at math. She was in geometry with a bunch of freshmen. And I wouldn’t even start debunking quiet and respectful. She laughed too. “Well, that’s what people think! But I’ve left all that behind. Or I will have, as soon as they announce the candidates tomorrow. I’ve plunged into an abyss.”
“For the sake of Chawton,” I said. “To save us all.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “The lofty ideals are seeming kind of distant right now. But whatever. Too late to back out. I’m in it.”
“To win it,” I said firmly. “And now we have important matters to discuss, Ji.”
“I hope you’re referring to my rhyming slogans.”
“ ‘Your fut
ure is grim if you don’t vote for Kim’—no. Back to Paul. What happened last night? And you know what I mean. Did anything happen?”
“It was fun,” she said, and I could hear the happiness lacing her voice. “It was cool.”
* * *
—
On the way to school, four hours of sleep later, my head lolled against the headrest. Mom was post-migraine and hadn’t gotten much sleep either; I’d developed a sense for it, I guess, based on the sallowness of her cheeks, how much light was or wasn’t in her eyes. We zoomed down 66 in a hazy, tired bubble, the sunrise behind us. I half closed my eyes. It was a clear, cool morning. The only clouds were in a narrow band a few inches above the horizon. I had this—this what, mirage? hallucination? vision?—that we were driving toward a lake, a calm lake that was actually the strip of pale blue sky beneath the clouds. What if we were driving toward a lake, Andy and I? A lake surrounded by cloud-trees? We’d dump our stuff at the cabin and go on a pine-needle-strewn hike, and he’d put his hand on my side to steady me when the terrain got rocky, and he’d say things like “What about Chawton has been the most difficult for you?” and “When should we tell everyone that we’re together?” And when we got back to the cabin, we’d be tired and hungry, but even more than rest or food we’d be longing for each other—
“Have a good day, honey,” said Mom, and I realized we’d pulled into the circle.
“You too, Mom. Feel better. Get some rest.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
* * *
—
Andy announced the candidates at Town Meeting. The audience reaction was just as I’d expected: Ho-hum, Mack Monroe’s running, what a surpr—wait, what? Who?
I clapped demurely from my perch onstage.
“The candidates will debate next Thursday,” Andy said. “Meeting adjourned.”
General brouhaha ensued. “Jiyoon Kim!” I heard in the crush leaving the auditorium.
The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid Page 10
