The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid

by Kate Hattemer

  Andy had thought I was the one who didn’t want to be seen in public with him.

  “Damn it,” I said. “They don’t hate me, do they?”

  “Well, now they might,” said Jiyoon, giggling. I had to laugh too. It was all so messed up. All along I’d had it, the popularity I’d pretended not to want. It was a different kind of popularity—I wasn’t Gennifer Grier, I wasn’t Andy Monroe—but I’d been known, respected. Maybe even liked.

  In the past.

  “Don’t worry about your campaign,” I told Jiyoon. “I’ll figure something out. Right now you have one goal. Beat Paul in bowling. Do me proud.”

  “You? Aren’t you the one who needs bumpers to break into the three digits?”

  “Be that as it may,” I said with dignity, “you’d better win.”

  * * *

  —

  My phone woke me with “Build Me Up, Buttercup” on Saturday morning, but it might as well have been the Dies Irae for how much I wanted to get out of bed. But I pulled on Powderpuff practice gear and packed fresh clothes for the Quiz Team tournament. Over breakfast, I wrote out a list of the food I’d need for the post-tournament gour’mores—damn it, Greg’s stupid word was not catching on—s’mores party. I didn’t know how I’d get to the grocery store, but instead of prepping for the party earlier, I’d spent my time trying to think of a valid excuse to cancel it. The only idea I’d had was arson.

  Mom dropped me off at school and said she’d pick me up in two hours to run me over to TJ, the school hosting the tournament. I channeled innocence and walked springily over to the seniors who’d already gathered on the field. “Hey,” I said.

  Nobody said anything back.

  Cool.

  “Team Tiger!” Andy called. “Find a partner, grab a ball, warm up your arm!”

  I glanced around. Everyone had paired up suspiciously fast. “Can we do a group of three?” I asked Ruth and Melanie.

  “Um,” said Melanie, “I guess.”

  I stopped trying to talk to people. At every water break, I heard more chatter about the leak. Girls who’d listed a lot of guys were called slutty, but nobody talked about the guys who’d listed a lot of girls. Girls who’d listed only one guy were obsessive and creepy and card-carrying members of Future Cat Ladies of America, whereas a guy who’d listed one girl was romantic and sweet. Girls who hadn’t listed anyone were stuck up; guys who hadn’t were playing hard to get. If you’re wondering why I’m using exclusively hetero language, that’s because exclusively hetero kids participated. The LGBTQ kids—the ones who were out, anyway—none of them listed anyone at all. Even Zachary hadn’t ended up submitting any picks. It was like they knew it wasn’t for them.

  I wished I’d thought of that ahead of time. I wished I’d thought it was a problem.

  Andy tugged Christina’s ponytail and draped Haley’s sweatshirt over the crossbar and threw back his head in laughter with Jasmin, but he ignored me.

  I had a new theory.

  What if it was him?

  The leak was tanking Jiyoon’s candidacy. Mack suddenly had hope again. Andy had immediately accused me, which he could have done to cast secondhand suspicion on Jiyoon. It was the transitive property of mortal enemydom, biting us in the ass yet again.

  I didn’t know how he’d done it. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t.

  After practice, unlacing my cleats on the bleachers, I heard Jasmin and Lacey and Ruth talking. They were right behind me. I think they wanted me to hear.

  “Let’s be honest,” said Lacey, who was fond of saying mean things in the name of honesty. “We all know who had access. Her.”

  I could feel their glares on my back. Naturally, I couldn’t help turning around. “You have something to say to me?”

  Jasmin rolled her eyes, and Ruth looked pointedly away, but Lacey sighed. “If I don’t say it, who will? Yeah, Jemima. We think it was you. Who else could it have been?”

  “Literally anyone,” I said. “That’s who else. It was a website. Anyone could have hacked it. Or hired someone to hack it.”

  Lacey fluttered a hand through the air. “The thing is, it doesn’t matter who it was.”

  Typical. You prove someone’s point wrong; they claim it was an irrelevant point.

  “Because you’re the one who forced us into this shitty idea.”

  “Forced you? I don’t recall holding you at knifepoint while you typed—”

  “It’s your fault,” said Lacey. “And nothing you say will change my mind about that.”

  * * *

  —

  Gennifer hadn’t exactly ignored me during practice, but she’d given me a wide berth. She snagged me on my way to the locker room, where I was going to take a pro forma shower before Mom picked me up, and dragged me over to Andy. “What?” he said testily, like we’d interrupted some sacred meditation ritual rather than his pinny sorting.

  “Ms. Edison emailed me,” said Gennifer. “The teachers know about the leak. She thinks we should still have prom, just scrap the Last Chance theme. Call it Night at Monte Carlo, since we already have the casino decor.”

  “Fine,” said Andy.

  “And,” said Gennifer, “I think we should decide how to apologize to the class.”

  “I’m not apologizing for something I didn’t do,” said Andy.

  “That’s exactly what we need to do,” said Gennifer. “We didn’t take security seriously enough. We didn’t protect the data. So we need to apologize.”

  “That’s stupid,” said Andy. “It’s one person’s fault. The person who leaked it. Let’s focus on proving who it was, and then she can apologize.”

  “While, in general, I appreciate the use of a default feminine pronoun,” I said, enraged but trying not to show it, “I can’t say I appreciate the implications of that statement—”

  “Kincaid, cut your shit,” said Andy.

  “You cut your shit, Andy,” said Gennifer before I could respond. “That rumor’s bull. It wasn’t Jemima. She’s a bitch but she’s honorable.”

  Whoa. I was not expecting backup from those quarters.

  I did, however, note the possible tombstone inscription. Here Lies Jemima Kincaid, Honorable Bitch.

  “She cares about Chawton as much as anyone,” said Gennifer. “So don’t even, Andy.”

  He raised his eyebrows in contempt, but he didn’t say anything. God, he was an asshole under stress. Or maybe just an asshole.

  “Well,” I said. “The Right Honorable Bitch Jemima Kincaid thanks you, Gennifer.”

  I pronounced her name the proper way, with a J sound. It was a first. She smiled a little and said, “You’re welcome.”

  We were quiet. Gennifer tightened her ponytail. I glanced at the time. Mom would be here in ten minutes, but as long as I managed to get my hair wet, people would assume I was clean, right?

  “I’m not apologizing,” said Andy.

  “Let’s just focus on making Jamboree happen,” Gennifer said wearily. “Because if we don’t pull off the election and the Powderpuff game and some semblance of a prom, I don’t know how we’re going to walk across that graduation stage next weekend.”

  I slid into my seat and grabbed my buzzer just as the moderator said, “Any questions before we begin?” Ashby’s eyes skipped away from me like I wasn’t even worthy of a glance, but Jiyoon smiled and mouthed hello.

  We ended up with an even record in the morning’s round-robin tournament, which gave us a middling seed for the afternoon’s double elimination. The TJ Quiz Team was selling pizza as a fund-raiser, and we took our slices to a big table. “I’ll take it upon myself to clear the air,” said Greg, turning to me with an affect of huge largesse. “Did you do it?”

  I’d just taken a bite. The cheese was too hot and I choked on it. Everyone waited while I coughed. “No,” I finally managed.r />
  “Convincing,” said Ashby.

  “You’re a junior,” I said. “Why do you even care?”

  Jiyoon kicked me. Aggression, clearly, was not the right move. “I mean,” I said, going for conciliatory, “obviously you have a lot of friends who got burned. I get it. I do too.”

  “It’s not that bad for the group of us,” said Zachary. “I didn’t submit, and Greg put everyone.”

  “Not everyone,” said Greg. “I have standards.”

  “Low standards,” said half the team in unison.

  “And you know what happened to me,” said Monique.

  I’d tried to scroll through the data, but it had made me sick to my stomach. “No, what?”

  “I put Rohan and he put me!” she said. “We matched!”

  “Something good came out of this?” I said.

  “He texted me minutes after the leak like, Might as well go to prom together, that cool with you?”

  “Romantic,” said Jiyoon.

  “Sorry,” said Monique, rolling her eyes at Jiyoon. “Not every guy can be as enlightened as yours.”

  “That’s true,” said Paul with a smirk.

  As we followed the rest of the team to the first game of the afternoon, I whispered to Jiyoon, “They don’t think I did it, right?”

  “Did they sound like it?”

  “No?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “They’re your friends.”

  It helped to hear it. The weird thing about being vigorously suspected was that you started to think, Maybe I did do it. Or you started to think, Maybe I’m the kind of person who would do it. I could almost believe the story they were telling, even though the story was about me.

  We lost the first game, won the second, and lost the third. That was that. Our last Quiz Team match. Zachary set down his buzzer carefully, as if placing it in its final resting place. “The end,” he said.

  “Farewell, O beloved buzzer!” said Greg. He gave his a kiss.

  “Ew!” said Monique. “You’re basically licking everyone’s sweaty hands!”

  Naturally, Greg responded by actually licking the buzzer. I stood. I hadn’t played badly but I hadn’t played well. There’s a zone of preternatural anticipation you can get into with any game that requires speed, when you know where the ball’s going before it gets there, when your brain makes connections you didn’t know you’d seen. I’d been in that zone before with Quiz Team, but I hadn’t been there that day.

  * * *

  —

  I don’t know what about a master’s in education qualifies you to drive a short bus packed with teenagers on the Capital Beltway, but Chawton teachers do it all the time. Mr. Peabody got us back to school, and I finagled a ride home from Jonah. The house was silent. I’d made the grocery list, but how was I going to get to the grocery store? Everyone was coming over in two hours, and ten bucks said my parents were where they usually were at five-thirty p.m. on a Saturday: Mom in bed, Dad at the office.

  Hey.

  Hey.

  The kitchen island was piled with chips, salsa, napkins, skewers, two-liters, and all the ingredients for the gour’mores: chocolate graham crackers, Nutella, Hershey’s bars, peanut butter…everything on my list. Then I saw the list itself, marked over with neat check marks. I could see my mom, slim and stalwart behind the cart, scrutinizing the shelves for ginger snaps. Finding them. Wrapping the list around the cart’s handle to make the check mark.

  “Hi,” said someone behind me. Crispin was leaning against the doorjamb. “How was the tournament?”

  “You’re here,” I said. Stupidly.

  “So I am. Did you kick ass?”

  “We got ninth.”

  “Nice.”

  “Out of fifteen.”

  “Ouch.”

  I was quiet. He was quiet. “I don’t know,” I said, “why I make more mistakes than anyone else.”

  “You missed that many questions?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’ll give you this,” he said. “For someone related to me, you are shockingly dumb.”

  Unless I was imagining it, there was a quirk to his mouth. “You have no idea,” I said.

  “Thomas and I broke up.”

  I put my hand to my mouth. “Oh my God. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

  “You hastened the demise, but it’s not your fault. Dad was right. We can’t sneak around at work. Thomas might look for a new job next year anyway, and if so, well, then we’ll see.”

  “But you really liked him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if he was your soul mate?”

  “The universe is messed up if you get only one shot at your soul mate. If we’re meant to be together, we won’t be foiled by obeying a little company policy.”

  “For someone related to me,” I said, shaking my head, “you are shockingly mature.”

  “Come here.” He opened his arms and I collapsed into them. He hugged me the way he always did, lifting me off the floor and rattling me like maybe he could get a quarter to fall out if he tried hard enough. “I should probably hate you,” he said. “But I’m a saint, so we’re cool.”

  Tears sprang into my eyes. The grace of Crispin. It was a pretty sweet deal I’d gotten, I’ll tell you. To be randomly allotted one brother, and to have that brother be Crispin? It was enough to make me believe that the universe wasn’t messed up after all.

  * * *

  —

  Crispin had come over to help me set up for the party: payback, he said. We made fancy recipe cards for each variety of gour’mores. (The name was definitely, tragically, here to stay.) Cookies ’n’ Cream Gour’mores. Nutella-Banana Gour’mores. Ginger-Toffee Gour’mores—with melted caramel instead of chocolate. Crispin and I both have the handwriting of an uncoordinated second grader, so the cards looked pretty shittastic. We hauled everything down to the basement and set up the food table next to the patio, where we’d have the fire pit.

  I didn’t know Mom was there until she said, “The thought just occurred to me…”

  She was wearing her bathrobe and holding a box of Ritz crackers.

  “What about a roasted marshmallow with Ritz and a Reese’s?”

  “Genius!” I cried. I hugged her. “Thanks for all this. For going to the store for me. I don’t deserve you.” Crispin was already beginning the Ritz-Reese’s recipe card. “Either of you.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s not how life works,” said Mom. “Nobody deserves anyone. That’s why we all have to be grateful.”

  “You sound like a greeting card, Mom,” said Crispin.

  “You know who I’m not grateful for?” she said, whacking him with the box of Ritz.

  “Ow!”

  Flushed and smiling, she turned back to me. “Your dad pulled out the fire pit. A few logs, too, and newspaper for kindling. Do you know how to start a fire?”

  “I’m relatively confident that Quiz Team is well stocked with pyros.”

  “Make sure the fire stays in the pit, okay? Jemima, I trust you, but you know the rules. No alcohol. No drugs. No—”

  “Do you remember the last party I hosted?” I said.

  “Hmm,” said Mom. “It’s been a while. Would that have been your pirate birthday?”

  “Yep. When I turned eight.”

  “I do remember. You insisted that we sing ‘Yo-Ho-Ho and a Bottle of Rum’ instead of ‘Happy Birthday.’ ”

  “Well,” I said, “no need to worry, because this party’s going to be exactly as wild as that one. This is Quiz Team.”

  * * *

  —

  The first difference between the pirate party and the gour’mores party, however, was that at the latter an actual bottle of rum appeared, smuggled in Ashby’s backpack from her pa
rents’ liquor cabinet. Vodka showed up with Monique, and two bottles of wine with Jonah. “But my parents are home,” I said, looking at the bottles strewn over the basement.

  “We got it,” Ashby and Monique sang out, and they put the alcohol in the closet. I shuddered. They could spike their sodas if they wanted, but not me. Not after what I’d done on one glass of wine at Founding Farmers. “Let’s play a game,” I suggested.

  Half the team was already acting drunk, which was ludicrous because it had been like three minutes since the bottles had been popped. After a lot of shouting and non sequiturs, we decided on Pit. It’s this game that’s supposed to be like the market trading floor. You try to get all the corn cards, or wheat cards, or whatever crop, and basically it’s a lot of yelling. I’m good at yelling, and I nearly won round one, but I was missing one soybean card when Vivek slammed down the bell. Round two was better. I got all the barley and won. “Yes!” I yelled, airplaning around the room. “Oats, peas, beans, and barley grow!”

  “It’s just a game, Jemima,” said Ashby.

  “I’m aware,” I said. I didn’t bother explaining my philosophy of games, which was that they were a lot more fun when everyone got really into them.

  My mom tiptoed down the stairs after round four. She beckoned me over. “Are you guys planning to play this…this shouting game much longer?”

  “Oh,” I said. “You mean you’re going to bed?”

  “I can always put in earplugs.”

  “It’s time to build the fire,” I said. “I’ll get them outside.”

  Her face cleared. “If you wouldn’t mind, honey. Or stay inside, but keep it—”

  “No, no, that’s okay.”

  Our fire pit wasn’t actually a pit. It was a bronze bowl with a little tripod, more Pottery Barn than L.L.Bean. The second I said fire, the guys sprinted outside to light newspaper with matches and feel macho. The patio was a recessed patch of cement, surrounded by a low brick wall. We sat on the wall while Jonah and Vivek fussed over kindling.

  The backyard was twilit, the windows of neighbors’ houses yellow against the navy sky. “I’m trying every variety of gour’mores,” said Greg with his mouth full.