“Time,” I said. “Jiyoon?”
“I agree with you,” she said, addressing the freshman and ignoring Mack. “For a school of our resources, it’s immoral to throw out five hundred paper plates a day. I’ve researched the cost and viability of compostable plates, and I’ve talked with Mr. Merman, the facilities team leader. It’s something we could implement next year.”
The audience started filing out halfway through. By the end of the hour, there were only about twenty people left. Jiyoon kept it super professional and thus super boring. Mack’s answers were so dumb they were also boring. At the end, he unceremoniously hopped off the stage to join his friends. He didn’t say anything to either of us. Jiyoon closed her notebook and said, “Thanks for running this.”
“No problem. Um, Ji—”
“Can we”—she nodded at the remainder of the audience—“wait?”
I got it. She didn’t want to talk to me where people could see us. Gennifer’s underground machinations were working—everyone had been a lot friendlier to me today—but even so, our Triumvirate was regarded with suspicion and animosity.
Finally the auditorium emptied. “Okay, phew,” she said. “Glad that’s over.”
“How’s everything been? With, you know. The campaign stuff.”
She grinned. “You’re referring to everyone hating me because of you?”
“Yeah. That.”
“The online stuff has quieted down, as far as I can tell. And people are smiling at me again.”
“Oh, good.”
“Which doesn’t mean I’m going to win. But I never was, was I?”
“All he can talk about is Hype Club.”
“Yeah, I don’t think the average Chawton voter really cares.” She sighed. “Five days till this is over. I can’t wait. I’m glad I ran, but I can’t wait.”
“Do you have a minute? I have something to tell you. Something big.”
She grimaced and looked at her phone. “The late bus leaves in three minutes.” I must have looked forlorn, because she added, “I’ll call you.”
* * *
—
I helped Gennifer with the carnival games, and afterward she gave me a ride home in her massive SUV. She looked teeny-tiny at the wheel.
“Do you tell your friends everything?” I asked her.
“Not what I had for breakfast. But lunch, yeah.”
She was trolling me. Which I respected even though it was annoying. “I mean important stuff. Like if something happened with a guy.”
“I love how you think I’m, like, the ultimate arbiter of social codes.”
“God. I’m just taking a survey. Collecting information.”
“So what happened with you and a guy?”
“Nothing.”
“Jemmy. Tell your old friend.”
“We’re not friends.”
She sighed dramatically. “Sorry. I forget you insist on that.”
“You’re too—”
“Too what?” she said. For the first time, she sounded actually irritated. “Too vapid? Too ditzy? Too obsessed with my appearance?”
“Um, you literally just used the word vapid. You’re not vapid.”
“I’m so pleased I’ve met your vocabulary standard.” She gripped the wheel tensely through a turn. “I do have a brain, Jemima.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? Because sometimes you seem to forget. Sometimes you seem to think pretty equals dumb. Entering a Sephora doesn’t suck away brain cells, you know. Caring about clothes and guys and social stuff doesn’t mean you don’t care about anything else.”
I sank down in my seat, exasperated. “Since when have I—”
“You’ve got this idea that all girls are competing with each other, and you automatically win because you have blue armpit hair and don’t date and never wear mascara.”
“I don’t wear mascara because I practically Oedipus myself every time I try!”
“Because you’d never lower yourself to watch a tutorial.”
“Gah,” I said. “Not true.”
“Don’t say gah. Gah is for texting only.”
“Oh em gee. Ugh. Asidfiklagh.”
“Stop.”
I straightened, feeling slightly cheered. “Honestly, I’ve watched the tutorials. But on the first stroke I always turn my eyelashes into one eyelash. One eyelash to rule them all.”
“I could teach you in five minutes.”
“I’m hopeless. Loudly crying face emoji.”
She laughed despite herself. “You are hopeless,” she said. “I’m just saying, anytime we say there’s only one right way to be a woman, they’ve won.”
“Who’s they? The forces of the patriarchy?”
“Who else?”
“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” I remarked to the ceiling, “when I’d hear Gennifer Grier spouting off about the patriarchy.”
“There you go again,” she said.
I watched the strip malls flash by the window, nail salons and Chinese takeout. She had a point. “I can’t believe you’re dating Mack,” I said.
“Rule of thumb. Don’t say stuff like that to people about their boyfriends.”
“Do you actually like him? I’m just curious. He’s kind of, um, abrasive.”
“He can come across like a dick,” said Gennifer. “But yeah, I like him. He’s a little boy inside. That gets me.”
“That’s kind of cute.” I shot her a sly glance. “Colon right parenthesis.”
She shook her head, but I think she took it as the olive branch it was. “It’s been a long day,” she said.
“A long year.”
“No kidding.”
We both looked out the windshield for a minute.
“I don’t know if I’d have done it,” said Gennifer, “if I’d known.”
“Done what?”
“Triumvirate.”
“Really?”
“You don’t think about that?”
“Never.”
“Never?”
“It always seemed inevitable to me. That it’d be the three of us.”
“Not for me,” she said. “Tons of girls could have been Social Comm pres. Jasmin, Lacey, Mackenzie, Lily. If I’d known how much Lily wanted it, I probably wouldn’t have run.”
“Whoa. You regret it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Gennifer turned onto my street. Her delicate wrists moved the tank of a car in a way that was sort of mind-blowing. “But I think about what this year would have been without Triumvirate. And sometimes I wish I’d let the alternate reality happen.”
“Isn’t that the definition of regret?”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
That was exactly how I’d been feeling about having sex with Andy. I had been thinking about the alternate reality: the world in which I hadn’t texted him on Saturday, the world in which, weeks ago, I’d moved my knee away from his. And sometimes I wished I’d let that world happen.
But I guess I didn’t regret it.
Next time I had sex, I didn’t want it to be like this. Next time I wanted trust. Next time I wanted a relationship. I didn’t want to want strings but, damn it, I wanted strings.
But I didn’t regret it.
I didn’t regret it.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said as Gennifer pulled into my driveway. “See you.” I’d started to shut the door when I stopped and stuck my head back in.
“Hey? Ghen?” With a hard G. I couldn’t help it. “Thanks for telling everyone I didn’t leak the picks.”
“Sure.”
“You’re a good friend.”
She fluttered her eyes like a Victorian maiden on the verge of a swoon. “Me? Your fri
end?”
“I’m glad you’re on Triumvirate.” I paused, embarrassed. “That’s all. Yep. Cool.”
“You too, Jemmy,” she said. “It’s been…well. Not fun. Not always.”
“Not often.”
“But…”
I nodded. “Understood.”
She nodded back. I knew she was mocking me, mimicking this throaty, overzealous way I nod. Whatever, Gennifer. You can mock me. As the old proverb goes, If thou dost dish it out, thou must take it.
“Understood,” she said.
I wasn’t within spitting distance of Andy until Town Meeting on Tuesday. We all got there right before the bell, and I gave him a businesslike nod.
Andy called the meeting to order. “Happy Tuesday,” he said, “and this is a happy Tuesday, because it’s the last Town Meeting of the year.”
There was an aggressive whoop from the senior section, and some uncomfortable laughter. Andy shifted the mike from hand to hand. The undertones were clear. They were ready to be done with us, the Triumvirate that’d screwed them over. “Um,” he said, “I hope you’re all excited for Jamboree!”
He did an arms-above-the-head dance move, which revealed to me this supreme truth: coolness is in the eye of the beholder. Last week everyone would have hollered and laughed, and Andy would have flushed with pleasure and said, “Okay, okay, settle down.” This week he got stolid stares. The dance move looked cheesy, like when a teacher trying to muster some enthusiasm starts raising the roof and saying, “Get excited for VECTOR MULTIPLICATION!” and you’re just like, Stop.
Andy picked up on the vibe fast. His arms fell. The swagger evaporated. “Let me give you a brief overview of the Jamboree schedule,” he said. I thought of that Horace line from Latin class. Andy had been all about carpe diem, seizing the day, heedless and bold, and now he’d learned the rest: quam minimum credula postero. Trusting as little as possible in tomorrow. He was just a guy. A guy whose time would pass.
“Plan to be here all weekend,” he said. “The softball game’s right after school Friday, and then we’ll do the cookout and the bonfire. Be back at ten Saturday for guys’ lacrosse and the awards ceremony.”
They weren’t responding. He glanced back at us and said, “Yeah, so Gennifer’s going to tell you about the rest.”
That hadn’t been the plan. She took the mike. “Hi!” Andy slunk back and sat down without looking at me. “So after that, Powderpuff! It’ll be fantastic. Both teams have been practicing hard, although I happen to know the Tigers are going to bury the Angels—”
She got some laughs with that, and some boos, but the good kind. “Angels forever!” someone shouted, and the senior section devolved into chants.
Gennifer, pleased, tapped the mike. “Save it for Saturday! Juniors, you’ll vote for next year’s chairman at halftime. After the game, we’ll announce your chairman, as well as the new Social Comm pres and the new Mildred—er, the recipient of the Mildred Mustermann Award for Academic Excellence.”
I turned to Andy. “What are we saying about prom?” I whispered.
“Where. When.”
“What about the theme?”
He shrugged.
“We have to apologize,” I whispered. Gennifer was telling them the rules for Jamboree, as Ms. Edison had reminded us to do: casual dress, no coolers or bottles, remember how many alumni come, do Chawton proud. “Now’s our chance.”
Andy stiffened. “No.”
“We owe it to them,” I said. “We’re the ones who—”
“No,” he said too loudly. Ms. Edison shot us a beady look from the front row. Andy’s palms were gripping his thighs.
“Yes,” I muttered.
“No.”
Ms. Edison drew her finger across her throat. “As for Saturday night—” Gennifer began, and I jumped up. She raised her eyebrows, and I nodded. “Jemima’s going to tell you about that.”
Good old Ghen.
“Hi,” I said into the mike. My voice shook. I was thinking too much about the audience, the skeptical seniors who’d only recently stopped believing I was the one who’d leaked the data. But I remembered that Jiyoon was out there too. Last night on the phone, when I’d told her what had happened with Andy—everything that had happened with Andy—she hadn’t even thought to get mad at me for keeping it from her for so long. She had asked me questions instead, a lot of questions, some of which I didn’t have answers for. Now she was listening to me, rooting for me. She was always rooting for me.
“Prom’s at eight on Saturday,” I said, “right here in the Commons, which Social Comm will be decorating after school on Friday. Drop by to help if you want.” I paused. “Furthermore, on behalf of the entire Triumvirate…”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Andy stand.
“I want to tell you how deeply, incredibly…”
Andy was coming toward me. I stepped away. Thank goodness for cordless mikes.
“Sorry,” I said. I hit the word too hard because I was trying to casually evade Andy. He was two steps away and getting closer. Gennifer’s hand was clapped to her mouth.
“Yeah,” I said, stepping away from him, “we’re sorry for what happened with…”
It was extremely hard to deliver a sincere apology under these circumstances.
“God!” I said, my voice finally sounding like my own. “Stop chasing me, Andy! Just let me talk!”
Someone laughed, and then everyone laughed. Andy froze. I turned back to the audience. I’d found my voice again. Just let me talk! My eternal cry. Let me talk!
“Okay,” I said. “I guess I’m not speaking for the whole Triumvirate. But I can speak for myself. And Gennifer, right?” Gennifer nodded. “I am so, so sorry that I didn’t take proper care of the secrets you entrusted to me. I didn’t leak them, but I didn’t do enough to ensure they weren’t leaked. I don’t know if you can ever forgive me, but I want you to know, I realize what I’ve done and I feel awful and in the future I’ll be a lot better about secrets. One of these days I’m going to learn to shut my big fu—freaking mouth.”
I gave several throaty nods. No one cheered. No one yelled “WE LOVE YOU, JEMIMA!” or rushed the stage for a bear hug.
And that, it turned out, was fine.
Gennifer and I were wrangling with long strands of beads. It was Friday after school, and we were trying to hang bead doors. You know, the ones that make a waterfall noise? And walking through them makes you feel like you’ve entered a different world, the glamorous sphere of the casino, so far from the mundanity of quizzes and projects that you barely recognize your school?
Well, that was the idea.
“Fuck these beads,” muttered Gennifer, teetering on the step stool, her hands full of a rat’s nest. “You know what? Fuck them.”
I had my own rat’s nest. The beads were awful. “Don’t you have underlings who could do this?” I asked Gennifer. “Isn’t untangling beads the whole point of having underlings?”
The Commons was buzzing with Social Comm girls, who had traded their coiffed everyday looks for super-cute outfits befitting physical labor, so, like, seventy-dollar sweat-wicking tank tops. I kept thinking derisive thoughts, and then I’d be like, Stop! You’re not winning! But it was complicated, I thought, because in truth I felt superior and inferior, both at once. Madison Porter, e.g., was wearing work overalls with a pink sports bra underneath, exposing five inches of tanned rib cage. There was even a hammer in the hammer loop. It was a ridiculous outfit—obviously we weren’t hammering in the Commons—but she looked positively winsome. If we were baked goods, she’d be a cupcake and I’d be, like, a garlic bagel. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt I’d won during an evening activity at the Quiz Team championships for naming all twenty-eight members of Dumbledore’s Army. It said ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 10, MY OBSESSION WITH HARRY POTTER COMES IN AT 9¾, and it had already devel
oped pit stains.
How much of my girl judgment, I wondered, was the water I was swimming in? And how much had I developed to reassure myself that I was okay the way I was?
Gennifer summoned Lily and Lacey to help me with the beads. Lacey and I used Lily as a sort of human spool, winding her with the strands we’d untangled. We couldn’t stop laughing. Maybe every girl felt unokay sometimes, I thought. Maybe it was part of the water, this core belief that being female was not okay. I looked around the Commons, alive with bright outfits and laughter. Every girl was fighting her own match, but as soon as she opened her eyes and looked at the field, she’d see the linewomen she had to block for her, the receivers who could take her passes. We were on the same team.
* * *
—
“Where’s that ladder?” said Gennifer, fuming. “Andy’s been gone for-freaking-ever.”
Ms. Edison had given him the master key so he could get into the maintenance room. “I could go find him,” I said, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. If you didn’t count his chasing me around the stage at Town Meeting, Andy hadn’t talked to me since Saturday night. Or texted me. Or made eye contact with me. It was messing with my head.
“Would you?” said Gennifer. “Thanks.”
I went upstairs. There was Andy, sauntering down the hallway. Just seeing his easy lope made my hackles rise. “Why didn’t you get the ladder?” I said. “Give me the key.”
“Whoa there, Kincaid,” he said. “Patience, grasshopper.”
“Don’t call me a grasshopper.”
“It’s a saying.”
“I’m aware it’s a saying. That doesn’t mean you can call me a freaking grasshopper.”
I charged onward. He turned around and fell into step with me. “I’d ask what pissed you off,” he said, “but what doesn’t piss you off?”
“Oh, fu—” I made myself shut up. If he was trying to get a rise out of me, I wouldn’t give him the pleasure. At the door to the maintenance room, I spun toward him. “Give me the key so I can get the ladder.” He dangled the key a foot above my head. I swiped for it and missed. “This isn’t funny. Open the door.”
The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid Page 19
