He opened the door.
“Now you can go away. I don’t need your help.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive.”
He flicked on the lights and followed me in. “You can’t carry the ladder by yourself.”
“Sometimes even women can—”
I heaved at the ladder.
Damn.
It was twelve feet long, even telescoped shut. I could lift an end, but there was no way I’d even get it out of the maintenance room, much less down to the Commons.
“I couldn’t carry it by myself,” he said. “That’s why I was coming back for help.”
I fumed.
“Please,” he said, “allow me.” He tried to lift my hands off the ladder, but I gripped harder.
“You can get the other end,” I said.
“You want to be the one who goes backward down the stairs?”
He was right.
Again.
Damn. I was so mad.
“One of these days you’re going to take a chill pill, Kincaid,” he said, “and you won’t be nearly as interesting.”
“You think I’m interesting?”
I hated myself for asking.
“Sorta,” he said.
I opened my mouth. I didn’t even know what I was going to say. I was just mad. He leaned across the ladder and kissed me. I jerked away. “Don’t think you can ignore me all week and then kiss me,” I said furiously. “I’m not some game you can pull up on your phone when you’re bored.”
“Whoa, Kincaid,” he said. “Who’s ignoring who?”
“You didn’t even text me after we—” I flashed a glance at the door. It was closed. “After we had sex,” I hissed.
“You didn’t text me,” he pointed out.
“No, but—”
“But what? It’s my job? Because I’m the guy? Look, Kincaid. I can’t do this no-strings stuff. It’s too weird.”
That was my line.
“I—” I started, but that was as far as I got because he plugged my mouth with his. I thought, Is Andy offering me strings? Then I stopped thinking because apparently that was what I did when Andy Monroe kissed me. Our shins knocked into the ladder between us. I pushed my face into Andy’s, tangled his hair with my hands. “Hold on,” I said, and I stepped over the ladder. I clocked my shin, but I didn’t mind. Andy boosted me onto the tool table and I wrapped my legs around him and we kissed like we had moments to live.
He started to pull off my shirt. I resisted. “The door automatically locks from the outside,” he said. “We’re safe.” I gave in, and pulled off his shirt for good measure. I’m about to have sex at school, I thought. Last week I didn’t have sex, and now I’m about to have sex in a maintenance room. It was tawdry, but tawdry wasn’t incompatible with the people we turned into when we were together. The people we’d forced each other to be, I thought hazily as he pulled me off the table so he could jam a hand down my jeans, fingering the upper elastic of my underwear. All the assumptions we’d each made.
His head was deep in my chest now, his hands working to unclasp my bra. It fell to the dusty floor. He licked my nipple. We deserved each other. “Oh,” I said.
Not an oh of revelation. An oh of whatever you’re doing to my breast, it’s making me grasp your shoulders and shut my eyes and wince. Whatever you are doing to my breast, oh, let it never stop. Let Gennifer despair of ever getting the ladder. Let the sun fall behind the field. Let the bonfire begin. Let the world spin on, let Powderpuff be played, let our Triumvirate cede power to the next, and let this never stop.
“Damn,” said Andy, panting, craning up at me, “you’re such a tiger.”
I thought he was spouting a stupid compliment he’d learned from a movie. Or porn, more likely. Gross. “I’ve never understood that,” I said, reaching to unbutton his pants.
“Understood…” He unbuttoned mine.
“The whole tiger-sex thing. Like, are tigers known for their sexual prowess?”
“Huh?”
“Isn’t that what you were saying? About tigers?”
“I said—never mind.”
“Wait. Explain.”
“It’s nothing, Kincaid. Don’t worry about it.”
“Too late. I am worrying about it.” He started kissing me but I pulled back. “Explain.”
“I thought you knew,” he said.
“Knew what?”
“The Powderpuff teams,” he said. “The Tigers and the Angels?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s what I was referring to.”
“You were saying I was good at Powderpuff? That’s what came to mind as you licked my boob?”
He sighed. I felt underdressed. I was underdressed. My jeans unbuttoned, my shirt tossed who knows where.
“Promise you won’t get mad,” he said. “I seriously thought you knew. Girls aren’t supposed to know, obviously, but Gennifer found out, and I guess I just figured it was impossible to be on Triumvirate without—”
“Just tell me.”
“Tigers and Angels,” he said. “T and A?”
“So?”
“You still don’t get it?”
I was so annoyed. “Still,” I said. “I still don’t get it. Please spell it out for dumb old me.”
“T and A. Tits and ass. That’s how we divide the teams. It’s all a joke, really. It’s not that big of a deal. The girls with good tits go on the Tigers, and the girls with good asses are Angels.”
“So the guys cheer…”
“For the team they’re into.” He shrugged. “You know. You usually like one better. It’s a pretty even split. Which is interesting from an anthropological perspective, right?”
“Oh my God.”
“You aren’t going to go on a feminist rampage about this, are you?”
I stared at him.
“I shouldn’t have told you. I thought you’d be cool about it.”
“I can’t believe no one’s—how long has this—”
He started kissing me again, not on but around my mouth, as if homing in on the target, and he guided my hand to his crotch. He hadn’t rebuttoned his pants, and his soft boxer briefs clung to his dick, and I wrapped my fingers around it. I don’t know why. “That’s better,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”
“It’s so sexist,” I said.
He had his hand down my pants. “It’s harmless,” he said. “It’s a joke.”
“Oh—”
Same kind of oh as before. I tried to get it together, but his hand on me, my hand on him, it was too much to handle. “It’s so sexist,” I said again.
“Come on, Kincaid,” he said, kissing my breasts and my stomach, getting on his knees, kissing a trail down from my belly button, and down, and down. “Have a sense of humor.” I threw my head back and grasped the table with one hand, his hair with the other, and I didn’t think about anything for quite some time.
The music was blasting. The turf field was teeming with people holding hot dogs. The grills were staffed by brusque caterers who were clearly thinking, What the hell is up with this school? By the time Andy and I had hauled the ladder from the maintenance room, Jamboree had begun.
We ditched the ladder in the deserted Commons, and Andy ditched me about as fast. I was glad to see him go. In a daze, and slightly bandy-legged, I walked to the main tent.
“Where did you go?” Gennifer demanded. “You abandoned us. Did something come up?”
So to speak. “Sorry. Yeah. The ladder was really heavy.”
“Are you okay?” she said, squinting at me. “You look kind of pale.”
“Yeah, I feel weird.”
She grasped my arm and peered into my eyes. “You look horrible.”
“Thanks.”<
br />
“Much worse than usual.”
“Your bedside manner needs work,” I told her. I twisted my arm from her grasp. “Honestly, I’m just hungry, and it’s hot. What’s on your list for me to do?”
“Are you PMSing?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“I never figure it out until I get my period. Then I’m like, Oh, that explains why I acted so cancerous last week.”
“It’s got to be PMS.” She dug around in her bag. “What do you want? Midol? Advil? Tylenol?”
“You run a pharmacy from your purse? Are you even allowed to do that at school?”
“Nurse Weber would be grateful if she knew how much work I’ve saved her,” Gennifer snapped. “What’s your worst symptom? Cramps? Headache?”
“Cramps.” My internal organs were feeling off-kilter, though I had a feeling that was due more to the maintenance room than to my menstrual cycle. I glimpsed Andy across the field, high-fiving Tyler. I sat down on the grass.
“You need to go home,” said Gennifer.
“But all the Triumvirate stuff—”
I’d seen her final checklist.
“It’s under control,” she said. “Go home. Take a bath and go to bed.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m being your friend,” she said, disgusted. “Now, you need a ride, right? Can your brother take you?”
“Crispin’s here?”
“I saw him a minute ago. You know we invited all the alums.” She shaded her face and scanned the field. “Julia,” she said, grabbing a minion, “fetch Crispin Kincaid, would you? Jemima is seriously ill.”
“Tell him I’m fine,” I shouted up from the grass.
Julia sprinted off. Gennifer got me to a folding chair. I did feel bad. A little nauseated, a little overheated, and a lot like I couldn’t take one single moment more of Chawton.
“Recover tonight,” Gennifer said, “because tomorrow is packed. We’re meeting at nine for setup. And don’t forget, the Mildred welcomes everyone before the Powderpuff game. Have your speech written, like, before you show up.”
“It’s not some huge speech. I can improv it.”
“You need to recognize the senior class and the board. Ideally without making our Triumvirate look like a disaster.”
“Like the disaster it was?”
“Jemima. Be positive. I think we’ve done a lot of good.”
I caught her eye. We both giggled. Two-thirds of the shittiest Triumvirate ever. We sobered up pretty fast, though. That wasn’t the kind of thing we should have been laughing about.
* * *
—
The minute Crispin and I got into the car, he said, “You aren’t really sick, are you?”
I sank back into the seat. “I don’t feel good.”
“Because you’re sick? Or sick of Chawton?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Because I feel the same way the second I set foot onto that campus.”
“You? You were a star.”
“Sure.” He accepted it as his due. “But high school’s still weird and hard. Even under the best of circumstances. When I think about the secrets I was keeping…”
“What about them?”
“I didn’t realize that people care a lot less about secrets when they’re out in the open.”
“That is not always true,” I said fervently.
“You want to come over?” he said.
“Please.”
In the elevator, Crispin inhaled, tilted his head to the side, and gave me an annoying smile, the sort of smile that makes you feel extremely defensive. “All right,” he said as soon as we got in his apartment. “Confess.”
“You still have the global-warming decor?”
He shrugged. “The polar bear is cute. Also, I’m lazy. Don’t try to change the subject. Take a seat on that there melting ice cap and tell your Bippy who it was. Was it Andy?”
“How—but—”
“You want to know how I knew?” I nodded. Duh, I wanted to know. “I smelled it.”
I yelped, horrified. “No!”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God. Can I take a shower?”
“If you tell me everything afterward.” He handed me a towel and some clothes. “Use as much hot water as you want,” he yelled in after me. “This apartment is not an environmentally friendly zone.”
* * *
—
“Wow,” he said when I was finished. “I’ll think twice before I give you the silent treatment again.”
“It destroyed me,” I said. “One bad decision after another.”
“You mean Andy?”
“Yeah. I mean. I don’t know. No? I tried to follow your advice. To think about what I wanted. But I guess there’s a difference between wanting it right now and wanting it long-term. And it’s hard, because right now is always right now.”
“Very philosophical.”
“I’m not going to do it again. I’m set on that.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t?”
“I don’t think so. No. It happened, so not much point in wishing it back.”
“No regrets,” said Crispin, but he sounded sad.
We were both quiet for a second. I was curled up in his too-big sweatpants, my wet hair combed straight back. It was like being a little kid after a nighttime bath. But when I was a kid, I never could have imagined that growing up would be like this.
“What should I do about the T and A thing?” When I had first told him, he’d rolled his eyes and whirled his hands like, Get to the point. I had a horrible thought. He was a guy, a Chawton grad, a former triumvir. “Did you know?”
“Nope,” said Crispin. “They put me on the cheer squad for the Angels. Never asked me.” He laughed. “I guess I wasn’t as subtle about the gay thing as I thought.”
“That’s even worse!” I said.
“It was years ago. Do you know how much those guys matter to me now? Zero.”
“But what should I do?” I said.
“You want to do something?”
“I want to make it stop.”
“You’re not going to make it stop.”
“What if I told Mr. Duffey?”
“He’s a Chawton alum.”
Oh God. I hadn’t even thought of that. The Powderpuff game, Mr. Ulrich had once told us, started in 1978 when Chawton and Ansel merged. Had the T and A tradition started then, too?
It was more than possible. It was likely.
Did all the alumni of the past forty years know? The alumni, who hewed so loyally to their teams, throwing cash at the Tigers vs. Angels fund-raising drive, never forgetting which side they supported?
They knew.
Crusty alumni, hundreds of Old White Dudes, cheering lustily at Jamboree as they ogled the conveniently categorized wares of the Chawton girls.
“For all we know,” said Crispin, “Andy’s making up the whole thing.”
We looked at each other. I didn’t believe it for an instant, and neither did he.
“And if he’s not, they can deny it. You haven’t got any proof. If you tell, all you’ll do is cause a lot of grief during Jamboree. You’ll embarrass yourself. And, Bump…” He paused. “Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough already?”
* * *
—
Crispin took me home. Our house was dark, so he didn’t come in. “See you tomorrow?” I said. “You’re coming to Jamboree with Mom and Dad, right?”
“Yep. See you there.”
I went inside. I had a speech to write. I pulled up my hood to keep the thoughts warm and began to type.
It is my honor to welcome you, Chawton School’s proud contingent of studen
ts, parents, alumni, trustees, and graduating seniors, to the 41st annual Jamboree
Delete.
I couldn’t do it.
No matter what Crispin or anyone else thought I should do, I could not let this stand.
SMASH THE PATRIARCHY! I wrote in all caps at the top of the document.
I am enraged to report…
For an untold number of years…
It is a shocking—nay, shameful—conspiracy of privilege…
The objectification is nauseating…
You, yes, you personally, are complicit…
You have contributed to a culture of oppression…
I’d been born to write this speech. Right before the game, when the Powderpuff fervor had built to a peak, when I had the floor and no one could make me shut up, I would speak.
* * *
—
I printed it. Still feeling dramatic, in full orator mode, I chose a red folder: red for my rage, red for the scarlet letter with which I’d be branded after I took down Jamboree.
I didn’t care.
But the red folder snagged something in my brain. I couldn’t get to it, but I knew it was there, like when a stray hair brushes your arm and you reach for it and it’s gone. There was something I should remember. Something…
It’s late at night, I thought. I got into bed. But I couldn’t stop trying to reel in the bite. It taunted me. You’re just tired, I told myself, and maybe this is a form of mental malfunction like déjà vu, when you misfile information—
Misfile.
The red file folder.
Mack.
I sat up in bed.
It was Mack.
We had met after school for Triumvirate. Andy, cranky, had left. Gennifer had had a red folder with the encoded data from Paul and the key from dingbat Ms. Edison. Mack had come in, demanding a ride, and Gennifer had run to her locker, and I’d gone to the business office.
We had left Mack alone with the folder.
I didn’t know why he’d done it, but I knew it was him.
The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid Page 20
