The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid
Page 22
Everyone liked me this way.
Gennifer was crowded by admirers, getting the same sort of compliments. This wasn’t unusual for her. She’d always been known as good and nice.
But here’s what I now knew about Gennifer Grier:
I’d been sitting slightly behind her as we counted the votes in the tent. She had two columns on the sheet in her binder, one for Jiyoon and one for Mack. The system we had decided on beforehand was that I would open each ballot and read it and hand it to Andy, and he’d read the name aloud, and Gennifer would keep track of the count.
She had started with her binder flat on the table, but slowly, gradually, she had tilted it toward her.
Andy never noticed.
The count was close, but as the ballots dwindled, Mack pulled three votes ahead, and then four.
I opened one of the last ballots and handed it to Andy. “Mack,” he read aloud.
Jiyoon, went Gennifer’s pen.
“Jiyoon,” read Andy.
Jiyoon, went Gennifer’s pen.
“Mack,” read Andy.
Jiyoon, went Gennifer’s pen.
I fumbled around in the bottom of the box. “Two more,” I said.
“Mack,” read Andy.
Jiyoon, went Gennifer’s pen.
“Last one,” I said.
“And it’s…Jiyoon,” said Andy.
Gennifer slid the binder flat on the table and made one final tick mark in Jiyoon’s column. “Okay, let’s see…”
We all stared at the page.
“She edged him out,” said Andy. “One vote.”
“A girl chairman,” I said.
“Poor Macky,” said Gennifer, staring at the page, shaking her head in disbelief. “He ran a great campaign. He’ll be so upset.”
“Eh, he’ll be fine,” said Andy, shoving his chair back. “Let’s get back to the game.”
Gennifer thwacked shut the binder and scooped up the ballots. “Who’s ready to get out there for one more quarter of Powderpuff?” She buried the ballots in the tent’s trash can. “Tigers forever!”
I skipped the Last Chance Dance. Instead I called Jiyoon. “Do you feel compelled to go to the dance?” I said. “Now that you’re the face of Chawton?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I’m doing Triumvirate my way.”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. You want to come over? We could work on our dioramas.”
“Well, I have plans.”
“Oh.” I should have known. “Okay, cool.”
“It’s Official Date Number Four. We’re going to an indoor trampoline park.”
“Of course you are.”
“You should come.”
“No, that’s okay—”
“Paul already invited you.”
“Actually?”
“He said it’ll be more fun if you come too. I agreed.”
“Wow.”
“We’ll pick you up at 8:04.”
At 8:04, when Prudence jangled into my driveway, Paul at the wheel, Jiyoon riding shotgun, I hopped into the back seat. We drove. I rolled down the windows and the evening air eddied through the car. We could go anywhere. We could go to an indoor trampoline park, or we could go to California. It was the kind of freedom I’d wanted my whole life. I could talk or sing or keep my mouth shut, whichever I chose. I sent up a bubble of hope—that I’d be better, that we’d all be better—and I watched through the sunroof as it faltered up to the sky. We drove. It might have been an illusion, but history, like us, was moving onward, forward. Toward the horizon, away from the dance.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I began this book when Donald Trump was nothing but a washed-up reality-TV star, when I hadn’t even started to scrape off my cruddy crust of white feminism and internalized misogyny. Needless to say, I have learned a lot, thanks in large part to the writings of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Roxane Gay, Sandra Gilbert, Susan Gubar, Peggy Orenstein, Lindy West, and Naomi Wolf; to Christy Harrison’s podcast and Heather Hackman’s training; to the editorial genius of Erin Clarke; and to conversations with Lucy, Emma, Rebecca, Mom, Dad, Phil, Nate, Caroline, John, Howard, Woojin, Rita, Sasha, Ariel, and Sarah. I still have a cruddy crust, though. I have a lot left to learn. I’ll keep reading and listening, so send good stuff my way.
Many thanks to Uwe Stender, my steadfast and funny and extraordinarily effective agent; to Ana Hard, cover artist; and to the whole team at Knopf, especially Kelly Delaney, Karen Sherman, Artie Bennett, and Casey Moses. As always, I’m deeply grateful to my people: my parents, my brothers, my sisters, my colleagues, my friends. And for you, Phil and Ramona, there are truly no words to express my love and gratitude. You make it so fun not to write.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kate Hattemer is a native of Cincinnati, but now writes, reads, runs, and teaches high school Latin in the DC metro area. She is the author of The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy, which received five starred reviews, The Land of 10,000 Madonnas, and Here Comes Trouble.
KateHattemer.com
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