The Abstinence Teacher

by Tom Perrotta

  “One thing the rest of you might want to consider,” JoAnn continued, as if C. J. hadn’t spoken, “is encouraging parents in your communities to sponsor chaperoned after-parties in their homes. If you go to our website, you’ll find a list of recommended group activities that’ll help keep the kids out of trouble and restore some of the lost innocence back to prom night.”

  “Nude Twister,” muttered Roger.

  JoAnn stared at him in disbelief.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Old enough not to give a crap,” he replied.

  “Ugh.” Jo Ann grimaced, as if she’d just swallowed something unpleasant. “I can’t believe they let you teach children.”

  “Not only that,” Roger told her. “They gave me tenure.”

  “I feel sorry for your students,” JoAnn said. She looked like she was about to say something more, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. “Let’s just move on. Trisha, would you like to go next?”

  With obvious trepidation, Trisha glanced down at her composition.

  “It’s kind of embarrassing,” she said.

  “That’s all right,” JoAnn said. “We’re not here to judge you. We just want to hear what you have to say.”

  “I’m really ashamed of myself,” Trisha murmured.

  “Excellent,” JoAnn said. “Why don’t you tell us about it.”

  EVER SINCE kindergarten, Trisha had been best friends with a girl named Eve, and right from the start, Trisha had been the dominant figure in the duo. She was the smart one, the athletic one, and later, the pretty one. Eve was the admirer; it was her job to stand loyally by Trisha’s side, marveling at her friend’s many gifts and talents, and broadcasting them to the wider world.

  The interesting thing about this dynamic was that it somehow survived long after it had any basis in reality. Midway through high school, soon after the fog of puberty had lifted, it became painfully clear to Trisha that her sidekick was actually prettier, smarter, and more athletic than she was. Oddly, Eve seemed unaware that the ground beneath their relationship had shifted. She continued to defer to Trisha and sing her praises as if nothing had changed, as if they were still second graders hanging upside down on the monkey bars.

  Trisha treasured the friendship as they grew into adulthood, but she was also troubled by it. She kept waiting for the long-overdue day of reckoning, when Eve finally saw her for the weak, underachieving loser she really was and began to treat her accordingly. But it never came, not even after Eve got admitted to a better college and had a string of boyfriends way cooler and kinder and better-looking than any of the jerks Trisha went out with.

  Two years ago, Eve got engaged to Thad, a handsome investment banker with a passion for rock climbing, a sport, it turned out, for which she had an uncanny knack. Every weekend, they’d head off to the mountains to test themselves against a new rock face, each more challenging than the last. Trisha was mired in grad school at the time, miserably single, and the thought of Eve’s happiness filled her with bitter envy. It sometimes seemed to her that they’d traded lives, that Eve had somehow ended up with rewards that rightfully belonged to Trisha.

  A few months before their wedding, Thad and Eve invited a bunch of their friends to Thad’s uncle’s summer house in the Shawangunk Mountains of Upstate New York. All weekend long, Trisha watched the happy couple interact with an emotion so strong it could only be called hatred. Thad was gorgeous—lean and muscular with close-cropped blond hair and an air of quiet intelligence—and he couldn’t take his eyes off Eve, who seemed to have acquired a new summer wardrobe—skirts and sundresses and halter tops—every item of which fit perfectly, and called attention to the loveliness of her limbs, the grace of her smallest gestures.

  All the guests left on Sunday afternoon except Trisha, who was getting a ride home from her hosts on Monday morning (her car, a crappy Dodge Neon, needed a new transmission that she couldn’t afford). They’d rented Vertigo, but Eve pled exhaustion around nine o’clock, saying she couldn’t keep her eyes open another minute. When Thad offered to join her, she insisted that he and Trisha go ahead and watch without her.

  “I don’t want to spoil your guys’ night,” she said.

  They cued up the movie shortly after Eve went upstairs. Trisha made herself comfortable on the couch while Thad took a seat on the floor. Vertigo was one of Trisha’s favorite films, but she could barely follow the action, so distracted was she by Thad’s magnetic physical presence, the soft fuzz of his hair, the taut muscles of his legs stretched out in front of him, his shins nicked and bruised and battered by the rocks, the little grunts of surprise he made as the story unfolded.

  At some point, Thad shifted position so that his back rested against the bottom of the couch, his right shoulder just a few tantalizing inches away from her right foot. It was so easy to extend her leg, she barely realized she was doing it until she felt her big toe brush against his T-shirt. He moved away from the touch in a reflex of politeness, but then settled back into it, exerting a slight counterpressure so she’d know it wasn’t an accident.

  They sat like that for a long time. Trisha’s heart was racing; it took all the concentration she could muster to slow down her raggedy breathing, to keep herself from panting. Finally, she worked up the courage to move her foot even closer, until her instep was pressing against the top of his arm. She moved it back and forth against the soft cotton, an awkward but tender caress. He turned slowly, smiling over his shoulder. She smiled back.

  Thad’s expression grew solemn. With an odd courtliness, he cupped his hand under her calf, lifted her heel off the couch, and planted a tender kiss on the sole of her foot. She giggled in surprise, then let out a soft moan of encouragement as his lips proceeded to her ankle. He paused there, glancing uncertainly toward the ceiling. Trisha followed his gaze, thinking of her lucky friend, asleep and clueless upstairs.

  “Keep going,” she whispered, and he did as he was told.

  PAUL BARELY touched his gnocchi, but he seemed very enthusiastic about the wine.

  “I’m really glad you posted that message,” he said. “I don’t think I’d have the guts to do something like that.”

  “I don’t know what got into me,” Ruth confessed. “I couldn’t sleep one night, and for some reason I started thinking about you and me, and what happened back then….”

  “That was a crazy time,” he said. “I had that broken leg and things were all messed up between me and Missy. You were a real bright spot. You saved that whole spring for me.”

  Paul poured more wine for both of them, finishing off the bottle. Ruth was already feeling a nice warm glow from her first two glasses, a mingled sense of nostalgia and anticipation. I was a bright spot, she thought.

  “You still play the trumpet?” she asked.

  Paul made a sad face.

  “Haven’t touched it since sophomore year of college. I thought I would major in music, but I ended up switching to computer science. Best decision I ever made.”

  “You were a good musician. I liked listening to you practice.”

  “Maybe I’ll take it up again sometime,” he said without conviction. “What about you? You said you were a teacher, right?”

  “High school,” she said. “Sex Education.”

  “Yeah, right.” He seemed to find this amusing. “That’s a good one.”

  “I’m serious,” she told him.

  He couldn’t quite manage to wipe the smirk off his face.

  “Scout’s honor?”

  “Why’s that so funny?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It just seems kind of weird, considering, you know, what you were like as a teenager.”

  “What do you mean?” Ruth said, feeling slightly miffed. “I was a perfectly normal teenager.”

  “You seemed kinda wild.”

  “I wasn’t wild. Not even close.”

  “I mean, you were just a sophomore, right? You know, when we—”

  “That was a one-shot
deal,” she told him. “You were the first and only guy I had sex with in high school. I didn’t have another boyfriend until college.”

  “Really? You were a virgin?”

  “I’m sure I told you.”

  “You did,” he said. “I just didn’t believe you.”

  JOANN STARED at Trisha with a look that teetered between pity and contempt.

  “Eeew,” she said. “I can’t believe you had sex with your best friend’s fiancé. While she was in the house.”

  “It was just that once,” Trisha explained in self-defense. “It never happened again.”

  “Personally,” Roger interjected, “I can’t believe he kissed your foot. That’s what’s really gross.”

  “It was clean,” Trisha informed him. “I’m pretty careful about that.”

  “The foot’s a powerful erogenous zone,” C. J. declared. “Anyone who denies that is missing out on one of life’s great pleasures.”

  “Right,” said Roger. “And I know some African tribesmen who say the same thing about sautéed monkey brains.”

  “Who knows?” said C. J. “They might be delicious. You never know until you try.”

  “Point taken,” Roger said. “Whatever floats your boat.”

  JoAnn ignored this sidebar, still staring doggedly at Trisha.

  “Did you tell Eve what you’d done?” she inquired.

  “I meant to,” Trisha confessed. “But it was so close to the wedding, and I was Maid of Honor. It just seemed awkward.”

  “I hope you’re kidding me,” JoAnn said. “I hope you didn’t stand up at the altar next to the woman you betrayed.”

  “There wasn’t an altar,” Trisha told her. “The ceremony was in a French restaurant.”

  “You were the Maid of Dishonor,” Roger said with a chuckle, giving Trisha a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  “That was my punishment,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “To know that I’d been a terrible friend.”

  “What about Thad?” Ruth asked. “Did you ever talk to him about it?”

  “Just that night,” Trisha replied. “We made a pact to forget what we’d done, to pretend it never happened. And that’s pretty much what we did, except that every now and then, when I’m over their house and Eve leaves the room, he’ll give me this weird little smile. Sometimes he winks. It’s horrible.”

  “I think you should tell her,” C. J. said. “You’ve got to clear the air. She shouldn’t stay married to a creep like that. Let her get out now, before they have kids and everything gets complicated.”

  Trisha winced. “It’s too late. Eve’s pregnant. She asked me to be the godmother.”

  “Yuck,” JoAnn said. “I can’t listen to this. Who wants to go next?”

  “Me,” Roger said. “Unless Ruth wants to.”

  “That’s okay,” Ruth told him. “I can wait.”

  “Fine,” JoAnn said, with an audible lack of enthusiasm. “Let’s hear from Roger.”

  Roger looked around the table, smiling at each member of his audience, making a preliminary claim on their goodwill. After clearing his throat and cracking his knuckles, he picked up the composition book and began to read.

  “Anyone who has given any thought to the matter will understand that the difference between fifteen and sixteen is hard to pinpoint with the naked eye. I have known fourteen-year-olds who look like they’re twenty, and seventeen-year-olds who could pass for twelve. Yet for the legal system, the distinction between fifteen and sixteen is crucial and enormous, and woe to the man who finds himself on the wrong side of that line. I accept this—many laws, such as speed limits, rely on arbitrary numbers, and we all do our best to obey them. But who’s really to blame when a teenager claims to be an age she isn’t? The deceiver or the deceived? Roberta was a camp coun—”

  “You know what?” JoAnn said, raising her voice above Roger’s. “Why don’t you just stop there?”

  Roger looked up from the page, puzzled and clearly annoyed.

  “But I just started,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” JoAnn told him. “I think we’ve all had enough of you for today.” She turned to Ruth. “Let’s just hear from our final reader, and then we’ll take the multiple-choice quiz.”

  “Do I really have to do this?” Ruth asked.

  “Everyone else went,” JoAnn reminded her.

  “Not me,” Roger said. “I was censored.”

  “That wasn’t censorship,” JoAnn informed him. “That was self-defense.”

  “I’m just not comfortable with this,” Ruth explained.

  “It can’t be any worse than what I said,” Trisha told her.

  “No one’s judging anyone,” C. J. said. “We’re just sharing our experiences.”

  “I felt like people were judging me,” Trisha said. “I sensed a lot of disapproval in the room.”

  “What did you expect?” JoAnn asked her. “A pat on the back?”

  “I respect everyone else for volunteering,” Ruth said. “But I’d really like to take a pass.”

  “Do what you have to,” JoAnn told her. “But I think you should be aware of the fact that I’m evaluating you on participation, not just attendance. If you don’t participate, you’ll just have to come back next month.”

  “That’s not fair,” Ruth said.

  “Just read the damn thing already,” Roger told her. “You could’ve been finished by now.”

  THEY’D AGREED to share the tiramisu, but Paul didn’t even bother to pick up his spoon.

  “This is really good,” she told him. “You should at least try some.”

  “That’s okay. I’m stuffed.”

  “Stuffed? You barely touched your dinner.”

  “Something happened to my metabolism when I lost the weight. I’m just not hungry anymore. I think it’s actually more of a psychological than a physical thing.”

  Ruth wondered if he had some kind of eating disorder but decided to keep it to herself.

  “So how come you haven’t gotten remarried?” she asked. “You’ve been divorced for a long time.”

  “I don’t know.” He picked up his wineglass, realized it was empty, then put it back down. “Maybe I’m just having too much fun being single. I travel a lot for work, and I meet a lot of women. I’d hate to have to hide out in my hotel room all night, or feel guilty about flirting with some pretty sales rep at a bar.”

  “Just flirting? Or is that a euphemism?”

  “I go with the flow,” he explained, with just a trace of smugness. “If something’s meant to happen it will. If not, that’s cool, too.”

  Ruth hadn’t spent time in hotel bars, and didn’t know a whole lot about the sexual habits of business travelers, but it was easy to imagine Paul doing well in that setting. He was a fit, handsome, soft-spoken man with a nice tan and an inspiring story to tell, a cut above the aging frat boys who’d be his main competition.

  “But what about when you’re home?” she said. “Don’t you get lonely?”

  He seemed surprised by the question.

  “Not really. I work long hours. I go to the gym. I see my kids on the weekend. Most of the time I’m so busy I don’t even think about it.”

  “I have days like that,” she said. “But sometimes I get depressed. Usually at night, when I’m alone in bed. It’s like, why are all these other people able to find love, and I’m not? Is there something wrong with me?”

  “Don’t bring love into it,” he said, smiling as though he were making a little joke. “That just confuses the issue.”

  Ruth wasn’t sure what he meant, but she smiled back at him anyway. He glanced at their waitress, who was taking orders at a nearby table.

  “More wine? Or should I get the check?”

  “Whatever,” she said. “I’m ready when you are.”

  She felt his leg brush against hers under the table.

  “I’m ready now,” he told her.

  “I’VE MADE a few mistakes in my life,” Ruth began. “Some of
them have involved sex, and at least a couple have been pretty big.”

  She’d experienced a sudden breakthrough near the end of the writing session, and had composed her entire statement in a five-minute burst of inspiration. At the time, she’d felt as though she were articulating something true and important, but now that she was speaking them out loud, her words seemed vaguely embarrassing to her. They even looked childish on the page, no more substantial than the doodled universe floating above them.

  “It would be all too easy to pick one of these errors and tell you what I should have done differently, and how much better my life would be if I’d been mature and responsible enough not to have made it. But I’m not sure I believe that. I think it would be more accurate to say that we are our mistakes, or at least that they’re an essential part of our identities. When we disavow our mistakes, aren’t we also disavowing ourselves, saying that we wish we were someone else?

  “I’m halfway through my life, and as far as I can tell, the real lesson of the past isn’t that I made some mistakes, it’s that I didn’t make nearly enough of them. I doubt I’ll be lying on my deathbed in forty or fifty years, congratulating myself on the fact that I never had sex in an airplane with a handsome Italian businessman, or patting myself on the back for all those years of involuntary celibacy I endured after my divorce. If recent experience is any guide, I’ll probably be lying in that hospital bed with my body full of tubes, sneaking glances at the handsome young doctor, wishing that I hadn’t been such a coward. Wishing I’d taken more risks, made more mistakes, and accumulated more regrets. Just wishing I’d lived when I had the chance.”

  * * *

  THEY WENT back to Paul’s hotel room and began to kiss, experimentally at first, and then with more conviction. After a while, he slid his hand down her back and onto her skirt.

  “You always had a nice ass,” he told her.

  “It’s not what it used to be,” she warned him.