Mrs. Fletcher

by Tom Perrotta

“Riley and I went to high school together,” Lexa explained. Her skin was golden-bronze all over, like she’d just gotten a spray tan. “Up in North Ledham.”

  “Go Raiders,” said Riley, without much enthusiasm.

  We all shook hands, and then I turned to Zack, whose nametag read, UNCONTROLLABLE FARTING.

  “At least you’re honest,” I told him.

  “Tell me about it,” said Lexa, who was wearing a shiny maroon bra and matching panties. She had a nice body—big boobs and a tiny waist—though I was distracted by the clear plastic tube that snaked out of her underwear and around her back. I couldn’t tell where it went and didn’t want to look too hard.

  “You love it,” Zack told her.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Your uncontrollable farting is a huge turn-on.”

  “It’s a popular fetish,” he said. “You should google it sometime.”

  “Already have,” she told him. “You take a nice picture.”

  Zack high-fived her—Good one!—then looked at me. “Where’s Becca?”

  “She couldn’t come. I’m here with that other girl, Amber?”

  “The softball player?”

  “Yeah, we went to a movie and—”

  “We playing or bullshitting?” Riley grumbled.

  “Shut up,” Lexa told him. She smiled at me and pointed at the shot glass on the table. “Wanna join us?”

  Her invitation was totally sincere, and I would have been happy to play a round or two. But I could tell Zack didn’t want me there. He didn’t shake his head or give a warning glance, nothing that obvious. He just kind of looked down and away, like there was something on the floor that required his full attention, a dead bug or a speck of dirt.

  “Not tonight,” I told her. “Maybe next time.”

  * * *

  Amber felt a familiar vacancy taking shape in the pit of her stomach, an empty space that, if something didn’t change, would soon be filled with regret.

  It didn’t make sense. Things had been so hot on the dance floor. Their hands all over each other, the easy way they’d moved to the music, the sweet dirty things he’d whispered in her ear.

  And now . . . this. No connection at all. Just a strange dick in her mouth and fingers drumming impatiently on the top of her head, like he wanted to get it over with. She glanced up at him, checking in, hoping for a little guidance, but he didn’t notice. He was lost in thought, staring straight ahead at nothing, his expression frozen somewhere between confusion and anger.

  She wondered if maybe she’d moved too fast. They’d only made out for a minute or two before she’d decided to go down on him. The kisses had been uninspiring—stiff and distant—and she thought she needed to try something a little more drastic to change the energy.

  She was just about to call for a time-out when his fingertips tightened suddenly on her scalp. He pushed into her and gave a soft grunt of approval, his first real sign of life.

  Finally, she thought.

  She picked up the pace and he responded to the new rhythm, thrusting to meet her. It was encouraging, but also a little worrisome, because she didn’t want him to come just yet. She wouldn’t have minded if she’d thought he might reciprocate with any degree of skill or patience, but Brendan didn’t seem like the type. She’d only ever been with one guy who gave decent oral, and that had been a one-time deal. When it was over, the guy—a wrestler named Angus—never responded to any of her texts, and acted like he didn’t know her when they bumped into each other on campus.

  “You like that, don’t you?” Brendan asked in a soft, dreamy voice.

  Amber made an affirmative noise, the best she could do under the circumstances.

  “You like that big cock in your mouth?”

  Ugh. She ignored the question. For some reason, she detested the word cock.

  “Suck that cock, slut.”

  Whoa, she thought. That was not okay. She tried to tell him, but his hand had slid down the back of her head, and his grip had tightened.

  “Suck it, bitch.”

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t pull away. Couldn’t even breathe. He thrust forward again, and Amber started to gag.

  * * *

  I mean, I would have understood if it was just Zack and Lexa on the sunporch, but that kid Riley was already there, so it wasn’t like I was spoiling some big romantic moment. I tried to tell myself that Zack was embarrassed by Lexa, but that didn’t make any sense, either. They were at a party together, out in public in their fucking underwear, and they looked like they were having a great time. No, the only person Zack was embarrassed by was me, and I’d done nothing to deserve it, not a damn thing.

  Fuck him, I thought.

  It wasn’t fair to me, and it wasn’t fair to Amber. She’d been down on her knees for quite a while, giving it a hundred and ten percent, and I could see that she was starting to sweat a little.

  Focus, I told myself. Get your head in the game.

  Amber was doing a great job, don’t get me wrong, but for some reason I wasn’t feeling it, not the way I had with Becca on the day I left for college. I could almost hear her voice, the way she looked up at me and said, This is your going-away present, and we just kept talking like that the whole time, saying whatever crazy shit popped into our heads.

  I know it’s a little sketchy, thinking about one girl while you’re with another, but you can’t control what goes through your head at a time like that. And it worked, you know? I went from zero to sixty in a couple of seconds, and there was no stopping after that. I kept my foot on the gas, the highway wide open in front of me, not a car in sight.

  And then Amber punched me in the nuts.

  *

  It was no accident. She hammered me in the scrotum—a short, brutal uppercut—when I was about ten seconds away from the finish line.

  My knees buckled and I hit the floor, curling into the fetal position, waiting for the agony to subside.

  “What the fuck?” I said, when I was finally able to talk. “Are you crazy?”

  Amber was standing now, hugging herself so I couldn’t see her chest.

  “You were choking me,” she said.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “I couldn’t breathe, Brendan. I couldn’t even move my head.”

  The pain had faded a little, but it returned in a sickening wave. I looked around for a wastebasket in case I had to puke.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “And don’t you ever call me a slut.” She lifted her foot like she was gonna kick me, but then she put it back on the floor. “I don’t know who you think you are.”

  “I was just talking dirty. I thought you liked it.”

  “Why would you think that?” Her face was really pink. “You have no idea what I like.”

  I forced myself to sit up.

  “I’m sorry. I just got carried away.”

  “Get the fuck out,” she told me.

  “Come on, Amber. Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?” She grabbed my pants off the floor and threw them at me. “Like a person with self-respect?”

  She’d been pretty calm up to that point, but then her mouth stretched out and she started to cry. I could tell she didn’t want to do it—didn’t want to show that weakness in front of me—and she just kind of sniffled really hard and pulled herself together. The tears just stopped. I’d never seen anyone do that before.

  “Can’t we talk about this?” I said.

  But Amber was done talking. She stood there in her black-and-white panties, hugging herself and shaking her head no, like there was no point in discussing anything with me, like I wasn’t worth the effort.

  One Woman’s Story

  Amanda waited by the main entrance, doing her best to tune out the usual lecture day jitters and focus instead on her own sense of personal accomplishment, a feeling she rarely got to enjoy in her post-college life.

  I did this! she reminded herself. I made this happen!

  Tec
hnically, this was the third monthly lecture she’d overseen, but she’d felt no ownership stake in the September or October offerings—dry-as-dust tributes to the Queen of England and the Versatile Soybean, respectively—both of which she’d inherited from her predecessor. They’d been such demoralizing experiences that Amanda had seriously considered quitting her job after each of them, or at least writing a heartfelt letter of apology to everyone who’d attended, herself included.

  But instead of quitting, or poisoning her work life with bitterness and negativity, she’d behaved like an adult. She’d gathered her courage and discussed the situation with her boss, and together they’d found a way to effect constructive change. Eve deserved a lot of the credit, of course. She was the one who’d floated the possibility of inviting her professor to deliver the November lecture, but she’d only done so in response to Amanda’s pitch for a more edgy, out-of-the-box approach.

  Bringing a transgender guest speaker to the Senior Center was exactly the sort of bold move Amanda had been advocating, an announcement to the entire town (and beyond) that the monthly lecture series was under exciting new management, and people might want to start paying attention.

  Eve was excited, too, and their shared sense of anticipation had brought them closer together, helping them to get past any lingering awkwardness related to the surprise kiss outside the restaurant. It was a relief to Amanda, and not just for professional reasons. She’d been feeling bad about the way she’d reacted that night, flinching as though Eve had been attacking her, rather than making a slightly clumsy but not completely unwelcome overture. It wasn’t that Amanda wished she’d gone to bed with her, or even kissed her back, because she knew it was a terrible idea to get involved with your boss. She just wished she’d been a little nicer about saying no, because she really liked Eve, and had actually been flattered, and even a little turned on, at least in retrospect—at the time she’d simply been flustered—because she sometimes found herself replaying the kiss in her mind when she was bored, and occasionally using it as fuel for more fully developed fantasy encounters that totally got her off, not that Eve needed to know about that.

  “Excuse me,” said an elderly woman in a dark green tracksuit with pale green piping. Amanda had met her a couple of times, but couldn’t remember her name. Bev or Dot or Nat, something truncated and nearly extinct. She wore her hair in a cap of tight white curls and had a Halloween-themed Band-Aid pasted on her cheek. “What is this?”

  Bev or Dot or Nat jabbed her finger at the hardback poster resting on an easel near the front desk. It featured a blown-up head shot of Margo Fairchild, smiling blandly, like an upscale realtor.

  NOVEMBER MONTHLY LECTURE

  WEDNESDAY, 7 PM

  MARGO FAIRCHILD, Ph.D.

  ONE WOMAN’S STORY

  “She’s a local professor,” Amanda explained. “A very inspiring person.”

  The woman with the three-letter name squinted at the poster for a few seconds—long enough for Amanda to be engulfed by a powdery floral cloud of perfume—and then shook her head. She looked deeply irritated, though Amanda had spent enough time with old people to know that their expressions didn’t always match up with their moods.

  “What’s it about?” she demanded.

  Amanda hesitated. She’d wanted to use the word transgender somewhere on the poster and in the press release, but Eve had overruled her, on the grounds that it might alienate or frighten potential audience members.

  Let them come with an open mind, she’d advised. Margo will win them over.

  “It’s about taking control of your life,” Amanda replied. “Finding happiness on your own terms.”

  The woman thought this over.

  Viv, Amanda suddenly remembered. Her name is Viv.

  Viv nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “Better than soybeans,” she said, and headed on her way.

  * * *

  The music was so loud, Margo barely heard the ding! of the incoming text, another message from Eve Fletcher, who was, understandably, starting to get worried.

  On my way, Margo texted back, after a brief strategic delay, because it was less embarrassing than the truth, which was that she’d been sitting in the parking lot of the Senior Center for the past fifteen minutes, hiding inside her Honda Fit, listening to “Shake It Off” over and over again. There in 5.

  She could imagine how silly she looked, a middle-aged transgender woman—with a Ph.D.! Tonight’s guest speaker!—singing along to a teen anthem as old people hobbled past, heading toward the lecture hall where Margo would soon address them. But the thing was, she didn’t really feel middle-aged. In her heart, she was a teenager, still learning the ins and outs of her new body. Still hoping for her share of love and happiness and fun, all those good things that the world sometimes provided.

  Her phone dinged again, but this time it wasn’t Eve. It was Dumell.

  You go, girl!

  Margo smiled. He was so sweet. Such a kind, gentle, fragile man. And handsome, too. He scared her a little. Not in a bad way, but because she liked him so much, and didn’t want to screw things up. They’d been on two dates so far, the best dates she’d had in her entire life. They’d talked about everything—Iraq, basketball, families, the pros and cons of various antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds, and how strangely normal it felt when they were together, despite the fact that they were a peculiar couple on so many levels. They’d kissed—there’d been quite a bit of kissing—but they hadn’t slept together, not yet. It was coming, though, right around the next corner, if one or both of them didn’t chicken out.

  Will I see you later? she asked.

  Unless you go blind, he replied, signing off with a winky face. She shot him a smile in return.

  It was past time to get out of the car, but she couldn’t help herself and pressed play for one final encore. She felt safe in the car, and the song was so good. She loved the video, too, all those people dancing at the end, not only the lithe, gifted professionals, but the regular folks, bald and chunky and self-conscious and plain, with their eyeglasses and cardigan sweaters and perfectly ordinary bodies, all of them trying to rid themselves of whatever it was that held them back and knocked them down and made them wonder if they would ever find what they were looking for. They were Margo’s people.

  Taylor Swift wasn’t actually one of them—she was just pretending, the same way Jesus had pretended to be a man. That was why she stood in front of the line, ahead of the others rather than among them. Because she was the teacher, the role model. She’d already shaken off the haters and the doubters and activated her best self. She was there to show the world what happiness and freedom looked like. You glowed with it. You did exactly what you wanted to. And whatever costume you wore, you were still yourself, unique and beautiful and unmistakable for anyone else.

  Someday, Margo thought. Someday.

  * * *

  Eve’s office was small and functional—pale walls, metal desk, industrial gray carpeting—the kind of office you got when taxpayers were grudgingly footing the bill. Even so, it was the biggest office at the Senior Center, and the sign on the door said Executive Director. Margo was duly impressed.

  “Wow,” she said. “Look at you. The big cheese.”

  Eve chuckled dismissively, but she appreciated the phrase. She was the big cheese in this little pond, and she was glad that Margo had a chance to observe her in her natural habitat.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I’m not just a part-time community college student. I’m also a mid-level municipal bureaucrat.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Amanda said. “Eve’s a great director. Everyone loves her.”

  It was a pro forma compliment—an employee sucking up to her boss—but Eve felt a blush coming on anyway. Her relationship with Amanda was still a little unsettled, every interaction colored by the memory of that misguided after-dinner kiss and the awkwardness that had followed. Amanda had been nothing but gracious about it—mostly, she acted as
if it had never even happened—but Eve had been unable to banish it from her mind, or find a way to behave normally in Amanda’s presence.

  “I’m not surprised,” Margo said. “Eve’s a sweetheart.”

  “Okay, okay,” Eve murmured. “Enough already.”

  She was about to suggest that they head over to the lecture room, but Margo had shifted her attention to Amanda’s outfit—a black-and-white polka-dot dress over lime-green tights.

  “I love your dress.” She stroked Amanda’s sleeve, getting a feel for the fabric. They were a striking pair—Margo tall and angular in a conservative navy suit, a colorful silk scarf knotted around her throat; Amanda short and voluptuous, deeply feminine, despite her aggressive tattoos and lace-up Doc Martens. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Thrift store,” Amanda replied, with the smugness of the successful bargain hunter. The dress was adorable, with a Peter Pan collar and big white buttons down the front. “Fourteen dollars.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. A little shop called Unicyle. Best-kept secret in Haddington.”

  “I need some fun clothes,” Margo said, a little wistfully. “I just hate shopping alone. Sometimes it’s nice to have a second opinion.”

  “I’ll take you,” Amanda said. “Anytime you want.”

  “Watch out,” Margo laughed. “I might take you up on that.”

  Eve was happy to see them getting along so well. It was always gratifying when friends from different parts of your life hit it off, a reflection of your own good taste. She just hoped she’d be included if they ever did go on a shopping adventure. She hadn’t done anything like that in a long time, a group of friends wandering through the mall or checking out the shops in a quaint suburban town, stepping out of changing rooms with dubious or hopeful expressions. Then they’d stop at Starbucks or a wine bar for a postmortem, shopping bags resting by their tired feet. It was such an appealing fantasy, exactly the sort of innocent female camaraderie Eve needed in her life. But it was hard to reconcile with the guilt she was feeling toward both of the women in her office, the suspicion that she was unworthy of their friendship.