“What the fuck?” Lexie whispered. She had never had such violent thoughts about Peter before and they awoke her like the fizzing vibrations from a forgotten cell phone ringing in a deep back pocket. Soon, Lexie was hit with the familiar crashing of a panic attack.
It was a school night. There was no time to lie awake in bed and breathe through this with the thunderous Snore-Man beside her. No time for cognitive therapy. Lexie got out of bed and padded downstairs. She went to her purse on the kitchen counter, pulled out the bottle of expired Klonopin, tapped one out into her hand, and swallowed it dry.
Back in bed, with her heart roiling and her head crowded with what felt like an electrical fire, Lexie licked her first two fingers, then slipped her hand down her pajama bottoms. As long as Peter snored she knew she was free to move her fingers against herself as forcefully as she wanted. Like a ghost, Daniel Waite tore through the panic and into Lexie’s thoughts, where he stayed until she had rubbed herself into a climax (or three, for that’s how it worked for her). Immediately afterward, Lexie plunged into a deep and immovable sleep.
4
THE NEXT MORNING LEXIE FOUND HER FRIEND AMY ALONE IN THE infirmary—a room so antiquated it reminded Lexie of children’s books she’d discovered in other people’s houses when she used to babysit: Madeline, or The Little Princess. Lexie lay back on a tightly made green iron bed that had a crank to raise or lower the top half. Similar beds were on either side of Lexie.
Amy sat in the anachronistically modern rolling chair at her desk and crossed her legs. She had calves that bulged out like a man’s fist. Lexie stared from Amy’s calves to her face: soft, doughy, with wide-set brown eyes and hair that was so light brown it read as blond. Amy had been white-haired as a child, she once told Lexie. She had never colored her hair and probably never would. If you took a strand and held it up to the light, you’d say brown. But damn if you didn’t look at Amy and see blond. And not only blond, but a shade of blond Lexie had to buy at a salon an hour away in Boston, where the cost of a cut and color made her gasp each time (even when she knew ahead of time what she’d be paying).
“You don’t think that’s funny?” Lexie had just read last night’s text exchange to Amy.
“No. I mean it’s not not funny. But it’s not what you think it is.” Amy appeared to be barely interested. Or not excited about it the way Lexie was. Maybe it was because Amy carried on like this with strangers and near-strangers almost every day. She was fully involved in the world of texting and sexting and different phone apps that allowed her to meet people or not meet them.
Lexie looked down at the text and laughed again.
“You have a crush on him so everything he says seems bigger to you. Better.”
“I don’t have a crush on him,” Lexie protested. But yes, she did.
“If you don’t have a crush on him, cancel Frito Friday and have your regular lunch with me instead.” Amy clucked her tongue. She knew she was right.
Amy had married her college boyfriend the year they graduated from ’Bama. Seven years later she’d had an affair with his business partner, a man who was married to someone who had become her friend. When they were caught, the shame was too much, Amy had said, and so she fled Alabama to a state where no one knew her, her family, her ex-husband’s family, her former lover’s family, or his wife’s family. When the divorce was being finalized, she changed her married last name, Jackson, to one that had no ties to people or places in any of the Southern states, a name picked on a whim from a copy of Architectural Digest sitting beside her: Hagan.
Amy didn’t realize at the time that Hagan was German and often Jewish. When she discovered this (from a Jewish Hagan on a dating site who wanted to make sure they weren’t related), Amy laughed hysterically as she imagined her former in-laws finding out that she had a Jewish last name. She was already the devil to them and, being rural Southerners who had never met a Jew in their lives (that they knew of), they had primitive ideas of what a Jew was. Amy once told Lexie that there were many kids in junior high who thought Jews grew little lumps of horn on their heads.
Lexie had never done most of the things Amy had done. But she liked that Amy’s life was big and full of mistakes. It made Lexie feel safe with Amy, like anything she did or said would only elicit a shrug and a tongue cluck.
“Okay,” Lexie confessed. “I have a mad crush on him. But so what, right?”
“Exactly.” Amy pushed her chair back, kicked off her pumps, and put her feet up on the desk. “Have fun. Flirt your ass off. And don’t worry about it.”
“But I’ve been having panic attacks lately. I’ve even had to pop a couple Klonopin from the old bottle I’ve been carrying since graduate school.” Lexie stared at Amy’s stockinged feet. The thick, flesh-colored nylon blurred out Amy’s toes into one smooth lump that reminded Lexie of the crotch of a Barbie doll.
“You’ve been having panic attacks because of a crush?”
“I think so.”
“You have two choices: Don’t go to Frito Friday, stop talking to the guy, and you’ll forget about him soon enough. Or, accept the crush and let it be.”
“What if I let the Yahtzee God decide?” Lexie pulled her phone from her purse and started playing. “If I get over two hundred fifty, I’ll go to Frito Friday. Less than two hundred fifty . . .” Lexie stopped talking so she could focus on the game. Amy rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. She was plenty used to the Yahtzee God. Sometimes Lexie corralled Amy into playing against her, making Amy the Yahtzee God (or Yahtzee Devil, depending on who won).
“Ooooh,” Lexie hummed, when she got a Yahtzee. Unless she blew it—going for a second Yahtzee instead of taking the small straight before her—she was sure to get at least 250.
“Well?” Amy nodded toward the phone that Lexie was shoving back into her purse. “What did Our Father who art in Yahtzee say?”
“Roll with the crush, go to Frito Friday.”
“You are what my mama would call Hayseed. That’s Southern for shit-all crazy.”
“You know what’s funny?” Lexie flipped to her side and pulled up her knees. She was in a dress and stockings, like Amy, only Lexie’s stockings were sheer and black. Her dress was black, too. Amy’s dress was mint green. Only a girl from Alabama would wear mint green with flesh-colored hose. “My parents, who were completely nutzo, never ever questioned anything they did on the grounds that it might be crazy.”
“Well, usually it’s too hard to see crazy when you’re right in the middle of it.”
“Wait. What if Daniel kisses me?” Lexie lifted her head, a half-sit-up.
“He’ll only kiss you if you give him the signal to kiss you. Don’t give the signal.”
“What’s the signal?” Lexie rested her head on her bent arm.
“I think I usually say something like Did you bring any protection? And then they know I’ll sleep with them and so they kiss me.”
“Well, there’s no chance I’ll say that, so I guess I don’t have to worry.” Lexie was often stunned by Amy’s forwardness. It played so jarringly off her naturally blond (brown) hair, her sherbet-colored clothing, and her reinforced-toe panty hose. She looked like an Avon saleslady. Not someone who would blow you under an umbrella on a rainy night (last weekend, with another phone-app date who had yet to call back).
“You know Peter and I didn’t have sex until our ninth date, right?”
“That’s absurd. You’re adults.”
“There was no way I was going to sleep with him until he’d done an STD panel.”
“Are you kidding? You made him go to a doctor, fill out insurance forms, pay some unreasonably high co-pay, and then sit mostly naked, in a blue paper gown, so that you could have sex with him?”
“Yes. And I made the other two guys I’ve had sex with do it, too.”
“I can’t believe you found three men in the world to agree to that.”
“But I never have to worry about it again for the rest of my life, ’cause I’m gettin�
�� married, y’all!” Lexie put on an Alabama accent. One night when they were out drinking, Amy taught Lexie the regular sayings that came up in conversation back home: How’s your mama? And, cute shoes. And if you didn’t like the person under discussion: Well, bless her heart.
“Well, bless your heart.” Amy sorted through the papers on her desk. “Now quit talking about fucking Frito Friday so I can get my work done.”
“It’s not Fucking Frito Friday. There will be no fucking, I promise.”
“Oh, I know there won’t, ’cause there’s no way you can get a doctor down there with a rapid-response STD kit.” Amy appeared to be reading something on one of the forms. She clicked open a pen and started writing.
Lexie watched. After a couple minutes of silence she said, “It’s so strange to think that I’ve kissed the last person I’ll ever kiss in my life. And besides Peter, not another man on earth will ever see me totally naked . . . I’m gonna get fat now. And I’m gonna stop dyeing or washing my hair and let it get all flat and oily. Oh, and I’m going to grow out all that wiry black hair on my body, too. And maybe, if it’s at all possible, I’ll cultivate some big ol’ nipple-sized moles in my armpits or on my face.” Lexie was cracking herself up. She was going to keep going until Amy tuned in and responded. Finally, Amy put down her pen and looked up at Lexie.
“Honey, even if you had greasy hair, nipple moles, and a bush the size of a Jackson Five afro, men would fall for you.”
“They would not.”
“Yeah, they would. But I don’t have time for this. I gotta finish all these health reports. So you be sweet and quit frettin’ about this Daniel Waite.” Amy turned back to her paperwork. Lexie said the words quit frettin’ over and over again in her head.
5
AND THEN IT WAS FRIDAY. AMY WAS STUCK IN THE INFIRMARY WITH a vomiting freshman, so Lexie had lunch with other teachers in the dining hall. The meal was almost unbearable as Lexie had no appetite and couldn’t focus on the conversation.
“Have you heard that before?” Jim Reiger asked. He was the lacrosse coach, square-jawed; he called women gals and girls ladies.
“Me?” Lexie pointed at herself with her thumb.
“Yeah, you.” Jim scraped his chair back and spread his legs even wider than they already were.
“I was spacing out,” Lexie confessed. Frito Friday was monopolizing the real estate of her head. She felt like she had a date with the president or a movie star.
“I was saying that you remind me of Melanie Birkin.”
“Yeah, a couple people have told me that before. Who was she again?” Lexie asked, though she couldn’t care less who she was.
“Isn’t it considered poor taste to discuss someone who is not present?” Janet Irwin said. “Can’t we elevate this conversation?”
“Shit no,” Dot blurted in her balled-up-tin-foil voice. “She abandoned us without saying a word!”
“Wait, was she that young French teacher who disappeared the year before I got here?” Amy had told Lexie the story once. Melanie Birkin was the dorm parent in Robert Frost Hall, a horrendous 1960s blockade that was inconveniently located on the farthest edge of campus and didn’t resemble any of the other buildings. Since unmarried teacher residents weren’t allowed to entertain their lovers in their apartments, Melanie was frequently AWOL, leaving the dorm proctor (always a senior) in charge. Rumor was, she was so horny for her townie boyfriend (whom no one had ever met, as she was ashamed of him) that when she was confronted about her absences, she simply packed her belongings and left. No notice. No good-byes.
“She was hot,” Jim said, and most the women and even the men at the table groaned.
Lexie stood and picked up her plate. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll see everyone at Monday meeting.”
“No dinner tonight?” Janet Irwin asked.
“I do Friday dinner every other week.” Lexie wanted to spit at her.
“Yes, and last Friday wasn’t your Friday, so this is your Friday.” Janet spoke with absolute authority.
“It is?” How and why did Janet Irwin keep track of this stuff? Lexie herself could barely remember her own schedule.
“I’ve been excused from regular dinner duties on the grounds that I’m—” Dot started.
“Foulmouthed?” Jim said.
“No! Old! I’m fucking old! Can you believe how fucking old I am? It’s a travesty!”
Janet ignored Dot and kept her head firmly pointed at Lexie, waiting for a response. Maybe, Lexie guessed, Janet recycled the same old quizzes and tests she’d been using in her physics class for the last three decades. This would free her up enough to involve herself in every aspect of the school. Janet’s devotion to Ruxton, along with her strict adherence to the rules and her rumored vow of celibacy (Jim Reiger once joked about her being a lesbian, although it was a remark, Lexie believed, that revealed more about the limitations of Jim’s imagination than anything real about Janet’s sexuality) made Lexie think of Janet as a mother superior in a Catholic convent. But not a kind and nurturing mother superior, more along the lines of a putty-faced, pinpoint-eyed nun who crippled your knuckles with a ruler, a wrathful smile on her face.
“No, wait,” Lexie said. “I was here last Friday, it was the parents’ weekend kick-off dinner.”
“But that doesn’t count as your Friday,” Janet said. “We all were here.”
“Miserable pile of shit night that was,” Dot mumbled, and they all (save Janet) laughed. Lexie knew that Dot particularly liked to use expletives when Janet was around. It was like each shit or fuck was a fistful of tacks thrown at Janet’s face.
“Okay.” Lexie gave up. “So I’ll see you at dinner, Janet.”
“No, I’m off tonight. You’ll see Roy, Katrina, Annabelle—”
“I’ve gotta run, I’ll see you all later!” Lexie winked at Dot, then rushed off before Janet had anything else to add. People like Janet Irwin and Jim Reiger made her wonder what she was doing with her life. If she had a month to live, she’d never spend a minute of it in conversation with Janet about Friday-night dinner duty, or a second of it discussing lacrosse, or former “hot” teachers, with Jim. Usually Lexie looked back at her small life growing up in the apartment and felt immensely grateful that she’d gone so far away, done so much—more than her mother had courage enough to dream up. But there were times, like today, when she felt like she hadn’t done much other than transfer her body from one small area (San Leandro, California) to another small area (Ruxton, Massachusetts). Europe? Asia? Africa? South America? Lexie hadn’t been to any of those places. The farthest she’d gone was Montreal when she and Peter drove up there last July.
Even worse than not having traveled, Lexie thought, was that she hadn’t started her nonprofit. She hadn’t changed or saved lives. And certainly her counselor’s salary combined with Peter’s guitar-making income wouldn’t provide the surplus to execute the ideas she’d had simmering in her head since high school: a mobile home with Internet-connected computers that would roam cities and allow the homeless to use the Internet to find jobs and pick up mail. Or a mobile home that would drive out to rural areas with a full medical staff to give checkups, vaccinations, and necessary medical care to people without cars or insurance.
When she was thirteen, one rare night when her parents were getting along (which meant they were drinking and smoking pot together, half-dressed, with flirty laughs that implied she should get out of the house and stay out for a few hours), Lexie got on a bus without any destination in mind. It was spring break and the Simmses were out of town, so Lexie rode the bus, studying the faces of the other passengers and looking out the window. When the bus stopped in front of the Alameda County Fairgrounds and most people got off, Lexie followed.
The fairgrounds were being used for an RV show—lit up like a museum exhibition of giant, shiny, rectangles laid flat. There was a fee for admission and Lexie had no money, only her bus pass and house key tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, but when one large family
(large in both number and size) shifted past the ticket taker, Lexie hid among them and slid inside.
For two hours, Lexie walked from one vinyl-smelling box to the next, all the while dreaming of a life inside their walls. The RVs were magical with their compact, cleverly organized spaces. She loved that they could take care of all her human needs within an efficient, clean, and sterile environment. These were spaces she could control, maintain, rule.
From that night on, even when she was old enough to understand the flimsiness, the absolute cheapness of the materials, Lexie’s fantasy of rescuing either herself or others was usually centered around an RV.
AGAIN, LEXIE PARKED THE CARGO VAN AT THE END OF THE PARKING lot. She circled the vehicle once, checking every door lock. Lexie paused by a black Mercedes that appeared brand-new and was pasted with a Ruxton bumper sticker. It had to be Daniel’s. She took a deep breath and reached into her skirt pocket for the Klonopin she had tucked in there before leaving her office. Touching it, knowing it was nearby, made her feel better.
Lexie entered the darkened restaurant. Like their last meeting, Daniel was already seated. The physical reaction Lexie felt surprised her. Instead of acclimating to the sight of Daniel Waite, he’d become a bell that rang up every nerve in her body. Daniel stood as Lexie approached, leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Was that the kind of friendship they had? Had it already developed into the cheek kiss? Fine by her, as even that small brush of his lips left a pleasant echo of sensation.
“Is that your Mercedes with the Ruxton sticker?” Lexie asked.
“Yeah. I’m sentimental about that place.”
“That’s sweet.” Lexie sat. “Am I late?”
“No. But I like being early. I enjoy watching you walk in.” Daniel sat.
Lexie blushed. Like the kiss, this seemed beyond the edges of normal. But it was a not-normal she enjoyed.
“Not sure you can call what I just did walking.” Lexie kicked out one foot and revealed her black knee-high boot. The heel was five inches. “More like a teeter with these things on.”
The Trouble with Lexie Page 5