Mrs. Fletcher(51)

“That’s five miles away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You really commute on that thing?”

“It’s better than nothing.”

Dumell didn’t dispute this. “Is it fun?”

“Fuck yeah. You know that hill on Davis Road? Over by Wendy’s? Sometimes I’m going faster than the cars. Feel like a superhero.”

“Ever have an accident?”

“Nothing bad. If I see trouble coming, I just hop off.”

“I get that,” said Dumell. “But you can’t always see it coming, right?”

Julian picked up his glass—it was half-full—and then put it down without drinking.

“Only bad thing that ever happened, some jock assholes from my high school kidnapped me.”

“Kidnapped?”

“They threw me in their car, drove me to a park, and duct-taped me inside a Port-A-Potty.”

Dumell’s eyes got big. “You shitting me?”

“Nope.”

Julian shot a venomous glance across the table at Mrs. Fletcher, but she didn’t notice. She was too busy sucking up to the professor, who was apparently her new best friend. Mrs. Fletcher’s dickwad son had been one of the kidnappers.

“Why would they go and do that?” Dumell asked.

“Why? Because one of these jocks was being an asshole at a party, so I threw a drink in his face.”

“Crazy motherfucker,” chuckled Dumell. “How long were you stuck in there?”

Julian shrugged. It had only been a couple minutes—his house key cut right through the tape—but it felt like forever. The stench of that open toilet had been seared into his nostrils for months afterward. He could still smell it now if he tried hard enough.

“Too fucking long,” he said.

Julian shot another hateful look at Mrs. Fletcher. He wanted to say something mean, to let her know what a horrible bully she’d brought into the world, but she was standing up now, not even looking in his direction as she headed off to the rest room with Dr. Fairchild in tow.

“Damn,” said Dumell, who was watching the women walk. His voice was low and appreciative. “She looks good.”

“Which one?” asked Julian.

“Damn,” Dumell repeated in that same soft voice, which wasn’t really an answer.

*

With only one stall and limited standing room, the women’s rest room at PLAY BALL! wasn’t ideal for girl talk. Eve made a magnanimous after you gesture, inviting Margo to avail herself of the facilities. She checked her phone while she waited—there were no texts or emails of note—and reminded herself that it was rude to speculate about the particulars of the professor’s anatomy.

It’s not important, she thought. Gender’s a state of mind.

Margo flushed and emerged with a slightly tipsy smile on her face.

“Mission accomplished,” she announced in a singsong voice, turning sideways so Eve could slip past. “Your turn.”

Eve really did have to pee, but she was overcome with a sudden attack of shyness the moment she sat on the toilet. She had no problem going with strangers nearby, but it was harder when people she knew were within hearing range. It was all because Ted, in the early days of their relationship, had once teased her about the force of her stream.

Jesus, he said. Who turned on the faucet?

Years later, when their marriage was falling apart, Eve had mentioned this incident in a couple’s therapy session, to which they’d each brought a list of unspoken grievances. Ted had no recollection of making this comment, and was mystified that it could have bothered her for so many years. It was a dumb joke, he told her. Just let it go already. But here she was, seven years divorced, and still brooding about it.

“Eve,” said Margo. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What do you think of Dumell?”

“Dumell?” Eve repeated, trying to buy some time. The truth was, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to Dumell. They hadn’t interviewed each other yet, and he didn’t talk much in class. She didn’t even know if Dumell was his first name or his last. She mostly just thought of him as Worried Black Guy, though she’d been impressed tonight by how attentive he was being to Julian Spitzer, who looked like he was getting pretty drunk.

“Yeah,” said Margo. “Do you like him?”

“He seems nice.” Eve discovered to her relief that it was easy to pee while holding a conversation. “Kinda low-key.”

“I think he’s handsome,” Margo said. “He’s got really nice eyes.”

Eve wiped and flushed and exited the stall. She understood her role now.

“So,” she asked, washing her hands in that slightly theatrical way she adopted when other people were watching. “Do you have a crush on him?”

“Maybe.” Margo was gazing into the cloudy mirror, applying her lipstick with the concentration of a surgeon. “And by maybe I mean definitely.”

“Wow.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Is that allowed?” Eve inquired. “The teacher-and-student thing?”

“Who cares?” Margo scoffed. “Do you have any idea what they pay me? Anyway, we’re all adults, right?”