Mrs. Fletcher(53)

“Oh, fuck.”

He was down on all fours, gazing through the metal grate into the dark abyss below, when he realized that Mrs. Fletcher was crouching next to him, rubbing his back in a slow circle, telling him to relax, that he’d feel better when he’d gotten the poison out of his system.

“Poor baby,” she said.

“You have great boobs,” he told her, right before he puked again.





PART THREE


Gender and Society





A Bouquet of Red Flags


For the most part, Amber and her mom got along really well. They texted each other several times a day and spoke on the phone at least twice a week. And these weren’t short calls, either. Once they got started, they could talk for an hour straight without coming up for air.

Unless there was something urgent to discuss, their conversations followed a well-worn path. They always began with an update about her brother—what he was eating, how he was sleeping, how things were going for him at school, how many new Matchbox cars he’d acquired—because Amber missed him a lot and still felt guilty about going away to college, leaving her mom to care for him as if she were a single parent, even though her father lived in the house. He’d never really bonded with Benjy; he acted like there was no point in even trying, and everybody let him get away with it, including Amber.

When they’d exhausted the topic of Benjy, her mom would ask a few questions about Amber’s schoolwork, and then Amber would reciprocate, giving her mom lots of room to ramble on about anything that occurred to her, no matter how trivial—the weather, a story in the news, the quality of the produce she’d bought at the supermarket. There was always some discussion of her mom’s allergies and a segment devoted to any unusual activity in the neighborhood: who got a new car, whose dog was in a clown collar, who had switched from oil heat to natural gas. Amber listened patiently, because she knew how lonely her mother was, and how small her world had become.

It was the least she could do.

At the same time, Amber dreaded these phone calls, because they inevitably drifted to the awkward subject of boyfriends—specifically, her mother’s inability to understand why Amber didn’t have one. It made no sense: Amber was pretty, she was smart, she had a big heart and a warm personality. Yes, her mother understood that she had a demanding schedule—academics, softball, the various clubs and organizations she belonged to—but young people could always make time for a little romance. Amber’s mother certainly had, when she was her daughter’s age. She’d been a very popular young lady, if she had to say so herself.

You should go on some dates, her mother would say, as if this were a brilliant idea that had just occurred to her, rather than a suggestion she’d made a hundred times before.

Trying to keep her frustration in check, Amber would explain, for the hundredth time, that no one went on dates anymore, that it wasn’t a thing people her age actually did.

I literally do not know a single person who’s been on a date, she would protest. This wasn’t literally true, but she didn’t want to muddy the waters of the argument with a more nuanced position.

And then came the Big Significant Pause. Every frigging time.

Amber, honey? Is there something you want to tell us? You know your father and I will support you no matter what.

It was all because she’d gone to her senior prom with Jocelyn Rodriguez, a softball teammate and one of the few out kids in her high school. Neither one of them had a date, so they decided to go as friends. Lots of girls did that. But they looked so good together, so totally plausible—Joss in a tux, with her short hair slicked back, Amber girly in a pink dress—that everyone simply assumed they were a couple, Amber’s parents included. Even Joss seemed to think so, because she was pretty disappointed when Amber wouldn’t make out with her during the slow dances.

Jesus, Mom. How many times do I have to tell you? I like guys. There just aren’t any good ones here.

Well, that’s your problem right there, honey. You’re going in with a bad attitude. You have to give them a chance.

At that point in the conversation, Amber was tempted to list all the guys she’d hooked up with during freshman year—eight or nine, depending on how you looked at it, and every one an asshole in his own special way—but she didn’t want to be slut-shamed by her own mother. And besides, she was done with all that. No more drunken hookups. No more getting naked with sexist jerks who had no interest in her as a human being.

Maybe if you dressed a little more feminine, her mother would say. You look really pretty in dresses. Those skinny jeans aren’t always so flattering.

It was like they were actors in a play that never ended, doomed to keep performing the same depressing scene over and over again. But that was about to change, Amber thought, as she took a deep breath and reached for her phone.

*

Becca was supposed to visit that weekend. It was all set. She’d arranged for a ride from Haddington with a girl in her class who had an open invitation to crash at the Sigma house, and Zack had agreed to sexile himself for a couple of days, not that it was much of a sacrifice on his part. His on-and-off relationship with the mystery girl (who was supposedly not fat, though that’s how I always thought of her) was back on again, and he hardly ever slept in our room anymore anyway. Most of the time it felt like I was living in a single, which would have been great, except that I missed having him around. Even when he was there, things weren’t the same. I mean, we got along fine, but we didn’t joke around or laugh as much as we used to. He seemed a little distant, way more interested in whatever text he’d just received than in anything I had to say. It was pretty fucking annoying.