Mrs. Fletcher(60)

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.”