Mrs. Fletcher(62)

Julian picked up his skateboard and joined the herd. He understood just how pathetic this was—he had no intention of mentioning it to Ethan or to anyone else, even as a joke—but he also accepted the sad truth of his life: he literally had nothing better to do. He was eighteen years old and had come to the fucking Senior Center in search of a good time. Only fifty years ahead of schedule.

Dr. Fairchild had mentioned the lecture yesterday, and invited the whole class to come out—it was free and open to the public—if they weren’t already sick of the sound of her voice. It’d be nice to see some friendly faces in the crowd, she’d told them. Mrs. Fletcher would definitely be there—she ran the Senior Center and had organized the whole thing—and Dumell said he was hoping to make it, too, but only at the tail end, because he had a class on Wednesday nights.

Julian was hoping that maybe they’d all go out for a drink afterward, though he promised himself that he wouldn’t get sloppy drunk like the last time, when he’d ended up on all fours on Haddington Boulevard, barfing into the sewer while Mrs. Fletcher rubbed his back and told him to let it all out. He’d emailed her the next day, apologizing profusely for the inappropriate comments he’d made about her body—not untrue, but totally out of line—and she’d assured him that there were no hard feelings.

He entered the lecture room behind a bulky old man in a windbreaker and baseball cap. The poor guy had a bum leg that he dragged along behind him. Every step he took, it was like he was drawing a new line in the sand.

The room was pretty full, probably close to a hundred people. Julian glanced around, hoping to spot one of his classmates—Russ or Barry, or even Mr. Ho—but all he saw was a bunch of white-haired geriatrics craning their necks and squinting in his direction, as if they’d ordered a pizza an hour ago and were wondering if he might be the goddam delivery guy.

The man in front of him limped into a row with two empty seats on the aisle and Julian followed, because an aisle seat seemed like a smart idea, in case he felt the need to make a quick exit. He bent down and stashed his skateboard under the folding chair. Straightening up, he noticed that his neighbor was watching him with an amused expression.

“Don’t see too many of those things around here,” the old guy observed. His nose was swollen and veiny, and his baseball cap said U.S.S. Kitty Hawk.

Julian nodded politely, not wanting to get into a big discussion while they waited. The old guy stuck out his hand.

“Al Huff,” he said. “I live on Hogarth Road.”

Julian was sorry he’d sat here.

“Julian Spitzer. Sanborn Avenue.”

They shook. Al’s hand was soft and dry, weirdly puffy.

“You here for the lecture?” he asked.

Julian couldn’t help himself. He glanced around, then spoke in a confidential tone.

“Who cares about the lecture? I came for the ladies.”

Al’s laugh was loud, but a little wheezy, half cough.

“Me too,” he said. “Maybe one of us’ll get lucky.”

Julian said the odds were on their side, but Al wasn’t listening anymore. He was twisting in his seat, trying to look over his shoulder. Julian followed his gaze and saw that Dr. Fairchild had entered the room, along with Mrs. Fletcher and a younger woman, and the three of them began moving toward the stage in single file. Except for the absence of music, it felt almost like a wedding procession, the audience watching in rapt silence as the guests of honor made their way down the aisle. Mrs. Fletcher nodded to Julian as she passed, and Dr. Fairchild’s face blossomed into an expression of happy surprise at the sight of him. The younger woman—she was short and a little heavy, but kind of sexy—gave him a puzzled glance, as if she wondered what the hell someone his age was doing there. When Julian turned back around, he saw that Al Huff was scowling and shaking his head.

“What a shame,” he said. “What a goddam shame.”

*

Margo took a deep breath and forced herself to smile. It was a good crowd, bigger than she’d expected, at least two-thirds women. She hadn’t even begun her speech and one elderly gentleman was already snoring in the second row, making a soft gargling sound that came and went at random intervals.

“Good evening.” She tapped her fingernail on the bulb of the handheld microphone. “Can everyone hear me okay?”

The response was mostly affirmative, though there was some disgruntled murmuring scattered through the room, probably due more to individual hearing impairments than any problem with the sound system. Margo glanced at Eve, who gave her a thumbs-up from the front row.

“I’ll try to speak slowly and clearly,” she said, scanning the crowd for allies. She was glad to see Julian Spitzer—extra credit, not that he needed any—but she made a conscious decision not to look in his direction for moral support. He was an outlier in this group, totally unrepresentative of the demographic she was hoping to connect with. Instead she found an equally encouraging face to focus on—it was a trick she’d learned in public speaking class—in this case, a plump, pleasant-looking woman in a lavender turtleneck, sitting in the fourth row, dead center. She wasn’t smiling, exactly, but she had a patient, benevolent expression, like a proud grandmother at a piano recital.

“Thank you so much for coming out tonight. You’re the first group of seniors that I’ve ever addressed.”