“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?”
If they were going to swap secrets, this would have been the time for Eve to mention Amanda, to bond with Margo over their illicit crushes, but she wasn’t drunk enough to say it out loud.
“I’m just glad he’s tall,” Margo said. “I don’t think it would work with me and a short guy. I mean, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t, but a lot of men get freaked out by tall women.”
“They’re such babies,” Eve said. “What doesn’t freak them out?”
Margo nodded, but without much conviction.
“I’ve never actually been with a man before,” she confessed.
“Oh,” said Eve. “Wow.”
“I liked women when I was a man. At least I tried to. But now . . . that’s not really working for me anymore. I think I’m ready to branch out.”
“Good for you.” Eve gave her an encouraging squeeze on the arm. She wanted to say, I know exactly how you feel, but once again the words stayed put.
“So what should I do?” Margo asked. “How do I seduce him?”
“Maybe you should just talk to him first. Get to know him a little.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Or you could sit on his lap and stick your tongue in his ear. That works, too.”
*
Something happened to Julian in the men’s room. He wasn’t exactly sober going in—nowhere near it—but he could still walk and think straight. But when he came out, he was totally fucking WASTED. It was like that whole second pitcher caught up with him in the course of a single piss.
Getting back to the table was an adventure worthy of a video game, and Dr. Fairchild seemed to have taken his seat.
“?’Scuse me,” he told her. “No offense, but that’s my spot.”
Dumell pointed across the table. There was an empty chair next to Mrs. Fletcher.
“Why don’t you sit over there?” Dumell told him. “Spread the love.”
Dumell was giving him a badass military stare, like, Just do it, motherfucker. Julian wasn’t so hammered that he couldn’t take a hint.
“Chillax, bro.” He winked at Dumell and then gave him a thumbs-up, which he realized, even as he was doing it, was a little too much of a good thing. “I got your back.”
There was something else he wanted to say, but he couldn’t remember what it was, and the next thing he knew Mrs. Fletcher was standing next to him with her arm around his shoulders, offering to drive him home. Julian didn’t want to leave just yet, but Barry said he didn’t have a choice.
“You overdid it, kiddo. It’s time to go.”
“I’m not drunk,” Julian protested, but even he didn’t believe it.
They escorted him out to the parking lot like a criminal, Barry on one side, Mrs. Fletcher on the other. It was actually a relief to get out of the bar, to breathe some fresh air.
“I drank that whole pitcher,” he told them. “All by myself.”
“You’re a champ.” Barry helped him into the passenger seat of Mrs. Fletcher’s minivan. “You’re not gonna get sick, are you?”
“No way, Jose.”
“All right.” Barry nodded solemnly before he shut the door. “Don’t let me down.”
Mrs. Fletcher smiled at him as she slid the key into the ignition. Not a happy smile, but one of those What are we gonna do with you? smiles. It was weird being in the van with her. Like she was his mom. Or maybe even his girlfriend. Why the fuck not?
Brendan would not like that, he thought.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Buckle your seatbelt,” she told him.
He felt okay at first, except that the world kept lurching at him through the windshield. Too many trees and headlights and storefronts. It was better to focus on Mrs. Fletcher’s face. She had a nice profile.
“You think they’re gonna hook up?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Dumell and Dr. Fairchild. I think he likes her.”
Mrs. Fletcher turned and looked at him, as if he’d said something interesting.
“Did he tell you that?”
“Kind of.”
“Well,” she said, after a brief hesitation. “It’s none of our business if they do. They’re both adults.”
Julian nodded. He liked the sound of Mrs. Fletcher’s voice. And he liked the tight shirt she was wearing, the way her boobs swelled against the buttons.
“What about us?” he said. “We gonna hook up?”
“You’re drunk,” she told him.
“You’re really pretty. Do you even know that?”
“Julian,” she said. “Let’s not do this, okay?”
“Why not?”
“I’m forty-six years old,” she told him. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”
He wanted to tell her that age didn’t matter, but something went badly wrong in his stomach, and he had to ask her to pull over.
“Right now! Please.”
She heard the urgency in his voice and swerved to the side of the road. He jumped out of the van, hand clamped over his mouth, and puked into a nearby storm drain, which was better than leaving a disgusting puddle on the sidewalk for dogs to sample in the morning.
“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.