Technically, this was the third monthly lecture she’d overseen, but she’d felt no ownership stake in the September or October offerings—dry-as-dust tributes to the Queen of England and the Versatile Soybean, respectively—both of which she’d inherited from her predecessor. They’d been such demoralizing experiences that Amanda had seriously considered quitting her job after each of them, or at least writing a heartfelt letter of apology to everyone who’d attended, herself included.
But instead of quitting, or poisoning her work life with bitterness and negativity, she’d behaved like an adult. She’d gathered her courage and discussed the situation with her boss, and together they’d found a way to effect constructive change. Eve deserved a lot of the credit, of course. She was the one who’d floated the possibility of inviting her professor to deliver the November lecture, but she’d only done so in response to Amanda’s pitch for a more edgy, out-of-the-box approach.
Bringing a transgender guest speaker to the Senior Center was exactly the sort of bold move Amanda had been advocating, an announcement to the entire town (and beyond) that the monthly lecture series was under exciting new management, and people might want to start paying attention.
Eve was excited, too, and their shared sense of anticipation had brought them closer together, helping them to get past any lingering awkwardness related to the surprise kiss outside the restaurant. It was a relief to Amanda, and not just for professional reasons. She’d been feeling bad about the way she’d reacted that night, flinching as though Eve had been attacking her, rather than making a slightly clumsy but not completely unwelcome overture. It wasn’t that Amanda wished she’d gone to bed with her, or even kissed her back, because she knew it was a terrible idea to get involved with your boss. She just wished she’d been a little nicer about saying no, because she really liked Eve, and had actually been flattered, and even a little turned on, at least in retrospect—at the time she’d simply been flustered—because she sometimes found herself replaying the kiss in her mind when she was bored, and occasionally using it as fuel for more fully developed fantasy encounters that totally got her off, not that Eve needed to know about that.
“Excuse me,” said an elderly woman in a dark green tracksuit with pale green piping. Amanda had met her a couple of times, but couldn’t remember her name. Bev or Dot or Nat, something truncated and nearly extinct. She wore her hair in a cap of tight white curls and had a Halloween-themed Band-Aid pasted on her cheek. “What is this?”
Bev or Dot or Nat jabbed her finger at the hardback poster resting on an easel near the front desk. It featured a blown-up head shot of Margo Fairchild, smiling blandly, like an upscale realtor.
NOVEMBER MONTHLY LECTURE
WEDNESDAY, 7 PM
MARGO FAIRCHILD, Ph.D.
ONE WOMAN’S STORY
“She’s a local professor,” Amanda explained. “A very inspiring person.”
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.