The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid Page 6

  * * *

  —

  “I’m getting good!” I said thirty minutes later. I had successfully started the car three times in a row, and the grinding sound that came from letting out the clutch too fast was nowhere near as loud or frequent as it had been. “I actually think I can master this.”

  “Me too,” said Paul, who had gone slightly gray. “If my clutch holds out that long. But I need a break. This is emotionally fraught.”

  It really was. I relaxed back into the seat. “I bet Jiyoon would be good at this,” I said. “She’s very coordinated.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” said Paul. I gave him space to continue—Just admit you like her, I thought, so I can make this happen—but his eyes had closed. I took the opportunity to send a surreptitious text.

  What if I tell him you like him? I bet he’d be in

  She responded within seconds.

  NOOOOO­OOOOO­ don’t you dare

  A knife emoji came in, and then another. Okay, so maybe not. I wrote, Can I just ask him if he likes you?

  Dorcas you’re a bumbling idiot

  Keep your mouth closed and don’t mess this up for me

  “Are you revived?” said Paul.

  I quickly locked my phone. “I’m ready!”

  “Let’s drive in first gear. You’re going to start the car and then give it a bit more gas, and it’ll go.”

  “I’ll be actually driving?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Where should I go?”

  “Um, the other side of the parking lot?”

  “My maiden voyage!” I said, because my mouth always tries to make my life as weird as possible. At least I hadn’t said virgin voyage. Maybe next time. “I mean, cool. I’m excited.”

  I revved the engine. “I think this lot is big enough,” Paul muttered. The car hopped forward, and instead of stopping, I gave it more gas. “Whee!” I yelled. We were cruising! Gripping the wheel, I glanced down at the speedometer. Ten miles per hour. Twelve! Fifteen! Scenery sped by the windows: light poles, shopping-cart bays. This was awesome. This was exhilarating. Freedom! America! Road trips! The age of the automobile! I was driving!

  “STOP!” yelled Paul.

  Where had that fence come from?

  “BRAKE!”

  How had we already crossed the entire lot?

  “HIT THE LEFT PEDAL!”

  I slammed down my foot. The car careered forward.

  “THE OTHER LEFT!”

  We jolted to a halt, inches from the fence. The car stalled.

  “Oops,” I said. “I think I forgot to put in the clutch.”

  “Among other errors,” Paul said grimly.

  We sat there in silence.

  “Okay,” I said finally. “Maybe I can try again? A bit…slower?”

  The standard Chawton male aesthetic is Banker in Basketball Shoes, which is a natural consequence of the guys’ dress code: shirt, tie, khakis, whatever shoes they want. The girls’ dress code is different. More complicated. You have to have a collar, which is obviously a subtle attempt to keep us from wearing those V-necks that V basically at the pubic bone, and you can’t wear jeans, and all skirts have to be knee-length. What that means is that ninety-eight percent of the girls wear loose plaid shirts over pants that could have been sprayed on. The teachers are supposed to enforce a not-too-tight rule, but hardly anyone dares.

  Me, I don’t like the Lumberjane in Jeggings look. I like dresses. They’re the greatest hoax in history. You look all suave, and meanwhile you’re literally wearing a bag with holes for your extremities.

  One night back in August, Jiyoon and I had gone to Unique Thrift Store and bought XXL men’s shirts and patterned sheets, and we sewed swaths of sheet to the shirt hems so they’d be long enough for the dress code. We made me three shirt-sheet dresses: one white with a plaid bottom, one light blue with roses, and my favorite, a pale pink uber-preppy shirt, complete with tiny reptile, that got a skirt made of Power Rangers sheets. Jiyoon is brilliant with a sewing machine. She fixed the thread when I’d irredeemably snarled it, and when I was going to leave the bottom edges loose to unravel, she hemmed them up. She hemmed up the sleeves too. “There,” she said. “Now, to quote every magazine ever, cinch with a wide belt.”

  I did. I admired myself in the mirror. “Don’t you want some for yourself now that you see how great they look?” I asked her.

  “I’ll stick with my uniform.” Jiyoon wore khakis and pastel polos every day. She looked fine. Unremarkable, but fine. “I prefer to let my personality attract attention. Not my clothes.”

  “You prefer no attention,” I said, slightly stung at the insinuation that this was just one big Look at me move. Jiyoon just shrugged, and I shrugged, too, because I loved my new dresses. And three days out of ten, which was how often I could wear them without seeming unhygienic, I felt, and thus looked, amazing. I noticed this a while ago: how you look and how you feel are directly correlated, and what we’ve been told, what women are supposed to believe, is that looks come first, that looking good makes you feel good. Nope. It’s the opposite. When I was in my shirtdress-belt-Converse ensembles, I felt so offbeat and oddball and awesome that I looked awesome too. It goes that way. Feeling is the independent variable, the x axis. What, in the end, determines it all.

  * * *

  —

  I met Jiyoon outside her history class on Monday so we could walk to Latin together. “I just checked with Ms. Edison,” I told her, “and Mack’s still the only candidate.”

  She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue for half a second: short enough that no one saw, long enough to get her point across. “You’ll be gone,” she said. “We poor juniors are the ones who’ll have to get through a year with him in charge.”

  “I hate that the election’s unopposed,” I said. “The House of Monroe, they’re a freaking dynasty. They’re downright Hapsburgian.”

  “Though with better chins,” Jiyoon pointed out.

  “The problem is, who’d run against him? He’s got it locked up. I wonder…” I trailed off. We were navigating the busy hallway, but everyone was so devoted to chatting and/or Snapchatting in their five precious minutes of freedom that I didn’t think we had eavesdroppers. “I wonder if I could persuade someone else to run.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to stay out of it?”

  “Minor corruption to fight major corruption. That’s ethical, right?”

  “Debatable.”

  “Do you have any ideas? It’s your class. Who’d be a good chairman? Give me some names.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “What about Jonah?” I said. Jonah was on Quiz Team, but he wasn’t the polarizing kind of nerd. He was blandly handsome (strong jaw) and blandly smart (good grades). He was into political science, and he could hold a reasonable yet tedious conversation about anything with anyone. I was meh about Jonah. So was everyone, I think. “Jonah might have a shot.”

  Jiyoon still didn’t say anything.

  “What?” I said.

  “What what?”

  “You got all pissy.”

  “Don’t even go there. I literally said nothing.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  We’d arrived at Latin. We were standing outside the door. Jiyoon said, “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “God. I put nothing in your mouth.”

  Mack sauntered up. “Who put something in Jiyoon’s mouth?”

  “Fuck off,” Jiyoon and I said simultaneously.

  He chortled and went inside.

  “Okay, Ji, what’s your deal?”

  “Jonah. That’s who comes to mind?”

  “Well, who else is there?”

  “If you don’t know,” she said, “I’m not going to tell you.” She went into the room.

  I li
ngered outside, but even my desire to avoid Jiyoon wasn’t enough to risk being late to Mrs. Burke’s class. She surveyed us as the bell rang. “Tuck in your shirt, Mr. Monroe,” she said. “Miss McStern, are you wearing pants or pantyhose?”

  Lacey blushed. I, and everyone else, looked at her lower half. It was true that the garment in question was tan and very tight. “They’re pants, Mrs. Burke,” she said.

  “Stand up,” said Mrs. Burke, “and let me see the rear.”

  Jiyoon kept a studied and purposeful gaze on the whiteboard, but everyone else gawked at the spectacle of Lacey spinning for Mrs. Burke’s inspection. I couldn’t take it. “Mrs. Burke,” I said, “shouldn’t this happen out in the hall?”

  Mrs. Burke’s heavy gaze moved to me. Lacey began to sit, but Mrs. Burke, without looking, lifted a warning palm in her direction. Lacey froze. “Are you telling me how to do my job, Miss Kincaid?” said Mrs. Burke. “A job I have done for forty-six years?”

  Yes. “No.”

  She waited.

  “I just think it’s weird to do this in public.”

  “Dress is a public act. Miss McStern, did you choose these so-called pants to wear in public?”

  “Yeah,” said Lacey, “and I swear, they were in the pants section at Amer—”

  “Does it matter?” said Mrs. Burke. “You should have the good sense to dress yourself in a manner befitting the standards of this institution, eschewing”—she coughed—“alleged pants that betray every curve and contour of the lower half of your body. Detention.”

  Everyone got very quiet. Detention wasn’t the worst punishment—you sat in a quiet room doing homework for an hour, so honestly it was kind of the best punishment—but it wasn’t assigned often. Especially not to seniors.

  “Learn to dress modestly,” said Mrs. Burke to the whole class, “and we won’t waste time on such matters. We will begin class with a scansion assignment in threesomes.” Every other teacher said trios, for obvious reasons, but no one was going to giggle at Mrs. Burke. “Miss McStern, tie a sweater around your waist and join Miss Kenney and Miss Heinle. Mr. Monroe, work with Miss Kim and Miss Kincaid.”

  Ugh. More proof that Mrs. Burke was a sadist. The desks groaned as we scooched them together. “Well, I lucked out,” said Mack with his lazy grin. He was Andy but blockier: broad shoulders, a square face. Furthermore, he lacked all intellectual curiosity and could, in fact, be described as a blockhead. “How about we split up the work? Jemima does half, Jiyoon does half, and I’ll supervise.”

  “How about you get us a dictionary?” said Jiyoon. “That requires brawn, not brains, so you should be able to handle it.”

  “Jiyoon Kim with the zinger!” He stood and bowed. “Let it never be said that Mack Monroe can’t take orders from a lovely lady.”

  He strolled to the bookcase, stopping along the way to flick Tyler Donner’s pen out of his hand (Tyler grumbled good-naturedly) and to cover Lola Camarena’s eyes while growling, “Guess who?” (Lola squealed like she’d gotten a pony for Christmas). Mack was popular. God knew why.

  “That was gross, what Mrs. Burke just did,” I said to Jiyoon. “It’s like she knows women are oppressed, but that doesn’t stop her from oppressing them herself.”

  “You’re always calling out girls’ clothes too.”

  “I am not.”

  “You were just trashing Katie Bishop’s white jeans.”

  “What about white jeans?” said Mack. He flicked the dictionary at me like a Frisbee. I lunged to keep it from sailing into Larchmont’s head. “I’m a fan. If that’s the question.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t,” said Jiyoon.

  “You’re salty today,” Mack said. “I like it.”

  Jiyoon grabbed the assignment and started marking syllables, but I couldn’t let it rest. “Ji. Come on. I would never make a girl spin around in front of the class while I inspected her ass.”

  “Weird,” said Mack. “That’s, like, the main reason I’d want to be a teacher.”

  “You’re a creep,” said Jiyoon. “And I didn’t say you’d do that, Jem. But I hear you hating on girls’ clothes sometimes.”

  “Only if they’re totally too much!”

  “Don’t get defensive.”

  “I am not getting defensive!” Hashtag irony.

  Mack leaned back, enjoying the show. “Want to know what I think?” he said. We both snapped, “No.” “The dress code is sexist. Reverse sexist. Boys have to wear ties and girls can basically wear anything they want.”

  “There’s no such thing as reverse sexism,” said Jiyoon. “And, as we’ve just seen, girls can’t wear anything they want. Because they’re going to get spun around and told they’re distracting. Or immodest. Or too much.”

  She was glaring at Mack and me, which was completely unfair. He was a troll. I was a feminist. “Stop lumping me in with him and Mrs. Burke,” I said.

  “Stop acting like them, then.”

  “God,” I said. “What is this even about?” She’d had it in for me ever since we’d talked in the hallway before class. “Is it because of…the election thing?” I couldn’t spell it out, not when the one and only candidate was right there listening.

  “Maybe you should have remembered I go to this school too,” said Jiyoon.

  “That’s why I was asking you about it!”

  “This conversation is off task,” said Mrs. Burke from behind me. I jumped. I hadn’t even smelled her perfume. She craned over our paper, which had about three pencil marks, and shook her head. “Disappointing. I expect better. Unless you too would like a detention.”

  Forced isolation sounded pretty nice about now, but Jiyoon and I shut up and marked dactyls and spondees. Mack contributed nothing.

  Andy posted the Powderpuff teams and cheer squads the next morning. Gennifer promptly upstaged him by emailing the senior class the Last Chance Dance website. Within seconds it became the only subject of conversation. Groups of girls hunched over their phones.

  “But what if he puts me, too?”

  “You like him? Um, how long has this been a thing?”

  “I’m not that into him, but I need to know whether he’s into me.”

  The guys walked around all casual, but when asked, they’d say, “Yeah, I’ll put in a few names.” Or “Might as well, right?” At lunch, Greg and Zachary said they had already decided their picks. “Not that I’ll get any matches,” said Zachary. “The only other guy who’ll put guys is Robert Oliver, and no way am I going to put him.”

  “All I want is one match,” said Greg, gazing at Ashby’s chest.

  “That’s so sweet!” cooed Monique. “You’re only putting one girl?”

  “Uh, no,” said Greg, ripping his gaze from Ashby’s mammary organs to look at Monique like she was a grade-A nitwit. “I’m putting thirty-three. It’s called the law of probability.”

  “Oh,” said Monique, visibly deflating at further evidence of the male adolescent’s stunted romantic development. “Jemima, you’re the mastermind. You must know who you’re putting.”

  “Nope,” I said, “and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  Jiyoon probably could have guessed who I was putting, but she was sticking to the other side of our lunch circle. We hadn’t talked since Latin class the day before. This was how we always fought: we snapped and snarled and had it out, we ignored each other for a few days, and then we suddenly got over it and never mentioned it again. We were deep into the ignoring phase, and I was trying hard to focus on other things so I wouldn’t get too upset. I missed her.

  Luckily, there were other things to focus on. The senior class was made of pursed lips and buoyant cheeks, as though we were keeping ourselves from bursting. Coy glances, enigmatic smiles, and again and again: “Who are you putting? Who are you putting?”

  “This is the most exciting thing to hap
pen in the history of Chawton,” Haley Rawlings told me before econ.

  “You guys are the best Triumvirate ever,” said Melanie Richards.

  “Wasn’t it your idea, Jemima?” said Haley.

  I smiled modestly. “Triumvirate is a team.”

  “Yeah, but—” The bell rang. Ms. Margolis started hollering about opportunity costs. I basked.

  * * *

  —

  In the scrum leaving econ, Melanie said, “You’re a Tiger, right? Can I get your number? I’m organizing Powderpuff practices, and you should definitely be in the group chat.”

  She handed me her phone. Standing on the shore of the hallway, the rest of the class streaming past us, I felt weirdly conspicuous. Like we were arranging a date.

  Or maybe I had dates on the brain.

  Not that Andy would ever ask me on a date.

  He did have my number.

  But he wouldn’t text. He’d say something in person. You want to hang out sometime? You want to grab food after the meeting? You want to take our knee contact to the next level and bear my adorable babies?

  These daydreams sustained me through an English class that exceeded all precedents of boredom and annoyance. We were in the middle of reading Jane Eyre, mired deep in the Land of Plot Summary. Once we actually finished the book, which at this rate would be in July, we’d sail across the Sea of Halfhearted Class Discussion (with frequent sallies back to the Land of Plot Summary, for provisions), and if we were lucky, we might make it to the Merry Isle In-Class Essay. Some English classes, I swear, are an insult to reading.

  During last-period calc, Melanie texted the group chat:

  Andy talked to Simms and got the turf field. 7 p.m. TONIGHT! We need ALL OF YOU!

  The thread exploded with emojis, exclamation points, and openmouthed selfies. I didn’t respond, but I was in.

  The turf field was on the edge of campus, next to the woods, and by seven the sun was low, gilding the trees with a rich, eggy yellow. It was the perfect spring evening. It had been sunny all day, but now there was a nip to the air, just enough that my whole body longed to run. The girls milled around the fifty-yard line, a vivid flock of neon shorts and patterned headbands and T-shirts sloppily chopped into tanks. I shoved my hair back into a ponytail, bunned it, and tied on a bandanna. “You are ready,” said Tyler Donner, Andy’s co-coach and the quarterback of the Chawton football team.