The Feminist Agenda of Jemima Kincaid Page 8

  “We have a Triumvirate meeting tomorrow,” I said. “Andy and Gennifer are still totally okay with sitting back and letting Mack run unopposed.”

  “He’s an asshole,” said Jiyoon, staring out into the circle. We’d found an empty bench to wait for our rides.

  “I just wish…” I thought of Jonah. He was quiet, self-assured, respected. He really could have a chance. “I just don’t like Mack.”

  Jiyoon only nodded. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and I didn’t want to ask.

  I was breaking the rules, but Mack could not be allowed to run unopposed. I had to give it a shot. I barricaded myself in my room and found the phone app on my phone, which took longer than someone over thirty might presume. I couldn’t text. Screenshots would be incriminating.

  “Hello?” said Jonah.

  “Can I run an idea past you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think you should run for chairman.”

  Jonah, not one to express surprise, said, “Why?”

  “To foil the heir apparent in his nepotistic grasp for power,” I said. “Obviously. Did you know Mack’s running unopposed? Plus”—maybe I should have started with this—“you’d be a great chairman.”

  “I decided a while ago not to get involved with student politics,” said Jonah. “No one cares about the issues. It’s all popularity.”

  “That’s, like, all politics,” I pointed out. I was in Mrs. Burke’s Latin class; I’d read Caesar. “Come on, Jonah. You’re the only junior with a shot in hell of beating Mack.”

  “I’d lose,” he said.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I’d have a better platform. I’d make a better speech. I’d outdebate him. And I’d lose.”

  * * *

  —

  I woke up Thursday morning on the wrong side of the body. The weather was arctic—good one, April, you got us—and I should have worn pants but every pair made my thighs/butt/calves/crotch look lumpy/flat/mannish/camel-toed. My floor was strewn with discarded clothes. I knew I was buying into the utterly corrupt idea that my body should look a certain way, like it wasn’t enough that it literally carted around my soul, and that made me even angrier. I ended up putting on my favorite shirtdress, even though I’d worn it two days before. I Febrezed myself. At least I’d smell like a mountain breeze.

  Of course, wearing a shirtdress when it’s forty degrees means that all day you’ll get inundated by “Aren’t you cold?” comments. “Not at all!” I kept saying in an airy voice, forcing my teeth not to chatter. My classmates were wheeling like vultures in down jackets, waiting for the first sign of weakness.

  “Bare legs?” said Gennifer before Town Meeting started. “You must be freezing!”

  “I’m quite warm, thanks.”

  “Is your lip gloss blue, then? Why would you wear such a thing?”

  She leaned in and I drew back. A lip-gloss aficionado like Gennifer Grier would easily discriminate between a regrettable fashion choice and the lack of blood in my capillaries.

  “Hey hey hey,” Andy said into the mike once the student body was gathered. “A few reminders for you from your Senior Triumvirate.”

  Wild cheering, which was either universal adoration or a delaying tactic.

  “Seniors! Submit those Last Chance Dance picks! They’re due a week from Sunday.”

  I still hadn’t even thought about who I was going to put. Well, I’d thought about it. But I hadn’t decided.

  “I know there’ve been some concerns,” said Andy, “but rest assured, your secrets will be safe. The program is fully encrypted, and it does all the matching. Once again, ladies and gentlemen, this is all thanks to the behind-the-scenes work of Jemima Kincaid.”

  I quickly assumed a humble smile. I hoped it telegraphed Your obedient servant, J. Kin, rather than the truth of it: I live for the applause, applause, applause.

  After a last call for chairman applications, which were due at noon, Andy sat down so Madame Babineaux could babble about the summer Paris trip. “You don’t have to keep giving me credit,” I whispered.

  “But I want to.”

  Nudge. There it was. His knee. My knee. If I’d tried to kiss someone and they’d sprinted off in horror, I’d never make a move on them again. I’d possibly never make a move on anyone again. But chalk one up for male confidence: he wasn’t wrong. That knee, it did something to my insides. How was it that my whole body reacted so fast? Imagine the mechanics involved: the nerves sensing the nudge, the information shooting to my brain, my brain going Oh God and Yes and What does it mean, is it on purpose, does he like me, why did he kiss me, will he kiss me again? and all the while busily liquefying the muscles in my legs and sending a pounding, roiling warmth through my gut. My eyes half closed. My tongue felt large and stupid, like I’d just eaten cantaloupe. I was on fire and melting at the same time, which didn’t even make sense, God, I was basically a Roman elegiac poet, mixing my love metaphors left and right—

  “Ack!”

  Gennifer had pinched my arm. “You’re onstage!” she hissed. “Look like you’re paying attention!”

  Andy shot me an amused look. An amused, knowing look. The air between us bristled with static, and his knee pressed into mine.

  * * *

  —

  Have you seen a freshman boy lately? It’s kind of hilarious. Some are normal-sized, sure, but lots have pituitary glands that have just not kicked into gear, so these baby-faced, toothpick-limbed five-footers are jockeying for fish sticks and garlic bread with seniors who have to shave every day or else they get dress-coded. Always good for a laugh, the lunch line in this place.

  The juniors and seniors get to eat outside. I, of course, was frozen, a blotchy and begoosebumped mess, but I wasn’t about to eat with the fetuses in the caf. The usual Quiz Team crowd had gathered in the courtyard. Jonah gave me an awkward nod as I joined them. “Look,” Greg said, “I can make my tongue into a W.”

  “I’m trying to eat!” protested Ashby.

  “So’s Greg,” said Zachary, “which is worse.”

  I winced and stepped back. Enough that my field of vision opened, and I could see Andy with his friends across the courtyard. Laughing. Looking impossibly cool. His clothes were flawless, a gingham button-down with the sleeves rolled up, pants that actually fit. Not many high school guys know how to wear pants. Andy’s khakis sat at the perfect point on his hips, just slouchy enough that an adult wouldn’t have gotten away with it. He had this cool clasping belt, not try-hard cool but just like, Hey, need a belt, let me grab this one, and—

  “…happened,” said Jiyoon.

  “What? Were you talking to me? Sorry, I was totally zoned out on…” I accidentally glanced across the courtyard, and Jiyoon followed my gaze.

  “Andy’s crotch?” she said.

  “The prom poster behind him,” I said with dignity.

  Jiyoon smirked. “Nice try. Hey, though. Guess what. We’re hanging out on Saturday.”

  “You and me?”

  “No, loser,” she said, grinning. “Why would I do that? Me and him.” She jerked her head to Paul.

  “Oh my God!” I said. “Whoa! He asked you out?”

  “Stop shouting, okay?”

  “Ji! You have a date!”

  “It’s not a date. We’re just chilling. We were talking before APUSH, like always, and he said he was trying to fill up his weekend so he’d forget he should be studying for the AP exam, and I was like, ‘Well, we should hang on Saturday.’ ”

  “You did the asking? Queen.”

  “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Were you worried? That he’d think you were, like, forward?”

  “Forward? Is it 1902?”

  “Okay, come on. You know I think it’s great. But even now, it’s not normal.”

 
“Well, here’s Paul,” she said, sounding impatient. “Let’s ask him what he thought.”

  “Yo,” said Paul. He’d put some sort of gel in his hair and shoved it up to get an upside-down V thing. It reminded me of modernist architecture. Maybe an international airport.

  “I’m concerned that your ironic yo is becoming a real yo,” said Jiyoon.

  He laughed. “You may have a point. Greetings. What’s up?”

  “Jem was just saying you might have lost respect for me when I asked if you wanted to hang out,” she said.

  “That is not what I said!” I felt like people kept willfully misinterpreting me.

  “Hmm,” Paul said, looking at Jiyoon. “It was mildly surprising. But that was because I was gearing myself up to ask the same thing. It was like when you’re playing football and you’re out deep and the ball’s coming at you and you’re like, Okay, I got this, I got this, it’s mine—and then right as you’re reaching up, someone darts in front of you and grabs it. You kind of forgot that anyone else could even see the ball.”

  “Interception!” said Jiyoon.

  “Except you’re on my team,” said Paul. “So I was very happy because (a) it got caught and (b) I didn’t have to catch it, which means (c) I didn’t drop it.”

  They both had dopey smiles. I could imagine Paul telling this same anecdote at their wedding.

  “That’s awesome,” I said heartily. “Well, I’m glad the ball got caught.”

  “Aren’t you cold?” said Paul.

  The question was innocent, and I was cold, but that was kind of the last straw. It was that question on top of the fifty other times I’d been asked it, and on top of Ji calling me out, of my being misunderstood yet again. On top of Andy looking unattainable across the courtyard. On top of the twinge of jealousy I’d felt at the crush-addled looks on my friends’ faces.

  “No,” I snapped. “I wish everyone would leave me and my clothing choices alone.”

  Jiyoon laughed. The kind of laugh that’s made for a point.

  “What?”

  “It’s ironic.”

  “That I’m wearing what I want to wear and nobody’ll shut up about it?”

  “Sorry,” said Paul. “I was trying to be nice.”

  “Is this about girls’ clothes again?” I asked Jiyoon. “Because I think there’s a difference between wearing a dress that’s maybe a bit too summery for the weather and wearing shorts that, like, reveal to the world the Antarctic Circles of your butt hemispheres.”

  “Yeah,” said Jiyoon, “you kind of have a problem.”

  “I get it. I should have worn pants today.”

  “No. Your problem is, you kind of hate girls.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m the Jeminist!” That had been my middle school nickname, back before it was cool to be a feminist. “I’m all about girls!”

  “It’s not your fault,” said Jiyoon. “It’s called internalized misogyny. Men don’t even have to do anything because women hate women all on their own.”

  “I am a woman. I obviously don’t hate women.”

  “It’s a real thing,” said Jiyoon. “It’s like we’re all swimming in the sea of gender bias. And until we actively start confronting the fact that we don’t want to breathe this water—”

  “We have gills now?”

  “Look, don’t make this into a joke. Unless we start being like, ‘What the eff is this water and why do I have to swim in it?’ we’re going to be just as misogynistic as anyone else.”

  “Wow,” said Paul.

  “It makes sense. If sexism’s everywhere, it’s going to infect everyone. Same thing with racism, homophobia, ableism…”

  “So are you racist?” Paul asked Jiyoon. “Against yourself?”

  “When I was eight, I told my mom I wished I was white because Asian people weren’t funny,” she said. “Or, say…” She paused, looking off into the distance, but then shrugged, a What the hell, I’ll go for it shrug. “For example. Recently. I assumed a certain Asian American person couldn’t get elected to a student-government thing. Or, maybe, I thought they shouldn’t run. Like, should an Asian really be the voice of the school? I don’t know. I doubted that.”

  “But of course they could,” said Paul. “And should.”

  “Yeah,” said Jiyoon flatly. “I’m sure everyone agrees. I’m sure Asian kids topped the list when people were like, ‘Who should run against Mack?’ ” She looked right at me. “Didn’t they, Jemima?”

  Oof. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It was then that Gennifer Grier chose to sashay over to us.

  “Wrong side of the courtyard,” Greg called. “Cool kids are over there.”

  She ignored him. “Jemima, we’ve got an emergency meeting.”

  “I’m sort of in the middle of something,” I said.

  “Well, you’ll sort of have to finish it later.”

  “An emergency meeting? What could possibly qualify as an emergency? This is student government we’re talking about.”

  Gennifer kicked out her foot and shot out her hip and said, “Senior Triumvirate is hardly your standard student government. I know you have to argue about everything, but can’t you stop wasting time? Lunch is almost over and we really need to meet.”

  “Okay, okay…” I turned to Jiyoon. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll text you.”

  * * *

  —

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to cover some unexpected duties,” Ms. Edison told us.

  “We can handle it!” said Gennifer. With her feet on the rung of her chair, she looked like a pert, petite bunny rabbit. Andy, meanwhile, was slouched. He hadn’t even said hi to me when I came in. Screw him, I thought. My knee stayed firmly under my own desk.

  “So much that we thought would be unnecessary this year,” sighed Ms. Edison. “Scheduling the chairman debate and open forum, prepping the candidates with campaign rules—”

  “Candidates?” Gennifer said sharply. “But the deadline was at noon!”

  “You told me there wasn’t anyone else,” Andy said to Ms. Edison.

  “I talked to you after I checked my email, but I didn’t see there was an application slipped under my door.”

  “I thought we agreed to accept online applications only!” said Gennifer.

  “We never made an official amendment to the handbook.”

  “Who’s the candidate?” I said.

  Ms. Edison handed Andy a large yellow envelope. “I’ll leave you to it. We need to get the debate and open forum on the school calendar ASAP, so please let me know those dates.”

  She left the room. Chawton tradition. Andy tore open the envelope, even though Gennifer was brandishing a letter opener she’d taken from her Kate Spade zipper case of school supplies.

  “Who is it?” she said.

  He glanced at it. He raised his eyebrows. He glanced at me.

  “Well?” said Gennifer.

  He paged through the sheets of paper.

  “Who?” said Gennifer.

  “Ask her,” said Andy.

  “Me?” I said.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Damn.” He looked at me searchingly. I felt nervous, like I was trying to cover up a lie. Even though I hadn’t told one. “You really don’t know.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Jiyoon,” said Andy. “It’s Jiyoon Kim.”

  “Who are you putting for Last Chance Dance?” Gennifer asked me after Powderpuff practice on Friday afternoon. The jerseys had come in, and we were in the athletic hallway sorting them by size.

  “Why would I tell you?”

  “It’s called we’re friends?”

  “We are?”

  Gennifer flipped a shirt into a neat fold. She could have s
tarred in a Banana Republic training video. “Wow, Jemima. Way to be a b.” She peered at my stacks. “Could you get your corners straighter? Nobody wants a wrinkled jersey.”

  “Personally, I don’t give a cat’s pebbly shit about wrinkles in my athletic gear.”

  “Just tell me who you’re putting.”

  “No!” Not a chance I’d confide in Gennifer, who only wanted data for her own Machiavellian purposes. I’d filled out the website the night before, and I’d put just one name.

  You know who.

  He was at the other end of the hallway, stacking the cones we’d used at practice. Gennifer saw me looking and I quickly turned away. “Who are you putting?” I asked to change the subject.

  “Not telling.”

  “Wait.” Now I was curious. “What about Mack? Isn’t he taking you to prom?”

  “Obviously,” said Gennifer. “He’s my boyfriend. But I still get to have my List.”

  Her tone made it significant, capitalized the L. “Your List?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t made one—but no, you’ve never been in a relationship, have you, Jemima?”

  I ignored the jab, because (a) why should it be a jab anyway, amirite? and (b) List seemed ungoogleable, and I wanted to know. “Please, enlighten me. What’s a List?”

  “Guys I’m allowed to do and it wouldn’t count as cheating.”

  “What?”

  “O-kay, chill with the slut-shaming—”

  “I’m not slut-shaming. I’m just surprised. You and Mack have discussed this?”

  Did all girls have a List? That’s what I wanted to know. I should have had a boyfriend before senior freaking year. Or at least a friend with boyfriends. I would never be normal because there was so much about normal I didn’t know.

  “Andy!” Gennifer hooted down the hallway. “Come here!”

  Andy strolled toward us. He was wearing shiny red shorts. His hips swung, and golden hair burnished his calves. “Little Jemmy here,” said Gennifer, “has never heard of a List.”

  “Who’s on yours?” said Andy.

  Gennifer—she actually did this—licked her bottom lip. She held her tongue between her teeth and smiled at Andy. It was a flirting move I’d never seen in the wild, and it was appalling. And effective. The mood shifted instantly to something tense and loamy and fraught. Then Gennifer broke it. “Jim Halpert.”