Chapter 8
“I am from Carlos and Sierra,” Vanessa starts, her voice catching with preciousness for herself.
“I am from love. I am from a sun and moon in Gemini. I am from handstands and lemonade stands and standing up for myself. I am from hopscotch and braces. I am from double Dutch on the freshly cut grass and double scoops of Rocky Road. I am from hopes and dreams.”
I look to Mr. Korgy to gauge if he agrees with me. If this is a moment of solidarity that we can share. A moment that will bring us closer, united in our judgment. Yes, our eyes will say, that did feel like a clipping from American Girl magazine.
But he’s unflinching. Vanessa looks around expectantly. A cough somewhere.
“Thank you,” he says blandly. “We have time for one more.”
He looks good. He’s clean-shaven today and his purple cardigan is a bolder color than the muddier-hued ones he’s worn the past two days.
This is a statement piece for sure, the kind of thing he probably only breaks out when he’s got an extra pep in his step from nailing the New York Times crossword or from his weekly weigh-in coming in a pound or two closer to his goal weight.
Whatever he’s celebrating today, I’m happy for him.
I hope I look good too. To him. I woke up forty-five minutes earlier than usual with the gall to try my hand at beach waves.
I watched three tutorials in the process and by the last strand of hair I was profusely sweating and my arm ached, but I prevailed.
Even that one adamant frizzy chunk toward the back was smooth and slick and glossy.
No one would ever know my genes. Just how I like it.
I took my time with my makeup too. I got my eyeliner precise and symmetrical, patted concealer onto my spots carefully and blended it out with a brush instead of smearing it on with my fingers while I sit on the toilet peeing the way I usually do, one hand dabbing the concealer and the other balling up a wad of toilet paper to wipe.
I even used my “good” tube of mascara (the travel-size Benefit Fan Fest I got free from a Sephora promotion) instead of the crusty drugstore tube I’ve been using six months past expiration.
I slid open my closet door and rifled through the crammed racks, trying to piece together whatever outfit I thought Mr. Korgy would like best. By the time half my closet was on my bed, tears had nearly been shed.
I was stumped, half of me knowing that my body makes up for whatever my ordinary face lacks, so why not use it to my advantage?
The other half of me thinking that Mr. Korgy is a grown man.
A mature one. And grown, mature men don’t get hard-ons over a pair of bouncy tits the way a senior in high school does.
They have more refined taste in women. They want a cultured woman.
A woman who can read a book and sit through a ballet.
A woman who values her body enough to not put it on display. A woman who respects herself.
I first went for something scholarly, a button-down with an argyle sweater and trousers and oxfords and a “fun sock.” But I felt too frumpy so I swapped the trousers for a pleated skirt with tights, which was slightly better but still looked like a girl who’s a little too excited to tell you her dream vacation destination is the Hobbiton area in New Zealand.
So I ripped off the tights but left the skirt and button-down to keep things academic, then threw a corset top over the button-down to show off my shape and pulled on a pair of over-the-knee boots to sex the whole thing up—because no matter how much a grown man wants a woman who can read a book, he wants her to be able to suck a dick, too.
“Waldo,” Mr. Korgy says. “Why don’t you share with the class?”
I nod as a hot flash of nervous energy floods my body.
My fingers grip my paper like a kid grips the wall of an ice rink.
“I am from a white trash trailer park. I am from a mom who’s needy and absent at the same time.
I am from a faceless father. I am from stubbed-out cigarettes and overdue apologies.
I am from paper-thin pubescent promises.
From a back room in a house party. From a little too much Hennessy.
From minimum wage and minimum effort. From a regret and a mistake. From one tipsy, horny night.”
Mr. Korgy hesitates for a moment and then nods.
“Good,” he says. And his face is stony, and he says it evenly, but his eyes say something more. That he’s impressed. That he likes me. That he sees me.
After class, I run down the hall, weaving in and out of the crowd of students. I shove open the bathroom door and duck into a stall. I lock the door with my elbow and pull up Mr. Korgy’s Instagram with one hand while the other hand slips up my skirt and under the waistband of my thong.
His main photo is cropped tight, neck up with the top of his head chopped.
He’s wearing a brown corduroy button-down—guess he didn’t solve the NYT crossword that day—and smiling big, his blue eyes still striking even in a photo the size of my fingernail.
I click on his profile, basking in my grotesque excitement.
Excitement too big for a photo this small.
For a person I don’t know. For my teacher.
But what’s the harm in a little crush? In a thing that feels this good?
I keep touching myself with my right hand while my left hand scrolls down, down, down, through his photos.
I click on one of Mr. Korgy dressed up for Halloween as Woody from Toy Story, holding his toddler who’s dressed as Buzz Lightyear and drooling onto his space suit.
I click another, of Mr. Korgy and his wife on a dimly lit dinner date, leaning over a slice of chocolate cake with a single glowing candle.
I click another, one that I’m guessing was taken by a professional since everyone’s dressed up more, and matching in denim and red tops—Mr. Korgy in a wool half-zip, his wife in a turtleneck, his kid in a flannel.
They’re at an apple orchard. Mr. Korgy holds a basket of Honeycrisps.
His wife has a hand on his back and his kid is running toward the camera.
They all look so joyous the joy might rip them open from the inside out.
I zoom in on Mr. Korgy’s face, like if I get close enough I’ll see the truth.
The fatigue. The disconnect. The sign that maybe this was the one picture that worked out of a two-hour shoot.
Out of a batch of three hundred that he and his wife splayed out on the kitchen table, deliberating.
Frustrated with shots where the kid screamed or she scowled or he looked too tired.
Frustrated that they weren’t finding any good ones.
Until this one. This one worked. This one was the clear front-runner, the only front-runner.
The most convincing shot, the one that sold “happy family” best.
But I don’t see any sign of that on Mr. Korgy’s face.
So I zoom back out, staring at the obnoxious, genuine joy radiating outward from this family unit. A kind of familial joy I’ve never known. And suddenly, what felt good twenty seconds ago curdles inside me.
I go back to his profile and scroll down farther, farther, several years back, as far as his account goes.
I click on a photo of just him. There’s a half-decorated gingerbread house on the table in front of him.
He’s holding a piping bag of icing and there’s a gumdrop stuck to his nose with it.
He’s mid-laugh. Big laugh. Laughing-fit-level laugh, the kind of fit that only strikes a couple times a year.
Sharing it with the person on the other end of the camera.
Probably his wife, maybe just his girlfriend back then. Someone who knows him in a way I don’t.
But in this photo, I can’t see that person. So I can pretend I’m them instead. I can pretend I’m the one who made him laugh, who’s taking the photo of him, who knows him better than anyone else. I start to touch myself faster, and faster, and faster, until my body convulses with spurts of pleasure.
Afterward, I wash up. The soap dispenser’s out so just water. Vanessa’s at the sink next to mine.
“I liked your poem,” she says.
“Thanks.”
She looks at me, waiting for the reciprocal compliment I can’t in good faith give her, so I give it to her in bad faith and she doesn’t seem to know the difference. I leave, and on the way out, I sniff my fingers.