The Trouble with Lexie Page 8

  “It’s the new me!”

  “Listen, Miss James—our revered Health and Sexuality teacher—I’m all for you getting over your door-locking and STD panel problems, but you’ve gotta hold on to a little fear of”—Amy opened the bottom drawer of her desk where she stored cases of condoms, pulled one out, and threw it at Lexie—“herpes, at least!”

  Lexie ducked as the condom bounced off her head and landed on her back. “I’m the first woman he’s been with in twenty-two years.”

  “He could still have crusty sores on his dick and you could still get pregnant.” Amy crossed her arms as if to further make her point.

  “He’s fixed.”

  “So he says.”

  “I trust him. You would, too, if you met him.” Lexie reached back and took the condom. She played with it, squishing it around inside the wrapper. It reminded her vaguely of sliding testicles around a ball sack.

  “He told you this when you were naked or clothed?”

  “Mmmm, naked I think.”

  “Honey, I love you and bullshit both have eight letters and there ain’t a man on earth who doesn’t confuse the two when he’s talkin’ to a nekked woman.”

  Lexie laughed. “Seriously, Amy. This guy is not a bullshitter.”

  “So you’re telling me he’s a brilliant, successful, good-looking man with a working dick, and you’re his first affair?”

  “It’s not an affair. They’re separated.”

  “Separated? That’s not in Ethan’s file.”

  “They haven’t notified the school—they haven’t told Ethan yet . . . I mean, he hasn’t entirely moved out of the house—”

  Amy threw her head back. “Then he’s not separated! Jesus, Lexie!”

  “I’m telling you, this guy is it. Daniel is . . . he has completely thrown me for a loop.” Lexie felt a thrill in thinking about him—in saying his name.

  “Well, before you call off that marriage and break a good man’s heart, you better get to know this gentleman real good, so that you understand exactly what you’re changing it up for.”

  “Did I say I was going to leave Peter?”

  “You didn’t, but you might as well have.”

  “Ach! Why did I have to meet Daniel at this time in my life?!” Lexie tossed the condom at Amy.

  Amy caught it and returned it to the drawer. “Not to drop the subject, but I have to tell you that The Prince—who is more responsible than you, I must point out—stopped in for condoms.”

  “No way!” The Prince was Abioye Balewa, an African royal with impeccable manners, a mind beyond that of most of his teachers, and a sense of propriety that prevented him from removing his tie even in the library late at night when everyone else had abandoned the dress code. “Who’s he having sex with?”

  “Daisy. Can you believe it?”

  “Daisy Whippet or Daisy Rhodes?”

  “Whippet! You think Daisy Rhodes would have sex?”

  “You can never tell. Who would have thought The Prince would be doing it? I mean, how’s she going to get his tie off?”

  “He probably wears it.”

  “Why didn’t he come to me?” Lexie was jealous. The students, if they were willing to endure the required abstinence/STD/mutual consent talk, could obtain condoms from either Lexie or Amy.

  “He couldn’t come to you. It was Frito Friday, hon. Y’all were getting your freak on.”

  “How’d he respond to the talk?”

  “It was almost hilarious. He sat up very straight on the bed you’re on. He pulled out a notepad. And he took notes.”

  “Amazing.”

  “And at one point he said, ‘Does it ever hurt for the boy the first time? Or does it only hurt for the girl?’”

  “That’s so great! What’d you say?”

  Before Amy could answer, Lexie’s phone buzzed. She jumped off the table and went to her purse on Amy’s desk. As the phone continued to buzz, Lexie frantically unpacked her purse, laying wallet, lipstick, a compact, hand lotion, a hairbrush, and a small cosmetic bag on the desk. Amy rolled the chair back, crossed her legs and arms, and watched. Finally, Lexie pulled out the phone. She held it in front of herself and smiled. There were four texts from Daniel:

  Miss you.

  I’m fingering your panties in my pocket.

  Going to carry them with me every day.

  Until I see you again and you give me a new pair. Xxx

  “Oh, this boy’s got you knocked catawampus,” Amy groaned. “What’s he saying?”

  “He misses me.” Lexie held the phone high and thumbed out a quick text. Miss you, too! With Amy. I’ll text later. Xxxxxxx!

  “Why are you texting with the phone up above your head like that?”

  Amy’s voice brought Lexie back to where she was. “Huh?”

  “What the hell you doin’?” Amy held her hands up above her head and mimed texting.

  “Oh, I read this face yoga article that said we’re all going to get these ugly, wrinkly necks from having our heads pulled in and down when we text, so—” Lexie shrugged. Amy laughed.

  “Were you texting like that all weekend?”

  “No, I keep forgetting. But every so often I remember and I lift the phone.”

  “I meant were you texting with Daniel all weekend.”

  “Oh. Not in front of Peter. And only a couple times.” Lexie had been lost in a thick fog all weekend. She was trapped in two existences, her mind and body never in the same place: life as oneself and one’s ghost.

  BEFORE STARTING UP THE VAN, LEXIE READ THROUGH DANIEL’S texts for the last time. Afterward, she brushed her thumb across Daniel’s name and deleted everything.

  The drive was lazy and lonely; it was nothing like driving in California. There, the freeway felt like a battlefield: Your fists sweated as you gripped the steering wheel, and your brain clicked through checkpoints like you were crossing a border into unknown terrain. And there were enemies all around you: the car changing lanes beside you, the car stopping short in front of you, the car pulled onto the shoulder with the hazards on, the cop car cruising behind you, the exit five lanes over that you have about thirty seconds to get to if you can make it past the eighty cars between you and the ramp. In mountainous Western Massachusetts it was a whole different game. There was a road. You were in a car. And you drove that road straight until you got off on your exit.

  That night, Peter could do no right. The Saab wasn’t fixed because the part that was needed wasn’t manufactured any longer. And they couldn’t afford a new car because the wedding was so expensive. In addition to the normal expenditures, they needed to pay for a hotel room for the week before the wedding for Mitzy, unless they wanted her staying in their house, which they did not.

  When Lexie suggested that Peter sell more guitars to help pay the bills, Peter said he’d sold too many guitars, he couldn’t make all the ones he promised, and he was having a hard time collecting the money for the ones he’d made already. This infuriated Lexie. How could he expect to support a family if he couldn’t collect the money he was owed? What would he do when she got pregnant?

  “Babe, I’ll take care of it.” Peter said this while looking at Lexie in the bathroom mirror. He was brushing his teeth and Lexie was flossing. Her engagement ring sat on the counter in a small puddle. The past few days Lexie had gone from feeling swoony and soft when she looked at the ring to feeling irritated and huffy when she looked at it. She imagined brushing it into the sink with the water running so it would wash down the drain.

  “How exactly will you take care of it?” Lexie asked.

  “We’ll use the money in the honeymoon account.”

  “What about the honeymoon?” It was such an antiquated idea, but Lexie wanted one. She’d always wanted one. Her parents had never even married and, therefore, never had a honeymoon. But Mr. and Mrs. Simms had more than once spoken of their honeymoon in Niagara Falls. They stayed in the honeymoon suite of a high-rise hotel on the Canadian side of the water.

&nb
sp; “We’ll plan something simpler. Something superromantic.” They hadn’t paid for anything yet, but Lexie had bookmarked on her computer resorts in the Caribbean, Florida, and South Carolina.

  Lexie let the floss drop midtooth. The two ends of the string hung down the sides of her chin like skinny tusks. “Simple but superromantic?” The honeymoon savings was what Lexie had put away once she’d moved in with Peter and stopped paying rent. Ultimately, it was up to her to decide how to spend that money. “Like, Niagara Falls?” For all she knew Niagara Falls had turned into a sewage sinkhole since the Simmses had visited. But anything would be better than sitting at home with the sawdust.

  Peter spit out his toothpaste. He rinsed his mouth. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.” He kissed Lexie, poking his tongue in her mouth, floss intact. She tried to gently push him away. He pursued the kiss further. “Stop it. You’re being gross!” She shoved him away.

  “I was only trying to have fun.” It was rare for Peter to get his feelings hurt like this. When he left the room, he deliberately turned out the bathroom light.

  Lexie finished flossing in the dark. Would Daniel kiss her with floss in his mouth? She decided that indeed he would. But it would be fun. Lexie would laugh. She’d kiss him back. The urge to text Daniel and tell him that she’d kiss him with floss in her mouth (or floss in his mouth!) propelled Lexie downstairs to the kitchen where her purse and phone were sitting on the counter. There were two texts from Amy.

  Text or call ASAP.

  Text or call tonight!

  Lexie remained standing. She held the phone up high and texted.

  What’s up? Should I call?

  Is Peter home?

  Yes. He’s upstairs.

  Talked to Janet Irwin after dinner tonight. Subject of fund-raising came up. I mentioned D.W. and she went off about him and his WIFE and a recent cocktail party at THEIR house, yadda yadda. From everything she said it is clear they are ABSOLUTELY NOT SEPARATED. Janet knows about apartment in Boston—he’s always had it—McClear and others use it for trips to the city, etc. DANIEL WAITE LIED TO YOU!

  Lexie dropped into the kitchen chair. It felt like there was steel wool in her lungs. She reread the text, letting her head drop toward her lap.

  Are you certain?

  YES!

  Lexie breathed through the scratching in her chest. She didn’t want to think about this, she didn’t want to feel the crowd of emotions that were banging at her, trying to get in: heartbreak, hurt, shame, regret . . . humiliation!

  Lexie reread Amy’s message three more times before deleting it. She wrote: Can’t talk about this tonight. Too intense.

  Love you! Amy texted back.

  Lexie went to the freezer. She pulled out the ice cream Peter had bought a few days ago, ice cream she had teased him about because it was so full of junk (brownie chunks, broken peanut butter cups, and veins of caramel) that she didn’t consider it ice cream. With a fork, Lexie picked through the ice cream, moving aside layers so she could get to the richest, chewyist bits. She forked at the ice cream for so long that the edges melted and she was able to shift entire, glacial slabs of it, turning it upside down in the container so she could pick out the brownie and peanut butter cup that had settled on the bottom. It was the ice cream version of plucking the cardboard-textured marshmallows from a box of Lucky Charms.

  When the ice cream had been picked clean, only tattered puffs of vanilla remaining, Lexie returned it to the freezer. What would Peter think when he opened the denuded carton? He’d think she was half nuts. Lexie retrieved the ice cream from the freezer again. She spooned it down the garbage disposal and then she crushed the carton, which she hid under the pile of junk mail in the recycling bin. Lexie hovered over the bin as if she were about to vomit into it.

  “Fuck.” The grinding in Lexie’s chest had been replaced by a bloating in her stomach. Amazing to think she’d been bitchy to Peter for days, all because of some asshole who had her thinking she’d met the yin to her yang. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck-fuck,” Lexie whispered.

  An hour later, she went up to the bedroom. Peter was in bed, naked as usual, his arms crossed behind his head. He watched Lexie cautiously, as if he were worried he might say the wrong thing and set her off. Her phone buzzed. Lexie pulled it from her pocket and stared at Mitzy’s face—crosshatched like elephant skin—on the screen. Lexie had to answer. She’d been so nutzo all weekend she hadn’t made her usual call to Mitzy. Also, talking to Mitzy was better than contemplating how dumb she had been falling for Daniel Waite and how shitty she’d acted toward Peter.

  “Hey, Mom.” Lexie’s voice was singularly toned. Flat and thin.

  “You know what the worst thing about your father was?” Mitzy often started phone calls as if they were in the middle of a conversation.

  “Mmm . . . his beer and cigarette breath?” The horrible ways of Bert were a topic Mitzy liked to revisit. Usually, Lexie only half-listened. She didn’t find Bert any more offensive than Mitzy. If Lexie knew where Bert was, she’d certainly talk to him with the same sense of duty she felt when she spoke to her mother every week.

  “Nope. And it wasn’t the cheatin’ either, but something like that.” Mitzy made a short breathy pop and Lexie knew she was exhaling the smoke from her menthol Kool.

  “Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to guess?” Lexie undressed to her panties and bra and got in bed. She shifted in close to Peter and put her cold feet under his legs. She’d barely had physical contact with him since the afternoon with Daniel. Peter’s legs felt foreign to Lexie, as if she’d forgotten the way his body worked and would have to learn the map of him all over again.

  “Well, you’re a psychiatrist, you can guess.” The sound of ice cubes in a glass punctuated this last sentence. Lexie wondered if her mother had switched from beer to hard liquor. Although, it was probably a Coke.

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, Mom, I’ve told you that many times.”

  Peter pulled down the covers, crawled to the end of the bed, picked up Lexie’s left foot and started massaging. She shut her eyes in relief.

  “Yeah, but if I say counselor it sounds like you work at a summer camp or something. Like you’re the canoe instructor!” Mitzy snorted and laughed. Lexie couldn’t even smile.

  “Why can’t you say therapist?”

  “Isn’t that an everyday word for psychiatrist?”

  “Fine. Psychiatrist. I don’t care.” Peter looked at Lexie and mimed a laugh. He put down her left foot and picked up her right.

  “Okay, so do your psychiatry work and guess what the worst thing about your father was.”

  “The hair in his ears?”

  “What? He never had no hair in his ears!”

  “His truck with the cab that always smelled like French fries and gasoline?”

  “No! It’s a mental thing. It’s like a mental torture.”

  “A mental thing, huh?” Peter stopped rubbing. Lexie gave him a pleading look and he picked up her foot and went at it again.

  “Yeah. Mental games, you know?”

  “He never made you feel pretty? Or loved? He never rubbed your feet?” Lexie said, and Peter looked up and winked at her. Lexie wanted to weep at his sweetness.

  “Nope. Here’s what it was: He had these flings with those women, see?”

  “Yeah, at the bar.” Mitzy had bitched about this regularly over the years. When she was a little kid, Mitzy often screamed at Bert about “dipping his wick” and “forking his tuna.” Those metaphors, and others, made young Lexie wonder about all the strange candle-making and food-eating trouble that could befall a bartender. As soon as she was old enough to realize that her mother was hollering at her father about sex, Lexie would turn on the kitchen radio and do the dishes, or simply leave the apartment. Anything to avoid seeing images in her head of Bert doing things she’d rather not associate with the idea of father.

  “Right. And those flings weren’t the worst part. The worst part wa
s that I knew about it and when I said something to him, he acted like I was all crazy and out of control accusing, you know, and he was all normal. You see what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.” Lexie watched Peter dote on her feet. How could she have wanted more than this? How could she have been so ungrateful?

  “He was, like, brainwashing me into thinking that something was wrong with me, when, meanwhile, he’s down at that bar sticking his wanger in anything that’ll let him get close enough. Now you tell me who the wrong one was?”

  “The wrong one?”

  “Who was bad? Me or him?”

  “I can see how his making you feel like you were the bad one would be its own sort of torture.”

  “So you get what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah.” Lexie pulled her foot from Peter and he slid up and lay by her side. She didn’t deserve Peter. “I get what you’re saying. It’s cruel-hearted to do something shitty to someone and then to act as if they’re the one who’s wronged you.”

  “Exactly!” Mitzy said.

  “It’s like the person who’s having the affair is trying to build a case against their partner. Like they’re trying to gather evidence to support their case, to support their reprehensible actions.”

  “Yup!”

  “And then the adulterer shifts the entire framework through which they now view the relationship and their partner, and that in turn shifts their reality, while the person who’s been cheated on is living in the old reality. It’s a total mind fuck.” And Lexie herself, she thought, was a total mind fucker.

  “Now you get me! Now you see why I was so cranky all those years! I was livin’ a mind fuck!” Mitzy sounded elated to be understood. Lexie had never before clarified or reiterated her mother’s thoughts. She had always believed it was service enough to simply allow Mitzy to talk about this stuff.

  “Yeah, you were living a mind fuck.” Lexie looked at Peter and a bolt of terror shot through her. What if Peter found out about what she had done? What if Jen Waite found out? God, why wasn’t there a rewind and erase button in life?

  “Your father was a royal asshole.” More clinking ice.

  “You can’t define someone by a single action. People are more multifaceted than that.” Lexie hated that there was a way in which she and Bert were alike. Lust was lust was lust was lust. And it didn’t matter if you were screwing a thirty-year-old divorcée on the sticky, beer-soaked bar after closing, or if you were screwing a lawyer in Frette sheets at the Inn of the Lake. At their essential core, the acts were entirely equal.