The Trouble with Lexie (8 page)

“. . . and I programmed a movie for us tonight, that French new wave thing that you'd said you wanted to watch—”

“What are you eating?” Lexie asked. Using her toes, she plucked the blouse off the floor, lifted it to her hand, and placed it in her lap.

“What am I eating?”

With the sheet doubled around her lower half, Lexie hooked her bra and then put on and buttoned the blouse, all while managing the phone. “You're chomping.” Lexie scanned the floor for her panties.

“Carrots. I put some in the pot for you. I also put in . . .”

Daniel shimmied across the bed on his stomach. He flopped one long arm off the edge of the bed and reached for Lexie's foot. He grabbed her big toe and tugged. Like a diver pulling her up to the boat for air. Lexie sent him thought-pangs of love.

“Babe, it all sounds so good, but I've gotta go. I've gotta finish a bunch of work before I show up at the table. Can I call you on my drive home?” Aha! The panties! They were curled like a napping kitten on top of Daniel's suit pants.

“No problem. Love you,” Peter said.

“You, too.” Lexie clicked the phone shut and turned it completely off so that she wouldn't risk a pocket call while she was with Daniel. She dropped the phone into her purse. “Shit.”

“You're okay,” Daniel said soothingly. “It's all going to be okay.”

“What am I going to do?” Lexie reached under herself, pulled out the skirt and slipped it on beneath the sheet.

“You don't need to do anything.”

Lexie stood and let the sheet drop to the ground. “I cheated on my fiancé.” Her voice quivered. She patted her skirt pocket and felt for the Klonopin. She would take it only if she thought she was going to pass out.

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” Lexie looked at Daniel. “I want to do it again.”

“Don't think about it. Go to school. Eat dinner. Go home and don't question your relationship.”

“Don't question my relationship? Doesn't this whole thing put it into question?” Lexie scanned the room. She went to where her panties were and instead of slipping them on, she discreetly tucked them into Daniel's pants' pocket. How she could be seductive and playful while simultaneously guilty and panicked was a mystery to her. It was as if she existed in two consciousnesses at once. “I mean, this was huge for me. Wasn't it huge for you?”

“Yeah, it was.” Daniel almost sounded hurt, or insulted that Lexie might think it wasn't a big deal for him. “You're the first woman I've been with since my wife. It's monumental. But you're engaged and I'm not going to get my hopes up.”

“For a New England boy you sure have some California mellow in you.” Lexie tucked in her blouse and then dropped to her knees and flipped up the bed skirt, looking for her boots. One of them was there. She sat on the ground, pulled out the knee-high stocking and put it on inside out before tugging on the boot. She got up and tottered around the room, lopsided, as she looked for the other boot.

“I'm rational. Panic never does any good for anyone.” Daniel continued to watch Lexie.

“Then why does panic exist?” Lexie looked behind the chair, under Daniel's clothes. She opened the minibar as if her boot might be in there.

“Originally, to save you from the saber-toothed tiger. But in the modern world it eliminates the rational. It fucks with you.” Daniel lifted his arm and bobbed his pointer finger up and down as he directed Lexie toward the threshold into the bathroom where the other boot lay.

“Panic fucks with me frequently.” Lexie hobbled to the boot.

“The only thing that should be fucking you is me.” Daniel flipped his hand so his thick, square-tipped finger was pointing at himself. Lexie slipped on her other stocking and boot. She went to the bed and kissed Daniel one last time. He smelled so good she wanted to gather the scent in her fist and carry it around with her.

LEXIE DROVE THE VAN WITH THE WINDOW ALL THE WAY DOWN AND
the fall chill needling her face. Outside it looked like someone had turned down the lights, everything was a black-and-white photo. But inside the van, inside her body, Lexie felt as if she were radiating pink and red. Different scenes from the afternoon replayed in her head. Like jumping songs on a great album, the sequence in which she saw the scenes didn't matter. It was all good.

Once she was parked at school, Lexie brushed her hair, put on lipstick, and checked her face in the rearview mirror. Her pupils were the size of pencil erasers; she was smiling at herself. Lexie got out and circled the van to check the locks, and then she ran—
as fast as she could in the high-heeled boots—toward the dining hall. She got there as Don McClear approached the podium for evening prayer. Although Ruxton wasn't a Christian school, it had been founded over two hundred years ago and some traditions (a chapel on campus, prayer before dinner, a tie worn to classes, and a jacket worn in the dining hall) had never been dropped.

Lexie quietly wove through the tables to her assigned seat. There were seven students at her table, four girls and three boys. The students would eat together for three weeks before being broken apart and reassembled into a different group. The groups rotated tables every night.

One of the more entertaining students, Desi Moreno, was at Lexie's table. His family was from Colombia and Desi had once told Lexie that they had bodyguards, armed men at the gates of their compound, and a mirrored stick was passed under the family cars before anyone turned an ignition key. Lexie usually loved dinner conversation with Desi Moreno. But tonight, even with Desi at her table, Lexie couldn't shift into the head space required for conversation with seven teenagers.

“Amen,” the collective voices said. Lexie had forgotten they were praying. She added her amen a second too late. The students seated on either side of the teachers, in Lexie's case Craydon Covington (one of many girls with an asexual name that Lexie assumed was her mother's maiden name, or a family name that had been passed down for five hundred years) and Steffi Levine, rose to gather the serving platters. While waiting for the food to arrive, the other kids chatted about the usual: sports, boys, girls, teachers, classes, homework, and whatever dumb-ass behavior someone did that cracked them up.

Craydon and Steffi returned quickly with a platter of sliced turkey and a pan of eggplant Parmesan. They went back to the serving station and returned again with a bowl of peas, a bowl of mashed potatoes, a basket of rolls, and a green salad. Lunch at Ruxton was buffet, but dinner was served family-style, using painted china, real silver, and cloth napkins, with nothing indicating that the pan of eggplant was one of many, or that the mashed potatoes had been made in an industrial mixer big enough to stir up a Portuguese water dog.

“I had a meeting off-campus,” Lexie said, once everyone had served themselves. There was a pitcher of water and a pitcher of milk on the table. Craydon and Steffi were filling glasses as requested.

“Anything exciting we should know about?” Desi asked.

“No. But I came directly here from the meeting so I didn't consult the topic directory. Does anyone know what's on the list for tonight?” Many teachers told their students in the last-period class what that evening's dinner topic would be.

“I only remember the stuff we've discussed already,” Steffi said. “Is Violence Necessary? What Does It Mean to Know Thyself? . . .”

The students rattled off everything they'd covered. Lexie wondered how Don McClear came up with these lists. She imagined him spending insomniac summer nights reading Plato, Descartes, Berkeley, and Locke with a notebook and pen in hand, writing down ideas until he'd come up with enough to cover dinner every single night during the school year (except Saturday when there was no formal dinner and the kids were invited to go to the dining hall anytime within a two-hour window and serve themselves from what was laid out on the buffet).

“We could ask someone at another table,” Desi pointed out.

“Nah,” Lexie said. “That would be too easy.”

“We could sit here silently, listen to the other tables and try to guess what the topic is,” Emily Fleming said.

“That would be fun,” Lexie said, although she worried that if they were to sit there in silence with little to distract them, the students would read the micro-emotions on her face and quickly realize she'd had the most mind-blowing sex of her life. Sex that she was worried might leak out of her and leave a spot on her skirt. Lexie crossed her legs tightly.

“We could make up our own topic,” Desi said.

“Let's do that,” Lexie said. “But you can't tell anyone, this has to be our secret.”

“Do we vote on one? Or . . .” Ellie Goodrich asked.

“Everyone say your ideas and we'll all agree on the best one. But do this: Pick a subject that reaches beyond what's usually on that list. Go deeper or wider. Be imaginative.” Lexie was buying time. She could barely hold herself in her seat, let alone eat peas and potatoes. She wanted to scream, rush back to the Inn on the Lake, rip off her clothes, and dive into bed with Daniel Waite.

While the students were throwing out ideas, Lexie scanned the room for Ethan. There he was, a few yards away, at Delton McGarry's table. Delton was the dean of academics, a poindexter with a beautiful, sexy wife. They were visually mismatched and this led Lexie to believe that they had a wild sex life, pulling in a third (or fourth!). Or maybe implementing complicated tools and appliances. It was hard to trust such a proper bow-tie-wearing exterior.

Ethan was sitting up straight while listening to Delton drone
on. Lexie knew from the students that there was nothing worse than a teacher dominating the dinner conversation, treating the topic of the night as a lecture. And of those who did lecture at dinner, Delton McGarry was the most tedious, pedantic, and, usually, condescending.

Ethan's head dropped to one side. Lexie saw his eyes wander. He had the same beautiful angled jaw as his father. And the same coloring: black hair, blue eyes, white teeth trapped in a rectangle-on-side smile. Black Irish. Lexie wanted to text Daniel that very minute to find out if they were Irish. Unfortunately, she'd have to wait until she'd left the no-cell-phone zone of the dining hall.

The kids had chosen their topic: Is there a moral imperative for humans to mate for life? If so, why? If not, why not?

“That's a good one,” Lexie said. “Who wants to start?”

Ellie raised her hand. Before she could speak, Craydon started talking. Lexie didn't stop her, but she should have. She should have saved Ellie from being pushed to the back of the conversation. But that simple act alone was currently too much for her. Lexie casually folded her hand across her nose and mouth; she was smelling him. Daniel. The musty scent of intimacy.

LEXIE TOOK THE SLIGHTLY LONGER ROUTE HOME SO SHE COULD
stop—for one minute—at the Inn on the Lake.

Daniel's car wasn't in the lot. Lexie killed the engine and sat, parked in the space where his Mercedes had been this afternoon. He was probably out to dinner, Lexie decided. An eight o'clock reservation somewhere nice, or as nice as you could get within twenty-
five minutes of Ruxton. People like Daniel didn't eat dinner before eight. They didn't finish work until at least seven thirty. They were in their own time zone.

Lexie's phone rang. She yanked it out of her purse, her heart thumping. When she saw it was Peter, she dropped the phone on the passenger seat, started the engine, and pulled back out on the road.

At home, Lexie parked on the long, uphill driveway. She footed down the parking brake. Eventually, Lexie opened the car door. She sat for a minute with her legs hanging off the seat toward the ground. Eventually, she stepped out and walked into the house. It wasn't until she had closed the front door behind herself that she realized she hadn't locked the van. It was as if she were a new person. Someone who didn't spend half her mental time in a movie theater wanting to run outside to double-check that she'd locked the car's doors. Someone who didn't return home, only seconds after leaving, to be sure the front door was locked. Someone who'd never need a Klonopin.

“Hey babe.” Peter came right over to Lexie and kissed her on the mouth. She wondered if she tasted like Daniel.

“How was the Crock-Pot soup?”

“Awful. The vegetables were all bitter and dangly. I threw it away and ate the leftover spaghetti. But I made you dessert in the Crock-Pot.” He leaned in for another kiss. Lexie ducked away.

“I've gotta take a shower.”

“Take a quick one. You're going to love this dessert. I threw a bunch of blueberries, oatmeal, and brown sugar in there—it tastes great.”

In the shower, Lexie thought about what had gone down in
the hotel room and quickly masturbated. Afterward, she washed herself inside and out, even opening her mouth toward the needle-fine spray and cleaning her throat, her teeth, the roof of her mouth. Lexie toweled off, wrapped her hair, and put on old blue flannel pajamas. She didn't want to look sexy. It had been five nights since she and Peter had had sex. That was about their limit, so she'd have to come up with a good excuse.

At the kitchen table, Lexie spooned the blueberry gunk in her mouth while smiling falsely at Peter. “Delicious.”

Peter didn't hear. He was leaning over his bowl, scraping the last blueberry smears from the bottom and rapidly feeding himself. “Guitar lesson?” he asked.

“That'd be great.” A guitar lesson was as appealing as a meeting led by Janet Irwin. Lexie looked at the spoon in her hand and saw she was shaking. “But no pick work, okay? Only chords.”

A
MY'S 'BAMA ACCENT WAS OUT IN FULL FORCE. “HONEY, YOU
gotta be shittin' me!” She fell into her rolling chair.

Lexie had run to the infirmary straight from her morning class. She had wanted to call Amy all weekend, but there was never a second when Peter wasn't within five feet of her. And she didn't want to hide in the bathroom with the faucet running, or run to the front yard while Peter was in the shower. She knew the confession required a conversation she wasn't willing to have whispering in a corner.

Lexie hopped up onto one of the sickbeds. “Nope. I'm not shittin' you.” Lexie was grinning. She felt great: like her hair had grown and thickened and her skin had smoothed out into glittering, waxy taffy. The physical manifestation of joy.

“So you did it without an STD panel?!”

“Yup. And I went to bed the last three nights without triple-checking to see if the front door was locked.” Lexie could not stop smiling. She had smiled all through Health and Sexuality class as
they talked about the endocrine system. So much so that Phillipa Graves had said, “Miss James, you totally love the endocrine system, don't you?”

“I hardly recognize you now.” Amy looked up at Lexie. “You did use a condom, though, right?”

“Nope.” Lexie threw her hair over her shoulder and lay on her stomach, facing Amy, her feet kicked up behind her. She was wearing the same high, sleek boots. They reminded her of Daniel. And they made her feel sexy.

“Are you kidding?”

“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.

“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.