Election Read Online Free PDF Page B

desperate voice. “Just please tell her it's Jack.”

TRACY FLICK
     
    I HAD TO CROUCH on the floor of his Corolla until we pulled into the garage, a position that gave me ample opportunity to disapprove of his black sock white sneaker combo. I'd never seen him out of school clothes before and had expected a sharper fashion sense than that.
    It was interesting to wander through his house, to see how he lived when he wasn't at Winwood. A small, bright kitchen with a checkerboard floor and lots of new appliances. Pictures of three different babies stuck to the fridge by magnets in the shape of tropical fruit. I wanted to ask whose kids they were but he sort of steered me out of the kitchen, into a cozy den with Oriental rugs and a tiled fireplace. Magazines were scattered across a glass coffee table, just like in a doctor's office.
    “This is where you spend most of your time, isn't it?”
    “Huh?”
    “You and your wife. You spend a lot of time in this room, don't you?”
    He jammed his hands into his pockets and nodded. He looked tense and unhappy.
    “Come on,” he said. “Let's go upstairs.”
    At the foot of the staircase, I noticed this great little TV room with plush carpeting and a fat, comfortable-looking couch. I imagined us snuggling together in there, laughing at the nuts on Phil Donahue. There's something so luxurious about watching TV during school. You really feel like you're getting away with something. He reached around from behind and grabbed my breasts, squeezing so hard I winced.
    “Come on,” he said. “What are we waiting for?”
    Two minutes later we're in the bedroom with our clothes off. The bed's unmade and the sheets smell like other people. There's a stack of baby books on the end table to my left—Dr. Spock,
What to Expect When You're Expecting.
This isn't what I had in mind, no more than the cold greasy floor of the darkroom. And suddenly I realize it: every time I've imagined sex for the first time, it's been in my own room, surrounded by familiar things—my stuffed animals, my Tom Cruise poster, the desk where I do my homework.
    It's a bad dream: my English teacher is standing naked at the foot of this slightly lumpy bed, clutching a pair of not-quite-white underpants in his hand, studyingme with this creepy look on his face, the one he gets when he's reading aloud in class and wants us to think he's moved by the passage.
    “Tracy,” he says. “Look at you.”
    How do I tell him I'd rather he didn't? That I've never been naked in front of a man and feel totally disgusted by my body? One breast is bigger than the other and there's a line of brown peach fuzz connecting my belly button to my pubic hair. It's kind of freakish.
    To be honest, his body disappoints me, too. I know he's strong, but you can't really see the muscles. He's got love handles and no chest hair except these wispy little tufts growing straight out of his nipples. When he turns around to slip a cassette of middle-aged guy music into the boom box, there's a pretty big pimple on his butt.
    He turns back to me and smiles. The clock behind him says 9:13. I belong in Psych, watching Mr. Farmer jam a knuckle up his nose while he drones on about laboratory rats. Next to the clock there's a wedding picture. Jack's wife looks pretty in her wedding gown, prettier than I'll ever be. Jack needs a haircut.
    “Baby,” he whispers, “I could die right now.”
    His penis grows before my eyes. I'm just lying there, wishing it was already over.

MR. M.
     
    I ONLY SAW HIM once after he left in disgrace. He called out of the blue and asked if we could get together for a beer. I didn't have the heart to say no.
    He stood by the coatrack at T.J. Peabody's, squinting in the direction of the bar. His face lit up when he spotted me, and I wished I'd never agreed to the meeting.
    “Jimbo,” he said, hoisting himself onto the stool beside me, greeting the bartender with a two-fingered salute.
    “Jackie D.,” I glumly replied.
    The old