Fourth Estate
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This edition first published in Australia in 2008
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Fourth Estate
First published in USA in 2007 by St. Martins Press
Copyright © Tom Perrotta 2007
The right of Tom Perrotta to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007261000
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2009 ISBN: 9780007319473 Version: 2017-03-29
ON THE FIRST DAY OF HUMAN SEXUALITY, RUTH RAMSEY WORE A short lime green skirt, a clingy black top, and strappy high-heeled sandals, the kind of attention-getting outfit she normally wouldn't have worn on a date—not that she was going on a lot of dates these days—let alone to work. It was a small act of rebellion on her part, a note to self— and anyone else who cared—that she was not a willing participant in the farce that would unfold later that morning in second-period Health & Family Life.
On the way to homeroom, Ruth stopped by the library to deliver the grande nonfat latte she regularly picked up for Randall, the Reference Librarian, a fellow caffeine junkie who returned the favor by making the midday Starbucks run. The two of them had bonded several years earlier over their shared revulsion for what Randall charmingly called the “warmed-over Maxwell Piss” in the Teacher's Lounge, and their willingness to spend outlandish sums of money to avoid it.
Randall kept his eyes glued to the computer screen as she approached. A stranger might have mistaken him for a dedicated Information Sciences professional getting an early start on some important research, but Ruth knew that he was actually scouring eBay for vintage Hasbro action figures, a task he performed several times a day. Randall's partner, Gregory, was a successful real-estate broker and part-time artist who built elaborate dioramas featuring the French Resistance Fighter GI Joe, an increasingly hard-to-find doll whose moody Gallic good looks were dashingly accentuated by a black turtleneck sweater and beret. In his most recent work, Gregory had painstakingly re-created a Parisian café circa 1946, with a dozen identical GI Jeans staring soulfully at each other across red-checkered tablecloths, tiny hand made Gauloises glued to their plastic fingers.
“Thank God,” he muttered, as Ruth placed the paper cup on his desk. “I was lapsing into a coma.”
“Any luck?”
“Just a few Russian infantrymen. Mint condition, my ass.” Randall turned away from the screen and did a bug-eyed double take at the sight of Ruth's outfit. “I'm surprised your mother let you out of the house like that.”
“My new image.” Ruth struck a pose, jutting out one hip and sucking in her cheeks like a model. “Like it?”
He gave her a thorough top-to-bottom appraisal, taking full advantage of the gay man's license to stare.
“I do. Very Mary Kay Letourneau, if you don't mind my saying so.”
“My daughters said the same thing. Only they didn't mean it as a compliment.”
Randall reached for his coffee cup, raising it to his lips and blowing three times into the aperture on the plastic lid, as though it were some sort of wind instrument.