Tom Perrotta - The Abstinence Teacher

“I just work here,” she said. “I don't make the rules.”

RUTH SPENT most of first period in the lounge, chatting with Donna DiNardo, a Biology teacher and field hockey coach in her late thirties. Over the summer, after years of being miserably single, Donna had met her soulmate—an overbearing optometrist named Bruce DeMastro— through an internet matchmaking service, and they'd gotten engaged after two magical dates.

Ruth had been thrilled when she heard the news, partly because of the fairy-tale aspect of the story, and partly because she'd gotten tired of Donna's endless whining about how hard it was to meet a man once you'd reached a certain age, which had only served to make Ruth that much more pessimistic about her own prospects. Oddly, though, finding love hadn't done much to improve Donna's mood; she was a worrier by nature, and the prospect of sharing her life with another person provided a mother lode of thorny new issues to fret about. Today, for example, she was wondering whether it would be a hardship for her students if, after the big day, she asked them to address her as Ms. DiNardo-DeMastro.

Although Ruth felt strongly that women should keep their names when they married—she hadn't done so, and now she was stuck with her ex-husband's last name—she kept this opinion to herself, having learned the hard way that you could only lose by taking sides in matters as basic as this. She had once offended a pregnant friend by admitting—after persistent demands for her honest opinion —to disliking the name “Claudia,” which, unbeknownst to her, the friend had already decided to bestow upon her firstborn child. Little Claudia was eight now, and Ruth still hadn't been completely forgiven.

“Do whatever you want,” Ruth said. “The students won't care.”

“But DiNardo-DeMastro?” Donna was standing by the snack table, peering into a box of Dunkin’ Munchkins with an expression of naked longing. She was a heavyset woman whose body image anxieties had reached a new level of obsession now that she'd been fitted for a wedding gown. “It's kind of a mouthful, isn't it?”

“You're fine either way,” Ruth assured her.

“It's driving me crazy.” Donna lifted a chocolate Munchkin from the box, pondered it for a moment, then put it back. “I really don't know what to do.”

With an air of melancholy determination, Donna backed away from the donut holes and helped herself to a styrofoam cup of vile coffee, into which she dumped two heaping spoonfuls of nondairy creamer and three packets of carcinogenic sweetener.

“Bruce hates hyphenated names,” she continued. “He just wants me to be Donna DeMastro.”

Ruth glanced plaintively around the room, hoping for a little backup from her colleagues, but the two other teachers present—Pete Fontana (Industrial Arts) and Sylvia DeLacruz (Spanish)— were ostentatiously immersed in their reading, none too eager to embroil themselves in the newest installment of Donna's prénuptial tribulations. Ruth didn't blame them; she would've done the same if not for her guilty conscience. Donna had been a kind and supportive friend last spring, when Ruth was the one with the problem, and Ruth still felt like she owed her.

“I'm sure you'll work something out,” she said.

“If my name was Susan it wouldn't be such a big deal,” Donna pointed out, drifting back toward the Munchkins as if drawn by an invisible force. “But Donna DiNardo-DeMastro? That's too many D's.”

“Alliteration,” agreed Ruth. “I'm a fellow sufferer.”

“I don't want to turn into a joke,” Donna said, with surprising vehemence. “It's hard enough to be a woman teaching science.”

Ruth sympathized with her on this particular point. Jim Wallenski, the man Donna had replaced, had been known as “Mr. Wizard” to three decades’ worth of Stonewood Heights students. He was a gray-haired, elfin man who wandered the halls in a lab coat and bow tie, smiling enigmatically as he tugged on his right earlobe, the Science Geek from central casting. Despite her master's degree in Molecular Biology, Donna just didn't look the part in her tailored bell-bottom pantsuits and tasteful gold jewelry. She was too earthbound, too well organized, too attentive to other people, more credible as a highly efficient office manager than as Ms. Wizard.

“I don't know, Ruth.” Donna peered into the Munchkins box. “I'm just feeling overwhelmed by all these decisions.”

“Eat it,” said Ruth.

“What?” Donna seemed startled. “What did you say?”

“Go ahead. One Munchkin's not gonna kill you.”

Donna looked scandalized. “You know I'm trying to be good.”

“Treat yourself.” Ruth stood up from the couch. “I gotta look over some notes. I'll catch up with you later, okay?”

After a very brief hesitation, Donna plucked a powdered Munchkin out of the box and popped it into her mouth, smiling at Ruth as she did so, as if the two of them were partners in crime. Ruth gave a little wave as she slipped out the door. Donna waved back, chewing slowly, her fingertips and lips dusted with sugar.

THE SUPERINTENDENT and the Virginity Consultant were waiting outside Room 23, both of them smiling as if they were happy to see Ruth come clackety-clacking down the long brown corridor, as if the three of them were old friends who made it a point to get together whenever possible.

“Well, well,” said Dr. Farmer, in the jaunty tone he only trotted out for awkward situations. “If it isn't the estimable Ms. Ramsey. Right on time.”

Glancing at Ruth's outfit with badly concealed disapproval, he thrust out his damp, meaty paw. She shook it, disconcerted as always by the change that came over the Superintendent when she found herself face-to-face with him. From a distance he looked like himself— the handsome, vigorous, middle-aged man Ruth had met fifteen years earlier—but up close he morphed into a bewildered senior citizen with rheumy eyes, liver spots, and unruly tufts of salt-and-pepper ear hair.

“Punctuality is one of my many virtues,” Ruth said. “Even my ex-husband would agree.”

Ruth's former husband—the father of her two children—had taught for a few years in Stonewood Heights before taking a job in nearby Gifford Township. He'd recently been promoted to Curriculum Supervisor for seventh- and eighth-grade Social Studies, and was rumored to be next in line for an Assistant Principalship at the middle school.

“Frank's a good man.” The Superintendent spoke gravely, as if defending Frank's honor. “Very dependable.”

“Unless you're married to him,” Ruth said, doing her best to make this sound like a lighthearted quip.

“How long were you together?” asked the consultant, JoAnn Marlow, addressing Ruth in that disarmingly cordial way she had, as if the two of them were colleagues and not each other's worst nightmare.

“Eleven years.” Ruth shook her head, the way she always did when contemplating the folly of her marriage. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

JoAnn laid a cool, consoling hand on Ruth's arm. As usual, she was done up like a contestant in a beauty pageant—elaborate hairdo, gobs of makeup, everything but the one-piece swimsuit and the sash that said “Miss Morality”— though Ruth didn't understand why she bothered. If you were determined to live like a nun—and determined to broadcast this fact to the world—why waste all that time making yourself pretty?

“Must be so awful,” JoAnn whispered, as if Ruth had just lost a close relative under tragic circumstances.

“Felt like a ton of bricks off my chest, if you want the truth. And Frank and I actually get along much better now that we don't have to see each other every day.”

“I meant for the children,” JoAnn explained. “It's always so hard on the children.”