growing restless, exchanging glances of puzzlement and concern. JoAnn leaned in close to Dr. Farmer and whispered something in his ear. Principal Venuti cleared his throat at high volume and made a spinning motion with his index finger, signaling that it was time to get rolling. Ruth felt a disgustingly fake smile—an adolescent reaction to social panic that she'd never fully conquered—tugging at the corners of her mouth. It took an effort of will for her to rein it in.
“Well,” she finally managed to croak, in a voice she didn't recognize as her own. “Here we are.”
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER SIX ON FRIDAY EVENING, BUT ALREADY Bombay Palace was packed, the entrance overrun with cranky families who'd just been informed that they'd have to wait half an hour for a table at the town's only half-decent alternative to Applebee's. Tearing off a piece of alu paratha, Ruth registered a flicker of pleasure at her own free agent status. It was one of the few compensations of divorce, she thought, the one night a week when Frank took the girls and she was able to do what she wanted, no babysitter to pay, no one to report to when she got home. A perfect opportunity to be bad, if she'd had anyone to be bad with.
“Look on the bright side,” Gregory told her. “At least you're practicing what you preach.”
“I don't think it qualifies as abstinence if it's involuntary,” Ruth told him. “It's just pathetic.”
“And it's definitely not abstinence if a vibrator's involved,” Randall added.
“You're right about that,” she said. “The new curriculum clearly states that masturbation of any kind is strictly verboten. Apparently it's habit-forming and interferes with your schoolwork.”
“Damn,” said Gregory. “So that's why I didn't get into Harvard.”
“Frankly,” said Randall, “it's a miracle you got your real-estate license.”
Gregory nodded. “I'm just glad I didn't have to take the test when I was fifteen.”
“Believe me,” said Ruth. “The kids didn't look too happy when I broke the news.”
“I bet Homo Joe was pretty devastated, too,” Randall observed. “What's he gonna do with that economy-size jar of Vaseline he carries around in his coat pocket?”
“Or that Burt Reynolds centerfold in his wallet?” said Gregory.
It was a running joke between Randall and Gregory that Principal Venuti was actually a closeted gay man—aka “Homo Joe”— who took extralong showers in the boys’ locker room, kept a stash of pilfered jockstraps in his “Confidential” file cabinet, and was frequently seen dancing at The Manhole in tight jeans, a fishnet shirt, and a Prince Valiant wig. Whenever possible, a new perversion was added to the list.
“I really don't get the logic behind the whole abstinence thing,” said Gregory. “I mean, I grew up being taught that premarital sex was wrong, and gay people were going straight to hell, and playing with yourself was a sin. And look how I turned out.”
“Greg was wearing leather hot pants and a studded dog collar on the night we met,” Randall told Ruth.
“I know,” said Ruth. “You showed me the pictures.”
“It was a Halloween party,” Gregory explained. “And I'd just left the seminary. I was trying to make up for lost time.”
“I'm not complaining.” Randall reached across the table and gave his boyfriend's hand a furtive squeeze. “And I wouldn't say no to a reenactment later on.”
“We can try,” Gregory said skeptically. “But you'll need a crowbar to get my fat ass into those shorts.”
“The collar will suffice,” Randall assured him.
As she often did in their company, Ruth wondered how much of this banter was serious and how much was manufactured for her entertainment. Either way, dinner with Randall and Gregory was a lot livelier than the occasional girls’ night out she shared with Donna DiNardo and Ellen Michaels, a longtime colleague who taught History Defying the Sex and the City stereotype of randy, uninhibited single gals dishing colorful secrets to their friends, the three women rarely spoke about anything but work and movies. Ruth and Donna made a special effort to steer clear of the problematic realms of sex and romance, lest they trigger one of Ellen's weepy, chardonnay-fueled tirades against her ex-husband, Marty, a lawyer who'd run off with a much younger colleague and started a new family, leaving her all alone in a big empty house, her kids grown up and gone, nothing but the goddam TV for company, probably for the rest of her life.
Tonight, especially, Ruth was grateful to have such diverting companions. It had been a rough week, a sustained attack on her dignity and self-esteem. Here she was—a woman who had always prided herself on being a fighter—standing up day after day in her own classroom and, under the watchful eyes of her three “guest observers,” betraying everything she'd ever stood for as a teacher, the values on which she'd built her entire career. She'd done what she could to let the kids know she wasn't buying what she was selling—grimacing, talking in a robotic voice, stressing as often as she could that the curriculum didn't necessarily reflect her personal opinion—but it didn't matter much. She still felt dirty at the end of each class, unable to meet her students’ eyes as they filed out of the room.
“Abstinence is perfectly reasonable in theory,” Gregory said. “It just doesn't work in practice. It's like dieting. You can go a day or two, maybe even a week. But eventually that pizza just smells too good.”
“Just ask Father John,” Randall said.
“Who's that?” asked Ruth.
“The priest who molested him.” Randall looked at Gregory. “What were you, twelve?”
“Thirteen,” said Gregory.
“What?” Ruth was taken aback. “You guys are kidding, right?”
Both men shook their heads.
“Really?” she said. “By a priest?”
“Finally.” Randall pumped his fist in mock triumph. “A story we haven't told her.”
“Molested is too strong a word,” Gregory said. “I think it's more accurate to say it was consensual.”
“Come on,” Randall protested. “Nothing's consensual when you're thirteen.”
“Not technically,” Gregory conceded. “But I did enjoy it. And I certainly volunteered for more.”
“That's putting it mildly,” said Randall.
“Don't mind him,” Gregory told Ruth. “He's just jealous.”
Ruth nodded, trying to look as nonjudgmental as possible. No woman she knew would have admitted to enjoying sexual advances from an authority figure at thirteen, but she had come to believe that certain things really were different for men.
“He was a cute little altar boy,” Randall said. “The whole thing was such a tawdry
