Perfect Little World by Kevin Wilson
prologue
Izzy was suffering from a dull, rattling hangover on the morning of the formal introductions. It had been too much for most of them, the years of anticipation for this very moment so overwhelming that they’d resorted to a few bottles of bourbon, which while certainly not forbidden was rarely encouraged.
“What would the children think?” Julie had said, deep into her third tumbler; her husband, Link, was playing a fast, carnivallike rendition of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” on his banjo. Izzy had started singing along, trying to keep up with the music, but found she couldn’t remember what the woman would be doing other than coming, forever coming round the mountain, never quite there, so she gave up and focused on the reassuring taste of alcohol, the thick coat it put on her tongue like gold plating.
“What would the doctor think, more importantly?” Harris said, who then adopted the tone of the young doctor. “Not in terms of bad and good, please,” he said, a fair imitation of Dr. Grind, “only kind and unkind.”
“Well, this bourbon is kind, that’s for sure,” Ellen said, giggling, none of them really trying to keep their voices down in the courtyard, not caring about the other couples who wanted a good night’s sleep before tomorrow.
“How different will it be, really?” Kenny said. “I know it’s important; it’s the most important thing, I guess, but I can’t wrap my head around what it will actually feel like.”
The men and women got quiet, allowed themselves the momentary lapse of imagining the future, and then collectively refilled their glasses, regardless of how much they actually wanted or needed.
Izzy was too smart to say it aloud, but she had an idea of what it would feel like, the way that giving something a name, whatever that name was, changed the way you felt when you touched it. She considered all the hugs and kisses that had come before, and how this would inevitably be different because the contact would expand their idea of the world. What had been known as one thing would become another thing. It would be terrifying and thrilling and, if she had her wish granted, worth everything that had come before.
Now, sitting in the classroom, all of them uncomfortably positioned on the floor because the chairs were too small for adult bodies, they waited for Dr. Grind to appear. There were nineteen of them, their names and faces so familiar to Izzy that she actually did think of them as her brothers and sisters, or, at the very least, as her extended family. However she defined them, she felt an intimacy with these people that never touched desire, thank god. There were nine couples and then Izzy, who came to the group alone. The others assumed she would meet someone, eventually marry, but Izzy had not considered it. There was something more important at stake, Dr. Grind always reminded them. They had to be fluid and open and no longer dependent on the expectations of their former lives, before they had come together.
In this cheery, brightly colored room, Izzy tried to focus, tried to ignore the creeping feeling that she was not just hungover, but was actively ill, in danger of, at any moment, throwing up on her shoes and ruining the moment. She willed herself into a position of strength, which was her greatest talent, how she steeled her weaknesses into something that could protect her and those around her.
Dr. Grind finally appeared, a weak smile on his face, as if his own happiness made him embarrassed just in case other people weren’t in a good mood and had to witness it. He was dressed in a white short-sleeve dress shirt with a red tie, gray slacks, and gray running shoes. It was a good look for him, his constant uniform. It wasn’t so stiff as to seem scientific or eggheaded and not so rumpled and absentminded that she worried about placing her trust in him. He was comfortable and clean. He looked much younger than his thirty-four years, childlike but serious. Was it any wonder, as he shuffled into the room, that Izzy was possibly in love with him?