Page 12 of A Better World

But even when she managed to trade texts with these new acquaintances, their exchanges never led to actionable plans. No one had time to come to the Farmer-Bowen house for dinner. No one could be bothered to answer Linda’s more practical questions about how one might build equity in a town that didn’t cut paychecks. They certainly didn’t offer insights into which employees got approved for golden tickets and could stay for good.Check the pamphlets!they’d sometimes say.Everything you need to know is in the pamphlets!

This was not true. The pamphlets were cute. They contained bullet points and bird drawings and stock photos of multicultural people. They did not offer sound financial advice.

Hoping to get a better lay of the land, she’d called the PV Beautification Society, the Civic Association, and the PV Parent Association, asking to join. Very politely, they’d told her they weren’t entertaining new members until after the Winter Festival in January. Due to lack of interest, there weren’t any religious services, so she had no way of making friends at choir practice or at juice and cookie socials, either. At a loss, she asked the admins at the high school and the nurses and docs at her hospital what they did for fun, and could she please join them. Their response was awkward bewilderment, followed by:I don’t do anything! I’m so busy!

So busy!

Russell hadn’t complained about it—complaint wasn’t his nature—but she knew he was having a hard time, now that the dust had settled. Sure, they were friendly. But the level of engagement stopped there. From what Hip and Josie had told her, the kids at PV High were just like their parents. They smiled and exchanged niceties but wouldn’tshare study notes or save seats. “We eat at this empty table behind this big beam,” Josie explained. “That way it’s less humiliating that we’re by ourselves.”

She’d called Zach Greene last week, leaving what she’d thought was an innocuous message:Hi, Zach!she’d said.I’m so sorry to bother you, but you told me to call if anything came up. My family is having a devil of a time making friends! I’m wondering if we could talk about the culture here and what’s expected. I want to make sure we’re not offending anyone.

Two days later Zach texted:Hi, Linda! Remember, these things take time. I’ve scheduled you for an appointment at my office in the Quality of Life Building on Main Street. My earliest is October 18 at 2pm. We can discuss your failure to adjust then!

She’d looked at the device, thinking:Failure to adjust? Really, Zach? It’s like that?

This is temporary, she repeatedly told the twins when she found them sitting at the kitchen table, bored. She was determined. They just had to keep trying. Life in this perfect townhadto work! So, as they headed to this first soccer game of the season, she slapped on a happy face, even as she thought:If one more of these phony residents flashes a peace sign at me, Imma projectile-vomit directly into their dumb mouth.

They left a half hour early for the soccer field. Russell and Linda unpacked on the lowest bleacher. Josie took pity on Hip and helped him right his uniform (he’d fastened his shin guards outside his socks), then worked on scissor kicks with him. “You got it!” she said, though he clearly hadn’t gotten it.

Linda wore old jeans and a sweatshirt. Russell went local in a high-end, bright blue-and-green Omnium tracksuit. “You look hot, hot stuff. It’s all good. We did good,” she said, surveying the donuts, which had retained their interior heat.

“Is this the right place?” he asked.

It was five minutes before the game. But no one except the Farmer-Bowens had arrived. Linda checked the team schedule, checked the location. Made sure they were a match for the third time. She started to text Coach Farah.

“Don’t,” Russell said.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. She knew why, even if she couldn’t articulate it in words. She got this feeling, when she was talking to people around here, that she would be tolerated for just so long, and as soon as she caused problems by asking a complicated question or needing something, the conversation would be done.

“We’ll feel like assholes if it’s the wrong field,” she said. “She’s the coach. It’s literally her job to tell us where the game is at.”

He sighed, which she understood meantokay. She pressedSEND.

Two minutes before start time, the gate opened. Both teams (the Rocs and their opponents, the Gryphons) and all their support spectators pushed through and filled the field in a friendly, coordinated pack.

The Gryphons headed for the opposite side of the field, the Rocs for the Farmer-Bowens’ side. Russell squeezed one hand inside the other, shoulders tight. She’d known him long enough to sense his internal monologue:These snacks aren’t good enough.

“Twice-infused bergamot tea? Donuts?” she offered cheerfully.

Though healthy and strong, the Roc parents looked to be in their fifties through early sixties. It was a town where people lived long lives and had few children. Aside from some second spouses, she and Russell were the youngest of them. She’d expected most families to be nuclear, straight, and pigment deficient. About two-thirds were exactly this. But the rest ran the gamut. Regardless of where on the spectrum of race, gender, and family constellation they fell, most had been in this town for so long that they shared more similarities than differences. Their movements were similarly purposeful and languid. They didn’t cuss or raise voices. Unless they were senior board members, they dressed brightly. And they loved to smile.

In response to Linda’s chirping, they brandished mugs filled with tea or healthy green parsley and fennel–scented juices. Alternatively,they pantomimed gratitude with prayer hands, then made excuses about having just eaten.

The game began. Because cheering wasn’t allowed, the sidelines stayed quiet. Like sad shopkeepers, she and Russell stayed behind the bleacher step where they’d set up, Linda sampling a donut out of boredom, Russell arranging and rearranging them into their comeliest permutation: a pyramid, of course.

At the first substitution, they abandoned their shop and joined the thickest group of sideline parents. Ever the optimist, Russell plied them with small talk:Where do you live? How long have you been in PV?These received short, pleasant parries, all in that stilted PV accent.

Linda listened, her patience like a cup drunk dry.

Russell put his arm around her, started babbling. “My wife’s a fabulous diagnostician. People all over the city brought their kids to her when their own docs couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Her old patients still call for advice—or they try to. It’s hard to get through. She misses her old friends.” Then he grinned, broad and shit-eating. “I don’t miss anybody. I’ve been working so hard the last twenty years to get into a place like this that I never had time to make friends!”

The Roc parents listened without much reaction. By now, they’d probably already heard about Russell, Linda, and their kids—the first corporate outsiders to arrive in Plymouth Valley in north of a year. But they didn’t say:Welcome! So glad to have you! We’ll be your friends!

“So, what do you all do for fun? I noticed both teams arrived together. Did you pregame at someone’s house?” Russell asked, and for his own sake, Linda hoped he’d walk away from this well. There wasn’t any water here.

“Can we come next time?” he asked.

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