The Abstinence Teacher

  PRAISE FOR The Abstinence Teacher

  A New York Times, Los Angeles Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Boston Globe, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly bestseller

  “Abstinence is really a gateway for Mr. Perrotta to tell a much bigger and more complex story about religious identity in America. … [A] deeply moving story of a man and a woman who see each other on opposite sides of a religious divide.”

  —The Wall Street Journal

  “With abstinence programs and disputes over what can be taught in schools regularly making the front page, The Abstinence Teacher hits on prominent social fault lines. This has become something of a hallmark for Mr. Perrotta, who has developed a knack for combining hot-button cultural themes with flawed and complicated characters. … While his stories bear the sheen of satire, they are actually sharp though compassionate investigations of human relationships. They can also be very funny.”

  —People Magazine (four stars)

  “A soul-searching comedy.”

  —USA Today

  “A sad-funny-touching story that looks at the frustrations and perils of life in suburbia through darkly tinted, not rose-colored, glasses … pitch perfect ear for dialogue … moments of genuine hilarity… as readable as anything Mr. Perrotta has written, thanks to his easy, conversational prose.”

  —The New York Times

  “Fifty years after John Cheever turned a comic eye toward New England’s Wapshot Clan, Tom Perrotta reigns as a mischievous bard of the ’burbs for the twenty-first century. … Perrotta is an acute observer of social mores among the affluent middle class.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Perrotta’s balance of humor and pathos has no equal; he’s naughty and nice … he brings this world to life with a few strokes. He never condescends to modern suburbia—instead he mucks around its corners, opens closets, and reveals oddball secrets.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Confusion and regret are as much the subjects here as religious controversy. Ruefully humorous and tenderly understanding of human folly: the most mature, accomplished work yet from this deservedly bestselling author.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “In his timely suburban satire, Tom Perrotta implores: Let’s talk about sex … education. He resists giving firm answers to the thorny moral questions lurking in his material.”

  —Vogue

  “For Tom Perrotta, suburbia is a place in which the rift between red and blue states is enacted on a single verdant, erotically charged battlefield … Perrotta finds entertainingly scabrous material in this setup.”

  —Elle

  “The comic tone is there in numerous laugh-out-loud moments, but Perrotta’s writing displays wisdom, too. … His books combine profound ideas and readability in a way not often seen.”

  —The Vancouver Sun

  “Over the course of five novels and a collection of short stories, Tom Perrotta has laid claim to the prime real estate of upwardly mobile suburbia, hilariously probing its leafy, soccer-obsessed, McMansion-lined streets. … [G]enerous, amusing, shocking, thought provoking, and more than a little familiar.”

  —The Miami Herald

  “The Abstinence Teacher is certainly Perrotta’s most sensitive novel to date … tender, witty, and wise.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “A startlingly relevant and stunningly perceptive examination of the evangelical takeover of American exurbia … a hilarious and tender story about faith, divorce, and parenthood that also manages to contain our panoramic drama in miniature.”

  —Men’s Vogue

  “Eloquently written, Perrotta hits a chord by giving readers a riveting look at the angst and sexual tension that can polarize people as they struggle to weigh their personal wants with societal standards. … Perrotta weaves a masterful satire that is sure to make readers stop and think.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Undeniable power … Perrotta—like satirists since ancient Rome—attacks excess, hypocrisy, and intolerance wherever he finds them. … His two souls, lost in confusion, reach out in the darkness. What they find surprises them both.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Perrotta spins another perceptive take on modern life with this strong novel … Perrotta’s observations are at all times unsparing.”

  —Seattle Post-Intelligencer

  “What keeps the book from getting too heavy-handed, besides the sharply written humor, is the fact that Perrotta makes his evangelical Christian protagonist less of a zealot than the atheist … his characters are older and have had the shine rubbed off them. As a result, they’re ultimately more satisfying to be around.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “Perrotta, as always, is deft and sure with his satire … Perrotta still manages the incipient romance with charm and humor.”

  —Daily News

  “The novel is wicked and witty yet infused with compassion for the characters.”

  —The Columbus Dispatch

  “Perrotta, who proved himself adept at reconciling dichotomies in the smart novel Election and Little Children, its deeper, darker successor, gets this unlikely couple together with maximum intelligence, minimum melodrama, and a sharp, funny sense of irony. … It’s also very tartly written.”

  —The Denver Post

  Also by Tom Perrotta

  Little Children

  Joe College

  Election

  The Wishbones

  Bad Haircut: Stories of the Seventies

  FOR JOE GORDON

  Acknowledgments

  Listen to advice and accept instruction, and in the end you will be wise.

  —PROVERBS, 19:20

  In the course of writing this book, I’ve been lucky to receive invaluable advice and instruction and assistance from Maria Massie, Elizabeth Beier, Dori Weintraub, and Sylvie Rabineau—my gratitude to them all. Carol Luddecke of the Lentegra Mortgage Group provided me with an insider’s perspective on the mortgage business. My friends Mark Dow and Kevin Pask were intrepid companions at a Promise Keepers’ weekend in Baltimore. As always, though, my biggest debt is to my wife, Mary Granfield, and to our kids, Nina and Luke, who give me lots of good reasons every day to abstain from work and have a little fun.

  And if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a large millstone tied around his neck.

  —THE GOSPEL OF MARK

  PART ONE

  Some People Enjoy It

  Miss Morality

  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 H
asbro 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 handmade 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.

  “They should be proud to have a mom who can carry off a skirt like that at …” Randall’s voice trailed off diplomatically.

  “… at my age?” Ruth inquired.

  “You’re not that old,” Randall assured her. “And you look great.”

  “Lotta good it does me.”

  Randall sipped his latte and gave a philosophical shrug. He was a little older than Ruth, but you wouldn’t have known it from his dark curly hair and eternally boyish face. Sometimes she felt sorry for him—he was a cultured gay man, an opera-loving dandy with a fetish for Italian designer eyewear, trapped all day in a suburban high school—but Randall rarely complained about the life he’d made for himself in Stonewood Heights, even when he had good reason to.

  “You never know when opportunity will knock,” he reminded her. “And when it does, you don’t want to answer the door in a ratty old bathrobe.”

  “It better knock soon,” Ruth said, “or it won’t matter what I’m wearing.”

  Randall set his cup down on the Wonder Woman coaster he kept on his desk, next to an autographed picture of Maria Callas. The serious expression on his face was only slightly compromised by his milk-foam mustache.

  “So how are you feeling?” he asked. “You okay about all this?”

  Ruth shifted her gaze to the window behind the circulation desk, taking a moment to admire the autumnal image contained within its frame: a school bus parked beneath a blazing orange maple, a bright blue sky crowning the world. She felt a sudden urge to be far away, tramping through the woods or wandering around a strange city without a map.

  “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 prenuptial 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 wave
d 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.