Disposable

By Ayin Ships

 

“That’s it?” Mallory demands, all crossed arms and swishing hair. “Four years, Naomi, four years for this? God, you’re a piece of shit.”

“Right,” says Naomi, “that’ll make me want you back.”

“You do! You fucking bitch. You want me so badly you can’t stand it, so you’re leaving.”

A cool, appraising stare—Mallory used to find the weight of that gaze hot. Naomi’s eyes catch at the dip of his neckline: he’s wearing his new lingerie, the set he bought for Valentine’s last fucking week, and she liked him in it well enough then. Spitefully, he closes another button. No tits for heartbreakers.
Naomi sighs. “Mal, not everything in my life’s about you.”

“So I shouldn’t take this personally,” he says, flashing a smile, his sweet charmer look, the flirt’s dimple he offers cute butches when he’s sure no one from his real life will see. “Dumping me after making me breakfast, nice, you get that move from an ex-girlfriend or something?”

It is kind of nice, actually, taking bad news with his stomach full of warm food. Couldn’t have executed it prettier. Only now he wants to puke. Naomi and her goddamn consideration.

“Didn’t want you starving today,” says Naomi, checking her watch. “Look, I’ve got to get to an early meeting, the superintendent’s office is finally taking me up on some—”

“I don’t give a shit about the superintendent’s office, Naomi, you’re not running out on me like this like we don’t matter—”

“There’s no we.”

“Fuck you,” Mallory tells her, face heating; he’ll be going red and it won’t be pretty. “Naomi—just talk to me, just tell me—”

Naomi’s pulling on her coat, grabbing her backpack, running a hand over the short locks atop her head down to the fuzz of the shaved sides. One foot out the door and she’s still the handsomest woman Mallory’s ever kissed. “You want to know why?” she asks.

And he doesn’t, not really, because he doesn’t want the answer to be him and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it isn’t.

“Because you don’t give a shit about the superintendent’s office,” says Naomi, which is fucking weak as far as exit lines to punctuate a breakup, but she’s still trying to go, so he grabs her wrist.

“No,” says Mallory, “no no no, I can care about the superintendent, tell me about your meeting, listen, I’ll pay attention this time, god, is that what you want? Is that all it takes?”

Naomi wrenches her arm free with a twist and a scowl. “You can’t take this seriously for a full sentence, can you,” she says, ice water in his stomach. “It’s not just the meetingsyou’ve forgotten—it’s not just the dates you’ve missed, or the appointments you said you’d pick me up from, or the grades I asked you about filing.”

I’ll do better. “You never said you minded,” he says.

“Like you’d know what I’ve said,” says Naomi, and slams the door.

He calls in sick to work.

 

#

 

Four years ago he’d been new to the city, transferred after three years of preschool in the suburbs; new to himself, too. At the bar, he’d leaned against a wall and tried to be invisible, regretting the pink dress, watching women flirt with each other with a swoop in his gut he blamed on the drink in his hand.

“Kindergarten, right?”

Fuck, Mallory thought. When he looked to the speaker, it took him a moment to place her, dazed by his daiquiri and her smile. “Hi,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t…

Fourth grade?”

“Fifth,” she said, but close enough for someone he’d only seen once before, and briefly, at staff orientation the previous week. She stuck out a hand. “Naomi.”

“Mallory,” he said, taking it. She was warm and solid; he settled back into himself a little more. Daring to smile back, he tried, “Come here often?”

It was the right move: her smile widened. “That’s a pretty dress on you,” she said, which wasn’t even true, it clashed like shit with his coloring, but he liked it and he liked her for saying it.

“Prettier off me,” he said, only half-intending the innuendo, and caught a laugh behind his hand. “Oh, god, I think this drink’s going right through me.”

You could go right through me. Mallory watched her take an eyeful of him. You want me.

Naomi’s hand landed at his arm, just above his elbow, steadying and dizzying. “Maybe you should lie down,” she said, voice low, eyes bright—if the drink hadn’t already pinkened him—

“My place isn’t fit for human habitation yet,” he sighed.

“In the city? Neither’s anyone’s,” said Naomi, “but you’re welcome to mine if you’d like.”

So he went home with her: sat in the backseat of a cab with a seat discreetly between them, took the elevator up to her apartment, and checked his breath against his palm as she ducked into the closet to hang his coat.

“You don’t think it’ll be a problem that we work together?” he asked eventually, blood singing in his veins as she set her lips to the soft meat of his throat.

“I hope it is,” said Naomi. A grin smudged with his lipstick. “I like a challenge.”

He’d known, even then, that he was a challenge. But what she’d meant was that she liked to win.

 

#

 

“Miss Mallory?”

No, he cannot deal with Jessica today, hungover and all of one day out from being dumped. The break room was empty. He was supposed to have his prep period to himself. He grits his teeth and pulls up something like a smile. “AP Saldaña.”

She’s in a rush. “Do you know where Ms. Naomi is?”

Trust Jessica to twist the knife without a clue. “No,” he says. Remembers to add, “Sorry.”

“Drat,” she says, “we’re supposed to have a conference and I didn’t write down which room it’s in. Well, if you see her…”

“I’ll be here until the bell,” says Mallory, indicating the lesson plan outlines he’s strategically spread across the table so it looks like he’s busy, not sulking.

“Ah.” She’s so lost he dredges up some sympathy. It lasts until she opens her mouth again. “You know, I was asking around, and Mr. Jeff told me to ask you. She’ll definitely know, he said. Because the two of you spend so much time together, right?”

He keeps his breathing steady. Trots out the usual lie. “We’re friends.” A different kind of lie, now. His head pounds. “But I still don’t know where she is now.”
Jessica shuffles her stack of papers like one of them will miraculously have the right room number on it this time. “Principal Marshall’s going to have my head if I miss this meeting,” she says.

George isn’t so bad. Maybe if Jessica could get her head screwed on right she’d have better job security. Mallory shrugs, a wish-I-could-help-more smile, and brings out his secret weapon: the bright voice he uses with the kids. “Good luck!”

“You’re sweet, Miss Mallory,” says Jessica, and goes to wander the halls.

Thank fuck she’s gone. Miss Mallory is fine from five-year-olds, who hardly know what it means. What’s wrong with just using first names in staff-only spaces? As if the constant she wasn’t enough.

“Sweet,” he mutters, and puts his head down on his arms.

 

#

 

A week later there’s an assembly. George sent out an email letting everyone know in advance, but Mallory still winces at the scrape of the loudspeaker calling all classes to the auditorium. Why the fuck does the entire school need to be there?

“Why’re we going to assembly, Miss Mallory?” one of the kids wants to know.

“It’s a mystery,” he tells them, scanning heads for a count. “Sam, c’mere and let me retie your shoes before we get to the stairs.” Why his mother doesn’t buy velcro, nobody will ever know. “Tamika, where’s your hallway buddy?”

“What’s a mystery?” asks Tamika, and someone calls her stupid, which sets off a drama that makes them all behind schedule, so they’re tiptoeing in five minutes late to the assembly.

With his hands full trying to corral the class into their seats, it’s not until they’re settled and mostly quiet that Mallory sees Naomi onstage.

“Thank you to Miss Mallory for bringing her class to join us,” George is saying, in his Principal Marshall voice. Okay, jackass, you bring twenty-six kids barely past toddlerhood down a flight of stairs. What is Naomi doing up there?

Jessica passes a sorry-about-him smile to Mallory. He doesn’t give a shit. Naomi’s in her best blazer, the one she breaks out for special occasions. She wore it on one of their dates, once, and he made fun of her for it, and she laughed. Must be a damn important assembly.

“Now that everyone’s here… We’re proud to announce that Ms. Naomi has successfully completed the screening process of the Principal Candidate Pool,” says George, and then for the kids’ benefit, “That means she’s ready to be a principal herself somewhere, next year. We’re all very excited for Ms. Naomi—can we have a round of applause?”

Mallory claps with numb hands. Look at me, he thinks, but Naomi’s beaming at her adoring masses and he doesn’t exist. Principal candidate—did he know that?

Naomi takes the mic, tucks a note card back into her pocket, and says something about hard work, gratitude, and all that; Mallory’s not listening until she says, “And I’d like to thank my support systems, in school and out of it: the district staff, my fellow teachers, and of course my girlfriend—”

He blanches, cold with terror

“—Rahma,” Naomi says, and gestures onto the stage a beautiful woman Mallory has never fucking seen before. This woman tucks an arm around Naomi’s waist, waves to the crowd, and gives no indication that anything is amiss.

“We’re so happy for you,” says Jessica. Mallory’s vision has gone staticky.

So, he figures, Rahma must care a whole lot about the superintendent’s office.

 

#

 

He knows better. He does. But that night he texts Naomi.

Who the fuck is Rahma, he types, then thinks about it and backspaces. Paper trail. Instead he sends, So nice to see you with Rahma today! When did you two meet?

Naomi’s not stupid. As soon as the checkmarks turn blue, his phone buzzes with a call. Fine. Get it over with.

“We weren’t cheating on you,” she says when he picks up, in lieu of hello. “Mal, you know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Do I know that? Hm.” He twirls some hair between his fingers, pretending to check for split ends. “I don’t know if I know anything, really. You resent when I’m late to things, you’re going to be a principal, you have a girlfriend—is there anything else I didn’t get the memo on?”

“Don’t do that,” says Naomi, “don’t play the victim, it’s not cute. Look, I had to—”

“You had to dump me for someone you met this week?”

“I’ve known Rahma for—No, I had to be with someone who could look me in the eye in public!”

Oh, there it is. Mallory sits back, sinking into the couch. “You broke up with me because I’m in the closet?”

Naomi doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ve made a name for myself with the district as someone who’s proud of who she is. It’s easier to be the openly gay one if I have a girlfriend I don’t have to hide.”

“The openly gay one—do you hear yourself? You want to be a diversity hire?”

“Don’t fucking preach to me,” she says. “You don’t care about my career or anyone’s reasons for promoting me, you just want me in a corner, too afraid to make a move to advance, so I’ll be stuck with you.”

Mallory hangs up.

#

Nobody’s sure how the rumor spreads, but by the end of the month, everyone’s whispering about it. That Naomi’s imminent principalship is because of some higher-up’s checklist. That she flaunted her girlfriend onstage to prove a point, that she isn’t really dating Rahma, that she hired someone to fake a relationship. That they leapfrogged her over Saldaña’s qualifications.

On the books, Jessica’s working with George to stamp out the muttering, but anybody can see that she steers clear of Naomi these days. Gives her the cold shoulder. Offers a smile a little too plastic. It’s got to sting, after all—thinking you have a position staked and then some newcomer swooping in with a claim.
Mallory keeps his head down, focuses on his students, and doesn’t lose any sleep. It’s three days before Naomi calls him.

“Did you do this?”

“You never say hi,” he tells her. “How’s Rahma?”

“We broke up, actually,” says Naomi. “She didn’t like the heat I was taking, and…”

She trails off. Intriguing. Mallory senses bait but goes for it anyway. “And?”

“And… apparently… I talked too much about you.”

On the phone, it’s hard to tell: Is she blushing? Is she lying? Is she on her stomach in bed, kicking her feet in the air and motioning for Rahma to keep quiet? Mallory holds his tongue. His pulse jumps against his swallow.

Naomi clears her throat. “Mal?”

“You left one of your sweaters here,” he says, because he’s staring at the thing, draped over a chair in a nauseatingly homey way. He’s probably left half a dozen bras at her place.

“Maybe I could come get it someday,” says Naomi, and she doesn’t sound like she’s joking—she sounds like—

“Are you flirting with me?” he asks, and he swears he doesn’t mean it, but the silence on the other end lingers a little too long. The smirk fades. “Naomi?”

He can’t picture her expression. He thought he knew her so well. She says, “Could we be different?” and something scary happens in his chest.

“Different how?” God, his mouth is fucking dry.

She draws in a slow inhale. A fuzz over the phone line, nothing like the rasp of her breath in his ear. “Different like you listen when I talk. Different like I tell you when things bother me.”

“Different like you throw open the closet doors and parade me around on your arm,” he guesses.

A biting pause. He can hear her take a deep breath and let it out. Three, four, five. “If you were out,” says Naomi, “would that be so bad?”

“Yes,” he says, to disappointed dead air. He tips his head back and closes his eyes. “But I’d do it. For you.”

Naomi will like that. She always liked when he was desperate. He lets it sink in, and then: “You’ll talk to Jessica,” she says. “Before we can make it official.”

“What, you’re giving me an ultimatum? Why would Jessica even—”

“Shut up, Mal, you never were good at the innocent act. It’s fine. If you talk to Jessica everything will be fine.”

And she’ll forgive him, and she won’t apologize, but they’ll be together again. Never mind how he’s been proven disposable. Mallory picks at a chip in his nails and thinks it all over. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to Jessica. I… You know I missed you.”

It’s predictable, her smile. “Yeah, I know.”

 

#

 

He talks to Jessica. As Naomi’s friend, as Jessica’s friend, he’s concerned about these rumors—Naomi’s more than qualified, she completed the screening, she’s got her license, it’s so ugly that someone might dismiss her credentials, and surely everyone understands that APs aren’t automatically considered for the PCP.

“Oh, of course,” says Jessica, hand on his arm, “and you know they expect seven years of experience, whereas I’ve only been at it for six—you would be qualified, wouldn’t you, Miss Mallory?”

“Ah!” He laughs, brittle. “Never swung that way myself.”

“Ms. Naomi always was the ruthless one, wasn’t she.” Jessica smiles, tipping her head to the side. “It’s nice to see the two of you have made up—I thought, maybe, some people were avoiding her after she introduced Rahma to everybody, you know? I’d hate to think you were like that. I thought Miss Mallory, no, she’s a better friend than that! So it’s good to see that wasn’t it.”

Mallory dreams of screaming. “We’re all proud of Naomi and Rahma,” he says.

The next time he sees Naomi across the hallway, he flashes a brief thumbs up. Stage one complete; initiate stage two. But they’ve got to have an audience. That’s what Naomi wants, so that’s what she’ll get. He waits for lunch.

Some of the teachers are supervising the students in the cafeteria, so it’s not everyone, but the lounge is bustling with staff getting bags out of the mini fridge, microwaving tupperwares, stirring sugar into coffee cups—at least a dozen people, unwittingly gathered for a performance.

He takes a seat at a small table, unpacks his lunch, and waits. When Naomi comes in, she sits next to him. Under the table, she sets a hand over his knee; he shifts away.

 

“C’mon,” she murmurs. Louder, warmer: “Mal.”

“Naomi, I…” He lets his voice shake. “No, I.”

“It’s okay. Trust me,” says Naomi, voice soft but not lowering. A couple people—Jeff, Michelle—start to look over. Her hand slips beneath his hair, resting at the nape of his neck; he catches his breath just in time for her to pull him into the kiss.

Mallory shrieks. Knocks his chair over in his rush to stand, claps a hand over his mouth, blinks down tears with his chest heaving. The works.

“Oh my god,” says a woman, Rosa maybe. “Mallory—”

The room is ablaze with concern. Someone presses a cup of cold water into his hand, someone leads him to another seat. Someone steps in front of him; Naomi disappears.

Someone calls for the administration to send somebody down, stat. Call HR, call the district, call the authorities.

It’s nice to be cared for, Mallory thinks, and takes a sip of his water.

 

Ayin Ships from US has received a BA and MA from Brooklyn College in English and Secondary Education, respectively, and currently works within the NYC public school system. As a queer educator, they're interested in the interpersonal politics emerging from overlap of identities.