An American Name

Margaret: A musician questioning her success comes face to face years later with the arrogant object of her high school crush.
Restaurant Without a Chef: A journalist and his fiancee meet her family for dinner to ask for her grandmother's engagement ring, and he finds the restaurant—and her family—tasteless.
A Mother’s Defense: Is there anything a son could do that would cost him his devoted mother’s bottomless loyalty?
The Commencement Speech of a Mid-Level Manager: A graduating class receives advice that’s more, er, truthful than most.
Two Evangelicals, A Date: A man on a first date is convinced he’s found the woman of his Bible-thumping dreams, while the woman considers that a nice Christian man might not be what she’s looking for.
Written Off: A woman on a bus gradually comes to understand where she’s been sent to, and realizes she must claim agency over her own future.
The Waiting Room: A man is waiting…for eternity.
Not This Saturday: When John shows up at his aunt and uncle’s house on the wrong day, he is exposed to far more than he wanted to know about their private lives—and is forced to confront the shortcomings in his own.

Here is the beginning of Margaret:

Margaret time-warped from the musician with long chestnut hair and a tight black T-shirt with the word “MATH” stretched across her chest to the awkward, out-of-place teenager she once was.

“Don’t you remember me, Margie?” the man asked.

“Margie?” she repeated.

Kevin used a name she hadn’t heard since high school. She’d expected to know people in the crowd. She grew up twenty miles away. But him? This loser?

If only her high school marching band friends were here. They’d have a laugh at Kevin Turd’s sudden appearance. “Turd” was their special nickname. The rest of the town knew him as Kevin “The Great” Terrard.

“Margie Hofflemeyer. It’s me, Kevin Terrard.” He gave himself a thumbs-up with his right hand. This was his Middlesex Inquisitor sports-page pose, but instead of his Sphinx football jersey, he was wearing a Miltonbury Terrard Insurance-branded polo shirt.

Oh, fuck him. “It can’t be.”

“We went to Miltonbury High together.”

She hadn’t forgotten. Kevin had been the jock at their small outer-suburb high school not known for sports. He’d owned everyone and everything, parading down the center of those dark hallways, dragging friends along and pushing everyone else into the locker-lined walls with his oversized ego.

Margaret had been smart enough to sidestep him quickly every time she’d seen him, but she’d also secretly had a crush on him. Because it was high school.

“It can’t be,” she said.

“You couldn’t have forgotten me,” he said with a smug grin.

The overaged jock was now standing in front of her at the meet-and-greet after her band’s show. The darkly lit room was littered with nerds and geeks who mostly worked in biotech or science, or were other artists.

“Kevin Terrard,” he repeated. How many more times would he say his name? He was such an arrogant prick. His expression shifted from confident to stupefied. He hadn’t changed. His lips narrowed and pinched. His head tilted ever so slightly.

She gave in a little bit. “I heard they converted our old high school to condos.”

“I know.” He inflated his chest. “I live there.”

Miltonbury High had been an ancient and dilapidated old brick building even back then. When she was a student there, they’d keep the windows open even on the coldest days because the old radiators never turned off. It was probably now low-income Habitats for Humanity. It made her feel good that Kevin lived there.

“What are you doing here in Cambridge?” She waved her arms around the nightclub basement. “It’s”—she struggled with sincerity—“so nice to see you.”

“I own the insurance agency in our hometown.” He pointed to the logo on his polo.

“Miltonbury Terrard.”

Margaret had been smart enough to sidestep him quickly every time she’d seen him, but she’d also secretly had a crush on him. Because it was high school.

“It can’t be,” she said.

“You couldn’t have forgotten me,” he said with a smug grin.

She gave in a little bit. “I heard they converted our old high school to condos.”

“I know.” He inflated his chest. “I live there.”

“What are you doing here in Cambridge?” She waved her arms around the nightclub basement. “It’s”—she struggled with sincerity—“so nice to see you.”

“I own the insurance agency in our hometown.” He pointed to the logo on his polo.

“Miltonbury Terrard.”

“I have this new agent who plays keyboards for the opening band. I was here to laugh to myself, because seriously, Bob takes so much time out to practice when he could easily be selling more casualty insurance. But it turns out Bob’s actually talented, Margie.”

“Whoa.” Margaret felt revulsion and put her palm up. The unhip and awkward teen Margaret had been called “Fat Margie” by Kevin and his friends. “I’m Margaret,” she said to Kevin, “or, here, Meyer.”

“Meyer? Oh, that’s right.” Kevin grinned. “You’re really talented. I never knew you played instruments.”

“I was in our school’s marching band.”

“I didn’t remember the marching band, until I went back years later to watch a game. I was in my own little bubble back then.”

“That’s for certain,” Margaret said.

Margaret caught the eye of her touring manager, Alana, an eager twenty-something with short blond hair and puffy cheeks. It was costing Margaret twelve hundred dollars over three weekends for Alana to look pretty. Finally, Alana walked over.

“Is everything okay?” Alana asked.

“I know him from high school,” Margaret said.

“Friends.” Kevin nodded his head, flashing Alana another thumbs-up. “Margaret looks so different now. I was like, that girl looks wicked familiar. So I ran over to your tchotchke table.”

“My merch table?” Margaret corrected him.

“Yes, and I talked to her.” He nodded at Alana. “She said your band is called Meyer’s Not Dark Rum. So I went on Wikipedia and read it was you leading the band.” Kevin paused. “I’m on Facebook. I love posting videos and cracking jokes. I thought I was big time with ten-plus laughs per post, but you.” He touched her shoulder. “You’re a rockstar.”

His success was writing jokes for Facebook sycophants? And was she a “rockstar”? She glanced behind Kevin at the dozen or so people waiting to meet her, people with more tempered expectations about whom they were meeting.

Yes, Margaret had certainly made great gains since her youth, but her career wasn’t going as she’d expected. To have this former star Kevin look at her with googly eyes lifted her spirit. She glowed in his adulation of her supposed stardom.

“I try to stay in contact with my fans,” Margaret said.

“And talking about her fans,” Alana said, “I don’t want to rush you two, but I’ve got plans for after the show.” She finally did the job Margaret paid her for—breaking up their conversation.

“I have to say hi to everyone.” Margaret pointed to the people waiting behind Kevin. “But it was nice seeing you.”

“This was wicked awesome,” he said. “Catch up with you later.”

“Maybe.” Margaret politely smiled at him and Kevin walked away.

Margaret moved on and greeted everyone in line, plus some of the venue staff. She didn’t have time to think about Kevin, or did she just not want to think about him?

When she retired to the dressing room, it was the first moment she had to herself since stepping out on stage a couple of hours earlier. She took off the tight T-shirt and the brown leather miniskirt of stage persona Meyer. She sent her disposable contacts to curl in the trash and put on her fashionable red-rimmed glasses. She tossed her mega-lift push-up bra onto a green metal chair. The four-inch-heel boots withered like two dead flowers against the concrete wall.

She looked into a mirror at herself standing alone. Gone was her droopy, out-of-shape high school body. The acne was gone too. Kevin’s interest signified she was now visible and reminded her that she still had sex appeal. Even if things weren’t perfect. Her waist—ugh! Was her forehead showing a wrinkle?

Margaret changed into her real clothes: a below-the-knee brown skirt, a floral top, and beige flats.

The crowd tonight seemed slightly thinner, and she wondered if next year she’d be in the smaller venue upstairs, or even if the venue would pass on her. Recording a new album might boost attendance, if she could afford studio time, but her last Meyer’s album flopped. She earned most of her work now as a studio musician, hired to play on others’ albums. Her name was listed on the liner notes, or the album’s Wikipedia page:

Margaret Hofflemeyer — acoustic guitar (1, 7, 11, 12), electric guitar (1–4, 6, 11–12), slide guitar (3), keyboards (3), high string guitar (4)

Her Williamsburg rent had quadrupled over the last ten years. Her landlord wanted her to renew her April 1 lease by October 1, with another four-hundred-dollar-a-month rent increase. It seemed she was being forced out after eleven years.

Where would she go? It was a question she had ignored for a while, but now needed to face. Reality always was there when she dressed in her regular clothes.

She packed up her fun make-believe persona and left her second glass of white wine unfinished on a table. He grabbed her garment bag and duffel bag and left the dressing room.

Alana was standing in the dimly lit hallway. The bassist, Wax, and Jimmy the keyboardist acknowledged her, then exited into the back parking lot.

“He’s in there by himself,” Alana said, nodding toward the green room.

“Who?”

“Your friend, Kevin.”

“My friend? I said I knew him.”

“You said you knew him from high school.” Alana scratched her head. “And when he said he’d catch up with you, you said maybe.”

Why had she said anything? Nervousness, probably.

“So he’s in there by himself?” Margaret asked as they reached the door to the green room.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Alana touched her arm.

Margaret laughed. “Oh, no. I can handle Kevin.” She gripped the shiny brass doorknob. “But come back in ten or so minutes, and say management wants us to leave.”

Here is the beginning of Margaret:

MORE TO COME…

Theodore Kechris