Inside the Mind of Gideon Rayburn (13 page)

vicodin makes you love yourself

The Winchesters' family house
—in the hip, artsy, but, make no mistake, thoroughly expensive Cape Cod town of
Truro—is a cross between an airplane hangar and the Lila Acheson Wallace wing at the Metropolitan Museum of
Art. The furniture, all either beige or black or light mint green, is spare but lush. The art is giant and genuine. The
front of the house is private and a little understated, but the back is a wall of thick glass that looks out on the white dunes and choppy blue of the Atlantic. Gid's blown away. Personally, I prefer something that feels like it's actually
inhabited by people.

The ocean is right there. We both feel we could touch it.

More incredible, however; There are rock stars here. Real ones. Just hanging out like normal people.

Soccer star Erica, who generally favors T-shirts, is shockingly mod and sexy in a pink-and-purple paisley
halter top, giggling, teetering on Jett Injuns guitarist Neils Tolland's bony British knee. Gid's a little more used to
—we all are—Madison in suggestive clothing. And here she's wearing a bikini. And chugging champagne. Some of it runs
down her chin, and Hal Plimcoat grabs her by her tiny tan waist, buries his neck in her chest, and licks it off. Even
Mija is tarted out, for Mija, wearing pants so low-slung they need that special low-slung-pants thong.

Naturally, Gid doesn't know about special low-slung-pants thongs. If I could, I would tell him that when good girls
put them on, bad things happen.

Cullen and Nicholas melt into the party, throwing no lifelines. They shake hands with Hal and Neils, then head over to a glass bar in the corner where Yves Mountjoy from the Rutts (Gid and I recognize both of them from MTV2)
pours various liquors into a chugging blender. They finally settle in another seating area, where Neils's brother Dennis hovers over a glass-topped coffee table, covered with drugs. "The three Ps," Cullen says approvingly,
kneeling down and examining the spread.

Tills, powder, and pot,” Dennis says. He reaches up and engages both Nicholas and Cullen in some kind of
elaborate handshake, vaguely rock and roll, vaguely black. "Right on, great to see you cats again." To Gideon's
credit, he's annoyed by this, wondering why everyone has to be so cool all the time, and also, whether white people
will always have to act like black people to avoid looking like dorks. At the same time, holy shit, Dennis Tolland
—a
man Gideon has seen in magazines and on television—is friends with his roommates?

As exciting as Gid finds this proximity to stardom, he's wary of the competition. Getting Pilar to pay attention to him is one thing. Getting Pilar to pay attention to him in a sea of rock stars is quite another.

Now Dennis Tolland himself extends a hand to Gid. His clothes are cartoonish, bell-bottom brown polyester
pants and a red tie-dyed shirt with a big green collar. His hair is dark and springy. "Hey, man, you must be Gid."

Gid's bowels contract. He shakes Dennis's hand.

"Pull up a chair, have a drink," Dennis says. "And let's start you out with one of these." He hands Gid
something large and white. "It releases large amounts of serotonin into your brain all at once. It makes you feel really
good."

Gideon is very interested in this. Who wouldn't be?

"I'll take that." Nicholas swoops in. "We have to be prudent about Gid's drug consumption."

"Maybe Gideon should be prudent about my drug consumption instead," Dennis says, cracking a wry smile,
crossing his legs, and tossing a motley assortment of tablets onto his tongue.

"Too late for that," Gideon says. Dennis washes everything down with a swig of beer and smiles with
appreciation. Gid likes this guy.

There's a loud thump, and Gid turns around to see that Neils, in the process of standing up from the couch,
has unceremoniously dumped Erica off his lap and onto the floor.

Dennis sees it too. "Best to get fucked up," he says with a wink.

Gid thinks this is excellent advice and retreats to the empty kitchen. Everything is giant, stainless steel, and shiny. The refrigerator is full of beer and bottles of white wine. He takes a beer. Budweiser. Defensively, Gid thinks
he's not so keen on the Rutts. Too loud but not exciting loud. Just loud. But he loves the Jett Injuns. In fact, the lyrics
to "Vine Worthy" (yes, it's a Tarzan parable) are written in their thorough and humiliating entirety on one of his
notebooks from last year. Thank God he knows enough not to mention this.

Fiona Winchester, barefoot and hostessy in pink satin pajamas, enters the kitchen and gives Gid a surprisingly
inviting smile. The back of her pants is totally smooth against her butt. No underwear. Gid stops himself before he
gets too excited about this. Whatever she's trying to project, it's not for his benefit. Now Cullen comes in. Okay,
that's who it's for.

Cullen reaches out and touches Fiona's back, a quick swirling motion with the back of his hand. And you know
what he says? "Silky." Because it's all he needs. Because he can. Gid notices Cullen noticing the lack of underwear.

"See you guys later," Gid says, with a cool nod that he hopes indicates he knows what's going on. As he leaves the
room, he hears a snap of elastic and a giggle.

And when he walks back into the living room, there is Pilar, dressed in a brown velvet warm-up suit, lounging in
an overstuffed chair. She is casual, perfect. "Hey, Gid," she says, winking. Gideon's relief that she is not sitting on a
rock stars lap is, sadly, short-lived when Yves Mountjoy saunters over to her, holding a cocktail shaker, and pours a
healthy measure of something appealingly blue-green and frosty into her open mouth. "That's good," she says. "Very
good." He pours more in a glass, and she takes it from him with a languid, practiced hand.

"Let's make one for my friend Gid." Pilar waves at Hal, who is manning the blender. After tucking a greasy lock
of dark hair behind his ear, he waves back. "Oh, by the way, this is Yves." Yves nods at Gid, who does not say, "I've
seen you on TV," or "Why do you guys dress like first-graders with special needs?"
—though he would love to.

"You know what," Gid says. "I don't want one of those. I'm just going to drink beer." Pilar pats the seat next to
her. Did he win it with his confident refusal? His stick-to-it-iveness to beer? Who knows? He sits.

We can both feel the softness of her butt next to his thigh. He likes it more than I do.

"Tenemos que charter,"
Pilar says.

"That means 'to chat,'" Gideon says, excited.

Pilar nods warily. "You Americans, you are so happy to know just one word. I want to tell you that the night when
you helped me in the bathroom, it was very nice of you."

"Thanks," Gid says. He contemplates adding, "I live for opportunities to please you," but then, thankfully,
Nicholas appears with the white pill. He breaks it in half and hands both halves to Gid. "Wait before taking the
second half," he says. "Remember, you're not going to have a better time with more."

"Hola, Nicolito."
Pilar exaggerates her accent.
"iComo estas?"

Nicholas nods. "What's up, Pilar?" He walks away.

"Oh my God." Pilar turns toward Gideon and seizes his chin with her perfectly manicured thumb and index finger. "Why is he always so serious?" Her giant brown eyes look right into Gideon's. If Gid passed out from sheer
joy, she would just keep holding his chin, and his head would dangle from her fingertips.

"Nicholas is just like that," Gid says. "He doesn't really mean it." Pilar finally lets go of his chin. Gid busies
himself with the pill, puts half of it on his tongue. "What am I taking here, anyway?" he says, trying to talk around the
pill, but its rough bottom part, where it's been broken in half, touches the roof of his mouth and then drips onto his
tongue. It tastes like bad lemons and dust.

Pilar reaches into his mouth and takes the pill off his tongue. Gid fairly soars on a sense of victory. Pilar knows
that there's another half of this pill in his pocket. So she could have looked at that if she wanted, right? This can only
mean one thing. She wanted to put her hand in his mouth, which, Gid thinks, can only be fantastic news.

"Vicodin," she says. She opens her mouth, indicating Gid should do the same. She sets the pill back on Gid's
tongue, and for a heavenly second, Gid inhales her smell of soap and lotion. He pours a good shot of beer over it
and swallows. "It tastes bitter, but trust me, it makes you feel amazing. In fact, I wouldn't mind taking the other half."

After the chin grabbing and reaching into Gid's mouth, Gid hopes wildly that Pilar's going to help herself to Gid's
pockets. He shifts a tiny bit, just in case this is her intention. It doesn't seem to be.

Pilar takes the pill with a hefty dose of her blue-green drink.

"Are you guys taking Vicodin?" It's Mija. She's wearing small, flattish white shoes. They're ugly. Gid's never
been to Holland, or even to Europe, but he's right to associate her clothing problems with her nationality.

'Tell him how it's going to feel,'
⁷
Pilar encourages.

Mija jams her hands in her pockets and thinks. "Well, first you're going to feel a little light. And then you're going
to feel like you really, really like everyone."

He liked Dennis's general promise of feeling good, but this makes him nervous. Liking Pilar more than he
already does could lead to embarrassing confessions. Maybe this isn't a good idea. The memory of the pill is still in
his throat. He has time to stop this. In eighth-grade health, they were forced to watch a film strip on bulimia, and
Gid's pretty sure he remembers how to make yourself puke. He saw a bathroom near the kitchen with a nice, solid,
soundproof door. He gets up.

"No," Pilar coos, "don't go anywhere. You were making me warm!"

Wow. Gid sits back down.

"More important," Mija adds, "it makes you feel like you really, really like yourself."

Now, this is something he can get behind. Gid settles into the seat, inching even closer to Pilar than he was
before.

"I thought you would like that," Pilar says, pursing her lips seductively.

The drug is working on her! Gid thinks.

Or Gid is. Probably a combination of both. She seems to be softening up, like butter left out.

"You know, I wonder about your relationship with Cullen and Nicholas," Pilar says. "The three of you have a
secret."

"No secrets," Gid says, feeling as easy as his tone. "I mean, aside from the usual."

"What is usual between guys?" Pilar asks. "You're part of the, how do you say, sewing circle? What do you
think of yourself, you, Cullen, Nicholas...the three amigos?"

But Gid's not listening. He's watching
—and who can blame him?—Cullen and the no-underweared Fiona
Winchester making out on the couch.

Fiona's leg lifts up in the air and wraps itself around Cullen's waist. Cullen picks her up, walks across the room
kissing her, and carries her up the stairs. "Jesus," Gid says.

Pilar says, "If Fiona falls for him that easily, then, you know, you really can't blame him.'
⁷
No softie, that Pilar.

I can't say I feel sorry for Fiona, but I don't think she's an idiot for believing Cullen really likes her. Why
shouldn't she? She's a beautiful girl. She's smart. Her parents have a fantastic collection of modern art. And up until
now, most of the information she's received about herself has proved to be more or less true. How's she supposed
to know that the lying starts now, with Cullen McKay and his great smile and his love of all things silky?

Pilar
knocks back the rest of her drink and saunters to the bar. Gid observes Liam, Devon, Hal, and Nicholas
as they all watch her. She's sitting with me, Gideon wants to yell. Pilar says something to Devon Shine, and he
blushes. The kitchen door swings open and Dennis Tolland appears, holding a playing card over his head. "Yes," he
shouts. Pilar walks by him and smiles. "I'm winning at poker," Dennis says. "Do you feel lucky tonight?" Pilar keeps
moving. Dennis stares at her while she walks away, mouthing the word
lovely
before ducking into the kitchen again.

Pilar returns. "What's going on at the bar?" Gid asks. They are snuggled into the chair now.

"Oh, everyone's getting wasted and talking a lot of shit. Nicholas isn't saying a word. Or drinking." They look
over. Everyone nurses cocktails; Nicholas has his bottle of water.