The Rules of Attraction (9 page)

Then Sean made some rude comment that I couldn’t hear. I realized then that I was making Sean jealous by talking to these guys, so I immediately stopped talking to them. But it was too late. He was so jealous that he ended up telling them off. He told them it was the Get Fucked party and that they should bend over and get fucked. I hoped I wasn’t playing too hard to get, but it was sort of erotic to hear him say that, yet I still showed no emotion. I was afraid that the Dartmouth guys were going to beat him (actually, me) up but they just walked away, too stunned to say anything, their suspicions about this place confirmed by Sean’s brash actions. After a while, when it was nearing midnight, I asked him if he wanted to come by my room. I had asked Raymond to stop at Price Chopper on the way back from the hospital so I could pick up a six-pack, especially for this occasion. But I wasn’t sure if we’d even get around to drinking it since he was fairly drunk by now anyway. I first made sure he was interested by asking him if he wanted to go to his room first.

“We could,” he said. “My roommate’s gone a lot. His girlfriend lives off-campus, so he’s there a lot.” He was slurring his words. He bumped into someone’s drink, oblivious.

“Do you have any alcohol?” I asked, laughing.

“I have alcohol?” he asked himself. “Do I?”

“You do?” I asked.

“I don’t … have any,” he said, starting to laugh also.

“Let’s go to my room,” I said. “I have beer.”

We walked out of Booth, past the Dartmouth guys. Someone had stuck pieces of paper with the word “Asshole” on them to their backs. We started for Welling.

“Are you a Catholic?” I asked him.

We walked a little while before he finally answered. “I don’t remember.”

LAUREN
I don’t know why I sleep with Franklin. Maybe it’s because Judy likes him, or is just sleeping with him, occasionally. Maybe it’s because he’s tall and has brown hair and reminds me of Victor. Maybe it’s because we’re at a Sunday night party and it’s dark and I’m bored but what am I doing at Booth anyway. I should know better. Maybe it’s because Judy went to the movies over in Manchester. Maybe it’s because when I asked the boy from L.A. after poetry class to meet me at the Beverage Center at dinner tonight he didn’t show and when I saw him later at Booth he told me he thought I meant the Beverly Center. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because Franklin’s … just
there.
But he’s not the only possibility. There’s the cute French guy who comes up to me and tells me he’s in love with me. But he also reminds me that maybe I should go to Europe and just find Victor and bring him back home. But then what would that do? We talk, Franklin and me. But not about much. Some great-looking but utterly bland
Dartmouth guys crash the party (How can you tell they’re from Dartmouth? Franklin asks. They’re wearing green, I explain. Franklin nods, impressed, and wonders what our school color is. Easy, I guess. Black.) I really hope (but not really) that Judy comes back so I won’t end up doing this. We dance to a couple of oldies. He pays for drinks he brings me. When he sweats he’s really handsome. What am I talking about? This is Judy’s geek. But then I get mad at him: what a jerk to cheat on Judy like this. But I get drunk and too tired to argue and I crumple into his arms and he doesn’t quite know what to do with me. I decide to leave it all up to him. We walk back to his room. How easy this all is. Will Judy ever know? Will she even care? Doesn’t she like his roommate instead? Michael? That’s right. I look over at Michael’s side of the room: a fern, Hockney print, poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov. Definitely not for you, Judy. Forget him. It makes me remember a boy I was in love with last term, part of last summer. B.V. The time Before Victor. And maybe
that’s
why I go to bed with Judy’s lover. But she should have been here to stop him. And maybe he shouldn’t have touched my neck that way, a cruel but familiar sensation. Even before he’s in me I know that I will never sleep with him again. And maybe Franklin reminds me of that lost boyfriend, which is good but maybe bad and now we’re in bed, actually on the bed.

“What about Judy?” I ask, reaching back and feeling the knots and blades in his shoulders.

“She’s in Manchester.” He has strong fingers.

It seems a sufficient answer.

PAUL
I used the dead best friend story. It seemed better than using the girlfriend with cancer story or the favorite aunt who committed suicide after the favorite uncle died story, both of which seemed overly melodramatic. I told him about “Tim” who died in a “car accident” on a “road near Concord” killed by “a drunken gas station attendant.” I told him this after we finished the first beer, when I was adequately drunk.

He said, “Gee, I’m sorry.”

I kept my head lowered, tingling with excitement. “It’s so terrible,” I said.

He agreed, excused himself for a minute to go to the rest-room.

I bolted up and checked myself in the mirror then took one of his cigarettes that were lying on my desk, a Parliament. Then I sat back down in a suitable, casual position on the bed and turned on the radio. Nothing good was on so I put a tape in. When he came back he asked me if I wanted to smoke some pot with him. I told him no, but that it was okay if he wanted some. He sat in the chair next to the bed. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Our knees touched.

“Where did you spend your summer?” I asked.

“Oh, last summer?” he said, lighting the small pipe with a lighter that barely worked.

“Yeah.”

“Berlin.”

“Really?” I was impressed. He’d been to Europe.

“Yeah. It was okay,” he said, looking for another lighter.

“How are the clubs there?” I asked, reaching into my pocket. I handed him some matches.

“Good, I guess,” he laughed and sucked in on the pipe. “Clubs?”

“Yeah? Do you speak German?” I asked.

“German? No,” he said, laughing. His eyes were very red. He took his jacket off.

“You don’t?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, I just assumed since you spent the summer in Berlin, I thought…” my voice trailed off and I smiled.

“No. Berlin, New Hampshire.” He was studying the pipe; he sniffed it, then filled it with more pot. It smelled bad, I thought.

“There’s a Berlin here?” I asked.

“Sure is,” he said.

I watched him refill the pipe, inhale, then hand the pipe to me. I shook my head and pointed at the Beck’s in my hand. He smiled, scratched at his arm and let out a thick stream of smoke. I had only my desk light on so it was dark in the room and beginning to get hazy, dreamlike, smokey. I watched his growing intensity as he refilled the pipe, his fingers delicately fingering what looked like dried moss to me. (He assured me it was “top grade weed.”) And it struck me then, that I liked Sean because he looked, well, slutty. A boy who had been around. A boy who couldn’t remember if he was Catholic or not. That appealed to something basic in me though I didn’t know what.

I took another Parliament and asked him to sit on the bed.

“I have to go to the restroom first,” he smiled shyly and left.

I took my jacket off and put another tape into the cassette player. Then I decided to take my shoes off. I checked myself in the mirror once more and ran a hand through my hair. I opened another beer even though I didn’t need it. He came back five minutes later. What was he doing in there, I wondered.

“What took you so long?” I asked.

He stood there and closed the door, then leaned against it for balance.

“I had to make a phone call.” He started to laugh.

“To who?” I asked, smiling.

“To Jerry,” he said.

“Jerry who?” I asked.

“Jerry Garcia,” he said, still smiling.

“Who’s Jerry Garcia?” I asked. His roommate? “Does he live in Booth?”

He didn’t say anything and stopped smiling. Was he a lover? What?

“I’m just fucking with your mind,” he said, whispered actually.

There was a long silence. I drank the beer. We listened to the music. I started to shake. Finally I said, “I didn’t expect you to come.”

“I didn’t either,” he said, confused, shrugging.

“Come here.” I motioned for him.

He looked down. He touched the back of his neck.

“Come here,” I said, patting the bed.

“Um, let’s talk for a little while. What did you get on your S.A.T.s?” He was nervous and shy and I didn’t like feeling as if I was the instigator.

“Come
here
,” I urged.

He started moving toward the bed, slowly.

“Um,” he started nervously. “What do you think about … nuclear weapons? Nuclear war?”

“Here.” I moved over so there was room but not too much.

Something romantic was on the tape. I forget what it was exactly, maybe Echo and the Bunnymen or “Save a Prayer” but it was something that sounded lush and slow and appropriate. He sat down next to me. And I looked at him and said, “You’re no different. You’re just like me, right?” I was still shaking. So was he. My voice trembled. He didn’t say anything.

“You’re no different,” I said again. It wasn’t a question anymore. I leaned closer. He smelled like pot and beer and his eyes were watery and bloodshot. He looked at his boot, turned to me, then looked down again. Our faces were almost touching and then I kissed the side of his mouth and pulled back, waiting for a reaction. He was still looking at his boots. I touched his leg. He was breathing hard. Our eyes met for something like five seconds. The music seemed to be getting louder. My face felt hot and red. I moved my hand up. He spread his legs slightly and he looked at me, daring. I kissed him again. His eyes closed.

“Don’t pretend we’re not doing this,” I told him.

I moved my hand up the denim, unsure if it was at his knee or thigh or close to his crotch. I leaned over slowly. “Come here,” I said. I tried to kiss him again. He moved back. I moved closer. He moved his head a little towards me, eyes on the ground. And then his mouth was on mine. He stopped and breathed in and then kissed harder this time. Then we both leaned back, flat, on the bed, him slightly on top of me. We kept kissing. I could hear a toilet flushing, then footsteps padding down the hallway. I raised one of my legs carefully, then reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, then pushed my hand underneath his shirt. His body was thin and tight and he was moving on top of me. His pants and underwear pulled halfway down, mine also, rubbing against each other, our hands interrupting occasionally, hands we had licked or spit on. The springs in the mattress squeaked rhythmically as our bodies moved together in the darkness. I kissed his hair, the top of his head. The springs and our breathing, which came in hard sighs and gasps, were the only sounds in the room once the tape clicked off. We came together, or close enough, and lay like that for a long time, barely moving.

SEAN
Go to Denton’s room. We drink some cold ones and smoke some pot and talk but I can’t deal with the friend’s death story and the Duran Duran music and his
weirdo stares so we talk a little while longer and I get wasted. Then I leave and wander around campus. There’s a keg in Stokes, since the party in Booth died. See some graffiti written about myself in the bathroom and make an attempt to remember if it’s true. The guy from L.A. is standing in the hallway wearing shorts and sunglasses and a Polo shirt. He doesn’t smile when I pass him by, just says, “Hey dude.” One of the girls I scored for earlier, who has short spiked hair and who wears a lot of black kohl and who’s holding her pet snake named Brian Eno, leaning against a lava lamp, calls me over, and we talk about the snake. Her friends join us, all on Ecstasy, but they don’t have any left. I’m too wasted to complain. Getch is there radically stoned and tells me that kids who die of crib death are the smart ones, since they have an intuition of how terrible life is and choose this option out. I ask him who passed this info his way. The music’s really loud and I’m not sure whether he tells me it was Freud or Tony. I leave, walk around campus, look for cigarettes, look for Deidre, for Candice, even Susan. Then I’m in Marc’s room, but he’s left, gone, history, vapor.

LAUREN
Laying in bed. Franklin’s room. He’s asleep. Not a good idea. Judy could enter any second. I should leave before gay roommate comes back and I can’t stop
thinking about you Victor. Dear, dear Victor, I’m in the arms of someone else tonight. I remember a night last term. It was a Wednesday and there you were sitting in your room, writing your silly paper for a silly class, and I was sorry about being the cause of a delay in your essay. Oh Victor, life is weird. I was typing in your room and I was misspelling so many words but I didn’t want to interrupt and annoy you with correcting things over each other. Oh my God. That sounds like a profundity to me! Life is like a typographical error: we’re constantly writing and rewriting things over each other. Are you the same here as when you’re in Europe? I wonder. Last summer you told me you would be. It would upset me terribly if you weren’t; if I was there with you and you were off on some other planet somewhere. That would not be good. You wanted to get pizza and not go to the Wet Wednesday party in Welling that night, because you wanted to catch “Dynasty” and the Letterman show. I remember that night very well. I kept staring at your
Diva
poster. I should have never gotten semi-drunk halfway. It was a bummer. I really liked the song that was playing. That was really wonderful that you were listening to that tape I made for you all on your own, of bands from Paris, but remembering that song depresses me, especially since there is a Frenchman somewhere in Booth who’s in love with me. Oh Victor, I miss you. That night last term when you didn’t want to go to the party and I did because there was a boy there I was in love with and still seeing and you said he was a fag so it didn’t count and you were half-right but I didn’t care. I smoked cigarettes instead.

“Do you have a match?” I asked you.

You shuffled through a very nice leather jacket. “Yeah.” Threw matches at me.

“Thanks,” I said and turned back to the typewriter to write a seemingly meaningless note to you. You. You, who was busy scribbling nonsequiturs to a black man that always wore sunglasses that reflect your eyes even if it was storming outside. What class was that? Electronic Jazz?
Hmmmm, I thought, what are those papers on your desk, upside down? But being that I respected your privacy I didn’t touch them or ask about them. I’m sure you didn’t want me to know about their existence anyway. There was a roll of toilet paper on your desk, a Baggie full of excellent Hawaiian pot, and a copy of
The Book of Rock Lists.
I wondered what it all meant. I was running out of paper. Perhaps I should have asked if you were going to be done soon but I just stared at you instead.