Higher Education (18 page)

“Please don't tell me about it.”

“Look, she's pushing up his pajama top. She's putting her tongue in his belly button—”

“Will you shut up?”

“And now he's putting his hands on her head—”

“I said shut up.”

There is a silence, during which I sullenly listen to Gerard's rapid breathing next to me.

“Sue?”

“What.”

“Someone's staring at you.”

I lift my head from my drink. “What?”

“I thought you'd want to know.”

“Know what? What did you say?”

“I said, someone's staring at you.”

“What?” I straighten up in alarm. “Who is it?”

“Oh wow. She's down to his left hipbone.”

“Gerard,” I whisper. “Gerard.”

“That's my name, don't wear it out.” He snickers. “Ow! Why are you pinching me, Sue?”

“Who's staring at me?”

“Oh, some Malibu Ken type. He's standing in the doorway making puppy-dog eyes at you.”

“Wavy brown hair? Little snub nose with freckles on it?”

“Well, I can't tell about the freckles from here—”

“Is it him?” I hiss.

“Yep. Friend of yours?”

“Is he coming any closer?”

“Well, he's sort of inching his way along.” Gerard sips at his drink. “He keeps bumping into people and pissing them off.”

“Oh, fuck.” I finish my martini and then take a big swallow of Gerard's, feeling a bemused smile curving my lips. “Oh, fuck.”

“Sorry?” Gerard crooks his head politely. “I couldn't hear you, Sue. You were talking into your Dixie cup.”

“Oh, fuck.” I turn and wind my arms around his neck. “Kiss me,” I whisper, still smiling giddily.

“What?” He stares back at me wide-eyed.

“Put your arms around me, dope.” I start nibbling on his upper lip, and before I know it we're hardly distinguishable from any other couple in the kitchen. Somewhat to my surprise Gerard isn't half bad at this, although when he blows in my ear I giggle and draw my face back a few inches. “Tickles.”

Gerard loosens his embrace. “It's okay. He's gone now.”

“What? Who?”

“Malibu Ken.”

“What about him?”

“He stole two drinks on his way out, too.”

“So?”

“It's a very bad thing, Sue, mixing your liquors.”

I nestle closer. “Kiss me again, olive-breath.”

“Who was he?”

“Oh, some guy I slept with one time. Now he won't leave me alone.”

“Oh, that's Tim Lazare?”

Confusedly I lean back. “How the hell would you know?”

“Do you want me to let go of you now?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to think, “don't bother.”

“Whatever you say, Sue.” He starts kissing my neck again.

“Mmm.” As I'm wilting into Gerard's warm nappy clasp, my senses feel oddly warm and distorted. I find myself listening to the couple next to us, their voices unfolding in the semidarkness with a razorlike clarity.

“But what's the point of having birth-control pills,” he's saying, “if you keep forgetting to take them?”

“Oh, don't be such a spoilsport,” she says in a high-pitched singsong that's already getting on my nerves. “Just because I forget to take one now and again—”

“Every other day, Mandy?”

Mandy
? I twitch in Gerard's arms and try to turn my head without his noticing.

“I know I'm a bit forgetful, but I don't see why you have to jump down my throat about it.”

“It just seems rather pointless, that's all.”

“You're the one who refused to wear a—”

“We chose the most mature method of—”

“And my mother keeps asking when we're going to get—”

“Two years of business school—”

She gives a little scream. “Will you look at those two on the butcher block?”

Gerard abandons my neck and whistles admiringly as he cranes over my shoulder. “Sue, look at this. It's better than anything I've ever seen on ‘Wild Kingdom.'”

“I really don't want to know.”

“They must be on the gymnastics team.”

“Jeff,” the girl next to us is saying, “I think we should call the police.”

“Shake and bake!” somebody over by the microwave calls out.

“Jeff? Are you listening to me? I said—”

“I heard you. I was just trying to figure out how we could—”

“Jeff!”

“That's my name, don't wear it out. Ow!” he cries. “Why'd you pinch me?”

“I didn't pinch you.”

I can feel Gerard shaking with silent laughter. “Come on,” I whisper, twisting out of his arms. “Let's go.”

“Sure, okay.” He wipes his eyes. “Where to, Sue?”

“I don't know. Let's dance or something.”

“Aren't you the sudden bundle of energy.” He trails me out of the kitchen, still snuffling with little bouts of laughter. “Isn't Afrin just the next best thing to being there?”

“Almost.”

Richard's band has begun a second set and is churning out “Heart of Glass,” with Lyndon, now wearing two pairs of sunglasses, singing in deadpan falsetto. Gerard starts doing his favorite routines from
West Side Story
, paying minimal attention to the rapid-fire beat of the song. Gamely I try to keep up with him but my stomach is doing a better job than the rest of me, quivering and churning right along with Gerard's ebullient convolutions. Finally I give up and tug at his sleeve.

“Gerard.” Suddenly I realize I'm sticky with a chilly film of sweat. “Gerard.”

He's singing aloud to himself. “
When you're a Jet, you're a Jet …
”

“Gerard.”

“Yes, Sue?” he shouts.

I notice that I've ripped his shoulder seam a little. “I'm going to the ladies' room.”

“Aw, now?” He's glowing and pink, the very picture of healthy exertion. “I haven't done my Officer Krupke imitation yet.”

“Yes. Now.” I swallow. “You can stay if you want.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I'm sure.”

“Well, come back when you're done powdering your nose.”

“Sure.” I turn and weave my way out of the ballroom and up the big marble staircase. When I reach the top I pause for a moment, dizzily clutching the railing. Staring down at the floor, I find myself eavesdropping on the people milling past.

“Where's the bathroom?”

“Have you seen my date?”

“I hear there's a talent scout from Columbia Records here tonight.”

“Got a joint?”

“Kind of a dull party this year, don't you think?”

“That dinky buffet. A hummingbird would've starved.”

“Yeah, did you try those meatballs? I almost barfed.”

“Let's go to the Advo.”

“Forget it. We just came from there. It's packed.”

“Couldn't move.”

“Couldn't breathe.”

“Great. Let's go.”

I look up and tilt my head, listening to Richard's strong silvery voice singing “Watching the Detective.” I stand there holding on to the railing for a little while longer, and then I smooth my t-shirt over my abdomen, run a hand through my hair, and start down the steps for the door.

There's a small crowd outside the Advocate, and as I'm edging forward I gape at Gino Larici planted with a hand firmly on the doorknob. “No, sorry,” he's telling someone. “I can't let you in without an invite.”

“An invite?” echoes the person on my left, incredulously. “Since when do you need an invite to get into an Advocate party?”

Gino shrugs, his small jagged features set in an expression of pious implacability. “New policy.” His free hand creeps up to the collar of his leather jacket, turning it up more stiffly against his neck. “Like New York.”

“Hey, Gino,” my neighbor says. “Remember me?”

Gino's eyes are fixed upon a point some inches above my head. “Rules is rules,” he says, and suddenly I remember hearing about his recent election to the poetry board. “You want me to break a rule just because you're my roommate?”

An almond-eyed Eurofag wearing black penny-loafers pushes his way to the front. “Hey, Gino. Great jacket.”

“Yeah.” His gaze flickering almost imperceptibly, Gino opens the door a few inches. “Have a nice time.”

As the Eurofag nimbly scoots in under Gino's leather-encased arm, Gino's roommate lets out an outraged puff of air. “You're a douchebag, Larici. A pus-filled, roach-infested douchebag.”

“Now, now.” Gino shuts the door and curls his fingers around the knob again. “There are ladies present.” His eyes rest for a moment upon me, and without thinking I step forward.

“Hi, Gino,” I say, trying to smile. Upstairs they're playing Lou Reed's “Sweet Jane” so loud I can feel it vibrating in my sternum. “How's everything?”

“Great.” Gino appears to be studying my feet.

“Aren't these great sneakers?”

“Yeah.”

“They're Keds.” Twisting on one foot, I show him the label on the heel. “Classic Keds.”

“Great.”

“Say, Gino.”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I come in?”

Gino doesn't raise his eyes. “Got an invite?”

“An invite?” My breath hisses in my throat. “Gino, I was dancing on the goddam Advocate mantelpiece while you were still in Riverdale prepping for your SATs and waiting for your voice to change.”

“So?”

“Look, Gino.” I take another step forward. “I have to find somebody. Then I'll come right back down again. Okey dokey?”

“Yeah, sure.” He doesn't move a muscle. “That's what they all say.”

“Gino baby!” Three strong-featured brunettes, all wearing swirling dark skirts and little tasseled half-boots, come shouldering their way up the steps, laughing and breathless.

“Sweetheart.”

“Angelface.”

“Sugarlips.”

“Dunster House sluts,” Gino's roommate jeers as the girls disappear inside, their heels clicking smartly on the doorstep. “This is it, Larici. Now you've finally pissed me off.”

Gino shrugs again. “Life is tough.”

“I mean it. I'm really starting to get angry with you.”

“What do you want, Gino?” I blurt. Abstractedly I note that I am trembling a little. “Am I supposed to offer you money? Should I beg? Go down on my knees and plead? Is that it?”

“No tickee, no dancee.”

“You douchebag.” My voice is shaking. “You're a slime-covered, disease-ridden scumball.”

“Don't forget the roaches,” Gino's roommate encourages from the sidelines. “Toss in a reference to dog shit, maybe.”

“Dog shit?” Now I turn my accusatory glance upon him. “If he's such a creep, why'd you room with him then?”

Gino's roommate looks surprised, and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I made a mistake.”

“What?” I stare at him for a moment, and to my horror I feel my eyes begin to fill with tears. I'm about to start batting my way through the little knot of people lining the steps when a voice calls out above the music: “Miranda! Yoo hoo!” Pausing, I flash a look at Gino inert at his post, where apparently he's contemplating the stars above Kirkland House. As I'm taking another blurry-eyed pace forward, the voice calls out: “Miranda! Up here!”

Finally I look up. Rod, the
Advocate
's managing editor, is dangling half his body out over the windowsill as he beams hospitably down upon me. “Did you have fun tonight?” he calls, his tortoise-rimmed spectacles flashing in the moonlight.

“No.”

“Why not?” he cries, astonished.

“I haven't even been inside yet.”

“Well, come on in, silly.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because Gino won't let me in.”

“What?”

We both look over at Gino, who now appears to be pondering his own shoes, and then Rod screams: “Let her in, enema-face!”

His features impassive, Gino looks up at Rod. “She doesn't have an invite.”

“You half-wit overdressed turd!” Rod screams. “Let her in!”

“No problem.”

“Rod?” I call up.

“Yes, Miranda?” He's smiling solicitously, now teetering by his hips from the window. “What can I do for you?”

“Can Gino's roommate come in too?”

“Does he have an invite?”

“No.”

“I'm afraid not, Miranda. You know the rules.”

The knot in my stomach is getting worse. “Never mind then.”

“What?”

“If he can't come in, I'm not coming in either.”

“But Miranda,” Rod cries, swaying. “I just told that rancid sleazebag down there to let you in.”

“Too bad.” I turn away.

“Oh, all right!” Rod screams. “Let 'em both in, latrine-head!”

“Thanks, Rod,” I call up. “You're a brick.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Rod disappears from the window.

“Thanks a lot.” Gino's roommate has come trotting up the steps, smiling at me. “I really appreciate this. I really do.”

“Don't mention it.”

“I really do appreciate this.”

“Let's go on in.”

“Thanks a lot. Really.”

“After you.”

We squeeze inside—Gino refuses to open the door more than a scant foot wide—and then Gino's roommate grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously.

“Thanks a lot. It's really nice of you.” With a last radiant glance, he turns and plunges down the narrow, crowded hallway and vanishes left and up the stairs. Since I'm moving less adroitly in his wake, it takes me a while to shove my way through the crush, dodging cigarettes and beer bottles being waved about. Finally I make it up and around the last stretch of steps and am thrust roughly into the main room, where it's dark and noisy and overheated and jammed with people dancing to the Monkees' “Last Train to Clarksville.” I cram myself into a spot against the wall, squeezing close to a slight, scared-looking kid who retreats even more deeply into his oversized jacket. Over on the mantel ledge there's Rod doing the Twist with—I squint incredulously—yes, Molly, in her black polka-dotted miniskirt. I look across the room, and there on the oak table is Gerard, still in his bathrobe, flapping his arms to the beat and grinning at nobody in particular. My stomach gives a little churn, and I shut my eyes. The Monkees trail off, and now it's the familiar opening notes to “Wild Horses.”