The Rules of Attraction (16 page)

PAUL
I call Sean up. Someone answers the Booth phone.

“Yeah?” Person is obviously stoned.

“Can I talk to Sean Bateman? I think he lives upstairs,” I ask.

“Yeah.” Really long pause. “If he’s asleep should I wake him?”

“Yes. Please.” The idiot probably
is
asleep.

I look at myself in the mirror and turn away. Next door, either my mom or Mrs. Jared is taking a shower. The TV is still on. I reach over and turn the volume down.

“Yeah? Hello?” Sean says. “Sean?”

“Yeah? Who is this? Patrick?”

Patrick? Who the hell is Patrick? “No. It’s Paul.”

“Paul?”

“Yeah. Remember me?”

“No. This better be good,” he says.

“I just wanted to know what’s going on,” I say. “Who’s Patrick?”

“No, Paul. That’s not it. What did you want?”

“Were you asleep?”

“No, of course I wasn’t asleep.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was just about to go to the party,” he says.

“With who?” I ask. “With Patrick?”

“What?”

“With who?” I ask again.

“I thought you asked me that,” he says.

“Well?”

“The person who’s been leaving notes in my box,” he says loudly, laughing.

“Are you?” I ask, sitting up.

“No, I’m not. Christ, you call me up to check on who I’m going with to the party?” he yells into the phone. “You’re sick!”

“I thought … I had a very vivid … image of you.”

“You’re also a bad judge of character,” he says, calming down.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I apologize.”

“It’s okay.” I can hear him yawn.

“So … who
are
you going with?” I ask, after a while.

“No one, you idiot!” he yells.

“I was only joking. Calm down. Can’t you take a joke?” I ask. “Don’t people from the South have a sense of humor?”

There’s a long pause and then he says, “When we’re around funny people.”

“Scorcher, Sean. Scorcher.”

“Rock’n’roll. Deal with it,” he mutters.

“Yeah.” I try to laugh. “Deal with it.”

“Listen, I’m going to the party, okay?” he says, finally.

“Well….”

“I’ll see you next week,” he says.

“But I’m coming back on Sunday,” I say.

“Right. Sunday,” he says.

“I’m sorry for calling,” I say.

“Sunday. Bye.” He hangs up.

I hang up too, then touch my face, and drink another beer; wonder why Richard’s late.

LAUREN
Judy’s room. Judy and I decide to wear togas to The Dressed To Get Screwed party. Not because we want to all that much, but just because we look better in the togas. At least, I look better in the toga than in the dress I was going to wear. Judy looks good in anything. Besides I don’t want to go back to my room to get the dress since Franklin might be there, though he also might not, since I told him I thought
The Fate of the Earth
was the most boring book he’s made me read yet (worse than
Floating Dragon)
and he had this violent seizure (capital S: he shook, he turned red) and stormed out. Plus I don’t want to see if my mother called back. She called earlier today and demanded to know why I haven’t called her in over three
weeks. I told her I forgot my Calling Card number. But I’m in a good mood anyway, mostly because Vittorio, my new poetry teacher says I show a lot of promise and because of that I’ve been working on more poems, some of them pretty good; plus Judy and I might buy some Ecstasy tonight and that seems like a good idea and it’s a Friday and we’re in front of her mirror trying make-up on and “Revolution” is on the radio and I feel okay.

Judy says that someone put a cigarette out in her box the other day.

“It’s probably the Freshman, Sam,” I say.

“His name’s Steve,” she says. “He doesn’t smoke. None of the Freshmen do.”

I stand up, look at the toga. “How do I look? Do I look like an idiot?”

Judy checks her lips, then her chin. “No.”

“Fat?”

“Nope.” She moves away from the desk and over to the bed where she finishes rolling a joint, singing along with “Revolution.” She tells me that she went off the Pill on Monday and says that she’s already lost weight and I guess she looks thinner. Health Services supplied the diaphragm.

“Health Services is disgusting,” Judy says. “That doctor is so horny that when I went in for an earache he gave me a Pap test.”

“Are we going to buy the Ecstasy or not?” I ask.

“Only if he takes American Express,” she says. “I forgot to cash a check today.”

“He probably does,” I murmur.

I look good, standing in front of the mirror, and it makes me sad that I’m surprised by this; that I haven’t really gotten excited or dressed up to go out to a party since Victor left, and when was that? Early September? Party at the Surf Club? And I don’t know why, but “Revolution” on the radio reminds me of him, and I still have mental pictures of him, standing around Europe, somewhere in my mind that resurface at the strangest moments: like a certain soup served at lunch, or flipping through
GQ
or seeing a jeans
commercial on TV. Once, it was a book of matches from Morgan’s in New York that I found beneath my bed last Sunday.

Judy’s ready to light the joint but she can’t find any matches so I go next door to the boy from L.A.’s room. Someone’s written “Rest In Peace Called” in big red letters on his door. I can hear The Eagles playing inside but no one answers when I knock. I find some matches in the bathroom from Maxim’s and bring them back to Judy. “Revolution” ends and another Thompson Twins song comes on. And Judy and I smoke pot, get high, make bloodys, try to list all the guys we’ve slept with at Camden but the list gets screwed up by hazy memory and the pot and the nervous expectations a Friday night party brings, and often we just write down “Jack’s friend” or “Guy from Limelight” and the whole thing depresses me and I suggest we head over to Wooley. Maybe I should sleep with that French guy, like Judy keeps saying. But there are other options, I keep telling myself. What? I ask myself. The orgy in Booth tonight? But I’m high and feeling good as we leave Judy’s place and from upstairs in her hallway we can hear the music calling to us from across Commons, accompanied by shrieks and muffled shouts in the night.

But then Judy has to ruin it as we’re walking out of her house, the night autumn cold, both of us shivering in our togas, heading toward the music at Wooley.

“Have you heard from Victor?” she asks.

I hated saying it, but did anyway. “Who?”

PAUL
Richard arrives sometime around eight. I’m sitting in the “boys’” room, in some plush chair, already dressed in this gray suit and silk red tie I bought at Bigsby and Kruthers, watching MTV, smoking, thinking about Sean. My mother and Mrs. Jared are in the other room getting dressed for dinner. Richard opens the door, wearing a tuxedo and sunglasses, hair greased back, walks in, lets the door slam and shouts, “Hi ya, Paul!”

I stare at Richard only slightly shocked. His long blond hair is now short, cropped and dyed a bright platinum blond that, because of the rain or mousse, looks dark. He’s wearing a ripped white tuxedo shirt, one black sock, one white sock, and black Converse Hi-Tops, and a long overcoat with a Siouxsie and the Banshees decal stuck on the back. A tiny diamond stud earring in the left ear, the Wayfarers still on, black and shiny. He’s only carrying one small black bag with Dead Kennedys and Bronski Beat stickers on it, and in the other hand a very large cassette player and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, almost empty. He staggers in, then leans against the doorway, catching his balance.

“Richard,” I say. I’m starting to feel that my entire world is beginning to turn into an issue of
Vanity Fair.

“When are we gonna eat?” he asks.

“Richard? Is that you?” his mother calls from the other room.

“Yeah. It is,” he says. “And my name’s not Richard.”

My mother and Mrs. Jared walk into the room, both in the middle of getting dressed and they stare at Richard who looks like a total Sarah Lawrence asshole but, maybe, sexy.

“It’s Dick,” he says lewdly and then, “Like, when’s dinner?” He takes a deep swig from the Jack Daniel’s bottle then belches.

SEAN
Tense scene with Rupert.

Rupert shaved his head. I had to stop by Roxanne’s place before the party to score for some Freshman idiots and the fucker had shaved his head. He was doing coke on the floor in the living room and staring at himself in the mirror, Hüsker Dü was blasting and some Brazilian guy was sitting on the couch fooling around with a portable Casio machine when I walked in.

“What’s going on?” I shouted over the music. I walked over to the stereo and turned the volume down.

“You’re gonna have to sell that bike of yours,” Rupert growled, wiping the mirror off with his finger and then sucking on it.

“Yeah?” I laughed nervously. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s the money, chump?” he asked.

“Take American Express?” I joked.

Rupert threw his big white bald head to one side, a couple of razor cuts dried black made it look even creepier, and laughed for too long. I wondered if the Brazilian shaved Rupert’s head. The thought made me queasy. “Oh, Bateman, you’re not funny.”

“Funny guy,” I said.

“And because you’re not funny, I’m going to give you some time.” He stood up. He looked big, almost menacing but in a wimpy way and came near me.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked, backing away a little.

“I’m not gonna remind you, Bateman,” he said, running his hand over the shiny head. He looked over at the gun case, considering which ones were loaded, but he was too coked out to do anything to me.

“There’s an orgy in Booth tonight,” I said, though I didn’t care. I was going to be with Miss Hynde anyway, and the thought of kissing her momentarily got me excited and calmed me down at the same time and all I said was, “Need to score for some Freshmen.”

“I need my money,” Rupert said, pissed but judging from
his tone of voice would probably let it slide. He walked over to the desk near the gun case and opened a drawer.

“You know I’m broke,” I said. “Stop picking on poor boys.”

“What about the bike?” Rupert smiled, walking over to the stereo and turning the volume up but not as loud as it was before.

“What about it?” I asked.

“You’re such a jerk,” he sighed.

Before I left I asked him, “Where’s Roxanne?”

“She’s fucking the Brazilian,” Rupert shrugged, pointed.

He handed me a bag.

The Brazilian waved.

“How hip can you get?” I said.

“Yeah, walk on the wild side,” Rupert said, turning away from me.

I grabbed the stuff, left, hopped on my bike and was back to school by ten.

LAUREN
It’s stupid but I called Victor. From The Dressed To Get Screwed party. I had one number left that he said he might be at in New York, and like an idiot I stood in the phone booth downstairs in Wooley, crying, wearing that awful-looking toga, and watching the party start, waiting for Victor to answer. I had to call twice because
I really had forgotten my Calling Card number and when I finally got it right and the phone started ringing fuzzy and far away, I broke into a sweat. I started shaking, my heart beating like crazy, waiting for Victor’s happy, surprised voice. A sound I hadn’t heard in over eight weeks. Then I realized that I shouldn’t be nervous and that this was just a really sad scene. I hadn’t planned on calling this number. I had gone to the phone booth not with the intention of calling Victor, but because Reggie Sedgewick had come up to me, completely naked, and asked, “I want you to…”

He looked ugly and pathetic and was staring at the porno movie that was being shown on the ceiling and I was looking for the bar, and said, “Yes?”

And he said, “I want you to … suck my cock.”

And I looked down at it and then back at his face and said, “You’ve got to be out of your mind.”

And he said, “No baby. I want you to suck my cock, really.”

And I thought of Victor and started for the phone booth. “Suck your own,” I said, near tears, walking blindly for the door.

“You think I’d be asking you if I could?” he called out, pointing at it, drunk out of his mind or, even worse, maybe sober.

I got so depressed I just yelled “Fuck off!” and almost slammed the door of the phone booth and made the call, only slightly mortified that I knew the number from memory. When I gave the operator the final number of the Calling Card, and during the silence that followed, I knew it was over. I knew it standing in that phone booth waiting for Victor to answer at this strange, hostile number. I knew it was over even before I met Sean Bateman later that night. How long had I been deluding myself so completely, I wondered as the first ring came over the line. I felt ashamed of myself and I needed a cigarette and the phone kept ringing and Reggie Sedgewick started knocking on the door blubbering an apology and someone answered the phone and it was Jaime and I hung up and went back to the party,
pushing Reggie out of the way. I was determined to get some fun out of this night.

So I got drunk, then met Sean, then watched Stuart Jackson dance to an old Billy Idol song, then got high in Gina’s apartment. In that order.

PAUL
The four of us—me, Richard, Mrs. Jared, my mother—are sitting in the middle of the dining room at The Ritz-Carlton. Classical music is being played by an expert pianist. Waiters dressed in new expensive tuxedos move quickly, gracefully, from table to table. Elderly women with too much make-up on, slumped lazily, drunkenly in the red velvet chairs, stare and smile. We’re surrounded by what Mrs. Jared likes to call, “old, very old money,” as if the Jared’s money was new, very new. (Yeah, those banks have been in the family for only about a century and a half, I refrain from saying.) The whole thing is just really unnerving, especially since Richard, even after a shower and a new suit, hair still greased back, sunglasses still on, as of yet, hasn’t sobered up. He looks, unfortunately, pretty hot. He sits across from me, making lewd gestures that I pray neither mother will notice. His foot is now in my crotch but I’m too nervous to get hard. He’s drinking champagne Kirs and he’s downed about four, all of them carefully and with what looks to me a definite sense of purpose. He’ll
alternately stare at his glass or raise his eyebrows up suggestively at me, then dig his shoeless foot into my crotch and I’ll squirm and make faces and my mother will ask if I’m okay and I’ll just cough, “Ahem.” Richard stares at the ceiling, then starts humming some U2 song to himself. It’s so quiet in this elegant, tacky, big cave that I’m afraid people are staring at us and, if not us, then at least at Richard, and they probably are and there’s nothing to do but just get drunker.