The Rules of Attraction (32 page)

VICTOR
I was up all night doing coke with some girl I met at The Pub who worked for my father one summer. The next morning we go to some cafe in town (which has terrible food; soggy quiche, canned snails, tame bloody Marys) and I’m strung out and completely not hungry. I look so pasty I keep my shades on. We stand in the doorway of the place and wait for a table, the service is really terrible, and whoever designed this place must have been lobotomized. This girl wanders around and puts a quarter in the jukebox. The waitress keeps checking me out. She looks familiar. The Talking Heads sing “And She Was” then good old Frank starts singing “Young at Heart” and I’m amused at the disparity of her choices. Suddenly this girl I sort of saw a little bit last summer walks up to me crying softly—the last thing I need. She looks at me and says, “You don’t know what a drag it is to see you.” Then she throws herself on me, hugging tightly. I just say, “Hey, wait a minute.” It was just some rich girl from Park and 80th who I kind of screwed around with last term who’s
kind of pretty, who’s good in bed, who has a nice body. She automatically says goodbye to the guy she’s with but he’s already talking to the familiar-looking waitress. The girl who worked for my father and who has all the coke is already talking to some townie by the jukebox, and I could of used another gram but this girl, Laura, has already taken my arm and is leading me out The Brasserie’s door. But it’s probably best like this. I need a place to stay anyway and it’s going to be a long, cold Christmas.

LAUREN
Walking back to my room. The last day. People packing. Collecting addresses. Drinking farewell kegs. Drifting drunk through the snow-covered campus. I bump into Paul as he comes out of Canfield.

“Hi,” I say, startled, embarrassed. “How are you, Mr. Denton?”

“Lauren,” he says, still shy. “How’ve you been, Ms. Hynde?”

“Okay,” I say.

We stand there awkwardly.

“So … What are you now?” I ask. “Still … Drama major?”

He groans. “Yeah. Guess so. What are you? Art still?”

“Art. Well, Poetry. Well, actually Art.” Stutter.

“What is it?” he laughs. “Make up your mind.”

“Interdivisional.” I make it easy.

Long pause and I remember with true clarity how dumb Paul looked as a Freshman: a PiL T-shirt beneath a Giorgio Armani sweater. But I also loved him anyway, later on. The night we met? Cannot remember anything except Joan Armatrading playing on the box in his room; two of us smoking cigarettes, talking, nothing exciting, nothing important, but memorable flashes. He breaks the trance: “So, what are you doing?”

I think about what Victor told me after he found me at The Brasserie, before he went to rent a car in town. “Europe, I think. I don’t know. Probably Europe.” I would not mind ending the conversation now, since it’s been good just to be close to Paul and to hear him talk—but that would be rude, and too pithy.

“Europe’s a big place,” he says; such a Denton thing to say.

“Yep, it shore is.”

We stand there a little while longer. It’s still snowing. The streetlights suddenly go on even though it’s only a little after three. We both laugh at this. For some reason I think of that night in the cafe when he was looking over at me; how his face had clouded over; was he still in love with me? Was he jealous of other people I was with? I feel I have to glue things. I say, “He really likes you.”

He looks confused, and then embarrassed, understanding. “Yeah? Great. That’s great.”

“No,” I say. “I mean it.”

Pause, then he asks, “Who?”

“You
know,
” I laugh.

“Oh…” He pretends to understand. “He’s got a nice smile,” he finally admits.

“Oh yeah. He does,” I agree.

This is ludicrous, but I’m in a better mood, and in half an hour Victor will be back and the two of us will be off. I will not tell him about the abortion. There is no need.

“He talks about you a lot,” I tell him.

“Well, that’s…” He’s flustered and doesn’t know what to say. “That’s nice. I don’t know. Are you two still—”

“Oh no.” I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

“I see.”

More pausing.

“Well, it’s good to see you again,” I say.

“I know. It’s too bad we didn’t get to talk after, whenever,” he says, blushes.

“Oh, I know,” I say. He means September; drunken sad night in his room. “That was crazy,” I say shaking my head. “Yes. Crazy,” I say again.

There are people playing Frisbee in the snow. I concentrate on that.

“Listen,” he starts. “Did you put notes in his box?” he asks.

“Whose box?” I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“I thought you were putting notes in his box,” he says.

“I didn’t put notes in anyone’s box,” I tell him. “Notes?”

“I took some notes out of his box that I thought were yours,” he says, looking pained.

I study his face. “No. It wasn’t me. Wrong person.”

“Don’t tell him,” he says. “Oh, tell him. Whatever.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” I say.

“You’re right,” he quickly agrees without thinking.

“It doesn’t matter to people like him,” I say, or to people like us, but that’s only a momentary thought and it leaves quickly.

“You’re right,” he says again.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask him. “I’m not really doing anything.”

“No,” he says. “I’ve got to get packing.”

“Listen, do you have my address?” I ask him.

We exchange addresses, snow running the ink on the back of the magazine he’s holding. The pages in my address book get wet. We stare at each other once more before parting, why? Deciding if maybe something was lost? Not quite sure? We promise to keep in touch anyway and call over vacation. We kiss politely and then he goes his way
and I go mine, back to my room which is packed and clean and ready and I wait there feeling not that much different than I did in September, or October, or for that matter, November, for Victor with some certainty.

PAUL
I started walking but was then running when I caught sight of the motorcycle at the Guard House. I was walking quickly at first, then jogging, then I broke into a full-fledged run, but Sean, who had a helmet on, started driving faster, skidding at first on the wet snowy lane, then regaining speed. I don’t know
why
I was running after that motorcycle but I was. I was running fast too, skipping over piles of snow, moving faster than I can ever remember moving. And it wasn’t because of Sean. It was too late for that. There had already been a Richard and a Gerald and too many carnal thoughts about others. But I was running and I was running because it felt like the “right” thing to do. It was a chance to show some emotion. I wasn’t acting on passion. I was simply acting. Because it seemed the only thing to do. It seemed like something I had been told to do. By who, or by what, was vague. The bike sped up and disappeared around a curve and I never caught up with it.

I stopped and stood there on College Drive panting, bent over. A car pulled up. It was some guy who lived across the hall from me; Sven or Sylvester—something like that. He
asked if I needed a ride. I could hear the song playing on the radio, an old childhood tune: “Thank You for Being a Friend.” I stopped panting and I started nodding, laughing my head off, feeling unchanged.

“Come on. Get in,” he said, reaching over and opening the door.

Still laughing I stumbled into the car thinking oh what the hell. Rock’n’roll, right? Deal with it. Sven’s pretty cute, and who knows, maybe he could give me a ride to Chicago. And then, what was it Raymond told you about German guys?

SEAN
I started driving faster as I left the college behind. I didn’t know where I was going. Someplace unoccupied I hoped. Home was gone. New York sucked. I looked at my watch. It was noon. It seemed weird. But it was a relief driving around without excess baggage and the D.J. was playing great songs: Clapton, Petty and the Heartbreakers, Left Banke singing, “…
just walk away Renee….
”

“I loved you,” I said to her the last time we were together. I didn’t know it was going to be the last time. The two of us were downstairs, back at the party, and I looked at her face, her hair was combed back, her face still slightly flushed from the sex. There are things about her I will never forget….

I stopped at a phone booth near a liquor store. I pulled out a dime and a couple of phone numbers I had collected during the term from my wallet. I left the car running and got out. The sky was darkening even though it was still early afternoon; clouds were purple and black, undecided if they should snow or not. I wondered where to go. I decided against making any phone calls. I got back in my car. I haven’t changed.

I saw a townie girl hitchhiking on the edge of town. She looked at me as I passed by. I made it to the end of town, then turned around in the parking lot of the A&P and picked her up. She was a little fat, but still blond and pretty. She was leaning against a lightpost, smoking a cigarette, a backpack at her feet. She lowered her arm as I pulled the car over. She smiled, then got in. I asked her where she was going. She mentioned some town but seemed unsure. She started telling me her life story, which wasn’t very interesting, and when Rockpile came on singing “Heart” I had to turn it up, drowning out her voice, but still I turned to her, my eyes interested, a serious smile, nodding, my hand squeezing her knee, and she