Vicious Little Darlings (6 page)

7

I
t's a little after six and the dining hall is nearly empty. Johnny Cash's “I Walk the Line” is playing on the jukebox. I'm eating dinner alone since Maddy and Agnes have been gone for the past five days. I have no appetite whatsoever, and my head is flush with questions. Where the hell did they go? Should I call the police? Tell our head resident? Why did they take Hope with them? I called both of their cells, but couldn't leave a message because their mailboxes were full. Who, I wonder, has been filling up their mailboxes? I'm worried, pissed off, and confused all at once and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing I can do about it.

I poke at my food: tempeh and limp broccoli in brown gravy. It's the vegan meal option. The food at Wetherly is devoid of flavor, yet loaded with fat. I've been gaining roughly two pounds a day—which I'm sure is some kind of record—so I started opting for the vegan entrees, and now I get dirty looks from the
real
vegans of Haven House. Who knew vegans could be so mean?

But it's not the food or even the mean vegans that have me so upset. Both would be tolerable if Maddy and Agnes were here. Now that they're gone, everything at Wetherly is bland. I actually cried in the shower this morning, although I'm sure that was partly due to the nasty surprise I found in the drain: a large clump of hair with contributions from everyone who had showered before me, a kind of Haven House hair ball. It was so gross that I had to take a follow-up shower in a different stall immediately afterward. I probably should file a complaint at the next house meeting. That is, if I even go.

To pass the time, I've been going to class. I'm taking drawing, film theory, microeconomics, and psych 101, but drawing is the only class I care about. It's like a language I was born understanding. When I was little, the other kids would watch me sketch and ask, “How do you do that?” They'd shout out their requests:
Draw a pony licking an ice-cream cone! Draw a dog eating my homework! Draw Tommy farting!
I liked being really good at something. And no matter what was going on around me, drawing always seemed to calm me down.

Unable to eat another bite, I put down my fork. I take my tray into the kitchen. After scraping my plate, I hand it to the auburn-haired girl who's rinsing off dishes. She's a fellow housemate who's on the work-study program and she looks flushed and tired. She avoids my eyes. After rinsing off my plate, she takes another from the top of a huge stack and grimaces at the hardened mixture of cheese, gravy, and marinara sauce stuck to its surface. My body tenses: this girl could be me in a few weeks if Nana's check doesn't get here soon.

I go up to my room. I lie in bed and try to relax, but being in my room only triggers anxious thoughts of Maddy and Agnes. What if Maddy found out I had sex with Sebastian? What if she and Agnes hate me now?

No. I've got to distract myself from these paranoid thoughts.
But how?
I've already done all my homework, read every magazine I want to read, pushed back my cuticles, and trimmed my nails. I guess I could redye my hair, but I feel like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, and I doubt that the tiny act of dyeing my hair will keep me from falling. No, I've got to do something active. It's Friday night. I should be out having fun, not cooped up in my room by myself. Who knew college would be like this? It's weird being alone all the time.

The problem is that I'm not close to anyone here other than Maddy and Agnes, and even though it's only the third week, it's already too late to make new friends. Everyone bonded during Orientation Week and these are the friends they're going to have for life. Through graduation, marriage, children, divorce, and death. It's all so arbitrary. You're going to be BFFs with someone just because you started a conversation with her in the bathroom late one night, when you were brushing your teeth and she was washing her face in the sink next to you and you were both feeling a little homesick. The bond will form instantly and it will be permanent.

I reach for my sketchbook, but decide on a whim to take a walk instead. I slip on my black Chucks and hurry out the door.

It's seven o'clock, still light out. I've been wandering around campus for the past forty minutes, but I'm no less tense.

There's a guy walking toward me who looks familiar. He's wearing all black, has pale, pale skin and glossy black hair. Of course! He's the guy from the diner my first night here, the Edward Scissorhands look-alike with the paper dolls.

He stops in front of me and smiles. “Hey, haven't I seen you somewhere before?”

“No.” I keep walking.

“Wait,” he calls after me. “I remember now. The diner by the highway. You were with two other girls.”

I turn around. He
is
kind of cute—not in an obvious, classic way, but in a quirky, interesting way. He has high cheekbones and a prominent Adam's apple.

“You were there?” I say. “I don't remember you.” Why did I lie?

He grins. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“What's your name?”

“Sarah.”

“Hmm,” he says, “I could've sworn we made eye contact.”

I don't know what to say to this, so I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Do you go to school here?” I ask.

“Here?” He laughs. “No. I'm not a female. In case you were wondering.”

I'm an idiot.

“Actually, I'm a senior at Hampshire,” he explains. “But I like the libraries here.”

“Even on Friday nights?”

“Yup, I'm a nerd. I'm busted.” He covers his face in mock shame. “Anyway,” he says, lowering his hand, “would you consider having dinner with this nerd?”

“Now?”

“If you're free.”

Yes, yes, yes
, I think. But I don't want to appear too eager, so I say, “You're a stranger.”

“I'm no stranger. We've met twice. And we've already established that I'm a nerd. Nerds are harmless. The worst they could do is analyze you to death.”

“Well, in that case …”

“Great.” He touches my elbow. “Come on. I parked on Maple Drive.”

After dinner at Hunan Garden, the only Chinese restaurant in town, we go to his place. Scissorhands lives in a big, yellow Victorian with green trim on a street lined with willow trees. His apartment is on the first floor. When he bends over to put his key in the lock, I take the opportunity to check out his ass. Kind of flat, but not bad.

As we walk into his place, I scan the narrow living room. The apartment smells of popcorn and turpentine, and there's a Lucite coffee table supported by a female mannequin on all fours. The mannequin is naked and has a big, gaping, blow-up doll mouth.

“Nice coffee table,” I say.

“Ridiculous, isn't it? It was a birthday present. I'm getting rid of it, though. Do you know anyone who needs a coffee table?”

“Are you kidding? I go to Wetherly. I'm probably breaking some kind of feminist code just being in the same room with this thing.”

He laughs. He's cute when he laughs. “I should have known. I'll be right back,” he says, and walks down the hall toward what I assume is the bedroom.

He comes back carrying a white sheet, which he proceeds to drape over the coffee table so that the freaky mannequin is no longer visible.

“Better?” he says.

I nod. Our eyes meet. The lighting in here must be amazing because he looks really good.

His other furniture is modern and masculine: black leather with cherry accents, a metal drafting table in the corner. I'm impressed that his place looks like a real, grown-up apartment—not the dirty, pizza box–infested bachelor pad I was expecting. Stacks of art books line the floor and a wooden easel sits in the corner. There's no TV.

“Do you have a roommate?” I ask.

“No. I live alone. I like it.” He pauses. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water would be great,” I say.

“Ice?”

I nod.

As he fixes my drink in the adjacent kitchen, I sit down on the couch and try to imagine him alone in his surroundings. Does he lie on the couch while he's reading his art books? Does he eat in the kitchen or in bed? His life seems kind of quiet, but I guess all lives appear quiet when they're not filled with people.

He comes back with my water, and I realize that we haven't spoken for at least two minutes. I should probably say something.

“So, what's your major?” I ask, cringing at my lack of originality.

“Studio art.”

“Me too. At least that's what I
want
to major in. I haven't officially decided yet, but art seems to be the only thing I'm good at. Not that I'm really good at it.” I take a sip of water. “Can I see some of your work?”

He doesn't respond, and I start to think that maybe I'm being too forward. I would never show anyone
my
work unless I knew them pretty well.

He opens a filing cabinet and takes out a sketchbook.

“I don't normally show my stuff on a first date, but since you're an artist too …”

He hands me the sketchbook.

“You sure?” I ask. “Because—”

“Yeah. Go for it.”

His drawings are disturbing, to say the least. Francis Bacon-esque renderings of the female form: twisted, grotesque, amputated. Skinny women with missing arms and legs, some missing a breast or two. What do these drawings mean? He's obviously some kind of misogynist. He probably has mother issues too. Doesn't everything lead back to the mother? I feel inadequate all of a sudden, as a woman and as an artist. I'm not as skinny as these girls, and my drawings aren't nearly as gutsy. Who are these women? Past girlfriends? Models from his class? The women of his dreams?

I close the sketchpad. There's no way I'm sleeping with this guy. “Wow,” I say. “Very interesting.”

“You hated them.”

“No, I liked them. I just, well, you have to admit your work
is
kind of disturbing.”

“It's supposed to be.” His eyes bore into me.

It occurs to me that this probably wasn't such a brilliant idea, coming to a stranger's apartment alone at night. If art is a reflection of a person's mental health, then I'm definitely in trouble. What if he's angry with me for not liking his work? What if he tries to amputate
me
? I force myself to stay calm.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.

I shake my head.

He clears his throat. “I just got out of a two-year relationship.”

“Oh?”

“Actually, I didn't
just
get out of it. It ended about six months ago.”

“Oh.” I'm curious to know what happened with his ex, but I don't ask and we don't say anything for several minutes. I reach for my water as he sits down next to me. There's about a foot of leather between us. As soon as I place my water glass back down on the coffee table, he pounces on me. He covers my neck with kisses and runs his hands down the length of my body. We kiss and it's surprisingly good, even though he tastes a bit like kung pao chicken. When I feel his erection against my leg, I start to panic. I hardly know this person; he could have a million diseases. Maybe I shouldn't be doing this.

But then thoughts of Sebastian swoop in to torture me. I fucking hate that he's the last guy I slept with, and at least Scissorhands is nice and seems to like me. So I kiss him harder and he responds by squeezing my breasts. Then he whispers in my ear, “You're so beautiful,” and even though I know that compliments from a guy don't mean as much when they're uttered right before sex, hearing this one makes me smile. I run my hands up his back, through his feather-soft hair and around to his face. With my fingertips, I feel his sandpapery Adam's apple and say, “Do you have a condom?”

He nods and kisses me once more before getting up. “Come on,” he says, offering me his hand.

I take it and follow him into the bedroom.

I sleep until six in the evening the next day and feel like shit when I wake up. Last night, after the sex, Scissorhands did something weird: he tried to cuddle with me. I let him do it for a few minutes and then I freaked out. I've never cuddled with anyone before, and he was so tender about it that it made me feel totally vulnerable, and I started worrying that if he kept doing that, I would fall in love with him or something. So I made him drive me home immediately. He probably thinks I'm certifiable, but who cares? I hardly know the guy. I don't even know his name, for God's sake.

And yet I can still feel him inside me. It's like the sexual version of phantom-limb syndrome. Bizarre.

After my shower, I go down to the dining hall. It's dinnertime, but I head straight for the cereal boxes, which are laid out on the buffet table like fine silver. I take my bowl of Cap'n Crunch and sit by the window. No matter how hard I try to block them out, I can't stop playing back scenes from last night. Sex is weird. Just when you think you can no longer be affected by it, you get affected. My whole body feels inflamed. I feel like sex on legs; sex personified; living, fire-breathing sex. Even my hands smell of sex—despite my shower—and I can't tell if it's his smell or mine.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

I look up from my bowl. Standing in front of me is Keiko Yamada, a first-year from New Jersey. Her long, black hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail and she's wearing her signature red cat's-eye glasses. She sets her plate down across from me. A second later, Amber Parker, a first-year from Boston, wearing head-to-toe J. Crew in matching earth tones, takes the seat next to me.

“Hey there,” she says in her thick Boston accent.

“Are you going to the Yale party tonight?” Keiko asks me.

“I didn't even know about it.”

“Come with us,” Amber says. “It should be interesting.”