“What is wrong with you?” she said. “I haven’t done anything. You’re in a bad mood because your writing isn’t going well. Don’t you dare blame that on me. I won’t tolerate it.” She got up.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“Out.”
“Fine,” he said. He shut the door. But now he did feel guilty. She was right, she hadn’t done anything wrong. And he was in a bad mood. About what, he didn’t know.
He opened the door. She was carefully sliding her feet into ballet flats.
“You don’t have to go.”
“I’m going,” she said.
“When are you coming back?”
“I have no idea.” And she left.
In the elevator, Lola checked her Facebook page. Sure enough, there was a message from Thayer Core. He left her messages regularly, although she rarely responded. From her Facebook page, he’d found out she was from Atlanta and, from the photos she’d posted, seemed to think she was a party girl. “Hey Southern Girl,” he’d written. “Let’s hook up.” “Why?” she’d texted back. “Because you’re crazy about me,” he wrote. “All girls are.”
“IDTS,” she responded. Which meant “I don’t think so.”
Now, however, might be a good time to take Thayer Core up on his offer. The best way to get back at a man was to make him jealous, although she wasn’t sure Thayer Core would make Philip squirm. Still, Thayer was young, he was hot, and he was better than nothing. “What are you doing?”
she texted Thayer.
A reply came back immediately. “Torturing the rich.”
“Let’s hang,” she wrote. He texted back his address.
His apartment was on Avenue C and Thirteenth Street, in a low brick building with a dirty Chinese restaurant below. Lola rode a narrow elevator to the third floor. The hallway was tiled with large squares of brown linoleum. A door opened at one end of the short hallway, and a bristled man in a stained wifebeater stared at her briefly and went back inside.
Another door opened, and a pimply-faced kid stuck his head out. “You here to see Thayer?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lola said. “What was that about?” She indicated the occupant of the other apartment.
“Pay no attention. The guy’s a drug addict. Probably jonesing for his dealer to bring him a fix,” the kid said casually, as if thrilled to be in possession of such knowledge. “I’m Josh,” he said. “Thayer’s roommate.” The apartment was all that Lola had been expecting and worse. A board atop two plastic crates made a coffee table; in one corner was a futon with egg-plant-colored sheets, barely visible under a pile of clothes. Pizza boxes, Chinese food containers, bags of Doritos, a bong, dirty glasses, and a bottle of vodka littered the counter that separated the tiny living room from the kitchen area. The place smelled of dirty socks, nighttime emissions, and marijuana.
“Are you Thayer’s new girlfriend?” Josh asked.
“Hardly.”
“Thayer’s juggling three or four girls right now. I can’t keep track of them, and neither can he.” Josh knocked at a flimsy wooden door in the middle of a makeshift plywood wall. “Thay?”
“What the fuck?” came a voice from inside.
“Thayer’s a serious writer,” Josh said. “He’s probably working.”
“I’m going to go,” Lola said.
Suddenly, the door opened and Thayer Core came out. He was taller than Lola remembered, at least six-two, and was wearing madras pants, flip-flops, and a ripped pink Lacoste shirt. Ironic preppy, Lola thought.
“Hey,” Thayer said.
“Hey,” Lola replied.
“I was telling Lola that you’re a writer. He’s a real writer,” Josh said, turning to Lola.
“Meaning?”
“I get paid to write shit,” Thayer said, and grinned.
“He’s published,” Josh said.
“You wrote a book?” Lola asked.
“Josh is an idiot.”
“He’s a writer for Snarker,” Josh said proudly.
“Give me your stuff, Josh,” Thayer said.
Josh looked annoyed. “There’s hardly anything left.”
“So? Give it to me. I’ll get more later.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
“Give me a break. I had that obscene cocktail party at Cartier, where they wouldn’t let us in. Then some art party at the Whitney, where they wouldn’t let us in, either. Then the Box. Which was groovy. Full of hip-sters. But no pot. Only coke. Dammit, Josh, come on. I need your stash.”
Josh reluctantly reached into his pocket and handed over a small bag of marijuana.
“You carry it with you? You’re such a skive,” Thayer said.
“I never know when I might need it.”
“Like now,” Thayer said.
“I’m going,” Lola said.
“Why?” Thayer asked. “I thought you wanted to hang out. You have someplace better to go? This is the best spot in Manhattan. Center of the universe here. Going to destroy Manhattan from this tiny rat-infested three-thousand-dollar-a-month shithole.”
“That’s nice,” Lola said.
Thayer handed her the bong, and she took a hit. She hadn’t meant to smoke marijuana, but it was there and she was there and she thought, Why not? Plus, Thayer irritated her in an intriguing sort of way. He didn’t seem to understand she was superior to him.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Thayer said.
“I’m pissed at him.”
“You see, Josh?” Thayer said. “All roads lead to me.”
Lola’s phone rang. She looked at the number. It was Philip. She hit ignore.
“Who was that?” Thayer asked.
“None of your business.”
Thayer took a hit from the bong. “Bet it was the boyfriend,” he said to Josh. “Bet he’s some boring premed student from the South.”
“He isn’t,” Lola said proudly. “He’s famous.”
“Oooooh, Joshie boy. Did you hear that? He’s famous. Nothing but the best for our Southern princess. Would I know him?” Thayer asked Lola.
“Of course,” she said. “Philip Oakland? The novelist?”
“That guy?” Thayer said. “Baby, he’s old.”
“Got to be over forty, at least,” Josh agreed.
“He’s a man,” Lola said.
“You hear that, Josh? He’s a man. And we’re not.”
“You’re certainly not,” Lola said to Thayer.
“What am I?”
“An asshole?” Lola said.
Thayer laughed. “Didn’t used to be,” he said. “Until I came here. Until I got into this stinking, corrupt business called media.”
“You still have your book,” Josh said. “Thayer’s going to be a great writer.”
“I doubt it,” Lola said.
“I like that you’re sleeping your way to the top,” Thayer said. “I’d do it if I could. But I don’t relish the thought of a dick up my ass.”
“It’s the metaphorical dick that counts,” Josh said.
“What do you talk to Oakland about?” Thayer asked. “He’s an old man.”
“What does any girl talk to you about?” Josh said. “I thought talking wasn’t the point.”
“As if you’d know,” Thayer said, looking at Josh in disgust.
It went on like this for a while, and then some other people showed up.
One was a girl with very pale skin and dyed black hair and a face that resembled a pug’s. “ I hate beauty queens,” she screamed when she saw Lola.
“Shut up, Emily. Lola’s okay,” Thayer said.
More time passed. Thayer played seventies music, and they drank the vodka and danced in weird ways, and Josh filmed it on his cell phone. Then two guys and a girl came in. They were tall and pretty, like models, but Thayer said they weren’t models, they were the rich-kid offspring of some famous New Yorkers, and if their kids didn’t look like models, they would disown them. The girl was named Francesca, and she had long, narrow hands that she moved around when she talked. “I’ve seen you before,” she said to Lola. “At that Nicole Kidman screening.”