He gave me that million-dollar smile and ushered me in.
There were four people in the living room, sitting on the plush couches and chairs. I recognized John Anderson, the Rhodes scholar and Harvard debate champion, immediately. Until now, I had only seen him from across the lecture hall of Bernini’s Justice class. Up close, he looked like a high school football star, with broad shoulders and aw-shucks good looks. But high school football stars were supposed to become fat, bald shoe salesmen, while us nerds grew up and became fabulously wealthy. Jocks certainly weren’t supposed to stay fit and intimidating and go on to elite law schools. John must have been six foot six, and his hands, resting casually on his legs, were massive. Even sitting, he somehow felt taller than me. I suddenly had the very uncomfortable sensation of being a freshman in high school all over again.
Next to him, holding a glass of wine, was a stern-looking man who fixed me immediately with saggy vulture eyes. As if reading my mind, Nigel whispered, “Dennis Vo. He never sleeps. He’s working on some book and he won’t tell anyone what it’s about.” Nigel grinned.
“Do you think it’s any good?” I whispered, smiling for the first time that evening.
“Well, he’s twenty-seven, and his last book won the Cushman Prize. So, yeah, I guess it probably is.” Suddenly, my one publication in a lonely, obscure journal didn’t seem so special anymore, despite what Bernini had told me.
I felt someone watching me, and I looked over to the last person in the room. I’d never seen Daphne Goodwin up close before. Her eyes sparkled even brighter, reminding me of that clear blue ocean water you saw in brochures. Her skin was light, the color of soft tan sand, and her lips were painted a rich plum color. She looked away.
“Let’s get you a drink,” Nigel said, placing his arm around me.
The conversation at dinner was amazing. I’d never heard people move so quickly from one topic to another.
“Of course we should legalize prostitution,” Daphne was saying, her cheeks flushing as she made a what are you thinking? gesture with her hands.
“That’s ridiculous,” John replied. “A good society can’t allow people to be exploited.”
“Okay, fine. Say you have a women who’s fifty years old, single, and a millionaire. She likes having sex. And she’s really good at it. So she decides to make a business out of it. Is she being exploited?”
“No, of course not. You said she’s a millionaire.”
“Fine. So you’re not against prostitution. You’re against poverty. You might as well be arguing against coal mines or sweatshops. You have no problem with prostitution per se.”
“Wrong. I don’t think we should let your rich lady be a prostitute either.”
“Why not?”
“Some things are priceless. Noble. You can’t pay for sex without demeaning it.”
“Well, doctors heal for a living. That’s noble. Does that mean they can’t charge for it? Or teachers? Priests? You think people should only make a living doing slimy things?”
“No, but…” John looked around for help, but everyone was watching Daphne. She leaned in for the kill, her hair a little wild and her blue eyes fierce.
“Let me tell you what I think is really going on. You don’t like prostitution because deep down, you think women are fragile and need protecting.”
“What?” John said. “That’s ridiculous. I never said that.”
“Is it? First you attacked prostitution because it demeaned poor people. We took care of that argument! Then you said we’re demeaning sex. Well, we dealt with that too. So, answer me this. Who do you feel more sorry for: a male prostitute or a female prostitute?”
John looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. Suddenly, Daphne turned and looked directly at me.
“What about it, Jeremy?” she said, fixing me with those startling eyes. “Who do you feel more sorry for: a male prostitute or a female prostitute?”
I didn’t know what to say. She had me paralyzed.
“I feel sorry for them both, the same,” I lied.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then I wonder why you’re blushing,” she replied, abruptly flipping her gaze back to the rest of the table.
I was gradually aware that I had stopped breathing. I allowed myself to suck in some air before I passed out with my head in my soup.
Nigel came through the swinging doors with a tray of steaks, which were sizzling in red wine and garlic. The room filled with hazy smoke from the kitchen. “On that awkward note…” he laughed, setting the tray down. “Let’s eat.”
Moments later, Dennis the vulture had taken the debate in a new direction.
“The definition of marriage goes back thousands of years. It’s the bedrock of western civilization. You don’t go messing around with that,” he said, jabbing his fork in the direction of the rest of us.
“Why not?” Nigel asked. “Definitions change all the time. ‘Citizen’ used to mean ‘white man with property.’ We changed that, didn’t we?”
“Marriage means one man, one woman,” Dennis shot back, “so spare me the politically correct guilt trip.”
“Marriage used to mean one man, one woman of the same race,” Daphne replied. “So even that definition has changed.”
“It’s about equality,” Nigel said. “Gay couples should have the same rights as straight couples. Period.”
“What’s next?” Dennis replied. “Polygamy? Incest? Bestiality? It’s a slippery slope. You have to draw the line.”
“But,” I said quietly, before I even realized I was talking, “by your logic, we would have to ban straight marriage, because it might lead to gay marriage.”
Dennis froze. He looked at me for a second, blinking. He looked at Daphne, then back at me. He threw his fork down. “You just don’t go messing around with the basics,” he mumbled.
“Bravo!” Nigel cried, clapping his hands and grinning my way.
Just for a moment, Daphne smiled at me.
An hour later, the table was covered with empty plates and wine bottles. Dennis and Nigel were arguing passionately about some movie I had never seen. John and Daphne were talking softly to each other at the other end of the table. Earlier, they’d reminisced about their Rhodes scholar days at Oxford: favorite bars, which professors they kept in touch with; but now they spoke quietly, and I couldn’t make out the words.
I spent the time pleasantly buzzed, staring at the flickering candles on the table and reflecting on the most interesting observation of the evening: John Anderson didn’t seem that smart. Don’t get me wrong: at any other law school he would probably dominate the classroom. But here, during the hours of debate over dinner and wine, he was mostly quiet, and when he did speak, he just didn’t seem to move as quickly as the others. I wondered how much of his success-his debating championships and Oxford adventures-had more to do with his overwhelming physical presence, his infectious good nature and extraordinary charm, than what he actually said or did. Was John Anderson the ultimate vessel, already being groomed to become a handsome, vacant politician, surrounded by teams of speechwriters, analysts, stylists, pollsters? Now more than ever, I was reminded of high school, of the empty-headed popular kids who ruled the school. It was the same then-it didn’t matter what they said or did; it was cool because they were the ones who said or did it. As the alcohol worked its way deeper into my brain and the conversations around me swirled into a mild hum, my thoughts drifted back to high school, and for the first time in many years, I thought about Amy Carrington.
Amy was a cheerleader freshman year, but unlike some of our other cheerleaders, she was also exceptionally smart and thoughtful. Her grades were almost as good as mine, and she always treated me with kindness. We were on student council together, and I remember how stunned I felt the first time she walked up to me and asked for a ride home. Soon, it was an afternoon ritual, driving to her house and talking in her room after school, with the door slightly ajar to appease her parents. She had a boyfriend named Russ, the quarterback at another high school, but every afternoon it was me who sat on her bed, talking about our futures and what we wanted to be, or sometimes-though it took all my energy to pretend not to mind-hearing about her sexual experimentations with Russ. There is no single memory more alive to me today than the side of her face, turned away from me, daydreaming out the window of my car, a soft smile on her lips. When I heard the gossip that she and Russ had broken up, I immediately asked her to the spring dance. But, she told me, she had already agreed to go with Bryan Collins, a senior at our school nearly identical to Russ in every way. Bryan went on to take her virginity and then break up with her a week later. I learned about it at lunch, from a bunch of freshmen who snickered as she walked by. I felt no satisfaction then. And I realized now, sitting in this warm room surrounded by bright, fascinating people, that I hated John Anderson. I hated everything about him.