“It’s really not all that far away, I guess,” the blond said.
“So, what’s going on in the real world?” I asked, laughing.
“It’s cool,” the one with a slight double-chin said.
“The same stuff,” another one said.
“You guys are kind of in the middle of nowhere, aren’t you?” the blond asked. They were all looking at the dance floor, nodding their heads.
“Kind of,” I said.
Then Sean made some rude comment that I couldn’t hear. I realized then that I was making Sean jealous by talking to these guys, so I immediately stopped talking to them. But it was too late. He was so jealous that he ended up telling them off. He told them it was the Get Fucked party and that they should bend over and get fucked. I hoped I wasn’t playing too hard to get, but it was sort of erotic to hear him say that, yet I still showed no emotion. I was afraid that the Dartmouth guys were going to beat him (actually, me) up but they just walked away, too stunned to say anything, their suspicions about this place confirmed by Sean’s brash actions. After a while, when it was nearing midnight, I asked him if he wanted to come by my room. I had asked Raymond to stop at Price Chopper on the way back from the hospital so I could pick up a six-pack, especially for this occasion. But I wasn’t sure if we’d even get around to drinking it since he was fairly drunk by now anyway. I first made sure he was interested by asking him if he wanted to go to his room first.
“We could,” he said. “My roommate’s gone a lot. His girlfriend lives off-campus, so he’s there a lot.” He was slurring his words. He bumped into someone’s drink, oblivious.
“Do you have any alcohol?” I asked, laughing.
“I have alcohol?” he asked himself. “Do I?”
“You do?” I asked.
“I don’t … have any,” he said, starting to laugh also.
“Let’s go to my room,” I said. “I have beer.”
We walked out of Booth, past the Dartmouth guys. Someone had stuck pieces of paper with the word “Asshole” on them to their backs. We started for Welling.
“Are you a Catholic?” I asked him.
We walked a little while before he finally answered. “I don’t remember.”
LAUREN I don’t know why I sleep with Franklin. Maybe it’s because Judy likes him, or is just sleeping with him, occasionally. Maybe it’s because he’s tall and has brown hair and reminds me of Victor. Maybe it’s because we’re at a Sunday night party and it’s dark and I’m bored but what am I doing at Booth anyway. I should know better. Maybe it’s because Judy went to the movies over in Manchester. Maybe it’s because when I asked the boy from L.A. after poetry class to meet me at the Beverage Center at dinner tonight he didn’t show and when I saw him later at Booth he told me he thought I meant the Beverly Center. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because Franklin’s … just there. But he’s not the only possibility. There’s the cute French guy who comes up to me and tells me he’s in love with me. But he also reminds me that maybe I should go to Europe and just find Victor and bring him back home. But then what would that do? We talk, Franklin and me. But not about much. Some great-looking but utterly bland Dartmouth guys crash the party (How can you tell they’re from Dartmouth? Franklin asks. They’re wearing green, I explain. Franklin nods, impressed, and wonders what our school color is. Easy, I guess. Black.) I really hope (but not really) that Judy comes back so I won’t end up doing this. We dance to a couple of oldies. He pays for drinks he brings me. When he sweats he’s really handsome. What am I talking about? This is Judy’s geek. But then I get mad at him: what a jerk to cheat on Judy like this. But I get drunk and too tired to argue and I crumple into his arms and he doesn’t quite know what to do with me. I decide to leave it all up to him. We walk back to his room. How easy this all is. Will Judy ever know? Will she even care? Doesn’t she like his roommate instead? Michael? That’s right. I look over at Michael’s side of the room: a fern, Hockney print, poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov. Definitely not for you, Judy. Forget him. It makes me remember a boy I was in love with last term, part of last summer. B.V. The time Before Victor. And maybe that’s why I go to bed with Judy’s lover. But she should have been here to stop him. And maybe he shouldn’t have touched my neck that way, a cruel but familiar sensation. Even before he’s in me I know that I will never sleep with him again. And maybe Franklin reminds me of that lost boyfriend, which is good but maybe bad and now we’re in bed, actually on the bed.
“What about Judy?” I ask, reaching back and feeling the knots and blades in his shoulders.
“She’s in Manchester.” He has strong fingers.
It seems a sufficient answer.
PAUL I used the dead best friend story. It seemed better than using the girlfriend with cancer story or the favorite aunt who committed suicide after the favorite uncle died story, both of which seemed overly melodramatic. I told him about “Tim” who died in a “car accident” on a “road near Concord” killed by “a drunken gas station attendant.” I told him this after we finished the first beer, when I was adequately drunk.
He said, “Gee, I’m sorry.”
I kept my head lowered, tingling with excitement. “It’s so terrible,” I said.
He agreed, excused himself for a minute to go to the rest-room.
I bolted up and checked myself in the mirror then took one of his cigarettes that were lying on my desk, a Parliament. Then I sat back down in a suitable, casual position on the bed and turned on the radio. Nothing good was on so I put a tape in. When he came back he asked me if I wanted to smoke some pot with him. I told him no, but that it was okay if he wanted some. He sat in the chair next to the bed. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Our knees touched.
“Where did you spend your summer?” I asked.
“Oh, last summer?” he said, lighting the small pipe with a lighter that barely worked.
“Yeah.”
“Berlin.”
“Really?” I was impressed. He’d been to Europe.
“Yeah. It was okay,” he said, looking for another lighter.
“How are the clubs there?” I asked, reaching into my pocket. I handed him some matches.
“Good, I guess,” he laughed and sucked in on the pipe. “Clubs?”
“Yeah? Do you speak German?” I asked.
“German? No,” he said, laughing. His eyes were very red. He took his jacket off.
“You don’t?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, I just assumed since you spent the summer in Berlin, I thought…” my voice trailed off and I smiled.
“No. Berlin, New Hampshire.” He was studying the pipe; he sniffed it, then filled it with more pot. It smelled bad, I thought.
“There’s a Berlin here?” I asked.
“Sure is,” he said.
I watched him refill the pipe, inhale, then hand the pipe to me. I shook my head and pointed at the Beck’s in my hand. He smiled, scratched at his arm and let out a thick stream of smoke. I had only my desk light on so it was dark in the room and beginning to get hazy, dreamlike, smokey. I watched his growing intensity as he refilled the pipe, his fingers delicately fingering what looked like dried moss to me. (He assured me it was “top grade weed.”) And it struck me then, that I liked Sean because he looked, well, slutty. A boy who had been around. A boy who couldn’t remember if he was Catholic or not. That appealed to something basic in me though I didn’t know what.