Judy says that someone put a cigarette out in her box the other day.
“It’s probably the Freshman, Sam,” I say.
“His name’s Steve,” she says. “He doesn’t smoke. None of the Freshmen do.”
I stand up, look at the toga. “How do I look? Do I look like an idiot?”
Judy checks her lips, then her chin. “No.”
“Fat?”
“Nope.” She moves away from the desk and over to the bed where she finishes rolling a joint, singing along with “Revolution.” She tells me that she went off the Pill on Monday and says that she’s already lost weight and I guess she looks thinner. Health Services supplied the diaphragm.
“Health Services is disgusting,” Judy says. “That doctor is so horny that when I went in for an earache he gave me a Pap test.”
“Are we going to buy the Ecstasy or not?” I ask.
“Only if he takes American Express,” she says. “I forgot to cash a check today.”
“He probably does,” I murmur.
I look good, standing in front of the mirror, and it makes me sad that I’m surprised by this; that I haven’t really gotten excited or dressed up to go out to a party since Victor left, and when was that? Early September? Party at the Surf Club? And I don’t know why, but “Revolution” on the radio reminds me of him, and I still have mental pictures of him, standing around Europe, somewhere in my mind that resurface at the strangest moments: like a certain soup served at lunch, or flipping through GQ or seeing a jeans commercial on TV. Once, it was a book of matches from Morgan’s in New York that I found beneath my bed last Sunday.
Judy’s ready to light the joint but she can’t find any matches so I go next door to the boy from L.A.’s room. Someone’s written “Rest In Peace Called” in big red letters on his door. I can hear The Eagles playing inside but no one answers when I knock. I find some matches in the bathroom from Maxim’s and bring them back to Judy. “Revolution” ends and another Thompson Twins song comes on. And Judy and I smoke pot, get high, make bloodys, try to list all the guys we’ve slept with at Camden but the list gets screwed up by hazy memory and the pot and the nervous expectations a Friday night party brings, and often we just write down “Jack’s friend” or “Guy from Limelight” and the whole thing depresses me and I suggest we head over to Wooley. Maybe I should sleep with that French guy, like Judy keeps saying. But there are other options, I keep telling myself. What? I ask myself. The orgy in Booth tonight? But I’m high and feeling good as we leave Judy’s place and from upstairs in her hallway we can hear the music calling to us from across Commons, accompanied by shrieks and muffled shouts in the night.
But then Judy has to ruin it as we’re walking out of her house, the night autumn cold, both of us shivering in our togas, heading toward the music at Wooley.
“Have you heard from Victor?” she asks.
I hated saying it, but did anyway. “Who?”
PAUL Richard arrives sometime around eight. I’m sitting in the “boys’” room, in some plush chair, already dressed in this gray suit and silk red tie I bought at Bigsby and Kruthers, watching MTV, smoking, thinking about Sean. My mother and Mrs. Jared are in the other room getting dressed for dinner. Richard opens the door, wearing a tuxedo and sunglasses, hair greased back, walks in, lets the door slam and shouts, “Hi ya, Paul!”
I stare at Richard only slightly shocked. His long blond hair is now short, cropped and dyed a bright platinum blond that, because of the rain or mousse, looks dark. He’s wearing a ripped white tuxedo shirt, one black sock, one white sock, and black Converse Hi-Tops, and a long overcoat with a Siouxsie and the Banshees decal stuck on the back. A tiny diamond stud earring in the left ear, the Wayfarers still on, black and shiny. He’s only carrying one small black bag with Dead Kennedys and Bronski Beat stickers on it, and in the other hand a very large cassette player and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, almost empty. He staggers in, then leans against the doorway, catching his balance.
“Richard,” I say. I’m starting to feel that my entire world is beginning to turn into an issue of Vanity Fair.
“When are we gonna eat?” he asks.
“Richard? Is that you?” his mother calls from the other room.
“Yeah. It is,” he says. “And my name’s not Richard.”
My mother and Mrs. Jared walk into the room, both in the middle of getting dressed and they stare at Richard who looks like a total Sarah Lawrence asshole but, maybe, sexy.
“It’s Dick,” he says lewdly and then, “Like, when’s dinner?” He takes a deep swig from the Jack Daniel’s bottle then belches.
SEAN Tense scene with Rupert.
Rupert shaved his head. I had to stop by Roxanne’s place before the party to score for some Freshman idiots and the fucker had shaved his head. He was doing coke on the floor in the living room and staring at himself in the mirror, Hüsker Dü was blasting and some Brazilian guy was sitting on the couch fooling around with a portable Casio machine when I walked in.
“What’s going on?” I shouted over the music. I walked over to the stereo and turned the volume down.
“You’re gonna have to sell that bike of yours,” Rupert growled, wiping the mirror off with his finger and then sucking on it.
“Yeah?” I laughed nervously. “What’s going on?”
“Where’s the money, chump?” he asked.
“Take American Express?” I joked.
Rupert threw his big white bald head to one side, a couple of razor cuts dried black made it look even creepier, and laughed for too long. I wondered if the Brazilian shaved Rupert’s head. The thought made me queasy. “Oh, Bateman, you’re not funny.”
“Funny guy,” I said.
“And because you’re not funny, I’m going to give you some time.” He stood up. He looked big, almost menacing but in a wimpy way and came near me.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked, backing away a little.
“I’m not gonna remind you, Bateman,” he said, running his hand over the shiny head. He looked over at the gun case, considering which ones were loaded, but he was too coked out to do anything to me.
“There’s an orgy in Booth tonight,” I said, though I didn’t care. I was going to be with Miss Hynde anyway, and the thought of kissing her momentarily got me excited and calmed me down at the same time and all I said was, “Need to score for some Freshmen.”
“I need my money,” Rupert said, pissed but judging from his tone of voice would probably let it slide. He walked over to the desk near the gun case and opened a drawer.
“You know I’m broke,” I said. “Stop picking on poor boys.”
“What about the bike?” Rupert smiled, walking over to the stereo and turning the volume up but not as loud as it was before.
“What about it?” I asked.
“You’re such a jerk,” he sighed.
Before I left I asked him, “Where’s Roxanne?”
“She’s fucking the Brazilian,” Rupert shrugged, pointed.
He handed me a bag.
The Brazilian waved.
“How hip can you get?” I said.
“Yeah, walk on the wild side,” Rupert said, turning away from me.
I grabbed the stuff, left, hopped on my bike and was back to school by ten.