I cleared my throat, paused dramatically and said, “My parents aren’t divorced.”
There was a long silence and then they all screamed, a mixture of disappointment and disbelief and they threw their heads on the table, howling.
“No way!” Raymond said, amazed, alarmed, looking up as if I had just admitted a devastating secret.
Donald was gaping. “You are kidding, Paul.” He looked horrified and actually backed away as if I were a leper.
Harry was too stunned to speak.
“I’m not kidding, Donald,” I said. “My parents are too boring to get a divorce.”
I liked the fact that my parents were still married. Whether the marriage was any good was anyone’s guess, but just the fact that most, or all, of my friends’ parents were either divorced or separated, and my parents weren’t, made me feel safe rather than feeling like a casualty. It almost made up for Mitchell and I was pleased with this notoriety. I relished it and I stared back at the three of them, feeling slightly better.
They were still staring, dumbfounded.
“Go back to your stupid list,” I said, sipping my coffee, waving them away. “Stop staring at me.”
They slowly looked back at the list and got back into it after that short, stunned silence, but they resumed their game with less enthusiasm than before.
“How about people with tapestries in their rooms?” Harry suggested.
“We already have that,” Raymond sighed.
“Is there any more speed left?” Harry sighed.
“No,” Donald sighed also.
“How about anyone who writes poetry about Womanhood?”
“Bolsheviks from Canada?”
“Anyone who smokes clove cigarettes?”
“Speaking of cigarettes, Paul, can I bum another one?” Donald asked.
Mitchell reached across the table and touched her hand. She laughed.
I looked back at Donald, incredulous. “No. You cannot,” I said, my hysteria building. “Absolutely not. That infuriates me. You are always ‘bumming’ cigarettes and I won’t stand for it anymore.”
“Come on,” Donald said as if I was only joking. “I’ll buy some later. I’m broke.”
“No! It also infuriates me that your father owns something like half of Gulf and Western and you always pretend to be broke,” I said, glaring.
“Is it such a big crisis?” he asked.
“Yeah, Paul, stop having a grand mal,” Raymond said.
“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Harry asked.
“I know why,” Raymond said slyly.
“Wedding bells?” Donald giggled, looking over at Mitchell’s table.
“It is such a crisis.” I was adamant, ignoring them. I’m going to kill that slut.
“Just give me one. Don’t be bitchy.”
“Okay, I’ll give you one if you tell me what won best costume design at the Tonys last year.”
There was a silence that followed that I found humiliating. I sighed and looked down. The three of them didn’t say anything until Donald finally spoke up.
“That is the most meaningless question I have ever heard.”
I looked over at Mitchell again, then slid the cigarettes across the table. “Just take them. I’m getting more coffee.” I got up and headed out of the dining hall. But then I had to stop and duck into the salad bar room because there was the Swedish girl I was with last night, showing her I.D. to the food service checker. I waited there until she walked into the serving area. Then I ran quickly downstairs and headed for class. I thought about trying out for that Shepard play, but then thought why bother, when I’m already stuck in one: my life.
I sat at a desk not listening to the drone of the professor, glancing over at Mitchell, who looked happy (yeah, he got laid last night) and who was taking notes. He looked around the room, disgusted, at the people smoking (he quit when he came back — how irritating). They probably looked like machines to him, I imagined. Like chimneys, spurts of smoke rising from that hole in their heads. He looked at the ugly girl in the red dress trying to look cool. I looked at the graffiti on the desk: “You Lose.” “There Is No Gravity. The Earth Sucks.” “The Brady Bunch Slept Here.” “What Ever Happened to Hippie Love?” “Love Stinks.” “Most Cab Drivers Have Liberal Arts Degrees.” And I sat there feeling like the hapless lover. But then I remembered, of course, that now I’m only hapless.
LAUREN Wake up. Hair needs to be washed. I don’t want to miss lunch. I go to Commons. I look disgusting. No mail today. No mail today from Victor. Just a reminder that the AA meeting is going to be in Stokes instead of Bingham next Saturday. Dawn of the Dead tonight in Tishman. I have four overdue art books from the library. Bump into weird-looking girl with pink party dress on and glasses who looks like a victim of shock treatment searching for someone’s box. Another minor irritation. Walk upstairs. Forgot my I.D. They let me in anyway. Cute guy wearing Wayfarer sunglasses serves cheeseburgers. Ask for a plate of fries. Start to flirt. Ask him how his flute tutorial’s going. Realize I look disgusting and turn away. Get a Diet Coke. Sit down. Roxanne’s here for some reason sitting with Judy. Judy’s picking at tofu lettuce celery rice French fry salad. I break the silence: “I’m sick of this place. Everyone reeks of cigarettes, is pretentious, and has terrible posture. I’m getting out before the Freshmen take over.” I forgot ketchup. I push the plate of fries away. Light a cigarette. Neither one of them smile. O … K … I pick at a spot of dried blue paint on my pant leg. “So … what’s wrong?” I look around and spot Square out of the corner of my eye at the beverage center. Turn back to Judy. “Where’s Sara?”
“Sara’s pregnant,” Judy says.
“Oh shit, you’re kidding,” I say, pulling the chair up. “Tell me about it.”
“What’s to tell?” Judy asks. “Roxanne’s been talking to her all morning.”
“I gave her some Darvon,” Roxanne rolls her eyes up. Chain-smoking. “Told her to go to Psychological Counseling.”
“Oh shit, no,” I say. “What’s she doing about it? I mean, when?”
“She’s having it done next week,” Roxanne says. “Wednesday.”
I put the cigarette out. Pick at the fries. Borrow Judy’s ketchup. “Then she’s going to Spain, I guess,” Roxanne says, rolling her eyes up again.
“Spain? Why?”
“Because she’s crazy,” Judy says, getting up. “Does anyone want anything?”
Victor. “No,” I say, still looking at Roxanne. She leaves.
“She was really upset, Lauren,” Roxanne’s bored, plays with her scarf, eats fries.
“I can imagine. I have to talk with her,” I say. “This is terrible.”
“Terrible? The worst,” Roxanne says.
“The worst,” I agree.
“I hate it when this happens,” she says. “I hate it.”
We finish the fries, which are pretty good today. “It’s awful, I know,” I nod.
“Awful,” she says. More agreement. “I’m beginning to think romance is a foreign concept.”
Ralph Larson. Philosophy teacher walks by with tray looking for a place to sit followed by my printmaking teacher. He looks at Roxanne and says, “Hey baby,” and winks. Roxanne smiles big—“Hi, Ralph”—and she’s looking now at me, eyes saucers, still smiling big. I notice she’s gained weight. She grabs my wrist. “He’s so handsome, Lauren,” she breathes, pants, at me.
“Never invite a teacher to your room,” I tell her.
“He can come by anytime,” she says, still squeezing.
“Let go,” I’m telling her. “Roxanne, he’s married.”
“I don’t care, so what?” She rolls her eyes up. “Everyone knows he slept with Brigid McCauley.”