The Rules Of Attraction Part 17

'What doesn't?' he asks.

'Nothing.' I stand up. He grabs my wrist as I reach for the magazine.

'Why did you still sleep with me if you knew?' he asks.

'Because I didn't care,' I say.

'I know you do, Lauren,' he says.

You're pathetic and confused,' I tell him.

'Wait a minute,' he says. 'Why should it matter how many I f.u.c.ked? Or who 1 f.u.c.ked? Since, like, when does having s.e.x with someone else mean, like, I'm not faithful to you?'

I think about that one until he lets go of my wrist and I start laughing. I look around the dining hall for another table to sit at. Maybe I'll go to cla.s.s. What day is it?

You're right, I guess,' I say, trying to make some kind of exit.

Before I walk away from him wondering about Victor still (not wondering anything in particular, just vague nothing wondering) he asks, 'Why don't you love me, Lauren?'

'Just get out of here,' I tell him.

243.

SEAN The rest of my day.

Me and Norris are in Norris's red Saab driving into town. Norris is tired and hungover (too much MDA, too much s.e.x with various Freshmen). He's driving too fast and I don't say anything about it; only stare out the window at the gray clouds forming above red and green and orange hills, 'Monster Mash' blaring on the radio bringing this morning back.

'Lauren found out about Judy,' I tell him. 'How?' he asks, opening the window. 'Is my pipe in the glove compartment?'

I check. 'No. Judy told her.'

'c.u.n.t,' he says. 'Are you kidding? Why?'

'Can you believe it? I don't know,' I say, shaking my } head.

'Christ. Is she p.i.s.sed?'

We pa.s.s a s.e.xy townie girl selling tapestries and pumpkins near the high school. Norris slows down. 'Is who p.i.s.sed?'

'Anyone,' Norris says. 'I could've sworn my pipe was in there. Check again.'

Yes. She's p.i.s.sed,' I say. 'Wouldn't you be p.i.s.sed if the girl you loved f.u.c.ked your best friend?' 'I guess. Heavy.' Yeah. I've got to talk to her.'

'Sure. Sure,' Norris says. 'But she went to New York this weekend.'

'What? Who? Lauren?' 'No. Judy.'

That's not who I was talking about but I'm relieved anyway. 'Really?'

'Yeah. She's got a boyfriend there.'

'Terrific.'

'He's a lawyer. Twenty-nine. Central Park West. Name's Jeb,' Norris says.

'What about Frank?' I ask, then 'Jeb?' The guy knows Franklin,' Norris says. Maybe it isn't over with Lauren, I'm thinking. Maybe she will come back. Norris parks the Saab behind the bank on Main Street and looks for the pipe himself.

At the drug store. While Norris picks up a prescription for Ritalin, I browse through the p.o.r.no magazine rack that's placed next to the Oral Hygiene section. Open an issue of Hustler - typical - exclusive nude photos of Prince Andrew, Brooke Shields, Michael Jackson, all of them grainy, all of them in black and white. The magazine promises nude pictures of Pat Boone and Boy George next month. No. Put it back on the rack, open the October issue of Chic. The centerfold is of a woman dressed as a witch, her cape flung open, masturbating with a broomstick. She's better looking than Lauren but in a sleazy way and it doesn't excite me. Somehow the centerfold comes loose and slips to the floor, open, next to the feet of a blue-haired granny, who's reading, not looking, not glancing, but f.u.c.king reading the back of a bottle of Lavoris. She looks down at the centerfold and her mouth falls open and she quickly moves away to another aisle. I leave it there and walk back over to Norris who's at the checkout stand with his prescription and tell him, 'Let's get out of here.' I sigh and look over the racks of candy below the cashier's station. I pick up a pack of Peanut b.u.t.ter Cups, finger it guiltily and remember last night, but only vaguely. What was it we fought about?

244.

245.

Was there any real emotion there? Any raised voices? Or was it just a general feeling of contempt and betrayal and incredulity? I ask Norris to buy the candy for me and a tube of Fun Blood. Norris pays and asks the shy, acne-scarred cashier if she knows who wrote Notes from the Underground. The girl, who's so homely you couldn't sleep with her for money, not for anything, smiles and says no, and that he can look in the bestseller paperbacks if he'd like. We leave the store and Norris sneers a little too meanly, Townies are so ignorant.'

Then it's The Record Rack. Norris pops some Ritalin. I stare at the cover of the new Talking Heads. Wasn't that playing last night somewhere, during our talk? It doesn't depress me, just makes me feel weird. I put it down and decide to buy her a record. I try to remember who her favorite groups are but we never talked about things like that. In vain I pick up an old Police record but Sting is too good-looking and I start looking for alb.u.ms by groups with no good-looking guys in them. But then maybe the Peanut b.u.t.ter Cups are enough, and I walk back to Norris who winks at me, purchasing some old Motown collection and he hands it over to the fat blond girl behind the counter who's wearing a green ski-jacket and a .38 Special T-shirt. As she rings up Norris's stuff, he asks her if she knows who wrote Notes from the Underground. She laughs at him with contempt (a Lauren laugh) and says Dostoevsky' and gives Norris back the alb.u.m and no change and the two of us drive back to campus, mildly surprised.

Sitting in cla.s.s. It's something called Kafka,'Kundera: The Hidden Connection'. I'm staring at this girl, Deborah, I think, who's sitting across from me at the table. I cannot 246.

concentrate on anything and have only shown up in cla.s.s because I don't have any pot left. She has short blond hair, stylishly shaved in back and up the side, moussed, still has sungla.s.ses on, leather pants, high-heeled police boots, black blouse, heavy silver jewelry (definitely rebellious Darien, Connecticut, material) and she reminds me substantially of Lauren. Lauren at lunch. Lauren not taking the shades off. Lauren's peg pants high, the ankles showing s.e.xy and golden, the low-cut V-neck blue and black sweater. Look at the essay, Xeroxed, in front of me but I can't read it. I'm insatiably h.o.r.n.y since I didn't finish jerking off this morning. When's the last time I have? Four days ago. The words I pretend to be interested in make no sense. I look back at the girl and start to fantasize about having s.e.x with her, with her and Lauren at the same time, just her and Lauren naked, on top of each other, pressing their c.u.n.ts together, moaning. I have to shift in the chair, my hard-on actually feeling not good, stretched tight against my jeans. Why does lesbianism turn me on?

The teacher, a large, friendly-looking woman (but not f.u.c.kable), asks, 'Sean?'

Crossing my legs (no one can see, just a reflex) I sit up, Yes?'

Teacher asks, 'Why don't you tell us what the last paragraph means.'

All I can say is 'Urm.' Look at the last paragraph.

Teacher says, 'Just encapsulate it for us.'

I say, 'Encapsulate.'

Teacher says, 'Yes. Encapsulate.'

'Well...' and now I get the awful feeling that this girl in the sungla.s.ses is laughing, smirking at me. I glance over 247.

at her quickly. She's not. I look down at the essay. What last paragraph? Lauren.

Teacher's losing patience. 'What do you think it means?

I skim the last paragraph. What is this? High school for Christ's sake? I will drop out of college. I hope that if I stall long enough she'll ask someone else and so I wait. People stare. Boy with cropped red hair wearing a 'You're Insane' b.u.t.ton on his ratty black Nehru jacket raises his hand. So does the idiot at the end of the table who looks like he's the lead singer of the Bay City Rollers. Even the blond dude from L.A. whose I.Q. has got to be in the lower forties manages to raise a tan arm. What in the h.e.l.l is going on here? I will drop out of college. Was I learning anything?

'What is it about, Sean?' the teacher asks. 'It's about his dissatisfaction with the government?' I ask, guessing.

The girl with the sungla.s.ses raises a hand. Do you wear a diaphragm everywhere you go? I want to scream, but stop myself because the idea really excites me.

'Actually, it's about the opposite,' the teacher, who has got to be a d.y.k.e, says, fingering a long string of beads. 'Clay?' the teacher asks.

'Well, like, the dude was totally depressed because, well the dude turned into a bug and freaked. . . .'

I look down and want to shout out, 'Hey, I think it's f.u.c.king masterpiece,' but I haven't read it so I can't.

That girl sitting across from me doesn't remind me Lauren. No one does. She puts a piece of gum in her mouth. I don't feel excited anymore.

And leaving cla.s.s during the break with the intention of 248.

not going back isn't any better since I have to see my advisor, Mr. Masur, whose office is in the Barn. Otherwise known as Administration Row. And walking up the small graveled path I wonder what Lauren is doing right now, this second. Is she in her room at Canfield, or over with friends carving pumpkins and getting drunk in Swan? Up at the dance studio? Computer room? With Vittorio? No, Vittorio's gone. With Stump? Maybe she's just hanging around Commons talking to Judy or Stephanie or whoever the h.e.l.l she knows, reading the Times, attempting Friday's crossword. I pull my coat tighter around me. I'm nauseous. I I walk faster. The Swedish girl from Bingham who I always thought was sort of good-looking (who's also f.u.c.king Mitch.e.l.l) is coming down the path, toward me. I realize that I t am going to have to pa.s.s this Swedish girl and say something or smile. It would be too rude to not say anything. But she pa.s.ses and smiles and says 'Hi' and I don't say anything. I've never said anything to the Swedish girl for some reason and I feel guilty and turn around and say 'Hi!' loudly. The Swedish girl turns around and smiles, puzzled, and I start jogging toward the Barn, blushing, heavily embarra.s.sed, feverish, walking in through the main entrance, wave to Getch who's setting up some fossil exhibition, take the stairs up two at a time, and then it's Masur's office. I knock, winded.

Come in, come in,' Mr. Masur says. I enter.

Ah, Mr. Bateman, it's good to see you, every, what is it now? Month or so?' the sarcastic b.a.s.t.a.r.d asks.

I grin and plop myself down in the chair across from Masur's desk.

249.

'Where have you been? We're supposed to meet week,' Masur says, leaning back.

'Well...' Duh. 'I've been real busy.' 'Oh, you have?' Masur asks, grinning. He runs a hand through his long grey hair, sucking in while lighting his pipe, like a true ex-boho.

'I got your note. What is it?' I know it's going to be something bad.

Yes. Well. . .' He shuffles through papers. 'As you know it's mid-term and it's come to my attention that you are not pa.s.sing three of your courses. Is this true?5 I try to look surprised. Actually I thought I was failing four courses. I try to guess which one I'm pa.s.sing. 'Urn yeah well, I'm having trouble in a couple of cla.s.ses.' Pause. 'Am I failing Sculpting Workshop?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, you are,' Masur says, glancing ominously at a pink sheet of paper he holds up.

'I don't see how,' I say innocently.

'It seems that Mr. Winters said that for your mid-term project, it seems to him that all you did was glue three stones you found behind your dorm and painted them blue.' Masur looks pained.

I don't say a word.

'Also Mrs. Russell says that you have not been showing up to cla.s.s regularly,' Masur says, eyeing me.

'What am I pa.s.sing?'

'Well, Mr. Schonbeck says you're doing quite well,' Masur says, surprised.

Who's Mr. Schonbeck? I've never been to a cla.s.s taught by a Schonbeck.

'Well, I've been sick. Sick,'

'Sick?' Masur asks, looking even more pained. 'Well, yeah, sick.'

'Ahem.' This is followed by an uncomfortable silence. The smell of Masur's pipe nauseates me. The urge to leave hits hard. It's also sickening that even though Masur is not from England he speaks with a slight British accent.

'Needless to say Mr. Bateman, um, Sean, your situation here is, shall we say, rather . . . unstable?' 'Unstable, yeah, well, um . ..' 'What are we going to do about it?' he asks. 'I'm going to fix it.' 'You are?' he sighs. 'Yes. You bet I am.'

'Well. Good, good,' Masur looks confused but smiling as he says this.

'Okay?' I stand up. 'Fine with me,' Masur says. 'Well, see you later?' I ask. 'Well, fine with me,' Masur laughs. I laugh too, open the door, look back at Masur, who's really cracking up, yet stupefied, and then I shut the door, planning my overdose.

In my room is Beba, Bertrand's girlfriend. She's sitting on the mattress beneath the wall-length blackboard that came with the room, the carved pumpkin in her lap, old issues of Details scattered around her. Beba is a soph.o.m.ore and bulimic and has been reading Edie ever since she arrived last September. Bertrand's phone is cradled in her neck, covered by shoulder length platinum blond hair. She lights a cigarette and waves limply at me as I pa.s.s through the slit in the parachute. I sit on my bed, my face in my 251.

hands, silent in the room except for Beba. 'Yes, I was wondering about a cellophane tomorrow, say, around two-thirty?' The ripped tie is still hanging from the hook and I reach up, pull it off and throw it against the wall. I start rummaging through my room. No more Nyquil, no more Librium, no more Xanax. Find a bottle of Actifed, which I pour into my sweaty hands. Twenty of them. I look around the room for something to take them with. I can hear Beba hang up the phone, then Siouxsie and the Banshees start playing.

'Beba, does Bert have anything to drink over there?' I call out.

'Let me see.' I hear her turn down the music, tripping over something. Then an arm sticks through the parachute's slit handing me a beer.

'Thanks.' I take the beer from the hand.

'Does Alonzo still have any c.o.ke?' she asks.

'No. Alonzo went to the city this weekend,' I tell her.

'Oh G.o.d,' I hear her moan.

I wonder if I should leave a note. Some kind of reason for why I'm doing this, why I'm swallowing all my Actifed. The phone rings. Beba answers it. I lay down after taking five. I drink some more of the beer. Grolsch - what an a.s.shole. Beba puts on another tape, The Cure. I take three more pills. Beba says, Yes I'll tell him Jean-Jacques called. Right, 93 va, yeah, 53 va.' I start falling asleep, laughing -am I really trying to O.D. on Actifed? I can hear Bertrand open the door, laughing, 'I am back.' I drift.

But Norris wakes me up sometime after nine. I'm not dead, just sick to my stomach. I'm under the covers but still in my clothes. It's dark in the room.

252.

'You slept through dinner,' Norris says.

'I did.' I try to sit up.

'You did.'

'What did I miss?' I try to unstick my tongue from the roof of a very dry, stale mouth.

'Lesbians in a nstfight. Pumpkin carving contest. Party Pig threw up,' Norris shrugs.

'Oh man I am so tired.' I try to sit up again. Norris stands in the doorway and flicks on a light. He walks over to the bed.

'There are Actifed scattered around you,' Norris points out.

I pick one up, toss it away. "Yes. There are.'

'What did you try to do? O.D. on Actifed?' he laughs, bending down.

'Don't tell anyone,' I say, getting up. 'I need a shower.'

'Just between you and me,' he says, sitting down.

'Where's everybody?' I ask, taking my clothes off.