Read I Am Charlotte Simmons Online
Authors: Tom Wolfe
I Am Charlotte Simmons (33 page)
â“she scored Jojo?” That little lick of conversation caught Charlotte's
attention, but she was far beyond the gravitational pull of gossip in her headlong flight through the double doors and out onto Ladding Walk into God's own air!ânot befouled by decadence and lustâ
attention, but she was far beyond the gravitational pull of gossip in her headlong flight through the double doors and out onto Ladding Walk into God's own air!ânot befouled by decadence and lustâ
âexcept for five or six stricken boys and girls crawling, lolling stuporously, bending over on the little fringe of a lawn in front of the Saint Ray house vomiting and chanting into the void in Fuck Patois. Charlotte ran down the Walk into the darkness and the monstrous shadows until her throat ached and she could no longer hold back the tears. She slowed to a walk, let her head slump over, held her forehead with her hand, and convulsed with sobs. Get outta here! We've got this room! Okay, that's cool. Just let me know when you're through. Okay? Oh dear God, was there any way Bettina and Mimi could find out?âabout her cool guy and her terminal humiliation and what a fool she was?
She felt so small here in the infinite terminal darkness of Ladding Walk, all alone, sobbing and sobbing and racking her thorax, slogging pointlessly toward Little Yard, a little mountain girlâshe couldn't have pitied herself moreâin an old cotton print dress hiked up two and a half inches with pins so she could show off more of her legs.
The dark hulks of the buildings along Ladding Walk, which were menacing, the stony silenceâexcept for her own sobs, which she held back and then let outâheld back, let outâthere was a certain morbid, self-destructive
pleasure
in letting them out, wasn't there?âa sick, morose self-abnegation in surrendering to the swirl of deceit she had been subjected to by Hoyt Whoeverhewasâthe walk back to Edgerton was a nightmare, part of whose pain was that it seemed like it would never end.
pleasure
in letting them out, wasn't there?âa sick, morose self-abnegation in surrendering to the swirl of deceit she had been subjected to by Hoyt Whoeverhewasâthe walk back to Edgerton was a nightmare, part of whose pain was that it seemed like it would never end.
When she stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor, into that deadsilent vestibule, it seemed like a sanctuary, or the only one Charlotte Simmons would have, and she indulged herself in a real wailing sob as she headed down the hallwayâthen she heard whispers â¦
Ohmygod
!âsix? seven? eight? girls sitting in a row, bottoms on the floor, backs against the wall, legs, or most of them, sticking straight out in a lineup of distressed jeans, shorts, sneakers, flip-flops, bare feet, lumpy kneesâeyes, every eye, pinned on her. They were all freshmen who lived on this floor. What were they
doing
here out in the hall in the middle of the night? What must she look like to them? Tears, puffy eyesâher nose felt twice as big as it was, it was so congested from cryingâand they were
bound
to have heard her wail when she left the elevator. They were a
gauntlet
. They would have to lift their legs in order for her to get to her room. If she had to speak to them, ask them to let
her byâshe
couldn't
!âshe would burst into tears again! She bit her lip and told herself to be strong, be strong, come on, don't let on, hold it in. The first pair of knees and ratty jeans jackknifed to let her by. The puniest pair imaginable they were, too, those of a skinny, chinless girl with the palest of faces and hair the color of chamomile tea and cut like a young boy's, a girl called Maddyâa wretched case despite the fact that she had won some big national science competition last spring, Westinghouse or something. Charlotte couldn't stand looking at her, but she couldn't escape those abnormally big eyes as they turned up toward her and runty Maddy said, “What happened?” Charlotte kept her head down and shook it, which was as close as she could come to a gesture signifying, “Nothing.” That only sharpened Maddy's appetite. “We heard you crying.” The knees ahead began pulling up to the chests one by one. Each time, the big eyes studied her face, which Charlotte knew very well was contorted like that of a girl who would convulse with tears if she so much as opened her mouth. From behind, little Maddy wouldn't give up. “Can we help?” A couple of other girls in this strange crew of now tiny, now skinny, now keg-legged, now obese, now plain ugly girls said, “Yeah, what happened?” She couldn't tell which ones, because she avoided looking at any of themâthese ⦠these ⦠these witches, assembled on the floor solely to torment her! But then she made the mistake of peekingâand locked eyes with a big black girl named Helene. As Helene raised her knees, she said with a voice of deep sisterly concern, “Hey, where've you been?” implying “Who did this to you?” Charlotte couldn't think of any way to answer that one with a head motionâand besides, she had it in her mind, from social osmosis, that it was proto-racist to slough off what black students had to sayâeven a black girl like this one, whose father, as everybody on the floor seemed to know, was one of the biggest real estate developers in Atlantaâno doubt richer than all the Blue Ridge Mountain Simmonses in history put togetherâand so Charlotte fought to reinforce the dam holding back the flood and uttered just two words, “Frat party.” That did it. That was more than enough. The dam broke, and she staggered the rest of the way sobbing and convulsing. The little witches fired away from the rear. “Which frat?” ⦠“What'd they do?” ⦠“Sure you don't want us to come help you?” ⦠“Was it a guy?”
Ohmygod
!âsix? seven? eight? girls sitting in a row, bottoms on the floor, backs against the wall, legs, or most of them, sticking straight out in a lineup of distressed jeans, shorts, sneakers, flip-flops, bare feet, lumpy kneesâeyes, every eye, pinned on her. They were all freshmen who lived on this floor. What were they
doing
here out in the hall in the middle of the night? What must she look like to them? Tears, puffy eyesâher nose felt twice as big as it was, it was so congested from cryingâand they were
bound
to have heard her wail when she left the elevator. They were a
gauntlet
. They would have to lift their legs in order for her to get to her room. If she had to speak to them, ask them to let
her byâshe
couldn't
!âshe would burst into tears again! She bit her lip and told herself to be strong, be strong, come on, don't let on, hold it in. The first pair of knees and ratty jeans jackknifed to let her by. The puniest pair imaginable they were, too, those of a skinny, chinless girl with the palest of faces and hair the color of chamomile tea and cut like a young boy's, a girl called Maddyâa wretched case despite the fact that she had won some big national science competition last spring, Westinghouse or something. Charlotte couldn't stand looking at her, but she couldn't escape those abnormally big eyes as they turned up toward her and runty Maddy said, “What happened?” Charlotte kept her head down and shook it, which was as close as she could come to a gesture signifying, “Nothing.” That only sharpened Maddy's appetite. “We heard you crying.” The knees ahead began pulling up to the chests one by one. Each time, the big eyes studied her face, which Charlotte knew very well was contorted like that of a girl who would convulse with tears if she so much as opened her mouth. From behind, little Maddy wouldn't give up. “Can we help?” A couple of other girls in this strange crew of now tiny, now skinny, now keg-legged, now obese, now plain ugly girls said, “Yeah, what happened?” She couldn't tell which ones, because she avoided looking at any of themâthese ⦠these ⦠these witches, assembled on the floor solely to torment her! But then she made the mistake of peekingâand locked eyes with a big black girl named Helene. As Helene raised her knees, she said with a voice of deep sisterly concern, “Hey, where've you been?” implying “Who did this to you?” Charlotte couldn't think of any way to answer that one with a head motionâand besides, she had it in her mind, from social osmosis, that it was proto-racist to slough off what black students had to sayâeven a black girl like this one, whose father, as everybody on the floor seemed to know, was one of the biggest real estate developers in Atlantaâno doubt richer than all the Blue Ridge Mountain Simmonses in history put togetherâand so Charlotte fought to reinforce the dam holding back the flood and uttered just two words, “Frat party.” That did it. That was more than enough. The dam broke, and she staggered the rest of the way sobbing and convulsing. The little witches fired away from the rear. “Which frat?” ⦠“What'd they do?” ⦠“Sure you don't want us to come help you?” ⦠“Was it a guy?”
By the time she turned the doorknob, she could hear the whole misshapen gauntlet clucking, whispering, sniggering, mock-sympathizing â¦
“This really rounds it out,” Charlotte said to herself amid the tears. The wreck of Charlotte Simmons was
their
Friday night.
their
Friday night.
W
ell past ten o'clock the next morning, Charlotte was still in bed, lying flat on her back, eyes shut ⦠eyes open ⦠long enough to gaze idly at the brilliant lines of light where the shades didn't quite meet the windowsill ⦠eyes shut ⦠listening for sounds of Beverly, who occasionally sighed or moaned faintly in her sleep ⦠eyes open, eyes shut, running the night before through her mind over and over to determine just how much of a fool she had made of herself. She was at her most vulnerable, her most anxious, during this interlude between waking and getting up and facing the world ⦠which she knew, but that didn't make the feeling any less real ⦠How could she have let him keep
touching
her that way? Right in front of everybody! Right in front of Bettina and Mimi! She had fled the Saint Ray house without even trying to look for them ⦠walked back to Little Yard alone through monstrous shadows in the dead of the night. How could she ever look them in the eye? How could she have talked herself into believing that a predator the likes of Hoyt was just a friendly, hospitable protector who was rescuing her from social oblivion and validating her presence ⦠at what? ⦠a drunken fraternity wallow ⦠when he was just a plain out and out ⦠out and out ⦠out and out â¦
cad
? ⦠That was the word ⦠even though she had never heard anyone say it out loud, including herself ⦠She had even let him
pressure her into drinking alcohol ⦠and strutting around with the drink in her hand and his arm around herâin front of everybody ⦠Momma would die! Barely a month, and already she had gone to a fraternity party and started drinking and letting herself be pawed, publicly, by some totally deceitful ⦠cad ⦠who only wanted to get her into a bedroom â¦
ell past ten o'clock the next morning, Charlotte was still in bed, lying flat on her back, eyes shut ⦠eyes open ⦠long enough to gaze idly at the brilliant lines of light where the shades didn't quite meet the windowsill ⦠eyes shut ⦠listening for sounds of Beverly, who occasionally sighed or moaned faintly in her sleep ⦠eyes open, eyes shut, running the night before through her mind over and over to determine just how much of a fool she had made of herself. She was at her most vulnerable, her most anxious, during this interlude between waking and getting up and facing the world ⦠which she knew, but that didn't make the feeling any less real ⦠How could she have let him keep
touching
her that way? Right in front of everybody! Right in front of Bettina and Mimi! She had fled the Saint Ray house without even trying to look for them ⦠walked back to Little Yard alone through monstrous shadows in the dead of the night. How could she ever look them in the eye? How could she have talked herself into believing that a predator the likes of Hoyt was just a friendly, hospitable protector who was rescuing her from social oblivion and validating her presence ⦠at what? ⦠a drunken fraternity wallow ⦠when he was just a plain out and out ⦠out and out ⦠out and out â¦
cad
? ⦠That was the word ⦠even though she had never heard anyone say it out loud, including herself ⦠She had even let him
pressure her into drinking alcohol ⦠and strutting around with the drink in her hand and his arm around herâin front of everybody ⦠Momma would die! Barely a month, and already she had gone to a fraternity party and started drinking and letting herself be pawed, publicly, by some totally deceitful ⦠cad ⦠who only wanted to get her into a bedroom â¦
Well, she couldn't lie here like this forever ⦠but she dreaded waking Beverly up ⦠Even on weekdays, when Charlotte got out of bed and got dressed, no matter how quiet she tried to be, Beverly would thrash about under her covers and huff great groans, as if she were still asleep but just barely, because Charlotte's hayseed habit of getting up early was about to destroy all chance of rest and, for that matter, her entire day. One way or another, Beverly always made her feel like some rural throwback. When Beverly came in, much more noisily, in the middle of the night, Charlotte felt like giving
her
the thrash-and-groan treatment, but she didn't have the nerve. Somehow, perhaps through sheer aloofness, Beverly had established the notion that she was the eminence in this room. She was a rich boarding school girl. Who would be so foolish as to deprive her of even thirty seconds of her heedless Saturday morning sleep?
her
the thrash-and-groan treatment, but she didn't have the nerve. Somehow, perhaps through sheer aloofness, Beverly had established the notion that she was the eminence in this room. She was a rich boarding school girl. Who would be so foolish as to deprive her of even thirty seconds of her heedless Saturday morning sleep?
Without a creak, without a rustle, holding her breath, Charlotte slipped out from under the covers, eyes pinned on the inert form of the eminence. In the same fashion, she slipped her slippers on and her bathrobe inch by inch, fetched her towel, soap, and toilet kit, and tiptoed toward the door ⦠lost her grip on the bar of soap and it hit the floor with an impact that, under the circumstances, might as well have been an explosion. Paralyzed with dread, she stared at Beverly, the sleeping lion. Miracle of miracles! The lion didn't so much as moan or move a muscle. Charlotte stooped down, retrieved the soap, and tiptoed out of the room, meticulously restraining the handle so that the door wouldn't make even the slightest click as it closed.
Thank God there was hardly anybody in the bathroom. A pale girl with practically no waist, emergingânaked!âfrom a shower stall in a fog of steam ⦠some guy in a cubicle making the usual rude bowel noises ⦠So gross ⦠She studied her face in the mirror to see what the night had done to it. Slightly ashen, wasn't it, its vitality leached away by guilt and shame ⦠Hurriedly she washed her face and brushed her teeth, returned to the room, and opened the door as carefully as could be â¦
Sunshine! The shades were up. Beverly was looking out of one of the windows, leaning forward, arms propped on the sill, wearing the panties and
short T-shirt she slept in. From behind like thisâthe bones of her pelvis saddle stood out. She was a pale version of one of those starving Ethiopians you see on TV with bugs flying around their eyes. Beverly straightened up and turned about. With no makeup to help, her eyes seemed abnormally big and bulging, like an anorexic's. She stared at Charlotte with a crooked little smile on her face. Charlotte braced for a reprimand, oozing with sarcasm, for waking her up “this early” on a Saturday morning.
short T-shirt she slept in. From behind like thisâthe bones of her pelvis saddle stood out. She was a pale version of one of those starving Ethiopians you see on TV with bugs flying around their eyes. Beverly straightened up and turned about. With no makeup to help, her eyes seemed abnormally big and bulging, like an anorexic's. She stared at Charlotte with a crooked little smile on her face. Charlotte braced for a reprimand, oozing with sarcasm, for waking her up “this early” on a Saturday morning.
“Well!” said Beverly. An arch and ironic Well. She paused and looked Charlotte up and down, still smiling with one corner of her mouth up higher than the other. “Did you have a good time last night?”
Startled, Charlotte paused, too, then managed to say timidly, “I guess soâit was all right.”
Last night
!
Last night
!
“I see you made a new friend.”
Charlotte's heart palpitated for several seconds before snapping back into a normalâalbeit speedingârhythm.
It had already spread everywhere! Ten-thirty in the morning, and everybody already knew
! In a wavering voice:
It had already spread everywhere! Ten-thirty in the morning, and everybody already knew
! In a wavering voice:
“What do you mean?”
“Hoyt Thorpe,” said Beverly.
Her smile was the smug one that says, “I know more than you think I do.” Charlotte felt as if the lining of her skull were on fire. She was speechless. She wondered if her expression looked frightened or merely wary.
Beverly said, “So? What do you think? You think he's hot?”
Charlotte was swept by an overwhelming need to dissociate herself utterly from Hoyt and everything that had happened.
“I don't know
what
he was,” said Charlotte, “except drunk and ⦠and ⦠and ⦠rude.” The word she had started to use was “deceitful,” but she didn't want to give Beverly that strong a word to pry with. “How did you know I met him?”
what
he was,” said Charlotte, “except drunk and ⦠and ⦠and ⦠rude.” The word she had started to use was “deceitful,” but she didn't want to give Beverly that strong a word to pry with. “How did you know I met him?”
“I saw you. I was there, too.”
“You were? At the Saint Ray house, at that party? You know, I thought I saw you”âshe started to mention the BOOTING ROOM but thought better of itâ“for a fraction of a second, but then you weren't there.”
“Same with me. It was a mob scene, totally. Besides, you seemed like ⦠otherwise occupied.”
A bit too emphatically: “I wasn't occupied with
him
!
”
him
!
”
“You weren't?”
Unconvincingly: “No.”
“Maybe a little bit?”
“How did you know his name?” said Charlotte. “I never even heard his last name until you just said it, and now I can't even remember what you said. Hoyt what?”
“Thorpe. You really had no idea who he was?”
“No.”
“Nobody said anything about how he caught some girl, some junior, giving head to this governorâfrom California?âwhat's his name?âout in the Grove last spring?”
“No.”
Beverly proceeded to tell her the story, which had swollen in the five months since the incident. Hers had Hoyt knocking two of the governor's bodyguards unconscious with his bare fists.
Charlotte got hung up on the phrase “giving head.” It took her a moment to figure out what it meant, and when she did, she found it trashy that Beverly had used such an expression. She didn't absorb anything after that until Beverly said, “Do you want to see him again?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Charlotte. It didn't look like that last night.”
It occurred to Charlotte that this was only the second time since the day they met that Beverly had addressed her by name.
Â
Â
Charlotte didn't want to be at a campus crossroads like Mr. Rayon on this particular morning, but Abbotsford Hall (the Abbey), the great, gloomy Gothic dining hall she had to use in order to take advantage of the food allotment of her scholarship, stopped serving breakfast at nine a.m. That left Mr. Rayon, which was already a swarming, buzzing hive by the time Charlotte walked in carrying a text for her Introduction to Neuroscience course called
Descartes, Darwin, and the Mind-Brain Problem,
which she intended to read over breakfast. There were long lines at all six cafeteria counters. Elsewhere, students were weaving among one another in droves, raggedy to near perfection, wearing children's clothes of every sort (so long as they weren't wool or silk), especially ersatz sports and military gear: baseball caps on backward, hooded jerseys, Streptolon warm-up pants with bold stripes down the sides, tennis shorts, starter jackets, leather cockpit jackets, olive green wife-beaters, camouflage pants ⦠The restless motion of such heroic, motley faux-warrior rags amid this smooth digital backdrop made Charlotte
dizzy. She kept her head down. All she wanted was enough food to stave off hunger for a few hours and a cranny in a wall to consume it in.
Descartes, Darwin, and the Mind-Brain Problem,
which she intended to read over breakfast. There were long lines at all six cafeteria counters. Elsewhere, students were weaving among one another in droves, raggedy to near perfection, wearing children's clothes of every sort (so long as they weren't wool or silk), especially ersatz sports and military gear: baseball caps on backward, hooded jerseys, Streptolon warm-up pants with bold stripes down the sides, tennis shorts, starter jackets, leather cockpit jackets, olive green wife-beaters, camouflage pants ⦠The restless motion of such heroic, motley faux-warrior rags amid this smooth digital backdrop made Charlotte
dizzy. She kept her head down. All she wanted was enough food to stave off hunger for a few hours and a cranny in a wall to consume it in.
By and by, she maneuvered her way through the crowds, head still down, carrying a tray on which rested her breakfastâfour slices of health-nut bread (at the deli counter they scratched their heads and let her have them for 40 cents), a metallically wrapped little square of butter and a vacuum-sealed miniature jar of jelly (both free), and a 50-cent cup of orange juice (cheaper than the only water available, which came in bottles at 75 cents each). She found a small table against a wall. There were two chairs. She put
Descartes, Darwin, and the Mind-Brain Problem
across from her by way of discouraging anyone who might consider occupying the other seat. The health-nut bread, which seemed to be made of dried husks, was tough going, as were Descartes, Darwin, and the mind-brain problem. “Whereas the doctrine that cultural changes represent nothing more than the organism's constant probing in the process of natural selection begs the question of whether or not the âmind' is in any way autonomous, the argument that âminds' are capable, through a process of organized âwills,' of creating cultural changes wholly independent of that process revives, ultimately, the discredited notion of the ghost in the machine.” Charlotte understood the gist of it, but the effort of dealing with such stultifying rhetoric at breakfast made her ⦠“mind” ⦠“brain” ⦠“will”âall those quotation marks were like dermatitis!âfeel unbearably heavy. Besides, she had to use one hand to keep the book open, which created an annoying problem when she tried to put butter and jelly on the health-nut bread. So she closed it and looked up to give the room a quick surveyâ
Descartes, Darwin, and the Mind-Brain Problem
across from her by way of discouraging anyone who might consider occupying the other seat. The health-nut bread, which seemed to be made of dried husks, was tough going, as were Descartes, Darwin, and the mind-brain problem. “Whereas the doctrine that cultural changes represent nothing more than the organism's constant probing in the process of natural selection begs the question of whether or not the âmind' is in any way autonomous, the argument that âminds' are capable, through a process of organized âwills,' of creating cultural changes wholly independent of that process revives, ultimately, the discredited notion of the ghost in the machine.” Charlotte understood the gist of it, but the effort of dealing with such stultifying rhetoric at breakfast made her ⦠“mind” ⦠“brain” ⦠“will”âall those quotation marks were like dermatitis!âfeel unbearably heavy. Besides, she had to use one hand to keep the book open, which created an annoying problem when she tried to put butter and jelly on the health-nut bread. So she closed it and looked up to give the room a quick surveyâ
Dear God
. There were Bettina and Mimi, not thirty feet away, threading their way between tables. At Mr. Rayon, finding the right place to sit seemed to strike everybody as a vital, crucial, all-consuming matter. Charlotte ducked her head back down over the book, but it was already too late. Even though it was for only an instant, her eyes had locked with Bettina's in a way that made it impossible to pretend she hadn't seen her. So she lifted her head just as Bettina, in the heartiest Bettina fashion, sang out, “Charlotte!”
. There were Bettina and Mimi, not thirty feet away, threading their way between tables. At Mr. Rayon, finding the right place to sit seemed to strike everybody as a vital, crucial, all-consuming matter. Charlotte ducked her head back down over the book, but it was already too late. Even though it was for only an instant, her eyes had locked with Bettina's in a way that made it impossible to pretend she hadn't seen her. So she lifted her head just as Bettina, in the heartiest Bettina fashion, sang out, “Charlotte!”
Charlotte put on a flat smile and waved, at the same time tilting her book up with the other hand, as if to say, “I'm acknowledging your presence in a friendly way, but you can see I'm busy reading, so you'll just keep on walking, won't you?”
If that got across to Bettina and Mimi, they didn't show it for a second. They immediately changed direction and headed straight for Charlotte.
Both had big smiles. She did her best to look enthusiastic as Bettina made herself at home at the little table's other chair and Mimi pulled over a chair from a table nearby. Charlotte braced herself for ⦠last night.
Both had big smiles. She did her best to look enthusiastic as Bettina made herself at home at the little table's other chair and Mimi pulled over a chair from a table nearby. Charlotte braced herself for ⦠last night.
“Where'd you go last night?” said Bettina. “We looked all over for you before we left.” Bettina and Mimi were both leaning forward in their chairs.
“I walked back,” said Charlotte. “I couldn't find you all, either, so I figured I'd get on back by myself. It was sort of scary walking all that way in the dark.”
“I thought maybe you didn't
have
to get back,” said Mimi with a suggestive smile.
have
to get back,” said Mimi with a suggestive smile.
“Yeah,” said Bettina. “Who
was
that guy? He was
hot
.” Her smile and her gleaming eyes said she wanted to hear it all, every tasty detail of it.
was
that guy? He was
hot
.” Her smile and her gleaming eyes said she wanted to hear it all, every tasty detail of it.
“What guy?” said Charlotte.
“Ohâcomeâon!” said Mimi. “What guy. Were there ten guys or something?” But it wasn't the irritated tone of last night. She was looking at her with the glittering eye of someone pumped up for an exciting story and waiting to be impressed.
“I guess you mean ⦔
“I guess I mean the guy who was all over Charlotte Simmons at the Saint Ray party, that guy. Who is he?” Big eyes, hungry smile.
Charlotte was overwhelmed by the urge to make it clear that whatever they had seen, the patting, the pawing, the squeezing, meant nothing. “His first name's Hoyt. Or that's what everybody called him. He never told me himself. He's in that fraternity. That's all I know about him, except that you can't trust him.”
“What do you mean?” said Bettina. “What did he do?” Her eyes said, “Come on, every detail.”
“Oh, he pretended he was just being a good host. He was going to give me a tour of the house and this stupid secret room he was so proud of and everything. Then he kept
touching
me. All he really wanted to do was get me alone in a bedroom. It was so ⦠so ⦠He was really gross.”
touching
me. All he really wanted to do was get me alone in a bedroom. It was so ⦠so ⦠He was really gross.”
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