Loner (17 page)

“I'll do my best.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled slightly. It wasn't in Sara's nature to put people down, but it was clear she wasn't as infatuated with them as they were with one another. Maybe she, too, would someday muster the escape velocity to liberate herself from their gravitational clutch.

“So we missed a golden opportunity last night,” I said as I pulled abreast of you in the Yard.

You startled at the sound of my voice. “We missed a what?” you asked, stepping up your pace a little.

“A golden opportunity.” I looked around; no one was near us. “To murder Sara.”

Your expression was equal parts confusion and horror.

“You brought it up the other night,” I continued. “I assumed that was your plan. To get her drunk during the blackout, then murder her. You and me, together.”

I waited a moment.

“I'm kidding!” I said. “Now
you're
the gullible one.”

“That's funny,” you said.

I bit my lip to control my glee. I needed to start acting like this more often around you—bolder, insouciant.

Walking in our direction was Scott Tupper with a friend.

“What's up, Veronica?” he said with a chin-up nod.

“Hey, guys,” you said.

I turned my head after he passed and saw that Scott was likewise looking over his shoulder. For a second I thought he was scrutinizing me, his competition, or perhaps he had finally recognized David from elementary school. But he was simply checking out your ass. My fury was mitigated by the oddly consoling thought that you'd never choose yappy little Scott over strong, silent Liam.

“Seriously, though, you doing okay?” I asked.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“You seemed a little off last night.”

You didn't respond.

“And the night before you sounded kind of upset,” I added. “At the final club. And after.”

We were almost at Matthews. Sara would be at lunch for a while. Maybe we could continue the conversation in your room.

“It wasn't a big deal.” You pulled a pair of earbuds out of your bag, inserted them, and plugged the cord into your phone. “I just drank too much that night.”

“I know what that's like,” I said.

“I have a meeting,” you said, veering away from our dorm.

There was no
Excuse me, I've got to run,
no
Nice talking to you,
no
See you later.
I was a plaything you picked up when you wanted to be worshipped and callously discarded when you grew bored.

Back in my room, I got your belt out of the dresser and climbed into bed with my laptop to look at porn. My usual videos weren't doing it for me, though. I perused the panel of thumbnails on the side, clicking on one labeled “SPH,” which I discovered stood for “small penis humiliation.” An Amazonian blonde addressed the camera, laughing at the viewer's tiny dick and how it could never satisfy her, it was like a baby's, she would make me watch a real man fuck her.

It worked. I got hard, mummified myself within the belt, and indulged in a commingling of sensuous pleasure and fiery anger that, upon completion, promptly curdled into clinical disgust and smoldering shame.

These are the kinds of things to which you reduced me.

“Halloween is just an excuse for girls to dress like sluts,” Sara told me. “And, yes, I'm aware that by using that word I'm complicit in their objectification.”

After finding out that her new friend, Layla, was going to an upperclassman party up in the Quad, however, she decided to lift her boycott. She drew a map of Virginia on a shirt and bought a cheap wolf mask. The Matthews Marauders were also attending; at Steven's behest—and because it required no work—I went as him and he as me.

“But our clothes aren't distinctive,” I'd initially protested. “And they're not even that different. No one will figure out we're going as each other.”

“That's exactly the point!” He cackled like a criminal mastermind. “It shows how similar we all are underneath everything. We're just collections of matter that are constantly being recycled.”

Despite her contempt for the holiday, Sara, ever the diligent
student, became invested in her costume, sketching out neighboring states and drawing them to scale on the Virginia map after dinner. I sat on her bed wearing Steven's jeans and T-shirt (
LET
'
S GET ­PHYSICS
-
AL
).

You came out of your room in regular clothes, above the juvenile imposture of Halloween; you didn't need a costume to attract attention. Sara and I were among the mob of spectators who lined the parade route, sheepishly masking ourselves and wishing we were the anointed ones waving from the float.

“How late do you want to stay at the party?” I asked Sara before you reached the hall, so you would know we had, for once, exciting social plans, a
party
, we were young and hedonistic, who knew where the night might take us?

“Not too late,” she said, and sneezed four times.

We trekked to the Quad with the post-pregaming Marauders as they concatenated inside jokes. Those real bonding moments, most of which I'd missed, had taken on mythic proportions in their retelling: when Ivana had eaten four sleeves of Oreos, the night they all stayed up and watched every episode of
Star Wars
, the time Kevin had passed out from drinking and they drew penises on his face and took photos.

Out of habit I reached for the snipped piece of belt in my fifth pocket, panicked when it wasn't there, and remembered that I was wearing Steven's jeans. Because they were tight on me, I'd put the silk in the more spacious but securely snug back pocket.

“Where's Carla?” I asked Sara as we lagged behind the others.

“She's going to Halloqueen,” she told me. “The BGLTQ party.” Carla had come out as a lesbian a few weeks ago and was spending more time at events hosted by that student group.

“I almost wish I belonged to a marginalized community so I'd have a safe space for all occasions,” I said.

“The whole world is your safe space,” she snapped.

“Not true. I shopped a feminism class and didn't feel particularly welcome there.”

“I'm assuming that's a joke?”

“Fine, bad example,” I said. “But I expect I'm going to be uncomfortable at this party, for instance.”

“That's not about your identity; that's your disposition,” she said. “And join the club, by the way.”

We found the other member of our club hiding in a corner of the party. Layla's glasses kept fogging up in the steamy room, and every few minutes she took them off to wipe the lenses on the apron of her Raggedy Ann costume, during which time she turned her head when spoken to with the twitchy movements of a finch on the lookout for predators. The two girls had the fluid if formal rapport of a job interview that was going smashingly: bilaterally curious, overlapping interests, a dash of good-natured humor.

A football player was dressed up as the subject of the big news story that week: a pregnant Miami trophy wife who, it was alleged, had arranged for the murder of her husband for the insurance payout. Sara and Layla discussed her pending court case.

“It's really messed up how men receive almost all of the death sentences,” I said.

“Are you saying she should get the death penalty?” Sara asked.

“Well, I'm against it in principle,” I said, “but I believe in equality. She shouldn't get off just because she's a woman.”

“Some people think he abused her,” Sara said. “It's possible you would've done the same thing if you were in her position.”

“That's ridiculous,” I said, wishing I'd never brought it up. But I felt the need to stand up for myself. “Even if I somehow had it in me to
kill
someone, I'd never be the type to do it just for money.”

“That's just it,” she said. “You think you have to be a
type
. Maybe we're
all
the type, in some small way, and that's why we're so fascinated by the scandalous details, like whether she was having an affair with the guy who killed her husband or if she had a history of mental illness.”

“I can't believe you're defending her,” I said. “Did you see her eyes in the mug shot? She looks completely insane.”

“I'm not de
fend
ing what she did. I'm saying we're not thinking about her as a human being. We call her ‘completely insane' and turn her into a thing you can dress up as for Halloween.” She pointed at a zombie-scientist walking past us. “Just another monster.”

Sensing I had lost the debate—if not for rhetorical reasons, then relationship ones—I volunteered to retrieve us all drinks.

Scott Tupper was present, dressed as Fred Flintstone. He had become the nucleus of a pack of boys that was seldom atomized. Tonight his arm was curled around the exposed lower back of a sexy Wilma. I could understand other guys being drawn to him, but it was bewildering that Harvard girls didn't find him noxiously ­repellent.

The room was exceeding its carrying capacity, to use Steven's term. It occurred to me that if somebody were to call out “Fire!” short Scott might be one of the victims of a stampede.

I refilled our drinks at regular intervals. (“He's such a gentleman,” Layla gushed.)

Kevin lurched our way. “David!” he screamed in my face, spraying me with spit and shaking me by the shoulders. “David! You're
here
! You're actually fucking
here
!”

“Yep, I'm here,” I said, trying to placate him. “I walked over with you.”

He teetered woozily. “You're a funny guy,” he said, and left.

We were all deep in our cups. Even Sara was speaking loudly and clumsily, more animated than I'd ever seen. A few times she slurred her delivery—“the Scandanissas—wait,
nist
—the
San
di-­
nistas
!”—and doubled over in hysterics.

When Layla went to the bathroom, Sara looped her arms around my neck and rested her head on my chest, rocking off rhythm to the up-tempo song. I pulled closer to her to avoid being hit by an unbridled dancer and, interpreting this as a romantic gesture, she
craned her neck and puckered her lips. We'd never done this before in full public view. She kissed with the suction of an airplane toilet's flush.

“You taste good.” She licked her lips in an unprecedented display of sexual initiative. “Like alcohol.”

“Let's get out of here,” I proposed. If there were a night to expand our bedtime repertoire, this was it. “I want to have you all to myself.”

“All right, mister.” She shimmied her shoulders. “Where'd Layla go?”

“To the bathroom,” I reminded her.

“We have to wait for her,” she said. Raging drunk and still unfailingly considerate.

We continued swaying and kissing. I closed my eyes as the music throbbed around us and the alcohol gave me the floating sensation of riding in a car over a bump, feeling lordly for once at a party. I was making out with a girl on a dance floor in college. Then I remembered that moment at the final club when I realized you were facing the bar to make it look like you weren't speaking with me. To avoid slipping down a rabbit hole of self-doubt, I recalled our parting that night, you crying in my arms. But then you were cold to me, if not outright hostile. Your mercurial nature was maddening, absolutely maddening. The next time the pendulum of your affections swung my way, I'd take hold at its apex and not let go.

Sara's arms came down and she burrowed her hands into my back pocket, squeezing my butt. When she withdrew them she was holding the snipped piece of belt.

“VMW,” she read from it, one eye closed, and looked up at me for an explanation.

“
B
MW,” I said, grabbing it back from her and wedging it in the small pocket so she couldn't take it out again. “You're not seeing straight. We should get you home.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let's ride in your BMW all the way home.”

Back in Matthews, Sara collapsed on her bed. After removing
her shoes and outerwear and turning on the white-noise machine, I undressed myself. I recollected Steven's gloating appeal to keep his family photo on my bookcase and entertained the notion of subbing out
THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD
for
LET'S GET
­PHYSICS-AL
.

But tonight no shirt would be necessary. Sara was drunk. So was I. We had both soaked up the collective id of late capitalistic Halloween. I'd waited long enough. I kissed her. She kissed me back and I pressed my erection against her. “Let's just be naked together,” I said, hooking my fingers under the waistband of her underpants. This time she didn't object. I rolled them down her legs.

In the midst of a kiss, I allowed the tip of my penis to graze her crotch. She shivered and clasped her hands tighter around my back. I paused and did it again, this time drawing out the contact. After the third pass I whispered, “I want to be inside you.”