Sunday, October 5, 2008

Chapter Sixteen NEW

"Won't you tell me? Why won't you get a life?" Stiff Little Fingers
Work the next day was pretty much just me retelling my non-eventful date over and over. Leo and I worked on the segment about it for a little while, and we quickly dissolved into fits of laughter. I left work happy, walking down the street in the fading sun. When I got off the subway at Marie’s, I practically ran up the stairs. I flung open the door, ready to spill all the details to her, and I found her sitting on her bed, with that mean look on her face.
“How’s your new best friend, Leo? Or you new boyfriend, Steven?”
“Marie, come on, she’s my boss. And he asked me out, whatever.”
“I let you stay at my house, and you ditch me in two days.” She complained.
“Marie! You know I love you best!”
“Want to visit Viv in her dorm tonight?”
I fought myself not to say that Leo and Yuki and I had talked about going out, and agreed with Marie.
“Does this look ok?” I was wearing all black, in attempt to do art student chic. Marie was fitting a beret over her hair, holding bobby pins in her mouth carefully
“I don’t know, who knows if irony is dead this week or not?” she said through her teeth. I giggled.
We caught a cab to Pratt, drinking in the backseat.
“Guys! Hey!” Viv met us at her door with a gross looking blue drink in hand. I looked around the room and saw some of the same faces from the night at Bungalow 8, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember any names.
“Hey ladies.” The girl with the dreads nodded at us. She then went back to a discussion on a sculptor with a boy who had a Mohawk. I stood by the window, carefully blowing smoke out. I felt awkward, because no one was making the effort to talk to me. I was bored by these art students, but Viv seemed happy. I soon realized her happiness was due to a certain amount of happy pills and happy cocktails
“ Let’s go on the roof!” Viv slurred, her drink sloshing over her hand.
We all trooped out into the hallway. The stairwell looked like it belonged in a state prison, all post-soviet cinderblocks and rusted railings. The view from the roof was intoxicating though.
“Wanna smoke?” I boy I remember vaguely offered to me.
“Sure.” I took the joint and inhaled deeply. Marie went next, pursing her lips delicately.
I lay down and looked at the sky. The warm air was still, and the noises of the city seemed distant. Marie and Viv laid down beside me, and we all held hands, in our own little world right then.
“I hate that girl.” Viv nodded with her chin at this girl with shaggy bangs. “She’s an idiot.”
“That boy is cute.” Marie pointed slightly towards Mohawk boy.
“Mmm, we already made out.” Viv giggled.
“Skank”
“Jealous.”
“I know, I know!” I exclaimed, “Let’s play the game.”
“Oh, fun!” Viv replied. The game was something we had thought up at a Harvard party back during freshman year. It was a competition to see how many boys you could make want to make out with you. You didn’t have to actually kiss them, you could if you wanted to, but it was the invite to make out that counted. I looked around. The group had grown, text-ponetially, everyone inviting classmates or roommates. The number was now twenty-something, with plenty of boys to play with. We got up, dusting off our clothes, and scattered.
“So you do light installations?” I asked Shaggy Hair Boy Number One, playing with my hair slightly.
“Yeah.” He was staring at my mouth, so I bit my lower lip. “Want to come see one in my room?”
“Uhm maybe later, I gotta find Viv.” I turned abruptly. As I passed Marie, who was locked in a conversation with Mohawk, I held up a one. Mohawk seemed more interested in discussing his experimental noise band, and I smiled to myself. Poor Marie. Viv was actually making out with Asymmetrical Hair Boy, so I pivoted on the spot, scouting. I spotted Brooding Smoker Boy, and made a bee-line.
“Hey.” I sat on the ledge next to him.
“Hi.”
“I’m Jane.”
“I’m Milo.” There was a pause. Brooding, Silent Smoker, I thought to myself.
“Do you go here?”
“Yeah, I’m a writer.”
“Cool. I just wrote an article for the magazine I work for.”
“You’re getting published?” his eyes were wide.
“Kind of.”
“Nice. I send out a poem every week to the New Yorker, I always get rejected.” He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“Well this is no New Yorker.” I explained the article to him.
“Well, if you write half as well as you talk…” He looked me in the eyes, shyly. I did my Look Away, Look Back tactic that worked so well.
“Want to come read some of my writing?” I weighed my options. I looked over and saw Marie was still stuck with Mohawk, and now Shaggy Bang Girl, and I smiled slightly.
“Sure.”
His room was exactly what I expected, a tasteful collage of vintage records on the wall, and a Mac laptop. He had moleskin notebooks scattered, and papers with scribbles, and a skateboard leaned against the wall.
“So.” I perched on his bed, crossing my legs.
“Yeah?” He sat next to me. I could tell he was one of those sensitive boys who used that as an asset, feeding the same lines to girls who were fooled by the faux-melancholy act. I was wise to his act, but why ruin it for him?
“I love that album.” I pointed to the wall, tilting my face toward him.
“Me too.” He got up and put on a song from the album on his record player, coming back over and sitting closer to me. Boys like this were never adept in bed. He was probably awkward in high school, only getting appreciation when he came to college. He then over-compensated, I was sure, with a string of Pierced Girls and Shaggy Bangs, learning that the sensitivity that got him called a fag in gym class worked with those girls to his advantage. Sadly, he probably never learned any bedroom skills beyond drunken seduction, and I was willing to bet he would stick his tongue down my throat and feel me up over my shirt.
I was right.
“Ungh.” He moaned awkwardly, as I lay under him, feigning pleasure. I wasn’t even present, I was in fact thinking about how I was probably going to win with two, since Viv was indisposed, and Marie had picked a dud. I was also worried he’d want to cuddle, or something equally horrific. After he finished, he thankfully rolled off of me and threw me my panties.
“Uhm, give me your number, I want to read your stuff.” He looked at me sheepishly.
“Sure, no problem.” I hoped he never called. He was actually a nice boy, all things considered, but I already had one lukewarm romance on my hands. I wrote it down on a scrap of paper, and placed it carefully among the clutter on his desk. That way, he could pretend he lost it. I remembered Andrew leaving his number for me on our coffee table, all those months back. The thrill I felt when I walked back into the living room, still reeling from our kiss, finding it placed prominently on top of a stack of books, written in bold. My heart ached at the memory and the contrast.
“Final count?” Marie sighed. “Negative one. I had to talk to Mohawk all night, and nothing.”
“One.” Viv chimed in. “And he is as stupid as his scenester haircut.”
“Two.” I added. “Victorious. If you count mediocre sex in a dorm bed, and an invitation to see a light installation count as a victory.”
“Guys.” Viv looked fake serious. “We need lives.” We all burst out laughing.
“You are so right.” Marie was shaking her head.
“We’re idiots. Absolute idiots. Who does stuff like that?”
“We’re pimps, whateva.” Viv said in her best ghetto accent.
“Let’s go to bed, please, before we come up with any more self-aware insights to how pathetic our lives are.” Marie suggested.
“Who gets the floor?” I asked. They both looked at me, Marie raising an eyebrow. “Prima donnas. Fine, throw me a pillow.”

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