by Lisa Lutz
JACK VANDENBERG
What do you love? Money
What do you hate? Snitches
If you could live inside a book, what book? I wouldn’t
What do you want? A black Range Rover
Who are you? The MAN
EMELIA LAIRD
What do you love? Lucy (my dog), my family, Beyonce
What do you hate? the head push, Whitney
If you could live inside a book, what book? Paper Towns
What do you want? A BMW M6
Who are you? a good person
GEMMA RUSSO
What do you love? I don’t know
What do you hate? the Darkroom and Dulcinea
If you could live inside a book, what book? Great Expectations
What do you want? Revenge
Who are you? I’m a spy
CARL BLOOM
What do you love? D&D, A warm shower, my parents
What do you hate? dander, chemistry, nature walks
If you could live inside a book, what book? the thesaurus, maybe? Is that weird?
What do you want? to breathe through my nose
Who are you? Undecided
SANDRA POLONSKY
What do you love? Vampires
What do you hate? my thighs, apple bobbing, Tofurky
If you could live inside a book, what book? Twilight
What do you want? World peace and to lose fifteen pounds
Who are you? a good person
MELANIE EASTMAN
What do you love? Vicks cough drops, rain, the Ramones
What do you hate? Dulcinea, shag rugs, obligatory BJs
If you could live inside a book, what book? The Maltese Falcon
What do you want? To buckle the patriarchy; a spork revival
Who are you? The enemy
BETHANY WISEMAN
What do you love? vampires, people named Taylor, Rihanna, my sister
What do you hate? the Darkroom, BJs
If you could live inside a book, what book? Twilight, New Moon, Breaking Dawn
What do you want? to be Bella
Who are you? Not Bella
ADAM WESTLAKE
What do you love? Information
What do you hate? Disorder, weakness
If you could live inside a book, what book? The Fountainhead
What do you want? So many things
Who are you? The puppetmaster
AMY LOGAN
What do you love? snowboarding, music, sleep
What do you hate? Chris Brown; the word yummy
If you could live inside a book, what book? Harry Potter (any one)
What do you want? freedom, an end to global warming
Who are you? an enigma
JONAH WAGMAN
What do you love? GR
What do you hate? The Darkroom
If you could live inside a book, what book? Sense and Sensibility
What do you want? Peace
Who are you? I don’t know yet
HANNAH REXALL
What do you love? ballet, modern dance, yoga
What do you hate? my feet
If you could live inside a book, what book? Dancing on My Grave
What do you want? fame, fortune, and a hot husband
Who are you? Everything
MICK DEVLIN
What do you love? The Darkroom
What do you hate? Snitches and douchebags
If you could live inside a book, what book? The Picture of Dorian Gray
What do you want? Absolute power
Who are you? The boss man
GABRIEL SMYTHE
What do you love? Pussy
What do you hate? Dry pussy?
If you could live inside a book, what book? The Kama Sutra
What do you want? What have you got?
Who are you? Who are you?
Gemma Russo
Every time Emelia debriefed Tegan and me on her hangouts with Nick, I would sit there and dig my nails into my palms until I came close to drawing blood. I like Emelia, but she has no idea how boring her fuckless dates are.
“After the party, I took him up to the roof. I was cold. He gave me his jacket. It smelled like him—that man smell that’s so intoxicating. Nick and I gazed at the stars. He knows all of the constellations. He held my hand. Then I let him kiss me. His tongue is so smooth and gentle and he doesn’t do that super-annoying thing of just shoving it in your mouth without a plan. He tasted like mint. He reached under my dress and I told him to slow down. He put my hand on his dick and he told me I had to put him out of his misery. I told him it was too soon. He said I was worth waiting for. Then he kissed me again and walked me home. He told me that he had to go back to his room to masturbate.”
Or he summoned Hannah to swing by and blow him.
“And this morning, I found a rose and a poem in my mailbox,” Emelia said.
It was a fresh rose, not a dead one, I should mention. Tegan read Nick’s poem out loud.
“Escape me?
Never—
While I am I, and you are you,
So long as the world contains us both,
I must the other pursue.”
I plugged a few lines into my computer. It was Browning, sort of. I wanted to tell her I’d heard things about Nick. But the messenger always gets shot, and I knew I’d have to play that role eventually. When I had more evidence, or thought Emelia was actually ready to screw him, I’d step up.
* * *
—
Tegan and Emelia created an avalanche of clothes getting ready for the party. Emelia finally decided on a backless, high-collared satin dress cut just above the knee. She looked great, as usual. Tegan looked like she was wearing a giant sparkly compression bandage that stretched from just above her tits to just below her vagina. The inevitability of a wardrobe malfunction made me seriously consider bookmaking the over/under on that dress. I slipped into a pair of jeans, a silver top with spaghetti straps, and a black leather jacket. I reapplied the eyeliner and shadow that hadn’t completely washed down the drain and painted my lips red.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Tegan said.
“I don’t know,” I said, making a point of looking at the garments on my body. “Is this what I’m wearing? I’m trying to remember that Kant shit from last year’s philosophy class. Objectively, I think I’m wearing this, but my view of my clothes and your view are both subjective, so I’m not sure if there’s wiggle room for consideration that maybe I’m not wearing what you think I’m wearing.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Tegan said. “I thought you might want people to know that you own more than two pairs of jeans and a shoplifted dress.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your concern.”
Tegan got a call from Jack, although she pretended it was her mother like she always does. It had taken me a full year to realize that the secret-keeping was Jack’s doing. I have few kind words for that girl, but I always thought she was better than that. Once Tegan
was out of the room, Emelia pulled a black dress from her closet. It was plain but pretty, and it had a generous A-line cut that would skim over my more substantial ass.
“I know it’s not really your style, but I’d love to see it on you. And I think it would look good with your black boots,” Emelia said.
I love how Em tries to make her kindness sound like I’d be doing her a favor.
I wore the dress. Then I let Emelia fix my hair. As she was fussing over me, trying to twist my neck-length hair into something of an updo, an ancient memory of my mother came back to me. Mom was awake, braiding my hair. What sticks with me the most is how much it felt like a memory in that moment.
“Em? Be careful with Nick,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Emelia. “I have him just where I want him.”
I said nothing. Was that a lie of omission?
* * *
—
I was impressed by the restraint the editors showed by not having another pimps ’n’ hos party. It was practically a Stonebridge tradition. The editors decided to bypass Halloween altogether and have a black-tie soirée.
There wasn’t even a keg. Only hard alcohol, wine, and a few six-packs of beer, for the philistines, as Adam would say. Some people even drank out of real glasses. The usual suspects—the Ten—plus another ten or twenty to keep it interesting were in attendance. Freshmen and sophomores worked as unpaid labor, bribed by the promise of future club membership or the delusional belief that they were climbing another rung in the social hierarchy. It was a thankless job for those underclassman butlers and maids. I would have set them straight if I didn’t have other priorities.
Most of the boys were just in regular suits, but Adam and Mick went full throttle. Mick wore a tux and Adam had on some ridiculous waistcoat with tails.
“Look at you, Gemma, all dolled up,” Adam said.
“Look at you, Adam,” I said.
I couldn’t decide if Adam looked more manservant, symphony conductor, or penguin, but I so appreciated his whimsy in a room full of dicks in well-tailored designer suits that I refrained from insulting him.
Emelia ignored New Nick for the first thirty minutes or so of the party. She chatted with Westlake, believing she was playing the game with cold, hard calculation.
Tegan and Jack, as usual, pretended like they didn’t know each other, even though they probably just screwed an hour before. Rachel Rose and Mick Devlin disappeared for a few minutes and returned. I sat on the filthy couch and let a freshman whom Westlake called Jeeves refill my drink.
Mel had just sent two emphatic, yet vague, texts. I was looking at the screen when Adam sat down next to me.
Mel: Oh my God.
Mel: Oh my fucking God.
Gemma: ??????
“Gems, quit looking at your phone and have a conversation with me,” Adam said.
I started to say something. But then the third text rolled in.
Mel: I’m in the Darkroom!!!!
Mr. Ford
To: Finn Ford
From: William Langston
Subject: good news!
Dear Finn,
While you were (hopefully) whittling down your manuscript to a more manageable word count, I took the liberty of allowing a young editor I know to take a look at it. I will leave all the details for our phone call, but I am thrilled to tell you that we have a preempt on Mr. Finch. Call me in the morning to discuss. It’s a fair offer, all things considered. Not enough to quit your day job, but it’ll get you back in the game.
Best,
Will
Evelyn and I were sitting in the lounge when I got the news. I said fuck me, because I hear from the guy so rarely. Evelyn said, I have a headache. Maybe later. Then I told her about the email. If there’s one person here who won’t undercut a good mood, it’s her. Evelyn smiled, folded the newspaper, walked over to me, and kissed me on the cheek. She was so goddamn sweet. I kind of wanted to fuck her even though she’s not really my type.
“We should celebrate,” Evelyn said.
“Not yet,” I said. “Let me make the call.”
Of course, Will was in a meeting when I first rang his office. Then at a lunch for the second. He got back to me four long hours later while I was mid-lecture on Miller’s The Crucible. I fumbled with the phone and stepped into the hallway.
The call itself was far less exciting than the anticipation that the email incited. Once Will gave me the lowdown, he started pushing for me to take the deal. I suggested he might be able to get an auction going. He actually laughed and then gave me that bird-in-the-hand lecture. He did a hard sell for Emily Parker from Hartford Press. He described her as young and crazy ambitious. Then, to derail my confidence, he said that Emily thought the book had potential but needed a lot of work. By the end of the conversation I felt less like an author with a newly minted publishing deal and more like a guy who’d paid the sticker price on a used car.
I ran into Dean Stinson later that afternoon. He congratulated me. I told him it wasn’t a big deal and that I wasn’t quitting my job. He asked me to come over to his house the next day. Around eight, he said.
There were already about a dozen teachers and staff at the dean’s house when I arrived. I asked Evelyn what was up and she said that we were celebrating my book deal. Then she smiled sheepishly and apologized for the lack of cocktails at the cocktail party and suggested we hit Hemingway’s after. Primm was hovering, lying in wait. I felt like a rabbit being hunted by a really fucking annoying coyote.
Stinson’s home reminds me of a hunting lodge. The room he uses for drinking and standing around is called the parlor. It looks like a dining room, minus the table. There’s one small couch, in the corner, a few old mahogany chairs, a chandelier, and an ornate Oriental rug with a large rust-colored stain. The stain has faded considerably, but it always makes me think that someone or something bled out on it.
“Finn, it’s a wine stain,” Claude said, suddenly appearing at my side.
Claude punched me in the arm and congratulated me. She was happy for me and jealous, she said. Not of getting published but of the cash influx. I liked her honesty. I told her it wasn’t much money. That made her feel better.
Dean Stinson clinked his glass with a knife and told everyone to gather around. He was stumped after that. Stinson gazed at the ceiling, searching for something. Maybe the guy was going senile. Lost in thought, he turned to Alex.
“Alex, help me out here. What was that thing Nastya used to say?”
“Take the blank page by the throat and beat it to a pulp. Do not let it beat you,” she said.
“To Finn, for winning that fight,” said Greg.
There were two bottles of champagne for twelve people. Fifteen minutes after I arrived, the toast was made and everyone stood around staring at the bottom of an empty glass.
A few other colleagues offered good wishes and all of that shit. I wanted to free everyone from the cocktail-less cocktail party. I was just about to say, Well, this has been fun, when Dean Stinson asked me what the book was about. Loudly, like it wasn’t just a question for him and me but for the entire group.
“It’s about a place not unlike this one,” I said.
“I can’t wait to read it,” he said.
I really couldn’t tell whether he was being snide or sincere. My glass was still empty. I watched Evelyn pour the dregs from the bottles into her mug. She caught my eye and made a sad face, like a child at the end of a birthday party.
“Well, this has been fun,” I finally said. “Thank you all for coming.”
Drinking a bottle of bourbon alone in my apartment would have been a more celebratory event.
The next time I saw Alex, she was standing outside, talking to Keith. At first I thought she was angry, but then as he spoke, I swear I caught a smile
, a real one. I couldn’t figure her out. She’d barely said a word since we slept together. If I weren’t stuck in the Stonebridge bubble, I doubt I’d have given her the time of day.
Ms. Witt
Even I felt bad for Finn. The whole thing would have been fine as an impromptu toast in the teachers’ lounge. But when Greg committed to a formal celebration in his “parlor” and barely had enough sparkling wine for half a toast, it took on a sad shape. I asked Greg who’d done the math on the alcohol. Greg blamed Ms. Pinsky, who blamed Mario at Dahl. Mario said a case of champagne had simply vanished.
I didn’t want to be there. The video was still making me twitchy and there was nothing to drink. As soon as I escaped through the back door, I found Keith loitering just under the kitchen window.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Debating whether I should go inside or not.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Save yourself.”
“That bad?”
“There’s nothing to drink or eat.”
“Thanks for sparing me,” Keith said. “I’ll walk you back. I have to stop by the greenhouse.”
Keith took a path directly through the woods. There was no trail to speak of.
“It’s called Graham Greenehouse, right?” I said.
“Not that I know of.”
“How disappointing,” I said.
“We can call it the Graham Greenehouse from now on,” Keith said.
“Thank you.”
Since I had Keith alone, I decided to ask about the odd exchange I’d witnessed between him and Linny.
“She was cleaning up after other students,” he said. “I told her to stop.”
“It sounds to me like she was being considerate. If she doesn’t clean, then it’s left to the janitorial staff, right?”
“Last year, I was supervising lunch period and, uh, Linny started cleaning before anyone was done. It was a full lunchroom. She was acting like a maid. There was a table of senior boys. They were throwing napkins and silverware on the floor, waiting for her to pick it up. It was amusing to them, making her clean up after them. Linny is thinking that if she doesn’t clean up the mess, then it’s left for the cafeteria staff, who already have plenty to do. Cut to ten years later. Linny has a job. She works at some kind of corporation. She’s at a meeting in a conference room. Food is served. Meeting adjourns. Linny stays to clean up. What does that say to the boss? Does it make him think, That tidy woman deserves a promotion? No. Because he doesn’t respect her and he wants to keep her just where she is because he likes having someone who will clean up other people’s shit.”