by Lola West
I heard him make a sound behind me, a little sorrowful sound. And then I walked out the door and closed it.
Part II
Fall
19
Drew
Even though fall was basically knocking at the door, it was still hot. A trickle of sweat ran down my neck and my shirt felt suctioned to my back. I was standing on the front steps of my parents’ house, holding the last box I had to put in my Land Rover, listening to the senator lecture me. This particular lecture was a repeat. He had given me the same lecture for the last two weeks: You, Drew Scott Jr., should feel blessed that Hamilton didn’t expel you.
It was also a holiday of sorts, privileged assholes escape from prison day, sounds ludicrous, I know, but it’s a tradition that I share with Pete and Katie. Ever since we could drive, Pete, Katie, and I made a ritual out of moving days. We took two cars, Pete’s and mine, and we drove tandem to wherever we were going, acting crazy and being stupid the whole way. Even though we all had cell phones, we used walkie talkies and Katie switched cars at every stop. (Okay, once without stopping, but only once.) We ate shit. We talked shit. And we felt exalted because it didn’t matter if we were escaping for a week or a year; every moment without the condemnation of our parental bullshit was worth celebrating.
It started by mistake. We were going on some school-sponsored wilderness retreat, and we were just naturally happy idiots, sixteen and reckless. We had so much fun and felt so free. It was one of the first times that we all realized that maybe someday, we’d get out from the long dark tentacles of our parents’ lives. Katie thought it was momentous, something big and powerful that could remind us there was a future beyond being DC brats. Of the three of us, Katie was the youngest and the smartest; it was emasculating and reassuring at the same time.
Anyway, she said that because we knew everything that other people relied on was bullshit, spin, and lies, the big ideas, like honesty, truth, honor, heroism, and so many others, we needed to find things to hold on to, rituals that kept us tethered to our humanity or else we’d become just like our parents. Privileged assholes escape from prison day was one of her rituals. Katie took her shit seriously, and because we loved her, so did we. When Pete and I started school two years ago, Katie drove up with us. She stayed at Hamilton for the weekend just so she could take part in our most grand version of privileged assholes escape from prison day to date. And the following year, she turned down an acceptance to an Ivy League school to be with us, so privileged assholes escape from prison day continued.
That said, I wasn’t feeling the whole wild and crazy car trip vibe. I was in a sour mood. I had been packing up my car for a few hours. My skin was sticky, clammy, and gray. I had a shit hangover, the kind that scorches your stomach and your brain. And I was so over the senator’s lecture. I knew the deal. Hamilton had a no-nonsense policy when it came to drug use. Get caught doing drugs, get expelled. And yet, unsurprisingly, Hamilton felt that my unproven claim that I was doped complicated things. I was fairly certain that being the son of a senator who could rally donations also played a role in defining my incident as “complicated,” but whatever. The thing about having power or being associated with those who have power was that you got used to skating by without any effort. If you struggle, it might seem like this would be a good feeling, but it wasn’t. It felt like you were invisible. There was a time when I was disgusted and disheartened by the ease of my triumphs, now nothing. To save face, Hamilton put me on probation. I had to do some kind of community service for the university; the senator negotiated the entire thing. I didn’t pay attention to the details because I didn’t care.
I didn’t care about anything. It had been six weeks since Lua walked out of my hotel room, and I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since. Most nights, I was satisfied to toss and turn, trying to remember the exact pitch of her voice, picturing her standing almost naked in the moonlight, cursing at how I acted and trying to think what I could have done differently, just hating myself and wanting her. It seemed a respectable punishment for the way I’d behaved. Sometimes I thought about calling her, but before she closed the door to that hotel room, she gave me the message loud and clear. We were not friends. She didn’t want to hear from me. She wanted to be free of my crazy. She didn’t want to give me the opportunity to hurt her again, and I respected that.
When I couldn’t bear it, I got blitzed. Not willing to take any chance that I might become a media darling once again, I’d taken to drinking the senator’s scotch. He had cases of the shit in the basement, and one night when he was off somewhere, telling some room full of people what an amazing man he was, I went down the rickety old stairs, pulled the string on the overhead bulb, and relocated an entire case; it found a new home under my bed and lived very comfortably. The senator had more cases than he knew what to do with. I figured as long as he didn’t find it, he’d never know. It was the first box I put in the Land Rover. So, while he stood there droning on like the teacher from The Peanuts, I kept thinking, thanks for the scotch, asshole, over and over in my head. And yet, even as I was hating him, hating the lilt of his voice and the dry chap of his lips, hating the way he always spoke in platitudes and condescension, hating that he regularly stopped to ask if I was listening to a lecture that he’d given me at least fifteen times, I also wasn’t really there at all.
Instead, I was with the Lua in my head. I always wondered where she was and what she was doing. Was she also heading to campus? Was she packing her car with Joe and her dad? Did she feel anxious leaving the thrive for the first time? I bet she did. I could picture her, outside, by a car, the sun setting fire to the red glints in her hair, sunglasses on the crown of her head, shorts and a hippie top, also braless like at Bonnaroo. At home, still packing her car, Lua would be barefoot. She would be busy, red-faced and ruddy from moving her things and jittery. So nervous about being alone, trapped in a dorm, surrounded by mainstreamers. I could feel her anxiety for her, or at least I could imagine it. I could imagine the tension that would stitch itself through her neck and shoulders, how wanting to cry would claw at the back of her throat and she’d squelch it by biting her lip and taking deep breaths with her eyes closed. I could feel how desperately she’d want Joe to come with her. How she’d want him to stay on the floor or in the closet in her dorm room for the next two years just so she didn’t have to feel so alone.
I’d be on her mind too. She’d be thinking about me, about how I’d failed her. She’d be thinking about how if I could have been brave enough to communicate what I felt, then maybe she’d have a safety net. I mean obviously we wouldn’t be together. I didn’t even know if that was ever something Lua wanted, an us. But if I’d told her the truth, trusted her to understand all the ugly in my life, then there would still be a thread between us. And she’d know if she was in trouble, she had me to call on. And she did, but she never would. Instead, I was another pressure, another stress adding to the turmoil that flipped in her stomach as she loaded up her car. I was a face that she’d come across in the cafeteria or crossing the quad that would quicken her step and remind her of something broken.
When I thought about her all collegiate, sitting at a table with new friends, laughing or chatting or poured over a book, I wanted to scream. I wanted to have those moments with her. I wanted to eat shitty cafeteria food with her and try to convince her to let me take her out somewhere better. I wanted to walk across the quad with my arm around her, like it was as we left the Empire State Building. I wanted to fuck her in her dorm room and get caught by her roommate. I wanted to get shitty drunk at a party or a club with her and grind against her on the dance floor. I wanted to see her wearing my sweatpants, stressed out about a test, her hair in an unruly bun on top of her head. I wanted her screaming angry and sappy hormonal. I wanted it all with Lua.
The idea of being on campus with her had me completely on edge. I’d literally drunk myself to sleep for the last week. I had no idea how I was going to keep myself from turning into a cre
eper. I could already sense that her presence would floor me, that when she was nearby, I’d be sucked right out of the moment I was in, drawn to watch her, to stare at her, or worse to follow her, just so I could feel close. And that would be super weird because I didn’t tell anyone about Lua. Not Katie, not Pete. I mean they knew about her. They knew about the girl who spoke out against the senator’s spin on nation television, and they knew about going to New York for The Kelsey Jennings Show. But they didn’t know about Lua. They didn’t know about watching Lua dance. They didn’t know about ramen, Fuerza Bruta, or fucking ice cream. They didn’t know about making Lua come, or listening to her breathing when she fell asleep in my arms. They didn’t know that I craved her, that I couldn’t breathe without aching for her. They didn’t know that I loved her. Honestly, how could they? I didn’t even really know until I pushed her away. And at that point the discussion was moot. No use crying over that spilled, rancid, rotting milk.
I kept the fucking robe though. When she left the room, I looked at it lying on the floor and I needed it. Having it felt dirty, like I was a pervert, like having it would come back to bite me in the ass, i.e. Monica Lewinsky and the infamous blue dress, but I couldn’t stop myself. It smelled like her, like her soap, her sweat, and her sex, all the things we did together. I didn’t jerk off on it or anything. I just kept it, like the bandana. I kept it, and I tried not to feel like a fucking psycho hoarding trophies because even if it was completely wacko, I wanted it. I wanted something, some token that reminded me that my night with her was real. I’d packed it too. Folded it up, put it in my suitcase, and worried that the last remnants of her scent would get drowned out by being pressed into a confined space with my clean clothes. I was actually thinking about digging it out and putting it in its own box, when Katie and Pete pulled up.
They were in Pete’s black Porsche 911. The Porsche was Pete’s third sports car since we turned sixteen. He wrecked cars, but not like you’d think. Not drunk or high. He wrecked them stone-cold sober. Drove fast and drove into things. Once, for a second, I wondered if he did it on purpose, but mostly I thought he had some issues with limits and rules. Pete was out of the car before Katie. He left the car door open, ensuring that he was not here to stay. The senator turned as soon as he heard the grumble of the engine. As Pete approached the senator, lifted his hand in a casual wave. The senator loved Pete, treated him like small-town Texas treats a high school quarterback with a flawless record. No matter how gracious the senator was to him, Pete remained loyal to me and thought the senator was an ass. That said, he played the senator’s affections for all he could get.
“Morning, sir,” Pete said with a little nod and a charmer’s smile.
The senator threw open his arms, prepped for a back-slapping embrace. “Peter, my boy. Always a pleasure.”
“Likewise, sir.” Pete winked at me over the senator’s shoulder.
The other car door opened. Katie emerged. She was thin. She was always thin, but she looked thinner. She also seemed flustered, almost jittery. She was flushed and her strawberry-blond hair was messy, like she’d been driving in a convertible, only she wasn’t in a convertible. Normally, every hair on Katie’s head was in place; she wasn’t an out-of-sorts type. I filed her appearance away as something off, something telling, and then shook that thought loose and let it drift away.
Heading in our direction, she said, “Sorry, on a call,” and then held up her phone for a second like she needed it to prove that people get calls. Katie looked the part, rich and preppy. She had emotional and intellectual flair, but even her casual jeans and a white tee, looked like it cost more than the average American makes in a month. As the senator said his hellos to Katie, Pete took my last box from me and headed to my car. Katie and I remained with the senator who looked to her.
He cleared his throat and said, “Well, Katie-girl, I fully expect you to be the responsible one in this situation. Do me a favor and make sure Drew doesn’t screw it all up again.”
Katie smiled a tight-lipped smile and just out of the senator’s line of sight, Pete drove his fist into the crook of his elbow, one hand horizontal, the other vertical—fuck you. He flipped the bird at the same time—double fuck you. Either my or Katie’s expression must have responded to Pete, because the senator turned to look, and Pete stood there innocently scratching his arm as if nothing had happened. Without touching me, Katie leaned in and air-kissed my cheek. She lingered long enough to whisper, “Prison break.”
And then it was just motions. Goodbye house and picket fence. Goodbye, senator, mom, siblings. Hug, hug, hug, handshake. Open door, get behind the steering wheel. Katie decided to ride with me first. Roll down the window, watch them wave goodbye. They were picture-perfect standing there, an all-American family.
We backed out of the driveway, Pete in front of us.
My mom hollered, “Have fun.”
The senator called, “Drive safe.”
As Katie rolled up the window, she smiled and waved, but through her teeth, she said to me, “Unless you can get into a car accident when I need a spike in the polls.”
By the time I replied, the window was closed. “Then by all means die a fiery catastrophic death.” We laughed and Pete peeled out ahead of us.
I tried to focus on the task at hand. Be joyful. It was, after all, privileged assholes escape from prison day, but all I could think was, any day now, it would happen. I would be walking along minding my own business and there she’d be, Lua. And in that moment, I’d be dying because I didn’t even know if it would be okay for me to say hello.
20
Lua
Joe left. We carried all my things up to my room, and then he left me sitting on a bare mattress, facing a wall drowning in glitter and Greek letters. Apparently, my roommate, Chrystal—her name made apparent by the pink and purple alternating poster board letters tacked above her bed—was a member of a sorority or she was obsessed with a sorority. Either way, it didn’t seem like she and I were going to be a good fit. Before he left, Joe and I stared at her bedazzled wall and Greek letters. Befuddled, he asked, “Did you fill out a roommate questionnaire?”
I nodded.
“Did you remember to send it in?”
“It was online.”
“Could there have been a mix-up? Because this doesn’t seem right. Maybe you should call someone.”
But I couldn’t. I couldn't start my college career as the girl who switched roommates because the one she got assigned seemed like she might not be a great match, especially when I hadn’t even laid eyes on her. My goal was to be better than that; my goal was to buckle down and study hard. My goal was to be a better activist, to learn more, add depth and savvy to my politics. Help more. I couldn’t start that process by abandoning my roommate because she appeared to be a sickeningly shallow stereotype. Could I? I couldn’t, so worst-case scenario, she was someone I had to tolerate, best-case scenario, she was open-minded, and we’d learn from each other.
Only once Joe was gone, I sat there, looking at the wall above her bed and thinking, I’ve had enough of trying to help people see the light to last me a lifetime. Burying my head in my hands, I tried to shake off the feeling. I knew my feelings had nothing to do with Chrystal. They were about Drew. After that night in New York, I felt exhausted, drained, and stupid. I felt like he’d done everything right, signaled me over and over again that it was best to stay away. He never said it, but he made it clear that there was nothing healthy or happy for me with him. I was the one who acted impulsively. I wanted him. I wanted access to everything that I could see just below the surface. I wanted his fire. I wanted his laughter and his discomfort. I wanted to push him, force him outside of his comfort zone. I wanted him to admit his desire. I wanted him to give in to it, to take me, undo me, unwind me and make me come. I was the one who pushed the boundaries. And even though I ached now, I was never going to be sorry about that because I wasn’t ashamed of being with Drew, but I was ashamed that I let it burn me.
And he was at Hamilton. Somewhere, probably less than a mile from me, he was standing in some room surrounded by his boxes, unpacking his stuff. Still looking at Chrystal’s wall, it really sunk in that Drew was a Chrystal. The room he would be standing in would be inside a fraternity. He was that kind of a guy, a fraternity type, in seersucker shorts and a polo shirt. He probably didn’t have poster board cutouts that spelled his name over his bed, but I’d bet that his Greek letters were everywhere. Chrystal was the kind of girl that went with Drew. The kind of girl he’d meet at a frat party. Pairing Drew with Chrystal was uncomplicated. Pairing Drew with Lua was a category five hurricane.
Suddenly, I needed to know exactly what Chrystal looked like. There were pictures of her all over the wall, but they were mostly group shots, and from where I was sitting, I could make out the common face and figure in each shot but I hadn’t yet taken the time to clarify the exact details that made Chrystal, Chrystal. I crossed the room and leaned over her pink-flowered bedspread so I could get a closer look.