Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  It reminded Justine of the parties her parents threw, smoky and crowded, with a mix of grown-ups and kids, and an air of endless possibility—if the adults could get fucked up, so could the teenagers.

  “Hey, you made it,” Clay said, appearing from around a column, a beer in his hand. His hair was sticking up and his shirt was untucked. He looked great.

  “Did you just wake up?” Eve joked.

  “Disco nap. Now I’m on my second wind. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Justine scanned the crowd. Through a haze of smoke, she could see a bunch of kids lounging on a mustard velvet sectional—but no sign of Bruce.

  “Hey!” Clay high-fived Damon.

  “Hey, Justine!” Damon yelled over the music. “Señor Broom Closet’s in the bedroom with Christina.” He gestured toward the back of the loft.

  Justine stiffened.

  Eve pulled Justine toward the bathtub. “Ignore him,” she urged, handing her a Schlitz. “He’s a fucking idiot. He’ll say anything for a reaction,” Eve added, popping the top off her beer.

  Justine took a long sip. She didn’t love the sour yeasty taste of it, but if it anesthetized her, who cared?

  “Can we get high?” she asked.

  “Maybe Damon’s got blow.”

  Justine gaped. She had meant pot, but she should have guessed. Cocaine. Coke was something only millionaires could afford.

  “Let’s be polite before it gets crazy,” Eve said. Turning to Clay she asked, “Where’s your mom?”

  “This way,” he said, and Justine thought she detected reluctance in his voice. They headed to a candlelit corner where four adults sat around a hookah. They were talking and nodding like bobbleheads on a dashboard. A bearded man, a small woman with a flat-top haircut and massive hoop earrings, and the third an androgynous model Justine thought she had seen in Interview or somewhere. She was too tall and angular not to have been in a magazine.

  One of the women was reclining on a Victorian chaise, wearing a black dress embroidered with floppy clocks. Her gray hair hung to the floor. She held one of the hookah tubes in a heavily ringed hand, like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland.

  “Barbara,” Clay said, touching her arm. She stared at him without recognition. “Barbara!” he raised his voice. “Eve is here. And this is Justine Rubin, a friend from Griswold.”

  His mother moved her vague blue eyes over them, like searchlights through fog. She nodded.

  “Mrs. Bradley,” Justine started.

  “Mrs. Bradley is dead.” Her voice rattled like pebbles under water. “It’s Barbara.”

  “Barbara, I love this loft!” Justine said, and looking at the clocks on Barbara’s dress, “Are you a Dalí fan?”

  Barbara smiled, and Justine saw the flash of a gold tooth. “Not really, but our time is running out. What did you say your name was?”

  “Justine Rubin,” she replied. Eve noticed Clay gazing at Justine with admiration.

  “And your dress is wonderful too!” Barbara said to Justine. “I had one like it years ago. Where do you hail from?”

  “New Haven.”

  “Her parents run a theater,” Eve said.

  “The Cassandra?” Barbara pushed herself a bit higher on the chaise.

  “You’ve heard of it?” Justine asked.

  “Heard of it? I’ve been there.” Barbara waved her hand in the air, rings glinting in the candlelight. “I saw Liv Ullmann’s Ghosts. Fabulous!”

  “She came over for dinner during that,” Justine said, recalling the actress’s cascade of coppery hair, the light freckles on her apple cheeks.

  “I adore Liv. I must meet your parents. So few people are truly in the arts these days. All the rest just grinding away. Money, money, money . . .”

  Justine imagined Barbara and Cressida sipping coffee in the Rubins’ kitchen.

  “Eve, I assume you’re showing your friend Manhattan’s earthly delights tomorrow?”

  “We’re going to the Quilted Giraffe for dinner and my mother won’t let Justine come.”

  Barbara laughed. “Who wants to go there anyway? Justine can hang out with us! It’s just Clayton and I, we might see a film.”

  Clayton and me, Justine could hear her mother say.

  “That sounds great, Mrs. Bradley,” Justine nodded uncertainly.

  “Barbara!” A waft of patchouli hit Justine’s nostrils. “I thought Fanny and Alexander or maybe . . .” Barbara sighed, her eyes slipping further out of focus. “Have you tried the MaryJane?” She gestured toward the sofa. “It’s the best homegrown Jamaican in the uncivilized world.”

  “I’d love to,” Justine said as if she were accepting an invitation to tea. “Thanks so much.”

  “If you like it I can get more for tomorrow night. We seem to be kindred spirits.” Barbara lowered her voice. “Clayton won’t approve.” She winked.

  “Honey,” Barbara said to her son, “why don’t you show the girls the new work? Paint’s still wet.” She let out a throaty chuckle, put the hookah tube in her mouth, and closed her eyes. They’d been dismissed.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  Your mom’s amazing,” Justine said excitedly as they walked toward the canvases.

  “Yeah,” Clay shrugged.

  “No, really. She’s so authentic!”

  Eve turned back to see Barbara exhale a cloud of smoke. The floor was out of balance, with all the marbles sliding toward Justine. Eve felt a wave of possessiveness, about Clay, about this loft . . . this was her world. She had wanted to show it to Justine, not have her settle in right away. Was her friend really coming back here tomorrow night?

  Clay walked them past the windows, the candlelight reflected in the glass making them look like altars. The paintings still smelled of paint and linseed oil. The first canvas was of a woman holding a tray with a man’s severed head on it. His eyes stared, milky and blank, his blood pooled on the pewter around the ragged stump. The woman was beautiful and young, likely just her age. Eve felt goose bumps spread across her skin.

  Clay noticed Eve’s stunned expression and said, “I know, so violent. It’s gotten worse since she split with Dad. It’s all revenge, all the time, twenty-four hours a day. Wait until you see this one.”

  They moved down the wall past a St. Sebastian pierced with arrows, but at the next painting Eve drew in her breath. It was a David and Goliath, the young man a perfect portrait of Clay.

  “Jesus,” Eve said.

  “That’s Philip before he lost his hair.” Clay pointed to the dead giant. Eve recognized Clay’s father’s crooked nose, his gray eyes.

  Eve leaned closer to the canvas. The tiny brushstrokes were practically invisible. “Revenge sure has been good for your mom’s work.”

  * * *

  —

  Eve headed into the kitchen, where she spied India Clarkson. Her dear friend was sitting on the concrete counter, cross-legged, her eyes shut. Eve’s sadness faded, she hadn’t seen India since August. The girl was like an exotic princess, every part of her delicate and fragile. Her lashes lay on walnut cheeks, her lips were parted, her teeth ivory. But her most magnificent feature was the lustrous brown hair that cascaded halfway down her back.

  India sat, her spine perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a cropped military jacket with shoulder lapels and slim black trousers. The girl had always exuded elegance and refinement without moving a muscle.

  India’s mother had drowned herself in a bathtub in Rome five years ago. India’s father spent most of his time drugged out in Palm Beach. So now, at the age of sixteen, India lived on her own.

  “Yo!” Eve poked her knee. India slowly opened her eyes and gave her a sweet smile as if returning from a long journey.

  “Eve, darling!” she sighed, touching her hands together as if in prayer. “Seeing
you is pure joy.”

  India hopped off the counter. “I’ve missed you so much.” She gave Eve a soft peck on the cheek, shy as usual about physical contact.

  “Me too,” Eve said.

  “Let’s celebrate.” A bottle of red wine sat on the counter, next to a few drinking glasses. India poured them each a glass.

  “Cincin!” she said, and they clinked glasses. Eve slugged half of it.

  Eve lit a Marlboro and exhaled. Alcohol and nicotine coursed through her veins. India smiled at her dreamily.

  “How’s Griswold?” India asked softly. She had spent last year at Miss Grey’s, a boarding school with stables, but had gotten expelled. Now she was in public school in the city.

  “Still adjusting. The kids are really different from my old friends.”

  India smiled. “Friends like me?”

  “No comparison! Classes are decent, but it’s also weird having boys in them. Girls are so much smarter, except for one or two.” Eve realized Clay had never spoken a word in English class. At Beaverton they gave you a better grade if you participated.

  “Teachers at boarding school are also an odd bunch,” India commented.

  Eve threw her cigarette into an empty beer can in the sink. “One of them’s taking me to supper.”

  “Who’s the Casanova?”

  Eve blushed. “It’s fine. I can handle him.”

  India looked dubious, and took a sip of wine, a gold bangle glinting on her wrist. “There was one of those at Miss Grey’s who had dinner parties with a group of carefully chosen girls. As if each of them could advance him in some way. He was an excellent cook. Does this man know about your family?”

  Eve shook her head, unsure if Mr. Winkler would be impressed by Deirdre and Frederick. There were kids from much fancier families than hers at Griswold.

  “It’s never just a meal,” India replied. She wrinkled her nose. “Mmmm, something smells delicious!”

  Pungent pot smoke was wafting in their direction from the sofa. India headed toward it. Admiring India’s elegant saunter, Eve wished her oldest girlfriend was with her at Griswold.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  “Your mom’s such an amazing painter,” Justine said.

  Clay nodded, still staring at his mother’s painting, but then Justine saw his expression go dark.

  Justine didn’t understand; if her mother were a famous artist she’d have been thrilled—just being here was a dream—the hippest loft, the coolest party, the best city on the planet. She could stay forever.

  Suddenly she spotted Bruce on the sectional. Her heart jumped. “I need another beer,” she told Clay and hurried off. She grabbed a can from the tub and forced herself to slow down and walk casually toward the sofa.

  Bruce and Damon were draped on the cushions, Damon holding a small plastic bag of white powder.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” Bruce said, slurring slightly, patting the sofa beside him. His eyes were bloodshot. “I was hoping you’d be here,” he whispered, leaning toward her, his breath beery. “But I gotta piss, be right back, save my seat,” he said, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Justine watched as he walked toward the back of the loft. Clay slid onto the sofa and Eve arrived, holding a glass of wine that she set down on the table amid ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and crushed potato chips.

  Damon started cutting lines on a mirror with a playing card. He bent over and snorted one through a rolled-up bill, then another, before he offered Clay the bill. Clay shook his head. Damon showed Clay the card.

  “Don’t say no to the suicide king.”

  Before Clay could respond, a beautiful girl walked toward them.

  “Hey!” Eve saluted, waving her over. “Justine, this is India Clarkson.” India perched on the sofa and crossed her legs, as if she were at a ladies’ luncheon. She held a glass of wine and wore one of those bracelets with little circles you could unlock.

  “Nice to meet you,” India said, holding out a hand.

  “You too,” Justine replied, as India’s hand barely made contact before it slipped from hers.

  “Are you at Griswold as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t it totally suck?” Eve asked.

  “I tried to warn her,” India said.

  Eve shrugged. “I was going batshit at home. Sharing?” she asked Damon.

  He handed her the bill.

  “I went to Miss Grey’s,” India explained to Justine, waving her fingers, the bones of which were like those of a small bird. “Past tense.”

  Had India gotten kicked out? The girl was so elegant and poised it was hard to imagine her doing anything wrong.

  Eve was holding the hair out of her face with one hand and snorting half a line into one nostril. She offered Justine the bill, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. Justine shook her head.

  “Why did you leave?” Justine asked India.

  “Poor academic performance,” India said solemnly.

  Justine wondered how badly you’d have to do to get booted for bad grades. She’d heard Damon had all Ds.

  “That’s not the story,” Eve said, sniffing. “India got kicked out for trying to ride her horse back into the city. How is Mr. Ed anyway?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “Who’s Mr. Ed?” Justine asked.

  “My father’s horse,” India replied. “I rescued him. He was half starved.”

  “He lives with her,” Eve explained.

  “In her house?”

  They all laughed.

  “No,” India said. “He’s finally in a good stable on Long Island.”

  India opened a hinged box and took out a cigarette rolled in black paper.

  “Allow me,” said Clay, flicking open his Zippo.

  “I can’t believe you still have your father’s lighter,” India said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “It’s so debonair.”

  “Dad was debonair,” Clay said bitterly.

  Justine wondered for a second if Mr. Bradley was dead. But surely someone would have told her that. “Can I have some of that?” She indicated a metal bowl with a pile of tangled weed. Even through the cigarette smoke and booze, she could pick up its sickly sweet scent. Barbara had excellent taste.

  Clay pulled a wooden pipe from a box on the table, took a pinch of weed, and stuffed it in the bowl. He lit it for Justine. His dark head leaned close to hers as she inhaled.

  For the first time since she’d started smoking pot, Justine didn’t immediately feel like she was going to choke or cough. It must be really good quality. Barbara was right, it was strong. Really strong. The room began to recede, and people’s voices grew further away. Justine leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. The room started to spin.

  Justine had gotten drunk for the first time when she was eight or nine, maybe the same night she had danced with Frank Langella. She couldn’t remember; the parties all merged into one. She had finished off the abandoned glasses of champagne, even though she knew it was like eating chewing gum off the sidewalk. The stuff was absolutely delicious and the bubbles tickled her tongue. Within a few minutes she was wasted.

  She felt a jab on the arm.

  “Wha?”

  “Are you deaf?” Eve was saying. “I said let’s dance!”

  “Too stoned . . .” Her tongue was fat and blocking everything.

  “Oh great! You’re going to sleep and I’ll be up till five!” Eve jumped up and started dancing with Clay and India. Eve was bopping from foot to foot. Jesus, she was making Justine dizzy. India was swaying. Clay was jerky, a white boy with no rhythm. She had never been this stoned. She didn’t know how to get off the sofa.

  * * *

  —

  By the time Justine woke up, she had no idea how much time had passed.
Clay was beside her, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. She was aware of desperately needing something to drink, and stood up, steadying herself on the arm of the sofa. The party was still raging, the bass and her head throbbing in unison. She headed toward the back of the loft, weaving down a long hallway, balancing with her hand on the wall. A floorboard creaked and sagged beneath her foot. So many doors. First one, king-size canopy bed. Next, storage with canvases and paint supplies. Finally, a bathroom.

  Justine leaned over the sink and gulped handfuls of water. Then she lurched to the toilet where she puked up chicken, lettuce leaves, and beer. Hanging over the bowl, she panted, still stoned. In the mirror her eyeliner was runny, blackened, and ghoulish. Nosferatu. A medicine cabinet held a bottle of Scope. Justine breathed, feeling a little better. Had Eve left? She didn’t have cab fare to get home.

  She opened the bathroom door.

  Bruce emerged from a bedroom across the hall.

  “There you are,” he said, and pulled her into the room with the huge bed. He kissed her, and she held on, clutching his shoulders for balance. They moved toward the bed and stumbled onto it, landing hard on the satin covers.

  Bruce leaned on one arm, putting his hand between her legs.

  “I’ve been wanting you so much,” he murmured. His eyeballs burned red in the candlelight. “Justine.” He pinched her inner thigh, then moved his hand up, touching her through the stockings, then unbuckling his belt. Justine took the belt and pulled it free.

  “Lie down.” She pushed Bruce onto his back, climbed on top, and straddled him. Then she drew the belt slowly through her fingers, looking down at him pinned beneath her. “What was Justine into?” She stretched the belt across his chest with both hands, leaned down, and kissed Bruce slowly, enjoying his impatience.

  He gripped her hips and flipped her over, grabbing the belt and pulling her arms over her head. Kneeling on top of her, Bruce strapped her wrists to the bedpost. She watched his face, intent and determined. He tore her stockings to her ankles. One of her flats fell to the floor with a thud.