Age of Consent
Page 17
“Come in!” Clay said.
But she waffled in the doorway.
Bruce patted the bed next to him. “Let’s snuggle.” His shirt was riding up, golden hairs encircled his belly button.
“Give it a rest, Underwood.” Clay’s smile faded. “And go and get the stupid football before someone takes it.”
Bruce hoisted himself up and ducked past her into the hall.
“Please, please, come here,” Clay said, more softly. He stood up and kissed her. She tried to think what he tasted like. Sweet, with a slight tang. Like plums. Ripe, purple plums. He pressed her against the wall and she could see melted snow from her coat making spots on his shirt.
Bruce guffawed, seeing them, and landed back on Clay’s bed with a thump.
Justine looked up, wishing she could blink and make him disappear.
“Mind getting lost?” Clay said, not unkindly.
Bruce ignored him, toying with the football.
“I said get lost.”
Bruce tossed the football at the ceiling and caught it. “Threesome?”
She was starting to sweat in her parka. She shouldn’t have come.
Bruce stretched toward the shelf above the bed and flipped on the radio. Justine saw a bit more of his muscled torso.
“Don’t be an asshole.” Clay pointed to the door. “I mean it, Bruce. GET OUT!”
Bruce sat up and stretched lazily.
“If you change your mind, just whistle,” he said, and threw Justine the football. She missed, and it bounced across the desk.
“God, I’m sorry,” Clay said when he’d gone. “The guy was almost crying when he got here. I had to cheer him up. Sorry he acted like such a dick.”
Justine collapsed onto the bed. Bruce always acted like a dick.
Clay sat beside her.
“How’d New Year’s end up?” he asked, stroking her damp hair.
She shrugged. “How was your sister?”
“It was weird. She came with this lady called a minder who never left her alone with us. Char even went to the bathroom with her.”
“Why?”
“In case we tried to deprogram her. Ha, that would never work anyway. Char is the most stubborn person I know.”
Did Char look like him?
“I told her about you.”
“What’d you say?” Justine managed.
“How beautiful you are. And that”—he gazed in the direction of the window—“I’m a sucky boyfriend.”
Not true, she wanted to say, sinking into his bed.
“Like, I didn’t call you and tell you the party was off.” His eyes were full of sorrow.
Justine pulled Clay closer and kissed him. They could do it now, she didn’t care if she got busted in here. She unbuttoned his jeans. His pants were almost off when there was a knock at the door.
“Fuck,” Clay said, hopping up and fumbling with his fly. “Get under the covers!”
Justine pulled the blue duvet over her head. She was breathing fast, and it was hot and airless underneath.
“It’s Coach Jellinek. You asleep?”
“I was, hang on.”
Justine heard the door open and the thwap of a hand on skin. A conversation about crew ensued. Justine caught only snippets. She heard the coach say something about someone and a torn ACL.
The quilt was heavy, there was no oxygen.
A racket from the hall drowned the conversation as students rushed in from the snowball fight. The overhead light shone through a bare patch in the navy comforter. Rumpled clothes were stuffed at the bottom of the bed and the pillow smelled unwashed. Justine felt like she might slip into unconsciousness if she didn’t breathe fresh air.
She heard the door close.
Clay whipped off the duvet.
She smiled at him.
“Could you breathe?”
Justine nodded.
He ran his eyes over her but shook his head. “That was too close a call. We’ll get busted,” he said, helping her up. She wobbled to her feet and leaned on him to steady herself. Why was it always like this? she wondered. Justine hadn’t figured on boarding school being this shitty for her sex life.
“Sorry again about Bruce,” he said, “but he brought amazing news.”
What, she thought, Bruce was getting recruited a year early?
“Bowie’s playing a surprise concert at Toad’s. In New Haven.”
Toad’s Place? The venue was tiny, like only a hundred people. Bowie? Eve was going to go wild.
“Oh my God! How did he find out?”
“His dad—and he said he can get us on the list.”
Her elation faded, her face fell.
“I’m not taking gifts from that asshole,” she said, feeling like she would start crying just thinking about it. “When is it?”
“Friday. And you’re being insane,” Clay continued, pulling her into a hug. He whispered in her ear, “Bruce owes you.”
“No!”
“It’s late,” Clay said, “we have to go.”
The storm was getting worse, wind kicking snow in gusts across the campus. On the way back to her dorm she huddled against Clay, her fingers and nose numb, her hair encrusted with snow. They arrived only minutes before curfew. Clay would barely make it back to his dorm in time.
“Don’t torture yourself,” he said. “For Bruce, it’s just a snap of the fingers.” He kissed her on the nose, then on the lips, and without a word hurried into the night.
The common room was deserted. Justine tiptoed upstairs to her room, hung her sodden parka on the back of the door, and took off her wet boots. Tierney was asleep, Rapunzel braids on the pillowcase. What Justine would have given for a pair of scissors so she could lop them off.
For Bruce it’s just a snap, she thought.
Justine pulled on her pajamas. First thing in the morning she would find Eve and tell her about the concert. Eve was going to lose her mind. Toad’s Place. Why would someone as famous as Bowie play there instead of the Hartford Civic Center? But her parents were friends with Todd Rundgren and he did those surprise concerts from time to time. So did Bob Dylan. Then it dawned on her. Her parents! Couldn’t Miles be useful for once? The man ran a theater! New Haven was the size of a nickel. Surely, he must know someone connected to Toad’s Place.
Happy, Justine lay in bed. Snow pounded at the window. She hoped Clay had made it back safely. David fucking Bowie. At Toad’s. It would be a dagger in her gut if she and Eve couldn’t go.
* * *
—
Justine had barely fallen asleep when her alarm went off. She jumped up and grabbed clothes from her drawer.
The snow was at least a foot deep from last night’s blizzard and it felt like wet concrete as she trudged up the hill. She saw a figure approaching and her heart lifted when she realized it was Eve, on her way to breakfast. Justine tried to run toward her but the snow was too deep and she made slow progress.
“Bowie’s playing at Toad’s!” she called out.
“What the hell are you talking about? What’s Toad’s?”
Panting, Justine filled her in on what she’d learned from Clay. Eve stared at her for a moment, then let out a howl of joy that reverberated up into the sky.
“Oh my God, oh my God.” Eve was hyperventilating. Tears of joy shone in her eyes.
Students tramped by, giving them odd looks.
“I’m going to DIE! Oh my God! This Friday?”
Justine put her arm around Eve and waited for her to compose herself.
When she was breathing normally they walked toward the dining hall and devised a plan of action for the escape. They agreed to record a radio show in advance on a tape and play it in the station while they were at Toad’s. There were risks. What if there was a malfunction and a teacher was listening?
“Too bad you and David are a bust,” Justine said. “He could do the whole show for us!”
Eve was too jazzed up to bother discussing David. “We’re definitely using Bruce’s dad. That asshole owes you!”
Justine shook her head no. She intended to call Miles right after breakfast.
Eve stopped walking, crossed her arms, and pursed her lips. “For Bowie I’m willing to be a total whore.” Justine knew that Eve didn’t begin to know what being a whore meant.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Eve lay on the floor of her dorm room gazing at the ugly popcorn ceiling. It was hard to believe that her teacher had really done that to her. And with such ease. Would it be like that with other guys? Finally everything was coming together. The date with Mr. Winkler, the Bowie concert even sooner. Eve was going to see her idol and lose her virginity at last, all in a matter of weeks. And only days ago she had been imprisoned in her parents’ apartment, feeling like a royal fuckup, and now this huge step forward. It was as if some karmic wheel were turning after months of stagnation.
This was one of those moments in her life that would always matter, Eve thought, reflecting on other times of monumental change. The summer of 1976, the Straus family had rented a house in Connecticut with a pool. Besides watching the Montreal Olympics, Eve had gone to day camp, picked up each day by a pimply counselor named Alan who drove a blue station wagon. Eve sat in the front listening to music on the radio and looking at her reflection in the side mirror. It was the first time she’d heard music in a car, and this new world of pop aroused something in her that had lain dormant until then. Alan told her about a crush he had on a female counselor, and suddenly it made sense why the boy in her swim group was staring at her all the time. It wouldn’t sound like much, she thought, if she told her friends, but the whole summer had been an awakening. Eve suddenly belonged to a larger world, to a world of music and romance.
These shifts weren’t just big, they were seismic. And this Friday was going to be another one.
* * *
—
Bill’s Taxi dropped them off in front of Toad’s. Justine pulled the tickets from her pocket and showed them to the bouncer.
“ID?”
She flashed her fake one and Eve did the same. He stamped the back of their hands and they were in.
The place was packed, a throng pressing forward toward the stage. Some secret, Justine thought. Eve grabbed her arm and pointed to Bruce and Clay at the bar.
“Want a drink?” Justine asked.
“No fucking way. We need to be up there,” Eve said, pointing to the stage. Justine gave Clay a wave and they headed into the crowd. She felt sorry for poor Stanley missing out on this.
When they finally made it to the front, roadies were scurrying around the stage, plugging in amps and leaning electric guitars on stands. Eve, her eyes shining, looked at Justine and held her hand.
They stood there for at least forty minutes, defending their tiny spot. Finally the lights went down, and the audience began to scream. The musicians took the stage. Eve spotted Carlos Alomar slinging his guitar over his shoulder.
Eve saw the glow of the cigarette first. Then Bowie himself, in black trousers and a T-shirt, his hair canary yellow.
He was more beautiful than she could have imagined, all hip bones and animal grace. “I love you!” Eve screamed.
Bowie smiled over their heads, gazing around the ecstatic crowd.
He pulled the mike to his lips. The musicians waited. “Lavender blue, dilly dilly,” Bowie sang in his deepest voice, the one Eve loved so much. “Lavender green. When I am king, dilly dilly.” He looked down, and pointed his cigarette at Justine, “you will be queen.”
Then he began to sing “Heroes,” and Eve thought she might die.
She was unable to move, watching Bowie, watching him throw back his head, his lips drawn, his eyes half closed. We can beat them, just for one day. Being with him was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to her. A religious experience. Wouldn’t he see her there, gazing at him with adoration and love? Eve was shooting hot flames toward the man. Surely it had to make an impression? Then Bowie sat astride a chair and a roadie handed him a human skull, the crowd roared, and he began to sing “Cracked Actor.” Suck, baby, suck, give me your head. He started to make out with the skull. Eve was so close she could see Bowie’s tongue, the lights on its gleaming surface, as it darted in and out of the bony mouth. It was intolerably sexy. This is it, she thought, the way desire is supposed to feel. Would sex with her teacher be this incredible? She shivered as Bowie stood up and strode toward her. Eve looked up at him, frozen. Then he knelt, showed her the skull, and snapped its jaws in her face.
* * *
—
After the final encore, after they had screamed themselves hoarse for more, they gave up, and shuffled away. Every inch of Eve’s body was pulsating with happiness. It had been the best night of her life, and it would remain so forever. Clay spotted them and gestured for them to come to the bar. His hair was damp and his T-shirt clung to his sweaty skin. He was breathing fast, smiling. He kissed Justine and ordered more beers from the bartender. Bruce was nowhere in sight.
“That was fucking amazing,” Clay said, turning back to them.
Eve could not speak, and just nodded her head. Words did not do Bowie justice.
Justine and Clay chatted about which song they liked best, while Eve saw the skull jaws snapping over and over. Bowie had felt her energy, her love. He had done that just for her.
Clay handed them each a cold bottle and they clinked them in salute. Eve took a swig of the beer and closed her eyes. She wanted to see Bowie over and over again in her mind. Imagine herself as the skull.
Just then Justine grabbed her arm. “Get down,” she hissed. Eve whipped around to see what Justine was looking at. Her stomach twisted as all joy drained away. Standing by the exit sign were Mr. Winkler and several other teachers. She ducked, but not in time. The teachers had seen her. Eve’s head was spinning, she couldn’t hear through the buzzing. All was lost, irrevocably lost.
She was going to pass out, her ears full of a loud rushing noise. What the fuck was the Wanker doing here? The look of surprise on his face. Why had she been such an idiot, imagining him at a classical music concert? Eve recalled him offering to play Steely Dan. Shit.
Justine pulled her up by her sleeve. The teachers had vanished so fast it was almost possible to believe they hadn’t seen her. But they had. Eve knew it was over. She would be kicked out without a doubt. Out of school, her world, her life.
Justine was saying, “He won’t bust you, what about your date next Friday night?” But Eve couldn’t bear to hear the empty words.
If it had been just him, without other teachers, Eve thought ruefully, tears falling freely, but no.
No tryst with her teacher, no Clay, no Justine.
Game over.
PART
two
ONE
New York City, June 1984
India Clarkson eyed the dirty dishes in the sink, the full ashtray beside her on the kitchen table. Justine was arriving in an hour and the apartment was a sty. Well, India thought, she couldn’t ask her father’s housekeeper to come and clean because then her father would find out where she lived. And if she asked her parents’ friends it might get back to him.
India wondered what her new housemate would think about this shabby railroad flat. Her current housemate, Dino, didn’t care about the mess, or the peeling paint, or the stench of urine on the sidewalk.
India pulled a handmade broom from the kitchen closet, purchased at a gift shop on Martha’s Vineyard. It reminded her of a Russian fairy tale her nurse Mademoiselle had read to her when she was little, about a witch living in a hut who roamed the forest on chicken feet, the whole house squatting down to scoop up naughty c
hildren. One little girl who had gotten lost hunting turnips had swept the witch’s hut, then cooked the witch supper, but still ended up in a pot on the stove.
Had the girl been eaten or had she escaped in the end?
The living room was more pleasant. It had three windows facing the street, and plenty of sun. India’s only furnishings were the upright piano from her grandmother’s house and several silk throw pillows that had been in her mother’s library. Dino had found a coffee table on the street—a hideous concoction of tubular brass and cheap glass, but India hadn’t felt she could object. He paid his rent, and she detested conflict.
Foster had moved out, the poor junkie, last year. It was for the best; India had spent too much time fearing break-ins and being held up at gunpoint with a heroin addict in the house. Maybe at last she could unlock the real china and wear her mother’s pearls.
It was going to be nice to have another girl here, but India worried about Justine, a blond beauty, being hassled in this neighborhood.
* * *
• • • • • • •
The buzzer on West Fifty-fifth Street read “Clarkson/Cherubino/Reynolds.” Justine was pretty sure that Reynolds was that guy Foster, the heroin addict now in rehab. She hadn’t realized there was a third roommate.
The door had been painted British racing green years ago, but was covered in dents, stickers, and graffiti. It was kind of beautiful.
A voice crackled over the speaker. Then India Clarkson leaned from the fire escape, her soft-spoken instructions rendered inaudible by the noise of a garbage truck. A bunch of keys landed on the sidewalk like a dead bird.
In the dim hallway, piles of newspapers, flyers from Chinese restaurants, and discarded mail covered the floor. It smelled stale, Justine thought, as she lugged her bag up the stairs. After several clicks, the door opened a few inches, a metal rod blocking it from opening farther.
“Hang on,” India said, fiddling with the lock, which looked like an instrument of medieval torture. “The true sign of a shitty neighborhood,” she apologized as the door swung free.