Social Creature

by Tara Isabella Burton

“Sorry,” Louise says. “I’m not a writer.”

  “Oh, great.”

  Louise knows this look. He’s looking over her shoulder for somebody more important to talk to. “Great, great, great.”

  “Where do you—”

  He’s already halfway across the room. Lavinia’s in a corner, talking to Gavin Mullaney, grabbing books off the shelves, so unafraid, talking to one stranger, and then another, and looking so happy the whole time.

  She’s not even looking over at Louise.

  * * *

  —

  Louise does her best. She smiles prettily in a half-frozen way so nobody registers how petrified she is, and makes herself look busy, fingering all the books on the shelves, and feigning intense interest. She overhears somebody else talking about how he’s the online editor at The Fiddler now, which makes him generally speaking the second or third most important person under thirty-five in any given room. She watches people but not too closely, and she both wants and does not want them to approach her, because if they do she does not have anything impressive to say, and Lavinia will see.

  * * *

  —

  The reading begins.

  Beowulf Marmont reads his story, publishing soon in The New Weehawken Review. It’s about a man who drinks too much and loves women with pillowy lips. Beowulf is so confident, the way he strides up, the way he clears his throat and silences even Lavinia, who is whispering to Gavin about Edna St. Vincent Millay, and the logical part of Louise knows that he isn’t looking at her—that he doesn’t even care about her—and maybe it’s just the secondhand pot smoke making her paranoid but the whole time that Beowulf is reading and Lavinia is looking away Louise remembers what happens if you can’t pull your own weight at a party. People look over their shoulder; they forget you; they talk about you once you’ve gone and they do not reinvite you; Louise knows she isn’t pulling her own weight—not standing like a lump against the wall, not stammering at strangers (she could say something brilliant and witty to strangers, she thinks, if Lavinia were at her side), but the more conscious she is of this the drier her throat gets, and the more impressive she needs to be the more insufficient she knows she is.

  She bolts.

  * * *

  —

  There’s only one open window in this whole mold-eaten warren of an apartment and that’s in the room that was once a kitchen; Louise runs and she grabs a book, any book, one on the top shelf, so that at least she’ll look like she’s cool enough to leave a reading to focus on a better book and not like she’s just too afraid to stand in a room with people who think they’re better than she is without Lavinia by her side to guide her through it.

  * * *

  —

  “Are you hiding out, too?”

  Louise starts.

  He is sitting, half-curled, on a pile of books. He is smiling at her.

  He has floppy brown hair and the kind of tortoiseshell glasses nobody wears anymore. He is in tweed, which also nobody wears anymore. He has wide, childlike brown eyes and very thin lips.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I mean—don’t we all just want to hide out at these things?” He laughs a strange, croaking laugh. “I guess some of us just have weaker constitutions. Or, you know, don’t need to network so much.”

  “Lucky them,” Louise says.

  “Lucky us,” he says.

  “Sure,” Louise says. “Lucky us.”

  Then: “So, you’re not a writer?”

  He snorts. “Oh, no. I make much more sensible career decisions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Grad school.” His smile flowers. “Classics.”

  “I hear it’s a lucrative field.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He makes room for her on the bench, which is really just more books. “The margins are huge.” He lights a joint, offers her a puff.

  “I don’t know if I should,” she says. “Pot makes me paranoid.”

  “I mean, so does everything, right?”

  “Except networking. Obviously.”

  Louise takes a puff. It makes her cough, and splutter, and so he takes out a handkerchief from his blazer pocket and offers it to her.

  “Really?”

  He starts to stammer, a little, and Louise realizes she’s embarrassed him.

  “I mean—thank you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—that was rude. I was just—”

  He laughs.

  “Well, you know, someone’s got to keep up standards.”

  “Of course.” She does not understand why he is being so nice to her? “Naturally.”

  “So, you’re not a writer, either?” He takes the joint back.

  “Yes. No. Maybe?”

  * * *

  —

  “There is no such thing as a writer anymore.” The ugliest man Louise has ever seen stumbles into the room. “That’s what Henry Upchurch says.”

  He has a square, simian face. His jaw is too big for his skull, and his skin is stretched too tight over it, and he is pale in an uncomfortably yellow way. He is short, and a bit fat.

  * * *

  —

  “Hal, don’t—”

  “America was great once. Not now. Then. Then we had men of letters. Then we had men of action. Really? Nothing?”

  “I’m sorry,” Louise says.

  “Christ. Where did you go to school? Did you go to school?”

  “Hal!”

  “I’m not being an asshole! Genuinely—I’m curious.” He rummages through the books. “Here. Take it. An education.”

  He holds it out. A Dying Fall. Henry Upchurch.

  “Only the best opening line in American literature. A literary lion. And a Great Man. Don’t you think he’s a Great Man, Rex?” He pronounces it Reksh, but then again, he is very drunk. “Christ, Rex—cheer up. This is pathetic.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  Hal claps him on the shoulder, hard.

  “Is my friend boring you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you boring him?”

  “No!” Rex gets up. “No—we’re fine, Hal.”

  “Come on.” He turns to her. “What’s your name?”

  “Louise.”

  “I want to do you a favor, young Louise.” He presses the book into her hands. “I want to expose you to the great and the good and more dead white men and yet-living white men you can shake a stick at. Where did you say you went to school?”

  “In Devonshire.”

  “Devonshire. Of course. Look. It’s Faber. 1998. The thirty-year-anniversary edition.” He takes the book. He opens it up. “And would you look at that. Signed, too!”

  In the other room, Louise can hear Beowulf Marmont’s voice drone on.

  Hal squints. “Dear Marcus—how nice, good old Marcus, probably a fag. Dear Marcus. I am so delighted to read your very kind letter of March 3rd and to learn all about your fondness for Folly’s Train. Please do asscheept this copy with my very pesh wishes and my hopes that your coursh of study at Harvard will be a prospph-prospsp-profitable one.” He coughs. “What a generous, generous man. And look—we have a dedication, too! Will you look at that? With deepest gratitude to my comrade-in-arms and agent, Niall Montgomery, to my longtime editor, Harold Lerner, and, with affection, to my wife, Elaine, and to my son. Would you look at that?” He slams the book shut. “And to my son.” He’s grinning, gap-toothed, like Louise is supposed to be in on the joke.

  “I’m sorry.” Rex stares at the floor. “Hal’s drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk. I just appreciate literature, that’s all—not like that cuckold in the other room. Christ! It’s true. No great writers. Nothing new under the sun.”

  “Are you a writer, too?”

  “Not for all the tea in China, young Louise. I’m just a h
umble insurance executive.”

  He waves the book in Louise’s face.

  “I’m going to go buy this book for you.” He catches sight of what’s in Louise’s hand. “He didn’t give you a handkerchief, did he?”

  Louise doesn’t say anything.

  “You’re such a faggot, Rex. Love it. Lawl.”

  It takes Louise a second to figure out he means LOL, like the acronym, and not loll, like what he does with his tongue.

  Hal grabs the red Solo cups. “I’m getting us all refills. And one more thing. Rex?” His grin gets wider. “She’s here.”

  * * *

  —

  They stand in silence for a while, once Hal has gone. Then Rex sits. He exhales. He picks up a book. He puts it down. He lights another joint. He drops the lighter.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” Rex says. “Christ—Hal. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries.”

  “He’s an asshole. He’s—I mean, he’s not normally that bad. He just likes to troll. But he’s a good person, deep down.”

  “Is he?” She tries to smile, a little bit, to let him know it’s not his fault.

  “Very deep down.”

  They laugh together.

  “He just gets weird, you know, when he drinks. About his dad.”

  “His dad?”

  “The Great Man of American Letters.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve known him my whole life,” Rex says, “and I still can’t tell whether he knows we’ve figured out he means it.”

  * * *

  —

  “Darling.”

  Lavinia is brilliant in the doorway. Her pearls glimmer. Her hair cascades.

  “Darling,” she says, and it takes Louise another second to figure out that Lavinia means her.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

  She is looking straight and steadfastly at Louise with a steely smile.

  “I’m sorry!” Louise isn’t even sure why she springs to her feet so quickly. “I needed some air.”

  “Darling—we’ll get you all the air you need. I’m so excited. Don’t forget our picnic.”

  Her smile is plastered on. Her teeth are sharp. Suddenly, without understanding why, Louise is afraid.

  “Our picnic?”

  “Don’t you remember? It’s going to be wonderful. I’m getting us champagne. I’ve been thinking about it—ever since New Year’s—I just know you’ll love it.”

  “Right,” Louise says—so slowly. “Of course.”

  Lavinia takes Louise’s hand. She pulls her in. She kisses her cheek. She leaves a lipstick mark.

  Rex is silent. His cheeks are red. He does not move.

  “Oh, Lavinia, I’m sorry, this is—”

  “We’re late.” Lavinia’s lips haven’t faltered once. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  “Who was that?” Louise asks, when they’re on the stairs. Lavinia just keeps smiling.

  * * *

  —

  They cab it to the High Line. Lavinia pays. They go to a liquor store and buy two bottles of Moët. Lavinia pays for that, too. They find this place Lavinia and only Lavinia knows, where the gate to the High Line is slightly bent, and then Louise follows Lavinia as they crawl on their stomachs through it.

  Now, Louise knows she has another shift at the bar tomorrow, and her rescheduled lesson with Paul, and she’ll have to be up at six to make up the work for GlaZam she missed today, and because she knows that getting arrested and having to pay a fine and spend a night in jail is definitely one of the ways a person can fuck it up, but Louise is so relieved to be away from the secret bookstore, and the people who see right through her, and she is so relieved to be with Lavinia (who maybe sees through her or maybe doesn’t but in any case only sees what she wants to see), that Louise follows Lavinia, anyway, joyfully, by the light of the moon.

  “How do I look?” They are standing alone on the High Line, with the snowflakes studding their hair and making flowers that are not flowers on all the branches. Lavinia adjusts her lipstick, the velvet, the pearls.

  “You look beautiful,” says Louise. She does.

  “Will you take a picture of me?”

  Lavinia holds out her phone.

  “Of course.”

  Louise takes one of Lavinia making snow angels. She takes one of Lavinia leaning against the bushes. She takes one of her seated with her skirt spread out on the bench.

  Louise shows them to her.

  “Yes. Yes. No—delete that one. Yes. Post it.”

  She lights a cigarette. Her hands are shaking.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” she says. “To be outside—on a night like this, under the moon and the stars.”

  Louise wants to laugh with relief.

  “You didn’t like the party?”

  “God no! Did you?”

  “God, no!”

  “Beowulf Marmont—”

  “God, I’m so sorry I left you with him! I was trying to get away—I made you a human sacrifice—oh, Louise, will you ever forgive me?”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “He wears a yellow bow tie. Who could like a man in a yellow bow tie?” She hands Louise a cigarette, and Louise doesn’t like to smoke, really, not when she’s sober, but she loves the way the smoke looks against the snow. “Back at Yale, he once told me male circumcision was as bad as rape. He wasn’t even trolling.”

  “He was pretty awful.”

  “Did he hit on you? He hits on every girl he sees.”

  “Oh. No.” This stings a little bit.

  “Thank God. I think he’s dating this awful girl with these huge fucking eyes—she looks like an anime character or something. And his writing is terrible.”

  “It’s so terrible!” says Louise, even though she hasn’t actually heard much of it.

  “God—if only we lived in—in—in nineteenth-century Paris, or somewhere! Somewhere with real artists. Real writers. People who were above all this horrible, pretentious—”

  “That’s what Hal said.”

  Lavinia’s smile freezes.

  “Christ—Hal!”

  “You know him?”

  “You talked to him?”

  “I mean—a little.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I mean…he’s a little…”

  “He’s an inbred moron, you mean?”

  “Yes. Yes!”

  It feels so good to be able to relax at last.

  “He’s a fucking mental Habsburg, isn’t he? Brings up his father every five seconds just to sound like he’s done anything of substance with his life!”

  “That’s all he did!”

  “Of course he did! That’s all he ever does! That and cocaine—he’s such a fucking cliché I’m embarrassed for him. And Rex!”

  “What about him?”

  Lavinia freezes.

  “You liked him?”

  “What?”

  “I mean—you two were talking.”

  “Oh. I mean. No. I mean—not really.”

  “You shouldn’t talk to him. He’s the worst of all of them.” Lavinia lights another cigarette, but this time her hands are shaking too violently and she drops the lighter, and Louise is the one to pick it up. “He’s a coward.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing happened!” Lavinia laughs.

  “You seemed—”

  “It was nothing,” Lavinia says. “It was stupid. It’s in the past. He’s nothing to me. I don’t care about him.”

  “Wait, did you two—”

  Lavinia doesn’t say anything. She tosses her hair, like she always does.

 
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s take a selfie. The light’s good. Your skin looks great. I wish I had your skin. God, I hate you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Louise said. “I didn’t know. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have talked to him.”

  “You can talk to him. I don’t care. I don’t care about him. He’s—he’s normal and he’s boring and he wants an ordinary life with an ordinary girlfriend he can, you know, get brunch with or whatever. That’s his right.”

  Lavinia stubs out the cigarette in the snow. It sizzles, and then the fire dies out.

  “Do you want to know something funny, Louise?”

  “What?”

  “He’s the only person I’ve ever really loved.”

  Lavinia is leaning on the railing, looking out toward the river, and so Louise can’t see her face to tell if she means it.

  “Isn’t that stupid?” Lavinia says.

  “I don’t think that’s stupid.”

  Lavinia rounds on her. “Because you think he’s worth it?”

  “No, of course not. I mean…” Louise casts about for the right thing to say. “People fall in love for all sorts of reasons.”

  “He wrote letters. That’s why. You don’t think that’s a stupid reason?”

  “Depends on the letters, I guess.”

  “I mean—we were kids. Like—sixteen. I was at Chapin and he was at Collegiate and, you know, we’d go to all the same parties. Whatever.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Anyway, we exchanged numbers or whatever it was and he asked if he could write me a letter, sometime. Like—with stamps and everything. I didn’t expect him to do it. People never do the things they say they will.” She looks up. Her face is white with the cold. “I mean—normal people. Not people like us.” She beams, and in the moonlight she is radiant. “You and me, we keep our promises. We say—we’re going to recite poetry by the sea. We say—we’re going to break into the High Line. And we do. Anyway, he did. Back then, Rex was a real person.”

  She has gone through half the cigarette pack.

  “He used to hand-deliver them, sometimes. Quill pen. Green ink. A seal. Leave them with my doorman. He didn’t even have Facebook for the longest time—he had a whole complex about it, too. He wanted to wear a wristwatch. Christ—he still used a flip phone. I loved it.”