Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  When I get to the subway entrance, I dig the cell phone from my front pocket and call Ramie again. She doesn’t answer. I think about leaving a voice mail, but I’m so scared and angry about what she might have done that I can barely breathe. There’s a good chance she got my first text but assumed it was only Jill asking where the tampons are or something else unconvincingly “urgent.” I decide to text her something she won’t ignore. I text:

  Did u screw him?

  I remain at the subway entrance while people enter and exit, the fear growing with every second. But no matter how deeply I excavate Jill’s memories, I cannot find Ramie in those crucial twenty minutes.

  Eventually the cell phone chirps at me. My stomach flips over as I retrieve Ramie’s text, which is:

  ??????

  What kind of a reply is that? With furious speed I type:

  Sasga did u scrdw him

  I don’t bother correcting my mistakes. I just hit send. An agonizing three minutes later she texts back:

  Jill?

  I respond with:

  Jack did u screw him?

  The following ensues:

  Ramie: who?

  Me: Sasha

  Ramie: R u nuts?

  Me: Why dont u answer

  Ramie: Coz ur crazy

  Me: Thats not answer!

  Ramie: Spy much

  Me: ANSWER ME!!!!

  Ramie: This conv is over

  Me: Just answer!

  Ramie does not respond after that. I stand there for five minutes stabbing at my cell phone like a deranged robot. All to no avail.

  I’m about to head into the subway when I spot Alvarez across the street. I call out his name, but he doesn’t hear me. I rush right into the traffic, causing a car to screech to a halt; then I chase Alvarez for half a block while calling out his name. Eventually he stops, looks around, then peels an earbud from one ear. I run right up to him and grab his shoulder.

  He shudders. “Jesus, man!”

  “Do you know where Sasha is?” I say. “I need to talk to him. I need to talk to him right now.”

  Alvarez fumbles with his iPod, then slowly, methodically removes the other earbud. “Why?” he says.

  Alvarez is one of them. It may as well have been him possibly (probably?) having sex with Ramie last night. “Just …” My hands ball into fists at my side. “I need to know where he is. That’s all.”

  “I haven’t seen him.” He puts his earbuds back in and walks away.

  I rush in front of him and grab his arm.

  He rips it away. “Dude!” He looks right through me with eyes full of menace. He’s about two inches taller than I am, and something tells me he wouldn’t shy from a fight the way Larson did. He leans to the side to have a look at the bag protruding from my back. “Nice purse,” he says.

  “Look.” I back up a tad. “There’s a chance—and I really hope I’m wrong about this—but there’s a chance that Sasha might have …” I swallow and try to fight back the dizzying effects of panic.

  “He might have what?” Alvarez says.

  I take a deep, cold breath. “He might have had sex with my girlfriend,” I say.

  Now Alvarez backs up. “Whoa,” he says. “Sasha?” He shakes his head doubtfully. “She a Velma?”

  “A what?”

  “An un-Daphne?” he says. “You know, fachita bowwow?”

  “What’s that? What do you … what do those words mean?”

  “Is she ugly?” he says.

  “No.”

  Alvarez shakes his head. “It’s doubtful, then. Sasha’s strictly on dog patrol.”

  Dog patrol?

  So that’s why they have a rule against bringing dog meat to the party. Ramie flirted (at least) with a fat loser who gravitates to—or, perhaps, only qualifies for—ugly girls. It’s awful on so many different levels.

  “Man,” Alvarez says. “You need a bitchectomy or something. This girl is obviously twisting your head up. You see, you can’t allow that. You let a girl into your head, she’ll infect it like a virus until your brain is all demented.”

  I look at him, confused.

  “Am I talking too fast?” he says. “Listen, buddy—”

  “I’m not your buddy.”

  “Ooh, that was frosty.” Alvarez mock shivers. “Have you asked your girlfriend if she diddled Sasha?”

  I nod.

  “Well, what did she say?”

  “She said I’m nuts.”

  Alvarez shrugs evasively. “Sounds like a smart girl. Man, you need to chillax. All that anger’s gonna give you acne.” He walks off again.

  “Alvarez?”

  He stops and faces me, clearly irritated at my continued existence in his visual range.

  “What about Larson?” I say. “Have you seen him?”

  “Why? Did your girl do him too? She into threesomes?”

  My jaw tenses. “No,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Alvarez smiles darkly and looks at the pavement. “You got some serious energy emanating off you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “Larson made out with a girl last night. A girl named Jill.”

  “Uh-huh.” Alvarez squints. “Brown hair, kind of innocent-looking? Hangs with that skinny fox with the big tits?”

  My hands ball into fists again. “Yes,” I say. “Her name’s Jill, and the skinny fox is my girlfriend.”

  Alvarez presses his lips together and nods in admiration.

  “I need you to tell Larson and Sasha something for me, okay?” I say.

  He nods.

  “You tell them that both of those girls are off-limits.”

  Alvarez’s eyes drift to something behind me. Turning around, I spot Permascrew and Larson about half a block away. I sprint for them, but Larson turns and runs. Permascrew stands still, but as I run past him to get at Larson, he grabs my arm.

  “What’s up?” he says. Then, at Larson’s retreating back, he yells, “Yo, Larson!”

  Larson looks over his shoulder but keeps running. I rip my arm out of Perm’s grip. He’s stronger than he looks.

  I stick my finger right in Perm’s face. “Those girls?” I say. “They are off-limits to you.”

  Alvarez inches toward us and peers around the corner, where Larson disappears behind a building.

  “What girls?” Perm says.

  “Yeah,” Alvarez says. “What’s with the other one? Why’s she off-limits?”

  “Who are these girls we’re talking about?” Perm says.

  “Jill McTeague,” I say. “And Ramie Boulieaux.”

  Alvarez leans into Permascrew and whispers something.

  Permascrew’s face brightens with recognition. “That skinny chick?” he says. “She’s your girlfriend?” Perm looks me up and down.

  “Off-limits,” I say. “Both of them.”

  “Dude,” Alvarez says. “I get that you don’t want to be sharing your chick and all, but you can’t just declare the other one off-limits. What is she, your sister or something?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “She’s my sister.”

  “Well,” Perm says. “From what I hear, your sister invited Larson back to her place, so maybe you ought to be having this conversation with her.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I will.” I walk away and head for the subway.

  “You know you have a girl’s pocketbook stuck to your back!” Alvarez shouts.

  “I know what’s stuck to me!” I shout back.

  As the L train speeds under the East River on its way to Manhattan, I distract myself from the stomach-churning horror of Ramie’s possible (probable?) indiscretion by conjuring fanciful images of Sasha’s face as I punch him into a coma. This gives me no pleasure. Yes, it’s a Novel Sensation, I suppose, but I’d gladly relinquish it. I’ve felt despair before. You could say I’m a connoisseur of despair. But this sharp ache is something entirely new.

  If it’s true, if Ramie has done what I fear she has done, I’ll never recover. How could I? It’s obscene. An aff
ront to the logic of the universe itself. Ramie belongs to me. Surely she knows this. It’s inevitable, ordained, almost biological. And I belong to her. That’s just how it is. And how it must always be.

  After a switch to the 1 train, I arrive at the FIT campus. I have no idea where to find Ramie, so I park myself in a diner and send her one text every five minutes while consuming a BLT and a ginger ale very slowly. Around twelve, the place starts to fill up. The waitress indicates, through silent glares, that I am jeopardizing her retirement by hogging a table, so I leave. As I’m wandering the streets of Manhattan, I remember the text from Tommy Knutson. Out of curiosity, I retrieve it.

  What R U wearing

  Oh please.

  I head to a Barnes & Noble café and slouch at a table littered with coffee cups and a stack of books on interior design. I’m not hungry, and I don’t want to read anything. All I want is to be communicating with Ramie. In person, over the phone, through smoke signals, I don’t care.

  To pass the time, I scan through all the texts Jill has saved in our cell phone. Most of them are from Ramie arranging different places to meet up. A few are from that Natalie girl. And a handful of cryptic teasers are from Tommy Knutson.

  Because I have plenty of time to stew over all of this, I come to the conclusion that in some ways, it’s all Tommy Knutson’s fault. Oh, shut up, it is. Jill never would have gotten herself drunk and dragged that loser back to the roof if it weren’t for Tommy Knutson. She’s trying to get over him. That’s what all this slutting around with the dregs of Williamsburg is about.

  Oh, I’m sorry, did I say slut? I meant vamp.

  The stupid thing about it is the fact that Jill thinks getting over Tommy Knutson is the best way to get him back. She thinks that after “finding himself” in San Francisco, he’ll return to Brooklyn, take one look at her newfound vampy uber-sophistication, and be instantaneously enslaved.

  Of course, what I think the Great Knutsack is going to find in San Francisco is a city full of boy candy and a diminishing need for girls.

  What? You didn’t think of that? Man, are you naïve. But don’t beat yourself up over it. Jill’s only semi-aware of this likelihood herself. In fact, for someone who spends so much time dwelling on Tommy Knutson, she’s surprisingly ignorant about him. I should charge her a hundred dollars an hour for my insights.

  Anyway, the worst part of all this vamping-around malarkey is the fact that Ramie’s completely on board with it. She thinks it’s “freeing.”

  Freeing?

  Do these girls not know who is out there? It’s all fine and dandy to hang around in the girls’ room strategizing slick ways to get boys to kiss you. But out in the real world, there are Larsons and Sashas. There are guys named Permascrew and whole hosts of other things to fear and loathe.

  We’re not in Winterhead anymore.

  My cell phone chirps with another message, but it’s not from Ramie. It’s from Tommy.

  Speaking of things to fear and loathe.

  Desert overkill. Much sand.

  What is that, poetry?

  I text back:

  Dude were thru. Stop messing with head. Im scrwing someone else.

  I get up and start roaming around the aisles of Barnes & Noble. For the free heat more than the books. My phone chirps with another message from Tommy.

  Hi Jack rough day? Wanna chat?

  Oh, excellent. My girlfriend’s cheating on me, my alter ego is playing tongue lacrosse with the dregs of Brooklyn, and her gay boyfriend is trying to be my pal. I text back:

  No

  Thirty seconds later he texts:

  Sorry tell Jill I miss her.

  That’s it. I stalk over to the empty math section, then sit down on the floor and dial Tommy directly.

  “Jack?” he says.

  “Listen,” I say. “You made up your mind when you left Brooklyn, okay? Leave the poor girl alone.”

  “What’s wrong?” he says. “Is she okay?”

  “Yes,” I say. “She’s fine.”

  “Is she really—”

  “Having sex with someone else?” I say. “No. I made that up.”

  I hear him sigh. “Is she mad at me?”

  I lean against the bookshelf. “Ow.” The bag presses into my back. “Of course she’s mad at you.”

  “Why?”

  I sit cross-legged. “For leaving her in Brookyn, Einstein.”

  “What do you mean?” he says. “I invited her to come with me. If anything, she left me.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “‘Cause it was really an option for us to drive across the country with you. Be real. Anyway, you need to work this out with her ‘cause I’ve got my own problems, okay?”

  “What problems?” he says.

  “Forget it,” I say. “You don’t have to pretend to care. Just go back to your desert and whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you,” I say. “I just—” A couple of nerdy teenagers peer into the aisle, then move along. I figure they need the math section more than I do, so I move to the social sciences section.

  “Look, Knutson,” I say. “We’ve got kind of a full plate, Jill and me. New York is taking some getting used to. The last thing we need is for you to keep alive a relationship that’s obviously doomed. Show some mercy. Let the poor girl go.”

  “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know it was—”

  My phone chirps again, and this time it is Ramie. Calling, not texting!

  “I gotta go,” I say. I hang up and take Ramie’s call.

  “Hi,” she says. She sounds mad.

  “Where are you?” I stand up and rush to the exit.

  “I have class in ten minutes,” she says.

  Weaving aggressively among slow-moving book browsers, I push my way out the door and head straight for the FIT campus. “Yeah, but where are you right now?” I ask.

  The sidewalks are crowded with people who do not appreciate the urgency with which I need to see Ramie face to face.

  “Jack,” she says. “I can’t believe you actually thought I slept with that guy.”

  “So you didn’t?” I stop and nearly collapse from relief. “Thank God. Where are you?”

  “I’m right here.”

  I look up, and there she is, standing on the corner of Twenty-seventh and Seventh. I close my cell phone, run to her, and throw my arms around her.

  “Jack,” she says. “Wait.”

  I pull away and look at her.

  “How could you think that?” she says.

  “Ramie,” I say. “All I know is what Jill saw. You were flirting with that guy. You took his hand and led him away.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I wanted to give Jill some privacy. I brought him downstairs and sent him home.”

  “Did you kiss him?”

  Ramie’s face screws up.

  “Well, did you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well, how am I supposed to know that?”

  “You’re supposed to trust me,” she says.

  “Oh.”

  “Jack,” she says. “Is this how it’s going to be? Are you going to wake up every cycle, rummage through Jill’s memories, then accuse me of stuff I didn’t do?”

  “Are you going to spend all your time picking up guys?”

  “I didn’t pick him up!” she says. “I was being a good wing-man.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Good plan, Rames. Not so convincing, however, as I not only remember you saying ‘wingman’; I also remember you making sure Jill heard it so I’d dig it out of her memory. I’m not stupid.”

  Ramie stares at me.

  “What?” I say.

  She keeps staring. Then she leans to the side, just like Alvarez did, to spot Jill’s bag protruding from my back.

  “It’s stuck,” I say. “I was in a hurry. Ramie, listen. Do you even know who you were playing wingman with?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I take a d
eep breath and let it out. “Remember those guys I told you about? The ones I met at Dexter’s?”

  She looks suddenly worried.

  “Ian?” I say. “That’s Larson. And the other guy? Sasha? The chubby guy you thought was cute? His name was on that chart too.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “Oh, and remember the blond guy and the black dude?” I say. “You know, the other guy you thought was cute that night?”

  Ramie only stares at me with this stunned expression.

  “The two guys talking to Larson and Sasha,” I say. “Remember? When you came out of the girls’ room?”

  She nods.

  “Permascrew,” I say. “And Alvarez.”

  She looks traumatized.

  “That’s right, Rames. You really picked a pair of winners.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she says.

  “Me neither,” I say. “And incidentally, even Jill thought you were flirting.”

  “No she didn’t.”

  “Yes she did,” I say. “While she was getting felt up by Larson, she still had time to wonder why you were letting Sasha spit so much game at you.”

  “He wasn’t spitting game!”

  “Oh, and nice flirtatious fake laugh by the way.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You were drunk, Ramie. What if he tried to force himself on you?”

  “Stop it!” She drops her head into her hands. “I can’t have you spying on me!”

  “It’s not spying,” I say. “It’s called memory.”

  She looks up, her eyes narrowing as she dissects and evaluates me. Then, in a detached monotone, she says, “I have to go to class.”

  She turns to go, but I grab her gently by the arm. When her eyes laser in on my hand, I release her.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Can we just—”