The game continued. “Your turn, Chelsea,” Caitlin chirped. There didn’t seem to be any real order as to whose turn it was, and Noah wondered if the girls had somehow worked all this out between themselves without the guys knowing.
“Truth,” Chelsea said, as her eyes drooped. She was by far the most fucked up of the girls, and Noah made a mental note that no matter what happened he wouldn’t let her be alone in the bathtub. All he needed was a dead girl with a .28 blood alcohol content and a stomach full of pills to find its way onto his high school transcript. Chelsea was cute, with her curly black hair and six-pack abs, but you wouldn’t want to sell her life insurance. If she made it out of college alive, it’d be a miracle.
Faith bounced up and down, “I’ve got it. I’ve got it.” She was the blonde with the large rack, and Noah couldn’t help watch her mesmerizing bosom heave under the thin layer of a black bra. She saw Noah staring and didn’t care. She just smiled and turned back to Chelsea, asking, “Have you ever videotaped yourself having sex?”
Noah laughed along with the other girls while Chelsea thought about it. She may have been unconscious—Noah wasn’t sure—but after a moment, her eyes opened and she said “yes” with a maniacal laugh.
The girls burst out laughing.
“Jesus,” Noah said, stunned.
Chelsea backtracked, slurring, “But wait, but wait. I can explain.” Then after an unintentionally dramatic pause, she did in fact explain, “I was drunk.”
The girls all burst out laughing again and Noah took another swig of tequila. He wondered if all the girls from the city or Long Island, or wherever they were from, were this nihilistic.
Becky, who Noah was starting to realize was the instigator of the group, turned to him and declared, “Okay, your turn.”
Noah was equal parts psyched to see where this was going and scared that these girls might turn on a dime and stab him in the eye with an ice pick. But he figured the only way something good was going to happen was to take a chance.
“Okay. Dare.”
The girls giggled.
Becky consulted her mental library of inter-gender bathtub dares and came up with, “I dare you to kiss Faith and Chelsea. At the same time.”
Noah smiled. This was not a problem.
Chelsea and Faith looked at Becky innocently, on the surface appearing as though this would somehow push them past their normal comfort level, but Noah wasn’t buying it. He could see these girls had obviously done shit like this before, and probably a lot worse.
Caitlin moved aside and Noah leaned over and kissed Faith on the lips. She was a good kisser, despite the taste of rum and coke and cigarettes. She stuck her tongue down his throat.
Chelsea waded over to him and jealously pulled his face away from Faith. Noah began French-kissing her and although she didn’t taste much better, something about the way she grabbed the hair on the back of his head convinced Noah she’d be incredible in bed. Maybe there was life after Sarah after all.
Feeling left out, Faith got back into Noah’s orbit and Noah began kissing them both at the same time. There was no way to do it other than full-on porno style, with their tongues lapping in mid-air. He glanced for a second at Becky who seemed really into watching, and Noah wondered if maybe she was into girls. Caitlin at least pretended to look away and took another drink of vodka. Noah’s mind drifted back to the matter at hand: He was currently making out with two incredible, wet, sexy girls. It was probably the hottest thing Noah had ever done, or would ever do, in his lifetime.
After a good two or three minutes of the three of them playing tongue judo with each other, Becky grew restless. “Okay, guys,” she interrupted, “I think your turn is up…” But Noah wasn’t going anywhere. Not as long as these two girls were still willing to suck face with him, and more importantly, each other.
“This is so exactly like last weekend,” Caitlin whispered to Becky, exasperated.
Noah smiled, his curiosity getting the best of him. He pulled away from the kiss just a fraction of an inch and gently asked, “What was last weekend?”
“Naomi Feldman’s bat mitzvah at the Waldorf,” Faith explained with a knowing look, obviously recalling some depraved incident.
But Becky flinched slightly and tried to cover by changing the subject. “Ooh, I love this song. Turn it up.”
Caitlin turned up the volume on the iPod dock and Noah now noticed that it was, in fact, Justin Bieber. He cocked his head. Who listens to Justin Bieber? He played back the transcript in his mind and picked up on the slip-up.
Chelsea grabbed Noah’s face and tried to kiss him again but Noah stopped her. “Wait, what were you doing at a bat mitzvah?” he asked Faith accusingly. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” Faith lied.
That didn’t make any sense and Noah knew it. “How old are you?!” he repeated.
Faith lowered her head in shame. “Thirteen.” She looked at Becky guiltily, sorry for blowing it. Becky just rolled her eyes.
Noah, on the other hand, felt violated. “You said this was a graduation present!”
“Yeah. From junior high,” Caitlin admitted.
That’s all Noah needed to hear. He bolted out of the bathtub and searched frantically for a towel.
Becky tried to smooth things over. “Come on. Don’t go,” she pleaded. “We were having a good time.”
But Noah was livid. When you’re eighteen, a high school senior, and about to go off to college—Brown, no less—you don’t make out with eighth graders, no matter how hot, promiscuous, or degenerate they might be. It was just creepy.
Noah was desperately trying to get the hell out of there but the bathroom was a pig sty, with girls clothes strewn everywhere and makeup and hair products littering the counters. “Where the hell are my clothes?!”
In the elegantly appointed master bedroom, Dylan and Leah were making out under the sheets. He had long ago gotten her out of her wet bra and panties (she hadn’t raised any objections) and they were really getting into things.
Dylan didn’t need to ask if she was ready. He just reached for his jeans and pulled out a condom. Leah smiled and Dylan put it on under the sheets. But as he got on top of her, about to put it in, she suddenly looked surprised and said, “Wait, wait. Stop.”
Dylan froze.
“I can’t do that.”
“You can’t?” Dylan replied, confused. That was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“I’m a vaginal virgin,” she admitted.
“A what?” he blurted out. He honestly had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’m waiting till marriage,” she explained.
“Seriously?”
This whole thing was getting weirder and weirder. Never in a million years would Dylan have guessed she was a virgin, let alone one waiting till marriage. Hell, Leah didn’t seem like she waited for a name.
But she reassured him. “Don’t worry. We can still do it.”
Now Dylan was totally baffled. “We can?”
She laughed. “Yeah, of course. Just not there.”
But before Dylan could confirm what “vaginal virgin” meant, Noah burst into the room.
“Ocupado!” Dylan barked.
But Noah was not leaving alone and he was leaving. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He threw Dylan’s pants at him. Leah pulled the covers up to her chin and the other girls watched the drama from the doorway.
Dylan was more than a little annoyed. “What the fuck? I’m busy, dude. Is this payback for the other night?”
Noah dropped the bombshell. “Dylan, these girls are thirteen.”
The proverbial record skipped.
Dylan, still on top of Leah in a sensual embrace, looked her in the eye. “You’re thirteen?” he asked, desperately hoping this was some sort of joke.
Leah looked over at her friends in the doorway, and Becky nodded toward Faith as the one who had blown it. Leah knew the jig was up.
She looked up at Dylan inno
cently and said, “No, but I will be next month.”
Twenty-three seconds later, Dylan and Noah were outside on Fifth Avenue, standing in front of the Plaza Hotel.
“I’ve got an idea.” Dylan suggested. “Let’s never mention this to anyone.”
Noah knew this was Dylan’s way of apologizing. He had pushed Noah into this fiasco every step of the way, and for once Noah felt vindicated. His Spidey-sense had been tingling and he should have trusted his instincts instead of listening to Dylan. But that was usually the nature of their relationship. Dylan knew it was hard to say no to him, and sometimes he abused that trust. Sure, he had wanted to make some memories this weekend, but this was not exactly what he was shooting for. So this was Dylan being contrite.
“That seems prudent,” Noah replied, rubbing it in his face a bit.
They just looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.
All was forgiven.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AS DYLAN AND Noah walked down Fifth Avenue, Dylan dialed Pike’s cell phone to check in but there was no answer. Instead, the busboy from Hop Li Buffet Restaurant, in the alley on a cigarette break, pressed ignore and tucked Pike’s phone back into his shirt pocket.
“No answer,” Dylan reported.
“Let’s just head back to the car,” Noah shrugged.
They headed into the subway station, bought some tokens, and studied the subway map. Concluding that the E train was the best bet to get back to the Village, they headed down to the platform and waited.
A train approached, but it was the C train. The guys stepped back and let the passengers get in and out. Then, as the doors closed, Noah spotted someone inside the train.
It was Sarah.
And what’s more, she was with some Chace Crawford-looking dude.
“Sarah?” Noah blurted out, in disbelief.
Dylan turned and saw her as well, so he knew Noah wasn’t crazy. The car started to leave the station.
“Sarah!” Noah yelled.
Noah ran up to the car and pounded on the door, but it was no use. She didn’t notice him and the train sped away.
Noah looked panicked. “What’s Sarah doing here in the city?!” he asked frantically.
“And who’s that dude?” Dylan added, indelicately.
Noah dug out his phone and starting dialing, but Dylan tried to talk him off the proverbial ledge. “What are you doing?”
“Calling her.”
“Don’t do that. Come on.”
Dylan tried to take the phone away but Noah wouldn’t let him. Noah dialed, listened for a moment, then looked back at his phone, cursing himself.
“No signal.” Noah lashed out at Dylan: “Damn it! I shouldn’t have listened to you! We should have just gone to Marco’s!”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Sarah isn’t even at Marco’s.”
“Yeah, well, if I was at Marco’s I wouldn’t have seen her with that guy!”
“There you go. That’s the spirit. Complete denial.”
Noah looked helpless, and Dylan had run out of ideas to comfort him. So they just waited on the platform for their train.
At the laundromat, Walker was playing wingman while Pike chatted with Haley, the twenty-something girl in the tie-dye t-shirt.
Haley was pontificating about something, then paused dramatically. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just a very spiritual person,” she announced pretentiously.
Walker rolled his eyes. He hated girls who said they were “spiritual.” If they believed in God and went to church or temple or whatever, fine, just say you’re religious. But “spiritual” girls usually weren’t religious at all; they just believed in nonsensical crap like auras and Ouija boards.
But Pike was playing along and replied, “Me, too! You know, I sensed that about you. I’m very intuitive about these things.”
Walker wondered whether Pike would have been onboard with her babble if she’d said she was a pedophile. Or a Nazi.
The dryer buzzed and Haley started collecting her clothes. “Hey, do you guys want to head down to Soho to this amazing club where they do performance art?”
“Yes. Yes, we do,” Pike answered with a straight face.
“But what about Dylan and Noah?” Walker reminded him.
“We’ll catch up with them later.” Pike eyed Walker in the hopes that he might be a little more agreeable.
Walker didn’t want to be a cock-blocker, so he signed off with an albeit unconvincing, “Okay. Sounds good.”
Haley grabbed her basket of clothes and they headed out.
On the street, Haley gushed, “You guys are going to love this. Did you ever see ‘Interior Scroll’ by Carolee Schneemann?”
The guys shook their heads no.
“It’s amazing,” Haley continued. “She unrolls a scroll from her vagina onstage and reads a speech written on it about sexism and meat.”
“Sounds very powerful,” Pike commented thoughtfully.
Walker looked at Pike, like, What the hell are we getting into?
After they dropped off Haley’s laundry at her apartment, the three of them took a taxi to “der Freiheitsgestalt” in the heart of Soho. It was little more than a dark, dirty bar with a dozen small tables and an elevated stage you might see at an elementary school holiday pageant. The name was taken from the German performance artist Joseph Beuys’ social sculpture movement in which he spent three days in 1974 in a room with a wild coyote. And Joseph Beuys would have been proud of the progress of history: Onstage, a naked man was giving a silent, seated Chinese woman a haircut. Literally.
As he cut five inches off the back, he melodramatically recited:
Potential life? Potential death.
Clone, hone, velodrome.
His dong flapped in the wind as he snipped off another large section of the woman’s hair, giving her a bald patch on one side.
Pike and Walker sat with Haley at a table near the front. Walker stared blankly at the “artist” while Pike did his best to appear into it, nodding his head approvingly. Next to Pike, Haley snapped her applause (only troglodytes applaud by clapping with their hands).
She whispered to Pike, “This is so visceral.”
The pot earlier in the evening must have made Pike really horny because even though Haley was a cute girl with curly brown hair, only a committed pussy-hound would sit through this crap. But Pike continued the grungy intellectual charade and played it for all it was worth, replying, “It’s very raw.”
“Exactly!” Haley gushed.
Walker spoke up, wondering aloud, “Does she get naked, too?”
Pike elbowed him.
Haley leaned over and whispered, “That’s not a woman.”
Confused, Walker strained to get a better look.
The naked guy cut another large section of hair, reciting:
Lenticular process? Follicular holocaust.
D.N.A., C.I.A., Chardonnay.
The audience snapped their approval.
Pike leaned over and whispered to Haley, “You wanna get baked?” No soul-searching, hand-wringing, or elaborate plans with Pike, just a spur-of-the-moment suggestion, a whim really.
Haley smiled. “You’ve got some?”
Sure, the brick of marijuana was in the back seat of the Cube, but Pike had remembered to pilfer a small supply off the top. He raised an eyebrow.
“My hero,” she beamed.
She took his hand and they stood up.
Walker protested, “Wait, where are you going?” but they didn’t answer. Walker watched helplessly as they abandoned him.
Onstage, the Chinese “woman” was losing more hair.
“Great,” Walker muttered to himself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DYLAN AND NOAH rode the E train downtown as Noah frantically surfed the web on his phone with an intermittent-at-best signal.
“There,” he finally announced. “Thank you, Twitter.”
He read Sarah’s tweet: “‘Heading down to St
ark Raving Mad 2012.’” Noah was confused. “Wait. She’s going to our party?”
“How did she find out about it?” Dylan asked, a tad annoyed that the party wasn’t as exclusive as he thought.
“Probably from Gossip Girl back there.”
“Hey, check, maybe he’s one of her friends…”
Noah waited for his signal to come back, then started scanning through Sarah’s list of Facebook friends. During a signal outage, Noah told Dylan, “We need to get to that party.”
“What are you going to do? She’s with that guy.”
“I don’t know, but I have to do something.”
Dylan looked skeptical.
Noah found something. “There he is. Kim Striker.” Noah looked up at Dylan. “Seriously? What kind of dumb name is that? He has a girl’s name!” Noah was not taking the news of Sarah’s apparent moving-on well.
Dylan grabbed the phone and looked at Kim Striker’s profile. “He’s a freshman at U. of W.”
This was getting worse and worse for Noah. “She probably met him when she visited the school,” he sighed. “Come on! How long does this train take?”
The truth was that Sarah had met Kim Striker at the University of Wisconsin when she was visiting Madison during her February break. He was a freshman and led the campus tour. They had hit it off right away—he was an art history major and that was something Sarah was seriously considering. After the tour, they exchanged emails.
Sarah hadn’t thought much about it at the time. After all, she had a serious boyfriend and made that fact clear to anyone who perused her Facebook profile. So when Kim emailed her a couple of weeks later, she naturally assumed it was innocent, which it mostly was.
“Any other questions about the school, just give me a shout,” was all he wrote. Sarah did have a few more questions—Did everyone pretty much join a sorority or was it cool not to pledge? Can you change your major after you declare? Did Kim ever feel lost in such a big school?—and Kim and Sarah became friends. In April, when Sarah found out she got in, Kim was the first person she told, even before Noah.
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