“Rabbits don’t eat legumes. Beans are legumes. Rabbits eat cabbages and roots.” Erika took her water bottle off her tray and sat down across from Morris.
“Okay, then, rat. Rats eat everything.”
Erika narrowed her eyes at Morris. Of course, being called rat by anyone else would be an insult, but Erika liked rats, and she knew Morris did too. “I think they eat meat, Morris, they’re scavengers, not herbivores.”
“Oh, yeah. Got to work on that. So what’s up with this Halloween thing Binky’s talking about?”
Erika motioned that she had to finish chewing. Really, she hesitated because she worried Morris was going to refuse to go, because the party was uptown. She had to make sure she put the idea in the best possible light. “Well, Binky said it’s in this amazing townhouse. James Jamison, who knows Chris and Binky from when they went to school up there, is having it. Binky says the house has a screening room, with a full-sized movie screen that rolls down from the ceiling. It’s all glass and there are like twenty rooms.”
Morris rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me I have to go to some preppy costume party? Upper White Side style? And the dude has a double name—James Jamison? That is like the pink pants of names. Damn, does your friend Binky have some poor taste in the male of the species. That girl needs some sort of brain surgery to excise that douchebag-seeking section of the cerebrum.”
Erika laughed. It was a relief that Morris disapproved of Christopher Primrose, since she wasn’t too certain about Chris either, but she felt loyal to Binky. “I thought your philosophy was live and let live, Morris? Do you think Binky or I would judge you for going out with someone who . . .”
“Someone who what, girl?” Morris raised his eyebrows. “I’m waiting. . . .”
“You know,” Erika said, blushing. “A girl who wasn’t serious . . .” Erika trailed off, losing conviction under the heat of Morris’s stare.
“You can’t even say it because the girl version of Chris-the-Playa Primrose doesn’t exist. Oh, they pretend to. Girls like Lani Elliot, who are all guess-who-I-did-last-night? But then I’m like, who cares? I am like, bring that shit on. See, that’s where the species is different. We want to get it on, and move on. You ladies do not want that. Sad thing about that girl Lani is she’s all busy showing a dog how to be a dog, and he don’t care.” Morris shook his head dismissively.
“I don’t see how you can tell what a girl actually wants if you haven’t asked her,” Erika said. She was no fan of Lani Elliot and her crowd, but it annoyed her that Morris was speaking for all girls. There was more than one way to be unusual. But Morris wasn’t done.
“You ladies, well, maybe not you in particular, Erika, but ladies do get their freak on, sure. But, like Foss says, and he grew up down South so he’s got the flavor, a good bitch knows when to bite.” Morris dug into his gray-looking cafeteria burger.
Erika looked at Morris in wonder. “Why are we talking about Lani Elliot?” she asked. “What does any of this have to do with going uptown for Halloween?”
Morris grinned. “It’s a known fact that white guys who are douches to women are assholes to the black man.”
“Morris,” Erika said. “We can always leave. I don’t really care, but Binky does, so I think we should all go. Besides, you don’t have any actual evidence that this is a racist party.” Erika hated when Morris got illogical.
Erika was done eating, but Morris was now working his way through his bag of chips, eating noisily as he considered what Erika said. He grew suddenly serious.
“You need some experience, girl. You have basically none.” Morris nodded and picked up another chip. He pointed the chip at her. “You white people are just so ignorant.”
“That really hurts, Morris. All these generalizations . . .” Erika paused, confused. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re true, but they make me so frustrated.” The therapist Erika had gone to in middle school had encouraged Erika to assert her boundaries. Morris had definitely crossed hers, but she struggled to explain how.
“I know, girl. I’m sorry,” Morris said. “I’ll stop.” Morris held up his hands and did a quick little bow. But then he continued. “I got an idea about what to wear to this Klan gathering. I’m thinking ‘hear no evil.’ But ghetto. Shave my head, wear those big ol’ headphones Foss has. Good idea, huh? I’ll listen to my tunes, don’t have to talk to any coked-up Dalton boys. Only problem then is who’s keeping an eye on you girls.” He frowned. “You girls are a lot of trouble. You telling me I’m going to have to keep track of both you and Binky at this party?”
“I don’t even drink, Morris. What trouble am I?” Erika was annoyed again. She took good care of herself. Even her mother trusted her absolutely.
After lunch with Morris, Erika had study hall, and then math. Usually, she enjoyed last-period math. She liked Martin, the math teacher, and how his name fit his personality perfectly, and how he wore brown jackets, brown socks, and brown shoes. His entire appearance was consistent with the name Martin, and there were few people you could say this about. Even his wife was Martin-ish, Erika knew, because she had met her at the end-of-the-year potluck last spring. She wore her brown hair tucked behind her ears, and she wore worn-down loafers, which were also brown.
Erika stared out the window at the garden courtyard. Someone’s mom was down there planting bulbs. Her own mother never volunteered at school, although she sometimes donated beautiful clothes she got from magazine editors to the school’s yearly auctions and rummage sales. Erika was proud of her mother on those rare occasions when she came to school for meetings and conferences.
Her mother always looked put together, and she wore pretty shoes—sandals, pumps, or trim little boots. She liked that her mother still had long hair, and that it was silky to the touch. Her mother looked, especially now, since Dad left, like a woman in a magazine, like someone with expectations, secrets, and plans—with maybe more mystery than you actually wanted in a mom.
Erika tried to redirect her thoughts back to Martin, to the unslippery reality of mathematics. Math, Erika felt, was like an amazingly complex game that grew in complexity with understanding. It was essential not to miss anything. With people, Erika had discovered, things were far easier if you skipped over big parts of what they said and did.
Her phone buzzed under her desk and she glanced down at the screen. It was Melanie. “Wait 4 me out front,” it said. It was unusual for Melanie to text Erika. The question of what Melanie might want distracted Erika for the remainder of math.
After class, Erika met Binky in the main lobby, where they always met on Thursdays to study for their Friday French quizzes. “Come outside with me to meet Mel. She has to tell me something,” Erika said. Outside, Melanie was standing by a cluster of dirty-looking benches no one ever sat on. She was standing with Jess and Gerald. It was horribly windy and all three of them had hoodies pulled up. Melanie had her haughty look on, eyebrows raised, cheeks sucked in. “What’s going on?” Erika asked.
“Ask,” Melanie commanded Gerald.
“Oh, yeah,” Gerald said, noncommittally. “Just wondering about that party. Whether I could come too?” Erika looked at Binky, but Binky had suddenly dashed off and grabbed Chris Primrose and was dragging him over.
“Ask him,” insisted Binky in her husky voice.
“Ask him what?” Primrose asked. Gerald blushed a deep red, and Erika felt sorry for him. She didn’t know why Melanie was making such a production of the thing, if she was the one who invited Gerald in the first place.
“Oh, these guys said there was a party uptown,” Gerald trailed off.
“Yeah,” Primrose said. “Guy told me I could bring as many friends as I wanted, as long as they didn’t have dicks.” He laughed. “So, I guess that’s your call, dude.” None of the girls laughed or said anything, and Binky punched Chris hard on the shoulder. Primrose cast an angry look at Binky, but then his face softened.
“Just messing with you dude,” Primrose said. “You can come,
man, so long as it’s only you and the ladies. No moochers or tagalongs. Ten bucks apiece.” Then Chris grabbed Binky by the hand and dragged her away. Gerald shot Melanie a look of relief, but she was already walking away, arm in arm with Jess, leaving Erika and Gerald together in an awkward silence.
“It’s better than sitting home,” said Erika kindly.
“Yeah,” Gerald said, gazing after Melanie and Jess. “Too bad only assholes ever have good parties.” Then he took his phone out of his pocket, bringing the conversation to an end.
Erika walked alone back into the building. She figured sooner or later Binky would show up in the library to study. She sat down at a table by the window, and was surprised to see Gerald still out front, sitting on one of the abandoned-looking benches staring down at his phone. Melanie, Erika thought, had been needlessly cruel to Gerald, the way she sometimes was to her. But Gerald had acted like it had been only Primrose who’d insulted him, like in his eyes her sister could do no wrong.
8
Gerald had been in beautiful apartments before. But this wasn’t an apartment. An apartment had a beginning and an end. You could find someone you were looking for in a New York City apartment. Gerald had been looking for Melanie Russell for so long now, he’d grown doubtful of ever finding her. There were too many rooms, and every room he entered was smoke-filled and crowded wall-to-wall with teenagers in costumes. There was one room that held three nuns, all of them blond, all of them identically habited in nun hats, whatever those things were called, and loose-fitting white blouses. None of the nun girls wore anything on the bottom but black bikini bottoms with stockings and black heels. In another room, there was a scarecrow of indeterminate gender, and a tree, which was clearly female, busty, and clad mainly in leaves. There were several rubber-faced president zombies and a lone banker clad in enormous, cardboard hundred-dollar bills. But nowhere could he find Sandy and Rizzo.
Gerald recalled that when they’d first arrived Melanie had asked him to get her a drink, which he had. There was a keg of beer in the kitchen, along with a mysterious pink-colored punch, and he had chosen the punch. That was before he’d taken the joint someone had passed him, before he drank his own glass or two of punch, or had it been more? He was having difficulty remembering how many drinks he might have consumed. He seemed to remember entering and leaving the kitchen numerous times. One time, he’d nearly knocked over a kitchen chair, and a guy with short black hair and a stubby mustache had grabbed hold of it and said “Whoa, fella,” as he’d stumbled past. He thought, but then dismissed the thought, that the guy had been dressed as Hitler. But then again, maybe they did that on the Upper East Side. He’d only been there to go to museums. Who knew what might pass for humor? His brother had been scornful when he’d told him about the party. Edward knew about such things. He’d even gone, for middle school, to a selective public school in the neighborhood Gerald was now in. His brother had told him, when he left their Chelsea apartment, to “watch his back.” Edward didn’t usually pay all that much attention to him, and in the moment, it had felt satisfying, in a masculine way, to be advised by his brother.
Each time Gerald entered the Jamisons’ immaculate pale-green and white tiled kitchen, he had seen Morris and Erika. Erika had said to him, “Come find us here when you guys are ready to go. I’m afraid to go out there! There’s like two hundred people here!” Gerald thought there were probably more than two hundred people. It was hard to say, because every room he went into was filled with bodies—smoking, drinking, groping teenage bodies. He’d been in so many rooms he’d lost count. One room held a pool table, and another held a large screen and two rows of plush chairs, but what was the room for that was mostly empty, containing only a single enormous mirror, a thick wooden bar pressed against it, and a small metal contraption on a blue mat? Why would anyone have an entire room for so few things?
Then, finally, he saw her. It was in the room in which the music was loudest. The song that was playing had been a hit over the summer. It had a crazy thwanking beat, and half of it was in another language, maybe Korean or Japanese. The girls were all dancing like the girls danced in the video that went with the song. They shimmied while bending over each knee, right, left, right. Mel was dancing like that, but not bending all the way over, really only hinting at doing the dance. She was no longer with Jess. She looked so unlike herself at first he had to force himself to cross the room to her. The shirt she was wearing hung off her slender shoulders and exposed a glorious expanse of pale, unblemished skin. Even her slight shimmying produced a vision Gerald could neither turn from nor entirely take in. Her hair tumbled across her shoulders and down her back. Was she always that blond, or had she done something to her hair? Was the blondness part of the costume? Her lips were full and pouty. She was standing more than dancing, but still with a slight shimmy. She was just opening her lips to laugh at something someone was saying.
The someone was tall. One of the guys who’d been downstairs taking people’s coats when they’d arrived. Perhaps this was James Jamison himself, billionaire boy. Gerald loathed him the moment he laid eyes on him. He loathed the way his straight brown hair flopped over one eye, the way he stood there in his round-sleeved pirate’s shirt, eye-patch on top of his head, somehow in costume and not looking like an asshole.
It was hard to get across the fucking room with his shoulder pads on. Other guys kept grabbing him by the pads and shaking him like he was some kind of rag doll. Occasionally, a guy threw his arms forward locked in a block that Gerald involuntarily bounced away from. He knew they were laughing at him and that he was drunk, but he thought if he could only cross the room, arrive at Melanie’s side, his dizziness would subside and he would be having fun like the rest of them. They’d stop laughing if they knew who he was with. He saw a few kids from school, passed Jess, and raised his glass to her to say hello, but she turned her head at the wrong moment. When he looked away from Jess, back to where Melanie stood, she was gone.
Girls did not simply vanish, Gerald knew, so she must have left the room through a back hallway he had not yet arrived at. He pushed on through the crowd. “Hey, dude, whatever team you’re on, you’re losing!” some wise guy called. Gerald stumbled. It wasn’t because he was that drunk. It was just crowded and the carpets were thick. The shimmy-dance song finally ended and a Thongs’ song came on. “Shit, not these homos,” he heard someone say. He wondered if that was true, were the Thongs, with their skinny jeans and high-tops, gay? It would serve the girls right. All those screaming girls.
The hallway that led from the rear of the room was wider than Gerald expected. There was an alcove in the middle of it, and a balcony beyond that. A wall of windows led up to the balcony, and the lights of the city shone through them, making Gerald certain of his own slowly returning sobriety. There was the city. An alley, another townhouse next door. A garden with a few scraggly tomato plants. A terrace on which sat seven or eight elaborately carved jack-o’-lanterns, still lit, still glowing. These objects were all clear and nameable. He was not so very drunk.
Suddenly, the door to the balcony slammed open, and a high-heeled shoe appeared, then a well-formed, spandex-clad calf. A girl tumbled in. A blond girl, still stumbling. It was Melanie, and she needed help. Gerald shot forward. He was fine now, and she needed him. There was someone still out there on the balcony. That asshole from before, that pirate asshole. Melanie was running from him, right into his arms.
“Oh, Gerald . . . it’s just you,” Melanie murmured. She looked startled, as if she had just awakened from a dream. Her eyes seemed too large for her face, and her lipstick was smudged across her cheek. She grabbed onto his arm. He could scarcely understand what she was saying. Her top had stretched out and now one shoulder was completely exposed. Holding her the way he did, he could look down, and just barely make out the outline of her nipple.
The room at the end of the hall was a perfect little room. A light was on and the door was open, but no one, miraculously, was in there. There w
as a small leather couch and a white fur rug. The rug had a head on it with teeth and ears. It was an actual bear rug. Somehow, he and Melanie were both on the rug. She had wanted to feel it. She had needed to lie down a moment. He’d gotten down there with her, and now it was so easy to see all the way down her top, to where the almost transparent material of her bra had slipped. He still felt the urge to help her, knew she needed him, but that urge was mingled with something else, a stronger urge to reach out, to touch her breast. Then suddenly, she was kissing him, and everything he wanted was possible. He felt the irresistible urge to press his mouth on her nipple. When he did, Melanie let out a little gasp, a moan. She was reaching up his shirt. It was an astonishing turn of events. She was drunk, he knew that. But she wanted him, the same way he had always wanted her. He felt her between her legs. She was moving herself closer to him. She was kissing him hard. Somehow, he threw off his shirt. His shoulder pads got in the way, and for a moment he was caught up, his shirt snagged, but somehow he got rid of the cumbersome pads. She twisted underneath him, making her girl sounds. There was the moment, just as he climbed on top of her, feeling her hip bones sharp against him, when he heard her say something, something he knew he needed to hear. He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her face was contorted, with lipstick hopelessly everywhere. She was still making her little mewing sounds. Then, it was as if someone pressed fast-forward on a movie. He thrust himself into her. For a moment, he felt for sure he was in a dream. It wasn’t the first such dream he’d had. Then it was over.
When he looked down at Melanie’s face, she was no longer staring up at him, and she was no longer making any sounds. She had passed out.
The Word for Yes Page 6
