If Paulina had to die one day, as every woman had before her, she liked to think her funeral would outdo this one in elegance and expense. There would be swans, and celebrities, and a river of tears. The gods would hover. Horns would sound. Just a glimpse of this eventual funeral left Paulina feeling ill. No event, no matter how impressive, could diminish the loss of Paulina’s existence. Tears filled Paulina’s eyes and she dedicated them to Eileen. Poor Eileen. If anyone wrote her biography, it would be very short.
Paulina scanned the rows of crying girls and saw Fran staring back at her with hatred. Fran was wearing a low-cut dress. She was sitting with the creatures from the Film Department, but one could see that even they didn’t claim her as a friend.
The ceremony droned on and on. Sadie spoke. Allison spoke. Julian was nowhere to be found. Paulina checked her watch. Apollo sat down next to her. Paulina nodded in Fran’s direction.
“What?” Apollo said.
“Her outfit,” Paulina said. “Poor taste for a funeral.”
“The funeral is actually on Sunday. It’s family only. This is just the service.”
Marissa turned around to shush them. Paulina stifled a laugh and Apollo nudged her. She laughed into his shoulder and tried to recall what it was that she always recalled to keep from laughing uncontrollably in lecture. Instead she recalled what kept her from crying in public—her high school boyfriend smearing his lips with what he believed to be ChapStick, but was really lipstick. She covered her smile. People cried. Paulina felt Fran’s eyes on her and just let them burn. She wished it were Fran’s funeral. Julian would be there, and Paulina would sit next to him, their legs touching. She wondered what she would say at the podium with Fran listening behind the clouds.
Paulina grew restless. Everyone kept giving sad little toasts. People walked up to the microphone with no planned remarks, then talked about the cereals Eileen ate and the inside jokes she’d shared with her roommates. One hinged on the phrase “rumstick,” which meant nothing to Paulina, but just hearing the word made two of the crying girls giggle helplessly.
While everyone gave their condolences to Eileen’s family, Paulina sat with Apollo in the grass, dreaming up her funeral speech for Fran. She could imagine her older self standing before a small group of insignificants, noting Fran’s hair, her dancing, imitating her lisp, but then Paulina’s tone would change, retelling how Fran foolishly sold their friendship for a boy, and the crowd would cry. Then Paulina would sit back down next to Julian and politely wait until they were alone to have sex together, in honor of Fran, or maybe to spite her. Julian would propose to her after, and probably he’d be proposing to her all the time. She’d wave him off for his own good, because no man could ever make her happy for very long, she reasoned.
9
Fran searched her studio for the Whitney fellowship paperwork. The big room was empty of everyone except Fran, Gretchen, and a short antisocial girl named Marie, who painted in a photorealistic way her classmates publically dismissed but secretly admired.
“Eileen is gone forever,” Gretchen said glumly.
“I know, it’s crazy. Remember her freshman year? She used to hang out in her pajamas playing the guitar.”
Gretchen wiped away tears. Fran spoke to Julian in her mind. It really was only a kiss, she insisted to herself. She watched Gretchen examine her paintings from the semester, which hung off thumbtacks on the wall. Gretchen offered no encouragement, not even a hmm of acknowledgment. Were they that bad? Gretchen wordlessly glided from one painting to the next as if they were in a gallery and the artist was as far away and unknown as a bright spot in the sky. Triumphantly, Fran found the fellowship application.
“Are you going to Eileen’s party?” Fran asked finally, breaking the silence.
“It’s not a party,” Gretchen said firmly, “it’s a celebration of life.”
“Do you think Paulina will be there?” Fran asked.
“Everyone will be there.”
Sampson’s office was decorated with paintings by alumni, some of them semifamous painters who occasionally took the train up to critique student work. These guest crits were often more insulting than class crits. One woman told Fran that painting wasn’t her medium.
Fran surveyed the paper clutter and pictures, Sampson’s framed degrees on the wall, wondering if she would make it as far as him, or if she’d make it further.
“Fran, good to see you,” Sampson said. His gaze fell on the form in her lap, covered with her careful handwriting. He smiled sadly behind his desk. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. It was due weeks ago. I stopped by your studio but you were never there.” Fran was stricken. “I even sent you an e-mail. I ended up asking Allison to apply instead. She was thrilled. It didn’t seem you were too interested.”
Fran burst into tears.
“Oh, Fran, you’ll be okay. There are other fellowships out there.” Sampson paused. “Maybe not as prestigious as this one, of course.”
“I’m just sad about Eileen.”
“A tragedy,” said Sampson. “I just saw her work in the gallery. There’s someone who could have made it.”
Fran wiped her tears away. Where would she live? How would she make money?
“It’s hard to be your age. There’s maybe too much freedom. Or too much pressure . . .” He studied her.
She felt she had to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Sampson tapped a pen against the table. He had a wife and kids, but it was known he’d slept with Gilbert & George in the seventies. He smiled at Fran. “I really enjoyed that trip to Norway we took last year. That was something special.”
Fran nodded.
“It was a joy to see you and that other girl, that bossy one. The sight of you two always gave Nils and me a kick. You were wearing those matching striped—what were they?”
“Tunics.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He laughed. Paulina had bought them a pair of striped tunics for twenty kroner at an Oslo market. It was too cold to wear them outdoors, but they’d done it anyway. “I’d be happy to write you a letter of rec,” Sampson said. “You can use it for jobs or grad school or anything you want.”
They’d made such a great pair that trip. Fran hadn’t worried about school, or art, or her future. When she made Paulina laugh, she’d felt a golden light upon her. The light had formed a layer she thought to herself. The layer had been a kind of shield. She’d lost some kind of shield! And Julian’s shield!
Fran tried to smile as she stood up and shook Sampson’s hand. Perhaps painting wasn’t her medium. The school had helped her see that. She had paid them to tell her. Fran walked outside into the cool spring air. She could feel the wet lines of her tears. Nothing was shielding her.
Arriving drunk to Eileen’s party, Fran sensed Paulina, then saw her across the room with her back turned. The textiles girls looked radiant from mourning. A few people danced to loud music. “This is lame,” Gretchen said, grabbing Fran’s arm. “Eileen would want people to dance. Fran, you should dance. You love dancing.”
“I don’t feel like dancing. I’m not a machine. I can’t just dance.” She looked pointlessly for Julian. Julian never went to parties, or even to Artist Ball or the good lectures, but still Fran stared at the door, wishing for him. Sometimes she went into the cafeteria thinking she’d see him, but she never did. The cafeteria was always packed with freshmen and sophomores who didn’t know her, having their own experience of the school without her.
“Did you figure out what you’re going to do after graduation?” Gretchen asked. Fran ran her fingers over the straps of her jumper. “Do you wanna live together in Brooklyn?” Gretchen asked. “You never said. It could be cool. I’ve been e-mailing people about apartments.” Fran watched Paulina argue with Sadie. Allison was wilting against the wall. Sadie was holding hands with a boy Fran had never seen. “Jeez, you’re like a zombie tonight,” Gretchen said.
Everyone from their year was at the party. There was even a little pack of grad students who h
ad probably been Eileen’s TAs. No one felt right about dancing, but the music kept calling them to dance. “You don’t need to decide now,” Gretchen said, “but I just want to tell you that I’m definitely moving to New York, and as of now I don’t have a roommate. I might rent an apartment starting June first, but maybe July first. August seems too late. I want to get on with the next part of my life. You know?”
Fran murmured in agreement. She watched as Paulina pantomimed something to a crowd. She must be making fun of someone, thought Fran. “Don’t look now,” Gretchen said and Fran turned to look. Julian stood self-consciously in the doorway. Fran’s heart leapt. She missed his body, what it felt like to waste the whole day together. Julian was wearing black jeans and a Film Department T-shirt that read REEL LIFE. His thoughts briefly seemed visible as he looked everyone over.
“Dance with me,” Fran whispered to Gretchen, then threw herself onto the dance floor. Gretchen watched her go. For a few supernatural moments, Fran was alone on the floor and captivating. Paulina was infuriated with inspiration. She threw her purse over her shoulder and walked her red leather boots onto the dance floor.
Julian stood silently while everyone else cheered them on. Paulina shook her breasts violently at Fran. Fran danced desperately low to the ground, as was supposed to be attractive. Paulina knew that the better dancer would win Julian. She sped up her moves. Her arms whipped the air. Her sight blurred.
Fran took a risk and started dancing slow. She let the beats pile up around her. Did she look good? She found herself praying to Eileen for help, but that was ridiculous, she knew—Eileen had just gotten there, she couldn’t do anything yet. Paulina was vibrating in front of her. Fran spun away in a few wide, sensual movements. She felt a cramp dig into her side, but kept dancing.
The song ended. Paulina and Fran stood hunched, breathing hard. Paulina bent her knee in a stretch. They had barely recovered when Marvin walked in. No one had seen him for weeks. He’d cut his own hair. The next song came on. Paulina immediately resumed dancing. Fran reluctantly danced. Paulina danced at double speed, her breasts rocking an extra beat. The girls danced close together in a sexy way, but it only made Marvin laugh.
The old Color Club song came on, and Paulina and Fran danced even closer. Their eyes met and neither looked away. The music was an electronic whine, machines confessing to machines. Everyone ran onto the dance floor. Fran could feel the sweat on her back and between her breasts. She danced limply, like laundry on a line. She could feel the others dancing around her. She heard their tinny voices in the lyric breaks, and several spirited screams.
Fran’s hair was in her eyes and she braided it out of her way as she danced. The cramp had faded, or the natural drug of dance had cured her. They’d called it “dance drugs” in Norway. They didn’t run out of moves. They kept making up new ones. A happy heat emanated off their skin.
Paulina watched Fran’s hair curl out of its braid and whip her face like pretty underwater plants. Paulina could not leave beauty alone. She leaned close to Fran. Fran was unable to resist anyone who wanted her. They kept an inch between their lips, while the room shook with dancing. The anticipation was so overwhelming that Fran couldn’t tell who it was, but one of them leaned forward. The kiss was dizzying.
Like most bathrooms at school, there was dirt between the tiles. A discolored shower curtain clung to the tub. A bar of soap sat in a milky puddle. Someone knocked loudly on the door and Paulina locked it. She pulled Fran’s jumper off, ripping a big hole in the seam. Laughing, Fran pulled Paulina’s dress over her head.
Fran’s bra was the flimsy kind with no underwire. Her breasts were soft and palmable. Every part of her told Paulina something, something she’d already known but never felt. Someone knocked again and Paulina yelled, “Get lost!” Fran started kissing Paulina again, this time with confidence. Her hands crushed Paulina’s impossible curls and felt the hair clips beneath it all.
Paulina pulled Fran onto the floor, where she lay short of breath, staring at the rusted underside of the sink, someone’s lumpy bathrobe, and a collection of half-full shampoo bottles. Paulina dragged Fran’s threadbare underwear down her legs.
Fran had this bedroom feeling to her, a feeling Paulina had often noticed. Everywhere Fran went, she inhabited like her bedroom. Her joy, her moping—none of it was hidden. Paulina pressed her cheeks against Fran’s thighs. Fran felt herself dissolve into the mess around her. Hot blood coursed through her veins, which she imagined like thin streets that led her to Paulina. To Paulina’s streets.
Fran’s melodic gasps tightened Paulina’s heart. Emotions thrashed around like toys. Though it lasted about eight minutes, the girls would think of this moment so often that it became notched in their memory, a place they got stuck thinking. Hearing Fran orgasm drove Paulina insane. After, Fran reached for her, but Paulina evaded her. Cool fear filled Paulina while Fran lay catching her breath. Pleasure ran druggy sprints down Fran’s legs. She couldn’t think. Everything she thought seemed marvelous. She laughed.
Paulina washed her face in the sink, her heart pounding. Fran leaned against the door. “What about you?” Fran said. “I can get you,” she said, her breasts lolling on her chest. “I want to.” Paulina didn’t respond. She dressed quickly, then nervously took out her hair clips and redid her hair, staring hard at her own face.
“Paulina!” A boy called through the door. Fran’s mind raced. What would people think when they left together? How could she get the ripped jumper back on? Safety pins? What about Eileen? Where was she?
Then again, “Paulina!”
Paulina silently unlocked the door and closed it behind her. Fran looked for her underwear. Her legs felt weak, as though Paulina had stolen her power.
Fran held her ripped jumper closed as she walked away from the party. Where had Paulina run off to? Things could be like Norway again. Fun like that. In the same room. Going places together. Where the street split, Fran took the turn to Paulina’s. Her shoes eagerly slapped the pavement. She touched her hair. She imagined finding the door open, sneaking into Paulina’s bed. Paulina waking and finding her. What happened in the bathroom happening again and again.
Fran passed a weird sculpture glued to the sidewalk. It was the letter E, sculpted in papier-mâché, but the top bar had collapsed onto the other bars, and ants were eating it. Metal pieces hung off the sculpture with string. Photographs had been glued onto the piece: pictures of Eileen weaving on a loom, blurry dancing, Dean in a dress at the goth club with Sadie, freshman-year Marvin posing with naked Apollo, Eileen helping Cassie paint her room. Fran searched them for herself.
Paulina knelt above Tim in her bedroom, giving him the longest blow job in human history. “I told you,” Tim said, bunched against her pillows. She waved him off.
“If anyone can do it, I can do it,” she said, her words garbled. They laughed. Paulina worked like a motor. There really is no other feeling like this, she thought. It felt like praying to a needy god or resuscitating a drowned toad. She could think of nothing to drive her forward except the distinction of breaking his record. She pictured Fran and kept going. Fran’s orgasm had sounded so sweet. She could picture a whole life with Fran. A sunny apartment, where, Berlin? She kept her hand moving up and down Tim’s dick, while she stretched her neck.
“You can stop if you want,” he said. She narrowed her eyes and put it back in her mouth. Cassie couldn’t give him a blow job! Cassie, who’d spent her whole artistic worth on a droopy monument for Eileen. Tim groaned.
“It feels so good, but I know I’m not going to come,” he said, with a little too much certainty. Paulina sped up. She pictured Fran on the bathroom tiles with her legs open. Fran on the dance floor with her hair flying. Paulina had gotten all of Smith to come; surely Tim’s dick wasn’t as complex. Muscles in her back seized up like armor. She imagined leaving Tim in her bed and running to Fran’s. Likely it had already ended for Fran, she realized. Fran rarely questioned a good feeling, but by now she had realiz
ed who had given it to her, and probably she wanted her lovers to be male, and of a certain look, of a certain major. A lot of Smith was this way. College girls intuit that they’re supposed to try something while they’re young, but rarely can they love or accept it. Likely Fran was already at Julian’s, telling him, having him.
She let it fall out of her mouth. “I sucked Tim Henley’s dick for four hours and all I got was this stupid T-shirt?” she said. He laughed. “I chased Tim Henley all year and all I got was this stupid blow job!?”
“Hey,” he said, getting serious, “you started it.”
Fran knocked, but the sound yielded nothing. She saw a pinkish glow from the window of Paulina’s room. Fran wanted to yell to her, but she didn’t want Paulina’s neighbors to hear. She heard laughter and shrank back. Was Paulina looking at her through the blinds? Was it all a joke?
Fran had so much work to do, and here she was, shivering in the night, while Paulina laughed her villainous laugh. Was there a sorrier state? Paulina had won, had worn Fran down, had all Fran’s power. Was Julian up there too? She felt sick. Wind flew through her ripped jumper. She wanted to scream to Paulina. “Paulina,” she said. Light played in the window. If Paulina really liked her like that, Fran thought, it wouldn’t have taken this long. When Paulina wanted someone she walked toward them, put her hands on them. Fran’s eyes were glassy with tears and yearning. She couldn’t yell. “Paulina,” she said to herself.
10
A week later, they all graduated in faux silk, then, like trash in the water, floated off to lousy jobs in obscure towns and heartless cities. Terrible things happened in the news. People killed one another in inventive ways, and Fran read about it guiltily, as if her interest promoted it.
Fran hadn’t expected to move to Upstate New York, but it was satisfying to paint houses. It felt human to trust ladders. It was the only job that responded. She’d gotten the call the same day she applied, and had accepted the offer before finding Hudson on a map. She’d be in nature! Or near nature.
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