Au Revoir, Crazy European Chick

by Joe Schreiber

  I don't know what I'd been hoping for, but right away I knew that coming had been a big mistake.

  I couldn't remember the theme of the prom but it seemed to be something along the lines of Social Darwinism Under the Stars. Lights and shimmering tinsel had transformed the gymnasium into a pulsating soup of glandular hostility. Nobody actually said anything, not at first, but I could feel dozens of eyes on Gobi as she stepped through the door, and I saw the expressions on the faces of the girls and the guys—disbelief, amusement, that vicious dinner-is-served delight—as they stared at what she was wearing. She wasn't invisible anymore. She'd stepped dead-bang into the spotlight, and she'd painted a big bull's-eye on her head. I thought about those South American cattle farmers who shoved the weakest, scrawniest cow in the river upstream, protecting the rest of the herd while schools of piranha ripped the poor sacrificial heifer to shreds. Whether or not that actually happened, I didn't know or particularly care—as a social model for high school dynamics, it was too cruelly perfect.

  On stage, a band that nobody had ever heard of was in the middle of massacring a Radiohead song, but the noise still didn't seem to drown out the whispers around us.

  "You want some punch?" I asked.

  "Yes, please."

  I made my way across the room to the tables set up on the other side. Chow was there with his girlfriend, and he gave me this incredulous look as if he'd somehow never actually expected me to go through with tonight's events. Ignoring him, I scooped up two plastic champagne flutes of punch and brought them back to Gobi, who was standing alone at the edge of the dance floor with a ten-foot radius of open space surrounding her, and handed her a glass.

  "Thank you."

  "Sure." I gulped my drink, found a place to put my glass, and struggled to keep my hands from running through my hair. Gobi watched the band play. It was impossible to tell what was going through her mind, but she seemed more weirdly here, alive and in her element, than she'd ever been while trudging the halls of Upper Thayer with her books under her arms, or sitting at our dining room table.

  Finishing her punch, she turned to me and looked up.

  "Would you like to dance?"

  "I really don't—"

  Her hand found mine, fingers slipping between mine with surprising firmness. "Dance with me, Perry."

  I had no idea how it was going to go, but it wasn't awful—we got lost in a sea of shuffling couples, held stiffly on to each other, keeping six careful inches of open air between our bodies. It was just dancing, that was all. Slow circles. Zero eye contact. Gobi's blouse crinkled stiff and unyielding in my hands, like armor made of hotel curtains, and when the third song ended I glanced at my watch and saw that it was somehow past eight already.

  I was about to say something when a dump-truck load of bricks smashed into my shoulder, knocking me sideways toward Gobi. She dodged out of the way, surprisingly fast, and I found myself flailing toward the floor, hearing a burst of cold laughter behind me.

  "Hey, Stormaire, nice of you to bring your cleaning lady to the prom."

  Turning around, I saw Dean Whittaker standing there, hands in his pockets, grinning. Lanky, curly-haired, gifted with the rubbery face of a natural clown, Whittaker wore what was no doubt a tailored Armani tuxedo, with Shep Monroe pasted to his right shoulder like some hideous life-size ventriloquist dummy. I didn't even know what they were doing in a public school. Whittaker and Monroe were as wealthy as they were psychotic, and looking at them, you got the feeling that the prom was nothing more than a sadistic giggle between big over-oxygenated whoops of special rich person air that they had flown in exclusively from Switzerland. The girls they'd brought to the prom didn't even go to Upper Thayer; they were daughters of their parents' friends, families whose money and influence flooded endlessly from some completely different sphere. They both looked almost transcendently bored.

  "Back off," I said, already aware of how lame it sounded.

  "Back off ?" Whittaker's grin widened, showing perfect teeth. "Why should I? Is it gonna get ugly? Are you going to bring the pain?" Hands still in his pockets, he waded a step closer. "Tell you what, douche stool, I'll do whatever you say on one condition: you let me videotape you and your date when you start going at it later tonight." His eyes flicked over to her. "I want to see you even try to find an actual girl underneath all that body hair."

  "That's it," I said, and came forward, swinging at him. I hadn't been in a fight since sixth grade, and Whittaker must have seen my fist coming from a mile away, because he was already dodging and springing up at me, tagging the side of my chest with a tight, hard right that stung like a golf ball. I went over sideways, counting my ribs. Somewhere off in the distance, behind rippling acres of pain, I heard Shep Monroe yodeling out a moronic laugh.

  "You're a ballsy little prick, Stormaire." Whittaker had my face squashed in his hands while spitting right into my ear. "You've got a real set of oysters on you, messing up my prom with that piece of Euro-trash."

  "Don't call her—"

  He shoved me backwards with a snap of the arms, pistoning me hard enough that I half expected to wake up in an ambulance. People were staring, but when I glanced around again, he and Monroe and their two vacant-looking society dates had vaporized into the background.

  I caught a glimpse of Gobi looking back at me from where she'd seen the whole thing, her expression as unreadable as ever.

  "Hey," I said. "You want to get out of here?"

  She nodded. "You should bring the car around." Her eyes flicked off in the direction of the ladies' room. "I need to fix my makeup."

  I realized she probably just wanted a chance to compose herself. Maybe she just wanted to slip away completely. After what just happened, I couldn't blame her.

  Hell, maybe I'd get lucky and we could end this whole thing now.

  ***

  She came out ten minutes later and got in the car without a word.

  "Look," I said, as we drove away, "I'm sorry about that."

  "You should really learn how to fight."

  I turned to her. "What?"

  "You telegraphed your punch. That boy got lucky. You should have broken his nose."

  "I didn't realize you were such an expert on the pugilistic arts," I said. "Maybe you can give me some pointers."

  Gobi shrugged. "If you like."

  "I guess you heard what he said about you."

  "Tch." She wrinkled her nose. "The opinion of such a subin-laizys means nothing to me."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It is what you would call..." She hesitated, trying to come up with the proper translation. "What is it that dogs do?"

  "Chase cats?"

  "No." She shook her head. "Lick their own balls."

  "You called him a ... ball-licker?"

  "What," she said, "you are scandalized?"

  "No," I said, "I just didn't know you knew words like that."

  "Are you joking with me? My language is rich with curses."

  "Like what else?"

  "Well, you could call him... Gaidzio pautai—that means chicken balls."

  "Chicken balls?"

  "If it were me, though," she said, "I would simply crush his windpipe so he could say no more offensive things to women."

  "That's what you would do to him, huh?"

  "For a start, yes."

  "You're full of surprises, you know that?"

  "I told you that you would know me better by the end of the night."

  "I dunno," I said, "I mean, you've been here nine months. How come you never acted like this before?"

  She didn't answer. After a second I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was almost eight thirty now. I realized that I had to take her home, but given what had happened, I didn't think I could just swing by the house and order her to get out.

  "You, ah, want to go anywhere else while we're out?"

  "I would like to go to the city."

  "What?"

  She pointed at the sign up ahead t
hat read NEW YORK CITY —48 MILES.

  "You want to go to New York?"

  "This is my last week in United States, Perry. You can show me around, yes?"

  "We were just there last week, remember?"

  "I am not talking about a Broadway show with your parents and your little sister. I am talking about Manhattan at night with you. Do you understand the difference?"

  "Are you serious?"

  "Do I look like I am joking?"

  I felt myself starting to nod. This could actually work in my favor—if Gobi really wanted to go into the city tonight, then I'd be clear to play the gig at Monty's, and even my dad couldn't say anything about it. "Okay," I said, "I mean, if that's really you want." We were back in town now, our little village square, and I hit my turn signal and started edging toward the left lane. "But I need to go home first and switch vehicles—"

  "No." She grabbed the steering wheel. "We take this car."

  "Wait, what are you doing?"

  "The Jaguar—it is a nice car, yes? Is fast, yes?"

  "Yeah," I said, "it's fast, but—"

  "So we take it."

  "No."

  "I thought you said it was a pleasure to drive."

  "To the prom, yes. To New York City, not so much."

  She clicked her tongue and stared at me. "Sliundra. "

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means ... how do you say...?" Gobi nodded at herself, down there. "Pussy?"

  "Pussy? You're calling me a pussy?"

  She nodded.

  "Okay, Gobi, let me explain something to you. This is, like, an eighty-thousand-dollar car, which my father loves like a child—I'm not taking it into Manhattan, and that's final."

  "You always do what your father says?"

  "When it comes to the car, yeah."

  She was smiling at me again, the way she had when we'd first arrived at the prom, but now more challenging, not quite playful. "I see you, the way he talks to you. He runs your life." Her voice dropped into a cruelly accurate imitation of my dad's stentorian tone. "Perry, you need to work harder. This is not acceptable. You will never get into Columbia with grades like these. How will you succeed in life?"

  I felt my internal temperature rise past my lips, cheeks, and forehead. "That's not true."

  "He tells you to do something, you do it. You spend your whole life afraid you will somehow disappoint him. And that is no way to live."

  "Look," I said, "I'm sorry, but you don't know me that well. I mean, maybe you've lived in our house for a while, but you don't know anything about how it really is with us."

  "Prove it."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. What are you being so afraid of ?"

  "That's not the point. I'm not doing this. Understand?"

  She sighed. "Your father said that you could drive the car, yes?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "He did not say where you could drive it."

  I glanced down at the keychain dangling from the ignition and thought about my father handing it to me at his office, one more chain that he held one end of while offering me the other. I put my foot down on the accelerator. The throb of the V-12 engine rippled through me in one solid wave.

  "Just for a quick trip."

  Gobi nodded as if she'd expected nothing less. She reached into her enormous bulky handbag and pulled out a BlackBerry. Had I ever seen her use one before? Her fingers swept quickly over the keys, tapping something in and holding it up so I could see.

  "I want to go here."

  I looked. "What, the 40/40 Club? Are you serious?"

  "You are familiar with it?"

  "Well, yeah, it's Jay-Z's club, but—"

  "Good," she said, and took the BlackBerry back, tucking it away. "Then get us there."

  "Why there?"

  She shrugged. "I read about it in a magazine. I want to go there."

  "I doubt they'll let us in."

  "Why are you always so seeing the dark side of things?"

  "That's kind of how I am when it comes to stuff that's totally impossible," I said. "Other than that, I'm a regular Mr. Sunshine."

  She laughed.

  "What?"

  "You are funny."

  "I'm glad you think so. This might be as interesting as the night gets."

  "I doubt that very much," she said.

  I downshifted and focused on my driving. It felt good to be bad; I was starting to get used to the idea. "So, 40/40," I said. "You just read about it in some magazine and decided that's where you wanted to go?"

  No answer from Gobi. I glanced back at her. Her head was resting against the window, tilted so that I couldn't see her face.

  "Gobi?"

  Still no reply. I reached for her shoulder and squeezed slightly, then harder. She made a groaning croak in the back of her throat, adjusted her shoulders, then sat up and blinked at me with a disoriented expression, realization seeping into her eyes.

  "Oh," she said.

  "You all right?"

  She nodded.

  "You had a seizure?"

  No answer.

  "Listen ... maybe we should just go home."

  "No." A single, brittle syllable. "It has already passed."

  "Are you sure? Sometimes when you have those..."

  "I am fine, Perry." She nodded out the windshield. "You just drive the car."

  6

  Discuss how your travel experiences have affected you as a student and a citizen of the world. (University of Florida)

  Forty-five minutes later we were in the Flatiron District, looking up Twenty-Fifth Street at a row of stretch Expeditions parked outside the towering, two-level club where people lined up inside the red velvet ropes waiting to get in. I'd seen it in magazines, but this was as close as I'd ever been in person.

  "They're never going to let us through the door."

  "Do not always think—"

  "—on the dark side of things, right, I get it."

  Gobi gathered her bag, opened her door, and ducked out. "Meet me inside."

  "What if—"

  She was already gone. I sat there for a moment, looking through the windshield at the lights of downtown while taxis rolled up behind me, blasting their horns. The valet appeared next to my window, a slick ghost.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "Park it somewhere safe, please," I said, taking the ticket and climbing out, aware of my rented prom tuxedo like I'd never been before. Nobody else seemed to notice except the bouncer, who flashed me an indifferent look and gestured me forward. He was probably going to tell me there was no way a kid in a rented tuxedo was going to be seen outside this kind of club. I pretended not to notice, keeping my eyes peeled for Gobi and wondering when we could get out of here.

  "Hey!" the bouncer shouted, waving me up until I couldn't ignore him anymore. People were staring. Blushing, getting ready to be yelled at, I went toward him, and he opened the rope to let me through. "She's in there."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your date."

  "Oh. Thanks."

  "Whoa." His hand fell on my shoulder. "You have ID?"

  "Yeah, I..." After digging out my wallet, I fumbled for my license and then waited while he inspected the birth date. He stamped my hand with a big red stamp: UNDERAGE.

  "No alcohol. And you can't sit at the bar."

  "Okay."

  I stepped inside.

  Everything was different in here: sounds, smells, lights, music. People who seemed to belong to some exclusive group—adults, sophisticates, citizens of the world—were packed up tight against the bar. I passed underneath a storm of silent images from the sixty-inch plasma screens playing ESPN from the walls. Up ahead, white swing chairs with yolk-yellow interiors dangled from the ceiling, looking like giant hard-boiled eggs, while the most beautiful women I'd ever seen sat inside them swinging their legs and sipping drinks from champagne glasses. Men in suits, tall guys in sunglasses who looked like NBA players, more gorgeous women, singles, hipsters, all li
ngered around the marble floors and the staircases. After a moment of standing there, I saw Gobi at one of the tables near the back and went over, trying to make sense of her presence here.

  "How'd you get us in?"

  "Sit down." She pushed a tall glass in my direction without actually seeming to look at me. "I ordered you a Pepsi."

  "Thanks."

  "I will be right back."

  "Gobi, wait a second—"

  She was already gone again, angling into the bathroom. I sipped my Pepsi and tried to look as if I were drinking Courvoisier. I didn't know how she'd gotten us in or what we were going to do next, but that feeling of sensory detachment was coming back, making everything feel both too real and not real at all. It was after nine thirty—closer to ten now—but I figured if I paid for my ten-dollar Pepsi and got out of here quickly I could still make it to sound check downtown. As long as nothing stupid happened in the meantime.

  Gobi had been gone for what felt like ages. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Three Wall Street–looking jocks at the door were eyeing me as if they were about to come over and ask if they could have this table. Glancing back in the direction of the women's bathroom, I saw a slender young woman in a little black dress and wraparound sunglasses sauntering directly toward me, arms swinging slightly, hips snapping back and forth like a metronome beneath the stretchy fabric. Her red lipstick seemed to cut through the air. She dropped her bag onto the table next to my drink with a thump.

  "I changed my mind," she said. "I want to go."

  I stared at her. "Gobi?"

  "Have them bring the car around."

  I was still staring at her, my brain trying to swallow what my eyes had already bitten off. It was Gobi—except it wasn't. Gone was the muddled look, the poached and blemished skin, the oily split ends. Everything was focused, clean, and smooth. She'd unleashed her hair, which now tumbled down in easy, effortless, chocolate-colored tumbles and quotation marks around her shoulders and face. The tight, lithe body that she had been hiding under forty-two pounds of eastern European wool was right here in front of me now, stretching the dress in all the right places. I could almost hear the seams creak as she breathed. The only similarity to the girl who had gone into the bathroom was the half-heart pendant that still dangled around her neck.