by Sarah Miller
"Who is Danielle?" Liam asks.
Gid hesitates. Smart on his part. The Danielle Road can't be a good one to travel with Liam Wu.
"She's...a friend from home. I forgot her birthday."
"Whatever," Liam says, scowling. "My mother doesn't even remember my birthday." Liam's mother, Gideon knows, is a banker in Hong Kong. "I thought she was some chick you wanted to ball. Birthdays, I don't give a fuck. But balling..." Liam nods. "We can talk ballin' all the livelong day, son."
Gid winces. Not because of Danielle, but because of Molly. That if he does have sex with her, it will be spoken of as balling.
"Liam," he ventures, "this is kind of a stupid question..."
"I expect nothing less from you," Liam replies. Unlike Cullen and Nicholas, there's never even the slightest glimmer of affection in Liam's insults. Maybe when your mom forgets your birthday, you get hard like that.
"What do you think is sexy? I mean, how do you define sexy?" He's thinking of Molly and Pilar and his different feelings about them.
Liam Wu stops short in the middle of the quad. "A chick you want to ball," he says. With an exasperated shake of the head, he resumes walking.
Liam frustrates Gideon. He's not sure why. I think it might be because he can't decide whether to direct his hostility at Liam himself or at the system that rewards Liam for being a handsome, mean, intimidating asshole.
And here comes, or rather, waddles, Devon Shine. Gid might be skinny fat, but Devon Shine is fat fat! He keeps tugging his T-shirt over his stomach. And he's wearing barrettes! "What's up?" Devon says to Gid, not looking him in the eye.
Gid nods politely, thinking, Why isn't anyone on your case? While he huffs and puffs his way around the track in the morning, Devon sleeps, cozy under layers of blankets and blubber. And he loves himself. And girls like him. And he wears barrettes, for Christ's sake. It's not fair.
Devon pulls Liam away from Gid, into the middle of the quad, where they begin to whisper and gesture. Gid waits in the path for a few seconds as a parade of girls walks around Liam, adjusting their book bags on their shoulders, tucking their hair behind their ears, and casting sidelong glances, hoping to be noticed. Gid has tried to catch girls giving him sidelong glances but so far, nothing. To maintain his sanity, he has convinced himself he's never looking at the right time—not entirely untrue, since I look at him that way all the time.
Suddenly he realizes he's blocking the path. He feels stupid, vestigial, and stands on the grass watching Devon and Liam. Their conversation shows no signs of ending. He continues along to class, watching his feet, trying to convince himself that he wasn't just abandoned. He takes some comfort in the Birkenstocks Cullen gave him last week, along with orders to dispose of his white sneakers. Gid admires the way they look against the cuff of his khakis. When he first got here, he didn't think there was any way he could achieve the look—rumpled formality is a good description—but he's got to admit he's kind of nailed it. "Definitely," he whispers, feeling soothed.
"Definitely what?"
It's Molly McGarry, bundled against the cold day in a red hooded coat, her hair smooth and flat against her pink cheeks.
Molly repeats, "Definitely what?" Her smile is mischievous. She knows he was talking to himself.
Fine, but there's no way he's admitting to it. "Oh, I was just continuing the conversation I was having with Liam," he says, pointing at Liam as if to prove it.
"What does one talk to Liam about?" Molly asks, laying a conspiratorial hand on his arm. Gid counts the girls who have touched his bare skin. Danielle, Pilar, Molly, Svetlana, his next-door neighbor's cousin from Ukraine, whom he kissed in ninth grade in a garage smelling of cat litter and crowded with cases of diet cola. Five girls in his whole life. Not counting, like, clerks handing him change.
"Liam seems like a freak to me," Molly continues, glancing quickly over her shoulder. Her touch isn't as crazy making as Pilar's. Pilar, though, seemed so aware of the fact that she was touching Gid, as if her hand on his arm were a piece of art she was arranging on a wall. Molly's hand is just a hand. Small, with plain nails and a gold ring. When they walk up the steps into Thayer Hall, she removes her hand and puts it on the black iron railing. But it was on his arm for a good long time. And once they are past the railing, she reaches out and touches him again, saying
as she does so, "He seems not entirely human."
"Not entirely human like an animal or not entirely human like a space alien?" Gid asks.
Molly presses her lips together and nods. Gideon can tell this is an important distinction for her. He likes it that she understands him, that what he says means something to her. He hasn't been feeling that much lately.
"Space alien all the way. Sure, he's good-looking." She shrugs. "That's probably a matter of fact, not opinion. But I don't, like, fantasize about him."
Gid's ears flare up. He looks around nervously to see if anyone heard this, but everyone around them is moving, rushing, turning off cell phones, and hurriedly reading the last words of their assignments. Is Molly talking about masturbation? My God. Why would you ever tell anyone anything like that? But maybe it's just an expression. And she's still touching his hand, he notices.
There's movement on his left. Mija and Madison pass by. They saw Molly touching him. Couldn't they have just come by a second later? Madison is dressed in prep school couture—high-heeled boots, a belted sweater she probably picked up off the floor but cost what Gid's dad makes in a week, and jeans so low that as one of her long legs swings forward, Gid sees the knot of her hip bone. He notes that actually, Mija's dressed similarly, but that she just looks neat and moderately stylish, and it's the come-on of Madison's long-legged walk that dresses up her look. Madison and Mija have stopped off to the side and are huddled near the window, ostensibly reapplying lip gloss, but watching. This pursuit of Molly is more uncomfortably public than he'd like it to be. He tries to imagine how he and Molly look walking together.
Molly notices the girls. "What's their problem?"
"I don't know if they have a problem," Gideon says. "They're actually pretty nice." He's aware his tone gives away his pride in knowing these girls, understanding what's behind the expensive sweaters and high heels, but it doesn't make him feel any less special.
The first thing he notices upon entering the classroom is Ms. San Video's butt. She's wearing leather pants and writing verbs on the board. The pants are tight, brown, and shiny. He wants to sit down and look at them and talk to Molly later. So he does.
When Liam comes in and spots Ms. San Video's pants, he shoots Gideon a thumbs-up and says, "Oh, yes, I definitely habla espanoll"
Gid smiles and nods, forgetting all about Liam's running off with Devon outside, their excited, exclusive whispering. Even Mija and Madison's attention takes on a new cast. I'm part of things, Gid thinks. I'm in a groove. I'm happy. No study hall tonight—the first Friday of every month is a free night, one of those weird little rules designed to trick you into thinking prep school's really not that bad. Tomorrow's Saturday. Gid has it all planned out, he is going to go to the library, to the basement, where a certain kind of girl who lives in Emerson—the bookish and slightly sexually interesting because of, and not despite, it—is known to study. He will find Molly, making it look, of course, like an accident, and he will talk to her. They will talk for hours. And then...
Liam leans over. "Hey. What time are you guys leaving for Fiona Winchester's party?"
"Party?" Gid says, immediately concentrating on his own face, on lifting it, instead of letting it cave with disappointment.
Oh, Gid. For five whole minutes life seemed to be coming together. It's all falling apart now, but didn't you enjoy it?
"Whoa," Liam says. "Well, maybe Nicholas and Cullen didn't tell you about it yet."
Nicholas, maybe. But Cullen. Cullen never shuts up. No. This was withheld. Gid closes his eyes and can't think.
Two minutes before the end of Spanish, Gid mumbles, "£/ bano" and hightails
it out of there. He jogs over the granite floors and down the tiled steps and, blowing off a little steam, heaves himself against the heavy door to the outside. It was sunny and clear for about half an hour during class. Then the wind came up again, and now the sky's rapidly clouding over, all the little patches of blue shrinking to nothing. The leaves fall steadily. He sees a figure in white coming right toward him. Gid's a little nearsighted, but even before the form takes shape he knows—that teetering-on-heels walk, that bouncing hair—he is looking at Pilar Benitez-Jones.
Incredible how, as Gid's anticipating total defeat, he's brimming with some kind of stupid happiness. As she gets closer, he sees she's wearing a belted white coat and light tan suede boots. Sort of slut meets sophisticate meets slut, one more time, just in case sophisticate forgot her. Pilar's got sort of twitchy hips. As she gains on Gid, the twitches pick up speed. Just as she's approaching, she puckers up and kisses the air. He stops in his tracks, but she blows past him. She's carrying a weekend bag. "I'm in a hurry," she says, smiling. "See you around."
Gid breaks into a sprint, determined to make it to his room before anyone can see him crumble in a heap of mortification and self-loathing.
Not going to the party was one thing. Not going to a party where Pilar would be—he doesn't know for sure, but he just knows—that was quite another.
He has the room all to himself. With great effort he removes his shoes and, still fully clothed, eases himself into his bed. Absolutely every single person on this campus that he wants to impress will be at this party, laughing, drinking, talking about things he'll never understand. Meanwhile, he will be at this dry brown leaf of a place, loitering outside Molly's dorm.
He pulls the covers over his head as if he could hide from his own shame. Maybe the fact that everyone's going to this party is good. In fact, maybe they didn't invite him because they knew he needed this weekend for the Molly project.
That doesn't work. Gid knows that people either want you around or they don't.
Cullen and Nicholas burst in with energy, and Gideon can feel the cold fresh air come in with them. Over his blazer, Cullen is wearing an orange down jacket patched with duct tape, and Nicholas wears a bright blue scarf. Their robust perfection is humiliating.
"Dude, what are you doing in bed?" Cullen asks.
Gideon mumbles, feigning sleep.
"We're leaving for Fiona Winchester's party in, like, fifteen minutes."
"Have fun," Gideon says glumly. He rolls over on his stomach and tucks his hands under his shoulders. This feels nice. Maybe he can stay in this position all weekend.
"Dumbass!" Cullen grabs a handful of Gid's bedding and whips it off him. "Did you think we were going without you?"
Liam and Devon are waiting for them outside Proctor in the white BMW. Liam's driving. Cullen points to it and nods meaningfully to Gid. "This is the car," he says. "This is the car that's going to be yours."
It's a beautiful car. I can see Gideon becoming more beautiful in it.
A few miles from school, Liam stops for gas. As he steps up to the pump with what is very likely his mother's credit card, Gid leans out the window and says, "Hey, you better put the high-test in. I hear any engine pings, and I'm going to be a little upset."
"What the fuck do you care?" Liam snaps, and Gideon is overcome with a happiness unlike any he's ever experienced when Cullen and Nicholas burst out laughing. Their laughter is mean. There is a secret from which Liam is excluded! Gideon is usually nicer than this, but at the moment, he likes the fact that Liam's face is growing red. That he looks wounded and will never admit it. I might be sitting in the middle of the backseat, Gid thinks, but next year, I'm going to be driving. And Liam can put his feet up on the transmission hump. And like it.
vicodin makes you love yourself
The Winchesters' family house—in the hip, artsy, but, make no mistake, thoroughly expensive Cape Cod town of Truro—is a cross between an airplane hangar and the Lila Acheson Wallace wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The furniture, all either beige or black or light mint green, is spare but lush. The art is giant and genuine. The front of the house is private and a little understated, but the back is a wall of thick glass that looks out on the white dunes and choppy blue of the Atlantic. Gid's blown away. Personally, I prefer something that feels like it's actually inhabited by people.
The ocean is right there. We both feel we could touch it.
More incredible, however; There are rock stars here. Real ones. Just hanging out like normal people.
Soccer star Erica, who generally favors T-shirts, is shockingly mod and sexy in a pink-and-purple paisley halter top, giggling, teetering on Jett Injuns guitarist Neils Tolland's bony British knee. Gid's a little more used to—we all are—Madison in suggestive clothing. And here she's wearing a bikini. And chugging champagne. Some of it runs down her chin, and Hal Plimcoat grabs her by her tiny tan waist, buries his neck in her chest, and licks it off. Even Mija is tarted out, for Mija, wearing pants so low-slung they need that special low-slung-pants thong.
Naturally, Gid doesn't know about special low-slung-pants thongs. If I could, I would tell him that when good girls put them on, bad things happen.
Cullen and Nicholas melt into the party, throwing no lifelines. They shake hands with Hal and Neils, then head over to a glass bar in the corner where Yves Mountjoy from the Rutts (Gid and I recognize both of them from MTV2) pours various liquors into a chugging blender. They finally settle in another seating area, where Neils's brother Dennis hovers over a glass-topped coffee table, covered with drugs. "The three Ps," Cullen says approvingly, kneeling down and examining the spread.
Tills, powder, and pot,” Dennis says. He reaches up and engages both Nicholas and Cullen in some kind of elaborate handshake, vaguely rock and roll, vaguely black. "Right on, great to see you cats again." To Gideon's credit, he's annoyed by this, wondering why everyone has to be so cool all the time, and also, whether white people will always have to act like black people to avoid looking like dorks. At the same time, holy shit, Dennis Tolland—a man Gideon has seen in magazines and on television—is friends with his roommates?
As exciting as Gid finds this proximity to stardom, he's wary of the competition. Getting Pilar to pay attention to him is one thing. Getting Pilar to pay attention to him in a sea of rock stars is quite another.
Now Dennis Tolland himself extends a hand to Gid. His clothes are cartoonish, bell-bottom brown polyester pants and a red tie-dyed shirt with a big green collar. His hair is dark and springy. "Hey, man, you must be Gid."
Gid's bowels contract. He shakes Dennis's hand.
"Pull up a chair, have a drink," Dennis says. "And let's start you out with one of these." He hands Gid something large and white. "It releases large amounts of serotonin into your brain all at once. It makes you feel really good."
Gideon is very interested in this. Who wouldn't be?
"I'll take that." Nicholas swoops in. "We have to be prudent about Gid's drug consumption."
"Maybe Gideon should be prudent about my drug consumption instead," Dennis says, cracking a wry smile, crossing his legs, and tossing a motley assortment of tablets onto his tongue.
"Too late for that," Gideon says. Dennis washes everything down with a swig of beer and smiles with appreciation. Gid likes this guy.
There's a loud thump, and Gid turns around to see that Neils, in the process of standing up from the couch, has unceremoniously dumped Erica off his lap and onto the floor.
Dennis sees it too. "Best to get fucked up," he says with a wink.
Gid thinks this is excellent advice and retreats to the empty kitchen. Everything is giant, stainless steel, and shiny. The refrigerator is full of beer and bottles of white wine. He takes a beer. Budweiser. Defensively, Gid thinks he's not so keen on the Rutts. Too loud but not exciting loud. Just loud. But he loves the Jett Injuns. In fact, the lyrics to "Vine Worthy" (yes, it's a Tarzan parable) are written in their thorough and humiliating entirety on one of his
notebooks from last year. Thank God he knows enough not to mention this.
Fiona Winchester, barefoot and hostessy in pink satin pajamas, enters the kitchen and gives Gid a surprisingly inviting smile. The back of her pants is totally smooth against her butt. No underwear. Gid stops himself before he gets too excited about this. Whatever she's trying to project, it's not for his benefit. Now Cullen comes in. Okay, that's who it's for.
Cullen reaches out and touches Fiona's back, a quick swirling motion with the back of his hand. And you know what he says? "Silky." Because it's all he needs. Because he can. Gid notices Cullen noticing the lack of underwear.
"See you guys later," Gid says, with a cool nod that he hopes indicates he knows what's going on. As he leaves the room, he hears a snap of elastic and a giggle.
And when he walks back into the living room, there is Pilar, dressed in a brown velvet warm-up suit, lounging in an overstuffed chair. She is casual, perfect. "Hey, Gid," she says, winking. Gideon's relief that she is not sitting on a rock stars lap is, sadly, short-lived when Yves Mountjoy saunters over to her, holding a cocktail shaker, and pours a healthy measure of something appealingly blue-green and frosty into her open mouth. "That's good," she says. "Very good." He pours more in a glass, and she takes it from him with a languid, practiced hand.
"Let's make one for my friend Gid." Pilar waves at Hal, who is manning the blender. After tucking a greasy lock of dark hair behind his ear, he waves back. "Oh, by the way, this is Yves." Yves nods at Gid, who does not say, "I've seen you on TV," or "Why do you guys dress like first-graders with special needs?"—though he would love to.
"You know what," Gid says. "I don't want one of those. I'm just going to drink beer." Pilar pats the seat next to her. Did he win it with his confident refusal? His stick-to-it-iveness to beer? Who knows? He sits.
