I could feel my friends looking at me, feeling sorry for me. I didn’t want their pity, and the weed was making me feel worse—more analytical than usual.
“He could at least say hi,” Bree muttered.
“It’s fine. He knows he’s not exactly my favorite person.”
“Still.”
“Whatever.” I shrugged. “He’s with Diana now.”
Except for that first Slug party, Stephen and Diana were together everywhere—walking across campus hand in hand, eating in the dining hall, teaming up for games of beer pong, kissing against the deck of the houseboat on Lake Mead (I hadn’t wanted to go to Mead this year, but my friends had insisted). The sight of the two of them never failed to make my insides lurch, never failed to make my head foggy with anger and lust and jealousy and frustration and sadness all mixed into one heavy dose of agonizing nostalgia.
You’re so beautiful, Lucy. Fuck.
I can’t wait to take you out on the boat this summer. You’re gonna love it.
I’m gonna go mingle. I’ll find you soon.
One second I’d had him, the next he was gone. It only takes a moment for something perfect to erase itself—a flight of stairs that leads to something unimaginable and irreversible; Stephen’s mouth pressed to Diana’s, Gabe’s hands holding CJ’s hips. A perception shatters and an imaginary line is drawn, separating the way it was from the way it is.
“He’s back with Diana now and yet he refuses to give you any kind of explanation after the shit he pulled at Hawaiian Luau last year? I hate boys.” Pippa stubbed the roach.
“It’s so true,” Jackie agreed. “I hate how guys just never take responsibility for the things they’ve done. They never feel like they have to own up to anything.”
“Not all guys,” Bree offered.
“Well, guys like Stephen. Dicks like Stephen.”
“You just need to hook up with someone else, Luce,” Pippa said. “It will make you feel a million times better.”
“I know, I know.” I hugged my knees into my chest. “But like, who?”
“There are tons of guys,” Bree said. “What about Stuart’s friend Clay?”
“He’s hooking up with that freshman,” Jackie said.
“What freshman?” Pippa pressed.
“Some Delta.”
“Ugh. Fuckin DGs.”
“What about Kevin Bianco?”
“Um, Kevin Bianco is one of the guys who gangbanged that girl while one of them was filming it,” Jackie said.
“That was him? Ew. Oh my God. Never mind.”
“That junior guy Riley? The super tall one on the soccer team?”
“Girlfriend.”
“Hmmm. Wes Davenport?”
“I’m pretty sure Wes Davenport is gay,” Bree pointed.
“I know,” Jackie said, grinning ear to ear. “Topher Rigby. He’s so cute and he already likes Lucy.”
“Topher Rigby is shorter than me,” I said. “I’ve told you this.”
“Yeah.” Pippa winced. “Topher is midgetish.”
“He’s not a midget, Pippa,” Jackie said. “He’s basically Lucy’s same height.”
“That’s a deal breaker,” Pippa said. “She would never be able to wear heels.”
“So don’t wear heels for a couple of months and have a fling with him. I love Topher! We were, like, in the same playgroup as babies. He’s so cute and hilarious and he’d be so nice to you. And maybe you’ll end up liking him.”
“I guess that’s true,” Pippa said. “Maybe he’s good in bed to compensate for his height. Like a Napoleon complex.”
“A Napoleon complex is when a man acts aggressive and arrogant because he’s insecure about being short,” Bree explained. “It has nothing to do with being good in bed.”
“Thank you, encyclopedia Bree,” Pippa rolled her eyes and turned to me. “Lucy, my dear. You are a very beautiful girl and despite this conversation there are lots of boys at this godforsaken school who would love to get into your tiny little yoga pants.”
“Let’s go in,” Bree said. “I need to shower.”
“Same,” Jackie said. “Let’s go in and shower and make drinks and do something fun tonight. Something different. No Slug boys.”
“Amen. Slug boys are the worst.” Pippa stood and swept the grass off her jeans.
“I should really do my Latin reading,” Bree said.
“I’m supposed to work on this piece for The Lantern,” I said.
“Do it in the morning,” Pippa said. “I’ll wake up early with you guys. I have to do my effing calculus.”
Six hours, five vodka sodas, and one generous line of blow later, I found myself in Topher Rigby’s dorm room. Jackie had texted Topher to come meet us at whatever random, midweek party we’d gone to, and he’d shown up in a clean polo shirt and with a freshly shaven face. Jackie was right—Topher did have a handsome face, and the more I drank the taller he became, and by the end of the night I was basically hanging on to his arm as we continued an in-depth conversation about Breaking Bad, and the next thing I knew we were in his room, which smelled faintly of Axe.
Topher’s single in Adler was covered in lacrosse posters and lacrosse trophies and photographs of his Wilton High School lacrosse team and several five-by-seven close-ups of himself laxing in action.
“So you play lacrosse?” It was a dumb, easy joke, but Topher laughed too loudly and poked my side, and my subconscious sober self debated running out the door.
“You’re funny.” Topher sat down on the bed. “I can’t believe Lucy Albright is in my room on a Wednesday night.”
I really couldn’t stand any of this—I didn’t know if it was his height and poufy black hair that were bothering me, or just the fact that he wasn’t Stephen. I knew if I didn’t sit down on the bed I was going to leave, maybe run down the street to the 7-Eleven for an emergency bag of Smartfood popcorn.
“You can sit down,” he said.
I sat.
He leaned over and kissed me, his mouth opening slowly against mine, his tongue sluggishly sliding in. I waited for him to throw me down on the bed with his lacrosse biceps and really make out with me, but the kiss remained vertical, gentle, dispassionate.
After a while my neck started to hurt from kissing in such a locked, upright position, so I lay back against the pillows, which Topher took as an invitation to slide his hand up my shirt. He touched my breasts carefully, like they were ancient artifacts. His hand reached for the button of my jeans and it felt like hours before he’d successfully unzipped them and pulled them down around my knees. When he placed his hand inside my underwear I wasn’t turned on and he didn’t know what he was doing and all I could think about was Stephen, and I wanted Topher’s hands to be Stephen’s hands, and I missed Stephen so badly that tears glazed my eyes while Topher dedicated his fingers to all the wrong places. I was sober enough to know the hookup was bad, drunk enough to stay as long as I did, even if it was just so I could tell Jackie I’d tried. I’d put myself out there.
“Kiss me harder,” I said finally, after it felt like he’d been kissing me at the speed of a turtle for about an hour.
“Huh?” Topher lifted his head and gave me a funny look. His dark hair was tousled and thick.
“I just feel like you’re kissing me really softly.” I regretted saying anything, but I’d already dug the hole.
“Uh. Okay.” He sort of laughed but I could tell he was confused, or insulted, or both.
“Forget it.” I sat up and yanked my clothes back on. “I should go.”
“You can sleep here,” he said. “We can just talk or put on a movie. Or Breaking Bad?”
“Thanks, but my room is so close.” I slid into my sandals, and when he stood to kiss me goodbye, I hovered a good two inches over him.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just tired.”
“No worries,” he said, even though he probably thought I was nuts. He asked for my number anyway, and I gave it to him because there was no other op
tion.
I hated myself as I walked back toward our suite at the west end of Adler, Stephen filling every corner of my head, the hallway lights still fluorescent at 2:00 a.m. Months had gone by without a word from him—months—and now he was with Diana. And what exactly was I hoping for?
Maybe he missed me. That first night at Slug I’d caught him staring at me, unmistakably staring at me. Then he’d waved—that had to have meant something. But even if he did miss me he wasn’t saying he missed me, and even in the hypothetical scenario in which he was saying he missed me, how could I give him the time of day after what he’d done? It was a pointless question with the wrong answer, and the only thing that made sense was that I knew I had fallen in love with him—it was what had made these past months so horrific. People always talk about realizing they’re in love during the happy moments, but I think you realize it in the bad ones. The ones that knock you off center, scaring you when they prove that no matter what kind of logic is in your head, it’s what’s in your heart that determines fucking everything.
22
STEPHEN
NOVEMBER 2011
Have you ever been cited, arrested, charged with, indicted, convicted or tried for, or pleaded guilty to, the commission of any felony or misdemeanor or the violation of any law (without the record later being sealed or expunged)? If yes, please describe. Include a statement of the charge(s), the disposition thereof, and the underlying facts.
I stared at the question for the umpteenth time, a line of sweat dampening my forehead.
The early-decision deadline for my application to Columbia Law School was approaching fast. Only eight more days.
If yes, please describe.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I couldn’t help but laugh at my ironic misfortune. My “misdemeanor” wasn’t even related to the night of the accident. My “misdemeanor” was the DUI I received six weeks before the accident. What can I say? It was an unlucky summer for driving.
The night of the DUI happened two months after my eighteenth birthday, and it was on my fucking record, and the record had not been later sealed or expunged.
I’d been drinking at Carl’s with some guys—Carl’s parents were always out of town and we used to get shitfaced in his garage all the time. On my way home I called Macy Petersen, because by that point cheating on Jenna had become routine, and Macy was the sexy, soft-spoken girl whose body had begun to preoccupy my thoughts. She was a couple of years younger, went to private school at Portledge, and we met at a party one weekend shortly before my high school graduation. It was too easy to hide our relationship that summer; Jenna was preoccupied training for Emory’s volleyball team, and I snuck off with Macy as much as I could. Macy let me fuck her however I wanted. The way she came with me, you could tell her boyfriend didn’t know what he was doing. We drove around and screwed in the car or on the golf course, wherever we felt like going.
“I’m coming over,” I told her on the phone that night. “Sneak out to the barn.”
Macy’s parents lived on this huge estate in Oyster Bay with a barn slash guesthouse where Macy and I would meet up late at night. I used to park on the road near the end of her driveway and walk up to the barn in the dark, unnoticed.
But this time I didn’t make it there. I was used to driving drunk—it wasn’t my choice mode of transportation, but I’d been in enough situations where it had occurred, and I considered myself to be a relatively cautious, alert driver when under the influence. So when the red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror it caught me off guard. I pulled over, paralyzed with fear.
The fucked part is, I wasn’t speeding or swerving—it was a broken headlight on my dad’s goddamn Subaru. So the cop came to the window and was telling me about the broken light, but she could smell the Dewar’s on me—those bastards have bloodhound noses. Officer Gonzalez—I’ll never forget her name. She looked like a big Mexican lesbian feminist who probably despised men.
And that was that. The Breathalyzer showed a .09 percent blood-alcohol level and I was done. A $500 fine, license suspended for a year, thirty days of community service, and a scarlet F scorched onto my record.
My dad yelled at me in the car on the way home from the police station that night, and all I could think was how I wasn’t that drunk and my driving had been fine and this was all his fucking fault for being too depressed and spaced-out to notice the broken headlight.
Everything leads back to the DUI in the world of the law, because there is always a box on every godforsaken form that asks about your criminal history and whether you’ve ever been charged with a misdemeanor, and I always have to check that box simply because I got unlucky.
But I choose to look on the bright side because six weeks later, on August 16, the night of the accident, the world was on my side. The trouble I could’ve landed myself in, should an Officer Gonzalez type have been in the right place at the right time that night, would’ve made the DUI look like a parking ticket. If you think I don’t count my lucky stars, you’re very wrong.
I stared at the application again.
If yes, please describe. Include a statement of the charge(s), the disposition thereof, and the underlying facts.
I was about to begin “describing,” when Diana barged into my bedroom.
“You’re not dressed? We’re going to be so late.” She was out of breath, flustered in a silvery flapper dress and matching headband, circa the 1920s.
“Oh, shit. The Gatsby party. What time is it?”
“Ten, Stephen. What have you been doing?”
“My Columbia application. Sorry. I took an Adderall and was just plowing through. Lost track of time.”
“It’s fine. Just hurry. Everyone left two hours ago and I was waiting for you but you didn’t answer your effing phone.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’ve been so focused and my phone’s been on silent.” I snatched it from the end of my bed. “Aha! Princess Diana, four missed calls. Hmm. Stage-five clinger?”
“I’m your girlfriend,” she said, circling her arms around my neck. “I’m allowed to call you as many times as I want. Now get dressed.” She kissed me.
“What am I supposed to wear?”
“A suit? This!” Diana pulled a black tux out of my closet.
“Hell no. That thing cuts off my circulation.”
“Well maybe you should stop drinking so much beer.” She poked me in the stomach. “Why do you even have this?”
“It’s for Vivian and Rod’s wedding. I need to get it tailored but I haven’t had time.”
“Just put it on and let’s go.”
“Fine.” It kind of turned me on when Diana got all bossy. “You look gorgeous by the way,” I told her, even though she looked sort of ridiculous in her sparkly getup. If Diana Bunn had existed in another decade, it certainly would not have been the 1920s.
Half an hour later we walked into Kappa Sig on Perry Street. The fraternity hosted the Great Gatsby theme party every year, and it was always fun because there was a list, which meant the party didn’t overcrowd. Diana and I crossed our names off at check-in in the foyer, which was littered with thick peeling paint chips. All of Baird’s frat houses are such shitholes.
There were trays of martinis in little plastic martini glasses, and jazzy Roaring Twenties music blared from a real record player—Duke Ellington, Eddie Condon, Louis Armstrong—the shit my mom used to play. Diana skipped off when she saw her friends, and that was one good thing about Diana—she never clung to me at parties.
I reached for a second martini and looked around the semicrowded room, allowing the combination of melodious jazz and strong gin to warm my chest.
There was Nicole Hart looking even more ridiculous than Diana; Meagan Lewis, a girl I fucked a couple of times freshman year while Diana and I were fighting; Evan and his boring girlfriend locked in a slow dance; Pippa McAllister, Wrigley’s bratty ex-girlfriend, talking to a girl in a short, black sequined dress and black high heels propping up a pair
of legs so long and perfectly slim that they could only belong to Lucy. Her face made a quarter turn, one half of her red-lipsticked mouth sliding into a smile at someone’s joke. And if anyone belonged in another decade it was Lucy in the 1920s, because her little black dress was so textbook and her made-up face so classically beautiful, I could’ve sworn I’d stepped into a party at Jay Gatsby’s own mansion.
I grabbed a third martini.
“You have the longest legs I’ve ever seen,” I said, suddenly standing next to her, breathing in the sugary scent of her. Her hair was pulled up into a twisted chestnut bun, and I watched her neck curve like a swan’s as it made its way toward the source of the flattering comment.
“Lucy.” We locked eyes, color flushing her cheeks, and I realized that it had been way too long since we’d last spoken, and I didn’t know how she was going to react.
“Hey.” Her voice was smaller than it should’ve been in that outfit.
I could feel Pippa’s giant eyes lasering into me, but I ignored them.
“How are you?”
“I’m good,” she said, twisting on the long stem of one of her heels. A familiar Duke Ellington song filled the room.
“Do you like the music?”
“Jazz. It’s okay.”
“ ‘In a Sentimental Mood.’ Duke Ellington. Great composition. But it’s from the thirties, not the twenties. I won’t tell anyone.”
“You know jazz?” A mix of cynicism and surprise infused her voice.
“Some. My mother used to listen to jazz. She’d turn the volume loud and dance with my father in the kitchen. Before things got . . . worse. It was a long time ago.” I held Lucy’s gaze.
“And you remember the names of the songs?”
“Some of ’em, yeah. I have a good memory.”
Lucy was looking at me like she wanted to say something, her lips parted, but then she closed them and said nothing. Pippa had wandered off, thankfully.
“You’ve been good?” she asked finally, even though I didn’t mind the silence. I liked just looking at her and was grateful she hadn’t run off after Pippa.
Tell Me Lies Page 16
