The Rules of Attraction

“Come on,” Donald said as if I was only joking. “I’ll buy some later. I’m broke.”



“No! It also infuriates me that your father owns something like half of Gulf and Western and you always pretend to be broke,” I said, glaring.



“Is it such a big crisis?” he asked.



“Yeah, Paul, stop having a grand mal,” Raymond said.



“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Harry asked.



“I know why,” Raymond said slyly.



“Wedding bells?” Donald giggled, looking over at Mitchell’s table.



“It is such a crisis.” I was adamant, ignoring them. I’m going to kill that slut.



“Just give me one. Don’t be bitchy.”



“Okay, I’ll give you one if you tell me what won best costume design at the Tonys last year.”



There was a silence that followed that I found humiliating. I sighed and looked down. The three of them didn’t say anything until Donald finally spoke up.



“That is the most meaningless question I have ever heard.”



I looked over at Mitchell again, then slid the cigarettes across the table. “Just take them. I’m getting more coffee.” I got up and headed out of the dining hall. But then I had to stop and duck into the salad bar room because there was the Swedish girl I was with last night, showing her I.D. to the food service checker. I waited there until she walked into the serving area. Then I ran quickly downstairs and headed for class. I thought about trying out for that Shepard play, but then thought why bother, when I’m already stuck in one: my life.



I sat at a desk not listening to the drone of the professor, glancing over at Mitchell, who looked happy (yeah, he got laid last night) and who was taking notes. He looked around the room, disgusted, at the people smoking (he quit when he came back—how irritating). They probably looked like machines to him, I imagined. Like chimneys, spurts of smoke rising from that hole in their heads. He looked at the ugly girl in the red dress trying to look cool. I looked at the graffiti on the desk: “You Lose.” “There Is No Gravity. The Earth Sucks.” “The Brady Bunch Slept Here.” “What Ever Happened to Hippie Love?” “Love Stinks.” “Most Cab Drivers Have Liberal Arts Degrees.” And I sat there feeling like the hapless lover. But then I remembered, of course, that now I’m only hapless.



LAUREN Wake up. Hair needs to be washed. I don’t want to miss lunch. I go to Commons. I look disgusting. No mail today. No mail today from Victor. Just a reminder that the AA meeting is going to be in Stokes instead of Bingham next Saturday. Dawn of the Dead tonight in Tishman. I have four overdue art books from the library. Bump into weird-looking girl with pink party dress on and glasses who looks like a victim of shock treatment searching for someone’s box. Another minor irritation. Walk upstairs. Forgot my I.D. They let me in anyway. Cute guy wearing Wayfarer sunglasses serves cheeseburgers. Ask for a plate of fries. Start to flirt. Ask him how his flute tutorial’s going. Realize I look disgusting and turn away. Get a Diet Coke. Sit down. Roxanne’s here for some reason sitting with Judy. Judy’s picking at tofu lettuce celery rice French fry salad. I break the silence: “I’m sick of this place. Everyone reeks of cigarettes, is pretentious, and has terrible posture. I’m getting out before the Freshmen take over.” I forgot ketchup. I push the plate of fries away. Light a cigarette. Neither one of them smile. O … K … I pick at a spot of dried blue paint on my pant leg. “So … what’s wrong?” I look around and spot Square out of the corner of my eye at the beverage center. Turn back to Judy. “Where’s Sara?”



“Sara’s pregnant,” Judy says.



“Oh shit, you’re kidding,” I say, pulling the chair up. “Tell me about it.”



“What’s to tell?” Judy asks. “Roxanne’s been talking to her all morning.”



“I gave her some Darvon,” Roxanne rolls her eyes up. Chain-smoking. “Told her to go to Psychological Counseling.”



“Oh shit, no,” I say. “What’s she doing about it? I mean, when?”



“She’s having it done next week,” Roxanne says. “Wednesday.”



I put the cigarette out. Pick at the fries. Borrow Judy’s ketchup. “Then she’s going to Spain, I guess,” Roxanne says, rolling her eyes up again.



“Spain? Why?”



“Because she’s crazy,” Judy says, getting up. “Does anyone want anything?”



Victor. “No,” I say, still looking at Roxanne. She leaves.