The Rules of Attraction

“So big and away at college. We’re so proud of you.”



“He’s so handsome,” my mother said, walking over to the window and opening it, waving the smell of cigarette smoke out.



“And tall,” Mrs. Jared said. Yeah and I’ve f**ked your son, I was thinking.



I sat down on the bed, refrained from lighting a cigarette and crossed my legs.



My mother rushed to the bathroom and immediately started to brush her hair.



Mrs. Jared took her shoes off and sat down opposite from me and asked, “Tell me Paul, why are you wearing so much black?”



STUART After dinner and a shower, I had some friends over for wine and we all had a hair-dyeing party. While they were monopolizing the bathroom and washing their hair in the sinks, I walked across the hall to Paul Denton’s room. I stood there for a long time, too nervous to knock. I read the notes that people had left on his door, then I ran my hand over it. I was going to invite him over and I was stoned enough to get up the nerve to do so. I knocked softly at first, and when there was no answer I knocked with more force. When no one opened the door I walked away, confused and relieved. I told myself I would talk to him at the party tonight; that was when I would make my move. I came back to my room and Dennis was sitting on my bed. His hair was wet and freshly dyed red and he was looking through the new Voice and playing my Bryan Ferry tape. I spent last night with him. I don’t say anything. He tells me, “Paul Denton will never ever sleep with you.” I don’t say anything. Just get more drunk, turn the music up and dress to get screwed.



PAUL “How was the flight?” I asked them.



“Oh lurid, lurid,” Mrs. Jared said. “Your mother met this absolutely gorgeous doctor from the North Shore in first class who was going to Parents’ Weekend at Brown and you know what your mother did?” Mrs. Jared was smiling now, like a naughty little girl.



“No.” Oh, I couldn’t wait.



“Oh Mimi,” my mother moaned, coming out of the bathroom.



“She told him that she was single,” Mrs. Jared exclaimed and got up and took my mother’s place in the bathroom and closed the door.



There mustn’t be any silence so my mother asked me, “Did I tell you about the car?”



“Yes.” I could hear Mrs. Jared urinating. Embarrassed, I spoke louder, “Yes. Yes, you did. I think you did tell me about the car.”



“Typical. It’s all so typical. I was seeing Dr. Vanderpool and the two of us were going to lunch at The 95th and—”



“Wait. Dr. Vanderpool? Your shrink?” I asked.



She started brushing her hair again and asked, “Shrink?”



“Sorry,” I said. “Doctor.”



“Yes. My doctor.” My mother gave me a strange look.



“Going out to lunch?” I reminded her.



“Yes,” she said. I had thrown her off balance. She stood there, stumped.



“I thought this happened at Neiman’s,” I said, amused, but, oh shit, who cares?



“No. Why?” she asked, still brushing her hair.



“Forget it.” I’ve forgotten I shouldn’t be amused by things like that anymore. I mean, I’ve only been away, what, three years, right? The toilet flushed and I flinched, looking back at the TV, pretending that Mrs. Jared didn’t even take a piss.



“Well…” My mother was looking at me like I was a real weirdo. A real KooKoo.



“Go on,” I urged. “Go on.”



“Well,” she continued. “I came out of his office and it was gone. Completely gone. Can you believe it?” she was asking me.



“Typical,” I told her. Just pretend she’s not crazy and things will go smoothly.



“Yes.” She stopped brushing her hair, but continued gazing into the mirror.



The bellboys brought the bags up-all eight of them. That’s right. Of course, a weekend in Boston, eight bags for two people, sure. There were eight pieces of luggage: four pieces of Louis Vuitton, my mother’s; and four pieces of Gucci, Mrs. Jared’s.



“How’s school?” my mother asked after she tipped the bellboys (who were not sexy, contrary to Mrs. Jared’s allusions that they were).



“Fine,” I said.



“Classes,” she reminded herself. “How are your classes?”



“All right.”



“What are you taking?” she asked.



I must have told her this, given her a list over the phone, at least five times. “Classes. Just classes. Acting. Improv. Scene Design. Classes. Drama.”