The Rules of Attraction

I stare out the window, at the snow. Jukebox plays depressing pop. I make a mental list of things I need to get done before I go to New York. Christmas presents.



“I screwed her,” Franklin says, sipping his drink and pointing at the waitress in back; some foul-mouthed bitch from campus who I think is hideous, who told her boyfriend that I was a witch and he believed her.



The waitress disappears into the kitchen. A waiter takes her place. He sets something on the table next to ours. In a blinding moment of recognition I realize who the waiter is. He keeps looking at me, but there’s no recognition on his face. I start laughing, the first time in over a week.



“What’s funny?” Franklin says. “No, I really did screw her.”



“I screwed him,” I tell Franklin. It’s the townie I lost my virginity to.



“Hey,” Franklin says. “We are the world.”



SEAN Tim helps me pack the next morning. I don’t have a lot to take with me, but he has nothing else to do and he carries most of the stuff out to my car. He doesn’t ask about Rupert, though he knows that’s why I’m leaving. From across the lawn Lauren is on her way to Commons. She waves. I wave back.



“Heard about Lauren,” Tim says.



“Already?” I ask, closing the trunk of the MG.



“Yeah.” He offers me a cigarette. “Already.”



“I don’t know,” I say.



“What happened? Is she okay?” He laughs, “Do you care?”



I shrug. I try to light the cigarette and to my amazement the match doesn’t go out in the wind and light snow. “I liked her a lot.”



Tim’s silent but then asks, “Then why didn’t you pay for it?”



He’s not looking at me. I crack up.



“I didn’t like her that much,” I say as I get into the car.



VICTOR I was up all night doing coke with some girl I met at The Pub who worked for my father one summer. The next morning we go to some cafe in town (which has terrible food; soggy quiche, canned snails, tame bloody Marys) and I’m strung out and completely not hungry. I look so pasty I keep my shades on. We stand in the doorway of the place and wait for a table, the service is really terrible, and whoever designed this place must have been lobotomized. This girl wanders around and puts a quarter in the jukebox. The waitress keeps checking me out. She looks familiar. The Talking Heads sing “And She Was” then good old Frank starts singing “Young at Heart” and I’m amused at the disparity of her choices. Suddenly this girl I sort of saw a little bit last summer walks up to me crying softly—the last thing I need. She looks at me and says, “You don’t know what a drag it is to see you.” Then she throws herself on me, hugging tightly. I just say, “Hey, wait a minute.” It was just some rich girl from Park and 80th who I kind of screwed around with last term who’s kind of pretty, who’s good in bed, who has a nice body. She automatically says goodbye to the guy she’s with but he’s already talking to the familiar-looking waitress. The girl who worked for my father and who has all the coke is already talking to some townie by the jukebox, and I could of used another gram but this girl, Laura, has already taken my arm and is leading me out The Brasserie’s door. But it’s probably best like this. I need a place to stay anyway and it’s going to be a long, cold Christmas.



LAUREN Walking back to my room. The last day. People packing. Collecting addresses. Drinking farewell kegs. Drifting drunk through the snow-covered campus. I bump into Paul as he comes out of Canfield.



“Hi,” I say, startled, embarrassed. “How are you, Mr. Denton?”



“Lauren,” he says, still shy. “How’ve you been, Ms. Hynde?”



“Okay,” I say.



We stand there awkwardly.



“So … What are you now?” I ask. “Still … Drama major?”



He groans. “Yeah. Guess so. What are you? Art still?”



“Art. Well, Poetry. Well, actually Art.” Stutter.



“What is it?” he laughs. “Make up your mind.”



“Interdivisional.” I make it easy.



Long pause and I remember with true clarity how dumb Paul looked as a Freshman: a PiL T-shirt beneath a Giorgio Armani sweater. But I also loved him anyway, later on. The night we met? Cannot remember anything except Joan Armatrading playing on the box in his room; two of us smoking cigarettes, talking, nothing exciting, nothing important, but memorable flashes. He breaks the trance: “So, what are you doing?”



I think about what Victor told me after he found me at The Brasserie, before he went to rent a car in town. “Europe, I think. I don’t know. Probably Europe.” I would not mind ending the conversation now, since it’s been good just to be close to Paul and to hear him talk—but that would be rude, and too pithy.