The Rules of Attraction (Page 34)

PAUL We were lying in my bed since the Frog was back. Sean sat up and leaned against the wall and asked me to hand him the cigarettes that were on the floor. I lit one for myself then gave them to Sean.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “No. Let me guess. Paul’s tense, right?”

“Ten points for Sean.”

He got up, disgusted, and put on his boxer shorts.

“Why do you wear boxer shorts?” I asked.

He ignored me and continued getting dressed, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“No, I mean, I really never noticed that before, but you wear boxer shorts.”

He pulled on a T-shirt and then tied up his paint-splattered boots. Why were they paint splattered? Did he fingerpaint or something?

“Do you have them in different colors? Say, mauve? Or maybe tangerine?”

He finished dressing then sat on the chair next to the bed.

“Or do they only come in that … asphalt gray?”

He just stared at me. He knew I was acting like a fool.

“I knew a guy named Tony Delana in ninth grade who wore boxer shorts.”

“That’s a real scorcher, Denton,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“So you don’t want to go to Boston tomorrow, is that it?” he asked.

“Now, you have twenty points.” I put my cigarette out in an empty beer bottle that was on my nightstand and shook it.

Sean just looked at me and said, “I don’t like you that much. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, getting up and putting on a robe. I smelled the robe. “I’ve got to do my laundry.”

I scanned the room for something to drink, but it was late and we had finished all the beer. I reached over him and held a bottle up to the light to see if there was anything left in it. There wasn’t.

“You’re going to miss The Dressed To Get Screwed party,” his voice was low and ominous.

“I know.” I tried not to panic. “Are you going?” I finally asked.

“Sure,” he shrugged, moved over to the mirror, still in the chair.

“What are you going to wear?” I asked.

“What I usually wear,” he said, staring at himself. The narcissistic little sonofabitch.

“Is that right?” I looked around the room. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I wanted a drink, I walked over to the stereo and looked behind it. There was a half-empty Beck’s next to the speaker. I sat back on the bed.

He stood up. “I’m gonna go.”

“Where to?” I asked. I casually tasted the bottle. It was warm and flat and I made a face but drank it anyway.

“All night study room,” he said. The narcissistic lying little sonofabitch.

He walked to the door and I ended up blurting out, “I don’t want to go to Boston for the weekend. I don’t want to see my mother. I don’t want to see the Jareds,” (though I probably did want to see Richard) “and I don’t want to see Richard from Sarah Lawrence” (hoping to make him jealous) “… and…” I stopped.

He stood there, saying nothing.

“And I don’t think I want to leave you here…” Because I don’t trust you, I didn’t say.

“I’m gonna go,” he said. He opened the door and looked back. “I’ll take you to the bus station tomorrow. What time does it leave?”

“I think eleven-thirty.” I took another sip of the beer, then coughed. It tasted terrible.

“Okay, meet me at my bike at eleven,” he said, heading out.

“Eleven,” I said.

“Night.” He closed the door and I could hear his footsteps echo down the hallway.

“Thanks, Sean.”

I started to pack, wondering what Richard looked like now, trying to remember when I saw him last.

SEAN Someone walks into The Pub, looks for someone, can’t find them and leaves, the door closes behind them. It wasn’t Lauren Hynde, the completely beautiful girl who had been leaving notes in my box, the only reason I’m in The Pub tonight, waiting to confront her. I saw her slip one in last Saturday, when I was up in Commons. I couldn’t believe it. I was so shocked that it was actually someone good-looking that I spent the last week in a sort of daze. Now I’m sitting at a table with four or five or six people, kind of listening to some lame conversation, looking for the girl. They’re all talking about what’s going on at the sculpture studio, about sculpture teachers, and sculpture parties, about Tony’s latest sculpture, even though they have no idea what it says. Tony told me it was supposed to be a steel vagina, but none of these idiots can figure it out.