Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

Yes! Tell Momma—now—everything—and get it over with! Charlotte was on the verge—but how could she form the words and make them pass her lips—“Momma, I lost my virginity”—actually Momma, I didn’t exactly lose it, I let a frat boy get me dead drunk because I wanted to be “one of the crowd”—and then I let him grind his genitals against mine on a public dance floor, because, you have to understand, everybody was doing it, and then I let him grope and feel and explore practically my whole body on a public elevator because I did want him to want me—you can understand that feeling, can’t you, Momma?—and then we got to the room—oh, that’s right. I didn’t mention that we were staying in the same room, did I, with two beds, one couple in one bed and another couple in the other—I forgot to mention that, too—and it was interesting in a dirty way, because in the middle of the night I got to watch the other couple fucking, naked as a pair of jaybirds, and they did it the way a bull does it to a cow?—from behind?—with this really crude thrust thrust thrust?—but the drunk boy I tossed my virginity to wasn’t like that—he rolled a condom down over his erection—for some reason, it reminded me of a ball-peen hammer—and then he went thrust thrust thrust rut rut rut, but it wasn’t really that much like a bull and a cow, because he was facing me—and after it was done, he rolled off me without even looking at me—and then all he said afterward was that I had gotten some blood on the bedspread, and he acted pissed off at me—“pissed off”—that’s the way they talk, Momma—anyway, that’s about it. I haven’t even laid eyes on him since then, not counting the four-hour drive back to Dupont—Oh, I didn’t tell you we drove to Washington to do this? Anyway, that’s about it, I guess. That’s one reason I’m so depressed, but there’s also this thing that happened with my schoolwork while I was so wrapped up with this frat boy—

Ohmygod, she wouldn’t be able to complete the first sentence! Momma was an absolutist on this subject! When she said you’ll feel better right away if you let it all out, she didn’t have the faintest notion of the particular cat she was beckoning out of the bag. Momma wouldn’t hear a word after “virginity,” or even “I was staying at a hotel with a boy.” Charlotte went numb with fear and guilt at the very thought.

So what she said, in fact, was, “No, Momma, it’s nothing like that. I think I’m just exhausted. I hardly got any sleep the last two weeks before the break.”

Momma didn’t show any signs of actually swallowing that. She just gave up asking.

On Christmas morning, Buddy and Sam, as always, got up before dawn. That was no imposition on Charlotte, since she hadn’t slept all night in any event. She was in the living room with the boys, who were down on all fours wondering what was in the packages under the tree, when Momma and Daddy came in, looking half asleep. Charlotte summoned all the resources she had left and put on a pretty good impression of someone excited by Christmas morn.

It became clear that the day’s major excitement was the biggest package under the tree, which had a tag on it saying that it was to Charlotte from the whole family. They always took turns opening Christmas presents, with the youngest, Sam, going first and the oldest, Daddy, going last. This time everybody, even Sam, made sure Charlotte opened her two little presents first—and that her big one be the last present opened, even after Momma’s and Daddy’s last one.

All four of them, Sam, Buddy, Momma, and Daddy, waited in breathless silence as she commenced removing the wrapping paper.

“Go ahead,” said Momma, “and just rip it off. It won’t matter.”

Inside a box that a set of manual lawn-mower blades had come in…was a computer with a full-size screen. Charlotte had never heard of the brand name before: Kaypro. She was surprised, and she put on a pretty good show of being deliriously surprised and moved.

“Well, I’ll be switched!” she said. “I can’t hardly believe what I’m looking at!” She turned toward each of the expectant faces before her, professing profound gratitude.

“We made it!” said Sam, and it turned out that was pretty much the case. Daddy had got hold of this old, discarded machine, and he and Sam and Buddy had cleaned and repaired it and hunted down some replacement parts—which was not an easy thing to do, since Kaypro went out of business years ago—and rebuilt it. It seemed that Daddy had included the two boys on every single part of the project, so that when Sam said, “We made it,” he wasn’t far off the mark.

“It’s because you got all A’s!” said Sam. “We figured you ought to have your own computer!”

Charlotte took Sam into her arms and hugged him and then Buddy and Daddy and Momma. She would have broken down crying, but she had no tears left. Tears, no matter how sad they might be, were a sign of caring about something and therefore a sign of a functioning human being. She was admirably patient as Sam and Buddy and Daddy explained to her, with infinite Christmas delight, how it worked. Kaypro had gone under so long ago, there were no instruction manuals. They had had to learn all about it from scratch. Daddy said Sam and Buddy were much better at it than he was. He was an old dog that couldn’t learn new tricks, but they took to it like a duck takes to water. And did that make them proud! She hugged them all over again and said she just didn’t know how she had gotten along this far without it, and the best Christmas present of all was knowing that they had made it themselves, just as Sam said. Which was, in fact, true, since she had no idea where or if she could install it in her room and it was easy enough to use the ones in the library. The thought of staying in her room—where Beverly could come walking in at any moment—chilled her. The very fact that she would be returning to—that place—at all seemed remote to the point of impossible.

Nevertheless, there came a day when Momma and Daddy and Buddy and Sam drove her back to the bus station in Galax. Daddy personally over-saw the placement of the computer—cushioned inside the lawn-mower blade box with all manner of rags, Styrofoam, balled-up newspapers, and an old, ratty rubber bathtub mat—into the belly of the bus.

Charlotte wanted to cry when she said good-bye to them, but she was parched with a fear of the unknown that went far beyond the nervousness she suffered the first time she set out from the Blue Ridge Mountains for—that place. One thing the trip home had shown her: She could never make Alleghany County home again; nor any other place either—least of all, Du—the college to which she was heading. The bus was home; and let the trip be interminable.

Girls at Dupont quickly learned the protocol of the Dupont Memorial Library’s Ryland Reading Room, where on any given night except Saturday the largest concentration of boys on the campus could be found. Long, stout, medievalish study tables filled the vast space from front to back. In the back, Gothic windows rose up God knows how high before exfoliating into ornate stone lobes and filigrees filled in with stained glass. It was perhaps the second grandest study hall in the country, after the main reading room of the Library of Congress.

Practically every boy in the Ryland Reading Room was there to study. Girls came to study and to scout for boys. The boy-scouters sat at the tables in chairs facing the entrance, the nearer an aisle the better. If a girl sat with her back to the entrance, that meant she was there solely to study. If she sat with her back to the entrance at the midpoint of one of the study tables way down there beneath the exfoliated lobes and filigrees—i.e., as far as she could get not only from the entrance but also from the aisles—it meant she would just as soon be invisible. Or so it meant to Charlotte Simmons, who occupied that particular spot at this moment.