Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

“Hi,” Charlotte said to the girl, Erica. Vaguely she recalled the Amorys talking about an Erica who had been a year ahead of Beverly at Groton.

“Hello,” said the girl in a clipped, perfunctory fashion. She gave Charlotte a wide, flat, dead smile, then ran her eyes over Charlotte’s plaid bathrobe, pajamas, and slippers…slippers, pajamas, and bathrobe. That done, she turned her attention to Beverly and never looked at Charlotte again.

Beverly was saying into the device, “I mean, I was sitting at this table at the I.M. with Harrison and this other lacrosse player who’s a Phi Gam and some girl named Ellen, and I had on my low-cut Diesels? And I happened to look down, and eeeyew, my ass—it was like I just gave birth! It was like my waist had this tube the size of a garter snake around it—and you’re the one who’s always telling me, ‘Oh, go ahead! One slice of chocolate cake won’t kill you.’ I had this little…tube—and my ass!”

Erica emitted a short burst of laughter and said, “Ohmygod, Beverly, the day you get a big ass—”

Beverly said into the cell phone, “That was Erica. She thinks I’m joking…Come on, I’d be honest with you…What? Him? I know you’re only trying to change the subject, but did I tell you he wanted to hook up in this little sports car he has? It’s got two seats with all this manual shift shit sticking up in between—”

The square-jawed blonde chuckled, sighed, covered her eyes with her hands, said, “Ohmygod,” and pulled faces.

“I’m glad it was dark in the I.M., anyway,” Beverly was saying. “I mean, whatta I do about my fucking waist?…Hahhh! You always say that. I wish I was skinny.”

The friend, Erica, laughed and laughed. She never looked at Charlotte to get her reaction to all this, not even once.

“I’ll be there!” Beverly was saying. “But can I borrow the prick-tease shirt?…The one that’s open down the front. It’d make me look like I’ve got boobs.”

Charlotte was plunged into consternation, four or five kinds of it. Beverly’s language shocked her. She had heard her use the occasional expletive, usually Oh shit, once or twice an Oh fuck, but she had never heard her go on and on in this completely smutty fashion like…like…like Regina Cox, only worse. The sheer sexual bluntness shocked her. The fact that she would blithely say such things in front of other people shocked her. The fact that her friend Erica, far from being shocked, thought it was hilarious shocked her. And the fact that neither of them deigned to bestow so much as a flick of the eye upon her throughout this extraordinarily vulgar cell phone performance—somehow that made it worse. For a moment she felt that the whole awkward situation must be her own fault. The very fact that she existed in this room had become an unfathomable embarrassment. How could she remain standing here by the window, watching and listening to two girls who ignored her?

Neither gave her so much as a glance as she went to her desk and sat down. She resumed reading Blue-eyed Bondage. Or rather, staring at it; she couldn’t very well keep her mind off the two girls, who were barely three feet behind her, talking and laughing.

Beverly had at last snapped her cell phone shut and was declaring, “I have nothing to wear.”

Out of the corner of her eye Charlotte could see that she had her fists on her hips. Then she opened a bureau drawer and slammed it shut.

“I have…nothing to wear!”

“I think I’m gonna have to cry, Bev,” said Erica.

Beverly began sighing and going through more drawers and then her closet. Erica seemed to find all this immensely amusing.

“Well, I guess it’s not the end of the world,” said Beverly.

“Oh, no, Bev, it totally is the end of the world.”

They chattered away. Charlotte tried to tune out, but she heard Erica saying, “That’s not Sarc Three, Bev, that’s only Sarc Two. I mean, it’s almost as obvious as Sarc One. I can’t believe they let you out of Groton without passing Sarc. Sarc One is when I look at you, and I say, ‘Ohmygod, a cerise shirt. Cerise is such an in color this year.’ That’s just ordinary intentionally obvious sarcasm. Okay?”

“You really don’t like this shirt, do you?” said Beverly.

“Oh, please give me a fucking break, Bev! I’m just giving you an example. I’m trying to enlighten you, and you—touchy, touchy, touchy. Now…in Sarc Two you say the same thing, only in a sympathetic voice that sounds like totally sincere. ‘Oh, wow, Bev, I love that color. Cerise. That’s like so-oo-o cool. Unnhhh…no wonder it’s so like…in this year.’ By the time you get to the ‘so in this year,’ your voice is dripping with so much syrup and like…sincerity, it finally dawns on the other person that she’s getting fucked over. What you’ve really been saying is that you don’t love the color, you don’t think it’s cool, and it’s not ‘in’ this year. It’s the delay in it dawning on her that makes it hurt. Okay?”

“And you’re sure you’re just being nice and giving me an example?” said Beverly.

“I’m sure you’re going bitchcakes on me, be-atch. That’s what I’m sure of. If you don’t cool it, I’m not going to explain Sarc Three to you.”

Silence.

“Okay. In Sarc Three you make the delay even longer, so it really hurts when she finally gets it. We’ve got the same situation. The girl’s getting ready to go out, and she has on this cerise shirt. She thinks it’s really sexy, a real turn-on, and she’s gonna score big-time. You start off sounding straight—you know, flattering, but like not laying it on too thick. You’re like, ‘Wow, Bev, I love that shirt. Where’d you get it? How perfect is that? It’s so versatile. It’ll be perfect for job interviews, and it’ll be perfect for community service.’ ” The very thought made Erica laugh.

Beverly said, “Hah hah. You sure that’s not Sarc Four—and you’re just fucking with me??”

Erica laughed and laughed. “Bev, I love you—you’re totally paranoid!”

“I’m taking this shirt off,” said Beverly.

“If you take that shirt off, I’m gonna—Bev, that’s an awesome shirt, and you know it.”

Charlotte flushed with anger. Ignorant snobs! Beverly’s square-faced Erica had said a single word to her—a single, curt hello—and then treated her as if she were invisible. Just like that, she knew why. Beverly had told her friend ahead of time that her roommate was a person of no significance. Hence the bare-minimal hello and the dead smile. And who did they think they were? Charlotte had an idea of who they thought they were. By now she knew what Beverly had actually meant when she said, the day they met, that she had gone to “high school in Groton, Massachusetts.” Groton was the name of a high school, but it was no high school in the sense that a Charlotte Simmons thought of a high school. It was a private school, so fancy, so prestigious it needed no descriptive appendage after its name. It was enough to say “Groton,” and students didn’t just “go” there, they boarded there, away from home.

Beverly Amory of Groton didn’t “room” with Charlotte Simmons of Alleghany High School, either. She put up with her. She was never unpleasant. In fact, she was always cheerful, in her distant fashion. She conversed with her only about impersonal subjects, such as the cost of cell phone service. Even then she was vague about it; obviously somebody else took care of the bill. Charlotte wasn’t about to humiliate herself by asking or coaxing or trying to steer Beverly into sharing this year at Dupont with her on a more comradely level. She had thrived alone in Sparta, and she could thrive alone here. The invincible truth was, she possessed a brilliance unparalleled here or anywhere else. The day would come, in due course, when Beverly and the cold fish with her would look up to Charlotte Simmons in awe and berate themselves for not having made friends with her when they had the chance. And when that day came, she would—cut—them—dead.