Donna Tartt - The Secret History

By some miracle, she was in – drunk, putting on lipstick. 'Hi,' she said, without glancing away from the mirror. 'Want to go to «a party?'

I don't know what I said to her, something about not feeling well.

'Have a bagel,' she said, turning her head from side to side and examining her profile.

'I'd rather a sleeping pill, if you've got one.'

She screwed the lipstick down, snapped on the top, then opened the drawer of her dressing table. It was not actually a dressing table but a desk, college-issue, just like the one in my room; but like some savage unable to understand its true purpose – transforming it into a weapon rack, say, or a flower-decked fetish – she had painstakingly turned it into a cosmetics area, with a glass top and a ruffled satin skirt and a three-way mirror on the top that lit up. Scrabbling through a nightmare of compacts and pencils, she pulled out a prescription bottle, held it to the light, tossed it into the trash can and selected a new one. 'This'll do,' she said, handing it to me.

I examined the bottle. There were two drab tablets at the bottom. All the label said was for pain.

I said, annoyed, 'What is this? Anacin or something?'

'Try one. They're okay. This weather's pretty wild, huh?'

'Yeah,' I said, swallowing a pill and handing the bottle back.

'Don't worry, keep it,' she said, already returned to her toilette.

'Man. All it does here is fucking snow. I don't know why the hell I ever came here. You want a beer?'

She had a refrigerator in her room, in the closet. I fought my way through a jungle of belts and hats and lacy shirts to get to it.

'No, I don't want one,' she said when I held one out to her.

'Too fucked up. You didn't go to the party, did you?'

'No,' I said, and then stopped, the beer bottle at my lips.

There was something about the taste of it, the smell, and then I remembered: Bunny, the beer on his breath; spilled beer foaming on the ground. The bottle clattering after him down the slope.

'Smart move, said Judy. 'It was cold and the band stunk. I saw your friend, what's-his-name. The Colonel.'

'What?'

She laughed. 'You know. Laura Stora calls him that. She used to live next door to him and he irritated the shit out of her playing these John Philip Sousa marching records all the time.'

She meant Bunny. I set the bottle down.

But Judy, thank God, was busy with the eyebrow pencil. 'You know,' she said, 'I think Laura has an eating disorder, not anorexia, but that Karen Carpenter thing where you make yourself puke.

Last night I went with her and Trace to the Brasserie, and, I'm totally serious, she stuffed herself until she could not breathe. Then she went in the men's room to barf and Tracy and I were looking at each other, like, is this normal? Then Trace told me, well, you remember that time Laura was supposedly in the hospital for mono? Well. The story is that actually…'

She rattled on. I stared at her, lost in my own awful thoughts.

Suddenly I realized she'd stopped talking. She was looking at me expectantly, waiting for a reply.

'What?' I said.

'I said, isn't that the most retarded thing you ever heard?'

'Ummmm.'

'Her parents just must not give a shit.' She closed the makeup drawer and turned to face me. 'Anyway. You want to come to this party?'

'Whose is it?'

'Jack Teitelbaum's, you airhead. Durbinstall basement. Sid's band is supposed to play, and Moffat's back on the drums. And somebody said something about a go-go dancer in a cage. Come on.'

For some reason I was unable to answer her. Unconditional refusal to Judy's invitations was a reflex so deeply ingrained that it was hard to force myself to say yes. Then I thought of my room. Bed, bureau, desk. Books lying open where I'd left them.

'Come on, she said coquettishly. 'You never go out with me.'

'All right,' I said at last. 'Let me get my coat.'

Only much later did I find out what Judy had given me: Demerol.

By the time we got to the party it had started to kick in. Angles, colors, the riot of snowflakes, the din of Sid's band – everything was soft and kind and infinitely forgiving. I noted a strange beauty in the faces of people previously repulsive to me. I smiled at everyone and everyone smiled back.

Judy (Judy! God bless her!) left me with her friend Jack Teitelbaum and a fellow named Lars and went off to get us a drink.

Everything was bathed in a celestial light. I listened to Jack and Lars talk about pinball, motorcycles, female kick-boxing, and was heartwarmed at their attempts to include me in the conversation.

Lars offered me a bong hit. The gesture was, to me, tremendously touching and all of a sudden I realized I had been wrong about these people. These were good people, common people; the salt of the earth; people whom I should count myself fortunate to know.

I was trying to think of some way to vocalize this epiphany when Judy came back with the drinks. I drank mine, wandered off to get another, found myself roaming in a fluid, pleasant daze.

Someone gave me a cigarette. Jud and Frank were there, Jud with a cardboard crown from Burger King on his head. This crown was oddly flattering to him. Head thrown back and howling with laughter, brandishing a tremendous mug of beer, he looked like Cuchulain, Brian Boru, some mythic Irish king.

Cloke Rayburn was shooting pool in the back room. Just outside his line of vision, I watched him chalk the cue, unsmiling, and bend over the table so his hair fell in his face. Click. The colored balls spun out in all directions. Flecks of light swam in my eyes.

I thought of atoms, molecules, things so small you couldn't even see them.

Then I remember feeling dizzy, pushing through the crowd 32,0 to try to get some air. I could see the door propped invitingly with a cinder block, could feel a cold draft on my face. Then – I don't know, I must've blacked out, because the next thing I knew my back was against a wall, in an entirely different place, and a strange girl was talking to me.

Gradually I understood that I must have been standing there with her for some time. I blinked, and struggled gamely to bring her into focus. Very pretty, in a snub-nosed, good-natured way; dark hair, freckles, light blue eyes. I had seen her earlier, somewhere, in line at the bar maybe, had seen her without paying her much attention. And now here she was again, like an apparition, drinking red wine from a plastic cup and calling me by name.

I couldn't make out what she was saying, though the timbre of her voice was clear even over the noise: cheerful, raucous, oddly pleasant. I leaned forward – she was a small girl, barely five feet – and cupped a hand to my ear. 'What?' I said.

She laughed, stretched up on tiptoe, brought her face close to mine. Perfume. Hot thunder of whisper against my cheek.

I grabbed her by the wrist. 'It's too noisy,' I said in her ear; my lips brushed against her hair. 'Let's go outside.'

She laughed again. 'But we just came in,' she said. 'You said you were freezing.'

Hmmn, I thought. Her eyes were pale, bored, regarding me with a kind of intimate amusement in the jaded light.

'Somewhere quiet, I mean,' I said.

She turned up her glass and looked at me through the bottom of it. 'Your room or mine?'

'Yours,' I said, without a moment's hesitation.

She was a good girl, a good sport. Sweet chuckles in the dark and her hair falling across my face, funny little catches in her breath like the girls back in high school. The warm feel of a body in my arms was something I'd almost forgotten. How long since I'd kissed anyone that way? Months, and more months.

Strange to think how simple things could be. A party, some «drinks, a pretty stranger. That was the way most of my classmates ' lived – talking rather self-consciously at breakfast about their liaisons of the previous night, as if this harmless, homey little vice, which fell somewhere below drink and above gluttony in the catalogue of sins, was somehow the abyss of depravity and dissipation.