Teddy Wayne - Loner

You came out of your room in regular clothes, above the juvenile imposture of Halloween; you didn’t need a costume to attract attention. Sara and I were among the mob of spectators who lined the parade route, sheepishly masking ourselves and wishing we were the anointed ones waving from the float.

“How late do you want to stay at the party?” I asked Sara before you reached the hall, so you would know we had, for once, exciting social plans, a party , we were young and hedonistic, who knew where the night might take us?

“Not too late,” she said, and sneezed four times.

We trekked to the Quad with the post-pregaming Marauders as they concatenated inside jokes. Those real bonding moments, most of which I’d missed, had taken on mythic proportions in their retelling: when Ivana had eaten four sleeves of Oreos, the night they all stayed up and watched every episode of Star Wars , the time Kevin had passed out from drinking and they drew penises on his face and took photos.

Out of habit I reached for the snipped piece of belt in my fifth pocket, panicked when it wasn’t there, and remembered that I was wearing Steven’s jeans. Because they were tight on me, I’d put the silk in the more spacious but securely snug back pocket.

“Where’s Carla?” I asked Sara as we lagged behind the others.

“She’s going to Halloqueen,” she told me. “The BGLTQ party.” Carla had come out as a lesbian a few weeks ago and was spending more time at events hosted by that student group.

“I almost wish I belonged to a marginalized community so I’d have a safe space for all occasions,” I said.

“The whole world is your safe space,” she snapped.

“Not true. I shopped a feminism class and didn’t feel particularly welcome there.”

“I’m assuming that’s a joke?”

“Fine, bad example,” I said. “But I expect I’m going to be uncomfortable at this party, for instance.”

“That’s not about your identity; that’s your disposition,” she said. “And join the club, by the way.”

We found the other member of our club hiding in a corner of the party. Layla’s glasses kept fogging up in the steamy room, and every few minutes she took them off to wipe the lenses on the apron of her Raggedy Ann costume, during which time she turned her head when spoken to with the twitchy movements of a finch on the lookout for predators. The two girls had the fluid if formal rapport of a job interview that was going smashingly: bilaterally curious, overlapping interests, a dash of good-natured humor.

A football player was dressed up as the subject of the big news story that week: a pregnant Miami trophy wife who, it was alleged, had arranged for the murder of her husband for the insurance payout. Sara and Layla discussed her pending court case.

“It’s really messed up how men receive almost all of the death sentences,” I said.

“Are you saying she should get the death penalty?” Sara asked.

“Well, I’m against it in principle,” I said, “but I believe in equality. She shouldn’t get off just because she’s a woman.”

“Some people think he abused her,” Sara said. “It’s possible you would’ve done the same thing if you were in her position.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, wishing I’d never brought it up. But I felt the need to stand up for myself. “Even if I somehow had it in me to kill someone, I’d never be the type to do it just for money.”

“That’s just it,” she said. “You think you have to be a type . Maybe we’re all the type, in some small way, and that’s why we’re so fascinated by the scandalous details, like whether she was having an affair with the guy who killed her husband or if she had a history of mental illness.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending her,” I said. “Did you see her eyes in the mug shot? She looks completely insane.”

“I’m not de fend ing what she did. I’m saying we’re not thinking about her as a human being. We call her ‘completely insane’ and turn her into a thing you can dress up as for Halloween.” She pointed at a zombie-scientist walking past us. “Just another monster.”

Sensing I had lost the debate — if not for rhetorical reasons, then relationship ones — I volunteered to retrieve us all drinks.

Scott Tupper was present, dressed as Fred Flintstone. He had become the nucleus of a pack of boys that was seldom atomized. Tonight his arm was curled around the exposed lower back of a sexy Wilma. I could understand other guys being drawn to him, but it was bewildering that Harvard girls didn’t find him noxiously repellent.

The room was exceeding its carrying capacity, to use Steven’s term. It occurred to me that if somebody were to call out “Fire!” short Scott might be one of the victims of a stampede.

I refilled our drinks at regular intervals. (“He’s such a gentleman,” Layla gushed.)

Kevin lurched our way. “David!” he screamed in my face, spraying me with spit and shaking me by the shoulders. “David! You’re here ! You’re actually fucking here !”

“Yep, I’m here,” I said, trying to placate him. “I walked over with you.”

He teetered woozily. “You’re a funny guy,” he said, and left.

We were all deep in our cups. Even Sara was speaking loudly and clumsily, more animated than I’d ever seen. A few times she slurred her delivery—“the Scandanissas — wait, nist —the San di- nistas !”—and doubled over in hysterics.

When Layla went to the bathroom, Sara looped her arms around my neck and rested her head on my chest, rocking off rhythm to the up-tempo song. I pulled closer to her to avoid being hit by an unbridled dancer and, interpreting this as a romantic gesture, she craned her neck and puckered her lips. We’d never done this before in full public view. She kissed with the suction of an airplane toilet’s flush.

“You taste good.” She licked her lips in an unprecedented display of sexual initiative. “Like alcohol.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I proposed. If there were a night to expand our bedtime repertoire, this was it. “I want to have you all to myself.”

“All right, mister.” She shimmied her shoulders. “Where’d Layla go?”

“To the bathroom,” I reminded her.

“We have to wait for her,” she said. Raging drunk and still unfailingly considerate.

We continued swaying and kissing. I closed my eyes as the music throbbed around us and the alcohol gave me the floating sensation of riding in a car over a bump, feeling lordly for once at a party. I was making out with a girl on a dance floor in college. Then I remembered that moment at the final club when I realized you were facing the bar to make it look like you weren’t speaking with me. To avoid slipping down a rabbit hole of self-doubt, I recalled our parting that night, you crying in my arms. But then you were cold to me, if not outright hostile. Your mercurial nature was maddening, absolutely maddening. The next time the pendulum of your affections swung my way, I’d take hold at its apex and not let go.

Sara’s arms came down and she burrowed her hands into my back pocket, squeezing my butt. When she withdrew them she was holding the snipped piece of belt.

“VMW,” she read from it, one eye closed, and looked up at me for an explanation.

“ B MW,” I said, grabbing it back from her and wedging it in the small pocket so she couldn’t take it out again. “You’re not seeing straight. We should get you home.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s ride in your BMW all the way home.”

Back in Matthews, Sara collapsed on her bed. After removing her shoes and outerwear and turning on the white-noise machine, I undressed myself. I recollected Steven’s gloating appeal to keep his family photo on my bookcase and entertained the notion of subbing out THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORDfor LET’S GET PHYSICS-AL.