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“Anyone who goes for seconds at the salad bar.”

“Are you auditioning for that Shepard thing, Paul?”Advertisement

“What? What are you talking about?”

“That part. The Shepard play. Auditions today.”

“Anybody who waits to get braces after high school.”

“No, I’m not.”

“People who consider themselves born again.”

“That rules out the entire administration.”

“Quelle horreur!”

“Rich people with cheap stereos.”

“Boys who can’t hold their liquor.”

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“What about boys who can hold their liquor?”

“True, true.”

“Put down girls who can’t.”

“I’ll just put down Lightweights.”

“What about David Van Pelt?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I slept with him.”

“You didn’t go to bed with David Van Pelt.”

“Yes I did.”

“How?”

“He’s a Lightweight. I told him I like his sculptures.”

“But they’re awful!”

“I know that.”

“He’s got a harelip.”

“I know that also. I think it’s … sexy.”

“You would.”

“Anybody with a harelip. Put that down.”

“What about The Handsome Dunce?”

I vaguely wanted to know who The Handsome Dunce was for some reason but couldn’t bring myself to muster the interest to ask. I felt like shit. I don’t know these people, I was thinking. I hated being a Drama major. I started to sweat. I pushed the coffee away and reached for a cigarette. I had switched majors so many times now that I didn’t even care. Drama major was simply the last roll of the dice. David Van Pelt was disgusting, or at least I used to think so. But now, this morning, his name had an erotic tinge to it, and I whispered the name to myself, but Mitchell’s came instead.

Then suddenly they all cackled, still huddled around the paper, reminding me of the three witches from Macbeth except infinitely better looking and wearing Giorgio Armani. “How about anybody whose parents are still married?” They laughed and congratulated each other and wrote it down, satisfied.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “But my parents are still married.”

They all looked up, their smiles fading quickly to deep concern. “What did you say?” one of them asked.

I cleared my throat, paused dramatically and said, “My parents aren’t divorced.”

There was a long silence and then they all screamed, a mixture of disappointment and disbelief and they threw their heads on the table, howling.

“No way!” Raymond said, amazed, alarmed, looking up as if I had just admitted a devastating secret.

Donald was gaping. “You are kidding, Paul.” He looked horrified and actually backed away as if I were a leper.

Harry was too stunned to speak.

“I’m not kidding, Donald,” I said. “My parents are too boring to get a divorce.”

I liked the fact that my parents were still married. Whether the marriage was any good was anyone’s guess, but just the fact that most, or all, of my friends’ parents were either divorced or separated, and my parents weren’t, made me feel safe rather than feeling like a casualty. It almost made up for Mitchell and I was pleased with this notoriety. I relished it and I stared back at the three of them, feeling slightly better.

They were still staring, dumbfounded.

“Go back to your stupid list,” I said, sipping my coffee, waving them away. “Stop staring at me.”

They slowly looked back at the list and got back into it after that short, stunned silence, but they resumed their game with less enthusiasm than before.

“How about people with tapestries in their rooms?” Harry suggested.

“We already have that,” Raymond sighed.

“Is there any more speed left?” Harry sighed.

“No,” Donald sighed also.

“How about anyone who writes poetry about Womanhood?”

“Bolsheviks from Canada?”

“Anyone who smokes clove cigarettes?”

“Speaking of cigarettes, Paul, can I bum another one?” Donald asked.

Mitchell reached across the table and touched her hand. She laughed.

I looked back at Donald, incredulous. “No. You cannot,” I said, my hysteria building. “Absolutely not. That infuriates me. You are always ‘bumming’ cigarettes and I won’t stand for it anymore.” pqdm.com