Part 7 (2/2)

I, too, felt there was something undercover and s.e.xual about Milton, which made me act sort of inebriated whenever I was alone with him. I was once rinsing plates, loading them into Hannah's dishwasher when he came in with seven water gla.s.ses in his giant hands and, as he leaned past me to put them in the sink, my chin accidentally touched his shoulder. It was damp and muggy as a greenhouse and I thought I was going to fall down. ”Sorry, Blue,” he said when he stepped away. Whenever he said my name, which he did often (so often, I felt it came tantalizingly close to satire), his accent yo-yoed it, or else, turned it into a piece of elastic. Bluuue. Bluuue.

”Got plans tonight, Blue?” he asked me now.

”Yes,” I said, though my response didn't seem to register. (I think they'd figured by now, unless Hannah had actively arranged a suitor, no one came calling-not an outrageous a.s.sumption.) ”Well, we're hangin' at Jade's tonight if you want to come. I'll get her to pick you up. Should be mad crazy. If you can handle it.”

He continued past me, down the sidewalk.

”I thought you had the flu,” I said under my breath, but he heard me, because he turned and, walking backward, winked at me, saying: ”Feelin' better by the minute.”

He then began to whistle and, tightening his green-and-blue plaid tie as if about to interview for a job, he swung open the back doors of Elton and disappeared inside.

Jade lived in a thirty-five-room Tara-inspired McMansion (what she called the Wedding Cake) built atop a hill in a hick town ”sprinkled with trailer parks and people without molars” known as Junk Spread (pop. 109).

”The house is vulgar when you see it for the first time,” she said cheerfully, swinging open the ma.s.sive front door. (From the moment Jade had picked me up, her spirits had approached Gzc/gef-like gladness, which made me wonder what kind of stellar deal she'd cut with Hannah; it had to have had something to do with immortality.) ”Yeah,” she said, fixing the front of her black-and-white silk wrap dress so her electric yellow bra didn't show. ”I made the suggestion to Jefferson that she have on hand some of those airplane sick bags, you know, right when you first walk in. She hasn't gotten them yet. Oh, and no you're not hallucinating. That really is Ca.s.siopeia. Ursa Minor's in the dining room, Hercules in the kitchen. Jefferson dreamed it up, constellations of the Northern Hemisphere on all the ceilings. She was dating this guy Timber, an Astrologist and Dream Translator, when they were designing the house, and by the time Timber unloaded her and she was going out with Gibbs from England who hated the idea of all the f.u.c.king twinkling lights-'How the devil will you change those bulbs?'- bulbs?'- it was too late. The electricians had already done Corona Borealis and half of Pegasus.” it was too late. The electricians had already done Corona Borealis and half of Pegasus.”

The foyer was white-on-white-on-white with a slick marble floor on which one could probably triple-lutz and double-toe-loop with little difficulty. I stared up at what really was was Ca.s.siopeia twinkling above us in the pale blue ceiling, which also seemed to hum that acid note of Frozen Food sections. It was freezing too. Ca.s.siopeia twinkling above us in the pale blue ceiling, which also seemed to hum that acid note of Frozen Food sections. It was freezing too.

”No, you're not coming down with something. Living in cool temperatures stalls, sometimes even reverses the aging process so Jefferson doesn't allow the thermostat in the house to get above forty.” Jade flung the car keys onto the ma.s.sive Corinthian column by the door, messy with change, toenail clippers, brochures for meditation cla.s.ses at something called The Suwanee Centre for Inner Life. ”Don't know about you, but I'm in dire need of a c.o.c.ktail. n.o.body's here yet, they're late, the motherf.u.c.kers, so I'll show you around.”

Jade made us mudslingers, the first alcoholic drink I'd ever had; it was sweet yet fascinatingly throat scalding. We embarked on the Grand Tour. The house was ornate and filthy as a flophouse. Under the pulsing constellations (many of them with extinguished stars, supernovas, white dwarfs) almost every room looked confused, in spite of the very explicit t.i.tle Jade gave it (Rec Room, Museum Room, Drawing Room). For example, the Imperial Room displayed an ornate Persian vahze vahze and some large oily portrait of an ”eighteenthcentury Sir Somebodyorother”; but also a stained silk blouse over a sofa arm, a sneaker capsized under a stool, and on a gilded end table, gruesome cotton b.a.l.l.s huddled together in miserable commiseration after having removed blood-red polish from somebody's nails. and some large oily portrait of an ”eighteenthcentury Sir Somebodyorother”; but also a stained silk blouse over a sofa arm, a sneaker capsized under a stool, and on a gilded end table, gruesome cotton b.a.l.l.s huddled together in miserable commiseration after having removed blood-red polish from somebody's nails.

She took me to the TV Room (”three thousand channels and nothing on”), the Toy Room with a life-sized rearing carousel horse (”That's Snow-pea”) and the Shanghai Room, empty, apart from a big bronze Buddha statue and ten or twelve cardboard boxes. ”Hannah really likes it if we get rid of as much material possession as possible. I take stuff to Goodwill all the time. You should think about doing the same,” she said. In the bas.e.m.e.nt, under Gemini, was the Jefferson Room (”where my mother pays ohmage ohmage to her heyday”). It was a 1600-square-foot family room with a Drive-in-sized TV, carpeting the color of spareribs and wooden walls lined with thirty advertis.e.m.e.nts for brands like ”Ohh!” Perfume, Slinky Silk Pantyhose, Keep Walkin' Bootwear, Orange Bliss Lite and other obscure products. Each featured the same carrot-topped woman flas.h.i.+ng a banana-grin that walked the fine line between ecstatic and fanatic (see Chapter 4, ”Jim Jones,” to her heyday”). It was a 1600-square-foot family room with a Drive-in-sized TV, carpeting the color of spareribs and wooden walls lined with thirty advertis.e.m.e.nts for brands like ”Ohh!” Perfume, Slinky Silk Pantyhose, Keep Walkin' Bootwear, Orange Bliss Lite and other obscure products. Each featured the same carrot-topped woman flas.h.i.+ng a banana-grin that walked the fine line between ecstatic and fanatic (see Chapter 4, ”Jim Jones,” Don Juan de Mania, Don Juan de Mania, Lerner, 1963). Lerner, 1963).

”That's my mom, Jefferson. You can call her Jeff.”

Jade frowned as she surveyed one of the ads for Vita Vitamins in which Jeff, sporting blue terry-cloth wristbands, did a jackknife over VITA VITAMIN YOUR WAY TO A BETTER LIFE.

”She was big in New York in 1978 for two minutes. See here, how her hair curves way up over, then ends right there above her eye? Well, she invented that hairstyle. When she came out with it everyone went bonkers. It was called The Crimson Marshmallow. She was also friends with Andy Warhol. I guess he let her see him without his wig all the time. Oh, wait.”

She walked to the table beneath the Sir Albert's Spicy Sausages ads (”If it's good enough for royals, it's good enough for you.”) returning with a framed photograph of Jefferson, apparently in the present day.

”This is her last year posing for her Christmas cards.”

The woman had wandered deep into her forties and, to her evident panic, had been unable to make her way back. She still flashed the banana-smile, though it'd gone mushy on the ends, and her hair no longer had enough kinetic energy to swing itself up into The Crimson Marshmallow, but frizzled stiffly off her head in a Red Zinger Silo. (If Dad saw her he would not hesitate to call her ”a badly aged Barbarella.” Or he'd use one of his Stale Candy remarks reserved for women who spent the greater portion of their week attempting to halt Middle Age as if Middle Age was nothing but a team of runaway stallions: ”a melted red M&M,” a ”stale strawberry Sweet Tart.”) Jade was looking at me intently, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

”She looks very nice,” I said.

”About as nice as. .h.i.tler.”

After the tour, we retreated to the Purple Room, ”where Jefferson gets to really know her boyfriends if you know what I mean. Avoid the paisley couch by the fireplace.” The others still hadn't arrived, and after Jade busied herself with making more mudslingers and turning over the Louis Armstrong record on the antique gramophone, she finally sat down, though her eyes flew around the room like canaries. She checked her watch a fourth time, then a fifth.

”How long have you lived here?” I asked, because I sort of wished we'd get along so when the others arrived we were performing our favorite number, ”Just Two Little Girls from Little Rock,” Jade, a skinnier, angrier Marilyn to my unquestionably-more-flat-chested Jane Russell. But, much to my own disappointment, the odds didn't look good for being bosom buddies.

”Three years,” she said distractedly. ”Oh, where the f.u.c.k are are they? I loathe when people are late and Black swore he'd be here by seven, the they? I loathe when people are late and Black swore he'd be here by seven, the fraud” fraud” she complained not to me, but the ceiling. ”I'll castrate him.” (Orion, the constellation under which we sat, had not had his light bulbs changed and thus he'd lost his legs and head. He was nothing but a belt.) she complained not to me, but the ceiling. ”I'll castrate him.” (Orion, the constellation under which we sat, had not had his light bulbs changed and thus he'd lost his legs and head. He was nothing but a belt.) Soon the others arrived wearing quirky accessories (plastic bead necklaces, fast-food crowns; Charles wore an old fencing s.h.i.+rt, Milton a blazer in navy velveteen) and they stormed the room, Nigel crawling over the leather couch, hitching his legs on the coffee table, Leulah air-kissing Jade h.e.l.los. She only smiled at me, then glided to the bar, her eyes gla.s.sy and red. Milton wandered toward a wooden box on the writing desk in the corner and unlatched it, removing a cigar.

”Jadey, where's the cutter?” he asked, sniffing it. She dragged on her cigarette and glared at him. ”You said you'd be on time and you're late. I'll hate you until I die. Top drawer.”

He chuckled, a m.u.f.fled sound, as if he was being smothered with a pillow, and I realized I wanted him to say something to me-”Glad you could join us,” ”Hey, Bluuue”- Bluuue”-but he didn't. He didn't see me.

”Blue, how about a dirty martini?” Leulah asked.

”Or something else,” said Jade.

”A s.h.i.+rley Temple,” suggested Nigel with a smirk.

”A cosmo?” asked Leulah.

”There's milk in the fridge/' Nigel said, deadpan.

”A-a dirty martini would be quite nice. Thank you,” I said. ”Three olives, please.” Three Olives,Please: Three Olives,Please: it was what Eleanor Curd specified, the emerald-eyed heroine that caused men to shudder with hungry desire in A it was what Eleanor Curd specified, the emerald-eyed heroine that caused men to shudder with hungry desire in A Return to Waterfalls Return to Waterfalls (DeMurgh, 1990), pilfered from June Bug Rita Cleary's gold leather purse when I was twelve. (”Where's my book?” she repeated to Dad for days like a woman with mental illness who'd wandered away from her sanitarium. She searched our every couch, rug and closet, at times on her hands and knees, frantic to find out if Eleanor ended up with Sir Damien or they stayed apart because he believed she believed he believed he'd impregnated a vicious tattletale with an illegitimate child.) (DeMurgh, 1990), pilfered from June Bug Rita Cleary's gold leather purse when I was twelve. (”Where's my book?” she repeated to Dad for days like a woman with mental illness who'd wandered away from her sanitarium. She searched our every couch, rug and closet, at times on her hands and knees, frantic to find out if Eleanor ended up with Sir Damien or they stayed apart because he believed she believed he believed he'd impregnated a vicious tattletale with an illegitimate child.) As soon as Leulah handed me my martini, I was forgotten like Line 2 on a Corporate Headquarters Switchboard. ”So Hannah had a date tonight,” Nigel said. ”No, she didn't,” said Charles, smiling, though he sat up imperceptibly as if he'd felt the p.r.i.c.k of a needle in his seat cus.h.i.+on. ”She did,” said Nigel. ”I saw her after school. She was wearing red.” ”Oh, boy,” said Jade exhaling cigarette smoke. They talked on and on about Hannah; Jade again said something about Goodwill and ”bourgeois pigs,” words that startled me (I hadn't heard the phrase since Dad and I, driving across Illinois, read Angus Hubbard's Acid Trips: The Delusionsof 60s Counterculture Acid Trips: The Delusionsof 60s Counterculture [1989]) though I didn't know who or what she was referring to, because I found it impossible to focus on the conversation; it was like that cruel little blurry line at the bottom of an eye chart. And I didn't feel like myself. I was a swirl of Interstellar Material, a mist of Dark Matter, a case in point of General Relativity. [1989]) though I didn't know who or what she was referring to, because I found it impossible to focus on the conversation; it was like that cruel little blurry line at the bottom of an eye chart. And I didn't feel like myself. I was a swirl of Interstellar Material, a mist of Dark Matter, a case in point of General Relativity.

I stood up and tried to make my way to the door, but my legs felt as if they were being asked to measure the universe. u]esus” u]esus” said Jade from somewhere. ”What's wrong with her?” The floor was transmitting in a wide array of wavelengths. ”What'd you give her to drink?” Milton asked. ”Nothing. A mudslinger.” said Jade from somewhere. ”What's wrong with her?” The floor was transmitting in a wide array of wavelengths. ”What'd you give her to drink?” Milton asked. ”Nothing. A mudslinger.” ”Told ”Told you to give her milk,” Nigel said. ”I gave her a martini,” added Leulah. Suddenly I was on the floor, gazing at the stars. ”Is she going to die?” asked Jade. ”We should take her to the hospital,” Charles said. ”Or call Hannah,” said Lu. you to give her milk,” Nigel said. ”I gave her a martini,” added Leulah. Suddenly I was on the floor, gazing at the stars. ”Is she going to die?” asked Jade. ”We should take her to the hospital,” Charles said. ”Or call Hannah,” said Lu.

”She's fine.” fine.” Milton was leaning over me. His tendriled black hair resembled squid. ”Let her sleep it off.” Milton was leaning over me. His tendriled black hair resembled squid. ”Let her sleep it off.”

A tidal wave of nausea was starting to flood my stomach and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was like the black seawater overtaking a crimson t.i.tanic t.i.tanic stateroom, as recounted in one of Dad's favorite autobiographies of all time, the gripping eyewitness account stateroom, as recounted in one of Dad's favorite autobiographies of all time, the gripping eyewitness account Black in My Mind, Yellow in My Legs Black in My Mind, Yellow in My Legs (1943) by Herbert J. D. Lascowitz, who finally, in his ninety-seventh year, came clean about his Machiavellian behavior aboard the legendary ocean liner, admitting he strangled an unidentified woman, stripped her body, donned her clothes in order to pretend he was a woman with child, thereby securing a choice spot for himself on one of two remaining lifeboats. I tried to roll over and stand, but the carpet and the couch swerved upward and then, as shocking as lightning striking inches from my shoes, I was sick: cartoonishly sick all over the table and the carpet and the paisley couch by the fireplace and Jade's black leather Dior sandals, even on the coffee-table book, (1943) by Herbert J. D. Lascowitz, who finally, in his ninety-seventh year, came clean about his Machiavellian behavior aboard the legendary ocean liner, admitting he strangled an unidentified woman, stripped her body, donned her clothes in order to pretend he was a woman with child, thereby securing a choice spot for himself on one of two remaining lifeboats. I tried to roll over and stand, but the carpet and the couch swerved upward and then, as shocking as lightning striking inches from my shoes, I was sick: cartoonishly sick all over the table and the carpet and the paisley couch by the fireplace and Jade's black leather Dior sandals, even on the coffee-table book, Thank G.o.d for the Telephoto Lens: Backyard Photos of the Stars Thank G.o.d for the Telephoto Lens: Backyard Photos of the Stars (Miller, 2002). There were also small but identifiable splatters on the cuffs of Nigel's pants. (Miller, 2002). There were also small but identifiable splatters on the cuffs of Nigel's pants.

They stared at me.

And this, I am ashamed to say, is where memory abruptly drops off (see Figure 12, ”Continental Shelf Cliff,” Oceanic Terrain, Oceanic Terrain, Boss, 1977)- I can recall only a few flimsy sentences (”What if her family presses charges?”), faces peering down at me as if I'd tumbled down a well. Boss, 1977)- I can recall only a few flimsy sentences (”What if her family presses charges?”), faces peering down at me as if I'd tumbled down a well.

Yet I don't really need a memory here, because that Sunday at Hannah's, when they were calling me Gag, Retch, Hurl and Olives, they each went to great lengths to give me their eyewitness account of what happened. According to Leulah, I pa.s.sed out on the South Lawn. Jade claimed I'd muttered a phrase in Spanish, something along the lines of ”E/ perro que no camina, no encuentra hueso,” perro que no camina, no encuentra hueso,” or ”The dog that doesn't walk, doesn't find a bone,” and then my eyes rolled into the back of my head and she thought I'd died. Milton said I got ”nekkid.” Nigel claimed I ”partied like Tommy Lee during the Theater of Pain tour.” Charles rolled his eyes when hearing these versions, these ”gross distortions of the truth.” He said I walked up to Jade and she and I began to make out in flawless reenactment of his favorite film, the cult masterpiece of French fetis.h.i.+st director, Luc-Shallot de la Nuit, or ”The dog that doesn't walk, doesn't find a bone,” and then my eyes rolled into the back of my head and she thought I'd died. Milton said I got ”nekkid.” Nigel claimed I ”partied like Tommy Lee during the Theater of Pain tour.” Charles rolled his eyes when hearing these versions, these ”gross distortions of the truth.” He said I walked up to Jade and she and I began to make out in flawless reenactment of his favorite film, the cult masterpiece of French fetis.h.i.+st director, Luc-Shallot de la Nuit, Les Salopes Vampires et Lesbiennes de Cherbourg Les Salopes Vampires et Lesbiennes de Cherbourg (Pet.i.t Oiseau Prod., 1971). (Pet.i.t Oiseau Prod., 1971).

”Guys spend whole lives whole lives wis.h.i.+ng to see that kind of thing, so thank you, Retch. Thank you.” wis.h.i.+ng to see that kind of thing, so thank you, Retch. Thank you.”

”Sounds like you really enjoyed yourselves,” Hannah said with a smile, her eyes glistening as she sipped her wine. ”Don't tell me any more. It's not fit for a teacher's ears.”

I could never decide which version I believed.

It was after I had a nickname that everything changed.

Dad said my mother, the woman who ”left people holding their breaths in awe when she entered a room,” always acted the same no matter who she talked to or where she was, and sometimes Dad couldn't tell when she answered the phone, if she was talking to ”her childhood best friend from New York or a telemarketer, because she was so thrilled to hear from both.” ” 'Believe me, I'd be overjoyed to schedule a carpet cleaning-your product is obviously terrific-but I have to be honest, we don't actually have any carpets.' She could go on and on with apologies for hours,” Dad said.

And I let her down, because I'll admit, I did did act differently now that I was friends with them, now that Milton, immediately following Morning Announcements shouted ”Retch!” and the entire courtyard of students looked ready to Stop, Drop and Roll. Not that overnight I morphed into, a tyrannical foulmouthed girl who'd started out in Chorus, and managed to claw her way to the Lead. But, strolling through first-floor Hanover with Jade Whitestone between third and fourth periods (”I'm bushed,” Jade would sigh, hitching her elbow around my neck the way Gene Kelly does to a lamppost in act differently now that I was friends with them, now that Milton, immediately following Morning Announcements shouted ”Retch!” and the entire courtyard of students looked ready to Stop, Drop and Roll. Not that overnight I morphed into, a tyrannical foulmouthed girl who'd started out in Chorus, and managed to claw her way to the Lead. But, strolling through first-floor Hanover with Jade Whitestone between third and fourth periods (”I'm bushed,” Jade would sigh, hitching her elbow around my neck the way Gene Kelly does to a lamppost in Singin in the Rain) Singin in the Rain) was an unforgivably paparazzi moment; I thought I understood, completely, what Hammond Brown, the actor in the 1928 Broadway hit was an unforgivably paparazzi moment; I thought I understood, completely, what Hammond Brown, the actor in the 1928 Broadway hit Happy Streets Happy Streets (known throughout the Roaring Twenties simply as The Chin) meant when he said ”a crowd's eyes have a touch like silk” (known throughout the Roaring Twenties simply as The Chin) meant when he said ”a crowd's eyes have a touch like silk” (Ovation, (Ovation, 1952, p. 269). 1952, p. 269).

And at the end of the school day, when Dad picked me up and we fought about something, like my ”tinseled” hair or a new slightly edgier essay I'd written -”Tupac: Portrait of a Modern Romantic Poet,” on which I received a derisory B (”Your senior year of high school is not the time to suddenly become alternative, hip and cool.”)-afterward, it was strange; before my friends.h.i.+p with the Bluebloods, after an argument with Dad, when I retreated to my room I'd always felt like a smudge; I couldn't perceive where I began and where I ended. But now, I felt as if I could still see myself, my outline-a thin, but perfectly respectable black line.

Ms. Gershon of AP Physics perceived the change too, if solely on the subconscious level. For example, when I first arrived at St. Gallway, whenever I raised my hand to ask a question in her cla.s.s, she couldn't immediately make me out; I blended effortlessly with the lab tables, the windows, the poster of James Joule. Now, I only had to hold my hand up for three, maybe four seconds before her eyes snapped to me: ”Yes, Blue?” It was the same with Mr. Archer-all delusions he'd entertained about my name were gone. ”Blue,” ”Blue,” he said, not with shakiness or unease, but supreme faith (similar to the tone he used for he said, not with shakiness or unease, but supreme faith (similar to the tone he used for Da Vinci). Da Vinci). And Mr. Moats, when he wandered over to my easel to inspect my Figure Drawing, his eyes almost always veered away from the drawing to my head, as if I were more worthy of scrutiny than a few wobbly lines on a page. And Mr. Moats, when he wandered over to my easel to inspect my Figure Drawing, his eyes almost always veered away from the drawing to my head, as if I were more worthy of scrutiny than a few wobbly lines on a page.

Sal Mineo noticed the difference too, and if he he noticed, it had to be Agonizingly True. noticed, it had to be Agonizingly True.

”You should be careful,” he said to me during Morning Announcements.

I glanced over at his intricate wrought-iron profile, his soggy brown eyes.

”I'm happy for you,” he said, looking not at me but at the stage where Havermeyer, Eva Brewster and Hilary Leech were unveiling the new look of The Gallway Gazette: The Gallway Gazette: ”A colored front page, advertis.e.m.e.nts,” Eva was saying. Sal swallowed and his Adam's apple, which pushed against his neck like a metal coil in an old couch, trembled, rose and fell. ”But they only hurt people.” ”A colored front page, advertis.e.m.e.nts,” Eva was saying. Sal swallowed and his Adam's apple, which pushed against his neck like a metal coil in an old couch, trembled, rose and fell. ”But they only hurt people.”

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