Au Revoir, Crazy European Chick Read online

  "My selfishness? Everything I do is for other people!" As I said this, I saw my dad's facial expression migrating through surprise, then anger, and arriving at a cool kind of liquid-crystal detachment, all in a matter of seconds, and I realized again, for the hundredth time, how he'd made partner at one of New York's most prestigious firms—the man had the nerves of a test pilot and the internal core temperature of a Komodo dragon. He was the guy you wanted landing the plane when the dials started spinning.

  I responded with the only weapon in my arsenal: freaking out.

  "You made me quit the swim team to focus on my grades," I said, "and I did it. You made me apply to Columbia and work my ass off for a letter of recommendation. I did it. All I have is this band and this show and you need to let me have this, this one thing, just this one thing, okay?"

  He waited, enduring me the way you might endure a mediocre street mime, and then in a soft voice: "Are you finished?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Your mother will take you out tomorrow for the tuxedo fitting." His hand reemerged from his pocket with a hundred-dollar bill, extending it to me. "I think it would be appropriate if you would offer to take her out to lunch afterward as a gesture of appreciation."

  "Keep it," I said. "I have my own money."

  "Of course you do," he said, smiling as he walked over to pick up the car keys, and left me standing there.

  ***

  I went right out to the lobby and hit the button for the elevator. Screw the copies. Let him do it himself.

  The elevator went down two floors and stopped again and a tall, elegant woman in a suit got in next to me with a briefcase, talking quietly on a cell phone. She was in her early fifties with brown hair pinned up in a way that showed her slender neck, unwrinkled, the neck of a swan. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was standing next to Valerie Statham, one of the firm's senior partners, the one I was hoping might write that letter to Columbia's admission board. Once, several weeks ago, I'd walked past her corner office and caught a glimpse of Manhattan that existed only for certain individuals occupying a very specific stratum of human achievement. She must have recognized me too, because when she finished her call, she turned and looked me up and down.

  "You're Phil Stormaire's son, aren't you?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I mean, yes, ma'am." I held out my hand, aware that my face and ears were still burning red from the argument with my father. "Perry."

  She shook my hand. "You're clerking here part time?"

  "Just helping out. I'm still in high school."

  "Graduating this year? What are your plans?"

  "Columbia, hopefully. Pre-law."

  "Really." She arched an eyebrow. "Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?"

  "As far back as I can remember."

  "That's good. I always tell people if they haven't wanted it at least that long, they should go do something else." She reached for my hand, then turned it over like a palm reader, examining the calluses on my fingertips. "How long have you been playing the guitar, Perry?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "Your fingers are a dead giveaway. Looks like you've been at it for a while."

  I blushed a little for no reason except that she was touching my hand and looking into my eyes, and the realization that I was blushing made me feel even more self-conscious. "Since fifth grade, I guess."

  "I dated several guitar players back in college. In fact, I made a career of it. Earned myself quite a little reputation at Oberlin." She smiled and I realized that she was wearing lip-gloss that was almost exactly the same shade as her natural skin tone. "Are you any good?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "At the guitar."

  "I'm in a band called Inchworm. We're playing a show at Monty's down on Avenue A." Before I could stop myself, I blurted out the rest: "You should come check us out."

  "Excuse me?"

  "The band," I said. "I could put you on the guest list."

  "It's been a long time since I've been down on Avenue A." The elevator dinged, the doors opening on the lobby. "What night is the show?"

  "Saturday at ten o'clock. But we usually start a little later than that."

  Valerie made a little pout. "That's too bad. I'll be here all night."

  "Here at the office?"

  "Partners burn the midnight oil, Perry." She winked and gave me a look that I couldn't quite decipher. "Ask your father."

  I stepped out and watched her walk across the marble lobby past the fountain, heels clicking toward the door with the measured tick of a stopwatch counting down to silence. As she stepped out onto Third Avenue, I heard a familiar chuckle behind me.

  "You can't afford none of that fine wine, brother."

  I glanced around and saw Rufus, the sixty-eight-year-old security guard, behind the reception desk. He'd been working the six p.m. to six a.m. shift here for forty years, and the building was as much his as it was the firm's.

  "Hey," I said, "what'd she mean about my dad?"

  "Hey, man, what are you asking me for?" He held up his Times in front of his face so that all I could see was the top of his blue cap. "I didn't hear nothing."

  "Seriously, Rufus."

  The paper edged downward, exposing a pair of watchful eyes from behind it. "Seriously? This world's a funny place and it only gets funnier the longer you live in it. And that's the truth." He picked up a Styrofoam cup and held it in my direction. "You want some coffee? Look like you could use a lift."

  "No thanks. Anyway, I have to go."

  He glanced at his watch. "Little early, ain't it?"

  "I'm done already."

  "How about an umbrella?"

  "There's not a cloud in the sky."

  "Suit yourself."

  Three blocks from Penn Station, I heard the first rumble of thunder bouncing off the skyscrapers. By the time I got to the station, I was soaked.

  3

  What single word best describes you, and why? (Princeton)

  "Dick," Norrie, my best friend, burst out. "You are being such a dick!"

  I was up in my bedroom, talking to him on my cell phone, which I had somehow thought would be a better way of breaking the news about going to the prom ... although now I realized that maybe I shouldn't have waited till the night of the prom to tell him. When I heard how angry Norrie was, I tried to think of how my father would handle this, first by acknowledging his frustrations and validating his emotions as legitimate.

  "Look," I said, "I know you're upset, and rightly so."

  "Upset? Upset doesn't even b-buh-begin to cover it, you d-dick! You tuh-totally dicked us over, and now you're being a cuh-complete duh-duh-dick about it!"

  "Okay, but could you maybe find a different word than dick ?"

  "Oooh-kay, m-mister future attorney," Norrie was saying, his stutter getting progressively worse as he became more and more upset. As our drummer, Norrie was one of those people who didn't let himself express anger very often, and witnessing it firsthand was like watching someone go through a particularly dramatic allergic reaction. "Wh-Wh-What are you going to d-d-do about it, h-h-hit me with your briefcase? Slam me with a cuh-cuh-class-action s-s-suit?"

  "Norrie, calm down."

  "Yuh-You t-t-told me you'd t-take c-care of this," he sputtered. "You p-p-promised it wouldn't be a puh-puh-pruh-huh—"

  "And it's not a problem," I said, "okay?"

  "Don't finish my sentences for me!"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Duh-Does Guh-Guh-Guh ... ho..." I heard him take a breath, forcing himself to relax. "Does Gobi even w-want to go to the p-prom?"

  "That's not the point," I said.

  That got him started again. "Y-Y-You know what, you're totally right, that's not the p-p-point, the point is yuh-yuh-you can't ever s-s-sstand up to your duh-dad, not even once when it's r-really important."

  "Dude," I said, "shut up."

  "I d-duh-don't know wh-why you even b-buh -bother b-buh-because in s-six y-yuh-years y-you're g-guh-going to be j-juh-just l-like�
�"

  "Don't say that." Something inside me went cold. "I'm never going to be like him."

  "Whuh-whatever you need to t-tell yourself, man." And then, sullenly: "Y-Yuh-You didn't even m-make it to the last p-practice."

  "I had to work."

  "Exactly."

  Enough, I decided. "What time's the sound check?"

  "T-Ten o'clock."

  "That's plenty of time."

  "M-Muh-my ass! What are you guh-going to do, run back to the house, p-puh-push her out of the c-c-car, grab your b-bass, and drive into the city?"

  "No," I said. Actually, that had been almost exactly my plan. "I'm going to bring my bass with me."

  "Where, in the t-tuh-trunk of the J-Jaguar? You t-told me you were scared to even open it up because you might do something to the latch."

  "For your information," I said, "it's a notoriously finicky latch. Have you read Consumer Reports? The maintenance on those things is a nightmare."

  Norrie snorted. The storm had blown itself out by sheer force of exhaustion, and now he just sounded sad. "You really screwed us on this one, Perry."

  "I told you I'd take care of it, okay?" I went over to my bedroom door and clicked it shut, lowering my voice. "Listen. Once Gobi and I get to the prom and she sees what a total error in judgment the whole thing is, there's no way she's going to want to stay. She'll be ready to leave by nine. I'll drop her off, change clothes, and be there in plenty of time. All right?"

  Norrie fell absolutely quiet. He and I had been playing music together, writing songs and lyrics, for six years, under a bunch of different names—first we were Tennessee Jedi, then we were Malibu Robot, and then Sasha and Caleb joined and we became the Locker Room Bullies, the Dialups, Skinflip, Barney Rubble, and—for a few miserable weeks—Barn Swallow. I'd agreed to Inchworm because it was the least humiliating name he'd come up with yet.

  "You b-better be," he said in a quiet voice. "Seriously, man. There might be p-people there tonight. Industry people."

  "Please," I said.

  "Don't you do that," he said. "Don't act like you don't care, Perry, because I know you better. We've b-been friends since fourth grade, man."

  "I'll be there," I said, with more confidence than I felt, and clicked him off.

  Downstairs, Mom and Dad and Annie were all waiting to make a big deal of my tuxedo. Dad made an even bigger deal about officially presenting me the keys to the Jag, and Mom gave me the box with the corsage that I was supposed to pin on Gobi's dress.

  "OMG." Annie covered her mouth and giggled. "You look like a total geek."

  "Shut up," I said, "and don't say OMG."

  "The G stands for goodness. I'm being respectful to God."

  "Stop it, Annie," Mom said. "Your brother looks very handsome."

  "Mom, come on, admit it: he looks like a colossal dork."

  "I remember my senior prom," Mom said, and then she actually did seem to remember her senior prom and stopped talking.

  Something creaked, and I heard Gobi coming down the stairs. She stopped there on the landing and looked at me, and we all stared at her.

  My mom was the first one to say anything.

  "Oh, Gobi," she said. "You look ... very nice."

  She was still looking at me, and I tried to think of something to say, but the floor had dropped from under my feet and all I could think was Oh, no. I turned and locked eyes with my mom. I guess because she'd helped me with the tuxedo, I'd just naturally assumed she would have provided some kind of guidance with Gobi's prom dress.

  But it was clear that nobody had helped Gobi with her dress.

  She wasn't so much wearing the dress as much as lost in it. It was a baggy, shapeless mountain of linen with designs stitched into the fabric, and with a long brown wool skirt, decorated with stripes and cloverleaf, that went down to her ankles so you couldn't even see her shoes. A kerchief covered her head and was knotted underneath her chin. Over her shoulder hung an enormous handmade bag that looked like it was made of some kind of animal hide, replete with pouches and straps and weird little buckles. It was so large that it could have passed for a suitcase, but I had a feeling it was supposed to be her purse.

  "Is a traditional Lithuanian ceremonial costume," she said, her voice all alone in the silence. There was a thumbprint over the left lens of her glasses, right in front of her eye. "Was my mother's."

  "Well, it's lovely," Mom said.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Stormaire."

  "Perry?" Mom held out the corsage for me, and I went over and unlatched the pin, trying to find a spot to plant it. I'd never been this close to her before, and I could smell her, the scent of unfamiliar soap and detergent in the fabric of the clothes. My hands trembled a little bit, and I stabbed myself with the pin.

  "Ow!" I pulled back my hand, watched the dot of blood ooze from my fingertip. "Shit!"

  "Perry!"

  "Sorry, Mom. It's just the stupid pin—"

  "Are you bleeding?" Gobi asked.

  "Well, don't get any on your shirt!" Mom said.

  I sucked my finger. "I'm fine, it's nothing."

  "You should not be afraid of a little blood," Gobi said. "Life is full of it."

  I glanced up at her, wondering if that was supposed to be a joke, but her face was unreadable as ever—even her expressions seemed to require subtitles. Annie started laughing and Mom got me a Band-Aid. Dad stood there watching me the whole time with that whole ah-the-human-comedy-ain't-it-fascinating look on his face as Gobi and I walked out to the Jaguar.

  It wasn't quite twilight, but the air had already turned chilly. I went around and opened the passenger door for her, then walked back and got behind the wheel, feeling, in spite of everything, a kind of automotive stagefright. As I turned the key and felt the Jag's engine throb to life under the hood, I saw Dad standing in the doorway, one hand raised in silent salute, except then I saw it was a clenched fist and it looked more like a gesture of victory. Anger bubbled up in my stomach, and I gunned the engine a little, feeding it gas until it made me feel better, like I knew it would. Then we slipped down the driveway and into the cool promise of night.

  4

  Tell us about the most stimulating conversation you've had. (University of Michigan)

  It was silent as we drove to the school. I turned on the radio, couldn't find anything worth listening to, and switched it off again.

  "You are embarrassed of me," Gobi said.

  I looked over at her with the great sloping heap of the bag on her lap. It lay there like a big dog that had gone to sleep. "No, I'm not," I said. "Not at all."

  "It is all right for you to say. I can see it in your eyes."

  "That's not true."

  She stared straight ahead. "Next week I will fly home."

  "Right." I didn't dare ask about her experience here. "You must, uh, really be looking forward to seeing your family again."

  She didn't say anything. The atmosphere dropped a degree or two, seeming to thicken invisibly around us, as if someone had run a length of garden hose through the back window and was slowly filling the Jaguar with a lethal dose of carbon monoxide. I practiced holding my breath, just in case.

  "I just want to tell you," she said, "I appreciate what you are doing for me. Thank you."

  "Don't worry about it." Something in me snapped, and I was talking again before I knew it. "Can I ask you something, though?"

  She turned to face me, patiently.

  "What made you really want to go to the prom with me? I mean ... I'm fine with it, but—"

  "But clearly you are not fine with it, Perry."

  "What?"

  "You had no wish to bring me to this prom. I know this. You do not think I can see these things for myself ?"

  "Well, my band is playing a show tonight in New York," I said. "It's kind of important."

  "Even if they were not," Gobi said, "you would still not want to take me to the prom, yes?"

  "No. I mean, yes. It's just that I was surprised. It didn't seem like
anything you'd really be interested in, that's all."

  She didn't reply, just kept both hands wrapped tight around the handle of her bag and looked straight ahead as we drove up into the school parking lot. Just before we got out, she turned to me again.

  "You do not know me, Perry."

  "No, I guess not."

  "Perhaps by the end of the evening you will."

  I looked at her. What was that supposed to mean? Ever since her comment about blood, I realized I'd been thinking about Sissy Spacek in Carrie, the high school loser in her homemade prom dress, drenched in pig blood, unleashing a firestorm of psychokinetic destruction on the high school gym. Ever since I'd seen that movie on TV when I was eight, I'd been queasy at the sight of blood, especially mine. Probably most proms didn't turn out that way, but what if this one did?

  The distress must have shown on my face, because for the first time ever, Gobi actually laughed. Her eyes sparkled, a bright and glinting green behind her glasses, and for an instant the light transformed her entire face—the bland, expressionless mask slipped away to reveal an actual girl underneath: feminine, uninhibited, spontaneous, and alive. It occurred to me that I might have been missing something this whole time.

  "You handle this car very well, Perry."

  "Yeah, well, it's a pleasure to drive."

  I parked and got out, walked around the car, offering my hand, and she slipped out of the leather interior. She felt lighter somehow, despite her heavy, rustling outfit, gliding almost gracefully alongside me toward the entrance. I could already hear the music inside, the murmur of people, kids I'd gone to school with for the last twelve years, dressed up and pretending to be the adults we'd all eventually turn into, whether we wanted to or not.

  Maybe it'll be okay, I thought.

  I held the door for her, and we stepped inside.

  5

  Sartre said "Hell is other people," while Streisand sang "People who need people are the luckiest people in the world." With whom do you agree? (Amherst)