phrase of a frat boy, a common hustler, come out of Julian’s elegant mouth? Anne Sarah said something too low for me to catch. She was by now sucking on the straw, hoisting it slowly up and down.
Jerome rang up my tea and a large coffee. Both were cold by the time Julian finished his conversation with the straw-wielder.
Sorry sweetie, he said, we were talking about God.
Ginna, my ethical thermometer, gave stern counsel. He’s already sweating two of my roommates—your chances are slim. You need to abandon this pipe dream.
Blah, I said merrily. How are you defining sweating?
Dragging under the stairs by the cafeteria. Attempting to fornicate with.
That’s a lie!
Why would I lie? I’ve got no investment. I don’t give anything remotely resembling a fuck. I have heard the reports .
Those girls are lying, I said, because he’s so handsome. They want it to be true. But he doesn’t like vaginas.
I think he’s quite fond of them, actually. She rammed another cake slice into her mouth and mumbled, The red flags are flying from the battlements.
After dinner he stood on the badly lit smoking porch with a paperback spread open in his long fingers. The book lookedserious: there was no picture on the front. So diligent, my Julian, trying to keep his brain alive in this illiterate circus tent. A herd of girls kept interrupting him with their snorts and whinnies. Whatcha reading? Check out Mr. Intellectualist, he reads standing up, Jesus.
It’s called Diss-see-muh-nation .
Ooh, is it about semen?
Julian smiled. In a way. In a remote way.
I like books about semen.
Me too. Who wrote it?
A French philosopher, he said darkly.
The admiring gaggle flocked closer, smothering him, until he shut the book. I listened sadly from the other end of the porch. He should not allow himself to be distracted. He should steel himself against those vaginas. If I were his boyfriend I’d let him read in peace. If I were his boyfriend I would admit that I had finished only two semesters at Eau Claire Community College, and ask him to tutor me in the life of the mind, stretch out beside him while he read the semen book aloud.
Just after curfew there was a knock on our door. Chuckie, swathed in sweatshirt, scarf, and jeans despite the overheating radiators—he made sure to keep his body covered at all times—went to open it. What’s up, Little Professor?
Where’s Timothy?
I was under the covers, reading a book my counselor had given me about people who love too much. I shoved the book down toward my feet and affected a sleepy grin.
Chuckie looked suspiciously from me to Julian, then sidled out of the room. Julian sat boldly at the end of my bed. The fact of his body on the blanket, alone with mine, made my teeth start to chatter.
I have a naughty plan, he said.
What’s that?
Mexico, he said.
Mexico?
As in, let’s go.
Oh!
I’m sure we can find a cheap flight, he went on. I’m sick of these Midwestern skies. I want sun, I want decadence.
It would be hard to stay sober in Mexico, I said.
He just kept smiling.
Oh, I said.
You down?
I guess. I mean, yes!
All right then, he said. Tell no one. Especially not your fat little friend. We’ll make the arrangements tomorrow.
But what will. . . .
Sleep tight, sweet thing! He tapped his finger on the tip of my nose and departed.
When Chuckie came back in he made a glancing search of the room for evidence of hasty grappling.
It was awful not telling Ginna. I wanted to flaunt the proof of Julian’s devotion. The secret was too delicious to keep, but I kept it. I floated through the day under a Mexican sun—I could feel its heat, even as the snow began dropping after lunch and fell until dinnertime, when the people with jobs came trudging back to the house. Julian was one of the last to arrive. I was waiting discreetly by the fish tank. He unwrapped his red scarf, shook melting flakes from his hair, and gave me a tantalizing purse of the lips.
We’re set, he whispered. I
Jerome rang up my tea and a large coffee. Both were cold by the time Julian finished his conversation with the straw-wielder.
Sorry sweetie, he said, we were talking about God.
Ginna, my ethical thermometer, gave stern counsel. He’s already sweating two of my roommates—your chances are slim. You need to abandon this pipe dream.
Blah, I said merrily. How are you defining sweating?
Dragging under the stairs by the cafeteria. Attempting to fornicate with.
That’s a lie!
Why would I lie? I’ve got no investment. I don’t give anything remotely resembling a fuck. I have heard the reports .
Those girls are lying, I said, because he’s so handsome. They want it to be true. But he doesn’t like vaginas.
I think he’s quite fond of them, actually. She rammed another cake slice into her mouth and mumbled, The red flags are flying from the battlements.
After dinner he stood on the badly lit smoking porch with a paperback spread open in his long fingers. The book lookedserious: there was no picture on the front. So diligent, my Julian, trying to keep his brain alive in this illiterate circus tent. A herd of girls kept interrupting him with their snorts and whinnies. Whatcha reading? Check out Mr. Intellectualist, he reads standing up, Jesus.
It’s called Diss-see-muh-nation .
Ooh, is it about semen?
Julian smiled. In a way. In a remote way.
I like books about semen.
Me too. Who wrote it?
A French philosopher, he said darkly.
The admiring gaggle flocked closer, smothering him, until he shut the book. I listened sadly from the other end of the porch. He should not allow himself to be distracted. He should steel himself against those vaginas. If I were his boyfriend I’d let him read in peace. If I were his boyfriend I would admit that I had finished only two semesters at Eau Claire Community College, and ask him to tutor me in the life of the mind, stretch out beside him while he read the semen book aloud.
Just after curfew there was a knock on our door. Chuckie, swathed in sweatshirt, scarf, and jeans despite the overheating radiators—he made sure to keep his body covered at all times—went to open it. What’s up, Little Professor?
Where’s Timothy?
I was under the covers, reading a book my counselor had given me about people who love too much. I shoved the book down toward my feet and affected a sleepy grin.
Chuckie looked suspiciously from me to Julian, then sidled out of the room. Julian sat boldly at the end of my bed. The fact of his body on the blanket, alone with mine, made my teeth start to chatter.
I have a naughty plan, he said.
What’s that?
Mexico, he said.
Mexico?
As in, let’s go.
Oh!
I’m sure we can find a cheap flight, he went on. I’m sick of these Midwestern skies. I want sun, I want decadence.
It would be hard to stay sober in Mexico, I said.
He just kept smiling.
Oh, I said.
You down?
I guess. I mean, yes!
All right then, he said. Tell no one. Especially not your fat little friend. We’ll make the arrangements tomorrow.
But what will. . . .
Sleep tight, sweet thing! He tapped his finger on the tip of my nose and departed.
When Chuckie came back in he made a glancing search of the room for evidence of hasty grappling.
It was awful not telling Ginna. I wanted to flaunt the proof of Julian’s devotion. The secret was too delicious to keep, but I kept it. I floated through the day under a Mexican sun—I could feel its heat, even as the snow began dropping after lunch and fell until dinnertime, when the people with jobs came trudging back to the house. Julian was one of the last to arrive. I was waiting discreetly by the fish tank. He unwrapped his red scarf, shook melting flakes from his hair, and gave me a tantalizing purse of the lips.
We’re set, he whispered. I
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