rather quietly. They’d all been sort of shouting all at the same time for some time.
After Martin refreshed their drinks from the living room bar that reminded Ruthie of an old movie she watched with her father years ago, she followed him to the blue room, where her sad little duffle bag laid on the ground, looking terribly out of place. He sat down and patted the bed next to himself. She followed obediently. He’d loosened his tie; it hung strangely down the length of his narrow torso.
They began kissing, their drinks sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. Ruthie had kissed boys in junior high, back in South Bend. In fact, in seventh grade, after smoking shitty weed in the alley behind her house with three eighth grade boys—how flattered she felt, why were they there with
her
?—she somehow found herself blowing all three of them. She remembered the feel of the gravel through her blue jeans, the feel of their dicks moving in and out of her mouth, the wonderful noises of pleasure the boys made. At the time, she felt powerful, as if she had this wonderful gift, as if they maybe loved her and appreciated her. Of course, this wasn’t the case at all. She was ruined after that; no one would talk to her, except to call her a slut. This was one of the reasons she begged her grandmother to send her to Lyndon. But not theonly reason. She was a girl who wanted out of South Bend, who wanted to kiss the department store heir in the blue room in a penthouse in Park Avenue. But she was not going to blow him, or anybody from Lyndon. It didn’t work in South Bend and she knew it wouldn’t here, either. The two places couldn’t be more different but blow jobs meant the same thing all over the world, of this Ruthie was certain.
After a while, Martin stopped kissing her and pulled back, looking at her face. At this point they were lying on top of the bed and their bodies had mushed against each other some.
“Do you know what we have in common?” Martin asked, grinning, his eyes an incredible mixture of intense blue and bloodshot whites, hundreds of thin red lines intersecting around the blue. His mouth, grinning, was a loose, long thing.
“What?” She couldn’t think of one thing.
“We’re both outsiders.”
“Because you’re from Los Angeles?” This didn’t make much sense to Ruthie.
“No. Because I’m a Jew. I’m not a WASP like everyone else at Lyndon.”
Ruthie wasn’t exactly sure what a WASP was, but she had an inkling. She’d had no idea that Martin was Jewish. The few Jewish people in South Bend all kept to themselves and owned car dealerships. “I didn’t know you were Jewish. And I’m not Jewish. I don’t get it.”
Martin lay on his back now, right next to Ruthie who propped herself up on her elbow next to him, and his impressively largehands lay on his chest while he laughed softly, as if to hold onto his gentle laugh.
“Of course you’re not Jewish. Even though Ruth is sort of a Jewish name.” Ruthie thought about that. It was a Biblical name, she knew. Her father had named her purposefully after what he called, “the foremother of Jesus.” Martin wasn’t laughing anymore, just looking at her with those awful wonderful eyes. “You’re
white trash
,” he said. “And there are practically no other of your kind at Lyndon.”
Ruthie got up, straightening her new dress, the dress she was so proud of, the dress she’d been so excited to wear. She picked up her drink. “I’m going to go do more blow,” she said and walked out of the blue room, momentarily getting disoriented as to how to get back to the living room, stumbling a bit down the long, dark, endless hallway.
On the train ride home for Thanksgiving break, Ruthie sat by the window looking out at the world passing by her. It was dark, but she could make out shapes of houses, with their endless people in them, and a parade of scarily tall trees devoid of any leaves. She hadn’t slept, her mind a storm of thoughts. The
After Martin refreshed their drinks from the living room bar that reminded Ruthie of an old movie she watched with her father years ago, she followed him to the blue room, where her sad little duffle bag laid on the ground, looking terribly out of place. He sat down and patted the bed next to himself. She followed obediently. He’d loosened his tie; it hung strangely down the length of his narrow torso.
They began kissing, their drinks sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. Ruthie had kissed boys in junior high, back in South Bend. In fact, in seventh grade, after smoking shitty weed in the alley behind her house with three eighth grade boys—how flattered she felt, why were they there with
her
?—she somehow found herself blowing all three of them. She remembered the feel of the gravel through her blue jeans, the feel of their dicks moving in and out of her mouth, the wonderful noises of pleasure the boys made. At the time, she felt powerful, as if she had this wonderful gift, as if they maybe loved her and appreciated her. Of course, this wasn’t the case at all. She was ruined after that; no one would talk to her, except to call her a slut. This was one of the reasons she begged her grandmother to send her to Lyndon. But not theonly reason. She was a girl who wanted out of South Bend, who wanted to kiss the department store heir in the blue room in a penthouse in Park Avenue. But she was not going to blow him, or anybody from Lyndon. It didn’t work in South Bend and she knew it wouldn’t here, either. The two places couldn’t be more different but blow jobs meant the same thing all over the world, of this Ruthie was certain.
After a while, Martin stopped kissing her and pulled back, looking at her face. At this point they were lying on top of the bed and their bodies had mushed against each other some.
“Do you know what we have in common?” Martin asked, grinning, his eyes an incredible mixture of intense blue and bloodshot whites, hundreds of thin red lines intersecting around the blue. His mouth, grinning, was a loose, long thing.
“What?” She couldn’t think of one thing.
“We’re both outsiders.”
“Because you’re from Los Angeles?” This didn’t make much sense to Ruthie.
“No. Because I’m a Jew. I’m not a WASP like everyone else at Lyndon.”
Ruthie wasn’t exactly sure what a WASP was, but she had an inkling. She’d had no idea that Martin was Jewish. The few Jewish people in South Bend all kept to themselves and owned car dealerships. “I didn’t know you were Jewish. And I’m not Jewish. I don’t get it.”
Martin lay on his back now, right next to Ruthie who propped herself up on her elbow next to him, and his impressively largehands lay on his chest while he laughed softly, as if to hold onto his gentle laugh.
“Of course you’re not Jewish. Even though Ruth is sort of a Jewish name.” Ruthie thought about that. It was a Biblical name, she knew. Her father had named her purposefully after what he called, “the foremother of Jesus.” Martin wasn’t laughing anymore, just looking at her with those awful wonderful eyes. “You’re
white trash
,” he said. “And there are practically no other of your kind at Lyndon.”
Ruthie got up, straightening her new dress, the dress she was so proud of, the dress she’d been so excited to wear. She picked up her drink. “I’m going to go do more blow,” she said and walked out of the blue room, momentarily getting disoriented as to how to get back to the living room, stumbling a bit down the long, dark, endless hallway.
On the train ride home for Thanksgiving break, Ruthie sat by the window looking out at the world passing by her. It was dark, but she could make out shapes of houses, with their endless people in them, and a parade of scarily tall trees devoid of any leaves. She hadn’t slept, her mind a storm of thoughts. The
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