orchestra. But then the notes in the symphony, the individual instruments, made their claim on Anna’s eardrums.
We need more beer.
I need more vodka.
Where’s Sandy?
Vomiting in the bathroom.
What kind of crazy motherfucker reads Ayn Rand?
How’d you do on the physics test?
Fucked up.
Where are you going for the holidays?
I heard Jamie lost his scholarship.
The problem isn’t reading Ayn Rand, it’s liking her.
Anna slipped through the door unnoticed. She reached into a giant bucket of ice and fished around until the throbbing in her arm radiated up to her neck. She retreated and waited until her circulation returned. A blond guy in a polo shirt approached, sank his arm into the ice bath, and eventually surfaced with a beer. The last beer, he informed her as he uncapped it, barehanded, and gallantly passed it to her.
“Have we met?” he asked.
“Nope,” Anna said.
“Hunter Stevens,” Hunter Stevens said.
“Anna,” Anna said, deliberately skipping her last name.
“What dorm are you in?”
“Clearly I’m in this one,” said Anna.
“Oh, you’re funny,” Hunter said. She could tell he didn’t like the funny ones.
“Thank you.”
“Where do you live?” Hunter asked.
“Far, far away.”
“Who invited you?”
“No one.”
“So you’re crashing?”
“Don’t tell,” Anna said, and she fought her way through the crowd and out of the eye line of Hunter Stevens (Hunter Stevens III, she would learn years later).
Anna drank her beer and leaned against the wall. She knew how to shed that cloak of self-consciousness. The beer helped, but it was more the role she played—she was an anthropologist, objectively studying her subjects. Usually they were overdressed women with too much time on their hands. Tonight they were casually dressed college students numbing their stress through alcohol, maybe drugs, and the hope of sex.
Her beer empty, she tossed the bottle in a grocery bag brimming with others of its kind. More booze arrived, and another unfamiliar face passed her a plastic cup filled with vodka and cranberry juice.
“Thanks,” Anna said.
When she was halfway through her drink and feeling a warm buzz, a hand reached out from the mass of bodies and pulled her away like a rip tide. Red liquid splashed from her cup and she found herself face to face with Malcolm Davis.
She noticed his eyebrows first, black and severe and completely at odds with his warm brown eyes. Anna also liked Malcolm’s nose, which veered just slightly to the right. (She always figured he’d gotten it from a fight but had never had her theory confirmed. Anna’s mother once described Malcolm as Jewish-looking. Later, in school, one of Anna’s classmates asked her what her type was. “Jewish,” she’d said.)
“Come with me,” Malcolm said, brusquely ushering her out of the party.
Silently he dragged her through the hallway, down a flight of stairs, and into the dorm room he shared with her brother. While Malcolm’s expression was an exact replica of the scowl of disappointment that Anna had come to see as normal in grownups, it looked funny on a nineteen-year-old male.
“Your parents phoned Colin five hours ago after an exhaustive search in Boston. Where have you been?”
“It takes a long time to get from Boston to Princeton. Did you know there are no direct trains?”
“This isn’t funny, Anna. Nobody knew what happened to you.”
“Ah, that’s what I forgot. I should have left a note,” Anna said, as if she had forgotten to buy a gallon of milk on her way home.
Malcolm picked up the phone and beat numbers into the handset. Anna thought about tackling him to the floor, but she knew he’d still find a way to make contact with the furious Furys, so she raided the minifridge, uncapped a beer, and sat down on her brother’s bed.
“Hi, Donald, it’s Malcolm. She’s here. I would drive her home myself, but I let a friend borrow my car for the weekend. Colin is on his way to Boston.
We need more beer.
I need more vodka.
Where’s Sandy?
Vomiting in the bathroom.
What kind of crazy motherfucker reads Ayn Rand?
How’d you do on the physics test?
Fucked up.
Where are you going for the holidays?
I heard Jamie lost his scholarship.
The problem isn’t reading Ayn Rand, it’s liking her.
Anna slipped through the door unnoticed. She reached into a giant bucket of ice and fished around until the throbbing in her arm radiated up to her neck. She retreated and waited until her circulation returned. A blond guy in a polo shirt approached, sank his arm into the ice bath, and eventually surfaced with a beer. The last beer, he informed her as he uncapped it, barehanded, and gallantly passed it to her.
“Have we met?” he asked.
“Nope,” Anna said.
“Hunter Stevens,” Hunter Stevens said.
“Anna,” Anna said, deliberately skipping her last name.
“What dorm are you in?”
“Clearly I’m in this one,” said Anna.
“Oh, you’re funny,” Hunter said. She could tell he didn’t like the funny ones.
“Thank you.”
“Where do you live?” Hunter asked.
“Far, far away.”
“Who invited you?”
“No one.”
“So you’re crashing?”
“Don’t tell,” Anna said, and she fought her way through the crowd and out of the eye line of Hunter Stevens (Hunter Stevens III, she would learn years later).
Anna drank her beer and leaned against the wall. She knew how to shed that cloak of self-consciousness. The beer helped, but it was more the role she played—she was an anthropologist, objectively studying her subjects. Usually they were overdressed women with too much time on their hands. Tonight they were casually dressed college students numbing their stress through alcohol, maybe drugs, and the hope of sex.
Her beer empty, she tossed the bottle in a grocery bag brimming with others of its kind. More booze arrived, and another unfamiliar face passed her a plastic cup filled with vodka and cranberry juice.
“Thanks,” Anna said.
When she was halfway through her drink and feeling a warm buzz, a hand reached out from the mass of bodies and pulled her away like a rip tide. Red liquid splashed from her cup and she found herself face to face with Malcolm Davis.
She noticed his eyebrows first, black and severe and completely at odds with his warm brown eyes. Anna also liked Malcolm’s nose, which veered just slightly to the right. (She always figured he’d gotten it from a fight but had never had her theory confirmed. Anna’s mother once described Malcolm as Jewish-looking. Later, in school, one of Anna’s classmates asked her what her type was. “Jewish,” she’d said.)
“Come with me,” Malcolm said, brusquely ushering her out of the party.
Silently he dragged her through the hallway, down a flight of stairs, and into the dorm room he shared with her brother. While Malcolm’s expression was an exact replica of the scowl of disappointment that Anna had come to see as normal in grownups, it looked funny on a nineteen-year-old male.
“Your parents phoned Colin five hours ago after an exhaustive search in Boston. Where have you been?”
“It takes a long time to get from Boston to Princeton. Did you know there are no direct trains?”
“This isn’t funny, Anna. Nobody knew what happened to you.”
“Ah, that’s what I forgot. I should have left a note,” Anna said, as if she had forgotten to buy a gallon of milk on her way home.
Malcolm picked up the phone and beat numbers into the handset. Anna thought about tackling him to the floor, but she knew he’d still find a way to make contact with the furious Furys, so she raided the minifridge, uncapped a beer, and sat down on her brother’s bed.
“Hi, Donald, it’s Malcolm. She’s here. I would drive her home myself, but I let a friend borrow my car for the weekend. Colin is on his way to Boston.
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