Story of My Life Read online

  So finally the buzzer rings in the middle of the nude talk show. Didi breezes in wearing the same clothes she had on before she went to bed this afternoon. Still, I can see that Dean thinks she’s all right. Any minute the saliva will start trickling down his chin. Sometimes I wonder why all my friends are good-looking. I must be an idiot.

  Mirror, says Didi, before she’s even inside the door.

  I know your cousin Phil, Dean drools.

  Didi ignores Dean and walks over to draw the living room curtains. Dean gets her a picture from the wall, a framed poster for a play called Zoo Story, sounds like something I could relate to. Didi sits down on the floor in front of the coffee table and dumps out a mound of blow.

  I’m so mad at Whitney, Didi says, launching into a story about a friend of ours who’s supposedly spreading rumors about Didi. I don’t know why Whitney would want to spread rumors about Didi, the truth’s kinky enough. Dean is a little stunned. This chick has just walked in and taken over his apartment, like an army commander or something. She chops and folds the stuff endlessly until I’m about ready to hit her over the head with the brass lamp. Dean rolls up a bill, probably just trying to be helpful, although I think he’s a little impatient too. Didi doesn’t even look at Dean’s bill. I don’t know, she is rude, but it’s kind of like what do you call it, a parachuter who won’t let anyone else pack his parachute. Didi’s into the ritual and the equipment. It’s what she does. When she’s good and ready, she rolls her own bill, does a couple of monster lines—what Didi calls lines other people call grams—and then tortures us for a few more minutes holding the rolled bill in the air and waving it around while she bitches some more about Whitney. Finally the spoiled little brat lets us play with her toys and she looks around for the first time.

  This your place? she says to Dean.

  Dean looks up from the mirror and nods his head so hard I’m afraid he’s going to break his neck.

  You own or rent? Didi asks, lighting up a Merit.

  Rent, Dean says.

  The buzzer rings and Didi goes, that’s probably Francesca. And I’m like, Didi, what’s the deal here? and Didi goes relax. Dean goes to the door and comes back with Francesca and Jeannie. Naturally we hear Francesca’s voice even before Dean gets the door open, and I’m sure his neighbors do too. And isn’t it interesting that Jeannie’s dressed to kill? A few hours ago she’s all set to go to bed, and now she’s in black cashmere and hose. Plus we should’ve bought stock in Chanel before she started in on her face tonight. Didi and me usually just wear leggings under a shirt or something, except I change mine every day, but Jeannie and Francesca wouldn’t think of going out of the house without a thousand bucks worth of fabric on their backs. Jeannie has this expensive WASP look and Francesca’s dressed as usual, sort of the expensive-flooze chic—sequins and cleavage—which actually does suit her. I mean, if you’re pushing size 12 and headed for a D cup, you might as well go for it. She gives me a huge hug while she finishes this urgent story that she’s right in the middle of, which has something to do with some rock singer.

  Do a line, Didi demands. Everybody do a line. House rules.

  Didi can’t stand it, of course, that someone else has center stage when she’s the one who brought the drugs. Plus it bugs her that Francesca doesn’t do drugs—for someone like Didi, health, sanity and moderation are like a personal affront.

  Jeannie doesn’t have to be asked twice, she dives right in.

  Francesca ignores her and says, I’m so upset, there’s the ugliest picture of me in Women’s Wear at Nan Kempner’s party and I look so fat, the caption says, Francesca Green, also known as the Goodyear Blintz, wearing a waterproof canvas tent by L. L. Bean. I swear to God that’s what it looks like in the picture. I’ve got to go on a. diet. Even I’m grossed out by myself and I don’t scare easy. No wonder I haven’t been laid since boarding school. Not that there are any men out there worth breaking a sweat with. They’re all jerks, basically. Present company excluded, Dean honey. Ooh, he’s so cute isn’t he? (She goes over and hugs Dean, gives him a big kiss. She just totally cracks me up.) Not my type though, she says. Too clean-cut. I like them mean and nasty-looking. I want guitar heroes and boys who were raised on the streets by wolves. Attila the Hun is my basic dream lover. Oh, God, did I tell you guys I met David Lee Roth the other night at Raoul’s? That boy is to die for . . .

  Will you stop babbling and let somebody else talk for a change? Didi says. She’s furiously chopping up more blow, after Jeannie did the last four lines. Jeannie’s sitting demurely on the couch with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her knees in her finishing school manner, posing for Dean while she pretends to listen to Francesca. Sometimes I think the only good thing you can say about cocaine is that it affects Jeannie the exact opposite way it affects everyone else, she clams up for the whole night, lockjaw, so we don’t have to listen to her flirt.

  Meanwhile, Dean’s like the cock of the walk, looking every which way. I think he likes having four young girls in his apartment, even if he doesn’t quite know how to handle all this estrogen in the air. Looking over at him nodding and beaming at Francesca and then Didi makes me want to grab him and drag him off to the bedroom. He’s got those swimming-pool eyes, you want to dive right in.

  Did you hear about Kristin? Francesca says.

  Didi shouts, boring, boring. New rule, she goes. No talking about boring subjects.

  Francesca goes, so what shall we talk about? Your drug habit?

  I don’t have a drug habit, Didi says. I do drugs because I love them. Habits are boring routines.

  We all kind of roll our eyes while Didi goes down on the mirror. Even my guy looks a little skeptical and he’s only known Didi for an hour.

  I’m certainly glad to hear that, Dean says. Otherwise I’m afraid I’d have to ask you to leave the premises immediately.

  I know, says Didi when she comes up for air.

  What? I go.

  Truth or Dare, she says.

  Oh, no, says Jeannie.

  We can’t subject Dean to Truth or Dare the first night, Francesca goes.

  Didi goes, it’s not the first night. Alison went down on him last night.

  Thanks for reminding us of that, Didi. Jesus.

  Dean’s got instant sunburn. He’s like, is there anything else that you all would like to know about me? I’d hate to think I was holding anything back.

  Jeannie says, do you have a brother?

  He shakes his head, then he says, what’s Truth or Dare?

  I don’t know—I’m a little dubious. I mean, I did just meet him and Truth or Dare can get pretty heavy. Plus I want to be in bed in about twenty minutes. I check my watch—definitely no more than half an hour for sure.

  Didi explains the rules. You’ve got to be into it, she says. Everybody has to swear at the beginning to tell the truth, because otherwise there’s no point. When it’s your turn you say either truth or dare. If you say truth, you have to answer whatever question you’re asked. And if you say dare, then you have to do whatever somebody dares you to do.

  Whatever? says Dean, with this big grin on his face.

  Within reason, Didi says. No physical violence and no sexual contact, but anything else.

  Didijust likes this game because she’s an exhibitionist, Francesca says. She can’t wait to take her clothes off.

  Shut up, says Didi. Now, everybody has to do two big lines to start out. Then I’ll go first.

  Didi starts with me, which figures.

  Alison, she goes. Were you physically attracted to Dean when you first saw him?

  For Didi that’s pretty tame. I kind of wish she hadn’t asked me, but I have to answer no. Then I look over at Dean and add, not at first, but Didi waves her arm and says, no, no explanations, no excuses. I want a simple yes-or-no answer.

  Then it’s my turn. So I turn to Jeannie and say truth or dare and she says truth, so I say, are you physically attracted to Dean? Partly because I want her to admit it an
d partly because it will cheer Dean up to hear it.

  Jeannie nods. Dean smiles. So now it’s Jeannie’s turn. Jeannie asks Francesca if she ever slept with this hunky guy who worked the stables at this fairground in Harrisburg and Francesca says they actually did go to this motel room and everything but this guy brought a bottle of tequila and he got so drunk he passed out.

  And Jeannie mentioning Harrisburg reminds me of this big trip we all made out there to look at Dangerous Dan, the whole nuclear family, actually driving down the interstate in a station wagon like normal people. Dad had come back for a trial reconciliation and I desperately wanted this horse Dangerous Dan so Dad decides we’ll make a family expedition out of it. Me and Rebecca and Carol squabbling in the back and playing license plate games, Mom and Dad up front being seriously polite to each other. Wow, that’s as weird as it gets—the American family.

  Anyway, after that station break it’s back to Truth or Dare, which so far is pretty harmless. I can see Didi getting restless already, chopping more lines. Francesca says, Didi, truth or dare, and then when Didi looks up Cesca says, and don’t say dare, because I have no desire to see your body.

  Okay, Didi goes, truth.

  And Francesca asks her if she was the one who started this rumor about Francesca, which is too complicated and boring to explain, but Didi says no, it wasn’t her, and Francesca says she’s glad, and then Didi looks at me and I’m like, uh-oh, I can see trouble coming here, and she goes, Alison, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate Skip Pendleton in bed?

  Didi is such a bitch sometimes. She really knows how to cause trouble, which is probably the whole point of this game, to hit where it hurts, but I know Dean is pretty sensitive about the whole Skip Pendleton thing. But what can I do? I’d give him an eight, I go. Eight, eight and a half.

  Dean’s wincing but hey, once you start lying it’s hard to stop and I just plain refuse. If I thought Skip was a ten I would’ve said so, but that way if I told Dean he was a ten someday, or that I loved him, he’d know I was telling the truth.

  So it’s my turn and I go to Dean, truth or dare, and he takes truth so I go, did that bother you just now, about Skip Pendleton?

  He thinks about it for a little while, so of course I already know what his answer is and finally he goes, yeah, a little.

  So I go over and give him a big hug and say, poor baby.

  And he says, not really.

  And Didi screams, stop it, no mushy stuff, not playing the game.

  So then it’s Dean’s turn and I see him looking around and suddenly it’s like clear as fucking Evian water that he’s checking out Didi’s body and wondering if she really would strip down. And I’m like, well, I suppose I can’t really blame him, and I figure I’ve hurt his feelings so what the hell, you know, and so I say, go ahead, Dean, ask Didi.

  And Dean goes, Didi, truth or dare and Didi looks around with this real world-weary look, like a movie star being asked to sign one more autograph, because usually we play this game with a whole bunch of guys and they’re constantly daring Didi to take off her clothes. And she’s like, okay, dare.

  Dean looks over at me and I shrug and tell him to go ahead. And he scrunches up his forehead and squints at me, like—really? And I think, the thing that’s really going to piss me off is if he wants to see Didi naked but he’s too much of a wimp to ask. If there’s one thing I hate it’s dishonesty. Drives me crazy. I hate liars and hypocrites. And I’m not too big on wimps, either.

  Take off your clothes, Dean says.

  Not this again, Francesca says. I think I’m going to puke.

  Is that all? Didi says. You could at least be a little more imaginative.

  And Dean says, that’s all, which makes the whole thing all right for me, the fact that he doesn’t let her push him around. I mean, I’m a little bugged, sure, but I’m glad he’s not a wimp.

  So Didi does one more line and then stands up and says where? and Dean shrugs and goes, right there is fine. So Didi pulls off her shirt and of course she’s not wearing a bra, and I hate to say it but she has these perfectly shaped breasts and then she takes off her jeans, which don’t have any panties underneath, and I’m looking at Dean who is definitely impressed, which isn’t surprising. He looks a little embarrassed, but he’s not looking away either.

  Didi goes, ta-da, like she’s real bored, but she wouldn’t do it if she weren’t getting off.

  Give me a break, for Christ’s sake, says Francesca.

  Didi shakes her hips, pirouettes like a runway model and then goes, okay?

  Dean nods, very serious, like someone’s asked him if he’s ready to leave the art museum.

  So Didi puts her clothes back on and at least that’s over with for the night.

  Francesca goes, it’s been fun, boys and girls, but I’ve got to work in the morning.

  Me too, says Jeannie. I’d almost forgotten she’s still here.

  And I look at my watch and it’s two-thirty and I say, ditto, I’ve got class, I’ve got to get some sleep.

  Nobody’s leaving, Didi screams. No fair. I’ve been sharing all my blow with you and now you’re just going to leave me all alone when I’m a shivering wreck. No fair. You all have to stay for a while and help me come down.

  Actually, come to think of it, I couldn’t sleep now anyway. I’m kind of a shivering wreck myself. I’ve been pacing the room for the last ten minutes and sucking down cigarettes and my heart’s thumping like a fat girl on a trampoline.

  Didi dumps out some more blow. Two more lines for everybody and then we’ll take some Valium, she says.

  I don’t want the lines, I go. I just want the Valium.

  No way, she says. Two lines for everybody. Including Francesca. House rules. And one more round of Truth or Dare. My turn. I earned my question.

  Francesca goes, it’s your party and you’ll whine if you want to, and we all crack up.

  Didi hoovers a monster line and then passes the mirror. She says, my turn to ask, shut up everybody. She turns back to Dean. He takes truth. She goes, two-part question. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate my body and how would you rate Alison’s body?

  I’m like, you bitch, Didi. I’m going to kill you one of these days.

  Dean looks like he’s hoping for nuclear war to break out in the next thirty seconds.

  Truth, says Didi.

  Can I take the dare? Dean asks.

  Nobody wants to see your body, Didi says.

  I wouldn’t mind, says Francesca, and Jeannie, who’s trying to get her nostrils to work, says, me neither.

  Rules are rules, says Didi. Truth.

  Dean looks back and forth between us and finally he says, I’d give you both a nine and a half.

  Give me a break, says Francesca.

  Diplomacy is strictly against the rules, Didi goes.

  So then the phone rings.

  Dean jumps for it. Someone named Rebecca, he goes, wants to talk to either Alison or Didi.

  I’m like, now what?

  Rebecca says, Alison, is that you? Listen, you gotta help me. I need to get five hundred dollars quick or I’m going to get sliced up with a knife.

  5

  Care of the Social Fabric

  So we’re lying in Dean’s bed, finally coming down on the Valium, but still grinding our teeth because they were only the five-milligram and Didi only gave us two. Semishivering. It’s been one of those nights. I’m just beginning to really hate myself because I know I’m not going to be in any shape to go to class tomorrow and Dean’s got to be at work in a couple of hours, poor guy, but then I think, well, we were saving Rebecca’s life, right? It was a special occasion. It’s not like I was just partying till dawn.

  Suddenly Dean goes, are you mad at me?

  And I go, about what?

  And he goes, about daring Didi to take her clothes off.

  I don’t know, I say. Should I be? Do you want to sleep with her?

  No, he says, I don’t.

  Truth, I
say.

  Really, he says. I don’t. She’s too weird. I can’t imagine it. She’s a harpy disguised as an angel.

  That’s exactly how he talks, I kid you not.

  But you liked her body, I go.

  Well, yeah, he says, I did. Can you understand that?

  I’m not mad at you for that, I tell him. But I am mad at you for lying.

  When did I lie? he says. He sits up in bed and looks at me with these big puppy eyes. He is cute. I wish I didn’t have this stupid infection—I’m almost cooled out enough to have sex.

  You lied, I say, when you rated my body the same as Didi’s.

  That wasn’t a lie, he says, but he turns his eyes away from me when he says it.

  Come on, I go, can you honestly sit there and tell me you think my body’s as good as hers?