“Well, as a matter of fact, you are,” Masur says, glancing ominously at a pink sheet of paper he holds up.
“I don’t see how,” I say innocently.
“It seems that Mr. Winters said that for your mid-term project, it seems to him that all you did was glue three stones you found behind your dorm and painted them blue.” Masur looks pained.
I don’t say a word.
“Also Mrs. Russell says that you have not been showing up to class regularly,” Masur says, eyeing me.
“What am I passing?”
“Well, Mr. Schonbeck says you’re doing quite well,” Masur says, surprised.
Who’s Mr. Schonbeck? I’ve never been to a class taught by a Schonbeck.
“Well, I’ve been sick. Sick.”
“Sick?” Masur asks, looking even more pained.
“Well, yeah, sick.”
“Ahem.” This is followed by an uncomfortable silence. The smell of Masur’s pipe nauseates me. The urge to leave hits hard. It’s also sickening that even though Masur is not from England he speaks with a slight British accent.
“Needless to say Mr. Bateman, um, Sean, your situation here is, shall we say, rather … unstable?”
“Unstable, yeah, well, um…”
“What are we going to do about it?” he asks.
“I’m going to fix it.”
“You are?” he sighs.
“Yes. You bet I am.”
“Well. Good, good,” Masur looks confused but smiling as he says this.
“Okay?” I stand up.
“Fine with me,” Masur says.
“Well, see you later?” I ask.
“Well, fine with me,” Masur laughs.
I laugh too, open the door, look back at Masur, who’s really cracking up, yet stupefied, and then I shut the door, planning my overdose.
In my room is Beba, Bertrand’s girlfriend. She’s sitting on the mattress beneath the wall-length blackboard that came with the room, the carved pumpkin in her lap, old issues of Details scattered around her. Beba is a sophomore and bulimic and has been reading Edie ever since she arrived last September. Bertrand’s phone is cradled in her neck, covered by shoulder length platinum blond hair. She lights a cigarette and waves limply at me as I pass through the slit in the parachute. I sit on my bed, my face in my hands, silent in the room except for Beba. “Yes, I was wondering about a cellophane tomorrow, say, around two-thirty?” The ripped tie is still hanging from the hook and I reach up, pull it off and throw it against the wall. I start rummaging through my room. No more Nyquil, no more Librium, no more Xanax. Find a bottle of Actifed, which I pour into my sweaty hands. Twenty of them. I look around the room for something to take them with. I can hear Beba hang up the phone, then Siouxsie and the Banshees start playing.
“Beba, does Bert have anything to drink over there?” I call out.
“Let me see.” I hear her turn down the music, tripping over something. Then an arm sticks through the parachute’s slit handing me a beer.
“Thanks.” I take the beer from the hand.
“Docs Alonzo still have any coke?” she asks.
“No. Alonzo went to the city this weekend,” I tell her.
“Oh god,” I hear her moan.
I wonder if I should leave a note. Some kind of reason for why I’m doing this, why I’m swallowing all my Actifed. The phone rings. Beba answers it. I lay down after taking five. I drink some more of the beer. Grolsch—what an ass**le. Beba puts on another tape, The Cure. I take three more pills. Beba says, “Yes, I’ll tell him Jean-Jacques called. Right, ça va, yeah, ça va.” I start falling asleep, laughing—am I really trying to O.D. on Actifed? I can hear Bertrand open the door, laughing, “I am back.” I drift.
But Norris wakes me up sometime after nine. I’m not dead, just sick to my stomach. I’m under the covers but still in my clothes. It’s dark in the room.
“You slept through dinner,” Norris says.
“I did.” I try to sit up.
“You did.”
“What did I miss?” I try to unstick my tongue from the roof of a very dry, stale mouth.
“Lesbians in a fistfight. Pumpkin carving contest. Party Pig threw up,” Norris shrugs.
“Oh man I am so tired.” I try to sit up again. Norris stands in the doorway and flicks on a light. He walks over to the bed.
“There are Actifed scattered around you,” Norris points out.
I pick one up, toss it away. “Yes. There are.”
