“What did you try to do? O.D. on Actifed?” he laughs, bending down.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, getting up. “I need a shower.”
“Just between you and me,” he says, sitting down.
“Where’s everybody?” I ask, taking my clothes off.
“At Windham. Halloween party. Your roommate went as a Quaalude.” Norris picks up a copy of The Face that for some reason is on my side of the room. He flips through it thoroughly bored. “Ether that or a pastry. I can’t tell.”
“I’m taking a shower,” I tell him. I grab my robe.
Norris picks up the Peanut Butter Cups. “Can I have one?”
“No, don’t open them.” I come out of my stupor. “They’re for Lauren.”
“Calm down, Bateman.”
“They’re for Lauren.” I stumble toward the door.
“Relax!” he screams.
I head for the bathroom, dizzy, steadying myself as I make my way down the hallway, and into the bathroom. Enter the cubicle, take off the robe, step into shower, lean against the wall before turning the shower on, think about passing out. I shake my head: the feeling subsides, I turn the water on. It hits me weakly and I try to get the pressure up but the water, barely warm, keeps dribbling out of the rusty showerhead.
Sitting down on the floor of the shower I notice Bertrand’s Gillette razor lying in the corner next to a tube of Clinique shaving cream. I pick up the razor by its silver handle and stare at it for a long time. I move it down my wrist. I turn my hand over, palm up, and slowly move it up my arm, the blade catching some of the hair that covers the skin. I pull the blade away and wash the hair off it. Then move it back to my arm, this time bringing the handle up to the wrist, pressing it hard, trying to break the skin. But it doesn’t. I apply more pressure, but it only leaves red marks. I try the other wrist, pushing with all my strength, almost groaning with exertion, lukewarm water splashing in my eyes. The blade is too dull. I press it down against the wrist, feebly, once more.
Through the sound of the falling water I can hear Norris calling out, “Sean, how long are you gonna be?”
I stand up clumsily, leaning against the wall. “In a couple of minutes.” The razor drops to the floor, clattering loudly.
“Listen, I’ll be at the party, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Drop by.”
I wonder if Lauren will be there. I imagine walking into the living room at Windham, our eyes meeting, her face filled with regret and longing, coming towards me. The two of us embracing in the middle of the crowded room while everyone cheers and resumes dancing. The two of us just standing there, holding each other.
“Yeah. Okay, I will.” There’s steam in the bathroom now, not because of the heat of the water but because of how cold it is in the dorm.
“See you there.” Norris leaves.
I stare at my wrists, then finger the disappearing hickey on my neck.
I wash my hair twice, dry off and go back to my room where I throw the ripped tie away, along with the Actifed scattered all over the floor. I get dressed fast, excited, and pick up the Peanut Butter Cups, and, as I’m about to leave, Bertrand’s pumpkin that’s sitting on the windowsill, lit. I look into the lighted face of the jack-o’-lantern and since I just know that Lauren will get a kick out of it I have to swipe it. I’m so excited at the prospect of reconciling with her that I don’t care if the Frog gets pissed.
I leave the room without locking the door and move quickly across campus to her room, carefully walking across the wetness of Commons lawn so the candle in the pumpkin won’t go out. Two guys dressed as girls and two girls dressed as guys pass by drunk, yelling “Happy Halloween” and throw small pieces of hard candy at me. I open the back door of Canfield, bound up the darkened stairs to her room. I knock. There’s no answer. I wait and knock louder. I stand there, cursing myself, someone brushes past me dressed as a joint and walks into the bathroom. My excitement at seeing her slowly starts to dissipate. She must be at the party, so I walk with the pumpkin, still lit, and the Peanut Butter Cups, squished and melting in my back pocket, across Commons toward Windham.
The living room of Windham is bathed in this eerie dim orange light. An old Stevie Wonder song, “Superstition,” plays loudly. I walk up to the windows in front of the house. The living room is crowded with people in costume dancing. All the lightbulbs in the lamps and walls have been replaced by orange ones. Bertrand is there, as a Quaalude but he really looks like a circle. Getch as a pregnant nun. Tony as a hamburger. A couple of Madonna look-alikes. Rupert as Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A couple of Freshmen dorks as Rambo. I spot Lauren almost immediately, dancing in the middle of the floor with Justin Simmons, a tall pale blackhaired Lit major wearing black sunglasses, black jeans, black T-shirt with a skull on the back of it. Her head is thrown back and she’s laughing and Justin has both of his hands on her shoulders.
