But in another minute she would knock. She was sick of standing in line with this guy. He was amorphous with long arms and leaned uncomfortably forward when he addressed her. He wore a yellowed windbreaker, and he never took his hands out of its pockets. (Kyle had a rule against trusting anybody whose hands she could never see.) Francis was his name� he'd said this, too, with that leering hopeful grin. Francis. Who the hell is named Francis anymore? she'd thought. Only fey little European boys in children's stories are named Francis. She decided to call him only Frank in the hopes that he'd get annoyed and leave her alone.
It wasn't really a good party. She didn't know anybody there except the girl who'd thrown it, a flighty girl from one of her soc classes who'd insisted she come. It wouldn't be the same without her, the girl had insisted one afternoon in the quad in between hugging passing friends. Still, it was a boring party.
The bathroom doorknob rattled momentarily and a buxom redhead wobbled out: "Sorry guys, I thought I was sick." Francis leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back. "Not a problem," he murmured. Kyle, cringing, busied herself with the whiteboard on the fridge nearby. A grocery list was scrawled across the top: cake mix, butter, grapefruit juice, extra-virgin olive�it was wiped off at the bottom. Kyle grabbed the nearby marker and prepared to write something meaningful, but she couldn't think of anything. She wished she hadn't had that fifth gin-and-tonic.
A tall narrow girl with a bare midriff came tumbling toward the bathroom. She was flushed, out of breath. Her long straight hair flapped like Venetian blinds against her jaw. She glanced at Kyle. "You in line?"
Kyle hastily put the marker on top of the whiteboard. She nodded.
The girl grinned and came over to Kyle. "Whatcha writing?"
"Oh I didn't write anything."
"What were you gonna write?"
"I don't know."
"Sure." The girl laughed. She had a throaty voice, unnerving and probably sexy.
Kyle didn't answer.
"Come on, write something," the girl prompted, giving a jerk of her hair. "God, what a shitty party. It's a shitty party. Isn't it a shitty party?" She looked to Kyle for encouragement and gave a conspiratorial smile. Kyle nodded.
"These kids wouldn't know a fucking good time if it crashed their shitty party," the girl was saying, and too loudly. "A fucking shitty party." She leaned against the fridge, her spine cracking. "Who's been in there so long?"
"Francis."
"Francis? You know him?"
"No."
"Oh good." The girl leaned toward the bathroom door and bellowed into the crack: "Hurry up!" She turned back to Kyle. "Can I come in with you? I just need to use the sink." She yanked at the hem of her shirt. A large purplish wine stain was spreading slowly through the fibers. Alarmed, Kyle nodded yes.
The girl stood still for a moment catching her breath. "Listen, I'm Logan."
"Kyle."
"So you think it's a shitty party."
"I don't know anybody."
"You're not missing much. Write something on the board."
Kyle poised the marker over the white space again. How was she expected to write with this girl looking over her shoulder? Still, it gave her a strange thrill. It was the sort of thing she'd always lamented for, the kind of thing she had idle fantasies about�that some meek boy two tables away in the Burger King at six in the morning would fix his gaze upon her notebook, not reading the words, and blurt out "What're you writing?"
But now she had somebody wanting to read her writing, and she couldn't write a damn thing. The girl was practically breathing down her neck. Kyle held her breath and scribbled with the marker in the corner of the whiteboard, stalling for time. Throughout the party she'd been making notations, cataloguing in her head all the bits of conversation and observation that she'd hammer onto paper once she'd gone home, but now her mind was blank. She was all nerves.
She began to write:
grass grows in the icebox
year ends in the next room
"You're a writer, aren't you."
"I didn't write that."
"Sure."
"It's a song lyric."
"But you're a writer, aren't you."
Kyle felt herself blushing. The door of the bathroom was flung open; Francis disappeared back into the party, mercifully not noticing her. Kyle slipped in, Logan behind her.
"So if you don't know anybody, what're you doing here?" While Kyle tried to lower herself discreetly onto the toilet, Logan was hoisting herself onto the vanity, wrapping her leg behind the faucet and leaning into sink. She'd turned on the hot water and was letting it warm on her hand. Her question, Kyle knew, wasn't a challenge.
"The host is in a class with me. I don't know why I've stuck around this long."
Logan was grinning. "I thought you might be here for the same reason I still am."
"What's that?" Kyle looked up to see Logan pitched forward, holding the bottom of her shirt under the faucet. Steam rose from the sink around Logan's sharp face.
"To see what would happen."
So much for the boy in the Burger King.
"What are you going to write about when you get home?"
Kyle flushed the toilet and sat down on its lid. She tried to conceal her thoughts. In truth, she was terrified of Logan. Under the scrutiny of her incisive eyes, Kyle was ready to cave. This seemingly innocuous party was turning out to be an exercise in morose self-deprecation. She began�
"Francis never took his hands out of his pockets while he talked to me. I didn't trust him."
Logan stared at her. "My boyfriend's upstairs right now banging his calc tutor."
"How do you know?"
Logan shrugged. "I know."
"I'm sorry."
Logan shrugged again, a big exaggerated sweep of her shoulders. "Don't be. I'm not." She paused. "Maybe I am. I don't know."
The mirror was dripping with condensation. The corners of the wallpaper seemed ready to sag. Logan stared into the hem of her shirt. Instead of a small red spot, there was now a huge pink blotch. She turned off the faucet.
The room was sweltering, and suddenly Kyle wasn't eager to share self-pity with this drunken stranger.
Somebody pounded on the door. "Logan! Logan, c'mon out baby, I gotta talk to you."
Kyle looked toward Logan, who was frantically wringing the hem of her shirt over the sink. "If you want," Kyle began, "I can tell him you're not in here..."
"No, no, I gotta talk to him. Hey, thanks for letting me come in here with you�" Logan opened the bathroom door. A pudgy ruddy-faced boy was standing in it. There was an embrace, a minor commotion; they receded into the crowd, shouting above the music... Kyle wanted to pull the door shut behind her and melt into the steam of the bathroom, but there was already a line.
She could feel the gin rising in her throat as she headed for the front door. As she passed, she heard Logan protesting to the pudgy boy, her deep voice rising to a screech above his: "But baby, what were you doing upstairs�! Her, God no, she was just letting me use the sink, she's nothin�! Baby, every time we go out and it has to end up�"
Once outside, she sprinted to her car. Sitting on the edge of the driver's seat, she threw up three times on the driveway and wiped her feet with napkins from the glovebox. She had meant to bring the napkins inside: she was going to write on them.
{read}