August 24–25, 1990
When Betsy walked into Ginny and Caroline’s dark apartment after work, she could smell the familiar mix of cigarettes and Quelques Fleurs before she even saw her, which gave her a funny pang of fondness wrapped in nausea. She climbed the stairs and poked her head around the doorframe of Caroline’s room, the one Betsy had occupied all summer, and saw her in silhouette, standing in a sea of half-exploded suitcases and L.L. Bean boat and tote bags that spewed their contents on the floor like preppy, disemboweled Tauntauns. Even though the air-conditioning was on full blast, Caroline’s window was open about six inches beneath its heavy shade, and her left hand was dangling out of it, tapping a cigarette into a stolen Howard Johnson’s ashtray on the sill.
“There you are,” Caroline said, flatly.
“Jesus, it’s pitch-black in here.” Betsy’s eyes hadn’t adjusted from the glare outside so she reached for the light switch.
“If you turn that on, I will fucking kill you. How many times do I have to tell you? Overhead lighting is for peasants.” Caroline clicked on a small, porcelain lamp on her bedside table. In the light, Betsy could see her deep tan, the streaks of sun-bleached blonde in her hair. Caroline reached into one of the canvas bags with her free hand and produced a carton of Gauloises Blondes, which she tossed to Betsy with an expert flip of the wrist. “Bonjour, freeloader.”
“Thanks, Car,” said Betsy, catching the smokes and flopping down on the bed. “How was France?”
“It was French,” she said with a shrug. “Viv loved it, of course. I think she hooked up with one of the bellboys in Nice. I finally got to touch an uncircumcised penis. Not the bellboy’s. We’re sick, but we’re not that sick.”
“Nice,” said Betsy. “You can check that one off the list.”
“We made a deal. Viv let me chain-smoke as long as I didn’t call her Mom. She thought it made her seem old. You know, just your typical family vacation. How were things here?”
“You know, the usual. Le popcorn dans l’apres-midi. Wait, is it feminine or masculine?”
“It’s sort of androgynous,” Caroline said. “It’s like the hermaphrodite of snacks.”
“Thanks for letting me stay here. I washed the sheets,” said Betsy, and she slowly traced a perfect navy stripe on an Agnes B. T-shirt that Caroline tossed on the bed. The fondness she felt just minutes before faded. Only the nausea was left.
“How generous of you,” Caroline said. “Now you can sleep on that beast of a couch downstairs or return to your cave.”
“Thirty-six hours, max, and I’m out,” said Betsy, throwing her hands up in surrender. “I’ll be invisible. Like a ghost.” She picked up the cigarettes and started to leave the room.
“I’m just giving you shit, Bets,” Caroline said, but if she regretted picking the fight, it wasn’t obvious. “Hey, I’m not going to show up for rush till tomorrow morning so we’re going out tonight, right? Old times?”
“Right. Old times.”