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She was one of the few girls at school that I could talk to. We
would sit on her bed and chatter for hours. She would smoke
insane amounts of cigarettes. I would drink insane amounts of
coffee. In the background a scratchy Lou Reed song called
"Waltzing Mathilda" might be playing; a song which for some
reason we couldn't get enough of. It was about a party
interrupted by the inconvenient discovery of a female corpse.
Over the years the sting of what happened between us has died
down to an anecdote repeated at cocktail parties, where I had
found it could be interesting sometimes to reveal something
odious about yourself. "Will you listen to how you sound?" I
can hear Stella saying. "It's still all about what a colorful
character you are, isn't it?" In my mind her voice is
perpetually and sharply sarcastic, which it wasn't always.
There was plenty to Stella besides her considerable satiric
gifts. But that is, after all of these years, what remains.
Stella's one conventionality was that she was in love. The boy
in question was very tall and very green-eyed. He wore ripped
jeans and fake gas station attendant's shirts, and was a
Buddhist. He had a funny, fluid way of moving his long arms and
legs that was attractively effeminate and moderately vain. And
he had elegant, sharply arched eyebrows that gave him the
aspect of one of the wickeder Greek gods. I won't bother to say
what his name was because he could have been anyone, and his
specific personality, which was fairly annoying in a number of
specific ways, would only be a sideshow and a distraction. I
knew the night I met him and Stella that they both were and
weren't together; both facts were equally apparent after being
around either of them for five minutes. They orbited each
other, but anxiously. They spoke the same weird patois, a
mixture of baby talk and archness. ("Who was that female person
you were talking to?" "I don't know to whom you are referring,
doll.") They seemed, if anything, like a brother and sister
engaged in some kind of incestuous love under the magnolia
trees of an old plantation.
The secret was that Stella and the boy sometimes slept
together. In retrospect, I can't think why it was such a
secret, unless it was the boy's vanity that demanded they
remain officially unattached. Their spotty, intermittent affair
depended on him not seeing a more conventionally pretty girl,
and was extremely damaging for Stella, who remained in a state
of dramatically heightened jealousy at all times. There was a
whiff of scandal to the whole thing, which came, in a world
where surfaces were everything, from their being so mismatched
in looks.
In other words, it was hardly an ambiguous situation. There
was, Stella would later point out, no shortage of boys: there
were boys with prettier eyes or a more refined knowledge of
Proust; boys with more original neuroses, and less saccharine
forms of spirituality. But the fact is that attractions are
contagious. I spent hours sitting at "Tommy's Lunch," drinking
lime slushies and listening to Stella take apart the
peculiarities of his character; hours listening to her fits of
jealousy over the irresistible odalisques sprawled across his
dorm bed. This is what happens when an overly intelligent woman
brings all of her talents to bear on an infatuation: Without
either of us realizing what was happening, she somehow
persuaded me of his attractiveness.
Excerpted from The Friend Who Got Away by Edited by Jenny Offill and Elissa Schappell Copyright © 2005 by Jenny Offill. Excerpted by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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