“Let’s go to the party.” Whining. Judy whining.

“Why? We have everything we need here. Warm beer. Music And even better, no boys.”

I change the tape. We have been listening to Compilation Tape #2 we made Freshman year. Bad/Good memories come from it. Michael Jackson (“How many songs off ‘Thriller’ can you name?” Victor asked me once. I lied and said only two. After that he said he loved me … where was that? Wellfleet Drive-in, or were we walking down Commercial Street in Provincetown?), Prince (having sex in the campus van parked outside a Friday night party with good-looking Boy from Brown), Grandmaster Flash (we danced to “The Message” so many times and we never tired). Tape depresses me. Pull it out. Put something else, Reggae Tape #6, in.

“When is Victor coming back?” Judy asks.

I can hear music coming from Commons and End of the World and it sounds tempting. Maybe we should go. Go to party. There was always the book of sexual diseases with gruesome explicit photographs in them (some of the close-ups, pink, blue, purple, red blisters were beautiful in an abstract minimalist sort of way), which always works as a deterrent to a Friday night party. Victor would be a deterrent too. If he was here. We’d probably go to the party and have a good time. Flip through the book. Close-up of girl who was allergic to the plastic in her diaphragm. Yuck. Maybe we would have a good time. I picture poor handsome Victor in Rome or Paris, alone, hungry, somewhere, desperately trying to get in touch with me, maybe even screaming at some mean operator in broken Italian or Yiddish, near tears, trying to reach me. Gasp and lean up against the posts in the studio and then throw head back. Too dramatic.

“Who knows?” I hear myself saying. “What does this stuff remind you of?” I ask her, standing back. “Degas? Seurat? Renoir?”

She looks at the canvas and says, “Scooby Doo.”

Okay, it’s time for The Pub. Get a pitcher of Genny and if we haven’t forgotten to cash a check, maybe some wine coolers to get drunk/sick on, then a pizza or bagel? Judy knows it. I know it. When the going gets tough, the tough go drinking.

So we go to The Pub. Someone has written in black letters Sensory Deprivation Tank on the door and I don’t find it funny. Not many people are here because of the party. We get a pitcher and sit in the back. Listen to the jukebox. I think about Victor. A joint left unsmoked is in Judy’s bag. And we have the same conversation that we always have on partyless Friday nights in The Pub. Conversations that only recently, now that I’m a Senior, am I tiring of.

J: What’s the movie tonight?

Me: Apocalypse Now? or Dawn of the Dead, maybe. I think.

J: No. Not again, god.

Me: So, who are you in love with?

J: Franklin.

Me: I thought you said he was a geek, a bore. Why?

J: There’s no one else to like.

Me: You said he was a geek, though.

J: I really like his roommate.

Me: Who’s that?

J: Michael.

Me: Why don’t you go for Michael?

J: He’s maybe g*y.

Me: How do you know?

J: I slept with him. He told me he likes boys. I don’t think it would work out. He wants to be a ballerina.

Me: If you can’t be with the one you love, honey …

J: Fuck their roommate instead.

Me: Are we going anywhere or not?

J: No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.

Me: What’s the movie tonight?

PAUL I first met Sean when I was standing by the keg, watching Mitchell and Candice leave. They walked past me and Mitchell smiled good-night and waved halfheartedly. As did Candice, which I could take as either a kind, pity gesture or as a victorious, gleeful salute. (Victorious? Why? Mitchell would never tell her about me.) I watched them walk away and started to refill my cup. I looked over and remember seeing Dennis Jenkins, this scrawny, ugly dramafag staring at me. (Dennis Jenkins was one of many reasons why I despised being a Drama major). I sighed and told myself that if I went to bed with him tonight I would kill myself in the morning. I finished filling the cup, which was mostly foam since the keg was running out, and when I looked up Sean Bateman was standing there, waiting. I had known Sean like everyone knows everyone else at this place, meaning we had probably never spoken to each other but knew of each other’s cliques, and we had mutual acquaintances. He was handsome in a vague, straight way, always spilling beer and playing video games or pinball in The Pub, and I wasn’t much interested, at first.

“Hi, Sean,” I said. If I hadn’t been more than slightly drunk I probably would have said nothing; nodded and walked away. I was fairly sure he was majoring in Mechanics.