The Movie Star
I have to say this and I don't think anyone reads this stupid thing anymore, so I'm just going to say it here: I love being seen around campus with him. It's not often a girl like me-kinda chubby, supremely nerdy-is the envy of other girls. The last time I definitely remember it happening was the 9th grade, when I was dating Anthony, who several other girls in the class had a crush on. And here I come, the new girl, from New Jersey, and I snagged him.
F. and I are not dating, of course, not by a long shot. We've already established that he has a hard time remembering my name. But we come out of class on Thursday and he turns to me and says, "So you don't like Lydia Davis, huh?" I said as much in class, and admitted that it's not her, it's me: I come armed with a whole host of personal prejudices that may or may not have anything to do with her as a writer.
"I like big, doorstopper novels," I say. "It takes more than a paragraph to impress me."
So he gestures, am I going down to the cafeteria before our next class? No, I am going to the much-lauded "Library/Cafe," which has a better tea selection. He'll come with me. We leave the building. Eyes go from him to me back to him. I ask him about himself, it's so true, celebrities love to talk about themselves. I let him talk. We go into the Library/Cafe and I order a tea and he asks me if I want anything else, I should take advantage, he's paying. But as long as I'm being a stupid girl I might as well go all the way and just have tea, the beverage equivalent of just ordering a salad at dinner. He continues talking about himself. Blah, blah, blah.
---later that night, at the party, Stephen shakes his hands in front of my face and shouts, "Write your doorstopper novel, Nora! And I will read it!" I need, like, a video of that to put on my desk, to motivate me.---
We leave the cafe, and I am glowing. He's still talking; let him talk. I don't care what he's saying except that he's saying it to me in front of all these other people who can see me with him, and I think, Suck it, ladies. It's true what Lydia Davis says, our capacity for betrayal never gets old.
F. and I are not dating, of course, not by a long shot. We've already established that he has a hard time remembering my name. But we come out of class on Thursday and he turns to me and says, "So you don't like Lydia Davis, huh?" I said as much in class, and admitted that it's not her, it's me: I come armed with a whole host of personal prejudices that may or may not have anything to do with her as a writer.
"I like big, doorstopper novels," I say. "It takes more than a paragraph to impress me."
So he gestures, am I going down to the cafeteria before our next class? No, I am going to the much-lauded "Library/Cafe," which has a better tea selection. He'll come with me. We leave the building. Eyes go from him to me back to him. I ask him about himself, it's so true, celebrities love to talk about themselves. I let him talk. We go into the Library/Cafe and I order a tea and he asks me if I want anything else, I should take advantage, he's paying. But as long as I'm being a stupid girl I might as well go all the way and just have tea, the beverage equivalent of just ordering a salad at dinner. He continues talking about himself. Blah, blah, blah.
---later that night, at the party, Stephen shakes his hands in front of my face and shouts, "Write your doorstopper novel, Nora! And I will read it!" I need, like, a video of that to put on my desk, to motivate me.---
We leave the cafe, and I am glowing. He's still talking; let him talk. I don't care what he's saying except that he's saying it to me in front of all these other people who can see me with him, and I think, Suck it, ladies. It's true what Lydia Davis says, our capacity for betrayal never gets old.