Beauty Read online

  “So you sent it back?”

  “No, because mine didn’t have a seal,” he says. “Even if it had had one, I would have kept it. But it didn’t.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I didn’t either, but years later, I heard that the son had secretly made a third bed and had kept the original for himself.”

  The room tips. I can hardly think and it hurts to try. Is the bed Ma chopped up and barbecued really the one he’s talking about? I go into the bathroom where Ben is praying to the porcelain god. I try to wake him, but he’s passed out. Impossible to lift. I leave him and find Jones sitting on the red desk.

  “That bed should be mine,” Jones says. “Those Chinese can be so goddamn cunning. You have to watch them.”

  “I’m sorry. Did I lose my face or something? Because the last I checked I was Chinese.” I lean against the bathroom doorway. Either he’s inebriated or he’s just plain stupid.

  “Oh, you’re not one of them,” he says. “You’re obviously one of us. I’m talking about the ones over there.”

  “You’re not getting the bed,” I say, crossing my arms.

  “Not immediately,” he says, shrugging me off. “Eventually.”

  So now he’s tossing around his one liners.

  Behind me, Ben rustles and vomits into the toilet again. I could kick him I’m so annoyed. He’s the one who told me not to mix, and now look at him.

  “You don’t deserve it,” I say.

  “And why exactly not?”

  I start to laugh. “You’re a fucking racist.”

  “Me, racist? That’s absurd. Everyone knows how much I appreciate East Asian culture.”

  “Appreciate or appropriate?” I think of Zach downstairs with his girlfriend. Was I a girl he was fucking or an experiment, a stereotype, a geisha?

  Jones watches me a moment. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  “No, I’m beautiful, period,” I say.

  “You are,” he says, softly. Downstairs, there’s a lull in the buzz of voices. Someone famous has arrived. Jones glances at his watch. “I really didn’t intend—”

  “What did you intend?”

  He stares me straight in the face and crosses his arms over his chest. “To fuck you, of course.”

  “Oh, really?”

  He nods almost imperceptibly. There’s a smugness; a crooked smile. The way he leans back, crossing his arms casually and propping himself on the desk. The casual manner in which he tosses his head, his hair sifting to the side. There’s a bubble of confidence, a knowingness, around him. Life is his oyster. How many women does he want—and get —like they are his personal toy things? Here he is, a cat batting me around with his paw like I’m a fuzzy toy mouse on a lead. And here I am, practically bending over for him to screw me up the ass.

  “Sorry, darling,” I say. “Not going to happen.”

  “Mm hm.” Not immediately. Eventually.

  “It’s not.”

  “Well, then, shall we?” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the spiral staircase.

  I push away from the doorway, fix my feet apart just right so that my stance is firm, and I’m grounded like I’ve got roots growing deep into the floor. Nothing can knock me down. “Take off your clothes,” I say.

  He looks at me, his face full of boredom.

  “Do it,” I say, my voice perfectly steady.

  He fixes his gaze on me, and I can tell he’s doing some quick mental calculations. Without another word, he unbuttons his shirt and removes his cufflinks. His bronzed torso is covered with silvery hair that stretches like a rug into the front of his pants. He removes the shirt, revealing his sinewy limbs and tired flabby midriff. He unbuttons his pants, draws the zipper down to reveal tight black briefs, and as he steps out of them, I see his left leg is slightly thinner than the right. The knee has a pale, cross-shaped surgical scar. His eyes narrow slightly, and with his chin up, he removes his briefs. Naked, he stands before me, the withered worm of a penis dangling between his legs.

  “Shit, you’re old,” I say.

  Instead of deflating, his dick expands and rises, the ruddy pink top spreading like a ripe mushroom.

  “I guess you don’t work out either,” I say.

  The more disdain I show, the more erect and larger he becomes, the tip of his penis pointing straight at me like a finger.

  “What?” he says.

  “You disgust me.”

  “You’re just upset because I’m already fucking you and you’re already coming, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “You wish,” I say. “Get on the desk.”

  He lies back, his hands touching the base of his penis. “You’re right here,” he groans. “Oh, so small and tight.”

  I remain rooted in place.

  “You know you want it,” he says, nodding for me to come to him. “You feel me there inside you.”

  “Touch yourself,” I say.

  “Filling you up.”

  “Do it.”

  He spits on his palm, then slides his hand up the shaft of his penis, then down again. “You feel so good,” he says.

  “Harder,” I say. “Faster.”

  He pumps and pumps. Each time it seems he can’t get bigger or harder, he does, and then I can see him about to explode.

  “You want me to make you come?” I say.

  “No,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He stops. It’s like he flipped the off switch. He still has the erection, but he sits up, and calmly, without a hint of urgency, says, “You’re the one who’s coming.”

  “Ha.”

  “Mh.” He stares at me, and for a moment, I feel penetrable, like he can see straight into the bleeding part of my heart. He touches himself, again, and starts to lose himself in it.

  “Come,” I command.

  He laughs. “You think you can get me to come from over there? Get over here and fuck like a grownup little girl.”

  What did he just say?

  “You’re a bad little girl,” he says. “A very naughty little girl.”

  My voice catches.

  “What’s the matter?” he says. “Did your boyfriend find out and break things off? Did he realize you’ve got loose Oriental pussy?” I go to strike him, but he catches my arm. “It’s hopeless. You know it is. You need this. You know you do.”

  “You ignorant—”

  “Asian pussy is always so ripe,” he says. “So small and fuckable.”

  Tears rage down my cheeks.

  “Oh,” he utters. “No need for sadness.”

  “I’m—” I quake with rage “—Not—” Brush his hand away “—Sad!”

  He gathers himself together, and starts to dress.

  I’ve lost; I’m lost.

  “What you think about me,” I say, drying my face. “You know what you are?”

  “Pray tell.” He feigns a smile.

  “You are the great Jeff Jones,” I say. “You have everything and everyone. But underneath it all, you’ve got nothing and no one, and you’re alone. No one wants you. Not even your parents. You’re the loneliest person in the world.”

  He pauses, then tugs the jacket center front into place.

  “The only way you can get anyone’s attention,” I continue, “is by being an old, controlling, white guy asshole because that’s all you’ve got left.”

  Fully dressed now, Jones crosses his arms and leans back on the desk. The smugness is gone, and in its place, a glassy, bewildered look filled with darkness and devastation. We stare at one another, not speaking, and yet, sharing something words can’t communicate.

  He pats his jacket until he feels the bag on the inside pocket, then takes it out, unraveling tin foil and sniffing powder from the spoon. He offers it to me, and t
his time, I try it. There’s an intense burn that cools and transforms into a lightness I’ve never felt before. It’s like I can feel my soul; indestructible, joyous, loved.

  A lull downstairs catches Jones’s attention. “It’s Naomi,” he says, getting to his feet. “Ladies, first,” he says.

  At the top of the spiral staircase, I pause at what feels like the top of the world. My mind and every cell in my body wakes up. The world brightens. The invisible pack shackled to my back falls away. The party pulses; I’m part of it. The warm elixir spreads through me. It extends out of me to Zach and everyone here, then outward to Rick and everyone everywhere.

  I descend. Glance up.

  “Feel it?” his eyes ask.

  Oh, yes. I smile. The spiral steps circle down, down. The world is watching, and yet, for the moment that is tonight, I don’t stop to consider tomorrow; I ascend the steps between us and touch my lips to Jones’s.

  All that matters is a kiss.

  Prenups and

  Other Engagements

  Boxes within boxes. Boxes stacked upon boxes. Open boxes. Closed and labeled boxes. Boxes and more boxes. I seal up the last of them, brush sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist, then text Ben: Done. He’s on his way with a U-haul. We’re going to move him to his boyfriend’s place and me to storage because I’ll be couch surfing with Georgie and Ma until I nail a job. It’s the last day, the last hour. The Dean sent around a notice: Graduate students need to vacate by 5 PM. Maintenance has to turn around every second-year studio in time for the incoming group this fall.

  Seventeen boxes. Not bad. Ben helped me organize by numbering and labelling everything: Boxes 1,2,3 Completed Designs; 4,5,6 Incomplete Designs; 7,8,9 Fabrics, Muslin & Leathers; 10,11 Sequins, Beads, Appliqués; 12 Threads, Yarns, String; 13,14 Hand Tools, Sewing Machine; 15 Mannequin #1 (Full body); 16 Mannequin #2 (Torso); 17 Shoe Projects; 18 Miscellaneous.

  Two years ago, I started the program with one box. Now there are 18. It’s amazing how much a person can accumulate so quickly. Equally amazing is how much dust it all collects; I’m covered in it.

  There’s a tap at the door. “It’s open!” I yell, squeezing between two boxes and then stacking one on top of the other. The door opens. He’s tall, silver haired, and wearing almost exactly what I’m wearing—a black T-shirt and jeans—only the British and tailored version. Not GAP nor streaked with sweat and dust. I know him, but from where?

  His eyes light up.

  My stomach clenches. Oh, shit. It’s Jones. I haven’t seen him since the party last fall. He seems different out of context. “I—” I stammer. Everything that transpired that night rushes into the space between us. “I, uh—”

  Of all the times he could possibly see me, and he sees me now? Like this? Perspiration trickles from my jaw, dangling, ready to drop. With my shoulder, I rub it from my chin. It’s too sickening.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” he says, glancing at all the boxes.

  “I’m not,” I say, and when I notice the stunned look cross his face, I quickly add, “I look like shit.” My voice trails off. I feel so helpless, and so helplessly ugly on top of it. Why the hell is he here, anyway?

  He gives me the once over. “You look—”

  I cross my arms, tilt my head, and steel myself for the pretense about to come.

  “You look like a coal miner,” he says.

  “Ha!” I laugh. “I actually feel like a coal miner.”

  There’s an awkward pause, and then he says, “I was just speaking with the Dean. She said you were one of the last men standing.”

  “Yeah.” I dig my phone from my back pocket. “Technically, I still have forty-three more minutes.”

  “One can do a great deal in forty-three minutes.”

  My gaze wanders over the shuttered boxes. If only it were forty-three more days. Or, months. The uncertainty of “real” life beyond the safety of these walls fills me with dread.

  “It’s a ghost town around here,” I say. “Most people were packed up and out of here by lunch. But, I don’t know. I mean, packing can be so overwhelming.”

  “Less so, perhaps”—he smiles— “if one wins the Jeff Jones New Star Award.”

  I stare at him for a moment and try to make sense of what he just said. He said “if.” If one wins. What, exactly, does that mean? He can’t possibly mean me. Can he? Do I dare even think it? Because most of the graduating class wanted this. Ben did, too, and while several students won contests and internships, Ben’s the one who got a prestigious internship in Milan for the summer. I figured if anyone won the JJ New Star, it would be Ben.

  Yet, Jones is here, talking to me. In my head, I hear Ma: “You think you’re so special?”

  “You don’t mean me?” I say.

  Jeff winks.

  “Really?” My voice rises an octave. “Me?”

  “Why are you so surprised?” He leans against my boxes. “I was informed the committee was unanimous.”

  Unanimous. Did he actually say that?

  “I thought you’d want to know,” Jeff says. “The official announcement will be made tomorrow at graduation.”

  Oh, my god. It’s real. I won. Me, Amy Wong. I actually won! “Thank you, oh my god, thank you—” I leap at him, and the next thing I know, I’m hanging on his neck and jumping up and down and squealing like a child.

  “It’s—” Jeff utters. “Hm.”

  I catch myself, then, and pull back. “Sorry,” I say, feeling myself blush.

  “It’s quite all right.”

  Heat rushes to my eyes. Maybe it’s hope? Most contest results were announced by now, and I realize that since I didn’t win anything, I had somehow given up.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” Jones says, cupping his hand at the back of my neck and drawing me closer. “How can you roll around in the muck and still come out so beautiful?”

  I feel like I’m high. Floating. In love.

  “Kiss me,” he says.

  Is this love? Can it really be? It’s something; maybe it’s everything.

  “And that night,” he says. “That wasn’t really me.”

  I start to laugh. “You mean racist?”

  “I was coked-up, high.” He rolls his eyes.

  “So you’re not really racist,” I say. “Only the coked-up you is racist?”

  “Something like that, yes,” he smirks.

  “Or maybe the real you is racist and the coked-up you is just honest about it?”

  “Possibly.” He sighs, sits back on box 15: Mannequin, Full body. “But, no.”

  “You seem pretty sure about that.” I catch his gaze.

  “It’s interesting,” he says, crossing his arms. “As different as we are…background, age, etcetera, etcetera…when you look at me, I feel like you get past my bullshit to the real me. No one else makes me feel that way.”

  “No one?”

  “No,” he replies, the glossy bewildered look I saw the night of the party coming over him again.

  I kiss him. I kiss him and I don’t hold back.

  Once a week. Twice, tops. It’s the most we can manage to see each other. He’s busy building his empire, and I’m trying to find a job. We’re both seeing other people, too. Jeff’s divorce went through; he just wants to play. That’s okay with me. I’m determined now to fuck who I want, when I want.

  I decide.

  So, it’s a shocker when Jeff shows up at Georgie’s apartment, unannounced, and luckily when no one else is there, to say he’s rented a place at The Cape for the rest of August. “You absolutely have to come,” he says. “I’ve been working around the clock to make this happen.”

  “That sounds fun,” I say, picturing a house on the beach. “I guess I can come for the weekend.”

  “Don’t be silly. Stay the week.”

  “That’s sweet,
” I say. The thought of being alone that long with any man I’m fucking—just him and me facing one another the whole time—makes me queasy. And then to be totally reliant on him and at his mercy? It’s not like I have a car. If things go bad, I’ll be stuck. I shake my head. “Really sweet, but—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” he says.

  “Look, I need to find a job.” It’s been a month since graduation. “Or find an internship.”

  He waves me off. “You have the rest of your life to get a job.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You have one. You have a whole fucking business.”

  “That I do,” he acknowledges.

  “Besides, I have the rest of my life to not get a job, too, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like that very much.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll put out some feelers for you.”

  “Really? That’s so sweet.”

  “You’ve associated me with the word ‘sweet’,” he says, drawing me to him and holding me close. “Allow me to correct that immediately.” He kisses me, his hands reaching into the band of my skirt, cupping a buttock in each hand. We bang onto the kitchen table.

  So, then, it’s settled. I’ll go up with him in a rental car. I’ll spend a week and then return to New York via bus to Boston. From there, I’ll take a train to Penn Station.

  The drive to The Cape is long due to traffic, and it doesn’t help that Jeff turns out to be a tailgater. It’s not that he’s aggressive or mean about it. He’s impatient. And it’s obvious by the way he clasps the wheel—his knuckles are practically white, he’s gripping so hard—that he’s beyond anxious.

  “I detest driving,” he says. “I rarely do it.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not like I can tell,” I say, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

  Jeff pulls so close to the car in front of us that he has to break abruptly when traffic stops.

  “Maybe you could give a little more space between them and us?” I suggest.

  “If only these cars would get out of the way.”

  “If only.” I can’t help but laugh.

  “I’m glad you find this humorous.”

  “I can drive,” I say. “I’ll drive if you want.”