Rich and Pretty(23)

It is not clear to either Lauren or Sarah why they spoke. They can’t recall who approached whom. But they met, almost right away; on that, there’s consensus. Sarah nice enough, but still as fierce as her compatriots; no one is more fierce than an eleven-year-old girl. Even Lauren, eager, nervous, was defended—her need guarded, and because it was hidden, it was vanquished by lunchtime. They were friends by noon. That first moment, conversation, exchange lost to time, but twenty-one years later here they are still.

Sarah introduced her—introduced her! Explained who was who and everything, though certainly there couldn’t have been hands shaken?—to the other girls she deemed worth knowing. At her old school, Lauren had known the other kids her whole life. You learned who people were quickly, learned them alphabetically. Three weeks later, she was going to Sarah’s house after school. By fall break, she was with her at their house in Connecticut—a whole other house, meant only for the weekends and days off, something she’d never considered. Her mother had made her send a thank-you card, and she’d been mortified when she went back to Sarah’s house and the thank-you card in question was pinned to the corkboard by the kitchen telephone.

Lauren’s mother used to lament Sarah’s being an only child, feeling that explained some of the girls’ incredible, instantaneous closeness. Of course, she wasn’t truly an only child, but Bella never came to know Lulu well enough to learn any of this. Lauren didn’t see Sarah’s condition as solitude. She was envious: no big brother, burping in her face then laughing hysterically, none of that rank, powerful smell of teenage boys, the one that she understood much later has to do with the discovery of masturbation. At any rate, Sarah was never alone, so she couldn’t have been lonely. She was always in a group, always a group of girls. Sarah had authority, she had presence. She was a leader, born to it. She had a kind of stardom, one that had nothing to do with who her parents were or how much money they had—everyone’s parents were someone, except Lauren’s, and they all had money, except for Lauren’s—but it was something that came naturally, like the way her hair kinked when the air was steamy.

Seven years later, another first meal in another strange cafeteria; Lauren had never been so relieved to see Lulu’s daffy face, Huck’s dignified head. She didn’t care if their classmates would denounce him, later, as a war criminal. She just sat and watched Lulu poke her fork at a salad, exclaim over the fact that the salad bar had lentils, watched Huck eat a grilled cheese sandwich, which seemed at once incongruous and wholly fitting. He loved America so, et cetera. Sarah’s glow was diminished, a bit, in this unfamiliar setting, a grand columned building that had suffered an institutional adaptation, stripping away its character, mostly by means of harsh fluorescent lighting, which is better for the planet. Maybe it had to do with Huck and Lulu. Her own mother and father had dropped her off, said their good-byes, and Lauren feigned sorrow though her chest was breaking open with excitement. The liberation of adulthood. She watched them disappear out of the parking lot in the maroon station wagon, and a burden lifted off her shoulders, flew away into the late summer afternoon. She had spent her entire life waiting for the next thing; this was the first moment she’d actually experienced that thing. It seems impossible and hilarious to her now that this was fourteen years ago.

There had followed four years of meals together. Breakfast, which Sarah loved and Lauren did not, only coffee for her. Lunch, when their schedules allowed. Dinner, most nights. There was a fourth meal—they were college students, they stayed up late and thought nothing of a plate of Tater Tots at 11:00 P.M. while discussing Middlemarch, a book everyone resented reading but would get much mileage, years thence, for having read. Once it seemed if not inconceivable then certainly odd that she and Sarah wouldn’t dine together; now it seemed noteworthy that they had. Life, life is funny.

Karen has reddish hair and a sardonic laugh. She has a sardonic everything. She grew up in Ohio and has a strange way of pronouncing everything. Her wryness has an accuracy to it. One of the first times they had lunch together—Karen had tendered the invitation, “Hey, let’s have lunch,” and it seemed so logical Lauren naturally said yes, though it wouldn’t have occurred to her to make the same offer, not ever—Karen had entertained her with her observations about their bosses. She pointed out that one of Mary-Beth’s legs is shorter than the other, by a significant margin; you can tell it by the way she walks. Lauren had been there two years before Karen showed up, had never noticed. She wasn’t that attentive, in the end, to the small details of other people’s lives. Karen mimicked Mary-Beth’s gait—not cruelly, more imitatively—and Lauren was astonished. Karen was perceptive. Maybe in the end being perceptive is better than being smart.

“So what’s the deal with the temp?” Karen, nonchalant.

“The deal?” She can’t look elegant with chopsticks. She’s using a fork.

“He’s cute.” Karen has a boyfriend, named Evan. He’s an illustrator, which doesn’t seem like a proper job, but he makes a living. He’s nice, but he has a goatee. The three of them had a drink once, after work, last summer. Evan hadn’t been wearing enough deodorant.

“Yeah, he’s cute,” Lauren says, like they’re discussing the weather.

“Oh f*ck off like you haven’t noticed.” This is another thing about Karen: She’s foulmouthed.