The Wangs vs. the World(84)

Dorrie, slipping past the concierge at Hotel Monteleone with a wink, taking a twenty-dollar bill out of Andrew’s wallet and handing it to the attendant who brought them a pile of towels. Dorrie, napping in the shade by the side of the rooftop pool, a smile on her face, not even waking up when her arm dropped off the green chaise and her long, thin fingers touched the concrete. Him, listening as she breathed, wondering if maybe this was the beginning of things.

Him, standing on the balcony of a double-gallery house holding something in a martini glass, leaning down so that Dorrie could whisper into his ear. The Democratic nominee speaking on the slice of big screen visible through the window, his right arm a metronome. Dorrie, turning and laughing, red-rimmed lips wide open, as the host of the party tugged an Obama T-shirt over his suit. Everyone, getting drunker. Him, sitting alone on the couch, surrounded by party debris, reaching up and letting Dorrie pull him out of the house and into the night.



And then the shiny pop soundtrack screeched to a halt. Andrew opened his eyes. Oh, it was bright. The world was too bright. And hot. He kicked off the blanket and groaned, rolling towards Dorrie.

“Good morning.”

She looked at him. She was sitting in bed with a platter of fruit and a newspaper. Freckled fingers picked up a section of kiwi and put it in her mouth.

“You just passed out last night. That wasn’t very nice, was it? Doesn’t make a woman feel very desirable.”

Andrew closed his eyes again. Groaned. Rolled back over. Why was this happening?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He heard the clatter of a plate on the side table and then a second later Dorrie was straddling him, her tiny nipples pushing against her ribbed wifebeater, the rest of her in a pair of little-boy underwear. On the bureau behind her, Andrew could see framed photos. There were a few of Dorrie and a nearly identical brother—he was ten years gone, dead of an overdose—and one old-fashioned wedding photo. The rest were all Dorrie in a bandanna and T-shirt surrounded by black and brown children with huge white grins, all of them framed by concrete huts and actual grass shacks.

She cocked her head, still looking at him.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

“No, I’m not. But I am extremely sexy.”

Andrew laughed. Shook his head.

“No, you are, you are! You’re gorgeous.”

She reached over and picked up a strawberry. Pulled the top off. Flicked it at him and popped the berry in her own mouth. Andrew scooped up the wet blob of fruit and put it on the nightstand.

Dorrie reached over again and picked up a banana.

“You’re not hungover at all?”

She shook her head. He tried again.

“Do you think Barack Obama has a chance? Could he really win? That would be pretty amazing, right?”

Dorrie nodded and peeled the banana in three swift strokes, dropping the skin on his chest. Suddenly, he was scared. There was a queasy undercurrent of not-rightness to the whole thing that swelled up like a hot air balloon inside of him.

She held the pale fruit aloft like a dagger, squeezing so that its flesh oozed out between her fingers and sent a low, nauseous perfume into the room.

“Honey, I just want to jam this down your throat,” she said, sweetly.

Her other hand was on his shoulder, holding herself steady, holding him down.

“Dorrie?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Why did you like me? At the wedding? What made you like me?”

Disdain. Anger. Fear? She was hard to read.

Andrew laughed, uncomfortable. “I mean, besides my devastating good looks.”

She lowered the banana slowly. Dropped it and smeared the mush of it on her bedspread.

“That’s gross.”

Dorrie’s eyes weren’t olive anymore. Now they were blue. An icy blue so pale that it made her look almost blind. Why wasn’t she saying anything?

“Seriously, why?”

Still nothing.

Andrew tried again. “I know why I liked you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re different. I mean, I know that sounds kind of shallow, but it’s true. You’re . . .” How could he tell her that she was not the kind of girl he ever would have met at college? There probably weren’t even any guys like her at college. You were supposed to see the world when you were young, right? Well, Dorrie was definitely the world. She was an adventure. Did girls like it when they were called adventures? He wasn’t sure.

“I’m what?”

The photos in their frames behind her caught his eye again. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you were such a do-gooder.”

She glanced back. Shrugged. “It was a phase. I’m a lot more utilitarian now.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you studied Malthusian theory yet?”

“No.”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to. It’s brutal and misinformed. But on a much lesser level, I kind of believe in it now. If your village needs a white person to come in and teach you how to dig a well, maybe you don’t deserve to last another generation.”

“So why all the pictures?”

“I’m a sucker for cute kids.”

Andrew shook his head. “I have to warn you, I’m not very good with snark.”