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“If I’m not going to make it as a writer, I’ll have to demand my money back,” Ryan says jokingly.
Everyone laughs, except Viktor Greene. “If that’s the way you feel, you should contact the bursar’s office.”
He twirls the ends of his mustache between his fingers.
That mustache is going to drive me insane. I wonder if Viktor Greene is married and what his wife thinks of all his mustache stroking. Living with that mustache must be like having an extra person in the house. Does it have its own name and eat its own food as well?
And suddenly, I’m burning with passion. I don’t care what Viktor Greene says: I’m going to make it. I’m going to become a real writer if it kills me.
I look around the room at my fellow students. Now I’m the one judging the competition.
“All right,” I say, plopping onto L’il’s bed. “Who is Rainbow’s father?”
“Barry Jessen,” she says with a sigh.
“Who the hell is Barry Jessen? I know he’s an artist and all, but—”
“He’s not just any artist. He’s one of the most important artists in New York right now. He’s the leader of some new art movement. They live in abandoned buildings in SoHo—”
“Rainbow lives in an abandoned building?” I ask, perplexed. “Do they have running water? Heat? She doesn’t look like she’s homeless.”
“She’s not,” L’il says in exasperation. “They only used to be abandoned buildings. Garment and print factories. But then all these artists moved in and started fixing them up. And now they have parties in their lofts and take drugs and people buy their art and write about them in The New York Times and New York Magazine.”
“And Rainbow?”
“Well, her father is Barry Jessen. And her mother is Pican—”
“The model?”
“That’s why she’s so beautiful and will get anything she wants. Which includes becoming a writer. Does that answer your question?”
“So she’s a million times cooler than us.”
“Than ‘we are,’” L’il corrects. “And, yes, she is. Her parents know a ton of people, and if Rainbow wants to get a book published, all she has to do is snap her fingers and her father will find someone to publish it for her. And then he’ll get a bunch of journalists to write about it and critics to give her good reviews.”
“Damn,” I say, impressed.
“Meanwhile, if the rest of us want to be successful, we have to do it the old-fashioned way. We have to write something great.”
“What a bore,” I say sarcastically.
L’il laughs while I pick at an imaginary thread. “And what about that guy with the blond hair and the attitude? He acts like he knows her.”
“Capote Duncan?” she says in surprise. “I’m sure he does. Capote’s the type who knows everyone.”
“Why?”
“Oh, he just is. He’s from the South,” she says, as if this explains it. “He’s kind of dreamy, isn’t he?”
“No. But he is kind of an asshole.”
“He’s older. He and Ryan are seniors in college. They’re friends. Apparently the two of them are quite the ladies’ men.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” She pauses, and in a slightly formal tone of voice, adds, “If you don’t mind—”
“I know, I know,” I say, jumping off the bed. “We’re supposed to be writing.”
