The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis Read Free Book Online

always looks cheesy to me for some reason. I can’t explain it. He shakes the Etch-a-Sketch.
    I say, “Rock’n’roll.”
    Tim laughs, “The horrah, the horrah.”
    Tony says, “It’s just another example of this place going to shit, that’s all.”
    I tell him, “Deal with it.”
    Tony’s losing his patience, getting all political. “Listen, do you realize that we’re getting a fucking weight room? Why? Do you understand? Can you explain? I can’t. Do you realize that I just came out of a student council meeting where the Freshman reps want fraternity houses installed on campus? Do you understand that? Do you want to
deal with it?
”
    I cringe. “It’s all dumb.”
    “Why?” Tim asks. “I think a weight room’s a good idea.” “Because,” I explain, hoping to cool Tony down, “I came here to get away from jock idiots and frat assholes.”
    “Listen,” Tim says with an ugly leer, “Girls work out on that shit for those inner thigh muscles man.” He grabs at my leg and laughs.
    “Yeah, well,” I’m suddenly confused. “Still, a weight room.” I don’t really care.
    Tony looks at me. “Who are you to talk, Sean? What are you majoring in? Computers?”
    “Reagan’s Eighties. Detrimental effect on underclassmen,” Tim says, shaking his head.
    It really doesn’t piss me off as much as he wants it to. “Computers,” I mimic him.
    “What
are
you majoring in?” He’s daring me, the big fucking baby, finish your salad, asshole.
    “Rock’n’roll,” I shrug.
    He gets up, disgusted. “What are you, a parrot?”
    “What’s up his ass?” someone asks.
    “Didn’t get that part in the Shepard play,” Getch says.
    Deidre appears out of nowhere, to save the day? Not quite.
    “Peter?”
    The table looks up and falls silent.
    “I thought my name was Brian,” I say, without looking at her.
    She laughs, probably high. I can see her hands, her fingernails aren’t painted black anymore. It looks like cement color. “Oh well, yeah. How are you?” she asks.
    “Eating.” I point at the plate. All the guys are looking at her. This is a highly uncomfortable situation.
    “You going to the party tonight?” she asks.
    “Yeah. I’m going to the party tonight. You going to the party tonight?” Meaningless.
    “Yeah.” She seems nervous. The guys are intimidating her. She was actually okay last night, just too drunk. She’s probably good in bed. I look over at Tim, who’s checking her out. “Yeah, I am.”
    “Well I guess I’ll see you there.” I look at Norris and roll my eyes up.
    “Okay,” she says, lingering, looking around the room.
    “Okay, see you there, bye,” I mutter. “God.”
    “Okay, well,” she coughs. “See you.”
    “Go away,” I say under my breath.
    She goes to another table. The guys aren’t saying anything. I’m embarrassed because she’s not that great looking and they all know I screwed her last night and I get up to feed more coffee to my impending ulcer. Rock’n’roll.
    “I need a double bed,” Tim says. “Anyone got a double bed?”
    “Don’t smoke pot,” someone else says.
    “Yabba Dabba Do,” Getch says.

 
    The feeling is neither icy nor hot. Yet there is still no in-between. Just this bland pulse that fixates in my body at any given time of the day. I have decided to put notes in his box every day. I imagine him pinning these notes somewhere, perhaps pinned to a white wall in his room, a room I wish to live in. Are these devices sufficient? I ask myself, sickened, left punctured and cowering after I deliver these notes into his box, his pocketbed. My will is an ambulance on emergency call. But I often try to forget him (I have not met him, will not meet him until later, have not dared open my mouth to confront him, sometimes I want to scream, sometimes I think I am dying) and I try to forget this beating from my heart, but cannot and get sick. Thespace I follow is black and arid. My obsession (I do not know if it can even be considered