AT LEAST LULU KNEW SOMEONE in this god-awful place. Shelley Kisner had been two years ahead of her at Dalton. They weren’t great friends, but generally hung out in the same Manhattan circles. Shelley’s family had an estate in Southampton. While not as much to Lulu’s tastes as East Hampton—Southampton was filled with all those tedious finance types—it was something. They knew the same clubs and many of the same people. Shelley had texted a few days before, and they agreed to meet up in the Dixon Student Center, known to all as the Dix.
Lulu browsed her iPhone while waiting for Shelley to arrive. There were stories on Facebook about a devastating earthquake in Chile. Lulu’s thumbs got busy.
Thoughts and prayers for those suffering in #Chile. #SoSad
Click, posted.
Lulu liked to send out frequent prayer requests on Facebook, not that she had ever literally prayed herself. She refreshed her screen every few seconds. Seventeen likes in less than a minute. A trace of dopamine stimulated her prefrontal cortex, giving off a slight high. She was about to hit refresh again when Shelley plopped her Fendi bag down on the table.
“Well, hey, Harris.”
“Thank God, a familiar face.” Lulu stood up and exchanged air kisses, both cheeks, then walked to the Starbucks vendor and ordered double espressos. The sounds of foosball punctuated the otherwise relative quiet, even though the many rows of tables were actually quite crowded.
The Dix, previously known as Bancroft Hall, was an enormous building intentionally designed to look like the Parthenon, with an imposing thirty-foot-high colonnade of Corinthian columns running down its length on either side. The inside had recently been renovated by Ellis Dixon’s gift. It was a cavernous space with various food vendors around the periphery. Devon’s masters once imagined Bancroft, built a century ago, as a temple of learning. They probably didn’t anticipate the Subway and Einstein Bagels franchises. Flags from all the nations represented by the student body hung from the high rafters. This year there were ninety-three. Rows of long tables were interspersed with “pod” areas featuring comfortable oversize chairs and various table games.
“Why is it so damn quiet?” Lulu asked.
“Look around.” Shelley waved at the silent rows of people. “Behold, a Friday night at Devon.” Sure enough, other than the clack-clack-clack of foosball, the most noticeable sound was the click-click-click of keyboards. Row after row of fellow students, pecking, a susurrus of white noise. “If they’re not studying, they’re playing computer games online, particularly the Asians. A lot of them are probably playing together, but they won’t speak, not directly. All their communication is through the games. This is their idea of socializing, having proximity to each other. On weeknights, they get serious and go to one of the libraries.”
“Is it always like this?” Lulu affected a bored look. Is that Song over there?
“This utterly banal? Pretty much.”
“I hate this,” Lulu said.
“Can’t say I disagree.”
“Why are we here again?”
“The Dix or Devon?”
“Well, both I guess, but I meant here at the Dix.”
“We are ‘minding the gap.’”
Shelley had just a hint of an English accent, painstakingly cultivated during a summer spent as an intern at Sotheby’s in London. Minding the gap reminded Lulu of—what else?—the London Underground, although she couldn’t imagine what that had to do with their present situation. What she’d give to be in London now … Annabel’s, Henley, perhaps Ascot … maybe this coming summer. Sheldon wouldn’t mind.
Someone dropped a full can of Red Bull nearby, snapping Lulu out of her brief reverie.
“What gap?” Lulu asked.
“The gap is that expanse of time between dinner, which the Philistines here eat at about six, if you can imagine, and the evening’s festivities. It can be four or five hours. No one’s ever come up with the right solution, although there’s lots of pre-gaming—you know, the drinking before the drinking. Personally, I can’t ingest alcohol for seven hours straight, at least not the way some people around here do. I’d be calling to the seals.”
“What?”
“Vomiting.”
“Thank you for that image.”
“This is college, dear, and I did use a metaphor.”
Changing the subject, Lulu asked, “So … what about the male of the species around here?”
Shelley leaned back. “Let me answer that with a question. How many … boys, in this vast expanse of the Dixon Student Center, would you let touch you?”
Lulu looked around, wrinkling her nose. Taking in a sample of several dozen nearby Devon males, she quickly realized the question had been rhetorical. She slumped in her chair.
“But…” Shelley let the word hang in the air. “There are certain ponds in which the fishing is better than, well, the Dix. They are small ones, and you need to know where they are, but they are there. Things at Devon may be desperate, but it’s not beyond hope.”
She had Lulu’s attention.
“C’mon, let’s go,” Shelley said.
“Where?”
“Just trust me. You should meet some of the right people. Not everyone here is from … wherever it is these people are from.” Shelley gave a dismissive wave to a nearby pod of students, still clicking and clacking.
“But I’m not dressed,” Lulu said, still clad in an ensemble of Bandier yoga gear.
“We’ll swing by your room. You’re in Duffy, right? It’s practically on the way.”