“Nothing,” I say.

There’s a pause and then I ask her, “What do you want?”

She says nothing for a long time and I look back at my hands and she sips her wine. “I don’t know. I just want to have a nice Christmas.”

I don’t say anything.

“You look unhappy,” she says real suddenly.

“I’m not,” I tell her.

“You look unhappy,” she says, more quietly this time. She touches her hair, bleached, blondish, again.

“You do too,” I say, hoping that she won’t say anything else.

She doesn’t say anything else, until she’s finished her third glass of wine and poured her fourth.

“How was the party?”

“Okay.”

“How many people were there?” “Forty. Fifty.” I shrug.

She takes a swallow of wine. “What time did you leave it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“One? Two?”

“Must of been one.”

“Oh.” She pauses again and takes another swallow.

“It wasn’t very good,” I say, looking at her.

“Why?” she asks, curious.

“It just wasn’t,” I say and look back at my hands.

I’m with Trent in a yellow train that sits on Sunset. Trent’s smoking and drinking a Pepsi and I stare out the window and into the headlights of passing cars. We’re waiting for Julian, who’s supposed to be bringing Trent a gram. Julian is fifteen minutes late and Trent is nervous and impatient and when I tell him that he should deal with Rip, like I do, instead of Julian, he just shrugs. We finally leave and he says that we might be able to find Julian in the arcade in Westwood. But we don’t find Julian at the arcade in Westwood, so Trent suggests that we go to Fatburger and eat something. He says he’s hungry, that he hasn’t eaten anything in a long time, mentions something about fasting. We order and take the food to one of the booths. But I’m not too hungry and Trent notices that there’s no chili on my Fatburger.

“What is this? You can’t eat a Fatburger without chili.”

I roll my eyes up at him and light a cigarette.

“Jesus, you’re weird. Been up in f**king New Hampshire too long,” he mutters. “No f**king chili.”

I don’t say anything and notice that the walls have been painted a very bright, almost painful yellow and under the glare of the fluorescent lights, they seem to glow. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts are on the jukebox singing “Crimson and Clover.” I stare at the walls and listen to the words. “Crimson and clover, over and over and over and over …” I suddenly get thirsty, but I don’t want to go up to the counter and order anything because there’s this fat, sad-faced Japanese girl taking orders and this security guard leaning against another yellow wall in back, eyeing everyone suspiciously, and Trent is still staring at my Fatburger with this amazed look on his face and there’s this guy in a red shirt with long stringy hair, pretending to be playing the guitar and mouthing the words to the song in the booth next to ours and he starts to shake his head and his mouth opens. “Crimson and clover, over and over and over … Crimson and clo-oh-ver …”

It’s two in the morning and hot and we’re at the Edge in the back room and Trent is trying on my sunglasses and I tell him that I want to leave. Trent tells me that we’ll leave soon, a couple of minutes maybe. The music from the dance floor seems too loud and I tense up every time the music stops and another song comes on. I lean back against the brick wall and notice that there are two boys embracing in a darkened corner. Trent senses I’m tense and says, “What do you want me to do? You wanna lude, is that it?” He pulls out a Pez dispenser and pulls Daffy Duck’s head back. I don’t say anything, just keep staring at the Pez dispenser and then he puts it away and cranes his neck. “Is that Muriel?”

“No, that girl’s black.”

“Oh … you’re right.”

Pause.

“It’s not a girl.”

I wonder how Trent can mistake a black teenage boy, not anorexic, for Muriel, but then I see that the black boy is wearing a dress. I look at Trent and tell him again that I have to leave.

“Yeah, we all have to leave,” he says. “You said that already.”

And so I stare at my shoes and Trent finds something to say. “You’re too much.” I keep staring at my shoes, tempted to ask him to let me see the Pez dispenser.

Trent says, “Oh shit, find Blair, let’s go, let’s leave.”