“Why leave?” Pascal asks. It’s the first question out of his mouth all evening, and it’s rude.
“Personal reasons,” I say.
“What’s that code for?” Dan asks.
Code for “none of your damn business.” “Long story.”
“We’ve got all night,” he says.
But then the food comes, and everyone’s distracted.
I stab at my sad salad. Droopy romaine. Pieces of tough gray chicken. A pool of watery dressing at the bottom of the bowl. My stomach withers.
The good news is that the rest of the table is preoccupied with eating, so the quiet that ensues isn’t painful; it just is. I let it exist, find some sanctuary inside it. I’m getting through it. I’m doing it. I’m surviving.
“How’s your salad?” Dan asks.
“Good,” I lie.
“Here,” he says, leaning across the table and plopping a greasy chunk of sausage on my plate. “You need some meat on your bones.”
I gawk at the sausage, at its charred skin peeling away to reveal a too-pink center, the most unappealing, cratered texture. It oozes liquid onto my already damp, overdressed salad.
I push the plate away, unable to stomach its appearance.
“Uh-oh, better call the guidance counselor,” Dan says. “We’ve got a problem.”
He points to me and then mimes making himself throw up, indicating he believes I’m bulimic.
Jill slaps his hand, a playful rebuke.
“Fine,” Dan says. “Don’t take my advice. But if you’re wondering why Pascal is so quiet . . .”
“Dan!” Jill says, but it’s through laughter. She’s genuinely charmed by everything he says. It’s mind-boggling.
“All right,” I say. “Thanks for the tip.”
“There it is! Some gratitude. You’re welcome,” he says, smiling. A big dumb, self-satisfied grin. He has no idea how much of an asshole he’s being. I imagine it started in his youth, a few bad off-color jokes that people laughed at to be polite, or because they had terrible senses of humor, or because they were family and loved him so much they’d marvel at anything he said or did, or because his primary audience was a bunch of prepubescent peers. And as time went on, he continued to get this positive reinforcement. If the occasional person didn’t laugh at his bad jokes or bullying or general shtick, he’d assume it was their fault, that they were no fun, sticks-in-the-mud. In adulthood, he’s surrounded himself with like-minded idiots to insulate himself from any negative feedback.
And through this lifelong cycle of validation and fortification, his ego has transformed into something large and dangerous. I picture a Godzilla-like creature with an enormous, destructive body and a teeny-tiny brain. Terrorizing those smart enough to recognize it, entertaining those too stupid to realize they’ve created a monster— and monsters can’t be unmade.
Watching him chew, opening his mouth to shovel more food in before he swallows what’s already inside, I’m certain he doesn’t have an ounce of self-awareness. I’m also certain it’s no excuse, though nothing I can say or do in the next hour will magically change him. Make him realize that he’s been horrifically rude the entire night and apologize profusely.
Pascal, too. If he’s not attracted to me, fine. Ouch, but fine. The least he could do is make minimal conversation. Not sit there making small, erratic movements like a malfunctioning animatronic puppet whose memory has been wiped of words.
I think about Sam, about what it would be like if he were here. We’d be making fun of the decor, drinking soda because we’d be too embarrassed to drink out of beer steins and too happy to have any need for hard liquor. We’d order cheeseburgers and he’d get fries and I’d get onion rings and we’d share. We’d speak to each other in bad German accents. Maybe we’d call each other Hansel and Gretel.
“How’s everything?” the waiter asks.
“Great!” Jill says.
“Can you bring more of the cheese?” Dan asks. “And another pretzel.”
“Okay,” the waiter says. “I’ll be right back with that.”
“Are you still going to be hungry for dessert?” Jill asks Dan. She turns to me. “They have the best dessert here. Have you ever had Black Forest cake?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Yeah, right,” Dan says. “Look at her. She’s never had a piece of cake in her life.”
I open my mouth to defend myself, to say that I eat cake all the time and that I’m just naturally thin. That this is the way my body looks and has looked since I was about fourteen. But I zip my lips back together. What difference will it make?