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over to the window and he gestures at the mirror and asks if I want any coke and I tell him I don’t think so, not now.
    A very young guy, probably sixteen, maybe fifteen, really tan, comes out of the bathroom and he’s zipping up his jeans and buckling his belt. He sits on the side of the bed and puts on his boots, which seem too big for him. This kid has really short, spiked blond hair and a Fear T-shirt on and a black leather bracelet strapped to one of his wrists. Rip doesn’t say anything to him and I pretend that the kid isn’t there. He stands up and stares at Rip and then leaves.
    From where I’m sitting, I watch as Spin gets up and walks into the kitchen, still nude, and starts to squeeze grapefruits into a large glass container. He calls to Rip, from the kitchen, “Did you make reservations wth Cliff at Morton’s?”
    “Yeah, babes,” Rip calls back, before doing the coke.
    I’m beginning to wonder why Rip has called me over, why he couldn’t meet me someplace else. There’s an old, expensively framed poster of The Beach Boys hanging over Rip’s bed and I stare at it trying to remember which one died, while Rip does three more lines. Rip throws his head back and shakes it and sniffs loudly. He then looks at me and wants to know what I was doing at the Cafe Casino in Westwood when he clearly remembers telling me to meet him at the Cafe Casino in Beverly Hills. I tell him that I’m pretty sure he said to meet at the Cafe Casino in Westwood.
    Rip says, “No, not quite,” and then, “Anyway it doesn’t matter.”
    “Yeah, I guess.”
    “What do you need?”
    I pull my wallet out and get the feeling that Rip never showed up at the Cafe Casino in Beverly Hills either.

T rent’s on the phone in his room, trying to score some coke from a dealer who lives in Malibu since he hasn’t been able to get in touch with Julian. After talking to the guy for like twenty minutes he hangs the phone up and looks at me. I shrug and light a cigarette. The telephone keeps ringing and Trent keeps telling me that he’ll go see a movie, any movie, with me in Westwood since something like nine new films opened Friday. Trent sighs and then answers the phone. It’s the new dealer. The phone call is not good. Trent hangs up and I mention that maybe we should leave, see a four o’clock show. Trent tells me that maybe I should go with Daniel or Rip or one of my “faggot friends.”
    “Daniel’s not a faggot,” I say, bored, turning the channel on the television.
    “Everyone thinks he is.”
    “Like who?”
    “Like Blair.”
    “Well, he isn’t.”
    “Try telling that to Blair.”
    “I’m not going out with Blair anymore. That is over, Trent,” I tell him, trying to sound steady.
    “I don’t think she thinks so,” Trent says, lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
    Finally, I ask, “Why do you even care?”
    “Maybe I don’t,” he sighs.
    Trent changes the subject and tells me I should go with him to a party someone’s having for some new group at The Roxy. I ask who’s giving it and he tells me he’s not too sure.
    “What group is it for?” I ask.
    “Some new group.”
    “Which new group?”
    “I don’t know, Clay.”
    The dog begins to bark loudly from downstairs.
    “Maybe,” I tell him. “Daniel’s having a party tonight.”
    “Oh great,” he says sarcastically. “A fag party.”
    The phone rings again. “Screw you,” I say.
    “Jesus!” Trent yells, sitting up, grabbing the telephone and screaming into it, “I don’t even want your lousy, fucking coke!” He pauses for a moment and then says, “Yeah, I’ll be right down.” He hangs the phone up and looks at me.
    “Who was it?”
    “My mother. She’s calling from downstairs.”
    We walk downstairs. The maid’s sitting in the living room, with this dazed look on her face, watching MTV. Trent tells me that she doesn’t like to clean the house when anybody’s home. “She’s always stoned anyway. Mom feels guilty since