Page 96 - A Little Life: A Novel
P. 96

icy,  of  being  boring,  which  he  recognized  that  here  might  have  been
                considered the greater misfortune than being whatever it was he was.) In the
                background, as if far away, he could hear Malcolm and JB having a fight

                about evil.
                   “I’m  just  saying,  we  wouldn’t  be  having  this  argument  if  you’d  read
                Plato.”
                   “Yeah, but what Plato?”
                   “Have you read Plato?”
                   “I don’t see—”
                   “Have you?”

                   “No, but—”
                   “See!  See,  see?!”  That  would  be  Malcolm,  jumping  up  and  down  and
                pointing at JB, while Willem laughed. On weed, Malcolm grew both sillier
                and  more  pedantic,  and  the  three  of  them  liked  getting  into  silly  and
                pedantic philosophical arguments with him, the contents of which Malcolm
                could never recall in the morning.

                   Then there was an interlude of Willem and JB talking about something—
                he was too sleepy to really listen, just awake enough to distinguish their
                voices—and then JB’s voice, ringing through his fug: “Jude!”
                   “What?” he answered, his eyes still closed.
                   “I want to ask you a question.”
                   He could instantly feel something inside him come alert. When high, JB
                had  the  uncanny  ability  to  ask  questions  or  make  observations  that  both

                devastated and discomfited. He didn’t think there was any malice behind it,
                but it made you wonder what went on in JB’s subconscious. Was this  the
                real JB, the one who had asked their hallmate, Tricia Park, what it was like
                growing up as the ugly twin (poor Tricia had gotten up and run out of the
                room), or was it the one who, after JB had witnessed him in the grip of a
                terrible episode, one in which he could feel himself falling in and out of

                consciousness, the sensation as sickening as tumbling off a roller coaster in
                mid-incline, had snuck out that night with his stoner boyfriend and returned
                just before daybreak with a bundle of bud-furred magnolia branches, sawn
                off illegally from the quadrangle’s trees?
                   “What?” he asked again, warily.
                   “Well,” said JB, pausing and taking another inhalation, “we’ve all known
                each other a while now—”

                   “We have?” Willem asked in fake surprise.
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