Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,62

on a billboard down on Sunset. Suddenly, I am not just another guy. I am invited to parties at clubs, then after-parties in penthouses. It’s just as it was all those months ago, when the Disaster and I ran roughshod over the city, only now we are supposed to be here. We are invited guests. Well, actually, I am, but the Disaster goes everywhere with me. I am beginning to be able to get us into any event, no matter how long the line outside, no matter how stone-faced the doorman. I have become Mr. +1. You should see my name there on the list . . . right there, yeah. And here’s my friend. He gets in too. Okay? Cool? Thanks, man.

Eventually, we don’t even have to bother with the list. The doormen know me by first name. They know I come with company. They unlatch the velvet rope and let us inside without a moment’s hesitation. I am putting twenties in their pockets. They nod and say stuff like “Good to see you again” or “Have fun tonight.” We usually do. One night we are in a club—a minimal, throbbing place with pure white light emanating from the floor, sort of like the Korova Milk Bar only without naked women for tables—sitting in the back, when the Disaster starts elbowing me. He nods across the room, and I look in the general direction and lock eyes with the most beautiful girl in the entire world—only for a split second, of course, then I avert my stare to the floor. I glance back up again, and she is smiling at me.

“Lookit that, man,” the Disaster whispers in my ear. “She’s lovin’ you.”

It would appear she is. She motions for us to come over and join her table, and the Disaster and I get up and make our way across the dance floor, nodding our heads to the beat, praying not to trip or spill our drinks. Everything is happening in slow motion. She is smiling at me and biting the corner of her lip. One of her friends whispers something to her and she nods and laughs. She covers her mouth with her hand. My heart is racing, I am understandably nervous.

“Hi,” she shouts over the music. “Have a seat.”

Her circle of friends parts and I am suddenly sitting right next to her, my hands nearly in her lap. She leans in close to talk to me, and I can see down her dress a bit, down into the promised land. I can smell her perfume. You can tell it’s expensive. She is poured into something backless or strapless; either way, it’s missing essential parts. And when I say poured, I mean more like half a glass—but definitely of something strong. I introduce myself and the Disaster, who is across the table, in between two girls who on any other night, in any other city, would’ve been the center of attention. They are gorgeous, otherworldly. Long necks laced with diamonds. They are slightly annoyed by the Disaster’s presence, sitting upright and rigid, their eyes forward. He looks as if his head were about to explode. He has made it to the top of the mountain.

“I know who you are,” she shouts in my ear. “I’ve seen your picture.”

This is a key moment in all young celebrities’ lives, the instant when they stop wondering and just know that they are different from the rest; that the world will stop for them. She figured this out a long time ago. Her skin shines as if it had been buffed with diamonds. Chances are pretty good it actually was. She is not mortal. She is something greater. How do you make small talk with someone like her?

“So . . .” is about all I can muster. “Hi . . .”

There is a pregnant hush around the table, everyone is craning their necks to hear me speak. I clear my throat and don’t know what to say next. The pressure is mounting, my palms are sweating. She has reduced me to a panting, stuttering teenager. I am drowning.

“Relax.” She smiles and touches my arm. “Have a drink.”

She knows exactly what she wants, and she doesn’t have time for games. She has seen and heard it all before. She is not impressed by any of it. Yet, as the night goes on, she seems positively fascinated by me, laughing at the stupid jokes I eventually make, leaning into my shoulder. She’s like a cat