Gone Girl: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

contemplation of the sidewalk bodega bins—endless plastic containers of cantaloupe and honeydew and melon perched on ice like the day’s catch—and I could feel a man barnacling himself to my side as I sailed along, and I corner-eyed the intruder and realized who it was. It was
him
. The boy in “I met a boy!”
    I didn’t break my stride, just turned to him and said:
        a) “Do I know you?” (manipulative, challenging)
        b) “Oh, wow, I’m so happy to see you!” (eager, doormatlike)
        c) “Go fuck yourself.” (aggressive, bitter)
        d) “Well, you certainly take your time about it, don’t you, Nick?” (light, playful, laid-back)
        Answer: D
    And now we’re together. Together, together. It was that easy. It’s interesting, the timing. Propitious, if you will. (And I will.) Just last night was my parents’ book party.
Amazing Amy and the Big Day
. Yup, Rand and Marybeth couldn’t resist. They’ve given their daughter’s namesake what they can’t give their daughter: a husband! Yes, for book twenty, Amazing Amy is getting married! Wheeeeeee. No one cares. No one wanted Amazing Amy to grow up, least of all me. Leave her in kneesocks and hair ribbons and let
me
grow up, unencumbered by my literary alter ego, my paper-bound better half, the me I was supposed to be.
    But
Amy
is the Elliott bread and butter, and she’s served us well, so I suppose I can’t begrudge her a perfect match. She’s marrying good old Able Andy, of course. They’ll be just like my parents: happy-happy.
    Still, it was unsettling, the incredibly small order the publisher put in. A new
Amazing Amy
used to get a first print of a hundred thousand copies back in the ’80s. Now ten thousand. The book-launch party was, accordingly, unfabulous. Off-tone. How do you throw a party for a fictional character who started life as a precocious moppet of six and is now a thirty-year-old bride-to-be who still speaks like a child? (
“Sheesh,” thought Amy, “my dear fiancé sure is a grouch-monster when he doesn’t get his way …”
That is an actual quote. The whole book made me want to punch Amy right in her stupid, spotless vagina.) The book is a nostalgia item, intended to be purchased by women who grew up with
Amazing Amy
, but I’m not sure who will actually want to read it. I read it, of course. I gave the book my blessing—multiple times. Rand and Marybeth feared that I might take Amy’s marriage as some jab at my perpetually single state. (“I, for one, don’t think women should marry before thirty-five,” said my mom, who married my dad at twenty-three.)
    My parents have always worried that I’d take
Amy
too personally—they always tell me not to read too much into her. And yet I can’t fail to notice that whenever I screw something up, Amy does it right: When I finally quit violin at age twelve, Amy was revealed as a prodigy in the next book. (“Sheesh, violin can be hard work, but hardwork is the only way to get better!”) When I blew off the junior tennis championship at age sixteen to do a beach weekend with friends, Amy recommitted to the game. (“Sheesh, I know it’s fun to spend time with friends, but I’d be letting myself and everyone else down if I didn’t show up for the tournament.”) This used to drive me mad, but after I went off to Harvard (and
Amy
correctly chose my parents’ alma mater), I decided it was all too ridiculous to think about. That my parents, two
child psychologists
, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward
their child
was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious. So be it.
    The book party was as schizophrenic as the book—at Bluenight, off Union Square, one of those shadowy salons with wingback chairs and art deco mirrors that are supposed to make you feel like a Bright Young Thing. Gin martinis wobbling on trays lofted by waiters with rictus smiles. Greedy journalists with knowing smirks and hollow