The Dissimulator, Part Two: Dirty Warfare is His Second Nature

Check Out Part One: An Introduction
A few months into their relationship, The Dissimulator bought Nancy an "engagement" ring.* One day, she took it off at their apartment and set it on the coffee table. When she looked for it a short while later, it was gone. She and her beau were the only two in the house. The ring was never seen again. The Dissimulator later blamed a repairman sent by the management company for stealing the ring. He, of course, never lodged a complaint or asked the company to investigate.

As Christmas and finals neared, I wondered (loudly and often, in the general direction of Naïve Nancy) why we never saw The Dissimulator do any work for the online classes in which he claimed he was enrolled. Naïve Nancy, arguably unconcerned with her own studies, ignored me and busied herself making a wish list at Victoria's Secret. The Dissimulator told her he'd ordered everything on it.

When the three of us exchanged gifts, I left with an armload of booty from the two of them. In the end, Nancy got a whopping three presents from The Dissimulator, none of which were from her wish list (and none of which were thoughtful, useful, cool, funny, or any of the other things that make gifts good). "The management office wouldn't accept the packages. We'll have to go to Crap City to pick them up." Never happened. (He, by the way, got several really nice and thoughtful gifts from Nancy. And I got several nice and thoughtful gifts from him.)

When I returned from a long, torturous winter break at the Southern Homestead, I found an entirely changed scene. Naïve Nancy had lost her job and officially moved back into our dorm room (which really cramped my style after months of solo-living). The Dissimulator had given up his off-campus apartment to move into a dorm and start taking classes at our esteemed institute of higher learning. Odd, I remember thinking (and saying, many times). Didn't The Dissimulator say he's been in college for two years? Only freshmen are required to live on campus. Why would he give up an apartment to live in a crappy dorm?

My theories were twofold. 1.) He'd never been to college (or was still classified as a freshman) and had to live in the dorm to attend classes. 2.) He was really, really sick of playing house with Naïve Nancy.

By the spring semester, I'd managed to forge a few more friendships, to diversify my platonic relationship portfolio, if you will. It was a good damn thing, too. The Dissimulator and Naïve Nancy were having relationship problems all over the place. She'd become incredibly needy, and he'd become suddenly aloof. Emotional matters, financial matters, physical matters... everything was causing problems. I needed S P A C E.

With space came a little perspective, I suppose. The Dissimulator and I had a huge falling out. I don't remember the catalyst of the argument, but I do think I had more than a little to do with starting it. Naïve Nancy just sat and watched the two of us hurl various forms of verbal assault at one another with all the force we could muster. I called The Dissimulator out about his little habit of spewing forth lies whenever he opened his mouth. That did it; he was about to launch missile one, aimed at destroying my friendship with Nancy.

"You said Nancy was immature!" The Dissimulator shouted, pointing his chubby finger at me.

In a sense, he was telling the truth. A short while after Nancy had moved back into the dorm, our phone had rung in the middle of the night. I’d answered. It was The Dissimulator. He was in the parking lot, and he was upset. Would I please come talk to him? Still groggy, I'd gone to meet him. We'd talked for a bit, and he'd asked my opinion of his relationship with Nancy, telling me his friends thought she wasn't right for him. As delicately as I could, I told him I thought the pair was a bit immature to handle the sort of relationship they were pursuing.

I looked over at my shell-shocked roommate. Nancy, I'll talk to you about that later. Right now, I need to deal with him.

And I did talk to her later. I told her what I'd said to him. It was how I felt, and it wasn't intentionally mean or hurtful, but I’m sure it was hurtful nonetheless. Most importantly, though, it was the truth, something all of us needed a whole lot more of at the time. But the Dissimulator’s attack was well-aimed; my relationship with Nancy was never the same.

After our fight, The Dissimulator and I were pretty much sworn enemies, but I hadn't seen the worst of what he had to offer.

Several weeks later, I returned from class one morning to find a sobbing message from The Moms on the machine. "Belle," *sob* *sob* "Call me as soon as you get this." *sob* Click.

Panic set in. Someone was dead. I just knew it. Younger Brother? Older Brother? Who could it be? I dialed shakily and nearly burst into tears when I heard The Moms' first sob. What is it? Who's hurt? What's wrong?

The Moms finally managed to gasp out that she'd gotten a letter. It was from someone who claimed to live in my dorm but who remained anonymous because "she" was speaking for many girls. They were worried about me, the letter claimed. I was an alcoholic. I was skipping classes all the time and in danger of flunking out of school. I was threatening murder and suicide. I had gotten a reputation as a slut. I *gasp* dated black boys. To prove how right they were about all they said, they'd printed out a few select passages from my livejournal account, which detailed, among other things, getting drunk at a party and a date with a sweet, funny, intelligent, gorgeous guy who also happened to be black.

Already firming up my belief that the truth is best, even when it is more painful, I reassured my mother that the things she'd read were not true. The Moms, I drink sometimes, but I'm not an alcoholic. I can't remember the last time I drank. The same bottle of Boone’s** has been sitting in my fridge for two weeks unopened. I do not drink every day. I am not failing classes. I have A's or B's in everything, just like high school. I do occasionally miss my 9 o'clock class, but there's no attendance policy and the lecture notes are online. Who can digest philosophy at 9 a.m. anyway? I'm not suicidal, nor am I full of homicidal rage. I am still a virgin. Hardly anyone on this campus even knows who I am; I have no reputation. Okay, I have gone out with a really nice guy a few times. He is black.... The Moms?.... The Moms?... The Moms!.... Yeah, I know. I'm glad they sent you the letter and not Dad.... Yeah, I know better than to tell him. .... Yeah, the brothers either. ... Are you okay now? I promise I'm fine.... Hey, The Moms? Can you send me that letter?

It wasn't the worst thing he could've done, but it definitely seemed horrible at the time. He nearly gave The Moms a heart attack, which wasn't nice at all. But I was smart enough to know I'd gotten off light. If the address listed in the student directory had been that of my father, that letter would have assuredly led to my being shunned by a good portion of my wonderful family.*** It might have led to violence on the part of my hot-headed brothers.

The ironic part of all this, which I can only laugh about now, is that The Dissimulator was Indian, and Naïve Nancy's (Caucasian) parents were as incredibly bigoted as my father and brothers. As a result, they didn't even know he existed, and if she'd had her way, they never would have.

I could never prove he sent the letter, but Naïve Nancy told me years later that she believed, looking back, it was him.

Stay Tuned for Part Three: The Money & The Illness

* The ring was a cluster of sapphires and small diamonds. As far as I know, it was not accompanied by a proposal. While I’m all about shirking tradition and doing things your own way, it never seemed like a real engagement to me.
** Yeah, I said Boone’s! That’s barely even alcohol!
*** There are many good damn reasons I left the Southern Homestead and surrounding areas. Sadly, the family accounts for the vast majority of them.