Everything Must Go by Jenny Fran Davis (3)

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

September 24

Dear Elijah,

I’ve been at Quare for about two weeks now, and I have to say that it’s everything I thought it would be—and possibly more. I made a valiant effort to start off on the right foot (I even read the entirety of Naomi Klein’s writings over the summer in addition to Gender Trouble), but I’m not exactly rolling in friends at this point. Between writing a loser of a poem during an orientation exercise and taking all the good stuff from the Free Store before everyone else got to it, I’ve established myself as the neighborhood oddball. A Boo Radley of sorts. Only much less creepy (let’s hope).

Even so, it feels exciting. It feels like a new chapter, exactly what I need to clear my head from this past year, what with my parents and Bowen drama and the photo series. To be quite honest, I think the blog—in a certain way—saved me from thinking about all that other stuff. You could call it the perfect distraction.

I’m really looking forward to your visit. There are so many possible settings for Miss Tulip posts, and you can be sure I’m scoping them out!

Flora

Sam and I have been sitting together at dinner this whole week, making snide comments about the Quares. Yesterday, after we circled up and sang the pre-meal song about letting life move and stir us, I stood to the side, as usual, waiting for the crowd to die down before getting food.

“You’re always the last person to take food,” Sam noted, migrating over to where I was standing to wait beside me. Today his high-waisted slacks were plaid, secured with suspenders visible under his red-and-brown cardigan.

“I don’t do lines,” I said, only half kidding. “They strike me as so plebian.”

He laughed. “And you are . . . ?”

“A patrician, obviously.”

“Obviously. Has anyone ever complimented you on your posture? You’re like a ramrod.”

I told him that they had, just once or twice. My heart was beating fast, but not Elijah fast, just like I’m-a-little-bit-excited-and-I’ve-missed-witty-banter fast.

We sat at a table with Juna. For dinner was Miriam’s famous lentil loaf, which sounds much more disgusting than it is.

“Is this supposed to be so solid?” Sam slapped his fork on the mound of lentil loaf, which quivered gently.

“Again with the lentil loaf,” I said. “You really have something against it. I think it’s good.”

“Oh, it’s swell,” he said. “Now we have some form of self-defense.”

He looked around, then leaned forward conspiratorially.

“You never know when everyone is going to snap. They may seem sedated with love now, but I don’t want to know what’s going to happen when they find out how much money you spent on that outfit.”

I pushed his shoulder. Inside, I was beaming. There’s nothing like someone noticing my outfit. Despite Quare’s efforts to stamp this out of me, it is my DRUG.

“Stop it,” I said. “I look the part. See? I’m finally starting to fit in.”

He was kind of right, though. I was wearing a tunic with clogs, but the tunic was far from tattered. It was vintage DVF, for Christ’s sake. And the clogs, painted with an intricate design depicting a Renaissance scene, were comfortable, sure, but they’re those ones Daddy got me from Amsterdam on his “Amsterdam Dental Group Goes to Amsterdam” trip.

At that very moment, Althea and Michael Lansbury started doing contact improvisation right there in the dining hall. It’s this form of dancing where you’re always in contact, like sliding over each other’s backs and rolling on the floor on top of each other.

Needless to say, I would never in a million years do contact improv.

“I think,” I said, while everyone was still staring at Althea and Michael, “that once you’ve been here too long, you’re sort of not fit to be around people anymore. You go off the deep end.”

“Going off the deep end—that’s kind of a perfect metaphor,” Sam said. “Maybe going to Quare is like walking into a pond. Some of us are on the edge, just dipping our toes in from time to time. Other people are wading in, really getting their knees wet and getting used to the water like moms do, one segment of their bodies every fifteen minutes. Some people are actually swimming, doing those stupid flips in the water that always get water up your nose. And some people are, like, pegged under a rock at the bottom of the pond, just meditating. Those are the super-Quares.” He looked meaningfully at the Oracle of Quare, seven feet tall and skinny, with long, tangled yellow hair, then wearing a rainbow tie-dyed onesie and heart-shaped sunglasses and holding Basilia over his head like in that scene from The Lion King.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Well.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “It’s hard to say, because I’ve only known you for a month, Flo-Go, but I think you’re a toe-dipper. But more of a toe-dipper than you’d admit to being. Me, I’m not putting my toe in that nasty shit. I’m, like, sunbathing on the dock. SPF one hundred. I burn easily.”

It’s such a shame I’m not attracted to him, because he’s so funny, and I like talking to him. He really does remind me of my grandfather: crotchety when he’s hungry, uneasy around leafy green vegetables. He mediates so easily between the Quares, who seem to really like him—even though he makes fun of them all the time— and people like me. I feel like all I do is laugh around him, and it’s been so long since I’ve laughed this hard.

“You two are such characters, but I don’t think that’s a fair metaphor,” Juna said, obviously using the confrontation strategy of keeping her tone level and beginning with a lighthearted, nonjudgmental statement to remain amicable. But she had that pinched look on her face that she gets when somebody says something she doesn’t agree with. “Quare takes some getting used to, but I think you’ll find that it’s less homogenous than you think it is. Give it a chance. Or maybe talk to the Oracle about it? His office hours are on Wednesday nights, and if you’re unhappy, it’s really on you to address it.”

I’d thought that Juna and I had made strides in our relationship ever since I had recently and vocally agreed with her that Quare should do more to acknowledge that the school exists on land stolen from indigenous people. But tension clearly bubbled below the surface of her suggestion.

“I was talking to the Oracle the other day, actually,” Sam said. “He doesn’t believe in condoms because they make sex meaningless. He looks like he’d give a great massage, if you’re interested.”

It sounds mean, now that I write it, but he really was joking. He was smiling at Juna the whole time, trying to form an alliance with her. Juna, though, wasn’t biting.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” she said, not unkindly, stacking her dishes and standing up. The back of her skirt was tucked into her underwear, but it would be shell speak to point it out to her, so I averted my gaze.

“My pleasure,” Sam said easily.

“Well, I’ll see you around, I guess,” Juna said, and left.

Just because I have an ally now doesn’t mean I miss India, Cora, and Lael any less. Sam is just someone who sits across from me in the library and emails back and forth with me to pass the time.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:10 p.m.

I just found a long, curly black hair in my vegan oatmeal cookie. I feel like you’d know what to do with this information.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:15 p.m.

Spit it out, I guess?

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:16 p.m.

Genius.

I thought I’d be cool with it, but this natural stuff is kind of wearing on me. I think I need a cigar.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:21 p.m.

If you’re not a hippie, why are you at Quare?

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:24 p.m.

Public school sucks.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:24 p.m.

Really?

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:25 p.m.

Okay, maybe that’s not the whole truth. There was a small incident last spring, and my analyst said it would be good for me to get out of Montréal for a while.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:26 p.m.

“Montréal.” Avec l’accent aigu.

Also, you see an analyst?

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:30 p.m.

Mais oui. Bien sûr.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:33 p.m.

I guess I don’t know much about public school.

But seriously, that sounds hard.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:34 p.m.

“That sounds hard.” The Quare motto. I feel like I hear that fourteen times a day.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:34 p.m.

Sorry to be such a cliché.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:36 p.m.

That’s okay. It was hard.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:37 p.m.

Can I ask you something? Why do you dress like you’re eighty-five? Your cardigan today, for example. I think it’s really cool and everything, but I’m curious.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:38 p.m.

I’m pretty sure that’s shell speak. I could report you for that, you know.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:38 p.m.

Sorry.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:41 p.m.

I dress like this because I appreciate a casual, durable knit.

This is my leisure cardigan.

Maybe one day you’ll see me in a more luxurious garment, but not here.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:47 p.m.

Sarcasm is violence, you know.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:47 p.m.

A quiet but deadly violence?

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:48 p.m.

Nice riff on our Peace on Earth homework.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:49 p.m.

Don’t act so shocked that I did the reading.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:49 p.m.

I didn’t say I thought you’d actually DONE the reading.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re:

October 2, 9:51 p.m.

Harsh, but fair. Just as a patrician should be.

To: Faculty, staff, and students <[email protected]>

From: Allison Longfield <[email protected]>

Subject: birth

October 5, 8:44 a.m.

Dear Friends,

As some of you might have heard, I gave birth yesterday afternoon to a healthy and wise child, Olive. Inspired by our dear friend Meghan, who’s in Sudan this year on a Peace Corps mission, I thought I’d share some highlights from my birth with the community.

I was lucky enough to be in my birthing spot—the garden—when my water broke, splashing into the soil and reminding me of my connection to the earth. I squatted right where I was, between the onions and the zucchini, and allowed my body to sink into the ground. I closed my eyes and let the cool breeze tickle across my cheeks.

When I was certain that the contractions were real, I phoned my partner, who triples as my midwife and doula. He arrived in about thirty minutes, by which point the pain had become severe. Over the next hours, as many of you harvested crops around me while offering the occasional shout of encouragement and emotional check-in, I passed both blood and embryonic fluids, as well as a fair amount of fecal matter, into the soil (you’re welcome for the fertilizer, capital-F Friends!). Luckily, my partner was, as always, incredibly attentive—kissing and even stimulating me as necessary to bring my blood pressure down.

When Olive finally arrived outside of my body, my partner snipped the cord that united us with a pair of gardening shears. The placenta, as well as the cord, is in a wooden box in our house; we invite everyone to come meet Olive and interact with the cord, if you’ve never seen one before.

Peace,

Allison

Peace Studies teacher, Quare Academy

BA, Hampshire College

Sam and I were walking back from the garden after shared work when we reached the dining hall. Without any warning whatsoever, he jumped onto a picnic table, swung himself onto the roof of the kitchen, and clambered up so that he was sitting on the tiles. I stared up at him, still dumbfounded.

“Come on up,” he called down to me.

I didn’t exactly want to go up there—climbing has never been my forte—but somehow I managed to pull myself, with a lot of effort and some tugging on Sam’s part, into a seated position beside him. Sam was eating Panda Poop—the most sugary cereal Quare has; they’re little balls of peanut butter and raw sugar—from the box. I have no idea how he got the box or where it came from.

“Welcome to my perch,” Sam said. “I come up here to people watch all the time.”

“But there are no people out,” I said, looking around. It was gray and empty, twenty minutes before dinner, and the campus was deserted.

“You appear to be correct,” he said. “So let’s pretend there are people. Oh wait, there’s Zev, walking across campus like he owns the place.”

“He’s sauntering.”

“SAUNTERING?” Sam whistled. “Great work. A-plus. Gold star. Blue ribbon.”

I started to laugh. “Cream of the crop. Cat’s pajamas. The bee’s knees.”

I got a sudden urge to ask him something I’d wanted to know since the last week. “Can I ask why your analyst thought it would be good for you to leave Montréal for a while?”

Sam squinted into the horizon for a few seconds, eyebrows crinkling over his eyelids. “Sure, you can ask.”

“Well, I’m asking.”

He was silent for a few minutes more.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I said.

“No,” said Sam. “I want to. Just give me a second.”

I waited. I dug my hand into his Panda Poop and grabbed a handful. As soon as I began to crunch down, filling my mouth with alarmingly sugary peanut butter gunk, Sam spoke again.

“I mean, I wasn’t molested by my aunt or whipped with a Gucci belt or orphaned at age ten and sent to live with my evil aunt and uncle,” he said.

“Just because you’re not Charlie Kelmeckis or Harry Potter doesn’t mean your life hasn’t been hard.”

Sam swatted me with the cereal box. “Put a lid on it, Flora. It’s my turn to talk now.”

I swallowed a laugh. “Sorry. I’m trying to be an active listener.”

“Can it,” he said. “Anyway, I had my first anxiety attack when I was seven or eight, I think. We were driving over the Golden Gate Bridge on vacation, and I knew it was going to collapse. I knew it was going to collapse and that we were going to fall into the bay. It didn’t, but we did have to pull over until I calmed down.

“By the time I was twelve, I was a full-blown nervous wreck. I worried about my own death pretty much constantly. I couldn’t ride in cars or take trains or even leave my room very often. When I walked to school—because I couldn’t go in cars, remember—I went the two-mile route, and I took all the back streets to avoid cars. I even wore a bike helmet and kneepads, no shit.”

I nodded my appreciation for the gravity of the situation. I really WAS trying to engage in active listening. Sam didn’t seem to notice. He was still looking at the horizon and the blue-purple-green-red mountains in the distance.

“So my parents took me to the first of many therapists, who put me on some stuff to help with the anxiety, and for about two years afterward I was a calm, happy, blob. I looked like one of those hovering things in a Zoloft ad. I gained about fifty pounds, which was okay, because I was so skinny before, and also I grew about five inches, so there was that.”

“Was it happily ever after?” I asked hopefully.

Sam looked at me scornfully. “In your dreams,” he said. “And I’m not done.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“So after the Zoloft, I was pretty much your typical kid. The years went on, and I did more normal-kid stuff, like learn to drive, acquire a taste for old movies, and even enter into my very first relationship. Her name was Dorothy, by the way, and we were very much in love. But I’ll save that for another time, because it doesn’t actually have anything to do with this story. You following, Flo-Go?”

I nodded.

“So this is maybe eight months ago, at this point. I woke up one morning to the sound of my mom crying. I ran into the living room assuming that one of my grandparents was dead. But it turned out that it wasn’t one of my grandparents. It was my dad. The police had found his parked car by the side of the bridge, and then they’d found his body on the ice below the bridge. We didn’t even know he was depressed. My mom says he must have decided to do it very recently, because he’d just been told that his business was going to have to file for bankruptcy.”

Sam swallowed hard. My heart was racing, and I felt like crying and throwing up. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just grabbed Sam’s cold hand and squeezed.

“After that, I stopped taking the anxiety meds pretty quickly. I felt like they were preventing me from, I don’t know, experiencing my grief to the fullest extent. I don’t know why that’s something I felt I had to experience—an obligation to my dad, I guess. So I began to spiral. And pretty soon, when I couldn’t stand the sadness, I began to obsess over other things. I got really into my music and started writing songs. I wasn’t sleeping at all, or eating, which weirdly gave me superhuman-like energy. This went on for a few weeks, but when you’re not sleeping or eating, that’s enough time for you to pretty much lose it.

“My mom was like, ‘We’re going back to the shrink,’ but I was like, ‘Why? I’m doing great.’ It was like I was caffeinated without ever needing to eat, drink, or sleep. What’s wrong with that? So we made a deal: I’ll go, but first I’m going to perform at this open mic that my cousin Bobby hooked up for me. I was convinced that this was going to be my big break, that some big-shot person was going to be in the audience and see that I was the next Buddy Holly.”

“My God.” I knew where this was going. My palms were even sweating a little bit.

“So the days before the performance, I didn’t sleep—even less than usual, I mean. I practiced nonstop to make the song even more genius than it already is. I got to the place early, like, five hours early, and play some more backstage. My memory of this is pretty blank from here on out, actually, so you’ll have to watch the YouTube video next time you’re on the computer. All I remember is wearing one of my dad’s old suits—which was superbaggy, because of the weight loss—and trying to sing at the same high pitch as Frankie Valli.”

He was silent. I was silent.

“Were all your friends there?” I asked.

“Nope. But it spread pretty quickly around school. Someone filmed it. Obviously. Because it’s on YouTube.”

“Did you watch it?”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s why you’re here.”

“Pretty much. I wrote a heart-wrenching essay to get in here, and I guess they ate it up.”

“But you’re on . . . stuff?”

He nodded. “Antidepressants twice a day, sleeping pills every night, Xanax when I need it. I try not to use it, even though it feels fucking awesome, because I feel like after other stuff, I can take it from there.”

I nodded. “Thanks for telling me all that stuff. That’s really horrible.”

He shrugged. “It’s a little easier now. But sometimes it hits me, you know?”

“I know.”

“Your turn.”

I shook my head. “My parents divorced recently, which was hard, but hardly traumatic.”

“You’re from a broken home, Flo-Go? No shit. I didn’t realize that about you.”

We sat in contemplative silence for a few minutes, until the dinner bell rang out below us and I jumped about three feet in the air. The sound was amplified because of our position, and we scampered off the roof before anyone could see that we’d been up there. Climbing is encouraged, probably—to explore our hierarchical differences or whatever.

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

october 10

dear flora,

hope quare is treating you well / not sure if dec. will happen / but will keep you posted / don’t forget to smile / or just stare intently / cindy sherman self-portraits forever —e

Got an Elijah postcard. My chest immediately tightened, and my heart felt like it was close to exploding. Of COURSE he sent a Cindy Sherman postcard; he’s always loved her, and the fact that he said Cindy Sherman forever to me makes me feel like he might love ME. My arms and legs are shaking. I love him so freaking much. I’m in the library, reading old Miss Tulip posts and looking for evidence that he does love me HE DOES LOVE ME DOES HE LOVE ME

misstulipblog.com

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

October 13

Elijah,

WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, YOU’RE NOT SURE WHETHER OR NOT YOU’LL BE ABLE TO COME IN DECEMBER???

I was thinking about the poem we used to talk about, the Emily Dickinson one about a volcano that’s really about her vagina. And how when you told me that, I didn’t believe you. And how you were like, “You have to pay attention to the language. It’s all figurative.” And how I was like, “You shouldn’t sexualize Emily like that.” But then you told me that she wants us to—that that’s why the innuendo is there in the first place, so we can think of her in that way without her having to explicitly state it: I AM A SEXUAL BEING. Because, you know, she was Emily Dickinson, and she looked kind of like a spinster platypus. Lately I’ve been feeling like Emily, placing innuendos and hints all over the place for you to find, like a scavenger hunt, or something. And you come so close to finding all the pieces, but there’s that one that’s missing, and neither of us really knows what or where it is.

I was thinking about how we were in Margot Patisserie when you said this, probably drinking coffee, and it was probably a Thursday afternoon, and I probably was waiting for you to ask me if I wanted to go for a walk, and I probably would have agreed.

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

October 13

Dear Elijah,

It’s like that poem, “Along the Sun-Drenched Roadside,” by Rainer Maria Rilke. The poem you said was your favorite poem, and the one that’s now my favorite too. The guy passes by this trough of sparkling cold water, but he can’t drink it in normally. He has to let it seep in through his wrists, because drinking would be “too powerful, too clear.”

And it’s a love poem, really, because the last stanza goes, “Thus, if you came, I could be satisfied / to let my hand rest lightly, for a moment, / lightly, upon your shoulder or your breast.” The message being that the smallest things, the “unhurried gesture[s] of restraint,” are so perfect and satisfying in themselves.

It’s like how when you caught my gaze for a minute—“lightly, for a moment, / lightly”—or brushed your hands against mine, and I got tingles in my underwear up and down my body, it was so, so much more meaningful than if you had just reached down and kissed me, because isn’t the anticipation of the thing always better than

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

October 13

Dear Elijah,

In the words of Beyoncé, “Why don’t you love me when I make me so easy to love?”

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

October 13

Dear Elijah,

One of my favorite things to do here is canoe alone. You know how much I love my alone time (remember how Wednesdays were my introvert days, and I’d refuse to talk to anyone except sometimes you?), but it’s so scarce here—they really schedule us within an inch of our lives with shared work, nonviolent communication, and electives. So sometimes I just escape to the pond with a few books and my parasol (and, if I’m being honest, the dark chocolate truffles my friends send me from the city) and spend the afternoon floating. I’ve only been attacked by bugs a couple of times; usually it’s perfectly beautiful.

It’s almost like I don’t know what to do with myself here. I haven’t really settled into any role like I had at Bowen: I’m nobody’s friend (well, I kind of have one friend, actually), nobody’s sister, nobody’s muse. It’s a precious time, I guess, the predefinition stage, but also a disorienting one. Maybe that’s why I’m clinging so furiously to my old stuff—dressing in all my old clothes, clacking on my typewriter until my roommate groans and leaves the cabin to study elsewhere. It’s really the only thing reminding me of who I really am.

I’d love to hear about your sophomore year!

Flora

To: Faculty, staff, and students <[email protected]>

From: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: birth

October 13

Everyone,

I know you’ll join me in congratulating Allison on the birth of her child, as well as thanking her for demystifying the process of childbirth.

On an unrelated note, I’d like to make a request: the Oracle mentioned that the package room is looking rather crowded. To ensure that everyone feels comfortable in this space, please request packages from friends, family, and vendors off campus only when absolutely necessary.

I invite you to come speak with me if this presents a problem for you.

Blessings,

Miriam

It would be an understatement to call Flora Goldwasser an “outstanding” student. She’s deep, sensitive, creative, and a joy to have in class. Her comments, insights, and interpretive ability for literature has touched and impressed all of us. Her reading of the red room in Jane Eyre, for example, as a gaping vagina both illuminated Brontë’s original meaning and provided us with a jumping-off point to discuss “literature of the womb” in other works.

It’s a thrill and an immense pleasure to have her in class, and I’m looking forward to all the work she will continue to do. On a more personal note, my family and I have immensely enjoyed having Flora on our dinner prep crew on Thursday nights. She makes a mean vegan peanut butter cookie!

Flora is a brilliant and thoughtful student. When she participates in class, her ideas are important contributions, benefitting the entire class. The other students value her comments, and her work ethic sets a good example for the entire class. I especially enjoyed her analytical essay on Cronon’s “The Trouble with the Wilderness,” and I even photocopied it to share with the entire class.

Flora’s written work has been outstanding, some of the best I have encountered in terms of comprehension of the material, critical thinking, and technical proficiency. She possesses a deep understanding of all topics we covered in our first unit, Global Capitalism. (Even though she sympathizes with Paul Krugman more than some of her peers would like!)

There are many options for raising the level of expectations for her, if she is interested in being pushed further. I hope that she will accept at least a couple of more difficult assignments in the weeks ahead.

Flora is a deep thinker and provides an outspoken perspective on a number of the difficult issues we cover in Peace on Earth, a class that examines structures and models of nonviolence throughout history and culture. Her ability to connect past course work and experiences, the readings assigned, and others’ contributions to class discussion is exceptional. Her essay on Gandhi and King was both nuanced and thorough, prompting me to reflect on ideas that I had previously held without question.

I hope she will continue to set an example to other students by being able to change her mind as she becomes more informed.

Flora is an excellent student whose French language proficiency puts her at the highest level of Quare students. Her beautiful accent and impressive written work have urged me to request that she work with a couple of students at a lower level on their grammar and expression. I am happy to say that she has acquiesced.

Flora is a superlative student who works hard, thinks deeply, and does not let anything slip by. Her work is beautifully done and well thought-out. Flora is working at a good pace that she would do well to keep up for the duration of the semester.

October 18

Flora,

Your father has received your midsemester progress report in the mail, and he commends your excellent performance and urges you to “keep up the good work”! He was considering sending chocolates, but I advised him that perhaps flowers were a more prudent choice (it’s warm for October, and I didn’t want you to have a mess on your hands). So I called the flower place, but they don’t do deliveries in Main Stream. Nonetheless, congratulations on your well-earned success!

Sincerely,

Linda Lee Lopez, Receptionist

Cora Shimizu-Stein

95 Wall Street, Apt. 33A

New York, NY 10005

October 20

Corset,

Sam is in love with Marigold.

At first he wouldn’t admit it, but every time she comes and sits with us in the dining hall or he happens to be next to her in class, he gets all fidgety and trips over his words.

“How’s Marigold?” I asked him on our way to World Issues this morning, sort of teasing.

“I assume she’s fine,” said Sam. He kicked a rock with the toe of his white sneaker, and we both watched it sail far away. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you like her.”

He put his arm around my shoulders and breathed in the quilted shirt I was wearing, one of the only cute items in the Free Store that week. I’d cinched it with a black belt to keep it from billowing open in the passing breeze.

“What, was this your grandmother’s?” he asked. “It smells like Boca Raton.”

“How do you know about Boca Raton?”

He shook his head. “I’m from Montréal, not Siberia. I’m hardly provincial, Goldwasser. Give me some credit, please.”

“Actually,” I said, “I’m pretty sure it was Pearl’s. Every time she sees me wear it, she gives me this squinty look like she definitely recognizes it but doesn’t want to bring it up.”

Sam nodded. “That’s like the time I saw Zev in my boxers. First I was like, ‘I hope you washed those,’ but then I was like, ‘Wait a minute. How did those end up in the Free Store?’”

“Why don’t you just go up and talk to Marigold?” I asked, trying to catch him off guard.

His lips flew open. “And say?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what. Just make contact.”

Sam doubled over and wailed in pain. “I’m bad at this,” he said.

“She won’t like me. I’m nothing special, if you really think about it. I doubt she even knows my name.”

I rolled my eyes. “She obviously knows your name,” I said. “There are sixteen people in our class.”

“Okay, so she knows it.”

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” I asked.

He stared at me. “Haven’t you ever been to Jewish summer camp?” he asked.

“Do I look like I went to Jewish summer camp?”

He laughed. “Okay, so no. But kissing is a full-fledged activity. You pretty much sign up for it along with basket weaving and tennis. Have you ever been kissed?”

“It’s not very classy to kiss and tell.”

I might have sounded confident, but my heart was racing.

“You might even call it déclassé,” he said.

There was a pause. He wiggled his eyebrows at me, but I just shook my head.

“I keep forgetting that you went to an all-girls school,” Sam said. “Boeing. Was that what it was called?”

I threw my head back. “BOWEN,” I corrected. “It’s a fancy private school, not a midsize commercial jet. You should write about Marigold in your column. ‘Society by Sam.’ That would be so romantic.”

It’s still funny to me that Sam writes for the Quare Times, because it makes him such a Joiner, you know?

By that time, we’d arrived at World Issues, and I’d gotten out of answering his question.

Oh, Cora. Bowen did us no favors in this department. We can conjugate Latin verbs all the livelong day, but when it comes to boys, we’re illiterate.

Later that night, I took a good look at Marigold when she and I were brushing our teeth side by side in the communal bathroom. Silky hair, soft lips, and the most perfect complexion I’ve ever seen. I’ve been fighting the urge to borrow her (all-natural, of course) skin care products that have lined the shelves in the bathroom this entire semester. I could totally see why Sam would like her, not just because she’s beautiful, but also cool in that way that doesn’t announce itself too annoyingly.

That’s major shell speak, but still. Sam and I are being rebels and not participating in the “no shell speak” rule. So there.

Virginally yours,

Flo

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

October 20

Lael,

Well, whoop-de-doo. The first time I hear from Daddy in weeks, it’s through Linda Lee Lopez, and it’s about my grades (well, narrative comments—we don’t get grades here). Because of course he doesn’t ACTUALLY care about anything besides my transcript.

Maybe he’s trying. But he’s going to have to work a little bit harder than this.

Flora

Cora Shimizu-Stein

95 Wall Street, Apt. 33A

New York, NY 10005

October 20

Cora my love,

I just read the article. India sent me the clip. Helena Brown is such a jerk for writing that. And to call your mother a “geisha girl”? So shamefully racist. Promise me you won’t pay any attention to what idiots like her say about your family. It will blow over in one week flat. I promise.

Did you ever go see him, by the way? Your father, I mean. If you’re going to go, I would go sooner rather than later. Northern Minnesota isn’t anywhere you want to be going past November.

What does Dr. Modarressi say about all this?

Please remember that I love you,

Flora

India Katz-Rosen

1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C

New York, NY 10028

October 25

India,

At dinner last night, as the whole school was circling up in the dining hall, I found myself next to Dean Elliot. She told me that starting in November, she’s directing a play of her own, one she’s been writing since the summer. It’s called 300 Years of Mourning.

She said, “You should audition. Later this week. We can meet beforehand and run lines, if you want.”

So we did. Today.

I got there early, because from Pine House it’s only a five-minute walk to Woolman Theater. Pine House is where Gus Phillips, who teaches Peace on Earth, lives. All the teachers get their own houses on the fringe of campus, and when it’s too cold to go outside, we usually have classes in their living rooms. Some of them are nice and make us hot chocolate and tea. Gus is one of the nice ones. Once there were a few condom wrappers stuffed between Gus’s couch cushions. People wouldn’t shut up about it for ten years afterward. (So much for sex positivity, am I right?)

Anyway, I was at Woolman Theater a little early. It was a pretty bleak walk over. There’s no snow yet, but all the leaves have fallen off the trees, so everything looks heavy and gray. I hadn’t been alone in the theater since the first Guild meeting, so it was a little weird to have it all to myself, all empty and dark and just a little bit sad.

When Dean arrived, her satchel overflowing with papers and books, she looked perfect, as usual, in a satiny black dress with a crocheted lace collar. I think I’d seen the dress in the Free Store, but without the collar and the white buttons going down the front, so I wondered if she’d sewn them. Her loafers were black and shiny too, just like her hair.

Dean said, “I’m glad you made it. I’m sorry I’m late. The fucking printer in the library was being a bitch.”

I nodded, because I’ve had experience with the library printer too. It’s ancient and takes about forty days to print one sheet of paper.

I told Dean that I hadn’t been waiting too long.

She strode toward the stage and swung herself up onto it in one single hop, letting her legs dangle.

“So it’s called 300 Years of Mourning,” she said. “Mourning with a u. It’ll make sense once you read it. It’s Victorian and kind of wacky. I’m just deciding which . . .” She was shuffling around in her satchel. “Okay, I think I’ve got it. This is the part where the main character’s, Elizabeth’s, younger sister, Fanny, acts like kind of a brat. Fanny’s whole bit is that she’s obsessed with the guppies in the fountain outside. So do you want to skim the script and then read for me?”

I read the script. It was funny, definitely odd. I was wearing my cream-and-green knit skirt suit, so I felt a little too dowdy to be playing a seven-year-old girl, but I had no choice but to go with it.

“Are you ready?” Dean asked. “I’ll read for Elizabeth.”

Here’s what I remember of the first lines of script:

ELIZABETH: Fanny, come inside for dinner. Cook’s been calling you for ages.

FANNY: I’ve already got my dinner. It’s right here in the fountain!

Dean stopped me.

“That was good. I like the way you read. Most people don’t pronounce the words enough, but you’ve got a nice, slow tempo.”

She studied me up and down.

“The only problem is that you read it like you’re a ninety-five-year-old grandma. You’re all bent over and crooked, like a fucking C.”

I fell all over myself, apologizing.

“Don’t apologize. Just do it right next time.”

I swallowed and tried again.

“Okay, now that we’ve established that you can pronounce words and stand up straight, I need a little more emotion,” coached Dean. I liked that she was blunt, but it didn’t make me any less scared of her.

“Like this?” I tried to put passion into the line like I did when I played Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream back at Bowen.

“Not feeling it,” Dean said, shaking her head, and I panicked that she would send me away. “You’re supposed to be performing, for heaven’s sake. Can you change your voice a little bit? Like, the tone and the volume? Right now what I’m getting is like the color of the sky outside right now.”

I got the picture.

So the next time I read the line, I went all out. I screamed and stomped my foot. I wasn’t even humiliated, actually. I just really, really wanted to please Dean.

But Dean just laughed. “That’s supposed to be emotional? This is a wacky play, Flora, not Anne of Green fucking Gables.”

I was close to tears at that point, but there was no way I was showing Dean that. I filled my lungs with air, and before she knew what was happening, I burst out anew: “NO!” I wailed. “THOSE ARE MY GUPPIES! NOBODY CAN TAKE AWAY MY GUPPIES! I-I-I’LL THROW MYSELF OUT THIS WINDOW, I SWEAR I WILL!”

Not sure how else to convey Fanny’s despair, I threw myself on the ground, beat my fists against the floor, tossed myself this way and that, flung my limbs into the air like I was being electrocuted. When I was done, I lay on the floor, panting, a bit dazed that I had done something so crazy.

But it had worked. Dean was laughing, and she continued to laugh for what felt like three solid minutes.

“Totally overdramatic,” she said. “There it is. Thank you. You accessed your inner crazy. Insanity is the way to go for you, I think. Sometimes it is, especially for the people who seem as though they have it all together.”

I got to my feet, seeing stars.

We kept reading. We read every line perhaps twenty times, until my voice was hoarse and my arms and hip bones were bruised from all the thrashing on the floor and against the stage. When Dean was finally satisfied, she reached into her leather satchel and extracted a Mason jar filled with tinted liquid. As she unscrewed it, I realized it was alcohol, and I looked left and right to make sure nobody was around. The theater was silent, cozily thrumming with heat; even the hard-backed pews, lined with thin cushions, looked inviting. But there was the minor matter of the abstinence pledge we’d all signed in September, after all, and that was enough to make me squirm.

Dean chugged from the Mason jar for a few seconds and then held it out to me, gulping.

I accepted it and stared down into it. It was slightly cloudy, and I wasn’t crazy about putting my mouth to it, but Dean was watching me, so I took a small sip. It was repugnant and burned on the way down, doubly irritating because my throat was already scratched raw from all the screaming.

I must have made a face.

“It’s moonshine,” said Dean. “Louis makes it right on the back porch of his A-frame, no shit. It’s good, right?”

My esophagus felt scalded, so I just nodded and handed the jar back.

Then Dean told me I could go, and she said, “Between you and me, I think you’ve got Fanny in the bag.”

As I walked from Woolman Theater to my hovel, where Lucy and Benna were somewhat inexplicably curled up on our couch together in front of the woodstove, whispering sweet twin nothings into each other’s ears (and I didn’t even have Juna to commiserate with, because the few times I had tried to make snide comments to her, she had just stared at me, Quare-eyed), my elation dimmed just slightly. I know I should be happy, what with all the praise from my teachers and Dean, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s all kind of empty. I mean, as cool as it can be here, I miss you guys. A lot.

Love,

FMG

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: visit?

October 25, 4:11 p.m.

Hey, dude,

How’s it going, home slice?? We never talk anymore. And you don’t have any excuse: I’m a second-year now, so we can actually email.

You promised you’d come visit this fall and see all the teachers. I told them about how we’ve known each other forever through the Chicago Arts summer session and they’re all, like, “Wow, we really miss that guy.” Plus, a disturbing number of first-years have been fangirling over you ever since the latest of issue of Nymphette hit computer screens everywhere (classy move to not name Quare, btw).

So what gives?

D

To: Guild <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: “300 Years of Mourning” cast list

October 26, 4:11 p.m.

Elizabeth / Dean Elliot

Gregory / Michael Lansbury

Paul / Gary North

Calliope / Althea Long

Susanna / Luella Lookman

Carlos / Shy Lenore

Fanny / Flora Goldwasser

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

October 26

Lael,

Jesus Christ, I just had the worst and weirdest interaction with that girl Becca Conch-Gould, who’s my neighbor on one side. We’re in Guild together, and after I got Fanny and she didn’t, she’s been super cold to me in the dining hall and in class.

But then tonight, just now, she knocked on the door to my hovel. When I opened the door, she was standing there in the moonlight, arms crossed at her chest.

I was in there alone (Juna was at a meeting for the Feminist Underground, which she always invites me to, and although I considered going for once this time—just to see what it was all about—I ultimately decided that I had too much reading), so I invited Becca in. She sat on the floor, against Juna’s bed, and not wanting us to be on different levels, I sat on the floor against my bed. We faced each other. It goes without saying that Becca and I are not friends; we’ve probably had three short conversations in the two months (!) that I’ve been here.

“Is everything okay?” I asked finally, after she’d pouted at me for thirty seconds.

She let out a beleaguered sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s just something I have to get off my chest.”

“Go for it,” I said. My heart started to pound.

“The part,” she said. “I mean, I didn’t see you read, so it’s possible that you were really good, but a few of us have been studying acting for years, and it’s a little bit unbelievable that none of us got parts.”

I blinked at her. It was one of those moments that was so surprising that it felt, actually, entirely expected: this bug-eyed, chinless girl with feather earrings accusing me of playing the system, or whatever, and taking parts from those who were more deserving.

“Okay,” I said, not sure what else to say.

“I just wanted to say that we all get that you’re superspecial and everything”—a mocking grin curled at the corners of her lips; clearly she was amused by her own biting wit—“but that doesn’t mean you’re entitled to special privileges. I thought I’d bring this up with you directly rather than let it simmer.”

I stared at her. Lael, I thought I was going to punch her out. One of my hands actually rose automatically, but I gripped the side of my bed instead. And the way she kept reiterating her own maturity, manifesting in her ability to be directly aggressive rather than keep her petty bullshit to herself!! It was unbelievable, really.

“What do you mean?” I asked, struggling to control my tone.

She ignored my question and instead stood, presumably to leave. She took a step toward the door, and then turned to speak again.

“It’s clear that Dean feels bad for you because people think you’re really materialistic and everything,” she said. Her voice had now taken on a sickening sweetness, complete with an innocent shake of the head. My stomach flipped over. “But you get everything. People like you always get everything in the outside world, and I guess you’re allowed to have whatever you want at Quare, too.”

I jumped to my feet, seeing stars. Probably expecting me to deck her, Becca lunged toward the door and opened it, hopping like a cricket onto the porch but continuing to hold the door open. Her eyes danced around my face. We stared at each other.

“You’re really cool, Becca,” I said finally. “So great. We should hang out more.”

Her face crumpled, then curled into a grin. My sarcasm—on our first day, Miriam had spoken to us about Quare’s no-sarcasm rule, designed to promote vulnerability and sharing genuine emotion—was proof of my inferiority; this was what Becca had been expecting all along. She shut the door, not a slam but close to it, and sprinted back to her hovel. Trip, trip, trip, I chanted in my head, but she didn’t so much as stumble.

My body still feels funny.

I guess what’s really getting to me is that I honestly don’t even blame Becca for hating me. I have something she wanted; I probably have lots of things that she wants, at least things that make life easier for me in the outside world. But at the same time, her accusation, her bitterness, turned my stomach. Something about the way she wears her anger and sadness on her face, in her words, disgusts me, and I’m not sure why. Maybe the thing is that it—she—makes me sad. Lael, I feel so torn. Half of me is still shimmering in the glory of getting this part, but the other part doesn’t even want it anymore.

Love,

Flora

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: “300 Years of Mourning” cast list

October 26, 5:10 p.m.

Dean! Thank you so much for the part. Can I get back to you on whether or not I plan to appear in the play?

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: “300 Years of Mourning” cast list

October 26, 5:59 p.m.

Just so you know, Flora, the part of Fanny came down to you or either of two first-years—Juna and Becca. I decided that Juna and Becca weren’t ready for it. So while you’re up onstage, playing Fanny, which I’ve rewritten and tweaked especially for you, there are going to be some people in the audience who aren’t rooting for you.

We like to say, “This is Quare, so everybody roots for everybody,” but that’s pretty much bullshit. The thing about Guild is that it’s the only society on campus where it’s okay to be a little bit competitive—to admit that we’re not all equals at everything, and that some of us rise to the top because we’re that much better. In a school of thirty-four students, competition doesn’t work very often—not with grades or sports or anything like that—but in the case of Guild, it’s our lifeblood.

I shouldn’t be telling you this, but at the end of the semester, the master player picks a new apprentice for the spring. And getting this parts means you’re in the running for apprentice.

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: “300 Years of Mourning” cast list

October 26, 8:12 p.m.

Were you in Guild as a first-year?

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: “300 Years of Mourning” cast list

October 26, 8:25 p.m.

I was. And my first-year fall, I auditioned for my first play, just like you did. I lost the part to Michael, whom they decided to dress up as a girl rather than cast me. God, I was devastated. But then I auditioned for the next play, and I got a part, and then another, and another. And I’m planning to do more theater next year, at the University of Chicago (assuming I get in—I’m telling people I applied there early decision because I think jinxing is witchcraft).

Talk to Susan María Velez, who’s going to be the playwright in residence next term, if you ever decide to get into writing. She’ll also be the Guild faculty adviser.

You can do this, Flora. People are going to like you. To tell you the truth, nobody cares how deep or pure or Quare you are. They care about liking you, and they like you if you make their reality even a little bit better—more entertaining, funnier, smarter. That’s what’s real. I like your style, Flora. You’re different. Don’t compromise that to fit in here.

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: “300 Years of Mourning” cast list

October 26, 8:29 p.m.

I promise that I’ll try not to!

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected].edu>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: “300 Years of Mourning” cast list

October 26, 8:27 p.m.

There’s one more thing. For years, Miriam has begged the Guild master player and apprentice to write and submit plays to the Young Innovators’ Promise Awards—YIPA, they’re called, for all sorts of literary and visual arts. If someone at Quare wins a YIPA gold medal, the entire school gets recognized by the government as a charter for the arts, or some shit like that, and its ranking goes through the roof. That means more people apply, fewer get in, and its tuition soars, which means of course that it becomes richer. It’s a money game, at the end of the day. That’s why they’re so insistent that we win, though they’d never breathe a word of this to any student. And they know that the Guild master player and apprentice are more likely to win than members of Languedoc or whatever, with their menstrual blood paintings.

I’m only telling you this because if you want to submit a play, you should start thinking and writing as soon as possible.

India Katz-Rosen

1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C

New York, NY 10028

October 28

Dear India,

Cora’s not writing me back. Can you bug her, please?? Or at least let me know how she’s doing?

I’ve been in the Free Store all day. It’s my favorite place north of Harlem.

What is this place, you might ask? It’s in the attic of the Art Barn, and it’s where old clothes find new owners. It operates on the premise of the gift economy: nobody charges, and nobody pays.

All this to say that if you’re willing to sort through some nasty junk, there are pretty neat clothes to be found, totally free of charge.

A sampling of the contents of the Free Store as of October 22

•   A pair of sagging gray tights with holes in the crotch and down the legs

•   A pair of cracked leather shoes with droopy tongues but awesome laces

•   A suede vest with fringe and a little cowboy logo

•   A khaki jacket, made for light spring, size 2X

•   A pair of lime-green hot pants

•   An assortment of thick socks

•   A pair of Rollerblades, size five

•   A tweed dress, slightly frayed but magnificent

•   An A-line navy wrap skirt with a thick red seam (tried it on, a little tight but it’s a go)

 

I’m not sure how into Halloween people here get (some people seem to celebrate it by dressing up in wild costumes every day, but because of “no shell speak” we’re forbidden from commenting on any of it), but I’m sure getting into it. Do you remember when we—you, Cora, and I—went as Nancy Drew, George Fayne, and Bess Marvin?

I’m still a little pissed that you guys made me be Nancy and ask for the candy on all our behalves.

Anyway, Sam and I are going as Suzy Bishop and Sam Shakusky from Moonrise Kingdom. Sam has one of those beaver hats (fake, of course), and obviously I have a mod pink dress and knee socks. Sam is such a blast.

Climb ev’ry mountain,

Flora

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: visit?

October 29, 2:13 p.m.

Hey, D,

I want to come. I really do. I miss you, dude. But things are kind of complicated. I do have some time later in the semester. Did I tell you about that girls’ school—the tutoring gig? It’s a long story.

E

Emma Goldwasser

82 West 17th Street, Apt. 2B

New York, NY 10011

October 31

Mum,

I haven’t heard from you in a few weeks, so I wanted to write and let you know how things are going. Today is Halloween (as you can see from the date), and it was fun to get into costume.

Please write to me whenever you can. I’m curious to hear about your new apartment.

Love,

Flora

PS: Did Daddy send you my midsemester report?

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

November 1

Lael,

I’m still shaking from what just happened.

I’ve just about had it with meeting for worship. I think it was sent from the devil just to torture me. But let me back up.

Meeting for worship is mandatory. It’s every Wednesday for an hour, right at the end of classes. Half an hour of silence. No knitting, no journaling, no reading. We straggle in from women’s literature, sit on hard-backed pews, and try to get in touch with the great beyond. Quakers believe in direct communication with God, that every person should speak her own truth; there are no preachers or rabbis or reverends. It’s very beautiful, and all that, but have you ever tried to sit in silence for half an hour?

It’s really hard.

Usually I watch people. I watch the ropes of drool that slither out of Althea’s mouth when she falls asleep on her pew (because they can’t exactly outlaw napping, though it is discouraged). I watch the people who get creepy smiles with their eyes glazed over. I watch Gabriel, the environmental studies teacher, and his wife, Sarah the baker, hold hands when they think nobody’s looking. I imagine Sam, who’s excused from Meeting for Worship because he sometimes uses the hour to talk on the phone with his analyst back in Montreal. Sometimes I manage to daydream a little, despite the hard pew pressing into my spine. The minutes always drag by, but usually it’s halfway bearable, even kind of calming and nice.

But not today.

Today, twenty minutes into the meeting, Juna stood up to speak her truth. People are allowed to do that, you know—stand and speak their truths. She was wearing a dress that was three different, yet equally abhorrent, shades of yellow. She looked like a penis turned inside out.

“I’ve been thinking about shell speak,” she said. People always begin their comments with “I’ve been thinking about . . .” because it’s not normal to barrel right ahead into a thought without any preamble.

“It feels weird to me that we’re working to create this community of, like, decreasing the value of physical appearance, yet it doesn’t seem that we’re all equally committed to that,” she said. “I feel disheartened when people bring relics of the empire, like fancy shoes and designer clothes, into Quare. I thought Quare would be an escape from all that. We’re trying to build this radically inclusive community where we’re judged for things other than our clothing, and being reminded of the premium that the outside world places on appearance hinders that work.”

I was sitting there, barely breathing. She was talking about me. She thought I was the empire. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, looking at me but pretending not to. It was all so obvious. And BECCA! She was trying hard to hide her smirk from me, but her cheeks still pulled her entire lower face up, making her look deranged.

And I was royally pissed. My hands started to shake. I looked down at the outfit I chose this morning: a white short-sleeved blouse tucked tastefully into a vintage wrap skirt. Black DKNY stockings. Suede boots with a half-inch heel. I had stared at my reflection in the mirror this morning and felt like a young woman trying to make it in the male-dominated world of publishing in the 1960s, and I’d felt damn good, like a real vixen.

My heart was thudding so hard that I could feel it in my earlobes. As soon as Juna sat down, smug and self-satisfied, I stood up shakily, grabbing on to Lucy’s shoulder for support. My toes were clenched inside my boots. Everyone looked up at me expectantly, their eyes trained on my face. Their greasy hair fell in stiff blocks, glasses sliding down their noses, chapped lips open wide. Their unwashed clothes emitted a smell so strong that it was visible. I would never say this to anyone but you, but I couldn’t help feeling that despite their holier-than-thou values and righteousness, I was better than they were. Emboldened by Dean’s email (I’ve included it), I felt SPECIAL. I looked out at the sea of flannel and Mason jars and Birkenstocks with socks. I am superior, I thought, because I am all that and more.

There’s nothing quite like being angry and also being sure you’re right.

“No one’s placing undue premium on clothes besides you,” I said. My voice was shaking so badly that I had to take a few deep breaths. It was dead silent. Some people looked away, while others looked up still, bleary-eyed. “It’s really that simple. If you want Quare to be a place for everybody, then you have to accept everybody who’s here, whether or not they wear harem pants or wash their hair.”

I paused to smooth my hands over my skirt. The words flooded my mouth so fast that I could hardly speak quickly enough to get them all out.

“Wearing nice clothes isn’t shell speak. Shell speak is judging people for what they’re wearing. It’s totally counterproductive to subtly prioritize dressing without care to rebel against the rest of the world, where dressing well is prioritized, because you’re just flipping the pressure. Not caring what you look like in no way makes you superior. You’re not better than I am because you’re too pious to put on something that looks like you put any effort into it at all. That’s not what a radically inclusive community looks like.”

My knees were shaking so much that I could barely stand still. My stomach was fluttering all over the place. Instead of sitting back down in the pew, I snatched my yellow peacoat, swung it around my shoulder like a cape, and strode out of the meetinghouse, my suede boots clicking on the wooden floor with each step. I pushed open the heavy doors and stepped outside, letting the door slam shut with an angry boom behind me. I was still royally pissed, but now I was filled with adrenaline. I felt like a badass, but a sort of melancholy badass.

It’s hard for me to explain to you why I was so agitated and antsy. What Juna had said using her stupid “I” statements and nonviolent communication technique was infuriating. And how she’d clearly judged me as inferior because I wasn’t exactly like her, how they’d all stared at me and politely averted their eyes, made me irate. But even though each of those things was making me angry, neither of them was really the reason. It was something larger than the sum of its parts. I felt vindicated, sure, but also cheap somehow—not as good as I thought I’d feel on the cusp of my outburst. I’m just guessing here, but maybe it was because I felt that somehow making such a concerted effort not to fit in was actually, well, not letting me fit in. Sounds obvious, I know, but it still hurt. It’s like this: my prior vision of myself was of someone mysterious, the Elegant One who floats in her own orbit. But after Juna’s comments, it seemed more like I was just the Shallow One—the one everyone scorns.

I was in such a bad, desperate mood that I felt like crying. Outside the meetinghouse, I walked over to a patch of newly sprouted wildflowers and sat down. And I did cry, a little bit. I wanted to go home, not back to my cabin or back to Daddy’s shack, but to West Seventy-Ninth Street. The people with insipid smiles on their faces in the meetinghouse are not my people. You and India and Cora are my people. I haven’t been around my people in a long time.

Then came anger at more people than just the Quares. I was furious at myself for wanting to come here at all, just to impress stupid Elijah, who writes me three sentences on a postcard and won’t even say for sure whether or not he’s coming to Quare at some point; furious at Mum and Daddy for LETTING me leave Bowen, when any psychologist could easily tell that I was just trying to escape my crumbling home life, or whatever; furious at Quare for accepting me when they knew I wouldn’t fit in here; furious at India and Cora for getting to stay at Bowen . . . even furious at you, if I’m being perfectly honest, for graduating and going to college.

So I was sitting in the wildflowers, quietly steaming and crying into my black stockings, when someone came and sat down next to me. I didn’t look up, just felt the presence of the body beside me.

But then my curiosity got the better of me, and I lifted my head.

It was Dean, in high-waisted mom jeans and a flannel button-down. She didn’t say anything, just sat down next to me, her knees bent up.

Of course, I was a sniffling mess, so I sucked the snot back into my nose and wiped my eyes with the sleeves of my peacoat. She didn’t say anything for a while.

“How are you?” she finally asked.

I grunted noncommittally, because I didn’t trust my voice.

“Meeting for worship was hard for me at first too,” she said. “I was raised Presbyterian. The preacher talks to you, and then you get to go home. Being your own deliverance is tough. A lot of things come up.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “It’s what Juna said.”

Dean was silent for a few seconds. “Was it?” she asked.

“What do you mean? That’s what I was responding to in there.”

She nodded slowly. “So Juna was talking about you,” she said.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

I threw up my hands in frustration, not even caring that I was showing a very déclassé side of myself to Lighthouse Dean.

“Of course she was talking about me,” I said. “I’m the only one who wears . . . what she said. And I always see her giving me these looks of pity, like, ‘Isn’t it sad that you think you need to wear nice clothes to be accepted?’ Not that other people aren’t constantly judging me also.”

“How do you know?”

Was she serious?

“It’s the way they look at me. The way they don’t talk to me unless they have to, and the way they raise their eyebrows when I walk by.”

Dean nodded some more.

“So you’re making every effort to get to know them, too,” she said, “and it’s failing because they won’t give you the time of day. I see. That makes perfect sense.”

My mouth opened. She was starting to sound like . . . you, to be perfectly honest.

“Flora, why are you at Quare?” Dean asked.

I couldn’t tell her the truth. I just couldn’t. I felt like the biggest fool in the universe, crying into the flowers about being at this ridiculous place—a place I’d come for the cool little baby bird I’m in love with.

“I . . . well . . .” I started to say.

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean laid her arm lightly against mine, sending an electric shock through my body. “All I’m saying is that you have to give them a chance if you want them to give you one. It goes both ways. Decide to like them, and they’ll decide to like you.”

My heart was still pounding, but now it was with mortification. I still thought I’d been wronged, of course, but now it didn’t seem so black and white.

“You’re really not that different than they are,” Dean said.

I scoffed openly.

“Really,” she said. “When you think of yourself as so different, you become so different. All you’ll be able to think about are the ways that you’re an outcast.”

I took a few deep breaths.

“What if I like being different?” I finally asked.

“Well, then you have to accept the consequences,” she answered, but not in a mean way. In a firm and gentle way.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” she said.

A pause.

“Look,” Dean said, pointing at the sky, “the sun’s finally out.”

It did feel a bit warmer, but I was still wiggling my half-frozen toes around. Those boots I got on Madison Avenue weren’t exactly warm (though they are adorable, and I stand by—and in—them).

“Take my socks,” Dean offered. She shook off her mud-caked farm boots and then stripped off her deliciously thick wool socks. Her feet were pale and shocked looking, as though her skin itself were squinting in the sunlight.

I accepted the socks. They were still warm from her feet, soft and fluffy and glorious. I jokingly offered her to trade, but of course she didn’t take my stockings.

I stuffed my boots back on, not caring that they looked ridiculous over the socks. She sat with me until the meeting was over and people streamed out. Lucy and Fern shot us a suspicious look, but I didn’t care.

O Dean! O lighthouse!

Love,

Flora

To: Cora Shimizu-Stein <[email protected]>

From: India Katz-Rosen <[email protected]>

Subject: weird experience

November 3, 9:02 p.m.

Hey, babe,

I’m emailing because my mom confiscated my phone. She says I have to do well on my math test tomorrow or no more shopping. She’s actually camped out on the bench outside my room right now to make sure I’m studying, but she can’t tell from where she is that I’m emailing you and not Dr. Bergman.

ANYWAY, the weirdest thing happened to me this afternoon. Remember how I said the debate team was going up to Columbia for an invitational? Well, we went—we lost big-time; what else is new—and then Stacy, Onitra, Vivienne, and I went to that café in the student center. Alfred Hall, or something like that. You know, the glass building on Broadway and 115th?

Well, we got our muffins and coffee, and were looking for a place to sit—the place was absolutely packed with students and professors—when whom do we see but Elijah Huck?

Of course you remember Elijah the history Tutor. Flora wouldn’t shut up about him last year, especially because he was actually HER Tutor and they met one-on-one all those times to talk about her essays on St. Francis of Assisi or whatever. I mean, I guess he’s kind of cute (actually, I think he looks like a baby bird: it must be the beaky nose, feathery blond hair, and round glasses), especially for Bowen, but in the real world, he’s kind of meh. I was actually surprised at how meek he looked surrounded by guys instead of just Bowen girls.

Anyway, as I brushed by his table with the girls, he looked up at me. I swear, we must have made eye contact for about fifteen solid seconds, until I finally just eked by him and made my way to another table. But the look he gave me—it was so bizarre, like he was trying to suck my soul out of my eyes or something. We’ve never spoken, obviously, and I don’t even know if he knows I go to Bowen. Besides, didn’t he quit or something? This year, all the Tutors are women, I think. But anyway, it was bizarre as fuck.

Okay, I should probably go study for math before my mom comes in here.

Oh yeah, also, hi, Flora. I know you still periodically check my Bowen email (God, can you believe some friends DON’T share passwords?) for Bowen gossip and will probably read this when you’re home for Thanksgiving break. Sorry I called Elijah a meek baby bird. But you can’t really deny that that’s EXACTLY what he looks like.

xx!!!

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

November 7

Dear Flora,

Dean sounds like my cup of tea. She’ll do in my stead. Plus, she has a point about feeling different from everyone else. I think you have this romantic idea of yourself as a Grace-Kelly-dress-clad outcast—an image no doubt fueled by Elijah, or whatever, and his creepy yet adoring gaze—but remember, Flora: all that is just your shell.

LMAO.

I also want to raise the question of your true motives for being at Quare. I mean, yeah, you’re there primarily because of Elijah— that much is clear—but what if something in your subconscious wanted you to go there for other reasons too? What if what you’re telling India and Cora—about Bowen being stifling, about wanting to prove to yourself that you can stick this out—is actually, well, kind of THE REAL REASON? After all, how hard would it have been to simply change your plans and just return to Bowen after finding out that he wouldn’t be going to Quare this year?

Maybe it’s crazy. But all the stuff you’re trying to prove to Elijah—that you’re an adventurous and wild and up-for-anything type of gal—what if you’re actually trying to prove it to YOURSELF?

My point is, you don’t have to have a plan for how Elijah reacts to your being at Quare. You’re there, and the more I hear about it, the more I’m sold that it’s kind of exactly where you need to be right now. You’re not going anywhere. Not on my watch, anyway.

Also, I’m not sure if you knew this, but Mum moved a few weeks ago. Not far, though. Just a few blocks south to be closer to Washington Square Park (because we both know how much she thinks she loves nature). I wrote her new address on the back of this paper. Ignore the psych notes. We’re learning about confirmation bias. Go figure.

What do you want for your birthday, by the way? I know you said that birthdays aren’t celebrated at Quare, which I suppose makes sense from a philosophical standpoint, but it’s still depressing. So if none of your friends there are giving you anything, my gift had better be top-notch—better than the typewriter last year, even.

From,

Lael

At Sweet Home, Sethe is milked as though she is a cow; this abuse contorts her both emotionally and physically as she becomes stamped and imprinted inside and out. After being raped, Sethe thinks to herself, “I am full of . . . two boys with mossy teeth, one sucking on my breast the other holding me down, their book-reading teacher watching and writing it up” (83). Morrison paints the boys as carnal and carnivorous, and they leave an emotional imprint, one that stays with Sethe two decades after the fact and continues to mutilate and distort her body. Being milked brings a literal change in shape, one that is deflated and sucked out, and so it is somewhat paradoxical that Sethe says that she is “full of” the experience. Morrison’s play on words reveals that Sethe harbors a poignant memory that lingers long after her abuse. In effect, Sethe is still “full of” being emptied— literally and figuratively.

COMMENTS

Fascinating stuff, Flora. You’re suggesting that Sethe’s rape forces her very shape to change, and I think you’re on to something. When something is taken out of Sethe—as you say, she’s “milked as though she is a cow”—she in fact becomes “full” in a way that seems to defy logic. What are other ways in which violation—the little thefts to which women-bodies, particularly those marked for racial violence, are constantly subject—actually fill us up? And with what tools, feelings, and thoughts do they stuff us? To whom do these thoughts and feelings actually belong?

India Katz-Rosen

1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C

New York, NY 10028

November 11

India dear,

We’re swimming in apples up here. All the trees are bursting with them, and they’re incorporated into every dish in every meal. Apple pancakes, applesauce, apple casserole, apple pie, apple and quinoa salad, apple and kale stir-fry, apple-infused potatoes, apple fritters, apple muffins, seitan with apples, apple slaw—you get the picture. Some people are talking about bobbing for apples, but the thought of sticking my head in a barrel that everyone else’s heads have also been in makes me want to dry heave.

But you’d be proud of how far I’ve come. I’ve even dismantled my mosquito net. Mostly it’s because there are no mosquitoes past September, but it’s also because I’ve made peace with the fact that there are bugs in the world, and they will do what they do. It’s very Quare of me, actually.

I told Dean about the itching, by the way. We meet every other week for her to check on my progress. She’s always swaddled in an enormous felt green coat with random squares of yellow and white felt sewn onto it. It’s a great coat.

She never runs out of things to talk about (her favorite talk shows, the vintage bicycle she’s repairing, the healing properties of various herbs), but I stay quiet when she asks about me— unless, of course, she threatens to serenade me with a private concert unless I say something, and that’s when I start bringing up things like my relentless itching.

Dean offered to make me a balm, for which I was really grateful. It was really goopy and messy, but, boy, did it work. I rubbed it all over my body after showering, swung myself around naked in the cabin when I was alone (and had closed the makeshift curtains) to dry it a bit, and then put on clothes. In two days the only evidence of my itching are the ribbons of skin on the floor of our hovel.

Oh, also, I submitted my review to Dean a few days ago, but I haven’t heard anything yet.

Cross your fingers that she approves!

Better go. It’s time for my dinner prep shift. What are we making, you might ask? Applesauce and tofu cakes.

Also, question: Do you think it’s too much to wear my 1920s vintage cloche hat—the flowery one that secures under the chin—to pick apples on Sunday? There are some kids from Main Stream coming for the fall festival in a few days, and I don’t want to scare them.

“Love and other indoor sports,”

Flora

To: All-staff <[email protected]

From: Wink DelDuca <[email protected]>

Subject: Miss Tulip

November 11, 7:08 p.m.

Nymphettes,

Yesterday I got to wondering if there isn’t something we can do about Miss Tulip’s disappearance. Is Miss T in danger? We can’t know for sure. I’d love to be able to make missing posters with her face, but obviously, we can’t do that: Miss Tulip doesn’t show her face, and it would be hard to make missing posters with her headless body—just her milky white neck, her tousled curls . . . but I digress.

But that gave me an idea. What does everyone think about screening photos from Miss Tulip’s all-time great shots onto T-shirts? They’ll look great over slacks. I took the liberty of asking Thee, and she’s on board.

We’ll be voting on which ones should be made into shirts. Come to Wednesday night’s Google Hangouts with your favorite in mind.

Here are the ones I’m plugging for:

http://www.misstulipblog.com/to-kill-a-mockingbird-schoolteacher-dress.html

http://www.misstulipblog.com/jackie-kennedy-all-pink-everything.html

http://www.misstulipblog.com/green-and-white-gingham-culottes.html

http://www.misstulipblog.com/knit-green-dress-big-gold-buttons.html

;)

Wink

Editor in Chief, Nymphette magazine

Nymphette is an online feminist arts & culture magazine for teenagers. Each month, we choose a theme, and then you send us your writing, photography, and artwork.

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

November 11

Dear Lael,

Okay, okay, fine, maybe you have a point, and Quare is really about me and not Elijah. I’m giving it until the end of the semester anyway, so don’t work yourself up about it. And I really am giving it a fair shot.

Case in point: dish crew was—dare I say it—fun tonight. It helps that Sam shares my shift. Usually there are some people lingering over tea in the dining hall, but by the time we’re done with the dishes, it’s emptied out except for a few students on the couches, doing homework, playing their instruments quietly, or sketching in their journals. That makes it easy for us to sweep and mop the main eating area. I sweep, and Sam mops. He says it’s a good way for him to achieve definition in his upper arms. I don’t know how to break it to him that upper-arm definition might not be in the cards—and I won’t break it to him either, because I don’t have any particular desire to mop.

So we were standing there, me getting the dirt out of the way and Sam moving the sudsy mop all around, doing a pretty terrible job as always because we’re both weak, lazy, and chatty.

I told him I was glad he’d finally made contact with Marigold, whom he’s in love with. They’ve been staying up really late singing through the whole Beatles repertoire, and even though I’ve felt the tiniest bit left out, I wasn’t about to tell Sam that.

He waved the mop ineffectually over the floor. “The power of song,” he said. “If you see me with a guitar, the myopia becomes charming.”

I quietly conceded his point.

“You seem down,” he said.

“What?”

“You always do.”

I always seem down?

“Seriously,” he said. “You strike me as a sufferer.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment.” He swung the mop haphazardly. “I feel like I couldn’t ever be friends with someone who isn’t at least a little bit tormented.”

“What do you think I’m tormented by?”

“Irrelevant.” He wagged the mop at me. “But you’re definitely suffering.”

After that, Sam was whisked away by Pearl to sort the compost, and he came back shaken and pale.

“I just spent half an hour knee deep in moldy lettuce and black eggshells,” he said. He had to sit down for a minute to recover.

I shuddered. “Thank God Pearl knows I’m not cut out for compost,” I said. “You’ve got to assert yourself, Sam.”

“I think it builds character actually,” he said. “All the complaining is just to entertain you.”

On my way back home from the library last night, I walked by Marigold and Sam singing again in Marigold’s hovel, on the floor, the door wide open. They were sitting cross-legged in front of the burning woodstove, facing each other, Sam with his guitar and Marigold singing and smiling at him in her daisy crown. If Sam were wearing slightly nicer jeans and ditched the square glasses, they would have looked like an Anthropolgie ad. I didn’t want them to see my watching them, so I ducked my head and ran into my own cabin, where Juna was waiting to softly chide me for my head scarf collection having spilled over onto her side of the dresser.

Sorry for the self-pity. I promise I’m done now. Write me back with your own woes!!!

Love,

Me

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: TG

November 15, 11:12 p.m.

I forgot to ask—are you going home for Thanksgiving?

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: TG

November 15, 11:33 p.m.

Yes. I am half-dreading it and half-looking forward to finally being in a house with central heating and a cable connection.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: TG

November 15, 11:34 p.m.

Damn. I was going to ask if you wanted to stay on campus with me and have a Degrassi marathon.

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: TG

November 15, 11:35 p.m.

Just when I start to forget you’re Canadian . . .

To: All-staff <[email protected]>

From: Theodora Sweet <[email protected]>

Subject: tees, etc.

November 22, 3:09 p.m.

Nymphettes,

I’ve been getting some great feedback for the tee designs I’ve showed some people. You’d be shocked at the Miss Tulip following in the Stanford freshman class!

So I finalized the designs and sent them off to the manufacturer. They should be ready in a couple of weeks. I’ll keep you posted.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

Thee

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dustin Crane <[email protected]>

Subject: This afternoon

November 29, 7:33 p.m.

Dude,

I know we haven’t hung out in ages—like, not since we were in high school—so let’s definitely do that at some point. I got all these cool vapes from work, and if memory serves (spring break of 2008, fuck yeah), that is very much up your alley.

Crazy shit this afternoon. I got home at four to take my sister to the dentist, and I swear I was about to swing by next door to see if you were there—like, literally my hand was on the knob—when this girl ran up out of nowhere and just, like, perched on your top step. She was wearing this long pink coat that was, like, the texture of stucco and one of those pink Jackie Kennedy circle hats or some shit in, like, the exact same color. And big black sunglasses. Is this ringing any bells??

We sort of, like, made eye contact through her glasses—like I said, I was on my way out—and she was all, “Oh, do you know if Elijah Huck still lives here?” and inside my head I was like, Uhhh, Elijah is probably trying to shake this chick, but instead I was like, “Yeah, he does, he’ll be home in a few hours.” She just stared at me for, like, a minute and then kind of, like, scurried away.

So if you don’t know who she is or are trying to shake her for some reason, she definitely knows where you live now. Sorry ‘bout that. Are you still a virgin, by the way? If so, my sister is single.

OK, peace out,

Dusty

To: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Mum

November 29, 11:41 p.m.

Dear Lael,

Let me start off by saying that I don’t blame you in the slightest for spending Thanksgiving in Cambridge. Mum’s was miserable.

I took the train into Manhattan and waited for Mum outside Grand Central, on Lex. It was freezing, and she was late. When I finally saw her rushing toward me in a heavy cashmere sweater, waving frantically, I staggered toward her with my heavy suitcase. We took a taxi to her place.

Mum has redecorated. She has pictures of impoverished, Great-Depression-era Appalachia all over her walls (don’t ask me why): landscapes of big hollers and mountains, people with coal-smeared faces. The kitchen, which we both know she doesn’t use, is teeming with pots and pans, some dirty, others clean.

“You’re cooking now?” I asked her.

“Just a little bit,” Mum said, rushing into the kitchen to open the oven. She peered inside as though this was how she usually operated (ha!). “My friend Nell is helping me.”

Her friend Nell? Do you know of a Nell? Because I didn’t.

“Who’s Nell?” I asked.

“She’s just a friend,” Mum said, her head still buried in the oven. “She’s an editor at, um, a big publishing company—I can’t remember the name of it right now, but she can tell you all about it over dinner tonight.”

Dinner. Tonight. I had somehow assumed that we’d go the usual route of Indian takeout and a Katharine Hepburn classic like Adam’s Rib.

“You invited her over for dinner tonight?” I tried to hide my dismay, but it was hard. I was tired. I didn’t want Friend Nell. I wanted naan and Adam’s Rib.

“She’s the one who gave me the recipe, so I wanted to have her over.” Mum looked pained. “I’m sorry if you wanted it to be just the two of us.”

It wasn’t worth it to argue, so I said I was just tired from the crush of work right before break.

“Nell will be eager to hear about all your classes,” Mum enthused. “She’s an avid reader.”

Funny that MUM didn’t seem to be interested in any of my classes. She’d asked me barely two questions about Quare. It’s to be expected, I guess, but still, you know how it rankles.

I went to change my clothes, and I guess I was so tired that I fell asleep on the bed in the guest bedroom, which is what I’ll continue to call “my” bedroom until Mum makes any effort to make me feel welcome. The next thing I knew, someone was pounding on the front door.

“Nell is here!” Mum exclaimed, clapping her hands together like Katharine Hepburn herself had arrived. I staggered up and dragged myself into a seated position on my bed.

Mum opened the door to reveal a fantastically tall woman with thick hips and a long crooked nose. Her black hair was streaked with gray. By her side, barely grazing her knee, was a small boy. I stared.

“You brought Victor!” Again, the handclap. “Flora, come here and meet Nell and her son, Victor.”

I hopped off my bed and made my way to the door. I shook her hand awkwardly. It was big, chapped, and dry. Then Nell pushed Victor forward, and I tried to shake his hand too, but it was tiny and limp. Victor buried his face in Nell’s baggy pants and tried to blow a raspberry, only the fabric of her pants got caught in his mouth and he ended up gagging a little.

Mum ushered everyone into the kitchen. We actually sat at the table, a first. The pot roast she’d made was dry, but Nell quickly assured Mum that it was still edible—and besides, she was still learning.

“I’ll come over next week and we’ll do potatoes,” said Nell, poking at the (undercooked) baked potato on her plate.

“Oh, will you? I would so appreciate it,” Mum gushed. “Flora, isn’t the food good?”

Obviously, I’ve been a vegetarian since I was ten, so I was just like, “Mum. It’s murder.”

She just blew out air through her nose.

There was a conversation, but I wasn’t participating. I gathered that Nell had adopted Victor from Vietnam a few years before, and he was still adjusting to life in America. I also gathered that it was just the two of them—Nell and Victor, no life partner of any kind. Nell leaned her elbows on the table, didn’t put her napkin in her lap, and belched liberally.

After dinner, Mum reached into the oven to pull out a burned pie. “Who wants dessert?” she asked, placing the pie on the table. Nell peered down on the pie, which was small and scalded looking. “Honey, did you forget about it or something?”

HONEY?

Nell reached for the knife and cut into the pie. Cherry filling oozed out. Mum knows I love cherry pie, so I was just about to thank her when Nell said, “Victor, look! Aunt Emma made cherry, just for you!”

AUNT EMMA? JUST FOR YOU?

Mum nodded bashfully, and I said nothing. I didn’t have any pie. I just sat fuming, my legs tucked in front of me to form a barrier between me and Nell.

After dessert, Mum made tea. “Would you mind playing with Victor while Nell and I talk in here?” she asked. “He likes to look through my photography books under the coffee table.”

You know when Mum asks a huge favor like it’s a total throwaway—like you’d be crazy to protest? Yeah. I didn’t look at her. I just stormed into the living room.

Victor followed me with some prompting from Nell and Mum. Nell shut the folding door behind us. I yanked out one of the big books from under the table, and Victor sat sullenly on the couch, looking through it with a petulant expression. How many times had he been here before? I wondered. His tiny hands ran over the smooth photography paper with the deftness of someone who was deeply familiar with its contents. Victor’s hair was all spiky, standing to attention at random angles. I examined it while I eavesdropped on Mum and Nell.

“. . . wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to something something today . . .” Nell was saying.

“. . . something something anyway . . .” was Mum’s reply.

“Tall,” said Victor. It was the first time I’d heard him talk. He speaks in a whisper-whine. He was pointing to a picture of the Twin Towers, a black-and-white shot that obscured the towers in fog.

“How long will Flora be here?” Nell was asking—whining, really. I perked up at the sound of my name.

“A few days and then something something and then something,” Mum said.

Nell gave a satisfied-sounding grunt. “As long as something something something,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Mum answered, and they both laughed.

Lael, the indignity of it all! She and Daddy have been separated for, like, a minute!

Then Victor sent up a wail so sudden and loud that I jumped. He began to cry, first silently and then all at once dissolving into sobs. I just looked at him, unsure of what to do.

“Are you okay?” I asked, a bit stupidly.

When the wailing didn’t stop, Nell came into the living room to collect Victor. “It’s almost past his bedtime,” she scolded, as though it were my fault. “That must be why he’s cranky.”

I just stared straight ahead.

When they’d gone, leaving a pile of dirty dishes in their wake, I cornered Mum in the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“She’s been a very good friend to me throughout the—” Mum began, but I cut her off.

“Mum. What’s going on with Nell?”

Mum laughed that high-pitched laugh she does when she’s nervous. I stared her down.

“Honestly, Flora, you don’t have to be immature about it.” Mum reached for the faucet and turned it on, facing her back toward me as she began to scrub the blackened pans. “We’re good friends.”

You know when Mum tries to make it sound like everyone else is ridiculous, and she’s the only sane one?

“How did you meet?” I asked.

“Um . . .” Mum scrubbed intently. “The public library. I had gone to check out the newest Bill Bryson—by the way, have you ever read his work?”

I didn’t dignify that with a response. (Obviously, I’ve read Bill Bryson.)

“We were waiting in line to check out our books, and Victor was there, so I asked about him, and she told me, and then she asked about my family, so I told her, and there you have it: we’re friends.”

“You don’t have friends,” I pointed out.

“Well, maybe I made one. Is that what you want for me? To be a lonely old woman, married to my work?”

“You work part-time,” I told her.

Mum didn’t answer for a long time. Then she resumed scrubbing the pan.

Lael, something is going on between Mum and Nell. I’ll get to the bottom of it and write back.

Enjoy Cambridge, you lucky duck!

F

To: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Mum!!!

November 30, 8:17 p.m.

Lael,

Can you please pick up your cell phone for once? I have major news. It’s confirmed: Mum and Nell are . . . something. Together.

But first, let me tell you what happened to me and Victor.

The day after Thanksgiving—small and simple with me, Mum, and Grandma and Grandpa—Nell was nowhere to be found. It was as though she’d evaporated. I didn’t bring her up for fear that my mentioning her would somehow summon her.

It was like old times. Mum and I went our separate ways during the day and met up at night for takeout and a Hepburn movie. Yesterday I spent the day with Daddy in Rye, which— unbelievably—could have been worse: it was almost nice to sit in silence and read with him and look out onto the Long Island Sound. I had finally convinced myself that Nell was out of the picture until yesterday, when Mum got a phone call in the morning. She was still in her robe and slippers, sipping her coffee at the kitchen table.

“Well then!” she said in that fake chipper tone once she’d hung up. “That was Nell. She and I are going to a movie. She’s picking me up at noon.”

And that’s when my stomach turned to stone, because we both know that Mum hates going to the movies during the daytime. When it’s bright out, she’s outside taking photographs. Period. And yesterday was sunny, no chance of snow. Cold, but Mum likes that.

“You don’t go to movies during the day.”

“I do sometimes.”

I didn’t bother to respond. We both knew she was lying.

Nell pounded on the door at a quarter to noon. I didn’t answer, and she kept on pounding. Mum was in the shower. I should have been pissed, but honestly, I was annoyed at Mum, so I was looking forward to her being out of my hair. I planned to hit up a few places that sell things I can never get at Quare: silk scarves, real pastries, suede shoes, vegan ice cream . . . you get the picture.

When Nell was still pounding on the door at 11:47, I crawled off the couch to open the door. There was Nell in all her glory, sweeping curves and hard eyes. I’m telling you, she must be over seven feet tall. And there, at her side, cowering, was Victor. He was emitting muffled sobs into Nell’s pants, and when he came up for air, he left a splotch of liquid that Nell didn’t seem to notice. I pitied the people who’d be sitting next to Mum, Nell, and Victor at the movies.

We stared at each other. Finally I pointed at Victor. “He likes movies?” I asked.

Nell frowned. I glared. When Nell opened her mouth to speak, Mum emerged from the bathroom wrapped only in a towel. Nobody seemed to find this unusual, and the implications of that realization sent a shiver crawling down my spine.

“You and Victor are going to spend the afternoon together,” Nell explained as though I were stupid or hard of hearing or both. She waited for Mum’s approval.

Mum nodded giddily. Rage boiled in my chest. It was all I could do not to reach out and strangle Nell.

“We hardly know each other,” I managed.

“So you’ll get to know each other,” said Nell.

I looked down at Victor’s tear-streaked face. His mouth was twisted in a gruesome display of woe, and his hair was spikier than it had been when I’d last seen him. His cheeks were bright red, and his eyes were squeezed firmly shut. His eyelids were all puckered and wet.

“Come and keep me company while I get dressed,” Mum said to Nell. “Flora, why don’t you make a plan with Victor?”

It wasn’t a suggestion. So while Nell went off with Mum to get dressed, I forcibly removed Victor from the doorframe and tugged him over to the couch.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to be comforting. I would cry too if Nell were my mother, but I wondered if something more specific was wrong with him.

Victor just hid his face and wailed all the harder. He sat on the rug, his face between his knees. I tried to be tender—it wasn’t his fault he was so miserable, after all—and rubbed his back a little bit, at first awkwardly but then getting into a good rhythm.

“Your mum won’t be going away for long,” I comforted him, not sure if that was good news or bad news to him. I guessed it was the latter, because he kept weeping piteously. “I’m not sure what you want me to tell you,” I said. “Do you want to watch TV? Does your mum let you do that? Even if she doesn’t, you can watch whatever you want, okay?”

He was still crying when Mum and Nell snuck by and crept out the door. Mum mouthed, Thank you, as though her gratitude elevated her to the status of Pope Francis, but I pretended not to see her.

“Victor,” I said sharply, “you need to tell me what’s wrong if you want me to help you. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Have you eaten lunch?”

He shook his head to all three questions. I wondered if he still wore diapers. Surely six was too old for diapers, but I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

Just in case, I picked him up and put him on the couch, feeling his little derrière quickly. It was dry. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned on the TV. He didn’t seem to care for cartoons. Or real housewives. Or singing competitions. Or the Food Network. Finally I just let him cry, went to the kitchen, and cut up an apple. I added a little dollop of peanut butter and brought the plate over to him.

I was about to scream in frustration when he just looked at the plate and cried, but it sort of got to me. I remembered being so young and so upset, feeling like nobody could help me. Being trapped in my own misery.

So I tried again. “Victor, tell me what is wrong.” I tried for a stern but loving tone.

Finally he spoke. “M-m-my ear h-h-h-hurts,” he bawled.

His ear? I had no idea what that meant, but suddenly there was a problem I could try to fix. “Let’s go to the doctor,” I said, swinging into action and grabbing my coat and wallet.

In the subway I swiped twice, once for myself and once for Victor, succeeding at activating the turnstile but, in my hurry, causing Victor to walk straight into it at neck level so that his head snapped back. He was too dazed to react, I think, so I pulled him through and kept moving, hoping the transit police wouldn’t come running to arrest the both of us. His mouth was in a surprised little O shape from the turnstile incident, as though he had been too shocked to cry. People were staring.

Victor’s legs are shrimpy, and he was holding us up in a major way, so I finally hoisted him onto my back. He gripped my neck, strangling me, until I barked, “Hands on my shoulders, mister.” I felt like we were in an action movie, swinging through the crowds and racing up the subway steps—and nearly bursting my lungs in the process—to the walk-in clinic in Midtown.

The receptionist just folded her arms over her chest.

“You don’t look like his guardian,” she snapped.

I briefly explained the situation, telling her that I was just babysitting. She shook her head.

“We need consent from his parent or guardian,” she said. “Otherwise, we can’t help you.”

I looked down at Victor. He had melted onto the floor and seemed to be humming to himself, hands over his ears.

“Give me one second,” I said.

I called Mum perhaps fourteen times, until I finally got to her, hissing about interrupting the movie, and then Nell, who provided her consent and insurance information. The receptionist frostily handed me the forms. Obviously I didn’t know anything about him besides his name and age, so I left a lot of the form blank or scribbled in my best guesses. Victor clutched my arm like I was his savior.

The doctor felt Victor’s glands and took his temperature before looking in his ears and confirming an acute ear infection.

“You should have brought him in sooner,” Dr. Sayeed scolded. “It looks like this has been developing for over a week. Hasn’t he been complaining of pain for days?”

“He’s not mine,” I tried to explain, but Dr. Sayeed was busy writing a prescription.

“I’ll give him drops today, but you’ll have to pick this up from your pharmacy,” she said, handing me the piece of paper.

We walked out of the clinic hand in hand, a bit deflated but relieved. The drama had thinned, and I scoured the horizon for a Duane Reade. It was starting to snow as we headed toward the subway. I bought myself and Victor each a huge pretzel (I figured we deserved it, after the morning we’d just survived), and we sat on a bench, munching contemplatively. His little chest fell and rose defiantly. When he had settled down sufficiently, I quickly squirted the drops into his ear, a sneak attack, and he accepted them with a self-indulgent sigh.

“Do you see a lot of my mum? Um, your aunt Emma?” I asked him.

Victor nodded sorrowfully. “Uh-huh. They kiss good night,” he said. “On the lips.”

Needless to say, I didn’t finish my pretzel.

Lael, Mum is a late-in-life lesbian. And she chose NELL. There are a million and one cool, hip lesbians in New York—in this neighborhood alone!—who could have become our new stepmothers, and our genius Mum chose NELL.

We have so much to discuss when I see you in December. Are you sure you can only be home for a week?

F

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]> From: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

November 30, 11:54 p.m.

Oh my God. That is so, so rich. It almost makes me wish I were home to experience it with you.

Almost.

Did I tell you what Mum said to me when she came up for parents’ weekend?? (Honestly, I was surprised she even remembered when it was, but I guess I shouldn’t be so shocked—she’d never miss an excuse to talk loudly about the evils of apartheid—which she experienced firsthand, she never fails to add, never mind the fact that she was WHITE—with all her other former classmates whose kids are at Harvard now.)

Anyway, we went shopping for something for me to wear to the holiday a cappella concert, and she would NOT stop talking about my weight. I mean, literally every college freshman gains a bit of weight. This is hardly news. And you’ll see when I come home over winter break that it’s not even that dramatic. But, like, would it occur to her to not make a huge deal about it? I mean, her entire profession is dealing with pregnant women, so you’d think she’d have learned a little tact.

Ugh. I feel like we’re both being extra tough on Mum, even though if we really think about it, Daddy’s to blame for the dissolution of their marriage: he’s the one who gave up even trying to work things out, choosing instead to sleep at the office more nights than not just to avoid Mum’s wrath.

But don’t even get me started on Daddy. He calls me for ten minutes a week, asks me about my grades, and then says he has to let Ginger out. God, it’s disgusting how he treats me like a little A-making machine. I mean, you should know: he does the exact same thing to you, Miss Quare superstar.

Anyway, Nell sounds like a nightmare, and you’re my hero for sticking it out this weekend. I owe you a private concert.

To: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 12:04 a.m.

Do you know anything by the Shangri-Las? Sam and I got super into them the week before break.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 1:23 p.m.

Didn’t I tell you that the group specializes in Georgian and Balkan music?

“Sam and I . . .”

To: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 1:27 p.m.

Don’t make fun of me!!!

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 1:29 p.m.

I’m not. I’m happy you have a friend.

To: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 1:47 p.m.

So am I, to be honest. We’re thinking of throwing a little party (doo-wop soirée, we’d call it) to celebrate the music of the 1950s and ’60s. But Juna overheard us planning a playlist and was like, “I don’t get why you’d want to romanticize the 1950s like that. Like, we still have bobby socks and casual homophobia.”

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 1:59 p.m.

I mean, I guess Juna does have a point.

Also, only you would go to a place like Quare and find someone else who’s also into weird fifties shit. God.

To: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 2:01 p.m.

It’s really quite something. He’s also been known to walk with a cane, but then he got called out for ableism (a fair criticism, I must admit—to have been using it as a fashion accessory when so many differently abled people genuinely need them to get around).

Also, I did something kind of crazy the other day. I’ll explain next time you call me.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 2:03 p.m.

This better not involve Elijah.

To: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 2:09 p.m.

He’s not returning my calls, Lael! What else was I supposed to do? NOT investigate? I was going to tell you, but then I remembered that you’re on your whole Flora-is-at-Quare-for-her-own-reasons-not-Elijah kick and thought better of it. Please don’t hate me.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Lael Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Mum!!!

December 1, 2:12 p.m.

For God’s sake, I don’t HATE you. You are a damn fool, though.

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: coming soon . . .

December 3, 10:43 p.m.

D,

Sorry about Thanksgiving. I was moving back to school and pretty much just ate some potatoes with my mom. It was a pretty sad affair. But you win. My classes end next week. When’s best for me to come?

E