Everything Must Go by Jenny Fran Davis (4)

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

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

Subject: umm??

December 8, 4:37 p.m.

The weirdest thing ever happened on my way home from school today.

You know how now they make all the drivers park on Seventy-ninth now? So I’m crossing the street to find Dominic, who was maybe fifty feet away, when I see this girl coming toward me. She has all this curly brown hair just, like, piled on top of her head and a tweed coat with huge shoulder pads. And these eighties acid-wash jeans. She was so Sloane Peterson in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off that it hurt.

I stopped so I could decide whether or not the eighties look was working for her, and if so, I would ask her where she got the jacket she was wearing to tell Flora, when I noticed that underneath the jacket, she was wearing a T-shirt with an image printed on it. I think she saw me looking, so she pulled open her coat a little bit more, just flaunting the shirt. So weird. We were in the middle of the street at this point—it was like everything was happening in slow motion.

It was a picture of a girl’s body, just the neck down, but, India—I could have sworn that it was FLORA’S body. I’ll admit that I didn’t get a perfect look, but it was eerie. The girl in the picture was wearing those ESCADA by Margaretha Ley gingham culottes that Flora definitely has, and a black turtleneck tank top that she would so wear, and I think I could even see some brownish-red curls just before the picture cut off—which, you know, is Flora’s hair.

Is Flora a T-shirt model now?

Core

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

From: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

Subject: Angel Walk

December 13, 4:06 p.m.

Dear Friends,

I’m delighted to announce that this Friday—the last day before winter vacation—we will be holding our annual Angel Walk in place of shared work. How it works is as follows: everyone who wishes to participate will meet on the soccer field at 4:10 p.m. After the Oracle introduces the activity, we’ll form two parallel lines. With your eyes closed, you’ll be guided to the start of the line and be shepherded down the middle to get loved on. Those on the edges will be chanting, singing, swaying, and heaping non-shell-speak-related praise onto whomever is walking with her eyes closed down the line.

Remember, if you’d rather not participate, there will be absolutely no judgment—only love.

Infinite blessings,

Miriam

To: Grace Wang <[email protected]>

From: Wink DelDuca <[email protected]>

Subject: new fans

December 13, 4:49 p.m.

Grace,

You have to move to New York. No more of this Chicago bullshit. I’ve been wearing the shirts nonstop for days, and every time I leave the house, people stare. Like today, when I was walking home from school, this girl—she probably went to Bowen or Fairfax or something; I always forget how much it must suck to go to a uniform school until I see those unfortunate polyester kilts—was practically salivating. I almost told her where she could get one for herself, but before I could give her my business card, she sprinted away from me into a big black car. It’s a shame that it was as cold as balls, so I was wearing a coat—she didn’t even get a glimpse of the #BRINGBACKMISSTULIP on the back.

Anyway, for next month’s Ask an Older Dude, I’m thinking we do a profile on Michael Cera. Think we can snag him? He’s definitely Nymphette material. Have you read his latest piece in the New Yorker?

;)

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.

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: visit

December 13, 7:18 p.m.

DUDE. Yes. How about the eighteenth (this Friday)? I can skip shared work (aren’t you happy you graduated?) and take out the van to come get you.

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: visit

December 14, 12:02 a.m.

Sounds good. There’s actually someone there who I’m hoping to surprise (again, it’s a long story that has to do with the shit from last year), so if you could keep this on the DL, that would be much appreciated.

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: visit

December 14, 12:11 a.m.

God, yes. I wouldn’t tell anyone. You’re kind a big deal now, E. I mean, at least in the indie-photography circuit. I wouldn’t want a sex riot to break out preemptively. I’ve read your Nymphette profile, after all. I know the score.

Guild, established in 1966, is the only and oldest theater troupe at Quare. Its members are: Dean Elliot (master player), Althea Long (apprentice), Michael Lansbury, Gary North, Lia Furlough, Jean Noel, Shy Lenore, Solomon Pitts, Luella Lookman, Peter Wojkowski, Heidi Norman-Lester, Flora Goldwasser, Juna Díaz, Agnes Surl, and Becca Conch-Gould.

When I first sat down to write 300 Years of Mourning, I found myself searching for a story about possession: why we want what we want, and the lengths we are willing to go to acquire it.

I soon found myself writing about redemption, about the journey back to grace, about the things we lose—and gain—along the way. America on the brink of the Industrial Revolution seemed the natural setting for such a story, and I selected the town of Chicago for its rich and layered history (it’s also where I grew up).

300 Years of Mourning is about America, sure, but it’s also about a family, a haphazard cluster of individuals who must make different peaces with the same tragedy. I learned as much from my cast as they did from me, if not more, and I am eternally grateful for their ready willingness to take risks and go with them. —DE

India Katz-Rosen

1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C

New York, NY 10028

December 17

Dear India,

Dean’s play is over!

And I’m apprentice for next semester!

She announced it after the play was over, in front of everyone. I was still in my Fanny outfit (starchy navy Victorian dress that Dean sewed and that I’m definitely going to wear in my daily life), so it was kind of hard to bow and hug her and everything. I wouldn’t say I’ve ARRIVED, or anything like that, but it feels so nice. I can write a play for next semester!

I just need something to write ABOUT. You know that plot isn’t my strong suit. Sam congratulated me about a thousand times at the small cider-and-peanut-butter-cookies after-party, even though Marigold was right beside him and kind of scoffing to herself. Whatever. Later that night we—just Sam and I—hung out in the Art Barn until after eleven, talking about how weird it is that our first semester here is almost over. All of the dark Art Barn paintings from the Art and Activism elective looked so creepy. We made up backstories for all the weird eyeballs and bleeding heads. We had a long conversation about the Dionne quintuplets (Marie, Annette, Yvonne, Émilie, and Cécile, the French Canadian quintuplets from the 1930s who all survived into adulthood).

I know what this sounds like. You know how dear the Dionne quintuplets are to me, and I wouldn’t discuss them with just anyone. And Sam ISN’T just anyone. But I’m not attracted to him at all— and I think I’ve told you that he has an enormous crush on Marigold. I feel like myself with him, but also like I can be more than just myself. You know? We have so much fun together.

Not, of course, as much fun as I have with you and Cora. I’m so excited to see you (less than a week!). What’s the first stop? Maison Kayser? Beacon’s Closet?

Love,

Flora

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: here

December 18, 3:34 p.m.

D, I’m here at the train station. You coming?

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

December 18

Lael!!!

I’m in the canning station, quietly hyperventilating. Elijah is here. HERE!! I’m sorry if my handwriting is shaking all over the place.

Let me start from the beginning.

Today was the last day of school before winter break. Apparently it’s a tradition to do what’s called the Angel Walk. Basically, everyone—faculty, staff, students, and residents—forms two long lines, facing each other, on the soccer field. So we’re all standing there, chanting and swaying and singing (or, in my case, swaying and mouthing), and the person at the top of the line, either the right or the left, is whisked off by the Oracle of Quare, who’s holding a burning stick of sage.

He instructs the person to close her eyes, waves the sage stick in the outline of her body, and then guides her to the lines, where she is received and then shuttled down. It’s the job of the people on the edges to caress and whisper praise to whomever is journeying down the line. The first person to go was Fern, and it took forever, because everyone loves Fern.

We sang Quare tunes all the while. When Fern was finally at the end—people wouldn’t release their death grips on her—she dissolved into a happy puddle on the ground, basking in the sunshine. Pretty much everyone was there, but I didn’t see Dean. As the line shuffled up, I began to dread my turn. You know how I hate gratuitous touch. I toyed with the idea of refusing to go, but then I got over myself and let the Oracle of Quare lead me a few feet away. It was hard to keep my eyes closed and he breathed warm air into my face and outlined me with sage, which made me cough and gag a little bit. He chanted something in guttural Sanskrit or Hebrew or something—God, it was all I could do to keep it together—and then sort of clucked in either ear a few times.

Going down the line was actually a lot easier than I thought. I won’t bore you with the details, but maybe my classmates do like me a little bit more than they let on—or maybe everyone was just a little high on sage. But one by one they clutched me, whispered non-shell-speak-related praise into my ears, and then gently shepherded me down the line. At first I tried to keep my head from touching anyone else’s, because I had spent all morning perfecting my victory rolls, but after a while I just sort of gave in to it.

Some hands were familiar—Sam almost made me burst out laughing by grabbing me close, like I was a hysterical Scarlett O’Hara and he was Rhett Butler, and I’d know Lucy’s sandpapery hands anywhere—and some I couldn’t place.

When I finally got to the end, I was a tiny bit disappointed to be finished, even. I felt light enough to want to collapse on the ground like the others who had gone before me, but before I sank down, I opened my eyes to make sure that prior to my nubby pink coat making contact with the ground there wasn’t a huge puddle below me.

But the minute I opened my eyes, I was face-to-face with the baby bird himself.

Elijah freaking Huck.

Dean was standing right beside him, the sun blocking her dark eyes behind her enormous glasses. Dean and Elijah had obviously just arrived from somewhere. Dean was holding car keys and Elijah held a small duffel bag. He looked just the same as ever: bomber jacket, cuffed jeans, delectable round glasses. And his face, so pale and earnest and adorable.

We looked at each other for about ten seconds. His lips were slightly parted. I can only guess at the shock on my own face. I turned and sprinted toward the garden. That’s where I am now: the little storage hut lined with rows and rows of preserves and canned tomatoes.

I can’t leave. Send help.

XOXO,

Flora

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

December 19—morning

Lael,

I know we always said we’d tell each other immediately when *it* happened. And I’d never break a promise to you, so I’m telling you: it happened. Last night.

I feel so weird and empty and kind of sick to my stomach.

He’s gone. He didn’t say good-bye or anything. He left the guest cabin at, like, five in the morning, when I was still half-asleep and gripping the wool blanket with my knees. When he was standing in the doorway and slipping his shoes on, he told me we’d see each other at breakfast, but when I made my way from the guest cabin to the dining hall this morning, all bleary and mussed, Dean told me he had already left. Like, for home.

I’m writing to you from a back table in the dining hall, but I have to go pack now. For home. I don’t know why I’m writing to you if I’m going to see you in, like, four days, but oh well. I’m so, so tired.

Also, for some inexplicable reason, Elijah left behind Miss Tulip fan mail. It was all together in a packet under the bed in the guest cabin. I read it all without really reading it. It felt like it wasn’t even meant for me in the first place.

Flora

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

December 19—night

Elijah,

Was it something I did? I mean, to make you leave without saying anything to me? Such as “good-bye,” for example? Or that maybe you loved me?

Or maybe how, when it was over and you scooped me from behind and buried your head in my neck and it was like you were drinking me in, not through your mouth or even your wrists, but maybe by just lining yourself against my back, but then you got up and closed the bathroom door because the guest cabin has its own bathroom and I thought it was such a luxury

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

December 19—night

Elijah,

I’ve always been in love with the way you look at me, like I’m the most interesting girl in the world. And last night you treated me like I looked so good, tasted so good, was so good. And then you left, even though I’m here at Quare, which I thought you were supposed to love, even though I’m surrounded by dirt and lentils and

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

From: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

Subject: Welcome back!

January 18, 9:02 a.m.

Dear everyone,

I hope you all had restful and rejuvenating winter breaks. I look forward to hearing about the projects you tackled during your time off.

I’m delighted to let you all know that Allison will be returning to teaching this semester; her partner, artist in resident Daniel Longfield, will be entering paternity leave. Also joining us this semester is Sinclaire O’Leary, a first-year most recently from Seattle, Washington. Sinclaire is an avid gardener and artist who writes beautifully about growing up in Ireland. She will be living with Marigold Chen.

Which brings me to my next point: I’m less happy to report that Becca Conch-Gould has left us. Although Becca reports that she was not unhappy here, she feels that she is more suited for a different environment. We are holding Becca in the light and thank her for taking care of her needs.

In other news: we welcome the addition of several new laptop computers from a generous donor; these have been placed in each first-year cabin to allow for quicker communication among students and faculty. First-years still may email only within the Quare email server.

Blessings,

Miriam

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

From: The Oracle <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Welcome back!

January 18

Greetings Quarelings,

Thought I’d follow up this lovely welcome with our first weekly menu of the new year! As always, all items are vegan unless otherwise indicated, and gluten-free alternatives are always provided.

MONDAY: cranberry oatmeal / millet mountains / kale and tofu stir-fry

TUESDAY: lemon muffins / lentil stew / peanut noodles

WEDNESDAY: grits / spicy chickpeas and quinoa / roasted vegetable pizza

THURSDAY: oatmeal party / three-bean chili / pasta party

FRIDAY: bialys / baked potatoes / Mexican rice and beans

SATURDAY: buckwheat pancakes and assorted brunch / curry

SUNDAY: tofu scramble and assorted brunch // orange bean soup

And just as a reminder, we eat at the hours of eight, twelve, and six. Out of courtesy to our cook and our dinner prep team, we ask that you arrive on time.

One last thing: my “office” hours this semester are Tuesdays from eight to eleven p.m. in the confession booth at the back of the meetinghouse. I can’t wait to love you!

Love,

The Oracle

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

Subject: meeting

January 22, 1:12 p.m.

Flora,

Please stop by my office as soon as possible. You may skip your afternoon classes to do so. Your teachers have been informed that you’ll be absent.

Blessings,

Miriam

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

January 22

Flora!

I’m not into writing letters like you are, but something’s gotta give. Send a sign—honestly, any sign at all—that you’re alive and well. I’m THIS close to calling the office to make sure you’re still on campus (and you know I have that weird thing about talking on the phone).

Honestly, you didn’t seem right over break. I know you chalked it up to stress, but I know how you are when you get stressed— you head to Maison Kayser, not the white walls of your bedroom (minimalism is in, I know, but can you say psych ward?).

Write me, okay?

Cora

Theodora Sweet

1330 Corrida De Agua

Santa Fe, NM 87507

January 22

Baby,

Do you mind it when I call you that? It feels natural on the page, just like you feel in my arms.

I don’t need to tell you again how awful and scary it was to leave you in that airport. These past six weeks have been nothing short of incredible, and I say quite seriously that I never want to lose you. And I know we’re keeping this open, but trust me when I say this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Just as I expected, shit hit the fan pretty immediately when I got back to Quare the other day. Quare Times, a cheery little student-run cooperative quarterly that covers the goings-on on campus, published its first issue the other day. Well, this issue wasn’t so cheery: it came to light that Elijah Huck—maybe you’ve heard of him; he’s like the wet dream of every sixteen-year-old girl in knee socks—was a major asshole to Flora Goldwasser, or something, at the end of last semester. (Wait, of course you’ve heard of him. Even if you weren’t a photographer for Nymphette, it would be impossible to avoid him in the world of up-and-coming photographers, right?)

Anyway, Flora just happens to be my roommate.

I told you about her, right? The one who has fully embraced neither the ethos nor the pathos of Quare?

Well, she’s destroyed, and I don’t know WHAT to do. She’s been sitting on her bed placidly for the past hour. In a housecoat and a silk turban. (That’s shell speak, I know, but I felt it necessary to paint the picture.)

To be honest, the guy who published the commentary about their encounter in the Quare Times—Sam, who’s, like, her only friend here—is a little dick for doing that so publicly. I mean, he didn’t go into specifics, or anything. And he certainly didn’t allude to sexual assault—fucked and ducked is the term he used, which leads me to believe that Elijah, well, fucked and ducked on her. Sam so majorly fucked up. And that’s another piece of it, too: I don’t want to participate in the toxic sort of callout culture, the kind in which those who make mistakes are shunned and vilified rather than, well, engaged in conversations about their choices. But every time I think about what he did—what a violation of privacy it was, and how Flora must feel—I want to scream and cry, or possibly both at once.

I don’t know their history, but Flora is clearly devastated. Now that it’s come to light, we have no choice but to rally around her. What are your words of wisdom? Put that Stanford Feminist, Gender, and Sexuality Studies education to good use (even if you ARE taking a semester off, you can still be a dutiful member of the department).

Love,

June bug

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

From: Juna Díaz <[email protected]>

Subject: new moon women’s circle

January 22, 4:42 p.m.

Dear everyone,

As we are sure the recent events in today’s Quare Times upset everyone, we welcome all female-identifying people to partake in a new moon women’s circle to debrief and support members of our community who are hurting. For those of you who aren’t aware, for generations circles of women have met on or around the new moon to hold space to discuss and revel in one another’s wishes, dreams, and intentions. This is a practice familiar to people of many cultural backgrounds. If you would like to join, please be in the Art Barn at eight p.m. tomorrow night.

Sincerely,

The Feminist Underground (Juna Díaz, Shy Lenore, Althea Long, and Heidi Norman-Lester)

To: All-staff <[email protected]>

From: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

Subject: SENSITIVE MATERIAL

January 22, 4:59 a.m.

Dear all,

I’m writing to update you about a sensitive situation involving Flora Goldwasser.

As you all know, Sam Chabot’s column in the welcome-back issue of Quare Times suggested that Flora had been sexually active, possibly in an emotionally destructive way, with Elijah Huck on campus this past December. Yesterday I met with Flora and Sam, both separately and together.

Sam expressed remorse at his impulsive decision to write the column, which, though it declined to go into specifics, certainly suggested that there had been nefarious behavior on Elijah Huck’s part. Sam apologized to Flora, but she—perhaps understandably— refused to meet his eye. I used my nonviolent communication training to coach the pair through identifying feelings and needs. Both were somewhat resistant to the process. When I dismissed Sam, I asked Flora about the validity of his words. She was quite resolute that things are fine between her and Elijah. Her body language, however, seemed to suggest that the opposite is true.

Please keep all this in mind in the coming weeks. I let Flora know that all she had to do was ask for an extension or an exemption, and it would be granted without issue.

Finally, in light of the nature of the published commentary, I have decided to step in and overrule the current process of publication for Quare Times, which as you know is completely student-run and edited horizontally, with no editorial board. From now on, however, I will require that the final copy be reviewed by Allison Longfield, interim adviser, prior to publication in order for the newsletter to continue to receive funding. Moreover, Sam Chabot will be meeting with me and the entire nonviolent communication team every week for the next month for intensive sessions.

Do not hesitate to get in touch with me if you would like to discuss this further.

Blessings,

Miriam

8:00 p.m.: People slowly arrive in the Art Barn. We have turned out the lights and laid blankets on the floor. The moon is visible through the glass roof.

8:05 p.m.: People continue to arrive. Fifteen or so are present.

8:07 p.m.: Juna Díaz begins a soft rendition of “Where There is Light in the Soul.” Women join hands and sing together.

8:10 p.m.: Lucy Williams asks if we should begin. Juna replies that we are waiting for one more person.

8:12 p.m.: Juna excuses herself. Althea leads the group in a soft rendition of “This Little Light of Mine.”

8:17 p.m.: Juna is still not back. Benna, Lucy, and Shy consult in the corner. Counted seventeen present.

8:23 p.m.: Door opens. Juna walks in with Flora in tow. She is covering her mouth with the sleeve of her cream-colored cable-knit sweater.

8:23 p.m.: Juna guides Flora to a spot on the floor. Flora sits. She takes a candle and holds it in her hands. She stares into the candle.

8:25 p.m.: Juna begins to speak. She explains that we are all here to heal from recent events and asks the group to do a check-in. She clarifies that we are not here for any reason in particular—just to start the semester in an intentional way.

8:26 p.m.: Check-in begins. Women share feelings of hurt, fear, and empathy. It is clear that these comments are directed at Flora what Sam published in the Quare Times earlier this week about Elijah’s having “fucked and ducked” on Flora. Nobody knows what to make of this statement.

8:32 p.m.: It is Flora’s turn. She chooses not to speak.

8:45 p.m.: Flora still looking into candle.

8:46 p.m.: Juna asks Flora if there is anything she would like to express. “It’s a safe space.”

8:47 p.m.: Flora: “Sam shouldn’t have done that.”

8:47 p.m.: Lucy: “Is that all?”

8:48 p.m.: Juna gently asks Lucy to give Flora her space.

8:48 p.m.: Lucy: “It was so wrong of Sam to do what he did, but now that everyone knows what happened, we can support you. Look at it that way.” Lucy goes on to say that even though many of the assembled women have had strong feelings of admiration for Elijah in the past, they accept their primary duty—as feminists—to support Flora. Lucy says that even though the encounter was consensual, Flora is still completely entitled to feelings that range from rage to depression.

8:48 p.m.: Juna changes the topic, asks how the Feminist Underground can better support all women at Quare in the coming semester, particularly those who are most marginalized (queer and trans women, women of color, immigrant women, survivors of sexual assault, poor women).

8:50 p.m.: Heidi suggests a revamped Feminist Underground support network that stands with survivors of sexual assault informally rather than involving the administration, which can be an intimidating process.

8:52 p.m.: Juna agrees, asks how that would be possible. What about any sexual experience, positive or negative? How can we be more open about those? Support all women in their experiences?

8:53 p.m.: Benna answers that maybe the key is to normalize discussions about safe sex and consent.

8:54 p.m.: Juna asks if anyone in the room has experiences with emotionally charged sexual experiences that he or she wants to share.

8:55 p.m.: Lucy says she is going to “name it.” “Flora, are you comfortable sharing your experiences?”

8:56 p.m.: Flora says no, not right now.

8:57 p.m.: Final refrain of “Where There Is Light in the Soul.”

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: WTF???

January 25, 3:42 p.m.

E,

What the fuck is going on? What the fuck happened between you and Flora last semester? You need to provide some clarity, because I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.

D

PROMPT: In Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, what do Celie’s messages to God reveal or illustrate about her relationship to the divine?

In The Color Purple, Celie tells her story in missives to God; her life, which she lays before us, is both a confession and a prayer. Alice Walker places this prayer in stark opposition to sex: although prayer allows Celie to author her own narrative, sex is not so much a choice as it is a transaction that involves Celie and her husband, Albert. Despite her unfair treatment by Albert, who by any account is an abusive husband, Celie, socialized to not only accept but also expect his abuse, remarks only that he “do his business . . . [and] go to sleep.” This economic relationship that Celie has with sex, located in her use of the word “business,” makes sex into a transactional rather than a spiritual experience and disables any sense of autonomy awarded to her through her frequent prayer.

COMMENTS

Thoroughly engaging work, Flora. You seem to be suggesting that for Celie and Albert, sex is more of a transaction—you call it an “economic relationship [to] sex”—and less a space of true connection. Sex becomes about giving and taking (what Celie must provide; what Albert can acquire) rather than sharing. Astute observation! How does society provide a framework for such an understanding of sex? —Pearl

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: sorry

January 28, 5:20 p.m.

Flora,

I know you’re not talking to me right now, and I get it. I’m feeling a lot of guilt about what I did, and I think we should talk one-on-one (without Miriam) about it.

I’m so sorry. I meant to hurt Elijah, not you. I wanted to ruin his reputation, not compromise your privacy. I see now that I was stupid. I feel like such an idiot. It was impulsive. I’m honestly at a loss.

But I know I’ve put you in a horrible position, and all I want is to talk to you about it.

Write back if you ever feel like it.
Sam

I feel sometimes like I’m still in that stage, that half of a second between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain, which is almost worse than feeling the pain because the anticipation of the thing is sometimes way more profound than the thing itself.

But then other times it comes rushing in so fast that I have to sit down wherever I am, sometimes directly on top of a snowbank, and even when the cold makes my derrière go numb, I can’t get up, because getting up means moving forward through a new space and time where this new reality exists.

And then there’s all this anger. God, it’s RAGE. I will never forgive him. I feel gutted, and then I feel like I’m stuffed with so much ANGER that I’m not even hungry. And you know what? Maybe anger is healthy. Maybe anger is okay. Maybe my anger will be strong enough to catapult me all the way back home.

Cora Shimizu-Stein

95 Wall Street, Apt. 33A

New York, NY 10005

January 28

Cora!

I’m so sorry I’ve been absent. Mea culpa!

A quick update: I almost didn’t recognize Juna when I got to campus. Gone are the colorful woven tops and flowing prairie skirts. She now has a cropped haircut, thick-framed glasses, and a pair of corduroy trousers. She looks like a teenaged communist circa 1960.

I asked her why she decided to cut her hair.

“I’m a budding Marxist,” Juna explained breezily.

Do all Marxists have short hair?

“That’s interesting,” I said.

She hasn’t abandoned all her flowing things, but there are a good number of shapeless black smocks and grim trousers now in the mix.

To make matters worse, she won’t stop trying to talk to me about this and that—it’s almost creepy, like she’s trying to get dirt on me, or something. Like she’s on assignment for the FBI.

There’s also a new girl, Sinclaire. She has an Irish accent and lots of long, long black hair and pink rain boots. I don’t think I’ve heard her say ten words yet, but she’s pretty intriguing, in a Wiccan sort of way.

Would you mind scanning and sending me copies of all the letters I wrote to you guys last semester? I’m doing a project and need to piece together some details I think I forgot.

Thanks, and I’ll keep you posted!

Oh yeah, I’m sorry I was so weird about the whole Elijah thing over break. It still feels super weird, and it’s hard to talk about the way it ended, even with you . . . and you wouldn’t believe how people here are carrying on about it (it’s a long story, and I have to run!).

Love,

Flora

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:15 a.m.

What the fuck? How do you know about me and Flora?

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:17 a.m.

It’s all over school. Here’s a photo of what was published in the Quare Times last week.

<attachment: quare-times.jpg>

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:22 a.m.

Who the fuck is Sam Chabot?

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:24 a.m.

First-year. Flora’s friend. Everyone on campus is talking about it. Flora’s a complete fucking mess.

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:25 a.m.

It’s complicated between Flora and me.

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:28 a.m.

Yeah, it really does look that way, doesn’t it? She’s seventeen, Elijah.

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:30 a.m.

I know. I know. I really didn’t mean to hurt her. It’s just hard.

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: WTF???

January 29, 1:33 a.m.

Whatever, dude.

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

January 29

Lael,

It was all a lie. Everything. Elijah. Our connection. Miss Tulip. I don’t think I’ve eaten solid food since coming back from winter break, so forgive me if I seem a little bit out of it. I am a bit out of it, to tell you the truth. I just keep thinking about Elijah. Obsessively. And now about what everybody is saying happened between us, and how that isn’t what happened at all—it’s different and horrible in its own way. “Fucked and ducked” is how Sam put it, but it’s just so reductive, and I feel like I’m never going to be able to look Sam in the eye again. Because I AM SO FUCKING MAD AT HIM. And I told him EVERYTHING the night before, too. In the Art Barn after Dean’s play. And for him to do that—I just can’t. I can’t even write about it. It makes me too upset. I’m literally shaking with rage. Maybe I’ll take up running, or something. God, I HATE him. I HATE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH. I feel like Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre. Next thing you know, I’ll be setting his bed on fire and haunting him every night.

And sure, he says that his goal was to get back at Elijah and ruin his reputation, not mine, but my God, how fucking dumb can a person be? Everyone knew that Elijah had come to see me. Everyone could clearly tell that I was the unsuspecting, innocent little FUCKING first-year.

The night the article was published, I went to the computer lab when everyone had gone to sleep and searched on YouTube for the embarrassing performance Sam gave after his dad died—the one that made him the object of ridicule at his high school. And it really was bad, Lael. He’s wearing a tuxedo that’s too big for him, for one. And he tries to do an Annie Hall impression in the middle of it. I’m waiting for the right time to disseminate the video to the entire school to exact revenge. I was going to do it that night, actually, but after I drafted the email and linked to the video, I just couldn’t bring myself to press send.

I’m just too fucking classy for this shit.

And I know that over break I told you the outline of what happened between Elijah and me, but I feel like I’m still trying to swallow it down, if that makes sense.

Love,

Flora

The worst thing is that I can’t stop replaying it. I didn’t black out or have an out-of-body experience. I REMEMBER what happened, and I can’t stop remembering it.

I remember his coming to stand beside me when we circled up for dinner, and I remember him laughing gently into my ear when we started to chant the simplicity song. And I couldn’t believe it, that he was really here to see me after all and take the last picture in the Miss Tulip series. I didn’t want to seem too eager, or anything—I was Quare now, I was cool—so I didn’t mention the picture; I figured that would happen the next day.

I remember how he tweaked my victory roll hairstyle and shook his head like he couldn’t believe it either, even though he was the one who’d come to surprise me—that’s what he said. He’d come to SURPRISE me. He’d come in December, just like he’d mentioned he might, and he was seeing me at Quare, and everything was going according to the plan.

I remember how he whispered in my ear to come to his guest cabin after my roommate had gone to sleep, and how, with a pounding heart, I gathered everything I wanted to wear into a bundle and crept into the communal bathroom at midnight, and how when I pulled on my lace underwear, my legs were shaking and my toes were ice.

I remember putting on a coat and slipping into my clogs because it’s a long walk to the guest cabin and the night was frigid and still.

I remember arriving and pausing at the door, knowing that once I knocked, once I crossed the threshold and crept into the warmth (he had a strong fire going, as I knew he would), I was starting and ending and entering and leaving all at once.

I remember leaving my shoes by the door.

I remember the slight smile on his face when I took off my coat.

I remember him patting his bed, covered in one of Miriam’s guest quilts, and I remember sliding onto it, careful not to let my nightgown ride up. I remember hoping he couldn’t see the eyeliner I’d smudged around my eyes, because I suddenly felt embarrassed about showing up to him like this—a painted woman.

I remember talking for a long time—him talking, mostly, in a little whisper, about how he thought I was the most fascinating girl in the world, and how everyone across the country agreed with him.

I remember how he leaned in to kiss me, and I remember that his lips felt slightly cold, but soft, and also incredibly hot.

I remember him taking off his little round glasses and setting them gently on the bedside table.

I remember how slow he was, tracing my stomach and ribs with two fingers and sighing and saying it was the softest thing he’d ever felt (thanks, Embryolisse Lait-Crème Concentré).

And kissing my collarbone, nibbling slightly, making me giggle.

I remember thinking that this—Elijah’s loving me, or at least wanting to—was the only thing I’d ever wanted, and how now that it was happening—actually happening—I could only watch it, as though I were one of the moths fluttering around the light.

I remember him asking, like the good feminist he is, before taking off any of his clothing or mine. I remember nodding. I remember meaning it.

I remember placing my wrists on his chest and it feeling warm.

I remember wanting him to see the little space between my breasts and my waist.

I remember the surge of wetness and wondering if my lace underwear would have to be dry-cleaned.

I remember wanting to dive under the covers when he unhooked my bra but instead sliding under him and wrapping him around me and tracing his back with my fingernails.

I remember us laughing.

I remember him telling me I was beautiful, over and over, and interesting, again and again, and special, and my body reacting—like opening and expanding. (Ew, I’m making myself want to vom.) He called me a swan.

I remember falling asleep, and at four in the morning I remember him grabbing me closer from behind, and feeling the warmth of his breathing on my neck, and my eyes opened, and I looked at the wall for a few seconds and thought I saw God.

Ugh, I can’t believe I just WROTE that. I’m such a freaking cliché. Who am I even BECOMING?

It’s also so weird, because I thought I was kind of becoming someone else, all these months that I didn’t see him. I mean, I was still waiting for him, obviously, but, like, I was changing on my own, too. And then he came back and it was like I was my old self again, which felt both comfortable and a little strange.

But then he LEFT. He left me in the guest bed while he brushed his teeth and staggered into his clothes, and the space where he had been lying was still warm. And he threw all his stuff into his little bag and opened the door, letting a gust of cold air in that sent me shivering underneath the quilt again.

“Elijah?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

He paused in the doorway.

“Aren’t you going to stay for the day? So we can take the last Miss Tulip picture?”

He turned around to face me, and I immediately saw on his face that things were very, very wrong. He wasn’t smiling, for one, and in fact looked pained, like he was trying to find a good way to tell me that my grandmother had died.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

I didn’t want to ask him why not, but it came out anyway, in a thin gasp.

He just shook his head. “I don’t think I can do this, Flora,” he said. “Do what?”

He took a deep breath. “See you.” Another breath. “Be with you.”

“Why not?” My throat felt swollen to three times its size. I crawled into the space between the reality of it happening—his leaving me—and my understanding it. I detached myself completely.

He closed the door, securing himself inside with a dull thud, but he still didn’t face me.

“It’s complicated. This . . . what we did . . . it’s all complicated.”

“Complicated? How?” Now my throat was really closing, and my face felt hot enough to explode off my neck.

He wasn’t looking at me. His head faced the closed door, and he peered desperately out the window, where the sun shone meekly. He didn’t want to be in this room with me. His bags were packed; his coat was on.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so proud of you for being here. I’m sorry for confusing you.” He delivered these three lines with three twists of his neck, none of which awarded me eye contact.

He pushed the door open again, letting in a patch of sunlight for a second, and then let it close behind him.

And then I was alone, and the room looked hollow and gray, and I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or sob. I chose neither, and instead swaddled myself in the quilt and stared at the dark ceiling.

I didn’t realize I was still naked—I’d been naked! In bed with a BOY!—until I put one foot on the cold wood floor. The fire had gone out late the night before, and he hadn’t lit another.

I feel so used. He took everything he wanted—photos, sex—and BAILED. I can’t shake the feeling that he signed up for the Tutorial thing just to find a swanlike sixteen-year-old muse. My throat is as tight as a fist again. I’m not even that swanlike, if you really think about it. My neck is of average length, I think. And I guess I’m pale, or whatever, but lots of people at Bowen are pale. Why did he seek me out? Was it my shoes?

I almost can’t blame Sam for writing the thing. I was a complete fucking mess after Elijah left. But whenever I think of him writing that thing in the Quare Times, my chest gets all shaky and I need to sit down. It’s okay. I don’t really need him as a friend. I have Lael and India and Cora, but I can’t possibly tell India and Cora any of this—they just would never understand it, because they still think the only reason I’m at Quare is because Bowen wasn’t interesting or exciting enough. Nobody will understand this. I did write India a long letter, explaining everything, but I never sent it, because she just wouldn’t get it, you know? She’d be all, “Why are you letting this skinny hipster guy ruin your life?”

Over winter break, when everyone saw me all disheveled, they were like, “Don’t go back to that place! Bowen will take you back in a heartbeat!” But honestly, I’ve never felt more sure of something. I don’t even know why—Quare should be the last place I want to be right now. But I can’t just fucking leave because of what he did to me. I’m not going anywhere.

January 29

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

Elijah,

This is what I wrote in my journal last April: “Just as I’ve loved you since before I knew it, I’ll love you beyond when I stop knowing it. I want to get closer to you than skin.”

Well, we got closer than skin. But maybe not. Can you ever get past your skin? Did we get past ours? Even when you were asking and I was saying yes, YES, always yes?

Roxane Gay’s short story “Girls With Eating Disorders” associates abuse with foolishness, disturbing our notion of the traditional trauma narrative. In the story, the protagonist, Peter, dates solely women with eating disorders: “He preferred the tall girls who hovered around 105 and spent most of their time sucking their bodies toward their spines.” Peter’s misogyny is evident; this is nothing new. It is the depiction of Vivian, Peter’s current anorexic and bulimic girlfriend, which disturbs our notion of trauma: Vivian is not just an innocent victim, but also a fool.

After she prepares a milk shake and drinks the whole thing, Gay writes that Vivian “lovingly rubbed her hands over her food baby belly and waddled around. She smiled for a brief moment as she imagined what she would look like if she were pregnant with Peter’s baby and how she would raise that baby to be skinny and beautiful.”

Vivian’s shallowness and vapidity are evident; rather than address or even recognize her serious eating disorder, she focuses on her one-day baby’s weight in a half-baked way. Vivian is a one-dimensional character whose disease turns her hollow rather than complex: it is all we see of Vivian, perhaps all there is to her at all.

At the end of the story, Vivian and Peter agree to have “a tiny little baby,” and Vivian is overcome with fondness for Peter. Even though he talks with his mouth full, and Vivian “f[inds] this repulsive,” she resolves to withhold judgment, deciding: “Life was repulsive.” Vivian seems to surrender here to the nastiness of life— her eating disorders; her possibly abusive relationship with Peter, who emotionally manipulates her; her messy, secret escapades in the bathroom with other women—and she chooses to live it anyway, somewhat foolishly, merely because of the attention Peter gives her. Vivian trades everything she has—happiness, dignity, and even her physical body—for Peter’s approval. She is the ultimate brainless, mindless fool. Should we then pity her?

COMMENTS

Flora, you seem to be suggesting that Gay draws a line between victimhood and foolishness. Gay’s choice to portray Vivian as a fool for trading “dignity” for “Peter’s approval” rather than as a victim, as you argue, “disturbs our notion of trauma,” which typically isolates and insulates the victim from any blame. Does Gay impose a hierarchy on foolishness and victimhood? To me, both seem equally disempowering: to be cast as either a hapless victim or an utter fool (as though for allowing herself to be taken advantage of) denies women both autonomy and agency to write their own narratives. —Pearl

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

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

Subject: Flora

February 1, 9:18 p.m.

Babe,

I just got a Flora letter. She’s avoiding the topic altogether. We need to get to the bottom of this. You didn’t get the letter, did you? The one that was supposed to explain everything but mysteriously disappeared in transit?

Cora

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

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

Subject: Re: Flora

February 1, 9:20 p.m.

No, I never got the letter!! Don’t you think I’d tell you if I had?! Blanca’s on the lookout. It’s like I’m waiting for a college acceptance letter, or something.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Pearl Bishop <[email protected]>

Subject: your essay

February 4, 8:42 p.m.

Flora,

I just took a look at the first draft of your Roxane Gay essay. I wrote some comments on the paper, but I thought I’d reach out to ask: Is there anything you’d like to discuss?

I’ll also add—and I’m not sure if you’re aware of this—that I hold a PhD in adolescent psychology, and Miriam has asked me to step in to see if you’d like to come to her office and have a chat—the three of us. Please do let me know.

Pearl

To: Pearl Bishop <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: your essay

February 4, 9:56 p.m.

Pearl,

I’m okay, thanks!

Flora

To: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

From: Juna Díaz <[email protected]>

Subject: Flora

February 5, 4:03 p.m.

Dear Miriam,

As you know, Flora’s been going through a tough time lately. I’ve taken it upon myself as her roommate to schedule an appointment for her at Planned Parenthood in Woodstock for this Wednesday afternoon. Would you be able to drive us there (it was their only opening for weeks)? She’s still pretty down-seeming, and I’m wondering if someone there would be able to talk to her about any emotional or physical feelings she’s been having.

Thanks,

Juna

NAME OF APPLICANT: Flora Goldwasser

FACULTY ADVISER: Susan María Velez, playwright in residence

STUDENT MENTOR: Dean Elliot, master player of Guild

GENRE OF PROJECT: Playwriting; performance art

DESCRIPTION OF PROJECT: I will be writing a play that incorporates performance art. Loosely speaking, the play will be about Ursula, a girl from a private school in Manhattan who gets pregnant in her junior year and is sent to a community for wayward teens in rural Pennsylvania. There, she’s dared to deflower the innocent, virginal Caleb in order to win the approval of her classmates, into whose secret society she’s desperate to be admitted.

GOALS FOR THE PROJECT: The play will be about an hour long, and actors will perform it at the end of the semester.

TIME PER WEEK DEVOTED TO PROJECT: ten hours

Theodora Sweet

1330 Corrida De Agua

Santa Fe, NM 87507

February 6

Thee,

I told Flora about my sexuality last night. It feels good to finally be able to tell people. After these past six weeks, I feel so empowered. We were talking about this celibacy pledge that’s been going around among the guys in a show of solidarity with Flora. Sam Chabot—the guy who wrote the thing in the Quare newspaper—was one of the first to sign it, but I’m of the mind that he’s just trying to get into this other girl’s— Marigold’s—pants. After all, what’s more irresistible to a girl than a guy who doesn’t want to sleep with her—and for feminist reasons, no less?

“Don’t you think we should give Sam a little credit?” Flora asked, in a rather Stockholm syndrome-y way. Or maybe she was being sarcastic? We were lying in the dark, both in our beds; it’s really the only time that I sense Flora feels she can be vulnerable.

Oh, Thee. I don’t want to be annoying, and play psychiatrist to Flora (if you know anything about the psychiatric field and its historical treatment of women, particularly women of color, you know it’s not a pretty picture). But I wish I could help her, you know? I just hate that she’s suffering in silence. What Elijah did, and what Sam did, make me so mad I could break something.

But anyway, back to our conversation.

I honestly thought no, we shouldn’t “give Sam a little credit,” but I decided to modulate my tone out of respect for her healing process.

“I suppose I am being harsh,” I allowed. And then, because it seemed like an in: “It’s been an odd time for me to be thinking about men.”

I’d really set her up for that one. Flora asked why that was.

I took a breath. “I’ve begun to have some questions,” I said.

“About Sam?” she asked.

“About me,” I said. “About my sexuality.” I tried to keep my tone light, but I think my voice wavered a little bit. It IS hard to tell people—you were right.

Flora didn’t really say all that much, however. She’s still in the trance she’s been in for the past two weeks, the one where she sits on her bed, wearing her silk turban and doing her homework (sorry, ugh, shell speak again). Like, all day. Besides, I get that I’ve been presenting as more queer these days, so it’s possible that she wasn’t exactly shocked.

Still, I was emboldened by her response. I felt a yearning to reach out to her, to let her know that I was still thinking about what happened between her and Elijah. I really do feel for her, if Elijah hurt her, as Sam certainly implied he did. I’ve even stopped checking the Miss Tulip site for updates—in protest.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said.

“Sure?”

I had to choose my words very carefully.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened when Elijah visited?”

She answered, though, immediately.

“No,” she said. “I’d really prefer not to discuss it. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop talking to people about it.”

“Who have I been talking about it to?” I asked, taken aback.

“You know,” she said. “The Feminist Underground.”

I’ll admit that I resented that, a bit. The Feminist Underground is a grassroots project designed to support all women, but I guess, now that I think about it, we have been the tiniest bit, well, aggressive in our support of Flora in this particular case. I mean, I’m proud of the way we’ve been encouraging her to narrativize her experience outside of the neat framework that the assault/ consent dichotomy presents. But in the moment, I just wanted her to tell me what exactly had happened. I just wanted to know so that maybe she could begin to heal. My nonviolent communication skills are getting so much better! I just wanted to help!

“Flora,” I said, struggling to stay calm, “I know better than anyone that it’s easier to deny something than it is to look it in the face. But one of these days, it’s going to consume you.”

“Juna,” she said. The moment hung between us. “Fuck off.”

I gasped quietly. Then I turned away from her and pretended to go to sleep, but really I couldn’t sleep all night. I feel so conflicted about this. Sam’s accusation was so vague, but at the same time, he was Flora’s best friend here—why would he have published a lie? Is it possible that indeed nothing happened between them? Why would Sam have taken a shot at Elijah’s reputation like that unprovoked? Was the society article even about Flora?

I guess I just feel like something bad happened, you know? So I took the liberty of calling Planned Parenthood and scheduling her an appointment. It was really the least I could do. If she can’t talk to me—and I’m her roommate!—then maybe she’ll be able to open up to one of the medical and counseling professionals.

Miriam is driving us tomorrow afternoon—if Flora hasn’t run off by then, I mean.

Love,

Juna

To: All-staff <[email protected]>, faculty <[email protected]>

From: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

Subject: this afternoon

February 6, 7:18 p.m.

Dear Friends,

I know some of you were alarmed by the massive bang this afternoon. I’m writing to assure you that nobody was injured, and to explain that the noise was simply one of our first-years, Flora Goldwasser, transporting a vending machine (with the help of the Oracle and a few pieces of our heavy-duting lifting farm equipment) from the storage shed to her cabin. Although the machine did fall on its side—producing the bang in question—it fell into the bed of the truck and not, as many of you called me in various states of panic to suggest, on someone’s head.

Blessings,

Miriam

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Juna Díaz <[email protected]>

Subject: meeting now!

February 7, 2:51 p.m.

Hey, Flora! We’re meeting now—not sure where you went after Peace on Earth. Miriam and I are waiting by the van in the parking lot. Take your time, but we were hoping to be on the road in a few minutes!

Theodora Sweet

1330 Corrida De Agua

Santa Fe, NM 87507

February 9

Thee,

Miriam and I took Flora to Planned Parenthood in the van today. We both tried to be cheery—me especially—but Flora didn’t say one word to anyone on the car ride over. I mean, I get it: it was hardly her choice; Miriam and I just about forced her, and I guess it was easier to relent than to keep deflecting. She scribbled in her notebook the whole way over.

“I think it’s a great idea that we’re going,” I said, trying to be helpful and cheerful. “It’s always good to get to know your body better.”

Flora barely looked up from her notebook, but I detected a tiny eye roll. I decided to let it, like pretty much everything she’s done and said in the last few weeks, slide.

Everything out the window was bleak and gray. Thee, I miss the sun so much.

In the building, she silently accepted the forms and filled them out. She didn’t want anyone to come into the examining room with her, even though I offered more than once. (I was so grateful that you were there, holding my hand, when I got my first pap smear over winter break!)

After, we went out for ice cream—Miriam’s idea. It was freezing, so we sat inside this depressing little shop right off the highway. I got a chocolate cone with sprinkles, but half of it fell into my lap. Flora barely ate anything, though she did order a small cup of mango sorbet. She just twirled a coin around and around on the linoleum table. She was in this huge bulky cream sweater that she hasn’t taken off in weeks, and these dirt-stained pink corduroy pants. (Again, excuse the shell speak.)

When we got back to campus, she and Sinclaire tinkered with the vending machine outside of our cabin. I don’t know how their hands didn’t freeze off. I watched them from inside at first, but I decided to go outside and chop wood in the shed right next to Sinclaire and Flora. I didn’t eavesdrop, per se, but I did keep an ear out for anything interesting. But Sinclaire is dead silent—to be honest, she kind of freaks me out. She always wears these woolly animal hoods with ears on them and panels that swing down really low. GOD, I need to stop with the shell speak! I always try to be welcoming, as she’s new, and invite her over all the time, but she usually just kind of shrugs and stares at me.

Later Flora came back inside and read all the back issues of Nymphette on her computer. I almost told her that you’re a photo editor for the magazine—not that she would have really cared, to be honest—but I didn’t want to interrupt her. She was reading so fastidiously. I hoped she wasn’t reading any of the (many) articles that idolize Elijah, but it sort of just looked like she was researching DIY wrap skirts from my vantage point.

Now that you’re taking a semester off, I think you’ve run out of excuses to not come and visit me. I don’t care about the no-visitors policy. I need you. Now.

Juna