Everything Must Go by Jenny Fran Davis (6)

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Hello! April’s theme is RISK. What have you put on the line, Nymphettes? Let’s see what you’ve got! Send your work to [email protected]

ABOUT NYMPHETTE 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: Guild <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: auditions for “vending machine” play

March 18, 7:32 a.m.

Hey, guys*,

We’ll be having auditions for Flora Goldwasser’s play, tentatively titled Everything Must Go, on Monday afternoon. Haven’t heard of it? Do you even go here? Do you even live in this world?

Enjoy the weekend. Be at Woolman Theater at four p.m. DE

*I know there’s historically been some resistance to the term guys because not all of you identify as guys. But it’s a nongendered term of endearment, and I’m going to keep using it.

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

March 19

Lael,

Yesterday, after doing a phone interview with this reporter from the Bard College student newspaper, I ran into my sort-of friend Agnes. He was taking out the compost, his post-dinner job, and I walked with him up the hill and all the way to the garden. He’s really easy to talk to—just laid-back and Southern and everything. We’re also in Guild together.

As he was dumping the compost from the bins into the huge piles in the garden, he was lavishing me with praise—saying how I’m the darling of Quare now and a feminist icon and all that. I just blushed (you know how I hate to be complimented) and tried to change the subject. It was weirdly warm out, so we sat on the two swings on the swing set and just talked.

“So you’re famous now, right?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. We were both swinging slightly, and when he’d go up, I’d go down, and vice versa.

“God, hardly,” I said. “It’s a niche audience.”

Agnes nodded sagely.

“But you get fan mail,” he said. “The darling of the teen feminist scene.”

“It’s not about me,” I said, gesturing. “People just like to see their experiences reflected in art. And I think most people can identify with feeling like their relationships, and sex and stuff, are just transactions.”

“I’ve felt that way,” he said. “And you’re right. It’s nice when art reflects reality.”

“It’s weird, though,” I said. “I feel like people from the outside look at me—this girl who goes to Quare and is selling all her stuff and doesn’t wash her hair as regularly as she used to—like I must be a certain way, like, this young radical making this grand statement, when I really don’t feel like I’m like that at all.”

The whites of his eyes were all glowing and warm in the moonlight. I noticed for the first time—in the dark, weirdly enough—that today he was wearing not harem pants, as I had first assumed, but a patchwork skirt that grazed the middle of his hairy calves.

“People must assume stuff about you all the time,” I said.

He laughed. “The name alone,” he said. “People decide I’m an eighty-year-old woman before they’ve even met me.”

“Is it hard?” I asked. “Like, where you’re from?”

“You mean to be the black son of two lesbians in the American South?”

“Yeah.”

“A little,” he said. “Atlanta’s not bad. But it’s much better when I travel to the New York area with Tedra. She goes every few months to work on the book she’s writing with Jasbir Puar. There, I feel like I’m almost boring.”

I nodded. “But if you had grown up in New York, you wouldn’t have a Southern accent.”

“Or Southern charm.” He cocked his head, and his hair swung down around his chest.

I was flirting, a little bit. We stared at each other for a minute, and then I looked away.

“Tedra’s the one who . . . ?” I asked uselessly.

“Gender warfare,” he confirmed, nodding. “Her claim to fame. She always gets kind of pissed when people only ask her about that, because that was her thing in the eighties. Now she’s much more into homonationalism.”

“What’s that?”

He cocked his head at me. “Do you really want me to explain it to you?”

“Another time,” I agreed. “My brain is kind of all over the place.”

“Better to be all over the place than stuck in one mode? Maybe?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Crickets. Literally. My heart was beating really, really fast. I wasn’t sure what to do.

He decided for me, luckily, checking his watch. “Shall we?” He stood from the swing and arranged his skirt around his knees.

I stood too. We walked through the garden to the first-year cabins. Nobody was outside. The trees were all big and rustling above us. Agnes walked me straight up to my door.

“Should I walk you home now?”I asked.

He laughed.

“I think I can find my way,” he said. “Thanks for the offer.”

He leaned in and gave me a quick hug. His back was strong and hard beneath his white T-shirt. I stood in the doorway until he reached his own doorstep. On his porch, he turned to look at me once more and then gave a slow salute.

I laughed and shut the door.

Juna was a mound in her bed. Hearing the door close, she straightened up. Her hair was all over the place.

“What was that?” she asked groggily.

“Just Agnes,” I said. “He walked me home.”

She smiled widely and wiggled her eyebrows. “I approve,” she said.

So. Agnes. Thoughts?

Love,

Flora

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

March 20

Elijah,

I’m working on putting together all the documents that help make sense of this year. I’d love it if you could send me a few things of yours.

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

March 21

Elijah,

Last night I dreamed that you were in my bed with me, just sleeping next to me, hardly even touching me at all, with just our feet all overlapping like a Jenga tower. And your feet were slipping away and out of mine, I could feel it, so I grabbed on tighter. And when I woke up, my knees were around the blanket and my toes were cramping.

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: auditions

March 21, 8:19 p.m.

Hi, Dean,

Thanks so much for all your help at auditions today! I’m really happy with the way it went, and I’m also sure that Althea will stop being miffed about some of the similarities between her and Sister Athena—I mean, honestly, they’re not THAT striking, and Sister Athena is obviously the hero at the end. I actually think that Althea would make a really GOOD Sister Athena, if she can get over herself. And Juna, too, should really play Miranda, even though I think she was a little bit shocked by the references to budding Marxists.

In terms of the other parts, I think it was really good that you had them read from both the beginning and the middle. Michael Lansbury did a really good Lorne. For Caleb, it’s coming down to Agnes and Shy. We can talk more about this with Susan on Wednesday also.

What are your thoughts?

Flora

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: auditions

March 21, 8:34 p.m.

Good calls. Agnes has got to be Caleb—Shy just really doesn’t have it in him.

You’ll be Ursula, right?

I’m also attaching the Young Innovators’ Promise Awards application. Do it. Now.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sinclaire O’Leary <[email protected]>

Subject: tonight

March 22, 2:04 a.m.

still skyping henry

althea is definitely upset about the play

i saw her hmmphing all over the dining hall

“i don’t BUY hanes; they’re made with slave labour”

& marigold and zev have been in my cab ferking all night

i’m in the art barn

i like it at night here

To: Guild <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: cast list, “everything must go”

March 22, 5:11 p.m.

Ursula / Flora Goldwasser

Caleb / Agnes Surl

Lorne / Michael Lansbury

Sister Athena / Althea Long

Miranda / Juna Díaz

If you didn’t get a speaking role, don’t fret. You’ll be interacting with the vending machine onstage and moving the set around. Everyone will see you. You’ll be a star.

Race in Writing is a course devoted to exploring the ways in which literature deals with racial identity and subverts racism. Students begin by reading The Color Purple and Their Eyes Were Watching God and end the course with stories by Amy Tan, Colson Whitehead, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Flora continues to turn in thoughtful work—her essay on The Color Purple was brilliant—and beyond the classroom, I’m continually proud of her as Vending Machine, or Everything Must Go moves into the spotlight. I look forward to working with Flora for the rest of the year to find more ways to integrate her activism into her academic work. —PB

Although last semester Flora preferred not to accompany us on trips to Quare Pond and the forest (I was the assistant teacher that term), this year she has been active and engaged. Her work has remained high quality. I sense, too, that Flora’s peers have begun to respond extremely well to her, especially in light of her recent activism. I sense a deep friendship between her and Sinclaire O’Leary, a new student whom Flora has kindly taken under her wing. While I am thrilled that Flora’s newfound popularity is the case, I am keeping an eye on her, and I urge Flora to speak to me or Miriam—or her adviser, Pearl Bishop—if she needs to talk. —BF

Flora’s work has remained high quality. Moreover, I am delighted to see that she has stepped into a Quare sense of being; her activism inspires and moves us. I understand that there has been minor tension between Flora and Juna, her roommate, but I am confident that both young people have the tools to sort things out. —AL

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

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

Subject: we’re on!

March 22, 8:19 p.m.

Okay, so after EXTENSIVE stalking (and you don’t want to know what else), I got his address: he lives off campus, right on Broadway and 107th. There’s no way I can do it tonight, but let’s meet right after Calc tomorrow afternoon. This is gonna be SO GOOD.

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

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

Subject: Re: we’re on!

March 22, 11:18 p.m.

Hell yes. Let’s tape the confession on your phone—mine has been sucking lately, and we can’t afford a new one right now (shit’s going down with my mom’s account—I’ll explain in person).

CORA: If you’re listening to this, we’ve made it to Elijah’s building on Broadway and 107th street. We haven’t gained entry yet, but we’re working on it.

INDIA: We should add that it’s raining a lot, so we’re standing under the awning. The rain is freezing. We’re also kind of wet, because our Uber driver—Dustin was his name, and let the record note it— refused to take us all the way. He’ll be getting two stars and a snarky review.

CORA: An old woman is walking toward us, but— Oh, is she coming in here? Nope, she just went into some Thai restaurant.

INDIA: I could really go for some tofu pra ram right now.

CORA: Should we, or . . . ?

INDIA: Let’s get the confession first.

CORA: You’re right. Eyes on the prize.

INDIA: You have the apartment number, right?

CORA: Yeah. Obviously: 12C.

INDIA: Just double-checking. You don’t have to be rude.

CORA: I just sometimes feel like you invade my judgment space.

INDIA: Your JUDGMENT space? Who are you? Flora?

CORA: That’s not funny. You know I’ve been in therapy.

INDIA: Oh yeah. Sorry. Wait! Is she—?

CORA: Hi! Are you going in—?

(SOUND OF DOOR OPENING)

INDIA: Thanks!

(SOUND OF ELEVATOR DOOR OPENING)

FEMALE VOICE: What floor?

CORA: Oh. Yeah, you already— Yeah. Twelve.

(SOUND OF ELEVATOR DOOR CLOSING)

FEMALE VOICE, on the phone: Yeah? Elijah? I’m coming right up.

INDIA: indistinguishable

(SOUND OF ELEVATOR DOOR OPENING)

CORA, softly: India! Hang back.

INDIA: We need to stop this. What if he’s going to hurt her?

CORA: Just wait. India. Wait.

(SOUND OF DOOR OPENING)

ELIJAH, to the other girl: Hey, Juliette. Come on in.

(SOUND OF DOOR CLOSING)

INDIA: Okay, let’s just rehearse one more time. We knock on the door, say we’re students writing an article for the Spectator, and see if we can ask him a few questions.

CORA: Right.

INDIA: We lead into it slowly.

CORA: Good. Now we wait. Ah! India! Stop!

INDIA: What? I have to wring out my hair.

CORA: Not all over the floor. Wait, also, what if he recognizes us?

INDIA: Well, he clearly thought he knew me that day in the coffee shop in October or whatever. So I was thinking we’d pretend to be students. I mean, neither of us was in his Tutorial section at Bowen. And he was only there twice a week. And we HAVE cleverly disguised ourselves in non-Bowen clothes.

CORA: Right.

INDIA: I think we should go in now.

CORA: Fine. I still think we should wait, but whatever.

(SOUND OF KNOCKING ON DOOR)

JULIETTE, from inside: Did you hear that?

ELIJAH, from inside: What?

JULIETTE, from inside: Someone’s at the door.

ELIJAH, from inside: Who is it?

CORA: Uh—your, uh, your neighbors.

(SOUND OF DOOR OPENING)

ELIJAH: Hello?

INDIA: Hi. We live just down the hall—we’re students writing an article for the Spectator. Could we ask you a few questions?

ELIJAH: Uh . . . what’s the article?

JULIETTE, from inside: Who is it?

ELIJAH, to Juliette: Just—just some people down the hall.

JULIETTE, from inside: Invite them in!

ELIJAH: Would you like to come in?

INDIA: Thank you!

(SOUND OF DOOR CLOSING)

CORA: Wow, this is a nice apartment.

INDIA: I like the tapestry. Did you get it in upstate New York?

CORA, whispering: India.

ELIJAH, laughing: Thanks! I actually did get it upstate, around Woodstock.

JULIETTE: Hi. I’m Juliette.

INDIA: Wow. You’re really pretty.

JULIETTE, laughing: Thanks.

CORA, whispering: India.

ELIJAH: So, you girls live down the hall?

CORA: Yeah. We just moved in a few weeks ago.

ELIJAH: Oh. Uh, cool. And you go to Columbia, you said?

INDIA: Yeah! But we just started this semester. We transferred from, uh, Vassar. You’re a sophomore, right?

ELIJAH: Yeah.

INDIA, to JULIETTE: Are you his girlfriend?

JULIETTE, laughing: I’m his sister, and I’m twenty-five. Anyone want some wine?

CORA: We’d love some, thanks.

ELIJAH: Cool, cool. And what were you saying about an article?

INDIA: Okay. We’re writing an article about the sexual norms on campus and were wondering if you, as, uh, someone who is male, would give us your take.

ELIJAH: Do you have a more specific question?

CORA: Have you ever hurt a girl so badly that she’s rendered mute for months, save for the occasional fake-chirpy letter?

ELIJAH: What are you talking about?

INDIA: Do you have something to hide?

JULIETTE: Elijah? Do you know these girls?

ELIJAH: Of course not. No.

CORA: And what were you doing the night of December 18 of this year?

ELIJAH: What?

JULIETTE: Excuse me?

INDIA: What were you doing the night of December 18?

ELIJAH: I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was—I wasn’t—

JULIETTE: I don’t know if I like where this is going. . . .

INDIA: Nobody asked you.

ELIJAH: Um, maybe you could—

CORA: Why aren’t you answering the question?

ELIJAH: I, uh—this is ridiculous. Is this about Flora, or something?

JULIETTE: Who’s Flora?

INDIA: I’ve never heard that name in my life.

JULIETTE: Hey, I think it’s best if you guys leave.

INDIA: So you’re denying it, then?

ELIJAH: It would be great if you could go now.

CORA: Not before we give you a taste of your own medicine. Here.

(JULIETTE SCREAMS)

INDIA, screaming: Her blood is on your hands! Aside, into the microphone: The blood is symbolized by the red wine.

ELIJAH: Oh my God. What the hell?

JULIETTE, now calm: Do you have any seltzer? It’ll come off.

(SOUND OF DOOR OPENING)

ELIJAH: Please don’t ever come back here.

(SOUND OF DOOR CLOSING)

CORA: So there you have it. He’s in denial. No surprise there.

INDIA: I mean, I guess it WAS asking for a lot to think he’d confess to everything. But if you really think about it, his denial has to mean something.

CORA: Good work, Inds.

INDIA: Okay, bye!

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dustin Crane <[email protected]>

Subject: Weird shit

March 23, 5:12 p.m.

Hey, dude. I just pulled over (I’m Ubering on Wednesdays now for some extra cash) to give you a heads-up. I just drove these two chicks to about two blocks from your apartment. I lied and told them I couldn’t get closer because of the rain because I wanted to give you a heads-up. The shit they were saying in the car was crazy. Something about getting you to confess to abandonment or something? I don’t know, dude. Just don’t open the door.

Sent from my iPhone

The Young Innovators’ Promise Awards (YIPA) are the oldest and most prestigious form of recognition for young artists and writers in the United States. We welcome your submission and encourage you to keep creating even in the likely event that you do not receive an award. We aim to notify you of the status of your application by the first of May.

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

When sixteen-year-old Ursula Webber gets pregnant on a retreat with her elite private school in Manhattan, she is shipped off to the Convent of the Illuminated Eye, a farming community for wayward teens in rural Pennsylvania.

If it weren’t for a certain soft-spoken, Emily Dickinson–reading, virginal drug addict named Caleb, Ursula would be on the next wagon out of the Convent. Her mission—to deflower Caleb, born of a dare by the convent’s secret society, to which Ursula is desperate to be admitted—soon takes over her life, eventually prompting her to realize that sex is more complicated than she’d initially expected.

This play is unique in that it is told completely in voice-over: actors stand offstage and speak lines—either dialogue or asides—into microphones. The set changes frequently, however, as noted in the script. Most prominent, the play involves the performance art piece Vending Machine, or Everything Must Go, which has recently gained media attention.

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

April 1

Lael,

I don’t even know where to begin.

After closing night of Luella’s play (I’ve been busy with my own project, so I just stage-managed), Juna decided to have a Guild party. I agreed that a party was what everyone needed, and Juna immediately began scribbling on a napkin. Things between us have been the slighest bit tense since the whole “fuck off” incident for which I actually feel really bad given how supportive she’s being, but she’s been laughing at herself more and more in rehearsals for my play, for which rehearsals began the other week, so we’re not on as shaky ground.

“No smoking weed or drinking alcohol, obviously,” she said. “I’ll tell Gary he can make cupcakes if he wants, but I’ll advise him strongly against it. And I’ll make some cookies after the dining hall empties out from dinner tonight, and we can serve bubbly cider with the stuff from last year.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

Juna was barefoot, in an oversized black flannel shirt and just white underwear on the bottom. She looked like a character in a movie, one who walked away from a steamy sex session without an ounce of self-consciousness.

“I hope it won’t make it worse if Sam comes,” she said.

“It’s okay.” I tried to keep my tone light. “Things are bad already.”

“God.” Juna pranced about a little bit more. “You and Sam were destined to be friends. God, I can’t think of anyone else who would be your best friend.”

Which sounds mean when I write it, but when Juna said it, it was really quite tender, in a surprising way.

“I do have Sinclaire,” I said.

Juna stood in front of the mirror, propped up against the dresser, and studied her bare legs, turning this way and that.

“You do,” she said. “But, like, Sinclaire is weird and quirky in this totally charming way. With Sam, it’s more a match, because he’s more . . . prickly. An acquired taste. An outsider.”

“And that’s how you see me?”

“Well.” Juna smirked. “It’s how I DID see you. Last semester. Now you’re pretty much the darling of Quare.”

“Thanks to Sam.”

She didn’t deny it. “What he did was wrong,” she said, shrugging, “but are you going to stay mad forever?”

I gaped at her. Juna, of all people, should haven been the last person to suggest forgiveness, especially for a crime as heinous as Sam’s.

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shook her head. “I’m not saying all should be forgotten,” she said. “And I’ve gone back and forth on this. But practicing radical forgiveness can feel pretty amazing. It gets complicated when you take into account the gender politics, of course, but I don’t know. It’s worth considering.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” I said.

Our cabin isn’t big enough for six people, let alone sixteen, but that was okay, because we were all right with being suffocated, and also we weren’t all in there at one time. It was a nice night out, and people flooded onto the steps and the patch of grass outside, just talking and snacking on refreshments. Juna played a tape of some classical Mexican singer as loud as it would go, and thanks to Gary’s pot brownies stored safely underneath my bed to regulate access, people began to dance to the music. Juna turned off all the lights except for the fairy one in the corner, basking everything in the dusty light, and the music really was catchy.

I wandered over to the top of Juna’s dresser, which was filled with plates of food, and picked up something chocolate, not sure if it was something Juna had made or a second batch of brownies Gary had concocted (he’d been in and out of the kitchen all night, running in with more food—who knew he was such a good baker?). It was warm inside the cabin, so instead of looking for Juna to ask her, I bit into it. It was delicious.

Then I started to dance with Agnes, a little bit, and when he started to rub his pelvis on mine through my blue satiny flapper dress, one of the last things I’m planning to put in the vending machine, I didn’t pull away. My brain was on a seesaw, flying up and floating down as the weight on either end shifted. I laughed loudly, and Agnes persisted with his grinding, even nuzzling his face into my neck and the top of my shoulder. I thought about kissing him.

Agnes shouted something into my ear, but we kept on dancing, banging into the bedposts and the dressers and people and just laughing. Outside the window, people were dancing and laughing and talking just outside the cabin. All was right in the world—except with Sam. I’d still have to figure out that situation. Every time I thought of him and what Juna had said, my muscles stiffened, a little, until Agnes shifted into me at a different angle, at which point I laughed and loosened up again.

But then I was sweaty, and I pried myself away from Agnes and pushed past people to move toward the exit of the cabin. I stumbled down the steps—coordination was suddenly difficult— and collapsed onto the little stump outside the A-frame.

That’s when I caught sight of Sam. He must have been standing inside the cabin, directly in front of the window—my vision was off, and I couldn’t quite tell where things were—but I didn’t remember seeing him go in.

I stood shakily and mounted the steps, with no plan other than to say hello and be a good hostess. For some reason I was feeling benevolent. Inside was hazy. People staggered all over and lounged on the floor and the beds—my bed, Juna’s bed. I convinced myself that it didn’t bother me that people’s dirty feet were on my clean sheets or that their greasy hair was rubbing into my cotton pillowcases. Rae and Jasmine were sitting on my bed, backs pressed up against the wall, just talking, and sure enough, Sam was standing with his face to the window, sipping from a Mason jar of coffee and sliding his bare foot over and over again on the smooth panel of wood on the floor—this piece of wood that’s an anomaly, black and shiny and not like the dusty, splintery panels that cover the rest of the cabin.

The corners of Sam’s mouth twitched when he saw me.

“Hi,” I said, unaware of the sound of my voice.

“Hey,” said Sam, taking another sip of coffee.

“Should you be drinking that this late?” I asked. “With your insomnia, I mean.”

Why was I trying to reconcile with him? Lael, I have no idea.

“It’s decaf.”

“Oh.”

I tried again. “You don’t want anything to drink?”

“Like alcohol?”

I nodded.

He shook his head.

We were silent.

“Are you having fun?” I asked.

“Not really. I’m not into this whole scene. You know, merrymaking. Look.” He gestured around at the chunks of tinfoil littering the floor, the empty Mason jars and bottles stationed on every available surface. I hadn’t noticed it before he pointed it out, but it gripped me, suddenly, that Juna and I were responsible for this. I’d become one of those suburban kids who throws raucous parties when their parents leave town, the kind who stays up into the wee hours of the morning shoving pizza crusts and beer bottles into garbage bags. “The detritus of revelers makes me anxious.”

“Then why did you come?” I grabbed the wall for support.

“I didn’t want to sit in my room alone.” This with a touch of bitterness, which he covered up by swishing the coffee around in his jar.

“Sam,” I said. “I might be able to forgive you one day.”

I was being so benevolent! But he just stood there, refusing to look at me and drinking his coffee. A twinge of annoyance shot through me. I was planning to forgive him; shouldn’t he be a little bit happier?

“Of course you’ll forgive me,” he said. “Things have never been better for you. You’re Quare now.”

“What? I’m not Quare.”

He stared at me for a minute.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he asked.

“Maybe I don’t. Why don’t you enlighten me?” Now I was annoyed.

“Flora.” He took a long, reluctant breath. “Just look around.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re becoming just like them.”

I could hardly breathe. “You don’t know anything about me or what I’m doing,” I snapped. Suddenly the music stopped, and we were the only ones talking in a room that had gone dead quiet.

Everyone was staring, so I wrenched Sam’s arm, marched him outside like he was a disobedient fourth-grader, and dragged him behind a tree. It was so dark that I could only see the faint glimmer of his eyes.

“You listen to me,” I seethed, angrier than I’d ever been. Adrenaline surged through my limbs, and my arm shook. “Don’t you ever imply that what I’m doing is fake. Maybe you’re jealous, or whatever, that people are rallying around me now, but you had no right to create this messy situation for me.”

Sam punched the tree. Then he recoiled in pain, bending at the knees and shaking his hand out. When he stood straight again, he was almost screaming, but in a whisper.

“I have no excuse,” he hissed. “It’s the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever done. Jesus Christ, how many times can I apologize? I was your FRIEND, Flora. It really upset me to see you all catatonic after he left. He was a flaccid putz, but he really got under your skin, didn’t he?”

I just nodded. I was trying not to cry, because yeah, Elijah was— and is—a flaccid putz. I get that now. But it still really hurt to think about him.

“I think what you’re doing is great, but it kind of seems like you’re pandering to the Quares, or something,” he said. “And they’re all eating it up. I just want to make sure you’re not trading trying to please one person for trying to please all these people.”

I gaped at him.

“ME?” I asked. “What about YOU? You’re the one who pretends to hate it here, but in reality you’re performing for them, complaining about everything and being all neurotic.

You’re a character, just like everyone else here is.”

He shook his head. “But it’s not the same bullshit deepness.”

“BULLSHIT DEEPNESS?” I screamed, no longer caring who heard. “YOU CREATED THIS WHOLE THING! I AM AN ARTIST OUT OF NECESSITY!!!”

My head felt light, suddenly, and I felt the unmistakable urge to dance. I pulled myself away from Sam and went to find Agnes. It was easy: he was shouting something about the Mexican singer to everybody in his immediate vicinity, and I grabbed him and thrust against him as the music swelled. To be honest, this is all a little hazy, but I do remember that when I tired of that, tired of the Agnes smell seeping into my nose and Agnes pressing up into my derrière, I detached myself from his hips and went in search of Juna to tell her that we were out of bubbly cider and that someone—preferably someone who hadn’t gotten high on the brownies—should run to the dining hall and fetch some more snacks.

Juna didn’t appear to be in the cabin, so I pushed my way down the steps—past non-Guild people swinging and dancing and shouting—and looked around. Sam was gone, but Juna wasn’t outside either, so I turned back around and returned to the cabin.

There’s no real place to hide in there except for the tiny crawl space where Juna and I keep our folded-up suitcases. And then I saw it: outside the crawl space were our bags, flung every which way by the person who had tossed them aside to force her body into the little cellar. I dropped to my knees and inched toward the crawl space, struggling to stay focused and wobble in a straight line. I parted the legs of the people blocking the doorway, and then I opened the cellar door. And there, folded up as tight as could be, knees at her mouth, was Juna.

“Juna?” I shouted, competing with the music. The words were like marshmallow fluff oozing from my mouth. “Come out!”

Juna’s head was shooting back and forth. I searched in the darkness for Juna’s hand, quickly feeling her pulse to make sure that she was stable, and with considerable effort I heaved her out of the crawl space. Juna sank against the wall of the cabin, her eyes tightly closed, head grazing the wall where it sloped down low.

“What’s wrong?” I managed, putting my mouth right next to Juna’s ear so that I could be heard without having to shout.

Juna was quiet for a minute, and then she screamed, “I ATE THE BROWNIE!”

Then she began to hyperventilate, choking and coughing and sucking in air like a vacuum cleaner. But then she fell still. “I’m not even that far gone,” she said, suddenly calm. “I just feel so light, like I’m going to pass out.” I thought about calling someone else over to address the situation, but then I realized that I was as capable of handling it as anybody else.

“It’s okay!” I shouted at her. “It can be fun!”

“NO!” Juna screamed, doing a shimmying motion on the floor, legs splayed, flopping open like two big flounders. “I . . . DON’T . . . DO . . . THIS!!!!!”

She was so distraught that I didn’t know what to do. I leaned in and hugged her, thinking that maybe the pressure of my body on hers would be calming. Her body was firm, stable. She wore a black crop top and high-waisted black pants, her Marxist party outfit evidently. A strip of her flat stomach was visible between the top, which really covered only her breasts and some of her ribs, and the pants, and her eye makeup was smudged with sweat and tears. She was earnest. She was a good roommate. She was so intentional that I leaned in and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

That’s right. I kissed JUNA! My roommate! A girl (woman?)! I mean, whom the fuck am I even ATTRACTED to?

But I was even more surprised when Juna, despite her disheveled state, kissed back.

We kissed for a while, making out sitting against the cabin wall. Juna’s lips were soft, her hand light on my thigh. She pulled my hair, slightly, which felt oddly nice. It wasn’t like kissing Elijah— it was better. Juna didn’t cup my face in her hands like he did, and she smelled different too, but it was kind of fun, her breath in my face and her little tongue darting in and out. And I felt a different, more interesting stirring, my body warmer and kind of softer around the edges. I didn’t want to stop.

Oh my God. I guess I’m queer, or whatever. Is it normal to have these random surges of attraction to other girls?? God almighty. My freaking LIFE right now.

Finally Juna pulled away.

“Bed,” she croaked.

I jumped to attention, glad for a task, and cleared her bed of people, who got up haltingly, resentfully. Then I heaved Juna up, deposited her into the bed, and tucked her in.

“Party’s over!” I shouted, shutting off the record, and people began to swarm out, mumbling that they still wanted to dance. Juna was a deflated mound on her bed. But my own bed was stripped naked. Someone, I realized, must have taken my blanket outside. I let out a huge sigh and headed out to find it, probably caked with dirt. The scene had emptied out, but there, sitting on the stump, was Sam. I stopped short when I saw him.

At this point, my head was pounding and my body felt like syrup.

“Sam,” I said.

He turned to look up at me.

“Flora?” he asked.

“Do you have my blanket?” I worked to keep warmth out of my voice.

He looked around in confusion for a second.

“Oh,” he said. “I think I’m sitting on it.”

He lifted my blanket out from under him. I accepted it and wrapped it around my shoulders, suddenly cold.

“The vending machine looks cool from this angle,” he said.

I followed his gaze. The machine DID look pretty cool, all lit up and glowing and thrumming in the middle of the night.

“The shoes,” he said. “You’re selling them.”

He was referring to the pair of suede Carel flats he’d once complimented.

“Yeah,” I said. “Everything must go.”

“Why?”

I shook my head. “Every relationship is a transaction. Or something like that.”

“So you have to choose? It has to be that you either keep everything for yourself, or sell your things one by one?”

I sort of threw up my hands. “I guess so,” I said. “I mean, with Elijah, it was like I had to choose. He only liked me because I

fit some ideal of hip beauty for him to photograph, and once he got all of me . . . I guess, he left. Even YOU just liked me for my style, probably.”

He laughed. “No, I didn’t. I liked you because you were cool and smart. It was cool that you were different, and stuff, but I’m that way too. Besides, it was kind of the least interesting thing about you.”

He made room for me on the stump. I hesitated. Then I sat.

“Flora,” he said.

“Sam.”

“What happened with Elijah?”

“Nothing.” I said it before I thought about it.

Sam reached out to me. He tried to put his arm around my shoulders, but I wriggled away from him. In one fluid motion,

I shirked the blanket, kicked off my sneakers (ignoring the stabbing pain in my leg), and ran for the lake. I know—I’m not the type of person who keeps running away (at least physically), but for some reason my skin was jumping and I needed to move. So I ran. Pebbles stabbed the soles of my feet. The wind bit my cracked skin, but I ran anyway, feeling oddly liberated.

I couldn’t stand the weight of myself anymore. I wanted to go deep.

I reached the dock and scampered onto it. The wood was soft and scattered with bird shit, but I didn’t care so much about that. The water was murky and filled with algae. I might as well disappear, I thought.

I dove in headfirst.

It took my body a second to process the shock of the cold, and in that second I started swimming, pinwheeling my arms and hurling my legs as fast as I could, in random directions. The dirty water stung my eyes, but I kept going because it was dangerous to stop. In my haste I swam right through a tangle of algae. I didn’t take the time to detach it, instead plowing ahead with the plant attached to my head, winding itself into my mouth and eyes. In the water, I could amass weight easily. There was nothing to it.

But then Sam’s voice broke in. “FLORA!” he screamed. “You’re going to die!”

I flipped up my middle finger underwater, knowing that the surface was too black to make it out. I paused for a second and laughed, sending out a muddy gurgle. Then there was a splattering behind me. I suspended myself in a doggy paddle and spun around to look. It was Sam, from the neck up at least, his hair a depressed little halo. One shoe burst up to the lake’s surface, and he let it float away. He was spluttering. He was irate, and I began to paddle away faster, laughing in spite of myself.

“FLORA!” Sam shouted. “Stop! Swimming! Right! Now!” He slapped the water, producing muddy fireworks. “If you don’t stop swimming, I’ll”—he searched for a threat—“call the National Guard!”

I began laughing uncontrollably at the thought of uniformed soldiers, all blocky haircuts and military-industrial complex swooping onto the Quare campus to rescue me, Flora, from the depths of the Quare Pond. Would Miriam offer them quinoa cookies? Would the Oracle encourage them to tap their chakra points for extra strength? I paddled over to the side of the pond.

“Fuck off!” I called back merrily to Sam. He followed me close behind—he was a strong swimmer, somewhat surprisingly— and waited until I had crawled out of the water, struggling and heaving, to effortlessly crawl out himself. My satiny dress, coated in mud, stuck to me and immediately formed a clingy, icy blanket. My bare feet dug into the rock- and stick-covered ground, collecting a new layer with every step, and my thigh hammered out in protest, but I had done it. I had jumped into the pond. I had gone deep.

I staggered toward my cabin, Sam stomping behind me. People who hadn’t yet gone in for the night were on their porches, staring, but I didn’t even care. At the last minute I used my final burst of energy to swerve, throwing Sam off course, and headed toward the communal showers.

“FLORA!” Sam roared, and I finally turned to face him. Absolutely everyone on their porches was agog. In the distance, a cabin door opened and Agnes’s face appeared, then disappeared. The door squealed shut.

“What?” I challenged him. I stood in the entrance to the showers, shivering and chattering so hard that I could barely form words. “This is me, Sam. I really don’t have that much to give you anymore.”

I ran crying into the showers, slipping and sliding on the wet wooden floors. I fell to the ground and my knee cracked, hard, but I got up and finally made it into a shower. I kneeled down. Still in my ruined clothes, I reached up and turned the shower onto the hottest setting, even though I knew it would take a minute or two to warm up from ice-cold.

I bent my head and bawled. I was so fucking tired.

Sam appeared in the doorway to the shower. He stood there, watching. His hair dripped with muddy water, and there was a leaf stuck to one of his cheeks. His face didn’t bother me so much anymore, just made my stomach hurt.

“I know you don’t have anything else to give me,” he said quietly. I cried softer so I could hear what he said next. “But I still love you.”

Lael, as cheesy as it was, that’s really what he said.

The shower got steaming hot, and he helped me clean off and get warm. I didn’t take off my bra and underwear, obviously, but he did help me wring out my dress and hang it on the line outside. Once I climbed into bed, we talked for a while about a bunch of little things. And he offered to sleep over, but I told him to just go home. I’m still mad at him, of course, but the anger is starting to thaw.

Because, Lael, what is life if we can’t forgive people after we note the way they’ve messed up? Am I being a total pushover? Am I being a bad feminist who’s forgiving a guy for violating her privacy only after he jumps into a pond to rescue her?

In any case, Sam and I decided to blow off our morning class. I’m probably going back to bed when I finish this letter, actually. I’m too tired to wrap this up in a meaningful way. Sam loves me. And that’s something, I guess.

F

To: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

From: Ash Tree Willis <[email protected]>

Subject: last night

April 2, 7:42 a.m.

Miriam,

I’m writing to fill you in on an incident that occurred last night between two of our first-years, Flora Goldwasser and Sam Chabot.

At around one in the morning, I woke to a frantic tapping at my door. As you know, when I’m on duty, I sleep on a cot in the infirmary, so it took me a minute to orient myself. As soon as I did, I opened the door to find Agnes Surl waiting for me. He explained that there had been an incident involving Flora Goldwasser and Sam Chabot and the pond. I followed him through the second-year cabins to the pond.

And what I saw there was incredible: just as I arrived at the scene, Sam Chabot and Flora Goldwasser staggered out of the pond—it was forty degrees, mind you—and ran toward the communal showers. This seemed like a dangerous situation to me, so I followed them. It seemed that Flora had been trying to thwart Sam, or evade him in some way, but we both finally caught up with her inside the bathroom. I hung back, just out of sight, while he delivered an impassioned little speech, ending with “I love you.”

I recalled what had happened at the end of last semester and quickly ascertained that this was a complicated dynamic.

I listened hard for sounds of physical intimacy and, if so, to suggest that they get a good night’s rest before making any choices about sex, but all I heard was Sam helping to clean, dry, and warm Flora. I dashed back to the infirmary, procured a few extra blankets and two mugs of tea. Sinclaire O’Leary and Marigold Chen, Flora’s neighbors, helped me carry everything. When I arrived, Juna, Flora’s roommate, was sleeping soundly (still in her clothing, however, which was somewhat troubling). Upon seeing me for the first time—or noticing my appearance; before, the two had been focused on each other—Flora and Sam seemed surprised and not entirely welcoming. I announced that I was, as always, available to talk. But my voice trailed off as I fully absorbed the state of their cabin: plates and dishes strewn around the floor, candles melted onto every surface, clothes flung about— piled on top of Juna, even.

I quickly realized that this was the cabin of two individuals undergoing a very rough time. The last time I had seen the cabin was at the beginning of last semester, during lice checks: I remember it as the neatest space on campus. But it was clear that Sam and Flora wanted to talk to each other, not me. So I deposited the blankets and the tea and left them there, Flora sitting inside of her bed and Sam at the end of it. I have notified their morning teachers that they will probably not be at shared work this morning.

Moving forward, I think it’s important that we check in with Flora, Sam, and even Juna on a more regular basis. If Flora, for example, feels uncomfortable talking to her adviser, Pearl, then I will offer myself, and perhaps bring in Dean Elliot, Flora’s mentor, with whom I noticed Flora shares a special connection.

I will be in touch about a plan of action for the coming days.

Warmly,

Ash Tree Willis, RN

School Nurse

The Quare Academy

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sinclaire O’Leary <[email protected]>

Subject: Sam

April 2, 9:52 a.m.

omg

i am doing a big lol

sam loves you

platonic soul friends

the platonic part i am assuming to be true

come weed with me at four

the garden (of ur soul) needs tending

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Juna

April 2, 3:13 p.m.

I still feel like shit, by the way. Have you gone to any classes? I’m too lazy to come find you.

But I need to tell you about this morning.

When I woke up, all the windows were still open, and so was the door, inexplicably. I felt as though someone were knocking on the front of my skull like it was a door knocker. Juna was lying on her side without any blanket at all, her arms wrapped around her body and her knees to her chest. She was so still that I worried for a moment that she was dead. It was almost eight, which meant that we had half an hour to get to breakfast.

Did I tell you that I kissed Juna last night? I knew that we would have to discuss it. We were both HIGH, but just because it’s JUNA, and she needs to talk through every little thing, I geared up for a chat. If I’m being honest, kissing Juna was fun, but I obviously didn’t want to DISCUSS it with her, or anything.

When I next opened my eyes, I found Juna standing over me, shrugging into a sweater. The litter and stray jars—“the detritus of revelers,” was that what you called it?—was swept into tidy piles by the door, sorted as only Juna would by each item’s destination: compost bin, recycling, dining hall.

“We missed breakfast,” said Juna without a trace of hangover in her voice. “I have some cereal under my bed, if you want. Unless they ate it all yesterday.”

“I’m okay.” I yawned, turning over again in bed. “I’m not really hungry, anyway.” Then I closed my eyes.

When I opened my eyes again, Juna was sitting on the edge of my bed. My eyes jerked open as Juna lay a hand on my arm underneath Agnes’s bomber jacket. (Somehow I had acquired a layer of people’s coats as blankets. Don’t ask.)

“We need to talk,” Juna said.

See? But I can’t even be mad at her. She’s just so goddamn earnest.

Juna took one of those deep Juna breaths, “Last night was kind of like a dream,” she said.

“You mean like a nightmare?”

Juna shook her head. “No. Not like that. I mean, it’s almost as though it didn’t happen. I don’t remember much of it.”

“Not much happened,” I said. “You were scared because you were high for the first time, and then we, um, kissed for a bit, until you kind of fainted, and I helped you get into bed. Your coordination wasn’t the best it’s ever been.”

Juna pressed her face into her hands. “I can’t believe I got high,” she said. “I broke the abstinence pledge. I’m a deviant. Oh my God. I’m no better than YOU.”

She shot me a sad smile to let me know that she hadn’t really meant her insult.

“You’re not a deviant.” I struggled to push myself up onto my elbows. “Deviants don’t feel guilty about stuff like that. Stealing cars, maybe, but not accidentally eating a pot brownie.”

Juna patted my arm gratefully, but I could tell that she was still beating herself up a little.

“Anyway.” She smoothed herself down onto the bed beside me and reached her hands all the way above her head, giving me a close view of her bristly hairy armpits. “I didn’t know you liked girls, Flora.”

I wanted to slap the coy smile off her face. But gently, you know?

“I’m not really sure of anything right now,” I said.

“So what was last night about?”

“Drugs? Youth? Reckless impulsivity?”

Juna smirked. “Be serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I have a hard time believing that it meant absolutely nothing. We can talk it through, if you want.”

My head was pounding.

“No, thanks.”

Juna looked miffed. “So what do you want to do from here?”

“Move on.”

“I don’t know if I can forget about it,” Juna said. “I don’t know how I feel at all. Are you going to tell people?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Well, good.” Juna straightened up a bit. “I mean, I do have my long-term open relationship. But in any case”—here she caressed my arm for a few seconds—“I’m glad we’ve debriefed.”

I collapsed back into bed.

And haven’t left since.

You?

Flora

To: Sinclaire O’Leary <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Sam

April 2, 4:11 p.m.

Oh God. I’m assuming he meant platonic. I tried to act natural in an email to him and worry that I failed miserably. SOS. I’ll be at the English Cottage Garden in five.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]du>

Subject: Re: Juna

April 2, 5:02 p.m.

You kissed JUNA?

That’s hilarious.

I just stopped by your cabin, but you weren’t there. I got the feeling that you were probably in the garden, or something, but I figured I’d let you do your thing and we could talk later.

Want me to tell Juna I confessed my love for you last night?

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Juna

April 2, 5:54 p.m.

Yes, please. Also, about that . . . am I right to assume that you meant platonic? Like, no physical attraction whatsoever?

We should probably be having this conversation in person, with a moderator trained in nonviolent communication, but the only issue is that I don’t want to do that.

To: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

From: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Juna

April 2, 6:07 p.m.

God, yes. I’m not attracted to you in the slightest. Let’s be platonic lovers. Good?

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Juna

April 2, 6:09 p.m.

Good.

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

April 10

Flora,

No way are you “dating” someone who you’re not going to even kiss. Of all things! Work that Pauline Trigère crepe dress and seduce him, for Christ’s sake!!! Also, Jasper just asked India to interschool prom over iMessage—she should say no, right? I mean, obviously she should say no, but the little bitch has been debating actually going with him for about four days nonstop. I’m like, are you drunk? The only thing he has going for him is that he’s already being recruited by Princeton to play squash—and that’s about it.

The other thing I think I should tell you about is that we had a little run-in with your friend Elijah the other day. We just ran into him (in his apartment building, actually . . . it’s a long story). We casually brought up your name, playing it cool, obviously, but he seemed kind of confused, to tell you the truth.

Oh, and another thing: my mom just got free tickets to Hawaii (don’t even ask how—she’s dating this seventy-year-old loser who’s superrich or whatever), and she says that you, India, and I can have them. So what do you say? Maui in July?! Let me know ASAP, ’cause otherwise I’m asking Jasper (kidding).

Love,

Cora

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

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

Subject: Flora

April 12, 9:22 p.m.

India!!!

I’m practically panting with excitement. Do you remember that girl who was wearing the shirt that I thought was Flora, and you told me I was crazy?

Well, LOOK WHO’S CRAZY NOW. (Hint: not I.)

I was doing some homework at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Eighty-third and Third to avoid going back to my house this afternoon (my mom’s meeting with the whole legal team), and who walks in but THAT SAME GIRL? The Heathers one in the eighties shoulder pads and all the curly black hair just stacked on top of her head. We locked eyes—she’s superpretty, with this olive skin and really deep green eyes and a really long bony nose that just works—and I knew she recognized me, too. I looked down at her outfit, and sure enough, IT WAS ANOTHER FLORA SHIRT. This one was really unmistakable—the Jackie Kennedy outfit (you know, the nubby apricot dress with the matching apricot coat).

And then, right on her heels, before I could wave her over, walked in this Asian girl with ANOTHER Flora shirt under a striped cardigan. This one was Flora (now I’m positive, as you’ll see) in a red-and-white plaid skirt suit. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON, right?

She clearly saw me staring, but she played it cool, asserting her dominance. The two of them ordered their coffees and pastries and chose a table not far from where I was sitting with my calc homework. I kept shooting them glances over the top of my computer. Something was telling me that this was key—that they knew something we didn’t about what happened to Flora.

I waited fifteen minutes. They took all these papers out of their briefcases (!) and laid them on the table. There were photos all over the pages, but I couldn’t really tell what they were of. When it was time, I took a deep breath, smoothed my skirt (how embarrassing that I was still in my Bowen uniform), and walked over to them with as much confidence as I could muster.

“Hi,” I said, holding out a hand. The Asian girl shook it hesitantly, but the one with all the hair just kind of stared at me. “I’m Cora Shimizu-Stein, and that’s my friend on your shirt.”

This certainly got their attention. They shot each other a glance that fell somewhere between terrified and excited. They seemed to be communicating telepathically.

“I’m Grace,” the Asian girl said.

“Wink,” said eighties McGee. She still didn’t shake my hand.

As soon as she said her name, I knew exactly who she was: she’s the wunderkind editor of that teen feminist magazine, Nymphette.

She’s been profiled in The New Yorker and does interviews with, like, Mirth magazine.

“Maybe you’re confused,” Grace said. “These shirts are of Miss Tulip. You know? The website?”

It rang a bell. Remember what Flora wrote about in her letter, about that creepy blog Elijah had of her?

“Oh right,” I said. “Well, Miss Tulip is my best friend.”

They looked at me, unsure as to whether or not I was unhinged.

“What’s her name?” Wink asked. A challenge.

I hesitated. “Flora Goldwasser,” I said finally. I mean, it’s not like they’d know who she was, right?

Well, wrong.

They gaped at each other. Wink had finally lost her cool.

“Vending machine girl?” she said. Her voice was shaking all over the place.

I nodded.

“Your friend is Flora Goldwasser, vending machine girl, who’s also Miss Tulip.” Grace’s eyes were shooting around in her head. A few crumbs from her blueberry muffin shook off of her lips.

“Miss Tulip?” I asked.

Grace gaped at me. “MISS TULIP,” she practically screamed. “THE GIRL ON MY SHIRT. FEMINIST STYLE ICON.”

Oh right. This was all in the letter. To be honest, I didn’t really understand what they were so excited about—I mean, OBVIOUSLY

Flora is a feminist style icon. So I just nodded and smiled.

“Wait, let me get your number.” Wink took out her phone and handed it to me. I typed it in. She texted me so I’d have hers, and then I left. They’re superdown to help us do something . . . no idea what yet.

Oh FUCK, I have to go—my sister’s crying. But call me. Something huge is happening!!!!

Core

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Flora

April 12, 10:21 p.m.

Could you please just ask Flora to call me? I feel like she’d be more responsive if it came from you.

A few weeks ago, two deranged girls came to my APARTMENT. So it’s safe to say we need to talk.

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Flora

April 12, 10:53 p.m.

Dude,

I’ve been getting your messages and emails. I don’t really feel like talking to you, so I’m not planning to call you back anytime soon.

As to your request, that I force Flora to contact you and take ownership, here’s the deal: she HAS taken ownership. You’re the one who hasn’t. Call her yourself if you want to talk to her. It seems like you’re kind of used to getting other people, like your sister and maybe now even me, to fight your battles for you. Well, not anymore.

I care about Flora. We’ve been working closely on her play, which I’m fairly certain is going to win big at YIPA this year. To be honest, I don’t know why things fell apart with you and Flora, and I don’t really care. I’m all about Flora now.

I hope you figure your stuff out as best you can, but it’s not any more hers than it is yours. To be honest, what you guys had (have?) doesn’t even really have anything to do with this anymore. If that was over here, then this is over there. You dig?

Peace out,

Dean

Letter from Elijah

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

April 13

Flora,

I’m not really sure what’s going on, but I wanted to check in. I listened to the interview you gave on NPR, and I’m really proud of you—what you’re doing is awesome.

The other week, these two girls came to my apartment, and I think it had something to do with the radio piece, or something with one of the blogs. Now, I get that you’re not spreading this, so I can hardly blame you for that. But still, I’d hate for my reputation to be compromised because of that ridiculous piece in the Quare Times. I think we both understand that what happened between us was much different than a “fuck and duck,” whatever that even means. So I’d really appreciate your doing anything possible to contain these rumors.

Fondly,

Elijah

Elijah Huck

245 West 107th Street

New York, NY 10025

April 15

Elijah,

I’m realizing more and more that the reason I feel sick when I think about you (and us) is that maybe I’m hungry. My insides feel scooped out like a pumpkin.

Or am I still too full, even after giving all this away?

There’s either not enough or too much inside of me—that’s what I’m trying to say. It’s not sex’s fault, per se. It’s not your fault (not entirely, I mean). It’s not my fault. I didn’t get pregnant. It wasn’t assault.

At what point did you start to actually like

And how exactly was it different—really, actually different— than a “fuck and duck”?

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

April 16

Dear Flora,

Did you get Mum and Nell’s wedding (oops, “celebration of love and commitment”) invitation? It’s absurd. I’ve met the woman only once, and she was so preoccupied with the Suze Orman special that we couldn’t have even a halfway decent conversation about her work. I was the one asking her the questions, prying answers out of her, for God’s sake—and which one of us is the future stepparent?

Can we sabotage, do you think? God knows Mum won’t listen to any of our reasons that Nell sucks (bad table manners, has no interest in us whatsoever, gives off serious bad energy), so I think our only option is to set fire to the park—that, or torch Mum herself (kidding, sort of). In any event, forget the vial of colored sand: I’m bringing coal.

Your sister,

Lael

To: all-staff <[email protected]>

From: Wink DelDuca <[email protected]>

Subject: everything!

April 17, 7:11 p.m.

Comrades,

Big things are happening here. In brief: it’s come to light in the past few days that Elijah Huck is Flora Goldwasser’s ex-paramour, and Flora Goldwasser (also known as our friend Vending Machine Girl) is none other than Miss Tulip herself.

It’s a lot to process, I know. A lot of you hold Elijah dear; a lot of you want to sleep with him; many of you see him as a voice (a snapshot?) of our generation. We editors—primarily Grace Wang and I—will be in New York this weekend, planning our next move. I’ve been in contact with Flora’s two best friends, and they’re great—more than willing to help out.

;)

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

April 20

Lael,

Tonight after rehearsal for my play, we—the cast and some other friends—ate dinner on the couches in the dining hall, stir-fry and brown rice. After dinner we passed around some Quare cereal. Panda Poop and Mesa Sunrise, along with a stuffed bag of cruelty-free chocolate chips that we’d found smashed against the bottom of a ginormous tub of peanut butter. The Mesa Sunrise was as bland as ever, but with a few chocolate chips mixed in, it tasted just right, like cornflakes made for the purpose of transporting chocolate.

“I wonder if this stuff exists in the real world,” Agnes said, reaching into the box of Mesa Sunrise and taking a handful. “I’ve never once seen it in the grocery store.”

We agreed that Mesa Sunrise must be manufactured at Quare, in the basement of one of the ethical farmers’ houses.

“I used to hate this shit when we first came here,” said Agnes. “It grows on you, though, you know?”

“Just like the people,” I said before I could stop myself.

Agnes laughed. “You must have hated us so much at the beginning,” he said.

“No . . .” I said, but it was obvious I was lying, and everyone burst out laughing.

They kept asking me to tell them my first impressions, so I did. They screamed with laughter when I told them about being scared to death of Dean and what I’d done with the beanbag.

“What did you think of me?” I asked the group, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

They were silent for a while.

“I thought you were lovely,” Rae offered, “even though you looked like you wanted to melt into the walls.”

“There is one thing. . . .” Benna said.

“Tell me!” I urged.

“There was a small rumor that you scrubbed the heels of your suede Steve Madden boots with a toothbrush every night in the fall,” she said quietly.

Another hush. Then we all screamed with laughter.

“That’s true!” I yelled. “I did do that!”

“I know,” Rae said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “I saw you in the bathroom, after you thought everyone had gone to bed, hunched over those damn boots with your toothbrush, like it was your job, or something.”

It was a bit much, thinking about it. All the work to preserve the shoes, the posters, the typewriter, even! Not to mention the collection of retro sunglasses in nine different colors lined up on my dresser to be color-coordinated with each outfit.

But preserving all that was one of the only things I could control.

It’s so crazy how far I’ve come.

Agnes walked me back to my A-frame. Oh, Lael. He’s so cute and Southern and gentlemanly in the least sexist (and sexiest) way ever. Juna wasn’t home, so I invited him inside. He stood awkwardly by the door. I bent down to pick up a pillow that had fallen off my bed, and when I straightened up, he was three inches closer to me than he’d been before. I jumped.

“Do you want to sit?” he asked, gripping the frame of my bed as though to stabilize himself.

I didn’t comment on the fact that he was inviting me to sit on my own bed.

“Oh. Okay.” I moved toward the bed. “What have you been thinking about?” I asked him, sitting down tentatively, only half-conscious of the fact that we were alone.

Agnes said, “I guess I’ve been thinking about all the types of privilege we don’t necessarily think about: good looks, intelligence, height. Have you ever read the study about tall people being more successful?”

“The taller of two presidential candidates usually wins,” I confirmed.

He laughed. And then, without any warning, he asked, “Can I kiss you?”

I gaped at him.

“Okay,” I said finally.

He leaned in toward me and kissed me. It was such a sweet, soft kiss. His lips were smooth and warm. I mentally scanned my body: okay armpits, bad bra, dingy but passable underwear. At least my legs were both shaved and moisturized. Thank God for ye old nightly routine. Some things you just don’t stop doing.

We kept kissing, perched on the edge of my bed.

Then Agnes’s hand kind of migrated toward my shoulders. He stroked up and down my arms and played with my hair a little bit. I ran MY fingers through HIS hair too, as much as I could considering his dreads, and then rested my hands lightly on his chest. His hands kept moving up and down. When they got to my boobs, they would stop for a second and then keep going, like they were waiting for my permission.

“Want to lie down?” Agnes asked.

I wasn’t completely sure I wanted to, but I agreed. So we lay on our sides, facing each other, and kissed some more. Agnes’s shirt came off, just like that. His chest was so smooth. I wondered if he was naturally hairless or if he’d shaved his chest. He kept tugging at the bottom of MY shirt, but I didn’t make any moves to take it off. When he finally started to tentatively pull it up from the bottom, I shot up and drew my legs into my chest. It was so weird, Lael. Agnes is superhot. And I’m into him. But I just couldn’t do it.

“Sorry,” he said, still horizontal. “I should have asked. And I forgot about Sam.”

“Sam?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Aren’t y’all a thing now?”

Did I mention that Agnes is from Georgia? I love that way too freaking much.

I laughed. “No way,” I said. “We’re platonic lovers.”

“Does that mean . . . ?”

“We’re not physically attracted to each other, but we’re sort of in love,” I explained. “But we’re not exclusive, or anything.”

He mulled that one over.

“How is that different from being best friends?” he asked. “Aren’t friends just people you love, but don’t want to fuck?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it’s not that different. It’s all just language, anyway.”

He laughed. “You and my mom should collaborate.”

I smiled and looked away, suddenly embarrassed.

“So is this about . . . the thing . . . last semester?” he asked.

My chest got kind of tight.

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

He rolled over onto his side.

“It’s about me,” I said. “I think I’m taking a break from sexual stuff. For, like, a minute.”

He laughed. “A minute,” he said. “Is that right?”

“It’s just that I’m still sort of getting used to my body again. And figuring out whom I’m attracted to, or whatever. Sorry.”

He struggled up to a seated position beside me.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Please. It’s okay.”

I rested my temple on my knee so he wouldn’t see the tears.

God, I need to get a grip. I don’t know, Lael. Am I crazy?

Flora

To: Sam Chabot <[email protected]>

From: Flora Goldwasser <[email protected]>

Subject: this morning

May 1, 9:43 a.m.

Why weren’t you at breakfast this morning??

I have huge news.

I fell asleep in Sinclaire’s cabin (where was Marigold? With you?). At an ungodly hour—maybe around six fifteen—someone knocked on the door.

I lifted my neck with considerable effort and strained my body to see who was at the door. It was Fern, in a long purple dress, probably on her way to breakfast, cradling an envelope and blinking fast.

“This was in my pigeonhole,” she said. “It’s addressed to you.”

I accepted it and squinted to read it, feeling my brain shift in my skull. It was from the Young Innovators’ Promise Awards: a thick white envelope with a fancy insignia in the upper left-hand corner. It was only then that I realized that it was MAY. I tore it open, letting the envelope fall to the floor, and slowly unfurled the letter.

Here’s what it said:

DEAR FLORA,

IT IS OUR GREAT PLEASURE TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU HAVE EARNED A GOLD MEDAL FOR YOUR PLAY, VENDING MACHINE, OR EVERYTHING MUST GO, IN THE YOUNG INNOVATORS’ PROMISE AWARDS OF THIS YEAR. YOU SHOULD BE VERY PROUD OF THIS ACCOMPLISHMENT. FOR 122 YEARS, THE AWARDS HAVE RECOGNIZED TEENAGERS LIKE YOU FROM ACROSS THE COUNTRY. BY WINNING AN INNOVATORS’ AWARD, YOU JOIN A LEGACY OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS SUCH AS JAMES BALDWIN, SYLVIA PLATH, LUCILLE CLIFTON, LENA DUNHAM, AND ELIZABETH BISHOP.

“What does it say?” Sinclaire was asking. “Flora, what does it say?”

I read it out verbatim.

Sinclaire screamed, the first time I’d heard her make a sound louder than a whisper. So did Fern, who, I realized, had never left.

Sam, I won!!!

Juna Díaz

Pigeonhole 46

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

May 2

Dear Juna,

My name is Wink DelDuca, and I’m the editor in chief of Nymphette magazine. Your girlfriend, Thee, suggested I get in touch with you about an idea we had to collaborate on a project to show our support of one of your peers, Flora Goldwasser.

It’s a bit much to discuss via snail mail, but I understand you’re allowed to make phone calls, so please give me a call at (212) ------- at your earliest convenience. I look forward to working with you!

;)

Wink

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

From: Miriam Row <[email protected]>

Subject: Exciting news

May 2, 2:18 p.m.

Dear Friends,

I’d like to extend my warmest congratulations to Flora Goldwasser, who just this morning was awarded a gold medal from the Young Innovators’ Promise Awards (YIPA), the nation’s highest honor for young artists, writers, and performers in the United States, for an excerpt from her original play, Vending Machine, or Everything Must Go. Flora will be traveling to Manhattan later this month to accept her award at Carnegie Hall.

Flora, currently the apprentice of Guild, will be performing the play on May 17. I strongly encourage the entire community to attend—I myself wouldn’t miss it for the world!

Blessings,

Miriam

May 3

Dear Flora,

Please accept this chocolate on behalf of your father, who congratulates you on your award but is too busy to make it to the ceremony. He is sure it will be wonderful, and he looks forward to hearing all about it when you come home for the summer.

Your father also asked me to remind you that he would like you to call him—and he will accept the charges, of course—as you come to decisions about college applications for next fall. He stressed to me that he would like to know immediately once you decide which schools you would like to visit this summer.

Fondly,
Linda Lee Lopez, receptionist

Lael Goldwasser

Harvard College

2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center

Cambridge, MA 02138

May 5

Lael,

Can you pick up the phone for once in your life? I mean, it was great to talk briefly after I found out I won, but you’ve been superMIA for the past few days. Is there a man or woman in the picture perhaps??

I just realized that the wedding is the same day (and the exact same time, now that I look at the event description again) as the Carnegie Hall thing, so I just called Mum to let her know that I’m missing the actual wedding ceremony and that I’ll try to come after the ceremony if I have time to do that before heading back up to school.

She sounded really hurt, and I felt bad, but what can I do? Should I skip the award ceremony? I’m a bad daughter, I know, but it’s not like Mum has been mother of the year, either.

Advice, please?

Flora

To: Cora Shimizu-Stein <[email protected]>, India Katz-Rosen <[email protected]>, all-staff <[email protected]

From: Wink DelDuca <[email protected]>

Subject: Idea

May 6, 9:21 p.m.

Thanks, Cora, for the heads-up about Flora’s big win. It gave me— and Grace—an idea about what’s going to go down. I just got off the phone with Juna, who’s a student up at Quare, and discussed all the details with her.

The ceremony’s on May 22 at Carnegie Hall, right? Well, what if we gathered together as many Nymphettes as possible—and you two, obviously—and did a rally when Flora gets back to campus later that night? Juna, our Quare contact, said the Feminist Underground is planning a separate rally specifically for sexual assault survivors, so this one would be more of a generalized show of support for all women, all of their bodies, and all of their stories. Any sort of reclamation.

I’m thinking full rally spirit. Chants? Candles, as it’ll be evening?

It’ll be called the Nymphette Storm. Let’s raise hell, maybe see what this school is all about, do our march, and peace. Natalie, you’ll contact news outlets? And, Thee—can we count on you for photos to make sure the whole thing goes down in history?

;)

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: Wink DelDuca <[email protected]>; all-staff <[email protected]>; Cora Shimizu-Stein <[email protected]>; India Katz-Rosen <[email protected]>

From: Theodora Sweet <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Idea

May 6, 9:34 p.m.

I’m so down, it’s not even funny. I can fly in from Santa Fe on the morning of the twenty-second.

Anyone want to help me ask my girlfriend to move in with me for the summer when we’re done?

Thee

To: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

From: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Flora

May 7, 6:13 a.m.

D,

I think I should come talk to her in person. My finals end the twenty-first. So I’m thinking the twenty-second. Want to give me a ride from the train station, or am I still too irrelevant in your book?

E

To: Elijah Huck <[email protected]>

From: Dean Elliot <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Flora

May 7, 9:56 a.m.

E,

I’ll be there. But if she doesn’t wanna talk to you, I’m taking you home.

D

Flora Goldwasser

Pigeonhole 44

The Quare Academy

2 Quare Road

Main Stream, NY 12497

May 7

Flora,

Don’t even give it a second thought. Go to the Carnegie Hall ceremony, and stop by the park if you have time when it’s over. Seriously. We both knew Mum was going to act offended, but you’ve worked so hard for this, and it would be such a shame to miss it. I’ll hold down the familial fort until you can get there.

Love you, and congrats again,
Lael

PS. There indeed might be a woman in the picture . . . remember my teaching fellow, Susan? God, what is it with us Goldwasser girls and authority figures? (Sorry, too soon?)

It was recently brought to my attention that for the first month at Quare, I scrubbed my Steve Madden boots with a toothbrush (whose? I’m never telling) in the gender-neutral bathroom after my roommate had gone to sleep.

Things are a little bit different now, to say the least. After my “sexual debut” at the end of my first semester and the ensuing emotional crisis, I decided to get light. I launched Vending Machine, or Everything Must Go, an interactive performance piece in which many of you have participated. Along the way, I’ve found a robust, if unlikely, community.

I’ve become preoccupied with buying and selling. When you watch the play, you’ll doubtless have myriad questions: What does the vending machine mean? Am I—is Ursula—the machine itself or the stuff inside (I’m still grappling with this one)? Are we ever more than the sum of our saleable items? Why are none of the actors onstage? And, maybe most important, why does the play end in such an awkward, non-ending type of way? —FG

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

To: all-staff <[email protected]>, Cora Shimizu-Stein <[email protected]>, India Katz-Rosen <[email protected]>

From: Wink DelDuca <[email protected]>

Subject: preparations

May 18, 7:50 p.m.

Okay, we’re on. Grace and I are in charge of the banner. Cora and India, you’re on transportation. Everyone else: rest your voices, because this is going to be one hell of a reclamation rally!

In terms of dress: this isn’t a slut walk, per se, but I wouldn’t be opposed to showing a little skin. Do what you’re comfortable with, obvs, but don’t be afraid to go all out! We see this as being centered around supporting both Flora and her art activism, as well as all women everywhere.

See you all at Grand Central on Friday.

;)

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.

2:00 p.m. Medalists arrive at Carnegie Hall

2:30 p.m. Rehearsal begins

3:00 p.m. Students proceed to holding room

3:30 p.m. Guests arrive

4:00 p.m. Introduction: Head of YIPA; video of winners

4:30 p.m. Keynote speaker: Lena Dunham

5:00 p.m. Awarding of medalists

5:30 p.m. Ceremony concludes

I knew you would.

Dean