Just One Day
Page 20

I shuffle into the lounge. “Here,” I say, handing over the cookies to Kali, even though I know she watches her carbs and even though black-and-whites are my favorites. “I’m really sorry about my mom.”
Kendra and Jenn cluck sympathetically, but Kali narrows her eyes. “I don’t want to be a bitch or anything, but it’s bad enough having to fend off my own parents, okaay?”
“She’s having Empty Nest or something.” That’s what Dad keeps telling me. “She won’t do it again,” I add with more confidence than I possess.
“My mom turned my bedroom into a craft room two days after I left,” Jenn says. “At least you’re missed.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What kind of cookies are they?” Kendra asks.
“Black-and-whites.”
“Just like us,” Kendra jokes. She’s black, or African American; I’m never sure which is right, and she uses both.
“The racial harmony of cookies,” I say.
Jenn and Kendra laugh. “You should come out with us tonight,” Jenn says.
“We’re going to a party over at Henderson and then there’s this bar over on Central that apparently has a very liberal carding policy,” Kendra says, twisting her just-straightened black hair up into a bun, then thinking twice about it and pulling it down. “Lots of fine male specimen.”
“And female specimen, if that’s your thing,” Jenn adds.
“It’s not my thing. I mean, none of it is my thing.”
Kali gives me a bitchy smirk. “Think you enrolled in the wrong school. I believe there’s a convent in Boston.”
Something twists in my stomach. “They don’t take Jews.”
“Back off, you two,” Kendra says, ever the diplomat. She turns to me. “Why not come out for a few hours?”
“Chemistry. Physics.” The room goes silent. They’re all liberal arts or business majors, so invoking Science shuts them up.
“Well, I’d better get back to my room. I have a date with the Third Law of Thermodynamics.”
“Sounds hot,” Jenn says.
I smile to show I actually get the joke, then shuffle back to my room, where I diligently pick up Foundations of Chemistry, but by the time the Terrific Trio are heading out the door, my eyes have sandbags in them. I fall asleep under a mountain of unread science. And thus begins another weekend in the life of the Happy College Student.
Fifteen
OCTOBER
College
I put off thinking about Parents’ Weekend as long as I can and then the Thursday before they’re due to arrive, I look around my dorm and see it not as I see it—walls, a bed, a desk, a dresser—but as my parents will see it. This is not the dorm of a Happy College Student. There’s dirty laundry spilling out of every drawer, and my papers are everywhere. My mother despises clutter. I ditch my classes and spend the day cleaning. I haul all the dirty laundry down to the washing machines and sit with it as it turns and gyrates. I wipe down the dusty surfaces. In the closet, I hide away all my current schoolwork—the Mandarin worksheets, piling up like unread newspapers, the Scantron chemistry and physics exams with their ominously low scores scrawled in red; the lab reports with comments like “Need to be more thorough” and “Check your calculations!” and the dreaded “See me.” In their place, I set out a bunch of decoy notes and graphs from early in the term, before I started obviously bombing. I unwrap the duvet cover we bought at Bed, Bath & Beyond last summer and put it over the plain quilt I’ve been sleeping under. I grab some of the photos from the boxes and scatter them around the room. I even drop by the U bookstore and buy one of the stupid banners with the school name on it and tack it above my bed. Voilà. School Spirit.
But somehow I forget the clocks. And this gives me away.
When Mom comes into the dorm, after cooing over our tiny dump of a lounge, she oohs over Kali’s pictures of Buster and then looks at my relatively bare walls and gasps. By her look of horror, you’d think I’d decorated with crime-scene photos. “Where’s your collection?”
I point to the boxes in the closet, unopened.
“Why are they there?”
“They’re too noisy,” I quickly lie. “I don’t want to bother Kali with them.” Never mind the fact that Kali blasts her radio at seven in the morning.
“You could put them out and not wind them,” she says. “Those clocks are you.”
Are they? I don’t remember when I started collecting them. Mom liked to go to flea markets on weekends and then one day, I was a clock collector. I got really into it for a while, but I don’t remember the moment I saw an old alarm clock and thought, I want to collect these.
“Your half looks terribly barren next to Kali’s,” Mom says.
“You should’ve seen my dorm,” Dad says, lost in his haze of nostalgia. “My roommate put tinfoil on the windows. It looked like a spaceship. He called it the ‘Future Dorm.’”
“I was going for Minimalist Dorm.”
“It has a certain penitentiary charm,” Dad says.
“It’s like a before/after on one of those home décor shows.” Mom points to Kali’s half of the room, over which every inch of wall space is covered either with posters, art prints, or photos. “You’re the before,” she says. As if I didn’t already get that.
We head off to one of the special workshops, something insanely dull on the changing face of technology in the classroom. Mom actually takes notes. Dad points out every little thing that he remembers and every little thing that is new. This is what he did when we toured the school last year; both he and Mom were so excited about the prospect of me going here. Creating a legacy. Somehow, back then, I was excited too.
After the workshop, Dad meets up with other legacy parents, and Mom has coffee with Kali’s mom, Lynn. They seem to get along famously. Either Kali hasn’t told her mom what a dud I am, or if she has, her mom has the good grace to shut up about it.
Before the President’s Luncheon, all four members of the Fab Four and their respective families meet back at the suite and the parents all introduce themselves and cluck over the tininess of our rooms and admire what we’ve done with our tiny lounge and take pictures of THE FAB FOUR WELCOMES THE FAB EIGHT sign that the rest of the group made. Then we all walk out onto the quad together and tour the campus, going the long way around to point out some of the older, statelier buildings, reddening ivy creeping up old bricks. And everyone looks nice together in flannel skirts and tall black boots and cashmere sweaters and shearling jackets as we swish through the autumnal leaves. We really do look like the Happy College Students in the catalogs.
The luncheon is fine and boring, rubber chicken and rubber speeches in a big, cold echoey hall. It’s only after the luncheon that the myth of the Fab Four starts to unravel. Ever so subtly, Kendra’s and Jenn’s and Kali’s families all peel off together. I’m sure they’re talking about Christmas and Thanksgiving holidays and spring breaks and potlucks and things like that. My mom gives them a look but doesn’t say anything.
She and Dad go back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. Mom tells me the place is fancy and suggests I wear my black and red wrap dress. And that I wash my hair, which is looking greasy.
When they come back to pick me up, there’s an awkward moment as my family meets up with the rest of the Fab Four and their Fab Families, who are all going together to a big group dinner at some famous seafood place in downtown Boston. There’s a sort of standoff as my parents face the other parents. The rest of my roommates, their faces pinking, take a huge interest in the industrial gray carpeting. Finally, Jenn’s dad steps in and offers a belated invitation for us to join the rest of them for dinner. “I’m sure we can squeeze three more in.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Mom says in her haughtiest voice. “We have reservations at Prezzo in Back Bay.”
“Wow! How’d you manage that?” Lynn asks. “We tried and couldn’t get in until next month.” Prezzo, according to Mom, is the hottest restaurant in town.
Mom smiles mysteriously. She won’t tell, though Dad told me one of his golf buddies had a friend on the faculty at a hospital in Boston and he pulled some strings to get us in. Mom had been so pleased about it, but I can see now the victory is sullied.
“Enjoy your chowdah,” she says. Only Dad and I catch how condescending she’s being.
Dinner is painful. Even sitting at this chichi place with all the best Bostonians, I can tell Mom and, by extension, Dad feel like rejects. And they’re not. It’s my rejection they’re feeling.
They ask me about my classes, and I dutifully tell them about chemistry, physics, biology, and Mandarin, neglecting to tell them how hard it is stay awake in class, no matter how early I go to bed, or how badly I’m doing in subjects I aced in high school. Talking about, or not talking about, all this makes me so tired I want to put my head down into my thirteen-dollar salad.
When the entrees come, Mom orders a glass of Chardonnay, Dad a Shiraz. I try not to look at the way the candlelight dances against the colors of the wine. Even that hurts. I look down at my plate of ravioli. It smells good, but I have no desire to eat it.
“Are you coming down with something?” Mom asks.
And for just the tiniest of seconds, I wonder what would happen if I told them the truth. That school is nothing like I imagined it would be. That I’m not the girl in the catalog at all. I’m not a Happy College Student. I don’t know who I am. Or maybe I do know who I am and I just don’t want to be her anymore.
But this is not an option. Mom would just be aggrieved, disappointed, as if my unhappiness were some personal insult to her parenting. And then she’d guilt me out about how I’m so lucky. This is college! The college experience she didn’t get to have. Which was one of the reasons she spent all of high school like an army general, plotting my extracurriculars, getting me tutors for weak subjects, signing me up for SAT prep.
“I’m just tired,” I say. This, at least, isn’t a lie.
“You’re probably spending too much time in the library,” Dad interjects. “Are you getting enough sunlight? That can really affect your circadian rhythms.”
I shake my head. This too is true.
“Have you been running? There are some nice tracks around here. And it’s not too far to the river.”
I think the last time I went running was with Dad, a couple days before I left for the tour.
“We’ll go out tomorrow morning, before the brunch. Burn off dinner. Get some air in those lungs.”
Just the thought of it makes me exhausted, but this isn’t an invitation so much as an expectation, and the plans are being made even before I’ve agreed to them.
The following morning, the rest of the girls are sitting in the lounge drinking coffee, happily chattering about their dinner, which included some incident with a cute waiter and a lobster mallet that’s already being mythologized into a tale called “The Hammer and the Hottie.” They double-take when they see me in tracksuit bottoms and a fleece sweatshirt, looking around for my running shoes. Our dorm has a state-of-the-art gym that Kendra and Kali are addicted to and Jenn gets dragged along to, but I have yet to set foot in.