An Uncommon Education (20 page)

She turned around and began to walk straight ahead, between the two buildings. I jogged a few steps to catch up. She walked very quickly, even though the path was dark and slick with rain. She didn’t stay on it for long. At the edge of the quad she hopped over the low stone fence that surrounded it and trotted across the street there. I followed her, slipping a bit on the wet grass. On the other side of the street we ended up looking up at the roof of a small building. In the dark it took me a minute to realize it was the odd little house that stood on a side road of the college: the replica of Anne Hathaway’s Tudor cottage, the meeting place of the Shakespeare Society.

“Come on,” Jun said. She trotted to the back of the house and fished out a ladder, steadying its base on the ground, the other end just fitting into the rain gutter on the roof. She began climbing it fearlessly, though it wobbled a bit. The fall wasn’t far, at first, but as she climbed, it seemed worse. I followed her.

I squatted down once we were on the roof, holding on to the edge, but she began to move forward over the uneven surface, like a crab hunting. She was running her hands over the roof as she moved, as if whatever she was looking for was written in a clumsy, diffused Braille. She stopped. I looked over the edge of the roof to see if anyone had stopped and could see us.

Like a flash against a dark screen, all at once Rosemary’s writing on the back of the Amelia Earhart photo came back to me:
She could fly
. I had a sudden wave of vertigo and put my hands out at my sides, trying to lower my center of gravity. It was the first time in years, since the loss of Teddy, that I had thought of Rosemary’s hidden treasures, and I felt an unexpected wave of guilt as I did, as though something I was supposed to keep watch over had been misplaced.

It was so dark I could make out only the barest outline of Jun. She moved like a pianist; determined but fine, led by the hands. Suddenly she crouched down, just a few feet in front of me. A moment later she made a small sound, something like an exclamation, but hushed. I could hear her prying something loose; it was a shingle or some other piece of the roof. She wrenched it free and placed it beside her.

“It’s here,” she whispered, looking down.

She pulled out something I couldn’t see. “A chunk of stage left,” she announced, holding it up, trying to get a better look and show me at the same time. “Buried here circa 1952.” She grinned. For a minute I was startled by how much her expression reminded me of my father’s at 83 Beals, holding up a book he’d reached over the rope in front of the dining room to snag, explaining to Mrs. Olsen that she’d misplaced it, that the Folger belonged in the music room. He was right; it had always been on the round walnut table to the left of the door, open to the King’s speech in act IV of
Henry V
: “If it be a sin to covet Honor, / I am the most offending soul alive.” He had been delighted to be the one to correct the situation.

Jun sat back on her heels. “I’m secretary this semester, and I’ve been doing some research,” she was explaining. She acted impatient, quick to get to the part when we could both marvel at the find. “Some alum had a letter in the archives saying she pulled this from the stage at the Globe and buried it on the north side of the roof.”

She held it, turning it as if it might give off light. “Cool, huh?” She lifted it up a bit higher, but the lamppost below was too dim. After a moment of trying to see it better, she put it back carefully, smoothing the shingle after she was done. She pulled a small hammer and a nail from her jacket pocket. She leaned forward, still squatting, and awkwardly tapped the shingle back in.

“You’re leaving it here?” I asked. She stopped her movements to look at me. “You’re not taking it with you?” I elaborated, regretting my obvious disappointment.

She looked amused by what I’d said. “No,” she replied. “It’s been safe here for almost sixty years. Best not to mess with it.” She smiled at me. “I just wanted to check if it was really here.”

She stood up and I joined her. All at once I was afraid she was done with me, that she’d jump down from the roof and wave me off, back to Amy and our airless room. “Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

She was running her hands over her work, checking it. “Late,” she answered distractedly. “I’ve got an econ exam in the morning,” she added, then smiled at me crookedly again. “Maybe it’s time to get off the roof and go in. You look soaked.”

We both were. Even though the rain had been light, it had been steady, and we’d both been out long enough to let it seep its way in. “I’m thinking of tea-ing,” I said. As I said it, we both smiled again. “Seriously”—I suddenly wanted us both to believe me. “Do you know Julie Abrams and Ruth Wiefern?”

“I know you’re serious,” she said. “Abrams and Ruthie. Yeah. How do you know them?” I shrugged. “You should. It’s different. Nice. I’ll put in a good word for you,” she added after a pause. “Ready?” She was over the edge of the roof before I had a chance to respond.

At the east end of the quad she turned before heading off to her dorm. “I’m glad to see you again, Naomi,” she said. I was struck again by the odd formality of how she spoke, but also by the kindness it seemed to contain.

A
t breakfast the next morning Amy ignored me boldly, concentrating all her attentions on Fleur Simons, a pale-haired, quiet junior who was rumored to be in line for a Rhodes scholarship and who had taken a seat at our table when all others were full.

Only when I began to reload my tray to get up did she stop, nearly interrupting Fleur, to ask, “So, Naomi, where were you last night? Don’t tell me you had a secret tryst and didn’t even tell your roommate.” She smiled wryly, shooting a knowing look at Fleur.

I was late for class. “I guess it’s none of your business,” I replied as I picked up my tray and left.

Amy caught up with me when I was already halfway across campus. “You on the rag or something?” she asked. For all her naked abrasion, she reacted with surprising vulnerability on the few occasions when I bit back. Her face was pinched and frowning, as close as she came to revealing her self-doubt. “I’m allowed my bad moods, Amy,” I said, picking up my pace. I felt too tired to call her on her own game. “You must be happy you got to meet Fleur.”

She couldn’t mask a quick, triumphant smile. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe she can get me on College Government. I’ll have to keep after her. So, really, Noms,” she rarely called me this, “Where were you last night?”

“Were you worried?” I teased.

“Yeah, actually,” she frowned, ready to bristle again.

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. The sun had come out and created a glare on the ice on the sidewalk. By mid-afternoon it would melt, leaving a persistent sludgy mess. “I just took a walk. Couldn’t sleep.” Amy was persistent. “What about coffee the other night? Were you meeting with a tutor or something?” “No,” I said. “I don’t need tutoring, Amy.” I didn’t want to go into what had happened at the lake. I told her I was thinking of joining the Shakespeare Society, and that I had met Ruth, Julie, and Jun.

She sighed heavily, looking relieved. “Oh. Well, you’re not the type, Naomi,” she began. She was clutching her hands under her armpits, her face splotched with the effort of keeping up with my longer strides. “They’re a bunch of renegades, or weirdos or something. I’ve heard the college would shut them down if they could. They do stuff they shouldn’t be doing. You should join a better group, if you’re looking for something, something that will really help you rise to the top,” she was beginning to relax. “Debate. Wellesley in Washington. Law firms and medical schools aren’t going to care about societies.”

I had nothing to say. She was probably right. But for the first time in my life I felt hungry to belong to something that would let me be something other than defined, would welcome any floundering attempts I might have to offer at play. In otherwise healthy organisms, loneliness has a saturation point. And watching another woman’s gleeful escape from drowning had begun to reveal mine. “I’m friends with the president of Wellesley Debate,” Amy was saying. “Want me to talk to her?” It sounded more like an insistence than an offering.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Just don’t do Shakes. It’s a waste of time.” Her hat was low, covering her forehead. It made her eyes seem smaller and more protruding than they were. “Plus, they probably won’t take you; you’re not exactly the sorority type.”

I stopped. “It’s not a sorority. And I don’t really care if they want me. I just want to check it out. You could come, too.” I knew she was my only friend at the time, but I despised her anyway, probably because of that.

She coughed a laugh. “Naw. Not my scene. I’ve got to focus on the sure hits. Anyway, I’ve got enough on my plate, and you’re the one who needs more friends. Good luck, though!” She thumped me on the upper arm. “Can’t wait to hear all about it!” She took off down the hill, her backpack bouncing heavily from her shoulders.

T
ea, of course, was at four o’clock.

Whenever I had passed it before, the house’s Tudor exterior had always looked like a façade, an elfin hideaway on the grounds of gothic royalty, but when the door opened I knew in an instant that it was real. A strikingly beautiful Indian woman with a nose ring answered my knock. She was dressed in a floor-length green velvet gown embroidered with a braided gold cord on the high waist and had a drink in one hand. Red wine. “Hi!” she said, revealing the straightest teeth I’d ever seen up close, “Here for the tea?”

I nodded and held out my hand. “I’m Naomi,” I said.

“Nice to meet you, Naomi,” she said in a deep voice, her smile still warm, her hand small and strong. “Come in, have a glass of wine.” She had the slight accent of those who have learned English perfectly and abroad.

As soon as the door closed the Wellesley I knew disappeared behind it. The house was loud, warm, and overwhelmed with moving bodies. The woman who’d let me in gestured toward a room immediately to my right. She said something I couldn’t hear, her name, I think, and smiled. I smiled back, but she was already gone down the short hallway leading to what sounded like a kitchen in the back.

I turned into the entrance of the great room, which was so packed with people it was virtually impassable. A series of small windows lined the east and west walls, and there was another set of doors on the north side that were closed, but from the shape of the house I guessed they led to another, smaller room. The woman who had answered the door had circled back and was now just in front of me, talking to a girl in jeans and T-shirt, both of their faces animated but their voices drowned in the crowd. A sound rose to my right, near the west windows, and I was startled until I realized that it had been a shout of laughter.

The room was dressed in browns and reds, though almost everything was fraying. Short, cheap curtains framed each window, the glass divided into a diamond pattern with narrow bars of iron. A woman with three heavy rings on her right hand walked by me, gesticulating. There was something openly anachronistic about the scene before me, but even the women who were in costume displayed an easy, almost exotic style. Many students at Wellesley dressed as women who could easily be dropped into suburban Connecticut and fit in seamlessly. These women made me think I might have fallen through a rabbit hole into an avant-garde fashion spread: they wore old velvet and fine wool; corsets and heavy silver bangles on long arms; each interpretation was different, many were stunning. I pulled at my thick, blue sweater, self-conscious of its plainness. At least it was interesting enough to look its age.

I began to make my way deeper into the room. I shouldered past a group of six or more women, two of whom smiled at me to let me through. Behind them was the tallest woman I think I had ever seen. Someone was singing. It sounded like someone might also be crying. I had almost reached the other side of the room. I broke free of the crowd as though stepping from a river.

A woman introduced herself to me when I approached the food table placed against the back wall of the room. “I’m Amanda,” she said, “Wilcox,” she added.

“Naomi,” I replied, shaking the hand she offered me. She was unusually pale and small, her white hair cut close to the scalp, her eyes a watery gray. I had had an albino teacher in high school, but even he seemed to have more color than she, the pinks and reds in his white skin fine and complex. Amanda’s paleness was of a cooler cast, the skin on her face almost transparent.

“Are you a first-year?” she asked.

“Sophomore,” I replied.

“Me, too,” she said, “I’ve never seen you around.” The statement was clipped, an assertion. “This is our former president and current director, Phyllis,” she said, drawing the attention of another woman standing close by. “This is Naomi,” she said. “What did you say your last name was?”

“Feinstein,” I said, holding out my hand to Phyllis.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Feinstein,” she said. I thought I heard music beginning in another room. “Though I already know you from Pope’s class,” Phyllis continued. “I’m Ms. Tratelli”—she mimicked Mr. Pope’s voice perfectly. She had long, straight, red hair and deep-set eyes in a narrow face. She looked me in the eye. “He likes you, you know. He likes the way you think.” I recognized her as one of those upperclasswomen who spoke well and frequently, the sort who were never alone and never at a loss for words.

I scoffed, then checked myself. “I’m surprised to hear that,” I said, picking up a wineglass to look relaxed, but I didn’t know how to select something, never mind pour it correctly.

“He talk to you about your paper?” I nodded. I felt self-conscious that we were talking school at what I thought was a party. “He likes you, then.” She affirmed, nodding. “And you say smart things in class. Damn those first-years.” She squinted across the room, then back at me. “Do you want some wine?”

“Uh, sure,” I said. She took my hesitancy as something else. “We have beer, too. Tiney, get her something to drink.” She winked at me and turned away. Amanda acknowledged the nickname with something between a grimace and a smirk before reaching forward and selecting a bottle of wine.