Graduates in Wonderland (21 page)

I know that this is still an interlude from real life. I don't know what I'm doing, but whatever this is, it feels right to me.

Maybe in your book, Girl meets Boy, Girl goes to Malaysia with Boy, Girl loses Boy. Now give me a great ending.

Love,

Jess

P.S. I haven't met a single sassy monkey. Don't know what George was talking about. So disappointed.

JUNE 2

Rachel to Jess

Okay. Um. Malaysia. Yes.

WHAT? I don't even know how to respond to that. WHAT? Malaysia? With no notice? You
would
be in Malaysia! How did you take total sorrow and devastation and turn it into utter bliss within a matter of days? And also, how can I write you an ending when I didn't write this story—­I also want to know what happens next!

Everything sounds so far away it's almost hard to imagine. I am currently facing exams. They are three to four hours long, and professors provide the students with one question and a stack of Blue Books. Sometimes, if the students are lucky, we get a choice of three questions.

In my hardest class, the question was something the professor repeated during every class: “According to cinema theories, what are the XXXXXs in film?” I only knew one translation of the XXXXX: “1920s hat.” So was he really asking, “What are the 1920s hats in films?”

I did not know the answer to this for months.

Finally, finally, I asked Jacques about it. XXXXX also means “existing problems.” Oh.

So for the exam, I sat down and filled out four Blue Books full of all of the theories about what's wrong with cinema: the way we regard it, the way we react as spectators, the way it plays with the female gaze. I knew exactly what to write but was unsure of exactly how to put it in academic French. I ended up with what is very likely an ungrammatical, choppy French essay about hats.

Four hours later, one hundred of my fellow classmates and I emerged from the lecture hall, scrambling for the door with our collective severe nicotine withdrawal. I have been initiated.

After all our suffering together, I truly feel like a French student now.

I'm really hoping I pass. I did manage to string together pages and pages about why cinema sucks. But, if I fail, I lose my visa unless I repeat the academic year (which I don't have enough money to do). I can't imagine having to leave Paris after already laying down the foundation for a life here.

Olivier, meanwhile, invited me over for dinner the other night. I'm sorry, what I meant was, OLIVIER INVITED ME OVER FOR DINNER THE OTHER NIGHT! Here's the short version:

I'm in so deep I can't see the sky.

Anyway, I had shaved my legs. Although every girl knows this is the surest way to going home alone, I still did it. I arrived at his apartment after carefully picking out a bottle of red wine. Actually, I glanced at the rows of bottles and chose one based on the fact that the bottle was blue and beautiful, and had a picture of the ocean on it.

Olivier opened the door. Cheek kiss, cheek kiss. I handed him my wine and then offered to help with the salad, but Olivier wouldn't let me make anything. I stood at the sink, pretending to help wash vegetables, and when he tried to reach the dishes around me, he would place both his hands on my waist to move me over an inch or two. I hovered at the sink as often as possible.

It's been way too long since I had sex.

Everything he said, I found sexy. Parmesan cheese? Don't mind if I do. Olive oil on that salad? Oooh, yes, please.

We sat down and we talked about his brother's new baby and my nephews. This conversation made me think that he was sensitive beneath his casual exterior.

And then the doorbell rang. It was Sasha and Marc, who had decided that since they were in the neighborhood, they would drop by. I immediately felt disappointed. I was immensely gratified to see the strained welcome on Olivier's face.

Marc began to tease Olivier for the “shit” wine he had served, and I turned bright red. What, I'm not a French person! This knowledge is not inborn in me! I know nothing of your wine and your ways! Whatever. It tasted fine to me. Who cares that I can't pick out wine! So what if I can't understand French idioms!? So I can't write in perfect French!

Olivier threw some more pasta in the pot and we crowded around his little table. His knees kept touching mine. We stayed there, talking and drinking shit wine until about 3 
A.M
., when Sasha and Marc walked me home.

It was such a fun evening, but I couldn't help thinking that it could have been romantic. And now I'm still waiting on Olivier to make a move. I came home and wrote for a few hours in French, but immediately deleted the story. It was all about a girl who falls in love with a winemaker. But I didn't know any of the right words. For example, is
winemaker
the correct term? Even in English?

Oh, and I miss you. True story. Come back from Malaysia.

Love,

Rach

JUNE 4

Jess to Rachel

I like this new attitude of yours. So what if you think the problem with cinema is hats? Very innovative! So what if you write French like an eight-­year-­old? Who cares? So what if I ran away to Malaysia on a whim and told no one but you? Doesn't matter!

I just landed in Beijing a few hours ago. Malaysia already feels so far away. The only evidence of ever having been is how tanned my skin is and the forty e-mails from Isla in my inbox.

Very early this morning, I left Sam. It was rushed, but last night was when we really said our good-­byes.

Although we didn't directly address anything, we grew more serious last night. He asked me about how much longer I wanted to stay in Beijing. I told him that I loved Beijing, but that I didn't know what more I could get out of living there and that I wanted to pursue serious journalism. I mentioned that I wanted to go to journalism school, but I didn't know where. The question just sat there, unanswered. I stood up to finish packing my bag. He stood up and said, “I think there are journalism schools in Australia,” before he stepped into the bathroom, turned on the water, and got into the shower. WHAT KIND OF EXIT IS THAT?? I wanted to knock on the door and ask, “I'm sorry, what? What was that part about me being in Australia again? Just one more time, please.”

We didn't discuss it again, although it was all I thought about for the rest of the night.

This morning, we took a boat back to the mainland and I kissed him good-­bye while rows of taxi drivers looked on. I tried to linger, but I was sharing a cab with a Chinese couple who were also heading to the airport. I got into the car while Sam boarded a bus to Penang.

In the cab, the couple began speaking to me in Mandarin. The girl, who had witnessed our good-­bye, asked about my “boyfriend.” I tried to reply in Mandarin although my brain was emotionally fried.

“Oh, him? He's moving to Australia.”

“So when are you moving to Australia?”

Pause.

“Oh...I'm not moving to Australia. I will live in Beijing and he will live in Australia. We will not be together.”

Then the guy said something in Mandarin that I didn't understand, so I asked the girl what he meant. She leaned forward toward the front seat, where I was sitting by the driver. In English, she said, “He said that he feels sorry for you.”

I nodded and then stared out the window at the lush green fields thinking about Sam onboard a bus, driving away in the opposite direction.

After boarding my plane in Kuala Lumpur, I stared at the back of the seat in front of me for a few hours. My mind was drifting off into random thoughts—­the abyss of sadness that awaits me, my itchy sunburn, the new magazine issue to plan, the sand in my armpits, and Sam's soft kisses in the mornings—­when I realized, suddenly, fully, absolutely:

Sam is everything on my Master List! He is sexy and kind and adventurous and smart and a good listener and he makes me laugh. He is it! He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel wanted. He has great hands. He even has dark hair. And he didn't sunburn once! He even appreciates girly folk music. My heart raced.

I almost looked around for someone on the plane to shake and tell the news! I found him! There was no one to tell, but no matter. I knew.

And I know that Sam isn't perfect. Sometimes he seems overly cautious or far too polite to everyone, even waiters who completely ignore us. Sometimes he thinks my never-­ending questions to strangers border on intrusive and he tries to step in and apologize on my behalf, which I find really irritating. And the biggest thing is that he seems to lack direction in his life right now, as he moves to Australia without a job or a plan.

But when I think about how he always holds me tightly or the way his voice sounds when he says my name or his acute observations about everyone, I don't care about any of the above. And didn't I move to Beijing without a job or a plan? Even if there is someone better for me out there, I cannot imagine him. I do not even want him. I want Sam. I choose him.

And then, with that settled, I felt the exhaustion that follows five days of steady sun, sea, and sex. I fell asleep and woke up in China.

When I got home, I dropped my bags and looked at my empty apartment.

Rachel, I know what I'm going to do.

I'm going to move to Australia. I'm going to be with Sam.

Love,

Jess

JUNE 7

Rachel to Jess

Australia! Malaysia? Australia? WHERE ARE THESE COUNTRIES?

Are you really going to move to Australia? Wait, I just had a flashback to senior year when you announced you were moving to China, and I kept saying, “You're not
really
moving to China...right?” I actually cannot believe that you are going to do this! What are you going to do there?

Also: AUSTRALIA? You're already so far away and you're choosing the one place that's even farther! Is part of this the fear of missing out on something really big? It's a huge decision, but you sound so sure. You better not stay there forever, though. I don't want your kids talking like that.

I still have actual letters you wrote me from when you were studying abroad in Melbourne your junior year and I was in Paris! (Is this progress or regression?)

But more important, I can't believe you actually found someone who ticks everything on the Master List. Do you think we should tell Oprah? The most ridiculous thing is that Sam applied for that position! You posted an internship vacancy, and Sam sent in his résumé for the job. I'm still trying to wrap my head around this. I'm thinking of posting my Master List to Craigslist.

I really can't figure out if Olivier is right for me. He doesn't seem to love my writing, because it would take him forever to read it; he's shorter than I requested; he doesn't want to live outside of France. But I do feel connected to him. Even now, when he's been visiting his parents and I haven't seen him in two weeks.

We do have really good banter, finally. He loves to tease and I have to respond quickly in French to keep up with him, although it's taken me a while to get to this point. And yet—­all talk, no action.

I don't think I've ever humiliated myself as much working on anything as I have humiliated myself in the aims of improving my French these past few months. Today, I went into a bookstore and bought a Marguerite Duras book in French, which I started to read on the Metro, for pleasure—­
and it was pleasurable
. The process of polishing this language is becoming less painful and starting to be fun. However, last week I made a fool of myself at the supermarket by labeling my oranges wrong even though it's the same word in French and English (
orange
). I had just made a mistake. Some things just don't change.

Okay, well, I'm off to study more French. If you learn a language, and you have no French lover to share it with, did you really learn it at all?

Australia?!?! Jess. Really?!?!?

Love,

A Dingo Ate My Baby

(Sorry, that's the only thing I know about Australia.)

JUNE 9

Jess to Rachel

Why won't Olivier just make a move already? Do you want me to call him? Let him know that there is
no time
to mosey about?

I know this because I've been covertly researching journalism schools in Australia (yes, I'm really doing this!) and the next school year begins in six weeks (weird backward Australia system). Jesus Christ! When I found this out, I had a heart attack and then frantically called up the admissions officers, who assured me, in very strong Aussie accents, that I can still apply, but that I must get everything in before the end of the week. I've spent my nights writing essays for my application and cramming for the requisite news quiz everyone takes for admission. Really hoping China hasn't blocked a major news event from the Internet, or else I may fail. What if something huge happened in Japan or Taiwan and I just don't know because the nature of the event doesn't agree with China's official propaganda?!

On the other hand, if I fail the news quiz, I can just blame China's Internet censorship. Solution.

And so, I've told my landlord I'm leaving and I finally had to tell Isla everything because she will be replacing me at work. Also, she's from Australia and I knew she'd be full of wisdom about what journalism programs to apply to and where to live. We went to dinner and sat outside in a tranquil Chinese courtyard where she completely lost it when I confessed everything about (intern) Sam and me.

She sat in shock before loudly protesting, “This is all a big joke, isn't it? You're totally fucking with me, right?” People in the restaurant stared at us. Isla didn't believe me until I handed her my phone with a photo of tanned Sam and me sitting on a boat with the blue sea behind us. I tried to show her more, but she swatted me away as she studied the photo carefully, and then handed the phone back to me, proclaiming, “Well, then. You little minx.”