Graduates in Wonderland (4 page)

Missing you. Are you feeling better?

Love,

Jess

OCTOBER 10

Rachel to Jess

I think that what you're going through with Astrid is totally normal, especially when you've been living together so long. Does Maxwell even know that he's being fought over? And say hi to Jon for me.

Meanwhile, I may have solved my work problems!

1. Take a Xanax.

2. Arrive at work before Vince and make sure everything is perfect before he comes.

3. Hide from Vince, in the bathroom if necessary, until he has left.

4. Take care of everything else from the day.

Perfect solution.

Claudia says I need to get out more. And so I've been trying to go out at least one night a week. She might be onto something, because last week I met someone. Or
re
met someone.

I ran into Bill Broadwick at a gallery opening. I think you met him just once or twice—­he was in my fiction class in college. He wrote really dense, obtuse prose that was so brilliant no one understood it. He also has piercing green eyes and a deep voice. I hadn't seen him since graduation and was actually in the middle of taking off my work shoes and slipping on my high heels when he caught me, one shoe on, one shoe off. It's not the most graceful of poses, but he did offer his arm to help me keep my balance. Someday in the future he's going to make some Cinderella joke when he's down on one knee. I didn't just write that. Ignore that. That never happened.

We wandered around the gallery together, me mostly following behind him, because I prefer to view paintings with his wavy blond hair obfuscating most of the artwork. We eventually got separated when more people arrived, but I want to see him again. It was strange to be in New York together and not sitting in a classroom. I almost felt grown-­up, but the whole shoe-­changing scene canceled the feeling out. As I was leaving, he caught me on the way out to say good-­bye. I wanted to make a joke to lighten the mood, because my heart was racing, but instead I managed to just smile demurely and nod. He left saying he'd call me later in the week.

Meanwhile, I feel like almost every guy I meet here plays in some terrible band, reads Rilke, drinks Brooklyn microbrews, and has a bad beard. Yet I still manage to convince myself I really like them! Lack of good options does this to you. Maybe I'm projecting and I'm trying to get them to solve my problems for me. It would definitely fit in with the passivity that's taken over my life so far...as in, I still haven't quit my job.

Rosabelle has so far interviewed at: Dior, Chanel, and now is going for
Vogue
. Who knows. I bet thirty years ago she would have gotten all of those jobs, but these days they're like the Holy Grail. I eat her baking chocolate. She yells at me. It's like college, but without you and Astrid.

I remember when the four of us were inseparable senior year. How is it that you took half of our group to China? Come back, you guys! We've got really good cupcakes over here (another New York pro I've come up with). Also, remember how much we liked lying in Sheep Meadow in Central Park? What else...We also have a canal in Brooklyn that will literally strip the flesh from your hands!

Claudia is still my best friend next to Rosabelle. Today I told her about how hard it is to meet anybody and that most of the time, I just don't have the energy to make an effort. I know in your mind, therapists are Austrian men with beards, but you are mistaken: Claudia is a German woman with a slight mustache. She is probably about forty, with a black mane and lots of frumpy clothes. You must now imagine this woman scolding me: “Your future husband does not know where you live! He does not have your address!”

I go to too much therapy.

Love,

Lady-­in-­Waiting

OCTOBER 17

Jess to Rachel

I remember Bill Broadwick. He had all the makings of a great guy, but he seemed a bit robotic to me. Like the male version of a Stepford wife. I won't say that in my wedding speech, though, so don't worry.

It's colder now, so I've seen the first real glimmer of blue sky since I've been here, because usually it is a gray, smoggy haze. I've been to Shanghai to visit Jon since I last wrote—­I flew down there for four days and he came back with me for three. He left yesterday and now I really miss him.

Jon took me around Shanghai, which is glitzier than Beijing, with fancier high-­rises and more fashionistas walking the streets. We ate dinner in the French Concession, which you would have loved because it has leafy streets and '30s architecture and French people. Everywhere we went, skinny Chinese guys batted their eyelashes at Jon, because apparently the curly haired, blue-­eyed look is very sought after in the gay community here, and he is totally living it up.

It was strange meeting the people in Jon's teaching program—­those would have been my friends if I had taught English with him in Shanghai like I'd originally planned, and it's rare to get to see your alternate life up close. I still think I prefer Beijing, which has a big art scene and live music venues and a soul. Overall, Shanghai has more bankers and bubble-­tea stands. Jon thinks it's better than Beijing, but he's wrong, just like he was wrong when he thought I was a lesbian freshman year.

Anyway, I don't know what's wrong with the men in your life. Are we entirely sure they are straight? I ask because Jon and I went to a lot of gay clubs together in Shanghai. Why did Astrid, Rosabelle, you, and I ever think this was fun? It is not fun. The guys there just kind of wonder if you are lost.

Jon thinks he'll only be in China for one year, but I'm still open to staying longer. I'm back in Beijing and realizing that my only skill now seems to be speaking English. Even if you have zero other skills, a native English speaker with a pulse can find work teaching English or even just speaking it. And so producers from the cartoon job called me up to see if I could do some English-­language voice recording. I'm paid the equivalent of $70 per hour to tape an English lesson for kids. I'm currently recording the Christmas lesson. I wish I were making this up, but I'm really not—­I had to pretend to be Santa.

When I met the producers at the recording studio, they handed me enormous headphones and led me into a booth. For a moment I felt like I was about to record a pop album. The experience was unnerving because the mic amplified everything—­I could hear myself swallow through the headphones.

And then the dream ended. I had to put on the only voice I can do (angry old man) and talk about Christmas trees and snowflakes. The producers' only complaint was that I didn't sound happy enough. Do you know what it's like to have three Chinese women yell at you, “BE HAPPIER!”? I want to shout back, “I'M A JEW! WE AREN'T HAPPY AND WE DON'T HAVE SANTA CLAUS!”

I've been told this is going to be distributed to at least fifty thousand children, which I try not to think about.

Astrid and I went to a Yeah Yeah Yeahs outdoor concert this week and it poured the entire time. Incredibly muddy. We pushed our way to the front. It's easier to be rude when you can't understand what people are yelling at you. I just kept saying, in Mandarin, “My friend is up there, my friend!” Then I saw a British guy trying to get in front of me, so I pointed to him and yelled, “Foreigner!” in Mandarin to rile up the crowd, but it turns out he knew Mandarin better than I did. Oops.

Anyway, two hours later with hair completely soaking wet, we danced around and screamed to “Maps.” Obviously it reminded me of all the long drives we'd take in Rosabelle's car blasting that song. It was one of those moments when I really loved Astrid and was so happy that we were on this China adventure together. I almost forgot about her and Maxwell. I just don't let myself entertain thoughts of actually dating him, and I shove him far into the friend corner. Also, we never ever touch, which is fundamental to this arrangement. Maybe this will all blow over.

I am also trying to apply for real jobs, and the advice everyone always gives is to network. Network! Network! Not sure what this means, because apparently my version of networking comes off as flirting. I can't seem to master the vital, final step of the networking process in which you say, “No, but really. Enough about your trip to Japan and your new apartment. Hire me.”

Honestly, I'd love to be back at school now that the weather is finally turning cold. Astrid doesn't understand my nostalgia. I guess Norwegians aren't really known for their nostalgia.

I want to walk to a café after class and see you sitting there with your copper-­tinted hair and dark blue eyes buried in a book....I wonder who's sitting in our usual places there now.

I want to hear more about your life in New York. If you want to imagine mine, imagine a lot of Chinese people. Also, crowded streets, delicious street food, misty mornings, and something called “split pants.” It's what toddlers wear here. Instead of diapers, their pants are split open in the back. The streets are dirty. You do the math.

Okay.

Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs wanted me to tell you:

They don't love you like I love you.

Ai*,

Chinese Santa

*Mandarin for love

OCTOBER 20

Rachel to Jess

Dear Jess,

If you ever mention split pants again, I'm going to immediately delete your e-mail before finishing it. You're making me miss Jon too, because nobody else can make me laugh so hard I fall off beds. Also, you know he'd stop calling you a lesbian if you just threw out that biker jacket.

I'm also searching for a new job. The more I think about the opportunities that this city actually has, the more I realize that the art world I'm in right now is cold and more about money than the actual art itself. And I've come to realize that I don't love art the way I love writing, or even film. I know about art, and I appreciate it, but it is not worth putting up with somebody who behaves as badly as my boss, Vince, does. I wake up early and sit in the park to work on cover letters and my résumé, thinking, “Didn't I just do this?”

Because, yes! I have decided to quit! This is with a lot of encouragement from Claudia and the rest of my “support network” (therapist talk). I can't wait to do it, but I'm holding off until I'm a little bit more stable (financially and emotionally).

Also, I am totally terrified of any confrontation whatsoever. There's also that.

I'm supposed to be researching hotels in Rome for Vince's next trip, but screw work. Instead, I'm going to tell you about the date I had with Bill Broadwick!

When I last left Bill Broadwick at the art gallery, I was Cinderella to his...oh, I can't even say it. You know. I recently remembered that at Brown he was dating a girl named Tara who every boy ever always fell in love with, even though (because?) she had a mullet and wore only plaid. Every outfit she wore always had a bird somewhere on it. Bird print, bird pin on her bag, bird charm bracelet. (Does this attract men or hungry cats?) Anyway, that was a long time ago and I think I remember hearing that they broke up recently.

Instead of waiting for him to call me—­he does not know where I live—­I called Bill yesterday and we decided to meet for a coffee today.

I wanted to look casual, but I couldn't resist curling my hair. I did not curl my mullet, because, let me remind you, I don't have one.

He walked over to Fort Greene, and we went to a café called Bittersweet (I don't think I've taken you there, but I will someday). It was crowded, so we took our coffee and went for a walk around Fort Greene Park, which for the record is not that big, so we had to circle it several times. It was twilight, and beautiful, but I was cold to my bones.

We fell into easy conversation about our daily lives, but now I feel strange because I barely know anything about who he is. Maybe it's his slightly aloof demeanor and his opaque writing, but I guess I just wanted to hear stories about playing down by the creek with his brothers when he was a child or how he spent his high school prom night (if he even has brothers or went to prom—­because I still don't know). I think this really is a problem with me, because on dates, I either make small talk, or I want to delve into childhood trauma, unfulfilled dreams, hopes, etc. I no longer know what the middle ground consists of.

I turned into some weird, saccharine, muted version of myself to compensate. So nice. Way too nice.

Me: So are you still writing? Your story about the yurt was so amazing last year. You're so talented. If you ever wanted me to proofread your stories, I would totally do it for you.

BB: Yeah, maybe. I submitted that to a bunch of contests, but I haven't heard back yet. Mostly I'm working on my art writing right now.

He is just as beautiful as I remember and so insightful and intelligent. In case you were wondering if green eyes, blond hair, and rosy cheeks look radiant against a black peacoat, the answer is yes.

Eventually conversation died, so I walked him to the corner. His good-­bye: “Well, I'll see you around the neighborhood.” And I went in for the hug. Yes, I did. I tucked myself under his arms and squeezed (in case you don't know what a hug is). He hugged back but in, like, a limp way with a sad pat on my shoulder.

I just texted him a minute ago with the name of a film we couldn't remember and he has not written back.

Q) WHAT DOES TARA HAVE THAT I DON'T HAVE?

A) Nothing. Girl mullet.

Anyway, I have some semibig gossip about Ted. Aren't you impressed that I haven't written about him since we graduated? It's so strange that a guy I loved so much (even though we never dated) suddenly doesn't hold any power over me anymore. Or so I thought.

The other night Rosabelle and I were out at this party (all people from Brown, again—­meh) and left at around 4 
A.M.
to go home. We were hungry and so we stopped by an all-­night diner. I walk in and it hits me: It's the exact same diner that Ted and Jon and I went to freshman year. We'd driven up to the city for the first time and it was snowing when we went to Brooklyn so I made snowballs and threw them at Ted, and then he put snow down my shirt, and my fingers were so cold that he had to hold them until we got back to his apartment. The memory made me nostalgic and so I called Ted like four times, thinking it's only 1 
A.M.
in LA. Voice mail. Rosabelle stopped me and told me that Ted had moved to Toronto for a job and his phone number doesn't work anymore. I couldn't believe that she knew this and I didn't.