Lessons in Love (4 page)

Mary Lancaster raises her long arm. She’s center forward for the Hadley girls’ varsity basketball, and will probably be recruited by more colleges than she can handle. “Where are the Bishop girls?”

Lindsay nods. “Good question, Mary. Bishop has most in common with Fayerweather — both in size and…” she pauses. Over and over again at Hadley you hear that dorms don’t have personalities, or that assignment to them is random, but we all know it’s not. Lindsay covers her faux pas by giving stats. “Both Bishop and Fayerweather have the same square footage, the same demographics in terms of upper and lower classes, and — most importantly — the same number of beds.”

Mary slumps in her seat. “Well, it doesn’t seem fair…”

“Just because you want all of Whitcomb here instead…” starts one of the girls.

“Not all of Whitcomb,” Becca Feldman says. “Just one person.”

This inspired general mayhem as everyone has an opinion about which boys would be best to have close-by. Naturally, those in relationships, want that dorm nearby.

“Enough,” Mrs. Ray says and actually stomps her foot. She’s American, but sound imported from a country that defies naming. She was the one who caught Harriet Walters last spring when her boy-toy of the moment, Channing, tried to shimmy up the drainpipe a la metallic Rapunzel. Mrs. Ray has a few nicknames among the students — Sting Ray (it hurts when you get caught), Manta Ray (she flies low under the radar but is an ominous presence), and Charles (she turns a blind eye to those she favors). “What Ms. Parrish is informing you is a done deal — Bishop and Fayerweather have successfully traded. Lindsay — you may continue.”

Harriet Walters, my English class buddy and fashionable feminist, speaks out first. “The most important thing, is that some kind of statement has been made — equality won’t come easy, but it’s worth it.”

People either ignore her or raise a fist in recognition of Harriet’s ongoing efforts to debunk myths of campus feminists. She’s cool, and well-heeled, but one of those floaters who moves easily between the studious and stoned, the fashionable flirts, and the Fleecies (the group of kids who always look as though they’re about to hike a mountain).

“Before we get to rules and regulations, I’m thinking you guys must be anxious to draw names…” her tone is that of a camp counselor. I have to remind myself that we’re not going bating and making God’s eyes out of string, but rather, about to find out rooming situations for the entire year. My whole senior year.

Fear and anxiety undulate through me. As a day student, I had none of this. My room was my sanctuary, my own space to which I could retreat whenever I wanted. Now I’ll have someone else — who? — around all the time. Someone who will see me and all my moods, be witness to every visitation. With a clutch I realize that whoever it is will get to know Charlie, or at least know about him. And that freaks me out — sharing info with my friends took me a long time. I’m naturally kind of a listener not a sharer of my feelings, so the knowledge that one — or two people (there are triples) — will be in my face like that, sucking up knowledge about me that I haven’t even chosen to share, is discomforting.

Like everything else at Hadley, Roommate Draw is a tradition — but one, up until now, that I’ve never seen.

“You sit here,” Lindsay says, patting people heads like we’re doing duck, duck, goose. “And you over here…”

We line up in order of height (again, Hadley is centuries old, clearly we’ve moved on to more innovative ways of grouping), which is sweet and kind of quaint.

“I’m so glad you’re short,” Chili says to me.

“Right back at you, Tony,” I say.

The two of us are towards one end of the footage spectrum (I have the pleasure of being one of the bookends) while Lindsay and the other height-endowed Fruckners are on the other side. Mrs. Ray bends our line-up so we’re arch-shaped.

“With this ribbon,” Mrs. Ray says, displaying a silky light blue tether in her palms, “We will repeat the Fruckner House motto.”

She unfurls the length of the ribbon so that we’re all holding onto it. Once everyone has their spot, the shortest person — that’d be me — moves next to the tallest. In this case, all five feet plus of me are standing next to Mary Lancaster, aka, the Giantess. She’s one of those women who looks as though she should be hauling logs by a chain or else doused with fake tan and rubbed down with baby oil before playing pro volleyball. She’s not large, just elongated and permanently joined at the hip with Carlton Ackers — better known as ACK! He’s her counterpart in height, middle-range grades, and jocky pleasantry.

“Hi,” I say to her, because it seems like I should at least ack(ACK!)knowledge that we’ve now nearly holding hands on the blue ribbon.

“Hey,” she says, looking down at me with her cow brown eyes. It’s always so strange to be in close proximity to someone who has been on your periphery for ages. As though I should know she has freckles on her nose, but I didn’t. Or how she has a Claddadh ring with the heart turned in, to show she’s unavailable (which she has been since before I even got to Hadley); I wonder if Carlton has the same one.

All of Fruckner stands united; the girls from different cliques and grades, with various personality meshings and conflicts, from all over the globe (technically I am the closest, what with my dad being up the street, and Gretchen Von Hausp-Akala, who is half German, half Aboriginal, holds the record for farthest — her parents live in Tasmania). As my fingers feel the silk and the writer in me glances over my shoulder at the framed photos of all of the girls who have been in this circle before me, I’m torn again with the meaning of it all.

Last year and the fall prior to that I was at home now, flicking through reruns and organizing my pens either with my dad or my aunt Mable. Now I have neither of them. Dad’s retreated to his house and Mable’s gone for good. And now I’m supposedly part of something else, but I don’t feel it. I watch the other girls — even the new ones — who start to sway as Mrs. Ray leads the house song.

“
At first these words are unfamiliar, their grandeur quite
…”

I half-listen to the old song and half study the faces of the Fruckners. Everyone seems caught up in all this, happy, like we can go from sitting in the common room as a jumble of feelings and social spheres to now — suddenly, and with only the aid of a two dollar and ninety-nine cent ribbon, be united as one, like the song claims.

“United as one, we stand together, girls eternally grateful for our time together in Fruckner House.”
Mrs. Ray smiles as the senior girls who’ve been singing this for four years, get teary. This is the last time they’ll have this ceremony. Then I notice Mrs. Ray glaring at me. She goes so far as to raise her eyebrows, questioning my lack of emotion.

Hello? I just got here. A blue string and herd of hormones isn’t going to make me well up. But she continues to glare, so I bow my head and stare at the loose threads on the Oriental rug, hoping if I focus on the blues and reds of what’s under my feet, my dorm mother will think I’m trying not to cry. When I look up again, she seems satisfied, and I hope — strongly — that I’ve covered my ass with regards to her wrath. Dorms each have a place on the strictness scale and it’s known campus-wide that Mrs. Ray is far off to the side that sucks. My plan is to fly under the radar — not too this, not too that. Sounds boring, but in this venue I’m hoping it’ll keep me from getting double duties and hawk-like viewings.

“I can’t believe this is the last one!” Senior Mandy Bohner says, the tears already dripping down her cheeks. “Not that I want to be in high school forever, but…”

“I know — I so get that,” Lindsay says. She sounds sincere; enough so that I wonder how much Hadley really does mean to her. Maybe her life in New York and the Hamptons and wherever else she jets off to isn’t so great. Or maybe it is, and this is another one of Lindsay’s ways of blending in, being like the rest of us.

The rest of us except me, that is. Rather than feeling swept up in the moment, encompassed by newfound companionship and camaraderie, I only feel — what is it? Not disdain, not like I’m better than all this, and not as though the ceremony is lame. All the girls hold hands, the ribbon slipping to the floor as true embracing takes the place of the symbolic string. That’s it: I feel left out.

“Now we adjourn to the living room for biscuits,” Lindsay says with Mrs. Ray hot on her heels. Clearly, Mrs. Ray is psyched to have such an elegant counterpart.

“Biscuits?” Chili asks me as we’re walking from the common room to the small livingroom.

“Don’t look at me — I’m totally out of the loop,” I say.

Mary Lancaster elbows me. Normally, such a gesture would register in someone’s side — our height difference is so great her elbow winds up on my shoulder. “You’re not that out of it,” she says. She looks at me again with her soft brown eyes, and I know instantly why she’s a good captain, a good team leader. Her voice is its own pep talk without being peppy. “You only feel that way now. Give it two weeks and you’ll feel differently. Okay?”

I have no reason to nod except that she sounds so confident that I think maybe she’s right.

Set up on small silver platters, heaps of biscuits are arranged one atop the next, a steady pile.

“For those of you who aren’t familiar with the rules,” Mrs. Ray says, clasping her hands in front of her cardigan like she’s in choir, “Everyone must pick a cookie — help yourself to chilled tea, of course, or milk — and eat it.”

The resident too-thin girls pull their cuffs down over their hands and get fidgety while other dig right in. They’ll have the same problem during the year when Mrs. Ray bakes her famous cakes. One of the Fruckner traditions is called the Unbirthday — when on a random day, each girl is showered with cards, small gifts, and their own cake with an Unbirthday Party. Since Lindsay’s in charge of this, I’m sure my cake will have a stone in the middle, but maybe she’ll prove me wrong.

The cookie extravaganza is in full swing. Why this has to do with drawing roommate name is still don’t get, but I reach for a cookie — only exactly at this moment Lindsay Parrish is reaching for the same one.

“I think this is mine,” Lindsay says, her voice honey-coated. She doesn’t let go of the biscuit though, so I don’t either.

My fingertips are pressing into the sides of it. “Does it matter?” I ask. Lindsay purses her lips. Clearly, it does matter. But why? Then the shouts begin. All around me, girls say names and jump up.

“I have Francecsa!”

“Oh my god, Jen, I’m with you!” Melissa Lindstrop and Jennifer (who up until now has spelled her name with two ‘n’s) hug each other.

Then it makes sense. With my hand still on my chosen cookie, I watch Delphina Chang pick a biscuit up, bite just the tip and extract a slip of paper fro the middle. “I have Yolanda Gomez.”

Yolanda makes her way over and they stand as a duo until another girl I don’t know say, “I have Yolanda Gomez.”

“That’s one triple out of the way,” Harriet Walters says. She’s notably removed from the flurry of papers and crumbs.

Lindsay, her voice as low as it can be while still audible, hisses at me. “Let go. I mean it, Love.”

“Ah, the truth comes out, Parrish. You haven’t changed at all.” I look at her, my hand now firmly gripping the biscuit. She and I have to stay very still, near the tray, so neither of us lets go. Quickly, I flip through reasons why she wants this cookie and only one makes sense. So I speak to her, hoping to prove the problem. “You fixed this, didn’t you.”

Mrs. Ray comes over to us. “Is there a problem here?” she smiles at Lindsay and raises her eyebrows at me.

“I had this cookie first,” I say.

“Biscuit,” she correct.

“Of course,” I say, kissing baked good butt just so I’m not chastised. “And Lindsay won’t let go of it.”

Mrs. Ray doesn’t know whether to be amused or concerned. “Lindsay, as dorm leader, and school co-head monitor, it would behoove you to defer to your underling.”

She said underling? Nearby, Chili puts her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. I’m Lindsay’s underling? “But Mrs. Ray, I believe I had my hand on this biscuit…” Lindsay emphasizes that she, of course, uses the correct word for the crumbly pale shortbreads. “And it’s really Love who needs to back — who needs to choose another one.”

“So we’re in a biscuit duel?” I can’t help but feel like the whole thing is ridiculous. Here I am trying to find meaning in the ceremonial aspects of moving in, only to experience warfare over something the size of my thumb.

Lindsay’s fingers tighten on the biscuit.

Mrs. Ray turns to me, perhaps realizing I don’t know how the system works. “The Chef baked these today — only half of the girls names are printed once, others twice — one, three times for the quad room on the top floor. Some biscuits are blank. It makes more sense once all the names are out. You’ll find that the actuall rooms are noted with a colored dot on the bottom of the name fortune.”

Delphina Change holds hers up for me to see — a purple dot. Mrs. Ray scurries out of the room and then returns with an envelope which she tears open. “Purple…you three are in the back hall triple.”

Delphia sighs. “Great — the farthest from the bathroom…”

I glance at the tray — only a few biscuits remain, and my hand is sweating now from holding onto the shortbread. I notice Lindsay’s pointer finger, bare of polish but with a nail, scooting toward mine. She’s actually going to pinch me, I think, and open my mouth to say something and she stops.

“In the olden days,” Harriet Walters says, “This was a formal tea — with name biscuits and gloves. See, if you pick someone, they’re automatically your roommate.”

Mrs. Ray continues, “All the biscuits are identical from the outside — this way we can really be assured of a random — and delicious — draw.”

Maybe I would find this amusing on another night. Perhaps this tradition would be one that could spur on a journal entry about how Aunt Mable would like this, or how my newfound mother, Gala, would appreciate being told about the evening, further evidence to our bonding. But right now, all I have inside is nerves and suspicion.