Commencement (3 page)

“For work.”

“Oh. Well, they were both homemakers. But they’ve always done a lot of volunteer work in the community,” Bree said. “Does your mother work?”

“Yes,” Celia said. “She’s a VP at an ad agency in Boston.”

Bree’s eyes grew wide. “Oh wow,” she said. “That’s great. I don’t know—I couldn’t wait to come here, but the past couple months my boyfriend, uhh, my fiancé, has been pressuring me to transfer.”

“Already?” Celia asked. She tried to envision Matt Dougherty begging her to transfer to Berkeley, but that was beyond imagining. Where she came from, no one got engaged out of high school. If she had even tried something like that, her parents would no doubt have staged an intervention.

Bree nodded.

“How long have you been together?” Celia asked.

“Almost three and a half years,” Bree said.

“Wow.” Celia’s longest relationship had lasted six months, and that had seemed like an eternity. When it ended, all she could manage to do for weeks was go to school and write her little column for the student newspaper. The rest of the time she lay in bed, with her father bringing her bowls of ice cream and trying to make her laugh, her sister reporting on all the choicest gossip from the freshman class, as if Celia cared. Suddenly, she saw why Bree would want to hold on to her boy back home.

“It’s like it’s 1952 and I’m just here to get a degree in home ec,” Bree said. “I sometimes think love has a hard time catching on to social change, because part of me really wants to go be with him.”

“Well, what part of you wants to stay?” Celia asked.

“The part that gave birth to me,” Bree said. “My mother loves Doug, but she just about threw a walleyed fit when I told her I might
transfer. She really wants me to give this place a chance. And I want to, too. At least I think I do.”

“Ahh, mothers,” Celia said. “Mine tied a string bracelet onto my wrist this morning, and an hour later my little sister goes, ‘It’s a
WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? BRACELET!
’ My mom had put the letters facedown, so I wouldn’t know. Subliminal Jesus power or something, I guess.”

Bree laughed. “Some of the girls running registration were wearing
WHAT WOULD JANE AUSTEN DO
shirts.”

“That’s awesome,” Celia said. “I’ll have to send one to my mom.”

After a long pause, Bree thanked Celia for the cookies. Her voice wavered, and Celia could tell she was getting tipsy.

“I should be thanking you,” Celia said. “You’re actually helping me to not set a record for the fastest freshman fifteen ever gained.”

“You mean
first-year
fifteen,” Bree said with a smile.

“Oh, right. And from the look of those upper-class women, maybe I should amend that to first-year fifty.”

Celia wrinkled her brow in thought. “Too mean?” she asked.

“No, I was thinking the exact same thing,” Bree said.

Her voice turned to a whisper, as if maybe someone were listening. “Have you met April yet?” she said. “The girl who lives on the other side of me.”

“No,” Celia said. “Not yet.”

“I met her in the bathroom before dinner,” Bree said. “She kinda freaked me out. She’s a real hippie type, you know? They just don’t make ’em like that where I come from.”

Celia laughed. “She did look—interesting.”

Bree started to giggle. “I’d secretly love to tie her down and give her a makeover. The right shadow and blush, and that girl would be downright lovely,” she said. “Speaking of, I like your coloring. I was thinking that at the meeting earlier.”

“My coloring?” Celia said.

Truly beautiful women were always complimenting average-looking women on the strangest qualities:
Oh, I’d kill for your small feet. Your coloring is divine
.

“Yeah, I always wanted that exotic Black Irish look. That’s what you call it, right?” Bree asked. “That’s not offensive, is it?”

Celia laughed. “No, it’s not offensive. But where I come from it’s hardly exotic. Every girl I grew up with looks exactly the same: Black hair. Pasty white skin. Freckles. We had one fake ID that started off with my friend Liz’s older sister and got passed around among five of us neighborhood girls.”

“You’re not pasty!” Bree said. “You’re fair skinned. Anyway. Growing up in Irish Boston must have been so cool.”

Irish Boston
. Celia had to stifle a laugh. She wondered if Bree was picturing her family wearing scally caps and talking in thick Southie accents, when really they lived on a sleepy suburban street like everyone else. They did have the cast-of-thousands Irish clan, with cousins all over Massachusetts, who gathered nearly every weekend in someone’s backyard to celebrate something—a birthday, a communion, a wedding anniversary. And in a brief burst of pride after a trip to Galway (as well as a fruitless attempt to fix Celia’s incurable clumsiness), her mother had forced her and Violet to take step-dancing classes, which Celia now credited with her perfect posture and complete inability to dance like a normal person. But other than that, she was no more Irish than anyone else.

Of course, she was doing the same thing to Bree: She could easily imagine this girl at high school cotillions and debutante balls. All they knew of each other, really, were the sharp edges. The middle parts and blurry lines were yet to be filled in.

Celia missed her friends back home. Liz Hastings, with her wicked sense of humor and childlike fear of the dark. Lauren O’Neil, who had been raised with six brothers and always had the wildest slumber parties as a kid—the brothers scaring and delighting them, popping into the room in clown masks, or telling them ghost stories until they cried. Those girls knew Celia, all the way through. How long would it be before she could sit down with someone and just have a conversation without small talk or back-story, without having to worry about what words she used?

An hour later, before she went back to her room, Bree hugged her and said, “I’m so glad you’re right next door. Have you ever been to Savannah, Celia? It’s beautiful there. These gorgeous droopy trees, and purple Spanish moss hanging all over the place.
Oh, I’ll bring you there one of these days. I know you’ll just eat it up with a spoon.”

Then she gave a dainty little drunken hiccup. “I don’t really drink very much.”

Celia laughed. “I’m glad you’re next door, too.”

The following morning, on the first full day at Smith, Celia woke before eight o’clock. There was still a day to go before classes began, but she could not get back to sleep. She opened her bedroom door and looked out into the empty hallway. She wished she knew Bree well enough to go wake her up for an early breakfast or a long walk around campus. Instead, she left the door open and sat alone on the bed, writing in her journal.

A while later, there was a movement in the hall, and Celia caught a glimpse of red hair. “Hey!” she called out. “April, is it?”

April’s head popped in. “Yes, it is,” she said.

She entered the room in cutoffs and a faded tank top, and Celia saw that her calves were covered in thick, brown hair. It wasn’t stubble, she realized. The girl had never shaved. Her dyed red hair was up in a messy ponytail, and she wore no makeup. She was about five foot eight and very skinny, with long legs that were surprisingly sexy in spite of the hair.

Typical, Celia thought. It was always the girls who didn’t give a damn about how they looked who got to be tall and thin without even trying. April’s face was pretty enough, but her features were sharp—she had a slightly pointy nose and prominent cheekbones that gave her a sort of harsh look when she wasn’t smiling.

“Have you already been out and about this morning?” Celia asked.

April nodded. “I went to help set up for a lecture from the director of Equality Now later today,” she said. “It’s gonna be amazing. Here, take this.”

She handed Celia a pamphlet. Celia’s eyes scanned it:

Celia blinked. She felt overwhelmed just being in this dorm and meeting all these strange new women. How on earth had April already taken it upon herself to join in the fight against honor killings?

April came and sat beside her on the bed. She had the body odor of a Boston street person—pungent and spicy and raw. Celia suddenly remembered how one summer in high school, her mother had read a magazine article about chemicals in household products that cause cancer and insisted that the family go organic. She made them start using all-natural toothpaste and shampoo and even deodorant. Celia wondered now if this was the way she had smelled up until she started dating Joey Murray the fall of her junior year. That was when she began to sneak Soft & Dri, hair spray, and Noxzema into the house the way other kids might smuggle in bags of pot or shrink-wrapped copies of
Hustler
.

April eyed the glass Absolut bottle from the night before in Celia’s garbage can, and Celia immediately felt guilty for not asking her to join them.

“You know Smith recycles, right?” April said.

Celia diligently took the bottle from the trash and placed it in the blue bin behind the door, reminding herself to tell Bree about the interaction later. Who the hell was this girl? she wondered.

“Do you feel like grabbing breakfast?” April asked after an awkward pause.

“Sure,” Celia said.

“On the walk home from town I couldn’t stop thinking about potato hash and a huge fucking plate of Fakin’ Bacon,” April said.

“What’s Fakin’ Bacon?” Celia said.

April laughed. “It’s a soy-based product that tastes like the real thing. Well, kind of. I’m a vegan,” she said. “But I really like to eat.”

Celia smiled. At least they had that in common.

They walked downstairs to the dining room. Celia was relieved to have someone, anyone, to go with. Though her sister was three years younger, and they had different groups of friends, she had always had Violet by her side when she started something new-summer camp, or softball, or even just a stupid snorkeling class at Club Med. Her whole life she had wanted privacy, imagined a Saturday when she wouldn’t have to go along to some boring family party. Now, alone for the first time, Celia had no clue what to do with herself.

The dining hall was dotted here and there with girls in flannel pajama pants and tank tops, or baggy T-shirts and boxers. Most of the upperclasswomen still hadn’t arrived on campus, and the majority of the tables were empty.

Celia wore jeans and a red cardigan, with socks and Keds.

“Do you think it’s a little odd how everyone here dresses like they’re in a mental hospital?” Celia whispered to April, wanting a laugh.

April just shrugged. She gestured toward her cutoffs. “Not exactly a fashion expert, now, am I?”

Celia hoped she hadn’t offended her. “I’m trying to fight the power and not wear my pajamas in public for as long as I can,” she said.

April raised an eyebrow.

They took plates from the table at the end of the buffet line and surveyed the food. There were platters heaped with doughnuts and bagels and pastries; a huge tureen of steaming oatmeal; and pans full of bacon, sausage, eggs, French toast, waffles, and hash browns. Beside each meat product was a vegan alternative.

Celia had never heard of such a thing. Had there been any vegans in her high school? No, she decided. Definitely not. The two or three vegetarians she knew just ate the cafeteria pizza every day, so they never really stood out.

April loaded her plate with a green-hued egg substitute and
Fakin’ Bacon that reminded Celia of the rubber food she had had in her Fisher-Price kitchen as a kid.

“You should try this, it’s good, and no animals had to die gruesome deaths for it to be made,” April said.

Celia was holding a sausage between tongs in midair. Oh, brother. She put the sausage on her plate and took two Danishes from the pastry tray—one raspberry, one cheese. If there was ever a perfect time for comfort food, this was it.

They sat down and began to talk about the house meeting the night before.

“What did you think of the shower hour rules?” Celia asked.

April shrugged.

Jeez, this girl was going to make her work for it.

“Do you have a boyfriend back home?” Celia asked.

April sputtered a little and said no, as if Celia had asked her whether she had a My Little Pony collection in her purse.

“A girlfriend?” Celia asked. Oh, what the hell.

“No,” April said. “Not to sound like an asshole, but I thought the whole meeting was kind of juvenile. I am pretty sure the fact that I was assigned to live in King must have been some big prank on the part of the Housing Office.”

“What do you mean?” Celia asked.

“I’m just not really Quad material,” April said. “I’m not into all the sorority bullshit and the keg parties with white-hats. That’s not why I came here. I could have gone to any state school in Illinois if I’d wanted that.”

“Oh, you’re from Illinois?” Celia said, in a tone that was far too eager for someone who had never actually been there.

“Chicago,” April said.

Celia nodded. “So why did you come here anyway?” she asked. “If not for parties and all that normal college stuff.”

“I came here because it was the alma mater of Gloria Steinem and Molly Ivins. I thought it was the most effective place to fight the patriarchy in this godforsaken country,” April said. Then she took a bite of her Fakin’ Bacon and said, “Also, I like the dining hall food.”

Celia wondered for a moment whether she was the only normal
person at Smith College. At home, she had always been thought of as slightly odd, because unlike her girlfriends she preferred Victorian novels and Dorothy Parker poems to women’s magazines, and Technicolor musicals to any modern movie. But now, she felt like Joe Normal—no teenage wedding, no rage at the establishment—which at Smith apparently meant she was a freak.