Authors: Emily Franklin
“Here, try this with the melon,” Dad slides a pot of yogurt across the table to me.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
He looks at me, a little too eager about the dairy products. “Please? It’s Greek yogurt with honey it.”
“Oh,” I say. “Greek yogurt’s big in England. Arabella’s mum and dad use it all the time. They even cook chicken in it — it’s like a better for you sour cream.”
Dad’s face registers some mark of let-down, like I’ve wounded his acidophilus expectations. “Boy — you really learned a lot over there, didn’t you?”
Something in his voice sounds different. There’s an edge that I’ve never heard before. Or have rarely heard. I try to place when he’s sounded disappointed like this — then it comes to me. When I broke the sacred Hadley Hall parietal rules for sneaking into a dorm past hours. The fact that it was a mistake I regretted instantly doesn’t matter — it’s still on my record.
“Dad, are you sad about yogurt?” I ask and stare into his eyes, touching his forearm and using a voice from a hemorrhoid commercial. He cracks up.
“No — no. Not about yogurt.” He opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. Then he spoons the yogurt onto my melon.
“Dad — I didn’t give you PTTMF,” I say.
“Fine.” Dad swaps my yogurt-oozed melon for an untouched piece. Dad bows his head and asks, “Permission to touch your food?”
“Granted,” I say in faux-army speak then touch his shoulders like he’s being knighted — totally mixing my metaphors. Dad slops the stuff on another wedge. I try it.
“Wow — this is so good! Really.” I eat every last bit of yogurt and Dad watches. “Dad — you’re freaking me out here. Are you obsessed with pushing dairy?”
Dad stands up and clears the table, rinsing the dishes in the sink and putting them in the new dishwasher that he had installed when I was gone. There have been a couple of other slight changes at our house — a new coffee table in the living room, his study is now a library filled with books we had stored in the basement, and there’s a whole shelf of organic jams and jellies in the cabinet. “Actually, Louisa made that yogurt.” Dad doesn’t look at me while he goes on. “She has a piece of property in Vermont — and she has goats there. She’s sort of linked up to the local farmers…”
“She’s a goatherd?” I ask, just because when do you get to ask that question. “Like in the Sound of Music?” I go on to do the first few lines from “The Lonely Goatherd” and Dad smiles and turns to me. He stands in front of me, appearing much taller than he normally is (which is pretty tall).
“Love. I like her. I like her a lot.” He takes a deep breath, waiting for my reaction.
Without thinking I just say, “That’s great, Dad. She sounds really nice. I’m sorry you guys didn’t get to visit in London. But let’s all meet up soon.”
Dad overacts a sigh of relief. “I thought you’d be a little upset — you know, she’s my…well, I guess she’s my girlfriend.”
“It’s not like she’s the first — you dated my math teach for fuck’s sake.” I immediately wish to retract the swear and I blush, cover my mouth and try not to laugh nervously.
“Watch your mouth,” Dad says without a trace of humor. Cue his headmasterly voice. “You picked up some bad habits in London. Maybe it was considered acceptable to use whatever language you wanted there — but you’re back at Hadley now. You’re back home.”
It doesn’t feel like home. Arabella’s flat felt like home. I know if I respond to without him comment we will be stuck in the kitchen arguing so I don’t even try. Instead, I attempt to smooth the moment over with enthusiasm about Louisa. “Well, please tell Louisa that I like the yogurt, even though it comes from a goat. And that I’m psyched to meet her.” I stand up and put my dishes in the new machine. “Dad — I’m happy for you. Really.”
He gives me a hug and I leave for campus. It’s time for me to make a showing.
Of course, just when I decide to bring my body to the greater student body, eschewing my hermit status, I am slammed in the face with a giant poster of Lindsay Parrish.
“I’d like to call her my nemesis,” I say to Chris and his yearbook crush-slash-friend, Haverford Pomroy, who are standing next to me ogling the poster. “But it gives her way too much power.”
“Love you know Haverford, right?” Chris says and gives me a look that tells me to keep the crush factor in check.
“Sure,” I say, “Kind of — in that passing nod sort of way.”
“Chris speaks highly of you,” Haverford says. He’s half-rugby half-surfer, in a faded light and navy blue striped shirt and knee-length shorts.
“I’ll try to live up to his description,” I say and tie my hair back into a knot. I’ve been debating cropping it to my chin but feel like I’d enjoy it for a day and then regret it. And the fact that I’m thinking about hair while meeting the guy that’s distracted Chris for months makes me a) superficial b) a bad friend or c) both. Behind Haverford is a girl with coffee colored spirals of hair that radiate from her head, skin the color of milky coffee, and a tight magenta tee-shirt.
“And this,” Chris says noticing that I noticed said female, “Is Haverford’s tragically cool sister, Chilton.”
“I’m hardly tragic,” she says and shakes my hand, checking me out without trying to hide it.
I think for a second, remembering an email Chris sent me in London. “I thought your name was Chilton David. Not Chilton Pomroy.”
Haverford and Chilton overlap each other and try to explain, “Our parents split the names.”
“Wait — one at a time, please,” I say holding my palms out like the conversation police.
“Okay — so my mom…” Chilton starts.
“Chil — let me,” Haverford says and slinks his arm around his sister. Is he gay? Straight? In-between? Chris can’t tell, though not for lack of trying to figure it out. Haverford’s good-looking and smart and hasn’t dated anyone at Hadley since starting here his freshman year, and knows Chris’s preference, but so far it hasn’t, um, come up in conversation. “So back when our parents got married they couldn’t decide what to do with their names. Very political — who is the head of the house, should we follow male hierarchical history…”
“So,” Chilton says, “They hyphenated their names — Mitchell David-Pomroy and Davinia David-Pomroy. But then they thought it was too much to say, too much of a burden for their kids.”
“So they dropped the David — which was Mom’s name,” Haverford says. So many people at prep school refer to their parents without the possessive my — so it’s like
Daddy says
or
Mom’s the one who
…even though they’re not your parents.
Chris fills in the rest, “But then their dad felt guilty and their mother felt left out after some grade school parent’s night at school so they dropped Pomroy and just took David.”
“This is very involved,” I say and make a twisted facial gesture that is supposed to mean something but I don’t know what. “So, let me guess, then that didn’t work either and you all took both and decided to just add and drop at will?”
Chilton nods and adds, “Accurate. Especially because dad’s a filmmaker — you know that, right?”
Right. The biggest African American filmmaker in the country, if not the world. Yeah, I know that.
Chilton goes on, “Except that taking both names didn’t really work very well — because some people know you as one name, other people as the other name so — my advice is, stick with what you’ve got.”
“Advice taken, Chilton,” I say and realize I don’t even know my mother’s maiden name. What an elementary thing — and I don’t know it. For security reasons, like when my father gave me an emergency credit card, we just used place of birth and my social security number.
“Mostly people call me Chili,” Chilton says. “Chili Pomroy.”
“Okay, duly noted,” I mime writing down her information and letting my gaze wander to the shiny poster of Lindsay Parrish.
“But when you look us up on the Vineyard this summer, and you will,” she says, “We’re in the book under David
and
Pomroy.”
“And Pomroy-David and David-Pomroy,” Haverford adds. “Our parents are a little obsessive.”
“They’re not the only ones,” I say and nudge Chris to rejoin the non-fantasy world. He’s been gazing at Haverford’s shoes as if they could suddenly proclaim their love for him.
“Oh, yeah?” Haverford asks. “What are you obsessed with, Love?”
Chris flinches like he’s been smacked on the shoulder in a rousing game of punch-buggy and I tense up. Did Haverford’s voice just sound a little flirty? Did my buddy Chris speak so highly of me to his crush that now the object of the crush has noticed me in
that
way?
I quickly try to stomp out any tension. “I’m trying not to obsess over my boyfriend in London.”
Chris gives me the good call look and adds, “They’re really in love.”
I roll my eyes at him when Haverford’s not looking and further disperse the attention by asking, “Hey Chili, what brings you to our fine institute of learning?”
“I’m coming here next year. I’ll be a sophomore.” Her bright blue eyes are bright against her skin, which is the color of wet sand. “I’ve been at Harris.”
“Isn’t that one of those really tiny places in the Berkshires with…?” I start but she interrupts me.
“Yeah, small, progressive, intense and whacked out. It’s a place for future geniuses or tormented artists.”
“So why are you leaving?” I ask.
“’Cause I’m neither a genius nor particularly tormented and it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere and I will lose my mind if I go back.” She spits all that out fast, and then smiles to show she’s over it. “So I handed in all my work to my pod leader — yes, it’s called a pod rather than a certain year, and I’m hanging out here until I leave for summer break.”
Before I can ask where she’s staying Chris pipes up with, “She’s staying in the empty single room at Fruckner. With La Lindsay.” Fruckner was filled to capacity but some girl from New York City who was written up in the Sunday Styles as The Club Kid, apparently got a little too much clubbing in and not enough work and was asked to take a leave of academic absence (read: have fun at public school).
“Oh, lucky you to live in the same house as Lindsay,” I say and poke Lindsay’s eye with my finger — not the real Lindsay, the poster version. “Let me repeat — she’s not so much my enemy as someone I’d love to ignore completely.”
“I can see that,” Chili says, tugging at her dark hair. “Once you label an enemy, you’ve sealed your pact with them.” She pauses and looks closely at the photo. “Oh my god — she totally had this retouched.”
“Where?” Chris is thrilled to be in the know and steps close enough so he could lick the picture of Lindsay.
“Are you going to make out with me?” Lindsay asks as she catwalks by on her way to class. “I thought you weren’t interested.” She winks at Chris and he blows her a mocking kiss but doesn’t say anything back. Haverford watches and I just can’t tell if he was checking out Lindsay’s ass or seeing how Chris would react or both. I guess Chris’s is he or isn’t he quest will have to keep going.
“Look — our mom’s a commercial photo editor, okay? I know all those tricks. Right here…” Chili points to Lindsay’s breasts. “She’s added shadowing to make them appear — um, larger.”
“Like she needed that,” Haverford says.
Chris nods. “Not like she was lacking in that department.” He looks at Haverford to see if his gaze is boob-bound, but Haverford’s backing up to go. “See you guys around — unlike the rest of you, I still have work to finish.”
“I have work,” Chris says to him, “I’m just choosing to refrain. It’s bad for my psyche.”
Chili, Chris, and I turn back to the poster.
“And it looks like Lindsay’s whole body was digitally lengthened,” Chili says. “Maybe I should try that.” She laughs and looks at her petite self. She’s maybe five feet, but holds herself high so you wouldn’t call her tiny. “Just kidding you. I’m in full acceptance of my body.” She uses an indistinguishable accent and adds, “We are de lovely womens. Please not for makink body image crisis.”
I laugh. “Chris was right about you,” I say. “He wrote to me after you visited Hadley this winter.”
Chili swats Chris and he pretends to buckle. “What’d you say about me, MLUT?”
“Former MLUT,” Chris corrects and blushes. “Nothing. I just told Love that you guys would get along.”
The three of us walk to class — or rather, I walk Chris to his Art History class and stand lamely at the doorway. Chili gets ready to head to the tour guide office so she can help lead prospective students and parents around the grounds, one of her “visiting pre-student” responsibilities.
“I almost forgot I’m not a student!” I say and feel kind of guilty, like I’m cutting class.
“Don’t question a good thing,” Chili says and walks into the room. “And Love — you know I live in Oak Bluffs, right?”
I nod, remembering. “Yeah — you’re one town over from me this summer.”
She grins and hands Chris’s book, Jansen’s
The Story of Art
, to him “
You’re
one town over from
me
— I’ve been going there way longer.”
“Fine — you win,” I say and smile at her. “Chris — are you free after this?”
Chris shakes his head. “No — we have an all-school assembly. Wanna come? I’ll make lewd remarks and try to make you laugh inappropriately,” he promises.
“Maybe,” I say and leave him in the dark for art slides while I head out to partake of the activities on the quad.
Lying with my head on my bag and my pale legs stretched out on the newly rolled out lawn, I admire the plants and scenery. Each spring, the grounds crew goes nuts planting and replanting, earthing geraniums and tulips where there was only leftover March mud. All of this outside grandeur is in honor (or honour, if I’m being faux-British) of graduates weekend when alumni come back for hugs, tours, and hook ups with all the people they wish they’d had the guts to approach while actually in high school and the pinnacle of events: graduation. With tuition rates so high, I guess parents and trustees need to see that the grass really is greener here than anywhere else.
I roll my head to one side to check out the quad action. My buddy from English class, the brainy and ballsy Harriet Walters is ranting and raving about whatever book she just finished.