The Paper Palace(34)

Lamont is bigger than I’d imagined, more formidable. Redbrick dormitories and classroom buildings climbing with ivy, a white clapboard chapel next to a marble-columned library. In the parking lot, students swarm their parents in relief and happiness. Anna is nowhere in sight. We find her sitting in the sun on the steps of her dorm. There’s a paperback in her lap. She is crying.

“How can Phineas have died?” she says, closing the book and getting to her feet. “I hate this book.”

“A Separate Peace is the ultimate preppy downer. Everyone knows that,” Dixon says.

“He was so handsome,” Anna says. “He was perfect.”

“Only the good die young,” Dixon says.

“That’s complete rubbish,” Mum says.

Anna and Mum stand slightly apart, like kids at a school dance, each waiting for the other to make the first move. It has never been the same between them since Anna was sent away. Mum has tried to make it up to her, but there’s a distance in Anna, a coolness that will never thaw—as if her past life is in the rearview mirror, still visible, but her eyes are only on the road ahead.

Mum breaks first, crossing the ground to where Anna is standing. “I’m so happy to see you,” she says, hugging Anna. “You look wonderful.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to make it,” Anna says.

“Of course we made it,” Mum says, bristling.

“You didn’t turn up last year.”

“Well, we’re here now.” Dixon puts his arm around Anna. “And what a gorgeous day. I need to find the john before I piss myself, and then I want the grand tour.”

“Jesus, Dad,” Becky says.

“Lily’s parents invited us to have lunch with them at the Inn,” Anna says.

“I thought we were having a family lunch, but that sounds lovely, too.” She smiles, but I can tell she’s disappointed.

“I want to show Elle my dorm room first.” Anna takes my hand in hers as if we’ve always been best friends.

Becky starts to follow, but Dixon stops her. “Have you seen the size of that tree, Beck? It must be two hundred years old.”



* * *



—

Anna has a triple—a big room with tall windows, a battered wood floor, and three single beds pushed up against the walls. On the windowsill, an avocado pit sprouts hoary white roots into a glass jar filled with cloudy water. Anna’s bed is unmade—I recognize her purple Indian bedspread. Two photographs are tacked on the wall above it. One is of Anna and her roommates standing in front of a swimming pool. The other photo is of the two of us climbing a tree in Central Park. We are laughing.

Anna sits down on her bed cross-legged. Pats the space beside her. The mattress sags at the edge when I sit down.

“So, guess what?” she says. “And you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious,” she says. “On pain of death.” She leans in. “I lost my virginity last weekend.” She sounds so proud of herself, as if this is some great achievement, and I want to say the right thing—something that sounds casual, grown-up. Anna is confiding in me. But all I can think of is mustiness, damp sweat, my mother begging. I pull at a loose thread on Anna’s bedspread. An accordion of cloth gathers in its wake.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” I say.

“I don’t. He’s a friend of Lily’s brother. He’s nineteen. We were all there for Columbus Day.”

“What was it like?”

“Not great. But still—I’m not a virgin anymore.”

“What if you got pregnant?”

“I didn’t. I borrowed Lily’s diaphragm.”

“Gross.”

“I washed it first, duh. For, like, two hours,” she laughs.

“That’s still gross,” I say.

“Whatever. Better than getting PG.” She hops off the bed and walks to the window, picks up the avocado plant, holds it to the light. “I need to change this water.”

“I’m going to wait,” I say.

“Wait for what?”

“Until I fall in love.”

Anna puts the jar back down, says nothing, stands with her back to me, whatever window she opened between us, shut.

“Maybe I won’t wait. I don’t know,” I scramble. “I guess it sounds dumb.”

“No, I think it’s a good idea,” she says, turning to me.

“You do?”

“For you. Just not for me. I doubt I’ll ever fall in love. I’m not the type.”



* * *



—

We drive home in the dark. The car smells of fresh apples. Becky and I sit in back playing coochie catchers.

“Pick a number,” she says, going first.

“Three.”

She opens and closes the beaky paper mouth three times.

“Pick a color.”

“Blue.”

She unfolds the blue triangle to reveal my fortune.

Inside she has written: You will go to third base with a fat oily pig. She has the handwriting of an eight-year-old.

“You’re so gross,” I laugh. “Your turn.” I pick up my own catcher and put my fingers into the paper triangle slots. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. Open. She points to red.