to the tragic American psyche.”
Soon he was recommending other plays and playwrights for me to read. And when he’d return, he’d be genuinely interested in my opinion. I often fantasized about hopping on the train with him to New York to see an off-Broadway production, then talking about it over espressos in a Village coffeehouse afterward. It was a nice fantasy. And sometimes in reality I thought he might actually be interested in me. There was just one problem with Walter Pennington III.
He was dating my roommate.
I was no competition for blond Alissa and her big boobs; so actually dating Walt would be impossible. But I enjoyed our friendship, glad for Walt’s company when he’d seek me out in the library. And sometimes, if he came by the room and Alissa wasn’t there, he’d look through my record albums and we’d talk about things like what we thought The Ramones’s “Chinese Rock” was all about, or how we thought Marc Bolan from T-Rex was cool. He loved to see which albums I came back with from the town record shop every week; he even borrowed a bunch.
We grew closer, and we’d confide in each other about our dreams. Walt told me that he wanted to be a playwright instead of following the political path his famously widowed mother had planned out for him. “My mom will be crushed, but I just don’t have any interest in politics,” he complained. “I just don’t know how to tell her that I don’t want to major in political science in college.”
It was too good to be true, however. Our friendship came to a crashing halt, thanks to Alissa.
One day in the library, Walt was leaning over the counter reading me a scene from a comedy he was writing. We were sharing a laugh over a clever line when suddenly—thump! Someone tossed a tome onto the counter before me. “Aren’t you supposed to be working? Check this out,” a voice demanded. The voice belonged to Alissa. She turned to Walt. “And what are you doing here? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I was just…” His voice trailed off, for he didn’t know what to say.
“Well, I need to finish my Shakespeare paper before tonight, or the whole weekend will be ruined,” she snapped. “And I’d appreciate your help. There’s no way I’m ruining Spring Fling weekend for boring Shakespeare.”
Spring Fling kicked off with a Friday night dance, then a local beach party on Saturday. It was a big annual deal, a sort of pre-prom, and everyone went with a date. I started to get angry, thinking how unfair it was that Alissa would be frolicking in the sand with Walt as I sat in the dorm. I decided to busy myself with returns to put it out of my mind.
“I mean, Jill probably has her paper done, right?” she said just as I turned away. “Right, Jill?”
“Uh, yeah,” I answered. I had finished it a week ago.
“So she doesn’t have any worries this weekend,” Alissa said. “Who are you going to Spring Fling with, anyway?” she asked snidely, knowing full well that no one had invited me.
My silence gave her the answer she sought, and a smug expression replaced the sneer. “Oh, so sorry,” she said, in mock pity. “Maybe next year.” Then she laughed.
“Alissa, that’s not cool,” Walt said meekly before she dragged him out the door.
The next day, Walt abruptly returned all the albums he had borrowed. He never approached me at the library again. And Alissa didn’t speak to me for weeks.
So I should have been suspicious when one night she said to me, “You know tonight is dorm ritual, right?”
I didn’t know what she was talking about. “No,” I said innocently. For a straight-A student, I was so stupid. “What is it?”
“It’s a bonding thing that’s a tradition here,” she said. “The girls do a silly ritual and vow allegiance to the woman named for the dorm so she won’t haunt us during finals.” She added that Lisa, the sophomore who was the R.A. in the dorm and her good friend, was in charge. “All I know is they will knock on our door to get us tonight. And we’re to drop everything and go along.”
“Okay,” I agreed, knowing that not participating would surely earn me grief.
Then at 10 P.M., just as Alissa and I were turning in, the knock came. We followed the other girls down the hall and into the common room, which was pitch-dark, except for the glow of a few candles. Lisa instructed us to sit, spaced out at least an arm’s length in a large circle.
When we were all settled, she began, “This is what you all must do to prove your loyalty to the Agnes Vance dorm at Hillander.”
I held back a yawn, hoping that this stupid ritual would be over soon.
She went on. “I am going to blow out all the candles. Then you must strip down to your underwear. When I say, ‘begin,’ the first girl must take this crown”—she held up a golden cardboard hat from Burger King—“and put it on her head. Then she must stand on one leg, put her hands in a praying position, and say, ‘I, state your name, am honored to be a princess in the court of Agnes Vance.’ Then she must count until five, very slowly, and pass the crown on to the next girl.”
It sounded so idiotic, but harmless, at least.
Or so I thought.
Lisa went around the room and blew out the candles, and the room grew eerily dark. Whispers arose, but she silenced us with a command. “Strip!” she shouted. There was some rustling around the room, and some embarrassed giggles, but silence fell when the first girl began her pledge.
It went on, solemnly, and before I knew it, it was my turn. Alissa, who was next to me, handed me the crown in the dark. I stood up. I balanced on one leg. I placed the crown on my head and put my hands in the praying position. I was doing it all by the letter.
“I, Jill White,” I said, “am honored to be a princess in the court of Agnes Vance.” Then I counted, following the slow pace of the other girls. “One…Two…Three…Four…”
Before I could even say “five,” the lights flicked on. And there I was, standing in the middle of the room, in my bra and undies, wearing a Burger King crown, balancing on one leg and praying. A peal of laughter arose from the rest of the girls, who were all clothed. “I knew she’d be wearing grannies!” I heard someone say.
Then there was the flash of a Polaroid camera. The resulting photo was posted in the cafeteria the next day.
So Alissa had gotten her revenge. And any hope I had of being one of the girls had been dashed once again. I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse.
Then my parents visited. Unannounced.
They were on their way to Rhode Island for—what else?—a Dead show, so they decided to stop in and say hi.
I was in my room, reading, when I heard some giggles outside my door. The next thing I knew there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find my parents standing there, in all their bedraggled, tie-dyed glory.
A year before, I viewed them as my heroes. On that day, they were my bane. I once had thought my father looked like an enchanted woodsman. But seeing him then, his scraggly hair stretching past his shoulders, his unkempt beard sprouting gray, I thought he looked homeless. And Mom appeared pale, tired, and in an untouchable zone of numbness like never before.
Needless to say, I wasn’t all that welcoming. “Why didn’t you call?” I kept asking, over and over. They could have given me a chance to prepare myself. Maybe I could have arranged to meet them off campus. Way off campus.
Dad plopped on Alissa’s bed, putting his bare, dirty feet near her pillow. “Did you put on a little weight, sweetie?” he asked.
I had. Fifteen pounds to be exact. So nice of him to notice.
Then Mom snapped out of her coma and spoke. “What’s happened to your hair?” she asked vaguely. She stepped closer and inspected my face. “Are you wearing make-up?”
That’s