“This is Basilia.” The girl tipped the swaddled baby so I could see her squashed face. “Miriam’s child.”
Miriam, as I might have told you before coming here, is the head of school. And yes, she named her daughter—sorry, her child; they’re raising this child without gender—Basilia.
Juna and I began to chat. She seemed halfway normal, remarking on the layout of the garden and telling me some of the things she knew about permaculture.
“Why are you taking care of Basilia?” I asked.
“I’m just helping Miriam out,” Juna said. “She’s got a really bad cold and didn’t want Basilia to catch it, and the nanny is training to be a doula this weekend.”
I wondered what Miriam’s advertisement for a nanny had read. Probably something like this:
Middle-aged Quaker seeks caring, compassionate caretaker.
No gendered pronouns. Must be familiar with the body-contact method and be comfortable with harvesting raw goat milk, which we feed our child for its immunity benefits.
“That’s cool,” I said, because I wasn’t sure what else to say. I had a sudden pang of homesickness, thinking about how little Juna and I had to say to each other.
“Is your dress vintage?” I asked her, trying to make conversation. The dress was bright yellow, tied at the shoulders.
She gave me a slightly pitying smile, and suddenly I felt very, very nervous.
“You obviously didn’t know this before now,” she said, “but you’re actually not supposed to give physical compliments here… . You know, ‘no shell speak’?”
She reminded me of an ice-cream scooper trying to sound nonconfrontational and buddy-buddy with her coworkers who were swiping gummy bears from the toppings bar. The fondness I’d initially felt toward her dissolved as quickly as it had come.
“I think it’s a great rule,” she said quickly, as though she were afraid that the swing set was bugged. “It totally takes the emphasis off what people look like and lets conversations go way deeper.”
Lael, I could barely stifle an eye roll!
“Why is it called ‘shell speak’?” I asked.
“Miriam and the rest of the administration think of the body, physical features, and clothing and accessories, as a shell. It’s just protecting and covering up what’s inside. So by not commenting on other people’s shells, we’ll all get to know each other deeply and soulfully.”
A small surge of vomit rose in my throat, but I swallowed it back down quickly.
“I wonder what they’re doing over there,” she said when I abstained from commenting on “no shell speak,” pointing in the distance to where a few disembodied straw hats were bobbing up and down among the rows and rows of vegetables, presumably harvesting something. My stomach lurched at the sight of new people; I remembered all the people whom I would have to meet later—and the fact that one whom I had already met I presumed would be none too pleased to see that I’d gone ahead and decorated our whole “love shack” with my own … shell.
If India and Cora were here with me right now, we would be making fun of “no shell speak” immediately, but here I can’t even bring myself to laugh about it. Juna was clearly very committed to the idea, judging by what she’d just said to me. I made a quick vow to myself that even though I couldn’t talk about clothes, I would still never relax my own personal standards of presentation.
“Maybe it’s for dinner tonight,” I suggested, focusing on the harvesters to curb the nausea. “That’s actually what I’m supposed to be doing now. Helping Pearl with dinner. It’s funny, because it’s only, like noon.”
“Is it noon?” Juna’s face creased.
“A little after,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “I have to return Basilia now. Want to come with me and then head back to the cabin? I haven’t unpacked at all.”
I agreed, and we dropped Cass off at the dining hall on our way to Miriam’s house, which was one of the houses at the edge of campus. There are a handful of faculty houses, and Miriam’s is nestled among them. All of the houses are on a dirt road that eventually leads out of campus. Juna let me hold Basilia for a minute as we walked, and it was so cute the way she looked up at me with her little face scrunched up.
Juna rapped on Miriam’s door a few times before she answered. Miriam’s forty-ish, with short salt-and-pepper hair. She wore a grey tunic and grey linen pants and was barefoot. Her toes were very pale and hunched-looking. I could tell that that she had a cold by how red her nose looked and how watery her eyes were, but when she saw us her face broke out in a huge smile.
“I’m Miriam,” she said to me, pulling me into an embrace. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”
I introduced myself, and her face lit up.
“Roommates!” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve encountered each other. Already I’m particularly excited about this match.”
Juna and I looked at each other nervously.
Once the door shut, Juna and I set off down the dirt road. We didn’t talk much until we reached our hovel, at which point Juna swung the door open and gasped.
We stood on the step and looked at the fruits of my hard work: the posters, the perfume collection, the sunglass shelf, the pastel carpet.
“You did a lot to the place,” Juna gasped.
“Sorry if I went overboard,” I said, rushing to move my typewriter off Juna’s dresser.
Juna kept assuring me that it was fine, but I can’t shake the sense that she’s miffed by the way she looks around occasionally and shakes her head slowly before going back to her reading, which is some obscure book of poetry.
I’d better go, because this letter is ridiculously long and I’m getting the sense that Juna is annoyed by all the clacking. When she first saw my typewriter, she gushed all over the place about how cool it is, but now I think all the noise is driving her crazy—from the looks she keeps shooting me.
Please write me back. You are the only thing keeping me sane.
Wait—before I sign off—a note on Elijah: I know you’re worried about me, but I’m fine, really. He’s an artist. He’s got opportunities in the city he can’t say no to.
Love from the farm,
Flora
India Katz-Rosen
1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C
New York, NY 10028
September 1
India!
I’m writing to you from my new home at Quare. So far, these are a few things that have gone down:
• I brushed encrusted shit off a pig’s back at the farm orientation with a wire brush and then dry-heaved for twenty minutes.
• My peace studies teacher, Allison, who’s eight months pregnant and has a mop of curly orange hair, workshopped birthing positions and cathartic noises on the big field in the middle of campus (see attached map).
• One pair of shoes (my suede Carel flats with little apples on them) and one dress (the green gingham one with the white collar) have been stained, nearly irreparably, but that is TBD after the baking soda soak I have going on my desk chair.
That’s all for now—I should probably get back to sterilizing this place so I don’t mess up my cleaning schedule (twice a day, including the stuff that belongs to my roommate, Juna, which usually makes her glare at me). I’ll write you every day. I swear to God, you and Lael are better than diaries any day of the week. Oh, and here’s a map I drew so you could picture everything.
Love from the farm,
Flora
To: Cora Shimizu-Stein
From: India Katz-Rosen
Subject: Flora!!!
September 4, 12:13 p.m.
Oh my God. I only have a few minutes because Dr. Nadler is breathing down my back, but Blanca just texted me that I got a letter from Flora and that it seems things are NOT going well. (I told her to open anything from Flora IMMEDIATELY and text me the update.) Blanca said something about there being a urine-soaked beanbag chair?? Anyway, she’s headed to Maison Kays
er to put together a care package ASAP.
I’m honestly worried about Flora. Why did she decide to do this, again??
To: Faculty, staff, and students
From: Miriam Row
Subject: Welcome back!
September 4, 4:45 p.m.
Dear community,
It’s my pleasure to let you know that the gang’s all here! The sixteen first-years, of course, arrived a few days ago, but I’m delighted to say that all eighteen second-years are now all accounted for on campus.
I wish everyone the best of luck with classes tomorrow, and I invite you once again to reach out to me (my office hours this week are posted on my door) if you have any questions or concerns—or if you’d just like to chat.
Infinite blessings,
Miriam
Lael Goldwasser
Harvard College
2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center
Cambridge, MA 02138
September 6
Lael,
I realized that I’ve told you about only two people, and that just won’t do, so here goes.
As other first-years began to arrive at the beginning of orientation, I watched them settle into their own hovels from my tiny little porch, disguised by a huge sun hat and sunglasses.
MARIGOLD CHEN (my neighbor):
Hometown: San Francisco, CA
Physical description (shell speak be damned):
Tall, wiry, conventionally beautiful
Attire: Crown of daisies in her hair, which miraculously seemed to be unaffected by the humidity that’s making me frizzy (to add insult to injury). Other than the flower crown, Marigold’s not really a hippie, and her clothes and bags are actually cute—lots of Free People and Element, and well cared for, none of this tattered tunic trend that has taken off with everybody else.
I thought maybe we’d be friends, or at least friendly, but when she came to my hovel to say hello to Juna (who’s way more popular than I am, by the way), I lowered my sunglasses to smile and wave at her, but she just stalked right by me. From my perch outside I could hear her hyena-laughing about some quip of Juna’s.
BECCA CONCH-GOULD, Marigold’s roommate:
Hometown: New York, NY
Physical description: Cropped blond hair and a receding chin—meek as anything, just this whispery voice in a fringy top Attire: The aforementioned fringy top, accompanied by loose-fitting cotton pants with a low crotch. She’s also been spotted in quite a few tattered linen tunics with swirling floral patterns. Ooh, they should all start a band called the Tattered Tunics. Isn’t that a great name?
But I digress.
LUCY AND BENNA WILLIAMS (neighbors on other side):
Hometown: Amherst, MA. Lucy and Benna have been homeschooled their whole lives on a farm in the Berkshires. Quare is their first brush with formal education. I asked them a million questions in spite of myself, and though Lucy answered them happily, Benna rolled her eyes, as though I were exploiting them or something.
Physical description: Fraternal twins. Lucy is tall and thin with a puff of drooping curls, and Benna is shorter and stouter with longer ringlets.
Attire: For Lucy, unflattering flared jeans and a white tank top. For Benna, a wrinkled rusty-orange T-shirt dress.
When Lucy saw me sitting on the porch, she asked if she could come in and see my hovel. I acquiesced, a bit nervous, and followed her inside, because I didn’t know what else to do. But she thought the old movie posters were cool.
“That’s awesome,” she said, pointing to It’s a Wonderful Life and simultaneously shirking her pants. I tried not to stare. Lucy has been experimenting with nudism, she explained to me; all I can say is that I’m glad her underwear stayed on. (For now, at least.)
Benna stared at my The Scarlet Letter poster for a long time, saying nothing. “That’s cute,” she finally mumbled.
For the first few days, Juna and I, and our neighbors Marigold and Becca, moved as a clump. We went to dinner together (Kale. Quinoa. Potatoes. Repeat.). We went to the garden tour together. We went to Meeting for Worship together (thirty minutes of silence. Inner truths.). When classes started today (I’ll tell you about them in another letter), we headed to those together too. But for the past few days, they’ve been enveloped in their various cliques, leaving me to fend for myself. Benna has been taken up by the activists; Marigold has been adopted by the artists; Becca has been swooped up by the environmentalists; Juna has become one of the intellectuals. Allow me to explain.
The Quares: A Field Guide
GENUS HIPPIE: tattered tunics, bare feet, untamed body hair (we’re talking pits and legs), showers few and far between, usually seen toting musical instruments such as guitars, fiddles, and saxophones
ACTIVIST SPECIES: unequivocal outrage at social injustice, propensity for protests and in-depth discussions about cycles of violence
ENVIRONMENTALIST SPECIES: Mason jars instead of water bottles (nobody uses plastic, but the most popular bottles are canteens), dirt caked under fingernails, sunburns
GENUS HIPSTER: cuffed jeans, flannel, tiny round glasses, groomed facial hair, vintage clothes (not cute like mine, though; more like tablecloths from the 1950s worn as skirts), usually seen with musical instruments such as ukuleles, banjos, and harmonicas
ARTIST SPECIES: “creative” clothes, “interesting” makeup, “experimental” haircuts
INTELLECTUAL SPECIES: dark-framed glasses, pen-stained fingers, furrowed brows, functional clothing, strong necks with muscles strengthened from all the impassioned nodding about Proust
I haven’t exactly been chatting it up with my peers. That may come as a shock to you, my being the social butterfly that I am, but I don’t want to get too attached.
And it doesn’t help my social stock that I’ve been dressing to the nines every day. Maybe it’s a reaction against all the tattered tunics, but my appearance has become my raison d’être. I wake up early for the sole purpose of putting together my outfit du jour. I dress even nicer than I did in the city. Every day is 1962 for me, and my Grace Kelly dresses are certainly getting quite the workout.
Maybe my Bowen shoe rebellion was a sign of things to come: my goal is to make it as hard as possible for the Quares to follow “no shell speak” with me, but they haven’t indulged me yet. I get a lot of weird stares, and I can tell that the tattered tunics want nothing to do with me by the way they cluster closer together when I walk into a room. When Juna invites her friends from other cabins over to our hovel, they try not to stare at all the stuff. My twelve pairs of shoes. My collection of white gloves, which as you know keep my hands smooth and ladylike. My vintage parasol. I don’t want to be paranoid, but something tells me they talk about me behind my back.
I know what you’re screaming at this letter right now: “LEAVE.” Right? Part of me wants to do just that. It’s not like Elijah is returning my phone calls. Well, the most obvious obstacle is logistical—more specifically, the surrounding woods. I know that Woodstock is half an hour away, but … which way? My engraved explorer compass might be gorgeous, but I don’t exactly know how to use it.
It’s just hard. Write me.
Peace,
Flora
To: Grace Wang
From: Wink DelDuca
Subject: Fashion show
September 6, 5:22 p.m.
Grace,
I just wanted to check in to make sure you got a writer to cover the Miss Tulip fashion show a few days ago. This is the type of article that will take the features section to the next level!
Besides, it’s important that we keep reminding our readers that even though Miss Tulip may have gone on hiatus, she’s still (hopefully) alive and kicking. As always, keep forwarding me tips from readers, even if they ARE woefully uninformed, as you receive them.
;)
Wink
Editor in Chief, Nymphette magazine
Nymphette is an online feminist a
rts & culture magazine for teenagers. Each month, we choose a theme, and then you send us your writing, photography, and artwork.
To: Wink DelDuca
From: Grace Wang
Subject: Re: Fashion show
September 6, 6:17 p.m.
God, yes. Did I not tell you? I sent Chester, and he said it went great—got lots of interviews with the designers, audience members, etc. He did say that it had slight funeral vibes, though, like it was a final good-bye to Miss Tulip (please lord, let that not be the case, obviously). I wish I could have been in New York for the event!
And yes, I’ll keep forwarding you tips, even if most of them are improbable subway sightings. Sigh. Someone needs to explain to these girls that not every young woman in a pillbox hat is Miss Tulip, especially on the train to Williamsburg!
Xo
Grace
Features Editor, Nymphette magazine
Nymphette is an online feminist arts & culture magazine for teenagers. Each month, we choose a theme, and then you send us your writing, photography, and artwork.
Lael Goldwasser
Harvard College
2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center
Cambridge, MA 02138
September 6—night
Dearest Lael,
I have to tell you something. I’ve been trying to ignore this sinking feeling I have.
Things are not going so well for me.
I wanted to write this in the smallest handwriting I could, because I’m not exactly proud of my decision to come here. I’m not even writing on my typewriter, I’m so ashamed to say it. But you’re my sister. If I can’t admit that I think I made the wrong choice in coming here to you, then I can’t tell anybody.
You know why I’m here. But I’m getting confused by everything now, and maybe that’s because it’s the middle of the night and I can’t sleep, but I want to lay it all out.
What I told India and Cora was that I’d been feeling more and more last year as though I’d outgrown Bowen. Not outgrown the two of them, of course, but the school itself. Nothing interesting happens there, ever—unless you count the odd cheating scandal or that time the editors of the Bulletin broke the “news” that Miss Bowen was a lesbian.
Everything Must Go Page 5