Everything Must Go

by Jenny Fran Davis

  I must have dozed off for a few seconds, because suddenly a pair of bright white sneakers was directly in front of me. I looked up to find Sam, a fellow first-year, with his puffy hair eclipsing the sun. He has a nose with a really high bridge—a Roman nose, if you will. He’s Canadian, the only international student this year.

  “Hi,” he said. “Are you waiting for the shower?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked around like he was making sure nobody was watching. He whistled a few notes absentmindedly and then sat down beside me. I don’t think I had ever talked to him before that morning (we make eye contact sometimes), but suddenly here he was: Popular Canadian Sam, just chomping at the bit to converse with me. It was eerie.

  “I just had breakfast at Miriam’s house,” he said quietly, as though he were confiding in me.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “No real reason.” He shrugged and stuck his feet out in front of him, luxuriating on the slab of concrete. I couldn’t look away from his bright white sneakers. “She’s inviting every first-year to breakfast in the next few weeks. I don’t know why I got the first spot. Maybe Miriam just has a thing for Canadians.”

  I forced a laugh.

  “I guess Canada really has embraced the Quare ethos,” I said.

  “Nah,” Sam said. “It’s the other way around. Quare copied us. That’s why I’m right at home here.”

  I studied him. The thing about Sam is that he’s NOT right at home here. He hates gardening because he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty (and mumbles under his breath the whole time about the bacteria in the soil), didn’t learn how to chop wood because he said he’s too uncoordinated and he didn’t want there to be a bloodbath, and almost gagged when he tried the lentil loaf for the first time. The other thing about him, though, is that unlike me, he’s so goddamn CHEERFUL about not fitting into Quare, so everybody loves him for it. And the final thing about Sam is that he dresses like he’s in his eighties: square glasses, slacks (sometimes plaid, sometimes brown or gray), and cardigans in somber patterns. And of course the blindingly white and vaguely orthopedic sneakers.

  “Anyway, Miriam’s house is amazing,” he said. “It’s got a pink refrigerator from the 1950s, and all the beds are gold. I think you’d like it.”

  “Gold?” I asked.

  “The covers. And the headboards. It’s like she’s preparing for a visit from Louis the Fourteenth.”

  I laughed again. Look at me, being all sociable!

  He pulled a book out of his satchel. “Have you been keeping up with Jane Eyre?” he asked. We’re reading that for women’s literature, and Pearl, our teacher, forces us to speak in British accents in class for authenticity. It used to be horribly embarrassing, but I’ve become used to it, mostly because I try not to speak in class at all (writing fifteen-page essays is more my jam).

  I admitted that I was, in fact, keeping up with Jane Eyre. I didn’t tell him that I’d read it before, though.

  “I’m drowning,” Sam said. “And Pearl knows it. I’m surprised I haven’t been sent a gentle email yet. I mean, I’m not saying I DESERVE to be very kindly asked if I’m having emotional issues that are preventing me from doing my work, but if that’s what has to happen, then I’ll suck it up and take it.”

  “At least your British accent is good,” I said. “When I try one, I sound like the biggest idiot—and my mum grew up in South Africa.”

  Cora, I swear, it just slipped right out. I’d sworn not to tell anybody any details about my life, and up till then I’d been perfect. I immediately stopped talking.

  “South Africa?” Sam looked amazed, like that was the most exciting thing he’d ever heard. “I didn’t know that.”

  Why would he have known that?

  “Just until she was fourteen,” I said. “After her dad died, her mom decided to start over again in the US. But the accent stayed.”

  I didn’t for the life of me know why I was giving him so much information. Something about him hypnotized me—the square glasses, the white sneakers, the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose while he spoke.

  “Sorry about your grandpa,” he said. It was a Canadian “sore-y” that I nobly resisted imitating. “But I mean, that’s pretty cool. We’re Quebecois on my dad’s side, and whenever I speak French, every actual French person judges me so hard, because Canadian French sounds like you’re quacking.”

  At that moment, Lucy came out of the shower in a tattered white towel. I half-expected Lucy to drop the towel right then and there, which is what she does in her room next door (I’m used to her naked body now, but for the first few weeks catching a glimpse of her through the window was taxing), but she just smiled slightly and strutted off toward our cabin, her towel just grazing the bottom of her derrière. I waited until Fern, in a light blue bathrobe, followed her before I stood and gestured to Sam that it was my turn to use the shower. Sam quickly excused himself and disappeared into the other side of the bathroom.

  But enough of all that. I want to hear about you! How is Bowen? And have you been to see your dad? I know Dr. Modarressi warned you that it might be triggering for you, given what happened last time you visited, but maybe you could call your dad? And this time make sure none of his financial convict buddies are listening in and leering at your Prada miniskirt. I think you’ll be able to have a much more honest conversation that way.

  You should totally get some pastries and take them with you if you ever go see him. You’ll be a hit with all the inmates (even more so than when you wore your miniskirt, I mean). The number of that place on Seventy-fourth Street is 212.744.3100.

  Some things you never forget.

  Love from the farm,

  Flora

  Journal entry, afternoon of September 13

  I felt a little better today. Having Sam helps. He’s someone to walk to class with and sit with at dinner, and he has a cool style.

  Sam outfits:

  • Oversized square glasses

  • Suspenders (sometimes)

  • Woolly cardigans (but he only ever wears them to breakfast and at night, because it’s still pretty hot during the day)

  • White grandpa shorts from the seventies

  • Huge sneakers that squeak when he walks

  Flora Goldwasser

  Pigeonhole 44

  The Quare Academy

  2 Quare Road

  Main Stream, NY 12497

  September 13

  Flora!!!!!

  You need to come home THIS INSTANT. If the terrible cell service and menstrual cloth girl weren’t enough to merit your leaving, then SCABIES certainly is!!!! Do you want my mom to call a cab? We’ll pay! I know you’re too interesting for Bowen, or whatever the reason was that you left us for that shithole, but it has to be better than living in a HOVEL!

  The only thing is that you might want to wait until next semester to come home, when that bitch Ms. Lancaster goes on maternity leave. The hormones must be impairing her brain function or something, because she’s been failing people left and right. She gave me a B+!!!! I’m including my essay for proof that I’m not CRAZY. If you could send it back when you’re done reading, that would be super.

  Anyway, I have to go. My parents are fighting about my chances at Penn again, and I have to separate them before they murder each other.

  Love forever,

  India

  India Katz-Rosen

  1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C

  New York, NY 10028

  September 15

  My dear India,

  Okay, first of all, thank you SO much for writing me back and proving that you’re alive. Lancaster isn’t so bad, and a B+ isn’t the end of the world, but I’ll read your essay and tell you what I think.

  Second of all, I didn’t realize how weird and (strangely) cool Guild would be.

  The first shocking thing: Althea, the one I saw peeing by her cabin the first day, is the apprentice of Guild this semester. The apprentice is the master player’s right-ha
nd woman, and it means she’ll be assistant-directing the show that Dean (aka Jenna Lyons aka my mentor) will write, direct, and produce this spring.

  Althea was sitting with Luella, a second-year with long, straight blond hair. She looks at you when she speaks and she’s always smiling, even when nothing is particularly happy. You know that I usually abhor senseless jolliness, but in Luella’s case, it works, somehow.

  I chatted a little bit with Agnes, a fellow first-year. He’s from Georgia. He has two moms—one of them is Tedra Louis (you know, the famous gender theorist who coined the term “gender warfare”?). So I guess it’s no wonder he ended up at Quare. Agnes speaks all slow and Southern, and he never actually talks about his famous mom—even though everyone else does.

  Dean mounted the stage suddenly. I didn’t even see her come in, but she was suddenly up there, alone, ready to command the space.

  “Is everybody here?” She looked around expectantly, black hair moving in one cohesive unit, and when nobody answered, she began. “I suppose having this meeting on millet mountain day wasn’t the wisest choice, but eh. I guess it’ll separate the wheat from the chaff, if you will.”

  I let out an appreciative chuckle for the wordplay, but nobody else made a sound.

  (I’ve decided that Dean is my lighthouse: sophisticated, fashionable, and COOL. She’s even scaring me less in our mentor/mentee meetings, during which I used to clam up, but lately I’ve been getting pretty confessional. I even told her about Mum and Daddy’s separation.)

  “This is Guild, everyone,” said Dean. “I’m thrilled you made it. Especially delighted to see some new faces in the audience. First-years, where you at?”

  I held up a hand, feeling like the geek of the world, but what else could I have done? Juna, Agnes, and this first-year girl Becca were also in the audience, and they raised their hands too, all a bit meekly.

  “Wonderful. So. A quick rundown of what this is, how this works, et cetera. Guild is Quare’s oldest and only theater troupe. We put on one or two shows per semester. Written, acted, directed, costumed, and lit by students. This is the real deal, kiddies. Parts were chosen last week for this semester’s first show, written by our very own Michael Lansbury, and the next show will be done by yours truly.

  “First-years, as tempting as acting sounds, it’s important to remember that for your first semester, you won’t act. Guild is not about acting. It’s about producing theater. So what do first-years do, you might ask? You guys review. We believe here in Guild that good acting starts with good OBSERVING, and good observing is required for good WRITING. So once you’ve reviewed a show, you’re golden. You’re free to audition for plays. And only after that can you apply to write your own play. You can direct it, or you can ask for help. We’re big on that here.

  “There’s no real hierarchy, but in the past all writer-directors have been second-years. It just takes that much time to cultivate the necessary experience. So I know that was a lot of information, but I think you’ll realize that things in Guild work fairly smoothly. There’s a lot of support. You’ll sleep in each other’s beds during tech week and pin each other’s costumes two seconds before the show when you realize you gained three pounds from nervous pre-show eating. Okay, so this speech is getting pretty long, so I think I’ll stop talking now. Does anybody have questions?”

  Some people asked banal questions, I was too busy staring at Dean to pay attention.

  Then Dean asked for two volunteers to review the first fall play, called Pork Chop, which goes on right around Halloween. She said she’ll pick the better review—that’s what she called it, the better one; I was shocked, because this was Quare, after all—and get it published in the Quare Times, the collaborative news co-op. I raised my hand, along with that girl Becca. Ugh.

  Becca is the only other first-year from the City, and—as anti-Quare as I sound saying this—she’s the actual worst. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. There’s just something about her that gets under my skin. Her parents live in Greenwich Village. She thinks that this somehow makes her special. She has enormous, unblinking blue eyes and wears feather earrings. Her chin recedes into her neck as she makes pretentious comments in class. This is major shell speak, I know, but what can I say?

  In class, Becca gushes over how much she loved the article that was assigned the previous night, or how excited she is for the next elder circle (Miriam believes in intergenerational healing to combat our youth- and beauty-obsessed culture, which has replaced traditions that value wisdom and age). I spend too much time growing silently furious at Becca and her gushing. It’s becoming unhealthy, how much I hate this girl. My teeth are grinding even as I write this. She is my sworn enemy, India. Worse than Priscilla Gubermeyer back at Bowen.

  I’ll stop bitching now. And I’ll focus on the positive: Guild is cool. It’s not like the other clubs at Quare. It seems edgy, fast-paced, even competitive.

  It seems—dare I say it?—exciting.

  Bisoux,

  Flora

  Miss Tulip blog post from last March

  misstulipblog.com

  HOME SEARCH ARCHIVES PRESS CONTACT

  MEMORY JOG

  Photos c/o Elijah Huck

  Click to navigate through photo album

  Miss Tulip isn’t exactly the exercising type—she’s too busy with her various social engagements, political protests, and academic pursuits to frequent the gym—but when this 1940s gym uniform came along, she felt called to go for a little jog in the park. Not Central Park, of course, which is always flooded with tourists, but Carl Schurz, a little gem on the Upper East Side. Miss Tulip jogged along the reservoir for about thirty minutes. Of course, she had to stop every few minutes to catch up with acquaintances, and by the end, had collected a whole flock of fellow joggers, all flipping off catcallers and chatting about the oppressive male gaze.

  When Miss T wears this playsuit, she feels like an adolescent in 1944 who collects aluminum for the war and gets fresh with boys in the backseats of red cars. And if that weren’t enough to put a spring in her step, the soft cotton—and the beautiful burgundy—alone would do it. Who needs Lululemon when you’ve got vintage?

  THE LOOK: 1940s COTTON MOORE BRAND STANDARDIZED GYM UNIFORM (COLOR: ROSE PINK) WITH LINDA EMBROIDERED ON FRONT POCKET | | WHITE AND BLACK SADDLE SHOES | | ANKLE-LENGTH WHITE SOCKS | | ADJUSTABLE BELT AT WAIST | | BURGUNDY HAIR RIBBON | | BLAIR BOUTIQUE ACRYLIC SHELL SETTING: CARL SCHURZ PARK | | UPPER EAST SIDE

  Elijah’s interview in Nymphette magazine (September issue)

  nymphettemag.com

  WORD IMAGE SOUND SEARCH JOIN CONTACT

  NYMPHETTE MAGAZINE

  Ask an Older Dude: Elijah Huck

  Okay, so he’s not THAT much older—nineteen—but Elijah Huck has already captured the minds, and, more so, the hearts of all of us here at Nymphette. Feminist? Naturally. Artist? Of course—have you seen his award-winning photo series, “Miss Tulip”? Wearing cuffed jeans, a bomber jacket, and his signature round glasses, Huck sat down with Nymphette’s features editor, Grace Wang, to talk about his hair-care regimen, Miss Tulip, and muses.

  Nymphette: What’s up?

  Elijah Huck: Not all that much, actually. I just finished a huge term paper, so I washed my hair for the first time in about two weeks. So there’s that.

  N: That’s exciting. How often do you usually wash it?

  EH: Well, it depends. Usually just a couple times a week. I’m not saying that’s how often I should wash it, but that’s pretty much what happens.

  Hello! October’s theme is LUST. For whom does your heart beat, Nymphettes? Let’s see what you’ve got! Send your work to submissions@nymphettemag.com.

  ABOUT NYMPHETTE 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.

  N: Let’s talk about “Miss Tulip.” Readers want to know: What happened?

  EH: That’s so nice that you’re a fan. Hones
tly, we—Miss Tulip and I—just got too busy to keep up with the blog this year.

  N: There’s no chance you’ll tell us who Miss Tulip is, right? How about a hint?

  EH: I wish I could say, but I can’t. All you’ll be able to know about her is what you can see from the neck down. Miss Tulip isn’t supposed to exist in this world, or feel rooted to it in the form of just one person. But at the same time, she isn’t lofty or merely an ideal, and I can confirm that she’s just as real, and just as delightful, as she seems in the photos. Her privacy is her choice, and it’s something we all have to respect.

  N: I don’t think anyone will be satisfied with that answer, but I can tell you’re uncomfortable, so we can move on.

  EH: Not uncomfortable! But yeah, not giving anything away.

  N: Can you at least say if she’s ever coming back?

  EH: I will say that there’s a possibility, but it’s a small one. That’s the thing about muses—you never know when they’ll return.

  N: It’s clear when you look at all the pictures of Miss Tulip that you have a particular relationship to your subject. The gaze is adoring, like the way someone looks at his lover. Are you in love with Miss Tulip?

  EH: Wow! That’s quite a question. Let’s just say Miss Tulip and I were—are—close friends.

  N: I won’t keep prying, but I don’t believe you, and neither will our readers.

  EH [laughing]: That’s fine with me.

  N: How’d you get into photography?

  EH: That’s a tough question. I guess I’ve always loved taking pictures, but I didn’t really understand how it could be an art in itself—like, I’d take pictures to remember stuff that was beautiful and unusual. Now I find myself gravitating toward things that are interesting: sometimes ugly, sometimes deformed, but I’ll like the lines they make.