Subject: Re: Mum!!!
December 1, 2:12 p.m.
For God’s sake, I don’t HATE you. You are a damn fool, though.
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: coming soon …
December 3, 10:43 p.m.
D,
Sorry about Thanksgiving. I was moving back to school and pretty much just ate some potatoes with my mom. It was a pretty sad affair. But you win. My classes end next week. When’s best for me to come?
E
Part II
Email from Cora to India, December 8
To: India Katz-Rosen
From: Cora Shimizu-Stein
Subject: umm??
December 8, 4:37 p.m.
The weirdest thing ever happened on my way home from school today.
You know how now they make all the drivers park on Seventy-ninth now? So I’m crossing the street to find Dominic, who was maybe fifty feet away, when I see this girl coming toward me. She has all this curly brown hair just, like, piled on top of her head and a tweed coat with huge shoulder pads. And these eighties acid-wash jeans. She was so Sloane Peterson in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off that it hurt.
I stopped so I could decide whether or not the eighties look was working for her, and if so, I would ask her where she got the jacket she was wearing to tell Flora, when I noticed that underneath the jacket, she was wearing a T-shirt with an image printed on it. I think she saw me looking, so she pulled open her coat a little bit more, just flaunting the shirt. So weird. We were in the middle of the street at this point—it was like everything was happening in slow motion.
It was a picture of a girl’s body, just the neck down, but, India—I could have sworn that it was FLORA’S body. I’ll admit that I didn’t get a perfect look, but it was eerie. The girl in the picture was wearing those ESCADA by Margaretha Ley gingham culottes that Flora definitely has, and a black turtleneck tank top that she would so wear, and I think I could even see some brownish-red curls just before the picture cut off—which, you know, is Flora’s hair.
Is Flora a T-shirt model now?
Core
To: Faculty, staff, and students
From: Miriam Row
Subject: Angel Walk
December 13, 4:06 p.m.
Dear Friends,
I’m delighted to announce that this Friday—the last day before winter vacation—we will be holding our annual Angel Walk in place of shared work. How it works is as follows: everyone who wishes to participate will meet on the soccer field at 4:10 p.m. After the Oracle introduces the activity, we’ll form two parallel lines. With your eyes closed, you’ll be guided to the start of the line and be shepherded down the middle to get loved on. Those on the edges will be chanting, singing, swaying, and heaping non-shell-speak-related praise onto whomever is walking with her eyes closed down the line.
Remember, if you’d rather not participate, there will be absolutely no judgment—only love.
Infinite blessings,
Miriam
To: Grace Wang
From: Wink DelDuca
Subject: new fans
December 13, 4:49 p.m.
Grace,
You have to move to New York. No more of this Chicago bullshit. I’ve been wearing the shirts nonstop for days, and every time I leave the house, people stare. Like today, when I was walking home from school, this girl—she probably went to Bowen or Fairfax or something; I always forget how much it must suck to go to a uniform school until I see those unfortunate polyester kilts—was practically salivating. I almost told her where she could get one for herself, but before I could give her my business card, she sprinted away from me into a big black car. It’s a shame that it was as cold as balls, so I was wearing a coat—she didn’t even get a glimpse of the #BRINGBACKMISSTULIP on the back.
Anyway, for next month’s Ask an Older Dude, I’m thinking we do a profile on Michael Cera. Think we can snag him? He’s definitely Nymphette material. Have you read his latest piece in the New Yorker?
;)
Wink
Editor in Chief, 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.
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: Re: visit
December 13, 7:18 p.m.
DUDE. Yes. How about the eighteenth (this Friday)? I can skip shared work (aren’t you happy you graduated?) and take out the van to come get you.
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: Re: visit
December 14, 12:02 a.m.
Sounds good. There’s actually someone there who I’m hoping to surprise (again, it’s a long story that has to do with the shit from last year), so if you could keep this on the DL, that would be much appreciated.
To: Elijah Huck
From: Dean Elliot
Subject: Re: visit
December 14, 12:11 a.m.
God, yes. I wouldn’t tell anyone. You’re kind a big deal now, E. I mean, at least in the indie-photography circuit. I wouldn’t want a sex riot to break out preemptively. I’ve read your Nymphette profile, after all. I know the score.
Program for Dean’s play, December 17
Guild fondly presents
300 Years of Mourning
written & directed by Dean Elliot
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ELIZABETH / DEAN ELLIOT
GREGORY / MICHAEL LANSBURY
PAUL / GARY NORTH
CALLIOPE / ALTHEA LONG
SUSANNA / LUELLA LOOKMAN
CARLOS / SHY LENORE
FANNY / FLORA GOLDWASSER
Guild, established in 1966, is the only and oldest theater troupe at Quare. Its members are: Dean Elliot (master player), Althea Long (apprentice), Michael Lansbury, Gary North, Lia Furlough, Jean Noel, Shy Lenore, Solomon Pitts, Luella Lookman, Peter Wojkowski, Heidi Norman-Lester, Flora Goldwasser, Juna Díaz, Agnes Surl, and Becca Conch-Gould.
When I first sat down to write 300 Years of Mourning, I found myself searching for a story about possession: why we want what we want, and the lengths we are willing to go to acquire it.
I soon found myself writing about redemption, about the journey back to grace, about the things we lose—and gain—along the way. America on the brink of the Industrial Revolution seemed the natural setting for such a story, and I selected the town of Chicago for its rich and layered history (it’s also where I grew up).
300 Years of Mourning is about America, sure, but it’s also about a family, a haphazard cluster of individuals who must make different peaces with the same tragedy. I learned as much from my cast as they did from me, if not more, and I am eternally grateful for their ready willingness to take risks and go with them. —DE
India Katz-Rosen
1025 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 9C
New York, NY 10028
December 17
Dear India,
Dean’s play is over!
And I’m apprentice for next semester!
She announced it after the play was over, in front of everyone. I was still in my Fanny outfit (starchy navy Victorian dress that Dean sewed and that I’m definitely going to wear in my daily life), so it was kind of hard to bow and hug her and everything. I wouldn’t say I’ve ARRIVED, or anything like that, but it feels so nice. I can write a play for next semester!
I just need something to write ABOUT. You know that plot isn’t my strong suit. Sam congratulated me about a thousand times at the small cider-and-peanut-butter-cookies after-party, even though Marigold was right beside him and kind of scoffing to herself. Whatever.
Later that night we—just Sam and I—hung out in the Art Barn until after eleven, talking about how weird it is that our first semester here is almost over. All of the dark Art Barn paintings from the Art and Activism elective looked so creepy. We made up backstories for all the weird eyeballs and bleeding heads. We had a long conversation about the Dionne quintuplets (Marie, Annette, Yvonne, Émilie, and Cécile, the French Canadian quintuplets from the 1930s who all survived into adulthood).
I know what this sounds like. You know how dear the Dionne quintuplets are to me, and I wouldn’t discuss them with just anyone. And Sam ISN’T just anyone. But I’m not attracted to him at all—and I think I’ve told you that he has an enormous crush on Marigold. I feel like myself with him, but also like I can be more than just myself. You know? We have so much fun together.
Not, of course, as much fun as I have with you and Cora. I’m so excited to see you (less than a week!). What’s the first stop? Maison Kayser? Beacon’s Closet?
Love,
Flora
To: Dean Elliot
From: Elijah Huck
Subject: here
December 18, 3:34 p.m.
D, I’m here at the train station. You coming?
Lael Goldwasser
Harvard College
2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center
Cambridge, MA 02138
December 18
Lael!!!
I’m in the canning station, quietly hyperventilating. Elijah is here. HERE!! I’m sorry if my handwriting is shaking all over the place.
Let me start from the beginning.
Today was the last day of school before winter break. Apparently it’s a tradition to do what’s called the Angel Walk. Basically, everyone—faculty, staff, students, and residents—forms two long lines, facing each other, on the soccer field. So we’re all standing there, chanting and swaying and singing (or, in my case, swaying and mouthing), and the person at the top of the line, either the right or the left, is whisked off by the Oracle of Quare, who’s holding a burning stick of sage.
He instructs the person to close her eyes, waves the sage stick in the outline of her body, and then guides her to the lines, where she is received and then shuttled down. It’s the job of the people on the edges to caress and whisper praise to whomever is journeying down the line. The first person to go was Fern, and it took forever, because everyone loves Fern.
We sang Quare tunes all the while. When Fern was finally at the end—people wouldn’t release their death grips on her—she dissolved into a happy puddle on the ground, basking in the sunshine. Pretty much everyone was there, but I didn’t see Dean. As the line shuffled up, I began to dread my turn. You know how I hate gratuitous touch. I toyed with the idea of refusing to go, but then I got over myself and let the Oracle of Quare lead me a few feet away. It was hard to keep my eyes closed and he breathed warm air into my face and outlined me with sage, which made me cough and gag a little bit. He chanted something in guttural Sanskrit or Hebrew or something—God, it was all I could do to keep it together—and then sort of clucked in either ear a few times.
Going down the line was actually a lot easier than I thought. I won’t bore you with the details, but maybe my classmates do like me a little bit more than they let on—or maybe everyone was just a little high on sage. But one by one they clutched me, whispered non-shell-speak-related praise into my ears, and then gently shepherded me down the line. At first I tried to keep my head from touching anyone else’s, because I had spent all morning perfecting my victory rolls, but after a while I just sort of gave in to it.
Some hands were familiar—Sam almost made me burst out laughing by grabbing me close, like I was a hysterical Scarlett O’Hara and he was Rhett Butler, and I’d know Lucy’s sandpapery hands anywhere—and some I couldn’t place.
When I finally got to the end, I was a tiny bit disappointed to be finished, even. I felt light enough to want to collapse on the ground like the others who had gone before me, but before I sank down, I opened my eyes to make sure that prior to my nubby pink coat making contact with the ground there wasn’t a huge puddle below me.
But the minute I opened my eyes, I was face-to-face with the baby bird himself.
Elijah freaking Huck.
Dean was standing right beside him, the sun blocking her dark eyes behind her enormous glasses. Dean and Elijah had obviously just arrived from somewhere. Dean was holding car keys and Elijah held a small duffel bag. He looked just the same as ever: bomber jacket, cuffed jeans, delectable round glasses. And his face, so pale and earnest and adorable.
We looked at each other for about ten seconds. His lips were slightly parted. I can only guess at the shock on my own face. I turned and sprinted toward the garden. That’s where I am now: the little storage hut lined with rows and rows of preserves and canned tomatoes.
I can’t leave. Send help.
XOXO,
Flora
Lael Goldwasser
Harvard College
2609 Harvard Yard Mail Center
Cambridge, MA 02138
December 19—morning
Lael,
I know we always said we’d tell each other immediately when *it* happened. And I’d never break a promise to you, so I’m telling you: it happened. Last night.
I feel so weird and empty and kind of sick to my stomach.
He’s gone. He didn’t say good-bye or anything. He left the guest cabin at, like, five in the morning, when I was still half-asleep and gripping the wool blanket with my knees. When he was standing in the doorway and slipping his shoes on, he told me we’d see each other at breakfast, but when I made my way from the guest cabin to the dining hall this morning, all bleary and mussed, Dean told me he had already left. Like, for home.
I’m writing to you from a back table in the dining hall, but I have to go pack now. For home. I don’t know why I’m writing to you if I’m going to see you in, like, four days, but oh well. I’m so, so tired.
Also, for some inexplicable reason, Elijah left behind Miss Tulip fan mail. It was all together in a packet under the bed in the guest cabin. I read it all without really reading it. It felt like it wasn’t even meant for me in the first place.
Flora
Attempt 8
Elijah Huck
245 West 107th Street
New York, NY 10025
December 19—night
Elijah,
Was it something I did? I mean, to make you leave without saying anything to me? Such as “good-bye,” for example? Or that maybe you loved me?
Or maybe how, when it was over and you scooped me from behind and buried your head in my neck and it was like you were drinking me in, not through your mouth or even your wrists, but maybe by just lining yourself against my back, but then you got up and closed the bathroom door because the guest cabin has its own bathroom and I thought it was such a luxury
Attempt 9
Elijah Huck
245 West 107th Street
New York, NY 10025
December 19—night
Elijah,
I’ve always been in love with the way you look at me, like I’m the most interesting girl in the world. And last night you treated me like I looked so good, tasted so good, was so good. And then you left, even though I’m here at Quare, which I thought you were supposed to love, even though I’m surrounded by dirt and lentils and
Transcript of Sam’s conversation with the Oracle of Quare, taped on Sam’s cell phone, December 19
THE ORACLE: Greetings, my child. Make yourself at home.
SAM CHABOT: Oh okay. Is the chair supposed to … ? Sorry. It’s really dark in here. Got it.
O: You good?
SC: Yeah, I’m good.
O: Before we begin, I’d like us to laugh together for three minutes.
SC: Laugh together? I’m actually leaving pretty soon.
O: Laughter meditation. It’s the best medicine.
SC: We just �
� laugh?
O: Yes. I’ll start. Join in whenever you feel comfortable. Remember, I can’t see you. [Laughs]
SC: [Laughs] Are we done now?
O: [Laughs]
SC: Hello?
O: Okay. [Sound of glass breaking] Oh fuck. I’m sorry. Just give me a second.
SC: Take your time.
O: Just one—okay. I’m all ears. What’s on your mind?
SC: I, uh, just wanted to get something off my chest. About what happened this morning.
O: Ah yes.
SC: And I was hoping for a bit of advice.
O: I don’t give advice, friend. I just listen.
SC: Oh. Well, what good is that?
O: Please begin.
SC: Okay. So as soon as I got to breakfast this morning, I knew something was off with Flora. Everyone was saying good-bye and just hanging out and stuff, but Flora wasn’t saying anything. She was staring off into space and, like, writing a letter or something, but desultorily. And her hair was a mess. Yesterday she was wearing victory rolls, or whatever they’re called—you know that hairstyle from the forties where there are these two big, like, rolled sections of hair on either side of your head? So I asked her, “How’s it going?” and she just looked straight through me.
So I coaxed her for a little bit, and people around us came and went, and then, at a certain point, tears just started streaming out of her eyes. But her expression didn’t change at all. It was kind of scary. So I just grabbed her and hugged her for a little bit, but she wriggled away from me.
O: Uh-huh.
SC: I kept asking, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” but she kept saying, “Nothing; I’m fine.” Finally I led her out of the dining hall and into the kitchen. I know she likes jasmine tea, so I started boiling some water. And the second I turned my back, she said something really quietly about Elijah—you know, that guy who went here and was just on campus visiting Dean? I gather that he’s kind of famous, which explains why all the first-year girls were wringing their hands and looking at each other when he showed up. I mean, I’ve never heard of him, but I guess that’s not saying a lot.
Everything Must Go Page 16