Everything Must Go
Page 30
“Do you care about me?”
I considered that for a minute. “Yes.”
We were silent.
“Where are you?” I asked, sitting beside him and propping my knees up to my chin. I looked down to see that I hadn’t shaved my legs before the ceremony, so I covered them with my skirt a little bit.
Sam was silent for a moment. “You won’t believe this,” he said, “but I think I’m underwater.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You?” I asked. “You’re in the pond?”
“Flora, I’m wearing fucking suspenders.” He gestured down at himself. “At breakfast, I put soy milk in my coffee. Flax was involved at the oatmeal station. What else do you want from me? I’m Quare.”
“You’re not Quare,” I said. “You wore those suspenders on the first day. Also, soy milk is the only type of milk Quare HAS. But anyway, I almost left my cabin without my shoes on, and I sprinkled chia seeds into my oatmeal, but doing Quare stuff doesn’t make you QUARE.”
“I hate to break it to you,” Sam said, pressing his fingers over all his guitar strings, “but it sort of does.”
“Yeah, I guess. Okay. Maybe we’re Quare now. We’re in a different pond, though. Maybe Sinclaire’s there too. I need to think about that some more. But it’s not about whether you’re materialistic or, like, monastic.”
“So what’s it about, then?” Sam asked, laughing.
In the distance, down below, down at the field, where the three camps were still in a face-off, there came a loud cheer. We both strained to see what had happened. Juna, it seemed, had freed herself from her ropes and was now clutching a large bouquet of daisies. Beside her stood the pasty nearly nude girl. They kissed passionately.
“I hate to say it, but that girl’s really growing on me,” said Sam.
“I love her to death,” I agreed.
But then! Juna had not in fact freed herself from the harness, and the sudden motion of leaping up destabilized the vending machine. It swayed and tottered for an interminable few seconds. Sam and I held our breaths. Down on the field, everyone watched it, frozen.
It toppled. The impact was solid, fatal. It lay on its side, defeated. Fern, who had rolled out of the way, raised her arms above her head, her expression indistinguishable. The Quares looked at each other, fretting and scurrying around the machine like ants dealing with a huge crumb. The Nymphettes stood, their arms crossed, not sure which chant would correspond to this recent turn of events.
We sat in silence for a moment, out of respect for the fallen machine. Then I bent down and rang the dinner bell again, a harsh chime that made even me jump a little. Everyone on the field turned and stared.
And then Juna was running toward us, scrambling up to the porch and mounting the picnic table. She smelled like peppermint and squeezed between us on the roof, panting, clutching my leg. On the field, Thee gave a little wave and shimmied her nipple tassels. We cracked up, then fell silent.
“I want suffering and sex and depression and panic attacks and death,” I said finally, to the small group on the porch. “I want to FEEL things. I want to SEE things. I want to be heavy, and I want to be full. Maybe with things. Maybe not. I don’t want to think about being materialistic, even if I am, a little bit. I want to know that it’s okay to be ugly, and it’s okay to be beautiful. I want you both to still love me tomorrow because I’m an old tree stump, wrinkly and chopped down but also rooted.”
“A tree stump? That’s some grand old ambition you’ve got.” Sam laughed.
I swatted his face. Juna groaned.
“I want to be weathered by the storms of life. I want to be struck my lightning, and I want to grow despite of it. I want to do lots of my growing underground, spreading roots, and even if I’m dead, I’ll be growing.”
I rang the bell again and again and Agnes started running, and Sinclaire, and then Fern and Rae and Lucy and Benna, all sprinting up to the porch and climbing up, laughing and panting. There wasn’t quite room on the roof, and pointy knees jammed into my shoulder blades. But I was on a roll, even as people pushed and shoved. India and Cora dashed up to the edge of edge of the dining hall, pointing and laughing nervously. I blew them a kiss.
I flung my hands out wide, and Sam grabbed them, still laughing. “My tree stump will drink in the pond water through its roots. This is the start of a beautiful friendship, and—”
“Casablanca,” he said. “Also, slow down. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tree stumps are hard to come by these days.”
I wrapped my hands around Sam’s neck and drank in the smell of them all, my beautiful friends. “I think,” I said, “that I’ve already found one.”
Note pinned to a tree outside my cabin, morning of May 23
I knew you would.
Dean
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m brimming with gratitude. I feel enormously, wildly lucky for everyone who has made this book possible and everyone who continues to sustain me in friendship and mentorship. Thanks first to Miriam Altshuler, my dynamite agent, for your steadfast belief and advocacy, as well as for your patience with my ignorance about all things publishing. Infinite thanks too to Sara Goodman, my wonderful editor, whose incisive comments saved this story many times over, as well as to the entire team at Wednesday Books (especially those who had to deal with this maddening format). I’m also extremely grateful to Carolyn Hessel, the first person who read and believed in this book, as well as to Kiley Frank and Sarah Yeoh-Wang for being its first intrepid editors.
The thorough love and support of my parents, Beth and Michael Davis; my grandparents, Irma and Charles Margolis; my sister, Lucy Davis; and our dogs, Reuben and Bailey, all who were a sustaining force behind this project and behind all that has come before and after it. Uncle Bobby, we love and miss you very much.
At Woolman, screaming and grateful laughter to Jane Davis and Maya Guffey (my fellow residents of “The Pile”); Lulu Dewey, the funniest person I know; Devin Cruz, my improbable prom date; Hannah Durant, the fearless New Yorker; Demetrius Thompson, wise beyond your years; Daniel Freehling, who was nineteen; Ariel Fisher, my English Cottage Garden co-conspirator; Chelsi Torres, sly and darkly funny; Maria Doerr, the most gleeful wood nymph; Max Paris, of the many-colored headlamps; Gregory Terry, a hilarious Tarzan; Savannah Henderson, buzzing and bumbling with life; Brooke Lyons-Justus, sharp and courageous; Lucyanna Labadie, so deeply wonderful in all ways; and to our queenly mentors, Dorothy and Doug Henderson, Grace Oedel, Jacob Holzberg-Pill, Emily Zionts, Katya Thronweber, Jess Holler, Kristin Pearson, Kerstin Martin, Ryan Stennett, Cecelia Watkins, Lewis Maday Travis, and Aaron Schwartz. I wanted to be all of your best friends.
I am profoundly grateful for my generous mentors: Achy Objeas, who told me I should write, as well as Professors Anne Greene, Cliff Chase, Inara Verzemnieks, Sally Bachner, and Eskor Johnson. To my teachers at the Chapin School, particularly Diane Spilios, Lisa Moy, Barbara Minakakis, and Andrea Kassar, thank you for pushing me to take the time to be better.
I must be going on too long, but of course this book is above all by and for my friends, a large handful of which includes Natalie Bolt, with whom watching ANTM is a religious experience; Rebecca Brill, a glorious and haunted mind; Hadley Feingold, my steadfast partner in crime in the GoRo, Usdan, and beyond; Evelysse Vargas, my one-woman publicity team and a source of deep honesty and humor; Veronica Harrington, to whom explosive kindness is second nature; Lily Taylor, a divine spring of generosity; Eliza Mellion, vegan guru and Garment District explorer; Nadja Shannon-Dabek, my light in the storm; Amari Tankard, who remembers it all and loves me anyway; Anastasia Almyasheva, my froomie and thick-and-thin love; Sarah Yeoh-Wang, who simply gets it; Paige Martin, guardian of the warmest and most bizarre memories; Avigayl Sharp, with whom I will stage a revolution; Zettie Shapey, who assures me that I’m not too much; Ben Matusow, who laughed with me through it all; Lilly Lerer, the most majestic prancer; Devonaire Ortiz, whose knowing glances in the Argus office sustained me; Han
nah Shevrin, the realest housewife; Rebecca Hutman, the sharpest tack in the drawer; Taina Quiñones, source of the quickest laughter and deepest understanding; and Iryelis Lopez, my rope. Your friendship staggers me. It is daily salvation.
About the Author
Jenny Fran Davis was born in Manhattan and spent four months avoiding (but later embracing) millet mountains in a peace- and justice-focused Quaker community in northern California. Fond of big dogs, doo-wop, and Judy Blume, she attended the Chapin School and is currently an undergraduate at Wesleyan University. Everything Must Go is her debut novel. You can sign up for author updates here.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
A Note to the Readers of This Collection
Part I
SEMESTER ONE
Part II
SEMESTER TWO
Part III
Part IV
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EVERYTHING MUST GO. Copyright © 2017 by Jenny Fran Davis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
eISBN 978-1-250-11977-3
First Edition: October 2017