“Yes,” said Penelope, unaccountably embarrassed.
“Well, welcome, Penelope. Glad to see you again. So tell us, why do you want to take this course? Just quickly.”
“Um, why? Well … you have to do a report on a country. So that’s pretty fun.”
“It is fun,” said Jared. “It’s the most fun I have all year. Those papers are always so interesting.”
“Yeah, so that,” said Penelope.
During class, Gustav took notes in his leather-bound notebook with a tiny ballpoint pen of military precision. He didn’t speak again. When it was over, Gustav slowly gathered up his belongings. He took a white linen handkerchief out of his front pocket and used it to dust off the outside cover of his notebook. For fingerprints probably, Penelope thought. She was in love.
The next day, Penelope tried to look Gustav up on Facebook. Penelope did not use Facebook or the Internet very often. When Penelope was little, her mother discouraged her from using the Internet because she was afraid that Penelope would be the victim of online bullying. Even now, Penelope was a hesitant joiner of websites.
Luckily, it was easy to find Gustav on Facebook. Unluckily, all she could see was a picture of him in jodhpurs in the middle of the desert, his face obscured by a giant Panama hat. Penelope decided against friending him. Everyone says it is usually better to play hard to get, she thought.
While Penelope was trying to figure out which desert Gustav was in by Google-imaging deserts, her mother called her.
“Hi, Mom,” said Penelope.
“Penelope! You finally called!”
“I thought you called me.”
“I can’t really talk now. I’m going into the grocery store. But how are you? Good? Did you get into the chorus?”
“No,” said Penelope. “I didn’t want to go to the final audition. It just didn’t seem very fun. I didn’t feel very well.” Ted had not seemed to buy the ear infection story, especially since Penelope called him and told him about it in a very hoarse voice, only realizing later that an ear infection probably would not affect that part of your body. Penelope had successfully avoided talking about it with him since.
“Oh, OK,” said Penelope’s mother. “How are you feeling about it?”
“Oh, fine.”
“You know, I know you didn’t want to go on that day, but maybe you could go up to that guy Ron and ask him if you can still be involved in some of the chorus stuff. Like maybe they need a stage manager or something, you know? Then you sit in at some of the practices at least, and that might be really fun, to sit in. You could go on all the bus trips and stuff.”
“No,” said Penelope.
“Because I was talking to Liz the other day, and she said she knew someone who did that.”
“I don’t want to do that,” said Penelope.
“Well, fine, Penelope. But that is what people do.”
“It’s not,” said Penelope.
“Well, you’re wrong, Penelope, totally wrong. I’m not going to get into it, but you are. How else will you make friends unless you do something?”
“You can wordlessly make friends by challenging them to a game of Tetris. Which is why I need Tetris back,” said Penelope.
Penelope’s mother sighed. “How are your roommates?”
“Oh, they’re fine. Lan got a cat.”
“Penelope! A cat? But what about your allergies?”
“They are bad.”
“You need to tell her that. Aren’t cats illegal in the dorms?”
“I don’t know. Lan told me they were legal as long as you told no one about them,” explained Penelope.
“Oh God, Penelope. Well, what about Emma? How is she?”
“She’s OK,” said Penelope.
“What does she do for fun? Maybe you should ask her to dinner or something. Maybe you guys could go to the movies.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she would want to do that. She is pretty busy rearranging the furniture in our room. And I don’t think she likes me very much, to be honest. More and more of my stuff has ended up in the common room.”
Penelope’s mother sighed again.
“That’s too bad. How is school going?”
“Oh, fine,” said Penelope.
“That’s good. Hey, I have an idea. What about joining the literary magazine? Remember when you were in high school and you were on the literary magazine?”
“No, I don’t remember that because I wasn’t on the literary magazine.”
“Yes, you were! Remember? I can’t believe you don’t remember. There was that girl on it who had that scrunchie collection, and you used to always talk about it.”
“Mom, that was the president of the debate team, and I was never on the literary magazine and neither was she.”
“Well, why do I remember dropping you off at school for a meeting of the literary magazine then? I remember that, Penelope. You were definitely on the literary magazine.”
“I really was not on it.”
“Fine. Anyway, I was thinking about this the other day and I think you should try out for the literary magazine. They have one of those, right? If they do, I think you would really like it. You like reading. And you could meet all different people from the ones in your dorm.”
“Do you think German-Argentineans would work on a literary magazine?” said Penelope.
“I don’t know, probably,” said her mother. “A German-Argentinean? Where are you meeting those? Isn’t that kind of like Marathon Man or something?” She started laughing her silent laugh.
Penelope waited until she finished. Then she said, “But I just don’t like literary magazines. In books I always hate it when people talk about their own poetry.”
“There is no time like the present to try things out. If you hate it, you can quit, but I bet it’s better than being left alone in your room with a disgusting cat. I’m in the checkout line of the supermarket now so I have to go. Call me tomorrow! Oh, also, am I still forbidden from coming to Parents Weekend?”
“Yes,” said Penelope.
“You really aren’t going to change your mind?”
“No,” said Penelope. “Trust me, you would hate it. All you do is sit in on classes.”
“OK. I would hate that,” said Penelope’s mother. “Bye, Penelope. Let me know how everything goes.” And then she hung up.
“Hey, Catherine, I have to ask you a question,” Penelope asked, she thought, very casually.
“Hmm?” said Catherine.
“Have you ever heard of a guy named Gustav?” asked Penelope. She was sitting on the futon. Catherine was lying on her stomach on Penelope’s floor. She was wearing her slippers, tiny navy-blue athletic shorts, and an uncomfortably long tank top that was at once too short to be a dress and too long to be a shirt. She was heavily made up.
“Is he a freshman?” asked Catherine. “Because I know a guy named Goose who’s a freshman. He’s really funny. He lives in Grays with me and he’s on the water polo team. Everyone on the water polo team is like hilarious.”
“I don’t think he’s a freshman. I think he’s like a sophomore or a junior or something,” said Penelope. “He’s from Europe kind of.”
Even after Facebook stalking and another discussion section, Penelope still had no more real information about Gustav. Once she overheard a cell phone conversation he had right before he went into section in which he referred to demography as “too too sick-making.” Penelope could not agree more.
“How do you know him?” asked Catherine.
“He is in my Counting People section.”
“I have never heard of him, I think,” said Catherine, who was looking out the door into the hallway. Someone was coming up the stairs. It was Penelope’s upstairs neighbor Harold, already the president of the model train club. Catherine went back to her reading.
This was the third time this week that Catherine had burst into Penelope’s suite and asked to study with her. Penelope was starting to wonder if this was
going to be a nightly occurrence. Already, it had started to fall into some kind of routine. Catherine would lie on her stomach, limbs splayed everywhere, on the cold, wooden floor. Penelope would offer her a seat, which she would refuse. Then Penelope would go back to studying and Catherine would get distracted by every single person who came up the stairs.
“I was thinking I might try out for the literary magazine,” said Penelope.
“What?” said Catherine. She was highlighting her textbook.
“The literary magazine?” said Penelope. “Maybe I won’t.”
“Oh, the Advocate,” said Catherine.
“Yeah,” said Penelope.
“You want to comp the Advocate?”
“Excuse me?” said Penelope.
“That’s what you call trying out clubs here. ‘Comping.’ I am comping like six things right now. Nikil told me that I was almost comping more things than him, which is ridiculous because he is comping like ten things.”
“Oh,” said Penelope.
Catherine sighed and repositioned herself on the floor so that she was looking at Penelope, but her torso was still pointing toward the door. “Penelope,” she said, “I need to ask your advice.”
“Why?” said Penelope, frightened.
“I don’t know what to do about Ted. At all,” said Catherine.
“What were you thinking of doing?” asked Penelope.
“Well, I told you how we hooked up and everything, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Penelope. Penelope knew everything about this fleeting hookup that one could possibly know.
“Well, now I don’t know what to do. I mean, I think he really likes me, but I can’t help feeling like, what if he wants to be in a relationship? Do you know what I am saying? I am not sure I want that.”
“Well,” said Penelope, “the good thing is that you aren’t in a relationship with him.”
“True,” said Catherine. She did not seem as satisfied by this as Penelope thought she would be. “What are you doing right now?”
“Well, there is that paper for Images of Shakespeare due tomorrow, so I am writing that.”
“Oh, right. That is the class you are in with Ted. What is yours on?”
“ ‘Fat but Fit? The Mad Scottish King and Shakespeare: A Comparative Study.’ ”
“That’s interesting,” said Catherine in a bored voice. They were silent for a while. Penelope wrote two paragraphs about King James’s distant ancestor James the Fat.
“Do you think he wants to be in a relationship with me?” asked Catherine suddenly.
“James the Fat?” asked Penelope.
“Ted,” said Catherine.
“Oh, sure,” said Penelope.
“You do? Really? Why do you think that?” asked Catherine. “Hold on, what is that singing? It’s so high.” Someone was singing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” in a really high voice, and it sounded as if that person was coming up the stairs.
“That’s Ted,” said Penelope.
“No, it isn’t. That sounds like a girl,” said Catherine.
Suddenly Penelope saw Ted’s face in her doorway.
“Hola, Penelope,” he said. He kicked her recycling bin out of the way and stepped through the door. “Where is that cat of yours?”
“In the bathroom,” said Penelope.
“You should tell Lan to get rid of the cat,” said Ted rather loudly. Penelope was glad that Lan had soundproofed her door.
“Maybe” said Penelope. “She almost got it to pee in the toilet the other day. It’s a very smart cat, especially considering its feral antecedents.”
“Or the fact that it is feral now,” said Ted.
“Hey, Ted,” said Catherine, batting her legs together like a 1950s teenager.
“Oh, hi,” said Ted. He sat down on the futon next to Penelope. Penelope could smell alcohol on him from where she was sitting, two feet away.
“Are you drunk?” asked Penelope.
“I was drinking with the chorus people. How is your ear infection?” asked Ted.
“It’s really good,” said Penelope.
Ted gave her a wondering look.
“Did you do the EC 10 problem set?” asked Catherine. She moved onto the futon and sat between Ted and Penelope.
“Not yet,” said Ted.
“It’s pretty easy,” said Catherine.
“I’m not too worried,” said Ted. “Penelope, why did you have to get an ear infection right before the chorus tryouts? That Cats girl got in instead of you.”
“You can never tell when sickness will strike,” said Penelope.
“She said she was going to comp the Advocate instead,” said Catherine.
“Not instead,” said Penelope. That was the thing about Catherine. Every time Penelope thought she wasn’t listening, she was in fact actually listening.
Catherine turned to Penelope and placed her hand on Penelope’s arm. “I wasn’t going to say anything before but, Penelope, that’s pretty ambitious. They don’t let anyone get on when they are a freshman. I don’t think it’s the best idea.”
“Oh, really?” said Penelope.
“When did you decide to do that?” asked Ted.
“Yesterday,” said Penelope. Ted looked hurt, but Penelope didn’t care very much. Ted was wearing unseasonable shorts again. Penelope realized that not everyone could wear a rumpled suit, but at the same time, you could at least try to wear a rumpled coat.
“Well,” said Ted. “I am super-tired.”
“Me too,” said Catherine happily.
“OK,” said Penelope.
“I should probably go to bed,” said Ted, who stood up. He threw his hands over his head and yawned, causing his T-shirt to ride up and expose a small, quaggy expanse of skin. Penelope averted her eyes.
“Before I go to bed, I also should probably tell Nikil something about the EC 10 problem set,” said Catherine, looking at Ted.
“Bye, Penelope,” said Ted. He walked out of her room.
“Bye!” said Catherine. “I should probably go do that! Ted, wait for me!” In a flash she was gone, a soldier for romance.
The Advocate had its own building—a small white one that looked as if it used to be a barn. There was an unobtrusive basrelief of a winged figure near the roof that implied that this was indeed the font of soaring literary ambitions; but if Penelope hadn’t been previously informed that this was where the Advocate was situated (by Lan, who knew where everything was situated, even though she never went outside), she would never have seen it. The disinclination on the part of the Puritans for florid showiness, though admirable and moral, did make things needlessly confusing, Penelope thought.
Penelope climbed up the stairs to the second floor (the first seemed to be an elongated corridor of small, unoccupied rooms—the stables, Penelope figured). When she got to the top of the stairs, she walked into a crowded alcove where someone was making a speech. Penelope was late. She sat down Indian style in the back.
The room was sparsely furnished. Two shabby couches were pushed up against facing walls and one disarmingly long table was shoved next to a window, but that was about it. The floor was littered with cigarette butts. Affixed to the walls were countless wooden tiles with gold writing on them. Penelope looked at them closely. Written on the tiles were the names of all the past officers of the Advocate in each year. Penelope did not see the name of anyone famous.
“OK,” said whoever was talking. “You guys know, I think, the basic premise of what this place is. Let’s sit in a circle.”
Everyone assembled in a circle. Penelope noticed that there seemed to be two leaders of the meeting. One was an impossibly small brunet male in a commodious navy-blue cardigan, flannel shirt, and matching driving cap. The other was an emaciated blond female wearing a dirty slip, huge glasses, and Victorian boots. They were both holding decanters of red wine.
“So this is the fiction board. Hey, guys,” said the small guy.
“Hey,” said the girl.
“Let’s try to make this less scary, I guess, and start with going around the room and saying your names or something. Or what about”—he looked at the girl—“playing an icebreaking game? What do you think? I mean, that’s what they always did in elementary school anyway.” Penelope had often wondered why a defining attribute of her generation was a nostalgia for things that happened in elementary school. What was so great about elementary school? Penelope always wanted to know. She had had a terrible time.
“OK,” said the girl. “What should we ask.” Although this seemed to be a question, it was not said like one.
“I don’t know. Hmm. What should we ask them? Maybe everyone should go around and say what their favorite bad French action movie is. Like if you’re a Nikita fan or not. If you’re not a Nikita fan, just get out right now, OK?” said the small guy.
“I think it should have something to do with fiction,” said the girl.
“OK, OK, I got it then,” said the guy. “Let’s go around and say what fictional character you would fuck if you could. That’s awesome. OK, say your name, concentration, where you live, what kind of literature you like, and, uh, who you want to fuck.”
Everyone else in the group tittered nervously.
“OK, I’ll go first,” said the guy. “My name is Scott. I’m a VES concentrator. Live in Adams House. I would definitely most want to fuck Margherita Erdman from Gravity’s Rainbow. Because she was so hot in that.”
“I’ll go next,” said the girl. “I’m Gwen. I’m a lit concentrator. I live in the co-op. It’s a pretty great place. Uh, I specialize in postwar French poetry and literature, but I like anything that plays with structure in any language. I guess I would want to fuck Borges, the character.”
“That’s a good one,” said Scott. “Wow, that’s such a good one. OK, who wants to go next, guys? And then we will go in a circle.”
“Uh, I’ll go next,” said a girl with very short, dark bangs and tiny wire-rimmed glasses like a World War I staff sergeant’s.
“OK, Lisa,” said Scott.
“My name is Lisa. I’m a junior. I’m VES with Scott. I live off campus, on Story Street, so not too far away.”
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