read the cover. “Jamaica Kincaid! That’s very sweet. Thank you.”
The potato-faced man blew his whistle. The episode continued cinematic. Anne might have been leaving for the front; Flannery would be playing her bereft, worried sweetheart.
“Well. Have a good Thanksgiving,” Flannery said, helpless now to offer anything but anticlimax.
“Yes. You, too. Thanks for the book.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you like it.”
And before Flannery could extend the awkwardness any further, as she no doubt would have, she made herself turn away, with an embarrassed little wave—failing even to register the last expression on Anne’s face. Which, if she’d seen it, might have struck her as not unlike longing.
Flannery walked down the steps, slowly, without a backward look. As she made her way back through the station, she realized she had a snow of doughnut sugar all down the front of her jacket. She tried dusting it off with a weak hand. It was impossible not to laugh.
“You’re a charmer, Flannery,” she said aloud, shaking her head. “I don’t see how anyone could possibly resist you.”
A ll she wanted to do afterward was get everything organized, then go to sleep. For weeks, preferably. Flannery had so much sleeping to do. It was very serious. It felt like a job: I’ve got to clear my desk here, get all these trivial matters out of the way, so I can get to the real task at hand, which is to get some sleep.
The organizational matters were fairly painless because she couldn’t find Nick and had to leave him a note. (She didn’t look as hard as she might have.) On returning to her room after her trip to the station she had found his scrawl of the night before:
JANSEN: WHERE ARE YOU? THE BRAINLESS COMEDY WON’T BE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU, I’LL TRY TO REMEMBER THE BEST JOKES AND RETELL THEM TO YOU FETCHINGLY.
Guiltily, she left a letter under his door to say she’d decided she was going to Mary-Beth’s for Thanksgiving, because she’d been so kind to ask Flannery, and it would be such a good opportunity for roommate bonding.
AND ISN’T THAT WHAT THESE BRIGHT COLLEGE YEARS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT—FORMING LIFELONG BONDS WITH PEOPLE IN DIFFERENT MAJORS AND UNFAMILIAR-COLORED SWEATERS?
Freshman flippancy seemed like a safe way to take shelter.
All that was then left was to tell Mary-Beth herself, which Flannery did as soon as her roommate returned from wherever the medicine people went when they were off duty. She looked slightly nonplussed by Flannery’s greeting, but was well brought up enough to pretend she was delighted with the decision. She gave Flannery the address and told her she would be welcome to stay for as long as she wanted—just to let the family know. The meal always started at three o’clock.
Flannery was grateful, then told Mary-Beth that she’d pulled an all-nighter the night before, as if on some heroic academic project, and that she had to crash. So she did. Heavily. It was the first of many long-overdue re-encounters with her dreams.
When she woke up in a drugged state, late afternoon, there was a note left under the door in an envelope marked with her name.
SEEMED INDISCREET TO LEAVE THIS ON YOUR DOOR. ONE QUICK PRE-HOLIDAY TIP: HER NAME IS MARY-JO, NOT MARY-BETH. IT MIGHT MAKE THE BONDING THING EASIER IF YOU GET THAT RIGHT.—NICK
And the embarrassing thing was, it was true.
T he campus was quiet as ash, and the leaves had all long since fallen.
Flannery had the place all to herself: the sullen underground library; the flattened, frostbitten lawns; the tiled halls and granite bathrooms, from which the food-worried girls had finally fled, leaving Flannery the lush joy of uninterrupted showers. She even went to the Doodle, knowing it would be free now of its once dangerous diner. Flannery ordered a toasted corn muffin and a cup of coffee. The waitress was rude to her, but not quite as rude as before, and it didn’t bother Flannery so much anymore. She flung
The potato-faced man blew his whistle. The episode continued cinematic. Anne might have been leaving for the front; Flannery would be playing her bereft, worried sweetheart.
“Well. Have a good Thanksgiving,” Flannery said, helpless now to offer anything but anticlimax.
“Yes. You, too. Thanks for the book.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you like it.”
And before Flannery could extend the awkwardness any further, as she no doubt would have, she made herself turn away, with an embarrassed little wave—failing even to register the last expression on Anne’s face. Which, if she’d seen it, might have struck her as not unlike longing.
Flannery walked down the steps, slowly, without a backward look. As she made her way back through the station, she realized she had a snow of doughnut sugar all down the front of her jacket. She tried dusting it off with a weak hand. It was impossible not to laugh.
“You’re a charmer, Flannery,” she said aloud, shaking her head. “I don’t see how anyone could possibly resist you.”
A ll she wanted to do afterward was get everything organized, then go to sleep. For weeks, preferably. Flannery had so much sleeping to do. It was very serious. It felt like a job: I’ve got to clear my desk here, get all these trivial matters out of the way, so I can get to the real task at hand, which is to get some sleep.
The organizational matters were fairly painless because she couldn’t find Nick and had to leave him a note. (She didn’t look as hard as she might have.) On returning to her room after her trip to the station she had found his scrawl of the night before:
JANSEN: WHERE ARE YOU? THE BRAINLESS COMEDY WON’T BE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU, I’LL TRY TO REMEMBER THE BEST JOKES AND RETELL THEM TO YOU FETCHINGLY.
Guiltily, she left a letter under his door to say she’d decided she was going to Mary-Beth’s for Thanksgiving, because she’d been so kind to ask Flannery, and it would be such a good opportunity for roommate bonding.
AND ISN’T THAT WHAT THESE BRIGHT COLLEGE YEARS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT—FORMING LIFELONG BONDS WITH PEOPLE IN DIFFERENT MAJORS AND UNFAMILIAR-COLORED SWEATERS?
Freshman flippancy seemed like a safe way to take shelter.
All that was then left was to tell Mary-Beth herself, which Flannery did as soon as her roommate returned from wherever the medicine people went when they were off duty. She looked slightly nonplussed by Flannery’s greeting, but was well brought up enough to pretend she was delighted with the decision. She gave Flannery the address and told her she would be welcome to stay for as long as she wanted—just to let the family know. The meal always started at three o’clock.
Flannery was grateful, then told Mary-Beth that she’d pulled an all-nighter the night before, as if on some heroic academic project, and that she had to crash. So she did. Heavily. It was the first of many long-overdue re-encounters with her dreams.
When she woke up in a drugged state, late afternoon, there was a note left under the door in an envelope marked with her name.
SEEMED INDISCREET TO LEAVE THIS ON YOUR DOOR. ONE QUICK PRE-HOLIDAY TIP: HER NAME IS MARY-JO, NOT MARY-BETH. IT MIGHT MAKE THE BONDING THING EASIER IF YOU GET THAT RIGHT.—NICK
And the embarrassing thing was, it was true.
T he campus was quiet as ash, and the leaves had all long since fallen.
Flannery had the place all to herself: the sullen underground library; the flattened, frostbitten lawns; the tiled halls and granite bathrooms, from which the food-worried girls had finally fled, leaving Flannery the lush joy of uninterrupted showers. She even went to the Doodle, knowing it would be free now of its once dangerous diner. Flannery ordered a toasted corn muffin and a cup of coffee. The waitress was rude to her, but not quite as rude as before, and it didn’t bother Flannery so much anymore. She flung
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