Queen of Babble

2

You’re compromising your feminist principles.” That’s what Shari keeps saying.

“Stop it,” I say.

“Seriously. It’s not like you. Ever since you met this guy-”

“Shari, I love him. Why is it wrong that I want to be with the person I love?”

“It’s not wrong to want to be with him,” Shari says. “It’s wrong to put your own career on hold while you wait for him to finish his degree.”

“And what career would that be, Shar?” I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. Again.

Also that she would station herself next to the chips and dip like this when she knows perfectly well I’m still trying to lose five more pounds.

Oh well. At least she’s wearing the fifties black-and-white Mexican swing skirt I picked out for her at the shop, even though she claimed it made her butt look too big. It so doesn’t. Except maybe in a good way.

“You know,” Shari says. “The career you could have, if you would just move to New York with me when you get back from England, instead of-”

“I told you, I’m not arguing with you about this today,” I say. “It’s my graduation party, Shar. Can’t you let me enjoy it?”

“No,” Shari says. “Because you’re being an ass, and you know it.”

Shari’s boyfriend, Chaz, comes over to us and scoops up some onion dip with a barbecue-flavored potato chip.

Mmm. Barbecue-flavored potato chips. Maybe if I just had one…

“What’s Lizzie being an ass about now?” he asks, chewing.

But you can never have just one barbecue-flavored potato chip. Never.

Chaz is tall and lanky. I bet he’s never had to lose five more pounds before in his entire life. He even has to wear a belt to hold up his Levi’s. It’s a mesh leather weave. But on him, mesh leather works.

What doesn’t work, of course, is the University of Michigan baseball cap. But I have never successfully managed to convince him that baseball caps, as an accessory, are wrong on everyone. Except children and actual baseball players.

“She still plans to stay here after she gets back from England,” Shari explains, plunging a chip of her own into the dip, “instead of moving to New York with us to start her real life.”

Shari doesn’t have to watch what she eats, either. She’s always had a naturally fast metabolism. When we were kids, her school sack lunches consisted of three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a pack of Oreo cookies, and she never gained an ounce. My lunches? A hard-boiled egg, a single orange, and a chicken leg. And I was the blimp. Oh yes.

“Shari,” I say, “I have a real life here. I’ve got a place to stay-”

“With your parents!”

“-and a job I love-”

“As an assistant manager of a vintage clothing store. That’s not a career!”

“I told you,” I say for what has to be the nine hundredth time, “I’m going to live here and save my money. Then Andrew and I are moving to New York after he gets his master’s. It’s just one more semester.”

“Who’s Andrew again?” Chaz wants to know. And Shari hits him in the shoulder.

“Ow,” Chaz says.

“You remember,” Shari says. “The R.A. at McCracken Hall. The grad student. The one Lizzie hasn’t stopped talking about all summer.”

“Oh, right, Andy. The British guy. The one who was running the illegal poker ring on the seventh floor.”

I burst out laughing. “That’s not Andrew! He doesn’t gamble. He’s studying to be an educator of youth so that he can preserve our most precious resource…the next generation.”

“The guy who sent you the photo of his naked ass?”

I gasp. “Shari, you told him about that?”

“I wanted a guy’s perspective,” Shari says with a shrug. “You know, to see if he had any insights into what kind of individual would do something like that.”

Coming from Shari, who’d been a psych major, this is actually a fairly reasonable explanation. I look at Chaz questioningly. He has lots of insights into lots of things-how many times around Palmer Field make a mile (four-which I needed to know back when I was walking it every day to lose weight); what the number 33 on the inside of the Rolling Rock bottle means; why so many guys seem to think man-pris are actually flattering…

But Chaz shrugs, too. “I was unable to be of any aid,” he says, “not ever having taken a photo of my bare ass before.”

“Andrew didn’t take a photo of his own ass,” I say. “His friends took it.”

“How homoerotic,” Chaz comments. “Why do you call him Andrew when everybody else calls him Andy?”

“Because Andy is a jock name,” I say, “and Andrew isn’t a jock. He’s getting a master’s in education. Someday he’ll be teaching children to read. Could there be a more important job in the whole entire world than that? And he’s not gay. I checked this time.”

Chaz’s eyebrows go up. “You checked? How? Wait…I don’t want to know.”

“She just likes pretending he’s Prince Andrew,” Shari says. “Um, so where was I?”

“Lizzie’s being an ass,” Chaz helpfully supplies. “So wait. How long’s it been since you saw this guy? Three months?”

“About that,” I say.

“Man,” Chaz says, shaking his head, “there is going to be some major bone-jumping when you step off that plane.”

“Andrew isn’t like that,” I say warmly. “He’s a romantic. He’ll probably want to let me get acclimated and recover from my jet lag in his king-size bed and thousand-thread-count sheets. He’ll bring me breakfast in bed-a cute English breakfast with…Englishy stuff on it.”

“Like stewed tomatoes?” Chaz asks with feigned innocence.

“Nice try,” I say, “but Andrew knows I don’t like tomatoes. He asked in his last e-mail if there are any foods I dislike, and I filled him in on the tomato thing.”

“You better hope breakfast isn’t all he brings you in bed,” Shari says darkly. “Otherwise what is the point of traveling halfway around the world to see him?”

That’s the problem with Shari. She’s so unromantic. I’m really surprised she and Chaz have gone out as long as they have. I mean, two years is really a record for her.

Then again, as she likes to assure me, their attraction is almost purely physical, Chaz having just gotten his master’s in philosophy and thus, in Shari’s opinion, being virtually unemployable.

“So what would even be the point of hoping for a future with him?” she often asks me. “I mean, eventually he’ll start to feel inadequate-even though he’s got his trust fund, of course-and consequently suffer from performance anxiety in the bedroom. So I’ll just keep him around as a boy toy for now, while he can still get it up.”

Shari is very practical in this way.

“I still don’t get why you’re going all the way to England to see him,” Chaz says. “I mean, a guy you haven’t even slept with yet, who obviously doesn’t know you very well if he isn’t aware of your aversion to tomatoes and thinks you’d enjoy seeing a photograph of anyone’s naked ass.”

“You know perfectly well why,” Shari says. “It’s his accent.”

“Shari!” I cry.

“Oh, right,” Shari says, rolling her eyes. “He saved her life.”

“Who saved whose life?” Angelo, my brother-in-law, moseys over, having discovered the dip.

“Lizzie’s new boyfriend,” Shari says.

“Lizzie’s got a new boyfriend?” Angelo, I can tell, is trying to cut back on his carbs. He’s only dipping celery sticks. Maybe he’s on South Beach to control his belly fat, which is not enhanced by the white polyester shirt he is wearing. Why won’t he listen to me and stick to natural fibers? “How did I not hear about this? The LBS must be on the fritz.”

“LBS?” Chaz echoes, his dark eyebrows raised.

“Lizzie Broadcasting System,” Shari explains to him. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, right,” Chaz says, and swigs his beer.

“I told Rose all about it,” I say, glaring at all three of them. Someday I’m going to get my sister Rose back for that Lizzie Broadcasting System thing. It was funny when we were kids, but I’m twenty-two now! “Didn’t she tell you, Ange?”

Angelo looks confused. “Tell me what?”

I sigh. “This freshman on the second floor let her potpourri boil over on her illegal hot plate and the hall filled with smoke and they had to evacuate,” I explain. I am always eager to relate the story of how Andrew and I met. Because it’s superromantic. Someday, when Andrew and I are married and live in a ramshackle and tomato-free Victorian in Westport, Connecticut, with our golden retriever, Rolly, and our four kids, Andrew Jr., Henry, Stella, and Beatrice, and I’m a famous-well, whatever I’m going to be-and Andrew’s the headmaster at a nearby boys’ school, teaching children to read, and I get interviewed in Vogue, I’ll be able to tell this story-looking funky yet fabulous in vintage Chanel from head to toe-while laughingly serving a perfect cup of French roast to the reporter on my back porch, which will be decorated entirely in tasteful white wicker and chintz.

“Well, I was taking a shower,” I go on, “so I didn’t smell the smoke or hear the alarm going off or anything. Until Andrew came into the girls’ bathroom and yelled ‘Fire!’ and-”

“Is it true the girls’ bathrooms in McCracken Hall have gang showers?” Angelo wants to know.

“It’s true,” Chaz informs him conversationally. “They all have to shower together. Sometimes they soap each other’s backs while gossiping about their girlish hijinks from the night before.”

Angelo stares at Chaz, bug-eyed. “Are you shitting me?”

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Angelo,” Shari says, going for another chip. “He’s making it up.”

“That kind of thing happens all the time on Beverly Hills Bordello,” Angelo says.

“We didn’t shower all together,” I say. “I mean, Shari and I did sometimes-”

“Tell us more about that, please,” Chaz says, opening a new beer with the church key my mom had provided near the cooler.

“Don’t,” Shari says. “You’ll just encourage him.”

“Which bits were you washing when he came in?” Chaz wants to know. “And was there another girl with you at the time? Which bits was she washing? Or was she helping to wash your bits?”

“No,” I say, “it was just me. And naturally, when I saw a guy in the girls’ shower, I screamed.”

“Oh, naturally,” Chaz said.

“So I grabbed a towel and this guy-I couldn’t really see him all that well through the steam and the smoke and all-goes, in the cutest British accent you ever heard, ‘Miss, the building’s on fire. I’m afraid you’ll have to evacuate.’”

“So wait,” Angelo says. “This dude saw you in the raw?”

“In her nudie-pants,” Chaz confirms.

“So by then the halls were all smoky and I couldn’t see, so he took my hand and guided me down the stairs and outside to safety, where we struck up a conversation-me in my towel and everything. And that’s when I realized he was the love of my life.”

“Based on one conversation,” Chaz says, sounding skeptical. But then, having a philosophy master’s degree, he is skeptical about everything. They train them to be that way.

“Well,” I say, “we made out the rest of the night, too. That’s how I know he’s not gay. I mean, he got a full stiffy.”

Chaz choked a little on his beer.

“So, anyway,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back on track, “we made out all night. But then he had to leave the next day for England, because the semester was over-”

“-and now, since Lizzie’s finally done with school, she’s flying to London to spend the rest of the summer with him,” Shari finishes for me. “Then coming back here to rot, just like her-”

“Come on, Shar,” I interrupt quickly. “You promised.”

She just grimaces at me.

“Listen, Liz,” Chaz says, and reaches for another beer, “I know this guy’s the love of your life and all. But you have all next semester to be with him. Are you sure you don’t want to come to France with us for the rest of the summer?”

“Don’t bother, Chaz,” Shari says. “I already asked her eighty million times.”

“Did you mention we’re staying in a seventeenth-century French chateau with its own vineyard, perched on a hilltop overlooking a lush green valley through which snakes a long and lazy river?” Chaz wants to know.

“Shari told me,” I say, “and it’s sweet of you to ask. Even if you’re not exactly in a position to be inviting people, because doesn’t the chateau belong to one of your friends from that prep school you went to, and not you?”

“A trifling detail,” Chaz says. “Luke would love to have you.”

“Ha,” Shari says, “I’ll say. More slave labor for his amateur wedding franchise.”

“What’re they talking about?” Angelo asks me, looking confused.

“Chaz’s childhood friend from prep school, Luke,” I explain to him, “has an ancestral home in France that his father rents out during the summer sometimes as a destination wedding spot. Shari and Chaz are leaving tomorrow to spend a month at the chateau for free, in exchange for helping out at the weddings.”

“Destination wedding spot,” Angelo echoes. “You mean like Vegas?”

“Right,” Shari says. “Only tasteful. And it costs more than one ninety-nine to get there. And there’s no free breakfast buffet.”

Angelo looks shocked. “Then what’s the point?”

Someone tugs on the skirt of my dress and I look down. My sister Rose’s firstborn, Maggie, holds up a necklace made of macaroni.

“Aunt Lizzie,” she says. “For you. I made it. For your gradutation.”

“Why, thank you, Maggie,” I say, kneeling down so that Maggie can drop the necklace over my head.

“The paint’s not dry,” Maggie says, pointing to the red and blue splotches of paint that have now been transferred from the macaroni to the front of my 1954 Suzy Perette rose silk party dress (which wasn’t cheap, even with my employee discount).

“That’s okay, Mags,” I say. Because, after all, she’s only four. “It’s beautiful.”

“There you are!” Grandma Nichols teeters toward us. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Anne-Marie. It’s time for Dr. Quinn.”

“Grandma,” I say, straightening up to grasp her spool-thin arm before she can topple over. I see that she has already managed to spill something all down the green crepe de chine 1960s tunic top I got her at the shop. Fortunately the paint stains from the macaroni necklace Maggie made for her are somewhat hiding the stain. “It’s Lizzie. Not Anne-Marie. Mom’s over by the dessert table. And what have you been drinking?”

I seize the Heineken bottle in Grandma’s hand and smell its contents. It should, by prior agreement with the rest of my family, have been filled with nonalcoholic beer, then resealed, due to Grandma Nichols’s inability to hold her liquor, which has resulted in what my mom likes to call “incidents.” Mom was hoping to head off any “incidents” at my graduation party by letting Grandma have only nonalcoholic beer-but not telling her it was nonalcoholic, of course. Because then she would have raised a fuss, telling us we were trying to ruin an old lady’s good time and all.

But I can’t tell if the beer in the bottle is of the nonalcoholic variety. We had stashed the faux Heinekens in a special section of the cooler for Grandma. But she may have managed to find the real thing somewhere. She’s crafty that way.

Or she could just THINK she’s had the real thing, and consequently thinks she’s drunk.

“Lizzie?” Grandma looks suspicious. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be away at college?”

“I graduated from college in May, Grandma,” I say. Well, sort of, anyway. Not counting the two months I just spent in summer school getting my language requirement out of the way. “This is my graduation party. Well, my graduation-slash-bon voyage party.”

“Bon voyage?” Grandma’s suspicion turns to indignation. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To England, Grandma, the day after tomorrow,” I say. “To visit my boyfriend. Remember? We talked about this.”

“Boyfriend?” Grandma glares at Chaz. “Isn’t that him right there?”

“No, Grandma,” I say. “That’s Chaz, Shari’s boyfriend. You remember Shari Dennis, right, Grandma? She grew up down the street?”

“Oh, the Dennis girl,” Grandma says, narrowing her eyes in Shari’s direction. “I remember you now. I thought I saw your parents over by the barbecue. You and Lizzie going to do that song you always do when you get together?”

Shari and I exchange horror-filled glances. Angelo hoots.

“Hey, yeah!” he cries. “Rosie told me about this. What song was it you two used to do? Like at the school talent show and shit?”

I give Angelo a warning look, since Maggie is still hanging around, and say, “Little pitchers.” It’s clear from his expression that he has no idea what I’m talking about. I sigh and begin steering Grandma toward the house.

“Better come on, Grandma,” I say, “or you’ll miss your show.”

“What about the song?” Grandma wants to know.

“We’ll do the song later, Mrs. Nichols,” Shari assures her.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Chaz says with a wink. Shari mouths In your dreams at him. Chaz blows a kiss at her over the top of his beer bottle.

They’re so cute together. I can’t wait until I’m in London and Andrew and I can be that cute together, too.

“Come on, Grandma,” I say. “Dr. Quinn’s starting now.”

“Oh, good,” Grandma says. To Shari, she confides, “I don’t care about that dumb Dr. Quinn. It’s that hunk who hangs out with her-him I can’t get enough of!”

“Okay, Grandma,” I say quickly as Shari spurts out the mouthful of Amstel Light she’s just taken. “Let’s get you inside before you miss your show-”

We hardly get a few yards down the deck, however, before we’re waylaid by Dr. Rajghatta, my dad’s boss at the cyclotron, and his pretty wife, Nishi, beaming in a pink sari at his side.

“Many congratulations on your graduation,” Dr. Rajghatta says.

“Yes,” his wife agrees. “And may we say, you are also looking so slim and lovely?”

“Oh, thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much!”

“And what will you be doing now that you have your bachelor’s degree in…what is it again?” Dr. R wants to know. It’s unfortunate about the pocket protector he’s wearing, but then I haven’t been able to wean my own father from the habit, so it’s unlikely I’ll ever make any headway with his boss.

“History of fashion,” I reply.

“History of fashion? I was not aware this school offered a major in that field of study,” Dr. R says.

“Oh, it doesn’t. I’m in the individualized major program. You know, where you make your own major?”

“But fashion history?” Dr. Rajghatta looks concerned. “There are many opportunities available in this field?”

“Oh, tons,” I say, trying not to remember how just last weekend I picked up a copy of the Sunday New York Times and saw that every fashion-related job in the want ads-besides merchandising-either didn’t exactly require a bachelor’s degree, or did require years of experience in the field, which I don’t have. “I could get a job in the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” Sure. As a janitor. “Or as a costume designer on Broadway.” You know, if all the other costume designers in the world suddenly died at the same time. “Or even as a buyer for a major high-end fashion retailer like Saks Fifth Avenue.” If I had listened to my dad, who’d begged me to minor in business.

“What do you mean, a buyer?” Grandma looks scandalized. “You’re going to be a designer, not a buyer! Why, she’s been ripping her clothes apart and sewing them back together all weird since she was old enough to pick up a needle,” she tells Dr. and Mrs. R, who look at me as if Grandma has just announced I like to salsa naked in my spare time.

“Huh,” I say with a nervous laugh. “It was just a hobby.” I don’t mention, of course, that I only did this-reinvented my clothing-because I was so chubby I couldn’t fit into the fun, flirty clothes in the junior department, and so I had to somehow make the stuff Mom got me from the women’s department look younger.

Which is, of course, why I love vintage clothes so much. They’re so much better made-and more flattering, no matter what your size.

“Hobby my ass,” Grandma says. “See this shirt here?” Grandma points at her stained tunic. “She dyed it herself! It was orange, and now look at it! And she hemmed the sleeves to make them sexier, just like I asked!”

“It’s a very beautiful top,” Mrs. Rajghatta says kindly. “I’m sure Lizzie will go very far with such talents.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling myself blush beet red. “I mean, I could never…you know. For a living. It’s just a hobby.”

“Well, that’s good,” her husband says, looking relieved. “No one should spend four years at a top college just so that she can sew for a living!”

“That would be such a waste!” I agree, deciding not to mention to him that I’d be spending my first semester out of college continuing in my assistant shop manager position while waiting for my boyfriend to graduate.

Grandma looks annoyed. “What do you care?” she asks, giving me a poke in the side. “You went for those four years for free anyway. What does it matter what you do with what you learned there?”

Dr. and Mrs. Rajghatta and I smile at one another, all equally embarrassed by Grandma’s outburst.

“Your parents must be so proud of you,” Mrs. Rajghatta says, still smiling pleasantly. “I mean, having the confidence to study something so…arcane when so many qualified young people can’t even find jobs in today’s market. That is very brave of you.”

“Oh,” I say, swallowing down the little bit of vomit that always seems to rise into my throat when I think about my future. Better not to think about it right now. Better to think about the fun I’m going to have with Andrew. “Well, I’m brave all right.”

“I’ll say she’s brave,” Grandma chimes in. “She’s going to England day after tomorrow to hump some guy she barely knows.”

“Well, we have to be going inside now,” I say, grabbing Grandma’s hand and tugging her along. “Thanks so much for coming, Dr. and Mrs. Rajghatta!”

“Oh, wait. This is for you, Lizzie,” Mrs. Rajghatta says, slipping a small gift-wrapped box into my hand.

“Oh, thank you so much,” I cry. “You didn’t have to!”

“It’s nothing, really,” Mrs. Rajghatta says with a laugh. “Just a book light. Your parents said you were going to Europe, so I thought, if you are reading on a train or something-”

“Well, thank you very much,” I say. “That will come in handy all right. Bye now.”

“Book light,” Grandma grumbles as I hurry her away from Dad’s boss and his wife. “Who the hell wants a book light?”

“Lots of people,” I say. “They are very handy things to have.”

Grandma says a very bad word. I’ll be happy when I get her safely tucked in front of the rerun of Dr. Quinn.

But before I can do that, there are several more obstacles we have to hurdle, including Rose.

“My baby sister!” Rose cries, looking up from the infant she’s got in a high chair by the picnic table, into whose mouth she’s shoveling mashed peas. “I can’t believe you’re graduating from college! It just makes me feel so old!”

“You are old,” Grandma observes.

But Rose just ignores her, as is her custom where Grandma is concerned.

“Angelo and I are just so proud of you,” Rose says, her eyes filling with tears. It’s a shame she didn’t listen to me about the length of her jeans. The cropped look just doesn’t work unless you’ve got legs as long as Cindy Crawford’s. Which none of us Nichols girls do. “Not just for the graduating thing, but for-well, you know. The weight loss. Really. You just look terrific. And…well, we got you a little something.” She slips a small gift-wrapped package in my hand. “It isn’t anything much…you know, with Angelo out of work, and the baby in day care and all…But I thought you might be able to use a book light. I know how much you love to read.”

“Wow,” I say. “Thank you so much, Rose. That was really thoughtful of you.”

Grandma starts to say something, but I squeeze her hand, hard.

“Ow,” Grandma says. “Stab me next time, why don’t you?”

“Well, I have to get Grandma inside,” I say. “Time for Dr. Quinn.”

Rose looks down her nose at Grandma. “Oh God,” she says. “She didn’t talk about her lust for Byron Sully in front of everyone, did she?”

“At least he’s got a job,” Grandma begins, “which is more than I can say for that husband of-”

“Okay,” I say, grabbing Grandma and heading for the sliding doors. “Let’s go, Grandma. Don’t want to keep Sully waiting.”

“That is no way,” I hear Rose wail behind us, “to talk about your grandson-in-law, Gram! Wait till I tell Daddy!”

“Aw, go ahead,” Grandma retorts. Then, as I drag her away, she complains, “That sister of yours. How could you stand her all these years?”

Before I can form a reply-that it wasn’t easy-I hear my other sister, Sarah, call my name. I turn around and see her staggering toward us, a casserole dish in her hands. Sadly, she is in a pair of white stretch capris that are far too tight on her.

Will my sisters never learn? Some things need to be left a mystery.

But I guess since that’s the look that won Sarah her husband, Chuck, she’s sticking with it.

“Oh, hey,” Sarah says, not very distinctly. She’s clearly been hitting the Heineken herself. “I made your favorite for you, in honor of your big day.” She whisks the plastic wrap off the casserole dish and waves it under my nose. A wave of nausea grips me.

“Tomato ratatouille!” Sarah shrieks, laughing uproariously. “Remember that time Aunt Karen made that ratatouille and Mom told you you had to eat it to be polite and you threw up over the side of the deck?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling like I was about to throw up over the side of the deck all over again.

“Wasn’t that funny? So I made it for old times’ sake. Hey, what’s the matter?” She seems to notice my expression for the first time. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you still hate tomatoes! I thought you grew out of that!”

“Why should she?” Grandma demands. “I never did. Why don’t you take that stuff and put it up-”

“Okay, Gram,” I say quickly. “Let’s go. Dr. Quinn’s waiting…”

I hustle Grandma away before punches are thrown. Inside the sliding doors stand my parents.

“There she is,” Dad says, brightening when he sees me. “The first of the Nichols girls actually to finish college!”

I hope Rose and Sarah don’t overhear him. Even though it is, technically, true.

“Hi, Dad,” I say. “Hi, Mom. Great par-” Then I notice the woman standing next to them. “Dr. Sprague!” I cry. “You came!”

“Of course I came.” Dr. Sprague, my college adviser, gives me a hug and a kiss. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Look at you, so skinny now! That low-carb thing really worked.”

“Aw,” I say, “thanks.”

“Oh, and here, I even brought you a little going-away present…sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it,” Dr. Sprague says, stuffing something into my hands.

“Oh,” my father says. “A book light! Look at that, Lizzie! Bet you’ll find a use for that.”

“Absolutely,” Mom says. “On those trains you’ll be taking across Europe. A book light always comes in handy.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Grandma says. “Was there a sale on ’em somewhere?”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Sprague,” I hurry to say. “That was so thoughtful of you. But you really didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Dr. Sprague says. She looks, as always, coolly professional in a red linen suit. Although I’m not sure that particular red is the right color for her. “I was wondering if we could talk privately for a moment, Elizabeth?”

“Of course,” I say. “Mom, Dad, if you’ll excuse us. Maybe one of you can help Grandma find the Hallmark Channel? Her show is on.”

“Oh God,” my mother says with a groan. “Not-”

“You know,” Grandma says, “you could learn a lot from Dr. Quinn, Anne-Marie. She knows how to make soap from a sheep’s guts. And she had twins when she was fifty. Fifty!” I hear Grandma cry as Mom leads her toward the den. “I’d like to see you having twins at fifty.”

“Is something wrong?” I ask Dr. Sprague, guiding her into my parents’ living room, which has changed very little in the four years since I’ve been living in a dormitory more or less down the street. The pair of armchairs in which my mom and dad read every night-him, spy novels, her, romance-are still slipcovered against Molly the sheepdog’s fur. Our childhood photos-me looking fatter in each consecutive one, Rose and Sarah slimmer and more glamorous-still line every inch of available wall space. It’s homey and threadbare and plain and I wouldn’t trade it for any living room in the world.

With the possible exception of the one in Pam Anderson’s Malibu beach house, which I saw last week on MTV Cribs. It was surprisingly cute. Considering.

“Didn’t you get my messages?” Dr. Sprague wants to know. “I’ve been calling your cell all morning.”

“No,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been busy running around helping Mom set up the party. Why? What’s the matter?”

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Dr. Sprague says with a sigh, “so I’ll just say it. When you signed up for the individualized major, Lizzie, you did realize one of the graduation requirements was a written thesis, didn’t you?”

I stare at her blankly. “A what?”

“A written thesis.” Dr. Sprague, apparently seeing by my expression that I have no idea what she’s talking about, sinks with a groan into my dad’s armchair. “Oh God. I knew it. Lizzie, didn’t you read any of the materials from the department?”

“Of course I did,” I say defensively. “I mean…most of it, anyway.” It was all so boring.

“Didn’t you wonder why, at commencement yesterday, your diploma tube was empty?”

“Well, sure,” I say. “But I thought it was because I hadn’t finished my language requirement. Which is why I took both summer sessions-”

“But you had to write a thesis, too,” Dr. Sprague says, “summarizing, basically, what you learned about your field of concentration. Liz, you haven’t officially graduated until you turn in a thesis.”

“But”-my lips feel numb-“I’m leaving for England day after tomorrow for a month. To visit my boyfriend.”

“Well,” Dr. Sprague says with a sigh, “you’ll have to write it when you get back, then.”

It’s my turn to sink into the armchair she’s just vacated.

“I can’t believe this,” I murmur, letting all of my book lights fall into my lap. “My parents put on this huge party-there must be sixty people out there. Some of my teachers from high school are coming. And you’re saying I’m not even really a college graduate?”

“Not until you write that thesis,” Dr. Sprague says. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. But they’re going to want at least fifty pages.”

“Fifty pages?” She might as well have said fifteen hundred. How am I going to enjoy having English breakfast in Andrew’s king-size bed knowing I have fifty pages hanging over my head? “Oh God.” Then a worse thought hits me. I’m no longer the first of the Nichols girls actually to finish college. “Please don’t mention this to my parents, Dr. Sprague. Please.”

“I won’t. And I’m really sorry about this,” Dr. Sprague says. “I can’t imagine how it happened.”

“I can,” I say miserably. “I should have gone to a small private college. In a huge state university, it’s so easy to get lost in the shuffle and turn out not to have actually graduated after all.”

“But an education at a small private college would have cost you thousands of dollars, which you’d have to be worrying about paying back now,” Dr. Sprague says. “By attending the huge state university in which your father works, you got a superior education for absolutely nothing, and so now, instead of having to get a job right away, you can flit off to England to spend time with-what’s his name again?”

“Andrew,” I say dejectedly.

“Right. Andrew. Well.” Dr. Sprague shoulders her expensive leather purse. “I guess I’d better be going now. I just wanted to drop by to give you the news. If it’s any comfort to you, Lizzie, I’m sure your thesis is going to be just great.”

“I don’t even know what to write it on,” I wail.

“A brief history of fashion will suffice,” Dr. Sprague says. “To show you learned something while you were here. And,” she adds brightly, “you can even do some research while you’re in England.”

“I could, couldn’t I?” I’m starting to feel a little better. The history of fashion? I love fashion. And Dr. Sprague is right-England would be the perfect place to research this. They have all sorts of museums there. And I could go to Jane Austen’s house! They might even have some of her clothes there! Clothes like they wore in Pride and Prejudice on A amp;E! I loved those clothes!

God. This might even turn out to be fun.

I have no idea whether Andrew is going to want to go to Jane Austen’s house. But why wouldn’t he? He’s British. And so is she. Naturally he’s going to be interested in his own country’s history.

Yeah. Yeah, this is going to be great!

“Thanks for coming by personally to deliver the news, Dr. Sprague,” I say, getting up and showing her to the door. “And thanks so much for the book light, too.”

“Oh,” Dr. Sprague says, “don’t mention it. I shouldn’t say this, of course, but we’re going to miss you around the office. You always made such a splash whenever you’d show up there, in one of your, um”-I notice her gaze drop to the macaroni necklace and my paint-splashed dress-“unusual outfits.”

“Oh,” I say with a smile. “Well, thank you, Dr. Sprague. Any time you want me to find you an unusual outfit of your own, just stop by Vintage to Vavoom, you know, over in Kerrytown-”

Just then my sister Sarah bursts into the living room, her anger over the tomato ratatouille incident apparently forgotten, since she’s laughing a little hysterically. She’s followed by her husband, Chuck, my other sister, Rose, her husband, Angelo, Maggie, our parents, the Rajghattas, various other party guests, Shari, and Chaz.

“Here she is, here she is,” Sarah yells. She, I can tell right away, is drunker than ever. Sarah grabs my arm and starts dragging me toward the landing-the one we used to use as a stage, when we were little, for putting on little plays for our parents. Well, the one Rose and Sarah used to push ME onto, to put on little plays for our parents. And for them.

“Come on, graduate,” Sarah says, having a little trouble with the word. “Sing! We all want you and Shari to sing your little song!”

Only it comes out sounding like, Shing! We all want you and Shari to shing your liddle shong!

“Uh,” I say, noticing that Rose has Shari in a grip about as tight as Sarah’s on me. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” Rose cries. “We want to see our baby sister and her little fwiend do their song!” And she throws Shari hard against me, so that the two of us stumble and almost fall across the landing.

“Your sisters,” Shari grumbles in my ear, “have the worst cases of sibling envy I have ever seen in my life. I can’t believe how much they resent you because you, unlike them, did not become impregnated by a bohunk your sophomore year and have to drop out and stay home all day with drooling sprog.”

“Shari!” I am shocked by this assessment of my sisters’ lives. Even if it is, technically, accurate.

“All college gwaduates,” Rose continues, apparently unaware that she’s using baby talk while speaking to adults, “have to shing!”

“Rose,” I say. “No. Really. Maybe later. I’m not in the mood.”

“All college graduates,” Rose repeats, this time with dangerously narrowed eyes, “have to sing!”

“In that case,” I say, “you’re going to have to count me out.”

And then I turn to face thirty dumbfounded expressions.

And realize what I’ve just let slip.

“Kidding,” I say quickly.

And everyone laughs. Except for Grandma, who’s just come in from the den.

“Sully’s not even in this episode,” she announces. “Goddammit. Who’s going to get an old lady a drink?”

Then she topples over onto the carpet and lets out a gentle snore.

“I love that woman,” Shari says to me as everyone rushes forward to attempt to revive my grandmother, completely forgetting about Shari and me.

“So do I,” I say. “You have no idea how much.”