by Meg Cabot
“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.
“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&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 play
s 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.”
The ancient Egyptians, who invented both toilet paper and the first known form of birth control (lemon rind as cervical cap, plus alligator dung, which made an effective, if pungent, spermicide), were extremely hygienic, preferring fine linen to any other material, as it was easily washable—a not entirely surprising attitude, considering the alligator dung.
