that she sang only disjointed fragments of the lyrics, like âyouthâs happy shore will evermore ⦠â and something about lifting oneâs glass on high â sans souci .â It had only been a week ago that she had sat in Kayâs room and said, âIâm not going to bother to go to anything. I wouldnât even go to graduation if it wasnât for my parents.â
She was glad that Kay hadnât called either. Kay would have made her feel guilty, ashamed, as if she were betraying her as much by going to the Class Sing, the Class Luncheon, as by liking Peter too well.
She found a window on the top floor of the dorms from which she could see all of Broadway. First, the two blocks nearest the college where nothing ever happened, then 113th, 112th in miniature, a reduced Schulteâs and Riverside Café and the anonymous figures that skittered in and out of them and could have been anybody. If you had a photograph, she thought, the photograph would contain everything reallyânot only the people you glimpsed in the streets, but people you couldnât see, people containing invisible thoughts behind walls and other windows. You could have the photograph and look at it forever and know that it contained everything, and it wouldnât be enough. But at least a photograph asked nothing of you, would never watch you cry.
On the day before graduation rehearsal, Susan had just come from the Luncheon, was just crossing the campus on the way to her room, when Mrs. Prosser, the postmistress, suddenly materialized on the same brick path.
Susan felt perfectly calm in a stunned sort of way. It even occurred to her that ironically enough this was the first time she had ever known that Mrs. Prosser was definitely not on duty.
âMiss Levitt,â Mrs. Prosser said, âyou still havenât picked up your mail.â
She had nothing to say, no excuse. âI know,â she said. âIâll pick it up.â
âIâve never heard of such a thingâa girl not wanting her mail.â
âI know, Mrs. Prosser,â she said politely.
âWell, you come with me now and get it.â
âNo ⦠Iâll get it later.â Maybe I will get it later, he thought.
But then, without warning, Mrs. Prosser gave her a sudden shrewd, terrible look, as if she knew the most intimate things about her, as if Susan stood before her wearing only her secret dirty underwear. âYouâre a very peculiar girl, arenât you?â she said in a soft, shocked voice. She turned from Susan without further comment and took up her slow, elderly journey across the campus.
âYouâre a very peculiar girl.â She was standing on the path exactly where Mrs. Prosser had left her and the words were spinning around and around, shaping themselves into a judgment. She was peculiar. Her terror of Mrs. Prosser was peculiar, her fear of getting her mail. She wouldnât be able to get it now until she had graduated, until she was immune and could stride laughing to the mail deskââYou see, Mrs. Prosser, Iâve come to get my mailââas if it were a joke they shared. The letters would be dead by then, and meaningless. She could throw them away unread if she wanted to. But would she ever be immune? Her fear was peculiar. She was peculiar.
She made herself walk the rest of the way to the dorms, made herself climb the stairs, walk down the hall to her room. In her room, she would be temporarily safe.
There was a note on her door. From Mrs. Prosser, she thought, barely surprised. But it was from Kay:
Susan, where are you?
CHAPTER TWELVE
A CROSS THE LAWN , in the gymnasium, someone was counting to three over the loudspeaker: âOne ⦠two ⦠three ⦠one ⦠two ⦠three ⦠â The numbers boomed and died in the air. She was being counted off and subtracted.
The graduation rehearsal had begun half an hour ago, but she found
She was glad that Kay hadnât called either. Kay would have made her feel guilty, ashamed, as if she were betraying her as much by going to the Class Sing, the Class Luncheon, as by liking Peter too well.
She found a window on the top floor of the dorms from which she could see all of Broadway. First, the two blocks nearest the college where nothing ever happened, then 113th, 112th in miniature, a reduced Schulteâs and Riverside Café and the anonymous figures that skittered in and out of them and could have been anybody. If you had a photograph, she thought, the photograph would contain everything reallyânot only the people you glimpsed in the streets, but people you couldnât see, people containing invisible thoughts behind walls and other windows. You could have the photograph and look at it forever and know that it contained everything, and it wouldnât be enough. But at least a photograph asked nothing of you, would never watch you cry.
On the day before graduation rehearsal, Susan had just come from the Luncheon, was just crossing the campus on the way to her room, when Mrs. Prosser, the postmistress, suddenly materialized on the same brick path.
Susan felt perfectly calm in a stunned sort of way. It even occurred to her that ironically enough this was the first time she had ever known that Mrs. Prosser was definitely not on duty.
âMiss Levitt,â Mrs. Prosser said, âyou still havenât picked up your mail.â
She had nothing to say, no excuse. âI know,â she said. âIâll pick it up.â
âIâve never heard of such a thingâa girl not wanting her mail.â
âI know, Mrs. Prosser,â she said politely.
âWell, you come with me now and get it.â
âNo ⦠Iâll get it later.â Maybe I will get it later, he thought.
But then, without warning, Mrs. Prosser gave her a sudden shrewd, terrible look, as if she knew the most intimate things about her, as if Susan stood before her wearing only her secret dirty underwear. âYouâre a very peculiar girl, arenât you?â she said in a soft, shocked voice. She turned from Susan without further comment and took up her slow, elderly journey across the campus.
âYouâre a very peculiar girl.â She was standing on the path exactly where Mrs. Prosser had left her and the words were spinning around and around, shaping themselves into a judgment. She was peculiar. Her terror of Mrs. Prosser was peculiar, her fear of getting her mail. She wouldnât be able to get it now until she had graduated, until she was immune and could stride laughing to the mail deskââYou see, Mrs. Prosser, Iâve come to get my mailââas if it were a joke they shared. The letters would be dead by then, and meaningless. She could throw them away unread if she wanted to. But would she ever be immune? Her fear was peculiar. She was peculiar.
She made herself walk the rest of the way to the dorms, made herself climb the stairs, walk down the hall to her room. In her room, she would be temporarily safe.
There was a note on her door. From Mrs. Prosser, she thought, barely surprised. But it was from Kay:
Susan, where are you?
CHAPTER TWELVE
A CROSS THE LAWN , in the gymnasium, someone was counting to three over the loudspeaker: âOne ⦠two ⦠three ⦠one ⦠two ⦠three ⦠â The numbers boomed and died in the air. She was being counted off and subtracted.
The graduation rehearsal had begun half an hour ago, but she found
Similar Books
