My Own Two Feet by Beverly Cleary

felt she was too fat. Sometimes when I came in from classes, I would find her, florid and sweating, wrapped in a woolen blanket, lying on her bed after soaking herself in bathwater as hot as she could stand. Her weight loss, if any, was only temporary, and to me did not seemworth the misery, but then I was, as people often said, “just skin and bones.”
    Then there was a girl from Montana who padded around in beaded moccasins. Her roommate was tall, beautiful Nellie, who once came to me in desperation. She had been elected to the history honor society and was told that for her initiation she was required to read an original poem about the War of Jenkins’ Ear. Since I was an English major, would I please write it for her? I did not fancy myself a poet but was willing to try if she would tell me what the battle was about. She told me about the eighteenth-century battle between England and Spain that began with Captain Jenkins displaying in the House of Commons his ear, which had been amputated by Spaniards before they pillaged his ship. This colorful event seemed to lend itself to the ballad form, and so, tapping out rhythm with my pencil, I wrote “The Ballad of Jenkins’ Ear.” Nellie reported that it was well received at the dinner. I wish I had kept a copy.
    These four suite-mates, all so different, shared one thing in common: Each took her turn at cleaning the bathroom without complaint. In addition to our bathroom-cleaning schedule, roommates took turns dusting furniture, vacuuming rugs, and making sure there were no dust miceunder beds or on closet floors. All rooms were inspected once a week. Slovenliness was not acceptable at Stebbins Hall.
    I spent the first day or two of that first semester hurrying up and down hills, campus map in hand, inhaling the smell of tomato catsup, which someone had explained came from a cannery “down in the flats.” Downhill to Harmon Gym, where I waited in a long, long line to register for classes, uphill to the women’s gym for a physical examination. There all the girls were handed ancient gray bathing suits to wear for modesty. Why I cannot guess. They were ill-fitting and all had large holes in the crotches. Off to Cowell Hospital for a hearing test, but I do not recall an eye test. Downhill again to register at the Employment Office, which had nothing to offer someone who had earned money only by knitting or by working in a library. New students did not rate even the most menial job of shelving books. With ravenous appetite I hurried back up the hill to Stebbins while music rang out from the Campanile, making my feet lighter as they carried me toward food.
    Meals at Stebbins! Eighty-two girls plus fifteen boarders who lived in rooming houses across the street. The low ceiling of our crowded dining room compressed conversation, laughter, and therattle of dishes into a din that forced us to raise our voices to high pitches as if we were talking to people who had hearing problems. Waitresses hurried, balancing as many as five plates at a time. Busgirls leaned to one side under the weight of heavy trays of dirty dishes they were carrying to the kitchen. Nevertheless, from the babble I learned that at Cal grades were important, and something to worry about. Required courses were often dreaded and certain professors should be avoided if possible. When I shouted my name and “I’m majoring in English,” I was surprised at the sort of answers shouted back: “Poor you” or “I’m glad I’m not in your shoes. You get to take English Comprehensive!” What’s so terrible about an English exam, I wondered. Their remarks stayed with me as I joined another girl in the kitchen to attack glassware.
    We filled two sinks with hot water, poured into one strong granulated soap that made us sneeze. We came to dread days when sherbet glasses doubled our work, but we felt our job was better than that of girls who scraped plates and