Penelope by Rebecca Harrington

Penelope.
    “I should probably go to bed,” said Ted, who stood up. He threw his hands over his head and yawned, causing his T-shirt to ride up and expose a small, quaggy expanse of skin. Penelope averted her eyes.
    “Before I go to bed, I also should probably tell Nikil something about the EC 10 problem set,” said Catherine, looking at Ted.
    “Bye, Penelope,” said Ted. He walked out of her room.
    “Bye!” said Catherine. “I should probably go do that! Ted, wait for me!” In a flash she was gone, a soldier for romance.

    The
Advocate
had its own building—a small white one that looked as if it used to be a barn. There was an unobtrusive basrelief of a winged figure near the roof that implied that this was indeed the font of soaring literary ambitions; but if Penelope hadn’t been previously informed that this was where the
Advocate
was situated (by Lan, who knew where everything was situated, even though she never went outside), she would never have seen it.
The disinclination on the part of the Puritans for florid showiness, though admirable and moral, did make things needlessly confusing
, Penelope thought.
    Penelope climbed up the stairs to the second floor (the first seemed to be an elongated corridor of small, unoccupied rooms—the stables, Penelope figured). When she got to the top of the stairs, she walked into a crowded alcove where someone was making a speech. Penelope was late. She sat down Indian style in the back.
    The room was sparsely furnished. Two shabby couches were pushed up against facing walls and one disarmingly long table was shoved next to a window, but that was about it. The floor was littered with cigarette butts. Affixed to the walls were countless wooden tiles with gold writing on them. Penelope looked at them closely. Written on the tiles were the names of all the past officers of the
Advocate
in each year. Penelope did not see the name of anyone famous.
    “OK,” said whoever was talking. “You guys know, I think, the basic premise of what this place is. Let’s sit in a circle.”
    Everyone assembled in a circle. Penelope noticed that there seemed to be two leaders of the meeting. One was an impossibly small brunet male in a commodious navy-blue cardigan, flannel shirt, and matching driving cap. The other was an emaciatedblond female wearing a dirty slip, huge glasses, and Victorian boots. They were both holding decanters of red wine.
    “So this is the fiction board. Hey, guys,” said the small guy.
    “Hey,” said the girl.
    “Let’s try to make this less scary, I guess, and start with going around the room and saying your names or something. Or what about”—he looked at the girl—“playing an icebreaking game? What do you think? I mean, that’s what they always did in elementary school anyway.” Penelope had often wondered why a defining attribute of her generation was a nostalgia for things that happened in elementary school. What was so great about elementary school? Penelope always wanted to know. She had had a terrible time.
    “OK,” said the girl. “What should we ask.” Although this seemed to be a question, it was not said like one.
    “I don’t know. Hmm. What should we ask them? Maybe everyone should go around and say what their favorite bad French action movie is. Like if you’re a
Nikita
fan or not. If you’re not a
Nikita
fan, just get out right now, OK?” said the small guy.
    “I think it should have something to do with fiction,” said the girl.
    “OK, OK, I got it then,” said the guy. “Let’s go around and say what fictional character you would fuck if you could. That’s awesome. OK, say your name, concentration, where you live, what kind of literature you like, and, uh, who you want to fuck.”
    Everyone else in the group tittered nervously.
    “OK, I’ll go first,” said the guy. “My name is Scott. I’m a VES concentrator. Live in Adams House. I would definitely most want to fuck Margherita Erdman from
Gravity’s Rainbow
.