Prep: A Novel by Curtis Sittenfeld Page B

do with more general information about clothing, or food, or geography. Once at breakfast when people were discussing a hotel I’d never heard of, someone said, “It’s on the corner of Forty-seventh and Lex,” and not only did the names of the streets mean nothing to me, but I wasn’t even certain for several minutes what city they were talking about. What I had learned since September was how to downplay my lack of knowledge. If I seemed ignorant, I hoped that I also seemed disinterested.
    “I’m sure you’ve heard the song,” Conchita said, and she began to sing. “Come gather round people wherever you roam, and admit that the waters around you have grown and . . . I can’t remember the next part . . . something something something . . . if your time to you is worth saving.” To my surprise, she had a pretty voice, high and clear and unself-conscious.
    “That does sound kind of familiar,” I said. It didn’t sound familiar at all.
    “It’s sad to see what’s happened to Dylan, because he had such a powerful message back in the sixties,” Conchita said. “It wasn’t just music to make out to.”
    Why, I wondered, would music to make out to be a bad thing?
    “I have most of his stuff,” Conchita said. “If you want to, you can come by my room and listen.”
    “Oh,” I said. Then, because I didn’t want to either accept or decline the invitation, I said, “Here,” as I flung the ball. It went far beyond her, and I added, “Sorry.”
    She scurried after the ball, then sent it back. “We probably won’t have to go to the away games. I’ve heard that when it’s a big team, sometimes Ms. Barrett lets the people who aren’t that good stay on campus. No offense, of course.”
    “I haven’t heard that,” I said.
    “Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. But I could really use the time.”
    To do what?
I thought. I knew Conchita didn’t have a boyfriend—only about twelve people in our class of seventy-five ever dated, and they always went out with each other—and I didn’t think Conchita had many friends, either. The only person I could remember seeing her with was Martha Porter, a red-haired girl from my Latin class on whose last test the teacher had written across the top—I’d seen this because Martha and I sat side by side—
Saluto, Martha! Another marvelous performance!
On the same test, I had received a C minus and a note that read
Lee, I am concerned. Please talk to me after class.
    “Lacrosse was originally played by the Huron Indians,” Conchita said. “Did you know that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Really? You knew that already?”
    The fib had slipped out spontaneously; when pressed, I found it difficult to lie on purpose. “Actually,” I said, “no.”
    “It dates back to the 1400s. Makes you wonder how it became the favorite game of East Coast prep schools. You’re from Indiana, aren’t you?”
    I wasn’t sure how she knew where I was from. In fact, I knew that she was from Texas, but I knew this only because, in addition to reading old yearbooks, I regularly perused the current school catalog, where everyone’s full names and hometowns were printed in the back:
Aspeth Meriweather Montgomery, Greenwich, Connecticut. Cross Algeron Sugarman, New York, New York. Conchita Rosalinda Maxwell, Fort Worth, Texas.
Or, for me,
Lee Fiora, South Bend, Indiana.
I did not have, among other things, a middle name.
    “I bet people don’t play lacrosse in Indiana,” Conchita said. “But some of these girls”—she nodded toward our teammates—“have been playing since first grade.”
    “Things are different on the East Coast.” I tried to sound noncommittal.
    “That’s an understatement.” Conchita laughed. “When I got here, I thought I’d landed on another planet. One night the dining hall was serving Mexican food, and I was real excited, and then I show up and the salsa is, like, ketchup with onions in it.”
    I actually remembered this night—not because of how the food had