out,” I explain.
“She still does,” Scottie says. “She cooks, cleans, rubs my back.”
I laugh. “Scottie, don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly.”
“Where is this friend of hers?” I ask. We seem to be walking down an endless hall. The dorm mother finally stops in front of a room. She knocks and enters, then shuts the door behind her. We’re left looking at two names, HANNAH and EMILY , which are drawn with purple markers on lavender construction paper and encircled with yellow cutout flowers. I recognize the smell of purple Crayola pen. Someone must have put a lot of time into these name tags, and it makes me happy that Alexandra has this camaraderie of girls. Girls who draw on poster board and make intricate cardboard cutouts of flowers.
The dorm mother comes out, and her expression tells me she doesn’t have good news. “Emily isn’t here, either. We’ll go back to Alexandra’s room. Maybe she’s returned.”
“Or maybe that roommate of hers will let us know what’s going on,” I say.
THE ROOMMATE CAVES. It takes awhile. She claims that Alex will kick her ass for telling, and I assure her that my daughter will do no such thing. Her poor roommate. I can’t think of a more ill-suited match. She’s a mouth breather with scraggly hair and hay allergies. On her side of the room, there are stuffed animals on her navy blue comforter and no posters or pictures or anything, really, illustrating her taste, popularity, or parents’ income. Her side is a testament to her loneliness, whereas Alexandra’s side is beset with tributes to herself and her identity. I can see the gloss of photographs and posters of boys jumping motorbikes over mounds of dirt. I see CDs, makeup, clothes, shoes, and more bags than one girl could possibly need.
The three of us walk to the soccer field. I don’t know what we’ll find, and I think the dorm mother and I are both afraid. She has put a down coat over her nightgown, and I rub my arms to stir up some warmth. Scottie holds my hand in the darkness. Parts of the ground are hollowed out with holes, and Scottie stumbles every now and then. The grass is wet. The cuffs of my pants are wet. I look at Scottie’s bare ankles. She exhales loudly because the air is so cold and she’s enthralled by the look of her breath.
At last, in the distance, I see two people with what look like golf clubs in their hands. Then I see a white ball shoot through the sky, followed by shouts of enthusiasm. My daughter is playing golf in the moonlight on a soccer field with her friend. I become nostalgic for a life I’ve never had: boarding school, girlhood.
“Girls!” the dorm mother yells.
I see the girls’ faces turn toward us.
“Alex,” I call. Her hair has grown past her shoulders, and even from here I can see the beauty in her face, the way her features seem to build off one another, collaborating.
“Dad?”
“Alex,” Scottie yells. “It’s me.”
The other girl takes off running but doesn’t make it very far before falling with her golf club in hand. I go over to see if she’s okay and find her facedown in mud, her body splayed out as if she’s sunbathing. I bend down and put my hand on her back. She rolls over, her mouth agape, her eyes closed. I realize she’s laughing, and then I realize she’s completely smashed. When she is able to speak, she says, “Par me, bitches!”
Now Alexandra is by my side, leaning on me and convulsing with laughter. “What are you doing here, Dad?”
“Mrs. Murphy,” the other girl slurs. “You come out to play a round with us? Eighteen holes?”
The cycle begins again. The girls hold in their laughter for a second until it all detonates. Alexandra falls to her knees. “Oh, God,” she says. “Oh my God.”
Scottie starts to laugh, too, copying her older sister’s inebriated joy.
“Eighteen holes,” Alex’s friend breathes between laughs. “Eight. Eeen. Holes.”
“Girls!” Mrs. Murphy keeps
“She still does,” Scottie says. “She cooks, cleans, rubs my back.”
I laugh. “Scottie, don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly.”
“Where is this friend of hers?” I ask. We seem to be walking down an endless hall. The dorm mother finally stops in front of a room. She knocks and enters, then shuts the door behind her. We’re left looking at two names, HANNAH and EMILY , which are drawn with purple markers on lavender construction paper and encircled with yellow cutout flowers. I recognize the smell of purple Crayola pen. Someone must have put a lot of time into these name tags, and it makes me happy that Alexandra has this camaraderie of girls. Girls who draw on poster board and make intricate cardboard cutouts of flowers.
The dorm mother comes out, and her expression tells me she doesn’t have good news. “Emily isn’t here, either. We’ll go back to Alexandra’s room. Maybe she’s returned.”
“Or maybe that roommate of hers will let us know what’s going on,” I say.
THE ROOMMATE CAVES. It takes awhile. She claims that Alex will kick her ass for telling, and I assure her that my daughter will do no such thing. Her poor roommate. I can’t think of a more ill-suited match. She’s a mouth breather with scraggly hair and hay allergies. On her side of the room, there are stuffed animals on her navy blue comforter and no posters or pictures or anything, really, illustrating her taste, popularity, or parents’ income. Her side is a testament to her loneliness, whereas Alexandra’s side is beset with tributes to herself and her identity. I can see the gloss of photographs and posters of boys jumping motorbikes over mounds of dirt. I see CDs, makeup, clothes, shoes, and more bags than one girl could possibly need.
The three of us walk to the soccer field. I don’t know what we’ll find, and I think the dorm mother and I are both afraid. She has put a down coat over her nightgown, and I rub my arms to stir up some warmth. Scottie holds my hand in the darkness. Parts of the ground are hollowed out with holes, and Scottie stumbles every now and then. The grass is wet. The cuffs of my pants are wet. I look at Scottie’s bare ankles. She exhales loudly because the air is so cold and she’s enthralled by the look of her breath.
At last, in the distance, I see two people with what look like golf clubs in their hands. Then I see a white ball shoot through the sky, followed by shouts of enthusiasm. My daughter is playing golf in the moonlight on a soccer field with her friend. I become nostalgic for a life I’ve never had: boarding school, girlhood.
“Girls!” the dorm mother yells.
I see the girls’ faces turn toward us.
“Alex,” I call. Her hair has grown past her shoulders, and even from here I can see the beauty in her face, the way her features seem to build off one another, collaborating.
“Dad?”
“Alex,” Scottie yells. “It’s me.”
The other girl takes off running but doesn’t make it very far before falling with her golf club in hand. I go over to see if she’s okay and find her facedown in mud, her body splayed out as if she’s sunbathing. I bend down and put my hand on her back. She rolls over, her mouth agape, her eyes closed. I realize she’s laughing, and then I realize she’s completely smashed. When she is able to speak, she says, “Par me, bitches!”
Now Alexandra is by my side, leaning on me and convulsing with laughter. “What are you doing here, Dad?”
“Mrs. Murphy,” the other girl slurs. “You come out to play a round with us? Eighteen holes?”
The cycle begins again. The girls hold in their laughter for a second until it all detonates. Alexandra falls to her knees. “Oh, God,” she says. “Oh my God.”
Scottie starts to laugh, too, copying her older sister’s inebriated joy.
“Eighteen holes,” Alex’s friend breathes between laughs. “Eight. Eeen. Holes.”
“Girls!” Mrs. Murphy keeps
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