really looked at Vanessa, she completely lost her train of thought. Vanessa appeared even messier—if possible—than the disaster Callie had spent half of the other day cleaning.
After Vanessa had spent months waking up an hour before class to secure every strawberry-blond strand with curlers and mousses and flat irons and god knows what else, her hair had finally defeated her. She had piled it atop her head in a greasy mess. Her skin was breaking out, or perhaps it had always been that way and today she hadn’t had time to apply all seven layers of her mineral-based makeup. And if her clothing could be read as a barometer for her nerves, the stress was clearly maxing out at unheard of levels. Vanessa had donned her sweats that said J UICY across the rear and—horror of all horrors—a hooded sweatshirt: two items that had once been declared “illegal outside of the common room” unless one wanted to look, according to Vanessa, like a sloppy eighth grader auditioning for The Real Housewives of Shady Hills Rehabilitation Center .
“So . . .” said Mimi, glancing from Vanessa to Callie, “Justice paper topics? Anyone?”
“Remind me what the choices are again?” asked Callie.
“‘Is torture ever justified?’” Matt read off a list.
“No,” said Callie at the same time that Vanessa said, “Yes.”
“Of course you would think that it’s okay to violate a basic human right,” said Callie, “kind of like the right to privacy , or property —”
“Actually,” Matt began, “the Founding Fathers changed Locke’s right to property to the pursuit of happiness in the second paragraph of the Decl—”
“Excuse me if I don’t see anything wrong with electroshocking a known terrorist every once in a while when it could save the lives of millions ,” Vanessa cut in, “because he has information about an imminent attack!”
Gregory looked up, his frown morphing into a smirk. “Do you think they’re going to fight?” he murmured, nudging Matt.
“This is good, no?” Mimi interjected. “This is what we are supposed to be doing—discussing the arguments for and against . . . Next topic?” She looked pointedly at Matt.
“Affirmative action,” Matt read. “‘Is it true that you can’t really claim credit for your upbringing?’”
Vanessa shrugged. “Some people are just born—”
“Born what ?” Callie interrupted. “Better? Just because they have more money or more diamond earrings to lose—”
“I was going to say ‘born with more privileges,’” Vanessa snapped. “But yes, some people are better—better friends, for example, or—”
“I think what Vanessa is trying to say,” Gregory cut in smoothly, “is that it matters less what advantages you were born with and more what you do with them later.”
“You’re arguing in favor of a meritocratic approach?” asked Matt, incredulous. “But what about Rawls’ veil of ignorance and his claim that things like talent and intelligence are just as much accidents of birth as race or socioeconomic status?”
“I was actually thinking more along the lines of an Aristotelian argument: that people are better suited to places in society based on their specific talents. Or I could take a Kantian stance that—”
Gregory was silenced by a collective groan. Callie yawned. “I yawn”—yawn—“every time”—stretch—“I even think about”—she yawned again—“metaphysics.”
Gregory smiled.
Callie shook herself and stared back down at her computer.
“Can’t . . . Kant.” said Matt, laughing. “Get it?”
Mimi looked at him blankly. “ Can’t, Kant, ” he repeated, his laughter turning silent and slightly hysterical.
“Oh, we get it,” said Vanessa. “It just isn’t funny.”
“You’re funny. Funny- looking ,” Matt muttered, cracking up all over again.
“How old are you, twelve?” Vanessa shot back, her hands nonetheless flying to her hair.
“Sorry,” Matt muttered, pulling himself together.
After Vanessa had spent months waking up an hour before class to secure every strawberry-blond strand with curlers and mousses and flat irons and god knows what else, her hair had finally defeated her. She had piled it atop her head in a greasy mess. Her skin was breaking out, or perhaps it had always been that way and today she hadn’t had time to apply all seven layers of her mineral-based makeup. And if her clothing could be read as a barometer for her nerves, the stress was clearly maxing out at unheard of levels. Vanessa had donned her sweats that said J UICY across the rear and—horror of all horrors—a hooded sweatshirt: two items that had once been declared “illegal outside of the common room” unless one wanted to look, according to Vanessa, like a sloppy eighth grader auditioning for The Real Housewives of Shady Hills Rehabilitation Center .
“So . . .” said Mimi, glancing from Vanessa to Callie, “Justice paper topics? Anyone?”
“Remind me what the choices are again?” asked Callie.
“‘Is torture ever justified?’” Matt read off a list.
“No,” said Callie at the same time that Vanessa said, “Yes.”
“Of course you would think that it’s okay to violate a basic human right,” said Callie, “kind of like the right to privacy , or property —”
“Actually,” Matt began, “the Founding Fathers changed Locke’s right to property to the pursuit of happiness in the second paragraph of the Decl—”
“Excuse me if I don’t see anything wrong with electroshocking a known terrorist every once in a while when it could save the lives of millions ,” Vanessa cut in, “because he has information about an imminent attack!”
Gregory looked up, his frown morphing into a smirk. “Do you think they’re going to fight?” he murmured, nudging Matt.
“This is good, no?” Mimi interjected. “This is what we are supposed to be doing—discussing the arguments for and against . . . Next topic?” She looked pointedly at Matt.
“Affirmative action,” Matt read. “‘Is it true that you can’t really claim credit for your upbringing?’”
Vanessa shrugged. “Some people are just born—”
“Born what ?” Callie interrupted. “Better? Just because they have more money or more diamond earrings to lose—”
“I was going to say ‘born with more privileges,’” Vanessa snapped. “But yes, some people are better—better friends, for example, or—”
“I think what Vanessa is trying to say,” Gregory cut in smoothly, “is that it matters less what advantages you were born with and more what you do with them later.”
“You’re arguing in favor of a meritocratic approach?” asked Matt, incredulous. “But what about Rawls’ veil of ignorance and his claim that things like talent and intelligence are just as much accidents of birth as race or socioeconomic status?”
“I was actually thinking more along the lines of an Aristotelian argument: that people are better suited to places in society based on their specific talents. Or I could take a Kantian stance that—”
Gregory was silenced by a collective groan. Callie yawned. “I yawn”—yawn—“every time”—stretch—“I even think about”—she yawned again—“metaphysics.”
Gregory smiled.
Callie shook herself and stared back down at her computer.
“Can’t . . . Kant.” said Matt, laughing. “Get it?”
Mimi looked at him blankly. “ Can’t, Kant, ” he repeated, his laughter turning silent and slightly hysterical.
“Oh, we get it,” said Vanessa. “It just isn’t funny.”
“You’re funny. Funny- looking ,” Matt muttered, cracking up all over again.
“How old are you, twelve?” Vanessa shot back, her hands nonetheless flying to her hair.
“Sorry,” Matt muttered, pulling himself together.
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