“And then it was over?” Jess wanted to know that this disaster could be contained, that it might not devour the rest of her life.
“It was the biggest relief. Everything after was a mess though, all our plans derailed. We both spent six weeks living in Alex’s parents’ basement, doing whatever jobs we could, saving enough money to buy two tickets back to New Zealand.”
“All that,” said Jess, “makes what’s happening to me seem almost boring.” She slipped down from the arm of the couch, away from the window, sitting properly now, her legs curled beneath her.
“Oh, no,” said Clara, brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean that.”
“No, it’s good,” said Jess. “Really.” She was feeling lighter now, her secret so much less anguishing now that she had someone to share it with.
Clara said, “So, what are you going to do?”
“Well, I mean, there’s only the one option,” said Jess. A single thing of which she was certain, which was strange; Jess had always supposed such a decision would be tortured. She said, “Listen, I’m sorry. I mean the eggs, and—” She gestured around the empty common room. “I didn’t think anyone was around tonight.”
But Clara didn’t care about the eggs. “You really haven’t told anyone else about this?” she asked. Jess shook her head. “What about—I mean. Do you have a boyfriend? Have you told him?”
Jess said, “I don’t have a boyfriend. Nothere, at least.” It had not been the most fruitful season. The ratio of women to men on campus was three to one. “He was my boyfriend back home. Used to be. The last time I was home, though…It was stupid. We don’t talk.”
“And what if I hadn’t been here tonight?” Clara asked.
“There’s crackers in the cupboard.”
“What?”
“That’s what I was going to do. If you hadn’t been here.” Jess got up to get some, keeping her distance from the eggs. There was such little air flow in the common room, even with the window wide. Opening her cupboard, she grabbed a sleeve of crackers from their box, broke open the package and stuffed three into her mouth, focussed on the chewing, on the dry and bland relief of it all. Waiting for the churning in her gut to be gone.
Once she’d swallowed, she offered the packet to Clara, who waved it away and said, “What about your friends? They’re out tonight?”
“Who?”
“All those girls. That small one with the stupid name.” She didn’t hold back, Clara.
“Muffy.”
“That’s the one.”
“Her real name’s Melissa.” Jess sat down again and leaned back on the couch. “And she’s not that bad.” Muffy was Jess’s roommate. “But she’s not my friend, not really.” None of them were, the other girls in their hall. The connections were superficial, but Jess was happy to hang out with anyone.
Clara was braver. At the beginning of the year Jess had been struck by an impression of Clara eating dinner in the dining hall, her only companion a battered copy ofFriedGreen Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. And Jess wondered if independence was something you had to grow into, if two years from now, when she was Clara’s age, she would be substantial enough to go around without a gaggle for company.
Clara asked, “How long have you known?”
It took Jess a beat to understand what she meant. “A couple of weeks, I guess. But I kept hoping it would turn into something else, that it was all just in my head.” She bit into another cracker, talking with her mouth full. “But no.”
Clara slid across the couch, placing her hands on Jess’s face, lifting her chin. Jess flinched, but Clara didn’t let go. Her blue eyes and yellow hair; Clara was shining. Holding on the way a mother might, the grip of her eyes just as steady. She said, “You know it’s going to be all right, right? You’re going to be okay. I remember wishing someone had been able to promise me that.” Then she let go, suddenly self-conscious, aware of a boundary she’d transgressed. She said, “I’m sorry. I just see this despair. I mean, I know it.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Jess. The warmth from Clara’s palms lingered on her face. She ate the rest of the cracker but she wanted to keep talking, to keep Clara close. “I don’t really even believe it’s happening, though. Because aren’t you supposed to feel something? I don’t feel different at all. Just terrible. Like something you’d peel off the bottom of a shoe.”
“Which counts as something,” Clara said.
“It’s just the very worst time for all this,” said Jess, casting off all composure. She’d held it together so long, but Clara was giving permission to acknowledge the reality of her situation. “Exams, and the holidays. It’s all such a mess,” she said. “I had to spend the whole afternoon hiding under the covers.” She’d told Muffy it was cramps, her long-awaited period finally arrived.
“You could come back to my room,” said Clara. Because she was older than everyone else, perhaps, she had the rare privilege of a single room, four walls to herself, a door with a lock. “We’ll go get your stuff—nobody will know.”
Jess’s protests were half-hearted; she knew this was the answer. Clara shook her head at any hesitation anyway, saying, “Bring your crackers. Come on.”
—
Clara had plants in her room, vines creeping along her windowsill, and pink flowering ones whose stamens were terrifyingly phallic. She’d brought furniture from home; a tall bookcase packed beyond capacity and an antique rocking chair draped in a patchwork quilt, into which she urged Jess, wrapping it around her like a cocoon. Then she pulled an electric kettle out of her desk drawer—a violation of house rules about appliances in the bedrooms, a fire hazard. Clara was a cozy kind of rebel. She said, “What you need is ginger tea.”
