Just One Day

“You could put them out and not wind them,” she says. “Those clocks are you.”

Are they? I don’t remember when I started collecting them. Mom liked to go to flea markets on weekends and then one day, I was a clock collector. I got really into it for a while, but I don’t remember the moment I saw an old alarm clock and thought, I want to collect these.

“Your half looks terribly barren next to Kali’s,” Mom says.

“You should’ve seen my dorm,” Dad says, lost in his haze of nostalgia. “My roommate put tinfoil on the windows. It looked like a spaceship. He called it the ‘Future Dorm.’”

“I was going for Minimalist Dorm.”

“It has a certain penitentiary charm,” Dad says.

“It’s like a before/after on one of those home décor shows.” Mom points to Kali’s half of the room, over which every inch of wall space is covered either with posters, art prints, or photos. “You’re the before,” she says. As if I didn’t already get that.

We head off to one of the special workshops, something insanely dull on the changing face of technology in the classroom. Mom actually takes notes. Dad points out every little thing that he remembers and every little thing that is new. This is what he did when we toured the school last year; both he and Mom were so excited about the prospect of me going here. Creating a legacy. Somehow, back then, I was excited too.

After the workshop, Dad meets up with other legacy parents, and Mom has coffee with Kali’s mom, Ly

Before the President’s Luncheon, all four members of the Fab Four and their respective families meet back at the suite and the parents all introduce themselves and cluck over the tininess of our rooms and admire what we’ve done with our tiny lounge and take pictures of THE FAB FOUR WELCOMES THE FAB EIGHT sign that the rest of the group made. Then we all walk out onto the quad together and tour the campus, going the long way around to point out some of the older, statelier buildings, reddening ivy creeping up old bricks. And everyone looks nice together in fla

The luncheon is fine and boring, rubber chicken and rubber speeches in a big, cold echoey hall. It’s only after the luncheon that the myth of the Fab Four starts to unravel. Ever so subtly, Kendra’s and Je

She and Dad go back to the hotel to get ready for di

When they come back to pick me up, there’s an awkward moment as my family meets up with the rest of the Fab Four and their Fab Families, who are all going together to a big group di

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Mom says in her haughtiest voice. “We have reservations at Prezzo in Back Bay.”

“Wow! How’d you manage that?” Ly

Mom smiles mysteriously. She won’t tell, though Dad told me one of his golf buddies had a friend on the faculty at a hospital in Boston and he pulled some strings to get us in. Mom had been so pleased about it, but I can see now the victory is sullied.

“Enjoy your chowdah,” she says. Only Dad and I catch how condescending she’s being.

Di

They ask me about my classes, and I dutifully tell them about chemistry, physics, biology, and Mandarin, neglecting to tell them how hard it is stay awake in class, no matter how early I go to bed, or how badly I’m doing in subjects I aced in high school. Talking about, or not talking about, all this makes me so tired I want to put my head down into my thirteen-dollar salad.

When the entrees come, Mom orders a glass of Chardo

“Are you coming down with something?” Mom asks.

And for just the tiniest of seconds, I wonder what would happen if I told them the truth. That school is nothing like I imagined it would be. That I’m not the girl in the catalog at all. I’m not a Happy College Student. I don’t know who I am. Or maybe I do know who I am and I just don’t want to be her anymore.

But this is not an option. Mom would just be aggrieved, disappointed, as if my unhappiness were some personal insult to her parenting. And then she’d guilt me out about how I’m so lucky. This is college! The college experience she didn’t get to have. Which was one of the reasons she spent all of high school like an army general, plotting my extracurriculars, getting me tutors for weak subjects, signing me up for SAT prep.

“I’m just tired,” I say. This, at least, isn’t a lie.

“You’re probably spending too much time in the library,” Dad interjects. “Are you getting enough sunlight? That can really affect your circadian rhythms.”

I shake my head. This too is true.

“Have you been ru

I think the last time I went ru

“We’ll go out tomorrow morning, before the brunch. Burn off di

Just the thought of it makes me exhausted, but this isn’t an invitation so much as an expectation, and the plans are being made even before I’ve agreed to them.

_ _ _

The following morning, the rest of the girls are sitting in the lounge drinking coffee, happily chattering about their di

I just expect my dad, but Mom is there too, all perky in her black wool pants, a cashmere cape. “I thought we were meeting at brunch,” I say.

“Oh, I just wanted to spend some time in your dorm. It’ll help me to picture where you are when I’m not with you.” She turns to Kali. “If that’s okay with you.” Her voice is so polite, Kali might never catch the bitchiness in it.

“I think it’s sweet,” Kali says.

“Are you ready, Allyson?” Dad asks me.

“Almost. I can’t find my ru

Mom gives me a look, like I obviously lose everything all the time now.

“Where’s the last place you left them?” Dad asks. “Just picture it. That’s how you find missing things.” This is his typical advice, but it usually works. And sure enough, when I picture my shoes, still packed in the suitcase under my bed, that’s where they are.