Chapter Four

CHARLIE AND HIS FATHER waited together in the lobby of High Rise South on an itchy, mustard-colored couch that also smelled like mustard, causing father and son to line their seat cushions with newspaper. Here Charlie filled out a final desperate request form for a single room. In March, in a happy, democratic mood after a joyous phone conversation with Monica Miller, he’d requested to have a roommate. It was two days after their first kiss, and Monica Miller said that she liked it when guys lived with other guys, that there was something cute but also masculine about it. He’d forgotten about his decision over the summer, somehow assuming that Monica Miller was going to be his roommate, not Francis Maglio of Haddonfield, New Jersey.

The manager of High Rise South told Charlie that singles were hard to come by, and that unless a series of inconceivable events unfolded over the next twenty-five minutes, a transfer would have to wait until the winter, and even then, another series of inconceivable events would have to unfold. Charlie watched his father handicap the first race at Philadelphia Park, a planned pit stop on the ride back home. For once, Charlie wished he was going with his dad to the track. An adult afternoon was what he needed. These kids with their posters and boom boxes—four years of them? Impossible.

Furthermore, Jee-Jee looked elegant, sitting there in his powder-blue three-piece suit and feathered cap. Other parents were inclined to point him out, a living symbol of the past on a futuristic day.

“Your father dresses like a gentleman,” Charlie’s mother had observed. He’d bought all of his suits in Paris, one morning in 1969.

“That was the last year Paris was Paris, Charl,” Jee-Jee had reminded Charlie during the car ride to Penn. “Then, the bistros were black and white. Now they are gauche with colors.”

“It’s not fair that you got to live in the black-and-white times, and I get the colors,” said Charlie.

“You’ll find the shadows, Charl.”

Not on the ground floor of High Rise South, where woolly carpets and Alpine furniture were covered in the colors of fake happiness. The decor wasn’t dissimilar from the Contemplation Room at Camp Shining Star, where Charlie had counseled campers who’d gone astray with sugary contraband. In the Contemplation Room, there were glossies of celery growing and fish caught in a net. No photographs in the lobby of High Rise South, but rainbow murals welcoming the class of 1991, probably made by schoolchildren, thought Charlie, or especially childlike members of the class of 1990.

“Mom would hate this lobby,” he said to Jee-Jee.

“She really tried to come, you know, but it was a hard night. Look, now!”

Jee-Jee pointed out a grandmother sunk in a chair, a box of powdered donuts in her lap, her nose tipped with powdered sugar. “What you think, Charl? We tell her to wipe her nose?”

“We’re ready for the ninth floor,” a megaphone voice announced.

“I thought we’d have more time,” said Charlie.

Jee-Jee was already standing, the racing form tucked under his arm. “You sure you don’t want me to come up with you? Mother said I should obey your wishes, but maybe you change your mind, no?”

“Is okay.” Next to them, a father and son were engaged in a sniffling bear hug, muffled I-love-yous spoken into their respective flannel shirts.

“I am not so good at making the beds, Maman will be the first to say, but maybe together we try?”

Charlie didn’t respond. He wished the bear-huggers would stop.

“Okay.” Jee-Jee clapped his hands, took Charlie by his shoulders, and kissed either cheek. “So! You’ll study, not get into trouble, then we see you for Thanksgiving.” Jee-Jee handed him an envelope that contained $2,000. “This must last you until Thanksgiving time, yes?”

“Oui,” said Charlie.

Charlie watched his father hold open the door for a mother and daughter, smile his dimpled smile, and tip his cap like a kingly doorman before tugging his suit straight and wending his way out against the grain of Move-in Day.

*

John had told him to get to the room early, in order to claim the superior bed. He said he should make a friend, any friend. Ideally a pretty girl. Second-best would be an athlete. “Then, when the roommate’s unpacking, bring the new friend into the room and speak with them as if you’ve known them your entire life. The roommate will feel second-rate and won’t catch up until spring.”

Charlie claimed the bed by the window, nearest the air-conditioning unit, a huge, yellowing Frigidaire. The beds were already made. All summer there had been talk of making the bed. It would have been more accurate to speak about remaking the bed and replacing the clean but iron-stained University of Pennsylvania sheets with the ones in his bag from Madison Avenue. His mother had packed the same sheets they had at home, a continuity that Charlie now found maudlin. He’d sleep in the standard issue, and the nice sheets would remain in plastic. “Fondee 1888,” said the sheet store. High Rise South was fondee 1967. The housing unit reminded Charlie of the buildings near La Guardia Airport that always looked rained upon. Once, on the way back from a vacation, he’d asked Jee-Jee who lived there, and his response had been clear: “Poor people.”

Charlie grew up respecting the people who lived near LaGuardia, and he hoped they would all make it to the airport one day. Or that their concrete slabs would grow contours and take off into the night sky, the residents cheering out of the tiny windows that they’d finally made it.

“There he is!” A stocky bald guy with a peace sign tattoo on his forearm grabbed Charlie’s shoulder and spun him around. “Frank Maglio. Francis will be right up. His mom’s buying him paper towels. That woman and her paper towels. Am I right? Hey, where’s your folks? I wanna trade numbers with them.”

“They already left. Just so you know, I put in an application for a transfer to a single room. No offense to Francis, it’s just that I need a lot of quiet.”

“Francis is a quiet kid. I see you’re checking out my tat.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one up close.”

“My wife made me get it after I caused some trouble. Never caused any trouble again.”

His hand was still on Charlie’s shoulder. Then a second hand landed on Charlie’s other shoulder.

“You do drugs?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, neither does Francis. Capiche?”

“Peach.”

If this man had a third hand, it would be on top of Charlie’s head.

“You cook? Francis makes a mean lasagn.”

“What’s that?”

“Lasagn? You gotta be kidding me.”

“Is it like lasagna?”

“You got it, you got it. Lasagn. It’s the same thing. Us Italians drop the last part. You like pruh-shoot?”

“Huh?”

“There he is,” said Mr. Maglio. “Francis Maglio. Ivy League, baby.”

“Dad, did you remember me packing my protractor? I’m Francis,” he said to Charlie. Their handshake was interrupted by Mr. Maglio’s group hug.

“My kid’s gotta loosen up. Am I right, Charlie, or what?”

“I actually don’t mind unloose people,” said Charlie, still in the huddle.

“Thank you,” said Francis. “Dad, where’s Mom?”

“Her and her freakin’ paper towels.”

“Here I am,” sang Mrs. Maglio, hidden by a twelve-pack of Bounty towels. “You must be Charlie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You be sure to help yourself to these towels. They have so many uses, and Bounty is the best brand by far.”

Francis helped unburden his mother, then used his pocketknife to make a surgical incision in the Bounty towels’ packaging. What care, thought Charlie, who had never seen such a small Swiss Army knife.

The Maglios stayed for close to an hour before taking their son to the Philadelphia Zoo, where, four years prior, Mr. Maglio had apparently predicted his son’s enrollment.

“Right in front of the monkey cage, I told him he could do it. I says, ‘Frank, you’re going Ivy, baby.’ I says, ‘First day of school, while everyone’s unpacking their books, we’re gonna go tell the monkeys.’”

“My dad has lots of traditions,” said Francis.

“Kid’s got me dead to rights,” said Mr. Maglio, offering his hands for cuffing. “What weird stuff does your family do?”

“Dad, not everyone’s weird,” said Francis.

“We don’t have many traditions,” said Charlie. “Maybe Chinese food on Sundays, but I guess that’s over with. And we used to see a bunch of plays.”

“The Great White Way,” said Mr. Maglio.

“We used to all get dressed up. Angelina, too. But it’s been a few years.”

“Who’s Angelina?” asked Mrs. Maglio, a happy, tired-looking woman with short free-flying hair. She tilted her head sympathetically, as if the answer might involve a chronically ill sibling.

“She’s our governess.” Charlie immediately regretted it. John had taught him to say family friend.

“How nice for your mother that she has some help,” said Mrs. Maglio. Charlie watched her scan the four corners of the dorm room for dust bunnies. No dust, but one balled-up piece of paper. Charlie wanted to tell her the trash was not his, that he could be orderly without Angelina’s chidings. Just not as orderly as Francis. He’d probably already made both a mental note and a Post-it Note about discarding the paper ball. Just look at him: everything unpacked, everything in its place, including a mini Dixie cup full of pushpins for his new corkboard.

Charlie hoped the Maglios weren’t wary of their son’s new friend, but this was what they were paying the big bucks for: an exotically brained rich kid with missing buttons on his blazer. They’d hope the New York kid would rub off on their son—not rub the Haddonfield, New Jersey, off the map of his life, but some ratio he could take back to Haddonfield for good measure. Ten percent New York was suitable—a little snobbery at the food court. Maybe 15 percent, thought Charlie—just enough so that Francis would stop shaving twice a day in preparation for his father’s permanent five o’clock shadow.

“Charlie, are you working at Dining Commons, too?” asked Mrs. Maglio. “Francis’s cafeteria uniform is real handsome.”

“Mom,” said Francis, “it’s not that handsome.” He couldn’t suppress a little grin.

“Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it, but why not?” said Charlie. He imagined a job as a late-night food taster, alone in a lab coat with vats of scrambled eggs, adding pinches of pepper.

“Francis likes his money.” Mrs. Maglio put a roll of paper towels on Charlie’s desk. “But who doesn’t? Bounty towels aren’t for free, you know.”

“I forgot my scientific calculator,” said Francis. “Damn.”

“Your dad will drop it off, next time he’s in town,” said Mrs. Maglio.

“Damn,” said Francis.

Mr. Maglio probably doesn’t even know what a scientific calculator is, thought Charlie. And he couldn’t care less. God bless him. He’s the type of man who’ll get pennies pressed at the zoo. One for Francis and one for the family collection. The only thing my family collects is art. And it’s all for sale.

“Look at all those Post-its!” said Mr. Maglio. “Shit, son, you could slap a note on the caboose of every girl at Penn.”

“Frank,” said Mrs. Maglio.

“Come here, you two college kids,” said Mr. Maglio. “It’s photo time.”

Charlie liked Mr. Maglio’s camera, a boxy Kodak Instamatic with a rainbow strap. He could see Mr. Maglio with that camera at the monkey cage, at graduation, at Francis’s wedding.

“We should leave Charlie to unpack in peace,” said Mrs. Maglio.

“Sure you don’t want to see the animals?” asked Mr. Maglio.

“Angelina took me once. I remember the tiger cages, the way they smelled. I was too young at the time, but I think it was a mating smell.”

“That brings up a good point, guys,” said Mr. Maglio. “Protection, boys. For your wiener schnitzels.”

“Dad, please.”

“You got a girlfriend, Charlie?” asked Mr. Maglio. “Even if Francis had one, we wouldn’t know. He tells us nothing.”

“We should go,” said Francis. “According to the map, it takes a while for the bus to get there and back.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Charlie said. “I hope I’ll see you again one day.”

“One day,” said Mr. Maglio. “We won’t make ourselves a nuisance, but we’ll be by once a month or so to make sure Francis is having some fun.”

“They’ll call before stopping by,” said Francis. “We already agreed on that.”

“So, do you have a girlfriend?” Mrs. Maglio asked Charlie.

“Yeah, do you?” asked her husband.

“Not everyone has one,” said Francis, holding the missing calculator’s power cord. Charlie watched the Maglios work in unison, making their son’s bed, the synchronicity, the little nods when the top sheet was ready to be folded and creased.

“I dated a brunette girl named Monica Miller. We had a bad date last night, and I think she broke up with me, but then this morning, there she was. And we kissed.” Charlie gulped, surprised at what he’d just told these people.

“Whoa,” said Mr. Maglio. “Now this is getting interesting.”

Francis sat with his parents, all three of them on the freshly made bed, his head bent. Mr. Maglio was right about his son. He was silent. And serious. He wore a necklace, almost certainly a cross. It went with the Dining Commons cap, the lightly pockmarked cheeks, and the short haircut, almost military issue. He had the torso of a wrestler. He’ll probably meet his wife here, thought Charlie.

“Maybe Monica’s got a friend for Francis?” asked Mrs. Maglio.

“Who knows when I’ll see her again?” said Charlie.

“Trust me, she’ll come around,” said Mr. Maglio. “Just tell her to bring a friend.”

“I might not like her friend,” said Francis. “Or her friend might not like me. You don’t have to ask her to bring a friend.”

“She’s probably a cute girl, and cute girls have cute friends. Am I right, or what?” Mr. Maglio asked Charlie.

“I never really met her friends,” said Charlie. “We liked to be alone. At least I did.”

“Romantic,” said Mrs. Maglio.

“Can we please go now?” asked Francis.

“Kid’s right,” said Mr. Maglio. “Time for some real monkey business. Hug your new roommate and let’s hit the zoo.”

It was a brief but surprisingly tight hug. Like we’re brothers, or soldiers, thought Charlie, examining Francis’s brown bedsheets, with their hospital corners and a homemade quilt at the foot. Francis was done, his suitcases nowhere in sight. Books filled his bookshelf.

Charlie looked at his still-zipped duffel bags. He’d packed more for a vacation than a year of college. At least he had his composition book where he’d write more stories. One about Francis, for sure. And he had the Boodo Khan, and enough battery power to get him all the way to Monday. Labor Day. Stores would be closed.

Please last until Tuesday, Charlie told the batteries.

He wondered what other dorm rooms he might be in, had his parents not bought his way into Penn. UMass? Syracuse? Different monsters. Either way, he’d have the Boodo Khan, and his will to get the hell out of there.

*

A hairy student holding a clipboard peeked into Charlie’s dorm room. “Green and Maglio?”

“I’m Green.”

“Josh Feldman. I’m your RA, dude. Welcome to Penn.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s Mags?”

“Francis?”

“Mags. I’m great with nicknames. I can tell I’m going to call him Mags.”

“He’s still with his parents.”

“That’s so Frosh.”

“What does RA mean?”

“Come on, Frosh. It’s Resident Advisor.”

He sat on Charlie’s bed, plunked a backpack on the floor, and checked something off a list, his hairy, be-sandaled toes wriggling and snapping. “You allergic to anything, Chaplin? Any allergies?”

“Chaplin?”

“It’s your nickname, Chaplin. Allergies?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Feldman produced a huge keychain and pointed at the air horn that was attached to it. “As you can see, I need to be prepared for anything.”

“I’m allergic to oysters.”

“You keep kosher?”

“I don’t believe in that stuff.” Charlie went to open the window, but it was bolted shut. “Why is it locked? Suicides, right?”

Feldman sat Charlie on his bed. “Look, once in a while, over the years, a few kids have had bad nights, and made some bad decisions. But you’re not going to have to worry about any of that. Okay?”

“I hope not,” said Charlie.

“Listen, first day of Frosh can be tough, but you’ll never forget it, so try to chill out. Unpack. Make yourself at home. Tonight, we’re doing a really cool meet-and-greet in the TV room. Totally hooking all you Frosh up with a flick and some popcorn. Give Mags this form to fill out. I’ll need your forms before movie night. No form, no corn.” He fingered Francis’s art history book. “Fart history.”

“Wow, you see the painting on the cover of the book—” Charlie stopped himself. It was the very same Maxfield Parrish that his grandmother had sold to the St. Regis Hotel for their barroom.

“You Frosh will change your minds about majors two dozen times before the end of the year. But if Mags is into fart history, we’ll support him.”

Charlie had sat beneath Parrish’s Old King Cole at the King Cole Bar with Monica Miller on their fanciest date, which had hit a roadblock when when they’d forgotten to bring their fake IDs and couldn’t get served a drink. Monica Miller had begged Charlie to use the Maxfield Parrish sale to sway the bartender, but Charlie couldn’t. He’d been brought up not to brag about the art. It was a vestige of his grandmother’s belief that theirs was an underground business. “What comes in the night can go in the night,” she liked to remind her family. To throw off the scent, she even named her company Paris Home Supplies.

“My family has a couple of galleries, but we have nothing like this Maxfield Parrish,” said Charlie to the RA.

“On my floor there are no poor Frosh or rich Frosh. There’s just Frosh.”

“The galleries are in so-so hotels, the kind that have a tour bus business in the lobby.”

“Like I said, even if you came from a fleabag motel, we’re all in dorm rooms now.”

“So exactly when did they lock up the windows?”

Feldman tossed his clipboard on the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor. “Grab some carpet.”

There wasn’t much room to sit. Between Feldman, the desks, and the beds, two people sitting cross-legged would be uncomfortably close. But Feldman was persistent, telling Charlie that the carpet had been professionally vacuumed, and that he should enjoy it before the bugs started laying eggs.

“How are you feeling?” Feldman asked Charlie.

“Do you know any good places for lunch that are near the Delaware River?”

“I hear you, man. My first day? I wanted to go straight to the Wawa for a thing of ice cream, and it was my RA who set me straight. He said, ‘Feldman, you don’t want to ice cream yourself on your first day.’”

“I want today to be important. Maybe meet a girl whose light eyes understand me. I know that sounds weird.” Charlie trusted Feldman. He probably used his own money to buy things like the clipboard and the popcorn.

“Okay, I hear you. And it can happen, it really can. But there’s an order to things. First, you’re going to need to unpack, you’re going to need to attend the rooftop mixer for all the Highrise South Frosh, and you’re going to need to stay on campus for a good few weeks. I didn’t even make it down to the Delaware until the spring.”

“I wish I was the sort of Frosh who would stick to the order of things, but between us, I’m not . . . normal.” The way they were sitting, the soles of Charlie’s penny loafers and Feldman’s sandals touched. He’d sat that way with Angelina’s stockinged feet. Human circuitry. Charlie was already happy for Feldman’s eventual children, who would sit with their slouching dad, touching toes, completing the circuit. The kids would feel safe. Feldman’s bag was open, and Charlie could see a Ziploc bag labeled AIDS gloves.

“You’re premed.” Charlie read it from his name tag.

“Parents like to know the RA’s major.”

“Wow, and you have AIDS gloves.”

“If a Frosh pukes, and some of you will, I need to protect myself with the gloves. No offense, it’s just that I don’t know where you’ve been.”

“I think you’ll make a great doctor. Maybe one day down the road you can be my family doctor.”

“Sounds good, except that I plan on being a surgeon. All right, good talk, my man. I have a bunch of trips planned for this week. I’ll make sure you make it off campus. We’ll probably hit the zoo first.”

“That’s where Mags went with his parents.”

“Some parents like to use Move-in Day to sightsee, but they really shouldn’t. If you don’t do what you have to do on Move-in Day, the whole year could suck. You don’t take advantage of Move-in Day, next thing you know, your GPA’s down in the B range and you’re asking every sophomore you know if they saved last year’s notes. By the time you catch up it’s graduation day, and while all of your buds are leaving stinking hot Philly for their cool new lives, the only job you can get is managing a sporting goods store in Center City.”

“What nickname did your RA give you?” asked Charlie.

Feldman pointed to his name tag.

“But Feldman’s your last name.”

“Nicknames weren’t a specialty of my RA. It was probably his only weakness. I’d love to sit and chat all day about life, but I have fifteen more Frosh to meet with. You only get your first day of college once.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Charlie, shaking Feldman’s hand, firmly and quickly, like the newsreel he’d seen of Babe Ruth meeting President Hoover. It was at a tiny movie theater in Palm Beach that still played old newsreels before the feature. It was a long time ago. He’d gone alone with John. It was the evening their grandmother was told about her lung cancer, and the adults needed to be together.

“Maybe I’ll hit a movie today,” said Charlie. “Then remove myself from the popcorn-scented darkness and step into my life.”

“Poetic, Frosh, but I already got Total Recall and use of the popcorn machine. What you need to do is unpack and hit the Club Fair on Locust Walk.”

A tube of cookie dough rolled past the door.

“I’m definitely getting myself a spoonful of that,” said Feldman. “Later, man.”

John had told him about raw cookie dough. He even speculated that the Soviets had created it to keep American college students down, saying, “After eating it, you don’t care about anything else. Not classes, not girls. It’s that good. Then the next day there’s a zit on your forehead and you can’t get out of bed.”

A girl twirling a lacrosse stick, accompanied by an elderly man, knocked on Charlie’s door.

“We’re on the lookout for Grandpa’s driving glasses,” said the girl.

“I got confused,” said the old man. “Thought this was her room. Sat right there at the desk for close to half an hour.”

“Do you mind if we take a look around?” She introduced herself, but Charlie could only focus on the lacrosse stick she twirled from hand to hand. She had white teeth that she bared when repositioning the gum in her mouth, and muscles above her knees that made heart shapes when she’d crouch to look for the glasses. Charlie liked athletic girls. At least he liked watching them; they seemed unaware of their new muscles, unlike their male counterparts, who were always tensing and flexing. This lacrosse girl had short sandy hair and speckled gray-green eyes—a color scheme that would look better on a canvas than on a human, thought Charlie. But he could see how a regular person, someone like Francis, could find all he needed in eyes such as hers.

“I went to college in Philadelphia, too,” said the old man. “Pharmacists’ college. But there weren’t dormitories like this, just the Armory Building down on Race Street. Paid for by Uncle Sam.”

The old man was back at Charlie’s desk chair. He was a big old guy, a gentle giant at home in smaller wooden chairs. He didn’t cross his legs, but he hiked his trousers, revealing white socks.

“Grandpa’s a World War Two vet,” said the Lacrosse Girl. “It’s okay to say that, right, Gramp?”

“Sure, honey. Nothing to be embarrassed about, there.”

“Your back,” Charlie said to the old man.

“Back? Why, I guess I came back in ’46. They made you go through Hawaii, to delouse us.”

“No, the glasses are on your back, under your shirt. I can see the frames through your shirt.”

“Well, isn’t that something,” said the old man.

“You have no idea,” said the Lacrosse Girl. “He needs them to drive home.”

“Like I always say,” said the old man, “the answer’s right under your nose.” He handed Charlie a bubble gum cigar.

“You’re in good company,” said the Lacrosse Girl. “Gramp gave the other cigar to the president of Penn.”

“I came with three, and plan on leaving with none,” the old man said, beaming, and with a two-fingered salute headed for the door.

“Tell Mom I’ll be there in a second, Gramp,” said the Lacrosse Girl.

“Take your own sweet time,” he said, tap-dancing to avoid the tube of cookie dough that had apparently changed direction and gained speed.

“What a happy guy,” said Charlie.

“You know, I never thought about it, but he is happy. Probably the happiest I know. You like cookie dough?”

“I’ve never tried it,” said Charlie.

“I did, once. Really weird. Sort of too sweet and too salty, but also perfect.”

“I may never try it.”

“Isn’t that what college is for? Trying new things? I’ll probably have some, just not the roll that’s been flying around.” She was sitting on Francis’s bed, resting her chin on the lacrosse stick.

“Were I you, I’d avoid the cookie dough altogether,” said Charlie. “Unless you’re the type of person who can stop at one spoonful, even if you want more. I’m not that way. If I love something, I can’t stop.”

She prodded him with her lacrosse stick to see if the utterance was alive with flirtation, but Charlie didn’t squirm when the webbing brushed his jacket’s vents.

“I wonder what Gramp would make of the whole raw cookie dough thing.”

“He’d probably read the instructions, slice up the roll, and put it in the oven.”

“Oh my God, that’s so true. What is it with our fucked-up generation? Here we are, rebelling by eating uncooked dough, thinking it’s so ironic to eat something that hasn’t been in the oven, while the last generation risked imprisonment to protest a war. They ended Vietnam.”

The Lacrosse Girl was smart. For a moment, Charlie had forgotten that he was at a college, a good one, where smart kids gave little speeches like that. He wondered if she’d given that exact same speech before, substituting something else for cookie dough.

He could see her using it in her valedictory address. Half the kids here were valedictorians. He’d read the stat but could have guessed as much. They all seemed to be on the verge of reciting the famous part of their valedictory address, where they railed against our supposedly fucked-up generation, or criticized the high school administration for firing a beloved French teacher.

“I for one don’t think our generation is fucked-up, just a little nameless. We don’t belong to anything. At least not yet. Where are you from?”

“Virginia,” she said brightly, a good ambassador. “You’re New York, right? I saw your dad’s license plate when you were getting out. Nice car. Really shiny.”

“He just washed it.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. He wanted the family car to look good on Move-in Day.”

Charlie hadn’t thought of the reason why the Jaguar gleamed, and now felt bad that he hadn’t thanked his father.

“He’s a good guy, for a French guy,” said Charlie. “Did you see him?” He wondered what she would make of his old-fashioned suit.

“Your dad? I saw you two get out of the car. He looked like a dad to me. Where’s your roommate from?” She was by Francis’s desk, seeing if she could budge the suction-cupped pencil sharpener.

“He’s from New Jersey. Installing that pencil sharpener was one of the first things he did when he got here. I think you’d like him.”

He could tell that she preferred him to any possible desk-accessory-obsessed roommate. He wanted to tell her that she was great, truly, but that he didn’t know what to do with all of her positive energy. Lacrosse girls who live in their lacrosse shorts are beacons, day and night, thought Charlie. He shielded his eyes.

“He’s from Haddenfield,” he said. “A high school wrestler.” He opened Francis’s closet and pointed out his varsity jacket. “He’s organized. As you can see.”

“That’s a plus,” she said. “I like my men clean.”

“He’s very clean.”

“You’re quite the matchmaker.”

Charlie could see her and Francis together in the grocery store, or shopping for a Christmas tree. A healthy, practical couple, who met at a college in Pennsylvania. Theirs would be a love centered around errands, weekends, and sweatpants. They’d never speak about sex, and their inside jokes would be tedious, but they’d have healthy kids. Baseball gloves and ice skates would litter their mudroom.

“From the little I’ve seen,” said Charlie, “I think you’d get along.”

“Is he tall?” she asked, trying to decide for herself by examining one of his dress shirts. “His clothes smell like an old iron. I don’t mind it.”

“See, that’s just it. Many girls would.”

“High five,” said the Lacrosse Girl.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Okay.”

They produced a clean clap. Charlie believed she was plotting a kiss. Not today, but on some night over the next four years. To discourage her plans, Charlie leaned over his desk, like one of those pictures of JFK during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and thought about this morning’s Monica Miller kiss.

“You okay?” asked the Lacrosse Girl.

“Fine. Just thinking about someone.”

“Girl back home, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“I only went to New York once. Museum of Natural History. I gave a speech about the American buffalo.”

“I have buffalo nickels in my loafers.”

“We have so much in common.”

“Really?”

“I was joking. Sort of. So, the wrestler who smells like laundry. Why not?”

She’d actually made eye contact with Francis when he was leaving with his parents. He walked funny. Many wrestlers did. But he’d twisted his face into a childish smile during the eye contact, and it was endearing. “I should get back to parents’ world. They’ve probably put everything away. I’ll never find a single thing.”

“I hope you’re not insulted that I thought of you and my roommate,” said Charlie, listening to a woman’s high heels click in the courtyard below. “You’re both dignified.”

“How nice of you to say.”

“It’s something my family friend says. She’s from Puerto Rico, where it’s a real compliment.”

“And are you dignified?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you alone. You seem deep in thought.”

“Pensive was on the SATs,” said Charlie, turning from the desk, the missile crisis safe in RFK’s hands.

“Ugh, I was so sick that day.”

“Hungover?” he asked.

“Flu. Well, enjoy your bubble gum cigar. See you at graduation.”

He knew she was joking, but the thought of four years was daunting. Four years ago was ninth grade. What a terrible year that was: too old to be a child, too young to drink.