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was "car accident," and packing up the house in Connecticut, leaving their school, their house, their friends, their familiar street. Their father piled their mother's things in boxes destined for Goodwill, and Rose and Maggie and their father got in a U-Haul truck and drove to New Jersey. "To start over," their father had said. Like that could ever happen. Like the past was something you could leave behind like a candy bar wrapper or a pair of shoes you'd outgrown. In her bed in Philadelphia, Rose sat up in the darkness, knowing that she wouldn't be doing any sleeping that night. She remembered the funeral. She remembered the navy blue dress she'd worn, purchased for the first day of school, nine months before, and how it was already too short, and the elastic of the puffed sleeves had left red welts on her arms. She remembered her father's face over the grave, remote and distant, and an older woman with auburn hair, sitting in the back of the funeral parlor crying softly into a handkerchief. Her grandmother. Where had she gone? Rose didn't know. After the funeral, they'd rarely talked about their grandmother, or their mother. They lived far away from the policeman in the hat full of rain, and the driveway he'd parked his cruiser in, with the blue lights still flashing mutely through the darkness, and the road that had brought him to their house. The slick, wet road with its treacherous curves, a ribbon of black, like a lying tongue. They'd gone far away from the road, and the house, and the cemetery where their mother was buried, beneath a blanket of raw-looking sod and a headstone that had her name, the years of her birth and her death, and the words Wife and Loving Mother chiseled into it. And Rose had never once been back.
PART TWO
Continuing
Education
TWENTY'FOUR
What she needed, thought Maggie Feller, was a plan. She sat on a bench inside Thirtieth Street Station, a grand, cavernous room littered with old newspapers and fast-food wrappers, smelling of grease and sweat and winter coats. It was almost midnight. Harried-looking mothers dragged their children along by their arms. Homeless people slept splayed out on the carved wooden benches. I could be one of them, thought Maggie, panic rising inside of her. Think, she told herself. She had a garbage bag full of stuff, plus her purse, her backpack, and two hundred dollars, two crisp hundred-dollar bills Jim had given her before dropping her off. Can I help you? he'd asked, not unkindly, and she'd held out her hand without meeting his eyes. "I want two hundred dollars," she told him. "That's the going rate." He'd dug the money out of his wallet without a word of protest. "I'm sorry," he'd said . . . but sorry about what? And whom was he apologizing to? Not her. Maggie was sure of that. What she needed now was somewhere to stay . . . and then a job again, eventually. Rose was out of the question. So was her father. Maggie shuddered, imagined herself dragging her bags across the lawn as the idiot dog howled, imagined the look of fake-o sympathy and barely
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disguised disgust as Sydelle opened the door, and how her eyes would say, This is just what we expected of you, even if her mouth was saying something else. Sydelle would want details, would want to know what had happened with Rose and with her job. Sydelle would needle her with dozens of questions, and her father would sit there, his eyes soft and defeated, not asking anything at all. Where did that leave her? Maggie couldn't see herself in a homeless shelter. All those women, all those failed lives. She wasn't that way. She hadn't failed. Not like that. She was a star, if only someone could see it! You're not a star, whispered a voice in her head, and the voice sounded like Rose's voice, only colder than Rose could ever sound. You're not a star, you're a slut, a stupid slut. You can't even work the cash register! You can't balance your checkbook! Evicted! Practically homeless! And you slept with my boyfriend! Think, thought Maggie fiercely, trying to drown out the voice. What did she have? Her body. There was that. Jim had turned over the two hundred dollars easily enough. There were men who would pay her to sleep with them, certainly, and men who would pay to watch her dance with her clothes off. At least that was entertaining, performing. And plenty of the rising stars who'd gone before her had done it as a last-ditch measure, a stopgap thing. So fine, Maggie thought, tightening her grip on her garbage bag as the homeless man two benches back moaned in his sleep. Stripping. Fine. It wasn't the end of the world. But that didn't solve the problem of where she'd stay. It was January, the cold, dead heart of winter. She'd planned on catching a SEPTA train to Trenton, then taking another train into New York City. But she wouldn't get there until two in the morning, and then what would she do? Where would she go? She got to her feet, clutching her backpack tightly in one hand and her garbage bag in the other, and squinted at the New Jersey Transit board and the names of the towns the trains went to: Rahway. Westfield. Matawan. Metuchen. Red Bank. Little Silver.
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That one sounded nice, but what if it wasn't? Newark. Too big. Elizabeth. The butt of Jersey jokes. Brick. Ugh. Princeton. She'd visited Rose at Princeton a few times, when she was sixteen and seventeen. She could picture it if she closed her eyes— buildings made of carved gray stone, covered in ivy, with gargoyles leering from the ledges. She remembered dorm rooms with fireplaces in them, and wooden window seats that opened up to hold extra blankets and winter coats, and the many-paned leaded-glass windows. She remembered huge classrooms, sloping floors full of hard-edged wooden chairs with desks attached, and a party in a basement, with a keg of beer in the corner, and how vast the library had seemed—three floors up, and three floors down, each one long as a football field. The smell of burning wood and fall leaves, a borrowed red wool scarf warm around her neck, heading down one of the gray slate paths toward a party, knowing she'd never be able to find her way back by herself, because there were so many paths and all the buildings looked almost the same. "It's easy to get lost here," Rose had told her, so she wouldn't feel bad. "It happened to me all the time my freshman year." Maybe she could get lost there now. She could take a train to Trenton, catch New Jersey Transit to Princeton, and stay there for a few days and regroup. Everyone always told her she looked younger than she was, and she had a backpack, the universal sign of students everywhere. "Princeton," she said out loud, and walked to the ticket window, where she paid seven dollars for a one-way ticket. She'd always meant to go back to college, she thought, heading up the ramp toward the trains. So what if this wasn't the most normal way to do it? When had she, Maggie Feller, ever been the most normal girl?
At two in the morning Maggie made her way across the darkened Princeton University campus. Her shoulder muscles were cramping from the weight of her backpack, and her hands were numb from towing the trash bag full of clothes, but she tried to walk briskly as
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she joined the crowds of students moving along the sidewalk, with her shoulders back and her head up, as if she knew exactly where she was going. She'd gotten off the train at Princeton Junction in the middle of a vast parking lot, halogen lamps gleaming coldly in the dark. In an instant of panic, she turned around and sure enough, there were students—or at least people who looked like students—streaming across the platform, down into a tunnel below them. She followed them under the train tracks and then up the other side, where another, much smaller train waited. She bought a ticket on the train, and two minutes later arrived at the campus. As she walked up the hill, Maggie made a quick but careful study of her fellow travelers—kids coming back from Christmas break, she figured, judging from the conversations and the amounts of luggage. Evidently, she decided, grooming was not a priority for these women, while purchasing the fashions of Abercrombie & Fitch was. None wore much more than lip gloss, and they were arrayed in some version of washed-out jeans, sweaters or sweatshirts, camel-colored overcoats, plus layers upon layers of hats, scarves, mittens, and winter boots. Well, that explains Rose, she thought and began mentally editing her wardrobe. Little halter top, no. Leather pants, probably not. Cashmere sweater set? Sure, if only she had one, she thought, and shivered as the icy wind bit at her bare neck. She'd need a scarf. Also, she needed a cigarette, though it seemed that none of the girls were smoking. Maybe because it was too cold, but probably because they just didn't. Probably because none of the girls in the Abercrombie & Fitch ads were smokers. Maggie sighed, and edged up as close as she could to a pack of chattering girls, looking for more information. "I don't know," one of them said, giggling, as they walked past bulletin boards covered with fliers advertising everything from movies and concerts to used guitars for sale. "I think he likes me, and I gave him my number, but so far, nothing." Then he doesn't like you, dummy, Maggie thought. If they liked
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you, they called. It was as simple as that. And these were supposed to be the smart girls? "Maybe you should call him," one of her friends suggested. Sure, thought Maggie, who hadn't telephoned a man since she gave up crank calls at age thirteen. And maybe you should wave a flag in front of his room, too, in case he misses the point. The pack pulled up in front of a four-story stone building with a heavy wood door. One of the girls pulled off her mittens and punched a code into the doorknob. The door swung open, and Maggie followed them inside. She was in some kind of common area. There were half a dozen couches covered in an indestructible industrial blue fabric, a few scarred coffee tables scattered with newspapers and magazines, a television set showing It's a Wonderful Life—which it wasn't, as far as Maggie was concerned. Beyond them was a staircase that led, presumably, to individual dorm rooms . . . and, from the sound of it, there were parties going on. Maggie set down her bags, and her fingers tingled as the blood started to come back. I'm in, she thought, feeling triumph mixed with anxiety at what it would take to pull off her next move. The pack of girls tromped up the stairs, as graceful as a herd of elephants in their heavy boots. Maggie followed them into the bathroom ("So if I call him, what do I say?" the girl who hadn't gotten a phone call was asking plaintively). She waited until they'd left, then she splashed warm water on her face and wiped off what was left of her makeup. She tied her hair into a Rose-like ponytail (the preferred Princeton hairdo, from what she'd seen so far), reaplied deodorant and a quick spritz of perfume, and rinsed her mouth with water from the sink. For the next part of her plan to work, she had to look her best, or as close to it as she could come after what she'd been through. Then she made her way back into the common room and scouted it out. If she left the trash bags behind the couch, would anyone steal them? No. Everyone here already had all of the clothes they could
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want, Maggie figured, tucking herself into an armchair in the corner, where she wrapped her arms around her knees and watched, and waited. She didn't have to wait long. A pack of guys—four, or maybe five of them, in sweatshirts and khakis, talking loud and smelling of beer—jostled their way past the guard at front, past Maggie, and headed toward the stairs. Maggie sidled behind them. "Well, hey," said one of the guys, peering at her as if she was at the far end of a telescope. "Where are you going?" Maggie smiled. "The party," she said, as if it were obvious. And he'd grinned at her Wearily, one hand on the wall for balance, telling her that it must be his lucky day.
The party—and, of course, there was a party, because even though it was Ivy League, it was still a college, which meant that there would always be a party—was up four flights of stairs, in what Maggie took to be a suite. There was a living room with a couch and a stereo, two bedrooms with two bunk beds apiece, and, in between them, a tub full of ice and the inevitable keg resting atop it. "Get you a drink?" offered one of the stair guys—maybe the one who'd said it was his lucky day, maybe one of his friends. In the dim light, with all the noise and the press of bodies, she couldn't be sure, but she'd nodded just the same, leaning in close and letting her lips just brush his ear as she murmured, "Thanks." By the time he wove his way back to her, sloshing half the beer on the floor as he progressed, she'd perched herself on a corner of the couch, long legs crossed. "What's your name?" he asked. He was short and fine-boned with blond curls that would have been more fitting on one of those six-year-old beauty queens than on a college guy, and a watchful, foxy face. She was ready for the question. "M," she said. She'd decided on the train not to be Maggie anymore. She had failed as a Maggie, had failed to find fame or fortune. From now on, she would just be M.
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The guy squinted at her. "Em? Like Auntie Em?" Maggie frowned. Did she have an Auntie Em? Did he? "It's just M," she said. "Whatever," the guy said, giving her a shrug. "I haven't seen you around. What's your major?" "Subterfuge," said Maggie. The guy nodded as if he understood. Well, thought Maggie, maybe subterfuge was an actual major at this place. She'd have to check. "I'm poli sci," said the guy, and burped hugely. " 'Scuse me." "No problem," said Maggie, as if she found intestinal gas the most fascinating and charming thing in the world. "What's your name?" "Josh," said the guy. "Josh," Maggie repeated, as if this, too, was fascinating. "Wanna dance?" Josh asked. Maggie took a ladylike sip of her beer, and handed him the cup, which he drained obligingly. They stood, face-to-face, and danced ... or, rather, Josh jerked back and forth as if his body was taking a low-grade electrical charge, while Maggie slowly ground her hips against him. "Wow," he said appreciatively. He slid his hands around her waist and pressed her against the bulge in the front of his khakis. "You're a great dancer." Maggie almost laughed. Twelve years of lessons, ballet and jazz and tap, and this was what passed for great dancing. Asshole. Instead, she tilted her head up to him, aiming her lips and warm breath toward his ear once more, letting her lips barely skim his neck. "Can we go somewhere quiet?" she asked. The words took a minute to register, but when they did, his eyes lit up. "Sure!" he said. "I've got a single." Bingo, thought Maggie. "One more beer first?" she asked, in a little-girl voice. He returned with two, and wound up drinking all of his own and almost all of Maggie's, too, before he wrapped his arm around her waist again, slung her backpack over his shoulder and led her back to the stairs and to the bliss he thought awaited back at his
