“Double major, art history and studio art.” She holds up a dress, considers it, flings it toward the closet. “My dad has not recovered from the shame. Are your parents close to here?”
“Rye, New York. Dad’s a lawyer. Mom does—” I pause, thinking as I line up a row of sweaters. “—I don’tknowwhat my mom does, but she’s on a lot of boards. And I’ve got one brother who’s in politics in Boston.”
“God, everyone has thesameparents in this place.” She groans. “Except for me it’s Connecticut and Dad works in finance.”
“Mother?” I say.
“Uh… pills and tennis… and I also have an older brother who goes here and who isinsufferable.” A pause. “I mean, I say that with love. Or seventy percent love and thirty percent, you know, the thing where your brother is the family’s favorite and everyone knows it but nobody says it out loud.”
“Oh,” I say, becauseyes.
“He’ll show up at some point to ‘help me settle in,’” she says, air-quoting. “Which means reorganizing my entire life, because he’s physically incapable of leaving anything alone.”
My phone buzzes on the desk.
Mom: We found a spot. Lot B.
I sigh and look up at Ivy. “That’s my parents. I should get the rest of my stuff.”
“Want help?” Ivy says, already looking for her other sock.
“Oh, no.” It comes out too fast, and I smile to soften it. “I’ll be right back.”
She doesn’t push, and I like her more for not pushing, clearly reading between the lines due to the speed of my refusal. Then she shrugs and flops back on her bed, already scrolling on her phone as I grab my keys and go before I have to explain anything else.
I head down and find that Lot B is still chaos. My parents dropped me and the first load of stuff an hour ago, then went hunting for a parking spot. And when I find their car, Dad has already put the last of my stuff on the ground and is putting the seats back in place now thattransport daughter to collegeis taken care of.
“Room okay?” he says, giving me the small, closed smile he does.
“Room’s good,” I say.
“Roommate?”
“Nice.”
“Good.” He nods. “Your mother wants a word.”
A word.
I sigh again and head for my mother, who’s standing by the passenger door with her sunglasses pushed into her hair andarms crossed. She looks, as always, like she stepped out of a catalog, after having been styled by some sort of personal stylist.
“Come here,” she says, as her arms open about six inches.
I step closer. “I should go?—”
“Let me look at you.” She holds me at arm’s length, eyes doing the quick audit. “Good.”
“Thanks.”
“Sterling’s a good house,” she says, glancing up at my building. “Susan’s daughter was in Sterling.”
“I remember.”
“She made wonderful friends.” She lets out a dreamy sigh. “And she met Hugh at Halden.”
“I remember that too, Mom.”
She pauses for a second, and I know what’s coming next. I’ve been bracing for it since this morning, and she’s held it in until now, which is world-record-breaking restraint from my mother. It’s a slightly different variant of the samelittle talkwe’ve had at least a dozen times since I finished high school.
