Page 23 of One of Them

And then it hit her. Her time at Vassar wouldn’t be so easily erased either.

Now that she was about to leave, everything she loved about her life here was suddenly so clear, so vivid.

There was a kind of mental stimulation, an energy that she’d never encountered in France.

She found it not only in Ian’s class but in others too.

There had been Miss Havelock, who brought the imperial splendor of ancient Rome to stunning immediacy.

Also Miss Digby, who’d unlocked the wit and humor of Chaucer’s storytelling.

And then there was Mr. Gregg, always in the same grease-spotted khaki pants and threadbare tweed jacket, who despite both a stutter and a lisp was an excellent lecturer, so chatty and affable that it seemed he was on a first-name basis with Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Nikolay Gogol.

She would miss all that, just as she would miss the feeling of walking into the sacred silence of the library, with its lofty ceiling and finely grained wood paneling, the four Japanese maples in the quad that turned a brilliant scarlet in the fall, and the lilac bushes that grew so lush and tall, arching overhead, to form a fragrant bower in the spring.

That night Delia dressed for dinner in a suit she’d bought when she was last in New York.

It was made of navy gabardine, piped in white, and its narrow, fitted jacket topped a full, flowing skirt.

It was too formal, too dressy, for an ordinary dinner, but that was the point: the suit was imposing, like armor.

By the time she’d reached the dining room, the news must have already traveled through the dorm; she was aware of the way the other girls looked at her, how they gave her a wide berth in line.

She stood there silent, almost motionless, a wax figure in a blue wool suit.

When it was her turn, she accepted the food ladled onto her plate, though she had no appetite and knew she wouldn’t eat it.

Then, finding an empty place, she put her tray down on the table.

She sat alone, but that was nothing new; she almost always sat alone.

Looking surreptitiously around the room—she didn’t want to catch anyone’s eye—she saw Virginia.

Though she was now dressed in a pleated skirt, white blouse, and sweater vest, in Delia’s mind she was traipsing back from the hockey field, her legs coated in mud, her uniform sweaty and dirty.

Of course Virginia’s had been the first name on that list; that was the reason she wore such a gloating, satisfied expression now.

The other names were attached to the other girls who sat around her, girls who had made no secret of their feelings.

Well, so what? She held them in contempt; they were a bunch of sheep, bleating in unison.

Tonight they seemed animated by a sizzling, barely concealed excitement, looking her way and nudging one another.

There was only one whose expression set her apart, and that was Anne.

Unlike the others, she looked miserable.

Then Delia had a thought that was like a hot branding iron applied to her skin.

What if Anne had been the one who’d gone to Virginia, who’d betrayed her?

She remembered that morning at the diner, Anne’s arm around her shoulders as she’d wept.

Had all that been just an act? Before, she would have said no.

Anne had seemed so genuine. And her words had brought unexpected solace: You’re not the worst thing you’ve done.

Seeing Anne’s name on the letter was scalding in a way Delia wouldn’t have believed possible.

She looked down at her plate and began to cut up her bland baked fish—she would not miss the food here, that was certain.

She raised a small forkful to her lips. Swallowing was an effort all its own; the food remained in her mouth, an unpleasant lump that she couldn’t make go down.

She wished she could spit it out, but she wouldn’t do that—not with everyone watching.

No, she had to continue the pretense, save face, save her face, in this, the most humiliating moment of her entire life.

Finally she was able to swallow and then she forced herself to repeat the process again and again, until her plate was nearly clean.

Only then did she dare to look up, ignoring the girls who were watching her so carefully, until her gaze found Anne’s.

Although there were no words between them, Delia’s look was beseeching.

Why did you go along with the rest of them?

How could you have signed that letter? Did you mean what you said at the diner?

She kept looking, waiting for something in Anne’s expression to communicate some kind of response.

But Anne turned to Midge, who was sitting next to her.

That was enough. While her former roommate whispered something to Anne, Delia stood up and took her tray to the conveyor belt near the kitchen.

Then she walked slowly—she refused to look as if she were fleeing—out of the dining room.

Whatever she had thought set Anne apart from those others must have been an illusion.

She’d been deceived. Anne was just like the rest of them.

That her betrayal had burned a hot little hole in Delia’s heart was something she would have to get over.

In the meantime, she had plenty to do. She went upstairs to begin packing.