Chapter Four NEW

The next morning Marie and I drove to Wellesley for a seminar we were taking together, French Literature 201. As with most literature courses, the class title ended up being leagues more interesting than the actual subject matter. Unfortunately, this class also intersected with a bunch of French Majors, despite the fact we were reading the works in English. French Majors, in my opinion, were some of the most annoying people I had ever encountered. Marie’s major was antiquated, but the things she learned were the theories and basics of modern thought, so it wasn’t, ostensibly, entirely useless. French majors were aware of the uselessness of their language, augmented by the fact that French people hate Americans anyway, so even if they speak perfectly they will still be stupid American girls. Francophiles were just too precious for me, and this seminar was filled with them.
“I feel that Baudelaire was sexist, even his commentary on lesbianism described woman as objects…” A girl in the front row, who always put her French edition of whatever book we were reading prominently on her desk, began a typical tirade for this course. I wondered why they had no concept of culture or time period.
“I feeeeeeel…” Marie said sarcastically, under her breath. We called girls like that “feelers” because they prefaced every comment like that. Occasionally the substituted with the phrase “This work speaks to me…”.
“Mhmm, yes, good observation.” The teacher nodded. She distinctly resembled a chipmunk, and apparently owned a collection of ponchos numbering somewhere in the thousands.
I felt my eyes drooping, and I shifted in my seat to try wake up. I actually liked reading “The Flowers of Evil” but I was not about to be attacked for being a misogynist who worshipped Satan. But I agreed boredom was the worst of the miseries, especially at that moment. I liked the ideas of decadence and sexuality that Rimbaud and Baudelaire wrote about, they struck a cord with me. The only thing that confused me was the prudishness of these French majors, their schoolmarmish attitude towards the works their favorite culture of choice. Conversely, though, I liked British literature, refined and repressed, when my nature was better suited towards poems called “To the Woman Who Is Too Gay.”
After class, we walked to the dining hall to grab lunch.
“Let’s skip next week.” I said, “I actually like ‘No Exit’, I don’t want it ruined.”
“I didn’t even read it, so I approve.” Marie threw her cigarette as we neared the entrance.
We grabbed trays and headed down the line.
“I don’t even want to talk about how horrible this class is, I’m sorry I forced you to take it.”
“Eh, I needed a class to take, whatever.”
“Jane! Hey!” I froze. That voice belonged to “The Terror Of Jenni!”, my freshman roommate.
“Oh no.” Marie groaned.
I turned around, forcing a smile on my face.
“Hey Jenni.”
“Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in so long!” She was wearing a Wellesley sweatshirt, sweatpants and those Eskimo boot things that were popular then. Everything Jenni said sounded like it had an exclamation point attached. She treated Wellesley like a giant Sorority, and she had spent most of freshman year trying to make me go to school events, like Flower Day or a capella concerts. Talking to her made me feel like banging my head against a wall, usually.
“Come sit with us!” she gestured to a table full of girls who looked like her clones. I wondered if the massive sweatshirts were some sort of uniform or just an extremely unhappy coincidence. They could have been smuggling toddlers in there.
“Oh…Kay.” I conceded, and Marie hit my in the side with her tray. I shrugged at her, because I knew no amount of protesting would defer Jenni. We sat down, at the end of their group, and I felt them appraise Marie and I. I took a large bite of my spaghetti and meatballs, eyeing their dainty salads. Whatever.
“So Jane, how have you been?” I always felt like Jenni was trying to save me, like one of those Christian camps for gays. Weird Girl Rehabilitation or something.
“Oh, I’ve been good. Uh, I’ve been well.” I said thickly.
Marie laughed softly.
“I’ve been good too, Jenni!” She said, brightly with an obviously fake smile on her face.
Jenni hated Marie, passionately. I suppose Marie was not worth saving in Jenni’s book. Jennie looked right at Marie, then turned to me without saying anything.
“I got an internship at a publishing company this summer!” She exclaimed. “I’m going to be living in Chicago!”
“Chicago. Cool.” I wasn’t really sure what to say. That sounded dismal. Her friends were chattering, blatantly ignoring us, and I could imagine their questions later: “Why do you talk to her, she’s so weird!” Then they would resume their discussion of which parties were more fun, MIT frats
or Harvard social clubs.
“Come on Jenni, we’ve got to go.”
“Ok guys, just hold on.” She smiled apologetically at me. “We’ve got to go; we’re squeezing in a workout before class! Bye Jane! Facebook me!”
Marie looked at me blankly, fighting her instincts to make a comment, I could tell.
“The terror of Jenni!” I exclaimed loudly.
“Let’s leave before we see anyone else who wants to Facebook us.” Marie said sarcastically.