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writing religiously, spending every afternoon in a state of mild agitation until the mailman came. But one by one my letters disappeared into a silence so vast it seemed to follow me wherever I went, a heaviness like the humidity that weighed on me as I hurried up El Molino toward the library or made idle chitchat with my classmates at the club before diving into the pool, testing how long I could hold my breath while my mother sat in a deck chair drawn close to the other mothers, their laughter so loud I could hear it underwater.

Chapter 5
    OF course there were all kinds of expenses that went along with going to college, expenses that in retrospect I understand must have weighed heavily on my parents. At the time I saw them as little more than nuisances, I’m afraid. In those days, tuition was still free at California’s state schools, but there were books to buy and formal dresses Mother claimed she didn’t dare try her hand at herself, new shoes she deemed obligatory . We spent three consecutive afternoons at Bullock’s that last week of summer, during which she took such obvious pleasure in the selection of each item—the agonizing over this dress or that one, the buttons on this one declared cunning, the collar on another divine— I finally told her she was better off choosing them herself, that if she didn’t mind I would wait in the dressing room and she could bring me what she pleased. I needed no less than three pairs of gloves for the charity balls, the invitations for which Mother set out on Mrs. Peachtree’s table as they arrived; there was a new quilt for my bed at the dorm, the old one I had used since childhood worn and yellowed by the sun beyond repair; new stockings, packed between layers of tissue; a jacket Mother had sewn herself, a smart linen thing she presented to me with a flourish as we sat together on my bed my last afternoon at home, fanning ourselves in the heat.
    “Better than Neiman’s, if I do say so myself,” she declared. “It should go beautifully with that blue muslin. Of course, you’ll want to bring that new taffeta for the formal dances. The yellow one with the flowers will have to do for the rest.” She looked at me critically, the tip of her tongue caught between her lips. “I’ll have to take in the waist. You’ve lost weight.”
    I glanced at my reflection in the mirror that hung on the opposite wall. My face was sober, unsmiling. “Maybe a little. The jacket is perfect.” And I meant it. For all her modesty, she was a wonderful seamstress. Her mother had taught her when she was young—out of necessity, I suppose—and now she could stitch together an entire blouse in the time it took me to cut a single sleeve from a pattern.
    “I can’t say I like your color,” she said now, squinting at me. “How about an orange juice? A nice glass of milk?”
    “I’m alright, I guess.”
    She busied herself folding the jacket, smoothing it down beneath the tissue. “People can be cruel. Girls especially. Don’t think I don’t remember.”
    I did my best to smile. “I’ll be fine.”
    “Of course you will. You’re a Poole girl, and we Poole girls always land on our feet. You know, I was already working at your age,” she went on. “School was never really in the cards. Daddy never would have allowed it, even if he’d lived long enough to see us all out of diapers. Still, I distinctly remember feeling relieved to have something to do. Something that took my mind off things.” She pressed her lips together: I could see her choosing her words carefully. “It isn’t healthy to have too much time to sit around and brood.”
    “I haven’t been brooding.”
    “You remember what I said about Alexandra.” She looked at me intently; I would have done anything to smooth the crease from her brow. “She can afford to dabble, that’s all I meant. I’m afraid we don’t have that luxury.” She pleated her skirt, a nervous gesture I recognized as one of my own. “I