Range of Light by Valerie Miner Page B

right to her individuality. Judy really was a sweet person, but I still wanted a single room. Ellie, Mary Ellen, Sally, so many names to remember.
    Ellie whisked off her robe and dramatically revealed the snappy mauve and coral polka dot nightgown she had bought for Pajamarino. “Homecoming is the best ,”she explained. “My cousin met her fiancé at the Pajamarino dance.”
    â€œWell, I’m prepared.” Judy winked and pulled out striped pj’s with a goofy tiger’s face on the front.
    â€œOh, I get it.” Mary Ellen laughed. “The cat’s pajamas! Too much!”
    I missed Adele. Surely they didn’t have callow events like this at Radcliffe. Why was I such a prickly bitch? Probably I was just defensive about not having a cool pair of pajamas. Wardrobe was one aspect of college life I didn’t describe in my letters home. Martha would bust a gut laughing.
    â€œDid you hear that Sally got called in for wearing pants to the library?” asked Ellie.
    â€œWhat, again?” Mary Ellen shook her head. “What’s wrong with her? Is she trying to prove something?”
    I sat there wide-eyed, keeping my wisecracks to myself.
    â€œWell, it’s a silly rule,” Judy snapped.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with asking people to dress decently, to wear skirts?” demanded Mary Ellen. “I mean, part of being in college is learning to be an adult.”
    This had never occurred to me.
    â€œAnd what’s more adult about wearing a skirt—particularly­ on a cold, rainy day—to study in the library?” Judy continued.
    Go Judy, I thought.
    â€œIt has nothing to do with maturity. All to do with convention­.”
    If I had to have a roommate, I felt grateful it was Judy. But maybe Martha had been right about college. Maybe I wasn’t the type. Or maybe Adele was right in bugging me to apply for a scholarship to Radcliffe next year.
    I adjusted, of course. It was in my Norwegian-Quebecois nature. My immigrant blood pulsed: adapt, accept. Not only did I attend Pajamarino but I went to parties every weekend. I knew something was wrong with me. Everything. My clothes. My references. The very way I walked—body language, Mary Ellen called it. Compared to the other girls, I felt so abrupt and gross. My posture was too tough; my movements were broad, rapid, common. Yet I persisted, thinking maybe Mary Ellen was right about learning to be a woman at college.
    One weekend, at an otherwise infantile fraternity bash, I met Vernon MacLean. The following Saturday he took me to a movie, then for a long Sunday bike ride past the prim mid­western-style local homes. We visited the pens where they held the barkless dog experiments. Vernon, an ag econ major, informed me Davis was a national leader in research about animal husbandry and plant fertility. Before Vernon, I hadn’t known that agriculture was the largest industry in California. Or that California was the eighth largest economy in the world.
    Vernon: freckled. Gap-toothed. Lively. Convivial to my parents when they drove up for a pricy weekend brunch with us at the famous Nut Tree restaurant.
    â€œThe Nut Tree,” joked my embarrassing father, “is it named for campus radicals?”
    â€œYou must be thinking of Berkeley, Mr. Peterson,” Vernon said with his unfailing courtesy. “Not too many wild politicos here in the Davis cotton fields.”
    â€œGood thing,” Dad answered, awkward. “Keep your mind on studying.
    Vernon smiled cordially.
    He was too nice. I had known this for weeks.
    â€œKatherine tells me you’re in agriculture? That’s a fine, sensible occupation.”
    Vernon nodded, still smiling.
    Dad tried again. “My father farmed in Norway. Never went to school at all. And Norway is a rough place to cultivate. But California is paradise. What do you plan to grow?”
    â€œA changed economy. An end to hunger in this