Queen of Babble Read Free Page A

over on her illegal hot plate and the hall filled with smoke and they had to evacuate,” I explain. I am always eager to relate the story of how Andrew and I met. Because it’s superromantic. Someday, when Andrew and I are married and live in a ramshackle and tomato-free Victorian in Westport, Connecticut, with our golden retriever, Rolly, and our four kids, Andrew Jr., Henry, Stella, and Beatrice, and I’m a famous—well, whatever I’m going to be—and Andrew’s the headmaster at a nearby boys’ school, teaching children to read, and I get interviewed inVogue, I’ll be able to tell this story—looking funky yet fabulous in vintage Chanel from head to toe—while laughingly serving a perfect cup of French roast to the reporter on my back porch, which will be decorated entirely in tasteful white wicker and chintz.
    “Well, I was taking a shower,” I go on, “so I didn’t smell the smoke or hear the alarm going off or anything. Until Andrew came into the girls’ bathroom and yelled‘Fire!’ and—”
    “Is it true the girls’ bathrooms in McCracken Hall have gang showers?” Angelo wants to know.
    “It’s true,” Chaz informs him conversationally. “They all have to shower together. Sometimes they soap each other’s backs while gossiping about their girlish hijinks from the night before.”
    Angelo stares at Chaz, bug-eyed. “Are you shitting me?”
    “Don’t pay any attention to him, Angelo,” Shari says, going for another chip. “He’s making it up.”
    “That kind of thing happens all the time onBeverly Hills Bordello, ” Angelo says.
    “We didn’t shower all together,” I say. “I mean, Shari and I did sometimes—”

    “Tell us more about that, please,” Chaz says, opening a new beer with the church key my mom had provided near the cooler.
    “Don’t,” Shari says. “You’ll just encourage him.”
    “Which bits were you washing when he came in?” Chaz wants to know. “And was there another girl with you at the time? Which bits wasshe washing? Or was she helping to washyour bits?”
    “No,” I say, “it was just me. And naturally, when I saw a guy in the girls’ shower, I screamed.”
    “Oh, naturally,” Chaz said.
    “So I grabbed a towel and this guy—I couldn’t really see him all that well through the steam and the smoke and all—goes, in the cutest British accent you ever heard, ‘Miss, the building’s on fire. I’m afraid you’ll have to evacuate.’”
    “So wait,” Angelo says. “This dude saw you in the raw?”
    “In her nudie-pants,” Chaz confirms.
    “So by then the halls were all smoky and I couldn’t see, so he took my hand and guided me down the stairs and outside to safety, where we struck up a conversation—me in my towel and everything. And that’s when I realized he was the love of my life.”
    “Based on one conversation,” Chaz says, sounding skeptical. But then, having a philosophy master’s degree, he is skeptical about everything. They train them to be that way.
    “Well,” I say, “we made out the rest of the night, too. That’s how I know he’s not gay. I mean, he got a full stiffy.”
    Chaz choked a little on his beer.
    “So, anyway,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back on track, “we made out all night. But then he had to leave the next day for England, because the semester was over—”
    “—and now, since Lizzie’s finally done with school, she’s flying to London to spend the rest of the summer with him,” Shari finishes for me. “Then coming back here to rot, just like her—”
    “Come on, Shar,” I interrupt quickly. “You promised.”
    She just grimaces at me.
    “Listen, Liz,” Chaz says, and reaches for another beer, “I know this guy’s the love of your life and all.
    But you have all next semester to be with him. Are you sure you don’t want to come to France with us for the rest of the summer?”
    “Don’t bother, Chaz,” Shari says. “I already asked her eighty million