“Definitely,” Dede said.

“So, Lee,” Aspeth said, “I have something to ask you.”

Dread reared up in me. Maybe she’d say, Have you ever kissed a boy? Or: What kind of cars do your parents drive?

“Can you cut my hair?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said. “Sure.” So great was my relief at the mildness of the question that it was only after I’d agreed to it that I remembered my conversation with Martha. Not that it had been conclusive, but it had given me pause.

“Since there’s no formal dinner tonight, let’s do it at six,” Aspeth said. “Then there’ll still be time to get to dinner before it closes.”

On nights when there wasn’t formal dinner, Martha and I went to the dining hall at six, the minute the doors opened, and usually I’d been ravenous since quarter after five. There was a group of people we sat with, the other sophomores who showed up early. They were mostly kind of dorky guys, and I was beginning to sometimes actively participate in the conversation instead of simply waiting until someone said something that required a response. But still-this was Aspeth.

“Six is fine,” I said.

I knocked on her door three minutes after six, having arrived at five of, waited until six exactly, decided six exactly was probably worse than being a little early, and waited a few more minutes. From outside the door, I could hear pounding music, and I had to knock repeatedly before Aspeth answered. She was wearing a T-shirt, a red cardigan sweater with tiny, pearly star-shaped buttons, underwear, and no pants. Her long blond hair was wet, with grooves running along her scalp where she’d combed it back. She made a face at me, a kind of joking-apologetic face, then darted to the corner to turn down the stereo, leaving me an unobstructed view of her golden haunches: thin, smooth thighs, and the twin scoops of her ass encased in-fleetingly, this surprised me, and then it made complete sense, how the choice was both classic and sexy-white cotton underpants. The music on the stereo was the Rolling Stones, and it occurred to me that Aspeth was the kind of girl about whom rock songs were written. How could Dede bear to be around her? Even though it was just the two of us, I felt like her chaperone.

When she’d adjusted the stereo, Aspeth said, “Give me two secs. I was hoping my jeans would be dry, but I don’t think they are”-here, she gripped in several places a pair of jeans hanging over a desk chair-“so I have to wear my other ones.” She lifted a second pair of jeans from the top of a laundry basket, stepped into them, and pulled them up, buttoning them over her flat stomach. As she did, I felt my own insignificance-how I was someone in front of whom she could prance around in her underwear and yank on conspicuously dirty clothes, and how it wasn’t because we were close, it was because she didn’t care what I thought. Whereas I kept trying out in my mind things to say-Can you believe how cold it’s gotten?–before rejecting them as stilted or boring or the kind of thing a boy who had a crush on her would say while trying to make conversation.

I looked around. Though Aspeth and I had been in the same dorm the year before, I’d never entered her room. Aspeth’s roommate this year was a girl from Biloxi named Horton Kinnelly-Dede had longed to become Aspeth’s roommate for sophomore year and had even believed she would, but I don’t think anyone else had shared this belief-and on the two unmade beds were duvets with floral covers. (As always, the floral duvets made me think of Little Washington.) White Christmas lights, currently turned on, were taped high up along all the walls, and on the north wall they’d hung an enormous orange and green tapestry. Above one desk were lots of postcards and a map of Tibet, and above the other was a blue felt banner that said Ole Miss in white letters. On the third and fourth walls were several huge black-and-white posters-one of John Coltrane, another of a thin, shirtless, staring Jim Morrison (most girls had posters of still lifes from the MFA in Boston)-as well as the photo collages that were a staple of all Ault girls’ rooms: pictures of you and your friends in fleece hats, skiing, or in bathing suits, at the beach; of you and your friends in formal dresses, before a dance; of you and your friends in Ault sports uniforms, your arms slung around one another’s necks after a winning game. There were computers on both desks, and two stereos, and on all the surfaces there were notebooks and textbooks and catalogs and a combination of cheap and expensive toiletries: a tall white plastic container of hand lotion, some talcum powder, several gold tubes of lipstick, mouthwash, a bottle of Chanel (I had never seen Chanel in real life), a carton of generic band-aids, and on the floor in front of the door there was a gray peacoat with satin lining, which Aspeth stepped on-stepped on, with her shoe-as we exited the room. Also, she left on the lights, Christmas and otherwise, as well as the music. Following her down the hall-before the haircut, we were picking up someone else, but either I hadn’t caught who it was or she hadn’t said-I felt overstimulated and vaguely irritated. The room I shared with Martha seemed so quiet and plain, our lives seemed so quiet and plain. Had Aspeth been born cool, I wondered, or had someone taught her, like an older sister or a cousin?

“So who are we meeting?” I asked. Aspeth was walking quickly, and I was a couple steps behind her.

She spoke, but I thought I must have heard her wrong, so I said, “Who?”

She turned. “What? You don’t like him or something?”

“No,” I said. “I just didn’t-did you say Cross? Like, Cross Sugarman?”

She smirked. “Like, the Cross Sugarman? The famous Cross Sugarman? Why, do you have a crush on him?”

“No,” I said, but I remembered that the more vehement I was, the more obvious it would be that I was lying. “I hardly know him,” I added.

“I told him I was getting my hair cut and he was like, ‘I’ve gotta see this.’ So I said we’d swing by his dorm and get him.”

In the last couple months, I had been in the common rooms of nearly all the boys’ dorms. Most of them smelled weird and were littered with pizza boxes, and the more guys present, the more unwelcoming they were, slouching with their hands in their pants, talking and laughing about a topic that was probably but not definitely sex, glancing at me in the hopes that I either had or hadn’t understood their coded remarks and had or hadn’t been offended. Or else they’d be playing some game, throwing around a basketball so that it flew toward my head and I had to stumble away, mid-clip, from the person whose hair I was cutting, or maybe the game was even more made-up, maybe they were kicking a pizza box and trying not to let it touch the ground as it became increasingly punctured. The TV was always turned on and set to something jarringly loud or really boring or, as in the case of the Sunday when I’d cut Martin Weiher’s hair while he watched a monster truck show, both. Always before showing up at a boys’ dorm, I’d have made sure I looked nice, maybe borrowed Martha’s perfume, but once there, I’d feel utterly irrelevant, or even worse, like an intruder. Girls always liked when boys were around, but it often seemed to me that boys preferred to be by themselves, talking about girls in the hungry way that, I suspected, they found more gratifying than the presence of an actual girl. Yet strangely, in the loud sour inhospitable lairs of my male classmates, as out of place as I felt, I never really wanted to leave; sometimes I’d prolong a haircut by cutting individual strands, pretending to even things up. (Once I finished a haircut, it was unthinkable that I’d stay, that I’d just hang out. This might have been fine for other girls, but I needed a reason.) I wanted to stay, I think, because the way these boys were, their bluntness, their pleasure in physical acts like wrestling and burping, the way everything was too noisy and disorderly to ever feel awkward-this all seemed perhaps preferable to, truer and more lively than, the way that girls were. At least it seemed preferable to the way I was, trying to look pretty, trying to seem smart, when wasn’t I just as full of disgusting urges as any boy?