Perhaps to end the tension and fill the fast-expanding conversational vacuum, Erica spoke up. “Well, Charlotte, I suppose you’ve been keeping up with the adventures of our Mr. Thorpe today.”

Interesting. It was the first time Erica had called her by name. “I heard something about it,” said Charlotte.

“You haven’t read the Wave?”

“No.”

“You really haven’t?”

“I really haven’t.”

“Ohmygod, I don’t believe it! You’ve got to read it! I don’t think I’ve ever intentionally picked up the Wave, but today I did. Our Mr. Thorpe has been totally out of control. He’s always been totally out of control, but now he’s over the top.”

Erica paused, as if to see how this might strike the girl who was divested of her virginity by Mr. Hoyt Thorpe in what had been practically an exhibición in a hotel. Charlotte was absorbed in something else: the excitement in Erica’s voice as she addressed her, the absolutely flashing excitement in her eyes as she questioned this infamous little freshman and studied her face for any little change of expression that might reveal the emotions she assumed to be boiling inside.

In fact, Charlotte was intrigued by how little Charlotte Simmons cared. She replied in a countrified voice, “Goodness me. I had no—iiii—dee-a.” She gave Erica a supercilious smile.

That plus the sarcasm left Erica offended and speechless. Erica and Beverly exchanged glances and smiled at one another in a certain smart, galling mock-discreet way they had.

Without another word, Charlotte took off her puffy jacket, hung it on the back of her wooden chair, turned on her gooseneck lamp, sat down, and began reading a monograph titled Print and Nationalism. The first paragraph had to do with the extent, demographics, and technology of reading throughout Ancient Greece and Rome—Greece—which made her think of Jojo and his complete lack of guile or irony, which in turn made her think of Erica and Beverly and their excess of both, which in turn made her regret being so sarcastic and arch to Erica, which in turn led her to conclude, with nihilistic aplomb, that it made no difference anyway.

Erica said to Beverly, “You know the word ‘chippy’?”

“Chippy?”

“The Brits are always talking about people being chippy. They always have a chip on their shoulder, and they’re so insecure, they think everybody’s looking down on them.”

“I think I know what you mean,” said Beverly.

Charlotte’s back was to them, and so she had to imagine their little smiles and suppressed sniggers.

Soon they went out, which shouldn’t have made her feel unusually fortunate, since she couldn’t imagine either of them staying in…a dorm room at night…before two or three in the morning. They didn’t say good-bye.

Damn! Now it was nine-fifty, which would make everything just slightly worse when she called. Charlotte stared at the white telephone for a good two minutes before she screwed her courage up enough to dial…

One ring…another ring…another…another…four rings!—and such a tiny house!—could they be out?—so unlike them…another ring!—five—no, God!—if she had to wait until tomorrow to tell Momma, and the letter arrived tomorrow, it would be the same as not calling at all—another ring!—six—

“Hello?” Momma, thank God.

“Momma! Hi. It’s me!”

“Why, Charlotte! Did the phone ring a long time?”

“It did sort of, Momma.” She pulled did out into dee-ud in an instinctive and all but unconscious claim to Down Home closeness.

“Your Daddy and me been watching television with Buddy and Sam, and your brothers had on a movie—you know the ones where the whole thing is just one big fireball after the other?” Farball.

Charlotte laughed, as if their mutual awareness of silly farball movies was one of the funniest things they had ever shared.

Momma laughed, too. “I just barely heard it ring at all! You sound in a good mood. How is everything?”

“Oh, I feel good, Momma! And I just feel better hearing your voice! Well, there is one thing, Momma, I thought I ought to tell you before you just got it in the mail? You know?” Charlotte sped up her delivery to make sure Momma couldn’t slip in a question. “It’s sort of disappointing, actually—well, not sort of—it is disappointing, Momma. Remember how I got four A-pluses at midterm?”

Pause. “I do.” A bit wary.

“Well, I think I got too sure of myself, Momma. In fact, I know I did. And I started letting a few things slide? You know? And I don’t know, Momma, before I could do anything to stop it, it was like a whole landslide, you might say?”

Pause. “Whyn’t you tell me what you mean, a landslide.”

“Some of my grades fell off real badly, Momma.” Charlotte closed her eyes and turned her head so that her deflated sigh wouldn’t be transmitted. Then she blurted it all out, all four of the grades, the minuses and everything.

Momma said, “You got four A-pluses at midterm, and these are the grades you got for the whole semester?”

“I’m afraid so, Momma.”

“How can that be, Charlotte?” Momma’s voice was preternaturally restrained. Or was the word “numb”? “Midterm was early November, best I recollect.”

“That’s true, Momma. Like I said, I guess things just started piling up too fast, and I wasn’t paying attention, and then it was too late.”

“What was piling up, Charlotte? What was too late?” Momma’s voice was getting a bit testy—from her being double-talked.

Charlotte quickly discarded all the little cards she had been ready to play. She didn’t have any choice. She had to move straight to the radical explanation, which was at least in the orbit of the truth, however remotely.

“Momma—the thing is…I got a boyfriend right after midterm. I mean…I just…did. You know?”

No comment.

“He’s a real nice boy, Momma, and he’s real smart. He writes for the Wave, the daily newspaper. As a matter of fact, he might be on television tomorrow, on the news. I’ll call and tell you if I find out ahead of time.” Ohmygod, that was a blunder. If she turns on the TV and there’s Adam talking about oral sex—“Anyway, he’s part of a group of real bright students who have a sort of…society.”

Silence.

“It’s exciting just to hear the way they come up with ideas and dissect them. You know?”

“And that’s why you ended up with…the grades you got?” said Momma. “Because you got a boyfriend and he’s smart?”

That hurt like a lash. If it wasn’t sarcasm—and she couldn’t remember Momma ever being sarcastic before—it was close enough. She felt found out. Lies! Momma had always held up the Cross to lies, and they always cringed and died in that merciless, unforgiving light.

“I’m not saying it’s because of him, Momma! It’s because of me.” The good daughter generously concedes that the buck stops here. “I guess I got too interested in him. You know? He’s very courteous and respectful, and the last thing he would do is try to take advantage—” She stopped, realizing that the fantastic leaps of logic—of illogic—she was making from sentence to sentence were as much of a clue as Momma needed. She charged off in a different direction. “I’m already making a complete turnaround, Momma. I’m setting up a discipline for myself. I’m—”

“Good. So far I haven’t understood one thing you’ve told me, not one thing, except you got terrible grades. When you decide to tell me what’s happened—what’s going on—then we can talk about it.” Momma’s voice was terribly controlled, which was somehow worse than testy or sarcastic. “Does Miss Pennington know about any of this?”

“No, Momma, she doesn’t. You think I should tell her?” Desperately, Charlotte hoped to receive…some low-voltage approval…for having come to Momma first.

“What are you going to tell her, Charlotte, the same as you told me?”

Charlotte couldn’t think of a thing to say to that.

“Sounds to me like what you need right now is a talk with your own soul, an honest talk.”