Then she looked up, saw Charlotte, Momma, and Daddy, and—the cell phone still at her ear—opened her eyes wide as if in surprise, gave them a big smile, and made a little fluttering gesture with her other hand. Then she cast her eyes down again, as if drawing a curtain, and said into the cell phone:

“Amanda—Amanda—Amanda—I’m sorry, I have to go now. I’m at my room…Uh hunh, exactly. Call me later. Bye.”

With that, she pushed a button on the cell phone, slipped it into the canvas bag, and beamed another big smile toward Momma, Daddy, and Charlotte.

“Hi! I’m sorry! I hate these phones! I’m Beverly. Charlotte?”

Charlotte said hello and managed a smile, but she was already intimidated. This girl was so confident and poised. Somehow she immediately took over the room. And she already had a friend at Dupont, apparently. They shook hands, and Charlotte said in a timid voice, “These are my folks.”

The girl directed her smile toward Daddy, looked him right in the eye, extended her hand, and said, “Hi, Mr. Simmons.”

Daddy opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He just nodded deferentially and shook her hand…limply, Charlotte could tell, and she could feel shame weighing down her confidence. Oh God, the mermaid! Charlotte thought she saw the girl flick a glance at Daddy’s forearm…When he took her hand, it disappeared inside his. What does that big callused hand feel like to her?

The girl turned to Momma. “Hi, Mrs. Simmons.”

Momma wasn’t at all intimidated. She shook the girl’s hand and sang out, “Well, hi there, Beverly! It’s real nice to meet you! We been looking forward to it!”

A woman’s voice: “That says five sixteen, doesn’t it?” Everyone turned toward the doorway.

In came a middle-aged woman with a lot of pineapple blond hair teased and fluffed and brushed back in a certain way, followed by a tall, balding man, also middle-aged. The woman wore a simple sleeveless dress that came down to just above her knees. The man had on a white open-necked polo shirt, revealing the puffy onset of jowls, and a pair of khakis and some sort of leather moccasins—and no socks. Behind them, in came one of the young men in the mauve T-shirts…rather handsome…carefully pushing a dolly over the threshold. There must have been a ton of stuff on it, piled six or seven feet high.

“Mummy,” said the girl, “come meet the Simmonses. Dad…”

With a big, friendly smile the man came over to Daddy and shook hands—Charlotte could have sworn that he, too, took a quick look at the mermaid—and said, “Hey! How are you? Jeff Amory!”

“Billy,” said Daddy. That was all he said: “Billy.” Charlotte was mortified. The man shot a glance at Daddy’s gray work pants. Charlotte shot a glance at Mr. Amory’s khakis and at Mrs. Amory’s dress. To a girl from Mars, or Sparta, North Carolina, they were dressed essentially the same as her parents. So what was it about them—

Mr. Amory was greeting Momma, saying, “How are you? Jeff Amory!” Then he turned to Charlotte, pulled his head back, beamed a big smile, opened his arms as if coming across a long-lost friend, and said, “Well—you must be Charlotte!”

Charlotte couldn’t think of what on earth to say, and so she just said, “Yes, sir,” and felt like a child.

“This is quite a day,” said Mr. Amory. “Are you ready for all this?” He swept his hand toward the windows, as if to take in the whole campus.

“I think so,” said Charlotte. “I hope so.” Why couldn’t she come up with anything more than this juvenile politeness?

“When I was starting out as a freshman here—”

“In the Dark Ages,” said his daughter.

“Oh, thank you, dear. See what a respectful roommate you have, Charlotte? Anyway, as I recall”—he aimed a wry smile at his daughter—“through the fog of my Alzheimer’s onset”—he beamed once more at Charlotte—“is that it’s big, or it seemed big to me at the time, but you really get used to the place very quickly.”

Beverly’s mother was saying to Daddy, “How do you do? Valerie Amory. It’s so nice to meet you. When did you arrive?”

Before Daddy could say anything, Mr. Amory said, “Oh, brother. Let’s see where we’re gonna put all these things.”

He had turned around and was talking to the young man who was tending the dolly…tall, slender, athletic looking…sun-bleached brown hair brushed down just slightly over his forehead. Charlotte took in every detail. The dolly bore an enormous heap of…stuff.

Mrs. Amory was greeting Momma. She took her hand and said, “Mrs. Simmons…” with a smile, a deep look into the eyes, and an inflection that bespoke a sympathetic if inexplicable confidentiality. “Valerie Amory. This is such a pleasure.”

“Why, thank you, Valerie,” said Momma, “it’s just real nice to git the chance to meet you all! And you can call me Lizbeth. Most everbuddy does.”

Out the corner of her eye, Charlotte caught, or thought she caught, Beverly staring at her waist-high denim shorts.

“Beverly,” Mr. Amory said, “you sure you didn’t for get anything?” He stared at the mound of things on the dolly and shook his head and then smiled at Momma and Daddy. He surveyed the room and said to his daughter, “Where do you think you’re gonna put all this?”

From the graphics on the cartons, Charlotte could make out a kitchenette refrigerator—that was the really big box—a microwave, a laptop computer, a fax machine, a digital camera, an electric toothbrush, a television set…

Mrs. Amory had turned to Charlotte and, clasping her hand with both of hers, was saying, “Well…Charlotte.” She brought her face closer to Charlotte’s and peered profoundly into her eyes. “We’ve been so anxious to meet you. I can remember this very day so well myself. It wasn’t here, it was at Wellesley, and I’m not going to tell you when! But four years from now”—she snapped her fingers—“you’ll wonder where on earth—”

“Oh, Dad,” Beverly was saying, “you have to worry about everything. Just put it anywhere. I’ll take care of it.”

Mrs. Amory turned abruptly to Beverly and said, “Hah hah hah, darling.” Then she said to Momma, “I hope Charlotte’s better organized than—”

A thump on the floor—“Oh, shit!” said Beverly.

Everyone turned toward her. She was already stooping over to pick up her cell phone. She stood up again and, surprised by the silence, looked about quizzically. Charlotte saw Mrs. Amory glancing sideways at Momma, who looked like she had turned to stone. If anyone had said Oh, shit in her presence in her house—anyone—Momma would have let her know she had no mind to tolerate it.

Mrs. Amory forced a laugh and, smiling and shaking her head, said, “Beverly…did I just hear you say, ‘Oh, darn’?”

Beverly obviously didn’t know what she was talking about. Then it dawned on her, and she opened her eyes wide and put her fingertips over her lips in the classic attitude of mock penitence.

“Oops,” she said, looking about and misting the air with more effusions of irony. “Sorry.” Without skipping a beat, she turned toward the handsome young man in the mauve T-shirt who was beginning to unload the dolly. “Just anywhere…Ken.” She gave him a coquettish smile. “I’m terrible with names. It is Ken, isn’t it?”

“Just anywhere?” said Mr. Amory. “You’ll need a loft for just anywhere.”

“Kim,” the young man said.

“Anhh…I thought I heard Kim, but I just didn’t—I’m Beverly.” It seemed to Charlotte that she looked at him a couple of beats longer than necessary before continuing in a small but somehow flirtatious voice, “What year are you?”

“I’m a senior. All of us”—he gestured toward the trolley—“are seniors.”

Mrs. Amory had turned back to Daddy, eager to change the subject to…any subject, and Boring be damned. “I’m sorry, when did you say you arrived?”

“Oh, ’bout half hour ago, I reckon.”

“You live in the western part of North Carolina.” She smiled. Charlotte thought she noticed her eyes dart ever so quickly to the tattoo.