“Of course,” I say. “Mom, Dad, if you’ll excuse us. Maybe one of you can help Grandma find the Hallmark Channel? Her show is on.”

“Oh God,” my mother says with a groan. “Not-”

“You know,” Grandma says, “you could learn a lot from Dr. Quinn, Anne-Marie. She knows how to make soap from a sheep’s guts. And she had twins when she was fifty. Fifty!” I hear Grandma cry as Mom leads her toward the den. “I’d like to see you having twins at fifty.”

“Is something wrong?” I ask Dr. Sprague, guiding her into my parents’ living room, which has changed very little in the four years since I’ve been living in a dormitory more or less down the street. The pair of armchairs in which my mom and dad read every night-him, spy novels, her, romance-are still slipcovered against Molly the sheepdog’s fur. Our childhood photos-me looking fatter in each consecutive one, Rose and Sarah slimmer and more glamorous-still line every inch of available wall space. It’s homey and threadbare and plain and I wouldn’t trade it for any living room in the world.

With the possible exception of the one in Pam Anderson’s Malibu beach house, which I saw last week on MTV Cribs. It was surprisingly cute. Considering.

“Didn’t you get my messages?” Dr. Sprague wants to know. “I’ve been calling your cell all morning.”

“No,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been busy running around helping Mom set up the party. Why? What’s the matter?”

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Dr. Sprague says with a sigh, “so I’ll just say it. When you signed up for the individualized major, Lizzie, you did realize one of the graduation requirements was a written thesis, didn’t you?”

I stare at her blankly. “A what?”

“A written thesis.” Dr. Sprague, apparently seeing by my expression that I have no idea what she’s talking about, sinks with a groan into my dad’s armchair. “Oh God. I knew it. Lizzie, didn’t you read any of the materials from the department?”

“Of course I did,” I say defensively. “I mean…most of it, anyway.” It was all so boring.

“Didn’t you wonder why, at commencement yesterday, your diploma tube was empty?”

“Well, sure,” I say. “But I thought it was because I hadn’t finished my language requirement. Which is why I took both summer sessions-”

“But you had to write a thesis, too,” Dr. Sprague says, “summarizing, basically, what you learned about your field of concentration. Liz, you haven’t officially graduated until you turn in a thesis.”

“But”-my lips feel numb-“I’m leaving for England day after tomorrow for a month. To visit my boyfriend.”

“Well,” Dr. Sprague says with a sigh, “you’ll have to write it when you get back, then.”

It’s my turn to sink into the armchair she’s just vacated.

“I can’t believe this,” I murmur, letting all of my book lights fall into my lap. “My parents put on this huge party-there must be sixty people out there. Some of my teachers from high school are coming. And you’re saying I’m not even really a college graduate?”

“Not until you write that thesis,” Dr. Sprague says. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. But they’re going to want at least fifty pages.”

“Fifty pages?” She might as well have said fifteen hundred. How am I going to enjoy having English breakfast in Andrew’s king-size bed knowing I have fifty pages hanging over my head? “Oh God.” Then a worse thought hits me. I’m no longer the first of the Nichols girls actually to finish college. “Please don’t mention this to my parents, Dr. Sprague. Please.”

“I won’t. And I’m really sorry about this,” Dr. Sprague says. “I can’t imagine how it happened.”

“I can,” I say miserably. “I should have gone to a small private college. In a huge state university, it’s so easy to get lost in the shuffle and turn out not to have actually graduated after all.”

“But an education at a small private college would have cost you thousands of dollars, which you’d have to be worrying about paying back now,” Dr. Sprague says. “By attending the huge state university in which your father works, you got a superior education for absolutely nothing, and so now, instead of having to get a job right away, you can flit off to England to spend time with-what’s his name again?”

“Andrew,” I say dejectedly.

“Right. Andrew. Well.” Dr. Sprague shoulders her expensive leather purse. “I guess I’d better be going now. I just wanted to drop by to give you the news. If it’s any comfort to you, Lizzie, I’m sure your thesis is going to be just great.”

“I don’t even know what to write it on,” I wail.

“A brief history of fashion will suffice,” Dr. Sprague says. “To show you learned something while you were here. And,” she adds brightly, “you can even do some research while you’re in England.”

“I could, couldn’t I?” I’m starting to feel a little better. The history of fashion? I love fashion. And Dr. Sprague is right-England would be the perfect place to research this. They have all sorts of museums there. And I could go to Jane Austen’s house! They might even have some of her clothes there! Clothes like they wore in Pride and Prejudice on A amp;E! I loved those clothes!

God. This might even turn out to be fun.

I have no idea whether Andrew is going to want to go to Jane Austen’s house. But why wouldn’t he? He’s British. And so is she. Naturally he’s going to be interested in his own country’s history.

Yeah. Yeah, this is going to be great!

“Thanks for coming by personally to deliver the news, Dr. Sprague,” I say, getting up and showing her to the door. “And thanks so much for the book light, too.”

“Oh,” Dr. Sprague says, “don’t mention it. I shouldn’t say this, of course, but we’re going to miss you around the office. You always made such a splash whenever you’d show up there, in one of your, um”-I notice her gaze drop to the macaroni necklace and my paint-splashed dress-“unusual outfits.”

“Oh,” I say with a smile. “Well, thank you, Dr. Sprague. Any time you want me to find you an unusual outfit of your own, just stop by Vintage to Vavoom, you know, over in Kerrytown-”

Just then my sister Sarah bursts into the living room, her anger over the tomato ratatouille incident apparently forgotten, since she’s laughing a little hysterically. She’s followed by her husband, Chuck, my other sister, Rose, her husband, Angelo, Maggie, our parents, the Rajghattas, various other party guests, Shari, and Chaz.

“Here she is, here she is,” Sarah yells. She, I can tell right away, is drunker than ever. Sarah grabs my arm and starts dragging me toward the landing-the one we used to use as a stage, when we were little, for putting on little plays for our parents. Well, the one Rose and Sarah used to push ME onto, to put on little plays for our parents. And for them.

“Come on, graduate,” Sarah says, having a little trouble with the word. “Sing! We all want you and Shari to sing your little song!”

Only it comes out sounding like, Shing! We all want you and Shari to shing your liddle shong!

“Uh,” I say, noticing that Rose has Shari in a grip about as tight as Sarah’s on me. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” Rose cries. “We want to see our baby sister and her little fwiend do their song!” And she throws Shari hard against me, so that the two of us stumble and almost fall across the landing.

“Your sisters,” Shari grumbles in my ear, “have the worst cases of sibling envy I have ever seen in my life. I can’t believe how much they resent you because you, unlike them, did not become impregnated by a bohunk your sophomore year and have to drop out and stay home all day with drooling sprog.”

“Shari!” I am shocked by this assessment of my sisters’ lives. Even if it is, technically, accurate.

“All college gwaduates,” Rose continues, apparently unaware that she’s using baby talk while speaking to adults, “have to shing!”