They’re going to make me room with some boring girl who refuses to go out, and loves statistics, Lauren was convinced.
Lauren had been icier than a Chicago winter to Lexie the first few weeks they lived together. They were taking Statistics One together, and Lauren’s stress was palpable.
“How can they call this ‘a friendly yet comprehensive introduction to statistics’?” Lauren asked in their dorm room, her voice rising. “It’s not a puppy. Data mining? Quantitative strategies? Really?”
“Let me help you,” Lexie said one night. Lauren could tell her roomie was trying to calm her down.
“I’m good,” Lauren replied. “I’m not Suze Orman, like you.”
“You know what?” Lexie had said. “I’m done. You don’t want help. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to get to know me. You just want a pity party. Fine. I’m outta here.”
And, with that, she gathered her stuff and left, slamming the door behind her.
Frustrated, Lauren had begun to paint. Slowly, a little girl in a spinning inner tube emerged, a storm approaching on the horizon over the lake.
Lauren had fallen asleep at one in the morning and woke to find Lexie studying her painting.
“You never wanted to major in business, did you?”
Lauren had shaken her head and collapsed into tears.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Lexie said. “Please.”
From that moment, the two had become inseparable. After Lauren shared with her grandmother how helpful Lexie had been to her, Lolly had sent the girls charms of two puzzle pieces, one that said “Best” and the other “Friends,” which they wore religiously.
“Guess I can’t avoid the inevitable any longer,” Lauren said, shaking her head, bringing her back into the present. “Wanna go somewhere to cram with me?”
“Sure. Let me get ready first, okay?”
“For what?”
“I’m single again,” Lexie said. “I can’t go out looking like this.”
“Hurry up, then,” Lauren replied, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail and tying a light jacket around her waist.
“You don’t have to do anything, do you?” Lexie sighed, heading into the bathroom that united their suite with the girls next door. “Give me five minutes, okay?”
Lauren shook her head and took a seat on her bed, knowing five minutes in Lexie’s world meant twenty in real time.
She stared at the painting. I miss my grandma. Why does life always get in the way? Lauren felt her cell vibrate in her pocket and yanked it from her jeans.
Meet me for a late lunch? her mother texted.
Getting ready to study for econ final with Lexie. I can do really late lunch. 3?
OK. Meet me under Marilyn. Love you!
K. Me, too.
Lauren stopped and then began to text again.
Did you get a charm from Grandma, too?
Yes. A Mad Hatter.
I’m a little worried about her.
Lauren’s heart raced as she thought of her grandmother so far away. Then her mother texted: Me, too. We’ll talk.
Lauren chuckled. “Talks” with her mother were often more Judge Judy than conversation.
“Ready?” Lauren grabbed her purse and waited for Lexie.
“A few more minutes,” Lexie said. “Hair’s not cooperating.”
Lauren fell backward onto her tiny bed, and glanced at her grandmother’s note. The sun glinted through her dorm window and shined on the painting of her grandmother, her face seeming to radiate an internal light.
Three
May 2014—Arden & Lauren
The statue of Marilyn Monroe towered over Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, her skirt blowing skyward in the Windy City’s late spring breeze.
There were endless restaurants and landmarks downtown where Arden could have met her daughter—Water Tower, Millennium Park, Navy Pier—but the twenty-six-foot, lifelike sculpture of the actress and her scene on the subway grate from The Seven Year Itch captured for eternity somehow seemed right to Arden today.
Arden looked up at the shimmering stainless steel and aluminum mega Marilyn and thought of her shinier, bigger than life mother and her too small hometown.
Things haven’t quite worked out as perfectly as I thought they would.
Arden sighed, thinking of Van and her job.
She walked directly between Marilyn’s legs and patted her giant, strappy heel.
Sorry, Marilyn, Arden mumbled to the sculpture. I feel like I get paid to look up celebrities’ skirts.
She took a seat on a concrete step facing the sculpture, as tourists leaned against the statue’s legs and pointed up for the quintessential photo.
“Is she…?” a heavyset, elderly husband and wife with rosy faces and fanny packs asked Arden.
“Yes.” Arden smiled patiently. “She’s wearing panties.”
“Would you mind…?” the cherubic-looking couple asked Arden at the same time.
“Sure,” Arden said, standing to reach for the outstretched digital camera. “Smile!”
The couple pointed their fingers up Marilyn’s skirt and laughed uneasily.
“That’s a keeper,” Arden said.