Sometimes—more often than not—he thought that Rachel and her classmates were just playing at being caring and open-minded, at noticing that there was a world wider than them, their college, their peers. They’d experience poverty in two-hour chunks twice a month, like it was a movie they were going to see or a TV show they were watching, something they’d click off or walk out of when it was done, something they sat through just so they could talk about it with everyone else who’d seen it and had something to say.
That night, Andy hung around the dining hall, hoping that another one of Rachel’s friends would let him through. No luck, which was a shame. Not only was the dining hall lovely, with its soaring ceilings and stained-glass windows, but the food was incredible. Different flavors of frozen yogurt every night, a once-a-week sundae bar with all the toppings, vegetarian options, and cold cereal, if you didn’t like what was for dinner. On his campus, there were choices, but not that many, and the dining hall was modern, all sharp angles and glass; not ugly, but not anything like this. Once a month, there’d be a formal night. The chefs and servers (all African American, Andy had noted) would dress up in tuxes, or black dresses and frilly white aprons, and serve crab Newburg, steamship round of beef, surf and turf with lobster tail and filet mignon. At his first formal dinner, Andy had eaten until his stomach stretched his waistband, and was wondering if he could slip a few filets into his backpack for the trip back home, when one of the servers, a middle-aged woman with a round face, had shyly slipped him a foil-wrapped package filled with steaks. Was it that she hadn’t recognized him and knew he went to a different school . . . or was it that she’d recognized that he was half black (which not everyone did) and wanted to do something nice for him? He’d wondered about it.
By seven o’clock he was back in Rachel’s room, showered and shaved and in his rented tuxedo, watching Rachel do her makeup again. The Smiths played on her stereo—Andy had thought it was a blessing when she’d finally moved on from Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey, except Morrissey’s moaning was even worse. The house smelled like perfume and sweet, fruity drinks, like cigarette smoke and a little bit like vomit when he passed an open bathroom door. The Gammas hadn’t been able to come up with an Arabian cocktail, so they were serving Zombies, made with pineapple juice and maraschino cherries and three different kinds of booze. Because he was bored, Andy started flipping through the Gamma handbook, which was on Rachel’s bedside table. He read from the text out loud. “‘For recruitment, your hair has to be curly or straight. No waves.’ Why no waves?” he asked, and Rachel said, “Looks sloppy.”
Andy kept reading. “ ‘You will either need to have a curling iron (for our curly gals) or a flat iron (or a blow-dryer if you have pin-straight, flat hair and you’re super good with hair so you can blow your hair out). Don’t count on other girls letting you borrow theirs or doing your hair for you because then your friend won’t have time for herself. Note: if you have straight hair and you want to wear it curly, don’t. Your hair needs to be able to hold for fifteen-hour days and hair-spray-crunchy or limp hair is not acceptable. Also, get some heat protectant and shine spray.’ ”
At her vanity, Rachel lifted a bottle of each of the substances in question and waved them triumphantly. Her breasts shivered with the motion. Andy wondered if they’d have time for a quickie before the dance, then resigned himself, knowing that Rachel would refuse, on the grounds that it would ruin her makeup.
“This is crazy,” said Andy. “You know that, right?”
“Keep reading,” said Rachel.
“ ‘If you have bangs, they need to be styled correctly. If they’re long and you’re afraid they’re going to be in your face the whole time, get some bobby pins that match your hair color . . . ’ Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did,” Rachel said, through a mouth filled with bobby pins.
“My mom could make a fortune here,” Andy said. “I mean, do the girls really need someone to explain to them how to use hair spray?”
Rachel sighed. “I know that you don’t see it this way, but we’re helping them. Because, whether you want to admit it or not, looks matter. What if you were applying for a job, and no one told you that your hair looked bad, or that your lipstick was all wrong?”
“They’d hire you anyway, if you were the most qualified?” Andy ventured. In an ideal world, anyhow. In the real world he wasn’t so sure. How would he be treated at Oregon, for example, if he weren’t a runner, if he didn’t have a ready-made group of friends, built-in status?