Casey had not forgotten. Their senior year, she had promised Virginia during a reunion, where Casey was working as a bartender for some arthritic class of alumni, that she would go to exactly one P-rade with her in exchange for Virginia keeping her company that evening. Casey had no wish to be present at the annual alumni march with its orange-and-black regalia. But you couldn’t welsh on a deal.
Jane Craft was awake at the early hour, fussing about what her daughter, Virginia, was wearing to P-rade.
“Casey Han, don’t you think that’s a touch indecent?” Jane asked as soon as Casey walked into the apartment. Casey could see the source of complaint in the distance from the open door of the kitchen where Virginia stood. She wore an orange-and-black Pucci bikini top, a low-cut sheer shirt, and a pair of black shorts. She was busy attaching a lengthy tiger’s tail on her rear. Virginia was still in terrific shape.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaah!” Virginia squealed at the sight of her friend. She clattered toward Casey in her orange mules and hugged her as tight as she could. “You’re here! You’re here! You always come through. I knew it! I knew you’d come!” Virginia jumped up and down.
Mrs. Craft couldn’t help smiling at her irrepressible daughter. She might have been twenty-seven years old, but she had the exact mannerisms of how she’d been at five. Neither she nor her husband, Fritzy, were like Virginia temperamentally, and for that unmitigated liveliness—as she and her husband aged and their lives grew deadly quiet—Jane Craft was increasingly grateful.
Casey hugged Virginia back. It had been too long. In the past four years, she had turned down Virginia’s many invitations to Italy, because of money or school or work, and now she wished she’d gone to see Virginia sooner. It felt so good to be with her friend.
Jane turned to Casey, her vexed tone reflecting more resignation than authority. She had always hoped the even-tempered Korean roommate would have a sobering influence on her fanciful daughter. Today, Casey looked older than Virginia, not physically as much as in her expression. Her eyes appeared weary, and she had lost some weight, making her face more vulnerable, her collarbones more pronounced. Less attractive, Jane thought.
“Casey Han, you must put some sense into our Virginia. She cannot possibly walk around campus this way.”
Casey had been put in this spot before.
“Mrs. Craft, may I please have a glass of water?” Casey asked brightly, sounding more sixteen than twenty-six.
“Oh, heavens, yes.” Jane Craft went to the other side of the kitchen. “Would you like something to eat?”
“No, no, thank you.” Casey scowled at Virginia, feeling like a louse for diverting poor Mrs. Craft.
“Nice work, Han,” Virginia mouthed, winking. She finished attaching her tail.
Mrs. Craft gave Casey a glass of ice water, and she drank it. When she was done, she walked over to the sink to put away her empty glass. When she got back, her friend grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen door.
“Mama Jane”—Virginia kissed her mother on both cheeks—“we’re off.”
Casey waved at Mrs. Craft, appearing helpless. It was rude to dash off this way, but neither had any interest in staying there much longer.
The twenty-fifth reunion class, the leader of P-rade, looked ridiculous but happy in their orange-and-black plaid button-down shirts and Panama hats. They formed the largest group heading out from FitzRandolph Gate, with the oldest classes marching behind, the younger ones following. Streams of old men passed by the crowds wearing tiger-striped jackets and straw boaters with matching hatbands. There were old men waving happily from golf carts and motorized wheelchairs. The spry ones carried jokey placards on wooden sticks bearing messages like SEEN EVERYTHING. DONE EVERYTHING. REMEMBER NOTHING. Wives and grandchildren marched alongside them. Would she ever be so thrilled to march with her friends across campus? Maybe if you were near ninety and doing well enough to attend this, that was something to be joyous about. Casey was twenty-six years old, but she didn’t feel anything close to happiness.
Life seemed difficult and uncertain to her, despite the gleeful crowds and the seventy-two-degree cloudless weather. Besides, she’d never seen herself as the proud alumna type. She’d worn a white shirt and white pants, because for the life of her, she couldn’t remember where she’d put her orange beer jacket that had been distributed her senior year. Virginia had lost hers, too. Her friend cheered the locomotive at the older classes, and Casey joined along: “Hip! Hip! Rah! Rah! Rah! Tiger! Tiger! Tiger! Sis! Sis! Sis! Boom! Boom! Boom! Bah! Ninety-three! Ninety-three! Ninety-three!” The thirty-fifth reunion class returned the locomotive.