Broken Ground by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

saw her, standing at the entrance to the Student Union, flanked by two clearly smitten fellows, she captured my affection. “Ruth Warren! Comrade in arms!” she cried, abandoning the boys and running down the steps to where I stood. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you, and finally, here you are! Why, you’re wearing exactly the same cute blouse as in the photo on our dorm room door! How smart of you, to make it so easy for me to pick you out in a crowd!” I didn’t mention that I don’t have many blouses to choose from; Helen figured that out soon enough.
    Now she drops her messy bouquet of flowers on top of my desk, scattering leaves and petals across my book and papers, then sashays over to her closet and takes a crystal vase from a shelf. She goes to the little sink in the corner of our room and fills the vase with water, then returns to my desk and carelessly arranges the flowers, tossing broken-stemmed and wilted castoffs to the floor.
    â€œIt’s homecoming.” She says this almost as an aside as she dusts my cup of tea with a lily’s pollen.
    â€œI’ve heard.” I take the carnation from behind my ear, breathe in its spicy scent, plunk its stem into my tea, and then bury my nose in my textbook again. I will be prepared for Monday morning’s exam. It’s my most important class, Introduction to Educational Practices. I don’t want to disappoint myself or the teacher, a man by the name of Professor John Tobias, who is nearly as charismatic as Helen—at least to me—but for entirely different reasons. Professor Tobias radiates intelligence. He’s taught me more about teaching in this past handful of weeks than I dreamed I’d ever know. Helen, who’s in his class with me, says I hang on his every word. She, on the other hand, hangs on his every physical feature. His good looks, she’s told me, are the reason why Introduction to Educational Practices is the one class she never skips.
    She gives the flowers a final fluff. “It’s the biggest game of the year.”
    â€œAnd that holds some appeal?”
    Helen ignores me. “Last night’s spaghetti supper, fine. You were allowed to miss that. But not this.” She sets the flowers on top of her dresser, then returns to her closet and takes down one of my favorites of her many, many articles of clothing—a belted blue dress that is both too short and too fully cut for Helen but fits me just right. She lays the dress across my unmade bed. “There is only one freshman year, and it has only one homecoming football game. You will attend. There’s an open dorm afterward, and I’ve told everyone the best party is happening right here in our room.” She dusts her hands together as if every problem has just been solved. “It’s a kind of mountain-and-Mohammed setup, don’t you know. Go to the game and join the party, Ruth. You might as well. Or soon enough, the party will come to you. I don’t care if you’re still in your nightgown. I don’t care if this room is still a pigsty. I’ll make you join in, one way or another.”
    Heaven help me, I’m eyeing that dress. Its beautiful color makes everything else look dreary, dull, and drab. Everything but Helen and her bouquet of flowers. I force my gaze back to the book; the words swim before my eyes. “I need to study.”
    â€œ If you come to the game, Ruth,” Helen blithely continues, “I will spiff this place up while you get dressed. That way you won’t be embarrassed. Because, unlike me, who couldn’t care less about the state of things, you will suffer acute shame when our slovenliness is made public. I know you will, and you know you will. Might as well give in.”
    In the face of hard times, keep a neat house, Mother always said. Monday, Wash; Tuesday, Iron —I’ve let things go. Shucks, if Helen isn’t right. I don’t want