Queen of Babble Read Online Free PDF Page A

Sprague,” I hurry to say. “That was so thoughtful of you. But you really didn’t have to.”
    “I know,” Dr. Sprague says. She looks, as always, coolly professional in a red linen suit. Although I’m not sure that particular red is the right color for her. “I was wondering if we could talk privately for a moment, Elizabeth?”
    “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 onMTV 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 readany of the materials from the department?”
    “Of course I did,” I say defensively. “I mean…most of it, anyway.” It was all soboring .
    “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 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    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