Word: tells
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...tell where all that tuition goes? A much larger chunk than one might expect flows into supplying undergraduates with bookshelves and pillows (yes, those pillows). Harvard spends a tremendous amount on the furniture its students trip over on the way through each other's walk-throughs. And although they replace the items only every 25 to 50 years, perhaps they still spend too much...
...trip from the Quad to the Yard, annoyed and disappointed. It was at this very moment of bitterness toward Harvard when the conundrum of the pre-frosh experience became clear to me, distilled into two essential truths: (1) this weekend, with its tours, jams and bashes would not really tell me anything about what my experience at Harvard would be like, and (2) I had no alternative but to make my decision based upon this weekend. Up until this point I had been hoping for a striking epiphany that would reveal to me the place I was meant...
...clutching hug as always--confounding me as usual, for it seems so obvious that they only live three T stops away and across the river. "How is school?"..."How are your classes?"..."How are your friends?" Normal questions, the same old routine. Then, "There's something I need to tell you." Her hands stretched out across the table as I fiddled with soggy Sweet and Low wrappers. "Pop's score went up. They had to do a bone scan to see if the cancer had spread...
...mother's lips tautening, she told me that it was back. Reality had struck again, abruptly invading my college utopia. And Pop couldn't even bring himself to tell me in person--he had thought I was so happy at Harvard. "And we've known this for a few months," she was continuing. "We just wanted you to start school happy." I felt disgusting. I was the selfish daughter who hadn't even contemplated a return to this sickness--I was just reveling in the petty glories of being a careless freshman girl. I was worried about boys and chem...
...couldn't do chem and wasn't having fun and couldn't get good grades and couldn't get along with Mom--everything, except how much I wanted him to stay alive. What is wrong with me, I kept thinking, that I can't tell my father how scared I am that he'll disappear? How his strong rower's body will shrivel up and his mind will lose all the things he knows about science and Churchill and art and boats. And how my mother will be alone. Me too. I still can't look him straight...