Mandy Jo

I had seen you around campus. I never expected you to notice me, a nerdy first-year purposely blending into the background, but Zephyr is a small school. I would see you in the food hall or walking across the quad. Once, you opened a door for me and a group of girls from my dorm, your chivalry on display as the gaggle giggled our way out the door of the library’s extended late-night hours. We had wrapped up our Intro to Psych group project by 9:30, plenty of time to get a good night’s sleep; you and a friend were heading in for the late shift, textbooks under your arms. I would have been almost grateful, and a little relieved, to have gone unnoticed. My photo in the “meet” book was best forgotten: I had no idea the unofficial reason behind the compilation of fresh-meat faces and had made the unfortunate faux pas of submitting my senior class photo—not the professional glamour shot everyone else’s parents had seemingly sprung for (one guy, memorably, toasting a glass of wine despite his presumable eighteen years of age), but the bad-backdrop result of the school picture day assembly line, my glasses still dominating the frame. I look at that photo now, also memorialized in my senior yearbook, and can hear myself saying “Cheese!” Still, I did not know your name until I read it in print. The campus student newspaper, run by a bunch of disaffected coffeehouse hipsters, had mockingly sent staffers to provide “sports page” coverage of a typical day on the disc golf course. There you were, a perfect action shot capturing everything but your blurred hand as the photographer-in-training learned to adjust shutter speed in real time. Jordan Evans plays a round on Zephyr University’s new disc golf course. I read the whole story in the privacy of my dorm. I noticed how you escaped the reporter’s snide commentary and contributed just a single, earnest quote, “It’s a nice little study break between classes,” to the cynical sophomore’s investigatory piece into the appeal of the freshly installed course, described as a “twenty-thousand dollar bogey” elsewhere in the story. I remember thinking how charming you must be to have avoided the wrath of Tabatha Choate-Andrews’ sports satire. I sat through a history survey course with Tabatha during my first fall semester, and I was well acquainted with her penchant for injecting an inflated sense of self-importance into any possible medium. The fact that she included your quote without comment and free from her editorializing spoke highly of your ability to smooth ruffled feathers and placate self-images predicated on virtue signaling. That, or you had recognized Tabatha’s presence on the disc golf course for what it was—a hit piece—and had compensated accordingly. Either way, I liked how low-key you were, even when filtered through an angry white girl lens. The lens of the student photographer’s camera, on the other hand, was undeniably taken with you: the picture was stunning.

I. Act of Story Statement The story of a summer semester during which Kim must learn to be comfortable in her own body. II. Antagonistic Forces The antagonistic force is Kim’s own imposter syndrome—she feels she does not belong at Zephyr. The first embodiment of this we meet is Tabatha, a typical disaffected liberal arts student, chain-smoking her way through diatribes at the campus coffeehouse. In the second half of the novel, this frenemy introduces Kim to the antagonistic force’s more powerful proxy—Dr. Deborah Vasbinder-Martinez, the rock star feminist studies professor who is the actual daughter of Kim’s father figure on campus, Dr. Vasbinder, and slowly revealed as the lover of at least one student peer of Kim’s. The cool professor trope goes too far and parallels the allegations flung at the campus celebrity, Phil Stern, a fitness guru. The final form of the antagonistic force is manifested by a pre-med meathead, an upperclassman we often see in the weightroom who is known for bad behavior at parties and his loose friendship with Kim’s love interest. He embodies all the stereotypical behavior of a dumb jock in a way that contrasts with the love interest. III. Breakout Titles The Stars at Night Celestial Bodies Written in the Stars IV. Genre: Women’s Fiction (Upscale, Contemporary) Comparables: The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach, Juno & Juliet by Julian Gough, Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon, Dumplin’ by Julie Murphy, Groundskeeping by Lee Cole, aspiring toward anything by Taylor Jenkins Reid or Caroline Kepnes, nonfiction books like Let’s Get Physical, Body Work—as well as the AppleTV show Physical. V. Conflict and Core Wound Kim finds love with the big man on campus where she attends school for free as the daughter of the landscaper. VI. Inner Conflict Kim’s imposter syndrome stems from being a local on an elite campus—this is intended to be played for laughs. Her weight bothers her but does not define her. She feels insecure about her boyfriend. She seeks out father figures on campus without meaning to. Her female friendships can be complicated. Secondary (Social) Conflict example: There’s a scene in the weight room where Kim steps into her power in a way that physically intimidates a smaller woman, whom Kim refers to as a “twig”: Tabby, who is overly verbose and has anorexic tendencies that are condemned without moralizing. Tertiary (Inner) Conflict example: Kim receives an email from her boyfriend with an attachment: a photo he surreptitiously took of her during their tortured round of disc golf on campus. In it, she looks warriorlike and strong, providing a new way of thinking about herself. She compares this photo to one of her boyfriend that appeared in the campus newspaper, noting how they bookend and even complement each other. VII. Setting Many people romanticize college because it was the last time they lived in a walkable community. This tendency to perambulate thoroughly powers the plot and has been integral to the story from the beginning. The reader first meets the narrator as she walks around campus on the last day of finals. The small liberal arts campus is based on every campus in central Texas, most heavily influenced by the burned-out shell of a 19th century college. Elements of all these schools, including geography and history, create a conglomerate fictional campus that feels real. The on-campus housing complex, known as the Triangle, is central to the story; sharp-eyed readers will see the campus map takes a familiar shape, but this is never explicitly spelled out. The school is named Zephyr—the campus mythology is purposefully vague, but Zephyr is also the name of a real-life tiny town just to the west of the fictional campus. The land used to be a plantation, which is factual for the history of the area and the problematic nature of many college campuses—stolen land cultivated by slave labor. The fact that Kim’s mother is a landscaper is potent, as native plants begin to take root on campuses that rely on green grass to court football donors and golfers. This background information seeps in through Kim’s work-study job as a campus tour guide. Conflict happens on boundary lines, and Zephyr has them all: country lanes, cemeteries, a small cliff, a river, a highway, and the gentle slope down into town. The town-gown divide is a rich seam, and Kim mines both sides of this (as do a few other characters, we will learn). The story also has literal cinema: a fictional movie was filmed in the fictional town in the 90s. Every college town has a similar claim to fame, and the Zephyr film contains echoes of all the familiar movies.