After that, I rarely spoke to Shannon or Mary and they rarely spoke to me, except to remind me to do my share of the chores, which I never did. The apartment looked fine to me. So what if there were rotting peaches in the fridge and dirty dishes in the sink? So what if the smell slapped you in the face when you came through the door? To my mind if the stench was bearable, the house was clean, and I extended this philosophy to my person. I never used soap except when I showered, usually once or twice a week, and sometimes I didn’t use it even then. When I left the bathroom in the morning, I marched right past the hallway sink where Shannon and Mary always — always — washed their hands. I saw their raised eyebrows and thought of Grandma-over-in-town. Frivolous, I told myself. I don’t pee on my hands.
在那之后，我很少和香农或玛丽说话，她们也很少和我说话，除了提醒我做分内的家务，而我从未做过。公寓在我看来挺好的。冰箱里有腐烂的桃子，水槽里有脏盘子，那又怎样？一进门有一股异味扑面而来，那又怎样？在我看来，只要臭味可以忍受，房子就算干净，我还把这种哲学延伸到我个人身上。除了每周洗一两次澡，我从不用香皂，有时连洗澡时也不用。早上我从卫生间出来，径直越过走廊的洗手池，而香农和玛丽总是——一直——在那里洗手。看到她们挑起眉毛的震惊表情，我想起了城里外婆。真是小题大做，我暗想，我又不会尿在手上。
The atmosphere in the apartment was tense. Shannon looked at me like I was a rabid dog, and I did nothing to reassure her.
公寓里的气氛很紧张。香农看着我，好像我是一条患了狂犬病的狗，而我并未采取什么行动让她放宽心。
My bank account decreased steadily. I had been worried that I might not pass my classes, but a month into the semester, after I’d paid tuition and rent and bought food and books, I began to think that even if I did pass I wouldn’t be coming back to school for one obvious reason: I couldn’t afford it. I looked up the requirements for a scholarship online. A full-tuition waiver would require a near-perfect GPA.
我的银行存款日渐减少。我一直担心通不过课程考试，但开学一个月，在付了学费和房租、买了食物和书后，我开始考虑即使通过考试以后也不会回来上学了。原因显而易见：我上不起。我上网查了申请奖学金的要求。学费全免需要近乎完美的GPA[4]。【注：[4]GPA（Grade—Point Average），平均分数。】
The real trouble, however, was Western Civ. To me, the lectures were gibberish, probably because for most of January, I thought Europe was a country, not a continent, so very little of what the professor said made sense. And after the Holocaust incident, I wasn’t about to ask for clarification.
然而，真正的麻烦来自西方文明课。对我来说，这门课一度是胡言乱语，可能是因为在一月的大部分时间里，我都以为欧洲是一个国家，而不是一块大陆，所以教授的话在我听来几乎讲不通。“大屠杀”问题事件之后，我就不再问问题了。
I was only a month into the semester, but even so I knew a scholarship was comically out of reach. American history was getting easier, but only in that I was no longer failing the quizzes outright. I was doing well in music theory, but I struggled in English. My teacher said I had a knack for writing but that my language was oddly formal and stilted. I didn’t tell her that I’d learned to read and write by reading only the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and speeches by Joseph Smith and Brigham Young.
学期虽然只过了一个月，但我也知道获得奖学金简直是天方夜谭。美国历史课变得越来越容易，但只不过是我不再挂科而已。我的音乐理论成绩还不错，英语课却很吃力。老师说我有写作的才能，但我的语言出奇地拘谨和生硬。我没有告诉她，我仅仅凭借阅读《圣经》、《摩门经》以及约瑟夫·史密斯和杨百翰的演讲学会了阅读和写作。
Even so, it was my favorite class, because of Vanessa. We sat together for every lecture. I liked her because she seemed like the same kind of Mormon I was: she wore high-necked, loose-fitting clothing, and she’d told me that she never drank Coke or did homework on Sunday. She was the only person I’d met at the university who didn’t seem like a gentile.
尽管如此，我还是最喜欢这门课，因为凡妮莎。每次上课我们都坐在一起。我喜欢她，因为她似乎和我属于同一摩门教派：她穿高领宽松的衣服，她还告诉我她从不喝可乐，星期天也从不做作业。她是大学里我遇到的唯一一个看上去不是异教徒的人。
The windows were shuttered; the projector flickered on, displaying a painting. We had sixty seconds to write the work’s title and the artist’s full name. My mind produced only a dull buzz. This continued through several questions: I sat completely still, giving no answers at all.
百叶窗关上了；投影仪闪烁着，放映出一幅画。我们有六十秒的时间写出这幅作品的标题和艺术家全名。我的大脑只发出一阵沉闷的嗡嗡声。一连几个问题都是如此：我完全一动不动地坐着，根本不知从何作答。
In February, the professor announced that instead of a single midterm he would be giving monthly exams, the first of which would be the following week. I didn’t know how to prepare. There wasn’t a textbook for the class, just the picture book of paintings and a few CDs of classical compositions. I listened to the music while flipping through the paintings. I made a vague effort to remember who had painted or composed what, but I didn’t memorize spelling. The ACT was the only exam I’d ever taken, and it had been multiple choice, so I assumed all exams were multiple choice.
二月，教授宣布，他不再进行一次性的期中考试，而是每月一考，第一次考试将于接下来的一周进行。我不知道如何准备。这门课没有教科书，只有画册和几张古典音乐CD。我一边听音乐，一边翻看画册。我费力地记忆画家和作曲者，但我没有记住名字的拼写。大学入学考试是我参加过的唯一一次考试，全部是多项选择题，所以我以为所有考试都是多项选择题。
The morning of the exam, the professor instructed everyone to take out their blue books. I barely had time to wonder what a blue book was before everyone produced one from their bags. The motion was fluid, synchronized, as if they had practiced it. I was the only dancer on the stage who seemed to have missed rehearsal. I asked Vanessa if she had a spare, and she did. I opened it, expecting a multiple-choice exam, but it was blank.
考试那天上午，教授让每个人都拿出蓝皮书。还没等我弄明白蓝皮书是什么，大家都从包里拿出一本。动作一气呵成，不约而同，像经过彩排一样。我看上去像是舞台上唯一错过彩排的舞者。我问凡妮莎有没有备用的，她说有。我打开蓝皮书，以为里面都是选择题，却发现一片空白。[5]【注：[5]蓝皮书考试（blue book exam）是美国中学教育后常见的一种考试类型，通常包括一篇或多篇论文或简答题。有时，老师会在考试之前给学生提供一份论文题目列表，然后选择一个出题，或让学生从两个或两个以上题目中自行选择。】
I knew the painting was by Caravaggio but I remembered only the surname and even that I couldn’t spell. I was certain the title was Judith Beheading Someone but could not have produced Holofernes even if it had been my neck behind the blade.
我知道这幅画是卡拉瓦乔的作品，但我只记住了他的姓，甚至连姓我也不会拼写。我确定标题是《朱迪思砍下某人的头颅》，但即便是刀架在我的脖子后面，我也拼写不出“霍洛芬斯”这个名字。
A Caravaggio flickered onto the screen — Judith Beheading Holofernes. I stared at the image, that of a young girl calmly drawing a sword toward her body, pulling the blade through a man’s neck as she might have pulled a string through cheese. I’d beheaded chickens with Dad, clutching their scabby legs while he raised the ax and brought it down with a loud thwack, then tightening my grip, holding on with all I had, when the chicken convulsed with death, scattering feathers and spattering my jeans with blood. Remembering the chickens, I wondered at the plausibility of Caravaggio’s scene: no one had that look on their face — that tranquil, disinterested expression — when taking off something’s head.
屏幕上出现一幅卡拉瓦乔的作品——《朱迪思砍下霍洛芬斯的头颅》。我盯着那幅画，上面一个年轻的女孩平静地将一把刺穿男人脖子的剑抽出，就像从奶酪里抽出绳子一样。我和爸爸一起砍过鸡头，我抓着脏兮兮的鸡腿，而爸爸举起斧子，重重一下砍掉鸡头。接着我将鸡抓得更紧，用尽所有力气，而鸡抽搐着死去，羽毛散落一地，血溅到我的牛仔裤上。想起那些鸡，我暗自揣摩卡拉瓦乔画中场景的合理性：砍掉别人脑袋时，人的脸上怎么会有那种表情——那种无比平静，事不关己的表情。
Thirty seconds left. Perhaps I could score a few points if I could just get something — anything — on the page, so I sounded out the name phonetically: “Carevajio.” That didn’t look right. One of the letters was doubled up, I remembered, so I scratched that out and wrote “Carrevagio.” Wrong again. I auditioned different spellings, each worse than the last. Twenty seconds.
还剩三十秒。也许我只要在纸上写点儿东西——管他什么东西——就可以得分。所以我按照读音写上了“Carevajio”，但看上去不对劲。我记得有一个字母是双写，所以我把它划掉，写上“Carrevagio”[6]。还是不对。我又试了几种不同的拼法，但一次比一次差。只剩二十秒了。【注：[6]正确的拼写是“Caravaggio”。】
I glanced at Vanessa’s paper a few more times during the exam but it was hopeless. I couldn’t copy her essays, and I lacked the factual and stylistic know-how to compose my own. In the absence of skill or knowledge, I must have scribbled down whatever occurred to me. I don’t recall whether we were asked to evaluate Judith Beheading Holofernes, but if we were I’m sure I would have given my impressions: that the calm on the girl’s face didn’t sit well with my experience slaughtering chickens. Dressed in the right language this might have made a fantastic answer — something about the woman’s serenity standing in powerful counterpoint to the general realism of the piece. But I doubt the professor was much impressed by my observation that, “When you chop a chicken’s head off, you shouldn’t smile because you might get blood and feathers in your mouth.”
考试期间，我又偷瞥了几次凡妮莎的答题纸，但是没戏。我不能抄她的论文，可我又缺乏基本的知识和文体技巧，不知道如何撰写自己的文章。在这种情况下，我一定是把想到的一切都写下来了。我不记得考题是否要求我们评价《朱迪思砍下霍洛芬斯的头颅》，但如果是的话，我肯定会写下如下印象：女孩脸上的淡定与我杀鸡的经历不符。如果语言准确，这很可能是一个绝妙的答案——女人的平静与作品的现实主义风格形成强烈反差。但我怀疑我的答案能否给教授留下深刻的印象：“砍鸡脑袋时，你不应该微笑，因为嘴里可能会溅上鲜血和羽毛。”
Next to me, Vanessa was scribbling steadily. Of course she was. She belonged here. Her handwriting was neat, and I could read what she’d written: Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. And next to it, in equally pristine print, Judith Beheading Holofernes. Ten seconds. I copied the text, not including Caravaggio’s full name because, in a selective display of integrity, I decided that would be cheating. The projector flashed to the next slide.
在我旁边，凡妮莎还在不停地答题。当然了，她属于这里。她字迹整齐，我能清楚地看见她所写的内容：米开朗基罗·梅里西·达·卡拉瓦乔。在名字旁边，同样漂亮的字迹写着：《朱迪思砍下霍洛芬斯的头颅》。还剩十秒。我抄下了答案，不过出于一种选择性的诚信，我没有写卡拉瓦乔的全名，因为那样就是作弊了。投影仪一闪，展示下一张幻灯片。
The exam ended. The shutters were opened. I walked outside and stood in the winter chill, gazing up at the pinnacles of the Wasatch Mountains. I wanted to stay. The mountains were as unfamiliar and menacing as ever, but I wanted to stay.
考试结束了。百叶窗打开了。我走到室外，站在冬日的严寒中，凝望着瓦萨奇山脉的峰顶。我想留下。群山依旧陌生而险恶，但我想留下来。
I waited a week for the exam results, and twice during that time I dreamed of Shawn, of finding him lifeless on the asphalt, of turning his body and seeing his face alight in crimson. Suspended between fear of the past and fear of the future, I recorded the dream in my journal. Then, without any explanation, as if the connection between the two were obvious, I wrote, I don’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to get a decent education as a child.
我等了一个星期的考试结果，在此期间我两次梦见肖恩，梦见我发现他躺在柏油路上生命垂危，梦见我把他翻过身，看见他的脸被鲜血染红。我悬浮在对过去和未来的双重恐惧中，我将这个梦写进了日记。接下来我写道：我不明白为什么我小时候不被允许接受良好的教育。我没有解释为什么这么写，就好像两者之间的关联显而易见。
The results were handed back a few days later. I had failed.
几天后考试结果出来了。我没有通过。
One winter, when I was very young, Luke found a great horned owl in the pasture, unconscious and half frozen. It was the color of soot, and seemed as big as me to my child eyes. Luke carried it into the house, where we marveled at its soft plumage and pitiless talons. I remember stroking its striped feathers, so smooth they were waterlike, as my father held its limp body. I knew that if it were conscious, I would never get this close. I was in defiance of nature just by touching it.
有一年冬天，那时候我还年幼，卢克在牧场上发现了一只大角猫头鹰。它几乎冻僵了，昏迷不醒。它通体烟灰色，在儿时的我眼中，体型和我一般大。卢克将它带回屋里，我们惊叹于它柔软的羽毛和无情的利爪。我记得父亲抱着它软绵绵的身体，我抚摸着它那光滑如水的条纹羽毛。我知道，如果它是清醒的，我永远无法如此靠近它。触摸自然的生灵，是对它天性的违背。
Its feathers were soaked in blood. A thorn had lanced its wing. “I’m not a vet,” Mother said. “I treat people.” But she removed the thorn and cleaned the wound. Dad said the wing would take weeks to mend, and that the owl would wake up long before then. Finding itself trapped, surrounded by predators, it would beat itself to death trying to get free. It was wild, he said, and in the wild that wound was fatal.
它的羽毛被鲜血浸透了。一根刺扎穿了它的翅膀。“我不是兽医，”母亲说，“我只给人治病。”但她帮它拔掉了刺，清洗了伤口。爸爸说翅膀需要几个星期才能恢复，而猫头鹰在此之前会醒过来。如果它发现自己被困或被捕食者包围，为了获得自由，它会将自己拍打至死。他说，那是一种野性，可在野外那样的伤口是致命的。
We laid the owl on the linoleum by the back door and, when it awoke, told Mother to stay out of the kitchen. Mother said hell would freeze over before she surrendered her kitchen to an owl, then marched in and began slamming pots to make breakfast. The owl flopped about pathetically, its talons scratching the door, bashing its head in a panic. We cried, and Mother retreated. Two hours later Dad had blocked off half the kitchen with plywood sheets. The owl convalesced there for several weeks. We trapped mice to feed it, but sometimes it didn’t eat them, and we couldn’t clear away the carcasses. The smell of death was strong and foul, a punch to the gut.
我们将猫头鹰放在后门旁边的油毡上，等它醒来时，我们让母亲离厨房远点。母亲说就算地狱冰封了，她也绝不会把厨房让给一只猫头鹰，然后便大步走进厨房开始做早餐，弄得锅碗瓢盆叮当作响。猫头鹰可怜地扑腾着，惊慌地用爪子抓门，拍打自己的脑袋。我们哭了，母亲退了出去。两小时后，爸爸用胶合板将一半厨房围了起来。猫头鹰在那里休养了几周。我们诱捕老鼠来喂养它，但有时它不肯吃，我们也没有将死老鼠扔掉。死亡的气味强烈而恶臭，像一拳打在肠子上，令人作呕。
I wanted to tell someone I’d failed the exam, but something stopped me from calling Tyler. It might have been shame. Or it might have been that Tyler was preparing to be a father. He’d met his wife, Stefanie, at Purdue, and they’d married quickly. She didn’t know anything about our family. To me, it felt as though he preferred his new life — his new family — to his old one.
我想找个人倾诉考试不及格的事，但不知为何，我不敢给泰勒打电话。可能是因为羞耻感，也可能是因为泰勒要当爸爸了。他在普渡大学结识了妻子斯蒂芬妮，两人很快就结婚了。她对我们家一无所知。在我看来，他似乎更喜欢他的新生活——比起原来的家庭，他更喜欢新的家庭。
“Don’t know,” said Dad. “Might as well ask the Lord as me, as He’s the one deciding.” He chuckled, then asked, “How’s school?”
“不知道，”爸爸说，“不妨问问上帝，因为上帝才是决定一切的人。”他笑了笑，然后问：“在学校还好吧？”
I called home. Dad answered. Mother was delivering a baby, which she was doing more and more now the migraines had stopped.
我给家里打电话，是爸爸接的。母亲正在接生孩子，现在她的偏头痛好了，接生的活儿也越来越多。
The owl grew restless. When it began to refuse food, we opened the back door and let it escape. It wasn’t fully healed, but Dad said its chances were better with the mountain than with us. It didn’t belong. It couldn’t be taught to belong.
猫头鹰变得焦躁不安。它开始拒绝进食，于是我们打开后门，将它放生了。它还没有完全痊愈，但爸爸说，它和大山在一起比和我们在一起更好。它不属于这里，也不能教它属于这里。
“When will Mother be home?” I said.
“母亲什么时候回家？”我说。
Dad and I hadn’t spoken since he’d screamed at me about the VCR. I could tell he was trying to be supportive, but I didn’t think I could admit to him that I was failing. I wanted to tell him it was going well. So easy, I imagined myself saying.
自从因为录像机的事爸爸朝我大吼大叫后，我和他就再没说过话。我能感觉到他试图支持我，但我不能向他承认自己的失败。我想告诉他一切都很顺利，想象自己对他说：这里的生活易如反掌。
“If there’s no scholarship, there’s no scholarship,” he said. “Maybe I can help with the money. We’ll figure it out. Just be happy, okay?”
“没有奖学金就没有奖学金，”他说，“钱的方面也许我能帮上忙。我们会解决的。开心点儿，好吗？”
“Okay,” I said.
“好。”我说。
“Not great,” I said instead. “I had no idea it would be this hard.”
“不太好，”我说，“我没想到会这么难。”
“It won’t,” I said. “There will be no scholarship. I’m not even going to pass.” My voice was shaky now.
“不会的，”我说，“我拿不到奖学金。我甚至连考试都过不了。”我的声音颤抖起来。
The line was silent, and I imagined Dad’s stern face hardening. I waited for the jab I imagined he was preparing, but instead a quiet voice said, “It’ll be okay, honey.”
电话那头一阵沉默，我想象父亲严肃的表情变得僵硬。我等待着想象中他正酝酿的一击，但只有一个平静的声音说：“会没事的，宝贝。”
“Come on home if you need.”
“需要的话你就回家吧。”
I hung up, not sure what I’d just heard. I knew it wouldn’t last, that the next time we spoke everything would be different, the tenderness of this moment forgotten, the endless struggle between us again in the foreground. But tonight he wanted to help. And that was something.
我挂了电话，不太确定刚才听到了什么。我知道这不会持续下去，下一次我们说话的时候，一切都会不一样，此刻的柔情将被遗忘，我们之间会再次上演无休止的斗争。但今晚他想帮我，这就够了。
In march, there was another exam in Western Civ. This time I made flash cards. I spent hours memorizing odd spellings, many of them French (France, I now understood, was a part of Europe). Jacques-Louis David and François Boucher: I couldn’t say them but I could spell them.
三月，西方文明课又进行了一次考试。这一次我做了记忆卡片。我花了好几个小时记忆奇怪的拼写，其中很多是法语（我现在知道法国是欧洲的一部分），比如雅克－路易·大卫和弗朗索瓦·布歇。虽然我不会发音，但我能将它们拼写出来。
I tried to read from my notes but the sentences were incomplete, scrambled. “Don’t worry about your notes,” Vanessa said. “They aren’t as important as the textbook.”
我试着辨认我的笔记，但句子不完整，杂乱无章。“别担心你的笔记，”凡妮莎说，“它们没有教材重要。”
“I don’t have a textbook,” I said.
“我没有教材啊。”我说。
“The textbook,” Vanessa said. She laughed as if I were being funny. I tensed because I wasn’t.
“那本教科书啊。”凡妮莎说。她笑了，好像我在开玩笑。我很紧张，因为我没有开玩笑。
My lecture notes were nonsensical, so I asked Vanessa if I could look at hers. She looked at me skeptically, and for a moment I wondered if she’d noticed me cheating off her exam. She said she wouldn’t give me her notes but that we could study together, so after class I followed her to her dorm room. We sat on the floor with our legs crossed and our notebooks open in front of us.
我的课堂笔记乱七八糟毫无意义，于是我问凡妮莎能否借她的笔记看看。她满腹狐疑地看着我，有那么一刻我想她是否已经注意到了我在考试中抄她的答案。她说笔记不能借我，但我们可以一起复习。于是下课后我随她来到她的宿舍。我们盘腿坐在地板上，打开笔记摆在面前。
“What textbook?” I said.
“什么教材？”我说。
“Oh that,” I said. “I looked at that.”
“哦，那个啊，”我说，“我看了看。”
“You looked at it? You didn’t read it?”
“你看了看？你没有读过吗？”
I stared at her. I didn’t understand. This was a class on music and art. We’d been given CDs with music to listen to, and a book with pictures of art to look at. It hadn’t occurred to me to read the art book any more than it had to read the CDs.
我盯着她。我不明白。这是一门关于音乐和美术的课程，我们有音乐CD听，还有一本美术画册看。我从来没有想过要去读美术书，就像不会去读CD。
“Sure you do!” She held up the thick picture book I’d used to memorize titles and artists.
“你当然有！”她举起那本厚厚的图册，我一直用它来记忆作品和艺术家的名字。
“So when the syllabus assigned pages fifty through eighty-five, you didn’t think you had to read anything?”
“这么说教学大纲指定阅读第五十页到第八十五页，你不觉得得去读点儿什么吗？”
“I looked at the pictures,” I said again. It sounded worse the second time.
“我看了那些画。”我又答道。这些话第二次听上去更糟糕了。
“I thought we were just supposed to look at the pictures.” This sounded stupid when said aloud.
“我以为我们只需看看那些图画就行。”我的话听上去很愚蠢。
“That’s your problem then,” she said. “You have to read the textbook.” As she said this, her voice lilted with sarcasm, as if this blunder, after everything else — after joking about the Holocaust and glancing at her test — was too much and she was done with me. She said it was time for me to go; she had to study for another class. I picked up my notebook and left.
“那就是你的问题了，”她说，“你必须读课本。”她说这话的时候，语气轻快，略带嘲讽，仿佛在经过其他所有事——经过“大屠杀”的玩笑和偷看她的试卷——之后，这个错误未免太过分，让她不再想和我有什么瓜葛。她说我该走了，她得学习下一科目了。我拿起笔记本便离开了。
Vanessa began thumbing through the book, which suddenly looked very much like a textbook.
凡妮莎开始翻阅这本书，突然间它看上去像一本教科书了。
“Read the textbook” turned out to be excellent advice. On the next exam I scored a B, and by the end of the semester I was pulling A’s. It was a miracle and I interpreted it as such. I continued to study until two or three A. M. each night, believing it was the price I had to pay to earn God’s support. I did well in my history class, better in English, and best of all in music theory. A full-tuition scholarship was unlikely, but I could maybe get half.
“读课本”被证明是极佳的建议。下一次考试我得了B，到了期末，我一直得A。这真是一个奇迹，我只能这样解释。每天晚上我都学习到凌晨两三点，相信这是为赢得上帝的支持不得不付出的代价。我的历史课成绩优异，英语比原来好多了，音乐理论学得最好。虽然不太可能获得全额奖学金，但也许我可以拿到一半。
During the final lecture in Western Civ, the professor announced that so many students had failed the first exam, he’d decided to drop it altogether. And poof. My failing grade was gone. I wanted to punch the air, give Vanessa a high five. Then I remembered that she didn’t sit with me anymore.
最后一堂西方文明课上，教授宣布说第一次考试中有太多同学不及格，他决定不将那次考试的成绩计入总分。噗。我的不及格分数就这样作废了。我真想和凡妮莎击掌庆祝，然后我才想起，她早就不和我坐在一起了。
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