I'm reading Commencement, the debut novel by J. Courtney Sullivan. I first heard about Commencement last summer, when a friend read it on her way to Italy, and emailed a group of us when her flight landed. She said that she had never read such an honest and accurate portrayal of female friendship, and that the book made her think of us. After devouring Commencement over the past few days, I understand why. Commencement is the story of four women- Celia, Bree, Sally and April- who meet during their freshman year at Smith College, the all-women's school in Northampton, Mass. The novel begins four years after graduation when the friends, now 26, return to Northampton for Sally's wedding. Bree- a southern belle and third-generation Smithie- is a lawyer in San Francisco. April- a self-proclaimed "vegan, anarchist, and lover of sixties folk music"-is working for a militant feminist filmmaker. Celia, an aspiring writer, is slugging it out at a Manhattan publishing house. And Sally, the bride, whose mother died of breast cancer shortly before her first day at Smith, works in the Boston office of NOW. Sullivan writes each chapter from the perspective of one of the four friends, and much of the plot occurs during flashbacks to college. The women share similar anxieties about family, relationships, and life after Smith, but Sullivan does a great job developing each character's voice, and infuses the novel with spot-on observations about how women relate to each other. "Truly beautiful women were always complimenting average-looking women on the strangest qualities," observes Celia. "Oh, I'd kill for your small feet. Your coloring is divine." At Smith the women have a handful of tribulations, but they happen on a grand scale. They all graduate Phi Beta Kappa, but no one pulls an all-nighter or has a meltdown before finals. Instead, Sally has an affair with her poetry professor. Celia is raped by a Dartmouth undergrad. Bree breaks off her engagement to her high school sweetheart, and then falls in love with a woman. With each crisis, the women retreat to each other. We get the feeling that they're not yet fully formed, and they don't mind. In the cozy womb of Smith, they're in no rush to assert their independence. Post-graduation, Sullivan captures the awkward and often painful transition to adulthood. The women have a brutal fight during Sally's wedding weekend ("What had once seemed like genuine care and concern had now turned ugly-they could not stop judging, comparing.") and stray from each another as they build their own lives. But after April disappears while making a documentary about prostitution, the women reconnect and their bond of "Smith Sisterhood" is even stronger. I'm close to Sullivan's age, and much of Commencement rings true to me, particularly her description of post-college life: "They recognized that they were the first generation of women whose struggle with choice had nothing to do with getting it and everything to do with having too much of it-there were so many options that it felt impossible and exhausting to pick the right ones." My mother, who didn't have the myriad of professional options that both delight and paralyze me, may not have described her generation the same way. But I think that she and women of any age-whether you've never heard of Gloria Steinem, or helped pave her way-could relate to Sullivan's moving tribute to the power of female friendship. Commencement filled me with nostalgia and appreciation-for my own alma mater; for the heartbreak, and self-discovery and education that occurred there; and for the incredible friendships it produced. Helen Coster is a staff writer at Forbes and member of the New York Salon of Women Writers.