 
### THE ROCK STAR'S HOMECOMING

by

Linda Gould

Smashwords Edition

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Published on Smashwords by:

Linda Gould

The Rock Star's Homecoming

Copyright 2010 by Linda Gould

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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### Chapter One

She's perfect. She's what all of us—even the grinds in the dorm who hardly ever take their noses out of their books—would love to be. It's like she was born to glide down a carpeted runway with a crown on her head. She's got it all—honey blonde hair with perfect dips and curls, large bust and small waist, a model's height and grace. And she knows how to show it off. Look at the way she choreographs those halftime pom-pom routines to feature her own legs.

I admire her a lot. I diet and bleach my hair to try to look just a little bit like her. But the truth is, I don't like her. She's so superior, sometimes to the point of rudeness. She thinks she's the busiest, most put-upon girl on campus, with her endless committee meetings. Nobody around here really likes her. My friend Imogene, who's an English major, nicknamed her "Supercilia." A group of fat slobs on the hall, who're really not my friends, have made a point of spreading that name around. I don't come up with things like that myself—I'm just plodding little Carolyn, not exactly a deep thinker. But I love the name because it fits.

She'll be elected Homecoming Queen for sure, because of her regality, if that's a word. Hell, I may end up voting for her myself. She's such an obvious choice. It's just that—I wouldn't mind seeing her crash to earth afterward. I'm no psych major, so I can't really explain this feeling. Her perfection, I guess, is just too—perfect. Sometimes I imagine what that gorgeous face would look like all bruised and battered. It chills me, but it intrigues me too.

There've been threats made against her, and I guess they're serious. Rumors are flying around everywhere, which goes to prove I'm not the only person with feelings like that. I'm no political science major either, but if something bad should happen to her, it would be almost a revolutionary act. What else do you call it when people turn on the very girl they picked as their ideal and try to tear her down? If you ask me, it's not a question of who would do it. It's more like, who'll get there first?

Imogene knew that a showdown was in the offing with her boyfriend, Steve, when he kept her waiting over an hour for their Thursday night date, and didn't bother to call with an excuse. She had heated up pizza in the basement kitchen for a late evening snack to go with the two bottles of beer that were staying cool on the window ledge, well concealed from the housemother's snooping eyes. She had sliced the pizza with a carving knife "borrowed" from the cafeteria—a small perk of her menial campus job.

Now the pizza lay sodden and greasy on paper plates, and Imogene had downed her own beer, wishing it were something harder. Too upset to sit down and study, she put on the _She Moves Me_ album by the Sunburst, Glendary College's homegrown rock band, and paced the room as if propelled by lead singer Jake Murphy's gravelly voice. She picked up the album jacket and studied the rock star, who seemed to stare back. He looked larger than life, although he was wearing the same psychedelic T-shirt, gold necklace, and gold earring of his pre-fame days.

"Where've you been?" she demanded when Steve came in at eleven—almost too late to talk or eat or do much of anything before the eleven thirty curfew at Mary Ellen Clemens dormitory. His non-committal answer and spacey-eyed look disturbed her further. He ignored the pizza but took his beer and chugged it down.

"Where're your roommates?" he asked, eyeing Imogene's bed.

"Who knows? They probably won't be home for hours. Lately they've started sneaking through the basement window after midnight, if they come in at all."

Imogene paused to get her resentment under control. "I know Sara likes to hang out in the

Baltimore clubs, sitting in with the house bands. She's Jake Murphy's sister, after all. And Emily—she practically lives at the drama department. She's planning to make a movie or something in collaboration with a certain favorite professor."

Imogene's anger level rose. Her roommates were too busy and too important on campus to be real acquaintances of hers, much less friends. Her life was pedestrian compared to theirs. She had no marital prospects after she graduated next spring, other than this increasingly scruffy, inattentive boy whose ponytail was beginning to exasperate her.

Even her choice of music was likely to cause an argument these days. Steve always belittled her for preferring the Sunburst's first album, with its romantic themes. He insisted that the more inflammatory second album, _Glowing Strings_ , made the first seem like kindergarten stuff. As he fiddled with his zipper and smiled vaguely, Imogene's temper boiled over. She turned off the music and faced him.

"Listen, there's something we've gotta get straight right now. Homecoming weekend is two weeks away. Are you taking me to the dance or not?"

"I haven't given it any thought."

"Well, give it some, right now," said Imogene. "It's our last Homecoming as students here, and the biggest dance of the year. A date for Homecoming shows at least some kind of commitment."

"Who told you that?" Steve smirked. "Some pom-pom waver?"

"Nobody had to tell me that," said Imogene. "It's traditional."

She caught herself, but too late to avoid sounding like a ninny to her own ears. Since when had she been the typical bubble-headed coed who agonized about dates for the big dances and aspired not to leave college without the prospect of a "Mrs." degree? She felt she was meant for bigger things; still, she knew the subject of Homecoming dates would heat up as soon as the first-floor Clemens women gathered for their next afternoon bull session.

Why did they still have to endure such nonsense ten years after Gloria Steinem had passed through Glendary on her historic tour of college campuses? In the decade since 1971, this small college nestled in the Appalachian foothills had experienced marijuana, the pill, anti-war demonstrations sparked by a leftist preacher, and Jake Murphy's riot-making music. Yet nothing had shaken the typical coed's obsession with her hope chest.

Imogene raised her voice as she pressed her point, although she feared her nearest neighbors might overhear. On one side lived Eva and "Weird" Lila, members of the local "God Squad." Eva, nicknamed Sermonette by the local wags, worried about her hallmates' souls and was always holding impromptu prayer meetings. Lila, who tried to play hymns (or praise songs, as the religious kids called them) on an acoustic guitar, had an unnerving habit of lurking silently. On the other side lived Carolyn, known as the "Walking Cliché," Imogene's best friend in the hall but something of a busybody. Thanks to her, news always traveled fast whenever a girl fought with her boyfriend. Nevertheless, Imogene demanded a commitment from Steve.

"Do we have to talk about this now, at fifteen minutes to curfew? It takes me almost that long to get the fucking condom on." Steve jerked his head toward the bed.

"Watch your language. And since you mention it, it seems to me that ever since we figured out how to do it, there's been too much quickie fucking in this relationship and not enough communication."

"You know I'd be worthless to you at the dance." Steve attempted a jocular tone. "Didn't I practically break your foot last year?"

"That was a sensuous pain." Imogene almost smiled, and then recalled how serious she was. "Are you afraid to slow-dance with me in public, Steve? Is that it? Slow-dancing doesn't take any dancing skill, but it does take some romantic skill."

"If you must know, I have no plans to go to the dance except as an observer. I'm gonna sit as close to the stage as I can and study the musicians' techniques."

"Oh, now I get it," said Imogene. "You'll be doing a research project on the power of rock and roll. Or maybe you've decided to be one of those longhaired freaks who always gather in front of the stage like they're at a revival meeting. What's the deal, Steve? You studying to be a roadie now instead of a lawyer?"

"Maybe I'll be a roadie lawyer. Anything wrong with that? And as long as you've decided you wanna go traditional, here's a suggestion. Try crashing the football players' elite section in the dining hall. If you could convince one of those hulks to take you to the dance, your girlfriends on this hall would go green with envy."

"It's too late to snag one of them," said Imogene, although the idea intrigued her. "I've wasted too damned much time on you."

"Don't say wasted." Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom in a small square wrapper. "I taught you the basics of sex. You're not very good at it, but at least you're not a virgin anymore. Here." He tossed the condom at her. "Use this on your next conquest."

How dare he throw away their relationship like that? Imogene picked up one of the drained beer bottles, sitting on her desk next to the cold pizza, and threw it at Steve's head. The bottle flew past his shoulder and hit the closed door.

Steve looked startled but put on a quick grin. "That time of month?"

Imogene picked up the second bottle with greater conviction and even eyed the knife stuck in the pizza. Just as she was coming to her senses, a knock sounded on the door.

"Must be the witching hour," said Steve. "Old Lady Mason is here to flush me out."

"Shut up, she'll hear you." Imogene almost chuckled in spite of herself. "Old Lady" somehow described the twenty-five-year-old housemother, who had received her master's degree in education from Glendary College only last spring. She had been hired to supervise the Clemens women on the apparent theory that they would relate better to an authority figure who was almost one of them, at least in age. Imogene raised her voice and called, "Come in."

Lynne Mason tried to open the door but couldn't. "Would you please take off the chain?" she yelled. A chain on the door before bedtime was a tip-off that sex was going on.

Once Imogene let her in, Ms. Mason surveyed the scene with her bespectacled eyes. She frowned at her watch and then at the couple.

"It's still a couple of minutes till curfew," said Steve, showing her his own watch.

"You're cutting it close," said Ms. Mason, eyeing the beer bottles. The one lying on the carpet seemed to startle her. Imogene realized it had cracked when it hit the door. She hadn't known her own strength.

Despite her annoyance at being disciplined, Imogene felt a kinship with the housemother that frequently perplexed her. Lynne Mason was usually apologetic about enforcing the rules, yet could grow steely if her dignity was threatened. It reminded Imogene of her own conflict between coed frivolity and studiousness.

"I'm sorry about this," said Imogene, motioning Steve out the door. "He was just leaving."

"I was just leaving," said Steve over his shoulder.

In the silence after her boyfriend's departure, which felt permanent, Imogene picked up the bottle next to the door and studied it as if someone else had thrown it. Ms. Mason stood by with folded arms, awaiting an explanation.

"I guess we lost our tempers," said Imogene. "Sorry about that."

"Try not to let it happen again," said the housemother. She seemed to be appraising the bottles to determine if they had been drained. How like her, thought Imogene, to chide someone for violating the drinking policy while sidestepping the issue of violence.

Imogene was preparing to say something in self-defense when the housemother backed off. It was her habit to let her charges off on technicalities, especially when the evidence was circumstantial. She had seen empty bottles, but she had not actually seen anyone drinking. "I'm sure you'll keep the rules in mind," she said. "Good night." She turned and disappeared down the hall.

Imogene was not ready to call it a night. The circumstances demanded that she find a shoulder to cry on. Almost none of the residents went to bed before midnight, and there was no telling who might have overheard the argument and drawn her own conclusions. She quailed at the thought of telling Eva or Lila, who would advise her to ask the Lord for forgiveness and guidance. That advice had been known to backfire—hadn't she petitioned the Lord for a boyfriend at one of those prayer meetings, and wound up with Steve? True, he had been a blessing for a year or more, but shouldn't an omnipotent God have had more long-range foresight? Telling Carolyn might not be so pleasant either. The Walking Cliché had started to get agitated about the approaching Homecoming festivities, and might consider it a major calamity that Imogene had jeopardized her chance for a date.

Where could she find the style of sympathy she needed? Imogene left her room and proceeded down the hall, drawn by the sound of clinking Coca Cola glasses. Betty and Shelley would be home as always, watching _The Tonight Show_ while munching a snack. Imogene didn't believe either of them had had a date since freshman year, when this late night snacking habit had begun. Some nights they hosted a group of nondescript women like themselves, a crowd that Shelley herself had nicknamed "the Greek Chorus," underlining their lack of real roles and separate voices on campus.

"What's your idiot boyfriend done now?" asked Betty, seeing Imogene's distraught face. This stern English teacher-in-training always advised Imogene to drop Steve. Shelley, a less judgmental art major, served as Betty's ironic echo. She patted Imogene's shoulder and offered to salve the wound with popcorn and Coke.

Imogene described the quarrel with relish as she ate and drank. Shedding a few tears, she proclaimed her liberation. Betty and Shelley backed her up, declaring, "You can do better than that creep."

"What did you ever see in him in the first place?" demanded Betty.

"He used to be nice." Imogene's eyes welled up again. Intolerable as he seemed to her now, Steve had been her soul mate.

"What's with the ponytail, anyway?" asked Shelley. "He was a clean-cut guy when he first started coming here."

"I've heard the atmosphere in the men's dorms has deteriorated." Schoolmarm Betty spoke with authority for someone who never ventured into those places. "Their resident officials never enforce any rules. A double standard, if you ask me."

"Poor Lynne Mason at least tries to enforce a few, for our own good," said Shelley.

"Everybody knows about Boulder dorm. Hunk City is also drunk city," said Betty. "They party all week long, and it peaks on Saturday nights after football games. Sizemore dorm is a different world—a drug market. The hippies there hate sports and just about everything else, except rock music."

"I've spent time in Sizemore," said Imogene, "and not everybody there is a drugged-out freak. In fact, I've never seen a single drug deal go down."

"That's because it's all underground, you dork," said Shelley. "It's the part of the sixties revolution that hangs on and on."

"Maybe you just haven't wanted to see things like that," added Betty, "in case your boyfriend is involved."

Her companions seemed so familiar with every nook and cranny of campus life that Imogene feared they were right. She couldn't wait to cleanse Steve from her life. "Do you know what the jerk suggested I should do about the Homecoming dance? Pick up some football player in the dining hall and ask him to take me."

The women began to discuss such an audacious act as if it were a possibility. We must be drunk on this cola, thought Imogene.

"The football players are mostly jerks," said Betty, "but at least they don't do drugs."

"Not anymore," said Shelley. "Remember when the Sunburst used to play every weekend in Boulder lounge? The football team didn't win too many games that season—until the band got expelled."

Imogene perked up. She heard herself say, "I wonder if the Sunburst will ever come back to Glendary."

"Again with the Sunburst," said Betty. "You're so obsessed with Jake Murphy and his crew, I'm surprised you haven't left college to be one of his groupies."

"No, thanks. That's not the lifestyle I'm looking for," said Imogene. "It's just that some of Jake's songs really speak to me. They've pulled me through some tough times."

Betty and Shelley groaned. Imogene didn't know if they thought she exaggerated the band's importance or her own struggles.

"The Sunburst has affected us all in various ways," insisted Imogene, "whether we realize it or not."

"Oh, sure," said Betty. "We all remember that critique you wrote of their latest album in the _Campus News_ last spring. You treated the lyrics like holy scripture."

"Plus, you overlooked the dark side," said Shelley. "Your fellow intellectuals could've told you, not all the fire imagery in _Glowing Strings_ is metaphorical."

"They practically advocated blowing up the administration building while they were still here," said Betty.

"That was mostly the girl Jake married," said Shelley. "A gorgeous ringleader of the campus left."

"I think Marianne's reformed since her radical days," said Imogene. "She's become rich as Mrs. Murphy. And there's a baby on the way."

"Hopefully, that'll short-circuit her singing career," said Betty. "I never thought her so-called harmonies did much for Jake's music."

"She's just trying to add a touch of chaos." Imogene knew this artistic point would be tough to sell. "The best thing about the Sunburst," she added, "is their rags to riches story. That's the path a lot of us would like to follow."

"Please, Imogene," said Betty, "don't try to make us believe you're struggling up from poverty. That may be your father's story, but now he owns the biggest chunk of countryside west of campus. If he makes you work for your spending cash, it's no big deal. Most of us aren't rich bitches. Shelley and I work campus jobs too."

"You both have cushy office jobs," said Imogene, grappling with self-pity, "while I sling hash in the dining hall."

"Oh, cut the crap," groaned Betty. "You're not some two-bit waitress living in a trailer park."

God, thought Imogene, I know I'm not. How can a fellow English major be so literal-minded? I pity Betty's future students. They'll have their imaginations strangled with spelling and grammar exercises.

"Have another Coke," offered Shelley. "I'm with you on the rags to riches bit. We can overlook the Sunburst's transgressions because they've made it. Maybe even the administration has forgiven them by now."

Imogene considered this as she sipped her Coke. Along those lines, she might try to forgive her father for insisting that she share his struggle. She might appreciate the benefits of getting up at five thirty, four mornings a week, to "sling hash" with other cash-poor students.

"Thanks for your hospitality, ladies," said Imogene, setting down her glass, "but I better hit the sack. I've got one of my early mornings tomorrow. Oh, my God," she added, as she stood up, "I just remembered. Steve is scheduled to work breakfast too."

"So what if he is?" Betty's store of sympathy had run out with the last of the Coke.

"Just try to restrain yourself from beaning him with a frying pan," advised Shelley. "You don't want to get too much of a violent reputation. Your father is dangerous enough."

"Oh, that's a—" began Imogene, but gave up. It was too late at night to try to dispel this myth.

Shelley grinned to let her know she was kidding. "You just gotta face the music," she said. "Yeah, 'Face the Music.' There's an immortal Sunburst lyric for you."

"And it's good advice," said Imogene. Even when she was angry with Steve, she related to him better than she did to most of her hallmates. He was the son of a Baltimore bus driver and aspired to be a lawyer. She was the daughter of a farmer, and aspired to be—what? A rock journalist, or maybe a public relations executive? Regardless, a working class romance had been brewing over the soapsuds in the Glendary cafeteria. Could it be saved?

Imogene said good night to her snacking partners and returned to her room. The nightly "praise song" being sung in Sermonette's room next door was far from soothing. She barely curbed her impulse to pound on the wall.

Neither of her roommates had come home, although it was past midnight. Imogene grabbed a spiral notebook from her desk and flipped through the sporadic diary she kept there—not a narrative so much as a list of goals. Her long-range hopes seemed almost grandiose: happy marriage, perfect family, stimulating career. The marriage goal was listed first, as if the others depended on it. She had not, until now, envisioned anyone but Steve in the husband role. To calm her anxiety about him, she climbed into bed, nestled her head against the pillow, and tried to conjure up an appealing alternative. A confused image, with the body of a football player but the flowing hair and sharp profile of a rock star, teased her half-waking dream.

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### Chapter Two

Sometimes I really hate my parents. I know that would shock the whole college community, especially my jealous hallmates, if it got out. After all, they're the wonderful Palmers, everybody's ideal couple. What's not to admire about their glamorous past? Daddy was the star quarterback of the early sixties, winner of several Conference championships. Mother was head of the pom-pom squad and consensus choice for Homecoming Queen her senior year. They personified the cliché, a match made in heaven, when they walked down the chapel aisle that spring. The one blemish in that picture was well hidden—little Emily, the bun already in the oven.

Even if my creation was a little hasty, my path seemed pre-ordained. When it was my turn on campus, I cultivated the look and walked the walk of a perennial pom-pom waver and Homecoming princess. I dated a slew of guys with the potential to duplicate my father's feats. I was supposed to fall in love with and marry the one that would look best escorting me down the aisle. All my parents wanted for me was a picture-perfect wedding just like theirs.

I haven't broken it to them yet, but I've come to realize that isn't for me. Not one of the college jocks I've dated has managed to ignite the spark of ambition, the thirst for creativity that was born in me. That's my "bun in the oven," and there's only one man on campus who has ever nurtured it. I didn't meet him on the dance floor or follow his exploits on the ball field. His eyes first met mine over a lecture podium. The lesson that day was about Shakespeare, or maybe Lenny Bruce. Whatever it was, it blew away my expectations of life. As I got to know him, I lost all interest in posing for pictures myself. Under his direction, I turned a camera of my own on the hypocrisies of the world.

I know what becomes of a golden couple that lives in the past. It's the most frightening picture I've ever seen. Mother and Daddy are professional alumni who only come alive while reliving their ancient exploits at the drunken gatherings they organize. Worse, they can't conceive of any other path for me and my younger sisters. Well, I can imagine my sisters ending up like that. As for me, I've forged so far ahead, my own family doesn't know me anymore. The man I'm in love with is forbidden to me—not only a teacher, but still married, at least in name. The only way I'll pose for any wedding pictures is if I videotape my own elopement.

Imogene's self-pity continued to flourish next afternoon, when her hallmates began dropping by for the usual Friday afternoon bull session. The girls preferred gathering in the corner room since it was the most spacious in the hall. They also liked to be around in case Imogene's high-powered roommates came in.

As always in her bad moods, Imogene felt contempt for the petty jealousies that marred these discussions. The gathering itself seemed trite. On a crisp late September afternoon like this, they all should have been outside playing tennis, jogging around the track, or hiking. The clear air made the distant mountains look vivid and close; the campus seemed as peaceful as a painting. Sometimes, to shake up this somnolent picture, Imogene contemplated how it had been in the late sixties, when a bomb had exploded in the administration office where selective service records were kept. Suspicion still swirled around the left-wing Reverend Jennings, then a theology student, but the case had never been solved.

It would have been comforting to feel more like one of the girls, but what did they know of tragedy? That morning in the dining hall, Steve had greeted her briefly and then brushed past her. He had stayed in the kitchen, as far from her as possible, while she worked the serving line. She longed to confront him, but her pride would not allow it. Ever since then, her nerves had been rubbed raw from playing and replaying the scene that had never happened.

As soon as a quorum was present, Carolyn brought up the topic of dates for the Homecoming dance. "Don't forget, it's only two weeks off. How're we all doing on getting a commitment from someone?"

Discomfort with this line of questioning was evident. Betty and Shelley and the rest of the Greek Chorus, infrequent participants in the social scene, were typically sarcastic. "Guess we'll have our usual date with the popcorn machine that night," said Shelley. The lovely Christine, a pom-pom waver who had dropped in to recruit for one of her Homecoming committees, shrugged and smiled. She probably had too many guys on a string to choose one on the spot. Imogene found herself in the middle, a girl with a boyfriend who might or might not still be her boyfriend. Why did Carolyn have to turn what should be a pleasant afternoon chat among friends into a contest?

If the guys could hear us obsessing about snagging one of them for a Homecoming date, thought Imogene, they'd howl with laughter. Even those of us who're seniors are still trapped in this mindset. Seems we've never gotten around to discussing any of the items on Ms. Steinem's agenda.

But Carolyn startled Imogene as never before. "I have a reason for asking," she said. "I'm thinking of breaking up with Jack—before the dance. He's just too cocksure that he's the one taking me. Besides, all he's ever gonna be is an accountant. Bor—ing. I want to get some excitement out of life before I whither away."

Imogene regarded Carolyn with dismay. Had she overheard last night's battle with Steve and become inspired to toss aside her own sure thing? "What's this about? You got your eye on somebody better than Jack?"

"No, not really," said Carolyn. "I'd just like to look around and see what's available. Is that a crime? Or a sin?" This last was directed toward Eva, who had begun frowning as if she smelled something evil.

"What're you gonna do?" asked Imogene. "Barge into the football players' section of the dining hall and start picking them up?"

Carolyn turned red, but she giggled at the idea. Her perky roommate Annie, a promising gymnast, intervened. "Carolyn, Homecoming is supposed to be a traditional boy-ask-girl dance. You can't turn it into a 'Sadie Hawkins' thing all by yourself."

"No? And why not?" Carolyn faced Annie with simmering eyes. Imogene, contrasting these roommates, sensed that they were approaching a blowup. Their mutual boy-craziness had brought them together last year, but now their different rates of success threatened to drive them apart. There was simply no denying that Annie was prettier and slimmer than Carolyn—some might say slim to the point of anorexia—and had begun making her mark in sports. Carolyn, Imogene had to admit, was something of a plodder—pedestrian looks, ordinary student, no extracurricular activities except man-chasing. She was a sociology major who harbored vague, patronizing ideas of pursuing a career that somehow involved "helping the poor."

"Of course, my charming, gifted roommate Annie doesn't have to worry about a date for Homecoming," Carolyn announced to the room. "She's already lined up her soldier boy. Right, dear?"

Annie admitted that she had a commitment from Sidney Howe, the number one gymnast on the men's team and a ROTC officer-in-training.

"If only you were the number one woman gymnast," said Carolyn, "it would be a match made in heaven. But you're not yet, dear. You'd have to pass Sara Murphy first."

"It's about time someone passed Sara Murphy," said Betty. "She breaks curfew so routinely, she has no business representing this school in sports. But even if no one has the guts to kick her off the team, she'll do herself in eventually. Too much carousing in the city clubs."

Shelley smirked at Betty during this typical lecture. "It's only fair to warn you girls, my roommate has lately appointed herself the unofficial eyes and ears of Lynne Mason—a regular assistant housemother, sworn enemy of all curfew breakers. And we also have Sermonette, the eyes and ears of Jesus, sworn enemy of sex and most other forms of fun. Is this dorm covered with virtue, or what?"

"What's your problem?" asked Eva in an offended tone. "For your information, I have a boyfriend, and he's taking me to the dance."

"Oh yeah, I know that guy," said Shelley. "A combination ministerial student and football team mascot. Have you taught him how to slow-dance yet, or does that not jibe with the scriptures?"

An awkward silence ensued as Eva's hurt feelings crystallized into anger. Betty gave her roommate a slash-throat sign, but this only incited Shelley further.

"I guess you can say you're intimately involved with Homecoming, Eva, your boyfriend being a football cheerleader and all. He fits into that compact hawk costume very nicely. Not quite as important as being an all-American on the team, but it's something. Tell me, is it true that the hawk is some kind of Christian symbol that goes around converting people subliminally?"

"Excuse me. I've got to go study." Eva scrambled to her feet and eyed her roommate. She departed, and Lila followed, but not without casting a sorrowful glance over her shoulder.

"It's not smart to rile the local Moral Majority like that, Shelley," warned Imogene. "From what I know about them, they're not going next door to study. They're gonna be praying, hard, for our souls. I only hope they don't take it one step farther and decide to fast in our honor tonight. That might bring divine retribution down on our heads."

"They can fast themselves into anorexia for all I care," said Shelley. "Or they can put a curse on the hall so none of us will ever get dates. It won't affect my life noticeably."

"Nor mine," said Betty, "thank God. In my opinion, this dating hysteria is getting more and more shallow. Does anybody care about having a real relationship anymore? Or are those totally out of style?"

No one claimed to have experienced a "real relationship." Instead, Carolyn pursued one of her favorite themes—that to date a football player, any football player, especially around Homecoming time, was a feather in a girl's cap. Christine proclaimed that dating football players was overrated, but her air of vast experience made this sound like bragging.

"Rumor has it you're engaged to the top linebacker on the team," said Carolyn.

"Engaged to Karl Lamphere? Hardly."

Christine's casualness seemed to madden Carolyn. "Well? Is he taking you to the dance at least?"

"If I decide he is."

Here was one confident woman. As Christine reclined on a floor cushion, crossing her legs, everyone in the room seemed to take her in. With her sensuous curves, she had always been a perfect fit for the skimpy costumes worn by the pom-pom team, the Hawkettes. Now, as a senior, she also displayed the statuesque carriage and nicely coiffed, honey-colored hair of a perfect candidate for Homecoming Queen.

And a perfect target for sarcastic jibes. Whether we admit it or not, reflected Imogene, we're all in awe of a woman who can contemplate winning a beauty contest. But the bitter wits among us will find ways of skewering her. Shelley's just warming up.

"What's the matter, Chrissie? Getting too high and mighty to date a defensive player? I agree. You deserve one of those guys who actually puts points on the scoreboard."

"That's of no importance whatsoever," said Christine. "I just want a caring human being."

"And Karl the linebacker isn't?" asked Carolyn. "He's cute enough, isn't he?"

"Cute? You think that's all there is to a relationship?" Christine turned on Carolyn like an exasperated teacher.

"No. But you do look kind of perfect together," protested Carolyn.

The gathering watched in fascination as this ideal beauty frowned in a less than picturesque way, then changed the subject. "I'm really too busy to sit around all afternoon discussing my personal life. I only came in to see if anyone is interested in volunteering for the Homecoming arts committee. I'm the chairwoman, and we're building floats for the parade and decorating the Amphitheatre. If there's anybody here with some artistic ability and willingness to work, please speak up."

"I'd be willing to work, even without artistic ability." Imogene, having offered her labor, glanced around the room. "Come on, guys, I know some of you could get into this. Where's your school spirit?"

"Christine seems to have cornered the market on that," said Shelley.

"Besides," added Betty, "some of us are too busy with our senior theses and campus jobs to waste time on that silliness."

"Typical. Zero response from my own hall." Christine rose to depart. "Just forget it. I'll try upstairs."

Shocked at being rebuffed, Imogene got up too. "Chrissie, didn't you hear me just volunteer? And there're others here who I'm sure would do the same if you made an effort to encourage them. I mean, I'm no artist, but I've painted scenery for plenty of theatrical productions. And why don't you try checking out the artwork in Shelley's room? She's really good."

"She is?" Christine stopped in her tracks and regarded Shelley as if she had never laid eyes on her before.

"You don't have time to fool around with any silly arts committee," Betty told Shelley. "You're struggling enough with your real work. You haven't even decided on a thesis topic yet."

"What's to decide?" returned Shelley. "You English majors will write about suicidal poets, and I'll probably do Van Gogh."

But Shelley looked confused. Imogene reflected that she was a woman of many quips but few actions, who deferred to her roommate by force of habit. Betty was the one who had decreed that the two of them would be observers of campus life rather than participants.

Someone had to help Shelley break out. "Our honors theses aren't due till May," Imogene told Betty. "You're telling me she can't spare a few afternoons to use her art skills, get a little recognition, and help the school at the same time?"

"I'm telling you," said Betty, "Shelley might not graduate this spring if she starts fooling around with extracurricular stuff instead of concentrating on schoolwork. I know her better than any of you."

"With Betty around," said Shelley, "do I even need a mother?"

"I don't believe Shelley's any closer to flunking out than you are," ventured Imogene, without being sure.

In an instant, Imogene had made a lifelong friend and acquired at least a temporary enemy. Betty shot her a dirty look while Shelley smiled gratefully and offered to attend Christine's next committee meeting "to at least find out what's going on."

"So, Chrissie," resumed Carolyn, returning like a pendulum to her favorite theme, "are you saying Karl's so much of a pig you're ready to cut him loose? Right before the big dance?"

"I'm really not here to discuss my private life," said Christine, but she resumed her seat. "All I'm saying is Karl better not wait until the last minute to line me up. Nobody should."

"What're you gonna do about it?" Carolyn grinned hungrily. "Ask somebody out yourself?"

"If I feel like it." Christine eyed Annie, as if daring her to object again on Sadie Hawkins grounds.

It wouldn't be difficult, reflected Imogene, not for Christine. She can wink in the direction of Hunk City and draw the guys like lemmings. But what if Carolyn tries something like that? The act becomes ludicrous and undignified, something a young lady with self-respect shouldn't do.

Imogene tried to imagine herself doing it. She was no closer to beauty queen status than Carolyn, especially when she let herself go at midnight snacking time in Betty and Shelley's room. Right now she had the same limp, shoulder-length hair, borderline pimply complexion, and hips that threatened to become "Bettyish." More to the point, would she want to do it?

"What about Steve?" Carolyn asked her. "Is he lined up?"

"Hardly. I guess you didn't hear us yelling at each other last night."

Nobody had heard it, but it seemed that everyone had heard of it. A consensus developed that it was time for Imogene, too, to look around and "see what's available." As the girls weighed in, the quarrel between Imogene and Steve became a knockdown epic.

"How can you even think of dating someone who would throw a beer bottle at you?" asked wide-eyed Annie.

Imogene started to protest but thought better of it.

"It's not the beer bottle that worries me most," said Shelley. "It's the lifestyle. Lately Steve's been looking more and more like the typical Sizemore freak. They can be gentle, harmless dropout types, or they can be dangerous revolutionaries."

"Oh, come on," said Imogene. "Is Steve a dropout or a revolutionary just because he likes rock music? I like it too. My dream job would be rock journalist."

"Then pursue it," said Betty scornfully. "Ask the department if you can write your senior honors thesis on Elvis or somebody."

"That would be a better subject than some depressive poet," said Imogene. She realized that Betty, without meaning to, had given her an inspiration. "Actually, I understand where Steve's coming from. He wants to go to the dance. He just doesn't want to dance."

"He might as well stay home, then," giggled one of the nondescripts, "and dance with himself."

"You don't understand Steve," said Imogene. "He's a music fan. He'll be there, sitting as close to the stage as he can, studying the musicians and their techniques. And—I just might be there beside him."

"Wow," said Shelley, "a budding moonchild in our midst."

"If you ask me," said Christine, "those—those hippie freaks, or moonchildren, or whatever you call them, shouldn't be allowed to hog the front of the stage. I've seen them interfere with the dancers."

"It's a free country, isn't it?" said Imogene, feeling conflicted. She wasn't ready to forego all hope of dancing that night. She loved being carried away on the dance floor by unpredictable rhythms and beat. She relished the explosions of energy that fast dances could provide and the controlled passion of slow-dancing. So far only the Sunburst, in their last campus concerts two years ago, had made her feel that gamut of emotions.

She grew irritated with the continued sympathy of her hallmates. "Listen," she declared, "I'd rather be with Steve in front of the stage that night than prostrating myself trying to get some dumb-ass football player to notice me."

Carolyn was undeterred. She began to speculate on whether the quarterback or star running back was the worthiest of such prostration. Several women jumped into this debate, only to be distracted by the sound of approaching footsteps through the half-open door.

"That's one of them," announced Imogene. Everyone knew what she meant. Both of Imogene's roommates had a way of roaring up the hall like tornadoes.

If the entrance proved worthy of an actress commandeering a stage, it would be Emily. And so it was. The drama major struck a pose in the threshold as if awaiting applause. "Hello, everyone!" The gathering responded en masse.

Imogene noticed that her arrival unsettled Christine, as if the room couldn't hold two such ideal beauties. Somehow Emily blew everyone else away with her short and bouncy auburn haircut, her busty yet trim figure, a tan still un-faded in late September, and an all-encompassing friendliness. When Christine made a move to leave, Emily exclaimed, "Don't go off mad."

"I'm not mad," said Christine. "I've just got too much to do to hang out. Unless by any chance you're interested in joining my Homecoming arts committee."

"Get real. You think I have time for committees?" responded Emily.

"What exactly do you have time for these days, Emily?" Christine faced her rival, hands on hips. "For example, why did you quit the Hawkettes at the start of the season when we were supposed to be co-captains?"

"I told you before. I was tired of the amateurish choreography and silly costumes."

"How about the Homecoming court?" pursued Christine. "We're both in the group of five princesses elected by the senior class. That means we're supposed to ride in the parade and be on the field for the halftime ceremony, when one of us will be crowned Queen. You plan on following through with that?"  
"Why sweat out the final vote for Homecoming Queen?" asked Shelley. "You two could fight for the crown right here and now. I think one or both of you is capable of rearranging the other's pretty face."

"Don't be silly." Christine backed down. "It's not worth fighting over. I don't really care who's elected Homecoming Queen. I just want all the events to go off smoothly."

"Bullshit. I can tell it's supremely important to you," said Emily. "As far as I'm concerned, you can have it. I've moved on."

Imogene saw many furrowed brows around the room. Not even the cynics could imagine how a girl with a shot at the crowning glory of Homecoming Queen could have "moved on."

Annie picked up the gauntlet dropped by her roommate Carolyn, who seemed stunned. "Do you have a date lined up for the dance, Emily?"

Emily laughed outright. "I haven't had a moment to think about that. Way too much on my plate right now."

The gathering reeled. Emily had always been insanely busy and largely unavailable to her hallmates, but now she seemed almost otherworldly.

"What's this 'moving on' business?" asked Betty. "Getting ready to quit college for some fabulous new life?"

"It's called getting ready for the future," said Emily. "Time for us seniors to start letting go of college trivialities."

"And what do you consider trivial?" demanded Christine.

Emily turned her mascara-rimmed, hazel eyes on Christine. "Your choice of boyfriends, for example. Isn't Karl Lamphere supposed to be the current lucky guy? He interrupted a production meeting I was having at breakfast this morning. When he passed my table, he made a little more contact than necessary. I asked him what his problem was, and he gave me that typical football-hero leer. He suggested maybe we could bump into each other a few times at the Homecoming dance, even if he wasn't my official date."

The Greek Chorus murmured with excitement while Christine stared. Emily continued obliviously, "I thought it was my duty to remind Karl he's supposed to be your boyfriend, and what an awesome responsibility that is. He said something about variety being the spice of life and lumbered off."

"That just proves what I always knew about you, Emily, even when we were best buddies," said Christine in a barely controlled voice. "Underneath it all, you're a heartless bitch."

"Excuse me, but I thought you could handle the truth." Emily exhibited mock surprise.

"Oh, yeah? Try handling this truth," said Christine. "Everybody knows you get a kick out of stealing other girls' boyfriends even if they mean nothing to you. Maybe you need that kind of dramatic tension in your life. But I'm warning you. Don't try it with Karl."

"Try nothing," said Emily. "I swear I was eyeing two fried eggs when your guy propositioned me."

"Liar!" Christine reddened to a non-beauty-queen pitch and stepped toward Emily. She reached out as if to slap her rival, but Emily threw up a protective arm. Then Emily took the offensive, grabbing one of Christine's locks and tugging it. As the encounter escalated, the two Homecoming princesses made determined efforts to mess up each other's coiffures while the Greek Chorus oohed and aahed.

"Man, this is great. Our first catfight of the year," exclaimed Shelley.

"Stop it, right now," ordered schoolmarm Betty. "You both say you don't care about this creep, but then you erupt in fisticuffs over him."

"God, you're absolutely right." Christine sat back down, recovering her poise and her color. "What was I thinking? Half the time Karl Lamphere is a slobbering drunk, and the other half he's a cheat. He's not even worth raising our voices over. Sorry about that, Em."

"Don't mention it," said Emily, smoothing down her tumbled hair.

"Plus, he's only a linebacker." Carolyn, who watched copious amounts of football without really comprehending it, echoed Shelley's earlier argument. "If you're gonna fight over somebody, let it be the quarterback or the star running back."

"Talk about shallow," said Shelley. "But while we're on the subject, what's the dirt on Paul Claitt and Jim Guthrie? Any word from the pom-pom grapevine about who those two are taking to the dance? Enquiring minds want to know."

"They're hard to figure," said Christine, taking therapeutic breaths. "Jim's never been linked with anyone for long. He's so flaky, he might have two or three dates that night, or none at all. And Paul—well, who knows? Now that he's a big shot in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, I guess he's looking for a nice religious girl."

"But Paul's also the football team captain," said the authoritative voice of a nondescript. "That means he's supposed to go to the dance stag, so he can escort the Homecoming Queen—whoever she turns out to be."

"I've been reading about Jim Guthrie in the _Campus News,_ " said Carolyn, warming to the subject when a specific player was involved. "They say he's had something like three straight hundred-yard games without a fumble. That's pretty good, isn't it? The backup running backs barely get mentioned at all. I don't even know who they are."

"They're statistically insignificant," said an expert-sounding nondescript. "But they'd be a lot more your speed if you're serious about dating a football player."

"What're you saying, Carolyn?" teased Shelley. "You've fallen in love with Jim Guthrie's stats?"

"I don't even know what his stats mean," said Carolyn. "What I love, girls, is the way he strides into the dining hall like he owns it, with one or two sidekicks always with him. He moves through the crowd like he's—breaking tackles or something. And that Indian warrior look of his. Isn't he a half-breed—Cheyenne or whatever? That's what gives him that sort of inscrutable expression. But when he smiles—oh, man." She pounded the region of her heart.

"That smile could become famous," said Imogene. "Didn't you also read in the _Campus News_ that there might be a few pro scouts at our Homecoming game? Of course, they're really coming to check out those big Maryland State guys. But if they should see an unknown small-town running back have a really big game—"

"I bet Jim will pull it off," said Carolyn. "He could be headed for the big time, so whoever has designs on him better move fast. What do you suppose he's looking for in a woman?"

Emily and Christine, the campus beauties, shook their heads. Even they could only claim to have had fleeting slow-dances with Jim Guthrie at keg parties in Boulder lounge. They could name other girls who may have been intimate with him, but no one who had seriously called herself his girlfriend.

"He must be looking for someone totally different," declared Carolyn.

"Not that different," said Shelley, with a penetrating, insulting stare at Carolyn's hips. She could only get away with that, Imogene thought, because her own hips were broader.

"Who asked you?" demanded Carolyn. She recovered her control and continued, "I'm not saying I could hope to marry him. I'm saying if I could manage to slow-dance with him just once, I'd die happy. Man, to watch him cradle the ball in those muscular arms—and then to be cradled there yourself—"

"Cold shower," advised Shelley, "pronto."

"Why don't you let him know how you feel?" asked Emily. "Prostrate yourself in front of him the next time you see him striding into the dining hall. I'd pay money to see that."

"I know you're joking," said Carolyn, "but seriously, we were just saying we ought to start taking more chances and being more aggressive in our social lives."

"Who says I'm joking?" Emily could not restrain her laughter.

"You wouldn't do anything to—embarrass yourself, would you?" The picture that flashed through Imogene's mind, of Carolyn throwing herself in the running back's path, was not a pretty one.

"I wouldn't prostrate myself—not literally." Carolyn frowned at the image. "But honestly, what's wrong with walking up to him, calmly and rationally, and asking if he's committed himself for the dance?"

Oh, Carolyn, don't do it, begged Imogene silently. I don't want to hurt your feelings by stating the obvious, but he's so far out of your league, it isn't funny. If he cuts you dead, you might never recover. You and I are fated to be mediocre—not quite nondescripts because we're ambitious, but not beauty queens either. Can't we just accept that?

Not Carolyn, evidently. She was busy formulating a new theory of equality and justice. "Tell me, is there some kind of campus law that restricts all the best catches to a privileged few girls? Aren't we all entitled to a shot?"

"I never said you weren't," protested Emily. "You're perfectly welcome to try." She exchanged a gleeful look with Christine, reinforcing a bond of popularity that endured in spite of their squabbles.

Imogene rankled on behalf of Carolyn and all ordinary women. Of course they were entitled to a shot, but it seemed so hopeless. Sometimes even talking to her ordinary friends about her extraordinary roommates made Imogene self-conscious. She knew what everybody was thinking: How in the world had shy Imogene ended up rooming with two campus titans?

It had been an accident, more or less. Imogene had gotten to know Sara and Emily from a distance last fall while painting scenery for a dramatic production, the Junior Follies, in which both were starring. The following spring, when Sara and Emily decided to team up for their senior year and apply for the corner room on first-floor Clemens, one of the nicest on campus, they were stumped to learn they needed three for that room. The housemother had proposed that they allow Imogene, whose roommate was getting married and leaving early, to join them.

So there it was, a matter of expediency. Imogene's new roommates tolerated her, but talked past her during their late-night discussions. In fact, late nights were the only times the three of them ever spent together, since Sara and Emily were on the run all day every day with classes and extracurricular activities.

Still, there was hope. On a few occasions Imogene had run into Sara in the room between activities, and they had almost talked. A conversation seemed possible if only Sara had a minute. She had asked Imogene a few personal questions about Steve, about her parents, about her studies, before rushing off to class or gymnastics practice or a piano lesson.

They had an even better discussion once Imogene mentioned the record review she had written for the _Campus News_ last spring, using the pen name Isobel Prose. Sara had mostly agreed with Imogene's critique of _Glowing Strings_ and the combustible Jake Murphy-Byron Robarts songwriting partnership. Sara had dropped hints about her fling with the married Robarts while she was working at the band's New York headquarters last summer. Imogene had yet to establish any such conversational threads with Emily, who had proven unapproachable so far.

The two powerhouses also differed in that Sara lacked the usual popular girl's appetite for athletes. She didn't date fellow gymnasts, much less football players. Unlike Emily, she never had been on the Homecoming court. Decidedly not a beauty queen type, Sara could be striking in her own way, with sharp features and dark, wavy hair like her brother's. Her wit particularly attracted people who loved comparing her to Jake.

"It's of no interest to me who any of you date or try to date," Emily told the room. "I've got more important things on my mind."

"What could be more important than the Hawkettes, the Homecoming court, and the school's football studs?" asked Shelley.

"My senior honors project in dramatic arts just might be," said Emily.

"What's the big deal with that?" asked Betty. "All us seniors are hacking away at some kind of honors project."

"Hacking is right," said Emily. "I'm not writing some silly thesis that nobody'll ever look at again once it's handed in. My plan is to videotape highlights of Homecoming weekend and edit them into a documentary about the college."

This, indeed, sounded like a big deal, as the women acknowledged with their murmurs. Emily poured it on: "My goal is to make it professional enough to be shown all up and down the East coast for recruitment purposes. That's what the drama department is hoping for, obviously—they're putting up some serious money for new video equipment, and assigning me a couple of assistants."

"And who might your faculty sponsor be?" asked Shelley. "As if we didn't know."

"Mark Piluras," replied Emily casually.

"The drama department heartthrob," said Betty, with unconvincing sarcasm.

Sighs of envy filled the room. If a vote had been taken here and now, Mark Piluras would be elected the most fascinating professor on campus. Everyone had experienced his teaching, although no one except Emily had gone beyond Acting 101 or Literature of the Theatre. He inspired students with his searching dark eyes and a grin that burst teasingly out of a bearded face. He managed to be slender and broad-shouldered at the same time. His dramatic method demanded freedom of expression, forcing students to utilize their personal experience.

Emily kicked off the sleek black shoes she had worn to class and moved toward her closet. "I've got a conference with Mark at one," she announced, rummaging within. "Gotta get moving." Shielded only by the closet door, she stripped off her skirt and blouse and donned a casual outfit—jeans with wide belt, tucked-in cotton blouse, padded sneakers. Her gold necklace and matching bracelets stayed in place. She pulled on a jacket, her one concession to the crisp fall weather.

"What are you doing?" demanded Imogene.

"I'm getting ready for a hike. What does it look like?" Emily's joshing tone passed for friendliness. Goddamned Supercilia, Imogene thought, just like Christine. Her brows actually elevate when she's talking to me.

"But I thought you said you had a conference with Mr. Piluras."

Hearing herself, Imogene flailed at her own naivety. Was she the last person in the room to realize what her roommate's change of attire meant? Emily's appointment with Mark Piluras would take place not in his campus office, but at his home—his idyllic cabin in the woods.

Emily's smile softened to a glow. "I don't know what's gotten into me today. I guess it's the lure of sunlit fields. I'll be passing through some dangerous terrain shortly. Could you give me a safe conduct pass, Imogene, to get me across your father's land?"

Imogene quailed. "Oh, don't be silly. My father knows you. You won't have any trouble."

But it was undeniable that hikers frequently ran afoul of Imogene's father, who owned the largest tract of farm and pasture land west of the college limits. The short cut over his fences and through his fields was an irresistible temptation to travelers bound for the woods five miles away. The way was fraught with danger and excitement. Imogene's father warned off intruders with shouted threats, sometimes brandishing a shotgun. Travelers made epic tales of these trips, tempting others to try it as a challenge. The more exaggerated the stories, the more invigorating the sport became. A handful of adventurers, pressing the limit, claimed to have heard bullets whizzing past their heads as they made their escapes.

This kind of talk harrowed up Imogene's soul. She did her best to deflate it, but usually gave up, conceding that diversions like this were needed to spice up campus life. Kids insisted on believing that danger, if they chose to seek it, could be found a short hiking distance from their dorms.

Emily seemed revved up for the challenge. The walk in the woods was the reward that would cap off the journey. Everyone in the room had contemplated, if not taken, the hike through the fields, followed by the relieving plunge into the forest. If you got that far, you could trip down the wooded paths that crisscrossed the development. You burrowed deeper and deeper into the woods in hopes of penetrating the small artistic colony situated there. Several professors lived in cabins placed about two miles apart. Rustic on the outside and comfortable within, these homes seemed to represent the height of creative living.

Students were invited on occasion to professors' homes in groups, but never alone. Most girls who invaded the woods could find no excuse to linger unless they encountered one of their mentors "by accident" and initiated a conversation. More often they succumbed to self-consciousness and hurried past the cabins. By contrast, Emily had every appearance of a young woman who knew where she was going and why.

"Don't forget he's married," exclaimed Imogene, "and to a popular instructor."

"Oh, didn't you know? He's separated from his wife." Emily tossed this news item over her shoulder as she departed.

In her wake, turbulence reigned. The women had long agreed that Sharon Piluras, who had been their instructor in freshman composition, was a likeable enough lady but too dowdy and unexciting for Mark Piluras. Still, the sanctity of the student-teacher relationship had held fast like a law of nature—until now.

"You ought to stop her," schoolmarm Betty told Imogene.

"Stop her? I can barely talk to her."

Let's face it, thought Imogene—Emily's the girl with just the right combination of boldness, beauty, and opportunity to accomplish something the rest of us can barely contemplate. If Emily succeeds, she'll make the rest of us look like first graders, romantically speaking.

Fortunately, no one insisted that Imogene attempt the impossible. Within moments, the room's attention was diverted by another whirlwind of approaching footsteps. Imogene's other roommate was about to burst in, bringing fresh shockwaves.

* * * * *

### Chapter Three

Everyone thinks I'm Superwoman, and I almost am. So busy being a campus actress, musician, politician, and athlete, I barely have time to be a student. Like my esteemed roommate Emily, who's equally busy, I have a family legacy to uphold. Hers is Mom and Dad sitting complacently atop the Alumni Association, blessing her efforts to be the most popular girl on campus. Mine's the opposite, really—the long shadow of talented but dysfunctional parents, who blew off their own formal educations to attend the off-Broadway school of hard knocks.

Somehow, my failed parents managed to send two children to college. The firstborn son was a bust as a student, once his non-academic talents surged to the fore. By his senior year, the lure of fame and fortune prompted him to torpedo his college career. My course hasn't been smooth either, but so far the explosions have been controlled. I haven't blown it, not yet. If I can hold on until next May, I'll be the first degree recipient among the infamous Murphys. I suppose what's left of my family will be proud of me.

More and more lately, I've had this urge to experience normalcy. I guess that's why I'm beginning to gravitate toward my other roommate, Imogene, a mild-mannered country girl from a solid family. What would it be like to "date normal"? For years I've been hanging out almost exclusively with self-indulgent, self-proclaimed geniuses who either idolize my brother, work for him, or remind me of him. I haven't yet thrown myself away on one of those, but I've come close.

I'll always be a super-achiever, an adventurer. But when it comes to real life—and since I'm a senior, that's looming close—a little sanity would be refreshing. Not that I ever intend to settle down. I want to be prosperous and stable, but never bored for a minute. Is that too contradictory a wish? Is there a man on this campus I could marry?

"Hello, everybody," exclaimed Sara. "Glad to find so many of my good buddies in one place. I've got an announcement to make that should rock the house."

"Oh God," said Imogene. "Don't tell me you're engaged?"

This produced titters all around. Sara did have the elated look of a girl about to make that once-in-a-lifetime announcement. But what bridegroom would be worthy of Sara Murphy? Her dating life consisted mostly of what she called "two-bit musicians"—none of whom were fit to carry her brother's guitar. True, there were also rumors about her and Byron Robarts, Jake's mentor and songwriting partner in the Sunburst, and an anti-social drunk at least fifteen years her senior.

"Now, don't get so nervous. It's good news for everybody. But I gotta have a stage for this proclamation." Sara kicked off her shoes, bounded across the room and leaped onto her desk—a hazardous move since there were books, notebooks, and greasy paper plates in her way. She wavered up there, eliciting gasps, then recovered and addressed the gathering with the smoothness of a politician.

"First, let me check out who's here." Sara scanned the dozen women and seemed to find them a blur. "Oh, there's one of my roommates—hi, Imogene. But I'm looking for the one who's supposed to be serving with me in the Student Government. That's where I just came from—a top secret, joint meeting of the S. G. and the administration. She was absent from there, too."

"Emily was here a few minutes ago, but she—left for an appointment," said Imogene.

"I don't think I want to know what that's about. Let me just spit out my news. The loudest, most obnoxious band we know, a band that once tore this campus apart with its disruptive noises, is about to return for the first time since being booted out two years ago. Seems the administration has had a change of heart and has decided to extend an olive branch. Or more likely, they've finally noticed that the Sunburst is a money-making operation and would like to bask in some of that success.

"For whatever reason, President Edelson formally accepted my petition to invite my brother and his troupe to entertain us at this year's Homecoming dance. It was all I could do to keep from rushing up to the podium and giving the old fart a sloppy kiss on the mouth."

Most of the women screamed with delight at this news, giving a fair imitation of adolescent fans at a rock concert.

"President Edelson is getting god-awful ambitious in his old age," said Shelley. "First a big-name football opponent and now a big-name band. What's his angle?"

"Publicity, of course." Christine put on a photogenic smile.

"I hope he's not riding for a fall," said Imogene. "The football game could be a bloodbath. I don't know if a Division Three team like ours belongs on the same field with Maryland State."

"What bothers me is, he's trashing his own standards," said schoolmarm Betty. "Does he think the Sunburst has suddenly turned into a wholesome influence?"

"Hold it right there, missy," said Sara. "That's my charming, talented brother you're talking about. I expect to see nothing but rapture on all your faces when he returns with his wife and colleagues and takes center stage at the Amphitheatre. No more imitation rock and roll from some Baltimore dive, or feeble country and western twanging from the hills. Finally, the genuine article—raunch and roll."

Murmurs of anticipation filled the room. "God, it's gonna be so—nostalgic," said Carolyn. "Remember the riot they caused the night they left? What a time that was."

"I wouldn't call it a riot," said Imogene. "That's been way overblown. It was just a keg party that got a little rowdy."

"How would you know?" returned Carolyn. "You weren't even there. You probably stayed home to study that night."

"It was a week night," protested Imogene, embarrassed. "Look, I'm just saying that 'riot' is hyperbole. It's not like the crowd smashed up Boulder dorm or bombed the administration building, like in the sixties. It wasn't a political event, just a party."

"The town cops had to break it up," Sara reminded her. "Doesn't that elevate it to riot status?"

"My point is," said Imogene, "the Sunburst's significance can't be judged by the reactions it gets on the dance floor. Most crowds don't even realize what they're hearing while they're dancing. It takes a serious listener—"

Everyone groaned, even Jake Murphy's sister. Imogene realized she was getting a reputation for these egghead analyses.

But a moment later, Sara was smiling. "Explain, Imogene, since you're obviously a serious listener. What's the true significance of the Sunburst? You're saying it's political?"

"In a way, yes," said Imogene. She had always taken the band more seriously than the average listener. The four original members—Jake, Charlie, Eric, and Keith—had seemed destined for greatness even when their most permanent stage had been a small platform at the east end of Boulder lounge, and their electronic enhancements had consisted of two microphones and two amplifiers on loan from the music department. She had known they would shake up this complacent community, and not just by keeping kids dancing past curfew.

She had been fascinated by the way Jake Murphy, once a promising gymnast and track star, had thrown over his sports scholarship and most everyday activities to pursue his music. At first he had been an itinerant, carrying his guitar and mini-amplifier from dorm to dorm each evening in search of audiences. Wherever he set up and played, he produced riffs that seemed beyond the capability of one lonely guitar. His air of struggle and sacrifice and his growing scruffiness made him prophet-like.

Crowds gathered around him, and impromptu parties were strung out half the night to keep him playing. His renditions of rock classics transmuted and gave rise to Murphy originals. His career took off like a one-man social revolution, disrupting community routines and individual lives. By the time the administration took note of the curfew-shattering performances, the student body was hooked. Jake diffused the authorities by staying on the move, never creating a ruckus in the same place twice. Wherever he played, listeners rose up out of the crowds with musical instruments of their own and tried to latch onto him.

His band emerged gradually. In those formative days, anyone with enough courage to get "onstage" with him could audition. Later, when Jake had hit it big, many Glendary students could claim to have flirted with fame and fortune by sharing the "spotlight" with him for five or ten minutes.

A drummer named Charlie, a virtuoso on bongos, became a fixture behind Jake. Charlie had auditioned unintentionally. This bony, hairy creature had developed the eerie habit of playing his bongos in the quad on clear evenings. Charlie was an odd bird, mostly avoided by others, but the jungle-throb of his playing had a way of quickening pulses.

"I usually hold other musicians in total contempt," Jake told a reporter for the _Campus News_ , "but one evening I threw open my window to that sound. I left my room and followed the heartbeat to its source. I hailed the drummer from afar, probably scaring him half to death. He must have thought I was the voice of Fate. I told him to meet me later that night in some girl's room and bring his drums. I wasn't sure he understood the summons. But he showed up, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Jake's next acquisition gave him his first shot at musical legitimacy. One night a genuine music major named Keith set up an electric organ and amplifier beside the guitarist and refused to be dislodged. Keith was supposed to be preparing Mozart and Chopin pieces for his senior piano recital. With his closely cropped red hair, muscular arms, and hands that punished the keyboard, he was a portrait of intensity. After he joined Jake, his hair began crawling down his neck and his body sagged in unkempt clothes—a metamorphosis that suggested the seductive power of rock and roll.

Keith's polished musicianship moved Jake's band to a higher level. The group acquired a name, a set of legitimate drums for Charlie, larger amplifiers, and semi-permanent bases in Sizemore and Boulder lounges. As the Sunburst's repertoire evolved, the band continued to add noise to the noisiest rock classics and new lyrics to well-known ballads. Their original pieces, "She Moves Me," "Sky Dancing," and "Face the Music," became recognizable and often requested. The band reigned over dance floors exploding with fun-loving kids while its chemistry grew tighter.

Then, as if to confound expectations, Jake took on Eric, an aspiring folk singer and creative writing major who had founded the campus coffeehouse. Eric's attempts at poetic lyrics added an intellectual angle. Once stripped of his acoustic guitar and outfitted with an electric bass, Eric's poetry became edgier. He began to churn out verses unlike his previous literary magazine fare.

The most colorful piece of the puzzle was added when Jake fell in love with an art major. He had locked eyes with many girls from his vantage point behind the lead microphone. He had brought some onstage with him as potential backup singers only to tire of them. But one night his eyes lingered on a statuesque brunette who had staked out a space before the stage in order to photograph the band from a variety of angles. Fascinated, he invited her onstage—and became doubly fascinated when she refused on the grounds that her photography was as important as his music.

Jake claimed he had never seen such artistic ambition in a woman. Once she had snapped all the still pictures she wanted, she announced her intention to produce a film about the Sunburst. No ordinary documentary, this piece would reveal the intimate lives of its subjects. She lined up a sponsor in the drama department, Mark Piluras, who encouraged her avant-garde tendencies.

Jake must have bristled at this collaboration because he terminated Marianne's behind-the-scenes career by making her a star. He installed her behind a microphone of her own, where she could toss back her mane of dark hair and fix the crowd with a haughty stare. Other women on the scene became extraneous as soon as Jake began showcasing his true love.

Marianne embellished her avant-garde theories to fit Jake's rock and roll. The purpose of all art, she proclaimed, was to redefine its limits. She used keyboards, wind instruments, and anything else at hand to spray random notes through the songs. She wailed into the microphone without regard for harmonies or tonalities. Some listeners suspected that Marianne's fancy theories compensated for her minimal musical talents. But no one denied that she was decorative on stage with her varied costumes including tight mini-skirts, belted slacks, halter tops, and glittery jewelry.

"How many of you," Sara challenged, "remember the Sunburst's last night on campus as a riot?"

"All I remember," said Christine, "is that was the night I slow-danced with Paul Claitt while the band played 'She Moves Me.' Paul was unknown then, just one of the backup quarterbacks. I guess I didn't foresee his stardom."

"Fool," Shelley taunted her. "You should've sunk your claws into him before he turned into a holy man."

"It was definitely a riot that night, at least at the end," said Carolyn. "It just started out like a normal Thursday night at Boulder lounge with kids hanging out and grooving to the music. But around eleven thirty curfew, the fuddy-duddy resident official they had back then got onstage, grabbed Jake's microphone, and tried to shut down the party. Nobody had any intention of leaving since everybody knows curfew is a joke in the men's dorms. Next thing we knew, the town cops were there. Unbelievable. They swarmed in like—like storm troopers, swinging their nightsticks, pulling couples apart, dragging us out by our hair."

"You fought with the police?" asked her wide-eyed roommate.

"God, don't look so shocked," replied Carolyn. "It was the authorities that caused the trouble by treating us like criminals. All we did was fight back. I had never been so manhandled in my life."

"That was the only time you were manhandled all night?" asked Shelley.

"I didn't say it was," snapped Carolyn. "You're such a smart-ass, why don't you tell us what you were doing that night?"

"You know perfectly well Betty and I were holding our usual popcorn and Coke party, while Imogene was studying the night away, and Sermonette and company were praying. Pathetic, maybe, but that's us."

"I'm okay with that," said Betty. "At least we weren't on some dance floor throwing ourselves at drunken slobs who wouldn't give us a glance if they were sober."

Imogene wasn't okay with it. She reddened, as if some embarrassing habit of hers had been exposed. She knew her hallmates were wondering what her zealous studying had accomplished. A string of As and Bs, but what was that compared to the fun she had missed?

To her relief, she found her roommate smiling down on her. Sara climbed off her perch and sat on her desk to converse at eye level. "No use regretting what you did or didn't do that night. I have a feeling there'll be other riots. It's no big deal to have missed that one. Personally, I wasn't thrilled to see my brother's band hauled off to jail. I tried to take responsibility for bailing them out. I took up a quick collection and scurried down to the police station, but it was too late. The band absolutely refused to be bailed out. They had fallen under the spell of that cop with big-city training who mesmerized them with tales of a bigger arena."

Everyone knew the legend of Officer Bright, the "Sunburst fan with a badge." The sympathetic cop spent the night sitting with his charges, dispensing nonstop cups of coffee and career advice. He described his own New York career in the late 1960s when he had served on a security detail for Byron Robarts, one of the folk singers who had fought the Vietnam War on the home front. With his acoustic guitar and wavering voice, Robarts had launched his politically charged poetry far and wide. The cop described Roberts's appearances at several peace festivals in upstate New York and a huge one in Central Park. By the mid-1970s, Robarts was a hermit. His trademark bushy hair, beard, and pot belly became more pronounced as sightings of him became rare.

Jake was intrigued with the idea of a lone singer whose crowds had filled up all outdoors. "I've personally never cared for Byron Robarts or that cloying peace-and-love idealism he dishes out," declared the aspiring rock star, according to legend. "I consider it anti–rock and roll. Besides, the Vietnam War was Roberts's meal ticket. It would take another endless, immoral war to bring back his mystique. But I'm an open-minded artist, and I just graduated from college on my own terms. So how about giving me a letter of introduction to go and meet Byron?"

Officer Bright sat down at his typewriter, banged out the letter, signed it, and addressed it to the only accessible address Robarts was known to have, that of a modest record company in Manhattan called Peace Enterprises. The next day, released from jail, Jake and his troupe rented a van (paid for by their cop-mentor) and headed for that destination. After a brief but harrowing wintertime struggle on the streets, they made the dreamed-of connection and signed a contract with Peace Enterprises.

"I may not have witnessed the exact moment the Sunburst left Glendary," maintained Imogene, "but I've followed their career ever since. I've even written about the band for the school newspaper."

"We know, we know," said Shelley. "You've tooted that horn quite a bit."

"She can keep tooting it, as far as I'm concerned," declared Sara. "I remember that brilliant analysis. It actually convinced me that the Sunburst has invented a style of its own—soft heavy metal, or hard folk, whatever you called it—and that it evolved from the first album to the second."

"Evolved, my ass," said Betty. "You mean it degenerated from romantic melodies to obscure lyrics and sometimes sheer noise."

"The music got more complex as they grew up in the big city," Imogene tried to explain. "That's why someone ought to write a serious biography of the current band—someone besides the campus reporters who helped create the original legend."

"If you think so, write it yourself. What's stopping you?" asked Betty.

"My schoolwork is stopping me. I'm supposed to be doing a senior honors thesis, and I don't even have an approved topic. Not to mention my twelve hours of classes and eight hours of slinging hash every week."

"If you ever get the time," Sara told Imogene, "feel free to create a whole new Sunburst legend. Let your imagination run wild. Maybe I can help."

"I'd like to," exclaimed Imogene, "but what about the old legend? For instance, is it true Byron literally tripped over Jake on his way into Peace Enterprises one morning after Jake had been sleeping on the doorstep all night?"

"Absolutely true." Sara lowered herself onto a floor cushion. "Picture it—a rock band reduced to sleeping in a homeless shelter every night. Jake leaving his fellow musicians behind each morning to haunt the company and make whatever sales pitch he can dream up for the ignorant, unimpressed front-line employees. After a while, they take him for a derelict and bar the entrance against him. So one night he parks himself on the sidewalk outside the door, his guitar cushioning his head, the cop's letter of introduction in his pocket, a blanket to keep him from freezing.

"Next morning, Byron wanders into the office on one of his rare visits and trips over the prostrate form. Confusion reigns for several moments. But when the bodies untangle, the aging poet, a noted champion of the homeless, focuses on the young artist. He does what's natural—gathers Jake into his arms, crooning, 'I'll carry you someplace where it's friendly and warm.' That place turns out to be a neighborhood bar, which opens just for Byron."

"He probably keeps a lot of places like that in business," interjected Betty.

Sara described the hours that Jake and Byron spent drinking together, during which they recognized in each other a soul mate and a potential business partner. Byron was burdened with a stagnant record company; Jake had the fresh lifeblood to revive it. But talking business with Byron was a challenge, as he slipped in and out of focus while Jake plied him alternately with whiskey and black coffee.

"That's his temperament, a roller coaster," said Sara. "His life juices can only be pumped for a matter of minutes, and then he collapses in the nearest lap, moaning that he's a washed-up has-been."

"I hear your lap has been handy once or twice," said Shelley.

"Anyway, it's a great story and a great partnership," said Imogene, ignoring the discordant note of drunkenness running through it. "Byron's stature helped to elevate Jake to stardom, and Jake revived Byron's career by coaxing him back onstage. The Sunburst has made two fine albums, backed up by two national tours, and has produced some wonderful songs that combine the best elements of folk and rock."

"Well said, Imogene," laughed Sara. "That sounds like something a public relations flack would come up with."

"That would be my dream job," said Imogene, thinking she might as well make a pitch for it. Why should she not be considered for a P.R. position with Peace Enterprises after graduation? Plenty of Glendary alumni had made the trek up there to try to hook on as publicists, artists, producers, accountants, secretaries, clerks, and anything else that seemed plausible. Imogene feared she might come off as too timid for such a high-powered job, but there was time to overcome that.

However, now was not the time. Sara rose from her cushion with a wicked grin, as if ready to take this gathering to another level. Imogene, knowing she had the means to throw a real party, couldn't help glancing at her roommate's closet.

"Enough preliminaries, girls," said Sara. "I'd like to propose a toast."

"With what?" demanded her audience.

"Jesus, what a dork I am. Did I forget to mention I've been sitting on three bottles of champagne?"

"Oh, my God, where?" exclaimed the women in various tones.

Sara made for her closet. "I ask you, girls, is there a better way to toast the return of the Sunburst than with a gift from the maestro himself?" She threw open the closet door and hauled out an ice chest.

"Aha! The mystery package," exclaimed Betty and Shelley in unison.

"I first encountered that box last week, when I was on duty in the office," explained Shelley. "It drove poor Lynne Mason crazy. She tried to shake it, but it didn't clink or make any other suspicious noises. So we carried it to your doorstep. Almost strained our backs—I hope you appreciate that."  
Sara showed no such strain as she lifted the container and placed it in the center of the room. The women gathered around it like worshipers at a shrine.

"Why'd you keep it hidden so long?" asked Carolyn.

"Maybe it should've stayed hidden," said Betty. She frowned as if undecided how to react. "This is supposed to be a dry dorm."

"I don't object to this being a dry dorm if there's nothing to celebrate," said Sara. "But we have an occasion today. Move back, girls. This stuff has to breathe. Jake wouldn't send us anything but the finest."

"Why did he send it, anyway?" asked Imogene. "Does he shower you with gifts like this?"

"Hell, no. Sometimes he ignores me for long periods, which is no big deal as long as his accountant still sends me my weekly allowance. This mystery package was a peace offering to make amends for a really bad fight we had at the end of the summer." She opened the ice chest and pulled out the first glistening bottle of champagne. Murmurs of delight rose all around her.

"All I can say is, that must have been some doozey of a fight," said Shelley.

The ultra-busy Christine had been on the point of leaving several times. Now she seemed rooted to the spot. "Isn't it kind of risky, fighting with a rich brother?" she asked. "What if he cuts you off for good?" Cackles erupted, as if Christine had just confirmed a general suspicion that beauty fostered shallowness.

"What was the fight about?" persisted Imogene.

"Oh, it's practically forgotten now. But it must have been something I said about Marianne's alleged talents. Something like, I could sing better than she does if I were in the last stages of consumption. It's absolutely true, but Jake doesn't take too kindly to criticism of his wife. In fact, he kicked my butt out of his fancy condo. After I had had a little taste of homelessness, I went back and apologized and managed to make matters worse. I finally wrote him an abject letter, which must have done the trick. I really had no right to criticize his marriage. I guess if love can be blind, it can be deaf too."

Imogene wanted to ask Sara how she had dealt with this temporary "homelessness" but was overtaken by the party. Everyone was pressing to taste Jake's champagne. As the first cork popped, Imogene rushed to her bureau, unearthed her supply of paper cups, and passed them around. No one refused a taste, although there were a few hesitant faces.

"This is supposed to be a dry dorm," reiterated Betty. After she had drained her cup, she added, "I'm sure you don't want Lynne Mason to find out you're throwing this party." She inched toward the half-open door and glanced out. Imogene guessed she wouldn't squeal to her pal Ms. Mason about the champagne—at least, not until tomorrow.

"Lynne's just a flighty child pretending to be a grown-up housemother," said Shelley. "I don't think she's letter-perfect about the rules herself. But if you're that concerned about her, why don't you try shutting the door?"

"Why not fling it open to the world?" asked Sara. "Why not toast everybody and everything? The housemother herself is perfectly welcome to join us. Anybody want to go knock on her door?"

No one volunteered, so Sara took another breathtaking leap onto her desk, this time with a cup of champagne in hand. She landed in her previous spot without incident. "Time for our first toast, ladies."

She sobered up. "I'd like to drink to a reconciliation between the Sunburst and the authorities. I predict this year's Homecoming is gonna be the greatest love-in since the days when love-ins were really in. The band's arrival will be treated as a second coming with President Edelson greeting the musicians as revered, honored guests. In return, they will act like civilized human beings."

This toast went down well, and others followed. "To the football team," proclaimed Carolyn. "May they pull off the upset of the century against Maryland State."

"To the Arts Committee," said Christine. "May we get through our hundreds of tasks before Homecoming weekend."

"How about a toast for the gymnastics team?" put in Annie. "Don't forget, we're competing against Maryland State the day after the football game. We've got a workout scheduled this afternoon—if anybody remembers." Annie regarded her half-full cup uneasily.

"Christ, that's right," exclaimed Sara. "How could that slip my mind?" She looked at her own empty cup. "Why shouldn't we toast the gymnastics team as heartily as we did the football team? Somebody give me another hit."

"Sara! Do you think you should?" protested Annie. "The workout's at two."

"Yes, I definitely think I should." Getting her refill, Sara resumed, "Ladies and gentlemen," then paused to scan the crowd, as if searching for the nonexistent gentlemen. "Ladies and gentlemen, the reason I'm still standing up here, at great risk to life and limb—" She slipped an inch or two in demonstration, yet maintained her control. "Is to make a very important point. Actually, two points. First, I really must protest the way President Edelson and Athletic Director Beatty act like our football team is the only means to glory. What if our gallant guys should lose the Homecoming game? Then it would be left to us girls in leotards to pick up the pieces of Glendary's shattered sports reputation. I propose we drink to that scenario."

The crowd drank confusedly. "And second, I'd like to strike another blow in our eternal war against the authorities by proclaiming our right to party as much as we like, whenever we like. Yes, I know I've got this gymnastics workout at what, two o'clock? It may look like I'm blowing it off, but I'm not. I intend to succeed without sacrificing my fun-loving spirit." She smiled down on Annie, whose cup of champagne seemed frozen in her hand.

"Here's to the competition between me and Annie. I know she has designs on beating me for the first time. Hell, maybe she will. But it won't happen because I partied harder before a workout than she did. It'll take a lot more than that to beat me."

"Of course it... I never said..." Annie now eyed her cup in near panic.

"Are you scared of a little champagne?" Carolyn asked her.

In reply, Annie brought the cup to her mouth. She drank down the remaining half to applause.

"Way to go," exclaimed Sara, who was at least a cup ahead of her competitor. "Somebody hurry up and pop that second cork, because unless I'm hallucinating, this crowd is growing before my eyes."

Sara's impression was a correct one. Against Betty's advice, someone had opened the door wider. It looked like the entire hall was being drawn in by the unique sounds of a noontime party—so different from the usual sing-alongs, card games, and TV-watching gatherings. With its capacity to spread, the party now entered a dangerous phase. The champagne was mounting simultaneously to many heads; the atmosphere was growing raucous. The novelty of it made some residents careless as they slipped in and out of the room. The housemother would notice something before long.

"Seriously, we should close the door," admonished Betty, whose face was flushed. "Things are getting out of control." She stood up to perform this act herself, only to sway in place.

"Sara, what's gotten into you?" asked a new voice in the crowd. "We just came by to see what time you were going to the gym for warm-ups. You gonna make it at all?"

"Oh, Christ," exclaimed Sara from her perch. "Two members of team gymnastics have arrived to save me from myself. Unless they get sucked into the party themselves."

"Sara," said one teammate, "did you forget the athletic director himself is gonna be there to pick the team for the State meet? You think you're in any condition to perform in front of him?"

"Actually, I'm glad you brought up Athletic Director Beatty. Gives me a chance to make another important point while I still have the floor." Sara demonstrated her mastery of the "floor" with one of the basic ballet positions.

"These past few weeks I've come to a revelation which I feel compelled to share with the world right now. And that is—are you ready for this?—Judson Beatty is not God Almighty. Yes, I know how shocking that is. I know the football coach on any campus is supposed to be the ultimate moral authority—and this one doubles as athletic director, which practically makes him a high priest."

"I'd try to avoid being blasphemous, if I were you." Eva had made a startling reappearance in the midst of the party, a grimacing, non-drinking presence.

"Yeah, I suppose it's blasphemy to take Beatty's name in vain. That's my point, silly. Some of us are trembling in our shoes about this gymnastics workout as if our whole futures depended on it. Don't believe it, sports fans. Beatty already knows who he's gonna select for the Homecoming meet. He's just running this fake tryout to psych us out.

"So here's another toast, girls—to the real world. Let's all gaze outward for a moment." Sara motioned with her cup toward one of the two windows that looked down on a patch of lawn known facetiously as Clemens Park.

"There's a whole world out there somewhere, a world totally beyond the control of Athletic Director Beatty, or even President Edelson. One day soon we'll be out there—at least us seniors will—fending for ourselves, exploring all our options, doing whatever it is grownups are supposed to do. As we start living our real lives, the rules and restrictions of Glendary will seem like a joke. I, for one, am laughing already. I toast the dawn of freedom, here and now."

Instead of drinking, Sara again thrust her cup toward the window. The champagne flew, some of it hitting the pane and dribbling down like raindrops.

"Man, how clumsy can I get? Now I need another hit. Imogene, why don't you pop that last cork?"

One of the teammates put a hand on Imogene's shoulder. "You're Sara's roommate, right? If you have any influence at all, please get her down from there. She's about to throw away her athletic career." This gave Imogene pause but only for a moment; she couldn't imagine telling Sara what or what not to do. She shook off the concerned teammate with an apologetic smile, and then supplied Sara with the hit that might have rendered her worthless for the afternoon, had fate not intervened.

"Oh my God, Sara, you've had it now. Looks like an enemy official is headed this way. At least, I just saw her poke her head out of her door and sniff the air like a ground hog." This report came from Shelley, who had managed to get to her feet and assume the lookout post after her roommate had faltered. "God, Lynne's about as perturbed as I've ever seen her."

"My stars," said Sara, still holding the cup over her head in toasting position. "Whatever will we do?"

"Drink up, girls, and give me your cups." Christine, evidently an expert at cover-ups, collected the cups, placed them in their original stack, and returned them to Imogene's bureau drawer. Meanwhile, Imogene, with Carolyn's help, dragged the ice chest back into Sara's closet.

With the evidence hidden, the girls still looked flushed and guilty. We'll never get away with this, thought Imogene. The housemother may tolerate a little individual drinking from time to time but not a full-scale party. We gotta do something to make this gathering look like the normal card game, charades, or sing-along. No cards in sight, no room for physical games—but there's Sara's guitar, propped up in the corner.

"Sara! Why don't you grab your guitar and—and look like you're entertaining us?"

Many voices seconded this idea. Sara leaped off her perch, snatched the guitar, and seated herself on the corner of her bed. After a quick tuning, she eased her way into "She Moves Me," managing all this before the housemother appeared in the doorway.

"Sing out, everybody," urged Sara, although her sweet and clear voice made a fine solo. The voices that joined hers were wavering and tentative, but they created a reasonable impression of a sing-along. "You too, ma'am," she told the newly arrived housemother, who looked befuddled, having failed in her attempt to catch the party in progress.

"What's going on here?" demanded the official in her girlish voice. The note of moral outrage seemed elusive, despite the goading, half-smiling faces all around her.

Only Sara regarded the housemother without deception as she picked the well-known tune. "We're paying a tribute to my brother. Why don't you join us?"

Lynne Mason glared at Sara as if she suspected the guitarist of mocking her—but Imogene realized it was nothing of the sort. She marveled at the spectacle of a resident standing up to an official without the usual prevarications. Lynne clearly had no idea how to deal with this, so she took a militant step toward the center of the room.

"What's that on your desk—Ms. Murphy?"

This form of address sounded absurd. But the housemother looked triumphant to have identified the smoking gun—a cup on Sara's desk that had been overlooked in the scramble to hide everything else.

"That," replied Sara, "is a cup of the finest champagne to be found in New York."

"I realize you're new to Clemens. So I suppose it's not possible—I mean—it's possible you're not aware of the dry rule here?"

"The girls warned me," said Sara. "But most of us agree, Ms. Mason, there are special occasions when rules like that deserve to be overlooked."

"It's my job to enforce the rules of this dormitory, no matter what the occasion." The housemother's stern front wavered, Imogene thought.

"Ordinarily, I'm sure that's true," said Sara. "Still, I think you might find a way to forgive a little drinking in honor of the person who sent this champagne."

"I've already figured out who sent it," said Ms. Mason. "I brought a package to your door a while back, and decided to give you the benefit of the doubt that it was nothing illegal. But I can't overlook what I'm seeing now—you getting your hallmates tipsy and serenading them with that song."

"Ah, yes, that song. Can you remember the first time you ever heard it?"

"Well—certainly. He played it right here in Clemens, one evening during my senior year." The housemother bit her lip as if to suppress a smile. "I can't say I wasn't—intrigued. He kept everyone spellbound for hours. But he was the one breaking curfew that night, not me."

"Of course. But now, as the enforcer of the rules, you have reasonable discretion, right? So what's wrong with taking a sip or two from that cup to celebrate his return?"

Would the housemother succumb? She eyed the champagne with reverence, Imogene thought. Then she stiffened, as if responsibility had come crashing down.

"Drinking in the dormitory is against the rules," reiterated Lynne Mason the official. "Get rid of that cup, please." She turned and headed for the door, but a nervous giggle from one of the women tripped her up.

She turned back to face the gathering. "If this party stops right now, I won't take any action. But—Ms. Murphy, please don't let it happen again. Next time I'll have to report you."

"Fair enough, ma'am. As I said, it's a special occasion, not a habit."

There was barely time for the housemother to make a decent departure before the women burst out laughing, as Sara "got rid of" the cup by downing its contents. Ms. Mason must have heard this and realized how absurd she was. Still, her dignity held as she escaped.

"Congratulations, Sara," declared Shelley. "It's obvious you own Lynne. She must worship the Murphy name. You can party all you want, and she'll find some acceptable excuse for it. I've never been privileged to know anybody with your awesome power."

"What're you saying? That Sara Murphy controls this dorm?"

Eva's harsh tone, a departure from her usual determined sweetness, froze the gathering. She issued a challenge: "Anybody who would prefer to talk about living a Christian life instead of a partying life is invited to join me next door."

Imogene had to give Sermonette credit for panache. It would have been humiliating if no one had followed her as she stormed out. But two girls left on her heels—Sara's teammates on the gymnastics team. A minute later, after some apparent soul-searching, Annie left the party as well.

* * * * *

### Chapter Four

Everything happens for a reason, and that reason is part of God's plan. I have to believe that—I do believe that more strongly every day. If a promising dancer develops crippling bursitis in the ankles, destroying her lifelong dream, it's a tragedy, but it's also a lesson. It's not for me to question but to wait for God to reveal what he wants me to do instead.

Once I accepted that, the Lord astounded me with his grace. When he closed one door, he opened three others. I've been given this opportunity to mentor Annie to do what I wanted to do as a gymnast. That, in turn, might enable me to humble Sara, a prideful soul who's becoming a bad influence. I don't say that out of vengefulness. God will be the one to teach her the lesson, not I. But I know he'll reward me if I do what I'm supposed to do. Miracles are not unknown on this campus. The Lord afflicts us for a reason, and when the time is right, he cures us.

"Your pal Shelley may be right that I have awesome power in the dorm," Sara told Imogene as they rambled toward the dining hall at lunchtime. "But just when I seemed in control today, some kind of counter-force came along and broke up the party. What in hell was that all about?"

"Religion," replied Imogene. "It sucked me in when I was a freshman. I was lonely and looking for answers, and Eva seemed like the friendliest person in the hall. She urged me to join her prayer cell, so I thought I would give it a try. Not that I cared much about Christianity itself. My parents go to church on Sundays and say grace at mealtimes, but it's mostly just a habit."

"My parents were raging atheists, as far as I remember," said Sara. "No doubt part of their artistic personas. Did you find the answers you were looking for in Eva's room?"

"In a way, I did," admitted Imogene. "I made a few friends, at least temporarily. And then, out of the blue, I met Steve. He was dabbling in religion too. I was expected to be grateful to Jesus and give him all the glory. Instead, I found myself rebelling like some kind of adolescent daughter. I wanted to be in control of my own life."

Imogene hesitated to blast Christianity. It was not God that she feared betraying, but Eva, who used to be her friend. The two had barely spoken since the night Imogene had let loose with a prayer that the group found irreverent.

"It's so fatiguing to worship seriously," she resumed. "Sure, God loves you and is always looking out for you, but it's not unconditional. He hates sin—and practically everything you do is a sin. If you eat or drink or breathe without thanking him, that's a sin. And those prayer cells are torture chambers of self-flagellation."

"So is gymnastics practice," laughed Sara.

"You can't just get away with asking forgiveness for your obvious missteps; sinful thoughts are supposedly just as bad. And God knows I have enough of those." Imogene, having gotten worked up, glanced over her shoulder. "I've come to believe religion on this campus is a—a pernicious force."

"Eva's God sounds like a fascist," said Sara, "but no worse than some of our favorite officials around here." She lowered her voice. "You don't think any of the girls in that prayer cell are dangerous, do you?"

"Well—there's the one they call Weird Lila," said Imogene. "I don't suppose she's really dangerous, but—"

"The freaky-looking one who's always wearing that Jesus Lives T-shirt?" asked Sara. "She looks harmless enough. But the way she stares at me gives me the creeps."

"Funny," said Imogene, "by the time I left the prayer cell, Lila was the only one I felt the least bit close to. She just seemed—I don't know, more sincere than the others. Less hypocritical."

"Maybe you like weirdness," said Sara.

Maybe I do, thought Imogene. Lila's plea for her to remain in the fold had almost touched her. "Don't you realize Jesus is walking among us right now?" she had asked. Later she had added, "How can you betray him? He would never betray you." Imogene thought Lila's Jesus must be a carnal, maybe even a sexual presence.

Rather than try to explain Lila to her roommate, Imogene changed the subject. "I know Shelley said what she did about your influence in the dorm just to rile the local Moral Majority. She likes starting little bonfires. Her roommate Betty revels in fanning them, and then making a big show of putting them out."

"You can reassure your buddies I'll try not to abuse my awesome power," said Sara, "even though my responsibilities could crush me. I'm the one who's been appointed to drive my van to New York on Homecoming weekend, round up the band, and bring them back here, hopefully in one piece. I can't trust the roadies, Brent and Beano, to do that. They're just as disorganized as the musicians when they're drinking, and besides, they intimidate Jake. They'll be bringing the equipment in a separate van.

"So basically, the success of Homecoming will depend almost entirely on me. Can you believe that?"

Imogene believed it. She knew it would take skill and diplomacy to collect the band members, transport them two hundred miles, and try to keep them reasonably united until show time. She had heard they were a fractious group these days, not always fond of each other's company. But Sara was equal to such a task—wasn't she?

Imogene was startled when her roommate stopped short on the sidewalk and made a half turn, swaying on her feet. She grabbed Imogene's shoulders for support. "Listen, I need a volunteer to keep me on course."

"You mean on course for the dining hall?"

"No, silly. I'm talking about my trip to New York to lasso the Sunburst."

"Oh, wow," exclaimed Imogene. A vision of New York and all its possibilities rose before her. If she could actually meet the band, she would be in a better position to write about it. And in that case, why shouldn't she make the Sunburst the topic of her senior honors thesis? To hell with those obscure, manic-depressive poets proposed as subjects by her advisor. She would rather explicate the socially conscious poetry of Byron Robarts, which was topical and relevant to everyone.

Imogene's plan was formulated before she had found the words to volunteer her services. "That sounds like such—I mean, have you chosen someone to go with you yet?"

"No, since I just thought of it five seconds ago."

"Well, I'd really love to go with you—that is, if you think I could be of some help."

"Hell, yes, you could give me moral support if nothing else. I'm glad at least one of my roommates is willing to do that."

"It'll be my pleasure, really. And I'll start by nursing you through this lunch hour." As they staggered into the dining hall, Imogene continued: "One of your teammates thought I should've taken responsibility for cutting you off after one cup of champagne. Since I didn't do that, I guess it's up to me to get some strong coffee into you right now."

"And vice versa," said Sara. Both women picked up a large cup of black coffee in the cafeteria line to help wash down a sodden tuna casserole. After they had found a vacant table and settled down, Imogene glanced around the noisy, crowded room to try to locate Steve. Instead she glimpsed big Jim Guthrie striding toward them, trailed by his roommate and most reliable blocker, Curtis Simpson.

"Look who's coming this way," breathed Imogene. She could count on one hand the number of star football players she had seen up close during her college career. Guthrie approached, looking like the quintessential hero with his broad shoulders, thick, curly hair, rugged features, and startling blue eyes.

Sara regarded the two hulks with a casual smile. "Are you guys lost or something? Shouldn't you be in the east wing where the elite eat?" She turned in that direction and gestured. "I see a couple of pom-pom types standing around looking petulant. They've probably got your lunch trays all ready."

"Yeah, sure," said Jim, glancing toward the section where his girlfriend of the hour awaited him. "But I was looking for your roommate, Emily."

"Naturally," said Sara. "Our roommate Emily is every football player's number one fantasy. But it seems she has bigger fish to fry today than lunching with her roomies."

"Yeah, well, I got a phone message from her yesterday. Something about featuring me in her Homecoming publicity video."

"Incredible," piped up Curtis, pounding Jim's shoulder. "She must've forgotten to mention that I gotta be featured in it too, since everybody knows my good buddy here owes his success to me. He wouldn't have gained a friggin' yard all season without me blocking for him."

"My sidekick here is known as Captain No-Name, the greatest unknown blocker in Glendary history." Jim punched Curtis back, none too gently. "Anyway, do you know anything about this video?"

"If you two gentlemen would like to sit down for a minute," said Sara, "I'll tell you what I suspect about this video."

The football players glanced at their blonde sycophants waiting for them in the east wing and then seated themselves willingly enough. Curtis, who placed himself at Imogene's right, was even taller and more muscular than Jim but lacked the brooding good looks. His was a prankster's face. When he winked at Imogene, she froze, not knowing how to respond. But the gesture heartened her as Jim focused on Sara.

What a spectacle they must be making! Imogene could sense Glendary society gaping at the sight of two football stars sitting in the common dining area with Sara Murphy and Imogene Taylor, neither of whom were part of their crowd. Without raising her own eyes to acknowledge anyone, Imogene felt a sea of eyes bearing down on her. If the wannabe football groupie Carolyn was watching her now, how jealous she must be. And what about Steve? For the moment, she possessed the power to make others envious, but it couldn't last; these guys would soon return to the east wing, never to enter her sphere again.

"I've heard some scuttlebutt about Emily's video," Sara informed them, "and I know her pretty well. Her obvious goal is to leave her stamp on Glendary and launch a show business career. Her more subtle goal is to play God by elevating some people and embarrassing others.

"You're one of the lucky ones, Jim. She'll have you videotape some remarks about the football team in advance, then splice in highlights of your performance against State. Win or lose, she'll show you to best advantage."

"What's wrong with that?" Jim grinned in anticipation of looking good on video.

"Not a thing. But she has different plans for me. She'll set me up the same way, by having me introduce the gymnastics team with great confidence. Then she'll lie in wait, hoping I'll fall on my face at the big meet, or failing that, at least get beaten by some younger phenom."

"Won't happen," said Jim. "I've seen you in a couple of meets, and I thought you lit up the gym. Just a few weeks ago I saw you pull off a nasty balance beam routine against—Westchester, I think it was."

"You say I was nasty?" laughed Sara. "I didn't even know the real campus heroes like you bothered to watch girls' sports."

"Hell, I'll let you in on a secret," said Jim. "You gymnasts are the best-trained athletes on campus. You put us beer-guzzlers to shame. I like watching the tall, graceful kind like you, more than the scrawny little—what do you call them?"

"Anorexics," supplied Imogene. "Sara's closest competitor on the team is nicknamed Anorexic Annie." Both men laughed, and Imogene felt gratified, although a little guilty for her mean-spiritedness.

"Nice of you to say that, Jim," said Sara, "but when it comes to past history, Emily's expectations might be on the mark. Glendary gymnasts always seem to fall off the balance beam at the big meets. I've done it myself once or twice. There have been times, I gotta admit, when my training hasn't been up to snuff."

"No way are you gonna fall at the State meet," said Jim. "Not with Emily's camera on you. That'll be show time, right?"

"Yeah, show time." Sara raised her coffee cup in a toast. She stuck out her chin, as if her incentive to win had increased tenfold.

"Sara, hon, you mind if I ask you an impertinent question?" put in Curt. "Why would even a fine athlete like yourself settle for being a dumb phys. ed. major like us? Didn't you ever consider being a drama major like Emily? Especially after that big splash you both made in the Junior Follies last year? You plastered the football team pretty good."

"That was hardly what I'd call significant drama," said Sara. "It was just intended to be a cute little satire of campus life. I hope you guys didn't take it too much to heart."

"It wasn't us who took it to heart. It was the women who love us." Curt turned and winked toward some aggrieved lover waiting in the east wing.

"Most of the team liked the show," said Jim, "except for the usual holier-than-thous. The most negative review came from old Beauty—excuse me, Athletic Director Beatty. Speaking for myself, I almost busted a gut laughing at you and Emily in those blonde wigs. Did you write the whole show yourselves, songs and all?"

"Sure we did," replied Sara, "with a lot of help from our guiding light in the drama department, Mark Piluras."

"Yeah, right, Mark Piluras. I shoulda known," said Jim. "Rumor has it most of his students have the hots for him. I'll bet that's the only kind of guy you really like—the artsy type."

"Hold on a minute. I'm not that predictable," protested Sara. But Imogene knew that up until now, Sara had only dated "artists"—and mostly musicians at that. Now her eyes feasted on a pair of huge, scarred hands, bare arms rippling with muscles, a chest barreled from weightlifting. Here was a banquet of treats she had never sampled before. "I'm all for variety," she added.

"Besides," exclaimed Imogene, bursting with the irony of it, "Emily's the one who's after Mark Piluras. She's managed to get herself invited to his cabin in the woods. She's there right now—in conference."

Imogene had succeeded in knocking these big guys back on their haunches. They whistled through their teeth at the news of this turnabout. Emily, who had been a princess among football players, now lusted after an "artsy type." And Sara, who had heretofore disdained her fellow athletes, suddenly was finding at least one fascinating. It seemed to Imogene that her roommates had traded places in one day.

Amusement now rippled through Jim's features, driving away that famous somber look. "I think I can appreciate what you were trying to do in that show, deflating our egos and all. But did you have to expose me as such a flake? I don't know the actor who played me, but I could accuse him of making fun of my mixed heritage—stumbling around like a drunken bull in cowboy clothes with a feather stuck in his head."

"Hell, that was nothing compared to what they did to our fearless leader on the field, Paul Claitt," said Curt. "They had him babbling on and on in that high-pitched voice like the clubhouse lawyer he is. That was right on the money."

Sara was looking more relaxed. "You must be starving," she told Jim, pushing her plate and fork in front of him. "I've barely touched this casserole, or whatever it is. Go ahead, finish it off. I shouldn't be eating greasy stuff before a workout anyway."

Jim lit into the casserole while Sara chewed on a roll and washed it down with coffee. Imogene felt compelled to make the same offering to Curtis—not that she minded since she had lost her appetite in the excitement. She pushed her meal over with a nod and smile, grabbing only a roll for herself.

"Thanks, hon. Y'know, being just a humble lineman, I can accept that I wasn't important enough to be satirized personally in that show." Curt shoveled globs of casserole into his mouth. "But that's why I got a different perspective on it than my main man here. I observed more of the nuances and levels of meaning, all that literary type crap."

"What nuances are you talking about?" asked Sara.

"Shit, you know what I mean. Don't think I didn't notice which of you chicks with the blonde wigs was hanging onto which football star. You, Sara, were fawning over the Jim character, while Emily was cozying up to the Paul Claitt look-alike. You musta been secretly lusting after my roommate for years. Admit it—you were making vicarious love to Jim onstage."

"You're taking our satire too literally," said Sara, even as she gaped at the real Jim.

"My favorite scene was the fight between you and Emily," said Jim, "when you were debating whose boyfriend was the biggest stud. The way it escalated from a pillow fight to near blows seemed pretty genuine."

"I wouldn't take that too literally, either." Sara winked at Imogene as if to enlist her agreement that Emily could be difficult.

"If you and Emily ever fought over a guy in real life," said Curtis, "I'll bet it wasn't no football player. It was Mr. Artsy himself, Mark Piluras. Am I right?"

"Well, yes and no," said Sara. "We've both flirted with Mark, and he didn't exactly fight us off. He has this self-image as a star maker. He's out to find some talented, beautiful student that he can nurture and develop, and maybe someday carry off to Hollywood, using these mysterious connections he's always hinting about.

"But when it comes down to whether Emily or I fit his vision better, I'm afraid it's no contest. I'm not a beauty, and I've got a natural prejudice against actors. Anyone with my background would."

Sara's background was a sensitive topic. Everyone knew bits and pieces of the Murphy story, but Sara, to Imogene's knowledge, never made a point of discussing it. Now, prompted by Jim Guthrie's twinkling blue eyes, she opened up. "My mother ran off with a so-called movie producer when I was ten and Jake was twelve. She moved to California with this creep, and we've barely heard from her since. We were left in a crummy Brooklyn apartment with our depressed, alcoholic father. He died when I was a freshman."

"That's bad news," said Jim. "But both your parents were seriously in show business, weren't they?"

"They were performance artists who put on their own comedy revues in way off-Broadway theatres. They did a little of everything—singing, dancing, improv, directing—your basic big-time dreamers with vaudevillian talents. When my mother took off for Hollywood, she probably thought she could sleep her way up the ladder. But the truth is, my parents were abject failures in life. I guess that's what drives Jake and me to achieve, although we can't escape being misfits."

"Oh, come on, Sara," said Jim. "I've never seen anybody I thought was less of a misfit than you."

Sara glowed at the compliment but seemed bent on total honesty. "I just want you to realize, I'm the opposite of those golden girls you probably prefer—the ones who flit through life on a free pass because of their pretty smiles. I've seen enough ugliness to make that type blanch. I've known what it is to be hungry—literally hungry. I've taken to the streets more than once because they seemed safer than home.

"This campus has offered a safe haven to Jake and me. But instead of embracing it gratefully, we sometimes feel a need to wreck it. Fitting in easily has never been an option."

"I'm not an easy fit, either." Jim paused to wipe his mouth without benefit of a napkin. "They don't call me the Flaky Fullback for nothing."

"We're both equally flaky dudes," said Curt. "Our mission is to drive old Beatty batty."

"A little football flakiness hardly qualifies you as a deviant," said Sara. "From what I've read in the _Campus News_ , Jim, you're a model all-American type from solid farming stock in Ohio. You and I come from totally different worlds."

"Maybe our worlds aren't as different as you think. Appearances can be deceiving, y'know."

"Oh, yeah?" Sara continued to regard Jim with a smile, as if there could be no nuances or mystery about him. She watched his fun-loving demeanor fade as his somber lines reappeared.

"I guess you were escaping your screwed-up childhood when you grabbed at a college scholarship so far from home," drawled Jim. "I sort of did the same thing. I've been dodging a monster dad all my life."

"Your father's an alcoholic like mine was?" Sara locked eyes with him.

"The opposite," said Jim. "Puritan is more like it. He's against fun, period. He started out as a small-scale farmer with a couple acres of land inherited from his father. He put in years of backbreaking labor, expanded his holdings, and now he's like the local squire. To him, working from dawn to dusk is a way of life. He's been trying to pound that philosophy into me ever since I could walk. That's how I got my original muscles—from working the land." Jim flexed his right arm, causing women at nearby tables to gape.

"Only trouble with that was, I didn't want to be a farmer, either small- or big-time. My father's strategy backfired when I found out I could use my muscles for play as well as work. I became a three-sport star in high school, and started hanging with the partying and drinking crowd. I would come home late, and my dad would try to enforce curfew but soon found out I had outgrown his rules."

"We have more in common than I thought," said Sara.

"Your father sounds a lot like mine," put in Imogene. "He also started out with a couple of measly acres and ended up with one of the biggest farms in western Maryland."

"Oh, yeah," said Curt, "the dude who patrols his borders with a shotgun. That's your dad, right?"

"Oh, that's just—" Imogene stopped herself. She hated to lose the spark of interest in Curt's eyes. Why admit that her background lacked both drama and tragedy?

Sara, focused on Jim, continued: "My father didn't exactly advocate hard labor like yours. Being an artist, he resented having to work odd jobs to make ends meet. Some nights he came home from his bartending gig to find Jake practicing on his acoustic guitar. If he was drunk enough, he'd kick the chair out from under him and throw the guitar against the wall."

"What a bastard," said Jim. His grin returned. "I'd say we understand each other well enough to be friends. Agreed?"

"Friends, my ass," said Curtis. "Listen to yourselves, cooing about all you have in common while you strip each other naked with your eyes. If you both didn't have to scoot to practice right after lunch, you'd be jumping each other's bones."

"Forgive my roommate's crudeness," interrupted Jim. "He likes to carry the locker room ambience around with him. Truth is, he's jealous because he comes from middle class stability himself. He has no excuse for being obnoxious—he just is."

"Here," said Curt, "take back this prison grub." He pushed the plate of tuna casserole back to Imogene, having demolished half of it. "It makes me wanna puke just to look at it."

"Speaking of prominent families," said Sara, ignoring Curt, "take my roommate—please."

Imogene nearly fell out of her seat, but Sara continued, "I'm referring to Emily Palmer, who comes from old money. Did you know her mother's one of the Bessamers? They helped build the town of Glendary and establish the college over a century ago. In her day Miss Bessamer was captain of the pom-pom squad, elected Homecoming Queen her senior year, and naturally ended up marrying the quarterback of the football team, the legendary Skip Palmer. Today they run the Alumni Association together, still the perfect couple."

"That's sickening," said Curtis. "What would really help this meal is a cigarette." He began eyeing nearby women, pantomiming the motions of smoking. Imogene, although disapproving, wished she had a cigarette to offer him.

"You'd think their daughter Emily would be proud to duplicate their achievements at Glendary as the golden girl of her own era," continued Sara. "That's exactly what she did for the better part of three years. Then something happened—her adolescent rebellion kicked in late, or maybe her artistic pretensions were encouraged by a certain favorite professor. Now she criticizes her parents for their complacency in never joining the real world. She plans on leaving them in the dust as she blazes a trail to Hollywood."

"She's good-looking enough," said Jim, without real interest. "I guess she can find her way to Tinsel Town."

"My mother was still reasonably attractive when she went west," Sara informed him. "It takes a lot more than looks."

"What Emily was showing off in the Follies," said Curtis, "should get her any place she wants to go." He had been supplied with a lit cigarette and was blowing smoke rings across the table. Imogene tried to keep from coughing but couldn't.

"You jerk," said Jim. "This ain't no smoking section."

"So sue me," said Curtis.

"You boys oughta know, even talent is cheap in Hollywood," said Sara. "It takes struggle and sacrifice to make it. Emily knows nothing about that because everything in life has been handed to her so far. She senses she's been too sheltered, which is why she envies me my family traumas."

"Maybe she has a point," said Jim, impressing Imogene with his insight. "Adversity can be an advantage. Look at what your brother overcame to make it big. That's what makes him everybody's hero."

"Why don't you just ride Jake's coattails for the rest of your life?" asked Curtis. "He could set you up as a rock princess. That'd be the easiest way to fame and fortune."

"Thanks for the career advice," said Sara. "Maybe I could trade on Jake's fame, but sometimes I think I'd rather make a stab at being a normal person."

"Yeah, normalcy," agreed Jim. "There's something to be said for that, I guess."

Imogene noticed a shift in the tone of the discussion. Now that the murky family secrets were out in the open, confession time was over; the new theme was "normalcy." Jim and Sara began exerting themselves to prove to each other that they were reasonably healthy specimens and not raging neurotics. Sara spoke of "the committee of aunts and uncles" who had stepped in at times during her childhood when she and Jake had needed a steadying influence. Jim mentioned his mom, who "somehow managed to keep my dad from actually killing me."

Their mutual reassurances intensified. "I believe a traumatic childhood should be an inspiration, not an excuse," declared Sara.

"Yeah, that's how my dad's sarcasms motivate me on the football field," said Jim. "I can practically hear him needling me as I crash through the line. It's like I gotta prove something to him alone, and he's the only one not cheering."

"God, listen to the psychobabble." Curt winked at Imogene, which made her day—if not her life.

"Talking about our dads reminds me that my favorite father figure, Judson Beatty, is waiting to judge me in the gym. Maybe it's time I got my head together." Sara glanced at her watch. "Past one already, and I still feel like I'm floating disembodied through space. Maybe champagne before practice isn't the greatest idea."

The football players disagreed. Sometimes they made a point of showing up at practice impaired, just to put one over on the head coach. Today, however, they would be on their best behavior since they knew Beatty would be elsewhere, and they had nothing against the assistant coaches.

"Curtis, would you mind putting out that cigarette? It's making me nauseous." Sara held her head in her hands. When Curtis took another drag, Jim grabbed the cigarette and squashed it in the casserole, hissing "Pig."

"I gotta confess, guys, I'm a little scared of the athletic director," continued Sara. "I've been bad, and he's sure to find out. I don't know if I can fake a balance beam routine as easily as you two charm your way through football practice."

"Hey, lighten up." Jim caressed her shoulder. "You know you're the best, and Beatty knows it too. All you have to do today is show up in the gym and go through the motions. If you screw up, he'll rant and rave for a couple minutes. Then he'll find a way to overlook it."

Jim and Curt rose from the table to perform a gallant act unprecedented in dining hall protocol. They urged the girls to sit back and relax while they went for more coffee. The gaping masses watched them plunge through the serving line in full knowledge that star football players rarely served themselves at meals, much less anybody else. This must mean love—but who was smitten with whom? Imogene considered herself a hanger-on in this drama, but the school at large didn't know that. More importantly, Steve didn't know that. She imagined his eyes riveted on her from afar as Curt, affecting a bow, handed her a steaming cup.

After serving them, the guys left for football practice. "Don't worry. You'll knock old Beauty dead," shouted Jim to Sara over the din as he departed. Sara watched him stride out the door.

"I gotta run home, change, and get to the gym for warm-ups." But the top-ranked gymnast seemed wooden-legged. Imogene helped her to her feet and guided her through a minefield of tables. As they approached the exit, they encountered a specific hazard of the blonde, blue-eyed variety. In the instant before the young lady barreled into Sara, Imogene recognized her as the one who had expected to serve Jim's lunch in the east wing. Imogene caught her roommate by the upper arms, barely preventing a nasty fall.

"Oh, how clumsy of me. Please excuse me. I'm so very, very sorry." The girl's voice was saccharine, her smile nearly contorted. Imogene reflected that a beauty who got stood up could turn ugly in a hurry. Cackling like a witch as Sara flailed, the blonde tossed her head and left the dining hall.

"What in hell was that about?" demanded Sara, still struggling to right herself.

"Incredible," said Imogene. "That girl is a—a caricature and doesn't even realize it. She behaved exactly like that blonde-wigged character you played in the Follies. Remember when you had that so-called accidental collision with Emily's character?"

"Talk about life imitating art," said Sara. "Maybe I should go after her and put a stranglehold on her. Isn't that how I pacified Emily?"

But Imogene, pleading no time, hurried Sara out of the dining hall and back to Clemens to prepare for the afternoon's challenge. Imogene monitored her roommate's moves as she stripped off her skirt and blouse, squeezed into her leotard, and pulled on a warm-up jacket in the school colors of yellow and green. She judged that Sara was both foggy from the champagne and jittery from the coffee. Neither condition seemed conducive to a great gymnastics performance—unless by luck, they canceled each other out.

Sara talked impulsively as she dressed. "Don't you love my brilliant timing? I guess that's part of what makes a champion—getting through it even if you feel like shit. Not to say I don't feel euphoric too. Trust me to fall in love on the most hectic day of my life. All I really want to do right now is curl up on a floor cushion and lose myself in fantasies about big Jim.

"And to think I assumed for the past three years he was just a typical campus hunk, not good for much of anything except admiring from afar. Nobody told me he was a multi-faceted human being, but who knew? You never talked to him before, did you? By the way, Imogene, thanks for being such a great nursemaid. I really need somebody to keep me on course when I'm this distracted."

"I just don't want Anorexic Annie to out-perform you today," said Imogene. "She might get it into her little head that it happened because Sermonette prayed for it to happen."

"What's the big deal about that? Athletes pray for victory all the time. Hell, I might try it if I get really desperate."

"Praying is no joke for those holy-rollers," said Imogene. "They pray with a vengeance."

Sara laughed at the notion that her fanatical neighbors could be a threat to her. Imogene admitted that the worst effect of her falling out with them had been the weight she had gained from frequenting Betty and Shelley's late night snacking parties instead of the prayer cell.

She was tempted to brag about her most indiscrete prayer, the one that had offended Sermonette beyond endurance. While trying to tap into the holy ambiance that prompted group members to pray aloud, Imogene had begun quoting Byron Robarts lyrics as if they were scripture. She had felt the group's displeasure and soon afterward dropped out of the prayer cell. She had joined the ranks of suspected campus infidels, including Reverend Elmer Jennings, who were presumed to need "saving."

Still, Imogene's unique prayer must have resonated with Lila. On a couple of occasions this fall, the mousy neighbor had popped up in the corner room during an impromptu sing-along, wondering pitifully why nobody had invited her in to lend her squeaky voice to the Robarts tunes. She had been reassured that she didn't need a specific invitation.

"What could be threatening about drab little girls like those?" asked Sara.

"Eva wasn't always drab," explained Imogene with an eye on her bureau clock. Time was short, but this was important. "Anything but. Eva started out as a drama major with a minor in dance. She had dreams of dancing on Broadway."

"Well? What happened?" Sara was preoccupied with pulling her hair back in a bun.

"Recurring bursitis in both ankles," said Imogene. "It got so painful, she couldn't dance at all. She told me she had no choice but to turn to God for an explanation."

"I'd like God to explain a few things to me while he's at it," said Sara. She, too, glanced at the clock. "Jeez, it's twenty to two, and I still feel disembodied."

"Maybe if we start walking toward the gym," suggested Imogene, "you'll get your sea legs."

Sara peered into her bureau mirror to check her hair, and then did several quick deep-knee bends. She came up reeling and groped for her bed. "Christ, now I'm dizzy. This is gonna be a disaster."

"What do you need?" asked Imogene. "A cup of water?"

"No, thanks, that doesn't quite cut it." Sara contemplated her closed closet door. She remained in that pose so long that Imogene followed her gaze.

"Something stronger, maybe?" ventured Imogene.

"You read my mind. I guess you know there was something besides champagne in that mystery package Jake sent me."

"I suspected it." Imogene tried to sound more sophisticated than she was.

"I held it back, not knowing how the girls on the hall would react. Drinking is one thing, smoking dope totally another—but I'm sorry. It's the one thing that'll steady my nerves right now."

"You're really sure it's a good idea?" asked Imogene as she opened Sara's closet door and pulled out the box. She stepped back and watched Sara retrieve what looked like a carton of cigarettes. Sara read the accompanying note with a chuckle.

"You do realize, Ms. Murphy, that smoking dope is against the rules of Mary Ellen Clemens Dormitory?" Imogene tried to imitate Lynne Mason's girlish-stern voice.

"I'm pleading an emergency here," said Sara. "Listen to this: Jake says he's provided enough joints for one blowout party. He recommends the girls of first-floor Clemens smoke them together under a full moon, do some howling, and then stay clean the rest of the year. He's entering a cleansing phase himself and vows never again to corrupt a women's dorm. I guess that's on the chance he might have a daughter of his own pretty soon."

Sara withdrew two cigarettes from the carton, found a lighter in her bureau drawer, and opened a window. Imogene watched her fire up both of them and did not hesitate to accept one. Both girls seemed to take for granted that Sara was a leader and Imogene a follower.

She would not let on to Sara how frightened she was. Her roommate probably assumed that she was familiar with the growing drug scene in Sizemore dormitory since her boyfriend lived there. In reality, Imogene felt Steve drifting away from her, partly on a cloud of marijuana smoke. She half believed, like her parents, that a couple of puffs could lead to "reefer madness." But it was time to find out for herself.

The women took deep drags near the open window. Imogene coughed up the smoke and then tried again. She waited for the room to swim before her eyes, but nothing happened. Sara, however, relaxed noticeably.

"No need to get falling-down stoned," she said, "just pleasantly buzzed. I think I'm ready to go face the music."

Imogene provided a paper cup to crush out the joints, and Sara stuffed it into her bureau drawer. They left the room and made their way past obstacles and curious glances in the hall and lobby. On the walkway outside, they encountered a penetrating, fascinated stare.

"My God," said Sara, when they were well past, "who or what was that?"

"Weird Lila," said Imogene, "one of the holy-rollers we were just talking about."

"She eyeballed me again. Is she in love with me, or what?"

"I don't know about that," said Imogene, "but she's awfully curious."

"What time is it now?"

"Five minutes past two," replied Imogene.

"They'll wait for me," reassured Sara, as she and Imogene picked up speed. When they entered the foyer of the gym, Sara stopped short and swayed, and Imogene's hand steadied her. The main doors were open, revealing the sights and sounds of a warm-up underway.

"Damn," said Sara, "how late am I?"

"Eight minutes," whispered Imogene.

Sara straightened up, then sent Imogene on her way with a pat on the back. "Run along, dear, and don't worry about me. Once I lock eyes with Beatty and Mueller, I'll be okay."

"Don't forget Jim's advice," said Imogene as she prepared to leave. "Just get through it. Just be yourself." She found herself contemplating the terrifying unpredictability of gymnastics. She recalled how Emily, who had been on the team freshman year, claimed to have nearly broken her neck in a widely publicized fall. That had prompted her to take up pom-poms on the grounds that they were safer. Sara had accused Emily of exaggerating that injury and had refused to be rattled, but Imogene's imagination now churned up the same disaster or worse.

As Imogene lingered, she watched the office door on the left side of the foyer burst open and Judson Beatty storm out. His stern face seemed carved out of granite, with his blue eyes simmering like cold flames and his chin thrust forward like a jagged edge. Despite her fear, she felt strangely captivated by the thick, graying hair and ex-athlete's body, still muscular despite a beginning paunch. She ducked behind Sara, who seemed ready to face him down.

Three flustered figures in warm-up suits slipped out of the office behind Beatty and hurried into the gym. Imogene realized that these were the girls who had been present at the illicit champagne party and had fled the corner room on Eva's advice. She could hardly believe such Judases existed in the dorm—especially Annie, who always seemed so sweet and guileless. Those few sips of bubbly must have gone to her head. Had Beatty noticed her condition and determined to find out who was responsible?

A battle of nerves was joined between Sara and the athletic director. He said nothing, but squared his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest as if daring her to come closer. Coach Mueller hurried into the foyer to serve as mediator, but flailed in the poisonous atmosphere. The flurry of activity inside the gym slowed to a breathless crawl as Sara stepped toward Beatty.

"I'm sorry we partied at the wrong time, Coach Beatty," she said, "but it happens. Your football players do it all the time. If you need to hold someone responsible, it should be me and not the other girls, since I instigated it. But I'm ready to compete regardless."

Imogene, impressed with her roommate's spirit, patted her shoulder discreetly. Even Beatty seemed inclined to step aside and let Sara prove herself in the gym. Then he caught something in her eyes that lit a fuse.

The athletic director unfolded his arms. He jerked his head, first toward Coach Mueller, then toward Imogene. "You two. Get out!" Imogene slipped through the foyer door while Coach Mueller hurried into the gym to restart the team warm-up. But Imogene could not resist looking back. She thought Sara was smiling at the simmering Beatty—not a wise tactic.

"And you. Still your brother's sister, a smart-ass screw-up. I'll straighten you out."

By now Imogene would have been on the run back to Clemens if she were as timid as everyone thought. When she saw Beatty grab Sara's arm, drag her into his office, and slam the door, something compelled her to slip back into the foyer. She almost trembled as she laid her ear against the door, but curiosity prevailed.

Imogene held her breath while she eavesdropped on the interrogation. She knew she ought to step back from the door, in case Beatty ended it by throwing Sara bodily out of his office. Instead, she hung on every word she could make out.

"I should feed you to the narcs. There's a few around here who follow my orders."

"That's hardly necessary, Coach Beatty. I screwed up big time, but it won't happen again. And I'm ready to compete anyway."

"Yeah, you do that. Go in there and break your damned neck. I'd like everyone to witness it."

Then came shocking sounds—a thud and a crash, punctuated by a painful shriek. Imogene stepped aside barely in time to avoid colliding with the athletic director as he stormed out of the office and proceeded into the gym. Moments later, Sara stumbled out, her hand over her right eye but her voice defiant. "I'll see you in there," she called after him, "in five minutes."

Sara stopped short and frowned at Imogene. "You're still here? What are you, obsessed with teacher-student conferences? You should be out in the woods spying on Mark and Emily."

"I just thought you could use some support." Imogene held out an arm and Sara grasped it.

"Believe me, I'm gonna show the bastard—just as soon as my head clears. Help me to the bathroom." Sara motioned toward the right side of the foyer, and Imogene guided her down the hallway and into the ladies' room. She watched as Sara made a cold pack from wet paper towels and pressed it against her eye; the impact made her gasp. A purple-black area was developing.

"Christ, my contacts." Sara removed the right lens and placed it on a paper towel. Imogene, a wearer herself, recoiled in horror.

"That—that bastard could've put out your eye."

"He wasn't trying to," said Sara. "He just sort of shoved me aside as he left the office. I fell over a chair, and my head hit the wall."

"He wasn't trying to?" repeated Imogene. She wondered if Sara's violence-prone father had made her a likely target for an authority figure. "What did you say to set him off?"

"You know me," said Sara, swabbing her eye. "When he demanded the truth, I gave it to him. I really think he could've tolerated my being a little drunk or hung over. But spacey-ness is a different dimension for him."

"How can he expect to get away with—assaulting you?" pursued Imogene. "It's a firing offense." Or an exposé, she thought, or maybe a lawsuit.

"What about what I did?" replied Sara. "Forget about it. I'm not gonna tell anybody, and I'll bet he's not, either. It'll be our dirty little secret—Mutual Assured Destruction. Got a compact in your purse, by any chance?"

Imogene, who always carried numerous necessities with her, produced a compact. Sara applied the powder to her eye, wincing at each touch. Then she replaced her contact lens, using Imogene's bottle of wetting solution.

"How do I look?" she asked with a wink.

"Fine," said Imogene, as if this were the routine last check before a date instead of a major cover-up. "Actually, you look a little green all of a sudden—"

Sara clutched her midriff and groaned. "It's that damned greasy lunch. Excuse me a second." She barged into a stall and leaned over the toilet. After throwing up noisily, she flushed the mess. When she reemerged, she wiped her mouth with the remains of the compress. Her energy reviving, she flexed her limbs and did deep knee bends.

"All systems go." Sara marched herself and Imogene out of the bathroom. "Time for you to hit the road, missy. Only a few _Campus News_ types are supposed to be watching this workout, and you're too conspicuous. I'll fill you in later, I promise."

"First tell me," said Imogene, glancing at the gym door, "the real reason why you covered up that eye."

"Are you kidding? It's more embarrassing than a damned zit," laughed Sara.

Imogene lowered her voice to a whisper. "You know and I know you could have the athletic director over a barrel."

"Really, Imogene." For the first time in their tentative friendship, Sara snapped at her. "Do I look like a blackmailer?"

"But you—but he—"

"He's some kind of mad genius. He did just the thing to bring out the best in a royal screw-up like me. My head has cleared miraculously. I'm going in there now to blow him and everyone else away. And you, dear, are going home. Your work as a nursemaid is finished." Imogene left the gym, her doubts resolved.

* * * * *

### Chapter Five

I don't get an ego rush when I hear people describe Christine O'Brien as a gorgeous babe. It isn't something I strive for; it's just part of my persona. I've never campaigned to be the ideal woman on campus, the embodiment of female virtue and school spirit, but that's what's happening. Everyone seems to believe I was born to wear the crown and carry the scepter of Homecoming Queen. It's practically a done deal now that my main competitor for the honor, a longtime friend of mine who has recently developed extreme artistic pretensions, has declared herself uninterested.

I won't deny it's fun to be popular and noticed, but it's a burden too. The other girls act friendly, but I can tell they're jealous. They resent the way I boss them around when I'm organizing Homecoming events. They wonder aloud what I have to be cranky about. They watch me like hawks, waiting for me to stumble. I don't want to give them the satisfaction, so I try to be perfect.

Only, that's impossible. When I fall short, I get angry, mostly with myself. I look at my reflection in the mirror and think, this is the height of my beauty. How long will it last? No time to lose finding the perfect guy to share all this glamour with while I still have it. I'm expected to sweep into the Homecoming dance on my perfect guy's arm and get engaged to him under the revolving globe. So what if the boyfriend is really a drunken loser underneath his brawny good looks? So what if he has to stop and puke in the bushes as he walks me home that night? People need to believe in the permanence of the couple that dances the first slow-dance at Homecoming. I must find someone to help me carry it off, even if it turns out to be an illusion.

People eat up romantic stories like that. Once they've had their fill of romance, they can't wait to spew all over you. Do they think I don't know that? Sorry, folks, I won't let you see me screw up that night. I'll wait until I'm alone in my room with all the festivities over, before I take stock. I'll stare at my reflection, trying to hold onto that perfect image. But all the makeup tricks in the world won't prop me up forever.

Two weeks after the gymnastics tryout, on a crisp Friday afternoon alive with promise and energy, Sara and Imogene prepared to set off for New York in Sara's newly scrubbed van. Most of the residents of first-floor Clemens were on hand after morning classes to see them off. Sara and Imogene were traveling light, wearing T-shirts and jeans under school jackets, with overnight bags slung across their shoulders.

Sara paused at the foot of the hall in front of Lynne Mason's closed door. She swiveled to take final leave of her hallmates and winked with her now-healed eye. At first, her apparent injury had excited some gossip. Sara wasn't lying when she claimed to have fallen on her head at the tryout, then gotten up and blown away the competition. But Shelley had opined that there was "more to that shiner than meets the eye."

"Hurry back," Shelley now told Sara. "It wouldn't be good form to leave Jim Guthrie alone for more than twenty-four hours. Too many salivating girls ready to pounce."

"They don't worry me," said Sara, "except maybe the unattached Homecoming princesses." She glanced at Christine.

"Don't look at me," said Christine. "I'm too insanely busy to meddle in other people's affairs. Besides, you seem to have totally seduced Jim in just two weeks."

This was a fair assumption, based on Jim's unusual behavior in the dining hall. Several times he and Curtis had forsaken their hero status in the east wing to join Sara and Imogene at one of the common tables. After dinner, Jim and Sara would slip out together for some early evening private time. On these occasions, roommate protocol dictated that either Curtis or Imogene must steer clear of his or her room for at least an hour. Sadly, this displacement had not fostered a liaison between Curtis and Imogene. But at least Imogene knew that Steve had observed her talking to Curtis. He had mentioned it during one of their common kitchen shifts, betraying no jealousy.

"We'll be spending the night at Peace Enterprises headquarters and then busting our humps to get back here at a reasonable hour tomorrow with an intact band," announced Sara. "Chances are I'll miss the football game—the first one I've ever really cared about."

"And to think just two weeks ago," said Shelley, "you didn't know a goal post from a bed post."

"I still don't," smiled Sara. "All I know is, I expect Jim to perform heroics on Saturday afternoon, so I can show him off at the dance Saturday night. You girls are welcome to worship my guy from afar when he takes the field—and no doubt Christine will keep everyone in the stands hopped up with her sexy pom-pom routines."

"That's the idea," said Christine, frowning as if she detected sarcasm.

"Well, sports fans, time to hit the road. It's a five-hour trip." Sara pointed to her watch and nodded at Imogene. But as she took a last look at the group of women who lately had become a boiling stew, she couldn't resist stirring the mix.

"These new roommate combinations better not blow up while I'm gone. The Carolyn and Christine match seems especially dicey. Hope I'm wrong, but right now it doesn't look made in heaven."

"Why do you say that?" exclaimed Carolyn, reddening. Imogene feared she would let loose with the frustrations that had accumulated these past two weeks. Carolyn's dream of discarding her everyday boyfriend, Jack the Accountant, for someone extraordinary like Jim Guthrie, had come to naught. She had been humiliated when Annie, in an apparent quest for spiritual fulfillment, had left her and moved in with Eva and Lila. This reorganization required Carolyn to live with Christine, who resented losing her single room. After Carolyn moved out of her and Annie's old room, two new nondescript types from upstairs had been moved in. None of this had helped Carolyn in her quest to become one of the campus golden girls.

Her failures amused Shelley. "Stop acting like a jilted lover just because you broke up with Annie. Why not look on the bright side? Your new roomie is Arts Committee chairwoman. If you have any creative tendencies at all, she'll bring them out."

"You'd be better off yourself, Shelley, if you were a little less creative these days and a little more studious." Betty's evil eye fell on Christine, who had led her roommate astray.

Christine, in turn, glared at Shelley. "We've wasted enough time with chit-chat when there's work to be done. In case you've forgotten, our final planning meeting starts in ten minutes. After that, we go straight to the Amphitheatre to start decorating."

"God, the life of a Homecoming princess is just so—frenetic, it makes my head spin." Carolyn was straining to sound amused, Imogene thought. "But you still haven't let us in on the really big news, Chrissie. Who's taking you to the dance tomorrow night? Are you gonna kiss and make up with linebacker Karl in time?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." Christine, too, was straining for civility. "It's not important. I'll let Karl take me unless someone better comes along."

"Now, girls," said Sara, glancing again at her watch, "let's not get testy on such a glorious afternoon. The Sunburst is coming, bringing a peace and love message, hopefully. Don't let me return to campus with the band to find a civil war going on."

"Speaking of the devil," said Shelley, motioning toward the end of the hall, "here comes the God Squad."

Annie, Eva, and Lila, the new holy trinity on the hall, were making their way toward the group but seemed prepared to pass it by. Annie was wearing her warm-up suit, although no gymnastics team practice was scheduled until tomorrow afternoon. Eva, her apparent mentor for the afternoon, was dressed in sweat clothes, her chronically swollen ankles taped. Lila lurked behind her roommates, smiling uneasily at her neighbors. Carolyn and Christine turned their backs as the trio passed, but Sara was in an expansive mood.

"Wouldn't you hymn-singers like to stop and wish me well on my mission? I'm doing this for the whole school, you know, every faction. I'm not even inclined to remark on the obvious fact that Annie is sneaking off to the gym to try to get an edge on me for Sunday."

"I'm not sneaking," said Annie. "It's just that—Athletic Director Beatty invited me and a couple of others to work out for him in a special session."

"Where you're sure to get some hands-on attention," said Shelley.

Sara choked back a laugh, and Imogene looked at the floor. An uncertain giggle passed through the group of nondescripts.

"Excuse us, please," said Eva with her usual studied sweetness. "We're in a hurry." But Shelley was not about to excuse them without comment.

"I've heard the athletic director is quite a fire-and-brimstone preacher in the locker room, so watch out, Sara. This extra session in the gym could be as good as a prayer meeting. They'll be calling on divine assistance to beat you at the big meet."

"It'll take more than a few mealy-mouthed prayers to beat me." Sara's own competitive spirit rekindled.

"Does anybody else smell a conspiracy here?" asked Shelley. "I mean, this is right on the heels of that religious demonstration in the dining hall last night."

She paused, evoking memories of the ruckus that had almost stopped an annual tradition. "By the way, who knew Paul Claitt would turn into such a prig about the parade of babes? Especially when he's dated a few Homecoming princesses in his time?"

"Maybe he just hasn't found the right one," said Christine, growing agitated.

The trio departed without renewing this debate. The consensus among the remaining residents was that the parade of Homecoming princesses, which always took place in the dining hall the night before the school voted for Homecoming Queen, might be construed as degrading to women if it weren't so traditional. Or, it could be interpreted as a take-off on beauty pageants, not meant to be taken seriously. In spite of the skimpy dresses, it seemed ridiculous for the local Moral Majority to disrupt the proceedings by jumping into the line and trying to hand the "babes" miniature Bibles.

"Yeah, who knew that about Paul?" said Carolyn with renewed excitement. "Maybe that means he'll excuse himself from dancing the traditional first dance with the Homecoming Queen tomorrow night."

"You mean recuse himself, bubblehead," said Betty.

"He can dance with whomever he pleases." Christine steadied her voice. Recovering her businesslike air, she turned to Shelley. "Are you ready to go to work or not?"

Shelley professed herself ready to roll up her sleeves and decorate the hall, even if nobody invited her to the dance to see the results of her handiwork. She and Christine departed behind the holy trinity.

Betty wished the travelers good luck and added a gratuitous proviso that their trip would be a bust if they failed to bring back Byron Robarts as a full member of the Sunburst.

"Thanks for making it mission impossible," said Sara. "Byron never travels with the group—he just materializes onstage when least expected. My information is, nobody's seen him around headquarters for weeks."

"If he was really in love with you last summer, as you've been hinting," said Betty, "you shouldn't have any trouble luring him back."

"He'll be with the band in spirit, if nothing else," said Imogene. She felt herself panicking; this "in spirit" argument, vetted aloud, sounded too weak to support her honors thesis. Somehow she must prove that Byron, with his poetic sensibilities, was an integral part of the hard-rock Sunburst.

Sara hitched up her knapsack, and Imogene did likewise. But Sara hesitated. "I wish I had a chance to say goodbye to Emily before we leave. I don't trust her once my back is turned. Where in hell is she?"

"I guess she's having her usual lunchtime production meeting with Mark Piluras," said Imogene. As always, the words "production meeting" produced titters all around.

The travelers moved toward the lobby but stopped short at the sound of a door opening behind them. Lynne Mason peered out of her lair.

"Don't forget to sign out, girls, if you're planning to be gone overnight."

"Thanks for reminding us, Ms. Mason," responded Sara. "I was just promising the girls I'd bring my brother and his band back in one piece."

"More importantly, bring yourselves back in one piece." The housemother seemed to be fighting a blush. "And please sign in as soon as you get back. I don't want two missing girls hanging over my head."

"Especially with a certain rock star in tow," said Sara. "Don't worry. We'll be back in good time tomorrow—unless, by some mischance, we wind up in jail."

Sara and Imogene signed out as requested and ran for the vehicle. As they set off with Sara at the wheel, negotiating the rambling country roads at the start of their journey, they professed themselves amazed to be taking this trip when their lives back on campus were so hectic. "Besides gymnastics practice at four tomorrow," said Sara, "I've got choir practice at six. I have one of the solos at the special chapel service Sunday morning. It would be sacrilegious to screw that up."

"I'm scheduled to work Saturday dinner in the dining hall," offered Imogene. "I can't blow that off—my father will kill me if I lose my job."

On a clear day like this, the westward mountains beckoned, but the travelers were leaving that gentle picture behind. They picked up Route 81 and crossed the Mason-Dixon Line into Pennsylvania. The brilliant sun and fresh autumn breeze seemed harbingers of a successful trip. Sara handled the wheel with confidence and kept the pace leisurely and the conversation self-congratulatory. Having gone through an uproarious and tense two weeks, the women declared themselves toughened for the task ahead. They believed they could face down the big city influences that were rumored, in various press reports, to be driving the band apart.

As the miles slipped behind them, they acquired a new perspective on the campus and its most destructive cross-currents. They observed that the religious students seemed determined to establish a theocracy while the hippie freaks wanted sex-filled, drug-addled anarchy. Sara and Imogene professed to believe in a happy medium, but agreed that religion was their most immediate problem with the hymn-singing going on next door virtually every night.

"I actually tried to compliment one of our neighbors—what's her name again, Layla?—the other night when we were both waiting for the shower," reported Sara. "I told her I liked the singing, even if it was a little untimely at times. She was apologetic about it but firm. She said if I would just drop by and lend my voice to their celebration some time, I too might be filled with the Holy Spirit and cease to notice the time of day or night. I told her thanks, but I was saving my voice for the choir."

"That was Lila you talked to," corrected Imogene, who knew Sara was bad at names. "Weird Lila," she added.

"Yeah, the frustrated singer with the squeaky voice. She went on to say she'd like to be invited to our room when we're having one of our impromptu sing-alongs. She feels drawn to the spiritual quality of Byron Robarts's songs. I explained what makes our sing-alongs impromptu—that no formal invitations are issued. Then she started speculating that Byron might be some kind of prophet. Very strange."

"Lila is strange," confirmed Imogene. "Always on the fringe of things. Not even a really good fit with the religious kids. Yet super observant."

Imogene paused uncomfortably. "I had an odd conversation with her too. Just in passing the other day, she informed me that she had smelled something strange but kind of sweet seeping through our door, the only time she remembered it being closed in the daytime. I said I couldn't imagine what it was."

"Oh, great. Maybe we'll have to neutralize this Layla or Lila. I'll bet she just wants a piece of the party."

Sara and Imogene talked further about the religious element. Imogene felt she understood its dangers, having dabbled in the prayer cell. She explained that the religious kids were as capable of underhanded behavior as anyone else. They were more capable, in fact, because they believed all their impulses were propelled either by God or the devil. If they succumbed to Satan's wiles on occasion, they could count on instant forgiveness from Jesus.

Sara laughed off the supposed danger and looked forward to facing it down. If the God Squad prayed for its own girl to win the State meet, Sara would demolish her in the gym. If one of them seemed overly curious about certain smells or sounds emanating from the corner room, that girl could be ignored, or better yet, befriended.

"Have you decided on a topic for your honors thesis?" asked Imogene, broaching new territory. "I remember you saying you were bored with your original topic."

Sara responded with enthusiasm while Imogene waited for an opening to discuss her own reborn project. "The Phys. Ed. department desperately needs a shot of creativity. At first, they expected all the seniors to stick to straight physiology subjects. My logical assignment was to describe my current balance beam routine in excruciating detail—every nervous, muscular, and circulatory reaction. But honestly, when I heard about you and Emily practically going Hollywood with your projects, I got jealous. I wanted to do something equally glamorous. So I met with Beatty and made the case that I'm a human being, not just a body. I convinced him to let me drop The Anatomy of a Balance Beam Routine and tackle instead The Psychology of a Winning Gymnast. Catchy, isn't it?"

"It's—" Imogene was flabbergasted but impressed.

"Brazen, right? That title will be an extra incentive for me to win the State meet. If I don't, I'll have to change it to The Psychology of a Screw-Up, or something equally humiliating. Either way, this paper will be groundbreaking. It's practically revolutionary in my department for anyone to focus on the emotional or human side of athletics."

"It's a great topic," said Imogene. "You actually went into the athletic director's office—alone—to discuss it?"

"Perfect opportunity for him to make a pass at me," said Sara, "but somehow he controlled himself."

"That's not what I meant," protested Imogene. She began to sputter about Sara's black eye, but Sara laughed her off. "Trust me. Beatty was a perfect gentleman. I think he will be from now on. He needs me at my best on Sunday."

Imogene prepared to introduce some issues that would confront her in New York when she began researching her own thesis. But Sara moved on to Emily's project, in which she had a role. "One night last week, walking home after my date with Jim, I saw a light on in the drama building. I thought, here's my chance to check out one of those alleged production meetings. So I snuck up the stairs and burst into the third floor piano room to find Emily and Mark in the midst of—"

"What?" demanded Imogene.

"Rehearsing one of the scenes for their Homecoming video—my scene, in fact. They had their camera and sound guys working with a stand-in for me, setting up the spiel I was supposed to deliver as a lead-in to my performance at the meet."

"Nothing compromising, then?" asked Imogene.

"Nothing on the surface, at least. I remarked that the rumors about these production meetings were raising eyebrows in the hall, so I decided to investigate. Now that I had seen it was all business, I offered to squelch the gossip.

"Emily said she didn't care what I told the stupid girls in the hall, that it was none of their business anyway. That roused me to probe a little deeper. I demanded to know why they were using a stand-in for me, as if they thought somebody else might end up as the star of the State meet. They denied that and offered to let me step in and tape my lead-in speech right then. So I did, and everyone was happy with the result—except maybe the stand-in.

"I might have left well enough alone, and Emily and I would still be speaking, but we all know that isn't me. I couldn't resist reminding Mark that my sister-in-law Marianne would be returning to campus soon. She might be Mrs. Rock Star now, but she had a few close collaborations with a certain drama instructor back in her art student days. I asked if he had any intentions of renewing that acquaintance. That's when Emily began to act possessive. She frosted up, and ever since then, our so-called friendship has been on the rocks."

"The last time the three of us talked at bedtime," recalled Imogene, "you warned her against trusting Piluras too much. She got a little pissed even then."

"Maybe that advice was premature. But Christ, Emily knows my mother ran off with a Hollywood producer who turned out to be a phony. Does she want to repeat that drama before my eyes? Who wouldn't speak up?"

"You did the right thing," said Imogene, reflecting that she barely had contributed a thought to that rare three-way discussion. But squelching all resentment against her voluble roommates, she settled back to enjoy the present moment. So far on this scenic route, they had skirted a series of Pennsylvania towns hardly bigger than Glendary; the big city was still four hours away.

"So Jim taped a speech for Emily's video too?" she asked.

"Nailed it in one take," replied Sara. "He has plenty of dramatic flair to go with his stunning good looks. Definite pro football player and movie star material."

The women laughed at Sara's presumption, although Imogene knew that her roommate was not joking. Ever since that first close encounter with Jim Guthrie in the dining hall two weeks before, Sara had been mapping out a future with him, and he hadn't tried to discourage her. She had predicted a life of fame, fortune, and marital bliss for herself and Jim that would leave everyone, including her brother, in the dust.

"How's Jim's knee?" asked Imogene. "Rumor has it he turned up lame at practice last Monday."

"Where'd you hear that?" inquired Sara.

"From our hallmate, Carolyn. She has an ear for football rumors."

"Oh, yeah, and an eye for the players. Too bad she can't get a date with one to save her life. Typical horny bleached blonde." Sara laughed off wide-hipped, washed-out Carolyn without another thought. Not fair, thought Imogene. Despite her chunkiness, Carolyn was no mere nondescript like Betty and Shelley, who would snack their lives away. She was an ordinary girl with extraordinary ambition, who would do anything within her power to change her fate, including starvation dieting.

Sara admitted that Jim's injury, a deep knee bruise, had not occurred during Glendary's lopsided victory at Westchester College last Saturday afternoon. It was caused by some Saturday night high jinks on a motorcycle. For the past week, Jim had iced the knee at night and taken it easy in practice to ensure that he would be one hundred percent ready for the Homecoming game.

"What was he doing on a motorcycle?" asked Imogene.

Sara conceded that this had been incredibly dumb, but it was traditional. Jim and Curtis were among the half-dozen football players who owned motorcycles. Saturday night keg parties in Boulder dorm often wound up with a motorcycle race in the fields west of campus. Sara, riding with Jim for the first time, had urged him to minimize the hot-dogging and go straight for the finish line. Imogene grew uncomfortable when she realized this "finish line" was actually her father's property line—and that a fluke accident had prevented Jim and Sara from reaching it. The bike's front tire had hit something that knocked it askew, and the riders had been thrown. Sara, like Jim, had suffered bumps and bruises but nothing serious enough to interrupt her workouts.

"There's been speculation that my dad plants rocks around his borders," blurted Imogene.

"Does he?"

"I hope not. I mean, I can't believe he did that," said Imogene.

"If you don't believe it, I don't."

Sara seemed fascinated with Jim's "easy rider" image, but Imogene detected trouble in paradise. Jim had asked Sara to accompany him on a motorcycle trip to his Ohio home over the Christmas holidays to meet his parents. The open road had sounded like fun when they first discussed it, but now Sara wondered if her van might be a better choice. She sighed, admitting it would be a challenge to tame Jim without changing him.

"So how's your love life?" Sara asked Imogene. "Going to the dance with what's-his-name?"

"Steve," supplied Imogene. "He's been jerking me around about that damned dance. So yesterday in the kitchen, I told him I was going on this trip. My only plan for the weekend was transporting the Sunburst and hopefully getting to know them in the process."

"I'll bet that made him jealous," said Sara.

It had. If Steve couldn't be a rock star himself, he would love to hang out with musicians. But Imogene's other attempts to needle him had fallen flat. Her flirtations with Curtis Simpson in the dining hall had not been taken seriously. To underscore her defeat, someone else had ridden behind the lineman in that motorcycle race.

Sara and Imogene lamented the difficulties of domesticating men. Sara had made strides with Jim last Tuesday when she cooked him a three-course dinner in the tiny Clemens kitchen. Imogene had vacated the corner room that evening so that the couple could sip wine and dine leisurely on soup, steak, baked potatoes, mixed vegetables, and chocolate pudding. Imogene had holed up in Carolyn's room, trying to study but finding it difficult. The "horny bleached blonde" was preoccupied with what was going on next door. Imogene had no answer when Carolyn demanded, "What could they be doing together for three hours, when they've only known each other ten days?"

Now Imogene ventured, "Not that it's any of my business—but you two spent a lot of time alone together the other night. Did you—"

"Of course we did," replied Sara. "It was great, but it didn't take up the whole evening. As a follow-up, I got out my guitar and played Jim a song I've been composing about our romance—a Romeo and Juliet theme, with a much nicer ending. Instead of killing ourselves, we bring about a rapprochement between the freaks and jocks on campus. As usual, I had a lot more of the melody than the lyrics. Tragically, I don't have my brother's gift for getting both at once. So I kept playing the tune, and Jim filled in some lyrical gaps until we almost had a complete song. Amazing, the way his ideas complemented mine."

Sara sighed contentedly. "We learned a lot about each other that night. It seems Emily and I, just by luck, did a good job of satirizing him in the Follies last spring. Remember the cowboy hat his character wore with a feather stuck in it? He says we pegged him right—a cowboy wannabe, confused by his Indian blood. An unpredictable mixture, he warned me. I found out his favorite song is "Oh Shenandoah," and that he used to play it on the trumpet for his high school band. Now, that was something I just had to hear. So around eleven, we left Clemens and went over to his room in Boulder. I took along my guitar so we could find out what kind of music we make together.

"We put on a concert that kept everybody in his hall entertained well past midnight, even the resident official. First, we attempted "Oh Shenandoah." Then I taught Jim a jazzed-up version of the old Byron Robarts anthem "Impractical Dream" and a few other peace-and-love tunes. Jim's barely heard of Byron, but he really got into the songs. Surprising, I guess, for a guy whose favorite hobbies are hunting and fishing."

"Did you tell Jim about your fling with Byron last summer?" asked Imogene.  
"Not in any detail," said Sara. "I've been trying to imagine what it would be like introducing them to each other if the occasion ever arose. I'm afraid it would be humiliating for Byron. Frankly, he'd look like an overstuffed scarecrow alongside Jim."

Imogene squelched her cynicism and withdrew all objections, even silent ones. She began to hope this relationship would prove worthy of the original love ballad that had been percolating in Sara's brain.

"You could try the same trick with what's-his-name—Steve," continued Sara. "If you think he's worth keeping around, get out of that pizza-and-beer rut and cook him a decent dinner. I'll vacate the room any evening you say, and you can probably count on Emily not coming home before curfew, if at all. I'll even donate a bottle of wine for the occasion."

Imogene warmed to the idea. She described her last late-night snack with Steve, which had ended with her throwing a beer bottle at his head, hard enough to break it against the wall. She found she got a kick out of shocking Sara.

"Where's that anger come from? It's not like you're from a broken or abusive home—even if your dad's a little territorial. Don't you know how lucky you are?"

Imogene doubted she could explain to a near-orphan like Sara that strict parents who loved you could be infuriating. They would have forbidden Imogene to go on this trip if they knew about it. She had visited New York City only once before on a school tour in the ninth grade. A glimpse of the United Nations and the stock exchange was one thing; a plunge into the partying world of the famous and sometimes depraved was another. She resolved to enjoy every minute of it.

"I'm no angrier than a lot of other girls," she argued. "First-floor Clemens is like a Cold War zone waiting to explode." The more she pondered this, the truer it seemed. The ordinary girls resented the popular ones and the popular ones resented each other. The religious kids felt threatened by the infidels, and vice versa. Even Imogene's dynamic, self-confident roommates, Sara and Emily, were fighting a running battle over which was most heroic in rising above her past.

"I may be lucky in some ways," added Imogene, "but I can't help resenting girls who bluff their way through college, partying and having fun, while their parents foot the bills."

"Sure, I resent them too," said Sara, "but Emily's the one who really makes me crazy. Her and her damned video camera always pointed at the rest of us like we're nothing but raw material for her movie script. She only gets away with her artistic pretensions because of her looks. You think Piluras gives the plain Janes in his classes any serious personal attention?"

The Emily-bashing continued for the next seventy-five miles while the women anticipated a lunch break. Their plan was to hit the Route 78 junction, glimpse the scenic Blue Mountains in the distance, and then leave these rural scenes behind as they passed through Allentown. This route would take them into New Jersey, where they would eat and refuel, and begin to negotiate the increasingly urban landscape. Imogene resolved to broach her thesis topic before confronting the actual city. But for the moment, she and Sara kept talking as if everything revolved around Emily.

"The bitch-director is secretly hoping I'll fall on my face at the meet," said Sara. "That would make such a juicy scene for her video—and a grisly injury would really ice it." When Imogene insisted that this wouldn't happen, couldn't happen, Sara responded, "You're right, dear. We both know I'll come out on top if it's a fair fight. I appreciate your faith in me. God, how'd I end up with two such totally opposite roommates?"

Imogene tried to take this as a compliment. How good was it to be the "total opposite" of a perennial Homecoming princess and talented dramatist? Maybe quite good, if it meant Sara preferred her as a friend. She bolstered Sara's theory: "I get the impression Emily would do just about anything to liven up her video." A personal grievance came to mind. "Whether she meant to or not, she really hung me out to dry last night."

Imogene described what had happened after the parade of Homecoming princesses in the dining hall. That event was traditionally followed, later the same night, by a series of drunken serenades. Each candidate princess was visited at her dorm by a contingent of guys supporting her for Homecoming Queen. The men would sing dirty ditties under her window until she appeared, waving and blowing kisses. Emily had skipped the dining hall festivities, but that only increased the curious crowd that called on her at eleven that night, when Imogene was alone in the room. As they grew louder, she had no choice but to go to the window in her bathrobe and quiet them down.

Emily's admirers, Imogene noticed, included at least a dozen football players from Boulder hall. Jim Guthrie was not among them, but she spotted Christine's boyfriend Karl Lamphere. He must be too drunk, Imogene thought, to know which princess he was serenading. It was up to her to announce Emily's absence and to take the fallout.

The guys grappled with the idea that Emily had outgrown these shenanigans. They became incensed when Imogene refused to divulge her roommate's whereabouts. Their anger was directed at the messenger because she was there and Emily was not. Would this disappointment prompt any of them to change their votes for Homecoming Queen?

"I'll tell you what I think her problem is." Imogene loved to psychoanalyze her hallmates. "She's a natural beauty who's trying to parlay that into something more significant. What she really wants is to be a mover and shaker."

"That's what makes her so lethal," declared Sara. "Poor Emily. How boring it must be, always getting by on her looks. She'll probably be too busy trying to move and shake things to show up for the halftime ceremony tomorrow. But I guess there'll be enough other princesses to cover for her absence. Unless—oh, my God—she turns out to be the one chosen Homecoming Queen."

"Wow," said Imogene. "I never thought of that."

The girls imagined the worst-case scenario of an absent Homecoming Queen at halftime tomorrow. They pictured President Edelson standing at a podium in the middle of the football field, the candidate princesses grouped around him in breathless suspense. He would tear open the envelope containing the name of the new queen; before reading it he would pause, with all the drama an old fuddy-duddy like him could muster. When he called out Emily's name, the crowd would roar in automatic jubilation. Photographers and reporters would push and shove to get close to the podium to record every minute facial expression of Glendary's ideal woman. Edelson would hold the crown aloft, ready to do the honors.

Only then would it dawn on the school and the town that something was amiss. There was no head to put the crown on because the Homecoming Queen had stiffed everyone. The president would remain in a silly pose, holding the crown, while the runner-up princesses started twittering, first in dismay, then outrage. Maybe they would form a posse to hunt Emily down and wring her neck for making fools of them all.

"Which would be exactly what she wants," said Sara. "She'd have her camera crew videotaping the whole debacle."

"What a way to make herself the star of her own production," said Imogene. "Imagine, a girl with enough nerve to reject an honor that most others would die for. Although I guess she'd claim to be exposing the shallowness of beauty contests."

"Her real motive would be to show up her parents," said Sara. "It makes my heart bleed the way she suffers from their legacy as the one-time golden couple of Glendary. What a drag that must be."

"It seems they never outgrew their roles as Homecoming Queen and championship quarterback," said Imogene. "I've heard Emily say they haven't accomplished a thing since, except to get drunk at Alumni Association functions."

"That's downright cute," said Sara, "compared to having a dad who gets drunk and smashes up your home."

"You really think Emily would humiliate the school on purpose, just for dramatic effect?" asked Imogene.

"Maybe it's just a figment of our imaginations, but it sure sounds like her," said Sara. "Makes me wish we'd taken the time before we left campus to vote for someone else for Homecoming Queen. Like that other bitchy but beautiful neighbor of ours—Christine, right?"

"Personality-wise, Chrissie's not much better than Emily," said Imogene. "I don't think she and Carolyn have exchanged five words since they forcibly became roommates. It's a lethal arrangement. Chrissie's a first-class snob, and Carolyn is jealousy itself."

"Doesn't matter. I'll support anybody who isn't Emily," said Sara. "Listen, maybe it's not too late for us to vote."

As they pulled into a rest stop in New Jersey, they debated what they might do to rig the election back on campus. While Sara refueled the van, she assured Imogene that she had a pipeline to the Student Government, which was handling the ballots. She would call the office and relay her suspicions about Emily. That should torpedo any chance their roommate might have to play a nasty trick on the college.

Sara and Imogene went into the restaurant and ordered club sandwiches, French fries, and coffee. Then Sara went to the public phone to make her call. Their meal had arrived by the time she got back, smiling with satisfaction.

"I talked to Paul Claitt," she said. "Strange guy. After leading the anti-princess demonstration last night, he's now on the job as Student Government president counting the votes for Homecoming Queen."

"Maybe he's hoping to find a born-again babe somewhere in the mix," said Imogene.

"No doubt. But he told me a weird story. A short while ago, he got a crank call. He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman—it sounded high-pitched, but it could have been a guy disguising his voice. This person demanded, 'You got the verdict yet? Who's the hottest bitch at Glendary?' Paul kept his cool and explained the vote wouldn't be made public until the halftime ceremony on Saturday. Then the voice said, 'They're all the same anyway. Whoever she turns out to be, she'd look a lot different with a carved-up face.' Then he or she hung up. Paul called campus security, but they don't have any leads yet."

While they ate lunch and washed it down with refills of coffee, Sara and Imogene speculated about who was behind this threat. At first they wrote it off as a prank cooked up by drunks still hung over from last night's serenading. But as the girls talked on, bloodier scenarios gained appeal. They believed they had seen unrest and jealousy building between factions on campus, and perhaps ripening toward violence.

"Paul said it was probably one of those stoned freaks who're always finding hidden meanings in Sunburst lyrics." Sara pounded the ketchup bottle over her French fries, covering them in blood-red. "Made it sound like my fault, since I sometimes play Sunburst songs at our dormitory sing-alongs. I told Paul it was just as likely to be his fault. After that little demonstration in the dining hall last night, every born-again on campus probably thinks it's cool to attack a Homecoming Queen."

"I've never known campus Christians to resort to violence," objected Imogene. "Their method is to threaten everybody they don't like with eternal damnation."

"I favor the freak theory," said Sara. "I can picture some stoned-out-of-his-gourd space cadet going up close and personal on a pretty little thing with a beer bottle." She poured some ketchup into her sandwich and then offered the bottle to Imogene.

"How about your friend Steve?" continued Sara. "He lives in the freak dorm, doesn't he? I hear the guys over there hate just about everything, especially the popular kids."

"They don't hate everything," protested Imogene. She had an uncomfortable memory of the beer bottle she had hurled at Steve during his last visit to Clemens. Only a few people knew about it, thank goodness. But if someone should cut the Homecoming Queen with a bottle 

"It could've been some ordinary-looking girl who's jealous of beauty queens," blurted Imogene. "I mean—Carolyn was telling me she had this dream that Christine was elected Homecoming Queen and met with an accident. She was taking her bows after the crowning, when she tripped and fell off the stage and broke her neck."

"Carolyn?" repeated Sara. There were certain neighbors' names that she would never remember.

"The horny bleached blonde we were talking about earlier. Obsessed with football players," prompted Imogene.

"Oh, yeah, that overwrought chick," said Sara. "Actually, I have an even better theory."

Sara pondered this while she chewed. She had finished half of her sandwich before Imogene had consumed a quarter of hers. She shoved in more French fries before she spoke.

"I might be way off. But I have a feeling Emily is behind the threat."

"Emily?" exclaimed Imogene. "But how? And why?" She was captivated by the idea before Sara had a chance to swallow and reply.

"How? Because she's a talented mimic. She could easily imitate a man imitating a woman on the phone. And why? To add intrigue to her Homecoming video. She could invent all kinds of incidents for dramatic effect."

After they had eaten, Sara and Imogene had a last cup of coffee for the road. They sat back and marveled at their ability to size up events on campus from such a distance, and even to pull a few strings. Their bravado pumped them up for the greater challenges ahead.

"There's another possibility, of course," pointed out Imogene, as they left the restaurant. "Maybe the threat isn't a fake. It could be serious. What if the Homecoming Queen really is in danger?"

"In that case," said Sara, "Emily's video may end up in the FBI files."

* * * * *

### Chapter Six

You made your bed with me,

a younger, sweeter Mrs. Murphy,

to chase the ghost of another,

if need be, to slay your mother.

You loved the way I burst the bonds

of harmony and tonal sounds,

an artist who corrupts your soul,

unleashing darts beyond control.

The Queen of Chaos comes of age,

a headliner on center stage

and hearth and home, wherever I reign:

I demonize the Murphy name.

"So, what are the chances the band might disintegrate before our eyes?" Imogene posed this question as Sara's van sliced through Newark, the back yard to the big city. Since their lunch break, the girls had shrugged off the mystery back on campus as if it were child's play compared to the scenarios awaiting them.

Fifty miles back, when Imogene had first broached the subject of her honors thesis, Sara had warned her that the band might be difficult to interview. For all anyone knew, it might soon cease to be a band. Imogene was excited by the idea of chronicling a breakup, but she knew that wasn't the sweetness-and-light theme her advisor wanted. Mr. Jaffee had asked her to prove that poetic impulses could survive even the anarchy and revolution inherent in rock music.

"It's up to us to try to hold the band together," said Sara, "so the Homecoming dance will come off as planned. I have no idea what's been going on at Peace Enterprises since I left. Did I tell you about my summer job in the public relations office? I was paid to promote the Sunburst myth—whatever that is—to anybody who asked."

"The Sunburst myth," said Imogene excitedly, "is at the core of my honors thesis. It's like the myth of a perfect marriage. The Murphy-Robarts partnership was always uneasy, and now it may be on the rocks. My thesis asks, can it be saved? Can folk and rock music co-exist in any meaningful way?"

Imogene went on to describe the partnership as an ongoing experiment that had yet to fail. So far it had lasted through two brilliant albums and was leading toward a third. She was still trying to come up with the right name for this unique style. "How's 'Lyrical Metal' sound?"

"Sounds great," said Sara, "but that doesn't necessarily make it real."

"It'll be real," said Imogene, "when I prove Byron has exerted a lasting poetic influence on the Sunburst. Is there any chance we'll see him this weekend—either in New York or at Glendary?"

"Last I heard, he was hiding out three hundred miles north of the city," said Sara. "I'm at least partly responsible for the way he ran back to his family. If your thesis depends on actually seeing him with the group, I might have blown it for you. Sorry about that."

Gotta believe he's still there in spirit, thought Imogene. She refrained from expressing this mystical wish and said, "If we could just listen to that new album—"

"I was there when they started making it," said Sara. "I'm afraid its working title is _Chaos_."

As Sara described her temporary job, Imogene realized that she and her roommates had never sat down together long enough to compare summer vacation experiences—an essential bonding ritual. Sara spoke of her long hours at a desk, monitoring the traffic in and out of Studio Three. The album seemed to be proceeding by committee. Jake and Marianne would go in at mid-morning to do vocal duets and his lead guitar. They would come out for their afternoon siesta, and Keith and Charlie would go in to lay down keyboard and drum tracks. If Eric showed up while the percussionists were working, he was barely tolerated by Keith, who had no patience with his folk tendencies. Engineers and technicians wandered in and out with no fixed schedule. In the evening Jake and Marianne returned to listen to tapes and work the sound board, mixing and remixing to their own liking. In Sara's opinion, this was no longer a band.

"But what about Byron?" asked Imogene. "He must have come in a few times."

"It was my job to dig him up," said Sara. She explained that Leroy Pierce, the Sunburst's business manager, had given her a long list of phone numbers to try—clubs, girlfriends' apartments, hotel hideaways. It seemed Byron could have been anywhere except at home with his wife and kids in upstate New York. Sometimes Mr. Pierce stood over her while she talked on the phone, peering down her blouse or ruffling her hair. He would assure her he was a good family man and then remark on her resemblances to her brother.

Sara's phone search turned up Byron one afternoon at an anonymous woman's residence. Byron had been attracted by the sound of Sara's voice—like Jake's, he said, only more refined and musical. He came into the office to talk further, and a summer romance was born. Byron kept coming by for her and taking her to nice restaurants instead of his usual bars. His attentions drove Mr. Pierce's two other secretaries crazy with envy. They were Glendary alumni who had followed the musicians to New York to do their clerical chores while hoping to serve them in more fulfilling ways.

"I can see why they were jealous," put in Imogene. "I know what it's like being tied down to a boring summer job while everybody else seems to be having fun."

"At least you weren't some kind of secretarial groupie like I was," said Sara.

"Oh, no?" said Imogene. She had typed and answered phones for the English department during the two summer school terms in addition to her usual kitchen duties. She had hoped to take advantage of the relative quiet to sit down with at least one of her professors and discuss topics for her thesis. But, she insisted, this plan had been foiled by Emily and Mark Piluras, who were running a community theatre on campus. It was quite experimental with dialogue and plot changes almost every night. They had the English faculty so busy contributing rewrites that no one had time to talk to Imogene.

"It was totally Emily's fault I had such a sucky time last summer," joked Imogene, while trying to suppress a surge of anger.

"Sure, Emily had herself a scintillating summer," said Sara, "but if she's planning a career in experimental theatre, she's in for a shock. Living on the edge can break you. Just ask my mother."

"It wasn't just the boring work I resented," continued Imogene. "I got so restless living at home with my parents hovering over me the whole three months. They wouldn't even let me borrow the car to visit Steve in Baltimore." Imogene sensed that Sara disapproved of her "spoiled brat" tone but pressed on, "All I wanted was some kind of meaningful work, with a little romance mixed in—like you and Emily had."

"You call what I did meaningful work?" laughed Sara. She proceeded, unconvincingly, to trump up the futility of her own summer. Besides typing contracts and letters and answering Mr. Pierce's phone, Sara had been permitted inside the studio on occasion. That was not as exciting as it sounded, she insisted, since her main function in there was to serve her brother and sister-in-law. She fetched them coffee, caviar, and spicy vegetarian delights from the neighborhood carry-outs. She adjusted their microphones, padded their chairs—anything to make the "royal couple" comfortable enough to work. She tried to exert some musical influence by coaching Marianne in her vocals and on keyboards, but her advice wasn't always appreciated.

"What about those constant parties that supposedly go on at Peace Enterprises?" inquired Imogene.

"Exaggerated," said Sara. "Trust me, it's a real business." But Imogene clung to the popular belief that Peace Enterprises was a paradise company where creative excitement combined with nonstop fun. She pictured board meetings held in and around the huge whirlpool bath on the top floor, champagne luncheons for the staff that lasted whole afternoons, random trysts between secretaries and musicians in empty rehearsal rooms. It might be a real business, but if Imogene worked there, she would revel in whatever paperwork or mundane chores were needed to support the Sunburst and the half-dozen lesser bands that had sprung up under their tutelage. She couldn't think of a more exciting nine-to-five job.

"Not that I had much time for office parties once I started hitting the gym every day," said Sara. "Did I tell you I won a city-wide gymnastics meet at the end of August?"

"I read about that in the _Campus News_ ," said Imogene. "The story mentioned that Byron was in the audience, looking more svelte than anyone could remember." Some boring summer you had, Imogene thought.

"Byron was a big motivator behind my winning the New York Cup. I wanted to show him what physical fitness could mean. By mid-July, I was only spending mornings in the office. Afternoons I trained with the club team down the street. Whenever Byron came by to watch practice, his eyes bugged out at the sight of all that female athleticism. When we went out after my workouts, we ate healthy and didn't drink."

That was how Byron began to lose the overgrown hermit look he had cultivated for so long. Gone was the bleary-eyed stare that had greeted Sara when she first dug him up. He trimmed his hair and beard until his features were visible. Sara could kiss him without getting whisky breath. He would compliment her and bring her flowers.

"Sounds like you had a fairy tale summer after all." Imogene tried to keep the resentment out of her voice. "You kissed a hermit, and he turned into a prince."

"I was meddling with his legend," said Sara. "At first I thought it would be wonderful if he rejoined the human race. Then it dawned on me that alienation was what made him unique. His anti-establishment songs were his bread and butter during the Vietnam War era. Once those were no longer relevant, he could only preserve that image by dropping out of sight."

"No one ever retired with more flair," observed Imogene. "Setting fire to his guitar at his farewell concert in Central Park. Symbolically burning his bridges."

Not that he had burned them totally. He went on to underwrite a small record company, Peace Enterprises, hoping to nurture singers like himself. In keeping with his "dropout" status, he declined to involve himself in business decisions—until Jake came along. The first musician he signed personally was the antithesis of a folk singer. It took such a contradiction to awaken Byron to the idea of serious profits and to revive his own career.

Byron had infused the raucous Sunburst with doses of peace-and-love. He encouraged Jake to extend himself in lyric-writing. He befriended Eric, the bass player who used to be a folkie, and counteracted Keith, the raging keyboardist. On stage, Byron was treated as a venerable visitor rather than an integral member of the band. Shows would be launched and proceed without him until fans despaired of seeing him. Then Jake would pause, motion Byron out from the wings, and vacate the center microphone. With only his acoustic guitar, Byron would raise antiwar fervor to its former heights. He always finished his set with the signature piece, "Impractical Dream," a litany of social grievances. Sometimes he made motions as if to set his guitar ablaze, in imitation of his Central Park farewell, but never quite did it. Imogene intended to explore the irony that peace songs opened the door to violence.

"The best Sunburst songs, in my opinion, are the true collaborations," continued Imogene, "with Jake and Byron contributing equally. That's why I consider 'She Moves Me' and 'Glowing Strings' to be classics."

"Don't you think they're schizophrenic classics?" asked Sara. "Jake and Byron are so different. Their collaborations are more like—I don't know—debates."

Imogene took a spiral notebook from her purse and recorded this thought. She wondered if Jake's music and personality were destined to have the upper hand simply because they were louder. She hummed a few bars of "She Moves Me," in which the idealized woman of Byron's crooning became transformed by Jake's increasingly hard riffs into a devil-temptress. Likewise, "Glowing Strings" began with Byron's slightly off-key reflections about the self-conflagration he had accomplished in Central Park—only to have Jake burst this solitary bubble with ravings about urban riots.

"We're getting close," Sara warned Imogene, motioning toward the exit sign for the New Jersey Turnpike. They soon would be passing Jersey City on their way to the Holland Tunnel. "Before we get any closer, I better explain why we probably won't be seeing Byron, much as I know you'd like to. I'm afraid his renaissance ended with our summer romance.

"By the end of August, he and I were operating at a fever pitch. I was running from the office to the gym to night spots like someone possessed. I ate so little, I was starting to look like those anorexic gymnasts that most coaches prefer. Worst of all, I didn't really consider the consequences of adultery with a man who has three kids."

"But you accomplished at least a temporary miracle," said Imogene, "by winning the meet and getting Byron functioning again."

"Yeah, I'll tell you how functional he was. Out of the blue, he decided it was time to write protest songs again. He said he didn't need a war to inspire him; he had his own private war going on, with the monster that had gotten him by the throat, corporate greed. He started composing scathing lyrics about his own company, stuff like, 'ideals corrupted by deals.' He called Jake and Leroy a 'two-headed greed machine' that had corrupted his soul and distorted his message with crass loudness until he no longer recognized it."

"Seems to me that 'two-headed greed machine' made him some big bucks," observed Imogene.

"I pointed that out myself. He insisted he only takes the money for the sake of his family living on six acres in upstate New York. I went on to chide him for avoiding Studio Three during the current sessions. I said if he was gonna boycott the _Chaos_ project, he should refuse on principle to take any royalties from it. But it'd be better if he found some way to make his voice heard on it, like he always has before."

"I hope he does." Imogene jumped at this possible boost for her thesis. Sara laughed to see her on the edge of her seat, pulsating against the safety belts, as if she couldn't wait to cast aside her rural innocence and confront the turbulent world ahead—hopefully, to defend Byron's place in it.

"By the end of summer," continued Sara, "life with Jake and Marianne was grating on me. If they weren't fighting like a pair of alley cats, they were acting like immortal lovers. The middle ground where normal married couples live just didn't exist in that condo. I preferred their fights because then I could referee. On the other hand, if I was in the room when they were in love mode, they went out of their way to demonstrate that three was a crowd. I would leave with as much fanfare as I could, slamming the door behind me, and go spend the night with Byron."

Imogene was appalled to learn that Sara's own family had not shown up at the arena to watch her win the New York Cup; at best, her brother and sister-in-law had glimpsed it on the evening news as they made love in their oversized bed. They never stopped to reflect that a young girl without a moral compass or a stable home life had found enough discipline within herself to succeed at a brutally difficult sport.

Byron had been there to offer his congratulations and take her out on a bender afterwards. That was when he started proposing seriously, and Sara began to pull back. "When I reminded him that he was already married, he said his wife fully expected him to divorce her some day and marry somebody more vital. She'd be cool with it as long as he took care of her and the kids."

"How romantic," said Imogene. "I mean, the proposal to cap off the summer. Even though you obviously didn't accept it."

"I didn't turn it down either, not right then. The truth is, I was in danger of throwing my life away on a drunken whim. I had Jake threatening to put me out on the street every other day. All sorts of confusion and turmoil had been building up for three months, but the gym workouts had helped keep my head on straight. Once those were over, I damn near succumbed to Byron's charms."

"What stopped you?" asked Imogene.

"I had the sense to offer a counter-proposal. I said we shouldn't do anything rash until we found out what kind of music we made together. It was after midnight, and we were pretty sure Studio Three would be unoccupied. So I suggested we go lay down a track of our own, to see if we could do it."

Sara described the collaboration between herself and Byron as inspired. Byron sang anti-Jake and anti-Leroy lyrics in his raw voice while Sara supplied harmonies and accompaniments on the electric piano. They came up with a protest song called "The Peace Corporation."

"A song like that could make you an instant star," said Imogene.

"We both thought so, listening to the playback. We decided we could make an album of our own that would outsell anything the Sunburst was capable of doing right now. Byron's proposals started to get even more outrageous. He said he'd blow off not only his marriage but the Sunburst, and we'd form our own outfit. We had a good laugh, picturing how Jake would handle a double whammy like that."

"You could've had instant fame and fortune with Byron," said Imogene, "but the summer ended, and you came back to college—to reality."

"The summer didn't just end, it exploded in my face. I had a final blow-up with their royal highnesses. The afternoon after that studio session, I confronted them in their bedroom and suggested they check out what Byron and I had done. I implied we had made more memorable music in a drunken all-nighter than they had managed in the past three months. Besides, it had made me confident I could get out of their shadow."

Sara described how Jake, without bothering to lift his head from the pillow, unleashed a string of obscenities and invited her to remove herself from his shadow immediately. Sara packed up within minutes, sought out Byron to say goodbye, and headed back to college.

"Goodbye as in farewell, right?" asked Imogene.

"I told Byron that things had gotten out of hand in New York. I needed to get back to Glendary and start breathing normally again. I tried to explain it's a different world, with different values, goals, friends. That last word set him off. He demanded to know if I meant boyfriends."

Imogene doubted that Sara could have known in advance that she would fall in love with Jim Guthrie. Sara agreed.

"All I knew was, I had to clear my head of Byron. Besides, I've always preferred the country, where the pace is sensible and people aren't strung out and crazy and making me that way. I never feel totally able to make rational decisions until I've been back at college at least a month. Which is about how long it took me to get acquainted with Jim."

"Have you told Byron about—that?" asked Imogene.

"I told him on the phone, but he couldn't quite register that I had fallen for a football player. He suggested I return to the studio at Thanksgiving to help him polish 'The Peace Corporation' and a few other anti-corporate songs. I explained I was no longer gung-ho to slam the Sunburst or their business practices—not since Jake had bought me off with three bottles of champagne. I suggested instead that Byron rejoin the band and come to Glendary for the Homecoming concert. A few good draughts of our country air might be just the thing to clear his own head."

"If he came to Glendary, he'd see you and Jim together," remarked Imogene. "I guess that'd be awkward."

"He said he wouldn't come—he'd go to hell first. I guess that's what he was doing when he returned to his family in upstate New York. At least I helped reunite a family."

Sara took a deep breath and recoiled as a breath of urban air assailed her lungs. They had arrived at the toll booth for the Holland Tunnel, their point of no return. Imogene insisted on paying the fee since Sara had filled the tank. As the van plunged through the airless dark, Imogene imagined falling into a black hole, an anti-world capable of reversing all known realities. Any weird thing might be true when they emerged on the other side.

Minutes later, they exited the tunnel into the workaday Manhattan streets. Soon Imogene would have her first glimpse of the legendary company where parties mingled with business and the work products could set employees dancing in the corridors. As the van inched through the late Friday afternoon traffic, Imogene tried to take in the city. She saw buildings that overwhelmed the sky and crowds of pedestrians threatening to crush each other as they crossed against the lights. She looked for the neon marquee that lit up the company headquarters in her imagination.

After thirty minutes of stop and start progress, which made Sara curse under her breath like an everyday commuter, she turned onto Thirty-third Street and pulled the van into an underground garage. Four brick stories rose above it, blending into the business district without flair.

Inside the garage, Imogene saw her first extraordinary sight—the parking attendant who waved them past with a grin, then emerged from his booth and approached them when they exited the van. He looked half official, with his uniform shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. More startling was the waist-length brown ponytail, shot through with gray. Imogene suspected he was a discard from some Peace band who had managed to find a niche here. She marveled at the company's idea of security—a tall but bony hippy-musician with intense eyes. He and Sara enfolded each other in bear hugs.

"Barney! Great to see you."

"Princess, you're a sight for sore eyes and a breath of fresh air."

"Imogene, meet Barney, the sweetest guy on the company payroll and living proof that endless dabbling in rock and roll can keep you young. Barney, meet Imogene, a country girl who can't wait to explore the concrete jungle."

After greetings had been exchanged, Barney cleared his throat. "Sara, Mr. Pierce told me to tell you he's waiting for you in his office. He wants to explain the situation to you."

"There's a situation? I don't like the sound of that. What's going on?"

"Mr. Pierce can tell you," insisted Barney.

"Must have something to do with cash flow. Mr. Pierce's situations always do. Thanks for the warning, Barn. Why don't you buzz him and announce me?"

Barney hastened to obey the "princess" while Sara escorted Imogene to the elevator that would carry them into fantasyland. When they got off at the third floor, all Imogene could see was a conventional maze of passageways and cubicles. Staff members, some vaguely familiar, weaved in and out like worker bees. Sara led Imogene through the labyrinth until they arrived at the main business office. The secretary posted here could be pegged as a neighbor in Clemens a few years back. She presented a jaded but deferential look as she rose halfway and said, "Go right in, Sara. Mr. Pierce is expecting you."

The accountant to the stars emerged from behind his desk to greet Sara with a leer and a hug, crushing her breasts against his chest. On being introduced to Imogene, he pumped her hand. With his overgrown crew cut, he looked youthful enough to hobnob with the rockers while his well-filled three-piece suit betrayed him as a fortyish corporate officer. He settled down to business, motioning Sara and Imogene toward the couch opposite his desk.

"I might as well lay it out for you, ladies. We got a problem. At this point in time, it's not certain we can patch together a band capable of performing at your Homecoming dance tomorrow night. We could be looking at a public relations fiasco."

"Fiasco is right," exclaimed Sara. "My name will be mud at college if I don't deliver the Sunburst or something reasonably close."

"Here's the challenge, as I see it," continued Leroy. "At this moment the separate parts of the band are even more separate than usual. I mean, they're in separate beds, separate studios, separate mindsets, what have you. I haven't been able to bring them together because, frankly, the charitable nature of this gig ain't much of an inducement. So it's on you, dear. I know you're a persuasive young lady. Maybe you can appeal to something besides their wallets—like their sense of nostalgia, loyalty to their old alma mater, or maybe they just wouldn't mind doing you a favor." The accountant chuckled.

"I'll collect them, Leroy," declared Sara, "if you'll give me a clue where in hell to find them."

Leroy swung his arms in a wide arc. "I've found it prudent to give everybody who requires it their separate space. As far as I know, Keith is holed up downstairs in Studio One, pursuing some solo effort, and Eric is in Studio Two doing the same. Charlie bounces back and forth between them like a beach ball. I can't see your van being big enough to hold both Eric and Keith and their growing egos. So to preserve a modicum of peace, I'm sending them back to college in separate limos."

"That'll cost a pretty penny," said Sara, showing no concern. Imogene realized that Sara barely cared if her brother frittered away his fortune. No doubt she would begin replenishing the Murphy family coffers as soon as she graduated from college.

"Then there's the bouncers, the roadies, whatever you call them. They seem to make your brother paranoid. I've picked two relatively trustworthy guys for this operation. Trouble is, Jake has deteriorated physically to the point where he freaks whenever he sees anybody muscular who looks capable of beating him up. So I already sent my strong arm guys down there in the equipment van. They'll get everything set up a day early, so they can stay out of Jake's way tomorrow unless he needs them. I just hope they can find a couple of reasonably comfortable hotel rooms in that town."

Imogene spoke up to assure the big city accountant that even a hick spot like Glendary could offer decent accommodations. Having found her voice, she warned that if the roadies performed their setup work early as planned, they might encounter members of the Arts Committee, who were scheduled to decorate the hall this afternoon.

"I can't exactly vouch for my guys' behavior around your artistic kids," said Leroy. "But I must say, they're not as egomaniacal as the musicians. I gotta tell you, ladies, my hands are raw from ego-massaging our talent. Once individual musicians develop star mentalities, the band concept flies out the window."

"If we can just get the egomaniacs to Glendary," said Sara, "I'll make sure they get the royal treatment once they arrive—all the beer and pretzels and coeds they can handle. But what about Charlie? Has he decided who he's riding with?"

"Hard to say. I'd just as soon it was you—you're strong enough to frisk him before he gets in the van. I really believe he's the only one dumb enough to carry an illegal substance down there. Jake and Marianne are in one of their cleansing phases right now, owing to their pregnancy. And the others don't wanna tangle with the campus police again."

"I'll shake Charlie down if I have to," said Sara. "But enough about the bit players, Leroy. What's it gonna take to get the immortal lovers out of their bedroom and pointed toward Glendary?"

"And what about Byron?" put in Imogene.

"God, Jake and Marianne and Byron—and you." Leroy repeated this phrase as if it were an obtuse mathematical formula.

"My dear, I gotta confess, this brand of immorality I'm seeing lately is way outta my league. It's not like those slightly gray areas in business that we all get comfortable with sooner or later. Remember, I'm a regular family guy who married his college sweetheart twenty years ago. No adventures to speak of since then. Just tried to earn a living and raise a family.""Where're you going with this, Leroy?" asked Sara.

"It's just that, when it comes to this—this wholesale bending of the marriage vows, I'm kinda lost. I never judge anybody, y'know. But seeing as you and Jake come from what you might call a dysfunctional background, maybe you can explain this moral chaos to me."

"By moral chaos you mean a little extracurricular activity behind the scenes? Since when has that stopped any show?" But Sara looked concerned. "Leroy, tell me, exactly who do you think is screwing whom?"

"It may have started with you, Sara. When Byron decamped to his farm a couple of weeks back, he left behind an album's worth of songs—some pretty damning anti-corporate pieces. He's expecting the company to release them."

"I know about one of those, 'The Peace Corporation,'" said Sara. "I apologized to Jake for my involvement in it. I had hoped it'd be deep-sixed by now."

"That's not the worst of it," said Leroy. "The worst, in my opinion, is a little gem called 'The Corporate Princess.' Trust me, it ain't a love song. The woman it portrays gets dragged off her pedestal and slashed by a horde of vassals who feel she's betrayed them. Wanna venture a guess who inspired that one?"

"Corporate princess, shit," exclaimed Sara. "I'm still a college kid, for Christ's sake." But Leroy reminded her of a staff meeting last summer during which she had stood up and declared herself the one person possessed of enough common sense and clout to save Peace Enterprises.

"Sure, being Jake's sister makes me some sort of royalty around here," said Sara, "but I still never strutted around the place like a Homecoming princess. I was a mere secretary in your office."

"A mere secretary who somehow found time to help the company owner launch a new musical trend and then threatened to marry him," pointed out Leroy with his characteristic chuckle. "And then went out to perform athletic feats in her spare time."

"Byron's known for his poetic license," said Sara. "His idea of slashing 'the princess' is symbolic, like setting fire to his guitar. It's all talk—or mostly talk." She paused to rub her head.

"Has Jake heard this tape? Isn't he going to squelch it?"

"Your brother's heard the tape, all right," said Leroy, "but he's never been one to squelch things. He's a freedom-of-expression guy."

As Sara groaned, Imogene retrieved her notebook and pencil from her purse. No one noticed as she jotted down Sara's remarks about Byron's use of symbolism.

"I gotta warn you further, dear, Jake and Marianne are pissed at you for breaking up with Byron in an untimely way." Leroy loosened his collar and tie. "And frankly, it discomfits me too. The Erics and Keiths of the outfit are expendable, but the financial partnership between Jake and Byron is vital to the company. Since Byron left, Jake's been moping around like a rejected lover, and Marianne's been threatening to put him outta the bedroom. They had a blowup this morning, and she made good on that."

"If it's at all my fault, I apologize," said Sara, raising her head. "But I don't see how I can lure Byron back or why I should try. He and Jake may have gotten close while imbibing, but they never really played nicely together. I mean, they hit the songwriting jackpot a couple of times, but that was like lightning in a bottle. Anyway, it's time for Jake to run his own show."

"Your brother's not that keen on independence," said Leroy. "He's developed a sudden appreciation for the old troubadour—maybe even a revelation. He now calls him the eye of the hurricane, the only one who could hold back the chaos." Imogene wrote this down.

"Sounds like an excuse to blow off his Homecoming commitment," said Sara. "I'll have to talk some sense into my brother. Where is he exactly?"

"All I know is, he's not on the premises. He didn't bother to tell anybody where he was going, not even his pregnant wife. I know lots of husbands in his situation are tempted to hit the road, but in this case, Marianne told him to go. Bottom line is, he's missing."

"Jesus, what great timing." Sara rubbed her head again. "What're you telling me, Leroy? Your star is walking the streets like a vagrant? Have you thought of calling the cops?"

"They wouldn't consider him missing until at least tomorrow. Besides, Marianne says if he wants to go back to the streets, let him."

"Damned if I'll let him," said Sara. "I promised the school I'd deliver him this weekend."

As Sara stewed, Imogene thought of reassurances she might offer. She was sure that no rock star could return to the streets for long. Even if he were disguised as a derelict, he would be recognized. Nor could he easily return to poverty when his money was tied up in a company like this.

"God, Leroy, how could you let this happen?" Sara hit the armrest with her fist.

"Sorry, my dear, but I'm his accountant, not his keeper."

"I'm not his keeper either," said Sara, "but now you want me to play marriage counselor and missing persons detective." She reflected. "Where's Marianne right now?"

"Where else? The bedroom. That's her sanctum, her playground, her office."

"I need to talk to her." Sara rose, and Imogene followed suit. Sara gave Leroy a peck on his fleshy cheek.

"Thanks for leveling with me, Leroy. Funny, the last time I visited that bedroom, I got tossed out on my ear." She steeled herself with a deep breath. "Come on, Imogene, we better get moving if we're gonna save the show."

* * * * *

### Chapter Seven

I don't sing or strut. I don't flirt with the groupies or spout off to the news media. I'm not the one who packs them in, being only the backdrop, not the star. I'm the drummer—I just provide the heartbeat. In my way, I'm closer to the soul of this band than the star could ever be.

Everybody treats him like a deity, a sex god. He comes off as a life-giving force with his loud riffs, his flamboyant suits, his lucrative business deals. He grins and beckons from center stage while making love to his guitar. Some of his fans faint away in awe; others try to climb onstage, flinging their glittery, half-naked selves at him. Meanwhile, the freaks, with their simpler needs and threadbare clothes, sit and stare. They wait for a message that will bring them peace and a sense of brotherhood. In the end, they shrivel up before his bravado. That's what he is, a soul-destroyer.

They'll be sitting up front at the Homecoming dance, worshiping at an invisible shrine. They'll look past the all-devouring star for some sign of their lost hero, the anti-star whose time has passed. His was the era when a humble strummer could embrace the masses, could share with them the goal of demolishing war and warmongers. He was one of the crowd, uncomfortable with the wealth that had attached to him. He didn't sing for the money and couldn't handle what he acquired. So once his family was settled on private acreage, he sank the rest of his fortune into an idealistically named record company. He kept dressing like a hermit and frequenting bars instead of fancy restaurants and clubs. Not a chronic adulterer, he did fall in love once. That was doomed from the start, considering who she was—a soul-destroyer like her brother, in training for her own lucrative future.

Yes, Byron's era has passed. But it's left a trail of simmering hearts, ready to ignite if the money-grubbers in his wake fail to respect his memory. The deity now dominating the stage, with his back always to me, has only the vaguest notion of what he's destroyed. Wielding his blazing guitar, Jake kicks aside the acoustic one without a thought. He assaults the ears and disrespects the soul. He ignores his backdrop, rising and darkening like a thunderhead.

Mrs. Jake Murphy was a breathtaking sight. Propped up in bed by numerous pillows, clad in a sky-blue silk negligee, she seemed equally prepared to hold a salon, conduct business, or make love. Her dark hair tumbled to her shoulders, and her tanned arms glittered with bracelets. Her makeup was heavy but perfect. On her bedside table rested a switchboard phone with lines blinking on and off. At the foot of the bed stood a video camera on a tripod.

Imogene watched in awe as the singer-businesswoman stroked her swollen belly with a possessive gesture, as if it were a hook she had sunk into Jake. She seemed complacent about his current absence from the marital bed. Sara bent down to kiss her sister-in-law on the cheek. "Looks like you're keeping yourself busy even in your solitude. Figured out how to make a soft porn film starring just yourself?"

"I never work alone," replied Marianne in her low-pitched, silky voice. "I have allies in this company."

A crashing noise from an inner room accompanied this statement. It sounded as if glass objects had gone flying off a bathroom shelf. Marianne raised her voice: "Don't be nervous, Charles. Come out and greet my visitors."

Imogene gaped as Charlie, the Sunburst drummer, emerged almost nude from the dressing room. He paused and nodded while wrapping himself in a bathrobe. Then he departed, his long, wet hair flapping.

"Are you nuts, Marianne?" asked Sara. "Leroy was just sounding off about 'moral chaos.' I asked him where Charlie's head is right now, but this is more than I wanted to know."

"He's one of my lifelines," replied Marianne, unperturbed. "A woman needs those in a dog-eat-dog company like this. Charles and I have formed an alliance on the new album. We plan to make his percussion and my voice the dominant themes."

She turned on her side and thrust her belly forward like a shield. "You're forcing me to ask the obvious," said Sara. "Are you absolutely sure that baby is Jake's?"

"Absolutely sure. And it's a lure for other men. Don't even think about judging me. Every time my husband goes out on the town, I can only guess how many other heirs he's creating."

"I can't handle a slew of nieces and nephews at my tender age," said Sara. "Somebody's gotta stop him. Tell me, where do you think he is?"

Marianne repositioned herself on the pillows and shrugged in her languid way, goading Sara to raise her voice. "Your marriage is your own business. But he promised the college a Homecoming concert, and I have no intention of letting him renege on that. So where do I search? What pub, girlfriend's apartment, or homeless shelter?"

"If it were only that simple." Marianne sighed heavily. "You can't bring him home if he's not ready to come. Maybe you can retrieve his body, but not his spirit."

"Spare me the mystical crap," said Sara. "I intend to retrieve the whole man."

"He took an acoustic guitar with him." Marianne's disdain grew. "Once he decides he's a street musician, he's no longer the man I married. So let him wander around out there like a lost soul. I don't care."

"When did an acoustic guitar become a symbol of poverty?" asked Sara. Spurred by the word "symbol," Imogene resumed her note-taking.

"It's not just the guitar, darling," said Marianne. "It's my husband's attempt to take on the whole persona of Byron Robarts. He's punishing himself, and the rest of us, for trashing Byron and the principles that Peace Enterprises was supposedly founded on. He said he was going on a mission to restore that spirit in himself and show the world how it's done."  
"Of all the half-assed—" Sara reigned herself in. "Did he say where this mission would take him?"

Another shrug from Marianne sparked Sara's temper. "It's a damned inconvenient time for Jake to be taking on somebody else's persona. What will you do if he chucks it all for good, and you lose your status as Mrs. Rock Star?"

Marianne waved her arms as if to indicate that the bedroom would always be her kingdom. Her multi-colored bracelets caught the spotlight above her bed and sent out laser-like rays.

Imogene thought Marianne must be running a subterranean company apart from the one Leroy Pierce controlled. She reflected that Marianne's art career at college had been equally devious. As an experimental painter, photographer, and filmmaker, the artist had grabbed every opportunity to indulge her private fantasies. Then one night she had climbed onstage with Jake and his band, transforming herself into an avant-garde singer. Later, when she married him and he bought into Peace Enterprises, she acquired the art of technology. With that ever-blinking phone connecting her to all points of interest, she was now the picture of an underground businesswoman.

"If Jake blows off his career," continued Sara, "your whole charade will collapse."

"It won't happen," declared Marianne. "He'll be back as soon as he gets tired of the streets."

"Maybe not," put in Imogene, drawing on what she remembered from Psychology 101. "He could be undergoing a real personality change—a sort of nervous breakdown."

"Not Jake," said Sara. "Only sweet, sensitive guys have nervous breakdowns."

"He could be faking it," said Imogene, consulting her notes, "or he could really be trying to take on Byron's persona. If so, he'll probably be moved to do something dramatic to—to redeem Byron's honor or placate his spirit."

As Sara considered this, one of the phone lines rang. Marianne snatched up the receiver and breathed her name into it. Sara and Imogene strained to follow the conversation. Someone on the other end was asking for a favor.

"Darling, I don't know how feasible that is," she said, eyeing Sara. "When my husband returns, all the side shows will be off."

The caller seemed to stoke her ego, to her amusement. "You say you can keep a backup band rehearsing for weeks, just on the chance I'll front for them?" Her laugh was contemptuous. "They must have no lives or careers of their own, but that's fine with me. If you can deliver the band, I can deliver the space."

She had to deal with the caller's rising ambition. "Back off, darling. We had a deal. I'd get you into Studio One or Two, and you'd devote all your energies to making my name as a solo artist. Nothing else  Listen, you should be damned grateful I even take your calls. Without me, you and your band are strictly garage material."

Marianne threw off her lassitude and sat upright. "You must be out of your mind. You'll never cross the threshold of Studio Three. That space is more consecrated than my marital bed. It's no coincidence they count the money right next door."

She was shouting now. "Have you forgotten I'm Mrs. Murphy? There's more glory in shaking a tambourine behind my husband than in leading any splinter group."

"Marianne, I get it now," exclaimed Sara, talking over her conversation. "You're drunk with power and making big alternate plans. But the bottom line is, you want Jake back."

Sara grabbed the phone out of Marianne's hand and yelped, "Who in hell is this?"

The voice on the other end made her recoil in shock. "Barney? You're the last person I suspected of leading a secret insurrection. Is it possible all you peace-and-love types are schemers under the skin?"

She laughed at Barney's sputtering. "That's right. Suck up to the princess. Believe me, I'm not naïve. I can understand why serfs rise up and storm the manor house. You're welcome to attempt it, dear. But remember, I'm just as entitled to defend my family interests."

She laughed again with a sharper edge and hung up the phone. "Get ready to welcome Jake back," she told Marianne. "I think I've figured out where he is." Imogene closed her notebook, having hit on it herself.

"Wait just a minute. I haven't said I wanted him back."

Marianne paused and considered. Then, with a theatrical sigh, she motioned them away. "Okay, go get him. But bring him back whole like you promised. No split personalities in this bed."

"Let's go, Imogene," said Sara. "We'll have to move fast while this forgiving mood of hers lasts." She charged out of the bedroom with Imogene on her heels.

They boarded the elevator and descended to the parking garage to find Barney absent from his post. They climbed into the van and set off on what Sara called an "instant urban adventure." She conducted a travelogue which left Imogene breathless as she tried to take it all in. Rush hour went on, while the six o'clock shadows seemed to penetrate every corner of the city, hinting at the nightlife to come.

"Are you with me, Imogene? We're on Sixth Avenue, which intersects with Broadway up ahead. Soon we'll be on the Great White Way." The van moved like a slow-motion projectile, slicing through the center of life as Sara knew it, passing landmarks on either side that Imogene strained to see. Sara pointed out Madison Square Garden to their left, and later, Rockefeller Center to their right. As they crawled through Times Square and the theatre district, she mentioned a small playhouse several blocks west where her parents had debuted a notorious play called _Raw Nerve_.

Imogene tried to conjure up the fascination that this trip deserved, but her stomach began to distract her. She had been too busy studying the personnel and workings of Peace Enterprises to ask for the bathroom—and now it was over four hours since their lunch break. Sara's equilibrium through all this struck Imogene as superhuman.

That enormous greasy lunch, accompanied by coffee, would have recoiled on Imogene before now, but excitement had carried her through. Now the climax of the day was approaching, and she was in trouble. What if she suffered a gas attack at the moment she came face to face with Jake Murphy?

Sara gestured toward Lincoln Center, which was in the neighborhood of another small theatre where her parents had cavorted and almost gotten arrested. Then she darted onto Central Park West. "We're getting close, Imogene. Know where we're headed?"

"Yes, Central Park." Imogene knew that this was the site of Byron Robarts's last open-air concert in 1973. She tried to articulate this but felt too unsettled.

"Gotta find some place to stop," said Sara. Imogene was sure there was no legal parking near the park; double parking would be the only recourse, and the idea of blocking traffic at this hectic spot seemed insane. That did not deter Sara from stopping her vehicle short. Imogene held her hand over her mouth to avoid losing her lunch while Sara pulled on the emergency brake, set the hazard lights, and sprang out of the van.

"I want you to get into the driver's seat and stay there until I get back," ordered Sara. Imogene emitted a squeak of protest as she climbed over the emergency brake. "Don't move the van from this spot for anything or anybody, no matter who honks or yells at you."

"But what if the cops come?"

"I don't care if the mayor himself orders you to move," declared Sara. "Just say this is Sara Murphy's van, and she's gone after her brother Jake."

"That's it?" Imogene shook her head in dismay.

"If we have to, we'll throw ourselves on the mercy of the city. We'll say we're reclaiming one of its native treasures." Sara slammed the door and raced toward the entrance to Central Park.

Imogene sat motionless for what seemed an eternity, her sweaty hands gripping the wheel, her stomach gurgling. She hardened herself to the honking on all sides and the occasional shout thrown at her like a stink bomb. By the time a patrol car appeared in her rear view mirror and a policeman emerged from it, she felt invulnerable—a participant in the ongoing Sunburst saga in which encounters with the law were a frequent motif.

She rolled down her window and forced herself to smile at the clean-cut youth. She conjured up a resemblance to the officer who had arrested Jake and the band during the mini-riot at Glendary two years before and had earned himself a piece of the legend with his subsequent friendly advice. Evidently startled to see a young woman in this spot, the policeman had the grace to return her smile.

"Officer, I'm sorry I'm blocking the street, but this isn't my van." She produced her driver's license and the registration. "It belongs to Sara Murphy, sister of Jake Murphy—you know, the rock star. She thinks he's wandering around in the park with an acoustic guitar. She's gone after him."

"Really? I doubt he could get into much trouble," said the officer, alert with interest as he glanced toward the park entrance. "Performing without a permit is a mild public nuisance at worst."

"It's more complicated than that, Officer—Starr," said Imogene, reading his name tag. "Sara thinks he may be—well, not in his right mind." Seeing him frown, she elaborated: "Apparently he has this notion of recreating the Byron Robarts era. You know, social protests and youth unrest and open-air concerts."

"Right now?" asked the policeman.

"We think it's been triggered by Jake's guilt over their breakup." Imogene paused to see if Starr would react to this news. "It looks like Byron's left the Sunburst, and this time he's not coming back."

"Really? I say, good riddance. I know all about that idiot Robarts setting fire to his guitar the last time he played here. Created a major panic situation until it was brought under control."

"What if Jake felt moved to do something like that?" asked Imogene.

"That could be a problem." Starr paused and considered. "Look, miss, I'm gonna let you stay here while I check this out. Just sit tight, okay?" Leaving his patrol car with its revolving light as a shield, he sprinted into the park.

After expelling some of the gas that had been churning in her stomach, Imogene settled back to reflect on how she had handled the situation. She tried to picture the "concert" Jake must be putting on for the unsuspecting public. She figured he had sought out the spot where Byron had ended his solo career with such flair eight years before.

As the minutes passed on this strange island she inhabited, she sensed she was missing an historic event. Her noisy solitude grated on her. She wished for the sake of her research that she could observe Jake's transformation into a folk singer, if such a thing were possible. In her imagination, Jake became a mega-Byron, setting off an impromptu festival with inspired strums on his acoustic guitar.

The revolving light at her back spewed out increasingly lurid colors against the fading daylight. After twenty minutes had passed, she felt sweaty and slightly nauseous again. What if she were stuck? What if Sara couldn't extract Jake and didn't return for hours? Maybe the cop was a double-crosser and had hauled them off to prison.

Then she saw the trio emerge from the park and realized she was unprepared to confront the rock star. He was scowling as he headed toward the van, flanked by his sister and Officer Starr. His T-shirt, sleeveless denim jacket, and tattered jeans looked flimsy and inadequate for the crisp evening. They drew stares as they moved through the pedestrian traffic. Imogene barely had time to react. She managed to get out of the van and climb into the back seat seconds before Sara and Jake piled into the front seat. The officer watched them fall into their places.

"Sorry again I had to break up the performance. Honoring your buddy Byron was a nice idea, but there was potential for trouble. I couldn't predict what the reaction would be."

"You're absolutely right, Officer," said Jake. "I could smell misunderstanding in the air myself. How could that mix of joggers, lovey-dovey couples, and derelicts possibly understand what Jake Murphy was doing wandering around without his mikes and amplifiers?"

"Giving the guitar away to a homeless guy—that was a gesture for the ages," said Sara.

"I would've burned it instead," said Jake, "but I forgot to bring matches."

"Good thing," said the policeman. "Then I would've have no choice but to arrest you for creating a public hazard. I suggest you plan a real tribute to Byron with the city's sponsorship. That would go down much better."

"Thanks for nothing," muttered Jake, as Sara pulled the van away.

"Thank you again for your help, Officer," called Sara through the open window. Jake turned in his seat and scowled at his sister, but Sara ignored him as she picked up the trail back to Peace Enterprises. So far, Imogene's existence had not come to Jake's attention.

But that was fine if it meant she could observe him secretly. His profile against the gathering dusk looked fierce, the hawkish nose and pointed chin exaggerated. His trademark gold necklace and earring glowed, somehow accentuating his masculinity. She had known life under the bright lights would transform him, but she had not expected this malnourished look. Why was it so hard to say hi to an old schoolmate?

She tried but felt stymied by his scowl and his Byron-like attire. The Jake Murphy image, onstage and off, had always been about flamboyance—white silk suits, ruffled shirts, psychedelic ties, fur coats. Even as a scholarship boy, he had been well turned out.

"You drive like a maniac," he told his sister as she treated him to several abrupt stops and starts. "Overly aggressive female. No wonder Byron ditched you."

"You're misinformed about that, but I won't quibble. I'll have you know I'm driving aggressively because I'm carrying precious cargo. I want to get you back to headquarters fast. It's not the cops I'm scared of, it's your public. They don't seem to understand this new phase of yours, and frankly, neither do I."

"Of course you don't," he said. "You're out to save me from my new self. You think I can't see that greed in your eyes, and everyone else's in the company? I call you the dollars for Peace crowd. I'm taking a lone stand against crass business like Byron did."

But you're not alone, protested Imogene silently. I think I understand. How often does a star like you turn inward and acknowledge the influence of someone who's practically his opposite? If only this tribute to Byron could continue for weeks or months. Keep wearing those ragged clothes; grab another acoustic guitar; sing your lyrics as poetry. Take this act on the road all the way to center stage at Glendary College tomorrow night. Stand up to that rowdy college crowd.

"If you can't explain yourself to your own sister, it's probably hopeless." Sara's words sounded cold to Imogene. "By the way," she added, "say hello to my roommate, Imogene Taylor."

"Yeah, hi." He didn't favor her with a glance.

"Now, tell me again," resumed Sara, "what did you expect to accomplish in the park?"

"I thought I'd go out and recruit a new band. Or maybe hold a gigantic sing-along. You got a problem with that, sweetness?"

"Naw, not really. Sing-alongs are a long-standing tradition in the dorm, aren't they, Imogene?" Sara glanced over her shoulder. "You wouldn't believe the racket a bunch of girls can make when they're moved to sing protest songs at the top of their lungs. But it's the eighties, and that kind of nostalgia is mostly confined to girls' dorms these days. Nobody marches the streets bellowing about peace and love anymore."

"You're right, as always," said Jake. "So I'll change my story. I just went to the park for a breath of fresh air."

"You could get that on the rooftop at Peace Enterprises," said Sara. "Isn't the Jacuzzi working?"

"Christ, don't you understand anything? I needed to get away from the stink of business. I wanted to liberate my art from the three-piece suits, if only for a few hours."

"You've done a great job of rattling your main bean-counter," said Sara. "Does Leroy deserve that? He's spent the past two years making your raunchiness pay. Now you've got him questioning your mental state and moaning about 'moral chaos.' Damned straight, I'm here to save you from yourself. It's my family business too."

"Just how you gonna save me if I'm not looking for salvation?" Jake grinned, reminding Imogene of the provocative look he used to incite crowds during guitar riffs. Drawing on Psych 101 again, she deplored Jake's cruel streak. He seemed to relish teasing the waif in Sara, the insecure child who craved a father figure.

But Sara didn't waver. "It's just seven months till graduation. Some day soon I might put my education to use and find ways to prop up the business. If it totally disintegrates between now and then—and I suspect that's the trend—I'll have to scrap it and start over. But I'd rather salvage something now, if I can."

"Why don't you put on a three-piece suit yourself and pull up a chair beside Leroy? Go ahead and kiss all the fat Wall Street asses you can find. Sell your soul to the highest bidder."

"That's not me," exclaimed Sara. "I'm an artist at heart like you. I just believe in profiting from it."

"Screw you. You're as full of shit as the rest of them."

Imogene flinched at Jake's harshness and anticipated some pithy statement to follow. She dug out her notebook and pencil.

"You don't get the most important lesson Byron tried to teach us," continued Jake. "That one solitary guitar, twanging away in the wilderness, can say everything that needs to be said."

"Look, I appreciate Byron as much as anybody—"

"That only poverty, only living on the edge, can teach you how to be alive."

"Who needs to be that alive?" asked Sara. She gunned the van down Broadway, making for Peace headquarters as if determined to outrun these threatening ideas.

Moments later, slowed by traffic, Sara resumed: "Listen, if you're so determined to romanticize poverty, I've got a better idea. I'll turn this van around and take us back to our old tenement in Brooklyn. I'm sure whoever's living there now will welcome us back as honored guests. We can revel in all those sights and sounds and smells that inspired us as children. Maybe you'd like to revisit that bathroom where you used to sit and practice with your pitiful little guitar, hoping Daddy wouldn't ridicule you or worse."

"Maybe you'd like to shut up and concentrate on your driving."

"Seriously, we should do this," said Sara. "As soon as I can, I'll maneuver us across the river and down memory lane. We'll dig up some family skeletons, which I know Imogene is curious about. She's been writing down everything we say."

"I told you to cut the nostalgic crap. Imogene will just have to control her curiosity. You keep this van headed for home."

He had done it! Jake Murphy had acknowledged Imogene's existence, although not in the friendly way she had hoped for. It's a start, she assured herself.

"What's your problem?" asked Sara. "Tired of the streets already? Ready to jump into that Jacuzzi and wash the stench out of your skin? And then kick back with your usual champagne and caviar snack?"

"Enough already," said Jake. "We both know I'm not Byron, and never can be. His brotherly love crap makes me gag. I admit it, okay? I perform for money and fame, and as soon as the Sunburst cracks up for good, I'm gonna form an even raunchier band that'll make me twice as rich."

Jake's transformation threatened to blast Imogene's thesis. What if nothing came of his excursion outside the company boundaries? He was allowing his sister to return him to the heart of his money-making empire with hardly a protest.

"I guess that makes you happy, sweetness." He turned, winked at Imogene, and turned back so fast that she wondered if she had imagined it.

"Sure does," replied Sara, as she made the turn off Broadway. "Not that I'm knocking Byron's peace-and-love spirit. We may need to invoke a little of that to keep you guys together long enough to perform at Homecoming tomorrow night."

"Aha, your true mission. You're out to impress our dear alma mater, and bringing us back whole would be the feat of the century. Tell me something, Sara. Are you doing it to knock the pants off some new boyfriend? If so, I can't wait to catch a glimpse of the guy. I'll bet he's no Byron Robarts."

Sara fumbled for a response. Imogene thought she must be wrestling with the temptation to brag about her great catch, Jim Guthrie, who was as different from Byron as a man could get. Instead she exclaimed, "We're not talking about my personal life right now, maestro. We're talking about salvaging the band and keeping your promise to the college."

"Even if the Sunburst managed to occupy one stage for two hours," said Jake, "we'd only be pretending to put on a concert. We'd be perpetrating a hoax on your schoolmates. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"I could live with it," replied Sara, as she proceeded up Thirty-Third Street. She drove into the garage and waved to Barney, who had returned to duty. He bustled over to greet the passengers, his obsequious gestures magnified in Jake's presence.

An uneasy silence took hold as Jake, Sara, and Imogene boarded the elevator and rode to the third floor offices. "You've got to show yourself in the flesh to Leroy right now," Sara told Jake as they arrived. "He needs the reassurance."

Imogene waited in the lobby while Sara escorted Jake through the maze of cubicles where late workers still toiled. Ten minutes later they returned from the business office, chuckling at the impression they had made. "Halloween came early this year," said Jake. "Old Leroy gaped at me like I was a ghost."

"He was overjoyed to see you," said Sara. "Now that you've reappeared, he can get back to his figures. And you can concentrate on reconciling with your wife. I talked to her earlier, and she gave the impression that you didn't walk out, she kicked you out."

Imogene watched as Jake, triumphant from his march through the dominions where employees bowed and scraped to him, faded at the mention of his wife. How could this man be henpecked? Why didn't Marianne worship him as others did? Despite his incongruous clothes, Imogene saw rock-star perfection in the wiry body that could hoist and manipulate electric guitars like none other. She wished she could run her hands through the abundant, wavy hair that caressed his shoulders. She loved the way every lift of his brow conveyed irony.

"Maybe I need the Jacuzzi first," he said. "A headfirst plunge sounds about right." But Sara led him and Imogene back onto the elevator, bound for the fourth-floor living quarters.

"Just march into that bedroom and apologize to your wife. Make love to her, kiss her feet. Fill the place with marital harmony. Whatever it takes to get her on that van tomorrow. I want the Sunburst to arrive at Glendary as one big, happy family."

"You don't get it," said Jake, sweating like a cornered man as the elevator opened. "She's the chaos at the center. She's the one blowing everything apart."

"Shame on you, hiding behind a woman when you're the one with the power," said Sara. "You know how to grab center stage and blow the roof off an arena. So don't tell me you can't control your wife."

"If she's so determined to be the star, I'm inclined to let her."

"Neutralize her," advised Sara. "Put her in back with Charlie and let her pound one of his drums. Or put her up front in a miniskirt to give the crowd some cheap thrills. Let her sing her heart out; just turn down the power to her microphone."

"That won't satisfy her destructive urges," said Jake. "She's started exerting herself big-time in the studio. Her harmonies strangulate the music. And her photographs and movies of me are obliterating my image. You hear what I'm saying? She's reducing everything to her artistic vision."

"I respect those far-out touches as much as the next pseudo-intellectual," said Sara, "but they should be spice, not the whole stew."

Imogene watched in awe as Jake hesitated in the hallway outside his bedroom. "You got any idea what an apology right now will cost me? She'll demand even more artistic freedom."

"How about a compromise?" asked Sara. "I could take her into the studio tonight and drill her on basic keyboard techniques. Maybe she could spell Keith a little on electric piano tomorrow night. Give her a chance to act like a real musician."

"Whatdaya mean act?" Jake's tone changed with stunning swiftness, as Sara stumbled into the minefield of his sensitivities. "Maybe you're the one who has something to learn, sweetness. What makes Marianne's art so disturbing is its brilliance and originality. Maybe you're just too ordinary to comprehend it."

Imogene's schoolgirl psychology could barely keep up with Jake's revolving-door moods. She wished he would wink at her again.

"You got some fucking nerve setting yourself up as my wife's teacher, offering to show her a few stupid chords so she can fit Glendary's idea of what a musician should be. Try to understand, her performances can't be confined to an ordinary stage. Her scope is the cosmos, which is mostly chaos. That's why her art makes universal sense."

Imogene wrote this down. It could be the key to "Light Years," Marianne's featured song on the second album and a source of frustration to most fans. With its otherworldly lyrics that gave way to a full minute of white noise, it was one of the few Sunburst songs that never got radio play.

"All right, dear, you win." Sara hastened to soothe Jake, but a twitch of the lips betrayed her. "How can a mere sing-along guitarist like me grasp the cosmic significance of Marianne's art? I guess only an alien could truly appreciate it."

"That's enough outta you." Jake pulled back a clenched fist and scowled. Oh God, thought Imogene, he's gonna haul off and give her a black eye—on top of the one she already got from Athletic Director Beatty. If she tolerates this again, the girl definitely needs counseling.

But Sara displayed her own fist and scowled like a mirror image of her brother. Then she smiled, evidently realizing her advantage. An ex-athlete softened with big-city dissipation was no match for a college gymnast still at the top of her game. "Go ahead and try it."

"Look," she added in a wheedling tone, "I know you must still love Marianne, or you wouldn't keep coming back. I guess that proves love is not only blind but deaf. Please, just get her on that van tomorrow and sweet-talk her all the way to Glendary if that makes you both happy. A plastered college crowd ain't gonna be too particular about what she does onstage as long as they can have you."

"They want Byron too," said Imogene under her breath, "whether they realize it or not."

"But they think they're getting the Jake Murphy they used to know. Not the shell I am now."

He's losing it again, thought Imogene. Where's that fearsomeness so essential to his music? That celebrity glow that lights up everything? It keeps breaking up like a bad television signal.

"Bullshit, dear," said Sara. "You'll be that man again as soon as our humble Glendary spotlight hits you. It'll bring back those old times when you were young and hungry. And our fresh country air is just the tonic you need."

"It's gonna be a fucked-up mess. Do I have to paint you a picture? Eric and Keith will compete instead of playing together nicely—which will confuse Charlie so much, he'll revert to his old jungle beat. And I'll let Marianne commandeer the center microphone, just so I can go on living with her."

Jake's mood lightened. "Maybe that's just what the band needs, to go down the toilet in public. How's this for a plan? I'll park myself backstage all night, order the roadies to deliver me the choicest Homecoming princesses they can find, and let my co-stars fight it out onstage."

He grinned with anticipation. "By the way, who's up for Homecoming Queen this year? That auburn-haired roommate of yours? I used to watch her from the Boulder stage."

"I don't think Emily's gonna get it." Sara seemed rattled by his interest. "I did my best to torpedo her chances behind the scenes. Not that it matters who gets to parade around wearing that silly crown. Once the music starts, all side shows will be off—the show will be you."

Jake's shoulders slumped again. Sara got in his face.

"It's time you took charge here at headquarters too. You've got the key to Studio Three, the only one that matters. Leroy tells me you and Marianne still go in there last every night to remix the project to your own specifications. So the album is essentially your baby, right?"

Sara remained between Jake and the bedroom door. "On second thought, dear, maybe now's not the right time to face Marianne. I'm suddenly in the mood to hear that mystery album. How about taking us into the studio? Just give us a minute to hit the bathroom first—it's been a while. After we freshen up, we want to feast our ears on the new music."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea." Jake's grin now resembled a taunt. "The album reflects my current state of mind, and Marianne's. I'm thinking it may be too weird for the delicate ears of coeds."

"We're not shrinking violets. Whatever state your masterpiece is in, we'll relish the experience. Besides, Imogene needs to study it for her English project. She's writing an honors thesis on poetic influences in rock music, or something like that. Right, Imogene?"

"Something like that," murmured Imogene. To her embarrassment, Jake regarded her for a long moment.

"So you're the one trying to expose my dirty little secrets in the studio?"

"Not expose, exactly." Imogene almost stammered, and then took herself in hand. "I just want to understand the progression of your music, its influences, its—"

"Okay, you convinced me," said Jake. "You two find a place to pretty up, and I'll do the same. Then I'll escort you to that creative wonderland, Studio Three."

The women proceeded down the hall to Sara's quarters. Imogene took her time in the bathroom and emerged refreshed. But she was startled to encounter a full-length mirror in the dressing room. Somehow, after what she had gone through today, she had expected to rise above the level of flustered adolescent. She grabbed rouge and eye shadow from her purse and applied them, but nothing would make her a sophisticated lady on such short notice. She and Sara hurried through the rest of their toilette, fearing that Jake would disappear again and never be found. They returned to the hallway and rejoined him as he completed his own preparations by snuffing out a cigarette in a receptacle mounted on the wall.

"Okay, ladies, time to face the music. Frankly, I'm just as curious as you are. Sometimes I can't believe my own experiments when I listen to them afterwards."

Sara and Imogene followed Jake onto the elevator to the third floor. They tramped again through the maze of cubicles, which had emptied for the evening. Only Leroy Pierce remained on duty. He lunged out of his office to intercept them on their way into the studio.

"Step aside, Leroy," said Jake. "The time has come for full disclosure. I've got two curious girls on my heels."

"Before you go in there, Jake, I better tell you about my latest orders from Marianne. Every time your back is turned, she comes up with a new business plan. She just called to say she wants to add a couple geniuses to the payroll on a permanent basis. There's the engineer she brought in last week to remix the album according to her own private whim; then there's the artist who submitted a sample album cover that depicts her giving birth to some kind of demon. I gotta tell you, I don't much like either development."

"You think she cares whether a three-piece suit like you approves of her?" asked Jake.

"Let her hire anybody off the streets she wants," Sara told Leroy, "just so long as you and Jake hold the real keys to the studio."

"I'm here to make sure that remains the case," said Leroy.

"But keep in mind, folks," said Jake, "I'm a henpecked husband, and I get off on it."

Now for a major moment in my life, Imogene told herself as she crossed the threshold of Studio Three behind the Murphys. She was about to experience the place that had given rise to so many memorable songs. They began to trip through her head in all their incredible range—from the idealistic yet sensuous "She Moves Me" to the fire-images and political overtones of "Glowing Strings."

When she stepped into the hallowed space, it struck her as dark and lifeless. Jake switched on the overhead lights to reveal a sound stage crammed with microphones, amplifiers, tape machines, and instruments. It looked more like the aftermath of a storm than a hotbed of creativity. She tried to picture the band at its most productive, each member in his or her appointed place. Where did Keith belong in this tangle, and Eric, and Charlie? Where was the center microphone that Marianne always grabbed if nobody stopped her? Imogene longed to sit on the stool that Byron had occupied as he plucked out the follow-up to his best-known tune, "Impractical Dream, Part Two."

Imogene tripped over a wire and crashed into a stool that might or might not be the famous one. Sara guided her into a seat, then pulled up another stool and began to point out implements of the recording process. As Imogene listened, the keyboards, drums, and guitars seemed to emerge from the confusion and acquire a glow.

Sara gestured toward the glass-enclosed booths that overlooked the stage. These contained the mixing boards, where the engineer in charge could manipulate the results of a session. As she explained, Jake activated a tape and flooded the studio with his latest music.

The piece began with Marianne singing a lullaby in a wistful voice to an acoustic guitar accompaniment reminiscent of Byron. She seemed to be addressing her unborn child, welcoming it into a world of peace and love. After two verses, Jake's electric guitar cut in with a discord.

Rather than die a natural death, idealism would be bludgeoned and bloodied. The guitar picked up the original tune and altered it while Marianne's voice rose and fell between shrieks and groans. Other melodies popped up at intervals, giving the listener hope of hearing something palatable. Every time, the notes became flat or distended beyond recognition. A wall of noise built up and crashed like a wave, then built up again. Imogene guessed that this consisted of all the band members improvising on the spot. The piece wound down as it had begun, with a reminder of Byron. A crackling sound, which Imogene took to represent the famous burning guitar, replaced the wall of sound. The tape itself seemed to disintegrate. Then everything dissolved into white noise, the "Light Years" concept stretched out indefinitely.

"I take it that noise will go on until you stop it?" asked Sara.

"It's an eternal concept," replied Jake, as he turned off the tape.

Sara rubbed her head. "The message, if I hear you right, is that life is ultimately meaningless and chaos will win out in the end. You think the public is ready to hear that?"

"Why don't you ask the honors student you brought with you what it really means?" Jake winked at Imogene for the second time.

Riding a surge of panic, Imogene pulled her thoughts together. "Well—you may have demonstrated that your kind of music and Byron's can't coexist, even in the Sunburst." She paused, and then added, "It's like you said a final goodbye to Byron."

"You look like you're ready to bawl over that." Jake glared at her. "Try to get this straight, professor. Byron cut outta here weeks ago, and I'm not the one who drove him out. He planted the seeds of his own demise. That's what this album is saying. All through history, peace movements have disintegrated into violence and even war."

Imogene doubted that college dropout Jake knew enough history to make such a definitive statement. But it had the ring of truth, and she recorded it in her notebook.

Sara glanced at Imogene's notes. "Don't even think of basing your thesis on what you just heard. I have an idea how to fix it."

"Who says I want it fixed? It's brilliant and original the way it is," declared Jake.

"Those melodies buried in the mix," said Sara, brightening, "could be accentuated while keeping the chaos theme as background. Next time I'm here, over Thanksgiving vacation, maybe I'll take a crack at it. I'll talk to Leroy about getting the right engineer in here to give this thing commercial potential."

"Slow down, sweetness. I never said I'd give you a key to Studio Three."

That evening, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, who appeared to be in reconciliation mode, treated Sara and Imogene to a pizza and beer party in the living quarters. Entertainment was provided by Barney's garage band, a lively but untrained group that called itself Revolution. Marianne, who didn't let on that she had considered fronting this group, enticed her husband to dance with her. They moved sensuously to the barely discernable rhythms. Barney took turns dancing with Imogene and Sara; the latter pressed the point that even if he set himself up as a producer or promoter, he would never see the inside of Studio Three.

At midnight Sara excused herself and Imogene, noting that they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow. The girls retired to her bedroom and tried to sleep while Revolution rattled the walls all night.

* * * * *

### Chapter Eight

Two of my girls are on the road this weekend with my reluctant permission—not that they really asked for it. The father of one of them just stormed into my office, demanding to know where his daughter went—apparently without his knowledge.

Why did I let them run off to New York City when I would have been within my authority as resident official to refuse permission for an overnight trip? I tried to convince the irate dad that it was an important errand for the college. He muttered something about his little girl's sudden fascination with depraved musicians and stormed out.

I half lied when I trumped up the errand. Their real mission is for me. They're bringing back the missing piece of my life on this campus, the charm that kept me here after I should have grown up and moved on. My heart is with the young woman who may like a certain musician too much for her dad's taste. Will she get him to notice her although she's obviously not his type? If she does, I'll feel like it's my own triumph.

Next morning at nine a.m., a truncated Sunburst took to the road. Sara had managed to coax Jake, Marianne, and Charlie aboard her van. She had received Leroy Pierce's assurance that Eric and Keith would make it to Glendary on their own. No one spoke of Byron or held out any hope that he would put in a surprise appearance at tonight's show.

After receiving Barney's good wishes, Sara steered the van out of the garage and onto the Saturday morning streets. "This isn't exactly a well-oiled enterprise," she said, with a backward glance at the musicians. "As of now, half a band. You guys really think you're gonna be ready to play tonight?"

Imogene glanced back at the group, which gave a collective shrug. Relations between Mr. and Mrs. Murphy had deteriorated again. Jake sprawled across most of the back seat with an acoustic guitar in his hands and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. As if to avoid touching him, Marianne had squeezed herself into a corner, her own cigarette in hand. She scowled as he stroked the instrument. They had opened the windows to let out the smoke, insisting that this and their current vegetarian lifestyle would serve to neutralize their smoking habits. Charlie sat cross-legged in the cargo area behind them, nestled against several knapsacks, accompanying Jake's plucking with taps on a bongo drum.

"I'll have you all know, my campus reputation is on the line this weekend," continued Sara. "First, I gotta try to keep the Sunburst together long enough to put on a show tonight. Then I've got two performances of my own on Sunday. I'm singing one of the solos at the choir concert bright and early in the chapel. There's also the matter of the gymnastics meet tomorrow afternoon. The final practice for that starts at four today, and Athletic Director Beatty himself is gonna be looking me over to make sure I'm fit enough."

"God, are you full of yourself," said Jake. "The biggest powerhouse on campus. How'd the college survive without you these past twenty-four hours?"

"It's not like I ask for a million responsibilities." Sara sounded more proud than stressed. "They just fall on my head."

"You'll be on the gymnastics team, even if you miss today's workout or screw it up." Imogene hoped she spoke the truth. "There's no way Beatty will sit down his best gymnast for the biggest meet of the season." No way, she thought, should Anorexic Annie be allowed to grab the number one ranking.

"Sounds like you got a loyal fan by your side," remarked Jake, noticing Imogene's existence for the first time that day.

"Even if I make it to practice," said Sara, "I'll hardly be in fighting shape after being kept awake half the night by the Revolving band."

"That's the Revolution band, dearest," corrected Marianne.

"Same thing. Musical riffraff. I thought experimental bands were supposed to be confined to the ground-floor studios. If you ask me, that revolution is getting too close to home."

"Marianne likes them," said Jake, "and I tolerate them to keep her happy. They remind me of the early me with about one-eighth the talent."

"The Revolution is spreading," said Marianne in an ominous tone. "I say, let it engulf everything. I don't need popular acclaim anymore. In some ways, darling, I liked it best in the old days when your music was loud, disruptive, and repelling. Once you made your way to New York and hooked up with a singing poet, you got tamed."

"You miss the old me?" Jake grinned at her.

"Maybe that's why I've taken to promoting garage-style bands."

"What're you gonna do with your talent-deprived bands if they don't sell records?" asked Sara. "Unionize them? Leroy will love that."

"I sense Leroy and my sister are getting to be soul mates," said Jake. "Should I be troubled?"

"You should be," said Marianne. "Real art should be about everyday struggles and squalor, not profits. If we rich and famous celebrities try to hide from the rabble, we'll get swallowed up by it."

To Imogene this sounded threatening, but Sara shrugged it off. "Personally, I know more than I need to about daily struggles. All the more reason I could have used a good night's sleep last night. How about you, Imogene? Were you kept awake by that so-called music?"

"I slept pretty well," said Imogene, reluctant to contradict Sara. Somehow, the electric guitars, organ, and drums that had sprayed the night with unskilled energy had felt relaxing. That sense of fun still carried her, along with her morning coffee. "Actually, it was kind of nice."

"Hear that, Sara? Your roommate has embraced the music-as-chaos theory," said Jake.

"Imogene, you shock me. I thought you knew the difference between music and noise," said Sara.

"Oh, I do," said Imogene. "But a band as great as the Sunburst is bound to inspire a lot of lesser bands. And those bands will try their damnedest to make real music—without always succeeding, of course."

"Way to suck up, professor," said Jake. "But you gave yourself away yesterday, when you implied the Sunburst is nothing without Byron. You must think we're about to disintegrate into a garage band ourselves."

"I didn't mean that." One had to be careful about contradicting a rock star. "I meant to say that Byron's poetic dimension brought something special to the Sunburst. And I believe that influence will survive even if he's quit the band for good."

"Byron's gone," said Sara, "and I'd bet money that hardly anybody will notice. Most of tonight's audience will be perfectly content to rock out with Sunburst nostalgia. Make them dance and party like old times, and they'll be in hog heaven."

"You're trying to push us back into adolescence, but it won't work. When a band grows up, it's a natural thing to break up." Jake began to pick the opening chords of Byron's pre-Sunburst anthem, "Impractical Dream," adding a rock rhythm that some folk purists might consider sacrilegious.

"Listen to that. I can't even treat peace-and-love with the reverence it deserves. Truth is, the Sunburst hasn't just grown up. It's grown decrepit. Byron's idealism suited us when we were starting out. But now it's as ludicrous as an old crone piling on makeup." Reaching the chorus, Jake modulated to a minor key that made Imogene shiver.

"We're only in it now to maximize our notoriety and our bank accounts. Individual egos are destroying the band concept. At this late date, the Sunburst is nothing but a vehicle to allow my supporting musicians to carve as much flesh as they can out of my hide. Isn't that right, Charlie my man?"

Imogene glanced back at the drummer, who shrugged and grinned as he continued to accompany his leader on the bongos. Imogene found this complacency chilling. As far as she could tell, Jake had no clue that his wife and his drummer had had a close encounter in the bedroom while he was out walking the streets.

"Nah, Charlie's not the backstabbing type," said Jake. "It's the other two I gotta worry about. Keith and Eric, Eric and Keith—may they kill each other before I have to. Then I won't be forced to choose between them."

Imogene took out her notebook and pencil, anticipating some grist for her thesis.

"I doubt either of them will ever work up enough guts to blow off the band," continued Jake. "So they're gonna have to fight it out for my favor. I mostly prefer Keith's raunch and roll, but there are odd moments when Eric's sweetness and light hits my poetic nerve. Sometimes I think I could live in an acoustic world, where the poetry leads the music. What do you think, darling?"

Jake's tribute to Byron ended in a wild non-chord. Marianne had knocked the guitar out of his hands. "I won't live with you in an acoustic world," she hissed. When Jake tried to retrieve the guitar, Marianne kicked it and made a symphony of discords.

"That better not be a preview of tonight's concert," said Sara. She kept her eyes on the road, and Imogene concentrated on rereading the notes she had made before bedtime last night. When she saw Charlie's name linked with Marianne's in her scribbling, she flipped the notebook shut.

"This band is gonna explode in fisticuffs," said Jake. "It's already starting."

"You can slug it out onstage tonight, for all I care," said Sara, "as long as you keep the music going."

All conflict faded into nothingness as Sara plunged the van into the Holland Tunnel. Imogene felt again that otherworldly sensation of flying through amorphous darkness and being purged of her baggage. The travelers emerged on the other side rejuvenated, with their youth ahead of them.

The atmosphere in the van changed. Jake and Marianne tossed their cigarettes out the window and snuggled up together to begin another reconciliation. Imogene glanced back and found the making out more embarrassing to witness than the fighting. Sara turned on the radio and picked up an eclectic station that beamed out of New York and seemed strong enough to propel the van halfway home. Modern jazz, big bands, and rock and roll blasted through the sound system in unpredictable sequence.

Then, as if ordered up, a Sunburst song burst forth—not "She Moves Me" or "Glowing Strings," staples of the top forty market, but "Sky Dancing," a slow tune from the second album. Imogene identified with the stargazer who stood helpless and earthbound as his dreams receded into the past on a passionate but fading guitar riff. That could be my future with Steve, she thought.

She squelched her emotion and reopened her notebook. No doubt a narcissist like Jake would get a charge out of hearing his own music on the radio, and that might start him talking again. For the moment, however, he was otherwise occupied.

Jake didn't speak up until the song was over. Then he got into an attack mode, fruitless for Imogene. He analyzed his sister, "the driving force behind this expedition," with a mixture of envy, resentment, and pride. Sara, he insisted, had been the favored child in the dysfunctional Murphy family. Sara fired a few salvos in return. Fascinating stuff, thought Imogene, if I were writing a psych paper on sibling rivalry.

"My little sister draws good fortune like a magnet. Here's a child of the tenements, growing up in a place where children scrap for survival, who gets piano and ballet lessons paid for by doting aunts and uncles. A girl with utterly irresponsible parents who manages to have a pampered childhood."

"By being adorable, I guess," said Sara.

"Remember, you managed to stay adorable because I protected you from dear old dad more than once."

"You did," acknowledged Sara.

"And the way she covers up her Brooklyn accent with that fancy college vocabulary, spicing it with a little Glendary mountain twang. I call it modified slum, twice removed."

"I wouldn't presume to speak anyway, while the great Jake Murphy is holding forth," said Sara.

"Not to mention her status as campus Superwoman," continued Jake. "A quadruple-threat student, artist, athlete, and lover. Where's she get the energy?"

Sara shrugged and smiled. "Seriously," continued Jake, "you're turning into the main Murphy. It wears me out just to contemplate your frantic schedule. And now you've decided to trade on my fame and keep this Sunburst thing going, if you can. Just so you can eventually leave me in the dust. That's your plan, right, sweetness?"

"Oh, come on, Jake. You're the greatest alumnus the college has ever produced. How could I leave you in the dust?"

"You're doing it now," said Jake. "You're taking my life in your hands."

"You mean with my driving?" Sara tightened her grip on the wheel.

"I used to be pedal-heavy like you," said Jake, "but stardom took away my mobility. I doubt I could get to Glendary under my own power, even if I wanted to."

"You've been swamped by too many luxuries and kowtowing servants," said Sara. "It's the limo mentality. You and Marianne should go out by yourselves once in a while, without your entourage. Or have you totally forgotten how to drive?"

"Speaking of driving, I bought you this van," said Jake, "and I'd rather you didn't gun it like a stock car racer."

Sara slowed down slightly. "Relax. I'm in control."

She glanced back to find Jake lighting another cigarette. "Oh, that's just great. You managed to stay off the poison a full fifteen minutes. Why do I even try to protect you on the road when you don't give a shit about your own health? And that spraying ashes out the window has to stop. Imogene, look in the glove compartment and see if you can find an ashtray."

Imogene searched without finding it. She took her coffee cup from its holder, swallowed the contents, and handed it to Jake as a substitute. He took it without thanks.

Sara continued to nag her brother and his wife about their "rotting, putrefied lungs" and possible harm to the baby. Jake endured this only moments before he snapped, "Quit your whining. I've made a fortune with my rotting lungs, enough to support you like an heiress."

"True," said Sara, "but I want you to keep that same earth-shattering voice you started out with."

"When did you get to be Little Miss Perfect? I suppose you've sworn off booze, drugs, late nights, and everything else?"

"Now's not the time to screw up," said Sara. "In fact, now's as good a time as any for a temperance lecture. The Sunburst has got to be a clean band this weekend. If you must get busted, let it be for disturbing the peace, not for illegal substances. Okay, troops?"

"Marianne and I are clean. But I can't speak for the others. I'm not God in this band anymore."

"We're not eating sentient beings or taking mind-altering drugs until we give birth," put in Marianne. "We're attuning ourselves to nature."

"So tobacco and sex are okay for the baby, but meat and drugs are evil. Makes a weird kind of sense." Sara shook her head like a worn-out parent.

Jake continued to carp at Sara's driving. Imogene wondered what had happened to the risk-taker of two years before. He seemed obsessed with his bodily safety. "Slow down, for Chrissakes," he ordered. "You trying to kill me?" Finally, after Sara had passed two vehicles on her right while approaching another head-on, he ordered, "Sara, listen up. Either you drop the hot-rod act, or I'll appoint somebody else to drive."

Imogene worried that if she were chosen, she would have to admit she couldn't drive a stick shift. But Sara laughed off the notion of surrendering the wheel. "Who you gonna get? Charlie?"

Imogene glanced back at the drummer, who seemed to communicate only through his bongos. She shared with him a kinship of silence, although he looked serene while she was a bundle of nerves. He did not jump when his name was mentioned but kept smiling.

"What're you trying to tell me with this aggressive driving?" asked Jake. "That you're rushing toward the future while I'm receding into the past?"

"I think we're in this together," replied Sara. But Imogene reflected that Jake was right. Sara, with her chin leading south, her powerful hands gripping the wheel, her tanned arms glowing in the autumn sun, was in charge. That same sun fell on the wreck of her brother, who looked as if the spotlights and strobe lights of his unnatural life had burned away his vitality. It took an effort to recall that Jake Murphy had held a school record in the fifty-meter sprint and had won a state title on the parallel bars.

"Just relax, will you?" coaxed Sara. "Nothing's gonna happen to your precious carcass. It's a perfect day for a ride, so—oh, my God."

"What is it?" Imogene feared an imminent accident but saw only straight highway before them.

"Don't look now, but something funny just popped up in my rear view mirror."

Everyone except Charlie looked back. Jake groaned and turned away while Marianne kept staring. A van with the call letters of a TV station was trailing them by half a mile in evident pursuit. Imogene's heartbeat quickened.

"Is that a news truck?" God, she berated herself, don't be so wide-eyed about it. They'll think I've never seen a news truck before. True, I've never seen one at my back like this, gaining ground every second.

"Good guess," said Sara, studying her rear-view mirror. "That's no big-city outfit. Must be some independent station in New Jersey or Pennsylvania that's sniffed us out. I didn't know we were that newsworthy."

"Jake and I make news wherever we go," said Marianne.

"In that case, should we stop and let them interview us?" asked Sara.

"Hell, no. Try to lose them," snapped Jake, forgetting his previous edict about careful driving.

Imogene glanced at the rock star, slumped in his seat as if hiding from the cameras. What was so embarrassing? The sentimental streak that had prompted his return to college, or the disarray of his band?

"What a great artistic opportunity." Marianne reached into her knapsack and pulled out a video camera. She hoisted herself out of the back seat and crawled through the storage area, elbowing Charlie aside. She opened the back window and pointed the camera.

"I love the concept of a celebrity turning her own camera on the news media. This'll make waves for sure."

"We don't need to do that, darling," said Jake. He ordered Sara to speed up while Marianne countered with a request to slow down. Sara looked exasperated.

"I'll keep the tape rolling all weekend," exclaimed Marianne from her prone position, "as a unique perspective on Homecoming."

"Our roommate Emily is directing a Homecoming video for her senior honors project," said Sara. "She's claiming hers as the official version."

"Mine can be the avant-garde version," declared Marianne.

"Ah, Emily," said Jake. "It's been a long time, but I remember her well. She used to gyrate to my music in Boulder Lounge and expose a lot of tanned skin in the middle of winter. That red hair was eye-catching. The football players huddled around her like boy scouts around a campfire."

"So Emily's a haunting memory for you," said Sara in a glum tone.

"I almost grabbed her up once, right before I discovered Marianne. I tried to lure her onstage for an audition, but she got distracted by some jock on the dance floor."

Sara gripped the wheel but responded in measured tones. "I don't think Emily would've settled for singing with the Sunburst, even assuming she could sing. She's determined to go Hollywood."

"I bet she will," said Jake. "I even bet she's the kind of director who could persuade me to bare all with a sexy wink or two."

"No nudity or sex scenes in Emily's video," said Sara. "That's Marianne's style, not hers."

"Off-camera then," said Jake.

Jake's wife seemed too absorbed in her creative endeavor to notice he was salivating over another woman. It was his sister who looked distressed.

"You don't understand Emily," exclaimed Sara. "She's not just some eye candy. Trust me. She's bad news. If you let her turn her camera on you, you'll regret it."

"What you got against Emily?" asked Jake. "You think she's jealous of you?"

"I don't know why, but she is," said Sara. "I know she'd like to humble me in her video. She's covering my gymnastics meet on Sunday in hopes that I'll crash off the balance beam, and someone else—preferably Anorexic Annie—will step up and grab my title. I plan to double-cross her by winning."

"A worthy goal," said Jake. "So worthy, it makes me wonder why you're not getting ready in the gym right now instead of cruising with us."

"Don't worry. I'll be ready," said Sara. "I'll hit the gym as soon as I settle you guys in Boulder dorm." She pressed the gas pedal as if to hasten that moment.

"Emily's a drama major, right?" Jake pointed out. "You can hardly blame her for trying to dramatize her video to the max." Marianne weighed in, agreeing that disasters made better photo ops than predictable stories.

"Since you appreciate high drama," said Sara, "you might as well know about something else she's cooked up. I found out last week that the Student Government has invited Mom as one of the special guests this weekend."

"Oh, Christ, no." Jake subsided into silence.

"I should have broken this to you sooner," said Sara, "but who knows if she's really coming? You know how unreliable she is. She did call a few nights ago to tell me that the Alumni Association had offered to pick up most of the tab for her trip east. I knew right away the whole thing was Emily's idea, since her parents work for that outfit."

"How'd they get her address?" asked Jake.

"I don't know, but I wouldn't put it past Emily to go through my personal mail while I'm out. When I confronted her about arranging this behind my back, she just shrugged it off. Said she'd proposed several special guests besides this one."

"I wonder what dear old Mom wants," said Jake. "I guess my office doesn't support her in the Hollywood style she's accustomed to."

"Isn't it possible she wants something besides money? Maybe she's getting sentimental in her old age and would like to share some memorable moments with her children."

"How touching. In that case, you deal with her." Jake's words were cold and measured. "I'll support her financially, but I won't help her put on motherhood airs. If it turns out she's after more money, tell her to get in touch with Leroy."

"She's our mother. I won't say that to her," protested Sara. "We both have to face her sooner or later. Maybe this is as good a time as any. We can't run from our past forever."

"Maybe I can't run from my past, but I can ignore it. I'll look through her as if she's invisible."

As the family squabble continued, Imogene took notes, realizing that childhood trauma must have affected Jake's music. Her stomach began to distract her. She regretted the coffee and doughnut breakfast that Barney had served in Sara's bedroom that morning. She had downed at least one doughnut and one cup of coffee more than were good for her, while Sara had put it all away without a qualm.

Sara noticed that Imogene was rubbing her abdomen. "Don't worry. We'll make a pit stop soon. Too bad we've already passed that café we hit on the way up. I could use another of those juicy club sandwiches, couldn't you?" As Imogene quailed at the thought, Sara continued, "Only trouble is, we have the news media hot on our heels. I don't know how Jake feels about getting out and facing them."

"Let's give them what they want. Pull over, Sara," ordered Jake.

"Are you serious?" Sara, laughing, did as she was told. Jake and Marianne got out and strolled hand in hand through twenty yards of rolling grass. Finding a suitable spot, they turned to face the news cameras and made a show of pulling down their jeans. The truck remained at a fastidious distance up the road. Even when Charlie joined his band mates and performed something of a belly dance as he took down his own jeans, the cameramen maintained their distance. Sara and Imogene stayed in the van, amused and horrified, although Sara insisted this was no more risqué than many of Marianne's "artistic" videos.

When the van got rolling again, the news truck hung back, allowing another vehicle, then two, to squirt between them. Sara congratulated Jake on finding a way to neutralize the stalkers, but Marianne said, "Trust me, they're lolling us. They've already snapped us with long-range lenses."

Sara, undaunted, proposed to stop again as soon as a fast food restaurant came into view. A road sign announced they were twenty miles from the Mason-Dixon Line. After this, Imogene's anticipation of events at school began to displace the panorama of the past twenty-four hours. It was time to suppress the gas pains of urban life and return to an even keel. She looked at her watch. "Wow, it's past one o'clock already—game time."

"See if you can tune it in," said Sara. "This is not only the biggest football game in Glendary history, but the first one I've ever had a reason to care about."

Imogene moved the radio dial away from the New York frequency that had long since given way to static and intermittent jabber. She searched for the small station that served Glendary, but it was blocked by the surrounding hills. Sara urged her to keep trying.

"Yeah, keep trying," said Jake, addressing Imogene in that glancing way that barely acknowledged her. "Try like hell. We're all looking forward to this historic game."

"I hear passion in your voice, Sara," exclaimed Marianne, "like you're trying to send vibes to someone on the field."

"Yeah, and what's that you hinted last night about being engaged?" asked Jake. "Tell us about this guy who's turned you into an instant football fan and made you forget Byron Robarts."

"It's Jim Guthrie," said Sara, "the leading running back in the conference this season. And he's not just a great athlete. He's also smart and multi-faceted."

Sara's family laughed at the notion that she had chosen a football player for his mind. "You don't know the guy," protested Sara.

"I remember him," said Jake. "You really think you're gonna marry a stud like Jim Guthrie?"

"You don't think I'm good enough for him?"

"Actually, I think you're way too good."

Sara seemed thrown by the unexpected compliment. But she resumed: "I'll bet you never even talked to him once you quit being an athlete. I know it's against all the campus mores for freaks and jocks to communicate."

"You're on some divine mission to fix that?" asked Jake.

"Who's more qualified than I am? I've got a foot in both camps."

"Actually, I did communicate with Guthrie once, and it was a close encounter," said Jake. "He practically took my head off in a pickup basketball game. Helped put an untimely end to my sports career."

"I know all about pickup basketball," said Sara. "You got to take whatever's coming to you when you play without rules." Imogene, too, had heard tales of those free-for-alls that brought together athletes from all the men's sports and inflicted injuries at twice the rate of the regulation game.

"I'm not talking about physical injury. I'm talking about the mean spirit of those games." Jake's betrayed tone surprised Imogene. "That hurt more than the bumps and bruises. The true egotism of athletes comes out when they screw the rules. Your boy Guthrie knows how to do all the hot-dog tricks—hiding the ball behind his back, dribbling it in circles, carrying on a running commentary. When he caught me not paying attention, he threw a screaming pass at my head. Left me with a headache and a reason to walk."

"Over one little incident?" protested Sara.

"I didn't find the brotherhood I was looking for in sports. I got much closer to it when I formed my band."

Sara argued that her brother and her fiancé, both individualists and rebels, surely could find common ground. When Jake questioned the sudden engagement, Sara admitted that she had been the one who proposed during a private dinner last week, and that Jim had answered with actions rather than words. She spoke as if her future were assured.

"I'll bet he hasn't changed one iota," said Jake. "Those jocks never grow up."

"Don't kid yourself," replied Sara. "He's every bit as enlightened and aware as you are. There's gonna be pro scouts in the stands today who can't help but notice him. We'll see what kind of dumb jock he is when he signs a pro football contract and the big bucks start rolling in. I won't be coming to you for any more handouts, that's for sure."

"Don't bother to thank me for being your meal ticket so far."

"I appreciate it, believe me." Sara paused and took a deep breath, a prelude to confession. "You're totally my inspiration, in case you didn't know it. 'She Moves Me' and 'Glowing Strings' are part of me. That's why I would never settle for anything less than my ideal love. You've taught me that much."

"No one settles intentionally." Jake let out a sigh. "It's just that real life has a way of exhausting you. You can hear me tiring from the first album to the second if you listen carefully." Imogene, who had listened, scribbled to get down his exact words.

"I can understand, dear," continued Jake, "why any college girl would find Guthrie irresistible. But you might wake up one day years from now and wonder what you're doing in a bleacher seat, propping up a guy who makes a living crashing into other grown men. Trust me, you'll get disillusioned."

Imogene glanced back to observe this phenomenon. She saw the rock star shrink from his wife, who had retrieved her video camera and was intent on recording everything that moved inside the van. She captured even the look of bitterness directed at her. Jake scowled at the woman who preferred making art of their relationship to living it.

"Jim Guthrie happens to be the most virile, fascinating man I ever met—even including you, maestro. He's smart, funny, drop-dead handsome, and destined for success. And most miraculously of all, he loves me despite my lack of beauty queen credentials."

Sara's words were punctuated by the radio as intelligible sounds burst through the static. The football broadcast emerged briefly and disappeared. Then another burst brought forth the words "touchdown" and "Guthrie" from the excitable hometown announcer. "Jim scored," exclaimed Sara. "Our guys must be ahead."

She stepped on the gas as if to swallow up the distance between herself and Jim. Meanwhile, Jake threatened to put distance between himself and his immortal love. "Marianne, listen up. If you don't get that camera out of my face, I'll toss you outta this van. Then you can fulfill yourself artistically by videotaping the great outdoors, miles from anywhere. Don't think I won't do it."

Imogene, for one, did not doubt him; hadn't he tossed Sara onto the city streets to cap off her summer vacation? The static from the radio underscored the marital tension and young-love ecstasy that filled the van. Then both currents froze as a police car materialized in Sara's rearview mirror.

* * * * *

### Chapter Nine

Forgiveness, not vengeance. That's what our Lord teaches, and that's the hardest lesson I must learn—harder than any political science course or game plan. Every day is a struggle against the Evil One, who can manifest himself in so many ways on a college campus. As football captain and president of the Student Government, I'm one of Satan's prime targets. Every time I step out of my dormitory room, his handiwork assaults my senses. Those of my teammates who don't attend the dorm Bible studies, who don't try to walk with the Lord—and that's a good three-quarters of them, I'd say—love to throw their slovenliness in my face. Just this morning in the bathroom, one of the offensive linemen exposed himself to me with a big grin, then proceeded to puke in the sink. Locker room ambience, he called it—recreating for my benefit what coach doesn't put up with in his presence.

Only God knows how much I wanted to slug the guy. It took all my Christian forbearance to extend the hand of friendship and reassure him that the prayer cell was always open to him and his friends. I said I'd keep on praying for his well-being on and off the field. He was about to answer with some disgusting obscenity, but just then his roommate, our number one running back, burst out of his stall and acted as peacemaker. He put on a reasonably friendly face as he made one of his "let's all get along" speeches. He did kindly suggest I might have fit in better at some right-wing religious school with a sports tradition, like Oral Roberts or Liberty.

I tried to explain what led me to Glendary. You have no clue, I said, what it's like being raised in a home of self-inflicted poverty. He looked at me strangely and answered, there are as many versions of hell as there are homes. Maybe he knows something about that. But try honoring parents who gamble away your college tuition money. Thank God for the local Fellowship of Christian Athletes, which kept me straight until my salvation arrived. A scholarship offer came out of the blue. Coach Beatty showed up at our door and bowled me over, not only with his program but with his moral rectitude.

How could my calling have been any clearer? The Lord summoned me here to do what I can for the political and spiritual life of this campus. And if he should bless my efforts with a Conference football title this year, that would prove to everyone, even my most depraved teammates, that I'm on the righteous path and ready to lead them.

When they call me Captain Righteous—or President Righteous, since I'm also head of the Student Government—I take that as a badge of honor. If they only knew how many un-righteous impulses I fight down every day. Satan knows my true weakness. It isn't drinking, partying, or gambling—it's girls. Every year I've been here, they get more beautiful and more brazen. The Homecoming princesses are the ones who entrance me. At campus-wide revivals, it's the dowdy, earnest types who're eager to read the Bible and pray with me. I don't feel a thing for them, although sometimes I try. But the Jezebels—they're the ones who get me agitated with the most subtle smile or flounce of their hips.

I'm really put to the test when the Homecoming court holds its annual parade of princesses in the dining hall. At that event, the student body judges the candidates for Homecoming Queen, and the football team openly rates the hottest babes on campus for its own gratification. Temptation assaults me full-throttle. To my regret, I've been known to get intimate with a few girls I first spotted in that line. They're such easy prey for a football hero. I confess I didn't love them, I lusted. Only God can forgive me for that.

This year will be different, I swear. God forgives, but he expects better from me. One of this year's crop has already been haunting my mind far more than she should. She's the apparent favorite to win the crown. She seems to have more dignity and grace and less flirtatiousness than the rest. It gives me hope that she'll set a different tone, maybe show a little modesty instead of flesh. I'll be disappointed if she doesn't. Which leads me to confess another of my besetting sins—a bad temper. Life on this campus is an unrelenting struggle. One can only hope, and pray, and try to walk with God.

The Homecoming weekend plunged into jeopardy. Imogene imagined herself hauled off to prison in handcuffs with her companions and forced to call her father for a bailout. She'd be lucky if he didn't pull her out of school.

"Where'd that cop car come from?" exclaimed Sara. "It must have been hiding behind the news truck."

"It's your own fault, sweetness, for impersonating a hot-rodder," said Jake. "I won't say a word in your defense."

"C'mon, Jake, you'll have to say something if he recognizes you," said Sara, pulling the van to the side of the road. "We're a little conspicuous with the news media trailing us."

"If it's some redneck pig," said Jake, peering back at the revolving light, "he'll assume we're a crew of dealers carrying a load of contraband. Let him search us up and down. We'll sue his ass for violating our civil liberties."

"Are you sure we're totally clean?" Sara glanced at her passengers, and Imogene's nervous eye followed hers. Sara's gaze hit Charlie and set him atremble. The drummer gestured over his shoulder at a knapsack covered with peace symbols.

"Dammit, Charlie," exploded Jake, "you knew we were in a cleansing phase. Will I ever find a soul I can trust?"

"This is no time for an existential crisis," said Sara. "The cop just got out of his car. Can you please hide that sack?"

Jake accomplished this with a show of muscle that made Imogene smile through her terror. He reached around Charlie, pulled the knapsack out of the storage area and positioned it on the seat between himself and Marianne. He grabbed the drummer by the upper arms, yanked him forward, and plopped him down on top of the knapsack. Charlie, his perpetual smile now frozen, looked like a hen roosting on a hot nest.

Sara rolled down her window to greet a fresh-faced policeman, the type that seemed to populate the Sunburst saga.

"A little heavy-footed on the pedal, aren't you, miss?"

"Good, afternoon, Officer. Sorry about that. But I'm not too accustomed to traveling like this." She gestured toward her passengers as if they were a circus troupe. They offered silly grins as the officer surveyed them with growing amazement.

Sara produced her license and nodded at Imogene, who dug the registration out of the glove compartment. The officer looked these over, took in the scene again, and chuckled.

Reading his name tag, Sara inquired, "Anything else wrong, Officer Day?"

Her tone struck Imogene as too coy. Why couldn't she apologize for speeding, take her ticket, and get out of there? The cop might be tipped off by the smirks in the back seat. He surely would get a kick out of arresting celebrities. Did Sara think every cop in the world could be converted to instant Sunburst fan?

The policeman's eyes lingered on the driver. "Nothing's terribly wrong, miss. I'm just surprised to see a young lady like you handling such a heavy vehicle."

"I may be just a girl, Officer, but I'm also an athlete. I compete in gymnastics for Glendary College, and I have a big meet tomorrow against Maryland State. That's one of the reasons I'm hurrying back to campus, so as not to be late for my workout."

"You want me to believe you're all rushing back to college for gymnastics practice?" The officer gave a skeptical laugh, echoed by the passengers.

"Not only that. There's also a big football game going on even as we speak."

"Just a merry collection of sports fans, huh?" Officer Day's amusement wavered as he caught the defiant grins of Jake and Marianne.

"I'm pretty new to football," offered Sara, "but today's game could be important to my future."

"And we're her personal cheering section," put in Jake.

"If it's not too out of line, Officer, I'd like to check on that game." When he didn't object, Sara switched on the auxiliary ignition, and the radio burst forth with useless static.

Imogene had nearly written Jake off as a has-been dead weight for failing to help Sara when the star spoke up. "What my sister is trying to say, Officer, is that she's in love with a football player, a big lug named Jim Guthrie. We're rushing back to campus to help put on a Homecoming celebration. We're the Sunburst, you see, and it's our duty to serenade the hopefully victorious team."

"Oh, yeah, the Sunburst," said the officer. "I remember you started that riot at Glendary a few years back."

"One of our favorite highlights."

This remark caused Day to glare at him—only to be disarmed by a friendly grin. Imogene could see how Jake pulled followers into his orbit. She longed to have her own existence acknowledged by a look like that. She would bloom in the passing shower of his attention.

"Matter of fact, I picked up that game on my radio a few minutes ago," announced the policeman. "It sounded like your pal Guthrie was pounding through the Maryland line.""Great," exclaimed Sara.

"Guthrie is both explosive and strong," said the officer. "A good combination. Maybe good enough for the pros." He reminisced about his own college football career, comparing himself to Jim, as Sara pumped him with questions. Jake made restless motions in the back seat.

The officer handed back Sara's license and registration. "Just try to be a little more careful, Ms. Murphy. There's a general crackdown on speeders right now. I understand you're anxious to get back, but safety comes first."

"Of course it does," said Sara, handing the registration back to Imogene, who returned it to the glove compartment. "Oh, one more thing, Officer," she added, as he turned away. "Can you direct us to the nearest fast food restaurant? We're in dire need of a pit stop."

Imogene wondered why Sara was prolonging this encounter when she must know every stop along the route. The policeman mentioned a convenient place off the next exit, and Sara thanked him. "We need a few private moments to freshen up without anyone trying to stick a camera in our faces."

"My sister means," interjected Jake, "that we were being harassed by a news truck just before you stopped us. They may even have snapped a few compromising pictures. How about warning them off us? Is your badge that powerful?"

Imogene was astonished that Jake would try to order up a police state for his own convenience. Day grinned. "Yeah, I noticed them earlier. You say they were harassing you? I'll deal with it."

When this business was concluded, Sara and company proceeded down the road at a sensible pace, unbothered by either police or news media. They found their way to the recommended fast food place. Sara and Imogene went into the restaurant to use the ladies' room, and then bought armloads of cheeseburgers, French fries, and sodas. The travelers ate in the van.

Jake chewed and slurped and smoked, dropping ashes on his half-eaten sandwich. "How do you suppose the pig got rid of the paparazzi?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"He busted them instead of us. Man, how far out is that?" Charlie the drummer had spoken for the first time in Imogene's memory. Giggles spewed out of him as if a dam had burst. His staccato laughter teased Imogene's spine like the long-distance drum beats of his open-air solo days. Everyone laughed at the notion that the officer had snagged a few harmless snoops on a vague charge of harassment when he could have scored a vanload of celebrities carrying drugs.

When they got underway again, Sara proceeded with care along the interstate, which began to acquire the bumps and curves of a rural road. The radio static remained thick, but Sara savored the policeman's confirmation that the game was going well. She predicted bright vistas ahead, including a hearty reception for the band and a campus-wide party tonight.

"Would you can the cheeriness? It's giving me a headache." Jake blew a smoke ring at his sister. Sara countered with further doses of optimism. As they left the interstate and began the final thirty-mile trek into the Maryland hills, the radio began popping like firecrackers, emitting words and phrases.

"At last," exclaimed Sara, turning up the volume. The names Guthrie and Claitt burst forth, prompting cheers and reminisces. Marianne mentioned the time she had photographed Paul Claitt almost in the nude during a daring locker room invasion. The resulting poster had scandalized almost everyone outside the Art department.

Sara recognized the professional voice of Barry Ricard, who had covered her gymnastics career as sports editor of the _Campus News_ last year. He had agonized over her occasional falls as if they affected the stock market. Now graduated to local radio, Barry had hit Glendary's version of the big time.

The travelers heard snatches of the announcer's voice delivering the football broadcast like network news. As they passed the sign indicating that they were twenty miles from Glendary, the broadcast cleared and steadied. The familiar voice, cruel in its precision, blasted the countryside:

"I repeat, in case you're just joining us, we have no information as yet on the condition of Jim Guthrie, who was carried from the field on a stretcher and is presumably in an ambulance on his way to the hospital. Guthrie was involved in a brutal collision with State's three-hundred-pound defensive end, Matt Selleck, who's been blasting through the right side of the Glendary line with noticeable ease since the second half began. It appeared to us that Guthrie's right knee, mildly sprained in last week's game against Westchester, was re-injured. As he tried to elude the tackle, Selleck grabbed him around the thighs and went down with him, bringing his full weight to bear on that leg. We also saw Selleck's right fist land on Guthrie's neck, jamming his head into the turf. There's been speculation in the press box that the second blow was deliberate, or at least unnecessary, and should have earned Selleck a personal foul if not outright ejection."

"Yeah," said a gravelly voice. "They should've ejected his ass. Barry, man, I've been hanging around this playing field for twenty-five years now, and I gotta tell you that Matt Selleck is the biggest f—"

"I'm talking to Skip Palmer, former championship quarterback here at Glendary, who has stopped by to offer some of his unique commentary. Skip, it appears Selleck will remain in the game. He looks ready and eager to inflict the same sort of damage on Guthrie's replacement at running back, the rarely used Tim Thompson."

"Thompson ain't gonna fare no better," retorted Skip. "I can't believe those pansies on our offensive line laid down and let Guthrie get killed. Almost like that's what they wanted."

"Naturally, we're all awaiting word on Guthrie's condition," said Barry, "and will pass that information on as soon as we receive it."

Sara floored the gas pedal and sped the van past the farms and pastures that formed Glendary's outer boundary. "Christ, take it easy," said Jake. "No sense smashing us all up." Sara, oblivious to advice, announced her intention to reach Jim's bedside as quickly as possible.

Someone, vowed Sara, would pay for this debacle. State's Matt Selleck might be an assassin, but he wasn't the only one. She perceived all too clearly that universal forces of envy and stupidity had brought Jim down and conspired to destroy them both. She could hardly blame the opposing players for trying to neutralize the upstart running back; she blamed instead certain false friends. She latched onto Skip Palmer's theory of a secret agenda among Jim's teammates to humble the one player who might be good enough to play professionally.

"You really think the team let down on purpose so Jim would get hurt?" asked Imogene.

"There's nothing more lethal than a teammate's jealousy," Sara informed her. "I've had a chance to mingle with some of those guys these past few weeks. I've seen enough jabs thrown to make anyone question the idea of teamwork."

Sara picked up more ammunition from the radio and fired back questions. Why had the right side of the line gone soft in the second half? That was where Curt Simpson, Jim's supposed best friend, was stationed. And why had Paul Claitt called so many plays that sent Jim straight into the monster's jaws? She had to admit that if the football team was full of Judases, it was no different from the gymnastics team. She conceded further that no one incident had brought about this tragedy; the game itself was an exercise in hubris. President Edelson and Athletic Director Beatty had perpetrated this mismatch in a futile attempt to lift themselves out of Division Three obscurity.

Sara even blamed herself and Jim for flaunting their relationship. They had violated the unwritten protocol of the dining hall and shattered the peace and quiet of their respective dormitories. They had engaged in an insane motorcycle race—interrupted by a suspiciously placed rock—and passed off the resulting damage to Jim's knee as a football injury. The re-injury of that knee seemed suitable retribution while the concussion reflected their boneheaded behavior.

Imogene tried to reassure Sara but picked up only bad vibes from the radio. She heard Barry's deflated tone and the eerie quiet of the crowd. Jim's injury had short-circuited Glendary's chances of narrowing a ten-point gap. His replacement proved lead-footed, and a desperate field goal attempt fell short. When the ball changed hands, Maryland State had only to grind it out, wearing down defensive captain Karl Lamphere and his troops as they marched toward the Hawks' goal line for a rub-it-in touchdown.

Several minutes after the final gun sounded, Sara rumbled onto the defeated campus without fanfare. No groupies or amateur journalists rushed the van as it pulled into the Boulder parking lot. The gloom of the gridiron suffused the atmosphere. Even the bright October sun had disappeared into a bank of stratus clouds in the west, leaving a chill behind.

Sara kept the motor running as she turned toward her passengers. Jake scowled back. "Time for you to abandon us with all due melodrama."

She's gonna leave me alone with this group, thought Imogene. What'll I do with them? They'll take me for a meddling reporter, still clutching this damned notebook and pencil. Why'd I have to be so obvious about that? Maybe they'll "lose" me like they did the news truck.

"I'm heading for the hospital," said Sara, as her passengers piled out of the van with their knapsacks and gear. "Sorry, guys, but this is an emergency, and Imogene's here to help out. Your rooms are on the first floor—the resident official will show you where. I'll get back as soon as I can."

"Like shit you will," said Jake. "You'll be camping at your boyfriend's bedside all night. To think just minutes ago you were up to your ass in Homecoming events, and now you're blowing the whole thing off for one football player."

"Imogene, do your best to keep them in line." Sara gave her a wry smile. "They're a high maintenance group, but you'll manage."

"We're non-maintenance," said Jake. "Just the decrepit Sunburst, crawling back home to die."

"Jake, please try to understand," pleaded Sara.

Jake stared at her and then shifted his gaze to Marianne, who was videotaping the moment. "I still understand love, believe it or not," he said, frowning at the camera. "You run along and throw yourself on Big Jim's prostrate body if that's what you need to do."

"Thanks, dear." Sara beckoned Imogene to the window and issued instructions. "I'm counting on you to get them to the Amphitheatre safely after they've rested awhile. As soon as they're ready, see if you can borrow a car and drive them over there. Get them some refreshment before the show and protect them from hassles. I don't know when Eric and Keith plan on arriving, but they'll have to be coddled too. Just try to keep everyone as together and focused as possible."

Imogene breathed hard as she nodded. Did Sara understand the magnitude of what she was asking?

"I have a feeling the campus is going to turn into a powder keg tonight," said Sara. "It's way too quiet now. You'll have to see to their safety. All the doors over there are supposed to be locked until they start admitting the crowd around seven thirty. You need special keys to get in. Which reminds me." She fished a shiny object out of her back pocket and slapped it into Imogene's hand.

"Here's the backstage door key. You'll be totally in command as long as you have this. Take them in that way, lock the door, and don't open it for anyone unauthorized or unessential. Just use your best judgment on that, Imogene. Good luck." She roared off in the van.

In her wake, Imogene jumped back and spun on her heels. Marianne videotaped Imogene's confusion as the musicians laughed. At the end of the block, a weary-looking Paul Claitt, still in uniform, flagged down Sara's van and got in. He would be the first teammate to reach Jim's bedside.

"Time for me to sack out," said Jake, leading the group into the lobby of Boulder hall. "I can't believe I used to be just another jock living in this dump."

The musicians stomped into the dormitory office with the video camera still rolling. They were greeted by resident official Bill Simmons, a recent master's degree graduate in education who resembled his feminine counterpart, Lynne Mason, in his bespectacled earnestness. He shook hands with the musicians and mugged for their camera. Then he escorted his guests down the first-floor corridor to the rooms that had been vacated for them.

Imogene trailed behind, soaking up the sweat-filled ambiance and pondering Sara's orders. It was one thing to transport the band to the Amphitheatre while protecting them from "hassles." It was another to keep her wits about her in the midst of Hunk City.

"But first things first. Where's the nearest toilet?" Without breaking stride, Jake accosted Charlie from behind and relieved him of the knapsack covered with peace symbols. "No moaning about this, Charlie my man, or I'll flush you too."

"Let me take care of that," offered the resident official. "You guys go take a load off. And in case you're in the mood for a little liquid refreshment, I've got an unofficial bottle or two in my office." He exchanged a meaningful glance with Imogene as if he thought she had handled this entire excursion herself.

"Good deal." Jake transferred the knapsack to Bill's shoulder. The slight man staggered a little as he unlocked the corner room door and another next to it.

"As long as you're offering room service, bring us a bottle," said Jake. "Don't be put off if we're having a ménage-a-trois."

Bill chuckled and glanced at Imogene as if to ask whether Jake was kidding, but she could only shrug. The door slammed behind the musicians, and Bill struggled into the bathroom to perform the service he had promised.  
Imogene felt abandoned in a minefield. What would she do with herself while the band "napped"? She had promised Sara she would stick close to them, but the place was starting to fill up with beaten football players. They looked as if they would swat away any obstacle in their path if they weren't so weary. Sullenness and hostility poured out of them like body odors.

Imogene was alarmed by those blank stares. How could she tell them she wasn't like her friend Carolyn, the quintessential silly fan, who would have been flirting up a storm if she were in this position? It discomfited her to remember how many times Carolyn had almost wheedled her into joining a group of girls who habitually met the team bus when it returned from away games. She had almost succumbed last week when Steve was threatening to blow her off for the dance; the victorious Hawks were presumed to be ripe pickings that day. But what had Carolyn gained by planting herself in the team's path and getting knocked down yet again? The last Imogene heard she was still going to the dance with Jack the Accountant.

Hard to believe Imogene had returned from her transforming journey to the Big City only to encounter the same adolescent issues as before. Anyone who saw her now would assume she was hanging out in Boulder to get a date. She felt her thighs, hoping they were under control despite her junk food binges this weekend. She could tell that her hair, windswept and uncombed for hours, was a mess. What she wouldn't give to look like Emily or Christine at this moment. There was nothing to do but flatten herself against the wall and ignore the rude mutterings that came to her ears.

"Out of my way, cow."

This was too rude to ignore. Imogene resolved to confront the jerk, whoever he was, and defend her right to be here. She found herself staring down Karl Lamphere, Christine O'Brien's unreliable boyfriend. Hadn't Chrissie been thinking of dumping him for weeks now? In a flash of insight, Imogene figured out why he was incensed. Chrissie must have been crowned Homecoming Queen earlier today, and on the strength of that, carried out her threat.

Imogene took a step around Karl, eyeing the office at the front of the hall. She froze when she heard the corner room door fly open behind her. Jake's harsh yet musical voice accosted her.

"Listen, sweetheart. While we're resting, you better find us some wheels to get us to the Amphitheatre. All I know is, I ain't walking." The door slammed shut.

Karl Lamphere seemed perplexed, or maybe impressed, by the temperamental artist. An apology would be too much to expect, but he softened. "Several guys in the hall have cars. I guess someone here could help you out."

Forget it, thought Imogene. This is my project. I don't need help from any foul-mouthed football player. I know Steve will do this in a minute. "Oh, that won't be necessary. I was planning to call my boyfriend in Sizemore."

"Yeah, that'd be better," said Karl with a sneer. "Only a Sizemore freak could relate to a rock band." Here it was again, that age-old hatred between jocks and hippies.

"I'll bet you think you're some kind of Sunburst groupie, huh?" he added.

"I'll bet you think you're some kind of football player, huh?" Having managed this comeback, Imogene recoiled in anticipation of return fire. But Karl stalked into his room and slammed the door without another word.

Imogene proceeded toward the office. It would be better to wait and get permission from the resident official to use his phone, but he had yet to return from flushing Charlie's goodies. Too nervous to delay, Imogene rushed in and grabbed the phone, seconds ahead of a muscular, unkempt resident who glowered at her—probably some idiot who had neglected until the last minute to line up his girl for tonight's dance. Undaunted, Imogene placed her call to second floor Sizemore.

The phone rang at least a dozen times before a sleepy-sounding voice answered. When Imogene asked for Steve, the man hesitated. "I think he's in, but it looks like his door's shut.""Well, knock on it, please. Tell him Imogene urgently needs to talk to him." God, she thought, is everybody in that place unconscious or stoned?

She fumed through the five minutes it took Steve to get to the phone. What was he doing in bed before dark—and with whom? While she waited, Imogene's old mindset caught up with her. He probably thinks I'm gonna beg him to take me to the dance. And I know this dumb oaf, who's about to tear the phone out of my hand, thinks the same thing. But I'm way beyond that silliness. Don't they know I've been on a mind-expanding journey, and I'm still on it?

"Yeah?" Steve's harsh tone made her jump. She felt tempted to hang up but instead pressed on.

"Listen. I'm about to give you the chance of a lifetime. If you want, you can drive the Sunburst from Boulder dorm to the Amphitheatre this evening. But you gotta decide quickly because I'm calling from the Boulder office, and there are plenty of guys around here who have cars. I've gotten some offers already."

"Don't get anybody else." Steve snapped to attention. "I'll do it." Suddenly he was in her power again as if their courtship had started afresh. She remembered how she used to fascinate him with her casual utterances and torture him by glancing at other guys. "How soon do you need me?"

"The band is resting right now. They'll probably get up about six, six thirty, and won't want to be kept waiting. So have your car in the Boulder parking lot in thirty minutes. Got that?"

She snapped out the order and terminated the conversation. Her rival for the phone had disappeared, so she sat back in the resident official's chair to reflect. She was handling things reasonably well, considering the unpredictability of these people. She had a nagging feeling that she was neglecting something incidental but important. Then it struck her: both she and Steve were supposed to be on duty in the cafeteria tonight. When she had first seen the schedule a week ago, it seemed excellent timing. If all went well, and they achieved at least a temporary rapprochement, they might proceed straight from the kitchen to the dance.

Steve must have forgotten about work too. Would they both get fired? That would be a fitting climax to their rag-to-riches story, with both of them proving they couldn't hold even menial jobs. Imogene tried to think of a way to get a message to the head chef, but there was no phone in the kitchen. She felt the usual resentment at her father for forcing her to take that job. How absurd to worry about slinging hash at a time like this.

Screw it, she thought. Why shouldn't I blow off the crappiest job on campus? And who will go to dinner tonight anyway, with the campus ready to explode? Only Betty and Shelley and a few other nondescripts whose lives revolve around eating.

Imogene eyed the phone again. Sensing a rare opportunity, she picked it up, dialed the town operator, and got the number for the hospital admissions desk. She called and was informed that Jim Guthrie's condition was "guarded."

"What does that mean?" asked Imogene.

"Sorry, miss, that's all I know."

To keep the woman from hanging up, Imogene blurted, "I'm from the _Campus News_ , and I'd like to speak to Paul Claitt. He should be in the waiting room if he hasn't already gone in to see Guthrie."

The woman grumbled as she put down the phone, but a few minutes later, Claitt came on the line.

"Hello, Paul," said Imogene, who had never spoken to the quarterback before.

"Who is this?"

"I'm a reporter from the _Campus News_ ," said Imogene, "and I'd like to ask you about Jim Guthrie's injury."

"I don't recognize your voice. What's your name?"

"It's, um—Isobel Prose. I want to ask you what really happened on the field today when Guthrie went down."

"I don't know what you're getting at. Our best running back got hurt, and that contributed to our losing the game. We're all disappointed, but sometimes life is like that, and so is football. I got here as fast as I could to offer Jim my support and prayers."

"It was suggested on the radio," said Imogene, "that there was some sort of conspiracy to bring Guthrie down. That several team members may have been so overcome with jealousy that they let down and didn't protect him."

"Who said that?"

"Skip Palmer, the former quarterback." After a moment, she added, "Emily Palmer's father."

"Figures. This is off the record, but he's a drunken has-been. I guess he'll need my prayers too."

"Are you and Jim Guthrie close?" inquired Imogene.

"We're not as close as we should be. It's true the team is divided. Some of us walk with the Lord, and some of us don't. I'd like to think that when Jim recovers, he'll join me in prayer and inspire the rest of the team."

"A nice thought." Imogene was sure only a brain-jarring injury could bring that about. "Oh, by the way," she added, feeling anything but casual, "my sources say someone called the Student Government office on Friday and threatened to slash the Homecoming Queen's face, whoever she turned out to be. What do you think about that?"

The phone went silent.

"Isn't it true that some members of the religious community were upset by the parade of Homecoming princesses in the dining hall the night before?" pursued Imogene.

"I don't know what you're trying to suggest, but it's a total lie. Campus security narrowed it down. They think that call came from first-floor Clemens."

"First-floor Clemens?" Imogene struggled not to betray her alarm.

"That's where our new Homecoming Queen lives. Chances are it was a jealous hallmate. I'm sure you know how girls can be."

Carolyn, thought Imogene, and Christine. The Walking Cliché forced to room with Supercilia. The evil deed sounds plausible, maybe even inevitable.

"Not that I'm accusing anybody. Hopefully, whoever is guilty of making that call will see the light and confess. Sorry, I gotta go." Paul slammed the phone down.

Bill entered the office with Charlie's depleted knapsack slung over his shoulder. Imogene was embarrassed to be in his seat, but he motioned her to relax. "You must be exhausted. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or maybe a drink?"

Imogene asked for coffee automatically and then changed her mind. She was not tired from the day's exertions, but jittery. A good, stiff drink might help, and the illegality of it attracted her. The resident official took a bottle of scotch from a small refrigerator in the corner. He filled a paper cup halfway and handed it to her. "Careful. This could go to your head."

Imogene frowned at the presumption that she was inexperienced. While Bill took the promised bottle down the hall to the band, she sipped her scotch and tried to sort through the tasks ahead. How would she rouse Jake and company when the time came? What if he didn't want to get up until nearly show time or became too drunk to move? Emergency plans swirled through her head. Bill returned and asked, "Want another hit?" She was tempted but declined.

Within minutes, Steve strode into the office. Imogene greeted him and tried to bowl him over with her trip to New York. She described the excursion to Central Park, the recording studio, the Revolution band that had played all night, and the near arrest on the road. "It's been amazing," she concluded, "but now we've got problems. So far only Jake, Marianne, and Charlie are here, and they're holed up in their room with a bottle of scotch."

"I'll take them some coffee later," put in Bill.

Steve, supplied with his own cup of scotch, irritated Imogene by pointing out everything that could go wrong. How could a band in such disarray put on a real show? What if Eric and Keith blew off the event? Worse still was Byron's apparent absence. The Glendary crowd would feel ripped off if he failed to stage his traditional walk-on.

"It'll all work out," said Imogene. "Eric and Keith are scheduled to arrive in separate limos. I heard Leroy Pierce say so myself." She felt herself working up a sweat. "And nobody should have realistically expected Byron to appear tonight. This isn't his Homecoming."

"It won't be the real Sunburst without him," countered Steve. "It'll just be the original dormitory band."

"No way. It'll be the real Sunburst." Imogene geared up to defend her honors thesis. "Byron will be here in spirit. The band has become infused with that spirit and can never lose it. Now's their chance to prove they've grown up enough to stand on their own without him."

Would her theory fly? Imogene's audience looked skeptical. She pressed on: "Byron was destined to leave them sooner or later. I mean, it's obvious he was never meant to be in a band. He lifted them off the streets, inspired them with his musical poetry, and then disappeared. He's burned his guitar again, at least figuratively, and left them to sink or swim alone."

"Which will it be?" asked Bill nervously.

"The Titanic, maybe," said Steve.

"You don't have any faith," protested Imogene. "The Sunburst will show what they're made of tonight."

"Face it, Imogene," said Steve. "This could be a disaster."

Bill, with a glance down the corridor, noted that today's football loss had darkened the campus mood. The players and their fans would demand a great show tonight to squash their disappointment and salvage the weekend. Steve refused to attach any significance to football. He based his pessimism on a typical hippie's ability to detect the explosive or corrosive elements in rock-and-roll bands.

Imogene shouted at Steve, defending her thesis, knowing that only a genuine Sunburst performance tonight could save it. Otherwise, her theory of band unity, tenuous from the start, would face its real-life test and crumble. She would still write her paper, depending on the kind of convoluted reasoning her adviser had warned against.

"You're not giving Jake enough credit as a leader," declared Imogene. "He can pull it together if he wants to."

"But will he want to?" asked Steve.

"That's the question," acknowledged Imogene. She paused. "Obviously, he took Byron's defection to heart. Why else would he wander around Central Park for hours with a battered guitar? He was trying to recapture—the spirit of Byron."

"He blew in here like a rich and famous rock star," pointed out Bill, "not like a Byron imitator." Imogene had to admit that Jake showed no real inclination to give up his luxurious lifestyle.

"I say he came back to get in touch with his roots," declared Steve. "Maybe to finish off that riot he started two years ago."

Imogene argued against this possibility. Times were different now that Jake had a legitimate career. The two successful albums, backed by concert tours, had produced substantial earnings that had been invested by a bona fide business manager. Imogene had seen Jake's Manhattan office, his permanent staff, his satellite bands. He was no longer a failing student with nothing to lose. Besides, he would be a father in four or five months. The argument got loud and exaggerated. Steve insisted that Jake had come here to unleash havoc, while Imogene portrayed him as an upright citizen with noble motives.

"What're you really saying? You fell in love with Jake on the road?"

"Well—why not?" Imogene felt herself blushing. "I mean, I've always loved him from afar. We all have feelings for Jake Murphy, don't we? His music is the sound track of our times, the embodiment of our dreams."

"To hell with what he embodies. You know what I'm asking. Would you fuck him if you got a chance?"

"Christ, don't be so crude." But Imogene thought it over. She realized she no longer loved Jake Murphy with the uncomplicated passion of a naïve coed. She had met the real man at a critical juncture in her life, with school almost over and the workaday world looming. No longer was she an aspiring artist who dreamed of following the Sunburst into the sunset. Her goals in life had become conventional: memorable June wedding, decent entry-level job, reasonably nice starter condo. She would require a husband who shared her upwardly mobile pattern. Jake Murphy was not the man to make an honest woman of a girl like her. Besides, his own marriage was a cesspool.

She regarded her longhaired boyfriend with amusement. That freak world he still inhabited—the world of aspiring rock stars without real talent—was growing tenuous. He, too, would have to settle for conventional employment and marriage. If either he or she proposed right now, the other would likely accept. They were so much alike that they might as well be engaged. But his mocking question had titillated and offended her.

"I'd sleep with Jake Murphy in a flash. What girl wouldn't?"

An acid voice penetrated the foggy atmosphere. "I'm flattered, dear. But not now. I woke up with a headache."

Imogene jumped from her seat. She grabbed the cup of scotch as if to anesthetize herself on the spot, but it was empty. The rock star must have snuck up on them under cover of hallway noise. She wondered how he had sliced through the milling athletes out there without raising shouts from them.

He stood in the doorway, chuckling at Imogene. In her embarrassment, she half hoped he was a drunken illusion. But the famous grin started up, spread across his face, and lit his eyes as he took in her potential.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean—" Why should she apologize when she had longed to see Jake look at her that way? Steve stood almost at attention, apparently too unnerved to greet or shake hands with the rock star.

"Don't bullshit me. You meant it." With a careless wink, Jake froze her breath, her heartbeat, her limbs. A moment later, his attention dissipated. Her possibilities, whatever they were, had failed to grip him. The snappy comeback that came to her fell into oblivion, unused, as he issued an order.

"I hope you got those wheels like I asked. I've had enough of this sweat pit. And I ain't waiting on Eric and Keith either. If they show up over there before we go on, fine. If not, screw them. I can ignite this campus all by myself."

* * * * *

### Chapter Ten

I can't dance with my boyfriend Sidney tonight, at least not all night. I'm not allowed since so many eyes will be on me tomorrow. The State meet has gotten to be such a big deal, the thought of it makes my stomach churn. I'm not really "anorexic," as some of the girls claim—I just lose my appetite when I'm stressed.

Actually, the pressure comes from having done so well this season. I could overtake the number one gymnast on our team if I outperform her tomorrow. Everybody seems to be counting on me to do just that. My new prayer circle is focused on it.

Why is it so important all of a sudden that I beat Sara? A lot of people don't like her, but the funny thing is, I do. I know she rubs authority the wrong way. She makes up her own rules, both in the gym and in the dorm. She charms you into following her until you realize her kind of fun could get you into hot water.

The buildup to the State meet has already shaken up the hall. It started a few weeks ago, when I realized my roommate Carolyn had gotten jealous of my relationship with "Lieutenant Howe" and my newfound fame. I couldn't live with her constant resentment anymore, so I got permission to move in with some new friends who've been really supportive. They've even assured me that God wants me to win.

I really do believe this. But believing it adds so much pressure. If only I could learn to pray with the same conviction as my new roommates, and start doing it before tomorrow. If my faith is real, they say, I won't waver. But what if I do? Won't happen, they insist. And if it does, it'll be a humbling lesson from God, which will make me stronger next time.

Seems they've got me covered. I really do need my faith to grow, to prepare for the future. I'm about to get engaged to a guy who plans to serve his country as an army officer.

The Sunburst left its quarters in Boulder dormitory, hurtling past pockets of sullen, pacing athletes in the corridors and lobby as if dodging meteors. The football players stared at the musicians without comprehension. A message reverberated from scowl to scowl: screw Homecoming. Not even the loudest, truest rock and roll that Jake could deliver tonight would compensate for the humiliation of their defeat. The resident official waved apologetically as the musicians, accompanied by Imogene and Steve, exited his domain.

They encountered more athletes in the parking lot. A dozen of Jim's teammates were trying to squeeze into a few available cars to go to the hospital. Imogene caught the eye of Jim's roommate, Curt Simpson. She hoped to convey with a nod her good wishes to Sara and Jim, but she was rebuked. The twinkling eyes that had entranced her in the dining hall had turned inward, submerged in rage. With the star running back injured, the blocker flailed like a useless appendage. Those were the Judas eyes of a man who had failed to protect his best friend from an assassin.

During the five-minute ride from the Boulder parking lot to the backstage door of the Amphitheatre, Imogene and Steve sat up front like pilots on an interplanetary mission. Steve's car blasted off in still dusk, soon to penetrate a nighttime world alive with anticipation.

A contingent of Glendary's hippie population, thirty strong and growing, congregated near the backstage door. Couples embraced, some falling to the ground as they groped. Others set the evening aglow with candles, cigarette lighters, and one burning newspaper that raised screams of terror and delight. Steve sliced through the crowd, many hands reaching out to caress his car. He pulled to within ten feet of the stage door, maneuvering his right wheels onto the sidewalk. He turned off the engine and looked at Imogene. Everyone waited for her to act.

"I guess I should get out first." God, thought Imogene, could I sound like a bigger ninny?

"Listen, guys, we have to move fast. I'll get out and unlock the backstage door. Don't anybody move until I give the signal, but once I do, make it snappy. Steve, you hang back and fight them off if you have to."

Imogene erupted from the car, aiming the key like a sword. She slashed her way forward and slipped the key into the lock. Pushing the door open with one hand, she signaled with the other. The musicians burst out of the van and tumbled into the Amphitheatre behind her. Steve brought up the rear, heroically elbowing aside a couple of freaks armed with fire. Imogene slammed the door behind him and locked it.

"Wow, that was close. Is everybody okay?"

Imogene waited for the band members to acknowledge her and Steve's services, but it seemed gratitude was not part of their repertoire. She thought they might at least extend an invitation to hang out with them for a while backstage. Instead they stomped straight through the area and onto the stage to check it out. They groaned and cursed to find their performing space cluttered with amplifiers, instruments, and microphones, dumped earlier by the roadies without apparent thought. Jake demanded to know where those "lazy nitwits" were, but his voice bounced off the walls.

The band crossed the stage, testing it like a trampoline. Spotting the bar, they descended a flight of stairs to their left and made for it. While they searched for refreshment, Imogene remained on the stage and took stock. She could see that at least two Homecoming committees had had access to the hall and had done considerable work. The musicians cheered the efforts of the Liquor Committee, which had left beer kegs in readiness under the bar. They jeered the pretensions of the Arts Committee, which had hung green and yellow streamers across the ceiling and banners on two walls screaming "Go Tomahawks!"

During the next ninety minutes, as tension mounted, Imogene learned what was expected of a sycophant. She and Steve were supposed to be as invisible as possible as they served the band. Jake, downing beer from a cup, complained about the absence of hard liquor. He speculated that the roadies had headed downtown in search of a fuller bar; when they returned for the final sound check, they had better be carrying a few bottles. Imogene mentioned the administration's prohibition against bottles on these premises. Jake gave no indication that he had heard.

The three musicians emerged from behind the bar and retook the stage, cups of beer in hand. Jake directed Steve to move Marianne's microphone all the way back next to Charlie's drums. Marianne countermanded that order, insisting that she would share center stage with her husband. Steve hesitated, looking from one to the other as he grasped the microphone stand. Jake seemed to win the argument by default when Marianne gagged on her beer and rushed backstage in search of the bathroom.

"Do it," Jake ordered Steve.

"Don't you think you owe your wife a little respect? Isn't she carrying your baby?"

As these words left his mouth, Steve froze. He looked at Jake as if he expected a fist in the mouth. He shifted his gaze to Imogene, maybe hoping she would apologize for him. Imogene, however, had no inclination to diminish what he had done.

Jake stared at Steve for a long moment and then shrugged. "Have it your way. My wife may be fairly talent-less, but at least she's decorative. Let her flaunt it."

Marianne returned, announcing, "It's time we went backstage and dressed."

"I'm already as dressed as I'm gonna be, dear," said Jake.

Marianne looked him up and down with contempt. He was proposing to play a concert in the same Sunburst T-shirt tucked into blue jeans that he had worn on the road from New York. His ubiquitous gold chain and earring would be his only concessions to style.

"I'll tell you once more: I did not marry Byron Robarts, or any Robarts imitator. We're gonna dress up like the rock stars we are."

Jake and Marianne disappeared backstage only to reemerge in agitation. They had left the knapsacks containing their stage outfits, including Marianne's makeup and jewelry, back at Boulder. The royal couple glared at Steve and Imogene until Steve offered to retrieve the missing bags. Jake ordered him to slip a bottle of scotch into one of the knapsacks before he returned.

Steve exited the backstage door, creating waves in the crowd outside, and Imogene locked up after him. She found herself acting as keeper of the gate. When fans pounded for admittance, she peered through the small circular window and shook her head at them. While she controlled access to the Amphitheatre, night fell and chaos reigned outside.

She ventured onstage periodically to see if the musicians needed anything during their sound check. Jake caught her eye and bellowed, "Listen, don't let in those bastards Keith and Eric. I'm fed up with their damned pretensions. There's only room for one star at center stage tonight. Sorry, Marianne dear, I mean two."

"How can I bar Eric and Keith?" asked Imogene. "They're part of the band."

"Let them in," said Marianne. "We'll teach them to be good backups."

"They've already quit, as far as I'm concerned," said Jake. "They know the rules. If they don't rehearse, they don't play."

"Idiot," spat Marianne. "You're the reason we didn't rehearse yesterday. You spent the day wandering around Central Park, chasing the ghost of Byron."

"And I found it," said Jake. "I finally realized it's better to stand alone like he did. Backups can't be trusted." He glanced over his shoulder at Charlie, whose face remained bland.

Imogene watched Jake's glare harden and refrained from further argument. Vowing to use her own judgment, she returned to her post at the window. A limousine was slicing through the crowd.

Imogene opened the door and Eric burst in, carrying an acoustic guitar instead of his usual electric bass. The instrument had been battered in the crowd, the bottom string bent out of shape. To Imogene it was an inspiring sight. She doubted Eric could fill Byron's shoes tonight, but it looked as if he intended to try.

Imogene had not seen Eric up close since his coffeehouse days at Glendary, when he had been a slender, poetic strummer. Since then he had acquired a slight scruffiness and paunchiness along the lines of Byron. His T-shirt was plain white without the Sunburst insignia, the way Byron wore it. His jeans had holes at the knees. The multi-colored headband and the string necklace, from which dangled some sort of African or Caribbean icon, provided finishing touches. She assumed he had brought no fancy stage clothes and would appear as he was.

"Ah, the old coffeehouse look," said Imogene. "That place was never the same after you left."

"Neither was I," said Eric. "I sold my soul for fame and fortune. But I'm back." He waved his damaged guitar.

"It'll take courage to walk onstage with just that." Imogene smiled, hoping to encourage him.

"No big deal," said Eric. He left the backstage area and stalked onto the stage, swinging the guitar like a scythe. Imogene followed. When Jake turned and acknowledged his presence with a sarcastic grin, he began to stammer.

"Nice of you to show up." Jake eyed the battered instrument as he hoisted his own electric guitar. "Planning to do something with that?"

"It's Byron's guitar," said Eric. "He left it with me the night he split for good. I'll be playing in his honor tonight. Any objections?"

Marianne gave a hostile laugh. Eric flushed but continued to wave the guitar, as if to transform it into a magic wand.

"Next you'll be telling me he set it on fire before he handed it to you," said Jake. "Passing the torch, so to speak."

Imogene moved closer to get the benefit of the overhead stage lights. She thought she saw signs of charring around the curves of the instrument. True, guitar burning had always been Byron's exit strategy, but did this prove Eric was carrying the genuine article? Or had some freak outside taken a match to it?

"This is all I need to perform with," said Eric.

"You know the rules," said Jake. "You have to rehearse before a show. And I sincerely doubt you can play that wreck."

But a small miracle unfolded as Eric began to pick the opening phrases of "She Moves Me," battling through with minimal use of the bottom string. He sang the introduction that Byron had added to Jake's original tune, romanticizing the piece that had resonated with the Glendary crowd before the band's departure two years before. Byron's lyrics evoked an angel-woman who hovered out of reach. Eric paused at the end of the verse and waited for Jake to pick up his traditional part, which dragged the woman down to earth and demonized her charms.

"Either play the damned song right," said Marianne, "or get off the stage." But Jake, ignoring her, joined Eric in repeating the opening.

"Brother Eric, that's beautiful—the true essence of the song. It's like you've risen up out of Byron's ashes to bring us the vibes of peace."

"No way in hell will that work," hissed Marianne. But she could not stop the phenomenon that had been unleashed by a battered acoustic guitar. Charlie accompanied them with the subtlest of beats. Again they reached the end of the slow section and paused before the raucous part—only to draw back from those currents and milk the introduction once more.

This is what I've been waiting for, thought Imogene, the Triumph of Poetry over Noise. Now, there's a thesis title. But what if it's a one-time occurrence? My morose advisor won't believe it happened if it doesn't repeat in the actual show. He'll go right back to plugging his beloved suicidal poets as better topics.

Phrases suitable to the paper surged through Imogene's mind, but her notebook wasn't handy. Marianne, evidently opposed to peace and love, tried to shatter the moment. "Just wait till Keith gets here."

"To hell with Keith," said Jake over his soft instrumental. He instructed Imogene, "Don't let that bastard in."

"Right," said Imogene helplessly. She returned to her post backstage and scanned the crowd outside. No way could she bar Keith, the strong man of the band, who had been known to overturn his electric organ in fits of pique. He might break down the door if she didn't open it for him. Besides, it would strengthen her thesis if she could chronicle some kind of rapprochement between the Sunburst's polar opposites.

As the crowd stirred, she willed Keith to appear. Her heart flopped like a twig in the wind, but it was Steve's car that pulled up to the door. She admitted the bearer of the knapsacks.

Hearing him arrive, Jake and Marianne abandoned the stage to Eric and Charlie and rushed backstage. "It's about time you brought our fancy duds," said Jake, as if he hadn't threatened at first to perform in rags. He and his wife grabbed the knapsacks like little kids playing with costumes and sequestered themselves in the dressing room.

Imogene and Steve joined Eric onstage. He put down his guitar with a forsaken look. Shrugging, he left the stage and made for the bar, accompanied by Steve. Only Charlie remained unperturbed, keeping up a gentle rhythm.

Imogene returned to her vigil at the window, only to be exposed as a sham. She had believed herself in control, denying entry to every unauthorized person who pounded the door and protecting the band from hassles as Sara had asked. Now she quailed at the sight of a Homecoming Queen bearing decorations. The steely blue eyes of Christine O'Brien, chairwoman of the Arts Committee, demanded admittance. Christine was still wearing her pom-pom uniform under a jacket, as if she had not paused for breath since game time. She carried herself as if she still wore the tiara as well. She was royalty and could not be refused.

Lined up behind Christine were the three girls whom she had appointed to her decorating corps. They carried boxes full of artwork although the Amphitheatre already shimmered in green and yellow. Imogene was glad to see Shelley bringing up the rear, having parried her artistic ability into a hint of social status. It seemed Shelley had freed herself from Betty's chokehold, if only temporarily.

There seemed no alternative but to admit the Arts Committee and hope the band wouldn't object. The artists swarmed into the Amphitheatre to put the finishing touches on the rah-rah ambiance. Christine ordered two girls to climb onto folding chairs and hang bunches of green and yellow balloons. Meanwhile, Shelley unveiled her own project. "These cost me a couple of all-nighters," she told Imogene. "Betty was thoroughly pissed that I kept her awake."

"She's just jealous," Imogene assured her as she gaped at the four cartoon caricatures of Hawk stars. Jim Guthrie, Paul Claitt, Karl Lamphere, and Kevin Bean were easily recognizable by their jersey numbers, but Shelley had managed reasonable likenesses of their faces. Who would have guessed what the dateless girl could accomplish during her lonely hours? She had blossomed at last as an artist after being confined for years to decorating one corner of her room.

"These are great, Shel," said Imogene. "They'll make you famous tonight."

"Oh, yeah?" Shelley flashed a grin at the dressing room door. "Famous enough to meet Jake Murphy, by any chance? You got him stashed away in there, right?"

"He's getting dressed," said Imogene. "Sorry, I don't think he can be disturbed right now."

"Christ, I knew that." Shelley shrugged and followed Imogene onstage. She glanced at Charlie, who was accompanying the Committee's efforts with smooth rolls on his drums and staccato taps on his cymbals. "I don't think that one could be disturbed by a sledgehammer."

Imogene, taking charge again, asked Steve to help Shelley hang her portraits. She returned to her window post, wondering if all hell would break loose when Keith arrived.

Within minutes, she surrendered control a second time to a prima donna. She locked eyes with her roommate and froze again to her disgust. Emily was armed with a video camera and much more. Backing her was a two-man crew, wielding mobile sound and lighting equipment like professionals. This impression was confirmed when Imogene spotted their truck across the street. It was the same vehicle with TV call letters that had chased Sara's van across the Pennsylvania countryside until interrupted by a cop.

So Emily had commandeered a "real" news team, orchestrated that pursuit, and triumphed in the end by catching up to the band. Imogene recalled that this crew had had an opportunity to photograph the musicians taking down their jeans outdoors; would those shots enliven Emily's senior project? The video maker tossed her auburn head as if to demonstrate that she could have worn the Homecoming tiara herself if she had not had bigger fish to fry.

Imogene considered denying her roommate admittance but finally opened the door. Emily and crew pushed her aside and made for the dressing room like salivating wolves, smelling an opportunity to catch the Sunburst off-guard. Imogene heard a shout, a scream, and scuffling sounds in there. Can't be helped, she thought. How could I protect them all by myself? Am I the goddamned Secret Service?

The panic in the dressing room subsided quickly; the Murphys must have made their peace with Emily's camera. Imogene relocked the backstage door and awaited the arrival of Keith, the last piece of the puzzle. Her anticipation seemed to conjure him up. She saw his limousine speed up to the door and stop, scattering kids left and right.

The keyboardist emerged from the front seat, and Imogene opened the door for him. An entourage piled out of the back seat and followed him in—three longhaired, bearded, and tattooed musicians, carrying their own electric guitars. "Meet the Revolution, sweetie," said Keith, "my personal backup band. We're here to warm things up. Got the stage ready for us?"

"I didn't know we had a warm-up band scheduled," said Imogene, nodding helplessly in the direction of the stage. This was the same unstoppable Revolution that had shaken the walls of Sara's bedroom last night. Somehow Keith must have wrested the band away from Barney, its founder, for his own nefarious purposes. Imogene watched the Revolution rush through the backstage area and occupy the stage as if it intended to be the main act. The imposters tossed aside the Sunburst instruments and plugged in their own.

"Sound check," shouted Keith. His "personal" band set up a wall of noise that blew away all resistance. Charlie, captivated, tried to accompany it. Keith manhandled the organ until it shook.

When the keyboardist noticed the wounded guitar that had been left near the edge of the stage, he leered at it. Reaching out with his foot, he kicked the instrument off the stage. He located Eric at the bar and winked. The Revolution, anticipating a showdown, fell silent.

Eric put down his beer and approached the stage. He tried to adopt a defiant grin and menacing posture. Imogene quailed at the mismatch. Eric was almost a foot shorter than Keith, and without discernable muscles. But he picked up the acoustic guitar and placed it back on the stage. The keyboardist kicked it off again.

Dodging the flying instrument, Eric leaped onto the stage and reached for Keith's throat. Keith's foot sent him hurtling into the air as if he were as lightweight as his guitar. Eric picked himself up and rushed his band mate again. Somehow he got his spidery hands around Keith's throat. His adversary returned the favor using only one hand.

The pair locked each other in a death grip at the edge of the stage, swaying back and forth. As Keith's left hand squeezed Eric, he pounded the organ with his free hand. This produced a weird chord that the Revolution band picked up and drove like an ax into every skull. The macabre concert continued as Keith's grip on Eric tightened. Gagging, Eric kicked at Keith's knees.

They'll kill each other, thought Imogene. Or else, that racket will drive them insane. She screamed, and the band fell silent. The fighters disentangled as if some current had been cut off.

Imogene clapped her hand over her mouth before she realized that Jake Murphy had emerged from backstage, disheveled and half dressed. His sudden appearance froze the musicians onstage and mesmerized every spectator in the hall. The coat of his white silk stage suit billowed out behind him as if he were riding a cloud. His expression was brooding, and his features sharpened by the stage lights. He extended his arms and stilled the waters.

"I'll have harmony in this band, or nothing. Get the fuck out of my sight."

Eric and Keith, followed by the Revolution and their instruments, exited backstage, muttering threats at each other. Imogene saw them through the door and relocked it behind them. She watched as they plunged through the agitated crowd in search of the limousines that had brought them.

Imogene conjured up long-term ramifications. Before the weekend was over, the two fired musicians would establish beachheads elsewhere, Eric in a coffeehouse and Keith in some noisy dive. The bands they formed would be unstable at the core, destined to split and give rise to other splinter bands. Short-lived, volatile outfits would litter the music scene, and all because the Sunburst had failed to contain its own chaos.

As Imogene watched Jake's supporting musicians disappear, she heard the star slip back into his dressing room. While he resumed his intensive interview with Emily, Imogene returned to the stage to take in the aftermath of the breakup. A cowed Charlie had been reduced to tapping his cymbals while the Arts Committee members tittered. Steve shrugged and hoisted another beer at the bar.

Christine approached Imogene, gesturing toward the hall where she had exerted so much authority. "Well, I'm done with the decorating. Gotta go get ready for romance. Got a blind date with a second-string football player tonight. The Homecoming Queen has really hit the jackpot this time." Christine tossed her honey-blonde mane and laughed bitterly.

Imogene stared at Christine in amazement. What was so terrible about a blind date when so much else was at stake?

"Don't just stand there. Go unlock the back door so we can leave."

Imogene returned backstage with the four Committee members at her heels. Christine seemed taken aback to hear pounding on the door. "Who are those crazy people?"

"Sunburst fans," replied Imogene. Bubblehead, she thought.

"Why don't you just let them in before they break down the door?"

"They're not authorized to be here," said Imogene. "They're the general public. No matter how insistent they are, they've got to wait until the front door opens to paying customers."

"Pretty big talk. Who put you in charge?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm in charge." Imogene opened the door a crack. "Try not to let anyone in on your way out."

"You think I care who crashes this stupid event? Just let me out of here."

"I hope they molest you." Imogene stood aside as Christine and two of her assistants plunged into the mob. Shelley almost followed them, but turned back and shut the door instead.

"That was a damned good comeback, but I'm not sure Supercilia heard you," said Shelley. "As usual, she's got the weight of the world on her shoulders. If I could please be authorized to stay for one more minute, I'd like to feast my eyes on my handiwork. It's not like I'll be at the actual dance."

Imogene accompanied Shelley to a vantage point on the stage and gazed at the hall in admiration. "I still can't believe what a great job you did with those caricatures, Shel."

"It was an honor to serve on the Arts Committee, but I must apologize for our chairwoman. Underneath that dazzling beauty lurks Godzilla girl. She ordered us around like her personal coolies."

"She's in a bad mood tonight, that's for sure," said Imogene. "I guess it's humiliating for her to be reduced to a blind date tonight of all nights. She and Karl Lamphere must really be kaput."

"A humiliated Homecoming Queen? What's this world coming to? Wish I was gonna be here to see that."

"Why shouldn't you be here?" asked Imogene.

"No way would Betty or I go to a Homecoming dance without a date. That's against all the campus protocol we ever heard of."

"How silly can you get?" Imogene understood protocol. Still, she marveled that two women who loved to skewer society with their tongues felt so hampered by its conventions.

"Protocol has already been shot to hell, in case you haven't noticed. You won't need a date—hell, you might not even need a ticket. Those freaks will probably find some way to crash, and frankly, I'm beginning not to care."

"Yeah, but I'm not one of them," said Shelley. "I was raised to live by the rules of civilization."

"So was I. But I don't really have a date either, and I wouldn't miss this show for anything."

"What about him?" Shelley motioned toward the bar, where Steve, still hoisting a beer, had begun preparing a tray for what was left of the Sunburst.

"Yeah, what about him? He's here for the band, not me. I doubt if I'll even get to dance with him tonight."

"Aren't you here for the band too?" Shelley smiled at her knowingly.

"Yes, but it's not that I'm crazy about serving musicians. I'm trying to get an honors thesis out of it."

"Groupie with a Pen," teased Shelley. "It's time you had your own nickname."

"But the main thing is, I promised Sara I'd look after the band until she got here. She went to the hospital to be with Jim Guthrie."

"Of course she did," said Shelley. "I knew she'd go for the bedside melodrama."

"God knows what she'll say when she finds out Jake fired two of his musicians on the spot," said Imogene.

"You were supposed to prevent that?"

"It seemed inevitable," said Imogene. "I'm not sure how much it matters. If anybody can pull off a solo act, it's Jake Murphy."

They watched Steve slip backstage, balancing the tray with three cups of beer and a bag of pretzels. "That's the ticket," said Shelley. "Why don't you try toting a tray yourself?"

"I'm not here to be a sycophant for Jake," insisted Imogene.

"Why not? Maybe he'll find some special way to thank you."

"Yeah, right," said Imogene. "He barely knows I exist. Besides, his wife hovers over him."

"That's just it. You're a sweet, wholesome anomaly in the midst of his personal chaos. Sooner or later he'll notice and start hitting on you."

Imogene smiled, but shook her head. "I've been physically close to Jake for two days now. He lives in his own universe where you don't exist unless you make an impression on him. You can lock eyes with him and nothing happens." This invisible feeling made her shiver.

"Listen, Shel. Come to the dance tonight, date or no date. We'll analyze what's going on and make hash of it as only we can."

Shelley looked tempted but shook her head. "No, not without a date. You'll have to get along without my commentary—unless I can snag a stray guy somewhere."

"How about Chrissie's ex, Karl Lamphere? He's on the loose." Imogene meant this as a joke, but when Shelley laughed in her self-deprecating way, she continued, "Well? Where is it written that football players are out of our league?"

"It's not written anywhere. It's just a fact of life," said Shelley. "Jack the Accountant is more my speed. Come to think of it, he could be on the loose too. When he comes by tonight to pick up Carolyn, he's gonna find her gone. She went off with a bunch of other idiot girls to join the Guthrie vigil at the hospital."

"The Walking Cliché, true to form," said Imogene. "Jim Guthrie never paid her any attention even when he was conscious. And neither has any other football player."

"Actually, she might be on to something. She probably figures the players are so down and out right now, they're more susceptible than usual to ordinary girls."

Imogene opened the door for Shelley. They found the crowd outside in the process of being pacified. The campus and town police had arrived and were busy removing the moonchildren. Their batons were out, scattering many and coming down hard on those few disposed to fight back. Marijuana odors seemed to make the cops aggressive.

Within five minutes, the horde was dispersed. Gone was the necessity for the locked backstage door that Imogene had guarded with her life. She stepped outside with Shelley, breathing draughts of becalmed evening air.

"I'll bet Christine alerted the cops," said Shelley. "That would be just like her. She'd be mortally offended by any hippie freak who brushed up against her or looked at her cross-eyed."

"If she did this, she's a miracle worker." Imogene paused to readjust her focus. "I can't believe the change with no crowd trying to break down the door. All of a sudden, things feel—normal. Like we could have a traditional Homecoming dance after all."

"If tradition is what you want," said Shelley, "try to make Steve dance with you at least once tonight. And I'll do my damnedest to get a date. How's that?"

"We can both try," said Imogene, waving goodbye to her friend. She locked the backstage door from force of habit and returned to the stage. She reflected that the hall looked both party-like and romantic in its garish yellow and muted green tones. A committee of ticket-takers, privileged to have keys to the main entrance, had entered that way and were setting up tables and collection boxes. Imogene heard the first rumblings of a growing crowd out front, where it belonged.

Still, a normal dance would depend on Jake's state of mind. He and Marianne had yet to emerge from the dressing room, where Emily and her crew had them cornered. Imogene felt a sudden urge to crash that interview.

She hurried to the bar, grabbed a tray, and loaded it with several large cups, napkins, a bowl, and bags of pretzels and potato chips. She pumped beer from a keg into the cups. The tray shook as she carried it up the stage steps, forcing her to put it down to wipe up spilled beer. She handed one of the cups to Charlie, who accepted it with a grin. Then she composed herself, ready to smile like a perfect sycophant as she presented her offerings to Jake. Maybe she could be the one to coax a great performance out of him.

* * * * *

### Chapter Eleven

No one else knows what it's like to be alive and breathing yet non-existent. My hallmates speak, and someone answers them. They wave to people in the hall, at meals, or on the way to class, and get a response. They make at least a few ripples wherever they are. But not me. I guess my squeaky voice and plain looks don't impress anybody. In a way, it's an advantage. I see and experience things without anybody noticing. But mostly, it makes me want to scream. Sometimes I fantasize about throwing sharp objects at people's heads. Would they notice me then?

I'm just on a different wavelength from everybody else, tuned in to God in my own way. Does that make me "weird"? I'm not one of those showoffs in prayer circles or campus revivals who claim to have a pipeline to heaven. I don't proclaim the Word at the top of my lungs. My God is more of a stream, a process. My way of praying is to be still and let the power flow through me. Only then do I seem to belong in the universe.

But I still feel a need to live in this world, to connect with the mainstream. Once in a while, I'd like to speak the same language as everybody else. There are spiritual guys on campus I could relate to, if only they'd notice. There are poets, like me, but they say my poetry is too obscure for the literary magazine. Nobody understands.

That's what attracts me to the sing-alongs in the hall. Sometimes they start up spontaneously on Friday afternoons after classes are over. That's when my next-door neighbor, the famous rock musician's sister, gets in the mood to entertain. The songs she coaxes from her acoustic guitar, mostly composed by her brother's song-writing partner when he was young, are hymns in their way. Not much like the ones we bellow out in our nightly prayer circle, which seem to rattle the hall. They don't evoke some stern, unknowable God, but an alternative Prince of Peace who still walks the earth, dispensing love and kindness—although nobody is quite sure where.

Just let that music start up, and I forget to be shy. I barge uninvited into the corner room and beg my neighbor not to stop playing and singing. The other girls laugh at me, and I laugh right back at them. Those shallow types only sing along to impress the guitarist, or maybe because peace-and-love is in vogue right now. You think they appreciate the man who created those songs? If they actually set eyes on the overgrown hermit, they'd run in the opposite direction.

I shut out most of their silly gossip, but one item has intrigued me. They've been teasing my neighbor for taking up with a football player when she might have had a chance to marry Byron himself. How could she betray the one Prince of Peace who still lives? She's proven herself just as shallow as the other girls, but maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he'll end up with somebody who really understands him—somebody like me.

"I'm afraid to go on tonight," said Jake, facing the camera. "I'm afraid of screwing everything up and enjoying it." His words slurred and his eyes drooped from the two or three beers he had demolished on top of the earlier scotch. He pulled Marianne close to him, and she nestled her head cinematically on his shoulder.

"Just go out there and play your greatest hits. That'll make everyone happy."

Emily's reasonable advice startled Imogene. What did the born-again iconoclast really have in mind? She continued: "Look, you know exactly what's expected of you tonight. This crowd will be nostalgic for the Jake Murphy they used to know. They want to relive those carefree days when you had them carousing in the dorms."

That goading tone smacked of underhandedness. Imogene suddenly understood Emily's strategy. The director counted on Jake's perversity to turn her common sense advice on its head. If she got her true wish, a made-for-video nervous breakdown might result.

Someone, thought Imogene, has got to save Jake from Emily. She raised her tray as high as she could, risking more spillage but ensuring that Jake could see it. When the rock star motioned her to approach him, she vowed to grab this chance to whisper something calming in his ear.

As Imogene edged toward the spotlight, Emily barked, "Cut." She stepped forward, relieved Imogene of the tray and handed it to one of her assistants. Imogene's humiliation was complete when the director grabbed her by the arm and guided her out of the dressing room. Before she could protest, Emily had dragged her through the backstage area and onto the stage.

Imogene knew then that a confrontation with her prima donna roommate was long overdue. She spun around to face Emily as Charlie, startled, made crashing sounds with his cymbals.

"Who in God's name do you think you are, pushing me around? I've got just as much right to hang out backstage as you do. I've been through hell and high water with the band this weekend."

Once Imogene got started, she kept on unloading grievances. "Sure, I'm honored to be your personal receptionist in the corner room. And sure, I've painted scenery for some of your theatre productions without asking for the slightest recognition. But does all that make me your—your personal coolie?"

"There's no reason to get so upset." Emily smiled as if at a petulant child, but she was clearly taken aback.

"I guess not. Even though you shoved me out of there like an intruder." Imogene breathed easier, having chucked off what felt like a fifty-pound weight.

"Just lower your voice, will you?" Emily put a finger to her lips, eyed Charlie, and hustled Imogene off the stage.

"I'm about to draft you for an urgent errand; I just don't want anyone else to overhear. I'd like you to rush over to Clemens right now and try to track down Mrs. Murphy—you know, Jake and Sara's mother. I advised her to go straight to the corner room when she arrived on campus, but it just occurred to me, she could've gotten mixed up with the busybodies over there. I'm asking you to get her out of their clutches and bring her back here. I'll lend you my backstage key, so you can escort her in secretly."

"Not necessary. I have my own key." At last, she thought, Emily and I share a small token of power. But do I share the director's vision?

"What're you saying? You're gonna reunite Jake and his mother on video just before he goes onstage?"

"That's the idea," said Emily. "Get her here within thirty minutes, and I'll let you hang out in the dressing room while I interview them together."

I don't know about her vision, Imogene thought, but the errand gives me an easy out. Spurred by the secrecy of it, she left through the backstage door. She took a roundabout route past the art and music buildings on the south side of campus to dodge the crowd in front of the Amphitheatre. After a ten-minute trek in the dark, she panted as she entered the well-lit dormitory.

"Imogene, stop." Betty's voice assailed her from an open door as she rushed down the hall. Oh, God, Imogene groaned, not now. Don't even try to poison my evening with your junk food and junk TV.

Betty called her again, sounding so urgent that Imogene condescended to poke her head in. A protest died in her throat as she beheld a gathering unlike any seen before in Betty and Shelley's room. At first glance, it was the usual meeting of the dateless brigade, all set to squander another Saturday night at home. Only tonight, the "nondescripts" were throbbing with vitality. Jack the Accountant was seated between Betty and Shelley like shared property, but the lone male was not the center of attention. Occupying that place of honor, holding a paper cup of coffee and a lit cigarette in her right hand while gesticulating with her left, was a weary-eyed but rather elegant woman.

She had the look of Sara in her shoulder-length dark hair and the look of Jake in her fierce nose and chin. Her fashion sense, observed among the shapeless sweatshirts and frequently let-out jeans of this crowd, was striking. The short lavender dress and fishnet stockings emphasized her shapely legs. Her arms were tanned and strong like Sara's underneath an excess of rings and bracelets and a manicure reminiscent of Marianne.

Seated next to her, blinking like an overwhelmed master of ceremonies, was the housemother. She, too, held a cup of coffee and a lit cigarette, which she regarded uneasily. It was Betty who had taken charge, brewing coffee for her special guests and passing around the usual pitcher of Coca Cola for her hallmates. "Rosslyn, this is Imogene, one of Sara's roommates."

"Well, fine. She just isn't the one I expected to see." The woman's abruptness, like Jake's, startled Imogene. "Forgive me, but Emily's the one who summoned me across country and assured me the drama department would reimburse my expenses as soon as I got here."

"I have a message from Emily," announced Imogene. But Betty refused to surrender the floor.

"Rosslyn, it's only fair to warn you. Emily's a master manipulator. She's always got something up her sleeve, and lately she's gotten lethal with a video camera. So I suggest you sit back and relax until Sara gets in. She should be the one to escort you to the dance."

"Excellent suggestion, even if that's what I've already been doing for the last hour, waiting for Emily or Sara to show up. Doesn't anyone around here keep track of those two?"

The nondescripts exploded with mirth over the impossibility of that task. "We're not in their league," explained Shelley. "We don't have a clue what they're up to when they're away, and they barely have time to acknowledge us when they're here."

"It's just as well they're not here right now," said Betty. "You need time to compose yourself. Seeing your children, after such a long time, is bound to be traumatic."

"Not that it hasn't been fun, hanging out here and entertaining everyone with my life story," said Mrs. Murphy. "But I can see it's falling on innocent ears. How can I expect sheltered girls like you to understand unholy career struggles, lovers from hell, and heart-breaking family sacrifices?"

"We may be timid, stay-at-home tight-asses," said Shelley, "but we still love to hear other people's stories. The more gut-wrenching, the better." The group murmured in agreement.

"I hope we haven't hovered over you too much," said Betty. "It's just that we're not used to having such fascinating company." She turned to Imogene. "Rosslyn—Mrs. Murphy—has been telling us about her life in show business, first on the stage and then in the movies. A lot of it has been spent on the brink of starvation."

Betty retraced the story that Imogene had heard from Sara but with Rosslyn recast as the tragic heroine. She admitted to leaving her small kids behind when a film producer lured her from New York to Hollywood. She had always intended to send for her family once she made it big. Instead, she found herself tripping from one casting couch to another. She suffered terribly for her ambition, seldom seeing her children for the past decade and unable to do much to support them. But now she had come full circle. Having fallen short of stardom herself, she was prepared to confront her children as stars in their own right.

"I've been called a slut and a deadbeat," put in Mrs. Murphy, blowing a smoke ring, "but I insist on being called an artist."

"The question is how will Jake and Sara react to her presence?" continued Betty. "They must realize she's here, but so far they haven't rushed to embrace her with open arms."

"That's what I was trying to tell you earlier," said Imogene. "Emily wants to arrange for Mrs. Murphy to—visit Jake backstage at the Amphitheatre."

"Oh, God, no," Betty almost screamed. "Please, Rosslyn, don't fall into that trap. Emily can't be trusted, and everybody knows Jake is a volatile guy. There's no telling what he might do if you surprise him."

"My roommate speaks the truth," said Shelley. "Emily's obviously up to no good. God knows this hall is full of cynics, but she's a special case—an ex-beauty queen turned social commentator. With that video camera of hers and a handsome faculty advisor who 'believes' in her, she's lethal."

"Emily's real problem is, she's jealous as hell of Sara," blurted Imogene.

"Well, of course she is," replied Mrs. Murphy. "Aren't you all jealous of my daughter? She'll have an easy shot at fame and fortune just by grabbing onto her brother's coattails. Emily alluded to that when we spoke on the phone last week. It might have been a load of bullshit just to get me here, but she told me my struggles are more admirable to her than Sara's free ride could ever be. She even called me her heroine."

"Sara isn't interested in a free ride," protested Imogene. "She showed me around Peace Enterprises yesterday. She's got major ideas for cleaning the place up."

"She better not take that too far," said Mrs. Murphy with a troubling sneer. "It so happens Jake's company is subsidizing my career."

"But it's going down the tubes," said Imogene. "I heard Sara discuss the situation with Leroy Pierce. They agreed that Jake's losing his grip on it. It's like he has a compulsion to destroy what he's built up."

"So far he's kept my monthly checks coming. That tells me things must be reasonably solvent."

Sara would find better uses for the company's money, thought Imogene. How could she express this tactfully? "If Sara gets a shot at running things, she'll clean out the riffraff." Seeing Mrs. Murphy scowl, Imogene hastened to add, "I mean, she would produce real bands who make profitable music—not guys who walk in off the street with instruments and really belong in a garage."

"You're saying my son, a multi-millionaire rock star, has no musical judgment?"

"He has no business judgment," said Imogene. "If he did, he'd keep his own band from blowing apart."

"Careful, Imogene, with the company secrets," said Shelley.

But Imogene pressed on: "I think Jake was—profoundly shaken when Byron walked out for good. He felt moved to fill Byron's anti-corporate shoes. This weekend, at least, he's been spouting the philosophy that money is evil and business corrupts everything."

"You're writing your honors thesis aloud," remarked Betty.

"And probably talking through your hat," added Shelley.

"Byron Robarts has nothing to say to today's youth. It's Jake's music that speaks to the modern world." Mrs. Murphy exuded an unnatural and outrageous pride, obviously favoring the child who could pay her immediate dividends.

"Sara has some ideas about reviving the company's film production branch." There, thought Imogene, let's see how this Mom of the Year reacts to that.

"Now, that would be intriguing." Rosslyn Murphy set aside her coffee cup and knocked ashes into it as she regarded Imogene with hungry eyes. "I know Peace Enterprises used to have film production facilities. Not that the company ever made a film of any consequence."

Neither have you, thought Imogene. "Sara just might change that someday," she said. "One of her goals is to produce feature-length films."

Imogene enjoyed the sensation she had made. She had elevated Sara above Emily, a mere video-maker, and roused the interest of her hallmates, whose voices converged like the chorus line at an audition. Even schoolmarm Betty raised her brows to summon the latent actress within as she exclaimed, "The day that girl decides she's a movie producer, I say watch out, Spielberg."

Most dramatic of all was the transformation of Sara's mother. Her hard eyes moistened. "I had every intention of being a bona fide filmmaker myself, not just some producer's floozy. I hope Sara is capable of understanding why I couldn't stay off-Broadway forever. When I showed flesh, it wasn't called bold by the critics, it was called burlesque. I thought I had found a producer who could transform _Raw Nerve_ , my signature piece, from semi-porn to at least semi-art.

"That producer lured me to Hollywood, but it turned out his promises were overblown. What we did together is something of a cult classic, but not good enough for me. I'm still looking for Mr. Right—some genius to remake _Raw Nerve_ into the subtle satire it could be."

"Would you star in the remake yourself?" asked Shelley.

"Don't you think I could?" Rosslyn displayed a leg with the fishnet accentuating the curves. It was easily the most impressive leg in the room. She spoke of her late ex-husband, Jake and Sara's father, who had created the stage version of _Raw Nerve_ , only to self-destruct in the face of public criticism. She wanted Sara's hallmates to understand that her children had not burst on the scene by spontaneous combustion. Their father had had wit, intellect, and brawn before he destroyed it all with alcohol. That was why she had reclaimed his name after two subsequent marriages.

Rosslyn repeated her prediction that Sara would ride Jake's coattails to fame. Imogene insisted that Sara had created her own legacy on campus. She was at the hospital this moment, coaxing back to health the football player she intended to marry. Tomorrow she was scheduled to lead Glendary's gymnastics team against Maryland State, perhaps to redeem today's football loss. Unlike Jake, she was making the most of her athletic scholarship.

"But can she sing? That's what I'd like to know," returned Sara's mother. "I hope she can tear herself away from her hunk in time to make it to tonight's concert. It would be nice to see her join her brother onstage for a duet."

The squeaky voice of Weird Lila piped up, "Oh, Sara's a wonderful musician. She can make magic with just an acoustic guitar at our hall sing-alongs. She interprets Byron Robarts's songs with such spiritual feeling, I think of them as praise songs."

Mrs. Murphy laughed as she took another drag. "Spiritual, shit. I've heard stories about their affair last summer. And now some football player's already replaced him in her affections. But you say she still sings Byron's songs with feeling?"

"That's because they're timeless songs," said Imogene.

"If only she'd reconcile with Byron," said Lila, "maybe his peace-loving spirit would fill this hall all the time."

"Not gonna happen," said Imogene. "She's engaged to Jim Guthrie."

"I don't believe it," said Lila. Her adamant tone caused her hallmates to stare.

"Maybe the engagement will be off if the football player's badly injured," suggested Rosslyn.

"No way. Sara and Jim are really in love," said Imogene.

"How do we know they're in love," asked Shelley, "without putting them to the acid test? They have yet to slow-dance in front of the whole school at a Homecoming dance."

"But don't you see," pleaded Lila, "superficial things like that don't matter? I believe in the—the pervasive power of Byron's spirit. Somehow that will win out in the end."

Her insistence was unnerving. Imogene eyed the mousy girl who rarely stood out at hall gatherings but somehow always lurked. Imogene tried to conjure up some contempt for the thin brown hair that plunged below her shoulders, bangs that almost obscured her eyes, the colorful "Jesus lives" T-shirt that she wore for days on end.

"What're you suggesting? That Byron Robarts is really Jesus Christ in disguise?" asked Shelley. "That's something I never picked up in comparative religion class."

"There's about as much chance of Byron showing up here as Jesus," said Imogene. "I'm afraid Sara burned him too badly."

"I'll just bet she did. She dictates events, just like her brother."

This pronouncement came from Lynne Mason, whose presence had been lost in the excitement surrounding Rosslyn Murphy. Lynne gulped her coffee and dragged on her cigarette, which set her coughing. She put down the cup, stuck the cigarette in it, and rose to her feet.

"Mrs. Murphy—Rosslyn, it's true that Sara takes charge of this hall every time she picks up a guitar. And I have to confess something else. Your daughter's been a thorn in my side ever since she first arrived at Clemens six weeks ago. Her mocking attitude, her flouting of rules—well, that's hardly unique. The real problem is me. I can't seem to discipline her."

"Tell me," smiled Rosslyn, "what's this unholy power my daughter has over you?"

"That's exactly what it is." The housemother's voice wavered. "The truth is—I fell in love with Jake during his last year at Glendary. I was a senior also, and he was doing his troubadour act, moving from dorm to dorm every night, stirring up everybody in his path. The night he crashed this hall with one of those instant concerts, I was dead gone over him before he had finished belting out his first song."

Lynne Mason told a sad story that stirred Imogene's sympathies more than she liked. Once Lynne had found the epitome of manhood in a longhaired, reed-thin, sharp-voiced, sharp-featured guitar player, she disdained all other possibilities. She had become a fixture at Boulder lounge on his regular Saturday nights there. On weeknights, she would prowl the campus with other smitten women, trying to predict where Jake and his group might erupt next. She lived for the moment when Jake might lock eyes with her.

Imogene's sympathy wavered as she realized that Ms. Mason had pursued her dream by indirect means with unrequited love as her motivator. Before Jake shook her up, she had been sleepwalking through a college life littered with unromantic one-night stands, studying hard but without direction. Jake had turned college into a romantic place even as true love eluded her. After he departed, she lived for the day when he would return. She pursued a graduate career at Glendary, getting her masters degree in education last spring and being appointed resident official of Clemens. That had heightened her dilemma. Charged with keeping order in a women's dormitory, she still longed for the days of the Great Crasher.

Mrs. Murphy, appreciating the irony, tossed back her head and laughed. The embittered mother embraced the frustrated housemother. "You and I are sisters in futility. We're both afraid that if we give Jake Murphy half a chance, he'll spit in our faces. That must be why we've marooned ourselves in the midst of these equally scared girls."

"I really must protest that." Shelley bristled, while maintaining her humor. "We're not totally hopeless. Some of us could still get lucky tonight." She gestured toward Jack, whose fair skin disposed him to blush.

"What in hell are we waiting for?" proclaimed Rosslyn. "I've been a risk-taker all my life. I've a good mind to show you stay-at-home types how to take a decent plunge. I say we rise up en masse, march over to the dance hall, and crash through whatever barricades they've set up. I want you girls to invade the dance floor, push aside the snobby beauty queens, and grab their men while you gyrate to my son's music."

Imogene reminded everyone that Emily had instructed her to escort Jake's mother through the backstage door, where a camera was poised to capture an intimate reunion between mother and son. The nondescripts, pumped up by Rosslyn Murphy's challenge and determined to blow away some "snobby beauties," berated Imogene for even proposing this.

"Emily's not totally evil," countered Lila. "She may have gotten touched by the Spirit last week while she was videotaping our all-campus prayer meeting. At least, she was yelling out for everyone to stand up and pray at the top of their lungs."

"Fool," spat Betty. "That wasn't the Spirit. That was Emily trying to incite a riot in the chapel for dramatic purposes."

"Rioting would be the perfect motif for her video," declared Imogene.

"That's what I'm in the mood for," said Shelley. "Girls, let's stop farting around. Time to march over to the Amphitheatre and crash the gates."

"Rosslyn, you and I don't have to crash the gates," announced Ms. Mason. "I can get the two of us backstage without any hassle. I can go to the Administration Office, tell them I have official business to conduct, and ask for the backstage key."

"Didn't I mention I have a backstage key myself?" asked Imogene.

"Frankly, I don't give a shit how I get there," said Rosslyn, stubbing out her cigarette in her empty coffee cup. "All I know is, before I face my son, I'm gonna need a good stiff drink."

"Now you've done it, Mrs. Murphy," said Shelley. "You've just pressed one of Lynne's hot buttons. This is theoretically a dry dorm. Prohibition is one of the few rules the housemother can actually enforce. That's because it usually leaves a trail of empty bottles."

"Not that she always enforces it," said Betty with a disapproving look at the housemother. "I know that Sara didn't get disciplined for throwing a party with Jake's champagne a few weeks back."

"Seems to me you partook of some bubbly yourself that day," said Shelley. "We all did."

"Not me," said Lila with a pout. "I wasn't invited."

"Again with that self-pitying crap," said Shelley. "It was spontaneous, for God's sake. No one was invited. We just showed up."

"Champagne is a great Murphy family tradition," reminisced Rosslyn, lighting another cigarette. "Sammy Murphy and I used to drink the cheapest stuff money could buy after our stage performances. That was the only way we could face the reviews. I'll bet Jake sent you girls the most expensive vintage on the market, just to show up his parents." The rock star's mother sighed.

"Might there be any closet drinkers in our midst who would consider bending the rules tonight?" Her restless eyes roved through the group. They came to rest on the housemother with the suspiciously flushed face that, if truth were told, was her normal Saturday night face.

"Lynne, I'll bet you hoist a few in your private quarters from time to time. Now, don't get your feathers ruffled. I've done all kinds of drinking in my day, including closet drinking. I've been known to carry an emergency kit with me, sometimes even onstage. I know it's your duty to remain officially ignorant of Jake's champagne, but admit it. You would've sold your soul for a taste of it."

"That's irrelevant," sputtered Ms. Mason. "I have my responsibilities."

"Oh, spare me," said Rosslyn. "What's the point of being an official if you can't interpret the rules creatively?"

Imogene could feel Ms. Mason wavering like a butterfly in the wind, seeking middle ground between surrendering her authority and looking like a puritan. As usual, the housemother alighted on a compromise.

"I have to admit, the dry laws are a nightmare to enforce. As an official, you can't completely suppress the youth and high spirits around you. So you try to flow with them, especially if you're still pretty young yourself. But you do expect the residents to exercise—reasonable discretion."

"Reasonable discretion," repeated Mrs. Murphy. "That's got a nice ring to it. I think we should make that our motto for tonight. Anything goes, as long as we use reasonable discretion."

The women laughed, and Rosslyn paused dramatically. "Not to shock you all too much, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Let me show you how I handle emergencies." She reached under her chair for an overstuffed purse. After rummaging through a mountain of cosmetics, she pulled out the remedy. It was a flask of whiskey.

"You've been holding out on us," said Shelley. "You must've known all along we couldn't crash a dance tanked up with just popcorn and Coke."

"Listen to yourself, Shelley," snapped Betty. "Crash the dance? You'll humiliate yourself, showing up over there without a date. Where's your pride, your dignity?"

Imogene saw through Betty's diatribe. She was chagrined at the prospect of losing Rosslyn Murphy's company and conversation, which had injected romance into her own dormitory-bound life. But she was not prepared to take Rosslyn's advice and risk humiliation "over there" to escape that life. Betty's followers, the "dateless brigade," hesitated. It was Shelley who took the plunge.

"I don't care if every guy over there turns tail and runs at the prospect of dancing with me. I'll gladly be a wallflower. I just want to take in my artwork and see others take it in. I'm entitled, after slaving on it all week."

"Step up, then," said Rosslyn. "I have enough for four or five of you to take a chug. How about the guy first? He's got quite a job ahead of him, escorting all of you."

Rosslyn passed the flask to Jack, who took a swallow and passed it back. Licking his lips, he professed himself ready to romance the entire group by dancing with everyone at least once. The nondescripts erupted in cheers.

"See? It's magic," proclaimed Mrs. Murphy. "C'mon, girls, drink up and get outta here. No stopping to primp; those jeans and sweatshirts are perfect. I want you to blow the Homecoming princesses and their studs right off the floor by sheer force of numbers. Your housemother and I'll be right behind you, but first we're gonna visit her private cupboard for a little extra fortification. We're both gonna need it."

Several girls lined up for a swig while others hung back. Lila froze in horror as if the flask had a skull and crossbones on it.

"You gonna take some?" Shelley challenged Imogene.

Imogene hesitated. She disapproved as much as the scowling Betty but not on the same self-righteous grounds. She simply intended to keep her wits about her.

"I don't need it," she announced, pulling the stage door key from her pocket. "Not when I have this."

She waved the key over her head. Most of the women ignored her and remained fixated on Rosslyn's flask. It's their loss, thought Imogene, as she turned and left the room.

She ran down the hall, through the lobby, and out the door without looking back. She made her way toward the Amphitheatre with a sense of dragging something behind her. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw a half-dozen nondescripts and Jack trailing her. For once, those caloric bowls of popcorn and canned sodas had been left behind. The excitement of the moment seemed to bring out romantic possibilities in the women while reducing their blemishes, sloppiness, and excess weight to fixable problems. Shelley whooped and giggled like a liberated prisoner, and the others picked it up.

Too awkward to glide toward their destination on cloud nine, they approached it like an unwieldy, building cloudburst. I don't belong with them, thought Imogene. I belong backstage, even if I didn't deliver Mrs. Murphy according to Emily's instructions. Maybe I can explain to her that Rosslyn and Lynne embraced each other tonight as sisters in suffering and hung back to get soused together. They could always turn up later, if Ms. Mason gets hold of a key like she claims she can. Failing Sara's instructions makes me feel a lot worse, impossible though they were. How in hell could one girl have protected the Sunburst from intruders and interlopers—like Emily, for instance?

The scene at the Amphitheatre was heating up. The crowd was trying to push through the front door while kids stuck at the rear of this logjam grew impatient and shouted for action. There was no campus security in sight. No one seemed to have expected such a combustible mood when it wasn't yet eight o'clock. Imogene wondered if Jake was ready to play.

"Wait till you see my artwork in there." Shelley, tugging on Jack's arm, described the all-nighters she had pulled this past week to create caricatures of four football players. Too intense, thought Imogene. If she got a chance to advise Shelley, she would tell her to cool it.

"The Arts Committee hung them this afternoon," continued Shelley breathlessly. "I can't wait to see them in all their glory under the muted lights. My roommate Betty says I carry on about those cartoons as if I had decorated the Sistine Chapel. But shit on her, it's only the first time I've ever done anything noteworthy on this campus."

"Too bad the team lost today," said Jack. "If they'd won, your pictures would be like heroic figures. But now the kids'll probably just get blotto and ignore them. Or deface them."

Shelley's face crumpled with her failure to impress even this minimally attractive guy. Imogene determined to jump-start her friend's evening before it crashed and burned.

"Don't forget this, Shel." She flashed the backstage key again. "We can avoid the crowd and maybe even catch a glimpse of the band before they go on."

"Oh, spare me, Imogene." Shelley, on the brink of escaping the domineering Betty, seemed to take on her sourpuss voice. "Pretending you know the band is cute but not very convincing."

"Excuse me?" said Imogene. "I do know Jake Murphy. I've spent practically the entire weekend with him."

"Talk about Nirvana," scoffed Shelley. "Why didn't you stay backstage and get to know him intimately?"

"I would have," said Imogene, "but Emily sent me—asked me to go to the dorm and try to bring back Mrs. Murphy."

"Oh, that's right," said Shelley. "You were in on that plot to sabotage Rosslyn with some heartrending reunion. That's your idea of a productive Homecoming weekend?"

"At least I'm not a—a future old maid who never even tries to do anything daring."

Imogene had shocked the nondescripts into silence. "Enough with the squabbling," she added. "You're welcome to join me—backstage—or not."

She picked up the trail around the Amphitheatre, making for the backstage door. She looked back only once more. On her tail were six suddenly adventurous women, accompanied by their better-than-nothing communal date.

* * * * *

### Chapter Twelve

This is Shelley, speaking on behalf of the Greek Chorus. It's about time somebody did. I guess I'm appointed since I'm the only member of the popcorn-and-Coke crowd who's managed to step out of the backdrop and dance in the footlights for even a few moments. Ironic, isn't it? You can't speak for a Greek Chorus as long as you're part of it. I'm hoping, or maybe fearing, that people will notice my artwork. If they do, I'll take a few bows or catcalls and then fade back into the mist, probably not even getting my allotted fifteen minutes (more like fifteen seconds) of fame.

I guess I'll step back willingly enough, remembering how hard it was to venture out in the first place. Obscurity can be comforting. I really believe those late night snacking and TV fests that Betty and I host in our room at Clemens are as addictive in their way as the freak-drug culture over at Sizemore dorm must be. The kinds of friends you make while you're putting on weight and not dating are there to comfort you, to reassure you it's safer not to have a life.

Being a recognized individual on campus could be fun. But the power of anonymity in a crowd is nothing to scoff at either. A Greek Chorus has no political or social sway but can be subtle and tricky and immoral in its own way. We nondescripts have started a few bonfires on campus, knowing the movers and shakers would never suspect us of anything underhanded. Hell, they don't know we're alive. Who would guess that Betty, our chief, is two hundred pounds of manipulative evil?

One broken bottle turned out to have amazing mileage. It was Betty's idea to snitch it from the corner room the day after we heard about Imogene's near-assault on her boyfriend. How's that for irony? Schoolmarm Betty, the biggest stickler for rules, steals a piece of evidence. I think she intended to show it to her pal the housemother, hoping it would somehow empower Ms. Mason to enforce the rules. But I came up with a more creative idea—one that played on Betty's secret passion for a certain hot drama instructor, which truthfully, we all share. We planted the bottle in the drama department, hoping to grab the attention of the video makers with a cutting piece of symbolism. Something tells me we succeeded.

As long as I'm in this confessional mode, here's something even worse. We were behind the phone threat against the Homecoming Queen. Opportunity knocked once again on the Friday before Homecoming, when we found the corner room unlocked and unoccupied. Sara and Imogene had just left for New York to pick up the band, and Emily was off romancing Piluras, I guess. We decided to check out the stash that Sara was rumored to have.

Once again, Betty put her convoluted reasoning to work. She figured she could punish Sara for breaking the rules by either removing or consuming some of her pot. We were all eager to get high, for whatever reason, but we had barely gotten started before Weird Lila came floating in. We thought we were done for since Lila hangs out with the born-again Christian crowd. They just live to shake down sinners.

Only Lila turned out to be a different species altogether—a newfangled Jesus freak who's not into judging anybody. She pursues her Lord as if he were an elusive lover. She sees him everywhere and in everyone. Her way of being born again is to grab onto as many different experiences and people as she can. I'm sure that's what made her receptive to smoking pot. She expected it to be a spiritual experience.

Boy, was it ever. She plunged into some kind of psychedelic hell, screeching that the devil had materialized in front of her. We asked her what he looked like. Was he a guy with a pitchfork and horns? Imagine our surprise when Lila described instead a tart with a tiara.

That's what gave us the idea of the phone call. We knew the votes for Homecoming Queen were being tabulated in the Student Government Office. We were taken with the idea that a beauty queen could be the embodiment of evil or at least arrogance. So we guided Lila to the phone and fed her lines to say to her religious idol, Paul Claitt. Her normal squeaky voice was so accentuated by her condition that we were sure she wouldn't be recognized.

So, safe from detection, we sat back and watched our little pranks roil the campus. Nothing terrible would come of them, we were sure. We would return to our TV-centric life with only an occasional exchange of smug smiles to remind us, or anyone else, that we had slipped over the line. As the unintended consequences unfolded, I seemed to be the only member of the Greek Chorus with a nagging urge to take credit.

The crowd at Imogene's back had swelled by the time she removed the backstage key from her jeans pocket. A new hippie contingent had sprung up and was mingling with her group. The key threatened to stick in her hand from perspiration as she maneuvered it toward the lock. Her neck felt damp from the collective breath of at least fifteen hangers-on.

Once she opened the door a crack, the situation spun out of her control. The most aggressive freaks pushed Imogene, her hallmates, and Jack aside. Imogene's group cursed and screamed, then followed the gate-crashers through the door.

Borne along on this wave, Imogene lost her grip on the key, which remained in the lock. She reached for it futilely. A monstrous giant with a shaved head and tattooed arms faced down the unauthorized crowd at the dressing room door. His well-timed shoves sent several people reeling.

So that's how a real roadie does it, thought Imogene. An effortless force of nature, a human hurricane. The intruders, smelling the presence of celebrities behind the dressing room door, surged again, only to be blown down again.

The roadie seemed omnipotent as he forced the entire group toward the exit. Imogene realized that this man had never seen her before and had no way of knowing she was "authorized." Her protests were lost in the clamor. She was almost out the door with the others when Steve emerged from stage left.

"Hold on, Beano. That's my girlfriend." Steve pointed an unsteady finger at Imogene and slapped the roadie's back like the drinking buddy he evidently was.

"She can come in," growled Beano. He reached into the crowd and pulled her out by the arm. "Everybody else vamoose, now."

Steve assisted Beano in pushing out "everybody else." Imogene pleaded for her hallmates, but the door was slammed shut on them. Breathing heavily, she regarded Steve with gratitude and horror. She knew those women would make trouble for her back at Clemens.

There was no time to remedy the situation, nor any need, since Imogene had left the key in the lock. As soon as the roadie's back was turned, the group burst through the door again. This time the gate-crashers avoided Beano, making their way onto the stage. Imogene heard Charlie's drums clatter as the crowd converged on him. Wild-eyed, he rushed backstage and disappeared like a shot through the dressing room door that Beano opened for him.

Imogene and Steve embraced and shared their experiences of the past hour. Steve had delivered the requested bottle of scotch to the musicians along with their stage clothes. Afterward, he had befriended the two roadies at the bar and suggested they try to take the bottle away before Jake became blotto. Imogene described her attempt to lure Rosslyn Murphy backstage for a reunion, and how Rosslyn had postponed it by stopping at the housemother's room for a drink. They agreed that even if mother and son could be brought face to face tonight, their encounter might be reduced to drunken slobbering without the kind of fireworks Emily envisioned.

Imogene and Steve compared notes until Beano indicated, with grunts and gestures, that they had no further business backstage. They strolled onto the stage and took in the hall from that perspective until the other roadie, Brent, motioned them to get off. They descended, crossed the empty dance floor, and joined the dateless brigade and Jack at the first of several long tables that sloped upward on risers.

Minutes later, two campus policemen joined the ticket takers at the front entrance, and paying customers began to file in peaceably. The roadies rearranged the equipment onstage, arguing until they arrived at a final configuration. Beano, evidently Marianne's champion, made sure her microphone was placed alongside Jake's.

Anticipation built slowly. In this uncertain atmosphere, it was anyone's guess whether the night would be dominated by traditional couples or raucous drinkers or stoned moonchildren. When the bar opened to the public, Jack the Accountant hurried to the head of the line. He managed to carry several cups back to the table with minimal spillage, winning applause for this feat.

Once he had served all of his dates, the flirting began, followed by the squabbling. It seemed there was not enough of the future accountant to go around. Shelley, who had gotten nowhere by bragging about her artwork, began commenting on various couples.

"Look, there's Anorexic Annie and her military boyfriend, Sid Howe. What're they doing, trying to dance without music?" Sid and Annie were standing at the edge of the dance floor, holding their beer cups tentatively.

"They look like they have no idea what beer is for," observed one of the nondescripts.

"They're terrified of the calories," commented another. "Annie's got a gymnastics meet tomorrow, so she'll want to be out of here—and in bed, alone—by nine. You can bet she'll be dreaming about beating Sara Murphy."

"Maybe if everybody just started dancing, the band would magically appear," said Shelley. Several couples had taken up positions on the dance floor and were practicing their moves.

"Judging from what I saw earlier," said Imogene, "the band's imploding—what's left of it. I don't know what to expect when—if—they come out."

"I thought your boyfriend was training to be a roadie." Shelley emptied her cup and eyed Steve, who was mingling with patrons at the bar. "Why isn't he backstage right now, saving the band from itself?"

"Careful," Imogene warned her. "Beer can go to your head, just like the hard stuff."

"I hope to God so." Shelley helped herself to some of Jack's. "Look at me, beer-bonding with a guy. What a night."

"Betty'll kill you if you come home drunk," said Imogene.

"Betty can go fuck herself. I wish she were here right now, so I could tell her what to do with her tight ass."

This is a jailbreak, thought Imogene. The nondescripts were acting like escapees with no real notion of how to behave at a dance. They were knocking themselves out trying to impress an average guy as if inhibited by the better possibilities out there.

"Shelley, why don't you pull your best caricature off the wall and dance with it?" one of them joked. "I'll bet that's the only way you'll get on the dance floor."

"We'll just see who gets there first," said Shelley with unusual competitiveness.

Steve sat down next to Imogene and handed her a beer. As the sharp-edged humor of the nondescripts intensified, Imogene protested, "You're starting to give me a headache, girls." She did have a slightly dizzy reaction to a few swallows of beer on top of the earlier scotch. She felt herself reliving highlights of yesterday: first careening through the New York streets at dusk with the Murphys, later trying to fall asleep as a band off those streets shook the bedroom walls.

It seemed she had offended the dateless brigade. "Oh, please, don't let us wallflowers bore you," someone piped up. "Since you've got your very own boyfriend, why aren't you staking out a space on the dance floor with him?"

"Steve and I don't really dance," said Imogene. She waited for Steve to contradict her, but he remained silent, watching the crowd grow.

Shelley informed the others, "This is the same boyfriend she tried to take out with a beer bottle during an epic fight in the dorm."

"It's a good thing bottles aren't allowed in the Amphitheatre tonight," joked Imogene uneasily.

"Let's skip the dance floor." Steve gestured toward the space in front of the stage, where the hippie contingent was gathering. "I'm going up front, in case Beano and Brent still need help. You coming?"

"Yeah, you two should join the other Sunburst worshipers up there," said Shelley. "They're getting ready to genuflect en masse as soon as the band appears."

Before Imogene and Steve could make their move, a gasp went up from the crowd. The center of attention shifted to the front entrance where the Homecoming Queen and her date had appeared. Christine looked exquisite, with the tiara glowing atop her honey-blonde head and a light green evening dress accentuating every curve. A tasteful amount of leg and cleavage was visible. She stepped to the center of the floor in high silver pumps that would have tripped up anyone but a drill team dancer. She paused to get the effect of the overhead spotlight, and then turned to allow a 360-degree appraisal by her admirers.

After allowing themselves to be mesmerized, the dateless women snapped back to reality. "What's wrong with this picture?" Shelley asked her friends. "Who's that guy Chrissie's with?"

"Not her regular boyfriend, I don't think. Is he a blind date?"

"That's Billy Joe Beck, the backup quarterback. I can't believe my eyes. How could the Homecoming Queen lower herself to date the number two guy?"

"Billy Joe is mere filler. Just wait till Paul the Perfect comes in and sweeps her off her feet. That's supposedly one of his jobs as football captain."

"You're right. It's gotta happen, even if Paul and Chrissie are barely acquainted now. They'd look so perfect together."

To cynics and romantics alike, the current scene was deflating. Billy Joe Beck was shorter and scruffier than Paul Claitt, compensating for his lack of stature with bulging muscles. He joined Christine in the spotlight, grinning as if he couldn't believe his luck. They posed together, but in the absence of music, the moment grew awkward.

Christine's smile faded as she scrutinized the hall. She stalked off the floor, motioning Billy Joe to stay behind.

"My God," said Shelley, "she's coming this way."

All eyes followed Christine as she approached Shelley. "Why're you sitting around when we still have work to do?" she demanded. "I just noticed some of the decorations aren't symmetrical."

"Oh, horrors," said Shelley, but her irony fell flat as she jumped to her feet. "Duty calls," she told her friends, departing with the chairwoman.

The women she left behind belittled her airs of importance. They were equally skeptical when Beano stalked up to Steve, pointed to the bar, and said, "There's a situation over there we gotta handle, pronto." Steve got up and followed the roadie to a spot where drinkers were beginning to mix it up with bartenders.

The sideline commentary continued as Imogene's roommates made their entrances simultaneously from different directions. Sara crashed through the front door with an entourage of Jim Guthrie's teammates while Emily emerged from backstage, leading her professional camera crew.

"How do you live with those two dynamos?" asked a nondescript. "Between them, they must crush the life out of you."

"I just sit back and observe them," said Imogene. "It's fascinating." She watched as Sara made her way onto the dance floor, escorted by half a dozen Tomahawk players. Emily, after descending the stage with her camera and sound men, directed them away from the floor and toward the activity at the bar.

"Who's that guy Sara's feeling up? I thought she was engaged to Jim Guthrie."

Imogene fought down a surge of jealousy. "That's Curt Simpson, Jim's roommate. I don't think she's feeling him up. They're just comforting each other, because—of Jim's situation."

"She must need a helluva lot of comforting. Doesn't seem fair." The taunting voice lost its punch. "How'd Sara get so lucky? It's not like she's one of the Supercilias."

"Some of those goodies are about to be spread around," reassured another nondescript. A group of gigglers and clingers had followed Sara and her contingent through the entrance and onto the dance floor. They were now doing their best to mingle with the football players. Imogene's jealousy gave way to contempt. These were the same desperate women who had attached themselves to the group on its way to visit Jim at the hospital.

"There's Carolyn," said Imogene, nudging Jack. "I knew she was one of those hospital groupies. Wasn't she supposed to be your date tonight?" Carolyn was trying to talk to Karl, the linebacker who had called Imogene a "cow" when she encountered him in Boulder dorm earlier tonight.

"Karl Lamphere was Christine's boyfriend until about yesterday," sputtered someone. "Carolyn's truly lost her mind if she thinks she can take the Homecoming Queen's place."

Jack crushed the cup in his hand, sending up a geyser of beer that splashed some of his dates. He returned to the bar for a fresh beer. The women groaned, fearing they had lost him.

"You might as well forget about Steve too," taunted someone else. "Doesn't look like he's coming back either."

"Who cares?" snapped Imogene. "I'm here for the music."

If only the band would appear, she thought, before this hall explodes like a powder keg. She knew that Jake, with the first thrust of his electric guitar and toss of his dark curls, would focus the crowd's energy on himself.

Impatient fans, especially the hippies congregating in front of the stage, began to clap rhythmically. Recreating the love fest they had carried on outside, they sprawled on the floor, dry-humped one another, and held up cigarette lighters. In a hall draped with paper decorations, this was deemed intolerable. Brent stomped through the area, confiscating fire-making implements and menacing anyone who protested.

Imogene spotted Steve at the bar. It seemed he and Beano had pacified the rowdies there and were now chatting up a couple of women. Imogene's annoyance turned to shock when she realized that one of them was her hallmate, Weird Lila.

What was Lila doing at the bar? What was she doing here at all? Less than an hour ago in the dorm, she had recoiled from the prospect of sampling Rosslyn Murphy's whiskey and complained that no one invited her anywhere. Then she had begun holding forth on "the spirit of Byron." If she had come to the dance in search of that, she should be sitting up front with the freaks, many of whom shared her Byron obsession. Still wearing her "Jesus Lives" T-shirt and tattered jeans, she looked better suited to the love fest than the dance floor.

"Something weird's going on at the bar," Imogene told her companions, rising to her feet. "I'm gonna join Steve."

The dateless brigade chimed: "You know, Imogene, you could set your sights a little higher than Steve tonight." "Amen to that. Look at all the other possibilities within reach." "Don't forget what Mrs. Murphy said. She told us to march over here and seize the night. We're as deserving of romance as the beauty queens."

"Jesus," said Imogene, "I don't exactly see you girls jumping in there with both feet."

"We're trying to get drunk enough first."

Ordinary girls always deserve a shot, Imogene reflected, but do they have a chance? True, this isn't shaping up to be a traditional dance where everybody knows her place. Chaos and desperation seem to be mounting on the dance floor. Football players are wandering around as if shell-shocked, without their usual girlfriends. The band is taking its time coming out, which has got us all on edge.

Then Imogene spotted Shelley, in the midst of proving that anything was possible for a plain Jane. She had lured huge defensive end Kevin Bean off the floor to help her re-hang his own caricature—and he seemed intrigued with her rendering of him. Had she captivated a guy by drawing him?

This uplifting scene was counter-acted by Carolyn's over-reaching on the dance floor. She was still trying to get Karl Lamphere's attention while his eyes were riveted on his estranged girlfriend Christine. The Homecoming Queen, in the throes of decorating decisions, seemed oblivious to all else. Finally, Karl turned on Carolyn and snapped at her. He must have called her a cow, judging by the way she burst into tears and stumbled away from him. Barreling into Billy Joe Beck, she began pouring her troubles into his ear. Jack the Accountant approached her carrying a cup of beer.

Jack tapped Carolyn on the shoulder and made motions as if to offer her his beer, but spilled some on her dress instead. As he apologized profusely, Billy Joe took a swing at him and missed. Jack returned fire with a swing and miss of his own.

Billy Joe shoved Jack and sent him sprawling, but Jack scrambled to his feet. Unable to push aside the more muscular man, he threw the rest of his beer at him. Billy Joe lunged at Jack, but Carolyn stepped between them, shrieking with excitement. Her evening, and possibly her entire college career, had been salvaged by this phenomenon of two guys fighting over her.

"Billy Joe doesn't have a clue who Carolyn is," protested one of her hallmates. "He's just spoiling for a fight."

"Jack better stay down," added another. "There's no way he can win." But his willingness to try had an exhilarating effect on the women he had escorted to the dance. Without warning, they rose as one and charged the dance floor. Imogene followed, unsure of what she would do when she got there. The fight simmered down as Jack's original dates converged on him while Carolyn tried to enfold Billy Joe in her arms.

Imogene pushed her way toward Sara, who was still holding court at the center of the floor. She hesitated to speak to her roommate while she and Curt were conversing. But Sara caught her eye and beckoned.

"How goes it, Imogene? It seems like years since I last saw you."

"A lot has happened," said Imogene.

"I can't thank you enough for looking after the band. How did they seem to you?"

Imogene took a deep breath. "I wish I could tell you they all arrived in one piece, warmed up together, and are now raring to go."

As Imogene described the breakup, Sara seemed unconcerned. "Just tell me, how's Jake? Think I should go backstage and check on him?"

"You might have to coax him out. And Sara, there's something else you should know—about what would've gone down backstage if Emily had gotten her way." Imogene described their roommate's plan for a mother and son reunion on video, sidestepping the fact that she had been asked to deliver Rosslyn herself.

"Thank God that didn't come off." Sara glared at Emily, who was directing the taping of a small altercation at the bar. "Emily's just out for gut-wrenching scenes. She doesn't care who she hurts. I have a good mind to step in front of her camera right now and tell her that."

Sara passed Curt on to Imogene as if he were a reward for services rendered. Imogene and Curt stood together as Sara stalked off the dance floor and placed herself in Emily's sights. She offered a strong opinion, and Emily seemed to fire back.

Imogene glanced sidelong at Curt, whose eyes were riveted on Sara. "How's Jim?" she asked.

"Same old hot dog," said Curt. "He was awake and cracking us up before we left. He's hurting pretty bad right now, but I'd bet money he'll be totally back to form in a couple of weeks."

"How did Sara take it?" asked Imogene.

"How should she take it? She's in love." Curt's voice trembled with jealousy. He bit his lip to get it under control. "She'd have stuck by his side even if he was paralyzed for life. Is that love, or what?"

"That's what it is," agreed Imogene.

Several of the moonchildren, attracted by Sara's presence, moved away from the stage and toward Emily's strobe light. "Still queen of the freaks," observed Imogene, "and engaged to a football player. Who else but Sara could bridge that gap?" Curt nodded in admiration.

The rhythmic clapping resumed, giving way almost immediately to a roar of jubilation. Jake strode onstage with Marianne and Charlie trailing him. He picked up his electric guitar and began playing loudly and jarringly. His audience became frenzied as instant couples formed all through the hall. Whether paired off by chance or by design, almost everyone seemed to have found a partner. Even the dateless girls stumbled into temporary liaisons while Imogene danced with Curt. She kept an eye on Steve's halting moves with Lila in front of the bar.

Jake captivated and commanded the scene with loud, barely familiar riffs. Marianne and Charlie hesitated, then jumped in and improvised. The audience was exhilarated but confused. Jake was roughing up the traditionally gentle opening section of "She Moves Me." When he arrived at what should have been the fast part, he slowed it down. The freaks cheered, but the dancers stumbled, not knowing what to make of this.

Imogene, hearing Jake manhandle his most popular song, wondered if he planned to sabotage the entire show. How could he look so much scruffier than he had yesterday? Imogene guessed he had not shaved since his ramble through Central Park, and his permanent wave had been growing out for some time. She wondered how much scotch and beer he had consumed since he had been here. In the unnatural glow of the stage lights, Jake's unkempt look clashed with his smart outfit, the white suit and tails and multi-colored tie.

Warring personalities seemed to grip Jake. He whispered into the microphone in places that called for shouting and then reversed the process. The angel-goddess and devil-woman of his song became hopelessly tangled. Then he caught sight of the wounded acoustic guitar that Eric had managed to leave on the stage after his tussle with Keith. He stopped playing as if shocked by his electric guitar. He motioned Marianne and Charlie to cease their respective wailing and pounding. After removing his guitar and putting it aside, he picked up the abandoned instrument.

"If you people don't mind," announced Jake, silencing his audience, "I'd like to interrupt your mindless partying to pay my respects to a no-show. In case you haven't noticed, your favorite band is in the process of falling apart. We used to be six, and tonight we're half that. But in my humble opinion, only one of the missing members is really missed.

"So could I make a suggestion? Instead of weeping over that injured hot dog who got a bump on his head and made you lose the big game, why not ponder the tragedy of Byron's departure? We've failed to honor him as he deserves. We've chased him back to that farmhouse in the sticks where he could be immolating himself and his family at this moment for all we know. Think about what 'Glowing Strings' really means. Feel free to take it literally."

Jake plucked the tune on Byron's guitar and sang the lyrics folk style, despite the song's hard-rock origins. He scowled as he delivered the refrain, "I glimpse fire on the ground, in the sky and all around." A few moonchildren attempted to illustrate this with their cigarette lighters, only to be squelched again by the roadies.

Imogene was relieved when Jake moved from the hazardous imagery of "Glowing Strings" to the pacifism of Byron's signature anthem, "Impractical Dream." The hippies settled down to a quieter ecstasy while almost everyone else murmured impatiently. The message harkened back to a time when the peace-and-love attitudes of youth were universal and uncompromising—a time mostly lost on this crowd.

Sara, still in Emily's camera range, signaled Jake to speed things up. He responded with a sneer that seemed to reverberate among the longhairs. Sara retreated toward the dance floor where couples swayed tentatively or stood in suspended animation.

Everyone who was not on the dance floor or before the stage seemed to be hovering around the bar or gulping beer at one of the tables, waiting out this un-danceable music. But Jake continued to reel off Byron's litany of social concerns, drawing them out tunefully. The song began to exert its charm on much of the crowd. It softened Sara's expression as if she were recalling her fleeting love for the man who had penned those lyrics.

"Would you can that shit? We wanna rock and roll!"

This shout came from the bar, where Karl Lamphere had taken up residence after his failed attempts to reconnect with Christine. "Whadaya think this is? English class?" he added.

His taunts were seconded around the room. "Folk music sucks!" "No more poetic shit!" "Let's party, dude!" "Stop fucking around. We wanna dance!"

"Fine with me." Jake made a motion to toss the wounded guitar into the crowd, then held back as kids tried to lunge for it. He laid the instrument aside and retrieved his electric guitar.

Jake launched into a revved-up version of "Impractical Dream, Part Two," sending the hall into a dancing frenzy. Only the freaks seemed to resent losing the Byron tribute. Elsewhere, Jake's screeching guitar and sexy gyrations set off explosions of passion. Marianne commandeered Keith's electric organ and played the two or three chords she knew while singing her usual freeform harmony. Charlie provided loud and inspired percussion.

The resulting chaos seemed to benefit the dateless girls. Shelley still had her claws in Kevin Bean, while her friends romped first with Jack the Accountant, then tried to pass around backup running back Tim Thompson. Carolyn kept Billy Joe in her clutches while several women challenged her position. Imogene eyed Curt, who returned her glances but mostly watched Sara.

Trying again to moderate her brother's performance, Sara made motions for him to slow down. Taking this literally, he cut off the song. The dancers stumbled to a stop, exhausted.

"I thought this was supposed to be a Homecoming dance," said Jake. "So god damn it, why aren't the Homecoming Queen and the football captain dancing together at the center of the arena? Don't you people understand tradition? Where's the ideal couple that everybody can gape at?"

With the help of the crowd, Jake located both Christine and Paul. She was still issuing orders to her decorating corps as they tried to prevent revelers from pulling down banners. He grinned at her, and she frowned back. Paul, newly arrived, was at the front door, exhorting potential gatecrashers to cooperate with the security officers.

"What're they doing on opposite sides of the room?" demanded Jake. "Hasn't anybody even introduced them? I gotta pull some romantic song out of my repertoire to bring them together. Requests, anybody?"

As the crowd shouted suggestions, Christine and Paul made eye contact. Jake caught an emphatic signal from Sara.

"On the other hand, my sister has acquired an amazing and sudden popularity with the team. So maybe she should be the one dancing with the football captain."

Sara gave him the finger, and he laughed. "Doesn't that make you boil?" he asked the longhairs in front of the stage. "Just weeks ago, she was Byron Robarts's main squeeze. How dare she throw over your hero for Jim Guthrie?"

"Come on, Jake," urged Sara, "play something sweet."

"Delighted, my dear."

Jake launched into a slow version of the Tomahawks fight song, transforming it into a weirdly romantic tune, suitable for slow-dancing. Imogene stepped aside so that Sara could reclaim Curt. That left Imogene at loose ends until someone tapped her shoulder.

"You're Sara's roommate, right? I'm Billy Joe Beck."

"Yes, I know," said Imogene. "You're the back—one of the quarterbacks." She surrendered to the slow-dance, trying not to mind that he didn't ask her name. Billy Joe wasn't bad looking, she decided, although the opposite of golden boy Paul Claitt—compact, unshaven, somewhat dissipated.

As she nestled into his strong arms, she caught a scowl from Carolyn and realized she was poaching. Imogene sent her friend an apologetic smile, which was rejected. Out of pique or desperation, Carolyn tried to reclaim Jack the Accountant. Pushing through the women around him, she grabbed his shirtsleeve and tried to initiate a conversation.

Imogene felt a need to question her new partner. "Were you at the hospital earlier?"

Billy Joe nodded. She pursued, "How did you think Jim was?"

He shrugged. What a great conversationalist, thought Imogene. Then he shocked her by blurting: "If I was the starting quarterback, none of that shit would've gone down."

"You mean Jim wouldn't have gotten hurt?"

"I would've protected him, and made the other guys protect him. They laid him out to dry, those jealous creeps."

"Skip Palmer said something like that on the radio," said Imogene, "although I'm not sure how sober he was." She repeated what she remembered of that conspiracy theory.

"The old drunk hit the nail on the head," said Billy Joe.

"But at least Jim's teammates rallied around him at the hospital."

"Just covering their asses," said Billy Joe. "Especially the chief shithead, Paul Claitt. That holier-than-thou punk. It ain't about winning when he's in charge, it's about him."

The music subsided at the precise moment to allow Billy Joe's rant to carry across the room. Paul shot his rival a dirty look and clenched his fists. "You wanna repeat that to my face?"

Billy Joe laughed at the taunt delivered in Paul's tenor voice and the scowl on his pretty-boy face. "I think you heard me the first time."

Several of their teammates tensed up. "C'mon, guys," prodded Jake from the stage. "Let's rumble."

But Paul turned his back, and the crowd murmured in relief and disappointment. "Wimps," sneered Jake. "No wonder you're such losers. I oughta compose a new fight song for you guys, right on the spot."

Jake delivered what he promised. He proceeded to turn the traditional fight song on its head by attaching new lyrics to the familiar tune. He described a team of physical and moral midgets who aspired, comically, to be giants. Whenever adversity reared its head, these fighters backed down from their opponents and turned on each other. Their battle cries trailed off to whimpers as the sound of "Charge" hit a flat note.

Some couples tried to dance through Jake's barrage as if nothing were amiss, but the majority stopped and stared at him. The football players, sitting ducks for his treatment, scowled and muttered. Sara sent him repeated slash-throat signals.

Jake winked at her as he introduced a verse about the joy of killing and maiming opponents. His images of blood and gore on the gridiron raised scattered laughter and groans around the room. As Jake moved on to specific images of twisted knees and smashed skulls, hostility overtook mirth.

"Somebody oughta get the fuck up there and throttle that jerk. Show him what being injured really feels like."

After Curt had shouted this threat, he took a menacing step toward the stage, and several of his teammates followed. The freaks scrambled to their feet and formed a shaky resistance.

"Can't you guys take a joke?" Jake kept grinning, but the stage lights made him look pale. "You honestly expected a pep rally tonight?"

As the football players surged forward, the band took a defensive posture. Marianne grabbed the abandoned acoustic guitar and took several practice swings with it. Charlie crossed his drumsticks against his chest as if to ward off evil spirits. Jake's grin melted away.

Sara stepped in front of Curt. "Stop right there. If anybody throttles that jerk, it's gonna be me."

She moved toward the stage, slicing through the crowd. Jake stepped back with exaggerated fear. "My sister could flatten me if she wanted to," he told his audience.

"I'd much rather save you from yourself," said Sara, confronting him onstage.

Jake allowed Sara to take the center microphone. She turned and gestured for Marianne to hand her Byron's guitar while Jake retreated to the side microphone.

"I'm warning you, sweetness," he said, "this isn't an acoustic crowd. It's a partying crowd—except for those weirdoes up front, who probably still think Byron's gonna show."

"Thanks for the warning," said Sara. "I'm gonna try playing something most normal people can relate to." She tuned the instrument, repairing the bent bottom string as best she could. The crowd quieted in anticipation.

"Okay, everybody. Here's a song I've been fooling around with for the past two weeks. Personal as it is, I feel moved to share it right now. It's a collegiate Romeo and Juliet story that I call Untitled or Unfinished."

"She's gonna use Byron's guitar to sing a ballad to Jim Guthrie." Jake winked at the turbulent throng in front of the stage. "Kinda sacrilegious, don't you think?"

The hippies murmured dangerously as if Sara were defacing the Holy Grail. The cigarette lighters came out again and were brandished close to the stage. Fiery streaks hung in the air and dissolved in the spotty stage lights.

"Can the pyrotechnics," ordered Sara. "This isn't Central Park. I'm gonna play this guitar, not burn it."

She attempted the first few bars of her "Untitled" song as if walking a tightrope, but Jake picked up the tune with ease. He propelled it through the first verse, and then helped to improvise a middle section. The rollicking tempo soon caught on, spurred by handclaps from the crowd and solid drumbeats from Charlie. While the dancers were finding the rhythm, Paul and Christine finally met at the center of the floor. They danced in a kaleidoscope of colors from the revolving globe above while Emily's camera focused on them as the ultimate couple.

The crowd seemed enchanted by the possibilities of true love. Sara's song portrayed herself and Jim as star-crossed lovers who would have ridden his motorcycle into the sunset together if not stymied by misfortune. The tentative phrases acquired more polish as she repeated them, prompted by Jake's intricate picking. Marianne's harmonies were more restrained than her usual free-form ravings. The song was an experiment, requiring frequent pauses to connect and reconnect phrases and try out rhymes.

Sara revealed secrets about herself that had never come out in late night dormitory bull sessions. In her sweet yet slightly raucous voice, she lamented her cruel childhood and declared that only a great love could redeem it. The forces of envy that had worked to prevent this had yet to be conquered, but they would be.

Screams arose from the dance floor as fire enveloped Shelley's caricature of Jim Guthrie. In what looked like one swift motion, Kevin Bean pushed Shelley aside, grabbed a tablecloth, and smothered the fire. The crowd breathed a sigh of relief as a security officer removed the firebug, a kid reputed to be the craziest of the psychology majors.

Shelley wept over her defaced portrait, not seeming to realize that it was attracting more attention than ever. It remained in place, high up on the wall, and took on an eerie power. The cartoon Jim, its legs singed, rose from the ashes like a vengeful god.

Sara grinned at the image as she searched for an elusive end note. Not finding it, she slowed the tempo and segued into "Oh Shenandoah," the song that Jim had identified as his favorite. A moment of comprehension and unity gripped the crowd as couples slow-danced to the historic love song that had once inspired a temporary peace between white settlers and Indians in these hills.

Romantic pairings on the dance floor now held sway with Paul and Christine setting the standard. The effect was somewhat spoiled, in Imogene's view, by Jake and Marianne. She sensed that they were together but apart, like a duet that had been sung too often to stay in tune. Their quarrels during warm-ups still hung in the air. Marianne brooded at the keyboard as if she felt ignored by her husband and deprived of her rightful stardom.

Jake charmed the crowd with his electronic interpretation of the centuries-old ballad. As improvisation took over, Sara stopped singing and shook her head, having lost the thread.

Deprived of the music, Paul and Christine broke apart and looked at each other. It was hard to tell if they were mesmerized or simply tongue-tied. "At least kiss her, fool," Jake ordered. "Or if you're too fastidious for that, send her up here and I'll do the honors."

Jake's eyes feasted on Christine. "Damn it, I'm the star here. I should be the one kissing the hottest babe. Agreed, sports fans?" He kept exhorting the Homecoming Queen to join him onstage until Marianne snuck up behind him and beaned him with a tambourine. Sara led the cheers for her sister-in-law.

"Guess I asked for that," acknowledged Jake, grimacing and rubbing his head. "Sorry, dear. Too many love songs can make me forget my manners.

"What say we change the mood with a tune commemorating my worthless parents and miserable childhood. It's called 'Face the Music.'" He plunged into a slow piece that featured periodic moans and screams of despair. Sara joined in and tried to moderate the effect.

Imogene began to wonder what Emily was up to. The director had turned her sights on the interaction between the siblings onstage. Emily appeared to be in full work mode tonight with no date in the wings. She was sharp and efficient with her professional cameraman and soundman. She seemed all business, but if Imogene knew Emily, she would find some way to grab the spotlight for herself.

At this moment, the predominant mood in the Amphitheatre was forced optimism. The rowdiness at the bar spilled out onto the dance floor and dissipated. Couples bounced off one another as harmlessly as boxcars. A few showdowns cropped up and died down between the once-dateless brigade and the "rightful" girlfriends of second-string football players.

One of the nondescripts was determined to keep her grip on Tim Thompson while a stereotypical blonde tried to dislodge her. Imogene recognized the girl who once had the standing privilege of preparing Jim Guthrie's lunch tray. She remembered the day when that had changed, and the seemingly accidental encounter between Sara and the blonde while both were exiting the dining hall. Observing the girl's reduced circumstances now, Imogene laughed aloud. How far could a bimbo fall in two weeks?

Jake stepped back and allowed Sara to romanticize one of his most unpleasant songs. Sara's rendition of "Face the Music" seemed to transform the parents, Sammy and Rosslyn, from a monstrous to a misunderstood pair. The freaks up front yelled their disapproval of this tampering. Sara grinned provokingly and leaned over the stage, daring them to reach up and grab her.

After teasing these purists, Sara winked at her sister-in-law and fell silent, allowing Marianne to wail the second verse as she had on the original record. The edge was restored to "Face the Music," and cheers filled the hall.

Now the concert proceeded smoothly as if all campus factions had agreed to co-exist. Sara had worked a small miracle, Imogene believed. She had asserted herself by playing Byron's guitar in her own style while also embracing her family onstage. The Spirit of Byron holds sway for now, Imogene declared inwardly. My honors thesis is writing itself.

An instant later, the theme was shattered. Too many people had no use for peace and harmony. She noticed that Emily's camera crew had shifted its attention to the crowd at the bar. Could the director have known in advance that a jagged object would come hurtling out of that area and fly across the stage, leading with its pointed edge? It passed barely over Sara's head and hit the backdrop to the left of Charlie.

A stunned silence gripped the hall. The weapon lay there, catching a lethal glow from the stage lights. Imogene shuddered at the sight. She guessed it was easy enough to sneak a beer bottle into the hall in defiance of the ground rules. But what kind of macabre artist had fashioned a missile out of this one? Horror-struck, she remembered the bottle she had thrown at Steve during their one violent fight in the dorm. It couldn't be the same one—or could it? Where in hell was he anyway? The commotion at the bar had swallowed him up.

"All right. I get the message," said Sara. She brought the song to a quick end and laid down Byron's guitar.

"That's it. I did my best. I'm going back to the hospital to be with Jim."

Sara descended the stage and pushed her way through the crowd. Jake blew kisses at her departing back as Emily directed the camera to follow her. Sara took no notice of the struggle going on at the bar, where a roadie had pinned Lila to the wall and was searching her.

Oh my God, thought Imogene, it can't be. Lila had always seemed eccentric but harmless. Who knew she was capable of throwing a bottle at someone? Telltale memories of her escalating weirdness flashed through Imogene's mind.

"How could you betray Byron?" Lila shouted at Sara as she left the Amphitheatre. "You're just so—totally shallow." A security guard approached Lila to arrest her.

"Christ, now I gotta avenge my sister," said Jake, stepping back to the center microphone. "Or is it Byron who needs avenging? Help me out here, sports fans."

The hippies shouted that Byron's honor had been salvaged and cheered what had happened. Several of them pointed to Lila and applauded. Tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks as she was escorted out. This newfound popularity seemed worth the price of her freedom.

Jake stared at the fanatics cavorting and celebrating at his feet. He shook his head to dislodge the confusion, and a scowl began to form.

"That was a dirty trick, getting rid of my sister, you jealous creeps. Just for that, I'm gonna turn the rest of this show into a tribute to her newfound happiness. I'm gonna sing the most saccharine love songs I know, just to drive you freaks crazy."

He launched into a medley of rock-and-roll clichés, the ones he had used in his Boulder lounge days to warm up crowds. As a student, he had lulled his schoolmates with familiar and danceable music, only to startle them with his detours into experimentation. Tonight that process had been reversed. Jake and Marianne shared center stage at last, singing the simplest "baby-I-love-you" lyrics that had ever been invented, groping one another like hot teenagers. Charlie accompanied them with the conventional pounding of an excited heartbeat.

The freaks threw paper cups at the stage, the only weapon they had left. On the floor, dancers tried to move past the ugly incident by having determined fun. The truncated Sunburst proved itself a scrappy outfit, spraying rock and roll into the night with straightforward eloquence.

Imogene finally spotted Steve at the bar, where he was being interrogated by the remaining security guard. To her relief, he was not detained. He left the bar and made his way toward her, pushing through the crowd on the dance floor. She maneuvered to meet him halfway.

Jake plunged into "Sky Dancing," his lament to emotional distance and wasted years. Imogene, who had long feared that this would be "their" song, slow-danced with Steve, moving through the star-like effect of multi-colored spotlights.

"Hand in hand, we broach the starry sky," crooned Jake, "and ride the years, so soon to pass us by."

"I'm sorry about—everything that's gone down lately," Steve whispered in Imogene's ear.

"Me too," she replied. She followed up quickly, "You didn't have anything to do with—"

"Are you kidding? I saw that broken bottle sitting on the bar, but Beano told me he thought it was just a prop for Emily's video. I had no clue what that crazy chick Lila was gonna do. She just grabbed it before anybody could stop her."

"So Emily set it up," said Imogene. "I suspected as much."

"The universe recedes before us, day by day," sang Jake. "The signposts of our lives are washed away."

Duly warned, Imogene and Steve clung to each other and propelled themselves across the dance floor. Other couples whirled around them with Paul and Christine holding the center. Jake launched into "She Moves Me," rendering his most popular song as he used to in pre-fame days, with emphasis on the physical. As the song progressed, Charlie's drumming diminished and finally stopped.

The drummer's eyes became focused on the broken bottle that had landed near him. With a grin distorted by the stage lights, he stepped down from his perch. He picked up the bottle and examined it like a child with a new toy.

"Here's to mindless partying," Jake exhorted the crowd between verses. He was oblivious to Charlie, who held the bottle aloft, making it sparkle in the lights like a decoration rather than a weapon. The crowd cheered, beguiled by Charlie's playfulness. Jake and Marianne kept their love duet going at center stage and never looked back.

"What's he up to?" Steve asked Imogene.

"I don't know," said Imogene, her nerves tingling. "I don't know him at all. He never spoke to me all weekend."

Somehow she was not stunned to see Charlie lift the bottle and bring it down against the back of Jake's skull. "It's true! You betrayed Byron!" he yelled as he dropped the bottle, turned, and ran backstage.

Imogene was calm amid the uproar as if she had known this would happen. Why wouldn't a cocaine abuser retaliate against the person who had destroyed his stash? Hadn't she herself facilitated Charlie's escape by leaving the key in the backstage door? The drummer's act was weirdly logical. He had waited until the climactic moment to follow Jake's other musicians in quitting the Sunburst. He had done it in the most irrevocable way, driving home the point that the spirit of Byron was dead.

As Jake sank to his knees, Marianne cradled him in her arms, screaming, "Murderer! Catch him! He's destroyed the love of my life!"

Jake struggled to his feet and grabbed the mike. "Now, don't be a drama queen, dear. It's just a flesh wound. And strangely enough, it's freed me to sing my encore."

With his wife's help, Jake hoisted his guitar again. Marianne pressed her hand against the back of his head.

"He's bleeding to death," she exclaimed, withdrawing her hand and waving it at the audience. "Why doesn't somebody call an ambulance? Where are the police?"

Paul and Christine, hand in hand, rushed out of the hall. It appeared they would take responsibility for summoning help. The remaining security guard leaped onto the stage and rushed backstage in pursuit of Charlie. The roadies climbed onstage and positioned themselves to catch Jake if he fell.

"This was meant to happen," announced Jake. "My man Charlie was just working out his fate and the band's. Now that it's all over, I have a parting shot for my fans. It's from our un-releasable third album, and it's called 'Chaos,' or 'The Worst You Can Be,' or whatever the hell you want to call it. Or wait, how about this? 'The Rock Star's Homecoming.'"

Several of the moonchildren showed immediate appreciation by handing Marianne scarves and shirts to use as bandages. Imogene recognized the piece that Jake had played for her and Sara in the studio at Peace Enterprises. She winced as she remembered how the nursery rhyme to an unborn child had become increasingly crazed and distorted as the guitar went wild. In tonight's rendition, screeching feedback from the microphone helped to bury any hint of melody.

Couples on the dance floor froze or retreated to the sidelines while the fanatics up front reveled in "The Rock Star's Homecoming." They swayed and undulated to its hidden rhythms. "C'mon, wimps," shouted Jake over his own noise. "I wanna see people slow-dance to this."

Imogene noticed that Mark Piluras, Emily's advisor, had just strolled into the Amphitheatre, a lone latecomer. He scanned the thinning crowd with that nonchalant air that fascinated all of his women students and quite a few of the men. He approached Emily, who was still in the throes of directing.

"Wow. An on-the-spot artistic consultation," said Imogene, nudging Steve.

Piluras whispered something in Emily's ear, eliciting a nod and smile. "Looks like they're on the same page," said Steve.

Emily and Mark made their way to the center of the dance floor, smiling at the befuddled crowd. They paused, waiting for the camera to get into position to capture the moment of no return. Great theatre, Imogene thought, and great timing. To think we've been waiting all these weeks for Emily to confess her love in some late-night dorm confab. Instead, she chooses this public moment to kick down the barrier between two heretofore separate worlds.

Jake grinned at the couple, supplied his eerie music, and submitted to Marianne's nursing. Emily and Piluras drifted into a slow dance, which brought forth a long, slow kiss. The rising and falling tones of an approaching ambulance provided the missing percussion.

The administration might ignore everything else that went on here tonight, thought Imogene, but not this. I knew Emily would grab the spotlight somehow, but who knew she would be so brazen? This is the blast that will rock the establishment.

* * * * *

### Chapter Thirteen

I couldn't find my daughter Imogene all weekend. When I called her dorm on Friday afternoon, they told me she'd gone to New York with Sara. She didn't tell me she was going on this trip because she knew I would've put my foot down. She may be twenty-one, but I'm still mostly supporting her, and she's not all that damned mature. Besides, I've always had my doubts about that Sara and her rock-star brother. His music makes me cringe.

They said Imogene would be back by Saturday afternoon, but she wasn't. So I dropped by her dorm, which I'm sure will make her mad, but I don't care. I questioned the resident official, a mousy type who doesn't look like much of a disciplinarian. She told me Sara had gotten Imogene involved in transporting her brother's band from New York to campus for the Homecoming dance.

I saw red. Is this how Imogene spends her weekends? If I suspected she was turning into a what-do-you-call-it—a goddamned groupie—I'd make her come home weekends, job or no job. And that boy she's been dating—that Steve character—his hair gets longer every time I see him. I thought he was studying to be a lawyer, but it's starting to look like he'd rather be a rock-and-roller.

I went downtown looking for her although her mother tried to stop me. I figured the first thing any band would do when it got into town would be hit the bars—and there's only one that's halfway respectable. I didn't find the band itself, but I did spot two big fellows who work for them, moving equipment and running errands. And there was a girl with them who looked familiar. It seemed strange, a pretty girl like that cozying up to the hired help instead of the musicians. Then I realized she was Imogene's other roommate, Emily.

She didn't seem to recognize me, so I just sipped a beer and listened in on her conversation with the two lugs. She was talking about a video she was making for the drama department about Homecoming weekend. She was gonna make it as dramatic as she could by supplying those guys with bottles of beer to sneak into the Amphitheatre that night. I figured she was not only buying her way into the band's dressing room, but making sure their so-called protectors would be too drunk to do their jobs.

I was so hopping mad at such irresponsibility, I almost said something. But then she got on another track, about Sara. I realized there must be a feud going on between Imogene's two roommates. Emily accused Sara of being arrogant and trying to grab all the attention in this video. Maybe, Emily said, Sara will get taken down a peg instead. I know how jealous girls can get over trivial things, but my ears tingled. For some reason, I found myself wanting to help Emily take Sara down.

It's a sin to give way to anger, but I guess I needed someone to blame for my daughter's corruption. If I have to choose between the two girls she lives with, Sara is the one I trust least. Not that I know either of them, but at least I know Emily's family. Her dad used to be a football star at the college when I was there for just two years. Her mother was the class beauty back then. I set store by a person's family, and Sara's not from a good family. Of course, it's not her fault, but things like that affect a person's character.

God will forgive me for what I did since it was out of love for my daughter. It's not the first time I've lashed out at something or someone who threatened my family, and regretted it afterward. I'm known for that, in fact. Sometimes, just to send a message, I aim a shotgun at trespassers who cut across my land. There're wild stories about that going around, which have embarrassed Imogene something awful. Some kids say I've actually shot at them, but they're stupid, lying fools. I never load the shotgun for that but only to shoot game.

I did plant rocks near the border of my property to discourage motorcycle riders, and someone ended up getting hurt. I was sorry that happened, and I removed the rocks right away. But I couldn't resist buying extra bottles of beer for those two band guys, much as I loathe drunkenness.

" _You know," I said casually, "I like to use bottles like those for target practice. When you hit them just right, it gives them jagged edges." I swear it was just idle talk, but Emily's eyes got real big. By then, I had told her whose father I was, not even causing a ripple. She barely seemed to know Imogene, but she heard what I said._

" _You can even do it with a BB gun from the sporting goods store," I added. "Anyone could make an easily concealed weapon out of a bottle."_

I left the bar quickly. I tried not to think about what I might have started. Probably nothing will come of it. But it's been on my conscience ever since. That one moment of anger could have consequences, and I believe in taking responsibility. If someone should get hurt, I'll be partly to blame. And if Imogene ever finds out, God might forgive me, but she won't.

Imogene awoke next morning, beer-sodden and weary, to a becalmed dormitory and surrounding campus. The usual Sunday morning somnolence after a Saturday night bender seemed so exaggerated that the silence rang in her ears. She lurched up in bed, her mind filling with the sights and sounds of yesterday. It was still Homecoming weekend, but the action had shifted from full tilt to quiet mode while the backbeat throbbed in her head. Shafts of mid-morning sunlight poured in from the window, knocking her back against the bed rest on which she had slept awkwardly.

As she reclined, she eyed her roommates' beds. One was empty and unslept-in. The other was occupied by an unfamiliar heap that seemed to have collapsed there. Imogene dimly remembered that Shelley had knocked on her door late last night, saying her bitch of a roommate had locked her out of their room and she needed a place to sleep.

"Take one of my slutty roommates' beds," Imogene had responded. "I doubt either of them is coming in tonight." She had blurted that out of weariness but almost meant it. For all Imogene knew, they were never coming home. After Emily's passionate slow-dance with Mark Piluras, she probably would lose no time moving into his idyllic cabin in the woods. And Sara had announced to the crowd that she would rejoin Jim at the hospital, visiting hours be damned.

Church chimes rang out across the campus, signaling ten o'clock. Imogene hoisted herself up. "Rise and shine, Shelley," she called across the room. "We should be in chapel right now. Remember, it's a special Homecoming service."

"Fuck chapel," muttered Shelley, not moving. "That's your scene, not mine."

"I like to watch the true believers take on Reverend Jennings," said Imogene. "It's great theatre."

"Oh, yeah. The Reverend Jennings will be on his soapbox today, preaching old-fashioned peace and love. Or should I say, the Radical Elmer Jennings."

"He may be radical for this town," said Imogene, "but that's what makes him lovable."

"Peace," said Shelley, making the sign without raising herself from bed.

Imogene got up and made for her closet. If she could find an acceptable Sunday outfit, she would try to get to the service before it ended. She was sure the born-agains would grab this opportunity to offer up a public prayer for the Reverend Jennings's soul. They would urge him to "embrace the Holy Spirit" instead of using his pulpit to carry on another of his ludicrously long-shot campaigns for local office.

Today's announced sermon, "Heroes of Yesteryear," would give Jennings a chance to revisit his days of anti-war activism. During the Vietnam era, he had often been written up in the local papers, and a few times in police reports, for leading his congregation through the sleepy Glendary streets on Sunday mornings, belting out peace songs like Byron Robarts's "Impractical Dream." Imogene reflected that a rousing service with reminiscences like that might help to revive the Spirit of Byron. Was there any chance Jake would show up over there? Or was he laid up after last night? She relived the sneak attack, marveling at the way Jake had kept his feet and continued performing until the ambulance attendants coaxed him off the stage.

Imogene threw on her bathrobe and slippers and padded down the silent hall to the bathroom. She wondered if most of the residents had managed to get up early and make it to the service or if they were all dead asleep. She entered the bathroom to find Carolyn hanging over a toilet in one of the stalls, trying to throw up. When she came out, her face was pale and her bleached hair bedraggled.

"Rough night?" asked Imogene.

Carolyn tightened the strings of her robe around her chunky waist. Imogene noticed something silver and shiny on her left hand.

"I drank too much," murmured Carolyn, "but I did okay. How about you?"

"Not as well as you did, it looks like." Imogene waved her own ring-less hand. "I'm not engaged yet."

"Yeah, well, it's not a real engagement ring—just sort of a stopgap. Jack and I came to an understanding."

"An understanding with Jack the Accountant?" Imogene tried not to laugh. "That must have been quite an epiphany, after the way you stood him up for the dance."

"Okay, I was cruel. But I never thought he would fight for me the way he did." Carolyn blushed, losing for the moment her washed-out look. "And to take on a football player who was bigger and stronger than he was. He suddenly seemed like more of a real man than I ever realized. Anyway, the time was right to make a commitment."

"It was your last Homecoming dance, so getting engaged was mandatory?"

"It was natural," said Carolyn. "I know for a fact that Annie and her soldier boy got engaged last night. And didn't Paul and Christine look perfect together? Don't you think it means something that she didn't come in last night?"

"Forgive me, Carolyn," said Imogene, "but it looks to me like you watched your ex-roommate and your current roommate hit pay dirt and panicked. Are you sure you're not settling for the nearest warm body?"

"You have to settle for something," said Carolyn. "What's wrong with marrying an accountant? We may never be rich, but at least we'll be comfortable. And how about you? Are you gonna let Steve get away and have nothing to show for four years of college?"

"I'll have an education," said Imogene, "and who knows, maybe a career."

This feminist notion failed to ring Carolyn's chimes. She continued to speculate on the engagements of Annie and Christine. "They'll both have to find God in a hurry if they're gonna marry those Fellowship of Christian Athlete types. But Annie's been rooming with Eva for two weeks now, so I guess she's had time to find him. And Eva's gonna try to make some kind of comeback in the gymnastics meet today, so maybe God has finally decided to heal her ankles. Both she and Annie must be over at the chapel right now, getting psyched to take on Sara."

"Hopefully, Reverend Jennings will keep the God Squad in check this morning," said Imogene, "especially if they're all praying for Sara to fail."

"Sara's toast as far as they're concerned. I can just see those two little pixie gymnasts squirming with their leotards on underneath their church dresses. They'll run straight to the gym after the service and get a head start warming up. They have an in with the athletic director, you know."

"Sara's at the service too, singing one of the solos," said Imogene. "Maybe she's got her leotard on under her choir robe." But this didn't seem possible since Sara had not come in last night to grab her gym clothes.

"I wonder what's going on with Weird Lila," continued Imogene, as further images of last night emerged from the fog. "What'll happen to her when she gets out of jail?"

"Oh, probably nothing. She's got rich parents to bail her out and put the blame on whatever evil hallmates led her astray."

"What evil hallmates?" asked Imogene, admiring Carolyn's ability to concoct plausible conspiracy theories on the spot.

"Anybody could see she was flying like a kite last night. She must've gotten hold of some pot or beer, probably for the first time in her life. For that matter, where'd she get the broken bottle? I'm sure there'll be an investigation."

"Well, don't look at me." Imogene tried to laugh.

"Who's looking at you? It's just that a lot of these things seem to get started in the corner room." Growing energized, Carolyn continued, "Listen, I'm gonna go get dressed and run over to the chapel service. It could be interesting. You coming?"

"Maybe, if I can get myself together in time," said Imogene.

As the women left the bathroom, they were startled by the sound of the housemother's door swinging open with a groan. Two greenish-faced older women, recovering from a wild night at home, made a far more pitiful sight than two bedraggled revelers on the morning after a dance. Imogene and Carolyn averted their eyes and stepped out of the way as the wrecks assisted one another into the bathroom.

Suppressing a giggle, Imogene vowed that such a depressing middle age would never creep up on her. There seemed little difference between Lynne Mason's twenty-five years and Rosslyn Murphy's forty-five when both had squandered their prospects last night. A paralyzing fear must have kept them housebound, drinking in solitude. As Imogene and Carolyn proceeded up the hall and passed Shelley on her way to the bathroom, they winked and gestured. "Kinda gruesome in there," said Carolyn.

Alone in the corner room, confronting her bureau mirror, Imogene feared she had nothing on the older women. She made stabs at her face with the makeup brushes but still looked exhausted. The comb and brush she ran through her hair seemed too fragile to tame the mess. She rummaged through her closet without finding anything that looked clean and unwrinkled. She struggled into a T-shirt and jeans, a little less beer-stained and crumpled than the ones she had worn all through yesterday's events.

She thought, why don't I just go back to bed? The chapel service will be so predictable. Reverend Jennings will scold the campus factions for brawling last night, and people will nod vigorously without really getting it. What "heroes of yesteryear" will be trotted out? No doubt a few sports luminaries like Emily's father, who'll take his bows despite having been drunk and almost profane on yesterday's football broadcast. Jake would be a more logical hero in Jennings's eyes, assuming he's out of the hospital and could make it to chapel. But the way he ended things last night, with his "chaos" piece, doesn't seem promising.

Suddenly depressed, Imogene flung herself onto her bed, stomach first, and closed her eyes. The dizziness of a mild hangover sent her whirling halfway into unconsciousness, but tension kicked her back out. Can't even relax, she thought. Might as well get up and study.

She picked up her Russian lit book with a groan as her stomach growled. Her bureau clock seemed stuck on ten thirty—an hour and a half before the dining hall would open for Sunday dinner. Who could she find to eat with today? Like most of her hallmates, she would rather skip meals than sit in the dining room alone.

Shelley was taking her time returning from the bathroom. Maybe she was feeling queasy after her unprecedented bender last night and wouldn't want any dinner. Imogene pondered hooking up with Sara instead, but it seemed problematic to catch her on the run between the chapel service and the meet. Grabbing a package of cheese crackers from her desk drawer, Imogene chewed them slowly as she tried to digest a nineteenth century Russian tale heavy with moral lessons and tragic twists of fate. Every sentence she forced herself to read seemed to constrict her own life.

She tossed the book aside and considered a walk in the brisk morning air. She hurled herself toward the door, but it was like swimming in oil. Weighed down by the tepid atmosphere or just plain boredom, she seemed to have gained twenty pounds overnight. For a country girl, she had always struggled to summon the hiking-and-fresh air enthusiast within.

She had almost resigned herself to a morning of slow suffocation when she felt a stirring outside the half-open door. A subtle ruckus had kicked up in the hall, spreading shockwaves. Imogene's heart began to pound in response as her bout of self-pity fled. I've summoned him somehow, she thought, with my constant plotting to write about his band for honors credit. Up until now, I've had to embellish my encounters with him to fit my theories. Now he's about to smack me in the face with realities.

Everyone would envy her. The housemother and Jake's mother must be cowering in the bathroom as those ponderous footsteps passed them by. Carolyn and Shelley would want to catch a glimpse of him but were in no position to. As the hollow, silent dormitory filled to the brim with life, she rejoiced at the inertia that had kept her here.

Imogene's door blasted open. In strode Jake, grinning at her disheveled self. He was dressed in borrowed gym slacks, a Glendary T-shirt, and running shoes. This was hardly the brooding rock star who had barely acknowledged her existence all weekend. Here was an alert adventurer, taking in his surroundings with amusement. The bandage on his head seemed incongruous as he beamed at her.

"Well, where is everybody? Still out partying?" he asked.

"I don't know, exactly." Imogene picked up the comb from her bureau and tried again to impose order on the tangles. "Both Sara and Emily are still out. Not that that's unusual."

"You got a problem keeping up with them, or what?"

He smiled at her teasingly, and she recoiled. She hated it when callers treated her as if she were her roommates' private secretary. But how silly was that under the circumstances? Her idol had materialized before her, looking reasonably friendly—and they had the room to themselves.

"I'm sorry you missed Sara and Emily. You're right. They're awfully hard to keep up with. You—you look really chipper, considering the beating you took last night."

"I got away with just a few stitches and a headache. And I would've had the headache anyway." Jake's grin widened. "Actually, I feel liberated. I'm not saddled with a band anymore. I'm free of the leeches that have fed on me for years. It's just me and Marianne now, and barely her. After we got back from the hospital last night, she dropped her drama queen act and took off with her video camera. Said she had old acquaintances to see."

"That wasn't very nice," said Imogene, putting down her comb and rummaging in her drawer for knee-high stockings.

"Neither of us is very nice. Our lifestyle is calculated to shock the hell out of nice girls like you."

Imogene fumbled for a response. Should she deny that she was a "nice girl"? Did he mean it as an insult?

"I can do without seeing your incredibly busy roommates," continued Jake. "I'm just here to let off some steam and relight my jock fuse. I used to be a scholarship athlete on this campus."

"I remember," said Imogene.

"My sister and I started arguing at the hospital last night about my lack of conditioning. I think she was so pissed her stud boyfriend got injured, she decided to take it out on me. She said I looked as if I couldn't beat her, or anybody else, in a fair contest requiring strength or agility. That was a challenge I couldn't let pass by."

Imogene regarded him dubiously, thinking Sara spoke the truth. It was not the first time she had reflected that the scrawny, pale rock star was a shadow of his former athletic self, although that did not detract from his powerful presence.

"I'm in the mood to take her on right now," said Jake, "but of course she's unavailable. So I'll compete with anybody who's willing in anything at all—tennis, ping-pong, pool, a race around the track."

"There's only me," ventured Imogene. "I could—compete with you."

"You think? You don't look particularly athletic."

Imogene felt another surge of annoyance. "I may not be a big-time athlete like your sister," she said, tucking her T-shirt into her jeans as best she could, "but I can certainly play those kinds of sports if you can."

"Now, don't get riled." Jake's smile, like dawn over a rocky terrain, soothed her. "You'll probably have the drop on me after the night I had. I didn't just get stitched up and drugged at the hospital. Afterwards, I felt moved to go back to Boulder lounge and continue the concert. Attracted a pretty lively late-night crowd, if I do say so."

"Who was there?" Imogene reached for a hairpin and peered into her bureau mirror as she inserted it.

"Everybody who is anybody, I guess. I felt like finishing the evening in a more intimate setting. So I played acoustic guitar while jawing with my sister, a bunch of jocks, their groupies, resident officials, whoever came along."

And through all this, thought Imogene, you've avoided talking to your mother, who's lurking down the hall as we speak. "So Sara spent the night at Boulder?" she asked, applying rouge to her cheeks.

"Yeah, after they kicked her out of the hospital. She parked herself in somebody's room. Some teammate of Guthrie's."

"Curt Simpson?" Imogene kept her voice casual since her mild flirtation with Curt meant less than nothing.

"Hell, don't ask me. In a certain light, they all look like muttering brutes to me. But it couldn't matter less, because Sara's so dead gone over Guthrie, she put up a platonic shield that nobody else could penetrate."

"Oh, yes, I know she's passionate about Jim." Imogene applied lip gloss to her dry, almost flaking lips. "And his injuries were devastating."

"Christ, they were bruises. Guthrie once tried to do worse to me in a pickup basketball game. I told Sara to just relax and enjoy playing Florence Nightingale for awhile. She turned on me and accused me of being unqualified to give advice, being the world's worst husband. Did I even know or care where Marianne had disappeared to?

"That blow on the head musta had a delayed effect on me. I started fantasizing that Marianne had run off to join Charlie, wherever he was. Sara told me I was being ridiculous. That even if they had slept together once or twice, Marianne would never leave me—I was her meal ticket, her claim to fame, everything."

"And the father of her child," added Imogene.

"True. But that only seems to make her more uninhibited. So I grabbed for some instant solace. I retrieved the acoustic guitar from my room and set myself up on my old stage in Boulder lounge. For some reason, I found myself playing in Byron's style, and everybody was getting into it. Nobody wanted to let the after-party end until they got their fill of peace songs."

"Oh, wow, great," exclaimed Imogene. "The Spirit of Byron, finally." She paused to collect herself and then explained, "That's the title of my honors thesis, and you may have demonstrated it in the lounge if not in the main show. I'm trying to prove that folk influences can survive even in the midst of chaos."

"It happened for a brief, shining moment, at least. The jocks somehow got the spirit, and so did I. We stopped needling and bad-mouthing each other. The guys hauled in a couple of kegs they had snitched from the Amphitheatre, and we partied on till maybe three in the morning. Even the resident official was there, ignoring curfew with a vengeance."

"I wish I'd been there," said Imogene. She feared a second-hand description in her thesis would not do this scene justice.

"Everything was sweetness and light until one of the jocks walked in with my wife. When I asked her where she'd been, she flashed her camera at me. That's her defense for everything—any kind of stunt is okay if it serves her art. She said she was on a project to take pictures of jocks in compromising positions. Her main goal was to catch the Homecoming Queen with the football captain. After a while she left with a different football player than the one she came in with. I lost my cool and cussed out not only her but the whole jock culture.

"That caused Sara to get on her soapbox and defend the jocks. She said I had driven Marianne away with my physical deterioration and my mood swings. She told me to look in a mirror and see how I compared to the red-blooded guys I was cussing out. What woman wouldn't leave me for one of those?"

"That's not totally fair to you." Imogene blurted her opinion, and then stopped to consider it. She looked Jake up and down and decided she meant it. She appreciated this spectacle of an ex-athlete who had conquered a different world. He wasn't afraid to expose his limbs in that skimpy gym outfit—arms and legs pale, but not noticeably flabby. He still was as tall and straight as a former track star should be. His dark hair, although beyond regulation length for athletes, was gleaming. He must have shampooed it this morning, somehow working around the bandage. Most impressively, his grin at this moment had a healthy exuberance without the sly and sardonic hues of yesterday.

"You haven't deteriorated—not that much," said Imogene. God, she thought, that sounds awkward. Besides, I'm blushing like a fool. Not that he looks insulted. I'll bet that smile of his could make even a Homecoming princess stutter.

"Thanks," he said. "Anyway, I'm here because of Sara's unsolicited advice. She says stardom has poisoned me. For the past two years I've been relying on sycophants instead of muscles. The only thing that can drive away my demons is good, wholesome exercise. I took that as a challenge. I told her I'd be here bright and early, so we could go at it in a sport of her choice, and I'd have her for lunch. But it turns out, Superwoman isn't here—and you are."

"Yes, I am," said Imogene. She noticed he was glancing over his shoulder at the half-open door as if he wished someone else would come in. "But if you'd rather not do it with me—"

"By the way, do you know where my mother is?"

The suddenness of this question took Imogene's breath away. "Last I saw, right down the hall—and under the weather."

"Figures," said Jake. "Let's go exorcise my demons."

"Wait a minute." Imogene could not endure this unnatural attitude. "Don't you want to say hello to your mother first? I met her last night, and I must say, I kind of like her. She's so—colorful."

"Too colorful," said Jake. "This isn't a good time with both of us hung over. Maybe after I exercise."

Imogene escorted Jake through the silent hall and downstairs to the recreation room, which was equipped with ping-pong tables. They conducted a vigorous if informal match in which she won most of the points. Jake must have been bluffing when he said he would "have Sara for lunch." If a non-athlete like Imogene could inflict this much damage on him, his sister would have smoked him. Unconcerned, he took frequent rest pauses and filled Imogene's ears with a running commentary, all good stuff for her thesis.

"Depressing, isn't it, the way this campus has changed in two years. Ping-pong tables where a dance floor should be. The jocks have gained too much ground since I left. Petty games instead of music."

"You said yourself, the petty games are good exercise," said Imogene.

After a few more swipes at the ball, he put down his paddle and studied her with folded arms and furrowed brow. "You seem like such an ordinary college chick. A poster girl for normalcy. Now, don't take that as an insult—I meant it in the nicest possible way. I just can't figure out what you're doing rooming with my sister. She's totally the opposite."

"Sara and I are good friends," said Imogene. "Our differences don't seem to matter."

"What're your parents like?"

Again, the question nonplussed her. They were just parents. Was he unfamiliar with the concept of family?

"Is your life all about Mom, Dad, the white picket fence, the dog in the yard? That would be a sight for my sore, bloodshot eyes."

"It's true—we're kind of ordinary," admitted Imogene. Let him think that, she decided. If she hid behind her blandness, maybe she could write about him without scaring him off.

"Visiting a normal home like yours would be like going to Mars," said Jake. "Tell me about it. You got a ranch house with stables in back? Or is it a country mansion with columns, manicured lawn, swimming pool?"

"My folks aren't rich, just fairly well off," said Imogene. "They have a modest brick house with several acres of pasture land around it, but no luxuries. Their property begins just west of the campus."

"Respectable country folks who live within walking distance? Upright, conservative, churchgoing Reaganites? How about taking me to meet them?"

"Meet them?" Imogene froze in horror. This was unthinkable. She quailed at the idea of introducing the rock star to her stodgy parents, who had only met his sister once. Not that both Murphys weren't capable of charming anybody. But how would Imogene's parents react to her evident fascination with the most unsuitable man alive?

"Don't you know about my dad?" She would try to short-circuit this crazy scheme. "He's legendary around campus for threatening the lives of kids who trespass on his land. Not that he's ever killed anybody—yet. But he's been known to wave a shotgun at strangers."

"Oh, yeah, I remember those stories. That's your dad? He can't do much harm just waving a shotgun. What's your mother like?"

"My mother?" Imogene thought but could not hit on anything ominous. "She'll probably invite you in for coffee—then ask to take your picture for the family album."

Jake seemed more put off by that prospect than the shotgun. Imogene exploited this hesitation. "Besides, it's a long walk, and it'd be very tiring for you after last night. Anyway, there isn't time. Don't forget, Sara's gymnastics meet starts at one thirty."

"Fuck that. Sara doesn't need me there. She's been telling me for years she's gonna make it on her own, and my fame and fortune are just a distraction for her. So let her prove it. Maybe she can float through her routines on sheer ego power."

"Even if she said that, she doesn't really mean it," said Imogene, going out on a psychoanalytical limb. "She needs you to be there for her. She's more vulnerable than you know, or even she knows."

Jake looked unconvinced, so she tried a different tack. "Besides, how would it look to the public if you didn't show up for her big performance?"

"I can't see myself sitting in the gym, watching my sister perform, when everybody knows I blew off my own sports career. Bad for my image, you know."

"Are you kidding? It'd be great for your image," said Imogene. To her astonishment, they began arguing as if they were a real couple. She was determined to make him recognize his responsibility to his sister and the importance of appearances.

"I'll make a deal with you," said Jake. "Let's go see your folks first. Afterwards, if there's time, we'll go to the meet."

"It'd take too long to hike," protested Imogene.

"We'll take Sara's van—my van, since I paid for it. Not that I can drive it. Can you?"

He had challenged her, which stopped all of her arguments cold. The adventure of it began to quicken her heart. "I don't really drive a stick-shift, but I watched Sara do it yesterday."

"Good enough. Why don't you go back to your room and get the keys. I'll wait outside."

Imogene returned to the corner room and rummaged through Sara's desk drawer until she found the keys. She ran down the hall and out the front door, afraid that someone else would snap up the rock star in her absence.

Once behind the wheel, with Jake on the passenger's side, she studied the dashboard and then turned on the ignition. She backed out of the parking place and shifted gears, hoping she hadn't stripped them. Jake looked alarmed as she made her way, with stops and starts, out of the lot. She maneuvered the van onto the stretch of highway that ran east and west of the campus. On the smooth road she found her comfort zone, gunning the vehicle as Sara had when emerging from the city. She drove five miles, and then turned right onto the access road that intersected her father's driveway.

"Man, talk about peaceful country," said Jake, thrusting his head out of the window and breathing draughts of crisp autumn air. "Not a soul in sight, just animals. Are those real cows over there?"

"They're not props," said Imogene with a laugh.

"I could honestly live in a place like this. How about you? You gonna marry a local boy and settle down on a nice patch of land?"

"That's not my plan," said Imogene. "In fact, I think I could fall in love with New York City."

"It'll break your heart."

They approached the house, which looked as somnolent as the surrounding countryside. "Won't your folks be in church or praying or something? It's Sunday, right?"

"They get back from church early," said Imogene. "Sunday is a work day for them like any other day."

"Even at this time of year?" asked Jake. Imogene laughed again as she explained the numerous autumn chores to be done on a farm.

Her confidence was growing, thanks to his evident interest in learning about this new world and her surprising ability to handle the van. This would be interesting, if nothing else. She pulled up to the house, stopping with a jerk, and glanced at her watch.

"It's almost noon. This is actually a good time for a visit. They'll be getting ready for Sunday dinner. We can at least have coffee with them."

Imogene's confidence wavered when she saw her parents come out onto the porch together and stare at the van. She stuck her head out and waved. If they're shocked by my driving this thing, she thought, what will they think of my passenger?

Fortunately, Jake had chosen to be aggressively charming. He got out and strode ahead of Imogene. As she made a hasty introduction, he thrust out his hand to shake both of theirs. "Mom, Dad, this is Jake Murphy from New York—Sara's brother. Jake, this is my father Andrew and my mother Edna."

Imogene's mother, with her instinctive hospitality, found voice to invite him in. Once they were seated in the parlor, and her mother had gone into the kitchen to prepare refreshments, Imogene tried to gage her father's reaction. His frown was focused on her.

"I looked for you on campus yesterday," he said. "I heard you went to New York."

"Yes, I did, Dad. Sara and I went to pick up Jake and his band for the Homecoming dance. Why were you looking for me?"

He ignored the question. "You're not the young man we usually see Imogene with," he told Jake. "Last I knew, she was dating a pre-law student who would probably rather be a rock star."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," said Imogene. "Steve knows he's not gonna be a rock star."

"I'm the real thing," said Jake with a grin. "I played the music your daughter and her boyfriend danced to last night."

"You make a real living at that?" asked Imogene's father.

"Not to brag," said Jake, "but I have my own record company, and a large condo in the same building. I've got a studio, a Jacuzzi, a limo always on call. Lots of perks."

"That reminds me, Imogene. Did you up and quit your cafeteria job? Seems like you've been away all weekend when you should have been working."

"Come on, Dad, this is a special weekend. It's been wild. Nobody I know has been going to meals." She hoped her supervisor would see it that way.

Imogene's father furrowed his brow at Jake. "What happened to your head?"

"I was attacked by my crazy drummer. Just as well, really. I've been thinking about breaking up the band, and it conveniently broke up all by itself."  
"That's tough. Won't you be unemployed?"

"I can afford to be for now," replied Jake. "I'd like to find a saner way of life. Maybe I'll end up moving out of New York altogether. My wife and I are expecting a baby in about four months."

"You're married—with a child on the way?" inquired Imogene's father.

"The problem with us settling down is my wife, Marianne. It's hard to keep her content."

"That can be a problem sometimes." Imogene's father permitted himself a brief laugh.

"She loves the limelight, being an artist in her own right. Lately I've been thinking I'd be satisfied to play an acoustic guitar in the park or on a street corner, like my mentor, Byron Robarts. She's threatened to leave me just for having those thoughts."

Somehow, the two men were conversing. Jake's longing for an acoustic career prompted a discussion of the country music culture that thrived in the nearby hills. Jake inquired about real estate prices in western Maryland, and Imogene's father followed up with questions about rentals in New York City. Imogene was nervous, but not surprised, when Jake ventured into dangerous territory.

"Is it true," he asked, "that you guard your property against intruders with a shotgun?"

Imogene's father gave another brief laugh. "I protect what's mine."

Imogene's mother brought in a tray loaded with coffee, tea, and assorted pastries. Jake and Imogene pounced on it, demolishing a pot of coffee and a plate of sweets while Imogene's parents sipped tea. Imogene's mother inquired about Jake's head injury.

"Thanks for your concern, Mrs. Taylor, but it's really only a scratch. It did give my wife a chance to be a drama queen. She wept and moaned about it for public consumption, all the way to the hospital and back. As soon as nobody else's camera was on us, she went her own way with her own camera, pursuing her art. Typical evening for us."

"You must be looking forward to the baby, at least," offered Imogene's mother.

"I thought having a child might change our lifestyle, but now I'm not so sure. Marianne says she's gonna start interviewing live-in nannies as soon as we get back to New York. Her career, whatever that is, comes first."

Imogene could feel her parents' consternation growing. They kept glancing at her, then at Jake, and then back at her, no doubt wondering if there was a relationship. Her mother must be debating whether to extend an invitation to Sunday dinner. Usually, hospitality won out over any other consideration, but Imogene suspected this would be an exception. Although she would have refused anyway, she grew annoyed.

"Children have a way of changing your life, whether you want them to or not," said Imogene's mother.

"I guess so. I worry about what kind of father I'll be. My old man beat the sh—excuse me, knocked me around when he was drunk. Even when he wasn't drunk, he was sarcastic."

Now Imogene sensed a definite recoil and became exasperated. Her parents would never be able to rise above their stodgy conservatism. Did they think Jake was to blame for being born into a dysfunctional family?

Imogene's father also had a way of plucking her political nerves. "I suppose you're both behind Elmer Jennings' campaign for County Executive?"

"I thought I might give him a small contribution," said Imogene.

"I don't know about his political career," said Jake, "but I remember Reverend Elmer's Sunday morning love fests back in my day. He's like my band partner Byron, clinging to ancient ideals. These days I feel more like a Republican when it comes to maximizing my wealth. You get rich; you want to stay that way. But my roots will always be in a Brooklyn tenement."

"Mom and Dad," Imogene cut in, "sorry to eat and run, but we're due at a gymnastics meet that starts at one thirty. Sara—my roommate, Jake's sister—is competing."

"Hold on a minute," said Jake, still settled in his chair. "I haven't made up my mind about going to that."

Imogene's parents pounced on him, insisting that a brother must support his sister on an occasion like this. Jake came up with several objections: it was Sara's moment, and he might prove a huge distraction; he had been a pariah to the physical education department since throwing away his own sports scholarship; he had raised too many ugly passions in the Amphitheatre crowd last night.

The parents shook their heads. While her mother removed the plates and cups, and Imogene helped, her father said sternly, "Your family should always come first."

"It's good advice, I guess," conceded Jake, rising to his feet. Imogene kissed her parents hastily, and her father accompanied them out to the van. He shook hands with Jake.

"I don't know when you learned to drive a stick shift," he told Imogene as she settled into the driver's seat, "but for God's sake, be careful."

"It's not a problem, Dad," said Imogene. "Thanks for having us. I'll call soon."

"Wait just a second," said Imogene's father. Imogene, who was anxious to put the van into reverse and begin the complicated procedure of backing down the driveway, waited impatiently.

"Listen—Jake," he said. "About your sister. Look after her. She's family."

Jake laughed. "Sara doesn't need me to look after her. At least, she doesn't think so."

"She could be in danger today. Just a feeling I have."

"What do you mean, Dad?" asked Imogene. "It's not gonna be a drunk and rowdy crowd like last night."

"All I'm saying is, protect what's yours." Imogene's father seemed unable to articulate further. He backed away from the van and waved goodbye.

"I don't know what's gotten into him," Imogene told Jake as she pulled away.

"He could be paranoid, but he could be right," said Jake. "I'll try to keep my eyes open."

Imogene began the trip back to campus with the inevitable stops and starts. She wondered if she should apologize for her parents, but Jake forestalled her. "I really like your folks," he said. "I know I must have shocked them out of their skins, but they were pretty cool. You got any idea how lucky you are to have parents like that—civilized people? My parents never tried to make a good impression. They just dragged everything down to their own level."

Jake hung his head out the window as if taking nourishment. "Do me a favor, Imogene. Pull over a second before we hit the highway. I've never seen a nicer day than this."

"We don't have much time," said Imogene, pulling over. "It's almost one o'clock. We want to get to the gym in time to grab good seats."

"Better to be fashionably late," said Jake. "You gotta lot to learn about putting on star airs." He sat back in the passenger's seat and took in the bright blue sky, fluffy clouds, and expanses of grass waving in the breeze.

"How about a quick run through the fields?" he said, opening the door.

"Only for a minute," said Imogene. She got out and followed him on a jaunt of about a quarter mile.

After he had scanned the horizons for several minutes, she told him, "We better get going."

"God, you're uptight for a country girl. Can't we just sit down awhile and commune with nature? Or will we be rushed by those cows?"

Imogene pointed to her watch and laughed in spite of herself. "I told you before, I really belong in the city."

"I'm beginning to think I belong here." Jake gave her a penetrating look, causing shock waves to surge up her spine. She had barely gotten over her surprise that he knew her name.

"What's this obsession about cheering on Sara? You really think it'll matter?"

"That's what family and friends do," said Imogene.

"Friends, you say?" asked Jake. "I just assumed my sister was like me, and had sycophants instead of friends. I never had a real one, even at college. My last roommate OD'd one night, and I had to cart him to the hospital. After that, he dropped out of school and out of sight. I have no clue if he's alive today."

"That's sad," said Imogene. "I hope Sara and I stay friends after graduation."

"I'll bet you do. You could benefit from her friendship, especially if you move to the big city."

Imogene recoiled from his cynicism. "You think I'm friends with Sara out of self-interest?" She wondered if this were at least partly true.

"Forgive me, but with a mother and a wife like mine, I always assume the worst about women."

As he moved toward her, she feared she would succumb too easily. It's got to mean something, she thought. I won't be just another notch in his belt.

"Let me catch my breath."

"Sure, go ahead and breathe." He eased off, smiling.

"You're kind of unusual, you know," he added. "Not many chicks hesitate."

"I'm not hesitating," said Imogene. "It's just that—" She relaxed and let him kiss her. Afterward, she had to fight to recover her senses.

"There's something you should take into consideration. I'm writing an honors thesis about you and your band."

"All the girls tell me shit like that. They're always tossing love poems or song lyrics at me."

"It's not poetry," said Imogene. "It's a serious thesis for college credit. So I'm using you, as much as you're using me."

"So use me." He kissed her again.

"You're married," she observed, coming up for breath, "and I'm practically engaged."

"Who cares?" he said in exasperation. But his smile returned as if he found her resistance refreshing.

"Listen, you and I are both hungry. My wife is discontented, and we're always fighting and reconciling. I'll bet it's the same with your boyfriend."

"It's true, we've fought a lot," said Imogene, "but we reached an understanding last night." Damned if she could remember what it was.

"We have to teach them to respect us," said Jake, moving toward her with purpose.

He's right, thought Imogene. Payback is in order. Why doesn't Steve ever look at me the way he looked at Lila last night at the bar, just reveling in her weirdness? If she hadn't been stupid enough to throw that bottle, he might have ended up with her instead of me. And Marianne's dalliance with Charlie, which I saw with my own eyes—

"They're basically cheats," she told Jake. "Come on, we're wasting time." She unzipped and pulled down her jeans, and he grinned and did likewise. She flowed toward him, leading with aroused breasts that almost punched through her T-shirt in syncopation with his heaving chest.

She would embrace the experience without stopping to analyze it—and maybe Jake wouldn't guess how inexperienced she was. Nothing about her occasional attempts with Steve had prepared her for the natural flow of this act. She and Steve were always hurrying as if afraid of failure or detection. Locked doors only made them nervous since indignant roommates had a way of returning unexpectedly.

Who could have predicted what a considerate lover Jake would be? He slowed down, pulsating gently above her, until she caught up with him. His grizzly cheek caressed her smooth one. His touch was gentle as if she were a virgin for his purposes—and when it came to fulfillment, she was. Compared to Jake the sharpshooter, Steve was an oaf.

She held him inside her for a delectably long time. When he made his move, she went with it and achieved a simultaneous explosion. They rolled away from one another, groaning in unison, dirtying their clothes in the grass. Only then did she ask herself, will I regret this?

There had to be a reason, apart from sheer lust. She knew now that she did not love Jake Murphy up close as she had from afar. She would not marry him even if he offered to divorce his wife. His volatile moods had unnerved her all weekend; even his niceness today had exposed vulnerabilities. Nor had she made love to him as "research" for her thesis since that had already written itself in her head.

The revelation spread through her veins like an intoxicant. By abandoning herself to a roll in the grass, she had removed a curse from her father's fields. For the moment, only she understood the strength of this act. Never again would she suffer humiliation over the exaggerated exploits of those who trespassed here. The image of her father as a shotgun-toting fanatic had been neutralized. From now on, she would laugh when kids taunted her about that as she cherished an exploit of her own.

Imogene scrambled to her feet and pulled up her jeans while Jake remained relaxed on his back, his hands supporting the bandage. "Come on, Jake. Let's go cheer for your sister."

Jake groaned. "You know, it's possible to overdo this good roommate act of yours."

"She needs us," said Imogene, motioning him to his feet. "I don't know why, but I think my father is on to something. She could be in danger."

Jake tensed up but pulled on his jeans and allowed Imogene to coax him back into the van. "You gotta realize Sara has no physical fear," he said. "We're total opposites that way. When I got hurt in pickup basketball that time, my daring nature was shaken. Now it's gotten almost pathological—I jump at every shadow. Sara's different. She'll face down anything."

"She can't face down anything at all while she's on the balance beam," pointed out Imogene. "She's an easy target."

"For who? The cops grabbed that crazy chick who tried to attack her last night. Charlie may still be out there, but he hates me, not her."

Imogene tried to explain that Lila was a peculiar hybrid of freak and religious fanatic, and that both of those types were still aroused. Jake shrugged off the threat. "Bottle attacks like that are just symbolic messages. Hardly revolutionary acts."

"Was it symbolic when you got cracked over the head last night?" exclaimed Imogene.

"I kind of asked for it, and I got it. I think I've already absorbed all the madness this student body is capable of."

"All the more reason why you need to put in an appearance at the gym," said Imogene. "You might be the only person who can—still the waters."

Jake seemed impressed with this image of himself. "Think there'll be a big crowd over there?"

"Everyone will be there," said Imogene as she gunned the van. "This is no ordinary gymnastics meet. Yesterday's football loss has stuck in everybody's craw."

"Think I'll see my mother?"

Imogene hesitated. "Probably, if she's recovered enough from her hangover."

"Her whole life is a hangover; that's never stopped her before. Besides, this could be the biggest role of her life—the prodigal mother, returning to her children's lives at a pivotal moment."

Imogene agreed that this would be a rare opportunity for Rosslyn, but Jake scowled at the scenario. During the short trip back to campus, his anxiety mounted. When they arrived at the gymnasium door, Imogene had to push him through.

* * * * *

### Chapter Fourteen

The rock star's Homecoming, close at hand,

sends shivers through the country air,

and tremors rolling across the land.

Face the Music with me, if you dare.

Let Glowing Strings whip up the floor,

as Sky Dancing exceeds all earthly bounds.

She Moves Me with mysterious grace once more,

as I cast my blood and sweat into the ground.

I'll plant the seeds of love and peace

at the cost of a bloody skull,

until the last vibrations of my music cease

and the new Sun Bursts on an empty hull.

Once inside, Jake waved to the crowd on all sides as cheers erupted. The meet in progress seemed to pause as athletes, coaches, and spectators took in the rock star's arrival. For a confused moment, Imogene thought Emily was in charge. She approached Jake leading the same camera crew that had obeyed her every whim last night. Emily directed Jake toward the left bleachers, where Shelley jumped up and pointed to two saved front-row seats. Jake winked at Emily as he sat down.

"A hot babe with a camera always makes me feel sexy," he said.

"You weren't so thrilled when she trapped you in the dressing room last night," objected Imogene. But Jake seemed to have made his peace with Emily's pursuit.

"Can I just say how thrilled I am to finally meet you?" exclaimed Shelley, pumping Jake's hand and thrusting herself into camera range. Emily speedily redirected her crew, but Shelley could not or would not stop. "Sorry I missed you this morning when you came by the dorm, but I was a little indisposed. How's your head, by the way?"

"Spinning," said Jake.

"This crowd's been waiting for you. Glad you got him here before the meet ended, Imogene."

"Take it easy, Shelley," said Imogene, seeing Jake recoil. "We're here to support Sara and the team like everybody else. We just want to blend in."

"Fat chance," said Shelley. "Trust me, not everybody here is for Sara. Too many factions and hidden agendas. But miraculously, she and I had some interaction a short while ago, so I sure as hell am supporting her."

"When was this?" asked Imogene.

"She came rushing into the corner room after her chapel performance to change into her gym clothes. First thing she did was put the chain on the door. Said Lila was after her, trying to apologize for what happened last night. Seems Reverend Jennings bailed that nut case out of jail and brought her to the service this morning for that purpose."

"My sister's being cowardly," said Jake. "I wouldn't mind facing down that weasel Charlie, who hit me from behind."

"Sara may have been spooked, but that doesn't make her a coward," said Shelley. "It's just that Lila is a distraction she doesn't need right now. I apologized for sleeping in her bed last night and explained that my roommate locked me out. She said she could relate to that. She couldn't have been nicer."

"She's a gem, all right," said Jake.

"But was she getting herself ready to compete?" asked Imogene. She had just located Sara on the opposite sideline, doing stretching exercises alongside her teammates. Athletic Director Beatty and Coach Joan Mueller stood nearby, watching them.

Turning her attention to the scoreboard, Imogene realized the situation was dire. Maryland State held a full point lead over Glendary after two rotations, the equivalent of two major mistakes. She knew from watching previous meets that four gymnasts from each team competed in each of four events. It appeared that Sara had not participated in the first two events, vaulting and uneven parallel bars. The combined individual scores showed two Maryland State women in the lead with Annie third. What could Beatty be thinking, holding back his best gymnast? Was there a strategy behind it, or was he out to get her?

"She was raring to go," replied Shelley. "I helped her get ready. She was undecided what to do with her hair—she wore it down for the choir concert but wanted to put it up for the meet. I convinced her to let me give her a French braid instead of a bun. It looks nice, doesn't it?"

"It looks different," said Jake, "which Sara is. So what's your major, professional hairdressing?"

"Art," said Shelley. "While I was doing Sara's hair, I told her about the all-nighters I pulled to create my caricatures of football players. I'm sure you saw them hanging on the wall at the dance. She said she swooned over the one of Jim Guthrie."

"We all did," said Jake.

"Before we were done," resumed Shelley, "Emily came charging in. You weren't exaggerating, Imogene, when you told me how overpowered you feel whenever those two start sparring in your presence. Emily announced that she and Mark Piluras had just hiked across the fields from his cabin in the woods. Officially, they were working all night on their video script. But unofficially, I think she wanted us to know that they—you know—consummated their relationship. Too bad they didn't run into your dad and his shotgun on their trip back."

Imogene smiled at Jake, coaxing a grin from him. "That's not all they might have run into out there. Don't ask, Shel."

"Fine," said Shelley. "I won't even notice those strands of grass in your hair. Emily put on her usual phony friend act, trying to mess with Sara's head. She says, 'All ready to blow away the competition at the meet?' Then she adds, 'By the way, your van's missing from the parking lot.'"

"Oh, God," said Imogene, "we can explain that. Did Sara get upset?"

"She just scowled and said, 'Got any other encouraging news for me before I compete?'

"Emily told us there was a pre-meet prayer meeting going on next door, and she had a microphone planted in the room. I was so appalled at that, I screamed Nineteen-Eighty-Four. But she implied that Eva knew about it, and that the God Squad wants the publicity. They're convinced today's meet is gonna be big for their movement. They were asking God to bring victory to their own gymnasts, Annie and Eva.

"'And to heap defeat and humiliation on me?' Sara asked. That's the general idea, Emily confirmed.

"Sara laughed at that. 'They're convinced I'm the devil's spawn,' she says, 'but who knows? Maybe God will get tired of their bullshit and favor me today.' I offered to say a prayer for her myself. Emily only stayed long enough to change her clothes and breeze out again, having done her best to rattle Sara."

"She doesn't rattle that easily," said Jake.

"No, she can handle Emily," said Imogene. "But what in hell is the athletic director trying to do to her now?"

Jake studied the scoreboard. Glendary was preparing to compete in floor exercise while the Maryland State gymnasts were limbering up for the balance beam. "You're right, that pot-bellied fascist is setting her up for something. What, I dunno."

"He's gotta put her in this time," said Imogene. "Floor exercise is her best event. The _Campus News_ sports page says her Mozart accompaniment is really extraordinary."

"Like shit he's gotta do anything," said Jake. "He's the Fuehrer."

Jake returned his hungry gaze to Emily, who was once again directing a camera toward him. He was startled out of this reverie by the sight of Marianne lurking behind Emily and crew, pointing her own portable camera. "There goes my wife again, videotaping the video maker. Absolutely avant-garde."

Something in the crowd caught Marianne's eye. She extricated herself from the group of technicians on the sideline and climbed into the bleachers.

"Christ," exclaimed Jake, "does she even care she's pregnant? It'll be a miracle if the kid isn't crushed."

Imogene strained her neck to follow Marianne's fast progress through the spectators. She turned back to observe Emily moving her camera crew across the floor in response to a signal from Mark Piluras on the opposite sideline.

"I don't know what Emily's doing," Imogene told Jake, "but I think Marianne's got a bead on your mother."

"Oh, shit." Jake turned his back on that scene. But the crowd had become aware of Rosslyn Murphy's proximity to her two estranged children and murmured in anticipation.

As the meet resumed, Glendary's outlook began to brighten. The team's two promising freshmen pulled off floor exercise routines that mixed fast tumbling with graceful dance moves. Then Annie took the mat and thrilled the crowd with an intricate, reggae-based routine. She pulled off double flips or twists at the end of all three tumbling runs, receiving a standing ovation when she finished. Meanwhile, the State women wobbled on the four-inch-wide balance beam and stumbled on their dismounts. After three performances by each team, Glendary had erased a half-point of its deficit.

"It's all cued up for Sara on floor," said Imogene. She watched her roommate limber up under the stony gaze of Athletic Director Beatty. Sara received a final encouraging hug from Coach Mueller and stepped toward the mat. As she posed on the edge, Beatty ordered her back to the sideline.

"What's going on? Is she injured?" asked Imogene.

"Injured ego, for sure," said Jake. "Beatty's just messing with her mind."

"He's gonna risk losing the meet by playing games?" asked Imogene. "What kind of hate-filled paranoiac—"

"Look, he's a football coach," said Jake. "He never did give a goddamn about women's sports. He thinks those are just to build character, not to win."

"I can't believe it. He's substituting Eva for Sara," said Imogene. Suppressing her rising anger, she explained Eva's history as an aspiring dancer who had turned to religion when her dreams were shattered by bursitis. This was to be her prayed-for comeback.

"And that's Eva's boyfriend, who's studying for the ministry," said Shelley, pointing to the Hawk mascot prancing on the far sideline. "He hovers over all our sporting events like the Antichrist or something."

"Spooky," said Jake. "So you're telling me this Eva, who's supposedly crippled with bad ankles, is about to demonstrate God's curing powers?"

"Hey, this is no run-of-the-mill gymnastics meet," said Shelley. "This is a morality play."

The spiritual question remained unsettled after Eva performed her routine to a medley of hymns with a jazzed-up middle section inserted between two slow renditions of "Amazing Grace." She exhibited plenty of grace but simple moves. Her tumbling runs consisted of single flips and twists, finished off with pretty poses, hand flourishes, and poorly concealed grimaces. Meanwhile, the last State gymnast made it through her balance beam routine with two passable aerials, several leaps and turns, and a clean dismount. The crowd applauded Eva's mistake-free performance, but Glendary's chance to overtake State in this rotation had been squandered.

Imogene was pessimistic that the home team could make up enough ground in its final rotation since the balance beam always presented difficulties. As all five team members warmed up on the apparatus, the pressure showed. Only Annie and Sara attempted aerial moves, and both fell. Shaky warm-ups were to be expected, but the idea that Eva might be substituted for Sara again made Imogene clench her fists. Even if Sara performed, it would take a miracle for Glendary to win this meet. All four gymnasts would need steady routines, and State would have to botch at least a couple of moves on the floor mat.

The two Glendary freshmen took the beam first and got through their routines shakily but without major mistakes. While they performed, the State gymnasts delivered competent but pedestrian floor exercise routines, enough to hold State's half-point lead. Then Annie attacked the balance beam while State's second-best gymnast took the floor mat. In the first twenty seconds, Annie pulled off two backward aerials in combination and two strong leaps, breathing new hope into the home crowd.

A gasp went up as the State gymnast stumbled during her middle tumbling run and went out of bounds, compounding her error. Here was a chance for Annie to seize the advantage by finishing strong. She paused before her third major move, a front somersault known locally as the Murphy flip. She somersaulted aggressively in the air and landed the flip to wild cheers. But as she straightened up, her ankles buckled. The crowd groaned to see her waver so precariously that she was forced to jump off the beam. She remounted and finished the routine to encouraging applause, but the tears flowed. Wiping her eyes, she bowed to the panel of three grim-faced judges and ran off the mat to bury her face on Coach Mueller's shoulder.

"Looks like all is lost," said Shelley.

"Maybe not," said Imogene. "Both teams made a mistake. There's still only a half-point difference."

"Which means, it's all cued up for Sara," said Jake. "But we said that before, didn't we? If Beatty sits her down again—"

"You gonna do something about it?" asked Shelley.

"I oughta go over there and bop the asshole with something," said Jake. "Anybody got a handy beer bottle?"

"She looks so ready and confident," remarked Imogene. "I don't see how he can hold her back this time."

Sara seemed to know this. She stood beside the beam, awaiting the head judge's go-ahead signal, listening to Mueller's last-second advice. She glanced at the left bleachers, acknowledging the presence of her family with a sly smile. Emily's roving cameraman moved close to capture her facial expression. She favored him with a wink.

"Sara's nervous as hell, but she's hiding it," said Jake. "Actually, I'm nervous as hell. The crowd feels volatile."

"Everything's cool," said Shelley. "I see both your roadies are here, deployed on opposite sidelines. No doubt helping to keep the peace."

Jake seemed to flinch at this notion. Imogene spotted Beano sitting in the front row on the far side. He seemed to be shaking the hand, or the wing, of the Hawk mascot, who had wandered over to talk to him. A ruckus behind Imogene caused her to look back. Marianne had moved her camera close to Rosslyn Murphy's face, and her mother-in-law looked ready to faint from the pressure. Brent was standing by as if to catch her when she fell.

"Besides, the good Reverend is over there, spreading peace and love," added Shelley, pointing to the top row of the opposite bleachers. Reverend Jennings had risen to his feet and begun spraying peace signs in every direction with a desperate earnestness. Lila stood beside him, imitating his gestures.

"So, how're you gonna protect your little sister from this flaky crowd?" asked Shelley.

Jake looked at her, and then away, shrugging.

"He can't do anything," said Imogene. "It's not in anyone's control."

"You think I can't?" Jake gave Imogene an incredulous look. "We'll see about that."

He stood up and surveyed the scene. Something caught his eye in the stands across the gym.

"Excuse me, ladies. I'm being summoned."

"By who?" exclaimed Imogene and Shelley.

They watched with the awestruck crowd as Jake left the bleachers and strode across the floor mat. He cut in front of the State gymnast who was posed to begin her routine. Reaching the opposite side, he walked past Sara, who was murmuring something as she posed next to the balance beam. He dodged in between Mueller and Beatty, giving the athletic director a long look. When he reached the right-side bleachers, he turned and nodded apologetically to both gymnasts.

The simultaneous routines began with the crowd still riveted on Jake as he confronted Beano. Both men were six feet tall, but the roadie had twice the girth and muscularity of the musician. When Beano raised his tattooed arm, Jake stepped back.

But Beano was pointing to the Hawk mascot, who pranced on the sideline no more than ten feet from the balance beam. Jake approached the Hawk, imitating his cheerleading antics. At almost the identical moment, the State gymnast stumbled and fell at the end of her first tumbling run. Imogene wondered if Jake had disrupted the athlete's concentration when he cut across her path before she began. Would she demand a takeover? Sara, with the same distraction, had accomplished a difficult sequence on the beam—an aerial cartwheel, a back walkover, and a back layout.

The door had swung open for the Glendary women. If Sara completed what looked so far like an inspired performance, the small school would achieve a stunning upset against the biggest sports power in the region. But this was lost on the spectators who saw Jake grab the mascot from behind and wrestle him to the ground.

"Great choreography," remarked Shelley. Imogene couldn't tell whether she was referring to Sara's routine or Jake's moves. These began to look less playful when the mascot and the rock star rolled over several times. The diminutive but strong Hawk ended up on top and brought out a sharp, shiny object. Jake reached for the broken bottle just in time to prevent it from cutting his face.

Since much of the audience that day had missed it, Sara recreated her winning routine as part of her senior honors thesis in physical education. So intense had been her concentration during the performance, she could not pinpoint the moment when the pointed edge of the weapon sliced into Jake's hand, cutting him badly enough to jeopardize his guitar-playing career. As she described it, she heard screams on all sides after dismounting the beam and basked in what she thought were cheers for her.

Jake disentangled himself from his assailant and embraced Sara without a sign of distress. She saw his blood on her leotard without thinking it was strange. Adding to the unreality of the moment was the Hawk's reaction. He pointed to the bottle lying on the floor as if he had never seen it before. Then he pointed to Beano, who swore at him and turned to leave, but got caught up in the swarming crowd. Even when Reverend Jennings fought his way down to the floor and begged for calm, Sara persisted in believing that he was there, like everyone else, to congratulate her.

Sara told Imogene she was still gathering her thoughts about the incident as she mapped out her thesis weeks later. There was no doubt in her mind that her brother had been a hero, but she suspected there were more villains than met the eye. Something clicked when Emily screened parts of her video for a select audience just before Thanksgiving vacation. Sara wondered how Emily and her mentor Mark Piluras always managed to place their camera exactly where the action would be. And why did that broken bottle keep turning up like a motif? Could the video makers be manipulating events? Nonsense, exclaimed Emily: a director of documentaries never incites the action but anticipates it.

The two people arrested in the incident had been released on bail. The Hawk mascot, Eva's boyfriend, was charged with the assault while Beano was accused of supplying the weapon. Sara predicted that both would plead ignorance or a misunderstanding and get off. She supposed the Hawk could justifiably claim self-defense since Jake had jumped him. But she was incredulous when Beano insisted he had no idea where he had gotten the bottle.

It must have been planted on him during the twenty-four-hour drinking spree leading up to the incident. The Hawk had spotted it sticking almost obscenely out of Beano's pants pocket and had borrowed it to use as a prop for his cheerleading routine. The Hawk professed to have nothing against Sara, even if his girlfriend was competing against her in the meet. The bottle was only a tease; he was sorry the joke had gotten out of hand.

As for Beano, he could hardly deny being angry with Jake for breaking up the band and jeopardizing his job. Yet he had been doing that job instinctively when he perceived the Hawk as a threat to Sara and summoned Jake from across the gym. Once the roadie returned to New York, he fired back at his boss with a lawsuit for breech of contract and back pay. Eva's boyfriend, deprived of his sideline sports career, returned to his divinity classes. Sara tried to avoid eye contact with the holy trinity that lived and prayed next door.

As the honors theses developed, Sara and Imogene read parts aloud to each other. Their discussions included Shelley, who still lived in the corner room in Emily's continuing absence, and had chosen Van Gogh as her own thesis topic. Imogene, with her father's permission, was taking a break from her kitchen job to concentrate on her project. Sara had stuck to her guns in refusing the dry treatise originally proposed by her advisors on "The Physiology of a Gymnastics Routine." Pursuing an alternative theme, she had turned to the two humanities majors to help her describe the thoughts and emotions that had inspired her memorable balance beam performance. She applauded Imogene's similar efforts to rise above academic jargon in "The Spirit of Byron" and Shelley's willingness to grapple with artistic madness. As autumn deepened toward winter, creative excitement filled the corner room.

"At the climax of the meet," read Sara in a dramatic tone, sitting at her desk, "I was like an orphan abandoned in the middle of a four-ring circus. I stood at the center of attention, but with no connection to the previous events." She went on to describe Beatty's odd strategy of making her cool her heels three times before giving her a chance in the final rotation.

She paused and smiled at her audience. "You think the orphan bit is a little over the top?"

"Maybe. But it really sets the scene," said Imogene.

Sara resumed reading. "The crowd was tricky too. I was performing in front of a colorful brew of fans, enemies, and family. Most athletes feel strengthened by having their loved ones nearby at times like this. But my mother and brother were poisoning the atmosphere with their hostility toward each other. I knew they would have it out, sooner or later.

"There was another pitfall right in front of me—someone armed with a video camera who was obviously waiting for me to stumble. But the teammate who had performed before me had already fallen, and Glendary couldn't afford another disaster. To prove I was unaffected, I winked boldly at that evil eye."

"Strike 'boldly,'" said Imogene.

"Right. No adverbs," agreed Sara. She read on, "Visualizing your performance before you begin is a useful technique. But the vision that kept coming at me was a flying bottle, like the one I had ducked onstage the night before. All in all, the setup was less than ideal for a great performance. Could I reach down within myself and overcome these odds?"

"The cliché police will get you for that one," said Shelley.

"But my point is," said Sara, "the answer to that question is no. I may be a survivor, but even I can't win with all the cards stacked against me. I had to rally some kind of support that wouldn't fail me. Girls, if I hadn't talked my way past those security guards the night before to visit Jim in the hospital, and he hadn't given me his words of wisdom, despite his grogginess—there's no way I would have pulled off that routine."

"What did he say?" asked Imogene.

"Just, 'I want you to go out there tomorrow and be totally yourself. Failure isn't in you.'"

"Aren't you getting a little off topic here?" asked Shelley. "This is a thesis, not a romantic novel."

"I'm trying to show that an athlete isn't a machine. I want Beatty and everyone else in the department to realize that feelings—maybe even love—are sometimes what make victory possible."

"I like the personal touch," said Imogene. "Go on."

"The last thing I did was mutter a little prayer, hoping to counteract some of the venom being directed at me by the local religious nuts. Then I mounted the beam with the idea of living up to my fiancé's image of me. That didn't mean being perfect, but just going about it with showmanship and without hesitation. It wasn't going to be easy because I started out cold and nervous. My first few moves were about dodging a phantom bottle. The aerial cartwheel was done by pure instinct. When my feet came down, they hardly felt the beam; my toes gripped it for dear life. Somehow I stayed upright and attacked the back walkover and back layout. Then I hammed up a series of leaps and turns.

"Once my flexibility came back, I began to feel the crowd's intensity. I heard some oohs and ahs out there. Then I posed and took a breath before my biggest trick, the punch-front somersault that my fans call the Murphy flip. Just as I was preparing to nail it, my brother was getting nailed right below me. Truthfully, if he had gotten killed, I wouldn't have known or cared. I was that zoned in."

"What a thing to say," said Shelley, resettling comfortably on her floor cushion.

"The technique," continued Sara, "consisted of two running steps, then two planted feet and a strong push off. The somersault felt quick and tight in the air, but the blind landing is always tricky with the feet so close together. When I felt them hit the beam with authority, I was home free. That's when I heard the crowd roar.

"I finished the routine confidently—strike 'confidently'—with two back walkovers into a double twist dismount. I felt nothing but relief as I preened for my teammates, my coaches, the crowd, the judges, and most of all, my family. When Jake hugged me, what could have been wrong? I knew I had helped Glendary College achieve a historic victory. But in that same instant, insanity came crashing down all around us."

"It's still all around us," said Shelley. "This dorm is full of land mines. There's Weird Lila right next door, and my estranged roomie Betty several doors down."

"I guess I can deal with Lila being my neighbor," said Sara, "as long as she stays in therapy."

"So can I," said Imogene, "but it looks like she's getting some of her therapy from Reverend Jennings. After the service last Sunday, I saw him walking toward back-campus with her. You think they were headed for his cabin in the woods?"

"So what if they were?" asked Sara.

Imogene shrugged. Lately she had taken to attending Jennings' sermons in the nature of research. He was preaching forgiveness for everyone, sidestepping the fact that Lila's harmlessly thrown bottle had triggered a series of more lethal acts. Imogene had also dug into an archive of Jennings' Vietnam-era sermons, which had begun in 1968, when he was a graduate student in theology. That was the year a bomb had exploded in the administration office where draft registration records were kept. Shortly afterward, Jennings had preached a sermon built around the Byron Robarts marching anthem "Impractical Dream," advocating understanding and forgiveness for the unknown perpetrator.

"I'd have to say, Shel," said Sara, "it's your feud with Betty that's really disrupting the hall dynamic. You must miss those TV and snack fests with your old friends every evening. You talk about them so nostalgically."

"Look, I know now my old friends are a disgrace to femininity," said Shelley. "I really can't go home again, girls. I liberated myself from Betty's tyranny the night of the dance and mortally insulted her by asserting a whole new life for myself outside her domain. She's the Avenging Angel of Clemens, you know—she'll repay me sooner or later. But I do want to thank you guys, if I haven't already, for letting me hang out here."

"We're glad to have you," said Imogene. "But if Emily should come back—"

"Everything will be cool as long as the administration is in denial about Emily and Mark," said Sara. "So far they're buying the cover story that it's just an intense artistic collaboration, and she still officially lives here."

"They should fire his ass and expel her," said Imogene. "And I'm not so sure the police shouldn't be investigating those two for inciting violence."

"Forget about it," said Sara. "They're sticking with their story. They don't know where the bottles came from, or maybe they do. Either way, those were only props for their video."

"All that legal stuff is out of our hands," said Shelley. "Time to think up a big finish for your paper, Sara."

"I just need to stick in a few dry physiological details, and then I'm done," said Sara.

"No way," said Shelley. "You still haven't gotten across the earth-shattering effects of your victory."

"I haven't?" exclaimed Sara. "That must be why I keep you artistic types around—to give me flowery language when I need it. Got anything, Imogene?"

After pondering for a moment, Imogene said, "How about this? 'I dismounted the beam into a new world full of hostilities but also possibilities. It was an adult world where I might soon have to support both my injured brother and our unemployed mother. Before my feet hit the mat, I had sketched out plans for my own film production company to be launched right after I graduate next spring.'"

"Great stuff," said Sara, laughing. "Keep going. Tell me more about this brave new world I've landed in."

"Here's a more pessimistic take," said Shelley. "'I dismounted the beam into a snake pit, where the criminal justice system has no teeth and bottle-throwers and other miscreants are too easily forgiven. It's a world where people commit violent acts and pass them off as symbolic gestures of great political or spiritual import. Or if that doesn't fly, they claim self-defense or sheer confusion.'"

"It's this Spirit of Byron you're spreading around, Imogene," said Sara. "It's gotten hold of Jake too. Last time we talked, he thanked me for dragging him back here for Homecoming so his fate could work itself out. His injured hand is a sign, he says, that it's time to put his career on hold and start concentrating on family, like Byron did."

"We might need to squelch your thesis, Imogene," said Shelley, "if the Spirit of Byron is spooky enough to turn rock stars into passive shells."

"My advisor favors the pacifist theme," said Imogene. "He can't stand anything that sounds the least bit cynical. Every time I take him a revision, he asks, 'But where's the poetry?'"

"That's sweet," said Sara. "But how sweet would it be if all the attackers got off scot-free? Charlie's the one who frightens me. Christ, he could have killed Jake when he smashed that bottle into his skull. Afterwards he wanders downtown and ends up drinking in some dive with an off-duty cop. If he hadn't been drunk enough to spill the beans, he might've walked away."

"And then they release him anyway," said Imogene, "as if it were just a drunken prank."

"Jake doesn't want to press charges," said Sara, "even though there's a rumor Charlie might join Beano's breech of contract lawsuit."

"It all supports my thesis," said Imogene. "I'm trying to demonstrate that peace movements can lead to violence, but the opposite is also true."

Imogene went on sparring with Shelley, but she could see that Sara had tuned them out, having drawn her own conclusions. Sara would end her paper on a high note, knowing she could conquer future obstacles as she had demolished the competition at the meet. The girl's got panache, Imogene thought.

On a frosty Thursday evening in late November, Emily dropped by the corner room for the first time in weeks and invited Imogene, Sara, and Shelley to a final screening of her video. "Not that it's a total wrap," she amended. "It still needs a big finish. But this is the last time we'll be showing parts of it to select audiences before it's ready for general release."

"If you don't mind, I'd rather wait for the reviews," said Sara.

"You'd be smart to check out this particular sequence," said Emily, "since it deals with your family. Be at the drama building, third-floor screening room, tomorrow at seven p.m. sharp." She turned on her heel and exited.

The three women made their way to the drama building at the appointed time. Sara greeted Mark Piluras familiarly while Emily stumbled in her effort to introduce the others. She seemed only vaguely aware of having seen Shelley before and knew nothing about Imogene beyond the fact that she was a roommate.

"Don't strain yourself, Emily," said Shelley. "We really shouldn't need introductions, Mr. Piluras. Both Imogene and I absolutely reveled in your Beginning Acting and Literature of the Theatre courses." Mark Piluras apologized for his forgetfulness and managed to charm them in the process.

Imogene and Shelley were quickly forgotten as the video makers put on a chilling demonstration of their power to expose people. Sara sat stewing as she watched a series of still photographs of herself, her brother, and her mother. The sound accompaniment could only have been obtained by a microphone planted in the corner room during a private meeting between the three Murphys on the Monday afternoon after Homecoming weekend.

The tape was garbled, the dialogue only intermittently understandable, but the emotions were unmistakable. Jake was demanding to know how much of an increase in her monthly allowance would make his mother go away peaceably. Rosslyn insisted she had not come east for the purpose of bilking him; if that had been her object, she could have stayed home and phoned in her request to the accountant, Mr. Pierce. Her dream had been to embrace her children, both publicly and privately. Failing that, she demanded a measure of respect.

As the hostilities flared, Sara tried to mediate. Her mother and brother turned on her and accused her of reducing the meeting to a negotiation. In a sarcastic tone, Jake offered his sister an allowance increase commensurate with the one he was offering their mother. It was then that Sara, rising to the heights of indignation, came through loud and clear on the tape. "Shove your damned allowance, Jake. Both your band and your company are going down the tubes. So if you plan on maintaining a rock-star lifestyle, maybe you better hold onto your nest egg."

The sound faded and then returned as Sara held forth on her plans. She announced her intention to meet with Leroy Pierce during the upcoming winter break to discuss ideas for salvaging Peace Enterprises. They had determined to remake it into the powerhouse it once was, both financially and creatively. If all went well, Sara would begin taking on projects for the company after she graduated in May. Someday, she taunted her mother and brother, they would be coming to her for handouts.

The tape came to an abrupt end. Emily and Piluras applauded Sara as if she had delivered a soliloquy in a play. She glowered at them.

"Looks like I'll be introducing the two of you to the Murphy family lawyer. He'll tell you in plain language what to expect if that little scene ever sees the light of day."

"Not necessary," said Emily. "We would never use the sequence if you object to it. We honestly weren't out to embarrass you, Sara. We were really just demonstrating some new techniques. Besides, it might have some value as a record of your family meeting. The way you took charge was magnificent."

"Worthy of an encore," added Piluras.

"What a pile of crap," said Sara. "You may think you've got the whole campus over a barrel because you know how to point a camera and plant a mike. But you don't scare me."

Emily and Piluras continued to heap praise on Sara's performance that day until she forgave what should have been an intolerable invasion of her privacy. Imogene's admiration for Sara was slightly shaken. I hope we'll always be friends, she thought. But it looks like anybody can get around her by massaging her ego.

TV stations in Baltimore and Washington rarely covered events at the small-town college in the hills, but the Homecoming sports angles had gotten their attention. Jim Guthrie's Lazarus-like rise from his hospital bed after three days of semi-consciousness made a heartwarming story. He was filmed hobbling around campus with a cane to support his bad knee and a large bandage wrapped around his head. While milking his injuries for the cameras, he declared his intention to be ready for the Division Three playoffs if the team made it that far. Sara, interviewed with him, tapped his bandage and joked about the head-clearing effects of his injury. She described her own sports victory, partly inspired by his sickbed advice. She let it slip that her performance had been caught on videotape with a backdrop of violence.

The big-city media began inquiring into Emily's video and the events it depicted. The buildup to its official release intensified as the drama department leaked a few details. Soon the Baltimore police chief was questioning the diligence of local authorities in pursuing the assaults while church leaders responded to rumors that the video slammed the religious movement on campus. In mid-December, Paul Claitt, speaking on behalf of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, was interviewed on a Washington newscast.

That evening, first-floor Clemens divided into predictable factions to watch his appearance. The local God Squad—Eva, Annie, Lila, and a few worshipers from upstairs—sequestered itself behind a closed door. Several giggly football fans, led by Carolyn, joined Imogene and her roommates in the corner room while Emily continued to stay away. Down the hall, Betty gathered her own followers with the usual popcorn and Coke inducements.

"You're one of the most prominent leaders of a major campus religious revival that is making itself felt throughout western Maryland and southern Pennsylvania," the interviewer told Paul. "What do you think has sparked this movement?"

"We've been under attack, especially lately," said Paul, smiling at her while thrusting out his chin. "We've always stood up to ridicule without flinching. But now, our own drama department is taking aim at us in a video. Their plot is to bring us down by showcasing us."

"How will they do that?"

"By taping some of our prayer meetings, and trying to embarrass us by showing them totally out of context."

"How do you know that's their intention?"

"Because that's the kind of people they are," said Paul, "and I know how they feel about people like us. It's common knowledge that the student director of this video is in an immoral relationship with the faculty advisor who's overseeing her project. Apparently, they don't like what we have to say about their affair."

"Interesting," said the interviewer. "But what, specifically, do you object to in the video?"

"We believe they're going to trump up occasions when we asked God's blessing on certain Christian athletes who were later defeated in competition. Those of us who play sports are used to getting humbled. We learn more from those experiences than we do from victories."

"Speaking of victories and defeats, I understand Glendary followed up its Homecoming football loss to Maryland State with a big win in women's gymnastics," remarked the interviewer.

"Yes, we all rejoiced over that." Paul's smile intensified.

"Wasn't that the occasion when your movement was accused of promoting its own athletes exclusively, and ignoring or even denouncing others?"

"Absolutely not true. We thank God for all of Glendary's successes. We root for and pray for all our athletes, including those who aren't part of the Christian community."

"He's lying," said Sara over the broadcast.

"He's paranoid," said Imogene. "I don't think Emily and Piluras are out to destroy the born-agains. They're just exploiting them for dramatic purposes."

"You got that right," said Sara. "I'm the one they're out to destroy."

"Who's paranoid now?" asked Shelley.

The football fans exclaimed that Paul was "adorable" when angry and seemed to regard his growing fanaticism as a quirk. He needed a feisty woman, Carolyn opined, to shake him out of that.

"Another cold shower for you, pronto," said Shelley.

The group fell silent when the interviewer said, "Why don't we say hello to your fiancée?" Christine was introduced, and she and Paul held hands.

"They do look kind of perfect together, don't they?" remarked Carolyn grudgingly. Developing a quick headache, she left the corner room as soon as the broadcast was over, not staying for the post-mortems. The consensus among the remaining women was that the June wedding of Christine and Paul would be the event of the year, although no one was optimistic about being invited.

"It's romantic as hell, but what's the big rush?" asked Shelley. "They've been dating all of two months."

"Barely enough time to get to second base," said Sara, "if that's even theologically permissible."

"Christine looks happy," said Imogene, "but I don't know—a little uncomfortable too. Like her new life doesn't quite fit."

Imogene's weekly conferences with her thesis adviser were growing argumentative. Inspired by recent events, she was building "The Spirit of Byron" around the theme of chaos. Byron himself, she pointed out, had harnessed this phenomenon when he set fire to his guitar onstage or threatened to. Jake had caused a small conflagration in his own right before ending his Homecoming concert in a cascade of noise. His exit "music" resembled the free-form third album that Imogene had previewed at Peace Enterprises—a work tentatively entitled _Chaos_.

"You were supposed to prove," Mr. Jaffee reminded her, "that Jake's rock and roll has been poeticized by his association with Byron. So where's the poetry?"

"It's an avant-garde style of poetry," protested Imogene, "suited to our confused times."

Mr. Jaffee shook his head and pronounced her ideas convoluted. He suggested it was not too late to switch her thesis topic back to something more manageable, like one of the suicidal poets he had recommended originally.

"You could even study me, if you're interested." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a volume of self-published poetry. Imogene took the slim book back to her room and read it in one sitting. Its despairing tones made her even more determined to stick with "The Spirit of Byron." The Sunburst, together or apart, represented the opposite of suicide; the chaos at the band's core had been joyous and life-giving.

After Thanksgiving vacation, Imogene's stress level increased even as her self-image improved. She suspected her adviser was coming on to her; she was planning a winter break trip to New York with her semi-reconciled boyfriend; and she felt slightly guilty that she had had sex with her roommate's brother. Should she confess this to Sara in the name of friendship? She had told no one, despite the bragging potential in the hall. Jake had not written or phoned her, but that was okay. Their self-indulgent romp in the grass would remain just that. Steve never asked how she had learned to make love but seemed to appreciate her new prowess.

Imogene felt responsible for Mr. Jaffee's intermittent moroseness, as if she had let him down by failing to prove her original thesis to his satisfaction. Imogene discussed this problem with Sara, who came up with an idea. Imogene should contact Eric, who had been Byron's closest ally in the Sunburst. Sara had heard a rumor that Eric was playing gigs in New York coffeehouses. The idea of a musician regenerating his folk career after a high-profile stint in a rock band might support Imogene's thesis.

Imogene telephoned the Peace Enterprises public relations office and learned that a newly formed trio called Sunburst Two was appearing in a Greenwich Village club. The group consisted of Eric on acoustic guitar, Keith on electric piano, and Barney, the ambitious parking attendant, on drums. While company lawyers had questioned their use of the name, the group was reportedly beginning to attract a following.

Imogene presented this development to her advisor as nothing short of miraculous. What else but the Spirit of Byron could reunite polar opposites Keith and Eric? Maybe the spirit of survival, suggested Mr. Jaffee, but he perked up at the news. Imogene assured him her upcoming trip to New York would include a scouting expedition to Greenwich Village.

Imogene kept exerting herself to prove that the Spirit of Byron was catching on. The recent violent incidents, she suggested, might have shocked the campus factions into a cease-fire. Paul and Christine's engagement had neutralized all memories of that evening when she and the other Homecoming princesses had provoked the God Squad by prancing in a dining hall "chorus line." Even Imogene's religious neighbors had grown friendlier. For the moment, they had stopped driving everyone crazy with late night praying and hymn singing, and were instead inviting their hallmates to join them for occasional sing-alongs. Lila was gradually mastering the acoustic guitar and rendering both praise songs and folk songs in her own slightly off-key but heartfelt style. She startled Sara a few times by seeking her out and asking her advice about complicated chord changes.

Imogene cited this to Jaffee as evidence that folk music was helping to moderate the religious community. It was a ruse, her advisor declared. The born-agains were only gathering steam before they would rise up against Reverend Jennings's gentle, embrace-all spiritualism. Their hackles were being raised by Jennings's political aspirations; their reaction would be extreme since fanaticism was at the core of their beliefs. Some day they would shoot down Jennings in his pulpit, or bomb the chapel, or burn guitars to protest any music that was not God-fearing enough for them. Jaffee's counter-theory leaped ahead to some future time when global bloodshed between the forces of intolerance and enlightenment would threaten the survival of mankind. Imogene, unnerved, thought he might be paranoid. But he might be right.

Annie and Eva, in their continuing friendliness campaign, dropped by one afternoon to tell Sara that she would get their votes for the Palmer Trophy. This annual award was given at the end of the fall semester to the athlete "who best exemplified courage and discipline in his or her sport." A few days later, Sara learned that she had won the trophy—a historic victory since every previous winner had been a football player. She would be honored, along with winners of other trophies in various disciplines, at a reception hosted by President Edelson at his residence.

While Sara was sharing this news with Imogene and Shelley, Lynne Mason knocked on their half-open door. She frowned at them as if their setup of the past several weeks had finally gotten to her. She demanded to know where Emily was.

"Beats us," said Imogene. "She only comes in about once a week to pick up more clothes and cosmetics."

"She never sleeps here?" The housemother eyed Emily's bed, where Shelley was sitting.

"She doesn't even nap here," said Sara. "You've got to realize, she's too busy and multi-talented to confine herself to dorm life. She's getting her kick-ass video ready for professional broadcast."

"She's been lending me her bed while she's gone," said Shelley, "and probably doesn't even realize it. I plan to thank her one of these days."

"You're not supposed to be living in this room," Ms. Mason told Shelley, growing red-faced. "Emily is. You girls can't change your living arrangements without official approval."

"What're you gonna do about it?" asked Shelley. "I can't go home again, and Emily won't come home."

Ms. Mason persisted in questioning them on Emily's whereabouts, eliciting a few suppressed giggles. "Next time you see her," concluded the housemother, preparing to depart, "please tell her to report to my office."

"The only way to see her quickly would be to roust her out of Piluras's cabin in the woods," said Sara. "But you might want to drop by the awards ceremony at the president's house this Friday. I have a feeling she'll be videotaping the Palmer Trophy presentation, since it's named after her father and he's presenting it to me."

"I'll be there," said Ms. Mason as she stalked out of the room.

A large crowd had jammed into the president's reception room for the last big event before exam week. Emily and her camera crew were nowhere to be found. Sara looked around in evident disappointment. "The jealous bitch," she murmured to Imogene and Shelley. "She's decided not to publicize my getting her father's award."

"Look on the bright side," replied Imogene. "She's had everybody on edge for weeks with her damned video. Now that the camera's off, you can let loose in your acceptance speech."

"Good point," said Sara, brightening.

"You shouldn't have put that idea in her head, Imogene," said Shelley.

"Don't worry about me," said Sara. "I have time to think of something uplifting to say since I'm up last. It's Skip Palmer I'm concerned about. Looks like he's trying to be one of the guys." She turned and waved to Jim near the back of the room, where at least half the football team and Skip were socializing.

"Are they drunk?" asked Imogene. "It's only noon."

"They must've snuck in some booze," said Sara. "I just hope my presenter will be sober enough to hand me the trophy without dropping it."

Jim grinned and winked at Sara. He was now free of his head bandage and crutch. His friends on the team were whooping it up as if they had not ended their season on a five-game losing streak. Imogene guessed they were thankful that the agony had ended and were using the occasion to vent their feelings.

By tradition, the winner of the Palmer gave a speech that summed up the semester and allowed for applause lines. Today the crowd was growing impatient for the main event as "minor" awards were given out for student achievement in mathematics, physics, foreign languages, and poetry. President Edelson, introducing each of the department heads as presenters, looked befuddled by the rowdiness in the back rows. Imogene could hardly believe that this college president was an ex-football player himself, living proof that it took all kinds to make a team.

For the final award, Edelson called his former teammate, Athletic Director Judson Beatty, to the podium to introduce yet another star of that era, Skip Palmer. As Beatty thrust out his granite chin and scanned the room with cold blue eyes, the revelers subsided.

"I had hoped this would be an occasion to look back on a semester of solid achievement in our department." His frown deepened. "I had planned to congratulate the seniors on the progress they've made since they first came to Glendary. If I could point to a few signs of maturation, that would be a more positive legacy than any won-loss record."

The discomfort level in the room increased as everyone awaited the positive remarks that this occasion demanded. Beatty finally delivered reluctantly. "When you're a coach or a teacher, you get in the habit of pegging students who seem to have real potential to succeed in life. You try like hell to keep those kids on the rails, to make sure their dynamic personalities don't lead them toward self-indulgence. I define success in life as always moving forward, using all your God-given abilities, never getting stuck or too comfortable in one place."

He eyed Skip Palmer. "It's called growing up. Not everyone who wins accolades in college does the same in life. You can even have an award named after you, and not prove particularly worthy of it." He paused, and then cracked a smile in Sara's direction.

"But I have high hopes for the recipient of this trophy. She's shown me definite signs of growth in these past few months. You could learn something from her, Skip."

Beatty, having re-ignited some ancient feud, stepped aside for Palmer, who glared at him as he made his way toward the podium. Skip stumbled up the stairs, grabbed the trophy, and waved it over his head.

"Damn it, this is supposed to be a celebration, not lecture hall. So c'mon, Sara, get up here and grab this monstrosity before I hurl it at someone."

Sara hurried to the podium. Skip handed her the trophy and stormed out, shooting Beatty a dirty look.

Sara grinned at the unsettled crowd. "Well, there goes my sweetness-and-light speech. I had planned to start by congratulating everyone on the civility that seemed to take hold around here after the turmoil of Homecoming. And I really wanted to thank the whole campus for my gymnastics victory because it came against steep odds and really belongs to us all. But maybe it's a little premature to declare peace in our time. So I'm just gonna start thanking everybody I can think of.

"I know there are things nobody's supposed to talk about, but I can't resist this opportunity. I have to thank Athletic Director Beatty for forcing me to straighten out—and I mean that literally. Nothing short of force would've worked. Next, I want to thank my fiancé, Jim Guthrie, for proving to me, and everybody else, that two people from completely different worlds can fall in love. And I gotta thank his teammates too for finally understanding that jealousy destroys a team, and you can't win that way.

"I'd like to thank Paul Claitt, in his capacity as Student Government president, for allowing me to win this trophy. There are ways of fixing elections like this, and we both know he could have prevented this if he wanted to." She winked at Paul in the first row, startling him. Christine, who was holding his hand, squeezed it too hard.

Sara gestured toward the pair. "There's another example of love at first sight. Paul and Chrissie are still our campus golden couple two months after Homecoming, so maybe there's hope for us all. But something's wrong with the rest of this picture. Unless I'm mistaken, we have the religious football players segregated up front, and all the rowdies in back. Still doesn't look like a team, guys."

"You wanna make something of it?"

Karl Lamphere, Christine's ex-boyfriend, lurched to his feet and glared at the "golden couple" with mayhem in his eyes. Two teammates in the back row pulled him down.

"I'd also like to say a word about my brother Jake and his Homecoming performance. I know he didn't plan on breaking up his band that weekend. But his personal disaster freed him to go his own way, and the resulting strife forced us all to take a hard look at ourselves.

"My brother has a way of spreading both joy and chaos wherever he goes. If he spread a little too much, I apologize. Who knows how many coeds he turned into real women during his short stay?" Surveying her audience with a grin, Sara focused momentarily on Imogene. My God, thought Imogene, she knows. How did she find out, and why did she wait until now to bring it up? No one else seemed to notice except Shelley, who gave her a sidelong glance. Sara moved on, but Imogene felt as if a scarlet "G," for groupie, had been branded on her forehead.

"I know the concert that Saturday night got out of hand. But I believe Jake really intended to bring us harmony, or the spirit of Byron, or whatever you want to call it. He would have liked to take us back to Central Park, circa nineteen-seventy-three. But we obviously weren't ready for that message."

"You're still not ready," cried a squeaky voice behind Imogene. "You broke up with Byron, and Jake threw him out of the band. Have you even apologized to him? I've been trying to understand what you did, but I think you're just evil—and shallow."

Imogene turned to see Weird Lila jump to her feet, sputter for a moment, and then burst into tears. Sara stared at her, gripping the trophy as if in self-defense. But Lila, unarmed this time, ran out of the reception room.

"Okay, so some of us are still a bit on edge." Sara sighed and composed herself as the crowd tittered. She continued, "At least I can cite some personal progress. While Jake was here, I embraced my mother for the first time in ten years. We were a real family, at least momentarily.

"And speaking of family, where in hell is Emily? We're roommates—sisters in a way—so why didn't she videotape me receiving her father's trophy? I guess she has bigger fish to fry, as usual."

The football players in back booed Emily until Sara motioned them to calm down.

"Even without Emily's camera, I can create a bang-up photo opportunity. Could I ask my gymnastics teammates—Annie, Eva, and the rest—to join me up here? You should come too, Coach Mueller. You're the one who sent me up to compete that day, telling me to go for everything. Maybe that was desperation talking, but it worked. If I could split this trophy six ways, I would."

Sara posed with her teammates, the coach, and the trophy, setting off numerous flash bulbs. This show of unity earned a standing ovation with even the president and the athletic director joining in. Everyone laughed indulgently at Sara's initial failure to remember the names of her two freshman teammates. Once she was reminded, she apologized to Jeannie and Joyce and then promptly confused them with each other.

At the reception after the ceremony, the guests devoured platefuls of cookies while Jim and Sara were photographed kissing over the punch bowl. Once they had filled up on refreshments, most of the guests moved on to the dining hall for lunch. Jim and Sara agreed to meet over there in half an hour after Sara had carried her trophy back to the dorm and freshened up. Imogene, grateful to be free of kitchen duty, strolled back to Clemens with Sara and Shelley, enjoying a leisurely post-mortem.

"I can't believe what I'm capable of saying when someone hands me a microphone." Sara seemed pleased with herself. "How many people do you think I offended?"

"Nobody important," said Shelley. "Just your teammates, your roommates, the faculty, and the football team. Plus, you may or may not have accused the athletic director of assault. But personally, I was most shocked at something you didn't come right out and say—about Imogene."

"Oh, God, that," said Sara. "Sorry, Imogene. I didn't mean to blindside you, but I only found out from Marianne last night. She called just to say if she ever sees you again, she'll maim you."

Imogene tried not to gasp. "How did she find out?"

"The wife always finds out, sooner or later. Men aren't smart enough to hide those things forever. But I'm warning you, it's always the other woman's fault, never the husband's. She's forgiven Jake because that's in her best interests. You'll just have to stay out of her way while you're in New York. Maybe in a year or so, she'll get over it."

"She was prowling around campus that weekend herself," said Imogene. "She left him feeling—hungry."

"Starving, I'll bet," said Shelley. "I saw that rape-and-pillage gleam in his eyes when he was onstage. I could tell he was gonna grab some coed flesh before the weekend was over. But to think our own Imogene ended up as his victim."

"Victim?" exclaimed Imogene. "Are you kidding? I totally enjoyed it, and benefited from it. He was considerate, wonderful—I'm sorry, Sara, I shouldn't be talking—"

"You don't owe me an apology," said Sara. "You're both over twenty-one. I just hope you took precautions. I'm not ready to be an aunt twice in the same year."

Imogene had not been careful then, but she could assure Sara there was no harm done. Still, her roommate kept giving her sidelong glances. The footing between them had shifted slightly. Would that translate into greater respect?

"Why do you suppose Emily wasn't at the reception?" asked Shelley. "You practically accused her of blowing off both you and her father."

"If I was unfair, I'll apologize to her," said Sara. "On camera, if she insists."

The girls entered the dorm and marched down the hall, flashing the trophy on all sides. When they arrived at the corner room, they found the door ajar as usual but with the security chain on.

"What the hell?" Sara put down her prize and peered through the gap in the door. "What's going on in there?" She furrowed her brow. "Emily?"

"Sara?" answered a sprightly voice behind the door. "What're you doing home so soon? Why aren't you at the dining hall, soaking in the kudos? I need the room right now."

"So do I, fool," said Sara. "Open the goddamned door."

"I said, the room is occupied right now. Seriously, you should be out posing with the famous Palmer Trophy."

"What're you doing in there?" asked Imogene. "Having sex?"

"Using our space to screw your faculty advisor?" demanded Sara.

"Or maybe you just wanted your bed back?" put in Shelley. "All you had to do was ask."

"I'm not screwing anybody," said Emily, "but I'm being screwed. I'm taking a stand against the administration, which has suspended Mark and me for our private behavior."

"So you're barricading yourself in our room?" Sara punched the door with her fist, but the chain resisted her effort. "What will that accomplish?"

"If we aren't reinstated," said Emily, "there's no telling what I might do. I've only been home a half-hour, and I've come across a kitchen knife and a stash of drugs, courtesy of my roommates. A really desperate girl could get high and slash her wrists."

* * * * *

### Chapter Fifteen

My head is spinning. I set out to write a well-reasoned, scholarly paper that would please my department and enable me to graduate with honors in English. That might give me a leg up on my plan to head for New York after graduation and try to get into the publishing industry. But weird happenings keep blowing my theories out of the water. Where is the Spirit of Byron when kids are making anonymous phone threats, attacking one another with broken beer bottles, and in a new twist, putting up barricades and threatening suicide?

I've tried to step inside the skins of others who might have been touched by the Spirit of Byron in various ways. But I can't say for sure that it's ever become a real phenomenon to anyone but me. So now I'm trying out this free-form diary style. Maybe it'll help organize my thoughts into a thematic whole. My advisor says he doesn't want a young girl's effusions; he expects a paper with some academic credence, whatever the hell that means. I suspect what he really wants is to somehow discover the meaning of life through my hard work—like I'm supposed to give a depressed assistant professor a reason to live.

What can I tell him? That peace and love are about to break out? That kids will suddenly start marching the streets singing Byron's songs as they did when they were trying to stop the Vietnam War? A week ago, I could have at least assured him that no one has been killed or permanently maimed by factionalism so far.

This much I've learned: campus violence is triggered not by high-minded political causes but by petty fights. Maybe that's the case with all violence, even wars. Wasn't it a pretty face that launched a thousand ships? I can't remember enough from my Greek and Roman mythology class to know whether there was ever a deity called Envy. If so, she must be a goddess who roams the streets and halls of Glendary College.

When it comes to feelings like envy and lust, I can't avoid looking in the mirror. There was that night I was so fed up with Steve, I threw a beer bottle at his head and barely missed. Why did I let the broken shards lie against the wall like unfinished business? For all I know, those were the same ones that nearly took Sara down a few weeks later when she was onstage with Jake. The consequences of momentary anger, or even sarcasm, are unpredictable. I swear I was being facetious when I suggested to my father, during one of his rages against trespassers, that he might put rocks near his borders.

Did I send another subliminal message to the campus when I brought a carving knife home from my job in the kitchen? Or was it really just for cutting up pizza? I can't deny I've had visions of my two fiercely competitive roommates going at each other with weapons a little more lethal than pillows. In any fair fight, my money would be on Sara.

I'm not the most jealous girl in Clemens by a long shot. What about the dateless brigade? They never go out, never flirt seriously with their advisors, never even dreamed of hooking up with Jake Murphy when he was here. Carolyn and I could never be part of that crowd because we're too damned ambitious. In fact, except for the Jake item, Carolyn and I have a lot in common. We're unlucky enough to room with the two main beauties on campus, so you would think we have the most to be jealous about. Yet we're both reasonably happy to be semi-engaged to ordinary guys. Or are we?

I guess I shouldn't speak for Carolyn on that, although lately she's been setting herself up as Christine's new best friend. I've noticed they're going to meals together and borrowing each other's clothes. Carolyn has lent Christine one or two provocative dresses she can't always fit into herself. I get nervous watching Christine turn into a tart at her roommate's prodding, knowing she's going out with a moral prig like Paul.

What's Carolyn's motive, anyway? Yesterday morning in the bathroom, when I asked her how she thought things were going between Paul and Christine, she laughed in that catty way and said, "He can barely keep his hands off her. It's driving him crazy." Carolyn clammed up as soon as someone else came in, but as we were leaving, she whispered a prediction in my ear. "They won't last. Even beauty queens can get hurt, you know."

The locked-out roommates gazed at one another in confusion. Realizing that Emily was serious, they took turns pounding the door and shouting.

"Emily, cut the melodramatics," ordered Sara, yanking the chain again. "This isn't your private kingdom."

"If you've got a beef with the administration," said Imogene, "don't take it out on us."

"Really, is it something we did?" asked Shelley.

"Maybe we should call the police. Or the rescue squad," said Imogene.

"Don't call anybody," said Emily, "except President Edelson. I'll only deal with him."

The pounding and shouting aroused the hall and attracted a crowd. Paul and Christine slipped out of her room and approached, looking slightly disheveled. Carolyn, who had been pacing the hall while the room was occupied, chose to make an issue of it. "You took long enough," she snapped at the golden couple. Turning to Sara and Imogene, she exclaimed, "You're locked out too? Emily must have somebody in there with her. What's this place turning into, a—a brothel?"

"She says she's alone," said Sara. "She's trying to convince us she might kill herself over a dispute with the administration."

"Personally, I consider this one of her better performances," said Shelley.

"Just another crisis in the corner room." Betty had popped up over Shelley's shoulder, scowling as if her ex-roommate were to blame.

"We always suspected it was a den of iniquity, didn't we?" replied Shelley. "Living there these past weeks has been a real blast."

"Emily just couldn't be suicidal," said Carolyn in a fascinated voice. "She's one of the most popular girls on campus."

Christine turned on her. "You don't think beauty queens are human too?"

The "holy trinity" gathered for an instant prayer meeting. Eva and Annie prayed aloud, accompanied by Lila's soft singing. Paul began mumbling under his breath.

Christine looked at him in alarm. "Honey? Shouldn't you—shouldn't we—be praying too?"

"I'm trying." Paul took a deep breath, but the words died on his tongue.

"It's no use. I'm not in a state of grace right now. I'm in more of a mood to knock down that door."

"Hold on, hot dog," said Sara. "That's my door too, and I'm not ready to sacrifice it. So just back away, please. Would everybody shut up for a minute so I can talk to my roommate?"

The hall fell silent. Sara stepped up to the gap in the door. "Emily, you're inconveniencing people who actually live here. They need to go about their business. So why don't you jump out the window head first and get it over with? Or if you want to impress President Edelson, go over to the administration building and hurl yourself from the third floor."

"Ha, ha. You're a riot, Sara."

The wild tone of Emily's laughter alarmed Imogene. "Are you high?" she asked.

"She must be," exclaimed Eva. "Now the truth is finally coming out." She pointed to the Palmer Trophy and then at Sara. "Have you competed under the influence of drugs?"

"You're just jealous, Sermonette," said Shelley. "Sara whipped your ass when she competed against you. She whipped everybody's ass. I know. I was there."

"But Eva's right about this," announced schoolmarm Betty. "It's high time someone cleaned up the corner room."

The crowd laughed at her choice of words. Betty flushed and turned on Imogene. "Have you been partying in there every night?"

"You know the last time we partied," said Imogene. "You partied too. Sara has always shared whatever she has with the hall. She's never been secretive about it."

"We'll see what Lynne Mason has to say about that." Betty stormed down the hall toward the housemother's room.

"This is way out of Ms. Mason's league," said Emily. "Maybe someone really should call the cops, just to check out this stash in Sara's drawer. I could make myself a Murphy cocktail right now, and violate several Federal statutes."

"I'm in the mood for a Murphy cocktail myself," said Shelley. "Maybe afterward I could get in the mood to dance naked in the hall."

"You shouldn't joke about illegal drugs," said Annie, more wide-eyed than ever. "They can kill you."

"You wouldn't know an illegal drug if it bit you in the ass," responded Carolyn.

"That 'Murphy cocktail' business is pure fantasy," said Sara. "It's true I borrowed some tranquilizers from my brother while he was here since we both went through unbelievable stress. And I've got some painkillers on hand for sports injuries. And a flask of whiskey, and maybe a little pot left over from Jake's surprise package. But damn it, none of that stuff's supposed to be mixed together."

"I had a Murphy cocktail once," piped up Lila, "sort of by accident."

Again with that squeaky voice, Imogene reflected, that never gets noticed until it delivers a bombshell. As Sara stared at her, Lila continued, "That's what I've been trying to confess to you for weeks, but you're always running from me. It happened the day before the Homecoming dance when you were away in New York. I'm sorry to say I—invaded your privacy."

"Can I ask why?"

"You never invite me in. I guess the devil took advantage of my hurt feelings, and lured me into evil. But it wasn't just me. Several girls snuck into your room that day and got into your stash. Why did I do it? I guess I was looking for something to make me feel—powerful, like you."

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Sara grinned, perhaps remembering Lila's errant aim with a beer bottle.

"More than you realize."

Before anyone could pursue this, Betty arrived with Lynne Mason. The housemother was in a mood to confront Sara. "Tell me about these drugs you've got hidden in your room."

"I'm not hiding anything," said Sara. "There's nothing you haven't seen, or smelled, before. If you were paying attention."

"Discipline her later, Lynne," said Betty. "First we've got to get Emily out of there before she does herself harm."

Ms. Mason, stymied, suggested calling the town rescue squad. "I don't need rescuers, Ms. Mason," said Emily. "I'm not sick or injured yet, but I am angry. Get President Edelson here, and I'll talk."

"The president doesn't visit dormitories," said the housemother. "I don't know what we can do about that."

Paul's head had been bowed in prayer. He snapped out of his reverie and declared, "God is giving me the strength to break down that door."

"Please, dear," said Christine, holding him back, "let me try talking to her first."

Christine stepped up to the gap in the door. "Emily, we're old friends, so you can tell me. Has something gone wrong between you and Mark Piluras? I always thought you were crazy to take up with a professor when you could have any guy you wanted on campus."

"Don't you understand? I'm past the guys on this campus," returned Emily. "Mark and I are in love. You'll never get what that means, Chrissie, as long as you're trapped in some juvenile Homecoming fairy tale of your own."

Christine stepped back as if she had been slapped in the face. Imogene came forward, incensed. "So Mark Piluras is behind this? It's his battle you're fighting? What kind of SOB is he?"

"I'll tell you what kind he is," said Sara. "The kind whose ass should be run out of town on a rail. And you should feel free to join him, Emily."

"Maybe we'll all go down together," said Emily, "my roommates and me. Think about it, Ms. Mason. These girls left me alone in our room with a weapon and mind-altering drugs."

As the housemother turned her most impressive scowl on Imogene and Sara, Imogene saw her college career flash before her eyes. She would be jeered by her hallmates, dragged before the disciplinary board, questioned by the police. Her chance at marriage would be squandered, her career prospects choked off, her graduation in doubt—and all because she had left a pizza knife in plain view.

"Back away from the weapon and the drugs, Emily," said Sara. "We're all tremendously impressed with your act, but that's all it is. I get the feeling you're writing a movie as you go along, and Piluras is directing it from afar."

Sara's probably right, thought Imogene with a surge of relief. But Christine shook her honey-blonde head. "How can we be sure she's faking? She doesn't sound like the Emily I know."

"That's because I'm not like you anymore, Chrissie," said Emily. "I blew off the pep squad and the Homecoming court. So just in case I'm not faking, someone with influence better get his Excellency here on the double." Lynne Mason, vowing that she had such clout, rushed down the hall to her office.

Paul flexed his throwing arm several times. He grabbed his shoulder and winced. "I'm

gonna need help with this. I'm going back to the dorm and round up some of the guys."

"Please, honey, don't get them involved," said Christine. "It'll just complicate things."

"No, that's perfect," exclaimed Emily. "Bring on the hunks. The more the merrier."

Christine accompanied Paul toward the exit, still arguing against a physical solution. Debate resumed in the hall about who else should be summoned. An inspiration struck Sara. "I know exactly how to fix the egotistical bitch. I'll call her parents." She departed to join the housemother in her office.

Emily's hallmates continued to take turns reasoning with or needling her. Eva opined that a crisis like this could lead to a spiritual awakening. Shelley poked her face into the gap and said, "If you're serious about killing yourself just to embarrass the school, I want you to know, that works for me." Carolyn stepped up next, marveling at the possibility that Emily was about to be rescued by a committee of her ex-boyfriends.

"Ex is right," replied Emily. "You're welcome to any or all of them."

Imogene could tell that Carolyn was growing excited, as if she anticipated a party. Her so-called engagement to Jack the Accountant might be kaput if just one football player gave her more than a casual look. After several tense minutes passed and no one arrived, Carolyn announced her intention to visit the housemother's office and find out what was going on. Imogene accompanied her.

They burst in upon a new Lynne Mason. Spurred by crisis, she had found her voice. For once she was non-blushing and firm as she recounted her phone call minutes ago to the administration office. When the receptionist on duty promised to inform whoever was present about the events on first-floor Clemens, Ms. Mason had snapped, "Not good enough. You need to contact the president himself, wherever he is, and tell him to come here. I don't care if it's his usual procedure or not."

After Ms. Mason had hung up, Sara tried to phone Emily's parents but failed to reach them at home. "I can guess where her father is," said the housemother. "I'll bet his pals at Boulder are throwing him a keg party to soothe his feelings after the reception. I'll phone my friend Bill over there and ask him to check."

When no one answered at the resident official's office, she slammed down the phone in disgust. "Bill's probably in the lounge himself, getting soused with the guys."

"How about I go over there and get Mr. Palmer?" proposed Sara. Imogene and Carolyn offered to accompany her.

"My, such willing volunteers," said Ms. Mason with an insinuating smile. "Okay, you girls run along. I'll tell Emily what you're doing."

"I've never seen our housemother so drunk with power," remarked Sara, as the three made their way through the lobby and out the door. Imogene nodded, once again finding herself disturbingly in tune with Lynne Mason. As she rushed along the sunlit path toward Boulder dormitory, the world seemed alive with crisis. She hardly cared whether her mission was to save Emily or to bring her down.

She cringed at the memory of her last visit to Boulder, where she had shepherded the Sunburst before the Homecoming dance. She had wandered accidentally into the path of a football player and been called a "cow." No one would accost her like that now, with Sara at the helm. If anybody earned sneers this time, it would be Carolyn, who was giggling, "I can't believe we're doing this. I mean, this is so wild." Imogene tried to send her a disapproving look, but almost gave way to laughter herself.

"Now, girls," said Sara, giving them a backward wink as she led the way into Boulder lobby, "we're not here to party. This is serious business."

Finding the office unattended, they proceeded down the first-floor hall and descended a flight of stairs toward the lounge. Sounds of drunken laughter lured them on. They came upon a party, premature for the weekend but all the more raucous. Lynne Mason had pegged it right. Former football hero Skip Palmer was at the center of a crowd of current players, swigging beer and swapping war stories. Bill Simmons, the resident official, stood at the outskirts as if monitoring the gathering but with a telltale beer in his hand. He whirled around and greeted the women with a sheepish grin.

Sara explained their errand in a discreet voice. Simmons shook his head in disbelief and glanced at Skip Palmer as if reluctant to interrupt him. "Emily's a drama major, isn't she?" he asked.

"Yeah, but we can't be sure she's acting this time. She might be more capable of self-destruction than we realize. She's in love with a teacher who might get fired because of her."

As she spoke, Sara eyed the half-dozen players who were bonding with Skip Palmer around the beer keg. Jim was among them, oblivious to her presence. What a rare opportunity, Imogene thought, for Sara to observe her sweetheart having fun without her. The guys were shoving each other playfully and bantering about their off-the-field conquests in a manner not meant for feminine ears.

"Now that the administration has declared war on Emily and Mark," continued Sara, "who knows how far she'll go? She's even threatened to take Imogene and me down with her."

Imogene felt herself redden as her roommate explained about the "weapon" and the "stash." She protested her innocence, but Bill Simmons winked at her as if to acknowledge her role in tonight's saga. It was Carolyn's presence that seemed extraneous.

"It's true a professor can be fired for sleeping with a student," said the resident official.

"That's been brought up at faculty meetings, with Piluras right there listening."

"Totally asinine in this day and age, if you ask me," declared Carolyn. "Those kinds of rules are a—a legacy from medieval times. How can school authorities control falling in love?"

Carolyn's fully charged now, Imogene thought. Just panting to throw herself away on someone here and now while Bill Simmons raises his brows at her.

"Medieval or not," he said, "there's a morals clause in every teacher's contract. And incidentally, I'm not supposed to let girls crash keg parties. But since I'm in a generous mood, you ladies can stay for one drink, and I won't bring it up with your housemother."

The women thanked him for his discretion. He added, "Lynne's been known to take a nip or two in the privacy of her room, not that I blame her. Pressure of the job."

Carolyn was advancing toward the abandoned stage, the same spot where the Sunburst had played when they ruled the lounge. Imogene reflected on that vanished era with a shiver of regret. The keg rested there with Skip Palmer sitting beside it and the current players grouped around him like disciples.

Imogene reached for Carolyn's arm to restrain her, but too late. There was no point, she thought, in trying to hold Carolyn back. Curt had winked at her—an irresistible gesture to an aroused girl, although Imogene knew him to be a mere flirt and a foil to his more substantial roommate, Jim.

"I've always suspected our housemother's a hypocritical lush," said Sara, "but at least she's handling the emergency at Clemens. We promised her we'd bring Mr. Palmer back to try to reason with his daughter."

"By the way, what's happened to Paul Claitt?" asked Imogene. "Wasn't he supposed to round up some teammates to help him break down the door? The strongest guys on campus are right here, but no Paul."

"He stopped by with the Homecoming Queen a few minutes ago," said Simmons, laughing. "Big mistake. The guys started frothing at the mouth when they saw her, and her old boyfriend Karl charged them. They didn't stick around. I think they headed straight for his room."

"To pray, I'm sure," said Imogene. "Paul's been trying to work himself into a holy state."

"Let's crash this affair already," said Sara. She strode up to her fiancé, who still hadn't noticed her, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Remember me, sweetie? Your date for the weekend? Looks like you got an early start."

Jim turned, looked startled to see her, but recovered with a grin that could melt steel. "Hi, honey. Funny you showed up. We decided your trophy was worthy of some serious celebrating."

"Sure, any excuse for a party." Sara received his conciliatory kiss while eyeing him uncertainly. No trouble in paradise, Imogene thought. Just something to hash out in private, and smooth over by making love.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Curt directed his bellow at Carolyn, making her jump.

Imogene realized that her companions, wrapped up in their private dramas, had lost sight of the emergency. She grabbed the initiative: "Mr. Palmer, there's a major situation at Clemens involving your daughter. We don't know how serious she is—but she's threatened to injure or kill herself. She says she won't come out of the room until she's talked to President Edelson."

Momentarily, Imogene had stolen the show. As Sara filled in the details, and Carolyn added some exclamation points, everyone seemed alarmed except the potential suicide's father. "What, again?" he said.

"This happens often?" asked Sara.

Emily's father set down his beer with a martyr's air. "Guess I better get over there and talk her down. But I gotta warn you, these melodramatics are a family trait. Her mother threatens suicide regularly. Keeps me in stitches."

Skip Palmer frowned when a few ex-boyfriends and admirers of Emily professed to know something about her dramatic tendencies. Billy Joe Beck hissed, "If she wants to go off the deep end over some teacher she's screwing, why stop her?" Kevin Bean muttered, "Piluras' wife oughta chop off his balls and settle the whole thing."

Despite Paul's absence, his idea of breaking down the door caught on. Heading back to Clemens, the three women found themselves accompanied by a determined contingent of Boulder residents, including Bill Simmons, supposedly the official in charge. Despite an unsteady gait, Skip Palmer led the way. Prompted by Sara, he elaborated on the domestic situation that led to "scenes" like this. Imogene found herself sympathizing with Emily, who had pegged her parents accurately—former college sweethearts and campus stars whose adult lives had never advanced much beyond adolescence.

Sandwiched in between Imogene and Carolyn, Curt looked jumpy. As Carolyn pelted him with breathy questions and commentary, he responded with non-committal smirks and monosyllables. Once or twice he glanced at Imogene as if he preferred her more reticent style. No one dared speak to Karl, who was bringing up the rear with a smoldering expression appropriate to someone stupid enough to squander a relationship with the Homecoming Queen.

He looked capable of breaking down any door on his own.

The party encountered an unoccupied ambulance in front of the Clemens entrance, its revolving beam faint in the daylight. The group entered the dormitory to find the first floor tense and waiting. Two medics had joined the housemother and hall residents, all standing by helplessly.

Sara reached for Jim's hand and squeezed it. Then she made her way to the door. "Emily, I'm back, and I've brought a platoon with me."

"Like I said, the more the merrier. This protest deserves a big audience."

As the football players began muttering among themselves, Curt's smirk gave way to a scowl. "Get out of our way, Sara darling. We can handle this shit in about two seconds." He, Karl, and Kevin advanced toward the door, shoving Sara aside. Jim, incensed, pushed his roommate and threatened to punch out the others. The incipient fistfight went nowhere as Bill Simmons thrust himself in the middle and defused it.

"Christ," said Skip Palmer, staggering forward, "if you shitheads were half this aggressive on the football field, you wouldn't have tanked your goddamned season. Back off, all of you. I'm taking charge of my own family matter."

He marched up to the gap and barked, "Emily, this is your father speaking. You gotta stop this tantrum, right now. This isn't your bedroom at home, you know. You're at college, and a bunch of your friends are right here watching."

"I know exactly where I am, Daddy. This is no tantrum you're witnessing. It's a political protest, part of a great college tradition. And frankly, I never listen to you when you're tanked up."

"What the hell?" exclaimed Skip. "I only had a couple beers. Anyway, never mind what I've been doing. What're you doing, screwing up your life with graduation just months away?"

"I plan to graduate into a real life. The trouble with you and Mother is you never really left college. You keep trying to find your lost youth in the Alumni Association—when you're not finding it in a bottle."

"What's that supposed to mean? And why're you knocking the Alumni Association?"

"No way am I gonna get sucked into that life of endless nostalgia. I'd rather jump ship right now."

"Honey, you make me awfully nervous when you talk like that." Skip Palmer had lost his earlier bravado and now looked genuinely scared. Imogene reflected that Emily must be a better actress than her mother.

"Dorm life is a snake pit," continued Emily, "with all the gossips and prematurely dried-up old maids and holy rollers who live here. But one neighbor in particular annoys me the most with her relentless perfection and school spirit. It rattles me that I used to be just like her."

"Great jibe, Em," said Sara, "but wasted, because Christine's not here. We lost her and Paul Claitt somewhere in the wilds of Boulder dorm."

"I'm not surprised," said Emily. "Actually, Sara, you're the biggest sellout I know. You've always taken pride in being some kind of anti-Homecoming princess. Then one day you stumble over Jim Guthrie in the dining hall, become mesmerized by his muscles, and are instantly engaged. You think marriage to an ex-football player is gonna be paradise?"

"I'm touched by your concern about my future, Em dear," said Sara, "but it's misplaced.

What makes you so sure I'll be marrying an ex-football player? Jim has a couple of offers to try out for pro teams. And I'm planning a career in music and film production, so I have a feeling Jim's matinee idol looks and his other talents will come in handy. Our prospects are as good as anyone's, thank you."

"Ain't that sweet? She's got your life all planned," said Curt, pounding Jim's shoulder.

"Don't she know I gotta take you along as my sidekick wherever I go?" replied Jim, pounding Curt in turn. The two wrestled playfully, their friendship restored.

"I wonder what's keeping President Edelson," said Lynne Mason, frowning at Bill Simmons.

Simmons offered to put in a call of his own, in hopes that two resident officials would be more convincing than one. Before he could make a move toward the office, a new presence entered the hall and scattered the crowd like a northeaster.

"You've had it now, Emily," exclaimed her father. "I guess we all have. Your mother's here."

Within seconds, it was obvious why Skip drank and Emily over-dramatized. Mrs. Palmer screamed at her husband, "This is all your fault." She launched into a litany of his sins, while Skip reached gingerly for her arm. In the act of brushing him off, she teetered backward.

"Looks like you've been drinking alone, honey," her husband admonished her. "That's no better than my drinking with the guys, is it? Either way, let's not air any more of our family crap in public."

"No, let's," Emily shouted through her parents' noise. "I love it that my dysfunctional family is being exposed. Sara, you don't have the market cornered on that anymore."

Emily's not joking, thought Imogene. Christ, her mother even reminds me of Sara's mother. They're like fun-mirror images of frustrated middle age: one bleached blonde and tending toward chubbiness, the other a sleek, carefully maintained brunette. Mrs. Palmer may not have Mrs. Murphy's Hollywood garishness, but her aging cuteness is just as ghastly.

"I'm not waiting for any end-of-semester review to resolve this," exclaimed Emily's mother. "I want that bastard Piluras fired now—today. This isn't the Glendary College I used to know when your child can be molested in the classroom."

"Spare me, Mother," said Emily. "You got molested in a dorm room, or maybe you did the molesting, and got pregnant before you graduated from this college you used to know."

"Where's your phone?" Mrs. Palmer asked Lynne Mason. "I'll call Bob Edelson right now and have him deal with this. He and I happen to be close friends."

"Try it," said Emily. "See if you can lure the president here. If you succeed, I'll negotiate with him."

"He'll be here," said Mrs. Palmer. She stormed down the hall, followed by the two resident officials. After a confused moment, Skip Palmer followed.

"Now we're cooking," exclaimed Emily. "Who's ready to join me in a full-fledged protest? Let's get rid of these antiquated college rules that are choking us. How about a sing-along or a sit-in, boys and girls?"

"I'm all for sitting-in if it means taking a load off my feet," said Curt, plopping down in the middle of the hall. His teammates, except Jim, joined him. "Any of you gals feel like grabbing a lap?"

"Nice going, Emily," said Sara. "You may have started an orgy out here."

"Sit-in, orgy," said Emily. "What's the difference?"

Imogene's anger at Emily was intensifying if only because of the inconvenience. Her contact lenses needed cleaning, and she thought she might have her period. If not for the discomfort, she might have felt a stirring of sympathy for the cause of personal freedom. But Sara squelched this by telling Emily, "Your so-called protest is turning into a joke. So here's a suggestion. Just stay holed up in the room for a week and starve yourself like Ghandi."

Weird Lila spoke up again, achieving shock value with her high-pitched voice. "I think Emily's on to something. Maybe we should throw off all shackles that—that keep us from loving each other freely. Why shouldn't free love become the currency of the world?"

Bravo, thought Imogene. But I still need the room.

"Who's Squeaky Voice?" asked Emily. "Somebody hand her a megaphone. Or a guitar."

"God, no," said Shelley. "Some of us have heard her sing."

"Don't sing, sweetheart," said Curt, with one of his heart-stopping winks. "Just sit."

Lila giggled, but resisted the distraction as she continued to declaim her newfound belief that free love could lead to world peace. Her two roommates, conventional Christians, edged away from her as if she had become toxic.

"Satan is deceiving you," declared Eva, shuffling on her bandaged ankles.

"He can't," returned Lila. "Not if we're all God's children, as Reverend Jennings says."

"You think salvation is all fun and games?" asked Annie, regarding Lila with something close to amazement.

"It should be," insisted Lila. "Just try it. Open yourself to his eternal love."

Eva and Annie departed for the emergency prayer session that seemed in order when a roommate's soul was in peril. Applause broke out among the football players. Lila blushed and smiled, basking in their appreciation. She had chased off her killjoy roommates, but Imogene wondered what the consequences would be. Who would take her in if Eva and Annie turned her out? Yet another logistical headache for Lynne Mason.

The crowd, seething with laughter, was hardly prepared for an unprecedented state visit.

When President Edelson strode up the hall, accompanied by the Palmers and the resident officials, the sprawling men scrambled to their feet and a general sobering up occurred, but it fell short of respectful silence. This would not be possible in any event as Mrs. Palmer was pouring a diatribe into the president's ear.

Sara stepped forward, interrupting her. "This is my room, sir, mine and Imogene Taylor's. It's our space that's being occupied."

Imogene felt called upon to add something. "It's a little ironic, isn't it? Emily says she wants personal freedom for herself, but she won't let us into our own room." The men tittered as if they found irony funny.

"We can't have students erecting barricades," said Edelson. He stepped up to the door and attempted a bantering tone, but it came out like a prepared statement.

"Emily, this is Bob Edelson. I'm here to try to resolve this situation. I've known your parents a long time—they're two of our most respected alumni. It's incredible to me that their daughter would choose such a self-destructive path. If you have a grievance, the proper forum to raise it is the Student Government."

"Thank you for coming, sir." Emily adopted his statesmanlike tone. "Believe me, I'm not self-destructive. I only mentioned the Murphy cocktail and the knife to embarrass my roommates. And there's no need to involve the Student Government. I'm simply being upfront about my relationship with an instructor, and asking to be treated like an adult."

"What do you want?" asked Edelson.

"I want Mark Piluras and myself reinstated. We want you to refrain from further disciplinary action as we decide our futures. Mark and his wife separated months ago. If they divorce because of me, the administration will have nothing to say about it, since we're all adults. And most importantly, if and when Mark and I decide to leave Glendary, it'll be on our own terms."

"I can't stop either or both of you from leaving if that's what you want," said the president.

"Well, I can," shrieked Mrs. Palmer.

"Not really, hon," replied her husband. "Not if our daughter thinks she's going Hollywood." Imogene detected admiration in his tone.

"This need not escalate into a crisis," continued Edelson, prodded by a look from Emily's mother. "You're one of our most valued students, and I value Mr. Piluras also. So if the two of you will simply desist from this—this affair until you graduate, I'm willing to overlook what's happened and reinstate both of you."

"Thanks for the offer, Mr. President," said Emily. "I wanted to hear you say that—even though reinstatement is not our ultimate goal."

"You're timing is pathetic, Emily," said Sara. "You'd be a damned idiot to cut out of here five months before graduation."

"And risk looking like you were kicked out," added Imogene, "whether it's true or not."

"Wrong, girls. My timing is perfect, and I'm about to make sure everyone knows it."

Emily's voice escalated to a dramatic pitch. She unchained the door, flung it open, and stepped out with a bursting knapsack slung across her shoulder.

"Here it is, folks—the final scene of my video. My crew is waiting down the hall, ready to capture Mark and me as we set off on our journey west."

Emily pushed through the crowd, shoving aside football players who gave way as if stunned. She grabbed the president's limp hand, kissed both her parents, and gave the Palmer Trophy a kick.

"While you were all at the reception, cooing over the winner of that monstrosity, Mark and I were planning our exit. You'll find his resignation in tomorrow morning's mail, Mr. President. My video will serve as proof that we left victoriously."

"You're delusional. You know that?" Sara thrust herself in Emily's path, complicating her departure as the camera crew approached. "What credentials do you have to 'go Hollywood'?"

"Talent, ambition, and youth are my credentials," said Emily. "Plus, Mark's connections."

"Oh, right," said Sara, "the Piluras cousins who can allegedly open Hollywood doors. He's hinted about their mysterious powers for years while he was searching for the perfect young starlet to benefit from them."

"You really think you're the first young starlet who's heard that promise?" asked Imogene, taking a shot in the dark. Emily turned and gave her a dirty look, which the camera caught. My sole contribution to her video, Imogene thought.

Still remonstrating with Emily, Sara followed her down the hall and through the lobby. "Have you forgotten about my parents? They not only had talent and ambition, but real credits in off-Broadway theatre."

Sara got into camera range to declaim on her family's accomplishments. "My parents had every reason to believe their genuine talents would take them somewhere. But show business chewed them up and spat them out. I can see that happening to you."

Emily tossed her auburn head. "We know there are no guarantees, but we'll take our chances and enjoy the struggle. Besides, Mark can always teach."

"I have no idea if you're talented or not," said schoolmarm Betty, frowning at Emily, "but I suppose you're planning to get by on looks anyway."

"My ex-roommate is right, as always, Em," said Shelley. "Be the sexpot we all know you can be, and you'll do just fine in Tinsel Town."

The scene took a combative turn as Emily tried to elbow past Sara. "You should listen to me, but you won't," shouted Sara. "I can see so clearly where this affair is headed."

"Maybe you're not as visionary as you think," responded Emily as she fought to regain camera position. "Your parents' stage credits aren't that much to brag about. If I were to strip right now and shimmy down the hall, I'd be recreating your mother's most acclaimed performance."

"Do it," chimed a chorus of male voices.

"I know that would thrill you guys. But I'm an engaged woman now."

Emily cast a superior smile on the horde she was leaving behind. Part of the crowd followed her out. Her parents, stymied, hung back to confer with Edelson and the resident officials.

Exiting the dormitory, Emily nearly ran into Christine and Paul, who were about to enter arm in arm.

"This is a great shot," Emily told her camera crew. "Glendary's current golden couple alongside my parents, the golden couple of twenty years ago. Illustrates perfectly what I'm escaping."

"Too bad you weren't elected Homecoming Queen," shot back Christine. "Then you'd at least be leaving college with one real award."

Emily laughed and swept past the duly elected queen. The crowd watched as she strode toward Mark Piluras's car, which had materialized behind the unused ambulance. Piluras got out, took her knapsack, and posed with her for the final shot of their video.

"Aren't you even gonna say goodbye to your roommates?" burst out Imogene.

Such a parting was not in the script. Sara turned away in disgust and pulled Jim by the hand back into the dormitory. Emily's last act was to cast a sympathetic glance on her former rival Christine, who was clinging to the football captain.

"Here's an idea, Chrissie. Let's meet up at our five-year reunion and compare notes on how far our looks have taken us. We'll see just how much currency that Homecoming crown has in the real world."

_Greetings, classmates, on the eve of our five-year reunion. Thanks for that avalanche of cards and letters you sent in response to my appeal. It's obvious you're all panting to see one another again. (A little sarcasm never hurts the_ Alumni Notes _.)_

_To re-introduce myself (make that introduce, since I'm sure most of you don't know me from Adam), my name is_ _Betty Altington_ _, and these days I'm an English teacher at Glendary High School. A schoolmarm, just as predicted when we graduated. (I'm contemplating a career change, but more about that later.) I work alongside my once-estranged roommate_ _, Shelley Clark Scott_ _, who teaches art. Some of you may remember Shelley's fascinating portraits of football players that adorned the walls at our last Homecoming dance. They brought her some notoriety then, but sadly, she hasn't pursued a creative career._

_Instead, she married a fellow teacher ten years her senior, who has provided her with two step-kids. Shelley tells me her life is "pedestrian but satisfying." She apologizes for no longer being my "echo" as she was for the better part of our college days. Judging by her radically reduced figure,_ _Anorexic Annie_ _is her new role model. (I just threw that in to see if the editors are awake. More dirt on Annie later.) Shelley says she can envision a baby of her own but hates the thought of getting fat again. (How's that for shallow?)_

_I should mention that this is my first time reporting for the_ Alumni Magazine _. Please bear with me if my style is a little more cynical than that of my former hallmate,_ _Imogene Taylor Wittier_ _, who has written this column with style for the past five years. Imogene has passed the torch to me because she now has a job which, combined with marriage to new attorney_ _Steve Wittier_ _, is apparently all-absorbing._

_Since graduation, Imogene has lived in New York City with her husband and has seen him through law school at New York University while working as a secretary and editorial assistant for various publishing houses. Now Imogene is leaving that behind to work as a publicist for the refurbished Peace Enterprises headed by her former roommate,_ _Sara Murphy Guthrie._ _Sara, whose career adventures you must have read about in the papers, has transformed her brother's old rock-and-roll shop into a film production company. Her husband,_ _Jim Guthrie_ _, who has managed to catch on as a backup running back with several pro football teams, most recently the New York Giants, will star this off-season in Sara's next picture, a war-adventure flick called_ Bloody Skies _._

_Incidentally, Sara gave birth to a daughter, Laraine, two years ago, and nursed the baby as best she could on the set of her first film, a strenuous remake of the Astaire-Rogers classic_ Swing Time _. For what it's worth, one gossip columnist noted that Jim put in quite a few nanny hours on the set while Sara cavorted with her partner onscreen. As far as I know, none of our other local football heroes have played in the pros, although_ _Paul Claitt_ _used to do public relations for the now defunct Baltimore Colts. I know that_ _Kevin Bean_ _is a fireman._

_So it seems Imogene is limbering up for her new job by sending me all the New York news. She's planning to write a screenplay for the new Peace Enterprises, in addition to her publicist duties, and says that Sara encourages such efforts by her friends. So start warming up those word processors, all you aspiring writers. Imogene is using the pen name Isobel Prose, so we'll look forward to seeing that in lights. Also in the heartwarming category, Sara plans to give her singer-dancer-actress mother a role or two and is trying to lure her brother,_ _Jake Murphy_ _, '80, out of retirement with an offer to write a musical score for another upcoming film._

You're probably aware that Jake hasn't had much to say in the show business world since his memorable appearance at our last Homecoming. He nursed the hand injury he suffered there for a long time, ensconced in his luxury condo, until his abrupt decision to leave the city and move with his wife Marianne and daughter Crystal to Byron Robarts's commune in upstate New York. Since then he's divorced Marianne, remarried, and had a son, but his first wife and child still live there too, together with Byron, his wife, and three children. Talk about one big, happy family!

_Imogene, despite that famous senior thesis of hers entitled "The Spirit of Byron," can't explain what could have possessed Jake to share a plot of farmland with his former songwriting partner. I did receive some scribbling on that subject from a different source._ _"Weird" Lila Jones_ _has been making a career of following Byron, believing him to be (in her own words) the new Messiah. She belongs to a group of young women with the same conviction who hang around the farm, doing miscellaneous chores. Is it just me, or does this remind anybody else of the Charles Manson cult back in the sixties?_

_Lila's insights may plunge this column into legal jeopardy, but here goes anyway. She swears that the rumors we've heard about Byron trying to destroy his own company are literally true. About three years ago, the old folkie got so upset at the mercenary direction Peace Enterprises was taking that he had a bomb planted in the office of head accountant Leroy Pierce. It was one of those symbolic bombings so popular with "peace-loving" hippies, carried out in the dead of night and not meant to hurt anyone. We've all heard speculation that_ _Reverend Elmer Jennings_ _, '67, was behind the bombing of the administration building way back when he was a seminary student at Glendary. His failure to deny those stories outright probably cost him his shot at a political career in conservative western Maryland._

The Peace Enterprises bombing started a fire that damaged the third floor business offices. Jake and his family moved out of their fourth-floor residence, leaving the place largely abandoned until Sara returned to New York City to rebuild both the company and the headquarters. Nobody was ever arrested in connection with that incident. According to Lila, Jake "knew" Byron was behind it, but eventually decided his heart was in the right place. That explains why they joined forces in the utopian commune they share today.

_I'm assuming that Lila's reliability as a correspondent isn't necessarily suspect just because she's done time in a mental institution. That circumstance enables her to supply a fascinating item regarding_ _Christine O'Brien Claitt_ _, whom she encountered "inside." The former Homecoming Queen turned up with self-inflicted injuries, including a black eye, a broken jaw, and slashed wrists. Chrissie admitted to bashing herself with a mirror. This happened shortly after her breakup with husband Paul Claitt._

_It's such a horrible story that I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't had confirmation from_ _Carolyn Patterson Moore_ _. Carolyn, you may remember, started rooming with Chrissie during the Homecoming hoopla senior year. Now she's a steno-typist in the Baltimore court system with plans for becoming a paralegal. Her marriage to_ _Jack Moore_ _, an accountant for an insurance company, ended last year—amicably, she says. But it motivated her to reach out to her old roommate, who obviously suffered far more trauma in her own breakup. Carolyn reports that Chrissie, together with her two small children, has returned to Glendary to pursue a master's degree in counseling._ _Lynne Mason_ _, '80, still a resident official at the college, hopes to mentor her future career._

_Speaking of Paul, he's a national officer in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes and does public relations on a freelance basis for various sports teams. His primary job got him together with_ _Annie Henderson_ _, '83, a gym teacher and gymnastics judge. Annie suffered the tragic loss of her husband,_ _Lieutenant Sidney Howe_ _, in the line of duty. There were just nineteen American casualties during the invasion of Grenada, and he was one of them. Paul and Annie say they "thank God every day" for bringing them together. Personally, I question his infinite wisdom in demolishing the lives of two spouses to create one happy couple. Not that it's any of my business—but I'm tempted to pose that theological question to another former hallmate,_ _Eva_ _Penn Hughes_ _, who married the Hawk Mascot, now a Methodist minister. The two of them serve the largest congregation in Glendary, not counting Reverend Jennings's weekly love-fests, which still pack in crowds on campus._

_So what do you think of my unique style so far? Now that I've probably blown any opportunity to keep doing these_ Notes _, I might as well go all the way and confess to a little schadenfreude. This notion of beauty queens attempting suicide, or pretending to, has a way of galvanizing us "nondescripts." Most of my old crowd, who used to wear that label on campus with a perverse pride, are determined to make some waves in the real world. I'm seriously considering law school myself because of my conviction that there are multitudes of people out there who deserve to be sued. (Nasty aside to Carolyn: I'm talking about being a real lawyer, not some paralegal hanger-on.)_

_For example, some of the stunts that_ _Emily Palmer Piluras_ _has pulled should rightfully land her in court. Remember that video she produced as her senior honors project? The one that masqueraded as a serious documentary, but turned out to be mostly a hatchet job on the Murphys? That video, with its semi-nude roadside scenes featuring the Sunburst band, and the secretly recorded conversations between Jake, Sara, and their mother, has enjoyed an extended life as a cult item._

It's also occurred to me that Emily's bogus suicide threat, the day of her dramatic exit from college, might have inspired Chrissie's later real attempt. Chrissie and Emily, you'll remember, were the top two beauties of our class, destined to compete. Emily's "suicide" was obviously a symbolic shedding of her old life as she prepared to leave us all in the dust. She's the only one who had what it took to "go Hollywood" literally.

_So, how has Tinsel Town treated Emily? I received a breezy note from her, listing her latest credits and pumping up the teaching career of husband_ _Mark Piluras_ _, '74. Mark earned a Ph.D. in dramatic arts at UCLA and is now an assistant professor. Emily, while not quite a star yet, is gainfully employed. She does commercials in addition to her semi-recurring role on_ Cops and Lawyers _, the dramatic series that Mark's cousins had a hand in creating. She's also been in touch with Imogene, the aspiring screenwriter, about a possible starring role in her project. Imogene says she would be delighted to oblige, although it's doubtful she could write a better scene than that fake suicide Emily pulled off in the dorm. Emily, like many of you, is so busy she doubts she'll make it to our reunion, but sends her regards._

Her non-appearance would be particularly disappointing to the old "dateless brigade." We still get together as often as we can to share our frustrations and dish the dirt, although we've graduated from popcorn and Coke to pasta and wine. Our assessment of Emily, from watching her TV appearances, is that she's aged a bit more than might be expected after just five years, even in such a tough town. It must be a struggle to keep her looks up to Hollywood standards when she's also a university wife and the mother of a young son. But appearances at such a distance can be deceiving. That's why we'd like to see her at Homecoming '87, so we can judge up close.

_I'm aching to see the rest of you as well for the same reason. I really mean it in the friendliest way possible. I plan to emphasize that in the sanitized rewrite of these_ Notes _that I'm sure the Alumni Association will insist on. Please, everyone, come to the reunion if only to immerse yourself in nostalgia and breathe the clean country air. The campus is still as scenic and peaceful as ever—to the naked eye._
