 
## I M O G E N E

G A Jahn

Smashwords edition © 2017 G.A.Jahn
Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

Chapter XXXIX

Chapter XL

Chapter XLI

Chapter XLII

Chapter XLIII

Chapter XLIV

Chapter XLV

Chapter XLVI

Chapter XLVII

Chapter XLVIII

Chapter XLIX

Chapter L

Chapter LI

Chapter LII

Chapter LIII

Chapter LIV

Chapter LV

## I M O G E N E

\- I -

There is nothing so defenseless,

yet so enduring,

as a generous heart.

Imogene Urich pondered these words, and others, while getting ready for bed; they were from the page of Horace she had translated that evening. The phrases, especially in their Latin brevity, recurred to her without end, as if they were the melody of a lovely new song. And their truth made them precious.

Lying motionless in the tub, she allowed the wise sayings to settle indelibly in her mind, then a smile appeared as another passage was recalled: 'Even at her leisure does she learn.'

It was still early when Imogene finished her bath and padded down to the kitchen in robe and slippers. She closed the door against 'Dr Kildare' in the living room, where her mother was knitting on the couch and her father snoozed peacefully alongside. The warbling of her sister's phonograph also diminished as did, from the basement, the dull thud of her brother's basketball. The kitchen felt warm and homey in the glow of the stove's amber light; a fragrance of fried chicken still lingered in the air.

Imogene was tired. Weariness showed clearly in her droopy eyes and slow movements, but it was a contented weariness. In addition to her studies that evening, she had survived a ninety-minute cheerleader practice after school. Imogene rarely did anything at less than full intensity, and such prolonged endeavors, like a night filled with dancing, left only her lips with strength enough to show her pleasure. She was humming a vague tune, but this was silenced when, suddenly, she grabbed the edge of the countertop and cavernously yawned. Her eyes wetted themselves like wrung rags, and her ears, for a moment, went luxuriously deaf.

Another Latin phrase came to her, this time an epigram of her own devising. (It was not unusual for Imogene, even when exhausted, to exhibit a flash or two of brilliance.) Grinning, she planted herself oratorically erect — 'Caesar on the Lupercal' — and declaimed with Latinate splendor at the dark cat lapping at his bowl by the back door. In English her words would have been: 'Thus do they yawn whose vigor is spent and idleness earned.'

The cat, halting only to blink, returned to his water bowl.

Yawning once more, Imogene cut a slice of coffee cake then dragged a chair over to the telephone. She curled up on the padded seat and let her fuzzy yellow slippers, one after another, flop to the floor. Her little body seemed to become lost in the folds of the matching yellow, and somewhat kitty-tattered, robe.

On seeing his mistress come to rest, the cat bounded across the room and up onto Imogene's lap. For several minutes the two of them purred and tussled with one another, the feline making playful claws at the girl's brunette tresses. These, still wet from the tub, hung in dank twists that fluttered and felt itchy on her cheeks.

When the cat had settled himself, Imogene dialed a well memorized number and soon was exchanging pleasantries with her boyfriend's mother. While they chatted, Imogene gazed down at the fingers of her right hand, alternately stretching them out, then making them into a fist, just to watch the little gem on its silver band blaze and dim like a distant beacon. She had been wearing the ring since homecoming night, and the intervening weeks had not been sufficient to accustom her to the pleasure of its tiny weight and wobble.

But after the mother had left to call her son, Imogene found herself listening to a deep and uncomfortable silence, for many minutes it seemed, until the young man's irritated sigh came finally on the line.

She hurried to speak first. "I'm sorry," she said, elongating the words for sincerity. "I know it's early, but I'm headin'for bed already. I'm just beat."

He made no response.

"Did I get'cha'way from that darn paper? You better be working on it."

He sighed again. "No, not anymore."

"You finished it?" she cried with delight. "Oh, Matt!"

There was a long pause instead of an answer, and her eyebrows came down from their high arcs.

"Look," he said, "just give up on me."

Imogene slapped her bare feet to the floor. "Matt! You get back to work on that right now." (In the sudden movement the cat tottered and snagged at her robe.) "You know how important it is."

"God just forget it."

"They're not gonna give y'another chance. The counselor said — "

"I don't even wanna go there! All the guys I know'll be at the U."

"An'what'm I s'pose to do? Just sit out there all by my _self_ for the next four years?"

Imogene could hear the phone thump to the other side of his head. He was hissing with exasperation.

In a gentler voice she asked, "So how many pages didja do."

"Geenee!" (He pronounced her diminutive identically with Aladdin's 'genie.') "Just forget it."

Imogene dumped the cat to the floor and stood up. "I'm coming over," she announced and banged the receiver down.

A few minutes later, Imogene was haphazardly dressed and hurrying once more down the stairs to the living room. She had thrown on a light jacket as well, and a stocking cap had been pulled over her wet hair.

The father was still asleep on the couch, but the mother, surprised, looked up.

"I'm goin't'Matt's for a little bit," said the daughter, jiggling keys from her purse. There was a thick book under her arm, one of the volumes from her set of encyclopedias.

"Dear," Mrs Urich lowered her knitting (even when sitting down she was tall and straight). "I thought you said you were so tired."

"I am!"

Down in the garage, the electric door made a piercing crack as it broke loose from the icy concrete, then squealed in agony climbing up its iron rails.

Imogene stared out at the dark and silent night; the air drifting in was so frigid every inhalation seemed to make stinging needles in her nose. These last weeks of January were always the worst of a Minnesota winter. She thought of running back upstairs for her boots and a warmer coat but was afraid the look in her mother's eyes might not let her escape a second time.

The seat of her father's Chevrolet was no less forbidding; the cold went through her jeans as if she were sitting in a puddle. Privately, Imogene wished the car would not start, but it did, after several tries.

She drove first to the library, ignoring most of the speed limit signs; although she did slow down in going past the little dress shop where she worked on weekends. Though brightly lit inside, the store was forlornly empty; only the nighttime college girl was there, slumped at the counter over a big textbook. The library in the next block seemed far busier.

The Elnora Community Library, just this side of the Minneapolis city limits, was an elderly, many-gabled residence which had years ago been gutted of household furnishings and filled with books and bookshelves. But this evening a dismaying number of cars were packed into its tiny parking lot, and Imogene entered the building with head held low, hoping she would not be seen by anyone from school.

With purse clamped awkwardly under one elbow, her fingers kept themselves busy tucking clumps of cold hair back under her dark blue beanie — her brother's actually. She had grabbed it from the hall closet on her way out, but now, dashing past a mirror, glimpsed woefully the cap's blazing white slogan:
!YVAN OG

"Anchors aweigh, Geenee!" someone giggled from behind the checkout desk.

Then, upstairs, she saw Stanley.

Stanley was the puny, silent, homely kid who sat next to her in Latin class. She never talked to him. No one did, at least no one with anything pleasant to say.

On seeing the boy, Imogene made a tiny gasp, then paused awkwardly to find that they were the only ones in the room.

Faded Raggedy-Ann's on the wallpaper behind the shelves proved this to have been a nursery at one time, but now the little room held only dusty biographies and the single small table and chairs where Stanley was sitting.

His face and thick-rimmed glasses were bent close above his book as if oblivious of her, but he must have looked up when she and her wet sneakers had come squeaking in over the varnished floor.

Instinctively, Imogene pulled the jacket closed over her untucked blouse (the cap also was thrust out of sight), and she tried not to have petty thoughts about the rumpled sweater and pants he was wearing; the same he had worn to school that morning. (The same since Monday in fact!)

And his hair! She could not help staring at his hair. Patches of unruly fuzz seemed to have outgrown his unkempt heinie. Like the kids in class often chuckled to each other: his head _does_ look like Rover's back yard!

Imogene scolded herself for this, or tried to, as she hurried to the shelves on the far side of the room. Her eyes scanned the rows of bindings while she made hot breath on her fingertips. Stanley, seated behind her, remained silent and eerily unmoving.

Almost at once Imogene found the book that was wanted, but she refrained from reaching for it, preferring to wait for someone else to enter the room so that her departure would be less conspicuous.

This plan was foiled however when, soon after, the ten-minutes-till-closing announcement was made. With a sigh, Imogene grabbed the book and strode past Stanley toward the door. She kept her eyes on him and was even prepared to smile should he look up, but he never did. His posture was unchanged from before, still huddled over his book, but now his face and ears were bright red, and Imogene felt a kind of shame for having so clearly disturbed him.

Downstairs, the checkout line had become colossal. After some minutes of slouching in last place and rummaging through her purse for her library card, she caught sight of Stanley once again as he hurried toward the exit. He was fussing now with his notebook and jacket zipper, his head bent low and wearing no hat. He was still blushing.

All of this left Imogene with something like pity in her heart. It puzzled her a little that she had never been able to like Stanley, for the fragile things in life always endeared themselves to her, and he seemed to be such a lost little boy. Everything made him blush: his clumsiness, wisecracks from the other kids, even praises from the teacher. Just being seen in a library for petesake!

(And this, Imogene reflected, was in laudable contrast to her boyfriend, for she considered it one of Matt's major deficiencies that nothing in the world, it seemed, could ever hurt him.)

Moreover, Stanley appeared to have an intelligence comparable to her own. In class, whenever papers were handed back, she often found him staring down at a large red A, which always gave Imogene a sense of shared camaraderie (except that one time when her own paper — quickly interred within her notebook — boasted but an A **-** ).

Yet she realized now, with more than half the year gone, that she had become like all the others and had allowed her heart to harden toward Stanley. He was _so_ helpless, so aloof, so determined to stay in his own little world. (The check-out line, with Imogene still at its end, took one lazy step closer to the librarian.) She guessed it was this shunning of Stanley's peers which in fact provoked the occasional taunts and laughter; people disliked being ignored, even by those they themselves ignore. And Imogene — wanting all the world to be her friend — felt more keenly than others any hint of rejection. Finding smiles everywhere was her delight, not hung heads and hurried strides to get away from her.

Thus, she too had been tempted to share in the levity directed at Stanley, but insults and unkind remarks never came easily to Imogene; her social vocabulary contained only words of companionship. How many times — tonight even — had she readied herself to say something nice, only to be snubbed like an irksome acquaintance!

(Frowning intently, she had not noticed the line advancing without her. When she did, her tongue clucked at herself as she trotted to catch up.)

And so Imogene was content to let the kid fend for himself. After all, his problems were his problems, and, like her, Stanley must accept his share of raillery from the others. Smart kids were always picked on. Besides, in the editions of the various commentators they had studied she noted how heartily these Latin scholars berated their colleagues. She reasoned: if Stanley was ever going to succeed in this field — or in any walk of life — he had better learn how to deal with the ready tongues of others and his own quick shame.

Still, she could not help feeling sorry for him.

But when Imogene returned to the parking lot all thoughts of Stanley abruptly vanished.

The stupid _headlights_ are still on!

Furious with herself, Imogene dashed to the car and jumped in, tossing things in all directions: book, purse, library card — the purple beanie went spinning into the back seat.

The battery was all but dead. She whimpered and squeaked and pounded the steering wheel, but the motor just growled at her like an angry dog, the keychain jingling gaily as she wrenched the ignition back and forth.

This went on for several despair-filled moments, but eventually a cough sounded from under the hood, then another. Soon, though rough and erratic, the engine was running once more.

With this, a prayer of thanksgiving came out under her breath, no more than a handful of syllables memorized since childhood, but Imogene quickly silenced herself and looked around with crooked lips, as if preparing to be laughed at.

Before long, the car was purring quietly again. Imogene had returned to taking normal breaths, and she scraped with deadened knuckles at the frozen fog on the windshield. Her license was little more than a year old, but already she had learned that there was no lonelier place in the world than in a car that will not start.

The lot was empty now except for one or two other vehicles, but the way snow had been plowed around their tires it was not likely anyone was coming for them. The library itself had gone completely dark. Imogene thought again how close she had come to being stranded. Although, glancing down the block, she saw that her dress shop still had its windows aglow; she could easily have called her father and brother from there, Matt even, but it was her fear that, this late in the winter, she may already have exhausted the patience of her many saviors.

Intermittently, Imogene was flexing her toes to preserve what little feeling was left down there, and her earlobes, as if from far away, tingled in the icy breeze from the defroster. Then, just when her composure had finally returned, she was startled anew by sight of herself in the rear-view mirror — and the scatter of madwoman's hair sticking out of her head!

Her teeth gritted as she recalled the way Stanley had refused to look up at her. And no wonder!

But soon Imogene was cruising down the street once more, allowing herself to be soothed by a sweetly mournful tune on the radio:
... away from home

through no wish of my o-own ...

Sighs were escaping from her (and frequent yawns), yet she could take heart at least in calculating the elegance of the dinner — and the chick-iness of the movie! — which Matt would now be owing her for this night of trouble and near disaster; provided, that is, he could be convinced she was doing him a favor. His voice on the phone had been far from receptive.

Pausing at a stoplight, Imogene reached down for the tumbled library book and began contemplating how one might rouse a young man's interest in seventeenth century England. (A subject, obviously, not high on Matt's list of best delights.)

It was imperative that he write this paper — and write it well — for his grades were technically below the standards of the august institution to which she had urged he apply. But his leadership and —

"Beep, _Beeeep!_ "

"Sorry!" she squeaked, jerking the car toward the now bright green lights.

— but his leadership and sports renown carried great weight, and after several interviews, on campus and locally, it had been decided that, if his grade average in history could be brought above a C, they would waive his mediocre college boards and accept him under a full athletic scholarship.

It was a joy to think of him, for the next four years, only a short bus ride from her own college. Imogene knew — deeply she knew — that any greater separation would be sure to end in heartbreak.

She was just thinking how the English Civil War might be presented as some kind of locker room strategy, when she passed a young man with a notebook hurrying along the sidewalk; he was wearing a dark jacket and glasses, and had no cap.

Stanley? Half a mile from the library? Did his car freeze up too?

Numb toes were pressing down on the gas pedal, and for a long, unblinking moment the boulevard trees flashed by.

Glimpsing the needle swung high on its dial, Imogene relaxed her foot and the car slowed down, but she refused to turn her head or look in any of the mirrors. Her mind kept blank for several more blocks, then — slapping hair out of her eyes — she muttered aloud: "Would _he_ have given _me_ a ride?"

\- II -

At her boyfriend's house (after checking to make sure the headlights were off), Imogene was forced into several more minutes of irritating delay as she stood shivering on Matt's front stoop, waiting for the door to be answered.

A gusty wind had been picking up as well and now was flecked with tiny, stinging snowflakes. She clutched the books to her belly and hissed several of those words which only her closest friends had ever heard her speak.

While doing so, an apt seventeenth century British phrase came suddenly to mind:
They also serve

who only stand and wait.

— Milton.

(Even if only to herself, Imogene tried always to cite her references.)

From somewhere inside the house a television was audible, but the door remained callously inert. Imogene let out a stream of white breath and punched the bell button again.

In time, the door was answered by a young boy, a freckled eight-year-old with a root beer Popsicle. "Geenee!" he squealed.

"Hi Marky!" Imogene's face had become sweet. "Can I come in?"

Though muted now by an icy chunk of treat, little Mark was hopping up and down with great excitement, his free hand tugging at her jacket.

"Okay, okay!" Imogene giggled. She pushed back her tangle of hair (the frozen ends of which were stiff as boxed spaghetti) and let a huge yawn overtake her. The warmth within the home and the scent of freshly Glamorene'd carpets made her long to curl up in front of the couch like an old mutt.

She yawned once more while shedding her tennis shoes and scanty jacket. "Pretty cold out there, huh."

The boy had no patience for small talk. His sticky fingers pulled Imogene and her armload of books toward the TV room where stood a pile of crashed trucks, road graders and other hollow metal vehicles, many with missing wheels.

Also in the room was Imogene's boyfriend, Matt Washburn, in sweaty T-shirt and jeans, slouched deep in a battered sofa. His pose was similar to what her father's had been, asleep on the couch in her own house, but here there was no sense of contentment. Huge arms bristled over his chest as Matt stared sullenly at a movie filled with fighter planes and explosions. He did not bother to look toward her.

Little Mark watched with sudden quietness as Imogene dropped herself lightly beside Matt and kissed him on the cheek; her cold nose made him flinch. "Where is it?" she laughed.

He nodded at some papers on a spindly TV-tray, then returned his attention to the screaming dive bombers.

Imogene sighed at him.

Grabbing the papers, and then her boyfriend's arm, she firmly led the way back to the dining room. Matt's resistance was limited to the half-hearted whine, "Wait'll the commercial."

She brought him to a large table adorned with cloth and centerpiece, and had him sit down beside her. Mark followed as well and stood on the far side of the table, noisily sucking his Popsicle and looking down with somber eyes.

"Get lost!" yelled Matt.

Bravely, the younger brother continued to lick his treat and mumbled that it was a free country.

There was a quick movement, and the chair opposite flew backward, hitting the boy with a crack.

Imogene gasped.

The boy's treat broke apart and fell to the carpet.

"Nice catch, dipstick!" shouted the older brother.

Mark, holding his arm, ran for the kitchen. The long laces of his shoes slapped at chair legs and baseboards along the way.

"God you're _always_ like that!" cried Imogene as she hurried around the table to pick up the fallen pieces. "Y'always gotta — !"

She hushed herself on entering the kitchen. At the phone desk in the corner the boy was collapsed into his mother's lap, wailing fitfully.

Imogene dropped the icy chunks into the sink, then remained there awhile, rinsing and drying her hands (and took a moment to peek into the odds-and-ends drawer for a rubber band with which to snap her hair into a crude ponytail). She stayed until the boy's crying had noticeably eased and the women could exchange unhappy grins.

Back in the dining room, Imogene found her boyfriend slouched over the table; his brow and tumbled black hair now reclining on a mountain of forearms. He was deathly still. She could believe he was feeling remorse, but this was doubtful.

Resuming her seat, she watched him for awhile, then picked up the history paper he had begun writing. It was not quite a page in length, and her heart sank as she skimmed through the shallow and barely coherent phrases.

"Well, that's a good start," she said, suppressing a yawn. "I think though ... it's important to establish Cromwell's motives more fully before, y'know, y'get inta this other stuff." She stared at him. "Are you listening to me."

"God just forget it." His voice was muffled within his arms. "I _hate_ this shit!"

Then he sniffled, an actual little boy sniffle, and a chill scattered over Imogene's flesh.

"I can't ever keep up with ya."

"Yes you can, sweetheart! You can!" She rubbed his wide, warm back. "You get good grades in everything else: math, science — _enriched_ science! — history's no different."

He sat up and stared at his fingers. "Look. Why don't we just go to the U instead. Save everybody a lot a'money — they actually _got_ a ball team! All our friends — "

"Matt!" She slapped the table. "You're talking about quitting now? When we're this close? How many _games_ have you ever walked out on. Even hopeless ones."

"But when y'just don't have the stuff — "

"You _do!_ That's my whole point! I know you do. You think I'd love you if you didn't?"

The weeping in the kitchen had faded away by now; Imogene lowered her voice to continue: "An'don't ask me to give up _my_ potentials to come down to where y'think yours are." She lifted a palm. "On the team, Gimmestad doesn't tell the best guys to play as _bad_ as the worst ones. He says — time'n again he says — 'Do it like Washburn!' An'if they push'emselves hard enough, they get to be on first string with you." She thumped the books down beside his elbow. "So now it's your turn to start pushing. Make it hurt, okay?"

The T-shirt's big white shoulders jerked back and forth; Matt clearly had more objections to make, but Imogene hurried on, opening the books and reading out pertinent passages, translating for him, as best she could, the dry facts into live action, until his sighs began to sound more forced than genuine. She thought of an intriguing angle for his topic, and after laying down a clean sheet of paper prodded the first few sentences out of him.

Soon, within several paragraphs, his own thoughts became evident, and she praised his insights. It delighted Imogene to watch the brightening of his eyes as he discovered the unexpected strength of understanding within himself.

Much time passed. The tall oaken clock, brooding in the corner, tick-tocked contemplatively to itself and made incomplete music every quarter hour. Imogene yawned without ceasing, though always behind her hand or within achingly clenched teeth.

In the other room the war movie had been turned off, and the boy's crying had ceased, but traces of distant bickering could still be heard (chiefly from Matt's younger sisters, both of whom considered themselves too clique-worthy to be seen with their brother's goodie-goodie girlfriend).

Soon little Mark looked in again. He was dressed now in Yogi Bear jammies that were much too small for him. He hurried to sit next to Imogene, on the side away from his brother, and dropped an arithmetic book onto the table; with paper and pencil Mark began his own studies. His jumble of hair, dark like Matt's but tinged with auburn, smelled of week-long sweat. Imogene reached around and patted him softly. With her cheek on his temple, she found corrections and compliments in his work as well.

There were kettle noises from the kitchen, and before long Mrs Washburn, tall and thin like Imogene's mother but younger, with hair still dark, brought in three cups of hot chocolate, a plate of cookies, and a very tender smile.

Another hour went by; Imogene counted the ten long bongs of the grandfather clock and quietly sighed. Her ankles ached with want of sleep. Matt was on his third page now and had even begun smiling again, while Mark was trouncing her in game after game of Dots and Tic-Tac-Toe.

Imogene felt guilty. Both of these boys were precious to her, but, at the moment, she wished only to be back home in her warm, cozy bed. She hated the thought of getting into that frigid car again.

Then the mother returned to plead bedtime with her younger son. He resisted of course, pouting and cranky, and Imogene leaned back to rub one of her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"I'm not crying," she said, detecting everyone's attention. "My contacts're startin't'feel like sandpaper. I better git." She stood up, sniffling, and poked at a teardrop. Her smile, she felt, could be no more than a weak imitation.

In their year and a quarter together Imogene had endured several major crises with Matt, but she was convinced that this one tonight had been the worst. Had she simply gone to bed early, as she had planned, their next four years might well have been spent in colleges half a nation apart, instead of half a state. Certainly, she would have lost him.

England was not alone in having a tragic history. Her own tribulations, during the time of Matt's predecessor, had taught her scathingly that 'out of sight was out of mind.' Never would _she_ be a woman worshiped from afar.

Imogene was drained. And, as always when all but stumbling with fatigue, her emotions broke their fragile reins; her itchy eyes continued to weep.

Jacketed once more, she bent down to give Matt a long, significant kiss, wetting his face with hers.

Mark cried "Yuk!" and ran away before she could kiss him too.

There were tears as well in the mother's eyes as Imogene was warmly hugged at the front door.

Fortunately, the engine started right up, but while driving away Imogene noticed her library card still lying on the dashboard where she had tossed it. She sighed, for the card reminded her of Stanley, of his bowed head and thick glasses, his blushing, and his walking home in the cold and the dark and the bitter wind.

And of one other thing as well: the un-generous heart that had offered him no help.
\- III -

The next morning Imogene was shaken awake from a deep slumber. She wandered around her room, yanking curlers from her hair and looking for clothes that matched, then went down to breakfast.

Everyone was grumpy; notably her mother, in robe and slippers, who was still mad at her for letting "That boy!" keep her out so late on such a night. "And a school night, too!"

Her father's frown warned Imogene not to let it happen again, while her brother and sister, both sophomores, exchanged wry sniggers between themselves, as if to say: ' _Sure_ they were doing homework!'

Later, after her siblings had dropped their oatmeal bowls in the sink, Imogene took hers to the telephone and called Matt. She faced away from her parents, who were still sipping their coffee, and spoke softly into the receiver.

"Get it done?" she asked, then strangled the coil-cord to hear his disgusted sigh.

"Don't tell me you didn't do it!" She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. "You were goin'great guns."

"Just give up on me, okay?"

"Matt!"

"God it's two thousand words! How'm I s'pose to do it all in one night!"

"I didn't say it was easy! I ... Matt, y' _hafta_ — "

"Just give up on me. I have." The phone clicked.

Imogene stood for several seconds with the dead receiver in her hand, gazing down at the tiny perforations.

From the table came a sound of gruff tenderness. Her father, stocky but crisp-looking in his white shirt and charcoal tie, had elbows planted on the table and stared at his daughter over a fisted cigarette. "Anything we can help with, sweetie?"

Imogene smiled. "Thanks, Daddy." Her blouse shrugged. "Lovers' tiff."

The mother said nothing.

Before leaving for school, Imogene searched through her bottom desk drawer, the one in which she kept all her old assignments, and pulled out the handwritten draft of a Mary Queen of Scots paper she had prepared for her world history class back in tenth grade. At its top was printed:
"IN MY END

IS MY BEGINNING"

THE VICTORY

OF A FALLEN QUEEN

With a blush of bitter anger, Imogene stuffed these pages into her notebook and hurried out to the windy bus stop.

Once on her way to school, with old 51 bucking over the frozen ruts, she turned from the chattering of her friends and beneath raised shoulders scribbled an unaddressed and unsigned note:

Copy this. It's well over 2000 wds. But don't let anyone see you doing it!! Don't use the same title. Misspell some words & leave out commas & stuff. Make it look like something you'd write! [This was followed by a picture of a face with a zigzag line for a mouth.] If she asks why you changed topics, tell her you couldn't find any books on Cromwell. Destroy this note. I love you.

At the school, as soon as Imogene had hopped from the bus, she ran upstairs to Matt's locker, opened it, and placed the note and penciled draft in plain view.

From that moment on she could not keep her limbs from trembling, and every voice spoken to her, even the cheery G'morning!'s in her first hour Latin class, made her stomach bounce.

She noted too that Stanley, across the aisle from her, was safe and apparently unharmed after his cold walk home from the library the night before. He had begun blushing though, and she feared for awhile that her own coloration would be pointed out by one of the jokers in the class.

Second and third period were no better. Before long she even caught herself using mannerisms unwittingly copied from Stanley, such as bending nose-high over her studies to hide as much of her scarlet brow as possible.

It was a horrible morning, but soon after lunch, when Imogene and two of her friends were coming out of a girls' room, Matt appeared before them with a wicked smile on his face. He grabbed Imogene's arm and pulled her down a nearby stairwell. Becky and Polly laughed after them with ribald delight.

At the bottom of the stairs, Imogene was forced into a cold corner near an entrance door and fiercely kissed. She made no resistance. The door behind them opened and closed several times, without comment, and he pressed his cheek to hers. "Oh ... baby!" he whimpered.

In the days that followed, Imogene continued to be jittery and, even to her friends, became increasingly distant. She was reluctant to laugh in the hallways, and her cheering was noticeably subdued. On practice nights she stepped through the routines with her eyes flashing frequently over her shoulder. At home she rarely left her room and could not answer the phone except with painful trepidation.

Her mother, however, was the only one to remark on the change, which she did one night while drying the dishes Imogene handed her from the sink. "What is it, sweetheart," she said tenderly. "Something's bothering you."

Helpless, with her arms deep in suds, Imogene could only mumble a rehearsed comment about her grades. Without daring to look up, she soon turned their conversation onto topics that could make both of them laugh. But the mother's look of concern (and the daughter's blush) did not go away.

Then one afternoon Imogene and Matt left their last period art class together, each bearing the other's latest work: tribal masks. (His was almost pervertedly grotesque and fully deserved its A, but Imogene's, as Miss McCarthy had mocked to great effect, was about as savage as a cherub with dirty feet. Imogene felt no loss in giving it away.)

But Matt did not drive her home; nor did they go anywhere to meet with friends. Instead, Imogene was puzzled to find they had arrived at the unplowed parking lot of the municipal swimming pool, long unused at this time of year. Through foggy windows they gazed out at the leafless trees all around. The playground on top of the hill had swing sets still barren of swings, and there were mounds of old snow, like sheeted cadavers, resting on the picnic tables.

As usual, Matt left the engine running to retain whatever warmth his little Volkswagen had managed to produce; the feeble coughing of the motor seemed like a third person sitting in back.

(Imogene had no great liking for these cramped foreign cars, but she understood her boyfriend's fondness for them, ever since Matt and the previous year's hockey squad had impishly kidnapped their coach's VW. On that occasion Matt had obliged her to look on as poor Mr Costello, in utter bafflement, followed the nine sets of footprints across the parking lot to the practice rink, there to find his little red beetle neatly squeezed into the penalty box. Much laughter accompanied the spinning wheels as he and the tiny car tried vainly to regain _terra firma_.)

And now again Matt displayed that same crafty smile which could only mean that someone else would soon be yelling at him.

Without a word, he brought out a set of stapled pages filled with his draftsman-neat penmanship and titled, simply: 'Mary Queen of Scots.'

A large red A was beside his name.

Gasping, Imogene jumped into his arms, and they kissed feverishly, for many minutes, until both of them grew dizzy for lack of breath.

When she released him, Matt laughed to point out Miss Wiesner's scribbled comments:
This is an excellent paper, Matt!

You write in a manner which is easy to read!

Keep up the good work!!

"I still can't believe it!" he said. "How can she be so dumb!"

Imogene could not laugh with him. She fell on his chest and cried, "I've been just sick, Matt! Don't ever, _ever_ make me do anything like this again! Ever!"

His chuckling continued however and Imogene looked up in anger. "You know how wrong this was. How far my neck's been sticking out! You better say yes." She was shaking the flaps of his jacket and the jingling of her charm bracelet could be heard even above the wailing radio:
... and you know you should

be gla-ad. Oo-oo-oo! ...

Instead of answering, Matt reached into the back seat for a second set of papers and laid this in her hands as well. It was entitled 'Oliver Cromwell' and seemed to be of equal length to the essay he had turned in, but there was no grade at the top.

"Took me all this time to finish it," he said. "But I didn't copy from anyone. That's all me — it's crap! — but it's all me."

Imogene, amazed, began slapping through the stack of handwritten sheets, her mouth unable to close. Then her eyes drifted up to his.

"Anyway," he said, "I'm not a quitter."

The shadows of the naked trees had doubled in length before she had finished kissing him. Truly, thought Imogene: 'Love is only known through astonishment.' (Dante.)

She could easily have remained in her boyfriend's arms, but his sudden stillness began to frighten her, and she crawled back to her side of the tiny front seat. Her wet eyes begged him not to spoil the moment.

She was pleased then to hear nothing further but his whistling to the radio while he drove her home, and the offer (though still tentative) to take her "t'that dumb movie y'been buggin'me about." She clung to the sleeve of his green and white jacket and smeared happy tears on the '65 she herself had sewn to its shoulder.

At her home, when she invited Matt inside, his hand paused on its way to the ignition key, and he asked, "Your mom still mad about that music box thing?"

Imogene made a sour little laugh, "Umm ... yeah." But she continued to smile while gathering up her new possessions: the luridly suggestive mask, and that precious — astounding — Cromwell paper. She sighed however, for, despite such testament to Matt's talent and integrity, neither effort could ever be shown to her mother.

So often this was the case, she mused. But what can you do with a man whose candle — though brightly it shines — shines only under the bushel of his questionable behavior?

Matt was looking down at his hands, awaiting Imogene's return from meditation (something frequently required of his patience), then, almost bashfully, clunked his car into gear.

She gave him one last kiss.
\- IV -

So her days of agony were over, and Imogene returned to her life of active, happy tumult. She could once again laugh and chatter with her friends, although an occasional flash of color still came into her face whenever she let herself ponder too deeply on her actions. But this she tried not to do in public.

The college sent Matt a letter of acceptance. He showed it to her with boyish pride (as much, thought Imogene, as ever attended his many golden trophies), and she hung on him like a baby's bib and cried.

At the next practice night, near the weary end of it, Imogene and the other Elnora High cheerleaders were catching their breaths in a small area of the gym vacated by a bank of pushed-back bleacher seats. Dressed in cutoffs and sleeveless jerseys, the girls wandered around on legs nearly numb with exertion or leaned against the wall fanning their red faces.

Though all of them were on friendly terms with one another, the group tended to divide itself into smaller sets, Imogene and three others: Becky, Polly and Mary Helen, made up one of those sets. This close quartet had been best friends since even before high school. In the preceding years some of them were more successful than others at the cheerleader tryouts, but now, as seniors, they found themselves all on the varsity squad, and this was an endless source of happiness for them. Although currently, after more than an hour of squealing labor, each could think of little beyond her own raspy throat and aching limbs.

While they rested, too tired even to smile, they watched the jungle of strong male limbs on the court before them thundering with basketballs through their own practice. The pounding and squeaking of the boys' sneakers was an incessant din, punctuated by frequent bad language and chirps from the coach's whistle. Matt glittered with sweat as he took his turn in the lay-up runs and slammed the backboard.

Imogene feared to gaze too longingly at him for her friends never tired of making innuendoes.

Every once in awhile, one of the dozens of balls would get away from the boys and someone among the cheerleaders had to boot it back into the chaos.

Suddenly, Imogene launched herself into the air, kicking her legs as wide as they would go; then, landing with a springy bounce, knuckles on hips, she paced and twirled through the steps of the cheer she and the other girls had just been practicing. The stomps of her dingy-white 'tennies' were barely audible amid the general noise, but her barking shouts made boys even on the far side of the gym spin around:
" _H! O! R! N! E! T! S!_ " she cried with the voice of Achilles.

"God," said Mary Helen, pulling her face from a towel, "someone _sit_ on her, okay?"

Soon the girls' advisor returned from the locker room. Miss Marilyn Beaver — tall and solid in her sweat suit, black hair salted with gray, a chrome whistle strung from her stout neck — always carried herself with a look of preemptive aggression. (With such a name? — the girls tittered — who could blame her!) Miss Beaver strode the oaken floor as would a captain on his cruiser. Even the team's towering center made way for her.

Cindy, tallest among the cheerleaders, hopped up and spanked her hands to get the girls in line for another run-through. All had looked at the clock and knew that — thank god! — this would be the last time.

They cheered their hearts out while Miss Beaver, clipboard cocked between hip and hanging arm, glared at them and shouted such words of encouragement as, "You _stink_ , ladies!"

When the girls had finished, Miss Beaver called out a short list of times, dates and equipment; she held the clipboard at arm's length and squinted.

While listening to this, and gasping for breath as quietly as possible, Imogene collected herself close to her friends and tapped a forearm on her brow. None of her ponytailed colleagues were any the less fatigued; Becky, nearly as tall as Cindy, slouched like a wounded soldier, and Polly, who in photographs of the squad always stood next to Imogene on the short end of the line, tried bravely to smile over her little heaving chest. Mary Helen was a bit taller; she and Imogene leaned against each other's shoulder for support.

Finishing the announcements, and now with clipboard knuckled on one hip, Miss Beaver paused a moment to survey her raggedly assembled troupe; each weary maiden seemed ready to collapse.

When the teacher went on, she had changed to her non-combat voice. Her tones when speaking as a normal woman were unexpectedly plaintive and whispery as if she had smoked too many cigarettes in her life, although, since she had been teaching health and P.E. for twenty-four years, this was unlikely.

"Cheerleaders are actors," she said, and immediately, as if they had heard this before, several girls thumped backwards against the wall of flattened bleachers.

"They have to _look_ happy, always," the teacher continued. "I don't care what's goin'on inside or how cold and windy it is or how tired they are." She raised her voice. "Or how much they wanna make cutlets outa their coach — "

Mary Helen, turning to Imogene, whispered across the back of her hand: "Would you believe ... ground round?"

"Got somethin't' _say_ , Reinberg!" came the clear, commandant's voice.

Imogene was stepping daintily away from her friend.

Miss Beaver ended her comments with reminders of this being the best team the school had ever produced; a thumb over her shoulder indicated the pummeling high-tops behind her. "And you prissy misses are gonna be in the same championship class. Or die tryin'. Do I make myself clear." She pointed at Cindy. "Go through everything. Twice. Now."

The girls, all but Imogene, gasped with shock and indignation; fingers flew to the clock.

" _Three_ times!" the teacher bellowed. "And it's four, next frown I see!"

Like magic, the squadron of girls jelled grinningly before their advisor.

"Anyone drops dead better have a _smile_ on'er face!" The whistle squealed to start them off.

Later, in the locker room, while stripping off their sweat-soaked garments, the girls paused from chattering when Miss Beaver stormed through the double-doors and called out, "Urich! My office!"

"Uh-oh!" said Kristi, grinning at Imogene.

" _Now_ you're gonna get it!" the two Sues crooned in unison.

Imogene tried to laugh with the others, but felt herself turning pale. Hurriedly, she put her clothes back on, all but her sneakers, and padded across the concrete in icy wet socks. Her mind had filled itself with sudden horrors, and Cindy and Caroline's chanting of the death march was not much of a joke to her.

For many days Imogene had lived with the chronic fear that, if anyone were to find out about the copied paper, the first result, surely, would be her getting kicked-off the squad.

She entered the cluttered office just as her friends' squeals could be heard coming from the shower room. Miss Beaver was checking something on her clipboard; she set it down and strode over to Imogene who, backing away, banged her arm against the doorframe.

The advisor raised one tennis shoe to the seat of a chair and leaned on the knee of her sweatpants; she was eye to eye with Imogene. "Cheerleaders are actors," she said in her patchy voice. "Funny thing is, I don't care how good they are at hidin'the blues, the radiance that comes after is the dead giveaway." She stared into Imogene's eyes. "You've been through hell past couple weeks, right?"

Imogene's body deflated in a rush.

"Look at me."

She tried to, but could get no higher than the stalwart chin.

"It's over I hope."

Imogene nodded. She was still rubbing the banged elbow.

"Good." Miss Beaver straightened up, jiggling her whistle on its hefty neckcord. "Sorry I didn't see it sooner, but ... I s'pose you're sick'a people askin'if y'wanna talk about it."

Imogene barely managed another nod; her flesh was lifting hot air like a stove burner.

"That's fine," said the advisor. "I just ... you're very special to me." Miss Beaver's face had begun to darken, and she looked down to scrutinize the worn plating on her whistle. "I've never had one a'my girls give a graduation speech before."

"No," Imogene quickly denied. "N-no one knows for sure yet. Not 'til the quarter's — "

"Skip it. Everyone knows." The other foot went to the seat of the chair and now the other knee was leaned on. "Was that it? Just grades you're worried about?"

Imogene nodded.

"Well ... keep things in perspective. School spirit isn't everything. Even though I always say it is." She smiled a moment. "Next time things go to hell? Talk to me. I don't s'pose I can do much more'n ... dig up a fill-in for ya or something. But just talk to me. Y'don't have to fight the world alone. Okay?"

The interview was evidently over. Miss Beaver had turned and hurried back toward her desk. Shrieks of laughter from the shower room was all that could be heard.

Imogene found that now it was easy, even pleasurable to look up at her advisor, at the strangely awkward stance, and the remarkable blush spreading over those hardened features. On an impulse, she ran to give the teacher a hug. Instantly, she felt strong muscles, like Matt's, crushing her shoulders.

When released, Miss Beaver's cracked and patchy voice murmured, "Go jump in the shower. You stink, lady."

Imogene returned to the benches with her eyes aglow. Though hugely relieved, she was still trembling with this renewal of alarm. She wondered if a simple, carefree life would ever be hers again. Certainly not before she and Matt had their ill-gotten diplomas safely in hand.

What a terrible thing to _say!_ she scolded herself. No matter how much time goes by, the guilt will always be there! Like a bullet hole! Like the memory of a dead friend!

Yes. Granted. Without question. But still, somewhere deep inside, a voice less idealistic than her own maintained: When once past all danger of discovery, feigning her innocence will become easy, 'easy onto indifference.' (Livy.)

Imogene sighed, hoping it was only the practical wisdom in such thoughts that made them tolerable to her.

All alone now, she tarried in removing her sweaty clothes. (There were goose bumps on her limbs as she peeled away the cold, dank underthings.) She was also waiting for her blush to dissipate, but there seemed little chance of that.

While she sat with socks in hand, lazily turning them outside-out, she allowed another, even more disturbing thought into her mind: No one (in the history of the school, probably) had ever dared to hug Miss Beaver. But she did; she who now least of all deserved such rare affection. She could point to the intentional — even premeditated — deception in her act: the instinctive eagerness to deflect all suspicion and wrath. And her sincere liking for Miss Beaver could scarcely acquit her: 'To appease with genuine love is bribery most economical.' (Juvenal.)

Imogene's teeth were clenched.

In shame and self-anger she could not help recalling her favorite prince's private rage: 'That one may smile and smile and be a villain.'

Still, the warmth she had felt in her teacher's arms was far from anything false.

When Imogene arrived at the shower room the air was dense with steam. Despite this, she was spotted sneaking in.

"Here she _comes!_ " cried Anna, "Guilty as hell!"

Then Ginger called out, "Hey, snoot-boots, we'll send cookies to you in Alcatraz, okay?"

The chamber howled.

"You guys!" Imogene was already under her spray of water and hiding as much of her pink body as she could.

"No really," asked Polly beside her, "what's up."

Imogene shook her head. "Nothing. She was just, y'know ... she thinks I'm takin'too much time away from my homework'n stuff." Imogene raised her voice for the benefit of the others. "I swear, everyone worries about my grades but me!"

This was calculated to renew the laughter, and it did, for all knew that no one was more concerned about Imogene's grades than Imogene.

Mary Helen called from the far corner, "I'm so sure Beaver'd ever get mad at _you!_ 'Bout anything!"

"We were just talkin'bout that," said Becky. "You're her favorite. Ever since that gymnastics stuff. Teacher's pet!"

More laughter, while Imogene, wholly unheard, could only repeat: "You guys!"

"An'don't forget homecoming!" cried Riina. "She was ready to _murder_ someone 'cuz your name wasn't on that stupid ballot! 'Member how she yelled?"

Homecoming, even three months after the fact, was still a touchy subject for the girls in this room; half of them had been on the queen's court (all the senior cheerleaders in fact, except Imogene), but not one of them succeeded to the crown.

This change of topic was readily embraced. "Well of course _I_ wasn't nominated!" Imogene had flung her arms wide. "No one votes for short girls! But what gets me is why the heck _Matt's_ name wasn't on that — I'm still mad! It was just so — it really stinks! Someone cheated ... or something."

The word 'cheated,' as she spoke it aloud, had a strange effect on Imogene. She bent over to scrub her legs once more.

"I couldn't believe Matt," said Polly, wistfully clouded in her pillar of mist; with shower cap pulled tight she looked like a tiny bald Tinker Bell bathed in pixie dust. (Though barely taller than Imogene, Polly had managed to become a homecoming princess: majestically petite, gowned in a lengthy formal, and perched atop the tallest heels she and her friends could find anywhere in the city.)

Polly let out a sigh. "He was so sweet to you that night. Danced every dance, and that beautiful ring he gave you. An'not so much as a swear word about the nominations. As if _he_ ever backed away from a fight!"

Imogene nodded while gazing down at her soapy fingers (since her ring had a tendency to slip off when wet, it was never allowed to bathe with her). But Polly — dear Polly! — had touched on the aspect of homecoming Imogene loved best: the way Matt had refused to let his anger spoil their evening.

Imogene recalled how, at the party that night, several girls declared to her that they had personally put in his name for homecoming king and knew of others who had done likewise. Clearly, something underhanded had been at work, yet it was Matt who dragged Imogene back to the dance floor when she went charging off to give someone a piece of her mind. Never before, or since, had he behaved with such knightly forbearance.

And that lovely ring! (she was still gazing at the back of her right hand), how blissfully ashamed she was to have forgotten that their very first date had been the homecoming dance of the year before. She had completely forgotten — but _he_ had not!

The girls were chattering on about other things now, and Imogene stood motionless under the hot stream, allowing the merciful water to flood down her back.

How she had loved Matt that night! All her concerns, even her rage at the nominations became as nothing in the warmth of his arms and the glow of his attentive eyes. In spite of all, the memory of that evening had become her greatest treasure.

She had to stop and think about this awhile, for it so often happened, especially with anything concerning Matt, that sad events could lead to happy ends. When she was younger, Imogene might have summed this up by quoting Cowper's famous hymn: 'God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.' Now, however, she recalled with pleasure a line from her chapter on Cicero:

Burnt ground grows sweetest grapes.
\- V -

Before many more days had passed by, Imogene became aware of an alteration in her life. Not only had her happiness and enthusiasm returned, but also a discernible change, an improvement, had come into her relationship with Matt.

They seemed to be together more often now, frequently at unexpected times. He actually listened to her; he remembered things she had said — and could say things himself which she wanted never to forget. Not every day of course, but increasingly now he gave her cause to recall that happy thrill of homecoming night. He had matured, she concluded. He had fallen in love with her, truly in love.

When reflecting on this, often teary-eyed, Imogene would grin to realize that this immense blessing was the result of their mutual sin: the illegal A for which they had willfully conspired. This, too, confirmed what Cicero had observed all those centuries ago.

Smiling at the enameled little owl on her dresser (who, coincidentally, bore the name Kickero), Imogene transposed his ancient namesake's words into current idiom: "Who _says_ crime doesn't pay!"

And then early one morning, while placing boots in her locker, a small white envelope tumbled out. Her name, sweetly formalized as ' _Miss_ Imogene Urich,' was typed on the front, and inside — unbelievably! — a tiny, two stanza poem.

Her heart vaulted like a packed stadium.

It was unsigned of course; Matt would never put his name to so unmanly a thing as this, and Imogene tottered into her Latin class to read the brief lines over and over, hiding the precious words from her nosy friends and blushing as violently as was Stanley across the aisle. (No doubt the others had been picking on him again, poor kid.)

But this morning Imogene had no time for compassion. Here, in a handful of — rather ill-made — sentiments (foremost proof of Matt's authorship) was the declaration of adult love which she, until then, had not realized her heart had been longing for. It was Matt all over: the perfectly unexpected thing!

Of course it did occur to her that the poem may have been the work of someone other than Matt. But its being typewritten suggested the author was someone whose handwriting she would recognize.

Her three best friends came quickly to mind. They knew her locker combination as well as Matt, and the wording of the poem was almost awkward enough to qualify as a parody of true emotion. (Something those cackling Hecatees could surely stoop-to for all her recent babbling about Matt!)

But somehow Imogene did not feel it to be a joke. There were no outrageously corny lines in the poem, and if her friends were indeed pulling her leg, would not at least one of them have managed to be on hand to watch the fun?

As the morning wore on Imogene became convinced the poem could only have come from her boyfriend's heart. Going out of her way after second period, she passed by Matt in one of the crowded hallways. Her smile was radiant, and the look of sudden unease in his face, from which he immediately recovered, confessed much.

At lunch that day, the chattering of her friends contained no more than the usual amount of conspiracy and hidden mirth; Imogene let herself giggle with them while privately considering how best to respond to this dear pronouncement. Matt had certainly meant it to be anonymous, and she could not risk his further embarrassment by saying in so many words that she knew it was from him.

As the girls were leaving the cafeteria, Imogene took one of her friends aside and whispered a few unexplained directions for later in the day. Though puzzled, Becky was eager to comply; and that afternoon, at the Dairy Queen, Imogene waited for her friend to do her part and order her own young man to go fetch their treats. Additionally, Becky had seated herself directly behind Matt in his little car so that, while the girls talked to one another, he would remain within their line of sight.

Imogene had to hop out a moment to let Steve climb through the door on her side. (It was cruel to make tall Becky and her even taller boyfriend squeeze themselves into that tiny back seat, but they never seemed to mind.)

Then, once again on her knees and clutching the backrest with excitement, Imogene squeaked to her friend. "Oh Becks! At last I can _tell_ you!" Though she sensed Matt turning away, as if wary of what might be coming next, she nevertheless went on in breathless tones to her friend: "You _won't_ believe this! I found a letter in my locker today. A love letter! But it wasn't for me. It was for _you!_ "

Matt, admirably, did not flinch, nor seem in any way perplexed; but Becky was more than a little baffled (she had been given no script to read). "Oh?" she improvised. "Really?"

"Yeah, it's from some guy. I don't know who. There was no name or anything. But he's been watching you at the ball games? When we're cheerin'n stuff? An'he's really, _really_ in love with you. He just wanted me to let y'know. It was so strange!"

Becky had caught the frequent shifting of Imogene's eyes, and now both girls were watching Matt's every movement. The young man, however — so famously adept at subtle deception — was gazing idly out the windshield. Certainly, no blush of guilt had appeared. But then he looked down, and the way he so very, _very_ casually turned up the radio:
... I don't believe you,

you're not the truth.

No one could loo-ook

as good as you-oo

... mercy ...

condemned him out of hand!

Moreover, was it not remarkable that he had no comment whatever about this odd revelation she was making to her friend?

Clearly, she had caught him off guard. He was guilty as hell! Guilty of the poem, guilty of being consummately in love with her! She knew it. And now _he_ knew she knew it — all without the exchange of a single word.

Imogene was absurdly pleased with herself; this little play had been just the thing 'to catch the conscience of the king.'

But she cautioned herself against taking the gag too far. With Matt, it was sometimes dangerous to discover more about him than he wanted you to know.

The girls' discussion about the 'love letter' was conveniently dropped; Steve returned with their snacks, and they all laughed about every crazy thing they could think of. It was like any other weekday afternoon.

Later though, when Matt dropped Imogene off at her home, she could no longer contain her great joy. She crawled into his arms and wept words of love and gratitude against his chest.

With his dumbest look he gazed down at her and said, "What poem."

"Oh shut up," she sniffled, and the kiss he received was such as made his eyes pop open. (She felt the slap of lashes in her hair.)

Well, she could be unexpected too.
\- VI -

In school the next morning (after making a thorough search for more letters in her locker) Imogene hurried into her first hour class, wishing above all that she could speak of her happiness to the girls who sat near her, the same who often made fun of Matt's frequent delinquencies.

Imogene had not even told her best friends the full story, all that Becky had wheedled out of her was that Matt had done some gloriously gallant thing, presumably by way of letter, but the details could not be divined from so love-sappy a face.

So, in Latin class that morning, as normally as possible, Imogene danced to the far side of the room, to the row nearest the windows, and took her seat, second from the front. She was pleased to find that there was much going on to distract her.

The girls in her vicinity formed a vociferous subset of the class which, since completion of their Italian semester — and because of their oppressively good grades — had earned the nickname _La Cosa Nostra_. (Though Imogene and her friends preferred the diminutive, 'Mafia,' and this only with the accent altered to rhyme with that of the cinematic seductress, 'Sophia;' thus prompting from the boys further groans of irritation and competitive chagrin.)

This morning, Imogene found these entertaining, if occasionally arrogant girls in very high spirits, and with so glad a secret in her heart, she could not resist adding to the general merriment. Her laughter was as ready as theirs, and her lips stretched wide as she looked around the room, nodding to all her acquaintances. Everyone, boys and girls alike, responded with an eager grin or a chirping, "Hi, Geenee!"

All, that is, except Stanley, the ever-impassive young man directly beside her. He and his short hair and spectacles were ignoring her as pointedly as ever. The night he had snubbed her in the library recurred to Imogene, and she turned away, fiddling with the brown lunch bag on her desk.

Everyone had been instructed to bring a similar sack. This, indeed, was the prime diversion of the morning: there was to be no Latin class at all. It was Charity Week and this was the day her class had arranged to meet with two other homerooms and stage a mock auction among themselves. All were to bring foolish, useless items to be sold for unreasonable sums, and the proceeds donated to the Red Cross. Imogene, for her part, was contributing the lavender perfume atomizer, now layered with dust, which had been standing empty on her dressing table since eighth grade.

JoAnn, the tallish, loud girl who sat behind her, was showing off the broken fanny paddle which was to be her contribution; and Debbie in the desk ahead, with sleeves pulled back on her skinny arms, was demonstrating the use of a bubble pipe kit. She added that her little sister will be screaming bloody murder when she finds it missing!

They all laughed, Imogene as loudly as anyone, although, since Debbie's sister had been one of her Sunday school kids the previous year, Imogene felt a bite of remorse and began, instead, to take an interest in the new bracelet on Debbie's arm. She became enraptured with the intricate design and blushed to find she was extolling the trinket in words that would have served better in praising poetry. Imogene had great difficulty making herself shut up.

She was, however, sufficiently alert to note that there was no paper bag on the desk across the aisle. Stanley, apparently immune to the girls' infectious hilarity, was hunched over a slender, soft cover novel, and his posture was identical to what she had seen in the library that night.

This was so typical of him! thought Imogene. Like Rudolf with his nose so red, he simply _will_ _not_ join in any of their 'reindeer games!'

Mr Grove was at his desk and grinning as much as his students for the loss of the morning's lecture. He detained them only long enough to read a sheet of announcements, then turned the class over to Margaret, the tall, elegantly attired young woman who took her role as Red Cross representative very seriously.

She marched her troop of sack-bearing seniors all the way up to third floor and into one of the shorthand rooms where the girls within had pushed their desks to the back wall and seated themselves primly on the low cupboards under the windows. They gazed at the entrance of these Latin scholars, many of whom were girls; girls who never, the onlookers seemed to be saying, who _never_ would become secretaries.

Imogene and her Mafioso friends seated themselves with conspicuous dignity on the desktops in the back of the room, letting their legs dangle over the edge, and tried to restrain their giggling. Through gritted teeth Debbie groaned: "How _sick_ is this!"

Soon, a group of dull-faced boys came in as well. (Imogene had heard they were to be from one of the industrial arts classes.) They added their sacks to the now huge pile on the teacher's desk.

No adults were present, but Margaret was in discussion with the other two Red Cross delegates; she, smoothing the sides of her dress, assumed the greater consequence, and presently the representative from the shop class was ordered to the pile of sacks where he began, in a haltingly lackluster way, to auction them off. Imogene and her friends did not recognize him, but he was good-looking and, for a time, all were content.

His voice though soon proved to be weak and uninspiring; his ease of manner never improved. He did not seem to be shy exactly, just extremely boring, and it was not long before JoAnn and Debbie and several others began chanting for a replacement. In her exhilaration that morning Imogene could not resist joining in with full cheerleader spirit, "Give us a _personality_ at least!" she cried, then, abruptly, looked down at the floor.

The words of a long ago sermon had come thundering back to her: "Give us Barabbas!" the minister had snarled at the congregation.

When Imogene dared look up again, the boy was slouching off to the wall by the door, and Brad, the Beatle-haired, elfish kid from her Latin class had taken his place. He was peeking into one of the paper sacks, then came forward, grinning at the boys from the print shop. He held up the sack to them. "Now here we have a little number guaran _teed_ to make a hot date hotter! What am I bid, guys," then turned suddenly to the tittering girls along the windows. "Or ladies? Any of you into ... kinky?"

The room was filled now with laughter and a sense of happy relief; Debbie and JoAnn were patting their desktops with glee, and Imogene, not finding where the poor boy had gone, allowed her lips to curl. She replaced her momentary guilt with a big grin and called out, "Twenty cents!"

"Ah- _ha!_ " cried Brad, shaking the sack at her. "So it's _true_ what they say about pom-pom girls!" and the room roared.

Imogene was laughing too. It strangely delighted her — and she was more than a little awed — to be the focus of so titanic a response. She had no idea who most of these people were, yet, clearly, every kid in the room was acquainted with her. She looked about herself, showing pleasure with her many blushing smiles.

But suddenly her flesh went cold.

Stanley, she found, was standing with several others against the long interior wall; all the boys and girls were laughing, but he was not. Though short and unimpressive Stanley had come to full attention among them, and there was a look of anger on his face. And he was staring at her — directly _at_ her!

Imogene sensed a flood of shame go down the length of her body, all the way to her crossed ankles swaying idiotically over the edge of the desktop. The cruel part she had taken in dispatching the first auctioneer was foremost in her mind.

Once again her eyes were angled down, focused now on her dark green skirt and shoes; she could not bear the sight of Stanley and his harsh gaze. Never before had she seen both lenses of his glasses at once, and, most remarkable, he was not blushing.

His look of hatred and accusation was like a slap across her face. She could not guess how long he had been staring at her.

A sense of fright was soon added to her guilt as she wondered how many others were observing this. The laughter seemed to go on, however, often in bursts as the auctioneer bedeviled one grinning victim after another.

Then, while the bidding continued, Imogene felt within herself a thrust of resentment and self-justification. After all, she had said nothing untrue. Her words were no worse than those of the others. And — anyway! — who _was_ this little twerp Stanley that he could pass judgment on _her!_

Forcing the smile back to her lips, she looked up at Brad; his face was dimpled with suppressed gaiety. "Imogena!" he called, speaking now in his intentionally faulty Latin. "Fifty sesterce of cost to you fully it is!" Then he pointed at the girl who had last bid. "You will not let _she_ use this on Matt, are you?"

This produced more laughter, though mostly from just the Latin students, and Imogene felt — with no pride whatever — that her own helpless giggling was prominent over all.

Eventually, she won the bid and hurried with her purse to Margaret at the teacher's desk to give up three quarters in exchange for the sack, then skipped back to her friends, all of whom were demanding to be shown the contents at once. Obliging them, Imogene pulled out a limp and brightly colored pouch-like thing, and the sniggering voices burst into shocked guffaws as they made out the wrinkled words: 'Blackbutt Chewing Tobacco.' The bag seemed to be half empty and had an odor suggestive of damp narcotics.

Brad, in the middle of his next sale, paused to laugh with the others over her extraordinary purchase.

Imogene pinched the top corner of the pouch, as if dealing with something recently dead, and replaced it within the paper sack. Her lips, amid the laughter, were aptly twisted.

Later, after some calm had returned to the proceedings, Imogene ventured another glance at Stanley. Surely, she thought, here was adequate punishment for her inconsiderate words.

But Stanley was no longer looking at her. He was leaning against the wall, his flattened palms behind him, and staring down at the floor. He was blushing now, but the aspect of disappointment in his posture shamed her still. She could not conquer the troubled feeling in her heart, and her smiles became forced and few throughout the rest of the auction.

When it was over, Imogene stepped quickly to the nearest lavatory — already asqueal with many girls — and disposed of the illicit bag. (She had no idea what the penalty was for possessing tobacco products on school property, but for an honor student it would certainly be severe.)

She was not surprised, however, that hiding the sack among the discarded paper towels did nothing to relieve the uneasiness within her. She had been a callous, cruel, unthinking ... jerk. (There was no other word for it.) Geenee Jurich! She knew what she was, and so did Stanley — and so did the boy she had hurt.

She wondered, staring at her reflection in the big vanity mirror, if that boy was a particular friend of Stanley's; that would explain all the indignation, but this seemed unlikely. The boy was too handsome to have so plain a friend as Stanley; besides, she could not recall having ever seen Stanley in company with anyone, not in class or at their lockers, not even in the lunchroom; there, if she noticed him at all, he was always seated at a table by himself, huddled over his sandwiches and a book.

She recalled as well how he had been sitting all alone in the library that one night. And in the school library too: no matter where he chose to sit, that table would remain empty except for him; boys and girls alike avoided him as if he were a thing unclean.

To her credit, Imogene had several times tried to break through that wall of isolation which Stanley seemed always to erect about himself, but all her attempts had proven useless; there had to be at least some trace of invitation before kind words could be said.

(As she fell to deeper musing, her image in the mirror began to lose focus, and the babble of the surrounding shorthand girls seemed to drift far away.)

On coming to class one morning, she recalled, the janitor or someone had left the aisle between their desks uncommonly narrow. She had been feeling impish in her cheerleader frills that morning, and when JoAnn gave her a comic translation to read, Imogene stretched out her legs to rest her tennis shoes on the cross bar of Stanley's desk.

Slyly, amid her giggling, she had glanced up at the solemn boy and even patted happy toes to invite him to ask what was so funny. But all the notice Stanley took of her was to cease for a moment the scribbling of his pencil and to hold his head in such a way that, were his eyes directed through the extreme corners of his glasses, he would have a clear view of her legs, vibrantly side by side, below him. He was blushing of course, but certainly no words were in danger of being spoken.

That reminded her, too, of the day she came to class in a daring pair of fish-net hosiery which her boss at the dress shop had requested she wear. Whenever Imogene crossed her legs that morning Stanley would turn toward her knees almost far enough that she could catch his eye with a smile — almost, but not quite.

And now, she sighed while getting out her comb, it was far too late to venture on that or any kind of acquaintanceship. She had to face the fact: Stanley's outrage had not been on behalf of an ill-treated friend, one could apologize for something so slight as that. No, Imogene knew that her fault went much deeper. Stanley had chastised her for precisely that sin which shamed her most: that snobbish, arrogant, 'beautiful person' attitude she secretly held toward all those of lower social standing. She was a cheerleader; she was an honor student; (even something of a fashion queen by virtue of the chic outfits — courtesy of her dress shop — which she daily modeled). She was a prancing, stuck-up, egotistical ... !

But this was unjust; for she did, earnestly, strive to love her neighbors as herself, and succeeded, she believed, more often than did many others who also aspired to do good. But nevertheless — who was it who said (one of the Senecas?) — 'No man is more noble than his least noble thought.'

Gradually, her image in the wide mirror came back into focus (the comb poking aimlessly at her perfect waves), and the shrillness of the voices beside her had reasserted themselves. These Future Business Leaders of America, likewise avoiding the return to their homeroom, were still chattering and happily picking apart absent friends with what Imogene supposed to be typical typing-pool cattiness. She lifted her chin with disdain.

You're doing it _again!_ You're no better than the least of these! You know that!

Yes, she knew that; but surely, she allowed, if one knows — and grieves to know — the depth of her own faults, this must place her at least a little above those who have yet to acknowledge even the existence of theirs.

Now she was using the point of her comb to scrape at her fingernails (the crimson face in the mirror could not be endured), and she scowled. What was the depth of _Stanley's_ faults she'd like to know! How noble was _his_ least noble thought? Was he saintly enough himself that he could condemn _her?_ Could such a puny, laughed-at, walked-all-over ... bug of a kid have so pure a love of mankind that he had the _right_ to scold her? Give me a break!

Imogene dallied in the girls' room until all the others had gone. A few minutes were still remaining before the end of first hour, and she felt no desire to return to her Latin class and sit beside Stanley.

The hall, therefore, was empty when she finally emerged and paced down the long, quiet corridor to the top of the stairwell. Sighing, she descended the steps with an almost heartbroken deliberation. She was no longer blushing, but gone was the buoyant joy which had blossomed in her heart that morning. Her little black purse, on its long shoulder strap, patted her hip gently with each step as she trudged, cross-armed, all the way down the three long flights; her eyes saw nothing beyond the hem of her evergreen skirt, her matching flats, and the approach of each badly scuffed and mica-flecked riser. In her mind she savored the ill-will toward Stanley, but could not deny his just grounds in censuring her, nor halt the bitter replaying of her own cruel words.

Reaching first floor, she glanced back a moment and her heart thudded to find Stanley himself on the landing above. There was a flash of spectacles as he dropped his eyes from her.

Farther down the hall, Debbie was standing idle at her locker. Imogene hurried to her friend to chatter about the new bracelet some more.
\- VII -

She saw nothing further of Stanley that day, and Imogene was glad when last period came finally to an end. This class, advanced art, was the only one she shared with Matt. Imogene was quick to place herself beside him for the long, slow walk back to his locker.

She pleaded to be driven straight home, and once there enticed him inside, past the mantelpiece with its missing music box (past her steely-eyed mother in the kitchen), and down to the chilly basement where they sat close together on the couch listening to records:
... and I've been workin-nn'

like a daw-aw-og!

It's been a ...

At last then (but while her sister still made countless unnecessary trips up and down the stairs) Imogene could tell someone of her terrible morning.

She had not dared mention it to her friends at lunch — too often they were prone to laugh at her fastidiousness — and so had spent the entire day holding this bit of grief within herself until Matt's arms were safely about her. How thankful she was that their romance had progressed to this deeper, more intimate level.

By this time Imogene had lost all of her anger, and her one intention now was to communicate to Matt an important insight into her character, to make him see that, silly as she was, some of her sorrows and fears — her regrets — could be viewed as endearing attributes of her nature; that, though not always right, she did always know when she was wrong, and the courage of such a conscience must be attractive to so valiant a man as Matt. At least she thought so, and she hoped to convince him of this further evidence of her worth. She wanted to give him a glimpse into her heart, as the poem had been a window into his.

At first he listened politely (though she had to pat hands from improper places a few times), and his compassion seemed genuinely to be engaged.

All this vanished, however, when she mentioned Stanley by name.

Matt grabbed her arm. "Whad he do! He _touch_ you?" His face had pulled itself into a whorl of blood-red creases. "God if that little creep — !" (Matt was silenced when the sister came trotting once more down the steps.)

But Imogene was stunned. She could make no more than stammering denials to her boyfriend, and these she had to whisper, in bitter squeaks, while picking at the stone-like fingers gripping her arm. (The sister, it seemed, was taking her sweet time sorting through the music books on the piano.)

Yet, when at last the couple was left alone, sitting side by side amid the now softer phonograph tunes:
... when it's cold outsi-i-de,

I've got the month of May ...

Imogene chose to abandon her own story and tried only to get some explanation from Matt concerning his prior knowledge of Stanley. It was hard to imagine what activities such opposite-minded boys could ever have had in common. Yet there must have been some kind of conflict, somewhere in their past, to produce so violent a reaction.

But Matt would admit to nothing. For several minutes he spoke not a word, just sat and stared at her — through her it seemed — while his hands continued to fist themselves.

Imogene reasoned that, whatever their dispute was, Matt most likely had started it; he was easily provoked by those who refused to fight back, and the only defense she had ever seen Stanley employ was his helpless blush.

And it was true also of Matt that a reluctance to explain his actions did not necessarily indict him of any crime. Yes, he did rarely admit to his wrongdoing, but even less would he complain about personal grievances (that gross injustice at homecoming for example). And what worried her now was his tendency to take the law into his own hands, so to speak, and settle his scores himself.

But certainly all hope of intimacy was lost for that evening. Imogene let her own voice go coarse in making him promise not to harm Stanley in any way. Matt did not exactly give his word, but the stark hatred in his eyes seemed to have diminished, and Imogene counted herself lucky to have achieved even that much.

Later that evening, after supper and while Imogene was slumped over her assignments, she came to the sudden — and very heartening — realization that perhaps the anger Stanley displayed at the auction that morning had not been provoked solely by her bad behavior; he must have been prejudiced against her from the start, contemptuous of her for having chosen Matt, his enemy, as a boyfriend. Naturally he would look for evil in all of her actions.

She knew this could not possibly lessen her guilt, but somehow it seemed to. At least, scoldings were always less potent (says Bacon) 'when come from those who love us not.'

In fact, had Stanley been a friend of hers — like every other kid in that room! — she would have suffered no bitter looks at all. Her day would not have been ruined; her heart would not have been bruised.

But how she longed to know what their quarrel was all about. (And how she wanted to slap their silly faces for sticking her right in the middle of it!) All evening she was fearful of what Matt might do. He had made her admit to the closeness Stanley shared with her in Latin class. His jaw had gone rigid to learn they had been sitting right next to each other — all year! — and he would simply not believe that the kid had never once stepped out of line.

Suddenly, much of Stanley's strange conduct became clear: the poor kid was terrified. He was sitting next to a time-bomb for petesake! Every morning he must feel like Damocles under the sword!

Imogene found that she was moved by all of this. Her instinct to preserve peace and soothe all contentions came forward at once. Disharmony anywhere was anathema to her, but here, in her own life, it would be intolerable.

She felt a great need to undo all of this pointless wrath, to find a way to the boys' reconciliation, but this was a dangerous aim. Like a wild animal, Stanley might easily snap at a hand extended in friendship. And if _he_ didn't, Matt certainly would!

(Despite having appointed herself mediator, she repeated her wish to slap both their stupid faces!)

Her only solace now was the lucky comment she had made to Matt after kissing him goodnight through the window of his little car. The thought had popped into her head as she spoke it (her breath nearly opaque in the frigid night air): "I bet he was just _tryin_ 't'pick a fight! Maybe even get'cha kicked off the team. What kind a'suckers does he take us for!"

She had grinned to see Matt drive away so lost in thought he forgot to roll up the window.
\- VIII -

In the days that followed, Imogene was thankful to hear of no reports of violence, and Stanley never came to class limping or with broken glasses. It was silly of her, after all, to have thought Matt could be such a bully. Did she not already — the poem, the nominations — have ample evidence of his maturity?

It was also encouraging that Stanley showed no further enmity toward her, but it soon came to grieve Imogene that, also, there was nothing in his manner which could even remotely be construed as forgiveness. Granted, his only actual reproach may have been her choice of boyfriend, but she still felt in want of some kind of reprieve.

During class one day, as Mr Grove was lecturing (joking, rather, while seated casually on the front edge of his desk), Imogene had dropped a sheet of notes which landed somehow under Stanley's desk. A pang of hope shot through her as she saw immediately the blessing this may prove to be: a chance to break the ice, to begin at last some kind of dialogue with the quiet boy. But when she leaned toward him, pointing at the fallen paper and gently — sweetly — whispering: "Stan?" he failed to respond, or refused to.

Several times she repeated his name, becoming progressively more insistent (and less inviting), until all their neighbors were turned around and even the teacher — now leaning back with fingers interlocked around one knee — had paused to stare at her, but Stanley remained motionless.

Fully chagrined, Imogene was forced to slip from her desk, reach past the books jammed into the rack under Stanley's desk — past the droopy socks in his shoes! — and retrieve the paper herself.

Regaining her seat, she could only whimper to Debbie's raised eyebrows: "How graceful was _that!_ " She felt colossally foolish, and her inevitable blush was in no way diminished by sight of Stanley's similarly crimsoned head.

Yet in bed that night, in the dark, her blush renewed itself as she realized suddenly that Stanley's behavior could well have been the result of her boyfriend's having cornered the poor kid somewhere and making back-alley threats. (Outright _thug!_ ) Although, the next day, her own stern cornering of Matt drew only opened palms and a look of genuine surprise.

In any case, from that time on, whenever Imogene was seated next to Stanley or standing at their lockers in the hall, her manner became as contrite and deferential as was seemly for an unspeaking acquaintance: her grins were guarded and her words well chosen. She had no further folly to regret, but it did still wound her heart to be beside this always somber boy and feel his continuing low opinion of her.

On Saturday Matt came for dinner, and by then, as could be expected, her anger and suspicions had all been set aside. She had spent the week eagerly planning and preparing the dishes to be served and in getting her mother accustomed to the idea. (And this was a cause for concern, for it had only been a month since his last such visit — Christmas time, the occasion of that unfortunate mantelpiece incident — and the mother could stay cross far longer than her wishy-washy daughter.)

But eventually Mrs Urich warmed to the project; deep down she was too kind-hearted and her daughter too much in love for her not to. And it caused no harm that Imogene had chosen an entree of such difficulty her mother was obliged to demonstrate many well kept kitchen secrets. Imogene made herself as responsive a pupil as she knew how to be, and her mother was all pleasure as they huddled side by side, giggling over the stuffed tenderloins and patting their flour-ghosted hands. "See, dear? That's all there is to it. You just sew them up. Like a hem!"

The dinner itself went well. Stacy, Imogene's fifteen year old sister, made not too many cow eyes at Matt nor bothered him overly with impertinent questions. Her brother Dan, however (also fifteen), proved as sullen as expected, and her cat, with a stranger in the house, stayed well hidden the whole night.

Mr Urich had promised to make no unsubtle comments about ROTC or how a stint in the Navy could be a kid's best start in life, but he would persist in referring to Matt as 'Mr Deeds' or 'Sergeant York' or 'High Noon.' (Matt himself, the one time Imogene had gotten him to watch a Gary Cooper movie on the late show, refused to acknowledge any similarity, but she was pleased to see him laugh away her father's teasing.)

Mrs Urich inquired feelingly of Matt's parents.

After finishing the much-complimented dinner, the couple retired to the living room couch for an hour-long 'Gunsmoke' episode, chaperoned by Stacy on the carpet who (shoulders tilted back on outstretched arms and her still summer-dark legs crossed fetchingly at the ankles) mimicked all of Miss Kitty's lines: "Is that a fact, cowboy," she drawled provocatively.

From the kitchen came the quiet clatter of the parents washing the dishes, and the brother was outside, in the snow, under the driveway light, shooting baskets by himself (and occasionally, Imogene was sure, allowing a missed rebound to bounce off the hood of the sad little Volkswagen parked nearby).

Lamentably, in the early days of their acquaintanceship (and not knowing that the grinning kid was her brother) Matt had played a humiliating and uncalled-for prank on poor Danny. (All the young hopefuls who hung around at varsity practice were subject to such abuse.) And for months this had made Imogene thoroughly ashamed of Matt, but now, lately, she was more inclined to fault her brother — and especially her mother — for holding so long a grudge. He _had_ apologized! As sincerely as his nature allowed!

And then there was that mantelpiece-music box fiasco. (Matt's elbows could sometimes rival an elephant's in agility!) But repentance for this, too, had achieved little effect. Imogene dearly hoped that sufficient time had now gone by for acceptance at last to prevail, and she cautioned her date against appearing to be too much at his ease; she had a notion that her mother at least would find something laudable in this.

Whether she did or not was hard to say, but as for herself, Imogene was exceedingly proud of Matt and vowed that she would, if need be, make public his poem. Knowing her mother's weakness for 'fine themes, finely expressed' (and even 'trite tunes tamely attempted'), his earnest words could not help but melt a mother's heart.

This resolve, however, proved unnecessary, for at supper the following night the family was gathered around the kitchen table as usual when Mrs Urich made the off-hand comment, "By the way, who am I to thank for the lovely gift."

"What gift," asked Stacy.

Everyone looked up, waiting for the mother to tap her lips once more with her napkin. "On the mantelpiece?"

Imogene — her mouth aflap — nearly squished the cat as she charged sock footed into the living room. There, on the mantelpiece, precisely where the heirloom ballerina had once stood and twirled to 'La Donna è Mobile,' was now placed an elegant Italian music box! (At least, in her frantic inspection of it, Imogene glimpsed the words 'di Firenze' on the bottom.)

Her mouth would not close.

"Oh neat!" cried Stacy, "Wind it up! Wind it up!"

Imogene did so and a gentle tune began to play, a mellow, lilting — _dolce_ — recital of 'La Donna è Mobile.'

Tears were in her eyes, recalling at once the night she had bullied Matt into taking her to see _Rigoletto_ , and how grumpy he had been on the ride over — "'Nuther damn _musical!_ " — but on the way back, all the excited questions he had asked about it!

Imogene could not withhold her happy sobs as she looked around at the astonished faces of her family. She dashed upstairs to the telephone in her parents' room.

Matt, however, was not at home, and his mother informed her that he had gone out with the boys. Imogene called the homes of several of his friends, but was unable to locate him. Then, finding that her tears had come to an end — and she had especially wanted Matt to hear the weeping in her voice — she gave up and went back to dinner.

Strangely, nothing more was said about the music box, other than the mother's brief admission, "I think it's beautiful. You did tell him thank you for me?"

To simplify things, Imogene said, "Yes."

She sensed they had been discussing her boyfriend in some detail (Dan was plainly blushing), and Imogene cleared her throat to add, "He knows he can't buy forgiveness for _all_ the stupid things he's done." She was looking across the table at her brother's bowed head. "But ... he hopes that the love and loyalty he has for one of us will, someday, acquit him in full."

Stacy was giggling. "I'm so sure he _said_ that!"

From that night on, the father referred to him as 'Beau Geste.'

Several weeks passed. Matt was suitably rewarded for his cunning gift, but Imogene could never get a serious answer as to how he had managed it: sneaking it into the house or even paying for it out of his meager wages as a weekend carpenter's helper. And she was saddened to find that her mother had not been completely won over by the act, but surely much ground had been gained.

At school, Imogene bored her friends to pieces with all her fresh praise, especially in Latin class where she watched Stanley from the corner of her eye, hoping he would discover in her tributes something pardonable. But Stanley was impossible to read; he just sat there ignoring everyone. He was 'inscrutable' (one of her vocabulary words that week), and so was Matt, though Matt had the delightful compensation of being most baffling when most benevolent.

During this time it often occurred to Imogene that, except for those harsh words that one night, Matt had never mentioned Stanley again. She was pleased that his anger, unreasonable as it probably was, could be so calmly and completely set aside. It was shades of homecoming night all over again.

She guessed that his music box scheme had gone a long way toward achieving this. Clearly, much plotting and research had gone into that caper; time which, necessarily, must have been taken from feeding his wrath. She could hope as well that Matt had learned the trick of using these petty annoyances as fuel for his more noble enterprises. In the last few basketball games (while she and the other cheerleaders knelt tensely behind the hoop, wide-eyed and whooping, patting palms on the floor) Matt did seem to exhibit a change in his style of playing. He seemed more aggressive now, more leeringly savage — perhaps imagining it was Stanley's head he was stuffing through the hoop!

Whatever the case, Imogene had much to be thankful for, in fact, other than Stanley's continuing antipathy toward her, she was in a fair way of being on top of the world.

There was, however, one mistake she was careful not to repeat: letting her high spirits lead her into additional trouble. Each day she made herself practice a frown or two, and tried very hard to monitor all of her words. Often, in class and elsewhere, she would call attention to Matt's still occasional faults.
\- IX -

One morning a few weeks later, just after the year's third quarter had come to an end, Imogene arrived wearily at her Latin class; she had not slept well the night before and was therefore, and more than usually, out of breath from the gauntlet of early morning greetings in the hall. She crossed to the end row by the windows and dropped herself into her desk, tilting courteously to one side so as not to impede the dialogue that was in progress between her neighbors.

JoAnn, tall in the desk behind her, was detailing the woes of the previous evening to Debbie who sat turned around in the desk just ahead, listening avidly. With everyone else Imogene exchanged bright smiles. She had one for Stanley too, had he turned to see it; this morning he was busy with pencil and a slide rule.

While paging through her Latin text, Imogene took a moment to gaze outside at the multitude of newborn drifts, all 'wearing lilac and long shadows in the early dawn.' (Wylie.)

In Minnesota it was not unusual for these late snowfalls of March to leave scenery as clean and novel as the first blizzards of November; but, so near to spring, there were few eyes still enchanted by the sight. 'Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow?' ( _Job_ 38:22 ... or 22:38 ... ?)

"Geen!" JoAnn poked her in the back. "I was just tellin' Deb. I pulled a 'Geenee Urich' last night!"

Several neighbors burst into laughter while Imogene made a sour face.

"Really," JoAnn went on, "I left Rick's house at a decent time, okay? Nine something. An'all that snow was comin'down? I got stuck! Right in the ditch. I had to _walk_ all the way back to Rick's!"

Imogene had begun sniggering.

"He'n his brother finally got me out, but it was like midnight by the time I got home. And would anyone believe me? No!"

"I sure don't," laughed Imogene.

"It's true!"

"I know, I know." Imogene sighed. "Stuff like that always happens to me." (The night she was nearly stranded at the library flashed through her mind.)

"Yeah but _you_ never get in trouble."

"Don't bet on it." Imogene smiled and felt her cheeks beginning to warm. She cleared her throat. "But wasn't that snow last night something else?" She glanced around at the nodding faces of her classmates. Stanley was the only one not looking back; he was erasing something in a spiral notebook.

"Just tons came down," Imogene continued. "I went to bed really early 'cuz I was just so beat." Her lips twisted as she slouched further into her desk. "An'then I had to listen to my brother outside with his shovel. _Battling_ the flakes." She shook her head. "I couldn't get to sleep at all. I just laid there. Hours went by. Everyone else dead to the world. I went downstairs'n played with the cat." Tipping her chin to one shoulder, she let her eyelids droop. "An'then — would you believe — I put on my coat n'boots. Right over my PJ's? An'I went outside'n walked around the block!"

Several girls giggled.

"Really." Imogene retrieved her pen from the zippered pouch in her notebook; as she did so, the slender, silver bands on her arm jingled softly. "By then it was all done snowing, but the streets weren't plowed yet. I looked back'n laughed. I was leaving all these goofy long footprints everywhere. _Meandering_ all over the neighborhood! This was like three AM or something."

She leaned over a moment to place her notebook on the metal shelf beneath her desk. While down there, she noted that Stanley's shoes, black and weathered, were still ringed with whitish salt stains. Here, she thought gloomily, was the school-wide expert in trudging through suburban snow. (She was still thinking of that awful night at the library: how she had seen Stanley walking home, all alone, against a brutal wind — something no doubt he has done countless times — and suddenly she felt as winter-naïve as a Californian.)

"But there wasn't any wind at _all_ , you guys!" she declared, coming back up. "Just, really cold, y'know? Smoky breath. An'all the stars so busy twinkling in the bare trees. All diff'rent colors." Imogene paused to emphasize her whisper: "'Twas so _quiet_."

Stanley, she saw, had mysteriously stilled. Both of his hands were on the slide rule, but he was not looking at it. He held his head elevated and tipped to one side, as if listening intently.

Debbie, in front of Imogene, was grinning back at her with half closed eyes. "'Twas?" she inquired. "Methinks you've been reading Shakespeare again."

"'Tis true, my lord!" giggled Imogene.

"Extra credit? For whatsername's class?"

"Well ... no, but ..." Imogene cleared her throat. "... I'll have to read all the plays in college anyway."

Behind her, JoAnn let out a ponderous sigh (as if having pushed her silver Sting Ray to the nearest gas station). "You're weird, Geenee."

"I know." Imogene was fiddling with her pen. She felt another surge of heat in her face as she listened to the gentle clattering of the bracelets on her arm (her left arm, since she wrote with her right).

Margaret, in yet another perfectly fitted dress, had stepped over from across the room and assumed a familiar pose, leaning against Debbie's desk with arms crossed in front of her and one shoulder angled higher than the other. She regarded Imogene with a stern face and graceful coiffure, "It's the grade listing, right?"

"Yes-s!" Imogene hissed, slouching deeper into her desk.

"You can't sleep because you're scared to death you won't make valedictorian."

"God don't jinx me!"

"When's it coming out. The listing."

Imogene sighed. "Not 'til after the weekend." She thumped her forehead with the heel of her fist. "I'm gonna be a wreck."

"Oh I'm so sure y'have to worry about it," said JoAnn, "You've been, what, number one since tenth grade? Every quarter. Right there on top."

"No. Longer," piped Brad from the middle of the room. "All through junior high. 'Member those egghead glasses she use to wear? An'her briefcase?"

"You guys!" wailed Imogene into the sudden laughter. She glanced at the clock and then at the closed door, wishing the teacher would return. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable; usually the others teased her like this only on days when she came to class in her cheerleader outfit. She disliked being the center of attention. It rarely brought any real pleasure, and, especially of late, the strain of trying to say nothing stupid was nerve-wracking. Every moment she felt Stanley beside her, listening.

The laughter was still abundant when Debbie raised her chin in defense of her friend. "Yeah but _this_ quarter it really counts, right? For the graduation stuff. The speeches'n stuff." She looked down at Imogene who had slipped to near shoulder depth in her chair. "Right?"

Imogene was nodding and she let out a heavy breath. "Every test score, you guys. I've sweated every single ... quiz, every essay. Since third grade! An'now it's all coming to an end. Win or lose, that's _it!_ I'm just a wreck."

Under her desk, where no one could see, her fingers were gripping her pen as if to snap it in half.

During this pause, Cathy had entered the room and was lithely swishing by. "Geenee," she called over her shoulder. "Didn't see you at the tryouts last night. What happened."

"Tryouts for what," asked Jennifer, the small, nervous girl who sat in front of Stanley.

Imogene replied with another sigh. "Gymnastics." She glanced down a moment before looking back at Cathy. "I guess I'm too busy."

"Oh c'mon! You have to. All your cheerleading?"

"Yeah an'I can hardly drag myself to practice as it is!"

Brad called out, " _I'd_ like to see ya in tights!"

"Shut up. An'cheering's nothing compared to all that tumbling'n stuff." Imogene let her jaw sag. "I swear. It'd kill me." She raised a palm. "My contacts'd pop out. My capped tooth'd come off." Both hands were up. "I'd fall apart! Literally!"

There was a patter of tolerant chuckles. (Imogene herself was the only one who ever made allusion to the vanished gap between her teeth.)

"Besides. The other night? At practice? Polly'n I tried doin'some really hard stuff, handstands'n things. Y'know, for kicks? And ..." her shoulders slumped, "we are _so_ inept! It was hysterical! Like a couple'a old ladies!" Her eyes slitted themselves, and she pulled her chin gravely to her neck, "We felt ... compelled to reevaluate our prowess."

Sighing, Margaret straightened up and tilted her shoulders the other direction. "Okay, okay. We get the picture. You're just afraid of not being best."

"I'm afraid of being worst!" Imogene attempted a smile but hurried to add, "Anyway, Ann's thinking of letting me expand my hours at the shop." She inhaled deeply. "An'since that darn scholarship committee won't give my folks a _dime_ ... I need all the money I can get."

"Jeez, not that again!" JoAnn whimpered.

Debbie had placed an elbow on Imogene's desk and was resting her chin in her palm. "That one of the spring fashions by the way?" she asked, nodding at the cute top Imogene was wearing.

"Oh! _Mais oui!_ " Imogene smiled and rotated her arms to demonstrate the boldly ribboned sleeves. "Waiting for _you_ at Càmille of Elnora."

With lidded eyes, Imogene paused amid the spitty giggles of her friends, then concluded, "But really, I'm just too busy to take on anything else." She grinned, painfully. "Or maybe just too lazy?"

Margaret had uncrossed her arms and was smoothing the sides of her dress. "Well, don't expect any let up in the next four years either."

"I know."

"Not at Smith."

"What?" asked Jennifer, "Where's she going?"

"Smith College. Massachusetts."

"That's a _girls_ ' school, right?" said someone in the back.

JoAnn crossed her legs impatiently. "And _that_ I'll never understand! How can y'do that, Geen?" She pulled herself closer to whisper: "There won't be any _boys_ there."

"Well ..." Imogene squirmed as the tardy bell made its annoyingly long ring. "Maybe that's good. I'll actually have time to study for a change. And anyway, Matt'll be at Dartmouth, just a few miles up the valley. I'll see him lots."

While saying this, she looked down and unscrewed her pen, all the way open, then screwed it closed.

Margaret was inspecting a palm. " _I_ heard he might not get in."

"Yeah," said JoAnn, "that's what Rick was sayin'."

Imogene felt every pair of eyes in the room turning toward her, except those of her silent neighbor of course; she addressed her reply to the relative safety of Stanley's faded brown shirt-sleeve, the cuff button of which was only half there. "Well, yeah, it was kind a'scary for awhile ..." (even her calves felt hot as they twitched on the icy framework under Debbie's desk) "... but Matt can do anything he puts his mind to. He really knuckled down'n did good work. Pulled his grades right up. I was really, really proud of him." She cleared her throat once more as Margaret and several others headed back to their desks.

Since the bell had rung, the surrounding babble became subdued, but with the teacher's continuing absence the bolder voices began gradually to reassert themselves.

Imogene, still blushing, was looking down at the third finger of her right hand, at the tiny silver ring and its speck of gemstone. As usual, the setting had rotated to one side (the band being half a size too large), and with her thumb and curled pinky she stood it right.

When there was once again sufficient chatter in the room, Imogene smirked and raised her eyebrows. "It's a wonder I can say anything nice about him today," she said. "He was _supposed_ to take me to see _My Fair Lady_ last night." She cast dancing eyes around at her friends. "Really romantic, huh? _Wednesday_ night date? But I've been begging since Christmas, so ... whatever I can get." Her bracelets clunked from wrist to mid-arm in the quickening of her gestures. "But then he _suddenly_ remembers about this stupid math test? That he's known about for weeks'n weeks! An'he comes to me at lunch yesterday — "

Debbie, her shoulders rising, thumped tiny fists on Imogene's desk. "Sorry babe," she growled in her huskiest contralto, "Big test tomorrow. Gotta study."

"Don't knock it! That's what he _said!_ "

The room erupted in laughter, causing Imogene to grin and hide behind the fingers on her forehead.

Unconsciously, having spoken the word 'math,' she glanced once more at the quiet boy across the aisle. Stanley's slide rule was lying abandoned now, and she was certain his pencil had not moved in many minutes. But then, venturing to look higher, she was nearly overwhelmed to find that his cheek, the one visible to her, was bunched and lifting the lens of his glasses.

Stanley was laughing! At her, at Matt, just as were all the others. Laughing like a friend! And her heart soared.

Behind her, JoAnn had calmed down enough to make a deprecating cluck. "How strange is this," she said, commenting on Matt's behavior. "He stood you up! Again!"

Imogene was smiling broadly now; she elevated her arms, palms up, to indicate resignation.

In a crafty voice, JoAnn added, "Anytime, y'know, y'wanna call it quits with him or anything ..."

"No. Not that. But he is ... difficult sometimes." Imogene allowed her eyes to unfocus themselves. "But other times ..." Her head tilted to one side and she tried to suppress a silly grin. Then her lips widened into a huge, wrist-hidden yawn.

Suddenly — joyously! — Imogene realized that her life was once again perfect.

She avoided looking further at Stanley for fear a sternness might be returning to his face, and she wondered how it could be that her happiness seemed to depend as much upon strangers like Stanley as on Matt himself.

Her friends gazed at Imogene's dreamily tipped head until Debbie murmured, "You're gonna marry him, aren'tcha."

Imogene nodded.

"God look at'er blush!" crowed JoAnn. "Just like _mouse!_ " She jerked her thumb at the boy across the aisle (whose full name was Stanley Ratt).

His pencil suddenly became active. Then Stanley picked up the slide rule — it fell with a clatter and he picked it up again — his fingers began pushing the movable parts back and forth, at random it seemed.

Everyone found this hilarious. Imogene though became fearful of all the laughter. She watched helplessly as scarlet stains spread over Stanley's face and neck. The ear facing her soon lost its detail in the dark flood.

Imogene was waving her arms. "You guys!" she complained in all directions. "Gimme a break! Matt's never even — it's not like we're _engaged_ or anything! I swear ..." (here she brought out a prepared rejoinder) "... he's'bout as likely t'ever get married as he is to give _birth!_ We both got four long years'a college to get through. Anything can happen! An'prob'ly will!"

The chuckling had not diminished, and little Jennifer, whose big eyes had been watching Imogene, leaned toward her now to ask, "But ... I still don't see ... how can y'just go way off to Massachusetts. It must be like hundreds a'miles — "

"One thousand, nine, by way of Bradley International." (Imogene smiled for this welcome escape.) "Dumpiest airport in the _world_ , my dad says!"

"But ... all by yourself? An'just ... all those strange people. Professors. Brainy kids. There won't be any dummies there!"

"I know," said Imogene with a grim look. "'Cut-throat' is what the lady from the Smith Club said."

"Aren'tcha scared t'death?"

Imogene pondered for a moment, then shook her head. She laughed. "I know it sounds dumb — an'I'm so gullible! — but ... I love meeting new people. I really do. Everyone's so interesting, y'know? An'they're always so nice to me." (She steeled herself not to look at Stanley.) "People are just so good!"

The door, with a loud click, swung suddenly open, and Mr Grove came striding into the room. He was neatly tailored and thin as a sprinter. En route to his desk, he turned a robust brow on his students and quipped a short phrase in Latin which, after only a second or two of translation time (this being a fourth year class), drew sick laughter from everyone.

Imogene was not so prompt as the others; she was busy pulling herself into a studious, lady-like posture and disentangling her legs from the book rack under Debbie's desk.

She noticed that Jennifer was still looking at her, and Imogene bent forward to whisper, "Really, everyone's so _good!_ "

Stanley, she observed while pressing knuckles over another yawn, was hunched far over into the aisle; the back of his neck still shone red as he exchanged materials in the book rack under his own desk. He was down there a long time.
\- X -

The class was soon begun, but not many minutes had passed before Imogene detected a new discomfort: she was becoming sleepy, very sleepy. Her hours of wakefulness the night before were catching up with her.

In a way, she could blame this on Stanley as well, for her first yawn had come moments after he had condescended to laugh at her. Evidently, the sense of relief brought on by this made her vulnerable now to those simple fatigues from which her uneasy mind had somehow made her immune.

The previous night had indeed been one of helpless wakefulness (her snowy rovings notwithstanding), and with what little concentration could now be summoned she wondered if her recent sleeplessness had been due, not to worries over her grade point average, but merely to the vague hurt she had been feeling for knowing that someone disliked her. In any case, she was glad to have swapped this mere annoyance for that useless melancholy.

Her weariness increased steadily throughout the hour, and afterwards the little trot up to her English class could revive her only slightly; the yawns and heavy eyelids soon returned. In this class, too, her desk was second from the front, though in the row furthest from the windows, but nevertheless well within the teacher's ken. Imogene struggled to synchronize the closing of her eyes with the sudden, bird-like movements of the instructor as she all but danced from blackboard to students and back again.

The teacher's charming voice, animated and 'mellifluous' (one of Mrs Cashman's favorite words), aided greatly in keeping sleepy eyes awake, but, for Imogene, now, it was surely a losing battle. She knew this from the screwy thoughts that were already fluttering through her head while trying to focus on the Skimmity Ride and Hardy's use of symbolism: What, she mused, would have been the outcome if it was the _wife_ who had sold her husband to some sailor lady, and then went on to become mayor of a really big city? What then?

Shut _up_ , Geenee! She scolded herself. You better get on the stick! I mean it!

But it was no use. She was falling into her well known and, she assumed, typically feminine mood of silliness and triviality. Often this would happen late on a Sunday night after a weekend filled with parties and procrastination. She would find herself sitting up in bed, in her pajamas, surrounded by books and papers and trying to do four hours of homework in the two that remained before her alarm clock was due to go off.

Oh, how she hated that! Slaving away, and every time she took the least little break she would glance around to find R. Roswell Palmer and her other textbooks — all opened to pertinent pages — demanding they be picked up and their lessons learned. And just how can you learn _anything_ when your head feels like it's full of popcorn and drunk butterflies? You laugh continually, or cry, and you can't sit still, and the coffee makes you pee every sixteen minutes, and your eyes ache, simply _ache_ , to let slumber come:
To bed, to bed:

sleep kill those pretty eyes!

(Shakespeare: R&J. Or was it T&C. A&C? Oh who cares!)

Anyway, this was a common agony on Sunday nights, but it was rare to have such an attack right during school. And I got the whole _day_ ahead'a me! Woe!

Polly was also in this class, in the next row over and back a few desks. Imogene could almost feel her friend's eyes, big with sympathy, staring at her right now. Polly was always first to know when her friends were in distress. Like that time — this is totally irrelevant, Geenee! — like that time early in the year when they were studying _Le Mort d'Arthur_.

This class, 'enriched' English, was made up of kids who had excelled in prior English courses, and thus it was nearly all female. (There were three or four boys on the far side of the room, but little was ever heard from them.) It was almost like a home-ec class or, even more, like Miss Beaver's health and hygiene course a few years back. Oh (Imogene paused to recall), how the girls there had been able to talk of anything! Absolutely anything! And Miss B never batting a hair to explain about sex, pregnancy and birth (despite the fact, her being unmarried, she could not have had much personal experience with any of these things).

Above all, she never backed down from a delicate issue, either in class or afterwards. Once, in fact, Imogene had dashed back to their room to ask a further question and found a classmate sniffling at Miss Beaver's desk. But she was not being scolded; Imogene realized that the girl was in some quite desperate trouble, and the teacher was being more than a teacher.

(Imogene had to linger on this recollection and wonder why it had taken her so long to stop fearing Miss Beaver: the blunt manner, the gruff voice, how could she have been fooled for so long?)

And here, in English class, the girls enjoyed nearly the same freedom of expression; women's issues predominated in their discussions, and all were encouraged to shine at their full potential. Moreover, the teacher chose to conduct the class as a college course, placing her students on their highest honor and responsibility.

Yes, Imogene will have to do something about her habit of putting things off, but she still felt it was a foretaste of what her college career will be like. Out there, in all her classes, she will be among women one hundred percent of the time, no inhibitions, no distractions (unless she was unlucky enough to get a handsome young PhD for a professor!).

And she delighted in the mental liberties of this class; she could hazard to say anything. (Her thoughts — purely by chance — were stumbling back to that Malory book.) She recalled vividly how she had raised her hand that day amid the classroom's innocent discussion of the Arthurian legends, prefacing her statement with, "Um ... this may be a little risqué, but ..."

"Oh, okay, ris _qué!_ " her neighbors cried out. They knew what was coming next and were possibly a trifle miffed for having lacked the nerve to bring it up themselves. Polly could be heard too, squeaking with imminent shame. Yet Imogene proceeded with her comment, remarking in fearless detail the apparent double standard of medieval times when, while knights were venturing forth, performing valiant deeds and seeking holy relics, their ladies and their fellow knights were busy jumping into each other's beds. With paramours and illegitimate heirs littering every page, could one really say this was Britain's great flowering of Christianity?

Imogene had to hold back a few giggles as all of this came back to her. 'Pleased' was hardly the word for the teacher's reaction.

Actually, she could not recall just what Mrs C had replied. No doubt, the teacher had avoided the issue altogether by making it into an open question for the rest of the class. (Miss Beaver would not have done that.)

Still, Imogene viewed the event as something of a triumph, an instance of verbal courage, and she had recounted it to her friends at lunch that same afternoon (to Polly's further dismay), claiming it to be a harbinger of her college boldness and a glimpse of what women, when left to themselves, dare accomplish.

Oh would you just shove it! (Imogene was pressing the back of her wrist against a helpless grin.) Sit up straight!

She tried to gather in what the teacher was now saying; the lecture had become almost a foreign language to her muddled senses. Imogene's pen made scribbles in her notebook but they were uselessly illegible.

Overwork and lack of sleep: that was her affliction — and stupid worries about stupid guys who sit next to her!

She must go home. After class she'll put on her coat and walk straight home.

No. By the time she got there she would be wide awake, head cleared, no symptoms; and her mother hated writing sick-notes that lied. Besides (she glanced toward the windows on the far side of the room), it was starting to snow again.

Suddenly, having heard something of interest, Imogene snapped her eyes back to the teacher who was reclining wearily on a corner of her desk — no, not wearily, more like ... sloppily, like an arrogant teen: too hip, too _cool_ to be caught standing on her own two feet!

Anyway (Imogene was hiding a yawn behind her raised notebook) — what was it again? — oh yeah, something was said. Something about a kiss?

The teacher had hopped to the board and in her elegant script was adding a further item to the outline: 'Henchard's kiss.'

Mention of this, the word 'kiss,' caused Imogene to recall a wild imagining from her Latin class the previous hour. (Once again, she and her thoughts were drifting blissfully away.)

So pleased had she been by the decline of Stanley's anger that she had toyed with several sweet and absurd ways of showing her gratitude. A vision had come to her of scooting her desk over to Stanley's side of the aisle and placing, daintily, a _breve osculum_ on his pink cheek.

The outrageousness of this had made her eyes snap away, and she struggled not to smile. Even now, the remembrance caused her larynx to thump with suppressed shame and hilarity. The more so because, unattractive as Stanley was, she had, indeed, wanted to kiss him. It was always her delight to repay debts of courtesy, and she strongly sensed that the young man had made a conscious effort to reconsider his judgment of her. He was, it seemed, giving her a second chance, and it hurt her to have no way of thanking him.

Another heavy yawn overcame her. And then another. Yes, she sighed, kisses were strange things indeed.

The teacher was again slouching on the edge of her desk (she had the posture of a hedgehog!) and was now asking for insights on the dead bird in the novel. Imogene's fancy — sprouting wings of its own — took flight.

With eyes barely open, Imogene gave herself up to reliving the story of Matt's grade school kiss. A tale of shy and tender longing that she loved to dwell upon:

At church camp the previous August she had volunteered to be one of the counselors, expecting to be given a brood of happy little girls similar to her Sunday school class. But when she saw the cabinful of bold and bitchy ninth graders dear old Marge had stuck her with, Imogene — as she later dramatized to her friends — nearly turned around and _walked_ the 350-odd miles back to Minneapolis!

(She had since that time learned the distance to Lake Superior was only 250 miles, but Imogene rarely grieved over her errors of math and geography, especially when a punch line was at stake.)

Those six girls were so tall and so tough-looking she despaired that even genuine prayer, were she to resort to that, could get her through the next two weeks.

It was a horrifying shock, not only for the ordeal itself, but it gave her a glimpse of what it must be like for teachers on their first day of school each year: all those sullen, antagonistic faces.

In fact — just a few weeks after this — on her first day of twelfth grade, Imogene had made a point of looking around in all of her new classes and was saddened by how few kids there were, other than herself, who seemed actually eager to begin their studies.

True, English class had not appeared overly vicious, but then nearly the entire Quill and Scroll Club was here; and Latin too, being an elective course, comprised students who had either chosen it in preference to worse alternatives or were secretly in love with Mr Grove.

Imogene paused a moment. That was also the first time she saw Stanley. What a mumbling, moronic, hopeless kid he had seemed to be — his first time up before the class was absolute torture to watch — she could not imagine why Mr Grove had placed him in the advanced class. Later though, after Stanley's A's became apparent, Imogene concluded that a teacher, to be a good one like Mr Grove, must be possessed of some innate, unexplainable gift which allows him to see past the unpromising exteriors of his kids, and to succeed with them where any normal person would have —

"Geenee," the teacher's voice sounded abruptly from across the room. " _You_ know the answer of course. Please help us out." Mrs Cashman was speaking lightly, almost laughingly, as she lounged on the low cabinets along the windows, half glancing at the falling snow outside. All other faces in the room were turned full upon the startled pupil.

Imogene felt herself reddening while she tried, in vain, to recollect what the class had been discussing. (Something about a dead bird, possibly?) She attempted a countenance of deep thought.

Then a voice farther back spoke up, "Could it be, y'know — he doesn't really like her or anything, and he only did it 'cuz — if he didn't? — she'd of thought he was just, y'know, ordinary."

"Very good, Polly!" said the teacher. "I'm sure that's part of it. Anyone else?"

Kids in the other half of the room were now being called upon, and Imogene, with great relief, sensed the many eyes drawing away from her.

She felt chastened in the extreme. Yet Imogene braved further shame by turning full around to throw her friend a look of anguished gratitude. Polly's eyebrows were tented tall with compassion.

After that, Imogene determined herself to stay alert; indeed, the momentary shock had significantly revived her, and for several minutes she followed along with close attention.

But when at last she had redeemed herself by answering one of the teacher's more subtle questions, the deep, scooping yawns descended on her once again. Her mental wanderings closed the door on the activity of the classroom and led her down to the labyrinthian mines of her private meditations.

She had been thinking of Mr Grove, and he was first to come forward in this latest reverie. He too, like her English teacher, would move about while speaking, but what he had to say was more often memorable. In fact, and no doubt because he chiefly spoke in Latin, much of what he said was as quotable as the noble Roman precepts in their text.

Imogene had been remembering the first day of school that year and she recalled now her Latin teacher's initial lecture; it was particularly unforgettable, perhaps due to the months of summer idleness which had preceded it. Mr Grove congratulated his students on becoming seniors at last, and with a smile went on to say that he hoped, as a result of what they were to learn in this final year of high school, that they would leave his class as truly mature as they believed themselves to be on entering.

And because it was their last year, he continued (still speaking in his cadenced and epigrammatic Latin), they were sure to encounter an issue they had probably not considered. For it was one thing to go along year after year, struggling to learn the skills and wisdom of their various subjects (and especially how to get good grades in them), but it was quite another to reach at last the end of so ordered and so encouraging an existence and face the harsh realities that lay beyond. There was a challenge in coming to an end, and he cautioned his students to put off no longer the contemplation of their futures, of the difficult world they will inherit and the places within it they wished to occupy.

Somewhat later in his speech he added that he would feel he had accomplished much if what they learned in his class would help keep them forever unafraid to be alone with their thoughts.

Goose bumps had come over Imogene remembering all of this. How she idolized him sometimes. The man would not have been out of place in Trajan's Senate!

But it was frightening, this wealth of wisdom and oratory so requisite of a good teacher. And the incredible patience one must have, and the flexibility, to produce learning in all the great variety of students: the easy, eager ones, like herself; the brats like Brad (and jocks like Matt!) and those puzzling unknowns such as Stanley.

At times like this, Imogene would determine herself to drop her fond plans of becoming a teacher of classical languages and pursue a career in her field of second choice, political science. She figured: Failing to be elected councilwoman would hurt far less than failing to reach kids who could have been reached.

But oh, that cabinful of Hell's Angels! Now _they_ were unreachable! A glance at the blizzard outside had snatched Imogene back to summer camp:

That entire first day, the day it rained so hard, the girls sat slumped on the bed furthest from their counselor's cot and exchanged tongue noises of disgust.

Introducing herself was a humiliation Imogene would not have wished on a rapist. _Where_ could Midwestern girls have learned to be so rude! It was like pulling burrs from cotton socks to dislodge their names from them, and right in the middle of her own little autobiography they had resumed talking amongst themselves — like I wasn't even there!

But somehow, perhaps through an assumed indifference which Imogene slyly displayed, and her covert disregard for propriety and religious fervor ('A sin which only other sinners see' — Twain), the girls eventually granted to her the blessing of their attention, and before the week was up, even their friendship.

One night, for example, instead of scolding them for playing the portable radio they had smuggled in, Imogene got up and began to dance on the creaky floor in her shortie pajamas:
... snappin' her fingers and

shufflin' her feet, singin' ...

She ignored the girls but could sense their interest in her choreographed innovations on 'The Swim.'

Another time she let herself laugh out loud when she recognized passages the girls were gasping to one another from their coverless copy of _Peyton Place_. (Imogene and her friends had tittered themselves silly over that book years before.)

Of course the girls' make-up and sophistication stayed, and there were a few incidents such as piercing their ears or smoking in the biffies which required some show of authority, but in a remarkably short time Imogene watched that little clique open itself up and actually talk to her. They began to help with the chores and deigned to enter activities, even laughed with the other campers. One night, believe it or not, they volunteered prayers in evening chapel.

Imogene had been amazed, both with them and with herself, and equally so, whenever she took the time to look, with the beautiful and majestic north woods all around them, that cathedral of pines and blue sky which could — every year — rejuvenate souls, place things in clear perspective and even, for those gentle skeptics too certain of their own intellect to accept a peace that passeth all understanding, to make even them believe that: 'God's in his heaven; all's right with the world.' (Browning.)

Of those six girls, two of them, Sally and Jane, were enrolled in the same junior high school in which Imogene had been a student; they had often seen her cheering at games and knew that she and the famous Matt Washburn were 'an item.' They were first to raid the pile of silver-wrapped chocolate 'kisses' Imogene had placed at the foot of her bed (for bait).

Before another day could pass all the others had followed suit: wise-cracking Maggie, Patty the 'neat-freak,' and even that haughty pair of sirens, Laura and Leedie.

By the end of the first week the whole crew could generally be found camped out around Imogene's cot, laughing aloud and spanking each other's hand for the last remaining treat. It was at such a time that Sally (smoothing out the little patch of foil her 'kiss' had come in) told the following story:

She had gone to the same elementary school which Matt Washburn had attended, a small square building in the older part of town. He was a sixth grader there when she was in fourth, and he dominated the school as its most notorious bully. He was bigger than the other kids, chiefly because he had been held back a year.

Imogene laughed at this, for she knew Matt made the honor roll every quarter. But the intensity that had come into Sally's face suggested there was no joke implied.

Matt and his friends, Sally went on, liked to go around the playground looking for innocent marble games they could disrupt or for girls on the sidewalk from whom they could steal their rubber ball and kick their jacks into the grass.

One day Sally and her friends were jump-roping to:
P'liceman, p'liceman, do your duty!

Here comes _Miss_ ... American Beauty!

when Matt and his gang suddenly appeared. The girls stopped at once, hiding the jump rope behind their backs, and began to shout snotty things at the boys.

It seemed at first that the intruders were only passing by, but then Matt came to a halt and stared at little Jan Redamacher who had been holding one end of the jump rope. She was, easily, the cutest girl in the whole school.

Sally all but gasped to tell the others of this willowy fourth grader's astonishing loveliness. "You wouldn't believe it!" she said. "When she stood a certain way? — even if she didn't look at'em — boys'd just stop dead!"

" _Grade_ schoolers?" Maggie disparaged. "Kids without hormones? Gimme a break."

Sally stood by her statement, however, and went on to tell how all the boys suddenly charged, making the girls scamper away in a flurry of skirts and curls and petticoats. The jump rope and other belongings were clutched to their bellies and they squealed with silly fright.

But when Sally dared to look back, she saw that no one was chasing them; instead, the boys were all gathered around Matt who had captured the pretty girl and was dragging her over the sidewalk, her slim legs, with their shiny black maryjanes, kicking frantically. Sally remembered the choking little screams, and the chill of helplessness the terrible scene had given her.

In a moment the girl was flung down on a grassy bank beneath the tall windows (the rooms were all empty for recess), and Matt lay right on top of her; the other boys knelt close around, and Sally could not see what exactly he was doing to the girl.

Kids all over the playground were shouting, several girls had run for the teacher on duty. Sally herself was unable to move, except for her feet, stamping one after another on the blacktop until her ankles hurt.

But soon all the boys jumped up and fled, exposing the sight of Matt lying on the girl with his big arms clutched tightly under her spine. Their faces were pressed together and the girl was motionless, her legs and lower half completely hidden beneath the boy. Her arms were flung out on either side and just lay there, thin and white and bare: baby's arms compared to the boy's big limbs.

All the girls, including Sally, now ran forward, emboldened by the sight of Mrs Hutchinson herself striding over the asphalt. Before Matt was scolded off his victim, Sally had seen how the girl's hands had formed themselves into little fists, her thumbs twitching rhythmically, "Like an Adam's apple when someone leans back to drink a bottle of pop."

That was all the more Imogene had heard that night. The other girls were pooh-poohing the story, making jokes and accusing Sally of wishing it was she herself who had been attacked.

Imogene, too, guessed that Sally's feelings for Matt were far from fear or hatred. Indeed, since beginning the story, there were hints in the girl's voice of a still unperished love. She could have cried for poor Sally.

It was not until the following week that Imogene heard the balance of the tale. One sunny afternoon she and her girls (all comically buxom in their bright orange life preservers) were paddling boats on Lake Bearikoo, a basin of liquid sapphire which, too steep-sided to have noticeable shores, appeared somehow abrupt amid the dense woods. To Imogene, this sudden water seemed as if a vast bite had been taken out of the forest and a chunk of twilight dropped into the hole.

(Musing further, it occurred to Imogene that the twisted conifers climbing up its lofty banks were like a massed marching of souls: bleak and crooked, but with heads toward heaven for having survived their tortuous journey below ground, and revealing by their weary shapes that:
... long is the way, and hard,

that out of hell leads up to light.

— Milton

Imogene was not proud that her private thoughts at church camp came rarely closer to God than this.)

Artfully, she had arranged for Sally to sit ahead of her in the lead canoe, and when they were safely out of earshot of the campgrounds, Imogene called to the girls in the other craft to turn up their radio. Then, with just herself and quiet Janey for listeners, the two of them idly paddling, Sally (cross-legged in the belly of the boat, fiddling with the ties of her life jacket) was encouraged to tell the rest of her anecdote.

Imogene learned that Matt had received for his unconscionable act a week's detention and many, many dictionary pages to copy, and — thank goodness — the little girl had not been perceptibly harmed. Sally was led to believe in fact, from the way the girl had for weeks afterwards repeated how disgusting and sickening and pukey the whole thing was, that she had secretly enjoyed it. (Imogene had no reason to doubt this for she had seen pictures of Matt at that age, pictures impossible not to stare at.)

But, at the time, Sally was sure the episode had given the girl a considerable fright. She had sat up immediately on being released and clutched her knees to her chest. Crowds of girls gathered round her and asked timid questions, but all she would do was shake her exquisite little head, the dark hair rumpled and dotted with dandelion seeds, and look sad. She would neither cry nor say a word.

And all this time Matt was being led away with a firm fist on his shirt collar. But he was not grinning toward his comrades or striding with defiance, as was typical whenever the principal had him in tow. Instead, his face was turned painfully around (making him stumble occasionally) and trying to catch a glimpse of the little girl sitting in the grass, surrounded by her friends.

Sally had never, before or after, seen Matt looking so ashamed, regretful and sad.

This, to Imogene, was the key point of the narrative; her heart burned with gratitude to have been shown this hidden side of Matt, this early evidence of his human vulnerability, his capacity for remorse, his power to feel deeply, to love truly, no matter with what clumsiness he had expressed these finer virtues. And it spoke volumes as well that Sally, despite having witnessed the atrocity, had seen such value in him that she herself could love him still. For Imogene, it was as if a favorite knick-knack of hers had been suddenly deemed priceless.

That was all Sally had to report of the incident, and for the rest of the outing Imogene was pensively quiet while Sally and Jane and the girls paddling abeam of them all crooned along with the scratchy Duluth be-bop on Laura's radio:
... nothing you could do

could make me untrue ...

to my guy ...

She noted too that Sally, for the first time since beginning the story, had become animated. She laughed over her shoulder to Imogene, pointing out the funny poses of the trees along the water's edge and the strange, spindly insects that scooted over the little waves without sinking.

Imogene smiled; this was the relief of getting things off one's chest, of opening dank vaults to the warm gaze of friends. Ironically, at the time, she wished that she too had some deep, troubling secret she could share with them and feel the better for.

But later that night, in the dark, with all her charming charges sound asleep, or pretending to be, it occurred to Imogene that she had no way to corroborate the girl's account; Matt had never mentioned the affair (and Imogene would certainly never bring it up), but Sally's voice had become so calm and certain by the end of the tale Imogene could not conceive of it being anything but the honest truth.

She did, however, wish to get a look at this ravishing little girl, for it was probable that Matt still carried a torch for so early and so beautiful a conquest. This had to wait though until after her time with the girls came to an end, which it did the following Saturday. (Their parting was tearful and filled with hugs and remembrances, for they had all, it seemed, become loving sisters. Even to the present day the girls came by Imogene's dress shop to chat and laugh and make plans for the following summer.)

But when Imogene had returned home from camp she immediately asked her siblings, both of whom had also completed ninth grade the previous June, if they were acquainted with this remarkable young lady, this Jan of the dark hair and enchanting face.

Stacy had never heard the name before, but her brother mentioned having been in a class with her once.

"What's she like!" Imogene demanded. "What's she look like!"

Dan shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

His indifference was explained when, at one of the early games of the new season, he had pointed her out.

But Imogene, finally in sight of this treasure, became a little saddened. The girl was bundled up and shivering in the bleachers, yet even allowing for this, she seemed a trifle too stoutish for perfect beauty and was sitting beside a boy whom no one could mistake for a football star.

_This_ was the source of Matt's first great passion?

Relief should have been her primary response, but all Imogene could feel was sympathy:
And maydens nought anon so guylynge fayr,

As agèd nine in youthen golden haire.

(Actually, the Nun's Priest — or whoever it was — had said 'twellve,' but kids grew up quicker these days!)

Imogene was aware that she herself looked younger than her years and could not help wondering: Was Matt attracted to her, Imogene, only for these little-girl looks? Did he merely see in her that child who first stole his heart away, and who — vanished as that darling girl now is — may own it still?

Whatever the case, Imogene had from that time developed a deeper cherishing of her boyfriend. She could see, mixed in with his rowdy youth, a heart almost saintly with its burden of love to give.

She reflected that the apostle Paul had also begun life as a jerk. He had even been talked of in one of the summer camp sermons, though the minister had used a kinder, less accurate, noun to describe him. (In her thoughts at least, Imogene believed with Confucius that: 'Wisdom begins in calling things by their right name.')

Matt will likely never compose epistles of divine inspiration, but she could imagine, somewhere in that powerful frame of his, that he too might one day be considering the finer impulses of the human heart, the reasons men do the things they do: the good, the bad, the stupid things they do. Pondering man's many provocations, might he not similarly conclude: 'And the greatest of these is love'?

But a more prudent side of her nature counseled Imogene to beware of small, innocent-looking girls; girls like herself, who might with little trouble lead Matt's affections astray. Consequently, Imogene never again suggested they go where junior high girls might be present, and whenever a double-date was proposed, she was quick to ask Becky, her tallest friend.

The teacher had by now completed her discussion for the day. With a start, Imogene found herself still in English class, and was obliged to finish the last of these contemplations while getting out fresh sheets of paper. An essay of mind-numbing length had just been assigned on Hardy's novel, and the class was allowed, in the seven minutes till the bell, to get a "really good start on it!"

The teacher laughed more heartily at her jest than did her students.

At first Imogene was filled with thankfulness. She was glad to be saved from the agony of pretending to pay attention, but soon found the quiet in the room, and the shameful blankness on the paper before her — and the blankness in her mind — to be even greater discomforts. Looking around, she saw that her neighbors already had outlines and opening paragraphs under way.

Imogene feared that she would fall dead asleep. There was a blur in her vision which could not be brought into focus, and her head felt, for all the world, like a block of North Shore basalt, almost too heavy for her hand to support.

Concentration was impossible; all she could think of was _Laurel_ and Hardy!

Finally, desperate to get something on her paper — and still flooded with memories of the summer — Imogene began a frantic translation of:
... if you wanna know,

if he loves you so?

It's in his kiss!

recasting the song into some wacko concoction of French, Latin, pig-Latin and Middle English.

Help me! she cried nearly aloud. I'm going nuts!
\- XI -

At the end of the hour Imogene remembered to give Polly a grateful hug, then took her friend's advice and hurried to a girls' room to splash cold water on her face.

That helped, but even so, staying awake was a struggle. In her third period economics class Imogene's desk was in the back of the room where the teacher's droning monotone could seem to be miles away, and Mr Lunde was phenomenally adept at detecting inattention. His favorite punishment, for Imogene at least, was to begin addressing her, not as 'Geenee,' but as 'Gina' or 'Miss Lollobrigida,' which, even after these many months, could still make her classmates laugh.

When the bell finally rang, Imogene bit down on yet another yawn and glanced at the page of notes she had been taking. On the top few lines were listed details of the Russian Seven Year Plan, but over the rest of the sheet were scribbled dozens of her grinning, wingless owls, their eyes painfully huge with sagacity. She stared at the sketchy collection for a moment, wondering yet again why she draws such things: so expressively 'silly and wise.'

Clicking her tongue, she folded the paper in half and dropped it into the wastebasket on her way out.

But it was lunchtime at last, and Imogene sat down exhausted at a cafeteria table with her best friends, all of whom were in their usual comic raptures over one thing or another. Imogene though, her head slumped ponderously on one hand, only poked at the over-browned bun in her tray.

Becky laughed, looking down from her slender height. "God Geenee. Just drop dead already!"

"Don't wake me u-up," whimpered Imogene.

On the other side of the table Polly was shaking her head. (Though she and Imogene were the same size, Polly's hair was just enough darker that there were some dresses they could not swap.) "You guys!" she scolded. "Just let her sleep. I swear, her head was bobbing like a _cork_ in English today! An'she doesn't even have a study hall she can conk-out in. Just let her sleep."

A burst of laughter from across the room made the girls look up, all except Imogene, whose cheek remained in her palm. The noise was coming from the big-shouldered boys at the varsity table.

"Listen to'em!" cried Mary Helen. "Chopped fish time at the seal pond!" She slapped the backs of her hands together.

Mary Helen was of a height midway between the others and, like them, had hair that was dark. (Although one summer it had been a greenish-blond for a few days and the subject of many fine jokes, mostly her own.)

Becky had chestnut hair, the waves of which she was shaking spitefully at the boys. "Win every game'n that's what'cha get. Even the coaches are eggin'em on."

"Pure arrogance!" Mary Helen had elevated the remains of her sloppy-joe and bit it quick. But before swallowing she added: "A'most wish they'd'oose tomorrow. Serve'em right."

Their boyfriends, it happened, were all seated at that boisterous table, and few things animated the girls so much as proving to each other how little these 'children' deserved their attention.

While her friends were thus occupied, Imogene ventured weary looks at them. She was often impressed by their aspect of maturity, if not always in their speech, at least in their poise and posture, in the attitudes their faces could assume. Though all four of the girls were within months of being the same age, Imogene alone drew giggles when declaring herself to be a senior.

Polly lowered her gaze from the boys' table and smiled at her sleepy friend. In a softened voice she said, "You can even hear Matt. That doesn't happen very often."

Imogene nodded and made an heroic effort to sip milk from her straw.

The girls hurried through the rest of their meal, then went upstairs to one of the quieter lavatories where Imogene was made to remove her shoes and contact lenses and lie down on the couch. She was asleep within seconds, but not before her eyes had wetted themselves as she listened to her friends making whispered arrangements to watch over her.

Blank and blissful was her nap, and a few minutes before the start of fourth period, Imogene was gently awakened. Becky, it appeared, had drawn last relief and received a glad embrace from her now refreshed, though rather badly wrinkled friend.

The balance of the day was therefore endurable. In art class, however, Imogene managed to knock over a jar of tempera paint, and Matt, his laughter undiminished from lunchtime, allowed her to clean up the mess aided. (So also did the teacher: "When you're done there, Jeeves, my Buick could use a wash'n wax?")

But by the final bell, Imogene found that nearly all her alertness had returned. She made a sweet scowl at her still chuckling boyfriend and sent him off to his basketball practice, then spent considerable time in a girls' room scrubbing the remains of the slopped paint from her fingers, all the while gazing back at Matt's ring staring steadfastly at her from the vanity's soap dish.

At her locker, amid farewells to friends galloping by, she assembled an armload of books, purse, boots and coat, then headed upstairs to wait for her ride home.

Though crowded, the library was hushed within. The clamor of dismissal in the hallways ceased abruptly with the closing of the door, and Imogene sighed to enter at last this longed-for sanctuary. Yet she was startled by sight of the librarian: bullish, black-haired and hunched over a card-catalog drawer ('like a wolf engorging its kill,' Becky once had said). The woman looked up suddenly, then snapped a perfunctory smile.

Imogene returned the greeting, but with caution, for Mrs Pillar's moods were often volatile and savage.

Continuing across the room, Imogene arrived at the small table by the 100s; _her_ table, as she often considered it. (So also did others apparently, for even at crowded times like this it could be found vacant and awaiting her.) She deployed writing materials, secured a volume of the _Britannica_ , and sat down to attack once again the essay which had been such an agony for her bleary eyes that morning. In no time, it seemed, an hour of labored composition had gone by.

At the sound of heavy footsteps, Imogene glanced up to see Matt striding toward her. His carelessly perfect hair still glistened from the shower, and on his handsome face, once again, sat that crafty little smile.

Her returning look was more nearly a frown. "I'm not ready yet," she whispered.

"S'okay," said Matt as he pulled out the chair across from her.

The woodwork groaned to have such massive limbs settled into it, then made squeaky complaints while its occupant looked around at the vacated tables surrounding them. Most everyone had left by now, and from where they sat only the librarian, standing like a sentinel at her check-out desk, was visible.

An amused, impish kind of sound escaped from Matt as he withdrew his hand from a pocket of his unbuckled jacket — which boasted a large white E on one side (also stitched on by his girlfriend). In his fist was a length of electrical wire, perhaps a foot and a half long, with odd-looking plugs on each end. He dropped it clatteringly beside Imogene's elbow.

She flinched at the sound, but refused to let herself appear at all interested. Clearly, he was up to something, possibly some deed which would further endear himself, but it was her custom to pretend displeasure until the actual moment of joy. Besides, she was still mad at him for laughing at her in art class. (And he broke our date last night too! The swine.)

With head atilt, and her idle hand placed palm-up in her lap, to keep the bracelets quiet, Imogene went on with her writing.

Soon, however, Matt's expectant gaze became too much of a distraction and she sighed, "I s'pose you want me to ask what the heck that is."

"Would be nice," he said, leaning back and slipping fingertips into the tight pockets of his slacks. He grinned and made a series of suppressed chuckles.

"All right, Matthew," she said, not looking up. "What is it and why is it so funny."

"Beats me what it is, but ol' _mouse_ 'd prob'ly kill to get it back."

Imogene caught her breath, then slapped down her pen. "Did you _steal_ that!"

Matt burst into laughter.

"You idiot!" Imogene ducked her head, looking fretfully across the room, then back at her companion. Her heart sank to realize he was still just a stupid bully.

She whispered as harshly as she could, "You take that back right now! How can you be so ... !"

His mirth was making his chair twitter.

"Does he know y'took it."

Matt shook his head. "It's part of his super-dooper science thing. He's been workin'on it for weeks." Matt picked up the wire and looked sadly at the dangling ends. "Poor Stan, he's just had a setback."

"Matt ..."

He tossed the wire onto the open encyclopedia where it made a black smudge in the text. "I was thinkin' — since you sit right next to him'n all? — I was thinking maybe you'd like to give it back to him. Might even get a reward." He grinned. "We could split it."

Curses in three different languages were on her tongue. How could he _do_ this! And on the very day she finally got back in the kid's good graces!

Nevertheless, as Imogene, using her pen, pushed the wire back to his side of the table, she felt a hint of danger in all of this and thought it best not to be too obviously on Stanley's side of the issue. There was plenty else to be indignant about.

"I'm breaking my back here an'you're tryin't'get me expelled!" she cried, though not too loudly. "If he finds out it was you, _I'm_ implicated!" She had taken a tissue from her purse and was (bracelets jingling) scrubbing the soiled page.

More solemn now, Matt spun the wire around with his hand, making it blur like a propeller.

"You take that back right now!" she said. "I mean it."

"Or what. You'll withhold _sex_ for another two years!" He had turned toward the occupied half of the room to shout this.

Gasping, Imogene could not raise her eyes. She glimpsed Matt tipping back to get something out of his pants pocket, and heard him chuckling to himself, "... good for nothin' prude."

"Would you shut _up!_ What is _with_ you today! An'all that crap you were shoutin'in the lunchroom. I absolutely — Matt!"

He had unfolded a jackknife and with his back toward the librarian's desk began calmly sawing the wire in half against the tabletop.

"Matt!"

When the cord separated, he held up the pieces and grinned at her. "Sure y'want me to give it back? Like y'say, you'd prob'ly catch it too."

Her mouth was open, her head swaying side to side. "You're drunk. You're insane."

Matt pulled his chair close to the table. "Back in ninth grade? Ratface got me kicked outa school for two whole weeks." A pair of fingers were thrust up in emphasis. "An'it was right during tryouts." He thumped his fist on the table. "I could a'made _varsity_ that year!"

Imogene stared at him. So this was their big feud. Though she had never heard of Matt's being suspended, she was neither surprised nor sympathetic. Her mouth became testily small. "And of course you were perfectly innocent."

"Well, jeez! He screwed up at somethin' — in gym — I pushed him a _round_ a little'n he went off cryin't'Gimmestad." Matt's eyes had fallen to the tabletop but quickly came up again. "God I hardly touched him! An'now he gets A's in physics all the time'n he thinks he's hot shit, well — "

"He gets A's in Latin too! He never says boo about it!"

"Well ... dammit there's only a couple months left a'school. It's my last chance to get even!"

"God you are so juvenile!" Imogene had begun slapping her books together.

Then it occurred to her what was really the matter here, this was not just revenge and old rivalries. It went deeper than that. Crazy as it sounds, Matt was jealous of Stanley. No doubt he would have ignored the kid completely had she not mentioned his sitting next to her — in her favorite class — and of having an influence on her.

Even in this (Imogene felt a sudden warmth in her heart), even in this Matt was being romantic. He was afraid of losing her, of becoming only second best in her eyes. It was similar to the way she worried about Matt among young-looking girls; he, it seemed, disliked the idea of her being near boys who got A's.

Yet how ridiculous it was to believe that Stanley, of all people, could be a threat to her affections. (Her sympathy, yes; but her affections? Her heart? Her love?) How absurd that Matt could think so. Yet how sweet.

Imogene had to remind herself of her anger.

"You just embarrass the hell outa me sometimes!" She felt a rawness in her throat from all the rasping whispers. "Put those away. Stick'em in your pocket or something. Right now! Before someone _sees!_ "

Matt obeyed, standing up and concealing the wires in his green and white jacket.

Imogene was on her feet as well; she made a furtive throat noise as the librarian wheeled a creaky cart past them and into the back room, then hurried to replace the encyclopedia.

Matt was shifting his feet with impatience. "Don't sweat it, okay? No one's gonna do a thing to me before the playoffs."

"Who cares about _you!_ Monday I find out about the graduation speeches! And so help me, if you make me lose that — after all I've been through! — so help me I'll put a _bullet_ in your brain! I really will!"

Matt's eyes enlarged.

Imogene too, feeling a ping of deep fright, was shocked by how readily these gangland words came to her. She made a bitter shake of her head to recall that, on her National Merit application, she had listed as her chief ambition: 'To be a diplomat.'

They were at the door of the library. Matt banged it open and held it while she went out under his arm. He was hissing wearily. "Look," he said, "if they try to take it away from ya? Your speech? I'll just threaten to quit the team." He shrugged with raised palms. "End of story."

With a sigh, Imogene dumped her load of books into his arms — of course he has no homework of his _own!_ — and began putting on her beige wool overcoat. (The garment was nearly identical to those of all the other girls that year except, hers being found in the children's department, lacked flattering contours when fully buttoned). She preceded him down the stairs in silence, yanking her collar straight.

When they reached the first floor he said, "Let's go this way," and guided her down an unfamiliar corridor.

"Really," said Imogene (still with a trace of petulance). "I sometimes wonder if you even like me anymore." She flushed to dare hint at such a thing. "Maybe Mom's right. Music box'n all, she still says you take me for granted. I think you do. I _know_ you do!"

Matt offered no reply, but his jacket made small squeaky noises as he turned to look up and down the long empty hallway.

Her voice softened. "But sometimes you're so — like that poem — sometimes you're just so sweet. Why can'tcha be like that all the time." She slowed down and allowed his arm to bump against her as they walked. She glanced up at him. "Are you _ashamed_ of being good? Is that it? You think you'll lose, like ... respect or something if people find out how nice you are, really."

She could see that he was trying to appear contrite, but that tiny look of guile was still on his face.

From her coat pocket Imogene had removed a pair of wrinkled gloves, stretching them to smooth out the yarn. "An'people look at _me_ an'say, 'Uh-huh, she's just after his bod. He's got nothin'else.' That's what they say!"

She had begun pulling on the gloves when a big arm caught her around the middle and crushed her against his chest.

He kissed her passionately, though with some awkwardness since room had to be made for the books. She hung limp in his embrace, thrilled — as always — by his unexpected touch, but also cursing her weakness.

In a flash she saw the pattern of all their future life together: He committing every crime imaginable, and she, ever and again, condoning him by her inability to stay mad for two minutes together!

The glove not put on fell to the floor.

When he released her, Imogene glanced toward both ends of the corridor, still vacant, then knelt to retrieve her glove. As they turned and continued down a narrow hallway, she leaned heavily against his jacket and let her face blaze with love and jumbled feelings.

After a few steps, however, she noticed that the pieces of the cut wire were once more in his hand. He was scraping the severed ends against her coat.

"Would you put those away! You're just asking for trouble."

He stopped and pointed at a closed door. "There's a trashcan in that storeroom," he said. "Just inside." Shifting the books to his other hip, he gestured for her to take the wires. "Nothin'can happen if we get rid'a the evidence, right?"

Exhaling — theatrically — Imogene snatched the wires from him and went to the door. Here again, she scolded herself (recalling the copied paper), here again was a case where confession would be worse than the crime. In fact (her head was swaying sadly), one could call it emblematic of her attachment to Matt: doing wrong for arguably right reasons!

The door opened onto a small, brightly lit room in which a bespectacled young man was stooped over a piece of apparatus on a bench top. He looked up, first at Imogene, then at the wires she was holding in her little tan glove. The young man, short, untidy, and far from handsome, was Stanley Ratt.

Stunned, Imogene just stood there.

He dropped a screwdriver and grabbed the wires, staring at them, one in each hand, then looked at her in astonishment. The sides of his head, behind the thick lenses, seemed pinched together at the temples.

Imogene opened and closed her mouth, like a guppy. Bellows of laughter were coming from the hallway and she rushed out.

Matt was leaning against the far wall, the books gripped against his belly. He was squinty-eyed with hilarity.

As the door fell closed behind her, Imogene crossed her arms, then slapped at her hair, then crossed her arms again. She could not believe this was happening.

Almost immediately, the door of the little room clicked open once more, and Stanley, now red-faced and with several books under his arm, came out into the hall. He slammed the door closed, then tested the knob to make sure it was locked. His eyes were careful not to look toward the others.

When he turned to go down the hall, Imogene could see the ends of the cut wires sticking out of his pants pocket. She took a step toward him, but he hurried away.

"Stan?" she said, beginning to follow. "I ... I'm really sorry! — _We're_ really sorry! — This is ..." (The fantasy of giving him a peck on the cheek flashed through her mind and she went scarlet.) "... w-we'll buy you a new one a'those ... things, okay? Stan?"

He had raced far ahead, ignoring her, and she slapped her arms to the sides of her coat. Panic trembled in her voice as she turned to her boyfriend. "He's going straight to the principal!"

Matt, who had ceased his laughter, dropped the books into her arms, the purse and heavy boots toppling to the floor, and ran down the hall after Stanley.

"No! Matt, don't ... !" she called. " _Matt!_ "

Both young men disappeared around a dark corner. Imogene froze, listening intently, but all she could hear were the gutturals of Matt's low, threatening voice.

Soon, her boyfriend strolled back into view, his head tilted and the fingers of one hand raking his black hair into place.

"What did you do!" Imogene demanded.

"Nothin'."

She glared at him.

"He _knows_ what'll happen if he says anything."

Imogene stared a moment longer, then shook her head. "God ... this is my whole _life_ , Matt!" She sniffled and stooped down for the fallen items. "Did you at least pay him something."

"Gimme a break." He strode past her, heading for the exit.

Still squatting, she held her eyes longingly on the dark end of the hall. It remained silent and empty.

"Y'comin'or not!" Matt called from the exit.
\- XII -

Imogene was driven home in silence. Neither she nor Matt spoke a word to each other after brushing the snow from his little green Volkswagen. The radio remained silent; they stopped nowhere to eat.

It was still snowing, but Imogene, staring crossly out the side window, was seeing only Stanley: his heavy black glasses, his look of awe, of anger.

Repeatedly, she saw him striding into the principal's office.

At her home, the driveway was barely visible between its battlements of piled snow and spoiled drifts. The car, idling on the shoveled concrete, coughed patiently while its occupants, for a moment longer, continued their mutual silence.

With a grunt Matt leaned back from the steering wheel and looked down at Imogene's maroon leather boots, glittering with beads of melted snow. "So now y'really hate me, huh?"

Imogene did not answer at once; she sat gazing at the falling snow which, imperceptibly, was filling-in the many footprints and shovel marks: 'The way wounds heal unseen' (C. Rossetti.)

"No," Imogene sighed, "but you make it so darn hard to love you sometimes."

"Oh, come on. If I was the least bit dull you'd a dumped me by now. You love it'n you know it."

"I don't, Matt! I really don't! Someday I wanna _be_ somebody. How far can I get with a joke for a husband."

"You mean joker, right?"

"I mean _joke!_ "

On saying this, Imogene turned violently red and began straightening the books on her lap, her loafers side by side on top.

In a small voice Matt replied, "Okay. I'll ... try to grow up a little. A lot. I'm sorry, okay?" After a pause he added, "I was just ... I been goin'crazy all day 'cuz — last night? — he made me foreman!"

Imogene looked up at Matt.

"The guys were over for cards'n he called me right in the middle — the head guy, y'know, Knutzyn? The contractor? — an'it's for the whole crew! Cement ... framing, everything! I guess Parker screwed up or something."

Imogene's eyes had become enormous.

Matt appeared no less amazed. "All of a sudden I got _six_ guys I'm in charge of. An'come summer? Full time? God I'll be rich!"

"Oh, Matt!" gasped Imogene, her head falling to one side with infinite esteem. Already she was seeing this accomplishment listed in his student folder, his college file — on résumés!

Then she stiffened. "Last night? And you're just _now_ telling me?"

Matt shrugged and reached down to turn the radio on:
... sit right down

daddy let your mind roll on ...

"Parker works for me now. Man is _he_ sweatin'it I bet."

"What'a y'gonna do!"

"Nothing, that's just it. I'll treat him fair'n square — like he never treated me! — an'he'll think I'm just settin'im up for something big!"

Imogene pursed her lips and looked down at her books. She adjusted them into a symmetrical pile. "In other words, you're returning good for evil?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"And you couldn't find it in your heart to be that decent with Stan Ratt?"

Matt grumbled and turned to look out the side window.

"'Specially since — in all likelihood — he's never done a single darn thing to you! I know that Parker guy's a — I've met him, remember? How can y'be nice to him an'such a big bully to poor Stan."

"He's differ'nt."

"How. How is he different. 'Cuz he's not a he-man athlete like you? Like Parker?"

"You know. He never goes out with girls."

"How do you know that. You don't know anything about him."

"I never see him talkin't'girls."

"He never talks to _anyone!_ "

Imogene halted for a few breaths, reminding herself to tread lightly here. The snowflakes in her hair had melted to an uncomfortable dampness, and she swatted at the limp ringlet fallen in front of her eye. "He likes girls, okay? He peeks at my legs all the time. He's just ... he's really shy."

"He's a creep!"

"Matt! Who just _promised_ me he was gonna start growing up!"

The engine squealed.

Sighing, Imogene waited for the beetle's tinny whinny to subside. (She knew all too well Matt's Casca-like way of ending arguments he can never win: 'Speak, feet, for me!')

Imogene went on: "And even if he is ... y'know ... that's his business. And you're on thin ice just talking about it. You know that."

With a squeaky voice, Matt mimicked: "I just ab _hor_ prejudice of any kind!"

"I do! An'you better too if y'wanna _get_ anywhere with me!" She thumped her purse on top of her books and shoes. "Thanks for the ride."

Nothing was said for a moment, then her face softened. "You've been a king-size bozo today. An'I'm no saint either. I think we deserve each other if y'wanna know."

Imogene leaned heavily against the backrest and gazed at him. "Anyway, congratulations. I'm so proud of you my heart hurts. But let's celebrate when we're both in a better mood, okay?"

He nodded and Imogene let her eyes drift outside, toward the big living room window of her home.

"But so help me," she said, "if Mr Ziskind's been on the phone to my mom. If it's all _over_ for me! So help me I'm coming after you with a butcher knife!"

As always, her anger ended with her words. She closed her eyes and leaned over to concede to him the inevitable kiss. It was a long kiss,
... bluer than velvet was the night ...

certainly much longer than was called for, and Imogene found her thoughts once more drifting sleepily away: In art class the theme for the day had been mythological idylls, and the snow falling outside the classroom window (where she was sopping up half a jug of ultramarine!) had inspired her to illustrate the story of Leda and the Swan, a scene which could be depicted wholly in shades of snowy white. But now (both arms around Matt's neck, her books and other burdens tumbled into his lap), she wondered: Did that poor girl really fall for the old white-feathers trick, or had she known all along what was going on?

True, the guy was from Olympus, but he was still just a jerk in a bird suit; everyone knew what he was; yet, thoughtful Leda may have found something more. Perhaps she had glimpsed the sometimes-swan hidden deep within, and thus succumbed, not so much to his base will, as to the highest, finest feelings of her own heart.

If so, thought Imogene, (the kiss now lengthening past all decorum):
... everybody'd be surr-fin'

like Californ-i-aa! ...

if so, that perceptive girl may have been far less a mortal victim than conqueror of a god.

Shyly, almost ashamedly, Imogene disentangled herself, gathered up her things and stepped out into the cold. From the center of the driveway she watched the little car back out into the street and putter away amid the softly falling snow. Though mantled in white, the rusty bug could hardly be thought a swan. At the corner — and very like a god ( _i.e._ not deigning to blink) — the car skidded around a snow bank and was gone.

Imogene turned as well, confronting now the stark, alpen-whiteness of her home. From down here in the driveway the towering split-level could well have been Byron's 'scarp unscalable,' (or Delacroix's for that matter, she added, tilting her head a moment).

Imogene stared long upon the bright expanse, yawning a few times, while falling flakes like dainty cat-licks lighted on her cheeks and lashes.

Then a frown appeared. Thoughts of gods and girls were vanished now, and a vague sort of dread was filling her, a sense of approaching doom as cold and unavoidable as that blank white wall. She was thinking of Mary Queen of Scots, 'a lady braver far,' who — after _her_ sleepless night — must have gazed with eyes like these 'upon that gorrie block.' (Burns.)
Vividly, Imogene could see the dark, deep office of the principal with Stanley staunch within, face ablaze, making his just complaint. And Mr Ziskind — furious as Thor! — jumping up from his desk to run thundering down the halls in pagan rage. Matt expelled. Herself disgraced. Their plans for college shattered! Their lives destroyed!

All done! O Zeus!

All done e're all begun!

— Aeschylus

Shaking her head, Imogene exhaled a nimbus of whitened breath. Lord! I've _got_ to get to _bed!_

When she entered the house, Imogene looked cautiously around, unnerved at once by the many stern countenances, in polished frames, staring down at her from the living room wall. Avoiding their eyes, she set down her books and pressed the door closed with as little sound as possible.

While standing her tall boots upright on the entry rug, the mother appeared, towel in hand, hurrying in long-legged strides down the kitchen hallway. Her eyes of firm concern — like flashing red lights in a rear-view mirror — made Imogene's heart clatter to a halt.

"What," asked the daughter, as innocently as she could.

"Did you hear anything."

"About what."

"About _what!_ Listen to her!" The graying hair shook to hear such nonsense. "Graduation, sweetie. The speeches."

"Oh," Imogene sighed. "No, nothing. It's still way too early."

A look of disappointment had come into the mother's face. Mrs Urich was wearing a dress old enough to need no apron, and her hands, smelling of peeled tomatoes, continued to dry themselves in the cloth. "How can you be so calm about it."

"Believe me I'm not. I've just now been screamin'at Matt 'cuz he doesn't take it seriously!" She slipped her arms around the mother's thin waist and stretched to lay her head on the high shoulder. "I'm just frazzled. They said in the office someone'd ..." (a huge yawn climbed out of her), "... call after the weekend. Soon as they get the grades back n'stuff."

She felt the mother's cheek placed tenderly on her wet hair. In spite of this, Imogene could not help a peevish smirk. "That is, _if_ there's anything to call about!"

"Shh," the mother hushed.

Up in her room, for the hour or so until dinnertime, Imogene went on with her homework, or tried to. A drowsiness was returning, and periodically her head would droop onto a palm while she stared at the picture of College Hall's imperious clock tower or at the photo of Matt, slyly smiling, beside it. From down in the living room, she could hear her sister's infectious laughter, and sometimes her father's, as they watched noisy cartoon antics on the television.

Soon, these were replaced by the austere voices of Huntley and Brinkley, and from deep in the basement, from the rosewood spinet, came now the slow, soulful chords of Stacy's 'divine adagio.'

The recital piece always shamed Imogene for having given up lessons herself, for lacking, not only long fingers, but the lyrical talent which her sister possessed in such careless abundance. Though Imogene had many compensations for these few omissions of birth, it was at times her cruelest cross to bear: to fail of being perfect.

Indeed, _far_ from perfect! Farther every day it seemed.

She felt her face growing warm, foreseeing at once the shock and abasement that comes to all who presume to walk with angels.

After awhile the music became more prominent. Her father, or more likely her mother, had turned down the crackling Viet Nam footage, and Stacy's elegant, haunting harmonies drifted through the home like hazy incense, like opiate.

Imogene wondered if it might be an affront to those sainted composers, could they but hear her sister — the quintessential adolescent! — performing their works with exactly the depth and subtle grace which they, in their sorrowing years, in their genius, had intended. Would they not take offense at finding their immortal fugues mastered in full by so frequently silly and un-grief-laden a lass? Surely it must gall!

Of course the concern Imogene felt was in coming to terms with the guilt of her own unaccountable gifts. What, she often asked herself, what had _she_ ever done to merit this boundless, loving heart, this questing mind and agile body, this tireless spirit? (Well, she yawned, 'tireless' might be a bit overstated.)

But it did always trouble her: this sense that she walked somehow in stolen gowns, that one day (soon perhaps) the rightful owner will find her out, demand the return of these pilfered talents, and leave her naked and crying in the street: lazy, lumpy, heartless as a whore, dumb as dirt.

Imogene sighed as she returned to her books. Though extreme perhaps, the metaphor of stolen clothing was natural for one employed in a dress shop; who rarely had need to wear her own apparel, who daily viewed (so Spenser warns) 'our vast deceit of fangled robes, to bear and to behold alike.'

Eventually, the cat wandered in and curled-up on the coverlet of Imogene's bed, making a shapeless dark mass with blithely lidded eyes. He ignored the jolly terrycloth owl, Spinozy, who had tumbled beside him.

Imogene laid down her pen a moment and reached over to caress them both. Her eyes though were focused far away.

Then the phone rang.

Her hands snapped back, fisting themselves in her lap. She felt the flesh of her limbs prickling.

The phone only rang twice, followed by silence (save for the dying denouement of Stacy's piece). Then came the mother's chatty laughter.

Exhaling, Imogene stared down at her whitened knuckles (now highlighting their unscrubbed traces of dark purple paint), and cursed herself for trusting to Matt and his hoodlum tactics. Again, the sight enveloped her: Stanley, red with rage, striding into the principal's office and shaking the pieces of that stupid wire!

Was this it? (She glared at the gothic clock tower on her desk.) Was Stanley himself this very embodiment of doom she had been dreading all her life? The destroyer of her undeserved finery? Her nemesis? Her Serpent in Eden? Her Iachimo? Her ... Mephistopheles?

Gee- _nee!_ (Witch's fingers were gripping her hair.) Would you shut the hell _up!_ Jeez! Give it a rest! (Imogene often scolded herself in the vernacular of her friends.) You're dead on your feet, okay? Just think for a minute. (Now her hands were beseeching the cat.) _You_ didn't do anything wrong. You didn't steal the wire. What's the worst can happen to _you!_

She considered this a moment, arms calmingly crossed, but it still seemed unbearable if she were even to be laughed at for having a boyfriend serving detention. And just how likely would it be for the honor of a graduation speech to be awarded to his ever-forgiving accomplice? How could she be chosen to speak for the entire student body when she was not even mature enough to pick a beau worthy of adult praise!

You're _still_ making way too much of this!

She knew it was useless, absurd even, to be so frightened; yet her jittery heart refused to be comforted. And again it came to her: Stanley's spectacled eyes, gray eyes, gazing at the cut wires dangling from her little tan glove. Eyes unblinking. Eyes blank with hurt.

Abruptly, she slapped down her pen — making the cat jump to attention — and strode out of the room.

Down in the kitchen, Imogene faced away from her mother at the stove and paged angrily through the little community phone directory. When she found the number for Stanley's family (there was only one listing for 'Ratt'), she was surprised to see how many kids there were: five of them, ages: (21) to (infant). In second place was Stanley (17). For some reason she had assumed he was an only child.

She dialed the number.

After a few rings, a pleasant-sounding woman answered, and Imogene (competing now with a sparkling waltz from the basement) brought forth her sunniest, come-play-with-us voice. "Is Stan there?" she asked, her big eyes gazing at the red cookie cans on the counter.

The woman seemed taken aback, and Imogene understood that it was probably rare for anyone, especially a girl, to be seeking this particular young man.

Smiling, Imogene clarified, "Stan Ratt?"

"Oh ... yes ... I think so. Just ... let me go see. Just a moment please."

Imogene could hear Stanley's name being called, then a rumbling of wooden stairs. After some delay, the phone was picked up again.

"I'm so sorry. I guess he's right in the middle of something. He's so busy down there with all his ... soldering irons and things. Could he call you back when he gets to a stopping place? I'm sure it'll be just a few minutes."

"Mm-hmh, that's fine," Imogene cheerily replied, pleased that Stanley was apparently keeping his complaints to himself.

"Could you have him call Geenee Urich?"

"Oh, just a minute. Let me get ..."

There was another pause while drawers were being opened and shut.

"All right, dear. That was ..."

"Geenee Urich, G, double-E, N, double-E, U, R, I, C, H. Walnut two ... two-five, seven-nine." Imogene recited this little code (the receiver pinched between jaw and shoulder) while slipping the directory back under the telephone. But her smile vanished when it occurred to her that Stanley might still have left a note in the principal's office, or arranged for some other time-delayed retribution; his refusing to come to the phone could well imply this.

She clutched the black plastic in both hands to add a crucial phrase: "And ... it's kind of important?"

"Of course, dear! I'll ... I'll make sure he calls you the very _minute_ he gets done. It'll just be a few minutes!"

"Thanks." Imogene hung up while the woman was inhaling to make further assurances.

Mrs Urich, now laying plates on the table, had begun watching her daughter with interest, but Imogene made her escape before any questions could be asked.

Hurrying up the stairs she felt a renewed blush. Stanley's mother, in so sweet a voice, had called her 'dear.' And this she had done without knowing Imogene at all, without knowing her sins or the many reasons her son had for hating her.

Back in the bedroom, and once again among her books and assignments (and her cat still warily pacing the bedspread), Imogene pondered: Maybe Stanley _is_ a hard one to like, a puzzle, a coiled threat; maybe in fact they were destined to be enemies forever — but she felt certain she could love his mother.

The 'just a few minutes' passed quickly by, and after a further half hour Imogene concluded that Stanley was not ever going to call her back.

This did not surprise her. Somehow she knew he was not the sort of person who could be tempted out of his wrath. Being a nobody himself, it would be his thrill of the year denouncing two of the school's most prominent citizens. Doubtless, he had already done so.

Imogene got up and threw her door closed. If he called back _now_ it would only be to gloat!

Still, his mother sounded so nice.

Imogene sighed as she took up the pen once more and bent over her essay. She found great difficulty though in trying to concentrate; her fatigue had once again filled her head with cotton balls. Besides, the tragedy of an unwise Wessex corn merchant paled almost to comedy in context with her own now epic fears and regrets.

Downstairs, Stacy had gone through her entire repertoire, including the pounding rendition of 'Pretty Woman' which Matt always pricked-up his ears to. (It never failed to be played whenever he was over.) But now 'La Virtuosa' had returned to her Beethoven piece.

With elbows on desk, Imogene let her face slump between her palms. She sat listening, lifeless, hardly breathing. Tears began to form as she discovered that this somber music no longer reminded her of that corny line of Donne's: 'Moonlight lain on lovers' eyes.'

No. These long, leaden measures: they were the true heart's crying for all that had been sought and striven for — and nearly secured — but lost, at last, forever.
\- XIII -

Soon supper was called, and Imogene, after giving her face a quick wipe, went down to the kitchen where her father smiled as he looked up from his end of the table. "Here's the brain! Ask her."

Stacy whirled around, shaking her brunette waves, "Oh like she really knows a lot about geometry!"

"Whad'ya mean?" said Imogene, coolly. "I aced it."

"Yeah but y'didn't _get_ it!"

"This is true." Imogene made a thin-lipped smile. (She was never keen to have the fading remains of her math knowledge put to any test.) Quietly, she sat down beside her sister.

Though two years younger than Imogene, Stacy was already tall enough to wear her sister's clothes without alteration — or invitation. A case in point was the bright pink cardigan Stacy had worn to school that day. It was a Christmas present Imogene had received from their aunt. But for the past several weeks it had been exiled to the back of her closet for having, after its first wash, sprouted a crop of fuzzy pills. Now, however, on Stacy, the fine rosy yarn had become boutique smooth once again. (The _hours_ she must have spent picking the dumb thing clean!)

Recovering from another yawn, Imogene could not withhold a look of spite, for here was another sisterly irritation: As if it was not maddening enough that Stacy could somehow yoke her quick tongue and talents to the most oxen-like perseverance, but she had the utter cheek to return things in better condition than when she stole'em!

Across from the girls, with an entire side of the table to himself, sat their brother, also two years younger than Imogene but nearly as big as Matt; his hair, athletically short, was no lighter than either of his sisters'. He was quietly buttering an ear of corn.

"Dan's takin'geometry." Imogene suggested. "Ask him."

"Oh yeah! I might as well ask that potato!"

"Shut up," growled Dan as his teeth crunched into the glistening kernels. (He and his twin sister bore little resemblance to one another.)

Mrs Urich was rapping knuckles on the table and gave her husband, who was smiling, a stern look. Seating herself, she asked, "Does anyone mind if I say grace tonight?"

There were no objections, and while the son set down his corn and the others bowed their heads, Mrs Urich began their usual prayer of thanksgiving. She paused before concluding, however, to add a carefully worded (though still blatant) appeal on behalf of her elder daughter's academic hopes.

Imogene's jaw went slack with chagrin, but the father, raising his brow of thinning hair, resoundingly seconded the 'Amen,' as did the sister. Dan took up his corn again.

They ate mostly in silence. Nothing was said other than several comments exchanged between the parents about the bad driving conditions. Then Stacy poked her sister in the arm, "So what was the big scream scene with Matt today."

"Mom!" Imogene accused her parent.

"No, I heard you guys talkin' in the living room." Stacy took another bite of her corn. "So ..." (chewing), "what's the deal?"

Imogene had turned away and was pointedly helping herself to another scoop of casserole.

"C'mon, what."

"Dear, hush," said their mother. "You take some too and pass to your dad."

Stacy picked up her knife, which still bore a smear of butter, and held it over her sister's head: "Ve haf _vaays_ of making you talk, Mädchen!" then burst into giggles. (Stacy's favorite class, not counting gym and choir, was first year German.)

"Quit it!" squeaked Imogene, cringing under the blade.

"You vill speak now, ja?"

"Kids! Kids!" scolded their mother.

"No, seriously," Stacy was licking the butter from her knife. (Though youngest in the family — ninety seconds younger than her brother — Stacy did almost all of the teasing.) "If you guys're, y'know, splitting up? Could y'put in a good word for me?"

"Stacy." Her father was grinning. "That's enough now."

"Well, if she doesn't _want_ him ... !"

"It isn't that," said Imogene. "It's just ... oh he's such a jerk sometimes!"

An awed silence followed this. Dan was staring at his sister. "Whad he do."

Imogene shook her head, hissing softly, then looked at her mother. "He takes me for granted."

Mrs Urich, making a slight nod, said, "Pass the gravy, please."

Though declining to offer any details of her quarrel with Matt, Imogene did announce what little she knew of his promotion, and spoke of it in tones of true forgiveness, but it was troubling that only her sister asked for particulars.

A moment later Imogene was silenced altogether when she happened to think: Matt was _supposed_ to be studying for his — alleged — math test last night, not playing poker with his stupid cronies!

Near the end of their meal, while everyone was calling out preferences for dessert, the telephone on the counter began to ring.

Imogene froze dead at the sound, but it was Stacy who spoke up: "If it's Ken, I'm not here, okay?"

"Oh hush!" said the mother as she set down a box of ice cream and went to the phone.

Imogene, now staring at her plate, was tense with the flutter of images in her head: Stanley, staring at the cut wires ... Stanley entering the principal's office ... Stanley reminded again to call that nice girl from school .... But all she saw clearly were the four macaroni noodles on her plate — the four tiny burnt elbows she had pushed to one side.

Stacy was patting her shoulder.

Looking up, she found the mother shaking the phone receiver at her, both hands over the mouthpiece. "It's Mr Ziskind!"

Imogene gazed at the black, bent thing captured in the mother's grip, as though it were a small, caught mammal. Deep within Imogene something sickened and sagged.

"Dear?" asked the mother.

Imogene arose and stepped toward the door. "I'm ... I'll get it upstairs."

She hurried out of the kitchen, leaving behind many puzzled faces, and soon found herself staring down at the sleek, designer-beige telephone in her parents' bedroom. She raised the receiver and dropped it onto the bed, then went back to the hallway and in a voice that was little more than a whimper called, "Okay, hang it up."

She closed the door, sat down on the bed and picked up the receiver with trembling hands. In her mind she saw the big man seated at the desk in his office, suit coat off and sleeves turned back over massive forearms; it was so late in the evening his tie was probably pulled loose as well, like her father's after church.

"Mr Ziskind?" she said, weakly. "I know what this is about. I was ..."

"Geenee!" His voice was deep and firm. "I've just been going over this paper on my desk ... !"

(The principal was not a frequently observed figure at the school — and therefore all the more menacing. Imogene's clearest memory of him was an afternoon early in the year when, dressed casually in golf shirt and slacks, he looked in on a cheerleader practice. He was tall and barrel-chested, pink-faced and balding. He had laughed to tell the girls of having been a linebacker in his college days — when he used to eat quarterbacks and spit out the cleats!) She wanted to die rather than hear his next words.

"Well ... _stack_ of papers actually!" the principal growled with half a laugh. "The listing we got back from the computer center. We've checked over all the numbers and," a throat was cleared, "Miss Imogene Urich, it is my very, _very_ great pleasure to inform you that you are the _valedictorian_ of the class of sixty-five! Congratulations, Geenee! With all my heart!"

Imogene — the earpiece crushed against her skull — was gazing open-mouthed into space.

"Geenee?"

"Yes, I'm here! Oh ... ! I don't know what to say! I ... thank you. _Thank_ you!"

"Don't thank _me!_ You've earned it. Every bit! I've never had a student with so _consistently_ excellent a record. I'm looking through your folder right now. It's phenomenal. Just phenomenal!"

Imogene could not take breath.

"Gale Feinbauer came in second," he continued. "Well ... actually, he and the rest of the top ten were so close to each other, grade-wise, we decided _they_ should just choose who gives the other speech." He laughed. "I tell ya, this class? It's an embarrassment of riches! But ... as far as the valedictory? That's all yours, Geenee. No one else even came close. Your grades, your achievements, participation — citizenship! — everything. So ..." he chuckled once more, "... you'd better start thinking of just what you're gonna say to all of us come that ... momentous night. Okay?" He paused when Imogene failed to respond immediately. "I ... _hope_ that's okay with you. Really, there's no one I'd rather see up on the ..."

"No-no I _want_ to! I really do! I've always ... oh — !"

"You do sound surprised, Geenee."

"I _am!_ I thought ... I don't know what I thought!" She tried to laugh; her face was burning.

"We'll be sending a letter to your parents of course, and I see you're headed for Smith, they'll get a copy too. I just had to call because, well, it's the best part of my job. I'm _so_ proud of you, Geenee!"

Imogene was trembling all over when she finally hung up the phone. Her cheeks were wet; they felt hot as coffee cups; and there was a huge knot in her chest. She had to blink many times to find her way back down the stairs.

In the kitchen she was greeted by her family's expectant grins, and on the counter stood an opened bottle and five brimming goblets of wine.

With a sweetly miserable face Imogene sobbed: "I'm valedictorian."

"Bingo!" The father slugged a cupboard door with his fist. Stacy hopped up and squealed, clapping hands high above her head.

Rising unsteadily, Mrs Urich held out her arms to her daughter; Imogene dived into them, and they clung together, in the center of the room, and cried.

After she had been passed to her father's embrace, and through smeary eyes, Imogene saw her brother, slumped in his chair, pensively licking his spoon. He was still waiting for dessert.

In time, everyone settled down from this commotion. Sighing happily, they all sat eating their cake and ice cream and sipping the dark wine.

Imogene cleared her throat. "But don't ... y'know, don't spread it around too much for a few days, okay?"

"Why not?" grinned the father. "I'm gonna tell the world, sweetie!"

Imogene made a pained look.

"Why not, dear?" her mother asked.

"Well ... something happened today that could make him change his mind, I think. When he finds out."

Her brother looked up. "Whad'ja do."

Stacy waved a hand at him. "Shut up. What, Geenee. What. Tell us."

" _I_ didn't do anything. It was Matt!"

"Your big argument?"

"Yeah, he ... oh it's so stupid. He did this really mean thing to a guy in one a'my classes, an'then he made it look like _I_ did it! The guy's gonna tell on us, I just know it. That's what I thought the call was all about."

"Oh I'd _love_ to see that!" laughed Dan, cradling a spoonful of Neapolitan in his mouth. "Both you'n Waz'burn kigg'd out on your butts!"

"Daniel!" The mother slapped the table, then turned to Imogene. "Is it ... serious? What he did."

"Yes! Well ... kinda serious."

The mother exhaled, glaring at her husband on the far end of the table.

"Get him over here," said Mr Urich, "It's about time he got a good talkin'to!"

"No, I've already raked him over the coals. He got the message'n everything. Just ... don't spread it around too much, okay? For awhile anyway."

"So whad he do," asked Dan.

Imogene sighed and shook her head. "Like, he just ... he stole this wire thing this guy was workin'on. An'he cut it right in half! It was so stupid!"

"What guy," asked Stacy. "Who is he."

"You don't know him. He sits next to me in first hour."

"Who," asked Dan.

"You _don't_ know him!"

"Mmm," purred Stacy, "she's got a crush on him, I bet."

"Oh I'm so sure! His name's Stan _Ratt_. He's practically the biggest ... non-entity in the whole school."

"Rat?" said Stacy, giggling. "That's really his name? Rat?"

"Gimme a break!" said Dan.

"No it really is! R, A, double-T. Stanley Ratt. Everyone calls him 'mouse.' An'that's a perfect description." Imogene swung her head in wide arcs for emphasis. "He's like one _inch_ taller'n me, an'he's the quietest ... meekest little toady thing y'ever saw." A blush was beginning to spread over her face; she was recalling the lethal stare he had given her the day of the auction.

Then she held up her hands, palms facing one another. "He sits this far from me. All year! An'he's never said a single word to me. To _me!_ Everyone talks to me."

"Well," said Mrs Urich, "maybe he's just a little shy."

"Please! Bugs under rocks are _shy_. This guy's straight from Mars!"

Imogene was sitting taller in her chair, grinning back at the smiles of her family.

Abruptly, her sister jumped from the table and thudded up the stairs.

"No kidding," Imogene went on, "Every time Mr Grove calls on him he turns bright red, even when he gives the right answer." (She did not bother to add that Stanley never gave wrong answers.) "An'all year Mr G's been beggin'him to join Latin Club? He won't! There's like _hundreds_ a'kids an'he's the only one — I swear, he's the most ... anti-social — if the school burns down, I'll know who did it!"

"Oh shush," said the mother, refilling the coffee cups.

"I'm not kidding! The guy's spooky!"

Imogene paused to take a sip of wine. She realized that her lack of sleep (and possibly the alcohol) was making her say things that made little sense, but there was a distinct pleasure in venting hostilities against a boy who had caused her so many days of grief — despite her keen awareness that he deserved none of it.

"An'this one time?" she continued. "He had to go to the board'n translate some stuff an' — I swear — he got so red in the face I thought his shirt was gonna catch fire! I couldn't watch it. I just couldn't."

Her brother was squinting at her. "So ... how come Matt was pickin'on him. Just bein'a jerk?"

Imogene sighed, indicating a reluctance to answer. "Yeah ... mostly. But there _was_ something in the past between'em. Some dispute or other. I don't know."

The sister came trotting back with a large book in her hands, Imogene's high school annual from the year before. "Here he is! 'S. Ratt' — Ooh!" Stacy made ishy-lips at the page. "Ein _schlimmer_ grossen!"

"Lemme see," said Dan.

The book was passed around to varying degrees of laughs and grins. Mrs Urich clucked her tongue. "Oh shame on you. He can't help how he looks."

"Well," said Imogene, swallowing a forkful of cake, "he could dress a little better. He wears the same shirt'n pants all week long."

"Now that's enough!" said her mother.

Stacy howled with sudden laughter. "Think of his poor wife! Mrs _Ratt!_ "

"Stacy!"

"He'll never ever get married!"

"No, he prob'ly will." said Imogene. She was feeling the sting of her mother's censure — and her own. "He's really smart. He gets A's in Latin, an'I guess he's the best one in Matt's science class." Her voice began to fade as she discovered that there was also a delight in praising him. "He can ... succeed at anything he wants. He'll find a wife ... somewhere."

Stacy was still giggling. "Professor Ratt, doesn't sound much better. Or, how 'bout this:" She pinched her nose and in a small electronic voice uttered: "Calling Doctor _Ratt_ , please report to surgery."

Imogene, amid the tableful of laughter, saw that even her mother was unable to suppress a grin.

Scraping up the last of her ice cream, Imogene said, "Anyway, what Matt did was completely uncalled-for, and the guy has every right to get us in trouble."

Her father leaned forward on his elbows; the cuffs of his shirt sleeves were rolled back and dark hairs bristled from the folds of his tendons. "But _you_ didn't have anything to do with it, right?"

"Not directly. But," Imogene sighed, "if I had any character at all I'd at least've made him go back'n apologize. I didn't. Ergo, I'm equally guilty. _More_ guilty! _I_ should know better. Matt's still a child."

The phone rang once more and Imogene slapped arms to her sides. "I knew it!" she squeaked with shut eyes. "God I knew it!"

Everyone stilled as Mrs Urich went to answer the phone.

"Yes, just a moment," she said almost inaudibly, then held out the receiver to Stacy. "It's Ken."

"Mom!"

"Stacy!"

Throwing down a napkin, the younger daughter stomped out of the room, her face nearly as pink as the purloined sweater. "I'll take it up _stairs!_ "

In the amused hush following this departure, Mr Urich grabbed an ash tray from the counter and lit a cigarette. His lips stretched into a quiet smile as smoke curled toward the humming light fixture on the ceiling. He was gazing fondly at his daughter.

The cat had made his appearance by now and was prowling back and forth in front of the refrigerator, keeping well beyond the mother's slippers. His head, in that way which all felines have, was slung from his shoulders with a deadly preparedness.

While the mother was up, Dan asked for and received another slab of ice cream. He too was smiling as he hunched himself over his dessert.

Imogene watched him a moment then stretched a sock foot under the table. He looked up.

"Ready for the game tomorrow?" she asked. "I didn't hear y'shootin' baskets outside."

"Oh sure! There's like a foot a'snow out there!"

"How d'ya think you'll do."

"Okay," he shrugged. "I'm starting. I think he'll let me play the whole game if I don't screw up."

"Stace'n I'll be cheerin'our heads off."

Dan made a sour look. "No one cares about _our_ game! It's just the varsity they come to see."

"Gimmestead'll be watching," said Imogene. "Coaches on the other team'll be watching. After tomorrow? Matt'n them are gonna be ancient history. You guys take over next."

Mrs Urich was quietly collecting the empty plates. Seeing a warm blush on her son's face, she paused behind her daughter to press a hand on Imogene's shoulder and kiss the top of her head.

Dan poked at his ice cream some more. "You're kind a'forgettin'about the playoffs. Matt's gonna be all over the papers next couple a'weeks."

"Matt's gonna fall flat on his face."

"Wooh!" shuddered the father, tapping his cigarette. "Is that _my_ daughter talkin'?"

"It's true!" Imogene slapped the backs of her hands on the table. "They're so ... overconfident it's pathetic. At lunch today they were absolutely hysterical. Practicing things to say to the reporters! It's gonna be humiliating!" She tipped her head at her brother. "But your game won't."

Sometime later, after everyone had drifted out of the kitchen, Imogene turned on the sink faucet and squeezed a drop of detergent into the water.

The mother strode back in. "Na-na-na! What are you doing?"

"It's Thursday."

"You're not doing dishes _tonight_ for petesake! Scoot."

Imogene threw arms around her mother.

Mrs Urich sniffled. "Oh, sweetheart ... Danny's been so blue with all the attention you and Stacy are getting. You're such a _good_ girl! There just aren't words ..."

A deep, stinging blush crept over the daughter's face.

Imogene went to bed as soon as possible that night, pausing only long enough to call Matt with the happy news.

Though not saying so in actual words, but by her tone of voice, she forgave him all his transgressions. Before their final endearments Imogene casually asked: " _You_ didn't hear from Mr Z tonight did'ja?"

"Geenee! The kid's not gonna say anything. T'anyone! Just forget it."

Imogene could only view this as slight assurance.

Ultimately, she crawled under the covers with many worries still troubling her. But after so endless a day, a day of fatigue, terror and joy, not even her fears, not even the cat's fussily deciding which part of her blanketed topography to settle upon (not even the 'The Munsters' laugh-track downstairs), could keep her eyes open for long.
\- XIV -

Imogene slept better than she had in weeks, and the next morning, after hopping off the bus at school, she fell in with the crowd of kids gathered around the bulletin board outside the main office. A copy of the third quarter grade point listing was pinned there, at least the first page of it, and Imogene's name was at the very top.

Congratulations were poured upon her, some genuine and some even more so for being masked with hurtful indifference: "Oh big surprise," she heard muttered more than once.

Warming blissfully inside her overcoat, Imogene scanned the paper for other familiar names. None of her closest friends were listed, but near the bottom, at number nineteen, she found: Ratt, Stanley A.

Her smile vanished. She hurried through the halls to her locker, then a few timorous steps further to Latin class where Stanley, in the desk next to her own, was — thankfully — crouched over a paperback book. Her anxiety had been that he would once again stare at her with that look of hatred and contempt, but she saw now that this was unlikely: his face was dark pink, and she had never observed him to look up while blushing.

With the teacher still in the room she knew Stanley could not have been the butt of someone's joke. He was just plain mad, she concluded, mad at her and Matt both. (And, maybe too, he was embarrassed about not returning her call; boys often were.)

In any case, if he had made a formal complaint, or was still intending to, there should have been more defiance in his aspect.

With this thought, Imogene lost much of her fear, and soon pity became uppermost in her heart. She watched him sitting there (still in yesterday's brown shirt and corduroys), with his knees together and elbows pressed to his sides, as if waiting for a blow to be struck. Her lips twisted a moment suspecting that Matt had paid him a visit this morning, to _remind_ him of certain consequences.

God I'm dating Hitler! she said to herself, slapping through the pages of her notebook.

Imogene was blushing as well, not only from her increased celebrity that morning, but she was dressed, as she was every Friday, in her green and white cheerleader suit (lush-lawn green, picket-fence white). Even after several years, the dazzle of this outfit, amid the codified apparel of everyone else, could still trouble her with a sense of sexual conspicuousness, as if she were touting her wares.

(The outdoor uniform was not too brazen, the bulky sweater and woolen shorts could hide much, but this winter outfit was clearly designed to be tight and fetching; it made her feel like a hooker. She tended to hurry between classes when thus attired and was reluctant to look up at passing faces for fear where the eyes might be pointed. She always saw more of the floor on Fridays.)

Mr Grove had been writing something at the blackboard, but now came away to bestow on her, in solemn tones, a gentle Latin epigram; one he had obviously composed for the occasion.

The charm and sincerity of it, and the endorsing purrs of her neighbors, made Imogene blush in earnest. (All the more so for having glimpsed Stanley, just behind the teacher's gesturing hand, to look up from his book.) She dropped her eyes and fiddled helplessly with her green crop-top and culottes.

When Mr Grove had finished, Imogene gazed up at him, her face tipped and almost tearful, no longer caring how red she was. She trembled with wanting to jump right up and kiss him.

After he had returned to the board, and the chatter of her classmates gone on to other topics, Imogene retrieved the checkbook from her purse and daintily chugged her desk into the aisle until she was close enough to Stanley that they could whisper to each other. (Halfway there, she recalled her daydream of doing precisely this, and her face surged once more with heat.)

Stanley seemed intent on his reading, but his arms had pulled taut at her approach.

"Um ... hi," she said very softly. "How much did that, y'know, wire thing cost. I wanna buy ya new one."

His face was blazing now, but he refused to look up from his book. Imogene had come close enough to read the page headings and glimpse the bright yellow cover; it was _Pride and Prejudice_ , the same edition that she and her English class had read earlier in the year.

"Forget it," he mumbled.

"No, I have to. I want to." Her whisper was beginning to sound desperate.

"Washburn's gonna pay."

"He is?" She stared at him. "He actually said that?"

"No, but he's gonna _pay!_ " With a knuckle Stanley thumped his glasses back to his forehead. He still had not looked at her.

On hearing these words her alarm returned in full. Then she detected Jennifer and several others interrupting their conversations to turn toward them.

Imogene forced a tone of lightness into her voice. "Well, why don't I pay you now ... an'I'll get him to pay _me_ back. How's that."

Stanley was shaking his head but she wrote out the check anyway. The room had gone silent around them. Imogene cursed herself for attempting to do all of this in public.

Tearing out the check, she laid it with significance on his desk. "Just ... fill in the amount, and ..." her face became painfully sincere, as if she were apologizing for a wealth of iniquities, "... I'm _really_ sorry about this! I really am."

Stanley's hair was short and ragged; patches of reddened scalp had begun to show through. She looked down at the boy's hands gripping the book; they too were dark, except for the knuckles, tipped in white like a row of tiny Alps.

While scraping her desk back into line, Imogene smiled wanly at the many faces which had witnessed this unusual scene. Even Mr Grove, still in buttoned suit coat, sat at full attention behind his vast desk, contemplating her.

She noted, too, that her fingers were trembling as she tried, nonchalantly, to return the checkbook to her purse. The sleeves of her tight, white turtle-neck were all but pasted to her sweaty arms.

Glancing back a moment, she found Stanley still hunched over his novel (the pale green check nowhere to be seen), and one hand was scratching at his temple, as if trying to conceal the scarlet brow.
\- XV -

When lunchtime came, Imogene sat at the usual table with her best friends. The four of them were dressed in identically flashy outfits, all sporting large white E's on their young bosoms.

High spirits reigned. They had praised Imogene's scholastic achievement while chattering in the food line, but as soon as they were gathered in semi-privacy at their table, Becky leaned over to interrogate Imogene: "Okay, G! Now what's all this about you'n some _mouse_ guy!"

"God! Nothing!"

"Who is he. What's he look like."

Mary Helen giggled. "You _don't_ want to know!"

"You gave him money?" asked Polly. "That's what I heard."

"Me too."

"Me too!"

"I'm so _sick_ a'this!" Imogene wailed. "All day long!"

"Well ... what's the deal? If y'can't tell _us_ ..."

"Y'lose a bet or something?" asked Polly.

"No."

Mary Helen rolled her eyes. "Payin'im back for ... services rendered?"

The girls squealed with laughter; Imogene perhaps loudest of all. Then she let out a hiss. "You guys, it's so ... absolutely nothing! Matt'n I broke something a'his, an'I was just payin'im back. That's all!"

There were many questions to be answered, most of them frivolous, and Imogene tried repeatedly to turn the conversation onto different topics. In time she succeeded, but only because her face was once again bright red.

"Where _is_ all this shame coming from?" her friends wanted to know. "What's with all the blushing lately!" Then, while applying much burlesque, they concluded she must be two-timing Matt. "Yup, that's gotta be it!" And this was so hilarious a concept, they had to share the joke with all the surrounding tables. Soon, everyone was laughing. Becky even stood up to call, "Oh, Ma-att!" toward the varsity corner.

Imogene was reduced to complete jibbering and swatting at shoulders amid her own helpless laughter. Names were proposed for who her secret lover might be; 'Mighty Mouse' and 'Quiet Earp' brought the loudest roars, but these were quickly hushed when, "Shh! Shh! Shh!" began to be whispered among the tables.

Looking up, Imogene saw Stanley himself hurrying toward the exit. He had a lunch bag and a small carton of milk in his hands. These he dropped, almost threw, into the large waste can by the door. (They fell with so loud a thud Imogene knew they could not have been empty.) Then he strode out of the room, his yellow paperback wedged into a pocket of his corduroys, and it was no surprise to Imogene that his head and hands were crimson.

Someone mumbled: "Well don't go away _mad_ or anything," and laughter broke out once more.

Before long the former chatter had all returned, but no further mention was made of Stanley.

Under her tight clothing Imogene was now nearly immobile with sweat. She wanted dearly to take a shower and just start the day all over again.

And of course she was still blushing, for this further humiliation of Stanley was all her fault as well. She had, in one morning, managed to increase his notoriety perhaps a hundredfold, and this was clearly the last thing he wanted or even knew how to deal with.

Her appetite was gone. It remained gone even during the ribald account Polly and Mary Helen gave of their evening at the department stores downtown. Normally, this would have been prime entertainment, but now Imogene only went through the motions of laughing and enjoying her meal.

And _still_ she was blushing! Where, indeed, was all this embarrassment coming from? Cheerleaders never blush. She had specifically observed this back in grade school when she and her friends used to go to the ball games and scamper around on the bleachers among all the big kids who laughed and cursed and sat close to one another holding hands.

Cheerleaders, Imogene had seen, could get away with all manner of idiocy: they could fall on their fannies, flip a pom-pom into the stands, call out the wrong cheer at the wrong time, even cheer for the wrong team, anything. And it took no more than a laugh and a silly grin for all to be put right again, no blushing, no hiding of a shamed face, even when the bleachers bellowed at some poor girl's ineptitude.

Imogene had wondered how this could be. At the time it was beyond explanation, but that was back in the days when, if the teacher returned anything without a gold star or a happy face, Imogene would nearly strangle in her private shame. Somehow, as she grew older, as the range of her activities increased and her friends became numberless, this and many similar worries just seemed to vanish.

In junior high she rarely received less than an 'A **-** ' on anything, but whenever she did there was no lack of friends with whom she could laugh and explain what a dodo she had been. And after achieving a place on the sophomore cheerleading squad, months had gone by — months of making a complete fool of herself — before it occurred to her: Why aren't I blushing? Everyone's laughing at me! Why aren't I blushing?

There was even that time, last winter, when one of her contacts popped out and hordes of people came running to her rescue: all the cheerleaders, the players, fans — the officials for godsake! — all were on their hands and knees looking for that stupid lens while she stood frozen in their midst, like an idol before worshipers, afraid even to lower the heel of her sneaker. The game was held up how many minutes? Ten? Twenty? And all the cat-calls from the other side of the gym! And then — like a nitwit! — she cried out the goofus line of the year: "Oh here it is! On my eyelash!"

Even that had brought no color to her face. It was incredible!

But now, lately (she was poking at the cherry cobbler in her tray while Polly and the others whined about their boyfriends) lately Imogene seemed to blush over everything. What had happened?

Then, abruptly, and with a flash of further shame, she knew.

Looking around at her spirited friends and at the room full of smiling faces, she perceived at once how all these lives were but one life, shared equally among themselves; one's folly was everyone's folly, one's achievement, the glory of all. Here were no rivalries nor distrust, no ill-feelings, no secrets — at least no great secrets. And that was the problem: her great secret, her copied paper.

Though colluded with Matt, the crime was chiefly hers, a sin both of commission and omission: for doing wrong and for continuing to fail to do right. And here all about her was the punishment incurred, her blush was but a token of the disgrace. All around her, at these tables, was her true penalty — to _lose_ all of this! — to lose the pleasure and safety of belonging to these many hundreds, to be struck off from this great wealth of friendship; this haven; 'this realm where faults, for being shared, cannot bring shame.' (J. Austen.)

"No, I swear!" declared Mary Helen. "He's got the libido of a _doorknob!_ "

All were laughing now, including Imogene. (When surrounded by so many others, she generally took care not to fall too deeply into her extended reveries. It could be very uncomfortable whenever she 'came-to' amid their many giggles: "So, how're things at Walden Pond?" they might ask, or: "Plato'n the boys doin'okay?" Imogene did not mind that she was laughed at, but it did shame her to sense the injured feelings of her friends for being thus excluded from her thoughts.)

Nevertheless, as the chattering around her continued, Imogene allowed her eyes to unfocus once more, and she returned to her deliberations.

Yes, she could see now what her problem was — and it had little to do with Stanley, Matt's prank upon him was negligible compared to the two moral faults she had inflicted upon herself.

Three actually (her eyebrows went flat): _proposing_ that a paper be copied, _coercing_ a loved one to copy it, and then — and probably _forever!_ — failing to own-up to it!

She realized that, because of these transgressions, she had now lost all title to her place among this sea of friendship and mutual respect. She was no longer worthy of the cherished benefits which she had always taken for granted. She had become an outsider, an exile — worse: an outright cheat, for she was allowing all these dear innocents to continue in their, now misplaced, esteem for her.

Without doubt this was a hateful and degrading situation; the worst she had ever known. But even as the problem became clear to her, Imogene knew there could be no solution.

What. She's going to go to Matt's teacher? — to the college people? — and tell everyone what a fraud he is? What a fraud _she_ is?

An image of the principal's big, meaty hands crossed her mind, and she bent close over her tray. She felt a chill of pallor replacing her blush. (The cobbler tasted like kitty litter.)

No. She had made her bed and now she was lying in it!

Her lips twisted. 'Lying' was very appropriate here. How she _hated_ deceit of any kind! And now, till the end of the year at least, not a word will escape her without first being judged of its potential for incrimination. How can people live like this? Chopped off from one's friends, 'fighting the world alone,' as Miss Beaver would say.

Imogene glanced at the big trashcan by the door, and a further insight came to her of the even greater hell that Stanley's life must be, so solitary and silent, all alone without these (she thought a moment) without these 'pools of easy friendship in which to bathe one's wounds and dilute the agonies of growing up.' (I. Urich.) ...

"Yeah he's had it a whole week now!" Becky's arm-wide theatrics became dominant. "It's a GTO. Jet black, totally _male!_ He calls it Rex — keeps threatening to paint testicles on the trunk!"

... but Stanley had survived (if you can call that surviving), and Imogene felt that she will too. The prospect was dreadful, but certainly nothing else could be done. Besides, she will not really be losing her friends; outwardly nothing will change at all, she alone will know that she is no longer a true member here, that she has forfeited — for the love of one — the trust and goodwill of these many others.

Only a few more such thoughts and Imogene felt a tolerable composure beginning to return. Her blush could be no more than a hint now, and in future she will doubtless learn to control it.

She laughed suddenly, asking Becky if she had told the others about the gas station thing. The girls all squealed and crowded close around their tall and talky friend. The trays were pushed aside, all empty now, even Imogene's (though this was due to Mary Helen's helping herself again).

They oppressed the other tables with their flashy wiggles and incessant laughter.

Late in the day, a few minutes before the end of last period, Imogene put away her sketching pencils and checked the white cuffs of her outfit for any smudges. The others all continued hard at work, bent over their manila sheets, their busy leads scratching. Even Matt, on the far side of the room (where early in the year the teacher had banished him for making their resident cheerleader giggle incontinently), even he remained in labored concentration.

But, as she stood up, the fond glance Imogene threw toward her boyfriend must have been observed, for Miss McCarthy interrupted her desk-to-desk wise-cracking to look sternly at the girl in green and white hurrying across the room.

"You wish to be excused, yes?"

Surprised, Imogene turned and nodded, clutching her books.

"Number one or number two."

The class erupted in laughter.

Then a horizontal palm was raised high in presentation. "Give her a big hand, ladies and gentlemen!" (The instructor's smile had become genuine.) "Miss Geenee Urich: smartest kid in the whole darn school!"

There was a round of eager applause, and the teacher added: "Just keep her away from the paint bottles!"

Another burst of laughter carried Imogene to the door. She caught, however, the proud and possessive grin Matt had raised to her, and needles of adrenaline tickled her limbs as she all but dashed, blushingly, from the room.

The halls were empty now, except for a few band members hurrying to the practice rooms for their instruments. Imogene, with books to bosom, sprinted past them down to the gymnasium where she met with the other cheerleaders — all hopping with uncontainable excitement — and helped get things ready for the afternoon pep fest.

Miss Beaver was there, in sweat suit and whistle, directing the girls. Their exuberance clearly pleased her, and something like a smile was on the advisor's lips as she thanked them for heeding at last her belabored litany: 'Cheerleaders are actors, okay?'

"Who the hell is _acting!_ " cried Becky, not for the first time.

There was much to do. Imogene helped with stringing the microphone cables then grunted with her friends to pull bleacher seats from the wall. Band members were already perched in their top corner, tooting and blaring at random on their instruments. Soon after the final bell the school's anthem was struck-up and kids began pouring into the gym.

Since that evening's game was so crucial (the winning team to have the honor of competing for the state championship), an elaborate program had been arranged for the rally. Even the B-squad cheerleaders, Imogene's sister among them, had been enlisted to help. They, in their paler green and white uniforms, sang to the bleachers that were reserved for juniors and sophomores, while Imogene and her colleagues did the same on the seniors' half of the gym. With so many girls to coordinate, Miss Beaver was as near to being truly short tempered as she ever got.

The band as well had been increased for this program ( _two_ big white sousaphones stared down on all the confusion), and the noise was deafening. Imogene, though nearly screaming the words of the school song, could not hear her own voice. She danced back and forth in front of her section of bleachers, twirling gracefully on heel or toe before retracing her steps. She clawed the air with her pom-poms, slapping them alternately on hips, shoulders and rump, and fluttered them high over her head. The floor became littered with shreds of green and white.

As the stands filled, her fellow classmates mostly ignored her. They scrambled to get with their friends, they shouted, squealed, whistled, slugged shoulders. The bleachers seethed like a beehive.

Then she saw Stanley. He was just getting up from a bench near the top. A large group of couples, with interlocked arms, was apparently requesting that he move over or sit somewhere else. He looked around a moment, his finger holding a page in his yellow paperback, then stepped down to take a seat nearer the floor. As he melded with the others, he was not completely lost among the crowd: his scarlet countenance marked him like a knife wound.

This was in the section next to her own and, consequently, Imogene could not let herself spend too much time looking at him. With her arms and voice she implored the ignoring mass above her to pour out their fervor in song. Many were singing but most did this absently, as they were settling themselves and tipping back and forth to see who their neighbors were. When she scanned over the sea of faces, Imogene rarely found a returning gaze.

Stanley, however, though his book was open on his lap (and red as his face still was), occasionally would look up from the pages and glance toward one or another of the cheerleaders. Once, Imogene caught him looking at her, and she smiled, but he only snapped his eyes back to his book.

More frequently, she observed him staring down at Polly Patch, the cheerleader directly below him whose legs, everyone knew, were dynamite.

Imogene recalled suddenly, at their lockers outside Latin class one day, how Stanley had lingered in the area when Polly had stopped by to talk with her; he had stood behind them and fussed with his books for a suspiciously long time.

Also, Imogene wondered, why had Stanley chosen to sit in that particular section of the bleachers? Did he always sit where he could get a good look at Polly?

A smile superimposed itself on her singing, and without missing a beat Imogene let herself muse on how she might possibly arrange an introduction between Stanley and her friend. Of course nothing would come of it, and she could count on Polly not to hurt his feelings; but it flooded Imogene with a warm, almost suffocating sense of goodness to want to do this service for him. She knew from her own private longings that being known even slightly to the one you most adore is infinitely superior to remaining a complete stranger; and it was inconceivable that Stanley, given his extreme bashfulness, could ever approach the girl of his dreams on his own behalf.

Just then, Polly smiled at her, and Imogene had to duck her head. She felt ashamed, for this was clearly improper: using one's friends for purposes to which, if asked, they would probably not consent.

And it occurred to Imogene as well that, prudently, she ought still to be afraid of Stanley — and of the ruinous threat which he continued to be. (Although, by now, she could assume he was not planning to take his grievances to the principal.) But, in class that morning — and especially in the lunchroom — Stanley had acted as one dangerously intent on settling a score. She recalled the look of hatred in his eyes, and his knuckled fists, _and_ his high placement on the grade listing. Who knows what kind of thoughts go through the mind of one who never talks or smiles? Even more: Was it not likely that, in one so anti-social, Stanley's concept of retribution would not include due process of law? The next few weeks might be the most crucial ever in Matt's athletic career; if, under that shy exterior, Stanley harbored sufficient brains and cruelty, he could easily effect a devastating vengeance.

The stands were filled now and everyone was on their feet, facing the big American Flag on the wall. Imogene, her pom-poms stilled at her side, was singing in grave unison with all the others, but her voice began to falter when she came to the line: ' ... rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air ... ' for never before had actual images accompanied these violent words. More menacing still: she began to wonder about the mysterious wired device Stanley had been working on in that little room. And what was it his mother had said? ' ... so busy with all his soldering irons and things ... '

Soon, however, the rally itself got under way, and Imogene had little time for private worries. There was a new, very intricate cheer to perform (to out-class the B-squaders across the room) and more songs to sing, as well as listening to the many rousing speeches. Matt himself, as the team's star forward, had been engaged to say a few words, and while he stood on the podium, nervously crossing and uncrossing his arms, nodding to the boundless applause which greeted every other sentence, Imogene sat with her friends on the floor behind the hoop and clutched her knees, terrified he would flub the words she had been rehearsing with him all week. Polly and Becky squeezed her arms every time they saw him grinning at her across the thundering gym.

Glancing around, Imogene found her sister sitting along the wall with her junior varsity friends, all wide-eyed to be part of so grand an event as this. Imogene tilted her head to return Stacy's giddy smile.

She had been keeping close watch on Stanley as well. Throughout the program she never once saw his hands clap, nor his eyes leave their book, even when he was obliged to stand with all the others. Certainly, his mouth never opened to cheer or sing. But now, for Matt's speech, Stanley had suddenly elevated his head. He was staring straight at Matt, and Stanley's face became cold-bloodedly white.

Imogene's smile faded.
\- XVI -

That night, while riding to the game with Matt, his big hands flexing with nervous energy and the radio growling ominously:

... it's been ... the ruin ...

of many ... poor boys ...

Imogene snuggled against a warm jacket sleeve and asked, "Um ... would'ja promise me something?"

"Sure."

"That'cha won't go anywhere, y'know, all by yourself? Just for a few days ... please? Don't ask me why, okay? Just ... just promise me, okay?"

(Reluctant to mention Stanley by name, she felt her boyfriend's quick sense of insult could only be sidestepped by presenting Matt with an unidentified threat.)

He smiled down at her. "Whad'ya talkin'about."

"Well," (she was fiddling with the unbuttoned buttons of her coat) "I keep having these, like ... premonitions? And you're so vulnerable right now, 'specially if we win tonight. Someone might, y'know, try to hurt'cha n'stuff. Really hurt'cha."

Matt had returned his attention to the road. "Baby, I can take care a'myself."

"I know. But just ... be really careful from now on — especially careful — okay? Promise me."

He chuckled, reaching a leather sleeve around her.

"Promise me!"

"All right, all right. I promise." He shook his head. "It's just a game, Geenee. What. Think I'll be _assassinated_ if we get too far ahead?" He laughed.

She made no reply other than to plunge her arms inside his jacket and hold him tightly.

The games that evening were exhilarating.

Miss Beaver, dressed in her best 'sweats' (those bearing the proud legend: 'Elnora-Morningside H.S. Athletic Dept.'), allowed Imogene to put on a B-squad uniform and cheer with Stacy and her companions at their brother's game. (She did not look out of place among these younger girls; in fact, Imogene felt a strange delight in being among the shortest on this squad as well.) It was the junior varsity's final game of the season, and the team, cheered on by an unusually large crowd, was in fine form; Dan played exceptionally well, and, as promised, the sisters were nearly hoarse by the time their brother's game ended in triumph.

Somehow though, Imogene found the strength and voice to begin it all over again half an hour later (in her regular outfit) for the varsity playoff.

At first her prediction had proved correct. The opposing team got off to an early lead which they held through most of the game.

Agony flowed into Imogene to see the numbers on the scoreboard climbing farther and farther apart. She cried out to the already roaring stands; she begged, screamed, whimpered — helpless to aid the team in any way but with noise and tears. Her friends as well had all become shrieking, wet-faced banshees: hair bands awry, sock tops banged below ankle bones, voices torn to tattered shreds.

Behind them as they cheered, the court rumbled like Bosworth Field (or so it seemed to Imogene), the heat of straining labor dense as cannon fire, and Matt himself, in bellowing cries, 'did curse and bark and boom as did that hopeless, unhorsed king.' (Macaulay.)

Imogene wept all the harder for knowing they would lose.

But then the battle turned. Late in the third quarter the scores began to draw even. Few looked closely for the source of this reversal (neither team being applauded for their fine sportsmanship), and only cheers were heard when Matt and a fiercely elbowed lay-up sent his team ahead.

No one sat down after that. The bleachers screamed unceasingly to victory.

Matt, justly so, was the unquestioned champion of the night. At the final buzzer the fans swarmed down to hoist him on their shoulders and carried him around the howling gymnasium. On the second pass he reached down and scooped up Imogene in his sweaty arms, and they were carried together on another circuit of the court.

She was as near to euphoria as she had ever been in her life. Several times that night Imogene had seen her parents jump to their feet — even her mother — and shout ecstatically when Matt had made some unbelievable shot.

The night's thrill and suspense was extreme, including a moment of genuine fright when, during an early cheer, Imogene thought she had glimpsed Stanley's spectacled eyes staring down at her. And throughout the game there could be seen a certain face, pale and unmoving, within the raucous throng. But even this was forgotten among the evening's pulsating drama.

After the game, Imogene and Matt attended several impromptu parties, laughing and singing and dancing until her voice failed her completely and her legs refused to lift. It was near midnight. She was still in her cheerleader suit (by now very wrinkled and awry) when Matt carried her off to a couch in an empty back room of someone's basement — and locked the door.

He knelt beside her, staring down into her sleepy-wet eyes. The delight on Imogene's face fell away under his prolonged regard.

"See," he said without a smile (and just loud enough to be heard above the squeaking floors and muffled laughter overhead), "See? I'm still alive. No one's killed me. 'Cept you."

Her lips stretched into an embarrassed grin, and she tried to say something but only scratchy air came out.

The intensity in Matt's eyes did not diminish, and after a moment she had to look away.

He put cold hands on the hollow of her belly, on the soft white fabric under the big E of her vest. In the sweetest tones he had ever used with her he said, "C'mon, Geenee. C'mon."

For a long moment she let her hips be gently rocked; then saw that her arms were lying limp on either side, her hands in tiny fists, her thumbs twitching.

Abruptly, she stiffened and tried to squirm away, moaning something in the negative.

He released her.

Amid silences of apology, from both of them, she was driven back to her home. There, in the safety of the lighted porch, she wrapped aching limbs around him and 'kist his lips with lewd abandon' (O. Khayyam), then stumbled inside to collapse into her parents' arms.

The next day Imogene was allowed to sleep late. When she finally awoke, it was to a tray of steamy breakfast placed lovingly on the bed by her mother.

A call had been made to the dress shop and Imogene was granted the morning off, but she spent the entire afternoon, with a whispery voice, waiting on customers in the little boutique by the library.

The store was more crowded than usual due to the endless stream of acquaintances who stopped by to add their — often still squealing — compliments. At one point, Becky and Mary Helen dashed in with copies of the local shopping news. On the front page was a huge photo of Imogene and Matt, both held high above the floor, kissing. The caption (entitled 'Hero's Reward!'), disappointingly identified her as 'Jeanie' Urich, but it mentioned that she was class valedictorian; and Imogene, throughout the balance of the day, was icy pink with pride.

That night she stayed home. Earlier, when she had called Matt from the dress shop, he growled so painfully beneath his hangover that she herself suggested they cancel their date. "My legs're just dead!" she squeaked with exaggerated laryngitis.

Since their date was to see _My Fair Lady_ , he made no objection.

Thus, Imogene found herself with an unplanned evening to fill. She busied herself awhile with her mother's knitting needles and the start she had made on a sweater for Matt. She sighed frequently while the twins squabbled getting ready for their respective dates, and Imogene more than a little regretted that Matt was a size 46.

She had begun the sweater during Thanksgiving vacation, intending to make it a Christmas present, and already — in just these sixteen weeks — had completed the first four inches.

(How aggravating! And her mother made it look so easy. Even Stacy could sit for hours, humming to herself in front of the TV or phonograph, while her nimble needles, like some effortless machine, clicked out fashions by the rackful!)

Yes, sighed Imogene, looking down at her clumsy fingers: A sad comment, this, on one's own patience and industry. How fortunate then that these were completely unnecessary traits of teachers, scholars and diplomats! (Pausing a moment to make a labored calculation, her face soured further to learn that, at her present rate, the sweater would be finished no sooner than Easter week 1980! "God I hate math," she muttered.)

The whole evening, it seemed, was destined to be cheerless. In the much quieter house after supper, Imogene sat at the desk in her room with two paragraphs on a sheet of paper; this was a doomed first attempt at writing her graduation speech. Mr Ziskind had shown her examples of commencement addresses from previous years, but she saw now that reading them had been a mistake. Their eloquence was intimidating, and her own feeble effort, so conventional, so insincere, made her blush.

She strained to think of something less trivial, and struggled for hours at her desk, on the floor, in her bed, all in vain. Her knuckles left red marks on her cheeks, the bronze rings on her arm were slapped and spun and fiddled with. She even sought among the big-eyed wisdom of the many owls populating her room: some silly and soft, some rendered abstractly in watercolors, the very somber one of baked clay on her dresser. They too, despite their canny looks, had no thoughts profound.

Finally she gave up, took a bath and climbed into bed where she labored with the problem many more hours while gazing at the glow of occasional headlights on the curtains (blurry without her contacts) and whimpered at her sweaty restlessness. The cat, frustrated by all the seismic activity under the blanket, abandoned the bed altogether.

It greatly bothered Imogene that her mind could be so empty when so much needed to be said — and since when was _she_ ever at a loss for words!

Then it came to her what was the matter: it was Stanley.

Deep in her mind, almost forgotten, there stood, still, that small, wronged, fuming and possibly diabolical Stanley. Where was he? What was he doing? What was he preparing to do? She thought again of the hatred she had seen in his eyes — several times now — and with increasing dismay knew that Matt, and therefore she as well, could not escape his inevitable retaliation.

Her boyfriend's aching head would probably keep him safe at home that evening. But what of tomorrow? And the day after? And the day after that ... ?

How could her thoughts _ever_ be her own with such an unknown peril at large!

In church the next morning, Imogene sat yawning in the choir section among her class of second graders (adorable in their tiny choral gowns) and helped lead them in the singing of the Lenten anthem. Following this, and still yawning, she settled down to the long ordeal of keeping the kids in their seats till the recessional. Several times she sent looks of woe toward her family who were watching with sympathetic eyes from a distant pew.

But a frown of quick worry came to Imogene's face when the minister ascended the pulpit and announced that his text for the sermon would be the death of John the Baptist, or the _assassination_ as he preferred to call it. (Though the president had been dead for more than a year, the word could still evoke memories of that fateful motorcade.)

Imogene looked down at her children. They all seemed to be quietly inattentive, perhaps enough that none would be troubled by Pastor Lutsen's often fiery language.

The word, _assassination_ , which was hissed repeatedly at the congregation, caused Imogene to perspire in uncomfortable places. Her fingers pinched here and there at the woolen dress beneath her choir robe, and she could not keep scenes of violence and weeping onlookers out of her mind.

While listening to the minister, her drowsiness seemed to dissipate, and often Imogene would reach down to pat the wiggly knees of her kids, not so much to keep them still as to make them look up at her happy smile just as their pastor was thumping his Bible and snarling, "execution!" or "severed head!" or "assassination!"

But after he had finished, while the organ droned meditatively to itself and the golden plates were passed around, Imogene gazed up at the arching marble vaults, their dark lamps hung on long iron chains, and, little by little, her sweaty unease gave way to an excited, almost ecstatic thudding in her chest.

In the car going home she sat cramped in the back seat beside her siblings (ignoring their whines and angry wiggles) and stared out the side window. The street signs and gas stations flashed by unseen.

Even before the car was fully parked, she had dashed up the steps from the garage and began dialing Matt's number.

"Have y'got my paper at home or is it still in your locker!" she demanded breathlessly.

"What paper."

"Matt!" She lowered her voice as the others clattered through the kitchen in their Sunday shoes. "You _know_ what paper. Maryqueena _scots!_ "

"Oh."

"Well? Where is it? I need it right now."

"I ... threw it away. Sorry."

Imogene gasped. "That's _my_ property!"

"I'm sorry, okay? You said destroy it!"

"I did not!"

Mrs Urich had begun eyeing her daughter while starting the coffee water.

Imogene hunched herself closer to the phone. "Well, have y'still got your copy."

"Uhh ... we had to turn'em back in." Then he chuckled. "Y'know, so no one can use'em to cheat with?"

Imogene's head was swaying side to side.

"Look, I'm really sorry. Whad'ya need it for anyway."

"Nothing," Imogene sighed. "I'm sorry too. I'll be really busy to day, okay? I'll call ya tonight. How's your head. Oh! Are y'doin' something with the guys later? Y'won't go anywhere by yourself, will ya."

Matt clearly objected to all this motherly concern, but, perhaps feeling guilty, he agreed to her wishes. At least he seemed to.

Soon, up in her room, Imogene had climbed into a pair of jeans and one of her father's old dress shirts, the tails of which she knotted loosely over her waist and allowed the French cuffs to flop loosely on her ams like baggy bracelets, then curled up on her bed, under the coverlet, with the 'M' volume of her encyclopedia.

She read for awhile, occasionally gazing into space, then got up, assembled writing materials at her desk, tossed away the abortive paragraphs of her commencement address, and on a clean sheet wrote:
THE CHALLENGE

OF COMING TO AN END

by

Imogene Urich

The afternoon sped by as she filled many sheets of paper with her flowing penmanship (the shirt sleeves having been rolled up for serious business). Her crisp, emphatic sentences made clear the comparison between the tragic queen's long awaited and bravely accepted death, and a graduate's uneasy transition from a sheltered life at school into the fully adult and unforgiving world.

Not long before supper, her mother came in and looked over Imogene's shoulder. The papers were surrendered, and Mrs Urich sat on the bed reading them with her schoolteacher's critically pursed lips.

When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes.

Imogene blushed to receive a firm, wordless hug; then her mother rushed away to show the speech to the rest of the family.
\- XVII -

Early that evening, before her goodnight call to Matt, Imogene lounged in the tub for a full hour, then stood yawning at the vanity and rolled large pink curlers into her hair. She was wearing for the first time her new lavender robe. Late one long study night ago, she had slopped cocoa on that old yellow thing (on purpose perhaps? she smirked at the mirror), and the warm, enfolding softness of this new one made her yearn to be in bed.

Occasionally, while struggling with her crown of thorny rollers:

... as rising robèd arms

Enwreathe thine honored head!

— Swinburne

a smile would twinkle back at her in conception of some further claptrap phrase with which, yet again, to absolve her beau of all un-thoughtfulness.

What a feeb! she scolded her reflection. But how impossible it was to blame bad deeds that — time and again! — turn out so splendidly. She wondered: Perhaps there _is_ a God, a God whose mysterious movings brought not only sorrows undeserved, but joys so little warranted as this.

Imogene gazed at her silly, self-satisfied grin until another yawn overtook her and she realized how dry and achy her eyes had become after the hours of intense composition that day. She wrapped her hair in a towel, then stooped to remove her contact lenses.

But while doing so, the doorbell rang. This caused an immediate tremor within her, for it was much too late for ordinary callers. Many tragedies came quickly to mind, all of them involving Matt.

She dashed down the hall to her bedroom and from a cluttered desk drawer grabbed an old pair of glasses (the hideous cream-colored ones she had not worn in public since ninth grade) and tugged them over her ears. Her heart was pounding by the time she pulled the drapes back from her window, cursing herself for not having called Matt sooner.

Oddly, there was no car in the driveway nor in the street, no flashing red lights. She stepped to the door of her room and held her breath.

"Gee-een!" her sister squealed, pummeling sock footed up the steps. Stacy's voice was a frantic whisper. "Geenee! It's that ... rat guy! He wants'a talk to you!"

For a long, cold moment Imogene could not move.

Stacy had already spun around and was hurrying down the stairs. Subdued voices could be heard coming from the living room.

Imogene found that her hands had risen to the damp towel covering her curler-fat hair, trying to squeeze it to a smaller volume. Her thoughts were in a whirl; she could focus on nothing beyond the multitude of regrets and grim villainies flooding through her nimble mind.

Taking a deep breath, she descended the carpeted stairs, keeping close to the railing, although she paused a moment to check the front of her lavender robe and frown down at the fuzzy yellow slippers.

At the entrance to the living room the cat was crouched and motionless, tail prone on the carpet, and his big cat eyes peering around the archway at the strange proceedings within. 'Ed Sullivan' had been switched off, and Imogene's parents and siblings, some still in their Sunday clothes — and all wearing looks of concern — were turned toward the front door where a painfully red-faced young man, in foggy glasses, was standing on the boot rug. It was indeed Stanley. He was unzipping his jacket and mumbling: "N-no ma'am, this's the first year I've seen Geenee. Matt Washburn I've known since grade school."

Imogene was paused beside the cat, not daring to breathe. So rarely before had she heard Stanley speak that now, to witness two consecutive statements from him (and in English) seemed almost unearthly. She recognized the shy flutiness of his voice which in class made all his utterances laughably girlish: his 'sissy Latin' as JoAnn liked to say.

But there was little to laugh at now; terror was collecting within Imogene, filling her up like teeming bleachers. Something in Stanley's presence had called to mind the cruel fate of gladiators; those armored slaves forced to take part in contrived battles; who must fight amid the laughter of careless crowds, yet be butchered as surely as in defense of all they held most dear.

Though 'warrior' was the last term one would ever apply to Stanley, there seemed now to be something altered in his stance, something on the order of heroic desperation. Imogene shivered, realizing the hatred and resolve that must have brought him here, to her home field, to demand this confrontation.

Stanley had removed his spectacles and was now wiping them with a corner of his jacket. Somehow, in absence of the harsh frames, he appeared for a moment to be less menacing (and less unattractive). His eyes seemed tiny and frail, as if he had been crying.

Silently, Imogene crept up beside her father.

Stanley caught sight of her as soon as he had replaced his glasses. "Oh, um, sorry," he began to say, then dropped a large manila envelope he was holding; it fell with a plop on the entryway tile. "I didn't ..." When he bent down to retrieve the envelope, his glasses began to slip; a wrist caught them crookedly on the tip of his nose, and he needed both hands to replace them on his ears.

Emboldened by this sight, Imogene allowed her lips to twist. O hail Spartacus! she said to herself.

Rising up again, Stanley looked closely at the unmarked envelope in his hands. "I didn't know you'd be in bed already. I ..." His face was scarlet. "This won't take long."

"Have y'done something to Matt!" demanded Imogene. Tiny fists had planted themselves on her hips (hips made prominent by the tightly belted robe).

Stanley was trying to untuck the envelope's flap. "Um ... that's what we hafta talk about."

"Well _what!_ Wha'ja do!"

Mrs Urich came forward and patted Imogene's arm. The mother's look of worry had noticeably waned. "Dear," she smiled, "Matt's fine. Stan here just wants to talk to you about something. Why don't you take him into the kitchen."

Stanley wiggled the envelope. "No, um ... it's kind of ... for all of you? If that's okay?"

"Oh! Why yes. Of course." The mother was delighted. "We were about to have a little snack. Do you drink coffee, Stan?"

"Uhh ..." He was looking down to toe off his unbuckled boots. "No thank you, but ... could I get a glass'a water?"

"Milk?"

"O-okay."

The mother hurried from the room, while the others all remained gazing at their unusual guest. They too had lost their looks of caution; the twins in fact seemed to be trying very hard not to laugh out loud, which was understandable in view of the trouble Stanley was having: one foot came out of its boot with black shoe attached, the other, just the brown sock.

Even Imogene began to feel a little sorry for the boy; yet she forced her hands to remain knuckled on the robe, focusing her anger on this disruption of a quiet Sunday evening — this outright invasion of her home!

"I _paid_ you back already! You've got no — "

"Geenee," warned her father; he had taken Stanley's jacket and was opening the closet door. "Just ... let him state his case."

"Um, I won't actually be sayin'anything ... sir." Stanley, now fully sock footed, opened the envelope far enough to show that the paper inside was covered with dense typing. "It's ... I've got it all written down."

"Oh god!" cried Imogene, throwing open palms at him. "It was just a stupid wire! An'I _paid_ you for it! We're really _sorry_ , okay?"

"Sh, sh, sh!" the mother called from the kitchen. "Come'n sit. Do you like coffeecake, Stan? Raisins."

"Uh ... no thanks. Just something to drink, please?"

Soon, everyone was seated around the kitchen table. Stanley was on one side by himself (eagerly sipping his drink), and Imogene opposite with the parents flanking her like a team of defense attorneys (although Mrs Urich kept herself happily busy with cake pan, knife, spatula, several small plates and a handful of yellow napkins).

On the ends of the table sat the twins, each in possession of a Coke bottle and a big grin. They were sensing that Imogene was in some kind of trouble, and the novelty of this was irresistible. Never in their lives had anyone made an actual complaint against their hallowed sister.

Stanley took several more sips from his tall tumbler of milk, then touched under his nose with the back of his hand. He sniffled. His fingers, trembling slightly, were still pink from the cold wind outside, a dull pink, distinguishable from the shinier, more emotional glow of his face.

Imogene had to assume that she was blushing as well; under her robe she felt sweaty and very naked; repeatedly, her hands pushed the plush lapels together.

Stanley was removing papers from his envelope. While doing so, he peeked up at her a few times, then mumbled, "You ... I-I've never seen y'in glasses before."

"Jeez!" Imogene slapped a hand to her forehead, and the twins broke out laughing.

Stanley went on in his hesitant voice, "I ... this's really complicated an' ... I sorta wrote a letter 'bout it." He looked briefly at the mother lifting blocks of cinnamon scented cake from the pan, then at the father, who Imogene could see was being entertained by all of this. The papers were laid in front of him, and Mr Urich's eyes went wide. "Wooh," he said, glancing up at the clock, "You've been busy." A sigh was audible as he crossed his big arms and leaned over the neatly typed letter.

A few seconds went by in silence until Stacy, eating a strip of pastry and catching crumbs with the raised plate, said, "Read it, Dad. Out loud."

On the other end of the table her brother was similarly occupied (though more negligent of where the crumbs were falling), while Imogene tried to maintain her scowl of anger at Stanley's bowed head. This was difficult, for the boy looked truly frightened. Also, she was by now well over her initial shock and could reason that this, an evening visit with her family, was so moderate a reprisal that she could hardly call it such. (And it shamed her as well that Matt would likely not have been capable of a vengeance this civilized.) Words of apology had already begun forming in her mind.

"Dad," Stacy repeated.

Imogene turned to look at her father. His smile was gone, and his face, angled fiercely at the letter, had darkened.

"Dear," said his wife with elevated utensils. "Read it for us."

Mr Urich glared suddenly at Stanley across the table, then at Imogene.

"Daddy! I paid him back already!"

The father turned to the paper again and began to read aloud, his voice bristling with sharp consonants:
March 21st, 1965

Dear Mr and Mrs Urich,

Please forgive me for bringing this to your attention, but in the past few weeks your daughter, Imogene, along with her boyfriend, Matt Washburn, have been guilty of the crime of academic cheating. She has, on at least one occasion, allowed him to copy an essay she had written and to submit it as his own work.

A pain shot through Imogene, as clean and hot as a bullet. She heard her mother gasp.

Harshly clearing his throat, the father went on:

No doubt she had good cause for doing this, and I'm sure that her sense of personal honesty has already prompted her to make a full confession to you, but she is still guilty, and I am prepared to take this matter to the proper authority. I need not mention how even the smallest crime of this nature could be the ruin of anyone who presumes to stand in highest representation of her graduating class.

Imogene had the curious sensation of being suddenly on the far side of the room, watching all this happening to herself as she sat between her parents, in pale purple robe, hands fisted under her chin, face blanched, glasses strapped to her head, and the beige bath towel tented over tall curlers like a dunce cap.

The twins' fidgeting had ceased, and the silence of her parents was profound. Imogene, with lips crushed flat, could not raise her eyes from the tabletop.

The father made an exaggerated sigh, heavy with disappointment, and continued. His voice was softer now.

But I have no wish to see harm come to your daughter. My sole intent is to have justice served on her accomplice. Over the past nine years Matt Washburn has ridiculed and mistreated me countless times, everything from throwing stones to making me cry in front of girls. The latest incident, which Geenee can relate to you, is a typical example. I've made numerous complaints about him, as have his other victims, but because of his high athletic standing and social prominence (and his inherent insensitivity) no normal punishment has had any effect on his behavior.

Mr Urich glanced up at the uncomfortable young man across the table. " _You_ wrote this?"

Stanley was nodding, and a faint "yessir" came from him. The crimson had deepened on his face. He was sitting, stooped, with elbows close to his sides, arms under the table, and staring into the half-empty glass of milk. A tiny movement in his shoulders proved that he was shivering.

There was no comment from either end of the table.

As the father once more cleared his throat, Imogene felt another flash of his angry eyes. She still could not look at him. On her other side, where her mother sat, she sensed only a vast, cold silence.

With your consent, therefore [continued the father], I am proposing to use your daughter, and in particular Matt's great love for her, as the means of teaching him a lesson he can never forget.

I request the following: (1) That Geenee be made to surrender the ring Matt gave her and to sign the enclosed letter dismissing him from her life. (2) That until graduation day she abstain from all contact whatsoever with him. (3) That she be required to admit me into her company one night each week for a period of not less than one hour; this also to continue until graduation day. And (4) that no mention of this be made to anyone beyond your immediate family.

Refusal of any of these requests, or failure to keep them, will result in my bringing this matter to the attention of the school's principal.

Imogene, her hands now in her lap, had clamped a fist over her ring finger. (The ring itself was still upstairs on the vanity.) Her eyes blazed at Stanley.

He had not moved. He looked as tense and timorous as one in expectation of a deserved beating.

The father went on:

In clarification of item (3) above, it is only to further wound and humiliate her boyfriend that I wish to be allowed access to your daughter. It will be my greatest pleasure to inform him that I am enjoying the company of her whom he has lost. I leave it to you, and Geenee, to decide the circumstances of our weekly meetings. I would prefer them to take place in your home, but my only stipulation is that, when we are together, she and I are to be chaperoned at all times.

And concerning item (2), please advise your daughter that I have known her boyfriend for half my life, and I am as familiar with his moods and mannerisms as she is; I will be very quick to know if she has been communicating with him against my orders.

Imogene's little hand slapped the table, but, due to the bathrobe's bulky cuff, without much effect. Stanley was the only one to flinch at the tiny pat.

I realize that all of this amounts to what is plainly a very cruel and unusual punishment. And I am aware that the enforced separation will be as hurtful to Geenee as it will be to Matt. I regret that she must be made to suffer for his crimes, even though she is, herself, not without guilt. It's certainly not my place to punish her in any way, but it seems I am; and I hope you can let my unintentional cruelty serve the place of any discipline you may have had in mind for her.

Sincerely yours,

Stanley Alan Ratt

4010 Flynn Avenue

Morningside 16, Minnesota

(enclosures)

Mr Urich had not moved at all except to turn to the second page. But now he sat back, dropping his arms heavily on the table, and sighed as if in utter hopelessness.

On Imogene's other side, the mother had pushed away the cake pan and was wiping the blade of her knife, repeatedly and absently, with a napkin. She set these down and stared at her daughter. "Is this true. I can see that it is."

Imogene, silent and shut-eyed, was again gripping the robe's lapels.

"Oh ... dear lord!" The mother dropped her face into her hands, shivering for a moment, then sharply looked up at her daughter. "Was it _his_ idea! Did that ... boy! Did he make you do it!"

"No."

" _Did_ he?"

" _No!_ He never — "

The mother's eyes snapped to the father. "Didn't I say? — right from the start! — didn't I _say_ that boy was a caution!"

"Mom!"

"That first time," the mother was pointing at the refrigerator, "right here in our _kitchen_ for heaven's sake! Drunk as a _skunk!_ "

"Mom! You don't ... he had one beer — _half_ a beer! — the one that Dad ..."

" _Did he make you do this!_ "

"N-no! He — it was _my_ idea, okay? All of it! He — "

"And how many _times_ have you done this ... this — !" Fingers were flung at the letter, still bent open on its staple.

" _No!_ Just once! Just ... !" Imogene was beginning to cry. "For college! I was _losing_ him! I had to do something!"

The father's fist came down hard, making everyone jump. A thick finger was pointed at Stanley's head. "Okay. First — Look at me! — First. This is goddam blackmail!"

The boy's nod was barely discernable amid his trembling.

"I don't care what she's done. You're not usin'er for any — "

Mrs Urich had reached over and grabbed her husband's wrist, but she was looking at Stanley. "Dear." She sighed, calming herself. "Your parents ... do they know you're doing this?"

"No ma'am, an'please don't ... I'll tell ..."

"No, no," she assured him, sniffling. "We're all going to obey you." (Her husband yanked his arm free.) "I think — under the circumstances? I think your demands are very reasonable."

"Oh yeah," muttered Stacy who had gathered up the letter and was reading it for herself.

The mother gave her a severe look, but Stacy, curled up in her chair, a bare knee visible above the tabletop, only raised the Coke bottle to her lips and continued reading. The brother had left his seat and was stooped over Stacy's shoulder while nibbling a second piece of cake. A look of delight had returned to his face.

Stanley's eyes were cast down, and Mrs Urich leaned toward the young man. "Dear ... I realize you've been hurt, terribly hurt. I know Matt for the bully that he is, but — and I thank you for being so concerned and thoughtful about Geenee. I can see you have a good heart. So, I just want to ask ... surely you must know that this," she indicated the letter once more, "this is not a ... mature way of handling your problem."

"Yes ma'am. I know that." Stanley had produced beads of perspiration on his brow, and his face was hung so low a pinkish spot on the top of his head, where his haircut was shortest, became visible to all.

Stacy thumped down her pop bottle. "Two wrongs don't make a right!"

"Yeah I know that, but ..." Stanley raised his eyes to the center of the table. "... it's what I want." He grabbed the milk glass — with determination it seemed — and brought it near his lips, giving his voice a ghostly resonance. "You can put me in jail. I don't care. It's what I want." He took a deep, feverish swallow, then replaced the glass, unaware of the pallid mustache now clinging to his upper lip. It glittered on his scarlet face.

But he had spoken as would someone with nothing to lose, and Imogene heard both her parents sigh as they sat back in their chairs. She herself sat rigidly between them, her hands clutched together in her lap.

Following this momentary bravado, Stanley lapsed once again into his former pose and appeared now to be even more terrified. Imogene found it hard to look at him. Her eyes settled on the untouched coffee and the narrow slice of cake, fallen sideways on its plate, in front of her.

It came to her suddenly that she was quite unwell; her insides seemed to have become a softened, percolating mass, heaving slowly up and down. She was breathing through her mouth.

Dan straightened up from behind his sister. "Where's this other letter," he asked. "The one she's s'pose'ta sign."

With unsteady hands, Stanley reached into his envelope and brought out another, smaller, sheet of paper. Both of the twins grabbed at it, but the brother won out, holding the paper out of his sister's reach.

"Kids," the mother suggested. "Why don't the two of you go upstairs and leave us to talk about this."

"No-o!" Stacy whined.

"Listen to me!"

"She's my sister!"

"Stacy, Dan," the father growled. His thumb was pointing at the door.

"God!" exclaimed the son, lifting his eyes from the letter. His voice was a blend of indignation and amusement, as if he had just encountered swear words in a Bible story.

Stacy reached up and snatched the paper from him. Copying her brother's grin, she began to read aloud:
Matt,

Here's your ring back! And you shouldn't have to ask why! All you need to know is that I talked with Stan Ratt and his parents last night. I was just interested in hearing his side of the story. But what I heard made me absolutely sick! Sick and ashamed!

Stacy had lost her smile. She held the paper closer to her eyes and read with increasing care:

How can you even live with yourself! Such detestable things you've done!! And I called up a few of the other boys you've hurt. They all say the same thing.

I was shocked, Matt! How can you be so false! So cruel! And you've been using me, too, haven't you! You thought: if you had a nice girlfriend, people would think you're nice too. Well not anymore! It's all over! We're through!!!

Don't ever talk to me again! Don't even come near me! If you do, I'll tell the whole school — I'll tell the college people! — I'll tell everyone what you're really like. And coming from me that'll mean something!

Just get out of my life! And stay out!

With parted lips, Stacy looked over at her sister.

Imogene had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, the turmoil in her stomach forgotten. "I'm not signing _that!_ " she cried. "Ever!"

Mrs Urich placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Christ!" said the father, lunging at the young man. "What kind of — look at me, dammit!"

Stanley did not raise his eyes. He had cringed even lower in his chair, but he was no longer shivering. "It's what I want," he mumbled.

At this, the room became quiet. Imogene sat motionless, but her eyes were darting in all directions, like those of a cornered animal.

Then Mr Urich got up and strode to the telephone on the counter. "What'cher number!" he demanded.

His wife spun around. "Oh put that down! We have to talk about this."

Stanley had also risen and taken his empty glass to the sink where he ran water for a moment. "Um ... y'can think about it tonight," he said, "But y'can't talk to Matt or write him a note or anything." Though he was looking down at Imogene, his eyes reached no higher than the collar of her robe; the milk on his lip had disappeared. "I won't do anything 'til after first hour tomorrow. So just, y'know," he shrugged, "lemme know before class is over. What I should do n'stuff."

Stacy inhaled deeply. "We can tell y'right _now_ what y'should do!"

"Yeah!" said Dan, who had finally lost his grin, "Go'da hell!"

"Will you _please_ go up _stairs!_ " the mother cried.

Stacy grabbed the edge of the table as if not to be budged, and her brother stood firmly beside her.

Distracted by this, no one saw Stanley heading for the door. He had already passed into the living room when the father and son hurried after him, their hands clenched. Mrs Urich turned toward them and was making quick movements as if trying to think of something further to say.

Stacy hopped up and trotted after the men. Then the mother left. Imogene remained behind, clutching the robe's lapels and looking at all the clutter before her: cups, crumbs, papers, crumpled napkins, plates and bottles. The sweat had chilled under her robe, causing her to tremble uncontrollably. Deep within, the sour, churning tide was rising once more.

Stanley had left the big envelope behind, and the corner of a green slip of paper could be seen sticking out. This Imogene removed and found it to be the blank check she had given him. It was still blank.

Her father's subdued growl could be heard in the other room; one passage, particularly loud, emphasized the words 'cops' and 'courtroom.' This was followed by Stanley's submissive, "Yessir." Then the front door was opened and closed.

When she heard the scuffle of returning feet, Imogene gathered up the papers and made as if studying them, though privately she was steeling herself to endure, with dignity, her family's certain rebuke. She had done nothing she would not do again — ten times again! — if ever faced with the threat of losing Matt.

The others reseated themselves around her (the parents this time on the prosecutor's side of the table), and, indeed, without a visitor to inhibit their comments, Imogene was roundly informed of her crime, of its nature and extent, of her misplaced loyalties, of the danger she was in, of the shame and disappointment she had caused. It went on for the better part of an hour. The father swore, the mother shed tears. Stacy, too, began to poke at her eyes for the bitter scolding her sister was receiving. Dan finished the coffeecake.

Imogene was amazed that she could maintain her stoic composure through all of this. But she wondered: Ought she to be proud of this defiance?

(Eerily, as if he had been there all along, the cat became visible among them, poised serenely on the warm floor in front of the refrigerator, licking his shoulder. He was apparently unaware of the heightened concern in the family's voices.)

The reprimand went on and on, but after awhile Imogene found its character beginning to change. Her parents had ceased to use words of harsh admonishment, replacing them with a kind of evolving comprehension. They seemed gradually to understand why she had done what she had done, and though this granted her no forgiveness, it was plain that the parents' outrage had found reasonable limits.

With this, Imogene felt tears at last begin to form in her eyes, and her heart was flooded with true remorse. She wanted suddenly to climb into their arms and just cry.

But then, toward Stanley as well, came these same tones of leniency. The parents seemed to be sympathizing with him, with his unhappy life and his many legitimate complaints. Mr Urich even paid his highest tribute: "Kid's got guts. I'll grant'im that."

And the mother, after glancing over the letter once more, found much to praise in the nature and wording of Stanley's very rational, though still admittedly criminal demands.

The other letter too, the one Imogene was to sign, became of great interest to her parents. "Seems to me," said the father, slipping into his salesman's nonchalance, "with all these strikes against Matt — and don't we _know_ the kid's tellin'the truth! (he glanced at his son) — with all these strikes against him? Well, sweetheart, maybe someday you'll look back and say this was the luckiest day of your life."

Sniffling, the mother concurred. "Hearts can be broken so easily, dear, and yours most of all — and I know how you love your lost causes — but ... listen to your wisdom too, some things can't be changed. Some things will just ... break your heart forever if you let them." Tears were standing like lookouts on the mother's cheeks, and Imogene had to drop her eyes.

She had discovered the hidden motive in their plea. (And, oddly, it pleased her that she — gullibility incarnate — could so perceive their sly maneuverings.) It was clear now that her parents were seizing upon this mischief of Stanley's as a way, at last, to pry her from 'that boy.'

Of course they had little notion of the great strides Matt had made toward a loving maturity, for he was always careful to hide his decency from all but herself. Her parents had seen only the hurt he had caused, and believed he must continue so as if he were an animal of the wild. And it would certainly never occur to them the personal and social hell that this will be for Matt above all.

From that point on Imogene was again calm; her eyes dried themselves (though the tight glasses stayed a trifle foggy), and her mouth went straight and firm. In her mind, she saw herself standing shoulder to shoulder with Matt in mute and dignified acceptance of their fate. _Morituri te salutamus!_ she repeated to herself. 'We who are about to die salute you!'

Ultimately, no mention was made of any punishment (beyond that which Stanley's demands will impose upon her), but Imogene would have relinquished every privilege to know that her parents were wholly on her side.

When the ordeal was over, and all but herself convinced that she must sign the letter and agree to Stanley's terms, she was dismissed.

Much time was spent in the bathroom upstairs, including another complete bath. The phone rang at one point and Imogene stilled to hear her mother's determined voice: "I'm sorry. That's all I can tell you. She can't talk to you right now."

Half an hour later the call was repeated, and the caller told the same thing. The third attempt was answered by the father who said, with finality, that his daughter had gone to bed.

This was true. Directly after her bath Imogene had confined herself to her room. There, with the dear little ring proudly in place, and tears in her eyes (and curlers pinching), she tried for many hours to fall asleep.

About two AM, however, Imogene crept down to the dark, amber-lit kitchen and began dialing the phone. While listening to its distant ring, she was startled to find a pastel robe drifting beside her, silent and legless in the gloom. She squinted her eyes and now saw the unblinking look on her mother's face — and the hand held out for the phone.

Imogene clutched the receiver to her pajama top and backed away, stretching the coil-cord taut.

"Oh sweetheart!" There was anguish in the mother's voice. "We have so much to _lose!_ "

"I don't care! I don't care, I just ... !" Imogene was crushed to think of Matt reading that brutal letter.

Then her mother pulled the phone plug from the wall. The ringing stopped; Imogene looked down at the dead plastic in her hands.

It was a long time before she could be separated from the phone. She and her mother sat down at the kitchen table, side by side, in the dark, sniffling, their curlers bumping softly together.

The cat's warm fur weaved in and out among their ankles.
\- XVIII -

Early the next morning Imogene kicked the remains of her covers to the floor and made ready for school. She departed before the others were awake (leaving a curt note for her mother to expect Stanley for supper that night) and walked the mile and a half through an icy twilight.

When she arrived, the school was silent and starkly bright inside. The hallway lights glared down on their long, empty spaces, where rows of gleaming gray locker doors, embedded in the walls, stood at attention like faceless firing squads. All the classrooms, as seen through the little windows in their doors, were black within.

At her locker, Imogene waited for some time, pushing things around on the top shelf, then, slapping the metal closed, carried an armload of books to the door of her Latin class and tried the knob; it was locked. She sat down on the hard floor and tried to keep her bracelets quiet.

The pout on her face was beginning to ache, for her jaws had not unclenched themselves since brushing her teeth that morning. She stared down at her ring a moment, then, sighing, began to read through the horrible letters again.

Between paragraphs she kept watch for Stanley. She knew that he walked to school, for, on several occasions, Imogene had seen him tramping the streets nearby when she and Matt were pulling out of the parking lot. And since Stanley was always seated at his desk before she came to class, even on mornings when all the cheerleaders had met for an early breakfast, it was clear he made a point of getting to school before the buses arrived.

She had supposed that he lived too close to the school to be on any of the bus routes, but according to the address on his letter his home was even farther away than her own. This did not surprise her. Knowing how meager were his communication skills, she could well understand that Stanley would prefer a long, cold walk to school over a quick ride on a bus crowded with mouthy early-morning jerks.

She had to admit though, despite his social ineptness, that he had displayed significant ability the night before in the way he had manipulated her parents. But then he had probably overheard her in class that one day when she was telling how her father complained of the younger employees where he worked who never said 'sir' anymore.

And all those bashful mannerisms. If she had not seen Stanley's behavior in class, she would have guessed all of that was a put-on too.

And these letters are just as sneaky! She smacked the pages with the back of her hand. Oh he's _so_ thoughtful and concerned about poor Geenee! He has _such_ a good heart!

She read many times the section concerning his 'requests,' trying to find some loophole or oversight which could foil his scheme, or at least embarrass him enough that she would not seem so helpless a victim. But there was nothing. He held all the aces. One word — to anyone — and the news would rocket through the hallways! She could just see the failed friendship and respect in all those kids' faces; she could hear the hiss of their whispers, and the coarse booing as she stood before them and tried to give her graduation speech — assuming she would even be allowed to!

And college! All the twittering she had done — in Stanley's hearing — about her acceptance, and Matt's! How _pleased_ the kid'd be tattling to them as well!

Then she glanced up at the door of her Latin class and almost sobbed, imagining the look on Mr Grove's face.

Until that morning she had allowed herself to ignore any too careful thoughts about her crime; she knew of course what sinfulness she had entered upon, but, technically, it was Matt who had cheated, not her; she had done little more than look the other way.

Yet a vague guilt had persistently bothered her. From the start Imogene sensed that this was the repetition of a folly she had committed long ago. There had certainly never been an episode of cheating in her past (or of even considering it), and thus she had tried to put aside the feeling. But this morning, while trudging to school over the crackly white ice in the gutters, it had all come back to her:

Years ago (the summer after fourth grade) she and Becky had been waiting to buy tickets for the Saturday matinee. The line was more than a block long, stretching past the neighboring shops and the quaint little eye clinic building, even into the parking lot of the supermarket, but with Becky to chatter to (they were the same height back then) the time went quickly by.

Besides, that good-looking usher with the blond hair would occasionally walk back and forth to make sure the kids were not blocking the sidewalk. He never said anything, but his face was gentle and intriguing (a lot like that really handsome boy on 'Spin and Marty'), and Imogene felt a bit ashamed to appear before him among all those noisy children.

Once, a few weeks before this, in the popcorn scented lobby when he had bent down to return her torn ticket, she stole a glimpse into his rainy green eyes — and he smiled at her! Oh, the dirty tingles that raced up and down her legs! And how she had jibber-jabbered to her friends throughout the movie, nearly gasping for the sudden fullness of her heart.

But on the sidewalk that day, she was careful to let none of her yearning show; Becky too, though whispering that he was probably a stuck-up snot, became uncharacteristically quiet whenever he passed by. In any case, both girls were ignored.

Eventually, their place in line advanced to the little dress shop that was next door to the theater (Imogene's dress shop as it would turn out to be, although back then it was still 'Bettina Wordsworth'). The girls were giggling over the pink pedal-pushers in the window when a car drew up to the curb and Mary Helen popped out. All three of them squealed as the newcomer dashed over.

They laughed and chattered frantically to one another. But before long the sound of grumbling could be heard farther back in line. With some guilt, Imogene tried to ignore this, and she stepped closer to her friend to hear of the clever ruse Mary Helen had employed for getting out of temple early.

Then, suddenly, the blond-haired usher was standing directly in front of Imogene, towering over her in his scarlet blazer, hatred burnt upon his face. "You let'er butt in _front_ a'you?"

His roar seemed to bring the world to a halt. Imogene was stunned. Deep within, she felt a large thump, like a refrigerator falling on its side. She nearly wet herself.

He bellowed something else, then grabbed her arm; both she and Mary Helen were yanked from the line. When Imogene dared raise her eyes again, he was pointing down the street. "Go to the end or go _home!_ "

As he strode away, she heard him mutter: "Damn brats!"

The other kids in line, and an occasional parent, were staring at the girls without sympathy.

Somehow, Mary Helen got both of them to the end of the line, which was still back in the parking lot, and Becky hurried to join them. She and Mary Helen set up a barrage of militant abuse against guys with blond hair and big mouths, and anyone over sixteen. Imogene though, her lips solemnly bunched, saw only the men in green aprons loading grocery bags into station wagons.

For awhile, her friends talked of doing something else. (They had all seen _Tammy_ at least twice before anyway.) But their homes were too far to get to without their bikes, and they were ashamed to call so soon for a ride, so they stayed; they got their tickets and watched the movie.

It was not long before the other girls were laughing and chattering again, but Imogene, sitting between them, only shook her head at their proffered popcorn tubs. The comforting gloom of the theater — dark and warm like a mother's lap — the story's sad and lovely song; the cruel ways of love; the shame, the inescapable shame of having done wrong; all of this was too much for Imogene. She adored her friends for saying not a word about her foolish, helpless, childish tears.

The floor had become cold, Imogene noticed, and the hallway was still empty. She changed position with much jingling of her bracelets, to conceal a necessary sniffle.

Soon, sounds of activity began to reach her ears, and from time to time arriving teachers would pass by, the men wearing heavy overcoats, the women tapping prominently on their narrow heels. Many of them greeted her, even those she had never had as teachers, for her achievements and high visibility at the ball games made Imogene known to nearly all. This was but another reminder of how much she had to lose.

Then, down the hall, she saw Stanley approaching their lockers. He was walking quickly, eagerly almost, and staring at her with a face blotchy from the wind. His expression contained no trace of guilt or remorse; he seemed in fact, from the upward tilt of his glasses, about to chirp 'Good morning!'

This riled Imogene. The plea of mercy she had been formulating was dispensed with immediately. She hurried, books in arms, to her own locker, and they stood for a moment nearly side by side in rude silence, each turning their combination dials.

"I wash dishes on Monday and Thursday nights," she informed him without preface. "Those are the only nights you'll come over."

Her books hit the bottom of the locker. "You'll help."

Stanley had removed his coat, then made his face wrinkle a moment while poking fingers behind his lenses to wipe away the condensation.

"You'll come tonight. Five-thirty to six-thirty. Next week, Thursday night." Imogene banged her locker closed. "You will not touch me! Ever! Any questions."

Stanley was glancing at the sheet of paper in her hand. "Promise to stay away from him?"

She sighed impatiently. "Yes."

"Completely? 'Til summer?"

"Yes!"

"An y'won't, y'know, tell anyone ... your friends — "

"I agree to _everything_ , okay?"

All of his books were put away; Stanley was holding a small white envelope on which Matt's name had been typed in full. He shrugged. "Guess we might as well ... go up to his locker then. You know which one it is, right?"

Imperiously, she turned and led him to a vacant stairway and up to second floor where Stanley, fallen behind, had to scamper to keep up.

"Thanks for, y'know, comin'early?" He held up the empty envelope. "I was just gonna leave this on the corner table in the lunchroom." He jogged a few more steps. "This is much better ... kinder, y'know?" He cleared his throat. "Safer too. Your ring'll be in here."

Imogene sensed that he was trying to be friendly, apologetic even, but she stared straight ahead herself, arms crossed and striding.

In front of Matt's trigonometry classroom they came to a halt. Imogene pointed out the locker in question, and Stanley asked for the letter. Seeing that it was unsigned, he gave it back to her along with a pen from his shirt pocket.

Shaking her head, she held the paper against one of the locker doors to slash her name, then slipped the ring from her finger and returned the items to Stanley.

She stood back from him, hands on hips, and watched as he folded the letter and placed it in the envelope with the ring. He was fully blushing now, and his fingers seemed to tremble as he licked the flap. Imogene allowed that he likely possessed some feelings of guilt, but her eyes still glared at him.

He was trying to slide the envelope through the louvers at the top of the locker door, but the ring's thickness was making this difficult.

Then, down the hall, a stout, quick-stepping woman came into view, a tan coat draped over her arm. "Good morning, Stan!" she merrily called out.

Stanley mumbled a quick "Hi" as he hopped back from the locker. He held the letter against his belly, and his head bobbled up and down like a simpleton's.

The teacher had a jolly round face. Coming nearer, she made a look of pleasant surprise at Imogene, who had to drop her eyes. (Often she had seen Becky and Mary Helen chuckling into cupped hands whenever poor Miss Canakes walked by.)

The woman continued on to one of the other math rooms and unlocked the door.

When they were alone once more, Stanley turned and harshly whispered, "How do I _know_ this's the right one. It won't do any good — "

Imogene pushed him aside and twirled the combination dial. Yanking the locker open, she pointed out Matt's name on the inside of a textbook.

Stanley nodded and began preparing a place for the envelope.

But Imogene did not wait to see the locker closed. She hurried away to the nearest girls' room and sat down in one of the stalls, holding her now naked finger.

Surprisingly, Imogene found there were no tears in her eyes. But perhaps this was not so unexpected, for Stanley, with his clumsy yet business-like malice, had stirred within her a further unpleasant recollection:

Late in August one year (this must have been after fifth grade, for she was wearing glasses already), Imogene was suffering through her yearly dental visit with grumpy old Dr Hobbes. "And do I _hate_ that man!" she had often declared to her friends (all of whom had dentists of the more modern and caring, Dr Spock variety).

Thomas Hobbes, DDS, tall and lean and never smiling, clearly had little tolerance for children. Even less for all the "new-fangled" equipment with which these younger dentists — in their "fancy clinics!" — were enticing away his patients. The smell of his cramped little rooms over Clancy Drug could always make her ill.

Having read an illustrated version of the _Odyssey_ that summer, Imogene grimly imagined him as a gigantic cyclops, stooped and roaring in his filthy cave. (Herself she saw as one of Ulysses' luckless crew, pocketed by the titan and awaiting his fiendish leisure.)

Dr Hobbes had bitter comments to make on almost every subject, and Imogene had learned, even as a first grader still in baby teeth, to say absolutely nothing when in his presence. She feared his snappish manner even more than his drills and stinging picks.

But one innovation the dentist had been forced to accept was the miracle of Novocain, though from the way he muttered in its use it was obviously not a skill he would ever master.

On this occasion Imogene had two cavities to be filled; the first was not deep and caused no more than the usual middling discomfort. But for the second, the anesthetic had either worn off or had been injected in the wrong place entirely.

From the first touch of the drill a sharp, white pain tore through Imogene's skull: a blinding, inhuman — satanic — agony.

Yet no sound had escaped her. The dentist's stern countenance, in even this extreme, had compelled her silence. And the drill squealed heedlessly on.

Through shocked eyes — and steaming glasses — an image of the window's dingy venetian blinds had burned itself into her memory (to the present day she could still see the pull-cords of unequal length and the one dusty blade kinked in two places). She held her mouth rigidly ajar, like a box broke open, and her fingers gripped the arm rests as if they were the last handhold over Hell.

Occasionally, there was a blissful reprieve when the dentist stood back and ordered Imogene to rinse and spit. As she did so, her tongue furtively examined the deep, newly-graven site, and she prayed — oh, how she prayed! — that his crater was finished at last.

But ever and again her heart would plummet as the drill resumed its wail, and agèd Polyphemus neared, his spotty knuckles mountainous before her eyes. "Wider!" he barked, and the torture — momentarily forgotten — astonished her anew.

When it was finally over, and the chair had settled to the floor, Imogene became solemn with interior devotions. Gingerly, her tongue touched the now inert lump of molar which Dr Hobbes was forbidding her to use until suppertime.

Then, abruptly, his words ceased. She saw that he was staring at her.

Imogene became frightened and hurried to dismount from the chair, but the old man knelt down in front of her. He had pulled a handkerchief from inside his smock and placed it gently against her cheek, under the bow of her heavy glasses. The cloth was warm, and she realized it was soaking up tears she had not known were there.

The old man had a strange, whitened look on his face: a combination of sorrow and awe, as if he had gashed himself with a paring knife.

Creakily, he stood up.

"Well," he said, sounding his usual crusty self, but Imogene, young as she was, could detect the pauses of uneasiness in his voice. "Well, I think maybe you're a little too grown up now ... to pick out a toy from the shelf. Aren't you. How 'bout if I just ... shake your hand ... Miss Urich."

It was the first time anyone had ever, meaningfully, entitled her name.

On the trip home that day Imogene announced that she no longer hated Dr Hobbes.

When at last Imogene entered her Latin class that morning, she did so with something like dignity on her face. She ignored Stanley beside her, but her thoughts were soon in a tumult, for everyone was still excited over the ball game, and she was teased mercilessly about her photo in the newspaper; Brad and JoAnn especially gave her no peace. Yet, thankfully, Imogene found that her smiling silence was being misinterpreted as contentment and her blush as embarrassed joy, and whenever her hand was not in her lap she took care to hold her fingers curled in such a way that the missing ring could not be seen.

After class got under way, little of what the teacher said was recorded in her notes or even registered in her mind. Imogene sat and stared at her notepaper, wondering if Matt was doing the same at his desk.

Suddenly it occurred to her that the envelope he must have found by now was the same size as the one he had placed in her own locker; his first thought on seeing it would have been that it contained a declaration of _her_ love!

Now the tears came. Helpless, hot, painful tears — they stung her eyes like slivers of glass, and she turned to look out the windows beside her. The cars speeding back and forth on the Beltline were but little colored blurs, and she dared not blink for fear of dislodging her contact lenses. She strained not to let her throat squeak.

Then Mr Grove cracked one of his truly barbarous jokes, and in the uproar Imogene could sniffle and let quick fingers tend to her face.

She wondered if this was lucky timing, or if the teacher had noted her distress and thus, discreetly, came to her aid. His eyes gave no clue, though this was not surprising, for: 'Wise men, like knaves, rarely let their motives show.'

But Imogene's eyes — fatuous, heart-on-her-sleeve Imogene! — her eyes for many minutes hung in loving tilt at that 'verray parfit gentil knyght,' until the thought came to her again: were she ever to lose _his_ respect!

When finally Imogene judged herself sufficiently composed, she settled down to watching Stanley from the corner of her eye. It was monstrous, she thought: such a one as _he_ — in the presence of Mr Grove!

Stanley even had the audacity to raise his hand a few times and speak his translations with confidence and an uncolored face. He sat tall in his desk, as tall as his puny stature allowed.

Mr Grove seemed pleased at Stanley's sudden participation and called on the boy at every opportunity. Eventually, Imogene detected something in the teacher's eyes after all: they seemed to be shifting with interest between herself and Stanley.

But at the end of class, while shuffling out of the room, Imogene realized that Stanley himself had not looked at her even once all hour. With this came a grudging thankfulness. She had been expecting him to flaunt his new-won ownership of her, but he seemed, for now at least, to be treating her with all the indifference he had shown before. (She repeated to herself Dryden's quip on knaves and wise men.)

Yet there was no escape from the clamor within her. She tried, earnestly (while watching Stanley tap his locker closed and hurry off toward the science rooms), she tried to convince herself that she and Matt were getting just what they deserved, but even this did not help: always she saw Matt, with expectant eyes, opening that envelope and finding the vicious words within — and the ring still warm from her finger!

In her other classes that morning, Imogene was likewise inattentive. Her sweet-tempered English teacher had used the phrase, "Earth to Geenee," and in economics she became — to peals of laughter — 'Gina Lallapalooza!'
\- XIX -

When lunchtime came, instead of meeting with her friends, Imogene dawdled at her locker until she saw Stanley arrive at his and (still without even a glance at her) exchange a load of books for a brown paper bag.

Once he was safely on his way to the cafeteria, she grabbed her purse and ran in the opposite direction, up onto second floor, where she found Matt somberly stowing books in his locker. She had kept her face sunny-bright while nodding to acquaintances along the way, but fresh tears now wetted her eyes to observe Matt's slow and melancholy movements.

She hurried up to him and tapped his shoulder. "Meet me in the gym," she whispered. "Right now. Bring my ring." His eyes popped wide at her, but she dashed away (plaid skirt billowing) down the hall and toward the far end of the building.

The gymnasium, when Imogene arrived, was vacant and dimly lit. All the doors were closed and only one of the armored light fixtures on the ceiling was aglow. Imogene waited inside, clutching her little black purse, it's long shoulder strap twisted many times around her wrist.

Soon the door was pushed open and Matt entered. She jumped into his arms.

"What the hell's goin'on!" he demanded, although his voice had only a trace of anger in it, and he seemed more than willing to wait for an explanation until after she had finished kissing him. Nevertheless, he stood rigidly in her embrace and his big hands held her with extreme caution, as if she were a nest of sleeping bees.

When at last Imogene came down from tiptoe her face was wet. "Gimme my ring," she blubbered. But before his hand could reach into his pocket she had grabbed a sleeve and was leading him toward a corner of the room; their shoes made a clatter on the polished wood.

"Geenee! God!" he said as he produced a crumpled envelope.

Imogene snatched it from him, feeling the lump of ring inside, then thrust the envelope into her purse.

Matt was still making exasperated breaths at her. "Y'scared the hell outa me! I really thought y'meant it."

"I know. I know!" she said, halting him at an unmarked door. She tucked her purse under one arm and began working a padlock on its rusty hasp. When the door opened, she stepped into the dark interior and drew him in with her, then closed the door. In the total blackness within, filled with the odor of athletic gear and sweat, they fumbled for each other's arms. The lock slipped from her fingers and fell with an echoless clack. They kissed once more. Matt was more ardent this time, dangerously so, and Imogene had to pull cold hands from her blouse.

She snapped on the light, illuminating the tiny room and its cramped array of shelves, all containing various indoor sports equipment: balls, rackets, pom-poms. Matt was wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"Read this." Imogene had opened her purse and unfolded Stanley's letter, the one addressed to her parents; she handed the pages to Matt but he only gazed at the rumpled prose. "Read it!" Imogene forced him under the glaring bulb.

He sighed wearily as he began, but quickly stilled and slapped to the signature at the end; he looked at her, his eyes wide, then returned to the beginning.

Imogene, sniffling, had placed the ring on her finger for a moment, giving it a quick kiss, then tucked it back into her purse.

Matt was turning dark. She crawled under his arms and fitted herself against his chest, making him lean over her to finish reading the letter. He twitched with spasms of mounting wrath. His shirt was warm, a winter flannel; it smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. She listened to the pounding of his strong heart.

"God!" he cried suddenly, throwing the papers to the floor. "I'll kick his fuckin'teeth down his throat!"

Imogene was all but crushed in his rage.

"No, we have to do what he says!" She tried to free herself, but his arms were like iron around her. "And y'hafta pretend like y'don't ..." she gasped, "... like y'don't know what's going on. If he finds out I _told_ ya we lose everything. College ... everything!"

Matt was still muttering.

"And _you'll_ get booted off the team. No tournament. No baseball this spring. Nothing." She sniffled. "He's got us right where he wants us!"

They fell silent for a moment, staring at each other, then kissed once more.

When he released her, she pulled damp hairs from her lips and went on, "So ... make like you're really hurt'n stuff, okay? I'll tell everyone I dumped'ya — I don't know _how!_ " She looked up into Matt's face. "He wants to break your heart. So act like it really has. For a week or two, an'then ... I don't know, start goin'out with other girls."

Little sobs were creeping into her voice. She felt his eyes gazing down on her, vacantly, as if watching the death of a friend.

"Go to parties'n stuff," she sniffled, picking at his shirt buttons. "Act like you're havin'a really good time. Like y'don't even care about me anymore. An'maybe ... I don't know ... maybe he'll just say forget it or something. Maybe in time for us to go to the prom at least."

Matt had become breathlessly quiet.

When she looked up again, he was staring at her with parted lips; his eyes were blank.

Moaning, she wilted against him like a silk dress fallen from its hanger.

After another long kiss she tipped back. "I know it'll be hard," (Matt was stooped and still nuzzling her.) "Really hard. But — listen to me! — at the end of it? After graduation? You can ... have me, okay? All of me ... all night. I won't say no to anything y'wanna do. How's that."

His eyes were huge.

"It's no big deal." Imogene had returned to the shirt buttons and noted that the backs of her hands were turning red. "There's never gonna be anyone but you. So just ... keep thinkin'bout that, okay?" She looked up at his eyes. They were blinking now, as if he were in a smoky room. She threw her arms around him. "God!" she cried, gripping fistfuls of his shirt. "I'll just be crazy to get my hands on you again!" She kissed him once more and made a mournful sound deep in her throat. In her mind, she could hear her sister's forlorn sonata playing in the distance: that melody of irretrievable loss.

They kissed and whimpered and tried to console one another. At one point, pulled off her feet, she listened to her bracelets chiming softly as she let her arms hang lifeless down his back.

Much time passed. When her eyes finally opened (she was back on earth), he was staring down at her — a long intense gaze.

"What," she whispered.

"Lemme ... just for the record. Y'still like me'n everything, right?"

"Matt! I _love_ you!"

His eyes had fallen to her pink, wrinkled blouse but he seemed to be looking right through her. "Even after all the things — in the letter, the things y'said about — "

" _He_ wrote that!"

"Yeah but — I know, but ... it's ... I really _was_ ... _!_ "

A startling expression had come into his face. He seemed humbled somehow, lost, bewildered. Imogene felt it must be the look of epiphany. Shamed epiphany. It was Saul the bully stammering before the vision of his Lord.

"God I was an asshole!" tumbled out of him at last. He looked as if he was going to cry.

"I know." Despite her awe, Imogene was smiling. "You still are. Frequently." She kissed his shoulder, then chanted as though reciting a children's rhyme: "'And hearts not plump with shame can ne'er be large.'" Her head tipped coyly at him. "Alexander Pope said that, 'case you're int'rested."

He made a who's-he look at her, and Imogene, still smiling, stretched tall to kiss his puzzled lips.

She felt unaccountably strange. There seemed now to be an effervescence in her, a gaiety; she could almost believe she was enjoying this. In some peculiar way she felt to be in command of the situation, which for her, when all alone with Matt, was a rare sensation. (She guessed that much of this new authority derived from having pledged to wench herself to him: after all, aren't bad girls always in charge?)

With much sarcasm, she began to tell of Stanley's visit the night before: how the mouse had walked right in, bold as brass, and dropped his bomb in the middle of her family.

In turn, Matt confessed that, yeah, he had copied her paper in several of his classes that morning, including physics where the kid could easily have seen him. "God, he must a'followed me around 'til I threw it away. I just _gave_ it to him! All the evidence he needs."

"An'my note?" She lowered her voice. "My self-incriminating note? Whad'ja do with that."

There was a sick look on Matt's face. "I finished it at lunch. I threw it all in that ... can by the door. Stupid. _Stupid!_ " A big fist was banging the shelf post.

"No, sweetheart. No. Don't." She grabbed his arms. "We're both to blame. We're getting just what we deserve."

While they spoke, Imogene kept looking at the watch on his wrist, and when there was only sufficient time for her to get cleaned up and hurry down to her fourth hour class, they clutched frantically and kissed for one last time.
Pushing Matt out the door was an agony she could hardly bear. The image of those venetian blinds came to her once more, and on his shirt, on the warm woolen fabric over Matt's heart, she glimpsed how her tears had left a darkened stain. It was a bruise, she thought, a brand, a proxy:

A last and only delegate

To lands now lost to me.

— Herrick

She wept against her shadow on the door.

Soon however, Imogene roused herself, and with the aid of hankies and a mirror from her purse (and haunted still by Stacy's somber elegy), began to mop up the mess on her face. The flood was more extensive than she feared, and she cursed herself for having left so little time to put things right.

But then, while stooping to retrieve the padlock and Stanley's letter, there came a loud thud. She opened the door a crack and peered out.

Matt, with hands fisted, was staring down at a boy in dark corduroys lying doubled up on the floor.

Imogene felt her bowels go loose.

The body lay motionless for many seconds — long, horrifying seconds. Then it rolled over to face the wall.

Matt took a step back and looked at Imogene. His arms went wide, as if to say: 'I hardly touched him!'

In a moment she was standing over the fallen boy. It was Stanley. His glasses were gone and there were bubbles of shiny blood on one nostril. He shut his eyes on sight of her and held his breath. He was trying not to cry.

Imogene turned and slapped her boyfriend's arm. "You idiot!" she squealed.

Matt took another step back, pointing with open hands at the boy on the floor. "God he was — he heard everything!" Charging at his victim, Matt was just barely held back by Imogene's straining against him. "You say anything!" he bellowed. " _Any_ thing, and I'll finish this!"

"Oh would you shut up! Just ... go! Get out of here!" Imogene glanced at the dark doors on the far side of the room. "Right now! Before someone comes!"

She pushed him and was surprised that he stumbled backwards, nearly falling over. He glared at her, then turned and hurried away. A brown lunch sack was lying on the floor and he strode over to give it a kick. Waxed paper and pieces of sandwiches went skidding across the vast floor.

Imogene ran back to Stanley. He was on his side facing the wall of retracted bleachers, his knees drawn up and pressed tightly together, his hands covering his face; he made no sound at all as Imogene stooped over him.

In the distance, Matt banged open one of the gymnasium doors, letting in a flash of light from the big lobby windows, then the gloom returned and Imogene was alone with the boy.

When he moved his hand, she could see huge tears on his face; blood was welling from his nose, a dark pool widening on the varnished floor. The back of his hand was smeared with blood. So _much_ of it! she thought, gazing down at the tiny dark sea. (She saw again her puddle of spilled paint in art class.)

"Are you ..." Imogene had dropped to her knees, shivering. "... sh-should I get the nurse. Is anything broken?"

He made a thick snuffle.

Then she spotted his glasses and hopped up to retrieve them. (While doing so, the bright bulb inside the equipment room caught her eye. It was glaring down on her dropped purse and the wrinkled letter beside it — evidence! — She detoured a moment to throw the door closed.)

Hurrying back with the glasses, she found that Stan had somehow struggled to his feet and was stumbling toward the rear exit of the gymnasium. His hands, both bloodied, were fisted on his face.

With a sudden gladness in her heart (to see even this much movement) Imogene ran to open the door for him.

The vigor of his gait seemed to improve with each stride, and it soon became clear that he had not been seriously injured. Nevertheless, Imogene was quick to take hold of his elbow, and guide him patiently down the narrow brick hallway toward the lavatories.

Feeling a touch of something, she looked down to find a drop of warm blood on her arm, then another; she saw smears of it on her skirt and blouse as well, which, even more than her other woes, produced hisses under her breath. (The pink and plaid outfit was, of course, not her own.)

At the door of the boys' room Stanley shook himself free and rushed within. Imogene hesitated a moment, looking first at the spectacles in her hand, then toward each end of the empty corridor. Drawing a deep breath, she followed him.

Her insides were flopping like dying fish. Each step echoed loudly, and the tiled walls frightened her for their alien color: khaki tan (all the girl biffies were pale green).

Advancing with stretched neck, she was thankful to find only Stanley; he had stopped at one of the bare white sinks where water began squealing from the taps. When he bent down to splash his face, the bowl went pink.

Imogene noted that, despite the loss of blood, his motions seemed well coordinated; he touched gingerly at the bridge of his nose and pressed his palm against the left side of his head where blood was still matted in the short hair.

There was pain in his expression but not so much as to cause real concern; after all, she had often seen boys — in far worse shape — carried off the football field, only to find them back on the bench during second half, laughing and cursing with the others. Although, she reflected, those boys were built like bomb shelters; this was Stanley.

With a tremulous sigh, she laid his glasses on the soap tray. "Stan," she said in a broken voice, but trying to sound firm and rational. "You deserve every bit of this. You know you do."

He was shaking droplets from his hands and she stepped quickly around to yank paper towels from the dispenser. While doing so, she glanced into several corners of the room, verifying that she and Stanley were alone (and tried not to notice the obscene porcelain fixtures gaping at them from the far wall).

"Please!" she wailed suddenly, unfolding the towels and handing them to him. Her voice had lost all pretense of authority. "You _can't!_ It's my whole life, Stan! You just can't!"

His face was buried in the stiff, brown papers.

She watched him for awhile, then laid an unsteady hand on his back. He felt warm, warmer than Matt. "I'll ... I'll do anything, okay?" She pressed firmly against his bony flank to ensure he understood her meaning. "Anything y'want. Just ..." (she swallowed) "... god you can't wreck my whole life!"

Her eyes darted around the room once more (especially at the two stalls with opened doors) making absolutely certain no one else was hearing her say these words. She was not quite able to cry, and there was some discomfort in realizing that her concern was for the ruin of her own life — not Matt's.

Abruptly, Stanley pulled away from her touch and hurried toward one of the dark brown stalls. A steel door banged; a latch clicked.

For many seconds Imogene stood looking down at the empty, bloody bowl; and at the glasses in the flooded soap tray. The black, angular bows were collected against themselves, like the limbs of a drowned spider.

Stanley was silent. No sound came from him at all, not even the rustle of paper towels.

Imogene ran from the room.

Back in the gym she halted a moment, observing that all the overhead lights were now ablaze, and the door to the equipment room was standing wide open. Approaching cautiously, she found Miss Beaver inside.

The teacher had Imogene's purse in one hand and with the other was holding the pages of Stanley's letter, at arm's length, under the light bulb. "What happened here!" she demanded, then pointed at Imogene's blouse. "That yours?"

Imogene looked down at the smear of blood on her front.

The papers were thrust at her. "His?"

Imogene, barely able to look up, nodded.

"Is he okay!"

Imogene nodded again as the advisor let out a breath and returned the letter and purse to her. The tardy bell was ringing.

"Are _you_ okay," Miss Beaver added in a softened voice.

"Yeah."

"I just saw Washburn in the hall. He's white as milk. He beat up this guy or something?"

"Y-yeah, but ..." Imogene was pointing vaguely over her shoulder, "he's okay ... bathroom. Just a bloody nose." She hurried to put away the letter, then, with hands still shaking, gathered up the straps of the little purse. Her eyes were unable to meet those of the teacher.

"You're in a hell of a mess, right?"

Imogene nodded, her face beginning to contort.

The sound of female laughter could be heard chirping in the distance.

Miss Beaver pressed a hand on Imogene's arm. "What do you want me to do."

"Please, just don't tell anyone, okay?"

"Your folks know about it?"

"Yeah." She sniffled.

"An'you'll tell'em about this?" The blood stains were indicated once more"

Imogene nodded.

The chatter of girls was growing louder. Soon a group of them, all clad in kelly green bloomers, banged the big doors open and pattered into the gym. They hushed themselves while coming to a halt outside the equipment room, gazing in at their teacher and the unhappy-looking girl.

Miss Beaver's eyes were still firm. "Need a note for next class?"

"I'm going home!" Imogene sobbed.

"Need a ride?"

Imogene shook her head as the awed sophomores looked on. More were arriving and already a large crowd had formed. Her name was being whispered among them.

A taller, blond-haired girl had also appeared. She was dressed in a gray sweat suit similar to the teacher's (though with fuller, more youthful curves) and seemed to be organizing the students into smaller groups.

Miss Beaver began grabbing nets and knee pads from the shelves and handing them out to her assistant, then paused to give Imogene a squeeze on the shoulder with her big hand. "Call me tonight," she said and turned again to her class. "Balfanz!" she called out, "Six teams!"

Before leaving, Imogene glanced toward the pool of drying blood. It looked smaller now, wrinkled and nearly black. She looked back at Miss Beaver. "There's a — by the bleachers — there's ..."

"I saw it." The teacher was lifting volleyballs, two at a time, from a large cardboard box.

On her way out of the gym (and still under the girls' solemn eyes), Imogene went here and there across the floor picking up the remains of Stanley's lunch bag. (She noted that one of the kids was Valerie, the elder of Matt's snooty sisters. She was gazing at Imogene as well, but, oddly, without her usual teenage disdain.) In the bottom of the sack was a paperback novel, the yellow one with a pensive young lady on the cover. At a trashcan in the lobby Imogene threw away all but the book.

The halls were accusingly empty as she ran to the far end of the building. She passed many open doorways; students in the front rows of their classes turned to stare at her as she sped by.

At her locker she assembled a pile of books in her arms, then dashed for the nearest exit, the strap of her purse and the tails of her folded coat flapping loosely on top; her entire torso shook 'no' with each stride.

Even outside she continued running, through the bright, sunny spring day, through icy puddles, splashing her legs and the pleats of her bloodied skirt. On her arm, the dribbles of drying blood felt cold in the breeze.

Eventually, exhausted, she slowed to an uneven walk, coughing and panting for breath. Squirrels were scampering in pairs around tree trunks, bothering each other with their springtime desires, and into every storm sewer gushed rivers of melted snow: 'The cold uncolored blood of winter's fallen treasures failed.' (Milton.)

After awhile, she stopped altogether and looked down at the brown, sodden grass between her shoes. Deep in her mind her sister's mournful song was playing still. Imogene clutched the books to her bosom, as if they were a dead baby, and cried.
\- XX -

At home, after as long and solitary a walk as that of the morning, Imogene let herself in through the front door and stepped out of her ruined flats; while hanging up her coat she was careful not to glance at the proud portraiture on the walls, the eyes of which, she knew, would be unendurable. From the basement came the muted tattoo of the washing machine pattering through its spin cycle (there was a scent of bleach in the air), and trudging up to her room she was greeted by a cheery sunbeam warming the carpet in front of the window.

Sighing, she set her books on the desk and sank down onto the bare mattress of her bed (this being laundry day, the bedrooms had all been ravaged), then lay back and stared up at the blank white ceiling. Tears — warm, indoor tears: 'nor chilled by wind nor hastened gait' (The Sonnets.) — came into her eyes.

She was tormented now by her girlish weakness in having run home instead of marching herself straight into the principal's office and making a full confession. It was certainly the only option left in mitigating her punishment — and Matt's.

She rationalized, however, that turning herself in could hardly be effective if followed within minutes by Stanley's accusations and evidence — and blood, and tears! And all of this preceded by her weeks of careful deceit!

Moreover (her jaws crushed together on this thought), it might be that Stanley would prove scoundrel enough to accept the vile proposition she had made to him!

Yes, ghastly to think about, but how could she ever prefer the alternative? She was too intelligent not to consider _all_ her resources, and if she required justification, well, she had the wisdom of Sophocles: 'The desperate need not question their deliverance.'

Above all, she wished it were possible to say a prayer, to cry out her shame and guilt, to have hope at least for some kind of forgiveness, for some tolerable end to this misery.

Her head swayed with sadness a moment, recalling that faith-happy child she once had been. How she could, with perfect confidence, pray for every silly thing imaginable (though rarely with success).

Then it occurred to her that, possibly, she was a believer still, for it seemed now that the impediment to her appeal was not that she thought it pointless or foolish, but merely that coming from _her_ , knee-deep in the blackness of her sins — and fresh from having offered herself to every _boy_ she wants something from! — coming from her, any plea must be of the most colossal crust. Therefore (her reasoning went): a God who she felt could be affronted was surely a God not absent from her heart.

This thought, like an armload of dryer-hot cottons, filled her with a sudden, luxuriant warmth. Yet her tears would not stop. Never in her life had she been in so much trouble. She gazed at the mess of it in awe, as though it were slain bodies lying in the street. (Closing her eyes, she saw, too, the boy in brown shirt and corduroys lying motionless on the floor.)

And probably, thought Imogene, now trying to focus on the sunny furnishings of her room, almost certainly in fact, this was all that was left to her of the life she had known: these few remaining moments before facing the shocked eyes and voices of authority. Never again would she be looked at with _unquestioned_ love. What was it the principal had said? ' ... it's the best part of my job. I'm so proud of you, Geenee!'

She slapped cold hands to her face.

For a moment or two, her little body shuddered silently on the springy matteress. Then she heard softened treading on the stairs. At the approach, her eyes shut themselves more tightly within her wet palms.

But the gentle slippers only padded past the open doorway. (Her mother's rhythmic, dancer's step was unmistakable.) She heard the bathroom light click on; there was shuffling on the tile a moment, and the echo-y humming of a lilting tune, something from the '40s it sounded like.

The damp hands, in sudden ire, fisted themselves on her bosom. She _knows_ I'm going through hell today! Imogene sniffled indignantly.

Soon the mother returned, presumably with a bundle of dirty towels, and the melody became, distinctly for a moment: 'Maria Elena,' (the song Stacy always played for their parents' anniversary). Then the humming faded away down the stairs.

Imogene found that now her tears were all for her mother. The call from Mr Ziskind had obviously not yet come, and this soothing tune, the housewifely chores, these were but the balmy pastures in the path of the storm, 'the nation blithe before Pearl Harbor.' (E. Roosevelt.)

All the way home from school Imogene had been hoping the bad news had preceded her. Now she must suffer this too. How on earth will she bear to hear her mother's shamed apologies?

Imogene raised her knees to the cold mattress cover so that now, lying on her side, the itchy tears could creep a different direction.

Then the phone rang.

Her face crumpled. Imogene sobbed aloud as she heard the slippers downstairs, hurrying across the kitchen floor. The telephone was answered with a soft, inviting, slightly schoolmarmish, "Helleauo?"

Then there was nothing. Imogene held her breath, but the mother's long-delayed reply was inaudible except for its tone of cautious surprise.

Out of air, Imogene gasped another lungful and continued to cry softly to herself.

A moment later, the mother's head tipped in through the doorway.

"Geenee! What's wrong! Are you sick?" Mrs Urich ran to her daughter and placed a hand on Imogene's forehead, then caught her breath at the smears of blood.

"I'm all right," Imogene mumbled, rolling over to face the wall.

"Oh, sweetheart! That boy called, Stan. He's looking all over for you. What's wrong! What's happened!"

Imogene was paused by the mention of Stanley's name, then let her face swarm with renewed sorrow. "It's all over!" she cried, muffling her voice in the mattress cover.

"What. What's all over."

"Everything!"

The mother stood motionless over her daughter, silently. Even fearfully, thought Imogene, for words like 'everything,' when uttered by so academic a child, were often more true to their meaning than if spoken by a normal teenager, and perhaps it was not right to so frighten a parent.

True, Imogene herself was scared out of her wits, but she felt a lack of merit somehow in allowing those, who were only too ready to sacrifice themselves, to fear the worst. Besides, Imogene was discovering that under such close scrutiny it was not an easy thing to wail with conviction.

She sat up and sniffled against her knuckles. "He saw me talkin't'Matt ... Matt hit him! It's all over!"

Mrs Urich, not noticeably surprised, looked closely at her daughter, then pinched at a spot of dried blood on Imogene's blouse. "This is Stan's then, I take it?"

Imogene nodded, pushing a palm across her flooded cheek. "Bloody nose," she mumbled.

The mother sighed and sat down beside her daughter. "Well — on the phone just now? — he didn't sound as if he was hurting. But ... well shame on you."

The reprimand seemed to contain only a hint of disappointment.

Imogene sniffled again. "He was calling from the principal's office, right?"

"I don't think so. There were kids laughing in the background. I assumed he was at a pay phone somewhere. Isn't there one where the buses — ?"

"He's on his way to Ziskind! He just wants to drag me along."

Imogene collapsed into sobs once more, though she had to admit her tears were clearly forced now.

A moment's reflection revealed the cause. In the back of her mind, far back, not daring to be acknowledged, was still a tiny, spiteful hope, spoiling the purity of her sorrow: that Stanley might, indeed, be considering her filthy offer.

She sniffled again, then glanced up to see her mother staring with pursed lips at the trio of fabric owls that was framed and hanging on the wall beside the window. (The three abstract birds were a collage fashioned from scraps suggesting different personalities: solemn, sensible, silly. On the back, where no one ever looked, Imogene had converted the A she had received on it to the A of 'Portrait of the Artist as a Young Cluck.')

"Dear," said Mrs Urich, "I don't think he's going to hurt you. His voice was more ... he didn't sound mad." She tipped her head confidentially. "If you want to know, I think he was just worried about you. He was looking for you and he couldn't find you. He sounded scared, sweetheart."

The sobbing had stopped. "Whad'e want."

"Well, he wouldn't say, but, really, I'm sure he's concerned about you. I can't believe he's going to do anything mean." Mrs Urich smiled at her daughter. "And I found something out today. I'm _sure_ he's not a bad boy."

"What."

"No. You first. Tell me what happened. Everything." She patted her daughter's hand. "Go on."

Imogene dropped her eyes, and between small stutters of residual grief she related all that could safely be told. It pleased her to give details concerning Matt — including his nearly tearful remorse — but the bulk of her story was necessarily vague. In particular, she avoided any mention of the intimate words between herself and Matt, or of the true extent of his violence. She also said nothing of her sojourn with Stanley in the boys' room. While she spoke, her fingernail scraped at a splash of blood on one of her bracelets, as if to focus attention away from her glowing face.

"Well," said the mother when Imogene had finished, "I can't say that I'm awfully proud of you. I can feel though what you're going through. I really can." She hugged her daughter, then changed the subject.

"So guess who called this morning: Stan's mother. She was so perplexed. Apparently — when he got home so late last night? — he mentioned something about having a girlfriend, and I guess he's never had one before, so naturally she was very interested. All he told her was your name, but — I understand you left a message for him a few days ago or something?"

Imogene made twisted lips at the window.

"She called just to introduce herself, then asked if I'd like to stop by sometime for coffee. I fairly _dashed_ over there!" Mrs Urich was smiling broadly now. "We had a little snack while she fed the baby — a darling little boy — and we talked. I told her all about you, and she told me about Stan. Of course I hate telling lies, but — and she wanted so much to know how the two of you became acquainted — I was making up things left and right! I was so ashamed of myself!"

After a click of her tongue, the mother smiled once more. "But it was really a delight to hear about Stan — and to talk about you. How I _love_ talking about you! I'm not sure which of us was more impressed. We each said, 'Oh really!' about a hundred times. Did you know Stan's going to MIT? You know, the big engineering school? In Boston? She said it's been his dream for years now, but it broke his heart when they turned him down for a scholarship." With significance the mother added, "He _so_ wanted not to be a burden on his family."

Imogene looked down at the carpet.

"She said — when the letter came? — she said he was so hurt she let him stay home from school a whole day, just to mope around and kick the baseboards." Mrs Urich was raising a lock of hair from her daughter's brow. "Sound familiar? Anyway, that's where he's going. She said they'll find the money somewhere. I think they must be on a pretty tight budget though. Their oldest boy is already at Saint Olaf, and they've just had their kitchen redone. Oh it's just gorgeous! I was absolutely green with envy!" The mother paused a moment to smile at her daughter. "We looked on a map to see how close the two of you will be in college next year."

"Mom!"

Mrs Urich sighed. "Forgive me sweetie, but I told her every bad little thing I could think of about you. Except this cheating business of course. It wasn't easy. The biggest thing is that silly traffic ticket. The rest is hardly — of course I had to make it _seem_ as though you have a bad side, so, you know, she'd tell me the worst thing _he's_ ever done."

Mrs Urich made a sad sound with her tongue. "She said he ran away from home once, when he was fifteen. Just ... took off one day, without a word. The police were even out looking for him. He was gone for a day and a night. Completely gone. Then he suddenly showed up as if nothing had happened, except he was covered in dirt. Apparently, he'd spent the night in the woods or somewhere. She started to cry telling me about it. I think she believes he had gone somewhere ... to take his own life."

Mrs Urich sniffled and rested her cheek on Imogene's hair. "Can you imagine? Just ... went away and never even gave her a _chance_ to help him with his troubles."

"I'm so sure she'd tell you that," said Imogene, running the back of her hand under her nose.

"She hesitated ... at first, but — oh, she's so warm and trusting! I liked her from the very first moment. So would you! I was actually glad I didn't have to tell her what Stan's really up to. It would break her heart. But ... we were talking along, and then ... it just all came out. Me too. I told her how quiet Danny gets sometimes. I asked her what I should do and all she could say was ... 'just love'em to pieces.'" Mrs Urich sniffled again. "Now I ask you! If Stan comes from a home like that, how could he ever be the least bit mean. To anyone."

Imogene's pout was unmoved. "That's all he's ever done?"

"Yes, I think so. She says he's different now, happier and helpful around the house. But he never talks about things, important things, so she just ... she never knows for sure what he's up to. Good or bad. 'You never know about your kids,' That's one of the things she said. You just never know about your kids. And that's so true."

The cat had wandered in while they were talking. He sniffed daintily at the blanket hems lying on the carpet, then hopped onto the warm window sill and settled down to watch the little flitting things outside.

Mrs Urich went on, "I was in awe of her. Just think. She has _five_ kids, one in college, one in diapers, and they're all hers. Two decades' worth. My kids, two years." She laughed. "Like Grampa says: 'I felt like spit in a bucket!'"

The mother sighed once more. "Poor woman. I guess she's been in and out of bed ever since the baby was born, and Stan she says is right there every minute to help with the kids. He likes it and they just adore him. Geenee, he _can't_ be a bad boy! Deep down he just can't."

Imogene received her mother's hug somewhat less stiffly than before.

"And she was so thrilled to hear he has a girlfriend. I showed her your picture and she could not get over it. 'She's so pretty!' she said. Over and over! 'She's so _pretty!_ ' Oh and she loves your voice on the phone!" With wet eyes Mrs Urich was beaming at her daughter. "I agreed one hundred percent of course, but I couldn't help thinking: She's going to be so disappointed when she finds out the truth. I hope — when the time comes, dear? — I hope you can make yourself tell her a little fib or something? So she won't be left so blue. Please?"

Imogene smirked. "It's already too late. She'll hear all about it from Mr Ziskind! He's gonna call her at _some_ point, right?"

"That's just what I mean! How could Stan possibly do that. He'd get _himself_ into so much trouble. If he came from a house full of hate, yes. But he doesn't. And he knows if any real harm comes to you, we'll call the police. Dad made that very clear. What he's doing must be against the law. He has a wonderful future ahead of him. He's not going to risk losing that."

"He doesn't care about losing his _life_ , apparently!"

"Oh that was so long ago now. He's no more like that than ... than you're still a speedster."

Imogene shook her mother's arm from her shoulder.

"And, my goodness, do you know where they live? Way up in Morningside — nearly five miles from here according to the car thing! — and he doesn't have his license yet. He _walked_ all that way last night — and back — just to talk with us. That's not criminal behavior." She looked at her daughter. "You know what it is, don't you?"

"No." Imogene glanced back, cautiously.

"All your A's and you really don't know?"

Imogene looked down.

"Sweetheart, I think he's in love with you."

"Mom!"

Mrs Urich patted her daughter's back. "No more crying now all right? If he's done the bad thing; he's done it, and we'll just have to carry on from there. My goodness, it's not the end of the world. We'll just have to wait and see what happens. And dear, I just know he's a good boy. I just know it."

The tears had, in fact, come to an end, and Imogene allowed another large hug.

"You get all cleaned up now." The mother was smiling as she arose. "Maybe you should try for a little nap too; we were stumbling around for hours last night." From the stairway she called back: "I'll bring your undies up when the dryer beeps."
\- XXI -

Soon, Imogene was in the bathroom, undressed and kneeling beside the tub's howling faucet. Her blouse and skirt were soaking in the vanity; she doubted the blood would ever come out. Even the stubborn drops on her arm made her wince as she tugged crusty bits of them from around the downy nap of hair near her elbow. (Hair that — she hated the reminder — had become gorilla dark against her late-winter paleness.)

A sigh escaped her. She had never had someone else's blood on her before (she kept thinking of Lady Macbeth), and it was a compelling fascination that these unsightly smears had, only that morning, been pulsing through the very heart of another human being. They were the incredibly intimate property of someone else, and a boy at that.

Back in eighth grade, she recalled, her science teacher had a human skull on display, and Imogene could hardly make herself look at it, knowing that it must have come from inside an actual person. Someone had died giving it up — who knows how long ago — and now it was being gawked at by kids in glasses and new shoes and training bras.

Occasionally, Miss Scanlan would hold it up to the class to demonstrate how the jaw was hinged or to point out the tiny ear holes. She referred to it as 'Rufus T. Bonehead,' and her students giggled to feel the bumps of their own crania. But Imogene could only sense in this the shame of a great trespass.

She thought of the poor man or woman (the teacher could not tell which) who had used to inhabit that private and very intricate space:
The dreams that dwelt in this hollowness!

The lips these vanished lips kissed!

— Keats.

And now, rubbing between her fingers the crumbs of dried blood, Imogene felt no less guilty. It was as if she were reading someone's diary without permission, or gazing into eyes that did not know the thrill they were causing.

The door burst open.

Imogene spun away from the sound, crouching even lower, and slapped arms around herself.

"Mo- _ther!_ "

"Didn't you hear me yelling?" Mrs Urich strode in and shut off the tub faucet. "It's Stan. He's on the phone again. He wants to talk to you."

Imogene stood up, still clutching herself, and scowled over her shoulder.

"He's at home now. He left early too." Mrs Urich spanked her hands together. "Come-on-come-on! Don't keep him waiting."

"Well ... just go away'n close the door!"

A few moments later, robed and in the kitchen, Imogene accepted the phone from her mother and sat down in the chair offered to her, resting one tiny white foot upon the other, her free hand clutching the lapels of the lavender robe.

"Hello? Stan?"

"Hi," he answered. His voice sounded stuffy, as if he had a head cold.

"Well whad'ya want."

"Are you okay? Why're y'home?"

"Why do you _think_ I'm home! You're about to wreck my whole life!"

"Sh, sh, sh!" her mother scolded from the kitchen table.

"Y'broke your word," he said.

"I know. And if you _do_ anything my folks'll slap you in jail so quick! They will!"

He made no reply.

Holding her breath a moment, Imogene cautioned herself to settle down; belligerence could only make things worse — and since when did _she_ ever have a temper?

It puzzled her in fact that she was so eager to take the offensive against Stanley; always, in every contention, apology was her first and only line of defense, profuse, abject apology. Even if she was not the one at fault. Yet something in this particular young man seemed somehow to foil her inherent charity, as if she saw in him a wild, mindless thing toward whom all civility would be useless.

Then a deeper thought occurred to her: Perhaps her anger was so unreasonable merely from knowing how stupid was her crime! (And she saw it again: Stanley bleeding on the floor — helpless, trying not to cry ... )

She spoke softly: "That why y'called? Y'already told him? Ziskind."

"No, not yet." The sound of a squabbling baby had come into the background, and Stanley's voice fell to a whisper. "Y'wanna'nother chance?"

Her heart rocked. "W-whad'ya mean."

"I'll give y'another chance but ... y'gotta do more stuff."

Now her heart was turning to ice. "What," she asked, flatly.

"You said _anything_."

Imogene had raised her eyes to the row of red cookie cans on the counter. Prickles of fright were lifting the hairs on her arms and scalp.

He spoke again, a trace of impatience in his voice. "D'ya wanna'nother chance or not."

Imogene could say nothing. Her jaw trembled.

Deep inside the phone the baby noises were coming closer, and Stanley hurried to add, "I'll see y'tonight. Five-thirty." Then the phone clicked.

As Imogene stood up to replace the receiver, she rubbed the heel of her hand over her chest where a riot of chemicals was making her heart ache. It felt just like the suffocating feeling that, as a toddler, would fill her bosom whenever she was being exceptionally good.

Across the room, Mrs Urich sat upright. (She had been bowed at the kitchen table, her hands clasped prayerfully against her forehead.) "What did he say."

Imogene looked again at the cookie cans and yanked the belt of her robe. "He's comin'for supper. Says he'll give me another chance."

"Oh ... I just _knew_ , sweetheart! I just knew."

The daughter quietly left the room.

For nearly an hour after that, Imogene sat in the tub, shivering in the clear, scalding water; then, later, clipping fresh rollers into her hair, she stood and sighed at the long, slack countenance in the mirror, seeing only that beat-up boy, that bloody bowl. And that word, that word of sin and savior both:
Anything!

Later still, she climbed onto her newly made bed, under the cap of her dryer, and glared down at her pink, pruney fingers — the ring now defiantly on her _left_ hand — and at the dress she had selected to wear for Stanley's visit: the ugly, all-white thing she kept in the back of her closet, the one Mary Helen had once said made her look like spilled milk.

She took her time in getting dressed, lazily removing the curlers and combing out her waves. She stopped frequently to sigh at whatever garment was in her hands, and when fully attired sat at her desk, listening to the silence of the sibling-less house. She gazed at the doodled owls on her blotter, at their silly, inky antics and their huge, all-seeing eyes, eyes filled with a kind of comic wisdom, a maturity somehow too heavy for their sketchy feathers and twig-like legs. Shaking her head, she continued to sigh.

After awhile, the cat strolled in, hopped up onto the bed, and settled himself on the warm blanket folds abandoned by his mistress. Soon his eyes were closed.

With great effort, Imogene unsnapped from her notebook the rough draft of her graduation speech and forced herself to begin another read-through of the text. But soon, without intending to, she found that she was revising it. Her lips had parted themselves and her hands acquired a clumsy, almost comical flutter as apt phrases kept occurring to her, or, as it seemed, she was discovering them lying open and unguarded in a darkened room.

Breathlessly, like a burglar with a bag, she grabbed up these glittering gems and stuffed them, one after another, into the margins of her text.

Why — _now_ of all times! — her head should be so fertile greatly puzzled Imogene, but she was nonetheless eager to exploit the sudden nimbleness of her mind: crossing out lines, scribbling in new ones, deepening her theme overall. There was an actual stinging in her veins when, after an hour or so, she sat back and reread the second to the last paragraph.

All her sighing had ceased.

The phone rang several times that afternoon. Her waves swayed slowly side to side to hear the mother repeating: "Oh she's fine. Just lying down for a bit. I'm sure she'll tell you all about it tomorrow."

When her brother and sister came home they thundered up the stairs, scaring the cat away, and demanded details of her adventure. They had learned from their mother that something extraordinary had happened at school and were impatient to receive the news first-hand.

Fairly composed now, Imogene recounted her ordeal with much animation, while Stacy sat big-eyed on the edge of the bed, twisting an owl's ear, and Dan, sock footed, was lying full length beside her, tossing his basketball into the air so that it would just miss hitting the ceiling.

Imogene turned not nearly so red this time in describing Matt as more hurt and less brutal than he had actually been. Her brother grinned with relish, but Stacy was far from satisfied, particularly with the glossed-over episode inside the equipment room. "Just _one_ kiss? I'm so _sure!_ "

Imogene hurried on. "And the last thing — the very last thing I said was, 'Get out of here!'" Her head tilted earnestly. "It breaks my _heart_ to remember that!"

The brother sat up straight. "But how'd he — that guy — how'd he _know_ you'd be in that little room."

"That's what _I'd_ like to know!" Imogene slapped down her pen. "I took every d ... precaution! The guy's a _creep!_ "

Their father joined them when he also came home. All three listeners sat close together on the edge of her bed, the father in the middle, smiling, with his head switching side to side as the twins blurted out all the sensational details. He was clearly intrigued, even chuckling to congratulate Imogene on her clever daring and cool-headed actions. "Double-o-seven's got nothin'on you!"

But after the twins had departed (sullenly, for they were once again forbidden to call their friends with the news) Mr Urich pointed out to his daughter that she had, after all, not acted in good faith, even worse (he smiled) "Y'got caught."

Then he told her of his call to the lawyer that day and related the various legal actions which could be taken against Stanley (and his parents) if the need should arise. The father added, however, that any lawsuit would be expensive and probably do only further damage to her reputation, even if they won, which, the attorney had emphasized, was not certain. The girl, he had said, did commit a crime, and laws were designed to protect only the innocent. Most judges, he felt, would throw the case right out of court.

Smiling again, the father patted her knee. "Mom says he's giving you a second chance? Let's play it straight with him from now on. Okay?"

Imogene nodded.

He gazed at her a moment, tenderly, then added: "Yeah, it'll be a nuisance'n all that, next few weeks, but ... when it's over? It's over. No real damage." He smiled as he rose to leave. "Maybe even a good lesson learned ... for all of us."

Alone once more, Imogene was left with her speech and her ring, her white dress and her white, trembling hands.

And 'Anything!'

The black cat returned and stepped gingerly among the papers on the messy desk, begging for attention. She pulled him to herself and wept quietly into the warm, palpitating fur.
\- XXII -

As five-thirty approached, there was much activity in the dining room. A leaf had been placed in the table and the dark mahogany draped with a pale aqua cloth. Coming downstairs, Imogene sighed at the array of gleaming plates. " _Why_ are we using the good china?"

The mother glanced up from placing the butter dish and smiled. "We're ready for the silverware, dear," then, smiling, added, "Oh, you're just _lovely!_ "

Stacy was bending over the table as well, a stack of linen napkins craddled on one arm. She too looked up, but giggling. "Snow White know you got her dress?"

"Shut up."

The father had just brought in a chair from the kitchen, and Stacy began muttering to him in German. (Far from fluent in her sister's language, Imogene could only piece together: 'Always a bride but never a ... !') And the father laughed.

Stacy was also wearing a party dress, a flouncy little something that was far too short and crazy-plaid for school. A pair of discordantly striped calf-high stockings completed her ensemble. Imogene stood shaking her head, and even the cat seemed reluctant to approach such chaos.

"Silverware!" the mother was pointing at the sideboard. "The English ones."

Languidly, like a prisoner, Imogene knelt down at the small cabinet and counted out awkward fistfuls of the heavy utensils, then, 'with sighs aplenty' (Housman.), laid them side by side their plates. While doing so, she stared down at the grip of her whitened fingers, now barren of all adornment, for her ring, to be safe from Stanley's sight, had been stowed in the small, satin jewelry chest atop her dresser.

The television set was still on, but its cartoons were being watched by no one. Imogene listened vacantly to the noisy slapstick and comic Cold War accents. The doorbell rang just as a sultry voice was inquiring, "But dahlink, vot about mooze and sqvirrel."

The father punched off the set, and his wife, handing her apron to Stacy, hurried to answer the door. After the exchange of a few pleasantries, and the squeaky rattle of unbuckled boots being toed off, Stanley came forward into the light.

"Ohh!" the mother cried, and the cat, bounding from their midst, vanished around a corner.

Everyone stared at the puffy, purple bruise on the left side of Stanley's face. The injury extended from temple to chin and his left eye, behind its spectacle lens, seemed to show no white.

Though Imogene too had caught her breath, she quickly turned back to the tableware, making her own eyes go large with unconcern. Goose bumps, however, had raised the flesh of her arms. (The scene flickered before her once again: the crumpled body on the floor, the tears, the bloody hands ... )

"It's okay," said Stanley, cheerily. A thickness was still in his voice. "My mom gave me one of her super pills. I don't feel a thing."

Imogene, now at place-settings on the far side of the table, looked up as Stanley was removing his jacket; she watched his jaw go square with the effort, and one arm seemed not to work as well as the other. But she reminded herself that all of _his_ agony was deserved! She encouraged the scowl on her face.

Dan was bringing in empty milk glasses. Accusingly, he pointed one of them at their guest: "How'dja even _know_ they'd be in that little room." His sneer was almost congratulatory.

"Yeah," said Stacy, grinning as she snapped the apron ties at their guest. "Got _spies_ all over? What."

"Naw, I just ..." Stanley hopped to one side; he was holding his jacket matador-like in front of himself. "... after each class I'd, y'know ... run up to his locker n'stuff? Checkin'on him?" He glanced over at Imogene. "Lunch time he was headin'for the gym. I just ... followed ..."

Mr Urich approached with a smile, " _You_ , sir, may have a future with the FBI!" then barked a laugh, "With, or against, I don't know!" He held out a hand for Stanley's jacket. "And how'dja explain that shiner. She's a beaut."

Stanley's shoulders went up. "Uhh, I just said, like, I had an accident with my science project? It _is_ kinda dangerous, all the ... y'know, springs'n stuff."

"Well, we're really sorry about this." The father was at the front closet. "If it happened to _me_ , heads'd roll I can tell ya. But — I understand you're givin' Geenee another chance? I think you're a darn good sport." The closet door clicked open, and he disappeared within.

Stanley had dropped his eyes. "There's ... some more things she has to do first."

Imogene looked up sharply, shaking her head, but Stanley did not see her. The father came into view once more; his smile was gone.

"She ..." Stanley turned to the mother. "This morning she said something about washing dishes? Twice a week? Monday'n Thursday?"

Mrs Urich smiled tentatively at her daughter. "Yes, that's right."

Imogene's arms were crossed firmly over the bodice of her bright white frock, the silverware clutched like thunderbolts in each hand.

Stanley shrugged and looked down at his black socks, pigeon-toed below his pant cuffs (woolen slacks, he had finally changed his corduroys). "She hasta ... let me come over _both_ nights, each week. For dinner. An' ... t'help with the dishes?" He glanced up at the mother again, "If that's okay."

The parents made widened eyes at each other across the room. "Yes," said Mrs Urich, "I'm sure that will be all right. Geenee?" A much brighter smile was directed at her daughter.

The look of anger on Imogene's face had dimmed only slightly. Her narrowed, dark eyes were forbidding Stanley to say another word.

Dan came forward, a basketball tucked under one arm. "That's all?" he said with disdain.

Stanley was shaking his head at the carpet. "Instead of, y'know, lasting all the way to graduation? May twentieth'll be the last day. It's a Thursday."

A look of surprise had come into everyone's face.

"That's 'cuz, y'know," Stanley turned toward Imogene, "the prom's gonna be that weekend, an' ... it'd be kind a'mean to make y'miss it. Y'prob'ly already bought a — "

"She can go with _Matt?_ " cried Stacy.

"Yeah, but ... un _til_ then she has to keep away. No more talkin' to him or anything." His voice had firmed to say this.

Mr Urich, smiling again, clapped a big hand on the boy's shoulder. "We _like_ doing business with you, young man!"

"Yes! I should say!" declared the mother. She had taken back her apron and was retying it on her way out of the room. "Girls, see about our drinks, won't you? Make yourself at home, Stan. Supper will be ready in just a few minutes." She disappeared into the kitchen.

"Um ... there's one more thing." Still turned toward the father, Stanley was unfolding a small rectangle of paper he had pulled from a back pocket. "You won't like it very much."

Imogene gazed starkly at the paper and at the boy's reddening face. But before anything could be said the father ushered Stanley to one of the chairs and had him sit down.

Dropping the forks with a clatter, Imogene reached across the table to make a grab for the paper, but Stanley snapped it away, then handed it to the father. "She has to sign that ... sir."

"Jee-eez!" laughed Dan. "Another letter?"

"What is _with_ this guy!" Stacy's outstretched fingers were shaking at the ceiling.

Pulling out the chair at the end of the table, Mr Urich sat down with the paper, and the twins hurried to look over his shoulder.

All became hushed as the three of them stared at the wrinkled document; the only sounds were kettle noises coming from the kitchen and the mother's reminder, "Girls, are you getting the milk?"

Stanley, with head bowed shamefully, was sitting a short distance from the table, hands in his lap; patches of pale fright had speckled his blush, and his bruise seemed to have become a dark cavity.

Imogene continued to stare down at him (the remaining silverware now fisted on one hip). She, too, felt herself going pale and dared not look toward her father.

Stacy, still gazing at the paper, began to bark: "Wha — ! Wha — !" She had a shocked look on her face. "How _sick_ is this!" Dan's mouth was hanging open as well.

At the outburst, Stanley cringed even lower in his chair.

The father was spluttering, "What's ... this is ..." Then his eyes came to brutal focus on Stanley. "She's seven _teen!_ "

The room went silent.

Imogene saw that Stanley, large parts of him, had turned cadaverously white; his head was sunk into his shoulders as if caught in a sudden downpour.

Imogene was no less terrified. The father's eyes, now sweeping up and down her pure white dress, were black with intensity. "You _knew_ about this?" he demanded, shaking the paper at her.

Though trembling, Imogene forced a look of brave acceptance on her face, then, rudely, made no reply at all as she dropped the knives and spoons on the tablecloth and hurried toward the kitchen.

Still shaking the paper, Mr Urich turned once more to Stanley. "You think you can come in here'n just ... just — !"

"Mom!" Stacy yelled. "Mom, c'mere! Y'gotta see this!"

Imogene halted as her mother, straight-lipped and wiping hands in her apron, strode by.

Once inside the kitchen, the daughter paused to steady herself against the countertop and take a few very deep breaths. (The air was heavy with the scent of roast lamb.)

Imogene looked down at the chunk of glistening meat, bound with twisted cord and speared to the grease-slotted carving rack. Serrated knives and the long, two-tined fork, all unsheathed and gleaming, were at the ready:
Hack me, chap me!

Limb me, lop me!

My _heart_ I leave not here!

— Marlowe.

With a long sigh Imogene rummaged in the drawer under the telephone, searching for a ball-point pen.

Back in the living room, all was quiet. It was the silence of held breaths. Imogene found her mother staring at Stanley's paper, gripped tightly between her fists, while all the others, eyes awide, were glancing back and forth between their guest and the look on the mother's face.

"Oh ... Stan!" said Mrs Urich, dropping one arm and looking down at the boy with a teacher's disappointment. "You can't mean this! This is ..."

Imogene grabbed the paper from her mother's hand, clicked the pen and leaned over the table to make her signature. She heard faint gasps from the others.

The paper was not a letter. It was typed and official looking; she decided to read it first:
CONTRACT

I, Imogene Willis Urich, in compensation for the promise made by Stanley Alan Ratt to never, in our lifetime, divulge to anyone any damaging knowledge of my past behavior, do hereby agree, on a date of my choosing, but within three months of my college graduation, to solemnly and with full spiritual and social commitment become his lawful wife, to perform all duties and honor all responsibilities attendant thereto with courtesy, decency and respect, and to continue so for as long as we both shall live.

In the presence of the undersigned witnesses and on my personal honor and on my honor as valedictorian, I swear to keep the terms of this agreement to the best of my ability.

Signed and Attested to

This Twentieth Day of May

1965

_____________________

(Signature)

In Witness Whereof:

_____________________

(Father)

_____________________

(Mother)

_____________________

(Sister)

_____________________

(Brother)

Imogene felt bloodless by the time she finished reading. She dropped the pen onto one of the polished plates.

Stacy was smirking. "I knew she wouldn't sign it. I'm so sure!"

"Um, no," said Stanley, looking up. "Not 'til May twentieth. She can think about it 'til then."

Dan laughed. "She can think about it 'til _doomsday_ , she'll never sign it!"

"Kids! Sh!" said their mother. "This is serious." She turned to Stanley. "Or is it ... just something — "

"No ma'am. I really mean it." Stanley's blush was beginning to return.

Mr Urich cleared his throat. "All right. This is still blackmail. You _don't_ go around forcing people to get married. Even if she was old enough, she couldn't — "

"No, Dad!" said Stacy. " _College_ graduation. Like four years from now or something."

"Give it to me." The father pointed at Stanley's contract.

Imogene, who was reading it for a third time, sighed deeply and passed it down to him.

They all watched as he huddled himself once more over the paper. All except Stanley who was sitting stooped in his chair, primly, but with fingers wedged between his knees as though shivering with cold.

"An'if she doesn't sign it?" asked Dan.

"I tell on her."

"Oh ... Stan." The mother's voice whimpered in the quiet room. "I don't suppose your parents know a thing about this."

Stanley shook his head.

"This is so — " Mrs Urich turned and hurried back toward the kitchen, adding over her shoulder, "Geenee, don't sign anything 'til we talk about this."

"I'm so sure!" Stacy giggled, twirling her plaid skirt as she pulled out the chair next to Stanley and sat down; she grinned at his scarlet ear. Her brother was lounging on the couch and made the basketball spin on an index finger. He too was smiling.

With another heavy sigh, Imogene finished placing the silverware then made her way around the table to seat herself opposite Stanley. She crossed her arms on the table, letting her gaze rest on the boy's uncomfortable form. The look in her eyes, however, was more of resignation than anger.

Stanley glanced up at her. His bruise seemed to crinkle as he made an impudent smile. "Whad'ja think it said. You were gonna sign it."

"Yeah, what," said Stacy.

Imogene maintained her eyes on Stanley. (He had already looked down again.) Contemptuously, she said nothing at all.

The father slapped the paper on the table. "Well ... this's just crazy! All she did was cheat a little. Everyone cheats. Y'can't expect her to give up her whole life just for that!"

Stanley was staring at his knees. "She said she'd do anything."

"Anything _reasonable!_ " Imogene lunged at him.

Stanley looked up with his strange, ugly smile. "Like what."

The others stilled to hear her answer.

Imogene felt herself turning pink; she sat back and looked down to brush the white skirt.

Pulling his chair closer to the table, Stanley addressed her with unexpected ease and clarity, as though his words had been rehearsed. "It's the worst thing I can do," he said. "To hurt Washburn, I mean, now that he knows what's goin'on'n stuff. I guess it hurts you too, but ... I don't care."

"Christ!" the father muttered, pushing several plates out of the way. "There's something wrong with you."

"No shit!" laughed his son from the couch as he lofted the basketball toward the ceiling.

The mother was standing at the kitchen doorway and snapped her fingers at him. Dan immediately ducked his head and placed the ball beside his hip. An impish grin remained.

Mr Urich returned the contract to Stanley. "And don't expect this to be legally binding. _Any_ thing signed under force — it's null'n void!"

"Yes sir, I know that," Stanley reached out to place the contract before Imogene. "But if she signs her name — an'all of you? — I think she'll feel like, y'know, like she _has_ to go through with it. Even though there's no law says she has to. It's just ... the way she is. I think."

Imogene looked up toward her mother, but the doorway was empty now.

"Pretty mean trick," said Stacy, crossing her legs and tugging the skirt's bright orange and yellows over her knee; she was no longer smiling. "Takin'vantage of'er ... conscience. Her honesty'n that."

Stanley was nodding at the contract lying creased and contorted on the pale tablecloth. He mumbled a Latin phrase which Imogene quickly understood as:

Those most good are punished most.

Instinctively, she tried to think which of the many Romans they studied had said this. Her blush deepened as she continued to draw a blank. Everyone was looking toward her for a translation, but none was offered; she endeavored to make her frown one of scorn rather than ignorance.

In a brighter voice, Stanley asked, "Started your speech yet? For graduation?"

Imogene stared at him.

"You _are_ doin'one, right? That's what I heard."

"What about it."

"I'd ..." he shrugged, "like to see it. What y'got so far."

"Well you're not."

He nodded and looked down at his knees.

Mrs Urich appeared at the doorway again, this time with an oven mitt on one hand. "Sweetie, go get it." She tipped her head to one side with significance. "Go."

Imogene sighed as she stood up. She was in no hurry to climb the stairs to her room, but by the time she arrived her movements had quickened, and she trotted back down with the stapled pages gripped in one hand. In her other hand was Stanley's yellow paperback which she dropped on the table in passing, much to the young man's surprise.

Imogene positioned herself at the far end of the room so that all could face her as she spoke. Her fingers, a little nervously, pulled at the sides of her dress, and her white anklet socks rubbed themselves back and forth on the carpet as if she had an itch; she cleared her throat.

"Just a minute," the mother called from the kitchen. "Wait'll I stop banging." Oven doors were squeaking open and closed; pots were dropped on breadboards. "All right, dear."

Imogene took a deep breath and let it out, then read the title: "The Challenge of Coming to an End." She cleared her throat once more before going on.

While she spoke, Stanley leaned forward and laid one sleeved forearm on the other. (He was wearing a new and apparently stylish shirt, the kind with a little loop between the shoulder blades.) He gazed at her.

Imogene found it was difficult to look back at him; this was, after all, the first time she had practiced saying her speech aloud, to anyone, and the vivid colors of his wound made him disturbingly clownish. Nevertheless, after several sentences, she detected Stanley's head tipping gently to one side, as if pleased.

Stacy was glancing with bright-eyed interest between her sister and the young man. The father, however, at the end of the table, and his son on the couch, were more subdued.

Imogene herself stood erect, holding one arm against the white skirt to hush her bracelets, and read with scholarly diction the much edited text. (Consciously, she tried not to let the pitch of her voice get too high, as was generally the case when speaking formally.)

Nearing the end, she allowed her tone to soften, and when she reached the second to the last paragraph, phrasing the lyrical passages it contained, Stanley's eyes seemed to close cat-like behind their thick lenses.

The mother had stationed herself beside the kitchen door; her face was tight, as if to suppress tears.

When Imogene finished, everyone applauded except Stanley who held out his hands for the papers she had read from. Receiving them, he turned to the last page and bent closely over it. Imogene sat down and watched him reading the second to the last paragraph. They all watched him.

As the papers were returned to her, Imogene exhaled pointedly, " _Now_ , I suppose you're gonna make some really dumb joke about me and Mary Queen of Scots? Well, don't bother."

"Whad'ya mean."

Her eyes burned into him. "Did you even _read_ my other paper? The one you fished out of the trash can!"

He still seemed baffled, glancing in several directions. "The one Washburn was copyin'?" He looked down suddenly at the little yellow book in his hands. "I ... never actually saw it."

Everyone moved closer.

"All I saw," he shrugged, fiddling with the book and turning a deep red, "one day he was copyin' something in class, a big long paper. An'that same day you were ... diff'rent. Actin'really nervous'n stuff? I just ... guessed."

"Aw jeez!" groaned Dan, half-laughing, as he headed back to the couch.

Stacy made a smack sound with her tongue. "So ... y'don't have any, like, evidence or anything? At all?"

"Well, I do now." Stanley looked up. "Since she's, y'know ... sorta confessed."

"In other words," said the father, "it's just your word against hers."

"Yes sir. But ..." the boy dropped his eyes again, "I don't think she could lie to the principal."

"I should hope _not!_ " said the mother, appearing once more at the kitchen doorway. "Girls, come give me a hand — and where are the drinks!"

They all got up and moved around. Stanley made a brief thank you to Imogene for the return of his paperback (to which she made no reply), and he left a moment to put the book in the pocket of his jacket.

Room was made on the table for the steaming bowls and platters; Stanley was given a seat next to Dan on one side, with Imogene and her sister across from them, the father remained on the end. No one spoke, but there was much shaking of heads.

Soon, the kitchen light was snapped off and Mrs Urich, again without apron, sat down at her end of the table. After placing a napkin in her lap, she craned her neck. "Do you say grace at your house, Stan?"

"The kids do."

"Would you ... like to say a prayer for us tonight?"

He stilled. "I ... I only know 'Come Lord Jesus.'"

"That's fine." Mrs Urich bowed her head and closed her eyes. One by one the others did too, except Imogene who kept watch on Stanley.

He cleared his throat and touched his nose with the back of his hand, then, crouched and mumbling, hurried through the simple prayer, giving the words little expression.

"Thank you dear," said the mother when he had finished. (It was the same phrase she used with her own children.)

The table became hushed. Dishes were passed around. Meat was put on plates and sliced and chewed. Milk was sipped.

Frequently, Imogene glanced at Stanley who was seated directly across from her. He looked at nothing but his fork and his food, and took portions from every dish passed to him. It seemed, however, that he chewed with only one side of his mouth.

After awhile Stacy leaned toward him and asked, "What if, y'know, she signs that thing an'then, four years from now? She just tells ya to get lost. I mean," (her palms were up) "she'll be completely outa school by then. Who _cares_ if she ever cheated on anything! What'll they do, take away her diploma or something? I'm really sure!"

Stanley had looked up at Imogene. There was a kind of bravery in his eyes. "Could y'do that, d'ya think? Sign it, an'then break your word?"

She made no response and Stanley went on, "I'm pretty sure y'couldn't." He was looking down at his plate. "If y' _could_ — if you were that kind'a person — I think I'd be glad I wasn't stuck with ya."

Looking around, Imogene saw that her mother was smiling at their guest, her head tilted tenderly to one side. The father, too, seemed to have forgotten his anger.

Imogene had not; she inhaled deeply. "I've already _proved_ I don't keep my word!"

"Well ... yeah," Stanley was poking at his carrot chunks. "Today everything happened really fast." He glanced up at her. "But if y'got, like, four long years to think about it?" He shrugged, now staring down at her whitened fist on the tablecloth. "That's diff'rent. I mean, you'll read lots'a books in college, write papers'n stuff — 'bout really important stuff — an'all the time, y'know, in the back a'your mind? You'll be thinkin'about ... that." He nodded at the contract (folded once more into a small rectangle and lying beside the butter dish). "In the end, I think ... livin'with me an'keeping your word'll be, y'know, easier'n livin'with yourself if y'don't."

He grabbed his glass and took a long drink. His face was scarlet.

From the end of the table the mother was murmuring, "Mmm. Well said."

Imogene slapped down her fork. "But you're all _wrong_ about me! I'm not honest. I'm not ... noble. Y'don't know the first thing about me! All you've seen is the _show_ I put on for everyone! I'm not really like that!"

"Yes she is," giggled Stacy.

"Shut up. I'm petty; I'm conceited. I laugh about people behind their backs, including _you_ — I'd sell myself for an A!" (She too was becoming red-faced.) "I've got all kinds'a terrible faults, idiosyncrasies, everything. I'm only flesh'n blood, okay? I'm not any kind of — an'how're y'gonna support me! I want all the things money can buy, y'know! Can you afford me? Are you even brave enough to go ask someone for a job?"

The parents were reaching out to try to calm their daughter.

Stanley, meanwhile, had set down his drink, but continued to stare at the glass while rotating it with his hand. "You'll prob'ly be earnin'most'a our money. I'd just a'soon stay home with the kids." He seemed to be trying not to smile. "Anyway, that's what all the dinners are for, to see if you're really as nice as I think you are."

The father was chuckling to himself.

"Daddy!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." He patted Imogene's arm. "But this would actually be funny if it wasn't happening to us."

The mother, too, was smiling, as were the twins. Imogene slumped back in her chair and crossed her arms.

The gesture contained a sense of finality, even a threat of tears, and following this a long silence intervened, filled only with the softened clicks of silverware and urgings from the mother for second helpings. Imogene, it was clear, was the only one without an appetite, and this was all the more remarkable for her having missed both breakfast and lunch that day.

Eventually, her siblings began a familiar quarrel about which TV programs they were going to watch, and the father told a joke he had heard at the office. Imogene was being thoroughly ignored, although Stanley would sometimes peek up at her from under the rims of his glasses.

Oddly, these glances were not completely bothersome to Imogene. His eyes — at least the one not wounded, wide and gray like wet granite — gazed back at her as if the boy was genuinely awed to find himself in so unmerited a place: knee to knee with a beautiful girl. (Well ... a girl prettier'n _he_ had any right to hope for!)

Though still blushing, Imogene remained haughtily cross-armed against the back of her chair. But in time the young man's mute flattery — and her hunger — got the better of her. She sat up and resumed her meal, staring vacantly at the edge of her plate as she chewed.

The phone rang during dessert and Imogene was summoned to the kitchen to talk with Miss Beaver.

"Hi," Imogene sighed. "I'm sorry. I was gonna call right after supper."

"How y'doin'. That kid wreck your life?"

"Not yet!" Imogene kicked the kitchen door closed, sealing herself within the darkened and still roast-scented room. While trying not to whine, she told her teacher of all the latest developments.

Miss Beaver listened patiently, then responded in her patchy, all-too-human voice, "Well, the kid's no dummy. He knows when he's got hold a'somethin'good."

"Not you too!" Imogene slapped the counter. "Everyone's on _his_ side! It's a really big joke around here!"

"No, I'm with y'all the way. No one's got the right to call shots on anyone's life. Even when it's for all the right reasons." The teacher's voice went lower. "I talked with Matt tonight, after practice. He's pretty scared. Is the kid goin't'the cops or anything?"

For some reason this possibility had never occurred to Imogene. She felt a flash of guilt.

"Is he?"

"I-I don't think so. I hope not."

"Well, guess I wouldn't worry too much." There was faint chuckling in the phone. "S'long's y'keep him happy!"

Ignoring this, Imogene asked with true sorrow, "Is he really hurting? The things I said. I — "

"Geenee! He kicked the crap outa the kid! All that blood? It won't hurt him to have to sweat a little! Do him good!"

"I know ... but ..." Imogene was slouching wearily against the edge of the countertop, looking down at the remains of the sliced lamb still pinioned to its rack. "Anyway, could you tell him, y'know, we still hafta keep apart'n all that, no talking or anything. But don't say anything about all this latest stuff, okay? He'd just flip!" She grabbed the phone with both hands. "An'tell him — the things I said? — I'm so sorry. I'm just so _sorry!_ "

They talked awhile longer and Imogene began to feel comforted by the whispery, half-heard words of her advisor.

"Just ... lemme know if there's anything I can do," was Miss Beaver's parting message.

Back at the table all the pie plates were empty, except Imogene's, and everyone was leaning forward to observe the imaginary figures Stanley was drawing on the tablecloth with his finger. Though still pink of face, he spoke confidently, and Stacy was nodding with unaccustomed seriousness. The word 'hypotenuse' was mentioned.

Imogene finished her pie in silence.
\- XXIII -

Later, everyone was in the kitchen, Imogene with her arms in soapy dishwater (she had slapped away the frilly apron her mother tried to tie around the white dress), and Stanley stood close beside her with a towel. On the window sill, cooling, sat a pair of silver bracelets.

Across the room Mrs Urich was busy at the stove pushing a damp cloth around the burner coils, and the rest of the family had settled themselves at the kitchen table, the men reading the remains of the newspaper while Stacy was once again looking over the marriage contract. The cat still had not made an appearance.

Stanley was no longer blushing, but his bruise, in the harsh fluorescent light, had become prominent and luridly grotesque. It was on the side toward Imogene, and the way his glasses pressed into the swollen flesh made her arms, with their long, fine hairs, bristle like bottle brushes. She tried not to look at him.

When Stanley had finished drying the milk pitcher, he glanced around at the open cupboards; Stacy hopped up a moment to pat the shelf where the pitcher belonged. On sitting back down, she suddenly laughed. "I just thought! After they're married? Know what'er name'll be? Mrs Geenee _Ratt!_ I love it!"

The others laughed as well, all except Imogene, scouring a bowl, and her mother who was trying vainly to hush everyone.

"An'their kids?" Stacy blurted between gasps. "Little Billy Ratt! An'Susie Ratt!"

"Will you stop!" The mother was pinching Stacy's shoulder.

"Ow! Mom!"

Dan's grin widened. "What if they name one after Matt."

The laughter instantly renewed itself, and Mrs Urich threw sharp knuckles on the table. "Now that's enough! Would you please grow up? All of you!" She glared at her husband.

The chuckling, however, took a long time to settle down. Imogene thumped a rinsed bowl in front of Stanley, "What are _you_ smiling at! They're laughing at _you!_ " (She thought suddenly of how he had strode out of the lunchroom that one day.)

"I'm use to it," he said. "Besides, havin'a dumb name can be a good thing sometimes."

"How," asked Dan.

"Well, like this one time? At Belk Electronics? I wanted to borrow one'a their, y'know ... oscilloscopes? Y'hafta fill out a card with your name'n address'n stuff. An'the guy asked to see my driver's license, an'I don't have one." Stanley made a sour face. "So then he just looked at the card'n said, 'I guess it's okay. No one'd _make up_ a name like that.'"

The laughter started all over again.

But eventually, the only sounds were the clunk of dishes underwater and the squeak of the drying cloth; until, quietly, Stanley added to his co-worker: "And really, women don't — I looked it up — women don't _have_ to change their names when they get married. It's just, you know, what they normally do."

"And you guys are _so_ normal!"

"Stacy!"

"O- _kay_! Jeez." Turning sideways from the table, the younger sister leaned forward and settled an elbow on her lithely crossed legs. With her mouth pressed firmly into her palm, all further sniggers were thus confined.

The kitchen had by this time acquired the atmosphere of a quiet café; the night was black outside its windows, and though the leftover roast had been wrapped and placed in the refrigerator, there remained a lingering aroma which mingled pleasantly with the father's Marlboro. Tapping his cigarette on the ashtray, Mr Urich turned over a page of the newspaper.

On the other side of the table his son leaned far back, balancing his chair on its rear legs. "Ever play any ball?" he asked their guest. "Ever go out for anything?"

"Unh-uh," Stanley smiled as he reached to place a tumbler (bottom-up like its fellows) on a high shelf. "I really stink at sports."

Since Stanley had been given something to do, his replies tended now to be lengthier and less guarded. In fact, it seemed to Imogene that his whole demeanor this evening was slightly out of character for him, at least judging by his behavior the night before and his general timidity in the classroom. She wondered if his glaring injury had something to do with the change, as if he wore the bruise proudly — perhaps (her lips smirked) like a 'Purple Badge of Courage'?

Stanley was continuing his reply to her brother: "I saw _you_ at the game the other night though. First one I've been to since ... I don't know, fifth grade I think." He made a small laugh. "My dad use to take me to the high school games, y'know, to try'n get me int'rested in sports? But all I ever did was look at the cheerleaders."

Stacy, disdainfully, rocked her head back and forth on her cupped hand.

"One time," Stanley went on, "at a game once, everyone started shoutin', and my dad said, 'Isn't that great?' an' — I didn't know what was goin'on — so I asked him, y'know, how come the big E's on the cheerleaders' fronts get all bendy when they stick their arms up."

"Si-i-ick!" Stacy whimpered into her palm.

Though their guest had again flashed red, the family's chuckles seemed to encourage him. "But at the game the other night?" he went on, "I saw Geenee run over'n kiss one'a the guys on the junior varsity team. I looked around for Matt, but I didn't see him anywhere." Stanley picked up the wet gravy boat and smiled over his shoulder at Stacy. "Then I saw this other cheerleader kiss him too, an'at the end a'the game?" He looked back at the brother. " _Another_ one came'n jumped right in his arms!"

"Linda," Stacy confided to her hand.

"I couldn't believe it," said Stanley, touching his swollen cheek. "I thought ... either that kid's the luckiest guy in the world, or _he's_ gonna get a black eye."

Stacy and her dad laughed out loud, while Dan, with a sour grin, plopped his chair back to the floor. (The mother, and Imogene, were distinctly unmoved.)

Having finished drying the gravy boat, and his face now fully crimson, Stanley looked around in puzzlement. Stacy got up and opened a cupboard by the refrigerator, carefully, since one of the hinges had been replaced with a strip of cardboard stapled to the wood. She pointed to a stack of dessert plates inside. "On top," she said.

As he was placing the vessel, and tilting his head at the odd repair work, Stacy asked him, _You_ got a girlfriend?" then grinned, pointing at her sister, "I mean besides your fian _cée?_ "

Tolerantly, Imogene made no objection to this, but Stanley was quick to mumble his denial. He picked up a fine chinaware cup, patting it with the towel, and asked the sister: "I s'pose you're dating one a'the players too?"

Stacy had not resumed her seat. She remained standing near Stanley, leaning against the countertop with her hands behind her on the edge. "Yeah," she sighed and glanced at her mother who had knelt down to wipe the inside of the oven. "Sort of. Ken Stokie."

"Ol'Smoky," her brother elaborated. "The center. Bean pole."

"Shut u-up," Stacy said with mild annoyance. "He hates him."

"I do not."

There was silence for a few seconds, then Stanley grinned at her, "Stacy Stokie?"

"I know! I hate it!"

"Is he in your grade or d'ya only go out with older guys too."

"No he's tenth — oh, y'mean like Geenee's old boyfriend? Bruce ... what's his name again, Geen?"

Imogene made no reply, and Stanley asked, "The guy that went off to college'n found someone else? She talks about him sometimes."

"Shut up," Imogene muttered.

"Geenee?" the mother warned from the oven door.

A resigned exhalation was Imogene's apology.

Stacy was nodding at their guest. "She'n Matt're the same age though."

"No." Stanley hung the cup on a high hook, stretching to do so. "He's a year older'n us."

Everyone looked at Imogene.

For a moment she held her arms motionless in the sudsy water; then her tongue clicked. "You've got a big _mouth_ all of a sudden!" She banged an unrinsed dish on the drain board, spattering Stanley's arm with suds.

"Really?" The sister's bright eyes had enlarged. "Geenee, really? It's his eighteenth birthday we're plannin'for, right?"

"Nineteenth," said Stanley, wiping his arm with the towel. "That's 'cuz — " He glanced at Imogene's sharp eyebrows. "An'don't worry, I think he's got a special thing so he can't be, y'know, drafted 'til after he graduates n'stuff." Stanley looked down again at the soapy dish. "Anyway, he was in sixth grade when I was in fifth. But the next year he was still there ... in _my_ sixth grade class. They must'a flunked'im."

The oven door slammed shut.

"Not 'cuz he was all that dumb or anything." Stanley was reaching for the sink sprayer. (Imogene yanked the dish from him and rinsed it herself. Then banged it down again.)

Smiling at the others, Stanley resumed: "It was just ... no one could ever get him to do his homework. An'he was really rowdy. He'd beat up kids'n stuff, smart-off all the time. The cops even came once'n took him away at recess." Stanley finished drying the plate and clicked it onto its stack in the back of the shelf. "He's come a long ways though, since he's been goin'with Geenee. Almost decent now." He turned to Imogene, leaning forward to see into her face. "Like what he did at homecoming?"

"What," asked Stacy. "Whad he do."

Imogene, though appearing to ignore him, had stilled her hands beneath the suds.

"What!" her sister demanded.

Stanley looked around. "He never told you guys? Well, maybe I'm wrong about it then."

"No, what! Tell us!"

"Well," Stanley was scratching his arm under the rolled-up sleeve. "A couple weeks before homecoming I heard him arguin'with a guy in one a'my classes. Something about nominations? The guy was on the committee for that kind a'stuff, so I figured Matt was just tryin'ta, y'know, make sure he'd get elected homecoming king or something."

Imogene, with a growl of exasperation, had turned to her family. "He's just making this _up!_ "

"No I'm not. But — so then the next day? When the ballots came out? 'Member how he came runnin'up to our lockers that morning? All mad'n swearin'cuz he wasn't even nominated? I was glad. But then later, in physics, when guys were teasin'im about it? All he did was smile'n say stuff like, 'Oh, y'can't win'em all,' n'stuff like that. He seemed almost happy about it. Somethin'was really fishy."

Stanley picked up a large platter. "Then it hit me. He must'a made him take his name _off_ the ballot!" Stanley turned to Imogene. "Y'know, so _you_ wouldn't feel so bad. He knew you wouldn't make homecoming queen. Smart girls never get voted for. An'he was just ... bein'really nice."

"Get'ahta'here!" said Dan. "He'd never do that!"

"Yes he _did!_ " Stacy declared, shaking her hands at everyone. "He _must_ have! 'Member the big stink about it? I'm so sure he wasn't nominated! Girls were _cryin_ 'cuz they couldn't vote for him!" She ran to her sister. "It's true, right? He really did that, right?"

Imogene was staring into the soapy water, recalling again the strange, wonderful way Matt had behaved that evening; suddenly it all made sense — beautiful, heartbreaking sense!

"Geenee?" Stacy was tugging her arm. "Did he?"

"Yes!" Imogene spun around and threw triumphant eyes at her mother who, on her feet once more, was looking down at the small washcloth she was folding. The others wore subdued looks as well. "And he never said a single word about it!" Imogene's voice cracked to speak this tribute. "Not one!"

As she turned to Stanley, she was already blinking wobbles from her vision. Her instinct was to thank him dearly for such generous news, for speaking so well of an enemy. But something perverse within her urged retaliation. "And _now_ I s'pose I can't even tell him thank you?"

Stanley shook his head. "Not 'til May twentieth." His blush, she noted, had disappeared, and other than the dark bruise, his face now seemed cruelly pale.

For some time after this the kitchen remained quiet. Imogene had turned again to her dishes and was making slow and somber movements, realizing the agony that will result in having to wait so long to speak her gratitude to Matt. She guessed that Stanley — crafty Stanley! — had known full well that this revelation would be a mixed pleasure to her, causing Matt to seem all the more absent for being all the more cherished. And it was no joy to consider her own lack of insight in the affair: How could she have been so unsuspecting of Matt's chivalry? And therefore so unworthy of it!

Still, she could savor the penitence in her family's shamed eyes.

Stacy had returned to her place at the counter, leaning against the edge with her hands behind her. She was looking down and seemed now to be pondering her pretty legs, angled side by side to the floor and clad in their curvy, calf-high socks. But she glanced up as their guest was taking wary steps around her on his way to the end cupboard.

Imogene had been observing this over her shoulder, and noted how Stanley kept his eyeglasses directed downward. She could not be certain though if he was glancing at Stacy's legs or trying very hard not to.

Regardless, Stacy made no effort to get out of his way; her eyes, from beneath their sultry lashes, were daring him to bump something. Then, coyly, she tipped her head to one side. "Y'don't sound like you're really mad at him, Matt."

"Yeah I am," Stanley mumbled. His cheeks were pinking.

Stacy watched the boy carefully as he set the plate on its shelf and hurried back to the sink. She stood up straight. "Are y'doin'all this — y'know, makin'her marry ya'n stuff — are y'doing it just to get even with Matt? Or do you _really_ just want'er for yourself!"

Everyone was looking at Stanley. He had begun patting another coffee cup and awkwardly shrugged. "Both, I guess."

Dan started to chuckle. "Whad'a all you guys _see_ in her!"

"But ... !" Stacy's arms were up and out, primed for debate. "You're not the least bit _like_ her! Not at all. Y'just _said_ y'never go to ball games! Or parties — d'ya ever go to parties?"

Fully reddened, Stanley was shaking his head.

"Really? Never?"

"Well ... once." He was reaching into a high cupboard.

"D'y'even know how to dance?"

"No."

Stacy was gasping at the absurd answers. "How many friends y'got. Geenee's got zillions."

"None."

"I mean, y'know, boyfriends. Guys y'hang around with n'stuff."

"None."

"You don't have one single friend in the whole world?"

Stanley shook his head. "I stopped havin'friends in eighth grade."

"How do you _stop_ having friends."

"I dunno, y'just stop. Never say hi to people."

"Well ... why."

Stanley shrugged. His voice had become nearly inaudible, and he was blushing so deeply the bruise had all but vanished. "Whenever ..." he sighed. "Most friends aren't really friends." There was a petulance in his voice. "Y'just get tired a'bein'hurt."

Imogene could not look at him. She stared at the lacy curtains in front of her and at the faint reflection of Stanley and herself in the dark window. The twins were clucking their tongues, convinced Stanley was only trying to work on their sympathy. But Imogene felt sure he was telling the truth. She could almost admire such unexpected candor.

Her sister's voice was still accusative. "Well, even more then. You're like ... complete opposites. You guys couldn't possibly be more differ'nt."

"Sometimes," Stanley was shaking droplets from a china plate. "like in the library sometimes? I see her ... all alone, like no one wants to be her friend. Or like," he shrugged, "after lunch when the halls are empty? I sometimes see her walkin'by herself. Really slow. Arms all full a'books'n stuff. Lookin'at the floor." He was rubbing the plate with his cloth. "When she's like that, then I think we're kind of alike."

Imogene, still gazing at the dark reflections in the window, was highly aware of the many eyes upon her, and of her own helpless blush.

Stacy slumped herself into a chair and crossed her arms. "Well, I still say — if you guys get married? — bet y'spend the whole _honeymoon_ yellin'at each other."

This was all Imogene could take. "Would everyone just shut up!" She banged down a handful of heavy silverware. "I really appreciate being talked about like I'm not even here!"

"Geenee!" the mother scolded.

Imogene had turned to Stanley. "It's Polly, isn't it! Polly Patch. You don't care about _me_. Y'don't care about Matt. _She's_ the one you're really after. Right? I've seen y'staring at her!"

Imogene was squeezing the little yellow sponge in her hand; she felt its suds running down her arm and threw the sponge into the dishwater. "You think ... if y'marry _me_ you'll get to see _her_ once in awhile, right? You're just _using_ me! God that's ... it's ... you're despicable!"

" _Geenee!_ " cried the mother. "Just ... settle down, all right?"

Stanley had a puzzled look on his face. This, and the continued fading of his blush, made Imogene suspect she had made a wrong guess. Yet it thrilled her to be on the offensive at last.

"Deny it!" she barked, but not too loudly. "You'll do anything to get close to her! She's prettier'n me, right? _Right?_ "

"Yeah." Stanley confessed this to the fat reflection in the spoon he was wiping.

"An'she's like ... she's _tons_ nicer'n me. If y'really knew'er ..."

Stanley's head was nodding. "I sat behind her once. In seventh grade."

"I rest my case!" Imogene had snapped her hands from the water, palms upward.

Flinching, Stanley tapped his cheek with the towel. "Yeah, but ... I still like you better."

"No y'don't."

"Yeah I do."

"Bull!"

"Gee- _nee!_ " The mother was aghast. "You're talking to company!"

Nevertheless, Imogene held her eyes firmly on the young man's face.

Still examining the spoon, Stanley had at last begun to show signs of increasing shame.

Imogene sighed. "Okay, so ... _why_ do you like me better." She was trying, with difficulty, to reach the sleeve of her dress to her forehead (while keeping her fingers pointed down and dripping into the sink). She paused to add: "An'don't you _dare_ say I'm nicer'n she is."

"Well ... she's," (Stanley had turned to Imogene and touched a dry patch of towel to her temple, startling her at first, but then she stilled, holding her eyes closed, as he patted her face and hair), "she's not, y'know," he returned to drying the silverware, "she's not as smart as you. It's easier for her to be nice."

"My point exactly! _You're_ not as smart as me either. You're made for each other!"

"Yeah but she's always — she laughs when everyone laughs."

"So do _I!_ That's what cheerleaders _do!_ "

"You only laugh when no one's feelings are bein'hurt."

There was silence for a moment, followed by the mother's softened voice: "Hear, hear," and the tottering of knick-knacks over the stove as they were gently dusted with a cloth.

Imogene, now rinsing the long, curved carving fork, took time for a few breaths, then a few more. Clearly, her argument had stumbled somehow. She was also troubled for having so cavalierly sacrificed a best friend to an archenemy.

But soon a further attack presented itself. "Well, how'bout the auction that one day." She pointed the fork at the wet spots on his rolled-up sleeve. "When I said that really awful thing about that guy — to his face!" She felt her own blush returning. "Would Polly've done that?"

"What auction," asked Stacy. "What guy."

(Direly, Imogene sensed her mother preparing to ask the same question.) "Would she!" Imogene demanded.

Stanley was sidling away from the jabbing fork. "Prob'ly not."

"Then how on _earth_ can you like me better!"

Blushing once more, he reached far under the glimmering tines to relieve her of the utensil. "Well ... that's kind a'what I mean." He patted the long fork in his towel. "If she _did_ say it, she'd prob'ly've forgot it by now ... you never will."

The silence returned for a moment, until broken by Stacy's impatience: "But _what_ guy! What auction!"

The newspaper rustled as Mr Urich folded up the pages. "Young man," he said, "let me ask you this. Do you honestly love my daughter?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you think forcing her to do things against her will is a good way to show it?"

One of Stanley's shoulders came up as if to touch an ear. "No," he said softly.

"Then why are you doing it."

Stanley looked down. His mouth hung open for a moment before he was able to say anything. "... I ... I guess I'm a rotten person."

No one disputed this, and Imogene made only tiny splashes as she turned a saucepan over in the dishwater.

"I'm no better'n Washburn," Stanley's voice became peevish as he began drying the serrated knife. "I don't care. He's got a lot to pay for. He almost put me in the hospital once — well, _twice_ now!" Stanley touched his bruise with the back of his hand. "He's gonna pay for it the rest of his life."

"Nice guy!" Stacy whined.

"But ..." The father's hands gripped fistfuls of air. "This is all — what he's done — what _you're_ doing, it's all just ... high school stuff. Years from now — "

"Oh hush," his wife interrupted, shaking her cloth. "We have two whole months to worry about this. My goodness, we don't have to start fighting the very first night." She walked over and patted Stanley's arm. "Why don't we all just agree to think about this, like adults, and maybe in a few weeks the whole problem will just ... go away by itself. Stan? Do you think it might?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"Fine. That's all I ask. And Geenee too," (the daughter's back was patted as well), "she _knows_ she's getting off easy here. She'll be more than willing to do whatever you say ... for the next few weeks at least."

A barely audible hissing came from the daughter as she bent herself over a blackened pot.

Mrs Urich smiled tenderly at the guest's bowed head. "We'll get to know each other and, perhaps you'll find some friends who really are friends. Give _us_ a chance, and we'll give you a chance. Will that be all right?"

Stanley nodded.

"Good. 'Nuff said."

A long silence followed while the mother carried the dried carving implements to the end of the counter and replaced their cardboard sheaths. Stacy, still seated, had crossed her arms belligerently; but the father was gazing at his wife with a look of quiet admiration.

Dan tipped back on his chair again. "Whad he do d'ya, Matt. That other time."

"Uhh," looking down, Stanley made a sheepish grin at the silverware he was drying in the checkered dishcloth, "it's kind of embarrassing."

"He didn't even _do_ anything," muttered Stacy.

"Yeah he did. He got kicked outa school for it."

Imogene froze, staring at the faucet knob, the chipped one.

"Sure," Stacy sighed as she stood up and opened the case for the English Sterling.

"He did!" Stanley began placing spoons and forks into their padded compartments. "In gym class? Back in ninth grade? We were havin'some kind a'volleyball championship. That's my best sport — well, least bad, I guess." He spoke more rapidly now. "Anyway, I thought I was doin'pretty good, but then, near the end? I kinda screwed up an' ... sorta lost the game for us. I really felt bad." Stanley had returned to the case with another handful. "Then Washburn came up to me — I was on his team — but he didn't say anything. He just kicked me in the ... between the legs."

"Oh for christ ... !" Mr Urich stubbed out his cigarette.

"Not real hard," Stanley was quick to add. "Just ... with his knee. But I dropped like a rock. I couldn't breathe or move or anything. Mr Gimmestad had to carry me down d'the locker room'n take my gymsuit off me, on the floor. Pretty embarrassing. Getting looked at like a baby."

Mouths were gaping at Stanley as he wiped more silverware with his towel. His blush had waned.

Imogene stood back from the sink with a small kettle and an S.O.S. pad in her hands, both dripping. She looked around the room, at all the outraged faces, then threw the pot and pad into the water.

"Na, na, na, the _drapes!_ " cried her mother.

Imogene yanked the towel out of Stanley's hands — cutlery clattering to the floor — then stormed from the room. At the foot of the stairs her mother's voice brought her to a halt. "Don't you go up there! You sit!"

Imogene was slapping her hands furiously in the towel, as if her fingers were covered with insects.

When Mrs Urich returned to the kitchen, Imogene heard her say: "Oh get out of there! Go to her. Scoot," then, very clearly, was added: "She's going to apologize."

Imogene watched the cat bounding silently up the steps, then dropped herself onto the couch and began tugging the sad little cloth between her fists, nearly tearing the fabric in half.

Stanley approached with shiny hands held away from his clothes. As he sat down beside her, he gestured for the towel and she slapped it at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, wiping his hands contemplatively. "But he really use to be a jerk."

They sat silent for awhile in the dimly lit room; only the small lamp on the TV had been left on. The many wet spots on Imogene's white dress, clammy and uncomfortable, were not visible.

Though his hands were soon dry, Stanley continued wiping them.

From around a dark corner, Stacy's big eyes came into view, then were sharply pulled away.

"He's a lot better now," said Stanley, "since he's been goin' with ya, but ... still — "

"Why didn't you _die_ when you had the chance!"

He looked at her.

"When you ran away from home?" She crossed her arms tightly over the damp dress. "Screw that up too?"

Stanley bent forward suddenly and became very interested in the cloth, picking at a dried stain in one of its terrycloth squares. "How'j y'know 'bout that?"

"I didn't. But _now_ I do."

Stanley sat motionless, his head turning blood red. Then he shrugged. "No guts, I guess." He hunched himself lower over the little rag. The tone of petulance had returned to his voice. "When you're ugly you wonder why you were born. When you're smart ... you wonder why _any_ thing's ever born. Everything hurts. Everything dies. There's no point to any of it."

He sat for awhile longer, breathing softly, then laid the towel in Imogene's lap. He got up and walked back to the kitchen, where there was a cluster of subdued but cheerful voices, and Stacy's giggle. Then a small crowd accompanied him to the front door. Imogene used their noisy goodbye's as cover for her escape up the stairs.

From her bedroom window she watched Stanley, in jacket and boots (still unbuckled) and led by his long shadow from the garage light, walking slowly across the plashy driveway and down the dark avenue. (The cat hopped up on the sill and watched too.) Discovering that the dank towel was still in her hands, she hurled it across the room.

Imogene spent the balance of the evening with her books and assignments, and being tactfully ignored by the rest of her family. She wondered, while returning the little ring to her left hand, why she was not dead with fatigue. By her own calculation, she had not slept more than five hours out of the last forty-eight.

The cat, obviously glad the stranger had left, kept her company for awhile, but after an hour or so demanded to be let out again. When Imogene opened the door, she could hear the deceivingly suave 'Man from U.N.C.L.E.' downstairs, and across the hall her sister was thumping softly to a record player:
... oh yeah-a-ah, I tell you so-omethin'

I think you'll un-der-stand ...

(Agent Illya must be absent from this week's episode.)

With a long sigh, Imogene returned to her rumpled bed. She was dressed now in slacks and an old turtleneck and was soon again frowning at the pages of a large book entitled, _Soviet Economic Power_. A stack of index cards was spilled at her hip, and the white dress had been kicked into a corner.

She stared at the dull, dry text but realized she was conscious of nothing beyond the shame and regret of her own malicious words; the intentionally hurtful things she had said to Stanley.

He deserved them — and more! — she told herself. I'm not a pushover! I've got teeth!

But still, in her mind was the image of Stanley: walking home in the dark, in the cold, hands in his pockets, head hung low ...

Throughout most of her dinner Imogene had been contemplating various defenses she could use against Stanley. The simplest — absurdly so — was to treat him like a dog, abuse and belittle him at every opportunity (though of course not while her parents were watching), and surely his interest in her must vanish.

This she had now tried, but found it only to be a torture onto herself, as when slapping a puppy's snout to teach obedience: something which would be forever impossible for her to do.

Whether out of weakness or nobility, she could not bring herself to cause suffering of any kind, even when prompted by good. And here, to do harm — and harm intend — would be to cut out her very heart.

It was also probable (as Miss Beaver had implied) that the more she can get Stanley to like her, the less evil he will do to Matt. And that was the real danger, was it not? She could certainly put up with two months of annoyance, if it would buy an unrestricted future for the man she loved.

But not _more_ than two months! She looked down at the dark-olive carpet where the crumpled contract had been tossed. If the kid really thinks some stupid paper's gonna make her give up her entire life to him, well — he's out of his gourd!

Unfortunately, thoughts like these brought little comfort to Imogene. Yes, two months seemed a small sacrifice to make, but when they were the closing weeks of your _senior_ year ... ?

And why did all this have to happen now? Why not last year? Or eighth grade when I was already a nobody!

Of course she must fight. At least make some kind of resistance. Her dignity was at stake, her self-respect. But she must be careful too, for so much hung in the balance, all the rest of her life in fact — and Matt's.

Thinking more deeply, there was another consideration to be weighed: It was arguable that, indeed, she fully deserved all this grief. Of late she had not been living up to her own high standards. Perhaps it was right and proper she be thus humbled, thus disrobed of stolen gowns. Moreover, to appeal a sentencing, which she knew to be just, could only demean her more.

Imogene, now sitting cross-legged in the center of her bed, elbows on knees, chin in palms, continued to make long, lofty sighs over these 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.' She had further to ask herself: Whether right or wrong, could she ever, really, be brave enough to 'take arms against her sea of troubles'? Or was she doomed — with princely, pausing wisdom — to fall forever victim to her woes, believing 'conscience doth make cowards of us all.'

Much later, her mother tapped softly on the door and came in. She was dressed in bathrobe and slippers and stepped briskly across the room to rescue the white dress from its exile, gently tsk-tsking as she brushed out the many wrinkles. Retrieving as well the discarded contract (and checkered towel), she sat down on the bed among her daughter's academic clutter.

Crawling to her, Imogene fell miserably into the mother's arms.

"Ohh," she was soothed. "Shh, don't. It's not so bad as all that. It'll all work out. My goodness, if you couldn't see what a sweet boy he is, really."

Imogene sniffled against the mother's warm aqua robe.

"Now you hush. Just think what _he's_ been through. I believe he has the right to throw a scare into a few people. For a little while anyway. And — look at me — " (the daughter did not look up) "can you honestly say that you've done nothing to deserve all this?" Imogene's hair was gently kissed. "And the very worst thing we can do is make him so mad that he really _will_ do something. You do see that, don't you? Of course you do."

The mother stiffened slightly to add, "And ... if you ask me, I don't think it's such a bad thing, you and Matt being apart for a few weeks. Of course you won't think so but, sweetie, there are so many young men in the world, and you're so apt to think everyone you meet is perfect. Well they're not. Take Stan: a case in point. You'll agree he has a good deal of growing up to do? Well so does Matt."

She looked closely at her daughter. "You know what I'm getting at. Think of all your college years, and a career, maybe even that trip to Rome. Don't choose till you've seen how many, many there are to choose from."

"I don't _have_ any choice, remember?" The daughter's voice was muffled in the mother's robe.

"Oh, pooh!" Mrs Urich shook the contract like a hanky. "I guarantee he'll tear this up long before — I mean, really! He loves you. He's not going to do a single thing to make you cry. Really cry." She hugged her daughter. "Yes, it's all very childish what he's doing, but — and if he was our son? Boy, wouldn't Dad and I tan his hide! — but, he's lived a far different life from you kids, he sees things differently, he solves his problems differently. I'm sure he thinks he's doing what's best — maybe he is, for all I know. And," she stiffened once more, "I'm certainly not averse to your boyfriend's suffering at least a modicum of grief for all of _his_ bad deeds."

The mother paused for a few breaths (the daughter still lying in her arms). "But one good thing that's come out of this — Dad was just telling me. Oh how precious you are to us, sweetheart! Things have gone along so smoothly for us all these years — and you such an angel, always — we ... we forget how fragile our happiness really is." She squeezed her daughter. "Remember these sad times, won't you. All the good days will be just that much better."

Not surprisingly, the mother's talk did little to cheer the daughter's spirits. But it did bring on a sudden, overpowering weariness, and after a quick bath Imogene could struggle only a few minutes against the heavy crush of sleep.

Clutching her pillow, and while the cat sought languidly for a warm hollow among her legs, Imogene let herself dwell again on that wonderful homecoming night, on Matt's many smiles and quiet words, and those 'wide, wide loving eyes.' (Teasdale.) She could hardly bear the remembrance, her heart was soaked so painfully with love, 'like a rag too hot to wring out.' (O.Henry.)

She despaired to think of the ages which now must pass before she can weep her thankfulness against his chest. Worse, she feared that her passion to do so might dim from so much delay, that Matt would be short-changed of all the dear reward that was his due. Worse still — as wary of separations as horses are of whips — she could feel herself rehearsing that cold, endless ache of love un-renewed.

But, more immediately, how on earth will she force herself to tell lies to her friends tomorrow and convince them that she and Matt are really through?

At first she had thought of making it seem as if her love for Matt was only cooling down; nothing in Stanley's documents said she _had_ to say it was over. But in that case, how would she explain the absent ring, or her never talking to Matt, or their never being seen together. Suspicions, quick and sharp, would flourish, for she had no friend she had ever been able to fool; questions would be asked, truth demanded.

No. She must proclaim a full break at once, and behave as such for these eight everlasting weeks. And then, with more noise and fuss and gladness than all of Caesar's triumphs, make it up with Matt — gloriously! — in front of everyone.

She kissed the warm little stone on her finger.

But oh! Right now! To speak so cruelly of him at the very moment she most loves and needs his love!

She paused to make into Latin: 'And this, the most unkindest cut of all,' then let herself, like weary Lear, 'tumble down the dunes of gentle slumber.'
\- XXIV -

The next morning (with the ring transferred to a fine golden chain and suspended beneath her blouse) Imogene was, as best she could be, her normal, cheerful self. She laughed and chattered on the bus as usual, slouching like her friends with knees propped against the seat ahead. And later, while waiting in the sick line, she fiddled with the vaguely worded note from her mother and made attentive eyebrows at the minutely described symptoms of her fellow absentees. Stanley, too, was waiting in line, near the front. He was standing so as to conceal the discolored side of his face.

In Latin class, however, his bruise became a major topic of the morning. Stanley blushed as he recounted the 'accident' he had suffered with his physics project, and everyone seemed to believe him.

Observing this, Imogene could not withhold a judicious smirk. (Indeed, had Stanley tried to convince them he had actually been in a fist fight, their classmates would only have laughed!) But in general she was careful to appear as concerned as the other girls, and was very thankful that no one, not even Mr Grove, had turned suspicious eyes toward her own blushing face or made reference to the mysterious check she had given Stanley that one day.

Yet despite her freedom from scrutiny, it was difficult for Imogene to pay attention to the teacher or to speak her translations coherently, for there was much on her mind. Every moment she was aware of Stanley's quiet form beside her and of the cruel, unhappy heart it contained. Often, she looked down to find her hand covering the dark hairs of her elbow — exactly where Stanley's 'damn'd spot!' of blood had been.

Above all, she feared the inevitable meeting with her friends. As the morning progressed, she sought continually for the right words, the right tone, the right tilt of her head with which to speak her terrible news. (The errant hand could now be found pressing itself to her heart; the lump of hidden ring, warmed by her flesh, seemed her only comfort.)

By lunchtime Imogene was nearly sick with dread. She sat down pale and tray-less in the cafeteria and waited for her three closest friends to arrive.

"So what was it," Polly asked. "Flu?"

Imogene shook her head.

"Cafeteria cuisine?" Mary Helen was poking, ishy-lipped, at the pink chunks in her cream-white soup.

"Yeah," said Becky, "your mom made it sound like a big mystery. What's up." She tipped her head and grinned. "We haven't been _naughty_ have we?"

"Cut it out you guys," said Polly. "Something's really wrong." She was staring at her friend across the table. "Why wouldn't you look at me in English."

Imogene sniffled, making her friends all go quiet. "I split up with Matt."

The girls stopped breathing. They sat motionless, staring at Imogene.

"I've had it with him. We're going nowhere. I had to get out."

"What's going on," Becky demanded.

"Whad'e do."

Imogene let herself blush freely but could look no higher than her friends' shoulders. Sensing them staring at her ringless finger, she thrust her hands into her lap. "It's just ... everything. An'I don't wanna talk about it."

"What is going on!" Becky repeated. "Last weekend you guys were practic'ly ... !"

The three friends looked at one another, then at Imogene.

"No, it's just over. An'I don't wanna talk about it!"

Mary Helen gasped. "There really _is_ someone else?"

"No! There's no one! It's just ... we're through. That's it. And I don't wanna _talk_ about it!"

The girls were silenced (so were the voices at nearby tables), and for the next few minutes her friends tried to respect her wish. But the several topics begun among themselves quickly died. Imogene was left staring down at the empty table top.

Then Mary Helen said, "An'what about the tournament."

Imogene nodded without looking up.

"What, you're just gonna let him go away all by himself? Win or lose?"

Imogene's head hung lower.

"An'we're really gonna feel like cheering!" said Becky. "This is sick!"

Mary Helen made squinty eyes. "Couldn'tcha ... wait'n dump him later or something?"

Imogene shook her head.

Across the table, Polly had become very quiet, her brow now fully raised in that care-worn way of hers. She set down her fork and reached a hand toward her friend.

Imogene grabbed it with both hands. Tears budded under her eyelids, and she felt her face go ugly with the effort to make no sound.

Seeing this, her friends leaned closer, patting her arms, smoothing her hair; and soon, with the girls' continued silence, the surrounding happy clatter of the cafeteria resumed in full.

Imogene was astonished. She had been hoping to produce a tear or two in order to be more convincing, but this gush of helpless sorrow was completely unexpected; it was as if she had, in truth, lost Matt forever. And the tender concern of her friends, though misplaced in this instance, comforted her in a way which only further tears could express.

But the worst was over, and Imogene spent the rest of the day recovering from this anguish. Her load of shame was now staggering. It had been so easy to deceive her friends, and, what was most unconscionable, she was letting them believe Matt had actually hurt her in some way.

Throughout the afternoon Imogene could not raise her eyes, knowing they must still be puffy and red; but last hour, in art class, she found that the frightened, tragic look Matt turned on her thrilled her beyond even their previously most intimate moments.

In the following days her boyfriend's regard for her did not diminish; Imogene came upon Matt in the hallways more frequently now, and always with her heart thumping to see those eyes of longing and regret. He, too, must have had to make false confessions to his friends, and realize the danger of a prolonged separation. She was familiar enough with his many misleading looks to know real pain when she saw it in his face. He was not, as she had requested, merely displaying the appearance of a broken heart; his unhappiness was real, as real as her own, and she felt a solace in that.

It was surprising though how quickly the news had raced throughout the school. Even before the end of that first day, everyone, it seemed — as evidenced by the compassionate tipping of heads — had heard of the breakup; and in the following days as well there were few who could bring themselves to question her directly. Consequently, she was given little chance to mitigate Matt's apparent blame.

Her best friends chose with care the subjects they discussed within her hearing; to them Imogene could let her sadness show; but when she found herself among acquaintances less dear, she strove to seem unaltered from the bright, happy, high-spirited girl she had always been. At cheerleader practice, only her closest friends (and Miss Beaver) could suspect that her pep and sparkle was anything other than genuine.

Yet she took little pride in knowing how consummate an actor this cheerleader was, for (as she read again in Jonson's sad lyric):
Herculean was her task

To twist her lips aright,

And make her eyes untrue the day,

Her days untrue the night.

Imogene knew that this hourly, unending travail must conquer her at last, perhaps disastrously. Unlike Coppélia, she could not, for long, 'perform to airs not in her heart.'

But at home she reveled in letting her feelings sit blackly on her face. Her siblings — and her father — soon quit their kidding, and her mother became sympathy itself.

Yet still, the family did occasionally discuss her plight with an infuriating lightness of tone. Stanley's name came up repeatedly at mealtime, usually accompanied by giggles or a contemplative pause, and Stacy many times begged permission to tell 'Just a little!' to her best friend.

"No!" Imogene exploded at last. "I can't even tell my _own_ friends! Just ... don't say anything. Ever!"

More calmly, the mother explained to the twins their need for the utmost secrecy, and the father's stern look drove the lesson home.

Furthermore, in their discussions on the subject, Imogene noted how Matt and his many achievements were rarely mentioned — and his feelings, never.

Only while making further revisions to her speech or practicing its delivery before her family and assembled friends did she feel honestly resigned to her fate.

Thursday afternoon, after last period, Imogene gathered all her courage and ventured into Mr Ziskind's office with the latest copy of her commencement address. She no longer feared that Stanley had been talking to him, but she still distrusted her emotional control. All alone with the principal, she might blurt out some kind of witless confession.

Also, and hardly less frightening, was the chance that he would not like her speech, that he would find it too clever, too cute, too academic, too over-everyone's-head, too dull. And this was likely, for in the last few recitals she had detected sighs of tedium among her listeners.

If he were to reject it, she did not know how it could be salvaged, not to mention the agony involved in changing even one word of it, one comma. Her only prepared excuse was that, well, who listens to graduation speeches anyway!

While Mr Ziskind hunched himself over the neatly typed words, Imogene sat unmoving before him on one of the hard little chairs in his office, her books and purse teetering on her lap, her eyes staring down at the somber, coffee brown carpet.

The strain was nearly unbearable: sitting there, allowing him still to believe she was his finest student, yet all the while feeling this huge, hidden crime in her heart — like a bomb in a briefcase at their feet, and she letting it tick down to zero!

Occasionally, Imogene stole a look at him, at his hard eyes, ruddy face, big shoulders; and tried to imagine what it would be like to receive the full force of his wrath and condemnation.

Matt had been bawled out by principals before; he had survived. But he was used to it. He expected it. He had built-in defenses while Imogene had nothing of the sort. Instead of contempt for authority, she could only recall that voice of hearty pride when Mr Ziskind phoned her with the good news, and how he had kidded with her and the other top-ten kids the day they were all assembled here, in this very room, for their yearbook picture.

The principal was taking forever to get through the second page, and the sweat continued to seep from her pores. So keen was her discomfort, Imogene could almost sooner choose death itself than have to answer to him, here, for her crimes.

Reaching the end at last, Mr Ziskind looked up at her, his face paled and stern. "Imogene!" he said, very much like scolding. "This is ... exceptional! This is a _collegiate_ honors address!"

Flushed and tingly, Imogene spent nearly an hour in the library afterwards waiting for the activity bus. The giddiness of her startled heart was long in leaving her. Mostly, she tried to recall whatever mindless things she had replied to the principal's unequivocal praise.

She loved praise, but not so much when having to respond to it. Oh well, she grinned, there were worse things one could have to endure in a principal's office!

On her way out of the library she made an almost impudent smile at the fussy, bustling librarian, but then lost all her levity when she spotted Stanley at one of the tables in the other half of the room, back by the science books. Of course he was all alone.

Imogene banged the door open as a thought came to her: She, too, had been sitting by herself, enjoying her own little dreamy-dreamy world of fame and glory, ignoring the people she knew at the other tables, ignoring the crime still un-confessed in her heart.

The clock on the foyer wall showed that in only another hour and five minutes Stanley would be sitting at her dinner table. If there had been something lying on the polished floor she would have kicked it!

As she was boarding the bus, another cheerless thought came into her head: Was it not true that, when she had been sitting before Mr Ziskind — and all but melting with fright — was she not then precisely as Stanley had been when her father was reading _his_ composition?

Even on the bumpy ride home she remained alone. There were acquaintances all around her, the same group who always rode the activity bus (though she generally saw them only on days when Matt's beetle was in the shop), but they were occupied now with happy chattering amongst themselves. Perhaps her classmates did not really view her breakup with Matt as so great a tragedy as she had presumed.

Just as well, she sighed, for she was in no mood to be friendly and trivial. She laid her temple against the cold window pane and began a further contemplation.

It had occurred to her that the prospect — and honor — of standing in white gown and mortarboard before the hundreds of her fellow classmates meant far more to her than the mere pleasure of a dream come true. Something within her — wisdom, she believed, and a cold, clear knowledge of her own limitations — told her that this final moment of her high school career may well prove to be the pinnacle of her entire life; never again, perhaps, will she be so acclaimed, so singled-out and revered, so loved. This must not be tampered with. It must not be negotiated away. Everything: her integrity, her self-respect, Matt, all must be sacrificed to its preservation.
\- XXV -

Stanley (his bruise already beginning to fade) appeared promptly for supper that evening, and everyone but Imogene welcomed him with a liveliness that grew to unashamed exuberance by the end of his visit. Even the cat had come out of hiding a moment to hazard a sniff of Stanley's palm.

While they ate, in the kitchen this time, Stanley talked about his home life and his scientific hobbies; and of the small dry cleaning store, owned and operated by his parents, in which he labored on weekends. He told about his younger brother and sister and the baby, and spoke with great pride of an elder brother, a language major, now nearing his college graduation.

In reference to this, Stanley added a suspiciously prepared comment on how difficult it is to follow an illustrious older sibling through school.

"Like I don't _know_ that!" cried Stacy. "Every year it's the same thing! 'Oh, you must be Geenee's sister!' Then they get all bent outa shape when I don't get A's all the time! I hate it!" Her resentment was seconded by the brother's dour nodding.

All of which, of course, was an ancient family complaint; one to which Imogene had long been inured. She held her gaze on Stanley (seated blushingly across from her) and willed him to look up and see the scorn she was directing at him; a contempt reserved for all such Machiavellians who attempt to gain allies by exaggerating their shared afflictions.

The topic of school work led Mrs Urich to talk about her years of teaching English before the kids were born, and her husband could not be deterred from recounting the more humorous moments he had experienced as sales representative for various companies. It was further discovered that Stanley's father, like Imogene's, had flown airplanes during the war.

Later on, while discussing the un-identicalness of the twins, their guest shyly observed that Mr and Mrs Shakespeare also had raised three children: a girl, Susanna, and, two years younger than her (as was also true in the Urich household), a set of boy and girl twins, though he was unable to recall their names.

"Judith and Hamnet," said Mrs Urich with a beaming smile.

Her family was taken aback that she had never mentioned this coincidence before, but the mother, her head sweetly tilted, continued only to smile at Stanley.

For some time after this Imogene felt herself blazing with what must be her own very conspicuous ignorance on the subject.

She chose to dry dishes that evening, Stanley washed, and all of her family remained about them in the kitchen, joking and giggling, even in preference to watching their usual TV shows.

The next morning, Friday, Imogene did not put on her cheerleader outfit. She carefully folded all versions of her uniform and carried them to school in a paper sack.

Only a few classmates were surprised to see her in ordinary clothes that day — the day of Elnora's first ever tournament game. To those who did ask questions, Imogene mumbled vague excuses having to do with grades and the demands of her job. But to the frightened look Stanley turned on her, Imogene made towering eyebrows and a grand hauteur; she savored his glow of acknowledged guilt.

Miss Beaver also required no word of explanation. She seemed, in fact, to have been expecting the return of the uniforms, and it was all Imogene could do to keep from crying like a baby in those strong, understanding arms.

That afternoon she became increasingly ill with the thought of having to sit in the stands for the tumultuous rally which had been planned. At the end of last period, therefore, Imogene threw her most woeful eyes at Matt, then slipped away to conceal herself in a nearby girls' room.

There she waited until the rumbling of the national anthem could be heard in the distance.

Emerging cautiously, she crept through the empty corridors to her locker, removed her coat and books, and hurried to the nearest exit.

All the snow was gone now, she noted dolefully while trudging home, and flocks of happy birds chirped loudly in the budding trees.

Her parents were saddened by what she had done. "Oh, Geenee," said her mother, "I'm _sure_ Stan didn't mean for you to quit cheerleading."

Imogene shrugged. "Dropped outa Y-Teens too."

"Ohh!"

Though they had bought tickets for the arena downtown, the parents chose instead to stay home with their daughter that night and watch the game on television. Imogene sat between them on the couch, hugging a small satin cushion, while the cat paced back and forth on the carpet in front of them, unable to find a place of easy indolence anywhere near his unsmiling mistress. Eventually he sauntered away.

After a beer commercial, the Elnora cheerleaders came suddenly into view, performing on the sidelines before the roaring stands. Imogene gasped to see the faces of all her friends, even Miss Beaver — people she actually knew! — on television.

Many of the fans were also recognizable. "Oh look!" the mother cried as the camera passed by Stacy and her tall young man, both waving their arms like loonies. Dan was in one of the lower rows too, though the parents seemed not to have seen him. He was, oddly, sitting with only boyfriends on either side.

Then the crowd erupted as the team itself came dashing out. The players stripped off their shiny blazers and began practicing jump shots. Though all of the young men were much too intent to smile, every one was spontaneously familiar to Imogene, like faces on the first day of school.

And Matt! The dear little image of Matt!

Her heart thumped when the announcer mentioned him by name and Matt's handsome profile abruptly filled the screen. "... big number seven. He's the one to watch!"

Coach Gimmestad, tall and prominent in his checkered hat, was featured next. He had halted on the sidelines near Miss Beaver.

At this, Imogene had to smile a little, for both of them seemed uncomfortable without their sweat suits on. They were dressed, in fact, like ordinary teachers except for the silver whistles, each on rugged lanyards, hanging from their necks. Imogene wondered if these accessories might not be a trifle superfluous tonight. (Surely, at a tournament game, the officials would do all the tweeting.) Yet, she could well understand the coaches' need for these tiny, reassuring weights; how disrobed and purposeless they would feel without their well-earned whistles. (On this thought, Imogene retrieved the ring from inside her blouse and placed it on her bridal finger.)

It pleased her to see the teachers' heartily crossed arms and the nodding way their heads tipped toward one another to make clipped conversation. They seemed to be admiring each other's protégés.

Then the camera focused once more on the fluttering pom-poms. Imogene's friends had taken center court for a wild and elaborate, though wholly inaudible, cheer. (The announcer was recounting pertinent statistics on the two teams.)

"Who's that new girl," asked Mr Urich, grinning, "the really bouncy one."

His daughter sighed. "Ginny Balfanz. She's one a'the gym aides."

Imogene watched with impatience as these rapturously happy girls (though a bit drab and squatty in black-and-white) were twirling to the new cheer that she herself had helped develop earlier in the week.

"She's screwing it all _up!_ " cried Imogene, crushing the little pillow in her arms.

The father came closer and gently hugged his daughter, while Mrs Urich, setting down her knitting a moment, turned away and touched something to her eyes.

Imogene had more criticisms to make, but, reflecting that her own un-timeliness had left the new member with only one afternoon to practice with the squad, she had to concede that this tall blonde was, in fact, a very quick study.

The game itself, however, proved difficult to watch. Matt was far from his best form and had used up all his permitted fouls before the end of the third quarter. When he was sent out, the camera zoomed-in on him kicking the players' bench in fury.

Imogene began to cry.

Ultimately, the game was lost, and at the final buzzer, as spectators swarmed onto the court to surround the jubilant opponents, she glimpsed Matt and his teammates wandering around with their hands on their hips, as if waiting to be told bad news. Polly and Becky fell into their boyfriends' arms while Matt kicked the bench again.

Imogene ran up to her room and slammed the door.

The household was somber and quiet over the weekend. Imogene called no one, and only her best friends, and they only briefly, called her. At the dress shop on Saturday she noticed an absence of non-paying customers, those who only came in to chat and giggle away her time. The day seemed endless, and Sunday was no better, sitting in church, observing the downcast eyes of all her acquaintances. There was a thickness in her throat which interfered with the story of the Good Samaritan she told to her Sunday school kids, and tears picked at her eyes as she led their chirping, scattered voices in 'Yes, Jesus Loves Me.'

Finally Monday came, and she discovered herself markedly alone on the bus until her sister came to sit with her. Throughout the day, as Imogene hurried between classes, she found few smiles to respond to.

Obviously, a change had come over the student body. Seeing Matt helpless in defeat had made all of her classmates — as surely as Imogene herself — believe that, of the two of them, he had been the one more greatly wronged. And though it was her wish to bear the blame, she found the bearing of it brought but little joy, unaccustomed as she was to:
Gorgon-like,

receive unlooked at looks.

— Virgil.

At supper that evening, Stanley surprised everyone when he told of how Matt had privately apologized to him and given him a twenty-dollar bill for the wire he had cut in half. "An'just before that," Stanley blushed a deeper red to report this, "the guys in physics were laughin'at me again? At my face'n stuff? An'Matt told'em all to shut up — just like a big brother — an'they did."

Imogene accepted this news without expression. She ought to have been grateful of course for such further evidence of Matt's maturity — and within her parents' hearing! — but her eyebrows refused even to lift. Glancing down at the smear of tartar sauce on her plate, Imogene knew the cause. It was, again, the tainted blessing: Matt's gallantry could not be praised without praising even more Stan's acclaiming it of an enemy.

Turning toward Imogene (the couple were seated side by side this evening), Stanley added: "An'all last week? He was, y'know, tellin' everyone how it's all _his_ fault? You two breakin'up n'that?" His shoulders arose. "I guess I'm startin't'see why y'like him."

Stacy thumped down her milk glass. "Well, if he's bein'so _great_ , how come everyone hates Geenee now!"

"Oh shh," said the mother. "They don't hate her."

"Yes they do! _I_ even get dirty looks!"

"They do," said Stanley. He was pushing peas onto his spoon. "I hear'em in study hall n'stuff."

"So ... why. And don't look innocent. It's all your fault!"

"Stacy," the father grunted.

Imogene sighed while stabbing a fish stick. "Do we have to talk about this."

Her brother, chewing thoughtfully, said, "Maybe they really only liked her 'cuz she was Matt's girl."

"Do we _have_ to talk about this!"
\- XXVI -

Eventually, the school's disappointment began to fade (Matt and the baseball team were soon into training and making fresh headlines), but Imogene discovered that she still had little to say to all but her closest friends, and little was said to her.

Yet the solicitude for Matt seemed universal. Many girls, it was reported, had offered comfort to him for what he had lost (and to add, no doubt, that he had not lost much).

Imogene found herself progressively excluded from the various friendship groups of which she had always been an esteemed member. In Latin class Debbie and JoAnn and all the others still chattered to one another about their woes and delights, but Imogene was now seldom applied to for comment. Often, on looking up, a solemn countenance could be seen just turning away. Even Brad had ceased crowing: "Oh thank you, _Mrs_ Palmer!" whenever she quoted translation rules from their Latin text.

As time passed, in all of her classes, Imogene found it more and more difficult to raise her hand or in any way to put herself forward.

One sleepless night she sniffled through her little blue copy of _Cymbeline_ , sharing again her namesake's sorrow: 'And I shall here abide the shot of angry eyes; not comforted to live but that there is this jewel that I may see again!'

Actually, the book belonged to her mother. Imogene always felt a touch of sadness in looking through her parents' memorabilia, especially her mother's. Here, for example, in these marginal notes, all slashed with such eager college conceit, were insights that could be startling at times, but all too often had the tone of curt intolerance. Some were outright rebukes: 'Inconsistent!! Cloten gallant here, but pompous fool in II, i!'

And the college yearbooks as well, long since shelved by her mother, contained evidence of the hard academic line which, all those years ago, she and her friends had espoused to one another. Oh, they were going to set the world on fire! Right all of culture's wrongs! Their names _shall_ mean something!

Imogene had to sniffle again, wondering what had happened to foil such excellent goals. What foul, brutish — Stanley-like — thing had torn _her_ dreams to shreds? Knocking her down, as it were, from the vellum heights of Virginia Woolf, to the mere calico of Mother Hubbard.

Imogene knew of course: Her mother had met a wonderful man, the world went to war, babies came. The poor girl found herself with so many dear things to guide and keep from danger, that even all of posterity could take but second-place.

And so it should be! What's another treatise more or less, another novel, when a girl had arms — priceless arms! — to laugh and cry in, arms that would be death to lose.

Samuel Johnson was another of her mother's favorites (he, as well as the persnickety Miss Willis, 'loved the poet they loved to chide'). And though it was true this crabby doctor disdained the search for silver linings, he had stumbled upon one here: 'The world knows best we lucky few unhampered by happiness unforeseen.'

Imogene hated this quote; seeming as it did to caution against falling in love, of putting in peril one's own high aims. But now it could almost be a comfort, for if by some miscarriage Matt was lost to her forever, well, in consolation then, might she not the world inherit?

'Oh but what a wretched bargain this would be!' (N. Coward.)

Her mother's face bore all the witness one could ever need, for never had regret of any kind found purchase there. Most wisely had that young bride chosen: 'spurning hopes of accolade for arms to make a home in.' (Longfellow.)

Imogene knew these were dangerous thoughts. They tempted her, here and now, to forsake the academic dreams that she herself had so long cherished, to cleave onto Matt and laughingly bid Stanley do his worst!

But the risk was grave. What if Matt was not the gem her heart so wanted him to be? Or worse, her heart too frail to hold so bright a gem? She might be left with nothing, perhaps less than nothing.

Good sense demands that one's achievements must come first. Often she had considered the relative merits of love and learning, but always concluded that her heart — by far the organ of greater doubt — the greater doubt should bear. 'The mind must first a future make before the heart may lose it.' ( _ibid_.)

Imogene, sniffling and rubbing her cheek with the underside of a pajama sleeve, looked again for her place in the little, tattered Yale. True, Shakespeare was more adept at depicting villainy than love, but none could fail of valor and resolve to read:
But that there is this jewel

that I may see again!

She sighed. Sometimes, amid these soul-deep reveries, Imogene could not help thinking of how it must be for the lonely caterpillar in her chrysalis, shedding one life for another, and wondering if what thing comes out will thank her for the change.

Stanley as well (his injury now no more than a sallow ghost) was also undergoing a kind of metamorphosis. He had become livelier somehow and seemed to be speaking-up in class more often; not much more, but sufficient for their teacher to shift subtle eyes between this now less bashful Stanley and the more reserved (more frequently pink) Imogene beside him.

The boy's voice was changing as well; Stanley had apparently overcome his shy and often comical flutiness, which may only be due to her having grown accustomed to the sound, but Imogene could not deny that it was several weeks now since any recitation of his had triggered a round of unkind laughter.

Not least of all was the great improvement in his wardrobe and personal grooming. Imogene was apt to shake her head whenever she sat down next to Stanley, observing how neatly his hair had been trimmed and that he was wearing a shirt so new there were un-plucked threads still hanging from the seams.

The dinners at her home continued, Stanley and Imogene alternating their wash and dry routines, and her parents observing them with patient, often smiling, concern.

The twins never tired of making jokes. "Oo-ooh," Stacy cooed one evening. "Suit'n tie tonight! Got a hot date, Romeo?"

"Nah, I'm ..." Stanley was already blushing. "My folks think I'm takin'er to a movie."

"Without a _car?_ "

"Well ..." He looked down. "She's driving."

Everyone laughed.

But beyond the raillery Imogene watched with unconcealed ire the increasing favor which her family bestowed upon their recurrent guest. Continually she reminded them that he was abusing her, that he was a criminal, that he belonged in jail!

"Oh hush," was the general reply.

One Thursday, for a change, Mrs Urich served take-out chow mein on paper plates, and afterwards, instead of washing dishes, the Scrabble board was set up on the kitchen table.

The game only permits four players, so Dan and his father shared a rack of letters at one end of the table and Stanley forsook his chair beside Imogene (where the mother was keen to place him each night) to sit with her sister. It was clear to all, from the grim scowl directed at Stanley, that Imogene would make an irritable teammate.

"Besides, she always plays for blood!"

"Stacy!" The parents were quick to censure this undeserved libel. Mrs Urich was even at pains to make clear to Stanley Imogene's occasional lack of competitiveness.

At this, a narrowing came into the young man's eyes. "That why you're a cheerleader instead of a gymnast?"

Imogene made no response, but while a speedy warmth filled her face she vowed to make a symbolic victory of this silly game. She was staring down at the first set of letters on her rack and felt a sudden relish. So often was she the winner at these kinds of word games that she rarely bothered to play her best. For years now, when matched against friends or family members, her chief pleasure was in arranging so clever a loss for herself that no one could suspect her of fraud.

But with a real enemy as an opponent she set aside her instinctive charity. Her wits would fight him with knuckles bared, and she envisioned the pleasure that would be hers in seeing Stanley's head hung low in defeat — just the way those poor boys on the basketball team had ended their best season ever.

Thus, the game proceeded much as expected, the lead alternating between Imogene and her mother, while Mr Urich kept himself busy making puns and funny comments.

The brother though was something of a surprise. Imogene could not recall the last time he had willingly sat for so literate a pastime. (The gentle tipping of her mother's head revealed that others were noting the change as well.) And almost always, when one of the sisters had a boyfriend over, the brother was quick to make himself scarce.

Obviously, thought Imogene, Dan was enjoying every minute of her disgrace. But she was not so awash in self-pity as to guess that maybe his interest in her woes was prompted by difficulties he might be having with his own girlfriend; it was some time now since he last had anything to say about her.

There was a sadness in that. And even more in one further possibility, that he may be seeing in Stanley (this puny, often laughed-at boy) something rather like a kid brother, something which Dan — surrounded all his life by noisy sisters — had never had.

But Stanley himself was proving to be quite a dunce. After several rounds of assembling words of only three or four letters, he finally provoked dissatisfaction from his partner. "Oh you're such a brain!" said Stacy with no compliment implied.

Stanley blushed and flipped the letters around on their little wooden holder.

Glaring at him, Imogene wondered how he could get A's in Latin with apparently so meager an English vocabulary. Then she remembered the elaborate phrasing of his contract, and the mature-sounding prose in the letters he had — presumably — written himself. She stared at the earnest effort in the faces across from her; both Stanley and her sister seemed to be trying their level best. Imogene bent over her own letters and advised herself to do likewise.

As the game neared its end, the intensity in her face relaxed for a moment when Imogene played the word, J O N Q U I L S, over a blue square and casually tipped her rack to show that it was empty.

"Good _word_ , sweetie!" cried her mother, and the father gave a long, low whistle.

Reaching for the box with the upside-down tiles, Imogene made a snooty look at Stanley, and he dropped his own grin of admiration. Stacy and her mother were quarreling over the size of the bonus to be awarded for using all of one's letters (the daughter maintaining that there was no such bonus). After consulting the rules a moment Mr Urich told his son to add another fifty points.

"Jeez!" whimpered Stacy.

Dan scribbled on the score pad. "Gives'er ... one-forty-nine. Guess who's ahead!" With a snigger directed at his other sister, he added, "You guys're still in the cellar: sixty- _two!_ "

"Shut up!" barked Stacy and her mother rapped a knuckle on the table.

When it came to be Stanley and Stacy's turn, long minutes went by, and Imogene, cheeks in palms, eyes half closed, abruptly exhaled. "Are y'gonna _play_ something!"

"Well whad'ya expect!" yelled Stacy. "We got no vowels'n a Z!"

"Sh, sh, sh," said the mother. "You too," she added, giving her elder daughter a severe look.

"He's just dragging this out on purpose!" Imogene's arms were in the air. "He was s'pose to leave half an hour ago."

Stanley, meanwhile, had taken five tiles from his rack and began laying them out sideways from the S of J O N Q U I L S. Stacy's eyes widened with delight.

"What's the blank," asked Mr Urich.

"Oh that's another Y."

Stanley had spelled: S Y Z Y G .

"Get'ahta'here!" laughed Dan. "That's not a _word!_ "

The father was grinning. "It's Latin for ..." (He made a snoring sound.)

"Um, actually?" said Stanley, poking the tiles into alignment. "I think it's from something in Greek."

Sighing, Stacy slumped back into her chair and shook her head.

As did Imogene. "Very funny! If y'can't play the game right maybe y'should just go home."

"It's a real word," said Stanley. "I use it all the time — well ... not _all_ the time. I see it ... sometimes." His eyes were following Imogene as she strode across the kitchen floor.

From the end of the counter a thick volume was secured (covered in a book jacket that matched the wallpaper), and she paged through to the S's.

As Imogene reseated herself, still flipping pages, Stanley mumbled, "It might not be in there. It's ... kinda technical."

"Sure," said Stacy, nodding wearily beside him. "Mm-hmh." She was examining their remaining tiles.

"What's it mean, dear?" Mrs Urich asked Stanley.

"Um ... it's from astronomy. Syzygy," (He pronounced it SIZ-eh-jee.) "it's a word for when, like, when planets line up in a straight line?" A blush had become prominent, and his hands were gesturing unhelpfully. "Like when there's an eclipse or something?"

Everyone turned to look at Imogene who was studying a page in the dictionary. After a moment she closed the book and set it down. She too had begun to darken as she sighed, "Your turn, Mom."

" _Really?_ " Stacy sat up straight, her eyes alight, then bent over to look for any colored squares beneath the letters. There were none, but she squeaked with pleasure nonetheless, adding up the many points.

"Lemme see that!" Dan reached for the dictionary.

Taking five new letters from the box, Stanley said, "Hope I didn't, y'know, spoil anyone's place. There's ..." he shrugged, "nowhere else that word can go."

Dan looked up from the book. He and the others all stared intently at the open S, in the lower corner, that was five squares up from a triple-word-score.

It was so quiet in the kitchen the humming of the fluorescent bulb could be heard.

"Wait a minute!" cried Stacy. " _Wait!_ We're not done yet!" Frantically, she scrabbled the tiles over to the other S.

"Come on!" Dan griped. "Y'can't move'em around!"

"Look!" Stacy was patting her partner's arm. "It fits!"

Stanley made a tiny smile at Imogene, but on meeting her penetrating stare, his cheeks flushed a deeper red and he looked back at his teammate.

"Oh jeez! Oh jeez!" Stacy was trying to count the numbers. "And there's a double-letter on the _Z!_ "

"You guys ... !" Dan's hands were up.

Stacy had jumped to her feet. "Two, six ... _twenty_ -six! — god I'm gonna croak! — two, six ..." She gasped. "What's thirty-one times three! _Ninety_ -three!" Her eyes ballooned. "Ninety- _three!_ " Stacy wailed. "Ninety- _three!_ "

Plopping into her chair once more, she kissed Stanley on the cheek and peered into his glasses. "I _never_ win!" she cried, nearly sobbing; then spun around, planted an elbow on the table, chin in palm, and chirped, "Your turn, Mom!"

Imogene continued to watch Stanley as he crowded himself over the little rack of letters. Even his knuckles had gone scarlet.

Before the end of the game Imogene managed to gain back all of the lost ground, eventually winning by a few points, but neither Stanley nor her sister acted like losers.
\- XXVII -

A few days later Imogene and two of her friends were spending an evening at the large shopping center near her home. She guessed that the outing was merely an attempt to cheer her up, for so frequently it was she who was asked which stores they should go to next.

Her private delight was simply to wander around in front of all the plate glass windows, observing the latest fashions, and in particular the artistic details of their display; but knowing how dull this was for her antsy friends she instead suggested they visit the shops that would be of most interest to them.

Thus, the girls tried on countless dresses and shoes, and pawed indignantly over the piles of fake alligator handbags which seemed to be everywhere. They giggled to one another at the earring bars, and the glass perfume counter received their many fingerprints as they stooped and squeaked and grunted to sniff each other's wrist.

The salesladies, while waiting on them, were pleased to smile, but from a distance, Imogene noted, they stared as if she and her friends were a pack of light-fingered hooligans.

In time, wearied, the girls collected themselves into one corner of the garden court, perched precariously on the edge of the concrete fish pond. They sat separated by the trimmed shrubbery and by their various purchases (each sack bearing a well-known retail name: Daytons, Donaldsons, The Record Shop) and quietly nibbled Snow-Cones.

"Not too obvious or anything!" said Becky with sudden disdain.

Imogene was gazing down at the fat fish in the turquoise colored pool and paid little attention to her friend's complaint.

"They've been followin'us around since the parking lot!" Mary Helen added with equal contempt. "Like we're in _heat_ or something!"

The two girls laughed at this, but Imogene could supply no more than a tolerant smile. She was following one of the ugly orange carp-like things wending its slow way from one end of the pond to the other.

Finally, her friends gave up their subtlety and Becky reached over to tap Imogene on the arm. "It's Pete'n Barry," she whispered. "They've been tryin't'catch your eye all night."

Imogene nodded, still looking down at the water. The reflections from the bright coins in the bottom made sparkles on the fish's fins.

After a moment, her friends sighed together as if in abandonment of a lost cause, and Imogene looked slowly around.

"Well they're gone _now!_ "

Shrugging, Imogene returned to the fish.

"That's not you at all!" Becky scolded her. "Stuck up!"

"Have y'dumped Matt or not!" demanded Mary Helen, exposing a mouthful of raspberry slush.

"I'm sorry," Imogene sighed. "It's hard, y'know? It takes time." She looked askance at her friends while giving her own purple treat a solemn lick. The girls' eyes were lowered.

Soon, other things were talked about, and Imogene listened idly while watching her fattest fish begin yet another circuit of its tiny realm, wondering how many hundreds of such tours it would complete in its lifetime and never suspect that the world is more, much more, than a few buckets of water in a painted basin paved with pennies and bottle caps and sunken gum wrappers.

From behind her, noticeable above the bustle of the shoppers, came the chirping of captive birds in their narrow, two-story tall cage. Imogene had always felt that thing was an abomination. She never looked at it, nor did anyone else that she could tell, except little kids who were too young to have any concept of freedom, or its lack. This was the first time she had been to Wealthdale since the loss of her own liberty, and the crying of the birds tore at her heart.

The overfed goldfish at least knew of nothing beyond the trash in their pool, perhaps they would even prefer this life, if given the choice; but birds are smarter, they have keen eyes, they see the skylight overhead, and the doorways open to a new green world outside; their instincts tell them of a south to fly to, of a time to build nests, of mates to meet, of chicks to feed, of unknown dangers to face, of unexpected joy to find.

"God you're _dripping!_ " cried Mary Helen.

Imogene snapped her arm away from herself, and a chunk of the melting grape ooze plopped into the pond.

Her friends laughed hilariously at this. Other seated shoppers looked up to stare at the enlarging stain in the water.

Imogene hopped to her knees, being careful to avoid the puddle she had made on the narrow edge, and reached far out for the dissolving purple iceberg.

She nearly fell in. A shot-out leg (and probably a flash of panties) is all that saved her.

From the gallery overhead a pair of boys' voices, in mimicking whines, began to chant: "Geenee! Geenee! She's our man ... !"

Instantly, Becky and Mary Helen were on their feet, clapping, dancing and calling out the familiar words, while in every direction the multitude of stopped shoppers — like a startled herd — lifted blank faces at them.

Slapping the grape mess into the nearest trashcan, Imogene and her friends laughed all the way to the ladies' room.

But thoughts of cages and constraints were much on her mind after that, and Monday night Imogene came down to supper with a face soured by peevishness. She walked straight past Stanley's smile and shy greeting, but then blushed when her mother made a cross look at her. Imogene seated herself beside their guest and grudgingly mumbled, "Hi."

Their meal was a lively one. Stacy reminded everyone of the exciting word game last time and urged a rematch, although this was not roundly endorsed by the others.

She named several card games that six people could play — "Poker," Dan suggested — but Stanley was clearly not interested.

"Oh c'mon!" the twins bullied him. "Geenee's lousy at cards. You can beat her easy."

Stanley's head was still swaying.

"Spoil-sport!" Stacy ignored the mother's wrinkling brow. "Why don'tcha like cards. Too _sociable_ for ya?"

"Stacy," said her father.

With pinking face, Stanley raised his eyes to the top of his milk glass, "It's just ... it hurts when I lose. An' — if I win? — someone else has to lose. I hate it."

Imogene, with a mouthful of crunchy celery, felt sudden warmth flooding her cheeks (the smiling eyes of her family had all focused on her), and she tried to think where Stanley might have overheard her saying these very same words. It was unlikely he could have. She often made public fun of her shortcomings, but this was one fault she was actually proud of, and therefore one which she rarely mentioned.

Her blush continued to deepen until Mrs Urich introduced a new topic for them all to discuss, and the twins, sitting side by side, quickly turned this into a bantering quarrel about 'The Neatest Thing in the World.'

Stacy could not decide what it was, this neatest thing, but felt certain it must be male and in the movies. Her brother told her she was "full of it," and that the real neatest thing was "an F4 at mach two."

"Whatever _that_ means!"

"Nope," the father interrupted, pointing with his fork. "Planes're too noisy to be neat. Best thing in the world's a fast ship on a smooth sea. No contest."

Stacy was delighted to have at last started some kind of game; she smiled eagerly toward the other end of the table where the mother was tapping her lip with a napkin. "My favorite thing, without a doubt, is the sight of young people in love."

Everyone cackled at Imogene and Stanley.

"What's yours." Dan was addressing their guest.

"Besides Geenee!" his sister giggled.

Stanley, still flushed, could only shrug.

A clattering beside him was Imogene trying to stab the last lettuce leaf in her bowl. She slapped down her fork. " _My_ favorite thing's a life of my _own!_ "

These words accorded well with the color of her face, and the outburst momentarily silenced everyone.

But soon Stanley spoke up in his uncertain voice. "I guess ... my best thing's ... gravity."

All were puzzled by this.

"What," said Stacy. "Y'mean, like ... just gravity? Fall _down_ gravity?" She dropped her knuckles to the tabletop.

The boy was hunched over his plate, his head bobbing up and down.

"What's so neat about that," asked Dan.

"... well ..." Stanley looked as though he wished he had kept his mouth shut. But then, inhaling with sudden determination, he licked his spoon and held it a few inches above the palm of his other hand. "Just watch ... what happens," and he let go of the spoon, catching it in his other hand.

"Yeah? So?" said the twins.

"Well ... it's just neat." Stanley was now red as an ingot. "I mean ... why'd it do that. How."

"Gravity! What else!"

"The earth _pulls_ things, duh!"

"Yeah, but ... how."

"Well, I don't know! It just does. You're the science nut!"

They all waited for a reply but the boy only, pathetically, licked his spoon again. His face was luminous.

Mr Urich leaned forward. "I think what he means ... there's a big difference between knowing something, and just knowing the name of something. Gravity's just a name."

"Like love," said the mother. "We all recognize it, but no one has the faintest idea what it is, really." Mrs Urich smiled down at Stanley's nodding head, then, tilting her gaze at Imogene, added, "And therein lies the fascination?"

Imogene was taking a large swallow of milk and let herself appear to be occupied with other thoughts.
\- XXVIII -

It's all a big _joke_ to them! Imogene repeated to herself when finally alone that night. They don't care about me! Certainly not about Matt!

Even worse than this, she worried how Matt was viewing _her_ behavior. At school, in the few glimpses of him during art class and their chance passings in the hallways, Imogene would endeavor to make her face into some impossible combination of hope, tragedy, reassurance, anger at Stanley — at herself — and steadfast love.

From the strange look Matt sometimes returned, she knew her message was not getting through.

The following day Imogene allowed her friends to talk her into helping with their latest project. They had offered themselves to be the publicity committee for the Y-Teens Spring Dance, and Imogene, though no longer a member, spent all of Tuesday evening with them on Polly's bed giggling over a little script they were composing which was to be read over the public address system during the next day's morning announcements.

Imogene readily understood that this was but another ploy to coax her back into normal society. Yet, perceiving the true compassion behind it all, she could not refuse. Indeed, she was glad she had not; for more real laughter came from her that night (while bobbling her root beer float) than she had known in many days. The girls, in mounting hysterics, snatched a tattered sheet of paper back and forth, adding and scratching out bits of dialogue with great hilarity.

But soon Imogene came to realize, as so often was the case, that she had little to bring to her friends' giddy delight in this kind of task; comic ideas occurred to them so quickly one scarcely had time to laugh before the next joke was blurted out. Imogene was a trifle ashamed of her own too-conventional sense of humor, and even when clever phrases did come to her, fearing them to be too literal (or too literary), demurred to voice them aloud. She was content to hide her rather pedestrian wit behind encouragement and appreciative laughter, and found that the only real usefulness she could offer was in helping to keep her friends' magnificent gags grammatical to some extent.

It did not matter (she reflected while tapping up Oreo crumbs with a licked fingertip), for, being part of this loyal, self-cherishing group brought a great measure of meaning into her life, especially now.

Then Imogene had a brilliant idea. Grabbing the paper, she crossed out one of her more ineffectual lines. "What if I say something really corny here instead," she giggled, "like, maybe ..." and wrote down one of the lines from Matt's poem.

It was still all her secret, the poem. Imogene had never mentioned it to her friends or her family or to anyone. She knew how touchy Matt could be if others should ever find out.

The sentiment, however, was a bit overblown for the intended skit. The girls all made half-hearted chuckles.

Then Becky thought of a ribald improvement one could make on the courtly line. Imogene laughed with the others but still insisted on the original. Though trite and out of place, the words would stand just as she had written them; just as she had stood at her locker that day and first read them, stunned by the helpless love they implied.

"Pol!" Mary Helen grimaced suddenly. (Imogene was sure this was merely a polite way of changing the subject.) "Lots'a luck tryin'ta sleep here t'night." Mary Helen was scratching at something under her skirt. "This isn't a bed! It's the bottom of a _bird_ cage! God you guys are pigs!" Everyone laughed as ripple chips continued to spill from Mary Helen's sack.

But by the next morning the girls were all hushed and halting while they waited in the office for Mr Ziskind to finish reading his daily sheet of announcements. He was seated at the little desk in the back, his pink, balding head bent over the big microphone. After clicking a switch, he arose and smiled at them. "You're up, ladies!" he said. But then a sudden "Ahh!" and fresh wrinkles in his cheeks expressed his pleasure at seeing Imogene among the group. His arms gestured knightly for the girls to advance.

Imogene found she could not look at him. While he had been talking into the microphone an image had occurred to her of Moses before the Burning Bush. From this little table and forward throughout the entire school had gone his voice, like the word of God; a God Who moves mountains, Who sends floods, Who gets back at all sinners who try to pull the wool over His eyes!

The girls approached the microphone's fierce, silver slotted face; they grinned wanly and looked at one another for someone to begin. (The principal had to remind them to turn the switch back on.) But soon they were off. Their little vignette was a bubbling conversation among several effervescent high school girls, all in ecstasies over the upcoming dance, saying many engagingly silly things, but also letting drop such essential details as the time and place of the dance and the name of the band.

As she had feared, Imogene could not keep the guilt-prickled squeakiness from her voice, and all her carefully rehearsed lines gushed out in a sputtering soprano as if she were being sprayed with cold water. (And she tried so hard to deepen her vowels!)

But then came her last solo line: the phrase from the poem. _These_ words she spoke as would have Joan of Arc amid her flames!

Closing her eyes, she could see Matt in his math class, sitting bolt-upright!

After they had finished, the girls all laughed with their mutual relief and galloped out of the office. But by the time Imogene reached her Latin class she was fully composed, for Stanley must not suspect her of this sly violation of his rule against communicating with Matt.

When she stepped into the classroom though, it was Brad's voice which immediately called out, "Nice performance, _Thalia!_ "

(This was a reference, not to the Muse of Comedy as Imogene once had thought, but to the haughty and very shrill-voiced girlfriend on 'Dobie Gillis.' It was a wearying cognomen she had been blessed with since junior high.)

As usual, Brad was not in his seat. He was hurrying mischievously from one student to another and seemed to have a small stack of lumber under one arm.

While everyone chuckled at her, Imogene made twisted lips and continued on to her desk. In point of fact, she felt considerable pleasure in being once again accepted enough by her classmates to be laughed at.

Stanley, however, was not laughing. His face was disturbingly dark, and this gave Imogene something of a fright. But from the way he was huddled so closely over his books, it was clear the blush was not one of anger.

She glanced about herself for the cause; the teacher was still absent, and Brad, she observed, was scooting around the room handing out what looked like picket signs to various members of the class. All were watching him with expectant grins.

Imogene sat down and let out a sigh of mild contempt. Obviously, Stanley's red face was due to nothing more than the fear of being drawn into yet another of their class-clown's elaborate pranks. Brad, in fact, was bearing down on Stanley at that moment.

Imogene let her lips form themselves into a pout of superiority. (Yes, _exactly_ like Thalia Menninger!) And the line from Matt's poem rang through her mind once more. Those words and what they stood for belonged to a far higher plane than any occupied by these boys and their petty, unprincipled schemes.

"C'mon, take it!" Imogene heard from the adjacent row. "Are you a mouse or a man!" The class laughed.

A glimpse showed that Stanley, now painfully crimson, had accepted one of the tall signboards.

"No! Keep it down. I'll tell y'when." Brad was hurrying around the front of the row.

Soon he was at Imogene's elbow. "Got one for you too, Geenee!" He was almost contrite.

"No thanks," she sighed while gazing down at her Latin text.

"C'mon! He'll be here any minute."

"No." She calmly looked up at him.

Brad had glanced toward the door, then, tossing the shaggy mop-top out of his eyes, jiggled the picket sign at her. "Gee- _nee!_ "

(The sign, in blood red Magic Marker, declared: 'Vox Populi: Non! Nullus! Negare!')

"No." Her voice remained sedate yet firm. She wagged her head ever so slightly.

With an angry look Brad thrust the sign at JoAnn behind her, who clutched it eagerly, then dashed back to his own desk.

Imogene's gaze now fell on Stanley. He was cowering over the top of the signboard held hidden between his desk and the one ahead. Clearly, he was in a torment of shame, of weakness, of spinelessness. Imogene gritted her teeth and looked away, but it was already too late; she felt her heart going out to him.

Then the door opened and Mr Grove hurried in.

From several boys came a loud Roman cheer, and all the signs went up, including the one given to Stanley (whose placard blackly read: 'Down With Dictators!'). He held the base of the stick against his desktop while staring intently at the floor, as if in disgrace.

The teacher was, of course, paused by all of this. He stood behind his desk motionless for a moment, gathering in the gist of the many angry sayings elevated at him, some in Latin, some in English.

Imogene watched him with great interest. He was unbuttoning his suit coat when the door opened and two students, one of them with a camera, came in. (It was to be expected that Brad had notified the yearbook staff.) Mr Grove went to them and talked privately a moment.

Soon, with unhappy shrugs, the couple turned around and left.

Mr Grove returned to his desk and contemplatively removed his coat, then, while waving the signs down, came forward among his class and began an impromptu discourse in Latin. He spoke slowly, using unfamiliar words and a difficult syntax, such that all the students, even Imogene, were hard pressed to follow along; but they did all make the effort. He certainly had their attention.

It was just like him, thought Imogene, to make even this into some kind of learning experience.

Eventually there was discussion on the topic. Yes, the teacher agreed, he would see what he could do about lessening the homework load; but he will expect to find a corresponding improvement in their grades.

All the signs were now lowered except the one still held by Stanley; he had yet to look up from the floor and had not seen the others go down. His lone, listing banner, like Quixote's crooked lance, stood in foolish heroism over their heads. It was beginning to attract giggles. And Imogene, with a quick headshake of anger, discovered she had been gazing tenderly at him.

Throughout most of his lecture, Mr Grove had held his eyes on Brad, but now, returning to his desk, he paused beside Stanley and sighed: " _Et tu_ , _Brute?_ " which triggered a gale of laughter, then, with gentle hands, pulled the sign from Stanley's grip. "May I keep this?" he murmured in English. "For a souvenir?"

The chuckling continued as all the lowered signs were tucked under people's desks. Brad was smiling, but not broadly, and Stanley, still ablaze, sat staring into his Latin book.

The day's class was begun by Mr Grove writing verses on the board and calling out a page number over his shoulder. In the flutter of opening books Debbie leaned back and whispered, "Think he's really mad?"

Imogene made a puckish grin. "I highly doubt it."

"He said no to those _Whynot_ guys."

"Yeah, but he didn't say, 'God no.'"

Imogene glanced again at the blush on Stanley's cheek and felt now only a trace of compassion. She was pleased. She claimed this episode as a victory. She had spoken her feelings to Matt. And Stanley, far from suspecting her, had once again been heartily shamed and laughed at. As he should be!

Throughout the balance of that morning, in the hallways and elsewhere, Imogene kept watch for Matt but could find no trace of him. Then, in third period, she learned from a friend that Matt's desk had been empty in trig class. (Of all the days to be sick!)

But regardless, whether reaching him or not, Imogene had stood up and declared — to the whole school — what was deepest in her heart, what most needed to be said; and right under Stanley's nose. The thought of this, of getting away with it, of proving the kid fallible, provided her greatest share of pleasure in the act.
\- XXIX -

When lunchtime came Imogene sat down at the usual table with two of her three best friends. Though she was still in good spirits, Imogene allowed herself to become sullen. She knew they would try again to bully her into attending the dance she had helped advertise that morning, and to deflect these good intentions she thought it best to appear somewhat distant.

Of course Stanley had not forbidden her to go out with boys other than Matt, but her own heart, her sense of loyalty, made this unthinkable. In fact, since her apparent breakup with Matt a number of boys had already asked her for dates, all of whom were sweetly declined, for she believed it would be unfair to the boys themselves, pretending to be their particular friend, even for one evening, while knowing full well she will dash back to Matt as soon as ever she can.

Across from her, Polly had neatly arrayed her bowls and utensils then stretched as tall as she could, which was not very tall, and looked all around the vast lunchroom, chaotic in its din of adolescent feeding.

"Where _is_ she." Polly was referring to the absent Becky. "Steve take'er to Perkins or somewhere? She say anything?"

Mary Helen shook her head, but Imogene, her arms negligently on the table, only shrugged.

She could see right away this was not going to work. It was hard enough maintaining a grumpy look when seated beside Stanley; with her dearest friends it would be impossible. Still, she did make the effort and was aided by the twinge of annoyance she received from noting how Polly and Mary Helen, with apparent unconcern, permitted her to sulk in front of them.

Also, Imogene was more than a little hurt by her friends' persistence in believing Matt was the one at fault. How she would adore them had they taken his side against her!

Actually, a slight rift with her friends, she felt, would be useful right now, for every moment alone with them was hazardous. She longed continually to fall into their arms and cry out the truth of her struggle, and to do this, if Stanley were one to keep his threats (and knowing the blabbiness of her friends!), would be fatal.

Thus, the three girls began to eat in silence, Mary Helen and Imogene on one side of the table, Polly by herself on the other.

Some time later, after Mary Helen had finished her chili-con-carne and was eyeing the untouched bowls on her friends' trays, she looked up and barked, "'Bout time!"

Becky appeared, tall and stiff, and dropped a tray of food on the table with unnecessary clatter.

"Uh-oh," said Polly, inching her plastic-and-metal chair away from the one Becky was banging into place.

"What's up?" Mary Helen asked, but her face blossomed with a smile as Imogene, using both hands, placed her bowl of chili on Mary Helen's tray.

Once Becky had settled herself, she extruded a lower lip and muttered at her slopped meal, " _I_ had to stay after _cla_ -ass."

"Really?" said Polly, and the spoon in Mary Helen's mouth came to a sudden halt. It was unheard-of for cheerleaders to get into serious trouble.

Imogene, unimpressed, only sighed and poked at her cooling food.

But a look of comprehension had come into Polly's eyes. "Mrs Cashman, right?"

"The little fart!" Becky ripped open the tent of her tiny milk carton. (She had the same English teacher for third period that Polly and Imogene had for second.)

"God," Polly clicked her tongue. "You'n her. All year long. Wha'ja do this time."

"Nothin'."

"If she's really ticked," said Mary Helen, "she can get'cha kicked off the squad."

"Big deal!"

Then Polly gasped. "What about Red Lodge! God we're almost — Beck, I swear, if you — !"

"Just go ahead'n go without me! I don't care!" Becky jabbed a straw into her milk carton and bent to make the narrow tube flash white.

Her friends were silenced. They glanced briefly at one another, then returned to their meals. All heads remained lowered as they listened to the unintelligible chatter around them.

Suddenly Imogene looked up. "Didn't you turn in that Casterbridge paper?"

"It's so boring!" Becky wailed.

"It was due Friday!"

"An'it can just go to hell. I'm not doin'it!" Becky was turning pink. "Ever hear of senior _slump_ or anything?" She pulled her tray away from the others.

"Did you even read the book."

"It's so _boring!_ "

Imogene looked at the other girls. Their expressions seemed to advise retreat, and for several minutes nothing more was said.

Eventually though, Imogene reached across the table and touched Becky's hand. "Come over tonight, okay? I've got pages'n pages a'notes. We'll crank it out in no time. Okay?"

"Don't bother." Becky's voice had softened. "She'll know I didn't do it myself."

"You _will_ do it yourself! Believe me, you will! I guarantee that!" Imogene pushed her tray aside. "Look ... there's a trick to doin'papers, okay? Dull papers. It doesn't always work for me, but — "

"Just forget it."

"Hellie knows it. The trick."

"I do?" Mary Helen looked up from the tipped chili bowl.

"Yeah, that thing y'did for Bagaleen's? Early in the year? You know, the Bible thing."

Mary Helen sucked her spoon in genuine puzzlement.

"You know!" said Polly, leaning forward. "That take-off on the Old Testament. 'Bout the overweight fullback'n all his troubles? 'Member we laughed?"

"Oh yeah!" Mary Helen made a huge grin and dropped fists to the tabletop. "The Book of Joe."

"With the — with the — " Polly was trying to contain herself, patting at dribbles on her chin. "With the Voice-from-out-of-the-Whirlpool-refrigerator! We just screamed!"

Imogene had turned to smile at Becky. "See? That's what I mean. Like that dance thing this morning! Just look for something ... totally screwy, funny — an'the more irreverent the better. Make it a big joke! You're so good at that anyway."

Becky was trying hard to retain her frown; she too had read Mary Helen's _Hoky Bible_.

"Maybe y'won't get an A or anything," Imogene went on, "or maybe y'will, Cashman gives A's for originality. But the point is ... it's so much _fun_ getting back at these stupid dull books. Once y'get goin' the papers just write themselves."

Imogene patted her friend's hand. "C'mon. Just come over'n look through my things. Something'll turn up an'you're on your way. You'll see. It's just the first few lines that seem like work. Please?"

Becky was allowing a small grin, but it quickly vanished. "I gotta babysit. My mom's got her class tonight."

"Well I'll come to you then. I'll bring all my stuff. Okay?"

Becky looked down at their hands clasped tightly together, and she nodded with closed eyes.

Mary Helen was tapping Imogene's shoulder. "Really? She gives A's for originality? Even if y'botch everything else?"

"Well," Imogene ducked her head. "I guess I don't know for sure, _I'm_ never original, but she teaches the enriched classes. She must be pretty open-minded at least. More'n most."

Polly giggled. "I thought she only got the smart kids 'cuz she's too sweet'n twerpy to keep the lunkheads in line."

"Yeah." Becky was smiling now. "Bagaleen gets all a'them."

"Hey!" protested Mary Helen.

For some moments after this, the girls became quiet and contemplative. The lunchroom clatter continued all around their table. Then Polly, observing the strange, weary look that had returned to Imogene's face, asked: "Geen, how come _your_ papers're never like that, irreverent. I mean, if it's such a good trick'n all. Like that one she read in class the other day. With the word 'poignant' in it? It sounded so, I don't know, sincere."

Imogene smiled and shrugged. "That's my biggest problem. I can't be irreverent." She was unable to look directly into her friends' eyes; she looked at their noses. "I take everything too seriously. Not like you guys ... I'm just ..." her lips smirked, "I'm not clever enough to see all the new things in this old junk we gotta study." She dropped her gaze, aware that the girls were heeding her with rare attention.

A trace of anger came into her voice. "Yeah, an'I can listen'n take notes'n remember absolutely everything the teacher says. An'then ... regurgitate it into reams'a neatly typed paper. But that's not writing — real writing." Imogene sighed and patted a cube of lime Jell-O with her spoon. In a softer voice she added, "Compared to you guys? I'm actually pretty retarded if y'wanna know."

Mary Helen noisily cleared her throat. "Excuse me, is there a valedictorian at this table?"

"You know what I mean!" Imogene felt herself becoming warm. (She wondered, fleetingly, if she could ever have talked of such things, even to her friends, had not Stanley crashed into her life: Stanley, that quiet catalyst of guilt and self-doubt.) "I'm not creative enough," she said. "I'm not ... there's just no spark." Imogene sensed her friends' silverware being uneasily fiddled with, but she could not stop herself. "I wanna write more than anything in the world, but a novelist at _least_ has to have imagination — and initiative — and I have neither!" She looked straight at Becky. "But you guys ..."

Polly interrupted with a heavy sigh. "Well that's about the biggest crock I've heard lately."

"It's true! You don't know how much I envy you guys. All of you." Now she was looking into their eyes.

Polly shook her head. "That storybook y'made for Matt's little brother? With all the rhymes'n nonsense'n stuff? God, if there's — "

"And really cute pictures," said Mary Helen.

" — if there's no imagination in _that_ , I'll ... !"

"Eat that chili?" Becky was pointing at the cold bowl on Polly's tray.

"I'll eat it!" Mary Helen raised her hand, and the girls burst into laughter.

Imogene had gone pink at the mention of her _magnum opus_ and while laughing with her friends felt she could have kissed each of them dearly.

They chattered for awhile about the storybook, but not for too long since, lately, any conversation even remotely concerned with Matt tended to make Imogene's eyes blink.

A little later, Polly was slouched far back in her chair, pulling a biscuit apart. "Joe ever see it by the way?" She tapped the table to get Mary Helen's attention. "The Bible thing. Ever show it to him?"

"Joe?" said Mary Helen. "God no! Think I'm stupid?"

The girls laughed.

"But I showed it to Rabbi Youngdahl."

"You didn't!" squealed Imogene, spanking her friend on the shoulder. "That sweet old guy? Get out of here! I dis _own_ you!" Then she smiled. "Whad'e say."

Mary Helen made her voice pontifically deep. "He was not amused."

They all laughed again — Imogene quite helplessly — until Polly leaned forward, her head tipped to one side. "Geenee's got the prettiest smile in the whole world."

"Amen!" the others agreed.

For most of that afternoon Imogene was able to give a fair imitation of her former self, laughing and chatting lightly with acquaintances, especially those who had, for a time, drawn away from her. It seemed she was becoming, if not content with, at least accustomed to her unhappy dilemma.

But then, in last period art, standing in full smock before her easel (and sensing acutely Matt's absence from the room), she began to notice dark colors creeping into her still life; the plums, and even the peaches, becoming a bruised purple, the highlights mere traces of frightened white, the shadows black as Hades.

Her thoughts kept returning to the triumph over Stanley that morning, but she discovered now that even this no longer pleased her. After all, it had been a skirmish fought against a sleeping foe, and how could a winner feel she had won, with the loser unaware of his loss? Worse than this, she felt the sting of having committed yet another deception. Though perpetrated against the enemy, it was deception nonetheless, and something in Imogene felt this sin keenly.

On the bus going home she sat subdued and alone, gazing vacantly out the window at the greening trees and open garage doors, at the occasional father in old clothes puttering with gas can and lawnmower. She thought again of Moses and the Burning Bush, and felt achy inside, deep inside, as though she had been scolded with good cause.

After supper that evening, Imogene and her friend were sitting on the floor in Becky's bedroom, their books and papers scattered all about.

Nelley, Becky's five year old stepsister, had planted herself stubbornly between them and was tormenting a well-scuffed Barbie doll.

The little girl had lustrous blond hair (in great contrast to the elder sister's dark chestnut), and she cursed sputteringly in her squeaky, Mommy-not-home voice.

Imogene grinned with a kind of pride to be allowed witness to this tiny profanity, for Nelley was generally quite shy in the company of grown-ups.

Becky, staring down at Imogene's notebook, gave her sister a shove with a naked foot. "Shut up, brat," she said while turning a page.

"You shut up, poopy!"

A pink, minuscule high-heel bounced off Becky's sweater and was ignored.

"C'mere, kiddo," said Imogene as she pulled the child into her lap. "What's the matter here."

Nelley threw the doll and its dress to the carpet.

Nothing was said for a long while during which Imogene, to the girl's sullen, finger-chewing attention, bent the doll's limbs into a torturous pose and tugged the frilly garment past tight hips and snagging fingertips. Imogene was enchanted that the doll's artificially golden hair could not even compare with the child's.

Relieving the doll of its contortions, she returned it to Nelley. "Can you snap up the back?"

The little girl pouted as her wet, pudgy fingers completed the doll's toilette; she leaned heavy and warm into Imogene's arms.

Becky was staring at the wall.

"Find something?" Imogene asked.

"Maybe." A look of suppressed merriment had spread over Becky's face.

Imogene nodded and took the child by the hand. "C'mon, thumpleumpkin, show me your toys."

They passed a considerable time at the kitchen table, setting up and abandoning one noisy game after another. Imogene sat with Nelley on her lap, and the girl's fine blond hair tickled her nose.

Becky's hair used to be like this, Imogene recalled. This was back when the two of them had been mere tots living next door to each other. But by the time they were in kindergarten Becky's hair had already begun to change.

Imogene had a vivid recollection (one of her earliest) of the two of them lying side by side on their little rugs one day and noticing how much darker her friend's hair had become. She giggled something about this, but Becky did not giggle back. Instead, she rolled over and lay very still, and after awhile there was a sound of crying.

But little Nelley's hair, if anything, was growing lighter and more brilliant every year.

Before them now was a coloring book and a cigar box full of gritty crayon stumps. "Oh you have to stay inside the lines," Imogene cautioned.

"No you don't!" she was informed with conviction.

When they next turned the page, Imogene colored only the outside of her picture, in shimmering pastels, leaving the poor little doggie pale and thin. Like a Band-Aid on a rainbow, she thought.

Nelley looked up from her purple-scribbled lamb and giggled, "You're koo-koo, Geenee!"

Imogene kissed the child's fabulous hair.

When the mother returned, wearied by her long day but still smiling, Imogene yielded custody of the little girl (who cried piteously all the way to the bathtub) and went to look in on her friend. Becky was hunched over her desk, her long arms tight against her sides and the elbow of her writing hand poking out behind, wiggling.

Imogene spoke softly. "See ya," she said. "Just drop my stuff in my locker."

There was no answer and Imogene put on her coat and gloves and quietly let herself out of the house.

But before reaching her car the front door banged open, and Becky came dashing down the sidewalk in sweater, jeans and bare feet, her brown hair flying. A pen was still in her hand.

Imogene slapped the sides of her coat. "Dummy! It's freezing out here!"

She was clutched in strong arms and raised to the toes of her sneakers.

Her friend whimpered a sentence thick with Slavic growls, ending in the one recognizable word, "... spasíbo!"

(Becky was Vice-premier of her Russian Club, and she, like Imogene, often found English inadequate for the expression of one's deepest feelings.)

A reply was not immediately made. Imogene, in quest of an apt response, was searching through her memory's vast, unclassified miscellany. (She knew nothing of her friend's foreign language but what she had occasionally overheard.)

"Umm ... puzhálsta?" she ventured at last, and Becky squeezed her again.
\- XXX -

For some time past, long before this Stanley business, Imogene and her friends had been planning to go by themselves on a skiing trip to a popular resort out west. With much wheedling they had sought out the consent of their parents and employers, and were surprised to have gotten so far with the scheme, for none of them had been further from home, on their own, than to summer camp.

Imogene claimed that the lack of objection was due to their now being fully matured seniors, but the others knew better. Their parents' first question, when approached on the subject, had been: "Will Geenee be there."

At least that was what her friends had told her, and there could be some truth to it for she was, after all, only months away from heading, unaccompanied, into the adult world of ivy-league college life, and no one seemed to have any doubt of her being able to cope with the many trials and temptations which that will involve.

But Imogene felt uncomfortable at being considered such thoroughly chaperone material — while possessing the face and voice of a ninth grader! Vainly, she had tried to convince her friends that it was _because_ she was going out east that she seemed so trustworthy, not _vice versa._

"Oh shove it, Gramma!" they laughed. "You're the most grown-up kid in the whole school!"

Her friends claimed further to having no regrets about spending the next four years reined-in, as it were, at the local university.

Polly spoke with hands on hips. "Even ask my sister. Tessie spent exactly _one_ semester at Briarcliff. That was it! She was miserable. She couldn't even afford the LD's!"

"Yeah," said the others, "You might be havin'just a whoopee-ding time out there at your _girls_ ' school! Goin'broke flyin'back'n forth! But we'll still have a social life — and our jobs! Just watch our dust come spring break!"

Her friends teased Imogene without mercy sometimes, but despite their flip words and high spirits, she had long been aware of the growing maturity in their thoughts, as well as her own. In large part, they were all the product of each other's nurturing care. They were, all of them, their own best influence.

At least they had been until recently — until Stanley.

Imogene could be confident of her own parents' understanding, but what of the other adults in their lives? How exemplary would she appear if _they_ knew the details of her crime and of the bizarre predicament it had landed her in?

Therefore she began to worry greatly as the time for their skiing trip neared; her having to back out now would cause endless questioning. Much depended on whether Stanley would let her go or not.

On Thursday then, at the kitchen table, Imogene waited patiently for Stanley to finish explaining to her sister why trapezoids must have two — and only two — parallel sides. No sooner had that been settled and Stacy's brow began to furrow in preface to another question, but the mother reached out and tapped a fingernail on her daughter's plate. "Eat," she said.

In the lull, Imogene turned to their guest. "What about next week. Easter vacation."

Stanley looked down at his plate. (For many days now he would have heard their classmates cooing with envy over the intended escapade.) In delay of answering her, his hand reached up to push his glasses back.

Imogene sighed. "We've been planning this trip for months. The money's already spent ... !"

Still silent, Stanley had begun winding spaghetti onto his fork.

"Just this one week, okay? And — I swear — my friends are ready t'ditch me. If I bug out one more time, that's it!"

Though beginning to blush, Stanley appeared unmoved. "It'd be ..." (Now he was trying to unwind strands from the enormous spool he had amassed.) "He knows where you're goin'. It'd be real easy for him to sneak out there'n be with ya."

"Oh I'm so sure!"

Mrs Urich craned her neck. "Geenee, if Stan doesn't want you to go, you'll stay at home."

The daughter's eyes bulged at the parent.

"There's that long reading list that came from the college. This would be a good time — "

"That's what I did _last_ year!"

"Yeah!" Stacy laughed, slurping up a mouthful of noodle-ends. "That was great! She got sick the last day a'school an'spent the whole Easter week in bed with — guess what — _Moby Dick_ and the measles!" Abruptly, Stacy put a finger to her chin. "Or was it Martha and the Vandellas."

"Oh that's so old!" Imogene was the only one not laughing.

When quiet returned, Stanley mumbled, "Okay. If your folks trust you not to see him, you can go. We'll skip next week."

Imogene looked at him a moment, then, pleadingly, at her father.

Mr Urich grinned and nodded back.

All eyes turned to the mother who had gone to the stove for the rest of the meatballs. She cocked her head severely at her daughter. "If you disappoint me — in any way — I'll tell Mr Ziskind myself."

Imogene smiled, "Thanks Mom! Thanks Daddy!" then made a sarcastic face at Stanley. "Okay?"

He bobbed his head, cheeks bulging with another forkful.

As Mrs Urich returned to the table, she sighed to add, "But at least — you're so weak on the Europeans — at least take along Flaubert or someone, all right? In case you twist your ankle or something."

But the girls' trip, when it finally came, turned out to be little more than dreary. The train going west groaned through miles of muddy plains and grim forests; and the chalet, filled to bursting, was noisy beyond belief. The girls fretted over the many offenses incurred by their inappropriate tips, and they muttered amongst themselves about the poor quality of the rental gear. This was a moot point, however, since none of them attempted any of the runs more than a few times a day. The hordes of skiers were disheartening and made the battered slopes teem like kicked-open anthills. They found it more diverting simply to stand apart or in pairs, at the top of the hills or at the bottom, and boy-watch.

In the evenings they dressed to the teeth and went down to supper in the large dining hall, and afterwards made themselves available for dancing in the lounge. But they had little success at this, for their fellow guests were predominantly collegiate in both age and daring and the four girls from Elnora, giggling away their embarrassment, labeled their table, 'Romper Room.'

The first evening they were completely ignored. But on the following nights Imogene's friends altered their attire and attitudes to be more in line with the fast crowd, and occasionally it happened that Imogene found herself sitting all alone at their table, fiddling with her bracelets, and reading _Crime and Punishment_.

Boys did come and ask her to dance, and whenever the music played, her legs could not keep still beneath the table:
... I'm - so - glad

that she's my little gir-l ...

Nevertheless, Imogene chose faithfulness to Matt, a thousand miles away, as the finer pleasure. Tenderly, she apologized to the young men and said that she had twisted her ankle on the bunny hill that day.

But what had been the girls' greatest worry proved to be a source of unexpected delight. For reasons of economy the four of them were all sharing the same room and took turns as to which pair would sleep in which bed. They had pillow fights and giggled till all hours, just as in the slumber parties of their grade school days. It had been their fear that, being so much older now — seniors for godsake! — the closeness would cause unbearable strain and tedium.

But not so. The resumption of their little girl personalities was immediate and heartwarming for all. The names of former boyfriends and forgotten crises flooded into their heads, and they laughed over all the aspirations and misplaced concern they had known together.

Imogene was especially moved. When they were recalling their parties of eleventh grade, she could not keep herself from telling again the story of her coming to love the young man in the desk directly behind hers, the strong, handsome, spirited, artistic and unpredictably sweet young man who, because his last name began with a W, was trapped for an hour every day within her sole domain, and she in his, and at a time when 'both had lost lovers of lesser worth.' (Tennyson of course, but Imogene refrained from identifying the quote; her friends generally had little patience for the citing of her references.)

"Thank god for alphabetical order!" cried Mary Helen. She and the others quickly saw, however, that Imogene could not stop her tears of remembrance, and the girls crowded close around. Their commiseration, though welcomed, was useless.

"Call him up!" demanded Polly. "Right now. Right this minute!"

(It was 1:30 AM — 2:30 Minnesota time.)

"C'mon, we'll all chip in," said Becky. "C'mon!"

But Imogene refused to pull her hands from her face.

Baffled and frustrated, her friends tucked her into bed and eventually they all fell asleep.
\- XXXI -

On the last night of their stay, Imogene forgot to limp while entering the lounge, and one or two familiar young men straightened up to look her way.

Abruptly, she announced to her friends that she would go back to their room instead. She had, for doing this, the legitimate excuse of having not called her parents since the day of their arrival.

This second call had been a task easy to put off since there was so little to be enthusiastic about, and even now, after escaping from the lounge, Imogene chose first to take a long, leisurely bath before facing her mother's certain resentment.

Some time later then, in fuzzy robe and steamy pink skin, Imogene sat in the center of one of the beds, the phone in her lap, and listened to the rambling — and surprisingly cheerful — account of her mother's busy Easter week: the bridge club, the church clothing drive, yard work. "The forsythia are just gorgeous, dear!"

Imogene's own news had been exhausted in a few brief sentences.

"Oh!" said Mrs Urich suddenly. "A letter came for you the other day." Then there was mumbling in the background as her father was dispatched on an errand upstairs. "It was very official looking," the mother continued. "Were you expecting something from the college?"

Imogene shrugged, unseen.

Soon, the receiver made thumping noises and she heard: "Here, talk to your daughter."

A throat was cleared. "Hi sweetie."

"Hi Daddy."

"Break any bones yet?"

"No."

"Hearts?"

"Daddy!"

There was a pause before he added, "Havin'a good time?"

"Yeah."

"Well, here's your mom. See y'at the station Sunday. Don't know if I'll be _awake_ that early but ... here's Mom."

Imogene was slow in saying goodbye and her mother interrupted. "Well, I guess it's not so very official looking — the letter I mean. It's rather small and I see there's no return address, but your name is typed so importantly on the front: ' _Miss_ Imogene Urich.'"

The daughter gasped. "Open it up!" All her muscles had pulled taut.

"You're sure it's all right. It doesn't say 'personal' or — "

"Open it!"

There was a small ripping sound, then silence.

"What." Imogene waited. "It's a poem, right?"

"Oh! Sweetie, yes! Oh."

Imogene thumped a fist over the slash of pain in her chest.

The mother went on, as if in awe. "It's ... eight little lines. On a little slip of — and so neatly typed!"

Tears were already in Imogene's eyes.

"But there's no name on it. No ... anything. Only this sweet little ..."

Imogene heard the paper being flipped back and forth; then an indrawn breath.

"What."

"Oh honey. It's from Stan."

Imogene's face went stone hard.

"I can tell because — guess what the last word is ... go on, guess."

With her free hand, Imogene clutched together the lapels of her lavender robe.

"It's _husband_ ," said her mother. There was a significant pause. "Do you know of anyone _else_ who would use that word?"

A matronly giggle had accompanied this, and Imogene drew in a long, deep breath. Indeed, no friend of hers would say such a thing, least of all Matt. Only Stanley could be so crude as to mention words like 'husband' and 'lawful wife' to a girl who's not even out of high school yet!

Her mother was sighing. "That little dickens. He was so quiet and nervous tonight. He hardly ate a thing. And no wonder! All the time knowing _this_ was upstairs on your bed."

"He was over for _supper?_ Mom!"

"Well ... the kids are off with their friends tonight, and ... I invited Stan and his parents to come over for pork chops."

"Mo- _om!_ "

"Now don't get mad at me. I was just trying to help. You know how he's always ... forbidding any contact between you and his family. Well, I got this sneaky idea of having them over now, this week, while you're gone? I thought, well, with only Stan here and his parents — and they must be dying to meet you. And I know how guilty Stan feels about all of this. And so — and if I _do_ say so myself, I can say such endearingly sweet things about you! And so I thought, with all of us talking about you ... I thought he might — all of a sudden — just ... give it up completely; confess to everything. I know he has a conscience, dear. I know this is hurting him."

Imogene, grumbling, had flopped backwards on the bed, the base of the phone still heavy in her lap, and her elbow, exposed by the robe's fallen sleeve, pointing sharply at the rustic beams overhead. "So did he? Confess."

The mother sighed. "No, sad to say. But he was very ill at ease: jumpy, eyes darting every which way. There _were_ some awkward moments — things he stuttered trying to explain. His parents thought it _extremely_ strange that you weren't here to meet them, and I hinted that it was something the two of you had, you know, worked out on your own?" She chuckled a moment. "And shame on me for putting him on the spot like that, but it _did_ almost work. In fact, had they stayed just a little bit longer I'm sure something would have come out — oh, he does have a conscience, dear!"

Imogene made no comment, and her mother sighed once more. "But they had to leave early to take their daughter — Laney, I think her name is; she's in confirmation this year — they had to take her to the Good Friday service at their church. And then, out of the blue, Dad asked Stan if he'd like to come along with us, to our church service. And he said 'yes.'" Mrs Urich laughed. "He said it so quickly, I think he must have been scared to death of having to sit through some kind of third-degree on the trip home with his parents! But we were pleased, we all were, that he wanted so much to see the church we go to — that _you_ go to. They're Lutherans too, you know."

Imogene, having closed her eyes, fogged the mouthpiece with an infuriated exhalation. "Can't you _see_ what he's doing? To you. Daddy. Everyone?"

"I know perfectly well what he's doing, and I'm all for it. Really, he's such a nice — "

"You _actually_ took him to church with you?"

"Dad found him a suit coat that sort of fit, one of Danny's old ones. And a shirt and tie — we had such a good time dressing him up! But don't worry, none of your friends saw us. It was only old folks there anyway. We sat way in the back, each of us holding a little white candle with one of those ... wax-catcher things round it? Oh it was so beautiful. The organ playing low and the candlelight and the shadows. And Stan sitting so quietly between us." She laughed again. "The whole time I was thinking: Lord, if Geenee ever saw _this!_ Oh, I'm forgetting about the poem. It goes — "

"Well I don't wanna hear it! Throw it away!"

"Oh shame on you!"

"Mom!"

"Who's paying for this call! Now you be quiet and listen. There's hardly twenty words to it." Mrs Urich cleared her throat and read:
To honors and awards,

high in renown,

To moments of shame,

beyond all endurance,

To the end of our lives,

deep in my heart;

This is how far a genius may get ...

"Oh, and — this is so cute! — guess how he spelled 'genius:' G, double-E, N, double-E, U, S. Do you get it, dear?"

Imogene sighed.

This is how far a _geeneeus_ may get

with a joke for a husband.

"Now isn't that the most — and it's just like I say, poetry can be so incriminating! That last line especially. I'm sure if — what's all that noise."

Imogene had tumbled herself from the bed, causing the phone to fall dingingly on the carpet. It was being dragged by its spiral cord back to the small writing desk where Imogene began slapping through drawers with her free hand.

"Geenee, what's going on there!"

A pen was secured and the back of and old menu card. Imogene pinched the receiver between jaw and shoulder. "Read it again," she barked.

"What?"

"Read it _again!_ Slowly."

The mother obeyed and Imogene copied down the words. Her trembling fingers made little more than scribbles. She felt herself to be floating on air.

When Mrs Urich finished, she said breezily to her daughter: "So, now I can throw it in the trash, all right?"

"No! Put it in my desk and don't let anyone see it!"

"Sweetie, are you going to tell me what's got into you?"

"Mom! It's from Matt!"

The phone was silent for a moment before the mother spoke. "And he knows he's not supposed to communicate with you?"

" _I'm_ not supposed to! He can do whatever he wants." Sniffling, Imogene looked down and placed fingertips on the tiny, frantic scrawl. "Even this."

A moment more went by and her mother said softly, "Well, I expect you want me to hang up now."

"Mm-hmh."

"Are you going to be all right dear? Are you?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Say hi to Dan'n Stace for me. I'll see y'Sunday." She pressed a plush cuff to her cheek. "I just ... I just wanna sit here for awhile."

After their goodbyes, and righting the phone, Imogene sat cross-legged on the warm carpet and stared down at the precious words:

To the end of our lives,

deep in my heart!
\- XXXII -

Later that night, when the others returned from their evening of socializing in the lounge, Imogene was curled tightly under the covers of her bed, eyes closed, but only feigning sleep, for (she tried not to sniffle): 'Her heart was of a fullness which permitted no rapport.' (Colette.)

She listened with irritation to the excited whispers of her friends. All, it seemed, had found ardent swains to dally with, and they agonized that this had been their last night.

One by one the girls took showers or made tapping noises in front of the dresser mirror. The room became filled with hushed giggles and the softened rustle of nighties and bare feet.

Suddenly, Imogene felt a dark presence on the other side of her eyelids.

"Oh god!" squeaked Polly. "C'mere you guys!" Her whisper was loud enough to rouse a drunk.

Soon, three scented females were clustered around Imogene's side of the bed.

"I can't stand it!" Polly whimpered. "She _cried_ herself to sleep!"

The crusted tears on Imogene's face began to itch intolerably. (A deep blush was coming on as well, but apparently the dimness of the room allowed this to go unnoticed.)

Tongues were clicked, and after awhile the shadows withdrew as her friends shuffled off to the other bed and made its mattress creak.

"She's goin'through hell," someone whispered.

"Well no shit sherlock! She hasn't smiled once the whole trip!"

The voices were too faint for identification.

"This whole thing's so stupid. Whatever he did, he's paid for it by now."

"Why won't she take him back?"

"It's not her. It's her folks."

There was a startled pause.

"They caught'em _doing_ something ... after that party at Barb's!"

A longer pause followed.

"How d'ya know."

"Well what else _could_ it be. She'll be lucky if she ever gets him back. Her mom hates his guts."

"Well ... she oughta tell us. We're best friends, right? I told _her_ all about me'n Greg!"

More things were said, but softly and indistinctly. Imogene ached with trying to maintain her position, and the shallow, rhythmic inhalations were making her dizzy.

Soon though, the lights were all put out and the remaining whispers sighed away to silence. Imogene was left in the darkness with her thoughts, her widened eyes, and the angry-sounding slumbered breaths of her friends.

She was also alone with Mary Helen who, ever since the old sleepover days, was the one girl you did not want to share a bed with. Her limbs, while asleep, were as active as her mind was when awake and full of mischief. Instinctively, Imogene crowded herself to the edge of the bed, as far out of range of knuckles and toenails as possible, and gripped the blankets against the inevitable yank.

Despite this, Imogene's contemplations did not stray from the now memorized poem and the image of a large young man sitting cramped at his mother's typewriter, scratching his head and poking at the keys with one finger (the bent one probably, on which he once caught a ball wrong).

She could not withhold a tiny sigh, however, for the poem, though demonstrably better than the last, could still not exactly be called a work of art; the expressions of love might perhaps have been more effective if less understated, if the concept and intensity had been more ... well, Petrarchan.

How can I quibble about this! she cried nearly aloud. _Any_ thing from his heart — born of his own volition — _must_ be priceless! 'A thing of beauty! A joy forever!'

Before long (while still dodging her bedmate's unconscious antics), Imogene found herself to be in so sweetly sad a mood that she vowed never again to make fun of Romeo and Juliet. Lyrical phrases gamboled through her head, even rhymes.

She was clutching her barren ring finger (caution had dictated that the ring itself be left at home lest her snoopy comrades spot it by chance), and she allowed her wetted eyes to open all the wider, bathing themselves in the blurry, moonlit grays. She almost feared that the knocking of her heart would awaken the others.

Then the point of an elbow was thrust into her spine.

Imogene crept from the bed, grabbed her purse, bathrobe and slippers, a key from the desk, and tiptoed out of the room.

Downstairs, the lobby was vacant except on the far end where (she squinted) a young man and woman, also in robes, were smoking cigarettes and sitting very close to one another.

Imogene rang for the desk clerk and a middle-aged, chatty woman appeared who listened courteously to Imogene's request and produced, along with some appropriate sentiments, a sheet of writing paper and an envelope, both imprinted with the chalet's name and banner. The clerk also accepted a nickel and three pennies in exchange for an airmail stamp.

Taking these, Imogene curled herself up in a big padded chair by the fireplace, laid a magazine across her knees, and retrieved a pen from her purse. Without hesitation, she wrote down two short quatrains. Her script looked huge to the nearsighted eyes she held inches from the paper. (Unwisely, it now appeared, she had chosen to leave her little-girl glasses at home as well.)

When finished, Imogene sat with the stamped, sealed and addressed envelope and stared at the remains of the blaze in the immense fireplace, a cavern of mortared granite inside of which glowed a smudge of cherry-colored coals. The sweat under her pajamas and robe was cooling uncomfortably now, and the thudding of her heart grew softer as she pressed the letter over her bosom.

She sighed. These words, too, were far from beautiful; and, because of her need to have them rhyme, even farther from making any sense. They were a bit silly in fact, and probably embarrassing to all but those who, like the pea-brained lovers in R&J, hear nothing beyond the inane music of their smitten hearts.

She discovered in this a new appreciation of Shakespeare: How did he know that truest love is invariably expressed in words so unequal to their intent? Words which spoke only through the bare sound of their syllables; the actual meanings tossed to the wind. How could he know this without having suffered likewise himself?

A thought jumped into her head: Why had it never occurred to her — in all the months she had been going with Matt — why had she never stopped to consider the exact magnitude of her love for him? She would never have believed his loss could cause so tender a grief. Clearly, they had both been taking their love for granted: he, by assuming she loved him more than he deserved to be loved; and she — to greater shame — by thinking she loved him less than she truly did.

A third stanza, on this very theme, was under construction when suddenly her jaw clamped tight. She opened her purse and (from a secret place behind the torn lining) removed and unfolded Stanley's letter to her parents. Scanning down the paragraphs, she stopped at the words: ' ... abstain from _all_ contact _whatsoever_.' (Italics her own.)

She stuffed these already wrinkled pages back into her purse and looked at the envelope in her hands. Her head swayed side to side.

But Imogene could not be too saddened by this. Her poem, indeed, was far from exceptional, and some of its allusions would surely have gone over Matt's head. In her mind appeared the words that she herself might have used in critiquing such verse: 'Though tonally consistent with the indicated mood, the author here (perhaps intentionally?) becomes obscure.'

Her lips made an ishy grimace. Yes, here was the tragedy of those most gifted in literary judgment: always to know when something was bad, but ever unable to make anything good — or at least good enough to please their own fussy standards!

Gazing down at the envelope's lovingly penned address (and the double underlined 'AIRMAIL'), she knew at once the key failing of her poetic attempt, for, absent herein, was any real, distinct or indelibly finite thing; any concrete, even brutal detail essential for the expression of one's helpless passion.

Among her friends, Imogene had confessed to having a dearth of imagination, but when it came to poetry there was this even greater flaw: her lack of attention to detail.

A former English teacher had once remarked: 'Poems thrive on minutiae,' and had compared the composition of a sonnet to the soaring of an eagle high above the world, with all the grandeur of nature below him, yet focused on the baby hare hiding in the long grass. And it had been impressed on Imogene, while researching a term paper, that the poetic gifts of Emily Dickinson derived not so much from her lovelorn spinsterhood, as from the detailed scientific studies at which she had excelled in her schooling.

Here, thought Imogene, hefting the crisp envelope, here was every manner of sweeping, alliterated romance, but not a single sharp edge or nail or burr or any specific thing on which to tear one's heart!

She sighed on this thought, warming to the private shame of it, then, sleepily, allowed her eyes to close.

Ah, yes, details.

Details had always been a peculiar commodity for her. (She was digressing now in her meditative way.) Some, like those in textbooks and teacher's lectures could be fully memorized and retained with fidelity, recalled at will, and on any subject whatever, from scalene triangles to the Gettysburg Address.

But far worse were those pernicious little facts of everyday life which she had been forever at a loss to focus on or control. The sort of particulars that made balancing her checkbook an agony, and caused letters to come back to her stamped 'No Such Address,' for in her haste to get her clever words to their reader she had muddled the street numbers; or, as happened in history class the other day, when she received back her paper on the Corfu Incident and found a sheet of conjugated verbs — the same she had torn her locker apart looking for! — neatly appended to the last page and now bearing a large red question mark.

And how about that time (when was it, seventh grade?) when the teacher had assigned her class to describe their pencils as thoroughly as they could, and Imogene, fresh from having received back a highly praised essay, set to work composing one of even grander insight on the origin, folklore and continuing legacy of the humble pencil. (Thoreau himself, she was eager to impart, financed his winter in the woods by crafting a proprietary brand of high quality graphite instrument and selling dozens of them, a penny apiece, to local farmer's wives.)

How gleefully she had grinned, drafting this epic monograph ... then sat in horror as all the papers — and pencils — were collected, and by the exactness of their written descriptions: ' ... number two, Ticonderoga, tooth marks on the eraser ... ' the pencils were all returned to their rightful owners, all but one.

A deprecating snort escaped her as these musings came suddenly to rest upon Stanley. Surely _he's_ never been troubled by details; he who never looks up from the floor! Her face burned a moment to recall how he had detected Matt's gallantry at homecoming, while she herself — for months! — remained blitheringly ignorant. Even more: the eerie way he had deduced her own guilt.

Then, nearly laughing aloud, she thought: Maybe I should commission _him_ to write my love poems for me!

She froze suddenly. For this thought, facetious as it was, had triggered a startling recollection:

Since early in her junior year, in classrooms and elsewhere, Imogene had been complaining of her previous boyfriend who had gone off to college that autumn, and, even though he had enrolled in a military academy ( _i.e._ boys only), he managed somehow — and in record time! — to find a girl, fall in love with her, and send back a crushing letter to that effect. The hurt brought on by so quick and callous a dismissal had made Imogene believe it had been her first fully adult entanglement.

Though many months had gone by since, and despite the coming of Matt into her life that this break-up had allowed, she still found a pained and petulant voice with which to tell this woe to her friends; and she was certain there had been at least one occasion when she had talked of this within Stanley's hearing.

After one such occasion their class was assigned to write Latin verses in the style of one or another of the authors they had been studying. (Imogene herself composed a few Lucretian stanzas on the wonders of the snow — though now it suddenly hit her: since when did any _Roman_ ever see a snowdrift! Details! Details!)

In any case, a week or so later she arrived in class to find a brief lyric written on the blackboard, and something shuddered within her to find in those few Latin words the very epitaph of a young love failed through separation. The coincidence was striking. Her classmates were convinced that she herself had written it, so closely did it compare to her own unhappy tale.

Mr Grove passed back their poems that morning, and while he lectured in glowing terms about the example on the board, Imogene was left to assume it was the work of a student in one of his other classes, for no one in the room was beaming with pride, and the teacher never divulged who had written it. Imogene would have liked to share sympathies with the author, whoever she was.

But now, thinking back on all this, what struck Imogene most was that the boy who sat next to her (she had only just learned that his nickname was 'mouse') had been blushing furiously while the poem was being praised, and no paper had been returned to him.

At the time Imogene felt an ungracious joy in this, for she had been noticing a frequency of A's on the assignments passed back to him, and to find now that, apparently, he had not even turned anything in — and was shamed crimson because of it — pleased her in a way she felt not proud of.

That, however, was long before she came to know the workings of Stanley's mind. It was clear, now, that it was Stanley himself who had written that poem: he had listened in on her sad story, appropriated it, mulled it over on his long walks back and forth to school, and then — without a hint of proper attribution! — succeeded in converting _her_ sorrow into _his_ verse and being soundly praised for it!

The absence of a returned paper on his own desk was merely because the teacher had destined it for his most cherished file (where also a few of Imogene's efforts had been placed).

Yet it remained puzzling why Stanley had not been identified as the author. Perhaps, before class that day, he had begged the teacher to preserve his anonymity. That, too, was consistent with Stanley's strange behaviors (and reminiscent of the self-effacing tendencies Imogene so often admired in Matt).

At the end of his comments on the poem, Mr Grove had further asked: "Which is correct? This, that separation can be the death of love; or that old Propertian saw: 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'" Imogene recalled how she had nearly jumped out of her desk to point at the board and cry, "That one!"

Many minutes now went by while Imogene slouched deeper into the cushions, pulling her robe tightly about herself as if trying to hide from the blank, black gaze of the tall windows above her.

Yes, she sighed, _all_ the young men in her life seemed bent on displeasing her, and each in a different but equally defective mode of courtship. How she would thrill — just once! — to be genuinely loved by a boy; not taken for granted, not blackmailed ... not _Dear John'd_ the minute he leaves Minneapolis!

But there was one consolation at least: she was proving Stanley's epigram untrue. Regardless of her boyfriend's often unloverly treatment of her, and despite the many miles now separating them, this absence _was_ making her heart grow fonder — and his too, Matt's poem was the very proof of this. Stanley was not nearly so wise as his sneaky Latin poesy presumed!

Straightening up, Imogene shook her head. Go to bed, Geenee! She was patting the sealed envelope against her palm. Just ... go to bed.

She arose and went to kneel on the hearth. Though the fire was nearly out, the residual heat made her eyes flutter and sting. With one hand shading her face, she laid the envelope on the coals where, instantly, flames burst from the pale paper and bent it to a black char.

As she was heading for the stairs, Imogene caught sight of the night clerk's fuzzy outline staring back at her.

"'Night," said Imogene cheerily.

"G'night, dear." The clerk's head tipped to one side in a motherly, concerned way. "Sleep well."

Upstairs, after softly closing the door of their room, Imogene paused and listened to the plaintive breathing of her friends. She squinted to observe how the moon, through wide widows, had laid limp rectangles of light across the carpet and beds.

Polly and Becky were curled contentedly back to back, but in Imogene's bed Mary Helen had flung half the covers to the floor and was lying diagonally across the mattress, on her back, in the crucifix position.

It was odd. Though Mary Helen was the most dynamic of sleepers, she was also the quietest. Imogene had to kneel down and hold her ear nearly touching her friend's lips to catch the tiny, panting sighs.

She smiled a moment remembering that long-ago camping trip when the two of them had shared a little pup tent together, and how, in the middle of the night, she had dashed barefooted through the muddy drizzle to the big tent, gasping and squeaking that Mary Helen had died in her sleep.

Imogene's father was chalk white as he rushed out in his pajama bottoms, slapping a flashlight to get it to work. His fear was immediate, for his daughter had never in her short life so much as told an exaggeration. The twins crawled from their little sleeping bag and huddled against their mommy, as did Imogene. All three were hugged in silent prayer until the father returned, his bare feet slapping through the rainy muck.

He gathered Imogene into his big, gentle arms and carried her back to her friend, whispering that everything was just fine.

Amazingly, she had never been kidded about the incident.

Stepping softly away from the bed, Imogene enclosed herself in the bathroom for a few minutes, but before coming out, she leaned toward the vanity mirror, her nose an inch or two from the glass, contemplating the shallow, sunshiny nature of her face. She had no sad expressions at all. Even anger came off looking more like mild constipation. Was this the countenance of a tragic love?

And _still_ with the blushing! Look at that! The door's closed, dingaling! You're all alone. _Why_ are you blushing!

Then she recalled: at a recent supper (this was a non-Stanley night), how her brother had chuckled to observe that his "really grown up" sister seemed to blush over everything now. "Maybe it's contagious," he grinned. "Bet she caught it from you-know-who."

"Aaak!" cried Stacy. "Stanley-itis! Mouse-mono! Get _away_ from me!"

Calmly, Imogene had pointed out that, yes, this redness in her face had rarely been seen prior to Stanley's interfering with her life. "And just what does that say as to the benefit of my associating with him?"

This rational comment seemed to silence everyone, but Imogene knew it was not accurate. The persecution of her quick-coloring face dated not from the advent of Stanley, but earlier, from the moment she had pulled that Mary Queen of Scots paper from her assignments drawer and embarked on her life of crime. She had not stopped blushing since. Her face, like Hester's scarlet letter, 'declared her sin to the world eternally.'

When Imogene emerged from the bathroom, she sat down in one of the puffy chairs by the window, her back and shoulders bathed in moonlight, and surveyed the slumber of her three dearest friends. Both Becky and Polly were wheezing like Sisyphus at his ceaseless task, and farther back in the room Mary Helen's restive legs made her blankets bunch and tumble in much the way that busy moles lift sod.

Imogene shook her head. Who but teenage girls could make something so simple as sleeping seem like work. The dreams they must be having, the fears, the worries, regrets; their private lives, like hers, unknown to all but the grotesque nemeses of their nightmares.

Tears came once more. She was thinking still of Matt's sweet, sweet poem — and holding her bridal finger:
... her baby buys her things, you know,

he buys her diamond rings, you know ...

Sniffling, she chided herself for always descending to this lowest form of feminine eloquence. Would you _stop_ already? (She sniffled again, sounding this time like a rooting sow.) Cripes you're a damn soaker-hose!

Suddenly Imogene became aware of a change in the room.

One of the girls was sitting up in bed, rigidly. It was Polly. At least the blurry form was too short to be Becky, and in the wrong bed to be Mary Helen. Occasionally, people did this in their sleep, sitting straight up; it had sometimes frightened her when she was babysitting. Imogene stilled so as not to disturb her friend and waited for possible words of gibberish.

"Oh Geenee!" the form whispered in agony. "I could just die for you!"

Imogene fought the instinct to wipe away her tears. With remarkable coolness she reasoned that, since the moonlight was so strong at her back, her face, to Polly's twenty-twenty eyes, must be completely in shadow. "I'm fine, really," Imogene whispered, feeling the cold droplets wander impertinently under her nose and into the corners of her mouth. "Go back to sleep."

Polly threw off the covers and hurried to her friend, kneeling before her, moaning, her arms round Imogene's legs.

"No, really!" squeaked Imogene, bending over her. "Hellie booted me outa bed'n I'm just ... waiting for her'n _Hannibal_ to conquer the Alps so I can get back in!"

Polly sobbed like a forsaken child.

Still sniffling, Imogene slid to the floor and clasped her friend.

Polly had always been a crybaby, Imogene recalled, ever since sixth grade when the two of them first met and quarreled the whole year over Glenn Green.

Oh, the awful things they had called one another! The hatred and cruelty that had filled their hearts! And it was always Polly who ran away in tears. (Imogene did her crying on the bus going home, behind her glasses, while pretending to read her _Junior Scholastic_.) And Glenn seemed actually to enjoy all the fuss they were making over him. (Until Ginger Healy came along — with her enormous falsies! — and pigged him for herself.)

Polly seemed inconsolable now, although the girls knew well that three AM was the time tears came most readily. Imogene hugged and hushed her friend as if she were a toddler. Weeping herself, she wondered: had there ever been two people who had gained so much for having lost so little?

Becky, still asleep in the big bed, snuffled like a lazy tigress, and off in the distance came the squeak of bare feet on bed sheets and a softened thud as the rest of Mary Helen's blankets slumped to the floor.
\- XXXIII -

Everyone slept late the next morning, those who could sleep. The girls had one more afternoon to enjoy the slopes, but they spent most of their time in the lobby giggling to each other and whispering catty things about even the handsomest people. Imogene took the lead in this trifling banter, and all were gladdened that the daylight and her suddenly improved spirits deferred the need for significant words among themselves. They chattered like schoolgirls.

But as the time approached for the shuttle to the train station, their voices fell silent; they sat side by side on the couch and sneaked arms around each other's waist, realizing, because of their different colleges, that this was perhaps the last time they will do anything special together.
The sun was low in the sky when the long, sleek Superliner pulled away from its tiny depot. The four friends were settled in their seats: Mary Helen at the window and Imogene beside her, the other girls directly behind.

The train, as the lodge had been, was uncomfortably crowded. It was filled with other returning skiers, some weary and reserved, like the girls, but most were boisterously loud, having no doubt come directly from happy hour in the town's alpine tavern.

Across the aisle from Imogene and slightly ahead were a group of young men who had boarded at an earlier stop. They were laughing and telling rude jokes to one another, with frequent mention of Minnesota places like Mankato and Gustavus. A few of them made eyes at Imogene and her friends as well as other girls in the car, but no one responded.

After awhile, Imogene noticed that one of the young men, though the nodding of his head seemed as happy and eager as the others', rarely changed his position. He was reclining on several rented pillows, his back straight, and one of his legs poking into the aisle. Whenever he did get up, his movements were slow and awkward, like road equipment, and his friends clustered around him on their trips to the rest room.

Watching the young man closely, Imogene often saw his neck and fist go tense for a few seconds, then slowly relax. Whenever this happened, she felt chills, like razor slashes, go up and down her limbs.

Her own friends had fallen quiet. They all seemed to have run out of things to talk about and contented themselves with tattered magazines or staring out the window at the drab, graying scenery. Imogene sat with her Russian novel opened in her hands (trudging through the long, jaw-breaking, interminably repeated Slavic names — use a _pronoun_ once in awhile!), but comprehension proved impossible amid the young men's mindless chatter. Sighing, she just sat and stared at the pages.

The twilight outside darkened slowly; it seemed an eternity before the voices around her diminished to whispers and the reading lights, one by one, were all snapped out.

The speed of the train became more noticeable with fewer places to fix her attention. She felt the sway of the car and the ceaseless click and rumble underfoot.

Finally, it appeared that she and the boy across the aisle were the only ones left awake. With his friends all asleep he was saved from having to smirk and smile and join in with their laughter. Imogene gazed at him in the dim light. She could only see the side of his face, but it seemed that his eyes were squinting now and his lips bunched themselves continually.

Every so often the porter would stroll by. He was a plump, friendly old man in a white uniform, a Negro, short with curly gray hair; and he never failed to stop and exchange a few whispers with the boy. Once, he patted the boy's shoulder. And once, catching sight of Imogene's concerned eyes, he winked at her and smiled.

The train rolled on through the black night. It slowed frequently to make its scheduled stops, which always roused one or two of the travelers, but they quickly doused their lamps again and let their heads slip beneath the tops of their seats.

After several hours in the café-like haze of cigarette smoke her contact lenses began to sting. Carefully, Imogene popped them into a cupped hand and put them away, then lay back and tried to make herself yawn.

All her friends had long since fallen asleep. Getting up once, she found Polly curled like a puppy under her new coat, with only a ball of black hair and two tiny white sock feet sticking out. Becky (she had to squint to see Becky) was slumped against the window, her hair and graceful limbs awry like poor Giselle gone mad.

In the seat next to Imogene, Mary Helen had been remarkably still, shifting only at long intervals from one uncomfortable position to another; perhaps the rhythmic jostle of the train was all the motion her reckless sleep required. But sleep for Imogene seemed unobtainable.

Eventually, her wakefulness became unseemly. She closed her eyes and composed smooth features in her face whenever she heard the porter approach.

Then, somewhere long past Rapid City, she discovered that the boy across the aisle was crying. She heard wet sniffles and the squeaks of trying not to sob.

The porter came again and this time knelt down beside the young man for many minutes, whispering in his low, gravelly voice, chattering, chuckling softly, 'comforting, as can only those who have borne, those who bear.' (Miss Read.)

When he left, the boy was no longer crying, or at least not letting it show.

Imogene, however, was awash with stinging tears. Reaching for her purse, she found her friend staring at her, and Imogene fell against Mary Helen's blouse, weeping as if her heart would crack. Warm arms slipped around her and she was rocked back and forth in time with the swaying of the train.

She felt a wetness high on her temple; Mary Helen was crying too.

The fate of the boy was unknown. Shortly before dawn Imogene had fallen, finally, into a troubled slumber crowded with unkind images, and when patted awake at their destination, found that the seats the young men had occupied were all vacant.

But as she and the other passengers were filing out through the chilly vestibule Imogene saw the porter waiting to get by. He looked even smaller in daylight, stooped and burdened with wrinkled pillows under each arm. He was nodding eagerly to all the young people passing by, none of whom so much as looked his way.

Jumping from her place in line, Imogene threw arms around his stout neck and kissed him warmly on the cheek. He smelled of cigar smoke and some kind of liquor, and his whiskers scratched her lips the way her father's did on Christmas morning.

But the old man seemed puzzled; as if he had no idea why this girl, in particular, should have cause to love him. (Perhaps, thought Imogene with some chagrin, perhaps 'white folks' all looked the same to him.)

"Happy Easter!" she whispered, kissing him again, then dashed down the metal stairs to the waiting smiles of her friends.

The girls ran the length of the windy concourse, through the smoke and smell of diesel fumes, with coattails and purses flapping and their arms interlocked, laughing without reason, like just-docked sailors.

They retrieved their luggage, then found their way to Imogene's father and his big company car. Everyone giggled to pile suitcases into the cavernous trunk, then chattered incessantly at the driver as they cruised through the squinty-bright, early morning city.

The streets (it being a holiday) were nearly barren of traffic. Tall, august homes lined Portland Avenue like warriors awaiting decoration. The sight so enchanted Imogene she could hardly support her end of the prattle; she blinked and flinched as the car flickered through rows of hard shadows streaming from the stately gables.

Before long the suburbs were reached, and the girls all delivered to their respective homes. Imogene helped carry the suitcases and embraced each of her friends with extraordinary passion.

At her own house, she clutched her mother with tears that could not be explained, then rushed upstairs to give her cat a squeeze and search the drawers of her desk.

Finding the little white envelope, Imogene stretched out on her bed and gazed up at the tiny typed poem in her hands. Her eyes were wet and sticky, and she smiled with a childlike rapture.

To the end of our lives,

deep in my heart!

The cat, standing tall above her, sniffed the smoky odors in her hair.

Then Imogene dashed to her dresser and opened the small lilac-satin casket on its top. She smiled a moment at the melancholy lullaby it played, then, plucking Matt's ring from its padded niche, placed it back on her finger.

She removed as well the little envelope containing the other poem. It had the same neat typing as this latest one, the same small sheet of fine paper. Imogene collapsed on her bed once more, the poems and their envelopes gathered like treasure into her arms.

She read them over and over, easily suspending all her most critical literary senses — Matt never claimed to be Milton! — and the cat snuggled down beneath her caressing hand.

The typing was so neat! So well-centered; no strikeovers nor omitted capitals; not a single misspelled word, except that one. (Which was not out of place; how often had she slugged him for his atrocious puns!) The _hours_ he must have spent getting these two tiny gems just right!

She gazed and gazed.

But then her smile contracted. The punctuation, also, was perfect: all these commas correctly placed, even a semicolon.

She sat up suddenly, and the cat backed away, blinking at his mistress's tight lips and shifting eyes.

From her purse Imogene removed the marriage contract and Stanley's letter to her parents. She placed them side by side with the poems. The 'Miss Imogene Urich' on both envelopes had g's with smudged lower loops which were identical to those in Stanley's papers, and all the small a's before her — on all the documents — were tipped uniformly below their lines of text.

Imogene felt sweat flooding into her clothes. Her face was hot. The cat was gone.

She ran to the phone in her parents' room and called Polly.

"Um, hi ..." her friend replied with a trace of embarrassment. "Dave's here ... we're kinda busy."

"I know. I just ... Pol, did'ja ever hear Matt talkin'about, like ... that I said he'd make a _joke_ for a husband or anything like that?"

"Geenee! No one believed it for a second! God he was just mad. I'm sure _you'd_ say something like that! To _him!_ He just made it up."

"So ... prob'ly the whole school knows about it?"

"He didn't mean it! Is he there with you now?"

Imogene sighed. "No." She was looking down at the last line of the last poem. "But in case y'wanna know, I did say it." Her voice began to falter. "But I didn't mean it either!" She hung up the phone and sat for a moment sniffling on her parents' bed, staring down at the papers in her lap. Suddenly, with neck tendons pulled taut, she twisted all the papers into a single, wrinkled knot.

Back in her room, it occurred to her how Stanley had been blushing that one morning when she had declared — to the entire school! — the words from that first poem — _his_ first poem!

The wad of paper, now high overhead, was hurled down at her kicked-off loafers, as if she were smashing someone's skull.

The cat crept out from under the dresser and bolted for the hallway.

Polly soon called her back, and the girls chatted awhile until Imogene thought of some funny things to say, and her friend could safely let her go. Then Imogene lay back on her parents' bed.

A moment later the windows were gray, she was under an afghan, and there was a taste of soil in her mouth. Everything was blurry; her eyes were fluttering on their slipped contacts.

From the doorway she heard a soft and motherly voice, "Supper, honey."
\- XXXIV -

The next morning Imogene sat rigidly on the polished floor outside her first hour class. She had lain awake the entire night, skipped breakfast, and once again walked to school through the chilly dawn. Now, with books gripped tightly in her arms, she was awaiting the appearance of Stanley.

Before many minutes had passed Mr Grove arrived in hat and heavy dress coat.

"Well hi, Geenee!" he said with surprise (and in playful English) while jingling his keychain in one hand. "Can't wait to get going again, huh?"

"Yeah." Imogene was turning red as she rose to her feet.

"Have a nice vacation?" he added, ushering her into the dim room and clicking on the lights.

"Yeah."

He entered quietly behind her, unbuttoning his coat, and placed a massive briefcase on his desk.

Imogene, meanwhile, had hurried to her own desk beside the dark windows. She felt him staring at her.

There was a pause while settling herself; then the teacher, hat off and coat on one arm, began to say something in Latin, slowly, so that by the time he finished, she had it translated to the words: 'Mornings are made for earnest counsel.'

The look on his face seemed more concerned than friendly.

Imogene tried to giggle, then answered with one of her most cherished quotes, which in English advised: 'Wisdom heeds also the absence of words.'

Halfway through the short phrase (even shorter in Pliny's Latin) her voice stumbled, for this was a rather blunt thing to say to one's favorite teacher, in any language.

The heat in her face would not let her look up, and Imogene sat sweltering in remorse until she heard coat hanger noises at the little closet by the door. When she did finally raise her eyes, it was to find herself alone in the bright room.

She sighed and shook her head, then busied herself with placing books in the rack below her chair. When she sat up again, her body was tense and erect.

She waited. Two small, white envelopes were now before her; she was rubbing them with her fingers to smooth out their many creases.

Soon Stanley walked in through the open door. He paused slightly on catching sight of her — of the scowl directed at him — then hurried, head down, to his desk beside hers.

As he was opening his notebook, Imogene reached over and placed the envelopes on his desk. Across the front of the newer one there was slashed in thick block letters:
GET YOUR TYPEWRITER FIXED!

THIS XXXX DIDN'T FOOL ME

FOR A MINUTE!

(Moments before, she had scribbled over one of the words with her pen.)

Imogene leaned back and took a deep breath.

Stanley was gazing down at the envelopes, then picked them up and began, slowly, to tear them into narrow strips. His eyes never looked up at her; he was scarlet. Soon he arose and carried the handful of scraps out to the hall, leaving Imogene, once again, alone.

She looked around at all the empty desks; her flesh had begun to prickle uncomfortably.

By the time Stanley returned, the room was filled with the tumult of post-vacation chattering (Imogene as fully animated as all her friends). The boy's hands were now empty, and he quietly took his seat next to Imogene. He was still red.

For the balance of that morning Imogene was not so keen to seek out a glimpse of Matt as she had expected to be. She could not even trust herself to give him an adequate smile and thus traveled the noisy corridors with hurried steps and lowered eyes.

Finally though, during economics, she convinced herself that Matt was not really at fault for having never sent her a poem or any verbal token of his love. (Never mind that words were the shortest path to her heart — never mind that she had told him so dozens of times!)

No. His love was indirect, continually perplexing. It was not in his nature to say the things that lovers say. She had been a fool to believe otherwise.

When she did finally encounter him, slouching with his friends far ahead of her in the cafeteria line, she smiled without restraint. After all, they had not seen each other in over a week, and, surely, her love was not so shallow that it required constant reassurance.

He smiled back at her; but absent, she noted, was that little tilt of heartbreak she so dearly longed to see.

It had been strange, too, in all her classes that morning, how kids who had not spoken to her in weeks were suddenly attentive and eager to hear particulars of her vacation. And boys had again begun asking her for dates.

When she and her friends were assembled at their lunch table, they broke the news to her: Matt, they said — for the entire past week! — has been going with someone else.

" _Going_ with someone else!" they emphasized.

Imogene nodded, and the girls made puzzled looks at one another.

"Don'tcha wanna know who?"

"Who." Imogene shrugged.

"It's that Ginny bitch!" cried Becky. "The new girl Beaver stuck us with."

Mary Helen laughed. "Beck's been pissed for weeks. She's taller? An'all that blond hair — ?"

"Shut up!"

Polly clicked her tongue. "We promised not to talk about'er when you're around 'cuz, y'know, she took over your spot. But now? God she's takin'over your guy! I'm not gonna keep quiet another second!"

"Y'gotta do something, G!" There was a look of fright in Becky's eyes. "I think she means business."

"If you _can_ do something." Mary Helen stared at her and all were quiet for a moment while Imogene delicately unfolded a napkin and placed it in her lap.

Polly sat up straight. "What I can't stand's her voice. That gooey ... know-it-all ..." She made a simpering look and patted fingertips on her shoulders. "'Ohh, but that's not how we all do it down in Balti- _moah!_ ' Makes me sick!"

"She's in my biology class," said Mary Helen, biting into a muffin. "The girl's got the IQ of fungus, right? But nobody cares. Guys just stare at her tits." (She paused a moment to sip from her straw.) "One day we were talking about, you know, those weird scientific names for things? I pointed right at her an'I go like: 'Omygod! It's a _boobius mommamiacus!_ ' an'everyone laughed! Even Miss Ikola."

Swallowing her muffin, Mary Helen went on: "And she's only been here since, like, Christmas or something? An'I swear, she's already gone through nine guys! She brags about it."

The girls turned to look closely at their quiet friend.

Sipping spoonfuls of her tomato soup, Imogene asked, "Can she cheer?"

"Well ... yeah, I guess."

"She's always talkin'about this stupid trophy she got at her old school. I keep tellin'er: 'O- _kay_ , we know already!'"

Imogene cleared her throat and addressed the far edge of the table. "She must have something on the ball if Miss Beaver chose her over all the B-squad; my sister's still mad." Imogene took another sip from her spoon. "And whoever heard of a cheerleader _not_ on the honor roll?"

The others continued their meals in silence. Only chatter from the surrounding tables could be heard.

Then Becky made a noisy sigh. "But what gets me is Matt runnin'round with that tramp while you're cryin'your eyes out over him!"

"Amen!" said the others.

Imogene shrugged. "It's my own fault. I dumped him, right?"

"Oh bullcrap!"

Polly leaned forward. "Can'tcha tell us what's really going on? Are you in lots'a trouble?"

"Geenee, we'll do anything! You know that."

"We won't breathe a word! Just ..."

Imogene was shaking her head, her eyes and lips shut tight. The temptation was extreme. She forced her mind to keep repeating: Four weeks. Just four more weeks!

Eventually, her friends all sat back and sighed. Imogene sensed them looking at each other. Then silverware began to scrape in resumption of their meals.

"Anyway," said Mary Helen, spooning from her tipped bowl, "if you're gonna do something, do it quick. We've seen her in the shower: she's got a _lotta_ stuff."

At supper that evening Imogene and Stanley were both unusually quiet, Stacy too, though her face was bright with news she was trying desperately not to tell. Her big eyes kept flashing from her sister to their guest.

Then Dan announced: "Matt's datin'someone else now."

"Jeez!" Stacy slapped his arm.

"It's okay," said Imogene. "I know all about it."

The parents, by their tranquil expressions, had been informed as well. "All right, dear?" the mother asked.

Imogene's shoulders lifted with unconcern. "I'm only surprised it's taken him this long to forget me."

"Oh, hush. What about that beautiful poem he sent you. Really, I think there may still be hope for him."

Both Imogene and Stanley began to blush.

"What poem," asked Stacy, but no one answered her.

Breaths were held; Imogene could almost feel her mother's lips widening to a smile.

Then Stanley spoke up, "I heard ya — in that little room? — I heard y'tellin'him, like ... t'start datin'other girls'n stuff. So ... she's just one a'your friends, right?"

"Oh yeah!" cried Stacy. "Everyone hates'er! She's the biggest slut!"

Mrs Urich patted the table for silence.

After a few moments, Imogene made the off-hand comment: "In art class today Matt looked really ashamed of himself. But happy." She turned to Stanley. "Has he thanked you yet? For getting me out of the way so _conveniently?_ "

Little was said the rest of that night.
\- XXXV -

The next morning, Imogene glanced at the bulletin board as she passed by the school's front office. She halted briefly, unbuttoning her coat, and looked up at a large chart labeled:

SCIENCE FAIR

WINNERS

Somewhere near the top was Stanley's name. Her face warmed on seeing this, and she hurried away.

In Latin class Stanley gave no outward sign of this achievement, although, at one point, Mr Grove paused beside Stanley's desk while returning papers and whispered a few words to him, one of which sounded like, _gratulatio_.

The violence of Stanley's blush seemed more than could be accounted for by a good grade on a declensions quiz.

After lunch, when the halls were less crowded, Imogene contrived to walk past the chart once more and discovered that Stanley had won third place for a device of some kind which measured the effects of gravity.

The other experiments, by comparison, seemed much more useful, having to do with plant hormones, for example, or chemical resistant dyes. The judges' comments revealed that Stanley had earned high marks for thoroughness and workmanship but was graded down in the category of 'practical applications.'

Throughout the rest of the day Imogene would pause and smile craftily to herself. She was conceiving witticisms that poked fun at the kind of scientist who, brilliant though he may be, wasted his genius — and his family's well-being — in researching the world's less lucrative phenomena.

Stanley had never mentioned anything about a science fair, and on Thursday evening, when he came for supper, Imogene listened for her chance to make an apt and admittedly unkind remark.

He was more quiet than usual, however. Even when her father asked what he had been up to lately, Stanley only blushed and mumbled something about homework.

Imogene looked askance at him but said nothing. A part of her could well understand that winning only third place might seem to him no better than failure.

Later, after finishing with the dishes, she and Stanley were alone for a moment in the kitchen. It had begun to rain during supper and Mrs Urich insisted on driving Stanley home; she had gone upstairs to get her purse. All the others were watching TV in the living room.

"Stan," said Imogene, softly, as she bent over her wrist to reattach a charm bracelet.

He was hanging up the dishtowel, but instead of answering, only pulled his head somehow deeper into his shoulders, as if readying himself for an attack.

She came close to him and placed her jingly hand on the small of his back; she felt him flinch. Outside, the rain made little thumping sounds on the black window in front of them.

"Stan ... I know all about your gravity thing. I felt really proud to see your name so high on the list. I really did. But," she sighed, "an'y'know Einstein? He thought a lot about gravity too. I read a book about him once." Imogene's head tilted fervently. "So ... how can y'be so mean. _He_ never was. He was the sweetest guy there ever lived."

A tone of sorrow that was only half-feigned came into her voice. "I'm just dying from this, Stan. Matt doesn't care! You're not hurting him one bit anymore. You're just hurting me. Couldn't y'just ... lemme go?"

She slid her arm around his waist, watching him as she did so; their hips touched. "I'll be your friend forever'n ever. A _good_ friend. I really will."

Stanley's head had blossomed to a bright vegetable red, even glossier than the cookie cans.

Mrs Urich returned, draped imposingly in her dark, cedar-scented overcoat. She halted and stared at her daughter who was just hopping away from their guest, the bracelet charms chirping like frightened chicks.

Neither of the young people raised their eyes, and after a pause the mother asked, "Should I ... come back later?"

Inhaling, Imogene crossed her arms over a hollowed belly. "I was just asking him something. He's going to give me an answer. Right now."

Stanley rubbed palms on the front of his shirt, then on his pants. He was staring into the empty sink as he mumbled, "I ... it's what I want."

"But it's so pointless!" Imogene flung out her hands. "And ... cruel. And stupid! You can't seriously think I'll ever _marry_ you! Even if I sign that thing! No one in their right mind — "

The mother was trying to hush her daughter, and at the kitchen door, with widened eyes, had appeared the twins and their father.

More softly now, Imogene continued: "Granted, you're a nice guy. Deep down you are. I won't argue that at all. An'you deserve to be happy, but ... I love Matt, okay? I always will. You can't change that any more'n _I_ can. I'm sorry, that's just the way it is."

Stanley, his head hung low, looked crushed.

"So," Imogene dropped her hands to her sides. "Are y'letting me go or not."

"He still loves ya — "

"He doesn't!"

"It's still hurting him. That's what I want."

Imogene glared at Stanley until she felt something strange happening within her. Her chest had filled with bitter words to yell, but she ran from the kitchen, shoving her brother out of the way.

Upstairs, she slammed every door she could reach, then dropped herself onto her bed.

She lay there, face up and motionless, listening to raindrops pelting her window and to the rumbling of far away thunder. The room was dark (save for the glow from a corner streetlamp), and she gripped the coverlet as if never to be dragged away. She willed her eyes not to wet themselves.

That strange feeling was still within her, and it seemed to be growing stronger. It was a kind of dread, like the first intimations of a cold; not painful in itself, but foretelling of the days of discomfort she cannot escape.

Beneath her, one of the garage doors began its long, worrying growl. She arose and went to the window. Pulling the curtains aside, she watched her mother's little car, headlights aglare, backing out of the driveway and into the wet night, wipers flapping, rain misting on the roof. Imogene's view was distorted due to the cascade of rain on the window. Everything appeared as if it were a dream.

She followed the car's careful progress down the street; at the corner the tail lights flared a moment, like startled eyes, then one of them winked courteously as the car made its turn.

Imogene was trembling. Her reflection in the dark window glimmered back at her with mobile, involuntary tears. She knew these could not be from anger alone, or even humiliation. There was something else, something deeper, terrifying. A sense of it had been coming on for weeks, and now, in her inability to make herself deceive and manipulate Stanley, in his shame-faced stubbornness, she could see the menace clearly. In some unfathomable way Imogene knew that she was lost. She knew — this was absurd — but she knew somehow that God was on Stanley's side.

The guy's a criminal! She screamed within herself. A blackmailer. An opportunist. A tyrant. A _jerk!_

And so would say everyone — even her besotted family, if pressed. Nevertheless, she felt convinced that God was intending to make an example of her, that Stanley was the tool of His wrath, and she herself the seed of her own destruction.

From earliest years Imogene believed she had been fashioned with a scrupulous integrity, and this knowledge, over time, had evolved into a covert though monumental pride in the nobility of her character. Privately, she even classed herself among the revered ancients of her studies.

Her daily antics, moreover, she viewed to be as life-loving and sugar-sweet as those of all the little storybook girls she had ever dreamed to be. Whether or not she was really so worthy did not matter; this was what she imagined herself to be, what she needed desperately to be.

And that was her ruin; the weakness Stanley had somehow discovered and turned to his advantage: that she could never, knowingly, allow herself to be less honorable than her highest ideal. She knew now that if ever she gave to Stanley her solemn word, on anything, even under force, she could no sooner break faith with him than she could be made to laugh at a cripple, or kill a kitten.

The thought was unbearable, but there she stood in the far future, gowned in white, smiling as would any bride, yet vowing beside that blushing crook!

Only a few weeks had passed since she had laughed at Stanley's naïve and unenforceable contract — a _nudum pactum_ if there ever was! — but the laughter had vanished.

Who _was_ Stanley that he could command so much honor where so little was due? And who was God (Imogene added with startling conceit), who was God that He could relinquish to thieves what had been fashioned so nearly in His own image?

Sighing, Imogene returned to her bed and slumped down as if exhausted. Her tears had grown cold; she smeared them with the shoulder of her blouse, and sniffled.

Deep within, the jumble of unpleasant feelings were beginning to sort themselves out: fear, hatred, injustice, the sense of a life already wasted. Yet she felt something else too, something warm, something perhaps treasured of God — as when His martyrs die.

Little Spinozy, the ever-smiling terrycloth owl, was lying beside her on the bed, and she gently gathered him up. Then a blush raced across her face.

Not since before her confirmation days had Imogene considered God with so much urgency and conviction. In fact, for some time now, un-summoned religious thoughts had been recurring to her: Moses and the Burning Bush, for example. And one night she had experienced a remarkably vivid dream in which, garbed as the Good Samaritan, she had picked-up from the gravel road a stripped and bleeding traveler and carried him — on legs barely able to move — through crowds of laughing neighbors, to her humble, mud-brick home, where, under the flickering of an oil lamp, she found that the victim was none other than Stanley: glasses and all, Stanley.

She had awakened in an icy sweat, with pins and needles in one arm, and blamed the nightmare on the window she had forgotten to close. But even then she guessed there was a deeper cause, something that linked together all her recent woes: her crime, her guilt, her affliction under Stanley, her blushing and tears. All these misfortunes were hanging side by side, like stolen gowns, in that dark, avoided closet where she kept her disused faith.

Imogene sat very still and let her head sway sadly 'no,' calling to mind the many prayers she had recited in church and at the dinner table; even more, the elaborately composed devotions she spoke among her Sunday school kids. She was a Christian in rhetoric only. The best that could be said of her (pending the moment her sins should come to light) was that, at least, she had never been a bad example.

Keenly now she felt the magnitude of this blasphemy, this hypocrisy: of presuming a goodness that existed only in her words, her deeds, her attitudes, her dreams for the future. In her heart, as firmly as that nobility to which she aspired, had settled the cold, godless complacency of educated thought.

Suddenly, while still clutching the unperturbable little owl, Imogene sensed that God Himself had come into the room. He seemed to be standing over her, with hands on hips, exactly as would a disappointed parent.

It was her imagination of course, she told herself. Yet she could not make her eyes look up. She went cold with fright; her breath stalled within her like a stuck drawer.

But the visitation demanded no apology, no explanation, no promise to improve in the future. And when the moment had passed, though she was left head-bowed and bathed in sweat, Imogene did not feel as if she had been scolded. Mostly she felt, for just that moment, that she had not been alone with her troubles.

Then, from somewhere, a gentle smile crept into her face. She was thinking: perhaps God, unlike Matt, believed in sending reassurances of His love.

Even so, she felt delinquent: guilty of a prolonged disrespect. The thought occurred to her that it was a little like meeting Great Aunt Hilda at the airport, and knowing there were one or two thank you letters that never got sent.

Imogene sat very still, with Cozy Ozy warmly in her arms, and listened to a lonely mewing on the other side of the door.
\- XXXVI -

At school, in the brief periods between classes, Imogene had come to indulge herself in traversing the corridors which Matt was most likely to use. She was not often successful in catching extra glimpses of him, but on Friday, the day after Stanley had been driven home in the rain, she paced slowly down the hallway that contained all the math rooms.

Through the crowd of shuffling bodies, she spotted Matt in front of his opened locker; he was grinning. And directly beside him, with a small stack of books pressed to her ample bosom, stood the tall, lithe, blond-haired girl — radiant in her cheerleader colors — and laughing gaily at something she was being told.

Matt's smile, awarded to another, brought to mind the vision of a yanked nail. (In the past, Imogene had often stopped by the construction sites where Matt and his busy crew labored in the sunshine; littering the planks were always dozens of these tiny, tortured bits of iron which had squealed in agony to be pulled from their boards and tossed carelessly away.)

Imogene felt her face blazing as she hurried down the hall.

There was some comfort, however, in noting that the girl was neither small nor innocently childlike; perhaps Matt had selected her on purpose for being not his type, for there being no chance of his actually falling for her.

Nevertheless, it had been torment to witness their easy smiles.

Throughout the rest of the day Imogene was bothered by this recollection — in art class she refused even to glance toward Matt — and trying to concentrate on her homework that evening was nearly impossible.

As suppertime approached, she wandered down to the kitchen where her mother had laid six plates on the table.

"Who's comin'over?" Imogene asked while snitching a carrot from the chopping board.

"Stop that!"

"Who. Ken? Dan'n Linda back together?"

In a small, uncomfortable voice her mother admitted, "I ... understand your brother invited Stan over again tonight."

"Mom!"

"I had nothing to do with it!"

Imogene dashed back upstairs but found the door to her brother's room tightly closed. She stared at it, chomping her carrot, then sighed and returned to her studies. There were, after all, several pointed things she wished to say to Stanley.

Repeatedly thereafter, Imogene went to her window and watched the darkening street out front. When at last Stanley came into view, she hurried downstairs and had the door opened even before he had reached the driveway; he was carrying something in one hand. On seeing her he suddenly halted, and she had to wave him inside.

After slamming the door, she backed him against the wall, her eyes as fierce as those in the framed photos above them. "Have you seen Matt'n his girlfriend _lately?_ "

"Y-yeah. Every day just about."

"And? You still think he loves _me!_ "

Stanley's tone of voice, and the way he looked down at the shoes he was toeing off, made his further "Yeah" not very convincing.

"Stan ... !"

"You told him to act like this. He's just pretending."

"No he's _not!_ "

Imogene realized that neither of them were able to look directly at the other. Each, in their own self-interest, were speaking what they hoped were falsehoods: Stanley defending Matt's fidelity to her, and Imogene maintaining its abandonment. (The irony of this brought no delight to either.)

They were interrupted by her brother who had thumped down the stairs and grabbed the object Stanley was holding, an electronic instrument of some kind with a numbered dial on its front and many knobs.

"This it?" Dan asked, examining the device with interest.

"Yeah. I use if for everything!" Stanley had removed his jacket and was smiling at the look of fascination on the brother's face (while avoiding the sister's bitter stare).

He and his fluttering jacket sleeves were hurried upstairs by the brother. "It was bran'new," Dan explained, "an'I _dropped_ it gettin'outa the car! God I was mad! Just static comes in now." The door of his room closed sharply and nothing more was heard from them.

Later, when supper was ready, Imogene appointed herself to be the one to inform the boys; she ran upstairs and burst into her brother's room. Surprisingly, she found them kneeling beside the bed (unmade of course), and on the wrinkled sheets had been placed a split-open radio, its brightly colored components exposed to view like dissected entrails.

Dan was holding the meter while Stanley, with his glasses off and face held close against the radio's insides, poked at various things with a pair of colored wires. Neither of them took note of Imogene's entrance.

With hands on hips, she looked disdainfully around the room. It was obvious why they were working on the bed: every other horizontal surface was covered with old clothes, old food, and basketballs. The only literature in evidence was a Navy flying manual, opened downward on the carpet.

"How'bout now," said Stanley.

"Still four point five meg," Dan replied in some obscure lingo. He was gazing at the dial; reverently it seemed.

Imogene sighed. "Come'n eat now."

There was silence for a moment, then Stanley moved the wires slightly. "There?" he said.

"Same."

"You guys!"

"Yeah, yeah, in a minute!" Dan still had not looked at her.

"Right now!"

The family always ate early on Friday nights in order that the kids could get to their ball games on time. Currently, this only applied to Stacy, and she was already dressed in her uniform.

It seemed to Imogene that her sister was behaving livelier than usual, frequently hopping up from her chair and making movements which caused her vivid pleats to swirl. And, clearly, none of this dazzle was lost on Stanley.

What is _with_ him and cheerleaders! Imogene cried to herself, but then, sourly, had to admit that the same could be inquired of Matt.

Even though Stanley was her brother's guest this evening, Imogene found herself, as always, sitting right beside him with her mother smiling down on the table's satisfying boy-girl-boy-girl symmetry.

While her brother was reciting the evening prayer, a twinge of sudden malice came into Imogene, and following Dan's solemn 'Amen' she turned to Stanley. "Tell me, O husband to be — and this is something I believe your future _in-laws_ have a right to know?" She glanced quickly around the table, then back to their narrow-shouldered guest. "Tell me — honestly — do you believe in God."

There was silence for a moment as all eyes went wide.

Imogene, as well, was awed by her boldness. In truth, she had spoken without benefit of forethought. It was as if some other person, some brazen knave, had stepped into her body and asked this outrageously impertinent question; a question which she herself could have found no ready answer for. The audacity of the act gave her a pang of wicked delight, a sort of villain's thrill, like the plunge of a roller-coaster.

Mrs Urich had just passed the potato bowl to Stanley, indicating that he should start it going round the table, but her words, softly dismissive, were for her daughter. "Geenee. Shh. You take some too."

"Mother! Aren't you worried that your _grand_ children might have an atheist for a father?"

"Oh, really. Will you please — "

"It's true! We've all heard how this guy mumbles his kiddie prayers! Like he doesn't believe a word of it!"

Imogene was amazed. She wondered how she could be saying such things. In her mind stood suddenly the image of Lady Macbeth, blanched and bloodied.

Stanley was still holding the potato bowl.

"So?" Imogene pursued. She had begun panting with recklessness. ('Screw your courage to the sticking place!') "Answer the question. Do you believe in God."

There was no response, Stanley's face, staring down at the halved and parsley-sprinkled spuds, had turned a crisp red.

Imogene looked noddingly around. "I guess he's a tad bashful." She was smiling now. "But never mind. I happen to be well acquainted with his philosophy of life." Her cheek came close to Stanley's. "You won't mind, dearest, if I speak for you?"

Sniggers had started on the twins' side of the table.

"Now this," Imogene went on, her shoulders tall once more and hands placed queenly in her lap, "this is how my _betrothèd_ looks upon all of God's creation:" (she stared down at Stanley's hung head) "'Everything hurts,' he says. 'Everything dies. So what's the point.'"

In saying this, Imogene sensed a deep blush coming on. Something was telling her she had gone too far — much too far.

Yet she could not stop. "To _this_ guy, it's like ... the world's no more'n some ..." (her palms had jumped to eye level, fingers outstretched) "... like some ... _tale_ , right? Told by an idiot. Full of — _signifying_ nothing!" She felt herself trembling with adrenaline.

Stanley was still gazing into the steamy bowl.

"Geenee," said Mrs Urich, her voice only slightly raised. "You hush now. Pass to your Dad."

Imogene obeyed at once, plucking the bowl from Stanley's grip, and with the large serving spoon placed a potato half on each of their plates, then, smiling unsteadily, handed the bowl to her father.

Though still trembling, and thoroughly ashamed of her behavior, Imogene could claim a measure of triumph in the sudden awkwardness of Stanley's hands, so naked and fidgety now with nothing to hold.

And she had made her point. Stanley was shown now to be at least as imperfect as Matt; from this time forward both young men must be equally suspect in the eyes of her family. Imogene was assured of this by the uneasy clearing of throats that went round the table.

Then Stanley tried to say something. "It's just ..."

Imogene drew in her breath. "Lo! He speaks!"

" _Geenee!_ "

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Imogene tensed with immediate regret, her hands fisted beside her ears. "I'm sorry, okay?"

Again, the boy's mouth struggled open. "It's just ..." Stanley seemed to be in pain. "... when y'learn about science'n stuff? All that ... y'know, all that religious ... ? It just sort of ..."

Imogene, now red as Stanley, recognized at once where his comments were heading. "Never mind," she said. Her hands moved quickly back and forth as if erasing a blackboard. "Forget it, okay? I was just kidding. Let's talk about something else."

Stanley drew in a deep breath, tapping his glasses back with a knuckle. "Nothing lasts forever." He spoke with a strange deliberation. His eyes, still lowered, were focused on the flat-cut planes of the potato on his plate. "I mean, like ... in a few billion years? The sun'll stop shining. An'all the stars'll go dark. An'everything'll be ... dead. Everything." His mouth moved vacuously a moment. "So why was life even started in the first place."

"Never mind! Okay?" Imogene was patting his shoulder. "Just forget it."

"Not too gruesome or anything," muttered Stacy.

Without raising his head, Stanley added: "If even the universe has no purpose, how can we."

This last statement was spoken in a different voice. For those few words Stanley sounded almost dignified, as if he were a judge or a minister. Certainly, in his thoughts at least, the phrase had been rehearsed countless times.

Imogene could not make herself look at him, but she observed, in his lap, how his knuckled fists were pressing hard against each other.

Stacy made a deprecating click with her tongue. "Well ... if everything's so pointless'n all, why'ntcha just ... go somewhere'n — "

A harsh palm slapped the table, and all went silent.

Imogene was still not able to raise her eyes.

When at last she did, it was to find her family calmly going on with their dinner; although her sister, hunched over her plate (and very un-cheerleader-like) was bright red.

For a long time after this the table talk remained subdued. The young men were especially quiet. They only mumbled when the parents asked what the big project upstairs was all about.

But later, while the mother was busy at the refrigerator, Mr Urich made a comment apparently apropos of nothing: "'Member, back at the old house, how you kids use to bully the whole neighborhood into playin'ball out in the street? You just wanted to have fun a'course, but 'member how I kept sayin'there wouldn't be any point to it if you don't know who's ahead? 'Member?"

His children nodded, cautiously.

"Well ..." the father's eyes had settled on Stanley, "somehow there always seemed to be more laughter when we _didn't_ keep score."

A puzzled silence followed this, and the father turned toward his wife. "I really miss those days, when the kids were just kids."

Mrs Urich, above her tray of tapioca bowls, was smiling with her head tipped gently to one side.

When the meal was over, Stacy hurried her father down to the garage, leaving her mother and Imogene to collect the dirty dishes; Dan cut short their guest's now familiar, though still awkward, 'Thank you for supper,' and the two of them clambered up to his room.

The boys were alone all evening in there. Even two hours later, when Stacy returned from the wrestling meet, Imogene heard her throw open their brother's door and squeal: "Das ist _immer_ kaputt?"

Throughout the evening Imogene had been poring over her homework. Concentration, she found, came easier now having vented the anger in her heart. Her troubles were nearly forgotten in the delight of answering questions correctly (on occasion, more than correctly).

But it was rare for her to be so studious on a Friday night. Frowning, she knew this had much to do with Stanley's managing to remain in the house long past his usual departure time.

This was clearly an insult; but also, she realized, there was a more personal shame involved. Since quitting her cheerleader duties, Imogene had developed a somewhat unbecoming taste for 'The Addams Family,' and now felt renewed fury at Stanley all the while her father and sister were downstairs laughing over the latest episode.

More time went by and Imogene marveled that her brother could have so much patience for an activity which did not include an inflatable ball. Even the boys' laughter could be heard occasionally, and Stacy, still in her flashy garments, would trot up the stairs during commercials or between recital pieces to cackle at them.

After awhile Imogene uncovered her typewriter and switched it on. As usual, within seconds of her making this tiny sound, the cat bounded in from wherever he was in the house. He leapt up onto the desk, snuggled against the typewriter's back panel and waited for the warmth to come.

Imogene enjoyed witnessing this strange love affair; especially as it was so charming and unforeseen a result of the catastrophe with her old typewriter, that ancient cast-iron dinosaur she had discovered in the attic one day and for which had made her mother drive all over town in search of ribbons.

This all took place at the beginning of the previous school year:

Imogene had just accepted a kitten from the litter which had appeared at Mary Helen's house, but her only incentive in doing so was that she could not bear the thought of what would happen to the poor thing if no home was found for it. (Although she later suspected that Mary Helen, in describing the fate of the surplus kittens, had grossly exaggerated — as was her wont.) And, charitable as ever, Imogene was prepared to give the new arrival all the love she could.

But he was an unruly pet, always clawing at the doors to get away, shredding the furniture, climbing curtains. And such a coward! He would run from everyone and hide under the couch for hours at the least reprimand. The family had quickly washed their hands of the little gutless beast, and for fear of being ordered to do away with it, Imogene had confined the kitten to her room.

This was also the time she was first becoming acquainted with Matt. He too had been a rogue; at least she had heard him spoken of as such, but to her own eyes he had many quiet endearments which, it seemed, only she could see; and Imogene was willing to believe that this frightened, undisciplined kitty would one day develop a similar devotion to her alone. Moreover, she could forgive much for knowing how naughty she too would have been had _she_ been taken from her family and never allowed to see them again.

But even Imogene had limits. One evening after supper she returned to her homework and noticed an unpleasant odor in the room. The litter box in the closet was dry, but the cat could not be budged from under the dresser.

Then she discovered the horror. The evil thing had _peed_ all over the typewriter! _And_ page seven of her 'Thanatopsis' paper!

Her screams brought the entire household to her room.

Later though, while squeaking swear words and poking at the typewriter's insides with Q-tips and twisted napkins, her parents appeared in their overcoats. "We're goin't'the typewriter store," said her father. "Wanna tag along?"

That night, Imogene carried home in her arms her brand new _electric_ typewriter. It was like a newborn baby: so light, so full of promise.

Imogene sighed frequently remembering all of this, but her reveries caused no delay nor errors in her steady, rhythmic twenty-five words per minute. (Looking down at her busy hands, she allowed herself a further private smile. This was the one digital talent in which she could still claim precedence over her sister; Stacy, despite her pianistic skill, knew only how to hunt and peck.)

Soon, however — all too soon for the cat — the latest revision of her speech was complete and Imogene switched off the warm, humming creature beneath her fingers. "Sorry, kiddo," she soothed, as stiff whiskers were turned toward the unwelcomed click.

Imogene recalled suddenly how she had, back then, thought of naming the kitten after her boyfriend. Both had been wicked youths; yet both, she felt, were destined to be loved by her, and worthy of great love. But what had changed her mind was the prudent fear that Matt, after all, might be but a flash in the pan to her, or she to him, and the cat would then become no more than an ever-embarrassing reminder of what was not to be, like a poor sailor tattooed forever with the name of the girl who did him wrong.

She was staring at Matt's picture on her desk and then suddenly remembered about the boy in the next room, who was no doubt still there, insidiously (another recent vocab word), in _sid_ iously winning the friendship of her brother and the admiration of her entire family!

From the basement she could hear Stacy at the piano again; she was playing her Mendelssohn thing from last year, the one with all the arpeggios. (Oh la-de- _da!_ )

The cat arose and began to slink away from the cooling equipment. Imogene looked at him now and thought: if Stanley were to succeed in making her lose Matt, perhaps forever, oh _then_ how she would wish her cat was named Matthew. For then at least she would be like a poor sailor's wife, when her husband comes home no more, who has still the child in her arms who bears his father's dear name.

More time passed and the bedroom window had long since gone black. Imogene was struggling now through a page of tiny lyrics, trying to convert the elegant Latin phrases into an English worthy of their thought, when, from the next room, a blast of raucous noise startled her.

A radio dial was squeaking up and down its range, pulling in scratchy bits of broadcasts. Her brother was howling in triumph. Soon, Stacy thundered up the stairs and into his room where immediately were added her own distinctive shrieks.

Imogene looked at the clock on her headboard. It was nearly ten. She sighed and began slapping her books together, but on hearing the sound of footsteps in the hallway, quickly made as though she were still busy.

Her brother strode in, laughing, and dropped himself onto her bed. "Listen to this!" he demanded, turning a knob on his now reassembled portable. A big, brassy, cheerleader voice burst forth:
... _Down_ \- town!

Where all the lights are bright!

_Down_ \- ... !

Dan was shouting to be heard above the rollicking song. "I found it myself!" he cried. "The meter showed an open circuit. It was just a loose wire!"

"Well turn it down! I'm tryin't'get some work done!"

She noticed then, at the doorway, Stanley had paused and was glancing around at the contents of her room. His glasses seemed to tilt and linger on the owl portraits.

"Nein! Nein!" Stacy came dashing up to him. "Ist _verboten!_ "

Dan had switched off the radio, and in the sudden quiet the mischievous sister, bumping shoulders with their guest, sternly whispered: "Boys aren't s'pose to be up here." She laughed and twirled her skirt, while Stanley, his jacket stuffed awkwardly under one arm, began wrapping wires around his instrument. Then all three rumbled down the stairs to blast the music for the parents' benefit.

Though irritated by all the bustle, Imogene could not help feeling a ray of tenderness. This was, after all, the most animated she had seen her brother since he had ceased mentioning his girlfriend.

Nevertheless, on hearing the sound of treats being made ready in the kitchen, she hurried to the bathroom and turned on the tub faucet.
\- XXXVII -

Next morning, before leaving for her Saturday job, Imogene was searching through all the closets in the house.

"Mom!" she yelled from among the woolen coats by the front door, "Where's that outfit that got all bloody! Y'got it back from the cleaners, right?"

"Oh! Just a minute!"

"Ann says bring it back or buy it!" Imogene added to justify her demanding tone.

Soon, the mother appeared; she was reaching into her purse. "Here." She handed her daughter a yellow sales ticket. "It should be ready. They said Friday."

Imogene sighed and waved away the mother's five dollar bill, then made a sour face at the ticket. "What's _this_ place! Where is it." Her voice became frantic. "I gotta be at work in twenty minutes!"

Mrs Urich was fiddling with the straps on her purse. "The regular cleaners said they couldn't get the blood out. So I took it to ... where Stan works. His parents' store."

"Mom!"

"When I was talking to her? — Stan's mother? She said they have special chemicals — "

The daughter exhaled as though at the limit of her patience.

"It's very easy to get to. You go straight down 66th to Lyndale, and it's right — "

"I'll find it!" Imogene was already heading for the stairs, her wrist rings and key chain chattering to each other.

The traffic that morning, as always on sunny spring weekends in the suburbs, was dense and glacial; every intersection contained at least one indecisive granny, yet Imogene refrained from touching the horn ring (never in her life had she beeped in anger).

And on the few open stretches it was only the remembrance of the time she had been pulled over and given a speeding ticket that kept Imogene within the posted limits. (She hardly ever thought of that night anymore: the almost insulting politeness of the officer — and her so-called best friends laughing their heads off in the back seat! How she longed for the days when the memory of that had been her only shame.)

The dry cleaning store was, indeed, easy to find; its brick antiquity and boldly painted ventilating equipment made it prominent as a crashed plane.

When she entered the tiny office, there was but one customer ahead of her, a cantankerous old lady, who was being waited on at one end of the counter by a clerk in a nurse-white uniform. Imogene took up a position near the cash register, removed the yellow ticket from her purse, and looked around, displaying her most tight-lipped expression. It was a relief that Stanley was nowhere in sight, but she knew that he worked here on weekends.

Soon, other customers began arriving and the office quickly filled up. The large windows admitted such volumes of sunlight that Imogene, while guarding her place in line, had to unzip her stylish spring jacket.

She stared mercilessly at the clerk, a small woman with glasses, who excused herself from her customer and hurried to a doorway in back to call a name. On her return she paused to say to Imogene, "Just one moment, please."

The woman's smile was too sweet to look mad at, and Imogene occupied herself with craning her neck for the other, presumably summoned, clerk.

But while doing so she could not help listening to the discussion between the woman and the crabby customer. The old lady had been uttering some quite blunt insults, yet the clerk fielded them all with a gentle cheerfulness.

Suddenly, Imogene recognized the voice. The clerk was Stanley's mother!

She had not expected the woman to be so short; no taller than herself in fact. On the phone, she sounded pleasant and inviting, and Imogene just assumed she was tall and thin like her own mother, like Matt's mother.

The woman also did not look much like Stanley, other than her small stature and the fact she wore glasses. Her hair was much lighter than his. But the way she was attending to the soured old lady, with humbleness and unwavering patience, seemed familiar.

Then Imogene recalled that a photograph of herself had been shown to Stanley's mother (probably more than one, considering the Good Friday dinner), and she abruptly turned away.

A girl soon appeared, also in white uniform, and Imogene thrust the yellow ticket at her. She took the ticket and hurried into the back of the shop.

After some delay (Imogene could hear grumbling behind her), the girl returned with a grave, tilted face, her brown eyes very wide. "I'm sorry," she moaned. "The blouse is done but there's a spot on the skirt. Can y'wait? He's doing it next."

"How long."

The girl gritted her teeth. "Ten minutes? We're just so busy today."

Sighing, Imogene agreed and made way for the impatient man behind her. All the customers pressed forward, and Imogene, with folded arms, retreated to the back of the crowd, though in a place where she could still hear the woman with glasses. She was speaking with undiminished courtesy to the surly customer: "Of course! We'll do it over right away."

"For free!" the old lady growled.

"Of course. I don't know how it got through like that. I'm so sorry."

More people were entering. They all glared at the crush of bodies and looked around for someplace they and their armloads of clothing could stand.

Imogene felt obliged to give up her precious few feet of space and wandered over to the part of the office which opened into a small laundromat area. Here there were magazines and plastic chairs and half-empty pop bottles. Farther into the room, past a row of dryers, a few matrons were folding underwear at a long table, and a repairman in boots and khaki work clothes was lying on the floor with his arms in the bottom of a washing machine.

Imogene slumped herself into one of the chairs and stared ruefully at the clock on the wall. After a few minutes she went to the pay phone in the corner and informed her co-worker that she would be a little late.

"Don't sweat it," said Pam. "It's just dead to day."

"Well I _know_ where everyone's at!" Imogene retorted without explanation.

As she was returning to her seat she watched the workman pull himself out of the equipment and straighten his glasses. It was Stanley.

Imogene grabbed a magazine and turned toward the big windows, her legs fiercely crossed.

She was scarlet by the time Stanley crept up to her and mumbled, "Um ... Geenee?"

"I'm waiting for the skirt you wrecked!" she barked, slapping through the pages.

He sat down next to her and wiped his hands in a filthy rag.

Less bitterly, she added, "The one y'got blood all over."

"Sorry."

She could sense him glancing around. He leaned toward her. "Um ... I'll pay for it, okay?"

She inhaled, shaking her head. "Forget it."

Stanley was still looking around. His face was pink and he seemed more nervous than usual.

"Who'dja talk to," he asked.

"Girl with the big eyes."

He nodded. "Wanna see where I work?"

"No."

"C'mon, please?"

"No, I'm in a hurry!"

He stood up and in his fluty voice muttered, "I'm still the boss of you." His lips were oddly twisted, as if suppressing a smile.

Imogene was prepared to stare him down, but noting that people had already turned to look their way, she arose and followed after him, her arms crossed.

He stopped briefly to kick his tools out of the aisle, then, still glancing in all directions, gestured for her to keep close. She sighed and shook her head, just as she had done at all the stoplights that morning.

He led her out the back door of the laundromat where several cars were parked, and they soon arrived at a small concrete building standing by itself. He opened a big iron door and motioned her within. She entered hesitantly and much against her better judgment.

Inside, the building smelled like a gas station and was crammed with huge, vicious-looking machines all of which seemed to be churning and thumping. Stanley smiled and raised his voice to name them for her: 'extractor,' 'rag tank,' 'muck cooker,' etc. 'Dryer' was the only word she recognized.

"But don't touch anything," he warned cheerfully. "Everything's too dirty or too hot." He pointed at a discolored length of plumbing and its tiny plume of escaping steam.

Reaching behind one of the machines, he pulled sharply on something, and the big green thing, the dryer, stopped its howling. He opened a round door on its front and waited for the tumbling contents to come lazily to rest, then began removing dozens of dark trousers, laying them into a large canvas basket he had wheeled into place.

In the relative quiet Imogene said, "Y'don't want your folks to see me, do ya."

He shrugged and reached into the machine again.

"Why," she pursued.

On reemerging he answered, "They'll ask lots'a questions. 'Specially my mom." He shrugged again. "We're crappy liars." He retreated once more into the gaping machine.

Imogene nodded and let her eyes drift over the crowded, clanky room. She noticed a small shelf fastened to the brick wall in one corner. Pulling her jacket close about her (not only for warmth but to protect against the dusty grime which coated every surface), Imogene walked over to inspect the shelf. It held boxes of small items: buttons, pennies, keys, bent combs — things from people's pockets no doubt. But there were also several books: _Principles of Orbital Motion,_ which was a massive text of some kind, and two paperbacks, _Spacetime and Gravitation,_ and _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_. All had bookmarks in them.

With lips pulled to one side she wandered back to where Stanley had finished unloading the clothes.

"Interesting library," she commented.

"Hmh?"

She pointed her purse at the shelf.

"Oh, yeah," he grinned. "Weird."

"No," said Imogene. "Gravity and fallen women. I get it."

Stanley laughed clumsily at this, and, despite the dimness of the room, Imogene could see that he was blushing with great discomfort.

Suddenly, it became clear to her why Stanley insisted on their always being chaperoned. She had assumed it was only to shield himself from the possibility of her scathing vituperations — as if she, _Geenee ille Pu_ , would ever engage in such, or, if she did, that a mere parent could be any protection against the kilotons she would be capable of!

(At this, Imogene had to pause a moment and recall the unkind attack she had made on Stanley at supper the night before. How easily she had 'unsexed' herself to do that evil deed. True, the blow was struck on behalf of 'him whom most she loved,' but perhaps the greater risk was not for the loss of Matt but for that girl of Christian sweetness she still so wished herself to be.)

Nevertheless, on several occasions now when all alone with Stanley, she had observed him turning red like this, painfully red; even if no word was spoken nor having made the least belittling look. Just her natural presence it seemed, un-buffered by others, completely unhinged him. (Yet he was intending — demanding — to spend the rest of his life with her. Could the guy even be sane?)

Stanley was becoming visibly darker the longer she stared at him. He was also still smiling at her joke, and in doing so his cheeks made ugly bunches under his glasses. She could even see his teeth. That was a rare sight, and, as with most people who seldom speak, his were yellow.

Then he looked down at his watch. "Did she say how long — "

"Ten minutes. Five minutes ago." Her bracelets jangled as she thumped a fist on her hip. "I'm _supposed_ to be at work by half-past."

"You're late."

"I _know_ I'm late!"

Stanley pulled his head into his shoulders, and he stepped to another basket where, over its side, were draped many more pairs of trousers. Taking up what looked like a shoe brush, he unfolded the cuff of a pant leg and began brushing out the buried lint. He went from cuff to cuff, through several pairs of pants, performing this operation.

"Glamorous job," said Imogene, crossing her arms and seating herself precariously on the edge of the basket (the purse now slung from her shoulder on its long strap). "I suppose that philosophy of yours — how _meaningless_ everything is? — I suppose you learn to think that way from such 'grand endeavors' as this."

"Whad'a _you_ do that's so great."

Imogene paused before replying (it was a form of apology). "Nothing," she sighed. "Sell clothes to people who already have too much. Listen to their complaints." She looked closely at him. "Your mom's better at that than I am."

He went on with his brushing.

"That was her, right? At the counter? Wears glasses?"

He nodded and poked his own glasses back into place.

"Y'know," she cocked her head, "this is the first time I've been the kind of girl you _don't_ take home to mother. Thanks so much for making me feel that."

He made no reply other than to speed up his work.

Oddly, her attempts at shrewishness seemed only to lighten his blush.

Soon the trousers were all done and the brush set aside. "Let's go," he said, reaching for the other basket of pants. He opened the door and wheeled the warm load out into the daylight. Imogene followed close behind as he guided the basket back into the main building.

With his head still turning in all directions, he came to a halt beside a wooden chute; into this, in clumsy armloads, he dropped all the trousers.

Nearby, the counter girl who had waited on Imogene was going through shirt pockets with slender, deft hands and had an orange ticket between her lips. Her big eyes enlarged even further on sight of Stanley's companion.

Imogene wondered if this girl was the sister Stanley sometimes mentioned. She was about the right height, but her voice and features seemed too matured somehow to be those of an eighth grader. In fact, as the girl witnessed her co-worker's awkward motions, an almost saucy smile began to form around the orange ticket.

With his eyes on the floor, Stanley hurried Imogene past the girl and down a battered stairwell. "Watch your head," he cautioned.

In the basement were more machines, more hissing and thumping, and the air was heavy with the smell of steamed wool. Random garments were hanging everywhere. He took her arm, guiding Imogene away from a man operating a pants press, and brought her to a group of blue machines, in the midst of which stood a hard-faced woman stretching a shirt over a form that resembled a human torso.

Stanley showed no apprehension of the woman (especially in the way he continued to hold Imogene's elbow), so it was clear that this employee, too, was not a family member.

Here they waited while Stanley gazed back through the jungle of hanging clothes. "That it?" he asked, pointing at a pleated garment the man was arranging on the padding of his press.

Imogene caught only a glimpse before the wide upper jaw came down and crushed the little plaid skirt. Steam hissed out like saliva.

Nodding, she pointedly removed Stanley's hand from her arm.

"He's almost done," Stanley whispered to her.

"Your dad I suppose."

"Yeah."

Seen from behind, the man was clearly taller than Stanley, but he was slender and short-haired like his son. He worked the machine with a calm confidence, such that it was not obvious his hands and shoes were doing things to control the press. He seemed only to be watching it work.

The machines behind them, those that the woman operated, were more fascinating to watch. They did unspeakable things to the pure white shirts, including one which, after the sleeves were arranged in a certain way, erupted in a horde of tarnished blades, all slashing at the helpless fabric.

Imogene jumped back at the sudden clatter and bumped against Stanley. His hands steadied her narrow waist.

The woman, placing the now neatly folded shirt into a cardboard box, smiled broadly at the couple.

Slapping his arms away, Imogene stared savagely in every direction: at the cobwebs in the naked joists overhead and the wads of 'dust bunnies' collected along the dirty brick wall. Her eyes came to rest on Stanley's knee-stained khakis and she whispered harshly: "How does _any_ thing get clean around here!"

Stanley, his hands hanging limp, was also looking down; both he and Imogene gazed at the slicks of oily grime on his scuffed boots.

When the man had finished with the skirt, they watched him turn around and fasten it, using two small safety pins, to a coat hanger. Even though he wore no glasses, Imogene could see now an unmistakable resemblance between him and Stanley, but for some reason only the father was handsome.

As he dealt with the tiny pins, the man's face showed as well a similarity to the beetle-browed, almost cruel intentness she had often seen in Stanley. (A sudden chill raced through Imogene, wondering what the father might now be thinking had he known that the blood he just scrubbed out of that frilly skirt was his son's!)

At the stairwell he placed the hanger on a bar suspended over the steps and pushed a button. The bar, twisted like a corkscrew, began to rotate, and as it did so the hanger and skirt glided magically upwards.

After another garment had been selected to work on, Stanley led Imogene quietly back to the steps. He grabbed the skirt and its hanger and tapped quickly to the top of the stairs with Imogene right behind.

He halted there a moment, glancing around. Both his mother and the counter girl were busy with customers; Stanley looked relieved, but spoke in an undertone as he held out the garment to her. "D'ya have to have it in a bag?"

"There's a _blouse_ goes with it!"

He shot eyes into the office once more. "Got the ticket?"

Imogene rummaged in her purse for the yellow slip, then was told to go wait by the door while Stanley began searching among the racks of bagged garments.

He soon joined her, his hands maneuvering the skirt into a plastic bag with the blouse. As he was reaching for the doorknob she whispered sharply, "I haven't _paid_ yet!"

"Forget it."

Imogene saw him glance toward his mother, who was nearly out of view behind her line of customers, then they stepped outside.

While she was starting the car, Stanley opened the door on the passenger side and laid the garments over the back of the seat. His breathing, she noticed, was quick and short, as if he had just run a race. He was still red. "Why'dja bring'em here, anyway."

"My mother did!"

"Um ... could y'tell'er ... ?" He looked down at his hands smoothing the wrinkles in the yellow ticket, "Like, we did a really bad job'n stuff? So she won't come again?"

"Gladly!"

He stood back to close the door; a wallet was in his hand. "See ya," he said, smiling.

Imogene made no response, and, after the door was gently closed, drove off without so much as a backward glance.

A few blocks away, at a long stoplight, she removed the clothes and inspected them closely. The creases were perfect, and there was not a trace of a blemish anywhere.
\- XXXVIII -

After so hectic a start, the rest of her morning proved tedious for Imogene. On arriving at the dress shop, she spent a few minutes putting tags on the skirt and blouse, but before returning them to the rack she paused to examine the outfit once more.

She still found no signs of wear nor the scent of recent cleaning, yet after sighing a few times and making an impatient growl in her throat, she wrote up a sales slip to herself, put money in the till, and returned the garments to her car. After that, she had little to do the rest of the day.

Her co-worker, Pam — poised and model slim — spent much of each hour on the telephone to her friends, and Imogene wished now that she had left herself a page or two of homework to do; it was tiresome in the extreme to go through her notebook, underlining the words already underlined, while listening to her colleague's wailing radio:
... cry if I want to!

_Cry-y_ if I want to! ...

and to the sighing ennui of endless phone conversations.

But shortly after lunch when a tall, strapping boyfriend appeared, the girls agreed that Pam should leave early with her young man and Imogene stay on till closing time.

Following this departure, the much quieter store was not unwelcome, and though business did pick up a little after that, Imogene still found herself with more time on her hands than she would have liked.

Late in the afternoon she was slumped once more over her graduation speech when a young girl walked in, an eighth grader perhaps, and right behind her, Stanley.

A quick pain slit through Imogene, as if she had swallowed a needle.

But the newcomers did not appear to be sinister. No cunning eyes glanced her way or seemed intent on avoiding her. If anything, both Stanley and the girl made faces of befuddled innocence. They had paused just inside the door, apparently entranced by the plush and suddenly echoless interior of the boutique.

Imogene slapped her notebook closed and came out from behind the counter.

"Hi," said Stanley, as if addressing a stranger. "Um ..." His eyes could lift no higher than Imogene's blouse. "w-we're lookin'for scarves'n stuff? Or'v'ya just got dresses here." Then he looked down at several books clutched on his hip. No doubt he and the girl had just come from the little library down the street, and their stopping here was merely an afterthought. (Or perhaps Stanley wished only to make it appear as such. That wintry night she had seen him at the library came quickly to mind, and Imogene thought — with the urge to kick herself — how different things might now have been if only she had offered to drive him home!)

Her arms were firmly crossed, and on coming to a halt before the customers Imogene looked from one to the other with barely restrained anger.

Stanley was turning pink.

The girl seemed uncomfortable as well, although she was suffering no change of color. With a small click of her tongue she said, "He's my brother."

Even without this admission (or apology rather, for that was how it sounded) Imogene would have guessed their relationship; the noses were similar, and the girl's hair was the same dark blond as their mother's. The eyes, too, had something familiar about them. Though the girl did not wear glasses, her lashes had that pleading, vulnerable look that often appears when people who normally wear spectacles take them off.

"So ... do ya?" Stanley prompted. "Scarves'n stuff?" He was now pathetically red, which, as could have been expected, lessened a good deal of Imogene's wrath. The girl, moreover, seemed to have no idea who this sales lady really was, and Imogene could feel a trace of gratitude for at least being spared the attention of a gawking sister. (Although Stanley of course had reasons of his own for maintaining secrecy.)

"Over here," said Imogene. The burr of irritation in her voice came out less rudely than she had intended, but while leading them down a scented aisleway (short skirt swishing), her hosiery was allowed to squeak with each stride, as if in protest.

By the time they arrived at the accessories shelves all of her charity (and sales instinct) had returned. Imogene knelt down on the warm carpeting and, looking over the items on the lowest shelf, began to hum with interest. "Now these are all really nice," she said with gently outstretched fingers.

Stanley was hovering overhead as she and the girl moved closer together.

"Solid ones here an'the splashier ones — " Imogene looked at the girl. "Really bright colors are best for you, I think."

"It's for my mom."

"Oh, Mother's Day."

"An'er birthday too! They're the same day this year!" The girl was becoming excited. "So it's gotta be ... like ... the very best!"

"Laney?" said her brother, kneeling down beside her. "Not too expensive y'know." He was still blushing.

The girl clicked her tongue and bent lower to inspect the items on display. "I'm paying half!" she grumbled.

Imogene carefully observed the two of them gazing at the many selections. They kept their hands well back as if afraid to touch anything not paid for, but before long the girl's increasing delight made her a bit grabby.

Noting which ones seemed to please her, Imogene did some searching on her own; then, with a flourish, waved before the girl's eyes a broad wash of radiant colors, like a 'patch of sunrise peeled from the sky.' (Catullus.)

The girl caught her breath.

Smiling, Imogene released the billowy film into her hands and the girl, open-mouthed, held it as one holds the falling of snow.

Saying nothing further, Imogene sat back serenely, in the manner of a geisha girl, and watched.

Stanley was on one knee, the way football stars pose for pictures, and his sister, rising with the scarf, seated herself on his uppermost leg, absently, as though resuming her chair at dinner.

The brother looked on as she made the brilliant cloud dance in the air. She tried folding it into a wide triangle, then, shaking it out, leaned back and raised the scarf to peer at the ceiling lights through the varying hues. She held it higher, on thin, upstretched arms, for Stanley to see too. "Neat," he said, but it seemed to Imogene, from the size of his dull-yellow grin and the way their heads gently touched, that some measure of insincerity was being portrayed. She was reminded of the sentimental tableaux one sees in ballet productions and silent movies.

Imogene grabbed the display box and stood up. She made her voice firm to report: "It's the most expensive one in the shop."

"Figures," said Stanley; he was still smiling. "We'll take it."

"It's twenty-nine, ninety-five," she added with no trace of sympathy.

"Oh!" the girl squeaked, turning to clutch her brother's arm. "Please, Stanny? I'll pay y'back! Please?"

The brother was staring up at their clerk; a look of shock was on his face.

"It's real silk," said Imogene. "Imported." She pointed at the Oriental writing on the back of the box.

"Yeah, it's _real silk!_ " the girl pleaded.

Stanley was sighing. "Okay," he said, and received a hug so huge he nearly toppled over.

Immediately, the sister dashed with the scarf to the big mirror by the dressing rooms.

Back at the sales counter, Imogene began ringing up their purchase, while Stanley, books under one arm, gazed with little happiness into the flaps of his wallet. His blush had not dimmed.

Clearing her throat, Imogene volunteered, "How much do I owe y'for the cleaning."

"Nothin'." Stanley handed her a fistful of wrinkled currency, including the sister's five dollar bill.

While getting change from the cash register, Imogene sensed him leaning over the counter to look down at her calves. Then he muttered, "Is it always so busy here?"

"Shut up."

After he had pocketed the coins and was handed a small sack containing the empty box and a receipt, Imogene crossed her arms and stared at him to leave. He took a step away, but paused to look toward his sister who was still at the mirror, holding the scarf diagonally across her chest like a pageantry sash. He turned back to Imogene a moment. "Was there another one there? Just like it?"

"No."

He nodded and walked over to the girl.

While he did so, Imogene took up her seat behind the counter and opened her notebook. She began once again to study the typed lines of her speech but remained keenly aware of the couple still lingering in her store. A glance showed that Stanley was down on one knee again, holding the opened box with its tissue papers unfurled, while his sister, stooping over him, giggled excitedly and folded the scarf with extreme care. Eventually, they wandered back outside, the girl clutching their purchase, Stanley sorting his books.

Imogene watched from the corner of her eye as they walked past the store's big window. Neither of them glanced in at the Easter bunnies and spring fashions on display; nor did the girl pause in her chattering (or Stanley his nodding) to look back at her.

That night a call came from Miss Beaver. Even though Imogene was no longer one of the cheerleaders, she was asked to come over to the teacher's apartment the next day and give her and the other girls a hand. At first, Miss Beaver was rather vague concerning the reason for the invitation; then mentioned something about repairing uniforms for tryouts week.

"Sure!" Imogene was delighted to be asked. "Should I pick up anyone?"

"No, they'll ... no, that won't be necessary."

"Will the new girl be there?"

"Uhh ... no I don't think so."

"It's okay if she is. I wanna meet'er."

"Yeah, she might show up."

"Should I bring my sewing stuff?"

"No. I've got ... everything."

Thus, after church the next day, Imogene drove to the large apartment complex just off the Beltline north of the school (within jogging distance, Miss Beaver often said) and tried to remember the way to her advisor's room through the long, stale-smelling corridors, where every ten paces brought one past a fire extinguisher.

Imogene was becoming nervous. She wondered if it was at all wise to place herself among so many of her inquisitive — and highly perceptive — acquaintances. (Never mind what in the world one says to an old boyfriend's new flame!)

Also, she kept thinking how odd it was that Becky, on an earlier phone call, had said nothing at all about the get-together.

Finding the door with the correct numerals, Imogene listened a moment for female voices, but these were absent. She inhaled deeply, flexing her fingers to get the whiteness out of her hands, then knocked.
_Matt_ opened the door!

He threw gigantic arms around her and pulled her into the room. She was being madly kissed. Her purse fell to the floor; her hands fluttered in the air like wounded birds.

Dimly, she sensed a tall form pass behind them and pause. A throat was cleared, which had no effect on her ravisher.

"Okay you two," said Miss Beaver. "Washburn, y'know the rules. I'll just be down doin'laundry. I might come back any minute for the bleach bottle."

As the door closed, Imogene caught a glimpse of her advisor, in sweater and jeans, with a heaping basket under one arm.

But it was several more minutes before Imogene was released, and then only temporarily while Matt pulled her to the couch in the tiny living room.

"What's going on!" she cried, letting herself be repositioned on his lap, in his arms, against his lips.

She received no answer and it seemed a long time before she was allowed to take a full breath.

When his arms finally relaxed, she found a comfortable place on his broad chest and sniffled. "This's really dumb," she said, almost in anger.

"Yeah I know."

"There's so much to lose! Both of us!"

"I know. But — "

"He'll find _out!_ Somehow! The guy's spooky!

"Yeah I know, but if he does? Beaver said she'd take the blame. It's all her idea anyway." He straightened up suddenly. "What story she tell ya to get'cha over here."

"Something about sewing!"

He nodded. "I was s'pose ta ... t'pick up someone."

"Lemme guess. Scarlett O'Hara, right?"

"Who?"

"Your new girlfriend!"

"Geenee!" He hugged her again. "She's nothing! You told me to go out with a girl, so I'm goin'out with a girl!"

"I know! Oh, sweetheart, I know!" She squeezed him with all her strength and started to cry. "I've missed you so much!"

He kissed her, petted her, and laid her on the couch; then slowly crushed her with his weight.

Imogene felt dangerously at risk, but forced herself not to care. She closed her eyes and let her trembling arms fall to each side; her hands made themselves into tiny, unresisting fists.

After only a few moments of this heaven, a phrase recurred to her: 'abstain from all contact whatsoever,' and blood rushed to her face.

Matt raised up. "What," he asked. "God I'm not gonna do anything!"

"I know. I just ... kiss me some more." She had begun crying again.

For many minutes Matt did as he was told, but eventually (and abruptly) got up and went into the little kitchenette area. The refrigerator clicked open while Imogene sat up and pinched at the sweaty wrinkles in her new two-tone blouse. (She was way overdressed for a sewing bee, having come with the intention of knocking her rival down a peg. She smiled to think, perhaps she had.)

"Wanna beer?" Matt called. "She said help ourselves."

"Is there, like ... a Coke?"

Soon they were collected back on the sofa, she on his lap nibbling a tasty cake and marshmallow confection, still stiff from the freezer, and occasionally raising its other end to her boyfriend's lips.

She giggled. "I swear. I'm never gonna let'er live this down. All this junk? In her own icebox? I mean ... what basic food group do Twinkies belong to!"

They laughed and necked and burped for more than an hour. She was pleased to tell Matt of Stanley's latest demands: the dishwashing, the extra suppers, and how 'the mouse' was to give her up on May twentieth, in time for them to go to the prom as planned. His joy at the news, however, seemed a little forced. It was clear that Miss Beaver had already told him.

And she sniffled to add that, every day, she wore his ring on a golden thread round her neck. "Except _today!_ " she cried, explaining frantically that she had expected this to be a room full of the school's snoopiest girls. "But all through church this morning? Here!" Both hands were slapped to her heart. "It was right _here!_ "

At first she made no mention of the outrageous marriage contract, for there was no telling how violently he might react, or how damaging it could be to their present high spirits; and so Imogene kept still a few minutes longer, captured contentedly in the huge arms and listening to the gentle thunder in his chest.

Ultimately though, her own heart could not resist the need to tell all of her woes to the one most certain to care.

Matt listened with attention and was duly angered, but even this, it seemed, was old knowledge to him, long since got over. He obviously saw no difficulty in her signing the contract and then going back on her word. 'The creep deserves no better!' he would have said, had he thought anything needed saying.

He was right of course, but she would have loved him a good deal more had he somehow divined the trouble this was causing her.

When the doorknob rattled, their limbs scattered from one another and they jumped up, only to laugh at their guilty looks and fall once more into each other's arms.

Miss Beaver entered with her basket of now neatly folded clothes and headed for the bedroom. She paused a moment to look toward her guests. "Happy?" she asked.

Imogene ran to her.

For the balance of that Sunday afternoon the three of them snacked and laughed and chattered merrily together, and when it started to get late, made a quick supper for themselves. Every shred of news was discussed and chuckled over: how Imogene had cried over the lost tournament, and the heartbreak of longing for him every day in Montana. (She was careful though to say nothing of the poems which, she blushed now to recall, he had never actually admitted to.)

Matt had a few revelations of his own, and tears came again on hearing him tell of his little brother's asking continually about her, and even his sisters were beginning to show an interest. But, as to the new girl in his life, it seemed to Imogene that Matt was reluctant to give details of their relationship, and he did not laugh heartily when Miss Beaver made little jokes at the girl's expense. Imogene worried about this, but then realized that she, too, was being rather close-lipped about her dealings with Stanley, and had found it hard to join in with their inevitable ridicule.

All could laugh though when Miss Beaver made the observation that she and this Stanley kid had something in common: "We're both named after rodents!"

In the end, their goodbyes had to be said. But there were no more tears to be spent, and the lovers could only press cheeks together, for their puffy lips ached.

As Imogene was taking her leave (she was instructed to depart first, in case the premises were being watched) she hugged her teacher dearly. "I needed this so much!" Imogene whimpered.

"Me too, lady." Miss Beaver's voice had become scratchier than usual.

In bed that night Imogene lay wide awake, gazing happily at the gray ceiling and its occasional wash of headlight beams. Every once in awhile the curled cat at her hip would snuffle and twitch. No doubt he was dashing through the wilderness of his ancient carnivore's dreams, and this too made Imogene smile. She wondered: Did Matt make random movements in his sleep too, as if likewise discontented with domestic life: accepting food that came in cans, yet always dreaming of the hunt?

Oh you poor predators! she thought, grinning to recall the Cavalier's lament:
And now brought low to languish penn'd

On plains too tamed for thee!

Imogene was wearing the little diamond proudly — on her _left_ hand, as she had proclaimed to Matt — and she savored the memory of this most wonderful day: the painful joy she had felt, the thrill and danger of so great, so troubled, so enduringly sweet a love.

"Dammit!" she cried with sudden fury (the cat vaulting to the floor).

She had forgotten to thank Matt for the beautiful thing he had done at homecoming!

"Of all the ... _dammit!_ "
\- XXXIX -

But in spite of this regret, Imogene found that life was now a little easier to bear; although, for awhile, she worried that Stanley had discovered her violation of his rules, for she noted a slight change in his behavior in school on Monday. Gone suddenly were the impertinent glances and half grins he had lately begun to pester her with, and as he sat motionless in the desk beside her he was blushing for no apparent reason.

Soon, however, all was made clear, for this was the day Imogene and her fellow classmates were to begin their long-awaited orations _ex tempore_. Each student was to be called in turn to the front of the class and lecture the others at length, and in Latin, on whatever topic their teacher deemed appropriate.

This caused a ping of delight within Imogene, for it was always a pleasure to show off her considerable talents while being able to pretend she hated the assignments as much as everyone else. In fact, this particular task had caused her so little concern that, in the commotion of her busy weekend, it had wholly slipped her mind. Yet it was clear that Stanley had spent many days in dread of it.

When the bell rang ending the homeroom portion of first hour, Stanley began to tremble slightly; he wiped palms on his shirt sleeves and hunched himself low over his desk as if trying to hide behind little Jennifer ahead of him.

But it was no use. Mr Grove gathered up his grade book, coming to attention as he did so, and smiled at the reddest face in the room. With stately Latinate pomp he declared: "Julius Publius Rattus" (all the Roman approximations for 'Stanley' had been claimed by boys in the Latin Club), "with now your undertaking shall it please us to commence."

Stanley visibly flinched. The color vanished from his face like beet juice from a rinsed cloth, and he arose unsteadily. Reaching the front of the room he seemed to glance in longing at the closed door, then turned to face his audience, or their shoes rather, for his head would not lift.

Glancing around, Imogene found many compassionate smiles directed at Stanley. All knew that he was being made this initial sacrifice merely as a kindness to himself, to minimize the length of his suffering.

Throughout the year Mr Grove had been pamperingly tolerant of Stanley's diffidence, and Imogene expected him now to award the easiest of topics: food, perhaps, or architecture, something concrete and with an ample vocabulary.

Or gravity! Of course, gravity!

Imogene stiffened in her desk. She could wish that Stanley not be let off so easily. She resolved to stare at him while he spoke (or mumbled more likely!) and call into question every one of his ill-chosen words.

The room had become silent, anticipating the speaker's doom. Stanley was turning pink again, and his hands had seemed to grow big for having nowhere to hide themselves.

Mr Grove, now seated in the rear of the middle row, cleared his throat and pronounced, " _Amor_."

There was a cannonade of laughter.

Imogene had turned to make astonished eyes at the teacher who, she found, was staring directly back at her, chin lifted and eyebrows tall, as if asking for permission.

Without realizing it, Imogene was shaking her head.

Immediately, Mr Grove raised his voice and Latinized into the din, "Oh, was it of _love_ , thus I spoke? Excessive is my apology." (It was a characteristic of language teachers, Imogene had noticed, to couch their comedy in the most nefarious syntax they could muster. The reason was easy to guess: even the laziest translator will make an effort if there was a laugh to be had.)

Mr Grove went on: "Meant I to say ... 'acoustics!' These often do I confuse." The teacher's face was pained with trying not to smile. "Tell us now, Publius, of facts concerning sound, and all its phenomena various. Use of one's blackboard permitted is."

This had done nothing to lessen the laughter, and many were pleading for reinstitution of the original topic. JoAnn threw up palms to cry: " _Magister est convivio-POOPER!_ "

Stanley, however, made good his escape. He grabbed a piece of chalk and began sketching diagrams on the board, his face once again brick red. Equations were scribbled as well (with Latin nominatives printed clumsily in place of algebraic symbols) and soon, after the chuckling had subsided, a fairly coherent stream of information could be heard issuing from him, although he spoke only to the blackboard; never once did he turn to face his audience.

Evident as well was the juvenile flutiness which had returned to his voice. Someone in the back (Brad probably) was going, "Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!" inciting giggles from his neighbors.

But none of this could distract Imogene from her own shock and terror. The look in the teacher's eyes; that first look, before Mr Grove made it all into a joke; _that_ look had been indelible. How — and how much! — did he know?

She thought briefly of the Latin love poem he had put on the board that one day, Stanley's epigram, but that could not explain why Mr Grove had stared at _her_. She was certain he knew something. How? Who told him? Had it been obvious to all? Did he know about her cheating too?

She stared down at the pink fingers of her hands and scarcely dared take breath.

When Stanley came to an awkward pause, the teacher requested he set down the chalk and come forward with a brief summary. To this, Imogene was able to raise her eyes and saw at once that Stanley was in trouble again. Inflamed scalp shone brightly through his short hair; his hands fluttered; he glanced everywhere but at the twenty-four faces before him.

And his Latin was deplorable. He made blunders which could only be heard in a first year class. The more inane of these brought roars of renewed laughter.

Imogene could see, however, that the merriment was not merely out of derision; she realized that, for many of her classmates, laughter was the only way to ease their own embarrassment at having to watch so pathetic a spectacle.

Eventually, Stanley came to sort of an end, shrugged like a simpleton, and received " _Magna gratis!_ " from the instructor who immediately called out the next speaker's name.

In the flutter and tittering accorded to this new victim, Stanley slumped quietly back to his desk, ruddy-faced and exhausted, like a long-distance runner who has finished last to no applause. He sat with head bowed and arms heavy on his desk and thereafter seemed to make no movement whatever.

Seeing this, Imogene found she had lost all trace of hostility toward the boy. Though her chief fear was still how much Mr Grove knew of her own behavior, she could yet feel a kind of anguish, on Stanley's behalf, for knowing how much of an ordeal this must have been: not only to have failed, but to have failed in front of her.

At the end of the hour, a hesitant soliloquy on the theme of 'compassion,' being delivered by JoAnn, was cut short by the bell. Stanley had yet to overcome his painful blush, and he was the first one out the door.

Slowly, Imogene gathered up her books, then lingered at her desk until the room was nearly empty, waiting for Mr Grove to offer her some kind of explanation. He made nodding grins to several of those departing (who warned they would get even for the awful topics he had given them), but by the time Imogene shuffled past his desk, he had turned to begin erasing Stanley's diagrams. She left in silence.

Throughout the day Imogene remained worried, and in art class she stared more openly at Matt than had been her custom. The day before, when they were together at Miss Beaver's apartment, she and Matt had worked out a sort of code between themselves wherein certain looks were to mean certain things, but the fearful eyes she now threw in his direction only confused him. And the eventual notice of their teacher, piercingly comic as always, shamed Imogene from attempting further communication.

At supper that evening Stanley was unusually reserved. At one point Mrs Urich placed a hand on his forehead and asked if he would like to lie down.

Imogene had by now shed much of her sympathy and longed to declare to her family that the kid was only feeling the effects of having made a jackass of himself, but somehow the words could not be found.

Later, while her father was driving Stanley home (on the mother's insistence), Imogene was asked if anything had happened to hurt Stanley's feelings. Had _she_ said anything to him, her mother wanted to know right now!

Imogene, shrugging, denied all knowledge and hurried up to her room.

The next morning, in class, Stanley seemed to be back to normal, at least there was no blush in evidence as he operated his slide rule and made notations in a spiral notebook. He did, however, refrain from venturing any looks at Imogene.

By Thursday he was fully recovered and glanced freely at her as before. Imogene guessed that his boldness was due to there now being only a handful of students left to give their orations, and she was among them.

Imogene, too, had lost much of her alarm. If Mr Grove really did have knowledge of her misconduct, she concluded, he would certainly have had the decency to inform her of it by now.

Her anxieties, in fact, had diminished to such a point that now her chief concern was only in trying to guess what subject she would be given when her turn finally came. It was clear that Mr Grove's scheme was to demand topics which either accorded well with the speaker's character or were humorously contradictory. How the teacher was able to know each of his students so well as to do this with precision quite baffled her; she could easily believe he was the wisest person she had ever known.

So, on this last day of their orations, Imogene sat a little nervously at her desk, ignoring the monologues of her classmates, while trying to think of those subjects that were most, or least, like herself. She was hampered in this by the constant recollection that Mr Grove had yet to give out the topic of wisdom itself; _prudentia_ was a common word in his lectures. Her heart blossomed to think he might be saving this just for her, and dozens of pertinent quotations crowded her mind. Then, though half the hour still remained, the last speaker but one was dismissed and all eyes turned in her direction.

Mr Grove made a sigh of pleased finality and proclaimed: " _Et denique, Imogena_."

Hopping up, Imogene stepped eagerly to the front of the class, her golden arm bands tinkling. She smiled back at the many reassuring grins (Stanley's among them) and composed herself to receive the teacher's next command.

In a voice judgmentally deep came the word: " _Mendacium_."

Laughter once more erupted, and Imogene stared unbelievingly at the teacher.

Mr Grove, however, seated once more in the back of the room, was looking straight at Stanley's head.

Debbie, in shocked delight, was slapping her knees, and it was possible to count every one of JoAnn's tiny white teeth.

"C'mon, Thalia!" Brad was chirping. "Out with it!"

Stanley had a look of horror on his face (probably identical to her own), but he seemed unaware that the teacher was staring at him.

Soon, Mr Grove returned his attention to Imogene. His hands tried to wave down the noise, and, with a crafty smile, he nodded her to proceed.

Imogene was stunned. Why _this_ topic! _Mendacium_ : secrecy, deceitfulness, outright lying! He must know everything! He _must!_

Long seconds went by as the laughter came to a stumbling halt; a few giggles remained but even these died away as the class witnessed Imogene's strange, continuing silence. Ultimately, their expressions became as blank as jurors'.

Somehow, Imogene struggled out the Latin equivalent of, 'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.' She said this slowly, as if it were to be the text of a sermon, but she despaired of what to follow it with. She noticed that Stanley was still gazing at her; he was leaning forward in his desk, with lips tight and limbs tensed as if ready every instant to leap to her rescue. (Oh he'd be a _big_ help!)

It was hopeless. Her concentration had completely vanished; hot steam was creeping under her clothes; her bracelets dinged moronically in futile gestures.

Several kids had begun clearing their throats and glancing at the teacher, who had turned to look toward the windows. His jaw was lowered and he was rubbing his hollowed cheek as if he had a toothache.

Imogene could focus on nothing. A few Catechism phrases still occurred to her, but translation was impossible. Utterly impossible. Her eyes squinted on the pain of her blush; the image of stove coils came to mind, blazing red, with droplets of grease dancing to tortured death.

She felt so alone! Not one of those somber kids could now be called a friend; no longer could her troubles be diffused among them; they could not help or defend her, even if they wanted to. Her mind — wasting precious moments — declared: _This_ is what it was like to fight the world alone! She wanted to die.

Mr Grove was on his feet. "Imogena, you are unprepared," he said in bantering Latin. "Plainly, not one untruth ever have you spoken." He was chuckling as he came forward, nodding at the others to encourage their smiles. Courteously, he motioned her toward her desk. "Therefore, I assign as follows: Speak you will, this night, one falsehood — to your cat, it is likely — and here report tomorrow concerning such."

Confused laughter had begun to sprout from various corners of the room.

" _Ad interim_ ," Mr Grove was at his desk now (blushing slightly himself) and paging through his Latin text. "Open to ..." and he went on with the normal activities of the class. All of his students seemed likewise eager to be doing something else. Even Brad had no lame mockeries to make.

Having hurried to her desk, Imogene could only lift empty arms to the surprised looks of her neighbors. She began slapping through the pages of her book, then followed along with the translations read aloud by students on the far side of the room. Her attention, however, was consumed by the performance just ended, and she squirmed as discreetly as possible within her sweat-sticky undergarments.

It was many minutes before Imogene dared to look up. On doing so, she caught sight of Stanley just turning his glasses away from her.

She was in agony all the rest of that hour, and when the bell at last sounded it was Imogene this time who was first to burst from the room and rush headlong down the hall.
\- XL -

For the remainder of that day Imogene held her eyes lowered in fright and humiliation. She kept recalling the blank, paving-stone face of Mr Grove as he pronounced the word, _mendacium_ : the act of cheating, of covering-up, of failing to confess. He had all but openly accused her.

Every repetition of these thoughts stung Imogene with renewed pain, and she was doomed to find no escape, for by lunchtime it seemed that everyone in the school had heard of the event. Their eyes, if not their eager tongues, threw questions at her as she hurried down the halls.

In the cafeteria she sat with elbows against her ribs (to limit the stink of her disgrace) and stammered to her friends how it was "... y'know, my stomach was feeling kinda ... funny all morning? And these sort of cramps just — all of a sudden! And the words just wouldn't ... y'know ... ?"

The girls could not possibly have been taken in by this nonsense, yet they purred with sympathy nonetheless and gently patted her arms. Imogene strained not to weep before them. 'Thy reward shalt be hereafter!' kept running through her head. How will she ever repay such divine understanding?

Later, while absorbing none of Miss Dahl's lecture on the Potsdam Conference, Imogene remembered suddenly how Mr Grove, at the end of class that morning, had in fact smiled at her and seemed shamed himself. Whatever he knew, or suspected, she could not believe he had intended to be cruel. And by last period, with great relief, Imogene discovered that her morning's spectacle had already become passé. Even Matt seemed to think it not worth an inquiring look.

After the final bell, she trudged back to her locker, put on her overcoat and loaded the customary pile of books into her arms. Acquaintances were dashing by, wishing her good night, but her responses were far from attentive. She was staring at the opened door of her Latin class.

A few lockers down, Stanley was shyly loitering; she could feel his eyes upon her. Then he too left.

When at last the halls had thinned, Imogene took a deep breath and marched herself into the classroom, halting directly in front of Mr Grove. (She had glanced around to make sure they were alone.)

"Yes, Geenee?" said the teacher as he looked up from a desk full of scribbled papers. His choosing to speak in English signaled that he was prepared to hear something important.

"I'm so sorry, Mr Grove!" Imogene blurted. "I don't know what happened! I couldn't ... I just couldn't talk! I couldn't think!"

He was directing her to one of the desks in front and, smiling, assured her there was no need for apology.

Imogene slumped into a seat but continued to hold her books. (She was glad she had brought her books; they would protect her, she felt, like a shield, like a babe in arms.)

The teacher's face was beginning to color; her own, she felt, must already be crimson.

Mr Grove went on: "And don't worry; I certainly didn't grade you on that ... curve-ball I threw you this morning."

Imogene was vigorously shaking her head.

He looked down and grinned, patting the papers with loose knuckles. "Actually, _I'm_ the one who should apologize. I've only been doing this for eleven years. I still make dumb mistakes."

Her mouth was open but so many refutations came to mind not one of them would come out.

"In a way it's good though," he said. "For you, I mean. If you do become a teacher, your most useful skill will be knowing how to deal with the unexpected. Just ... work on keeping your cool, always, and everything else will be duck soup." He smiled. " _Wee Wisdoms_ by R.L.Grove, unpublished."

Imogene had to return the smile.

"It's not an easy thing to learn," he added, shaking his bard-like brow. "Just look at me. All these years and I can still goof things up." He let out a breath. "I _am_ sorry, Geenee."

In the five and a half semesters that he had been her teacher this was perhaps the most English Imogene had heard from him at any one time; even in Latin Club he spoke only in the Roman vernacular. She was entranced by his smooth, easy, unscholarly phrases.

With a start, she realized he had finished speaking. "Um ... h-how much do you know about us. Stan'n me."

Mr Grove glanced down at the papers for a moment. "Just what I see, Geenee. There's something there. When I talked to Stan the other day, he said there was nothing. But ... he's not a very good liar."

"So no one's _told_ you about us? Or anything?"

He shook his head.

"Or about ... my cheating'n stuff?"

His eyes widened.

Imogene looked down at the floor. Floods of itchy sweat were collecting under her arms.

The teacher made a tiny throat noise. "No. No one's said a word."

Imogene felt him staring at her, then he asked, "Something you'd like to talk about?"

She shook her head. "I can't. I _want_ to, I really do, but I can't — I'm not supposed to — if that makes any sense."

"Not much."

Imogene sighed. "It's nothing bad. Really bad." She tried to keep her head from flopping side to side. "Just ... I'm not as innocent as everyone thinks I am."

The teacher was beginning to look alarmed. "If you're in any trouble ..."

"N-no-no. Everything's fine — well, no it's _not_ , but ... anyway, my folks know all about it, and ..." she felt her eyes beginning to sting. "... and everything's under control. I just ... it seemed like y'knew all about it n'stuff, an'I just ..." she sniffled, "... I guess I just wanted another shoulder to cry on or something."

"Well, you've got it," he said. "Anytime you want." He tipped back and opened a desk drawer, then held out a box of tissues to her. She grabbed at several.

For the next few moments they sat in silence, Mr Grove staring at her with patience and perplexity while she, sitting sideways in the desk, tended to her nose and to the pile of books listing awkwardly on her lap. She was sweltering inside her buttoned-up coat.

As Imogene got up to leave, she said in a smiling-sniffling sort of way: "Some teacher I'm gonna make, huh."

Mr Grove also arose and came to full attention behind his desk. "The best," he said, then gravely added: " _Optimus omnibus partibus_." ('Superlative in all respects.')

Imogene broke into a helpless grin.

"At the beginning of the year?" the teacher explained. "Some kids from the yearbook stopped by and asked me to describe you in three words or less. Those were the three words. I predict they will always apply."

Imogene could not look at him.

Glancing at the clock, and with a trace of concern returning to his eyes, the teacher said, "Need a ride home?"

"Um ... no, I'm — " She nodded vaguely toward the library upstairs. "I'll wait for the activity bus." She was halfway out the open door. "Thanks for ... oh just everything!"

There was a pang in her heart. If it had not been for her load of books (and smelling like a sewer!) she would have charged right into his arms.

Imogene hurried away before fresh tears could make her look truly pathetic.

The halls were vacant now, and she stopped at a girls' room to dab at her face and claw gobs of cooled sweat from inside her blouse, then began the long walk home.

That evening, Imogene dreaded coming down for supper. She had made unwise mention the night before of having to give her oration this morning. She was certain to be asked about it, and if not, Stanley could easily — in one of his disgustingly innocent ways! — manage to bring it up. Curiously, she almost wished he would, for that seemed preferable somehow to his gallantly keeping silent.

But as it turned out, other topics were paramount at dinner. When Stanley and the rest of the family had settled themselves at the kitchen table, Mrs Urich scolded her husband to put down the newspaper. Then, with clasped hands, wiggled her fingers at Stacy to indicate it was her turn for prayers.

Before heads could be bowed, however, the mother clicked her tongue again. "Would you put that down! We're eating now."

Scowling, Mr Urich folded the _Tribune_ and tossed it aside. "Damn Democrats," he muttered. "Haven't they killed enough kids by now!"

"Dear. Shh ... Stacy?"

As the younger daughter leaned forward to begin her recitation, the father pointed rudely at their guest. "When d'you sign up for the draft."

"Um ... June." said Stanley.

"Next month."

"Yes sir."

Mr Urich shook his head and let his fist fall to the table.

"Dear!" said his wife. "We're eating!"

Stacy was looking cautiously around. On a further cue from her mother she once more attempted to begin, but this time Stanley broke in: "It can't be any worse'n what you guys went through."

Everyone stared at him.

"I mean ... the whole world was fighting ... back then. An' ... it looked like we'd lose, right?"

A sudden blush had covered his face. The parents seemed to have no idea what reply to make.

"An'the other night," Stanley went on, now mumbling at his empty plate, "y'said it was like seven years 'til Geenee was born? Well ... the world must a'really been rotten to not even wanna have kids."

The mother and father were staring at each other. "Yes," Mrs Urich murmured. "those were very bad days. I pray they never come again." She smiled at Stanley and squeezed his hand. "And I'm sure it wasn't one bit easier for your parents."

Stanley nodded.

She looked toward her husband again. "The worst, I think, was imagining all the things he _wouldn't_ tell me in his letters." Her lips were pressed together. "That, and ... trying to teach boys who — oh, those were awful, awful times!"

Looking around, Imogene saw that everyone's eyes were lowered, even her father's.

"But those seven long years?" Mrs Urich smiled at her elder daughter. "Believe me, Geenee was worth the wait." She grabbed her son's hand as well. "All our kids were."

A short silence followed this. Then Imogene slapped palms together and with fierce diction — not waiting for the others to scramble into reverent positions — barked out the words of their dinner prayer.

Following her caustic "Amen!" Imogene turned to Stanley. "You can go home now!" she ordered. "You _made_ your brownie points for tonight!"

Of course she was reprimanded for this outburst, but deep inside, for perhaps twenty minutes, it had given her a clean satisfaction.

Later on though, she noted how carefully further comments about the military were avoided, and a mild repentance began to take hold of her. She realized suddenly how convenient a remedy this would be to her problem if Stanley were simply shipped off to Viet Nam and never returned. She wondered in fact why the thought had not occurred to her before. But gazing now at Stanley's continuing blush, and the eyes of her family quietly glancing at him, she felt compelled to be charitable.

More than anything, Imogene longed to be released from this absurd tyranny, but maybe at not so great a cost. Besides (her lips returned for a moment to their sardonic twist), was there any branch of the service that would even accept a nearsighted shrimp like Stanley? Perhaps his own composure on the subject was due to the certainty of his being laughed right out of the induction office.

Still, she regretted that the topic had ever come up, and even more of having yelled at him like a fish wife!

After supper, Imogene found her bracelets jingling in a carefree way as she wiped the plates Stanley was handing her from the sink. By now a sense of full contrition had come into her heart, and she was on her guard to keep from chattering. She noted, however, that Stanley's words had remained cautious all evening, as if he felt too justly scolded himself to believe the tone of apology in her voice; and she was aware, also, of her mother being unusually quiet on the other side of the room.

Then Imogene made laughing allusion to her fiasco in Latin class, and Stanley, far from elaborating on this, mumbled a few wry things about his own inglorious effort, all of which gave the twins and their father much to chortle about.

A furtive glance, however, showed Imogene that her mother seemed oddly unconcerned; the dust mop continued to click back and forth contentedly among the table legs.

And the cat displayed equal indifference as he came forward to rub ribs against Stanley's trouser cuffs; it was the second time he had done so that evening. Apparently, the stranger's presence no longer terrified him, and Imogene sighed to consider that, in all likelihood, she was the only being on the entire planet who could still fear Stanley.

She went on to speak her praises of Mr Grove, then blushed when Stanley remarked that he was his favorite teacher.

But it continued to worry Imogene that her mother had shown no reaction to the news of her failure in Latin class.

Later that evening, taking a break from her Truman paper, Imogene went down to the kitchen and reached into the cupboard for a drinking glass. Her mother was at the stove, stirring a pot of candy-smelling Jell-O.

Imogene sighed as she opened the refrigerator, "I gather you've been talking to Mr Grove today?"

"He called just before you got home."

Imogene was uncapping a new bottle of milk, then, hefting it with difficulty, began to fill her glass.

"At first he sounded so worried," the mother went on. "I think you scared the daylights right out of him."

"So now _he_ knows everything too?"

"Well, I didn't mention any details, but ... as you say, he's a very wise man. I'm sure we're not fooling him one bit."

Imogene thumped the bottle back on its shelf and slammed the door.

"Oh, sweetheart! He thinks the world of you! I promised you'd explain everything to him when this is all over. You will, won't you."

Imogene was nodding with distorted lips. "Yeah, an'just see what he thinks'a me _then!_ "

"It won't make a scrap of difference. Teachers can forgive almost any crime if something has been learned from it. I know this." Mrs Urich set down the wooden spoon and went over to hug her daughter, gently clutching her from behind. "You _have_ learned something, correct?"

Imogene, sipping her milk, tried not to show her pleasure in the warm arms around her.

The mother continued: "I nearly did tell him everything. I've just hated having no one to talk to about this, except Dad and Miss Beaver."

"Beaver! When!" The milk was nearly slopped.

"Since the very beginning, dear."

Imogene growled but was careful not to shake off her mother's embrace. "So y'knew about last Sunday too?"

"Mm-hmh. My share of the plot was to keep an eye on Stan the whole day."

"Mom!"

"I had him come over and help clean out all the dead leaves from the hedge. Remember he volunteered that one day? Then he and Dad repainted the lamp post out front and all the lawn chairs."

Mrs Urich smiled down at her daughter whose eyes, angled up at her, were as large as loving outrage allowed.

"The kids never told you? Their friends were over, and they were buzzing around him all day. We had such a good time! We had lemonade and sandwiches out on the grass." She sighed. "Have you ever noticed, dear, how company brings out the best in your brother and sister, Stan as much as anyone. I'm so proud of my kids."

The arms closed tightly around Imogene. "But ... I'm pretty sure he guessed we were up to something. Usually when we're alone Stan will ask all sorts of questions about you: What you were like when you were five. Did you take dancing lessons. Were you ever in the hospital. Things like that. But on Sunday he never even asked where you were all day. He seemed ... kind of far away actually."

"He was scared to death about his stupid oration!"

The mother gazed into space a moment. "Possibly. But you know what I think? I think he knew we were trying to pull a fast one, and he just ... he didn't want me to have to tell any lies. That's what I really think."

Imogene changed the subject. "I was all alone with Matt for over an hour."

"And you were a good girl, right?"

"Mom. Matt!"

"Yes I know. Don't think I wasn't worried. And I'm sure Marilyn had misgivings too, in spite of all the fine things she says about him. And about you." Mrs Urich laid her cheek on Imogene's hair. "I wish you could hear the way she talks about you. Mr Grove too. Oh _everyone_ thinks the world of you, dear. You can't imagine how that makes me feel. You just can't."

Imogene was steeped in sweat, suffering the pleasurable shame of exorbitant praise, praise which might possibly be deserved.

The mother sniffled. "Oh, and you know what he said? Mr Grove, just before he hung up? He is so funny! He said — he was trying to convince me that he wasn't really worried about you — he said: 'The best thing about honor students? Even when they mess-up they do it _magna cum laude_.'"
\- XLI -

In class the next morning, Imogene breezed through her Latin oration (despite, at the last minute, Mr Grove changing her topic to _prudentia_ ), and her improved spirits survived through most of the weekend.

At the dress shop on Saturday, she and her co-worker Pam were unusually active. The owner, Ann, remained in the store the whole day, and under her busy scrutiny much could be found to do. She, like Imogene, wore clothes off the petites rack and was so incessantly tense with energy and plans that even Imogene could feel breathless beside her.

Early in the morning Ann was paused at the front window, a sharpened pencil tapping her short black hair. She was pouting at the month-old exhibit, then, spinning away, directed Imogene to do something 'summer-y' with it.

Few things in the world pleased Imogene so much as this. She trotted delightedly up and down the aisles, her artistic eye selecting apt garments for display, plus getting out the little box of strings and ribbons, and inventing dynamic new ways to highlight frilled cuffs or the fan of a skirt. Since her boss deplored the use of commonplace mannequins, Imogene always felt especially challenged in this task.

Clearly she had a flair for it, and she was fascinated as well by the merchandising and financial aspects of the apparel business. Ann never hesitated to take her to the showings downtown or to let her add up the accounts. (Strangely, the wealth of details in this kind of bookkeeping never troubled Imogene with errors.) It was also a delight to produce occasional artwork and copy for the store's catchy ads:
Happiness IS:

Something Sweet From Càmille!

The Shop

For Young Fashionables!

Ann obviously valued her employee's taste and good sense, and these marks of favor pleased Imogene as much as every one of her A's.

But while setting up the new display, kneeling with her back to the cold glass, the tune Imogene was humming climbed suddenly to a higher octave as a daring thought came into her head: What if I dump college, marry Ann off, and take over the shop myself?

She smiled to think of the beautiful cow her mother would have.

But then her heart stopped.

She saw at once how simple a way this would be to foil Stanley's designs on her: No college graduation, no marriage to Stanley! The terms of his contract implied as much.

Imogene felt herself turning a trifle white as she dared to consider giving up her cherished college plans.

After a moment though, she laid aside these seditious thoughts and went on snipping strings and tying bows. Surely she was destined for grander things than punching a cash register and hawking skirts all her life!

But if she were, why did it warm her heart so to be here in this snug little shop, greeting the customers, pleasing them, pleasing her boss, watching her bank account grow. Was she at heart a storekeeper — a capitalist — and not a scholar? Shylock, not Portia?

With a shake of her head Imogene realized that she had Stanley to thank for yet another threat to the admirable future she had planned for herself.

Lunchtime had come and gone before she was done trimming her display. Lawn chairs and wicker baskets from the basement had been commandeered, as well as other items suggestive of the seaside: towels, tiny pails, suntan lotion, a brightly colored umbrella, even an armload of old throw rugs, the backs of which happened to be the color of beach sand. The resulting scene lacked only the roar of surf to make it completely inviting.

She wished her art teacher could see it, but pleased nonetheless, Imogene stood back and smiled at her handiwork.

"So where's Frankie'n Annette?" Pam wanted to know. And a moment later, the boss herself interrupted some busy pacing to step outside and judge the effect. Through the glass, Imogene was blessed with a big smile and a thumb raised like an astronaut's.

While Imogene had been occupied all morning, her co-worker, and even Ann a few times, had waited on the customers. For some reason the sight of one doing window arrangements always brought in more business than the finished display ever did, and occasionally Imogene was obliged to suspend her humming, lower her eyebrows a bit, and help sell a few things.

But by afternoon the shop had quieted down. Ann still had not left for the day, and this was strange because often on Saturdays she would not even bother to come in. Being only a year out of college, and the youngest buyer in the city, Ann always had more important things to do than watch over her girls. Imogene did not mind the extended supervision, but Pam, without her phone calls and rock-and-roll, had become restless.

Then a boy and girl walked in who were obviously not customers. They were laden with tripods and leather-strapped camera equipment, and Imogene recognized them as being from the high school's newspaper staff; so did Pam, who gasped aloud and skipped into the back room to fetch their boss.

Soon, it was made clear to the girls, and to several interested customers, that, in return for the shop's support of the school newspaper, a few free ads had been arranged for. From the decided way Ann pulled two selections from the racks and handed them to her clerks, it was plain that all of this was yet another example of her entrepreneurial skill.

Pam received a glossy, strapless formal and dashed to one of the dressing rooms with it, and to Imogene was given the kicky new beach outfit.

Ann's face soured, however, at Imogene's apparent hesitancy. "It's your size, isn't it?"

"Yeah ... but," Imogene pointed vaguely at the photographers who were setting up their materials. "My hair's a mess!"

It was, in fact, not. But Ann went to the shelves along the back wall and selected a floppy hat for her. "Here," she smiled, "and no more false modesty if you please?" She was guiding Imogene toward the dressing rooms. "You'll be cute as kittens and you know it."

Obediently, Imogene retired to the tiny room where, next door, her fellow employee could be heard rustling silks and cursing gently with contentment. Without doubt, this was her true element. (As everyone said, Pam was Miss America in the making.)

Imogene though had great reservations as she undressed in front of the narrow mirror and noted that every inch of her body, but her belly, was pink. Her only consolation was that the _Buzzbomb_ never printed photos in color.

Pam was out in front of the hot lights before Imogene had finished dressing. Distinctly could be heard the many compliments and giggles, and breaths held long in silence till the camera clicked.

Imogene gazed at herself in the mirror, at the limp bag of an outfit she was wearing with its white and navy horizontal stripes, and on top, pulled to her bangs, perhaps the ugliest beach hat she will ever see!

It was necessary to practice a few smiles, but her lips were stiff as Lincoln Logs, and she could not avoid staring at the one tooth not completely her own. Several poses were attempted, her limbs at sharp angles, elbows and knees prominent (the way they did it in magazines), but the bright stripes and bulky droop of the garment contrasted strongly, even comically, with her slender arms and legs. I _cannot_ be seen like this! she wailed to herself. I look like a sliced egg!

"Geenee?" her boss was calling. "We're ready for you now."

Imogene was nothing if not a good sport. She smiled bravely for the camera and endured being arranged in many poses with many props, her hair patted back from her cheek, her elbow placed just so.

Considerately, none of the onlookers made her feel what she felt herself (a few of the girls even had raw envy in their eyes), and Imogene was genuinely sorry when the boy at the camera said, "That's the last shot."

For the rest of the afternoon she felt warm and giggly, thinking of the possibly hundreds of people who will see her photographs.

In Sunday school the next day, Imogene had occasion to reflect on what Mr Grove had told her: that teachers need always to be prepared for the unexpected.

Little Melissa, forever quiet, seemed utterly forlorn that morning as she sat in her tiny chair with her head bent close to the table. The other kids, all aprattle, busied themselves with paste and blunted scissors, but Melissa just sat there, solemn and still, her little white hands pressed to her face.

Imogene, without pausing in her story of the rich man who could not enter heaven, knelt down beside the unhappy girl. Pulling away a chubby fist, she found a bright smear of blood under one nostril, the edges of the tiny pool already drying to a wrinkled crust.

Quickly, before the others could become interested, Imogene gathered the girl into her arms and carried her off to the ladies' room, stopping only to ask a colleague to watch the rest of her kids.

With quiet courage the girl sat on the edge of the vanity and allowed Imogene to minister onto her, daubing away the blood and chatting lightly about what a big girl she was. Obviously, this was not the child's first bloody nose. Nor Imogene's. She could not help thinking of Stanley.

Back at the little table with her class, she sat cradling Melissa in her arms, rocking her gently, and letting the girl lean back and hold a hanky to her nose. Imogene carefully explained about the girl's mishap. Then, forsaking her scheduled Bible story, told the kids instead of the poor little crippled girl who was hungry and hurting every day of her life but who would never, ever, let herself be sad; and how everyone who saw her was made happy by her smile.

While she spoke, Imogene looked around at each of the miniature, scrubbed faces, the tiny bow ties and lacy frocks; and her overpowering thought was how vast was the potential of these kids, their futures limitless, their lives whatever they wanted them to be — in contrast to the bleak constraints imposed upon her own.

And from this, with an abruptness that startled her, Imogene discovered in her favorite story a deep cruelty; one that had always been overlooked because she had never truly thought what it was like to be denied one's basic share of happiness. But now, since Stanley, she knew.

How _could_ one pretend to be happy who was unable to run or dance or play with others? How could one ever be content with having less than what one's goodness deserved?

The children seemed moved by the story, but Imogene, while never failing to smile at the kids and answer their questions, convinced herself that the tale could only have been the sweet delusion of some dotty-brained Pollyanna!

After the parents had arrived to collect their kids, little Melissa, in tiny coat and unbuckled boots, came all of a sudden clattering back, her arms opened wide. Imogene knelt down to receive the child's feverish hug and knew she had made yet another everlasting friend.

Certainly this was among the greatest of blessings, but at the moment her heart was so soured by thoughts of Stanley she could feel only a trace of the tender warmth that was rightfully hers.

In the car going home, Imogene sat squeezed between her siblings (arms crossed, shoes upon the transmission hump), and continued her bitter reflections. She realized now the immense evil which Stanley had brought into her life. Never before had despairing, even cynical thoughts come so easily to her. He had ravished her of an essential innocence as surely as had it been brutal rape! Even if he let her go this minute, the damage was already done.

Such dark thoughts continued to occupy Imogene back home in her room, half dressed, half undressed, her mind straining for the key that would free her from this prison.

She tried to reason with herself. There were, after all, only two more weeks to be endured; she would sign his stupid paper, and four years from now — if he _dared_ show up! — she would be pleased to tell him which lake to go jump in!

Imogene took delight in these fantasies of contempt and retribution, they made her feel heroic, but in her heart she knew that such would never be. She was not strong enough to keep from turning the other cheek, from walking the extra mile. In the end, Stanley will likely have it all his own way, and she become, somehow, contented with her loss — just like that poor little idiot girl of her story, praising the god that crippled her!

For years now Imogene had been priding herself on the abandonment of this flawed and faulty religion; why, then, was she having so much trouble giving up what was clearly its most brainless tenet: 'Love thine enemy'?

Some time later, she was called to come help with supper. Project Kitchen was in effect that weekend, and, days ago, Imogene had been given the task of producing an edible gravy for their special Sunday night dinner. The head of her father's department, and his wife, were coming over that evening, and everything had to be as complete and perfect as could be.

With reluctance, Imogene steeled herself to the task, but then, before many minutes had gone by, found that she was as bright-eyed and exuberant as she had been the day before, at the dress shop, chanting recipes to Pam, and spending her breaks at the supermarkets nearby hunting for ingredients at good bargains.

Stacy had full charge of the salad, an elegant opaque gelatin mold, and Dan, since it was his night for dishes, was keen to get in everyone's way, complaining of all the pots they were using and repeating at every opportunity: "What stinks!"

There was a grim moment when the women discovered that another stove burner had shorted out — the mother even swore at it. But the dinner itself went off quite well despite the father's boss proving to be something of a blowhard.

At first Imogene objected to the way her parents agreed with absolutely everything the man said, even his coarser comments which, had the Urich children uttered such, would have merited stern looks, or worse. But this day Imogene knew all too well how some people may control, fairly or unfairly, the lives of others, and she permitted her parents their right to be victims too.

The man was big and bald, not much older than her father, but extremely well dressed. The supple weaving in his suit coat and trousers gleamed like finest raiment, reminding Imogene of the cut-outs of the robed rich man her kids had pasted together that morning.

The wife, however, was captivating: slender, quiet, discreetly adorned. One would expect her to have been shy for the way she sat with a frozen primness, but the intelligence in her eyes suggested the contrary.

Soon after introductions, Mrs Urich made mention of her daughter's acceptance at Smith College, to which the woman, with only a trace of condescension, declared, "How nice!" and that she counted a number of 'Smithies' among her friends.

She herself had attended Radcliffe, she said, though it was never made clear if she had actually graduated. In any case, Imogene knew that few applicants less than a salutatorian were ever allowed entrance there, and she stared with awe at the poise and beauty of this young woman. She looked, in fact, a full decade younger than her spouse, but surely some of the difference was due to the subtleties of expensive cosmetics.

It was plain she was having an effect on Dan; he stared almost wantonly at her, and Imogene blushed to hear her sister's many naïve questions. (She herself scarcely dared speak for fear of being equally gauche.) The woman seemed almost a goddess, and Imogene thrilled to think that she, too, may one day be so well turned-out.

But later, in bed that night, some of her wonder was dulled by the recollection that neither of their guests had mentioned anything about children. Either they had none, or had none they wished to talk about.

And why, if this wife was so perfect a specimen of modern woman, why had she settled for _him?_ Had limitations been placed on her choices of happiness too? Perhaps her constraint was a love of money, and this guy was the least objectionable millionaire she could find.

Suddenly, Imogene saw herself years from now, invited to a similar dinner and she — elegant in her college-acquired demeanor, knowledgeable on all topics — sat envied, adored, desired; but also pitied, for her husband beside her, runty and blushing, was Stanley!

The thought of this kept Imogene awake a long time, but shortly before falling asleep she recalled the little girl of that morning and the way she had run to give her teacher a hug. She felt again the frantic little arms about her neck, and now had no difficulty making tears for so cherishable a gift.
\- XLII -

But Imogene did not sleep well that night. She woke hours before the dawn and lay in the dark room, her head filled with anger and harsh words, words that could not be said, anger she would never show. And when finally she arose and dragged herself to school, there was Stanley, there was his unrelenting hold on her, there was her tainted and futureless life.

Of course she knew that much of her grief was the result of a too-fastidious nature; a less upright young lady, a more practical one, would surely have laughed it all off by now. But how in the world, Imogene wondered while trying not to scowl at Stanley beside her, how could one so criminally-minded himself have predicted that she — the silly cheerleader, the godless scholar — would react in so absurdly honorable a way.

A whisper, perhaps of wisdom, dared suggest that her saint-aspiring behavior might merely be the result of a clever enemy's _expecting_ it of her.

School seemed to last forever that day, she had rarely known such prolonged despondency, and Imogene came home with clear recollections, not of her friends' faces, but of the hideous green and yellow floor tiles in the school's corridors.

Waiting on her bed was a small, wrinkled envelope with her address scrawled in pencil. Inside were these words:
dear Geny why dont you

cum over any mor why cant

we call you on the fom

fon I mis you PLEZ

cum over you can play

with Matt to frum Mark

W.

It was more than an hour before she stopped crying.

Late in the afternoon, still sniffling, Imogene was curled up under the coverlet of her bed, trying vainly to slog through the last chapter of that Dostoyevsky novel.

It occurred to her that, dreary as it was, this was the only book she had read in over a month. Not once since the coming of Stanley into her life — and just consider all the idleness he had forced upon her! — not once had she felt the least incentive to climb into bed with a good book.

Gone were those eager days when she could open a new novel right after lunch and by two AM close it again on its last page, dewy-eyed and puzzled to find herself back in her own room, plucked, as it were, from some faraway land where people lived happily ever after or perished heroically or came to terms with their fate; but never with loose ends hanging, with futures uncertain.

Had the plot of her own life, she wondered, become so thickened as to scorn admixture with these mere imagined felicities and woe?

Finding that her eyes had reached the bottom of the page, Imogene sighed and returned again to the top.

Then she heard cries of near profanity coming from across the hall. Her sister barged in; Stacy was gripping a large book as if to break it over something. "Is Stan coming over tonight!" she demanded.

Imogene's head fell to one side with annoyance.

"Is he?" The book was Stacy's geometry text.

"I suppose so. It's Monday." Imogene slapped her novel closed. "Can'tcha get your friends to help?" She sniffled. "Your teacher? That's what he's there for. The more y'bug Stan the more ..." Imogene raised her voice. "You're always askin'im stuff! It makes him feel like he's _welcome_ here or something! Can'tcha be on _my_ side for a change?"

Stacy, humbled by the outburst, had turned and was leaving the room. Her eyes stared down at a page as she mumbled, "He never makes me feel dumb."

Later, responding to a third summons for dinner, Imogene came downstairs to find the members of her family staring at the carpet in front of the couch. Stanley was sitting cross-legged on the floor dangling a leather key case in front of the cat who, with alert yellow eyes and paws of glossy black, was pouncing on the dancing target, capturing it, only to let it go again. The many wide open grins attested to the wonderment of the scene.

Imogene gritted her teeth, then stamped a sock foot on the floor. "Uggug! Scat!" she barked, and the cat vanished.

Wounded looks were turned upon her, but Imogene, heading for the kitchen, offered only the curt excuse, "He scratches."

When they had all sat down to supper, Imogene could not help but listen to their guest's inevitable discourse on the congruency of triangles. Her lips soured to witness the enlargement of Stacy's bright eyes as comprehension dawned within them. Even the brother's fork was held motionless for long moments at a time. The parents smiled at the blushing instructor and his rapt pupils. Imogene sighed.

During dessert she was recalled from some grim reverie when Stanley turned to her and asked if she would like to have supper at his house one night.

"Forget it!"

"Oh shame on you!" her mother scolded.

"Thought y'couldn't _stand_ to have your folks see me."

Stanley was nodding. "Yeah, it's kinda risky, but ... they're startin'ta, y'know — they think it's really strange I'm over here all the time an'they never see you at all."

"Is that _my_ problem?"

"N-no," he shrugged. "An'it's okay 'cuz I keep tellin'everyone how really shy you are'n stuff."

The twins broke out laughing.

"It's just ... they're all kinda curious is all. I've never had a girlfriend before." He looked sheepishly at the mother. "They _still_ say I'm just making her up."

The parents smiled at each other.

Carving out a scoop of cantaloupe, Stanley went on. "I think it'd be okay. My mom promised not to talk about, y'know, really personal stuff." He glanced at the rigid look on Imogene's face and shrugged. "She just wanted me to ask."

"How _is_ she," inquired Mrs Urich. "It's been weeks now since they were here."

After finishing with the dishes, and to the sound of Stanley and her sister's mathematical vocabulary downstairs, Imogene began a reply to Mark's letter. In a long, carefully printed missive, composed of words familiar to a third grader (and punctuated with many aptly sad and happy faces), yet expressive enough for any older readers to perceive her genuine regret, she asked pardon for staying away so long and emphasized that only a little more time must go by before they can all be together again.

But then a thought came to her: How odd it was, in these many weeks, that she and her parents had heard nothing at all from either of Matt's parents. Imogene warmed uncomfortably to consider what Matt must have told them to produce so abrupt a silence. It was her assumption that he had explained their separation with one of his believable lies, but now she wondered: Had he perhaps told his parents the truth? Had he made a full confession — which, necessarily, would include her role as sole instigator of their crime?

She looked again at Mark's letter. Apparently, the boy had been forbidden even to call her on the phone. There was also no return address on the envelope, and the fact it was marked 'postage due' (the stamp being an S&H Green Stamp) confirmed that it had been sent without parental knowledge.

Imogene felt suddenly like a pan of brownie dough bubbling softly in the oven.

Downstairs, her mother and sister could be heard saying goodbye to Stanley at the front door. Imogene thought of all the times she had departed from Matt's home amid these same tones of tender farewell.

Tears came — angry, ashamed tears — and the letter to little Mark, still unfinished, was placed in the bottom of her wastebasket.

Later that evening, while trying to lose herself in homework, Imogene abruptly stilled, then sat up in bed; the notebook with her French vocabulary tumbled to the floor where it remained while her eyes stared intently at the dresser.

The cat uncurled himself and retreated to the foot of the bed. All evening he had been wary of his mistress, despite her several conciliatory hugs, and it was not until the strange look on Imogene's face had settled into a grin that the feline returned for another pat, which he never got.

The smile gave way to a pair of severely pursed lips and a ball-point pen began to waggle between nervous fingers. The cat chose to leave the room.

Imogene sat up late that evening, her homework still undone, and even after a long bath she lay awake for many hours thinking and smiling to herself in the dark.

During breakfast the next morning she hunched herself over the telephone and, in hushed tones, asked Polly to bring her tallest high-heels to school, the ones she had worn in the homecoming pageant. Imogene waited until English class, however, to ask further if she could borrow her friend's car over lunch hour. Polly, as always, was only too happy to oblige (though there were many grinning questions to be evaded).

Thus, shortly after the end of third period, Imogene arrived across town at her dress shop where both Ann and the college girl who worked days were busy with customers. Imogene breathed a prayer-like thank you as she sneaked a devastating two-piece ensemble from the racks and signed it out.

She drove to the shopping center as well and dashed in to acquire a few more ignoble supplies. Prudently, she had brought a large grocery sack with her that day, but she still felt conspicuous on the bus that afternoon as she carried home her armload of contraband.

After providing her mother with some necessary falsehoods (calling from atop the stairs so that her blush could not be seen), Imogene secreted herself within her room, not even allowing the cat to come in. Her hands trembled as she teased and sprayed her hair into a startling twist, and painted her face and nails until she was utterly tart-like.

Then, with frequent glances at the closed door, she wiggled into the saucy, scarlet outfit she had brought home. In the mirror, the shock of seeing so much of her trim legs paved her with shame, as did, in profile, the padded enhancement of her bosom against its pert jersey.

Lastly, she quivered to step into the tall and fragile, crimson-colored shoes (noting with some jealousy — and discomfort — that Polly's feet must be at least one size daintier than her own). She spent several minutes walking back and forth to accustom herself to the unsteady altitude.

As her family was sitting down to supper, Imogene crept into her parents' room and pilfered a cigarette from the half-empty pack on her father's dresser, then, veiled in her longest overcoat, picked her way carefully down the carpeted stairs in the tall shoes. "I'm goin't'get Becky now!" she chirped from the front door. "See you guys later!"

"Have fun, dear!" came the mother's reply.

Imogene clattered out to the big Chevrolet (previously backed from the garage, her keys still dangling from the ignition), and drove to Stanley's house.

She had some difficulty finding it though. The car prowled up and down several neighborhoods in the older part of town until finally pulling to the curb in front of a narrow, two-story residence on a street crowded with similar homes.

Her heart was pounding. At one of the stoplights along the way a police car had been waiting on the far side of the intersection, the officer staring at her outrageous hairdo. Frightened, Imogene had reached for her purse to pretend to look for something, but, finding it gone, remembered that the purse was still at home, lying forgotten on her bed — with her license inside!

Therefore, as she sat glancing around at Stanley's neighborhood — and the radio girls shouting at her like tattletales:
... Day doo ron, ron, ron!

Day doo ron ronn! ...

Imogene felt herself to be in considerable danger.

She switched off the engine and gazed down at her nyloned knees trembling together beneath the horn ring. Deep inside, her instincts were telling her not to go through with this, and her instincts, when they cautioned her, often did so in words which her mother would use: 'Give this up, dear,' they seemed to say. 'You'll only make a fool of yourself. You're not an actress for heavensake. You're not _bad_ enough to do this sort of thing.'

With a snort, Imogene pushed in the cigarette lighter, then waited, drumming jet black fingernails on the steering wheel. In the mirror she checked the sparkle of the large sequined hoops tugging on each ear, and her lips gleamed with what looked like fresh blood. She made her reflection sneer back at her. Cheerleaders are actors, okay?

Reaching into a coat pocket, she withdrew a bottle of Woolworth's most potent cologne (a full pint) and shook dribbles of it inside her blouse, squinting on the fumes.

The lighter popped. Cross-eyed, she poked it at the tip of the cigarette, wondering how one gets the tobacco to ignite; then a sudden, stinging cloud filled her head and she jumped outside, coughing into the evening breeze.

Though the night air was cold, she slipped off the overcoat and pulled down one of her blouse sleeves to expose a naked shoulder.

But while doing so, a violent pain gripped her abdomen. She slapped a hand on the pale flesh between the halves of her outfit and, doubled-up, had to grab the car's doorpost for support.

Now she was truly scared, on the point of getting back in the driver's seat and rushing home. A gust of cold, damp air and the gutturals of distant thunder were threatening her as well.

After a few breaths, however — careful breaths — she felt her bowels begin to unclench, and she was able to stand erect, though on legs that were shivering uncontrollably. Her silky hose shimmered in the dim light, and the spangly bracelet on one ankle felt like an iron shackle.

Irrelevantly, while staring at Stanley's house, Imogene found that her eyes were now high enough to see completely over the top of the car, something she had never been able to do before. Such, indeed, were the _colossi_ of Polly's heels!

She banged the car door closed. 'In for a penny, in for a pound!' (Homer — or some other ancient wise-ass!)

With her tall shoes scraping, Imogene hurried around the back of the car and up the uneven pavement to Stanley's front door, the glow of her cigarette swinging in wide recurrent arcs like an orbiting comet.

She pressed the bell and waited, fumbling a stick of gum into her mouth; her fist rubbed fiercely on her arm, clattering her many bracelets, as she tried to make the long, fine hairs lie down among their pebbly flesh.

Studying the evergreens on either side of the door, she wondered where best to toss the gum wrappers. (Though it occurred to her that a _real_ Friday night chippy would not care in the least where her wrappers went.)

Then, again without warning, her insides strained against a further demand to evacuate themselves. She tottered back and forth on the doorstep in acute agony.

Presently the door opened and a young teenager, Stanley's sister, looked out. Her eyes went wide.

"Hiya, kiddo!" barked Imogene. "Your brother ready yet?"

Though uninvited, she stepped brazenly into the house, clattering like a Nubian princess in necklaces of metal and bone. The startled girl stumbled backwards, then turned and fled through a doorway.

Imogene allowed herself only a moment to grimace on the pain in her gut, then bawled, "'Ey! Stan! You ready or what!" She took a long drag on the cigarette, blowing out the smoke before her eyes could water. The heels of both hands tried to rub away another sudden cramp.

Hearing excited voices, she followed after the girl and soon found a kitchen table around which was crowded a large family. Stanley — whey-faced — was already on his feet stepping around the neighboring chairs.

On seeing her, he froze, as did the others. The mother and father gazed up at the intruder as if stupefied; the children's eyes were circular with terror.

Avoiding their looks, Imogene made a shocked mouth at the place setting Stanley had abandoned and slapped palms to her near-naked hips, the cigarette captured between two knuckles the way, she assumed, tough chicks held their cigs. "Wha ... !" she yelped, then paused to jaw her Yipes-Stripes a few times. "How _nice_ is this! Y'forgot about me, din'tcha!" Her head, sharply tilted, wagged just enough to make an earring thump against her collar bone.

No one spoke; no one moved except to pull their faces from the violent scent now filling the room.

Imogene looked around a moment then grabbed a decorative serving dish that was on display against the back wall of the countertop. She set the platter flat on the new blue Formica and tapped ashes onto the plate's intricate pattern. "Sheesh!" she hissed, noticing that her fingers were stark white and shaking.

"Um," said Stanley at last, sidling around a baby's high chair. "M-mom ... Pop ..." he was turning pink, "this is — "

"Oh gawd!" Imogene groaned with sudden, obscene pleasure. She had kicked off her shoes and was standing flat-footed on the warm, white floor in front of the stove. "Jesus that feels good!" Her painted toes spread themselves inside their nude nylons. Looking down, she smiled at the bronze choker highlighting the trimness of her ankle.

"Mom, Pop," Stanley came close to Imogene, and she grabbed him lewdly around the hips. "um ... this's Geenee. But she's just — "

"Hiya." Imogene waved her cigarette at them, making her multitude of gaudy bracelets sparkle and clank, then padded over to the highchair. "Oh y'got a little rug rat! Neeet!" She stared at the mother suddenly. "Rug rat!" she repeated, then grinned at Stanley. "Hear what I just said? Rug _Rat-t-t!_ " (she spittily enunciated the surplus t's) "I love it!" A chunk of cigarette ash fell on the tray of the highchair. "God!" she laughed, slapping away the hot crumbs (they landed in the casserole), "Burn _up_ the poor kid, why don'tcha!"

Then she skipped over to the serving dish to stub out her cigarette on the delicate (and perhaps hand-painted) design. In her peripheral vision she saw the mother's fists and elbows in frenzied motion.

The gum wrappers, Imogene found, were still in her other hand; she had to peel them from a glistening palm.

Stanley, now blotchy red, seemed deep in thought. He was staring down at the footwear scattered on the floor. Imogene forced herself to take longer, more relaxed breaths as she also looked down.

One scarlet shoe was leaning drunkenly against the stove, the other partially hidden beneath the cupboard's toe-kick. The narrow heels looked sharp and slender enough to draw blood.

Then Stanley glanced at her slice of hollowed midriff (the belly-button gaping like an indrawn breath). "Sorry," he said. "I ... I guess I forgot. We better leave right away."

Imogene had removed her gum and thumbed it onto the dish as well. She noted that the sister and a little boy of about six or seven had retreated behind their father who, motionless in his chair, was staring at his wife as if it was she who had done something unconscionable. The baby's mouth hung open over a smeary bib.

Then the mother elevated her head. "Uhh ... Geenee ... ?"

"Yeah," Imogene drawled, stepping into the delicate shoes.

"Your mother says ..." This was spoken with great uncertainty. The woman was shaking her dark blond hair and making the overhead lights jiggle in her bifocals. "She says you're the ... valedictorian?"

Imogene hardly paused before tilting back to laugh. It was a bawdy, gamy sort of laugh.

Having grabbed her elbow, Stanley was all but dragging her from the kitchen.

"I swear!" she cackled at him. "My mom's been runnin'around _bombed_ out of'er skull again!"

Imogene was pleased that her voice was maintaining the deepened earthiness she had intended. Her words were a bit wobbly perhaps, but suddenly she no longer feared for the resonance and dignity of her graduation speech. She wished her friends could be witnessing this; never again would they call her 'Goodie Twoshoes.'

And in _these_ two shoes, she discovered, there was no need to look up to meet her escort's angry eyes. Like leveled pistols she and Stanley glared at one another as they left the room.

When out of view of the family, he tightened his hold on her narrow bicep. Expecting this, Imogene spanked her hands together. "Get'cher _paws_ off me!" she yelled. "I'll _tell_ you when you can touch me there!"

Though letting go at once, Stanley nevertheless hurried her from the house and down the lumpy sidewalk to her car. The sky was darker now; it smelled of rain.

Imogene took her time as she settled herself behind the wheel. Her breath was coming in painful little gasps, as if she had just fought her way up from underwater, and her arms and the flesh behind her knees were coated with a sweaty film that prickled in the cold evening air. Yet, grinning ear to ear, she was patting the steering wheel with happy fists.

Then the door on the other side opened and Stanley climbed in.

"What are you doing!" she snapped.

"You said somethin'bout a date?"

"Very funny. Get outa here."

While making himself comfortable, he paused a moment to stare at her, scanning up and down her scanty attire and at her flesh shadowed seductively in the overhead light. He smiled. "Seen _My Fair Lady_ yet?"

"Would you get _out!_ "

By way of answer he pulled the door closed, sealing them in darkness.

Sighing, she glanced back toward the house and found it still black-windowed and inert. This began to worry her for Stanley's parents should have lost no time in booting her off the premises, but all they had done was sit there — stunned of course — but voicing no objection. It was inconceivable they were allowing their son to accompany her. Yet the front door remained dark and closed. The window curtains were not even pulled aside. Stanley too, she noted, was looking cautiously toward his home.

The flirty dress offered Imogene no protection against the cold, and goose bumps had blossomed over every inch of her. She reached for her overcoat, lying wrinkled on the seat, but Stanley grabbed it first and rolled the heavy fabric into a tight ball. This he placed behind his head while making himself comfortable in the corner by the passenger door. His eyes were focused on her bare shoulder.

Though it was too dark to see clearly, Imogene sensed that, for the first time, Stanley was not blushing to be alone with her.

They sat calmly awhile, regarding each other's indistinct shape (the sleeve now tugged aright) and were still glancing occasionally at the quiet house. Imogene would have preferred to wait for Stanley's parents to come and drag their son away, but it was important to her plan that she get back home and be safely upstairs before her family had left the kitchen.

Imogene pressed arms against her sides to quell her shivering. "I'm driving myself home," she said, then started the engine. The headlights flared, whitening homes down the long dark avenue.

"Maybe we'll be in time for dessert."

"You're not coming _in!_ It's not your night."

A twittering commercial was on the radio:
... buy your car at Grossman,

My daddy did! ...

She slapped it off, and the car jumped from the curb.

A light sprinkling had begun. The wipers stuttered over the few drops already collected on the windshield, and Imogene made an angry tongue noise as she tipped side to side trying to see through the smears.

Stanley asked: "What were y'tryin't'prove. My folks know all about'cha. They'll never believe you're really like this."

"You watch. _Seeing_ is believing." With difficulty, Imogene tried to wipe her arm on the tiny skirt. "First impressions are everything." She was frowning now, recalling the night of her mother's initial encounter with Matt — Matt and that disastrous can of beer! "So don't be surprised if your folks — forever and ever! — refer to me as 'That _girl!_ ' They already know I've been stopped by the cops — at least once." Instinctively, Imogene checked the mirror for flashing lights, then, smiling again, chuckled: "Your mom nearly hit the ceiling, did'ja see'er?"

They were silent for a time while Imogene struggled now with her shoes (the long heels kept snagging the floor mat), but the traffic was not heavy and the big car cruised easily through the drizzle and evening shadows.

It occurred to Imogene that her insides had become strangely tranquil: no hint of discomfort now remained within her.

She sighed. "An'I haven't broken a single one a'your ... requests. So y'can't do a thing t'me." Her face settled into a cunning smile. "But I'd sure love to see what your folks do to _you_ when y'get back. First stop: the V.D. clinic. Then they'll say, 'You even _look_ at that slut again and you're grounded mister!' That's what they'll say — you're prob'ly grounded right now!"

There was no reply.

While changing lanes, Imogene let her smile turn cruel. "An'four years from now? I bet they'll have a _lot_ to say about letting us get married. Isn't it, y'know, kinda bad for the family business when the son runs off with the neighborhood whore?"

She wanted to laugh, but glimpsing Stanley's pout of sad defeat, she merely tipped her head and asked, "So ... can I drop y'somewhere?"

He turned to look out the side window and remained silent.

Later, while waiting at a stoplight, she glanced at him again. He had returned to leaning against the door, his head pillowed on the rolled-up overcoat, but his glasses, like two dim moons, were angled down at her glimmering thighs.

Bringing knees together, Imogene tipped forward to wait for the light to change, then accelerated to a somewhat unlawful speed.

At her home, she lurched the car into the driveway, switched off the engine and grabbed her coat from behind Stanley's head. "Now just beat it," she said as she hopped out and slammed the door. Her heart had started pounding again, but it eased on seeing that the living room windows were still dark.

She felt drops of cold rain hitting her neck and arms, and she gave the coat an angry shake to unroll it — there was a glint of shiny glass flung free of its pocket, then a muffled smash.

"Shit!" she hissed, staring down at the splayed remains of the perfume bottle and its dark contents staining the concrete under the rear wheel.

She paused to throw a look of imperial wrath at Stanley, whose head was coming into view over the top of the car. Then she hurried to the front steps, jiggling the keys and slipping an arm into her coat.

Stanley overtook her and yanked the coat away.

"Stop it!" she cried, "Stop ... !" She was trying to keep her balance on the tippy shoes. They struggled together clattering up the porch steps. She lost the keys to him as well. He pushed the doorbell.

Imogene gasped, looking down at the halves of her dress which, in the dim light, seemed almost black between the pieces of her glowing flesh.

She made a knuckled fist and thumped his shoulder as hard as she could.

"Oh that really hurts," said Stanley, pushing the doorbell again.

Imogene threw terrified eyes around the neighborhood. She was thankful to find no one on either side of the street, but gagging whiffs of the cologne were already reaching her. The rain was falling harder now; a loud pattering could be heard on the roof of the porch.

Stanley was calmly folding her coat.

In a moment the overhead light came on. Stacy opened the door to them, and Imogene dashed inside for the stairs. Her cheerleader nimbleness, however, was of little use in stiletto heels, and Stanley recaptured her on the bottom step. She was dragged by the arm into the kitchen, limping, for one of her shoes had collapsed in the scuffle and was left behind.

Stanley made her stand up against the refrigerator and face the shocked eyes of her parents and brother. Stacy crept back into the room and added her own look of awe; the cat's long, low tail could be seen darting out the other door.

"Jeez," said Dan, waving a hand in front of his nose. "Whad'a you guys been _doin'!_ "

Imogene felt the blood draining from her face, her bowels were in turmoil once more, and a sudden, sharp nausea made her mouth run with watery spit. Helplessly, swallowingly, she crouched on her one shoe with the toes of her other foot, black-nailed like her fingers, trying to reach the linoleum — her ankle bracelet sparkled gaily in the humming light. She was trying to tug the hem of her skirt lower.

"Dear ..." Mrs Urich looked back and forth. "Stan ... what _is_ this. What's going on."

Her husband, on the far end of the table, was getting to his feet. "What's it _look_ like!" he spluttered.

"Sit. Sit," the mother waved at him. "Geenee, tell us."

Stanley, meanwhile, had stepped to an empty chair and was hanging Imogene's coat over its back. He laid the set of keys on the table beside the father's empty pudding bowl, and from a shirt pocket removed a crumpled cigarette. He laid that down as well.

Mr Urich grabbed it at once, squinting at the lipstick smears on the filter. He glared at Imogene.

Stanley cleared his throat. "Geenee's been introducing herself to my family. They were very impressed." Then he turned and hurried out of the room.

As he left, Imogene saw that her father was on his feet again, the mother sat with hands slapped over her mouth, and her brother and sister's wide-opened eyes — still climbing the barely clad curves before them — had not blinked once.

When the front door was heard to close, Imogene kicked off her other shoe and ran for the stairs, elbows high and all her bangles banging.

"Yeah you _take_ that off!" the father yelled. "An'burn it! Wash all that _crap_ off your face too'n gitcher butt back down here!"

It was an endless hour in front of her parents' recriminations.

"... and she _lied_ to us!" the mother wailed, recalling her daughter's ornate subterfuge. "Just ... out and out lied!" With a handkerchief fisted to her lips, she whimpered yet again: "How _could_ you!"

Imogene, shaking her head, pushed the lapels of her robe closer together; her voice was fringed with tiny sobs. "You ... he's turning you guys inta _zombies!_ He comes here ... he does his best to wreck my whole life an'whad'a _you_ do ... !"

"Geenee," warned her father.

"You welcome him with open arms! You fall in _love_ with him!" She slapped the table. "An'Matt you hated the very first day!"

Her mother looked up sharply. "Did _he_ put you up to this." She turned to the father. "It's just the sort of ... asinine ... !"

"Mom!"

" _Did_ he!"

"No! You _al_ ways ... !" Her face crumpled, squeezing teardrops.

Across the table, the parents waited; their own breaths held as long as their daughter's.

Imogene snuffled but would not complete her statement.

Mrs Urich was refolding her handkerchief. In a softened voice she said, "Well don't ask for any sympathy about him. That ... trick he played on poor Danny in front of his friends — in front of his _friends!_ " The hanky was thrust to her lips.

"That was ages ago! He's not like that anymore! He's — "

"Okay!" The father thumped his hand on the remains of the cigarette, now no more than a pile of shreds. "We're gettin'off track. Y'know y'screwed up tonight. Big. An'it's your second offense. An'we love you. So ... what're we gonna do about it."

Slouching disrespectfully in her chair, Imogene heard giggled voices in the dining room. (The twins were disputing whether she had copied an episode of 'I Love Lucy' or 'My Little Margie.')

Then the mother leaned forward. "Did anyone _else_ see you! Dressed like ... like ..." She stared at her daughter's damp, bedraggled hair and the face scrubbed pink.

"No!" Imogene was still gripping the throat of her bathrobe (it was the tattered yellow one), and though her fingernails were once again pale, they still bore flecks of the VampBlack #2.

Her father sighed. "Sweetheart." His arms were on the table and his head sunk into his broad shoulders. "What do _you_ think we should do with you?"

Imogene smirked at the refrigerator.

"Years from now," he went on, "I'll be braggin' t'my gran'kids what a ... crafty little scrapper their mom is. I will!"

His wife shook his arm.

"But right now," he demanded. "just ... what in the world am I gonna do with you."

Imogene rubbed quick knuckles under one eye. "If y'really loved me, y'might try backin'me up once in awhile." She sniffled. "I _know_ it was a stupid thing to do! But doesn't that prove, doesn't that ... what kind a' _hell_ I'm going through?" She slapped arms over her chest and stared down at the floor, awaiting retaliation.

In the lengthening pause, she sensed her parents looking at one another.

"Okay," said her father, stiffly, but without anger. "Go up to your room'n stay there. I'll tell y'when y'can come out." He made a tiny smile. "You're dismissed, sailor."

For the balance of that evening Imogene sat on her bed, scowling at the closed door and working out in her mind elaborate, vindicating dialogues: What about the mean trick Stanley's playing on _her_ , in front of _her_ friends, she'd like to know!

Downstairs, the family went about its normal evening routines: TV, records, phone calls, tunes on the piano; and Imogene's heart, like a newly caged bird, fluttered recklessly within her.

Then, much later, while her father was checking the doors on his way to bed, she heard him bellow, "The damn car's still outside!"

Imogene ran to her window. Indeed, the maroon Chevrolet was sitting right where she had left it, glittering in the light from the corner streetlamp and bathed in quiet rain. Soon her father came into view, dashing down the porch steps in his bathrobe and slippers with a newspaper tented over his head.

Imogene began tugging the window open, but he was already in the car by the time her voice could be heard. "Daddy wait! There's glass ... !"

The garage door had begun its rumble, headlights came on and the car moved forward. Imogene cringed, but she heard no sounds of puncture.

Later still, after the house had settled to complete silence, Imogene crept downstairs ( _sine permissio!_ ) and grabbed the whisk broom and dustpan from under the kitchen sink, then, with only a light jacket thrown over her pajamas, hurried outside.

It was raining harder now and her hair became soaked as she paced back and forth over the driveway, finding — to her astonishment — no broken glass whatever. Kneeling close to the pavement she could detect the scent of spilled perfume and here and there the sparkle of tiny shards, but nothing large enough to pick up, not even that big jagged piece with the bottle cap still attached.

She squatted dumbly on the concrete as currents of water flowed around her soggy slippers.

Late that night, while shivering under the covers, it occurred to Imogene, among many other things, that she had had no supper.

Or lunch either!
\- XLIII -

At breakfast next morning the manner of her discipline was still withheld from Imogene. Her parents sat with coffee cups close to their lips, and the eyes of the twins swiveled back and forth expectantly.

Imogene made no gesture of remorse. She was cross (as well as ravenous), for she had awakened with hair that was a mass of tangles and kinks, all hardened by heavy slumber. After breakfast she struggled with comb and brush until the pounding of her siblings on the bathroom door became insistent. Finally — and to her mother's further shock — Imogene dashed out to the bus stop with a pair of crude pigtails bobbing over her coat collar.

At school, it became obvious that Imogene was no longer popular enough to flaunt the unwritten appearance codes with impunity. She could hear the hiss of sniggers and whispered comments even while hurrying to her locker.

In Latin class, she ignored the hushed levity around her and glared at Stanley. His head was bowed and his ears pink. He seemed unable to raise his eyes this morning, which was the one victory she could still claim. Of her performance the night before, she flattered herself that, though clumsy the execution, effective had been the result. _His_ talking-to could hardly have been milder than her own.

She also made a point of looking at his hands; on one palm she noted several dark streaks which could well have been daubs of Mercurochrome (such as might be required after carrying home a handful of broken glass), and the way Stanley coughed while giving a recitation reminded Imogene that he had been obliged to walk those many miles, through heavy rain, without a jacket.

Yet it troubled her, as the hour wore on, that his look of shame tended more to dissipate than to develop into anything like true defeat. And this was confirmed, or seemed to be, at their lockers after class when he thrust a scrap of paper into her hands before rushing away. On the paper was written:
Can you come for supper tonight?

Six o'clock.

My folks want to see you again.

All through English class Imogene wondered if this was for real, and if not, what he was up to. In any case, she took great delight in tossing the invitation into a wastebasket. (Along with Polly's shoes: her friend had taken one look at the broken heel and laughed, "God just chuck'em! I'm sure _I_ was gonna wear'em again!")

But worries persisted. Imogene could not displace the fear that her careful plan had proved, ultimately, to be a failure; that Stanley — with his Almighty Ally! — had won again; indeed, that he could never lose.

Later, she sat sullen and ignored by her friends at lunch, although they did take time to pinch at the 'ears' of her odd hairdo and giggle: "What does wise old valedictorian owl say? 'Who-om! Who-om!'"

It surprised Imogene that no mention, either earnest or absurd, was made about the broken shoe and her mysterious errands the day before. Glumly, she thought: Were her friends being admirably discreet, or were they already past caring — on the point of chucking _her_ out of their life as well!

All through last period she sought for comfort in a reassuring look from Matt. But every time she dared look toward his desk she found him busy with his pen and inks. In fact (Imogene was only barely able to admit this to herself), lately she seemed to be having the greatest difficulty in getting their glances to coincide.

After the final bell, she discovered Stanley back at their lockers with his jacket zipped up and his books awkwardly in motion from one arm to the other, as if he was waiting, or dreading, to talk with her.

Imogene gave him not the least notice however. She chattered happily with JoAnn on her other side.

Soon, Stanley left.

When she returned home, Imogene kept spitefully to her room, bending over her many new assignments and all those she had neglected from the day before. The bitterness in her face eased only for the few minutes while rehearsing her speech, silently, in front of the dressing table mirror.

She had the words fully memorized now, and seeing her valiant posture and hearing in her mind the eloquent phrases, she felt justified in whatever schemes she had attempted — or will further attempt! — in defense of her right to stand thus and to speak confidently of a future she could call her own. Even so grand a saint as Mary Stuart herself had picked at the bars of her window and tried to bribe her jailers. 'No guilt attends those who seek their rightful liberty!' (Cato the Elder.)

As suppertime approached, Mrs Urich rapped on the door, and in sharp words told her daughter to put on a dress. They were going to eat out that night.

Frowning with quick suspicion, Imogene changed out of her sweatshirt and jeans, and did something halfway decent with her hair.

When ready, she grabbed her coat and hurried outside where her father had backed the car into the driveway. Her mother was sitting rigidly beside him, and as soon as Imogene hopped into the back they drove off.

"What about Dan'n Stace?" Imogene asked.

There was a pause before the mother answered. "They'll look after themselves."

Imogene, catching her breath, lunged forward to slap hands on the backrest. "We're _not_ going to _his_ house!"

"S'down'n be quiet," said her father.

"Mom!"

The parents stared straight ahead, and Imogene, arms crossed and growling, thumped back into her seat.

"We've been invited for supper," said the mother. "I don't know how it's going to go, but ... we'll certainly be there long enough for you to make your apologies. Sin _cere_ apologies?" She had turned sideways to emphasize this to her daughter.

Imogene stretched out her hands. "You _don't_ have to apologize to criminals!"

"I'm not talking about Stan. He knows what to expect from you. But his poor parents. And those little _kids!_ " Facing forward once more, the mother clicked open her purse. "Just ... what in God's name were you thinking!" A lacy handkerchief was pressed to her eyes. "I have never ... _never_ been so ashamed!"

Imogene slapped bracelets back to her wrist and stared fiercely out the side window, her face piping hot.

After a sniffle, Mrs Urich went on, "I called his mother this morning. He's apparently ... he's smoothed things over somehow. Anyway, she didn't sound upset. She wants to meet the real you."

Gruffly, the father added, "Act your _age_ 'n I'll let'cha keep your keys. Deal?"

A rattle of jewelry was Imogene's only reply.

When they arrived, Stanley himself ushered them in and made grinning introductions all around.

His mother, who was indeed no more than an inch taller than Imogene, waved away the attempted apology. She and her much taller husband bustled about their guests as if they were hosting royalty. Casualness returned only after all the coats were removed and safely hanging in the closet.

Across the room the guests could see an expanded dining table set with elegant service; at one end the baby in his highchair patted hands to be looked at.

Imogene's mother deplored the great trouble that had been gone to, but this too was laughingly dismissed as orders for drinks were taken and the visitors all but bullied into making themselves at home.

Stanley participated in all of this social etiquette, which seemed strange to Imogene until she recognized that many of his gestures and phrases were identical to those he must often have witnessed in her own home. She had never seen him smile so much, though it was not obvious if these were grins of true affability or mere bravado. The frequent tapping back of his glasses was all that suggested discomfort.

From the conversation around the table it was clear that he had fabricated some plausible explanation for her behavior the night before. In fact, his parents spoke to her as though she were, indeed, their son's dearest friend. And Imogene had to conceal her puzzlement when the mother warmly confided that she had yearned to be in Drama Club in _her_ high school days.

Yet in spite of their evident delight, both of Stanley's parents took care to ask Imogene nothing more personal than her classroom subjects and plans for college. It was also plain that this was a new experience for them; their eagerness to please — and to please someone who had behaved so appallingly! — began to embarrass Imogene. Stanley could not have been exaggerating when he claimed never to have had a girlfriend before; his parents seemed bent on keeping her and Stanley together at all costs.

Before long, as could have been expected, a feeling of true penitence came over Imogene, and she displayed no hesitation in seconding her parents' compliments to their hosts. She found it possible to chat amiably with Stanley beside her, even giggle, much to his surprise.

It was also never far from her mind that one wrong word (that is, one truthful word about their actual relationship), and she could exchange whatever future still remained to her for one immeasurably more bleak.

She worried mostly about her mother; the tightness in Mrs Urich's face and her hesitant words warned that she was on the verge of halting this childish charade once and for all. Her father though, by his many sly grins, seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere of danger and deceit.

The children, Stanley's siblings, were solemn and wide-eyed. At least they were at first, staring at Imogene as if she were something unspeakably evil. But in time, listening to the normal inflections of her voice and seeing her quick smiles and eager, arcing eyebrows, their frightened expressions began to wane, evolving gradually into a kind of cautious admiration.

Both Stanley's mother and sister had bright vermilion scarves adorning their shoulders. The girl, Laney, blushed to hear the others go on and on about these glorious silken presents. Eventually though, she had gained enough courage to lean toward Imogene and ask what it's really like to be a cheerleader'n stuff, and wear fancy clothes from her dress shop every day, and had she ever been, y'know, homecoming queen or anything?

The baby also smiled at Imogene a few times, as did the little boy.

The two fathers got along famously. During dessert, when the kids had left their seats, Stanley's father came with his cake and coffee and sat beside Mr Urich. They chuckled over many things, including MacArthur and the war in the Pacific. The mothers, too, had much to say to one another, and Imogene began once again to feel abandoned to her fate. The thought returned to her that this was how the rest of her life might be, sitting beside Stanley, and somehow learning to like it, as much a victim of her own pathetic good nature as of his manipulative schemes.

At the beginning of the evening Stanley had been remarkably attentive to her and more talkative than usual, but as the awkwardness of the situation began to ebb he had retreated once more into his normal, head-lowered but alert reticence.

The baby in his highchair had been fed, face-wiped and given a pacifier, but now was whimpering at his loss of attention. Stanley went over and picked him up, then came back and took hold of Imogene's hand. His own hand was warm (it was the one with the antiseptic stains). Imogene sighed and allowed herself to be pulled along behind him, objecting — above all — to his Iago-like ease in all of this!

He led her up a long, creaky staircase, past a cluster of doorways, and into, presumably, his parents' room where there was a large bed, a crib in one corner and five sets of baby pictures on the wall.

The brother and sister also trooped in, the boy climbing up on the bed as Stanley laid the infant on a towel which had been placed on the counterpane. The girl knelt down with her elbows on the mattress and squawked at the boy to take off his shoes. He ignored her.

Still smiling, Stanley made Imogene stand in front of the baby.

"I'm _not_ changing diapers!" she said.

"I know you've never done it, you're only two years older'n your brother'n sister. It's really easy. An'you'll need to know how for when y'have a kid a'your own."

"I already know how to change diapers! I've been doing Becky Wreade's little sister since she was born. You're just tryin' t'show off. I'm really impressed by all the things you can _do_ , okay?" She crossed her arms and looked down at the puzzled infant.

"You're chicken," said Stanley, pushing his glasses back. "Or just acting again."

The girl and the boy stared at her, the girl fingering the knot of her red scarf.

Imogene snorted and uncrossed her arms, then began to tug open the snaps on the baby's leggings.

"Nope," said Stanley. "Y'hafta make funny noises on his tummy first."

The baby did look as if he was about to cry.

Sighing tolerantly, Imogene leaned over the infant and made a buzzing sound on the chubby stomach, packed tightly in his little overalls. The others giggled courteously at this. Then the baby, his busy legs kicking, grabbed fistfuls of her hair, and the squeaking Imogene made while trying to free herself seemed to be a much greater amusement for them all. She even saw the corners of a smile peeking out from around the pacifier's blue disk.

Sternly, Imogene snapped open the little trouser legs and removed the plastic pants. While she unhooked the safety pins and stuck them into the mattress well out of reach, Stanley knelt down beside her, "It won't be a mushy one," he said. "I can tell by the smell."

Suddenly — and somehow unexpectedly — Imogene found herself staring down at a tiny set of male organs, and her face erupted in flames.

"Hold it up!" cried Stanley, grabbing her wrist to raise the front of the wet diaper. "Sometimes the cold air makes him have to go again ... an'he's a good shot!"

The boy and girl burst into laughter.

Stanley continued to hold her arm, then he looked up at her.

She could not meet his eyes. She felt itchy all over and her arms were turning red. All she could focus on were the baby's upraised and happily kicking feet, one socked, one not.

Stanley pulled the soiled diaper out from under the little seat and carefully rolled it up. "C'mon, guys," he said to his siblings. "Help me clean this out."

"No-o!" they protested.

"Come _on!_ "

Soon, Imogene was all alone with the quiet baby; he had become noticeably subdued on the departure of the others, and the sound of the closing door produced a tenseness in the little body which Imogene's softest tones endeavored to soothe.

On a nearby stand were bottles of baby oil, powder, moistened towelettes and freshly laundered diapers. Her painful blush began to subside as she busied herself wiping, patting and lifting little ankles, all while the baby's somber eyes looked on and the pale blue pacifier intermittently bobbed.

By the time he was all buttoned up again, Imogene had regained her composure, most of it anyway. She knelt down and made funny noises on his tummy, letting him tug her hair and grab at her shiny bracelets.

She looked closely into the baby's face and discovered there suggestions of Stanley, not only in the distinctive nose and stony-drab eye color, but also in the way the young countenance already displayed that constantly shy, subservient look, as if always expecting to be denied permission.

Gathering the infant into her arms, she went in search of a bathroom and found the entire upstairs deserted, though from the railing above the empty stairwell she could hear sounds of laughter and happy accord.

While Imogene washed and dried her hands the baby sat quietly on the vanity and regarded her, still clearly uncomfortable to have been left in the care of a stranger. It was therefore all the more endearing when his little arms lifted to her as she was making ready to leave.

But before returning to the stairs, she peeked into several of the other rooms. A pink one was clearly that of a daughter, and across the hall a more boyish chamber contained a desk that was much too small for a twelfth grader. Another room, with larger furniture and many books, had a familiar-looking wired device stored on a high shelf, and on the far wall was pinned a large chart dappled with a multitude of colored dots. Daring to approach, she saw that the dots were labeled with hand-lettered Latin words like _Sagittarius_ and _Ursa_ _Major_. The baby reached up and whimpered happily at the colored dots, as if he had been shown them many times before. She noticed, too, looking closely at the books on the shelves, that not all of them had to do with science.

Her cheeks began to warm as she hurried back out into the hall: one of the books was _Crime and Punishment_.

While carrying the child downstairs, she tried to keep the steps from squeaking as they had on the way up; but even before she reached the bottom Stanley called out to her. He and his brother were sitting on the living room floor beside a pile of blocks and toys. Imogene and the baby sat down too.

After a soft nudge from Stanley, the boy produced the missing yellow sock and timidly approached Imogene. The baby was seated on her lap where, with familiar faces again in view, he had become impatient and wiggly.

While trying to re-shod the restless foot, the boy glanced up repeatedly at Imogene. His motions were quick and tentative, as if he were laying meat before a panther, but her sweetly spoken, "Thank you, Teddy," made him duck down and hide a pink-cheeked smile.

Soon, the sister joined them, kneeling among her brothers and retying her scarf. There was a great deal of chuckling as they all watched the infant's bashful antics.

Cigarette smoke now filled the room. It came from the supper table where only the fathers were still seated, clinking the ice in their highballs. The talk had drifted on to taxes and the stock market, hopeless wars, 'that _cowboy_ in the White House!' and gangster films. At one point, Imogene shot eyes toward her father on hearing him utter, quite loudly, the word 'blackmail.' He was smiling back at her.

From the kitchen a clattering of dinnerware could also be heard. Stanley grinned to say, "Your mom's falling in love with my mom's dishwasher."

It occurred to Imogene that she had not seen Stanley blush even once all evening.

Later, at the door, after Mrs Urich's many motions to take their leave, Imogene had some difficulty in making her face exhibit a look of displeasure. Stanley's mother patted her elbow and the little boy and girl gazed up at her in near-adoration.

Stanley approached with the baby in his arms. "He wants to kiss you goodnight," he said, removing the pacifier. "If that's okay."

Imogene hesitated until catching sight of her mother's stern look.

The baby smeared his little face on Imogene's cheek and everyone laughed, except Stanley who, through his glasses, gazed into her eyes and blushed.

Driving home, Imogene slouched in the back seat, her overcoat petulantly unbuttoned, and tried to examine the feelings in her heart. This was disagreeable for she felt very much like a traitor: a traitor to herself as well as to Matt.

The evening had seemed to go by so quickly, and not because of the danger involved, there had not really been much sense of that; she had simply enjoyed the time with Stanley's family. They had treated her with wholehearted love; they treated each other with love. Despite the ongoing peril, she was as comfortable there as only rarely had she been in Matt's house.

Of course, she considered, Stanley and his family must necessarily have been on their best behavior; they were trying to make a good impression. Surely, in everyday life they were not always so harmonious a group. And she could not avoid, by contrast, a pinch of remorse over some of the curt and hurtful things which she had recently spat out at members of her own family.

Sighing, she glanced at her parents in the front seat. The mother was sitting as stiffly as she had on the drive over, but in the mirror Imogene caught sight of her father smiling to himself.

Suddenly he turned to his wife and chuckled, "That's the _damnedest_ thing we ever been to! I kid you not!"

"Don't you laugh! Don't you _dare_ laugh!" Mrs Urich scolded. "I have never been so ashamed!" She snapped open her purse. "Just ... one big lie after another!"

Her husband leaned over and grabbed her for a noisy kiss. "Y'did great, schweetaht!"

(At this, Imogene had to place fingertips on her forehead.)

"It was just crazy!" The father returned attention to the road. "They don't have a _clue_ what their kid's doin'."

"And we're every bit as guilty!" cried Mrs Urich. "How on _earth_ are we going to face them when they find out the truth! How could we let this go on for so long! I feel like ... I don't know what!" She had a tissue pressed to her lips.

The father exhaled impatiently, as if he had suffered this argument before. "Honey, it's not our fault. If anyone, it's them; for even raisin'a kid like that. He's not _our_ son for godsake!"

There was a slight pause while Mrs Urich pulled away the tissue to speak: "If Geenee marries him, he will be."

Imogene turned gigantic eyes upon her mother.

The father was laughing out loud and wagging his head at the ceiling. "Oh, I'm so shoo-er!"

"She might! She very well might. You know how she _is!_ " Mrs Urich leaned back slightly, turning her head so that her daughter would be certain to hear. "And I wouldn't _mind_ having Stan in our family, but ... well right now I could just hit him. I could just hit him!"

Imogene, now slumped against the door, was staring blankly out the side window. The glass felt so cold on her brow she knew her face must be baking.

After a few more blocks, the mother spoke again to her husband. "You know what's the real cause of all this! Besides Stan."

They were waiting at a stoplight, the turn signal clicking and making pale green flashes on the father's cheek. Mr Urich turned so that his voice would also carry into the back. "Geenee's love?" he suggested. "Her loyalty to Matt? Her courage, her — "

"Be _sides_ that!"

The father said no more.

"It's that darn speech of hers! That ... beautiful, beautiful speech." The mother sniffled. "If it wasn't for that I would have dragged her and Matt _both_ right up to the principal! And Stan too! Don't think I wouldn't!" She pressed the tissue to her mouth. "I just hate this."

The car made its turn, and soon they were driving past the long, low buildings of the municipal swimming pool. The place where (Imogene sighed, looking down at the empty parking lot), where she and Matt, ages ago it seemed, had sat clasping each other in his little car, amid the snow, and kissed and cried over their illegal 'A' — their _love-child_ , as it were (she was deep in reverie once more) — their wailing, infant thing, their endearing testament to endless love, their everlasting threat of shame and ruin.

High on the hill the trees were no longer bare, and the swing sets now strung for summer throngs. The traffic on the road was thinning; headlights were fewer; and beyond the playground lay the black and vast expanse of lake on both sides of the road.

Looking up at her parents, she saw that their heads were touching and a strong, gentle arm was clutched around the mother.
\- XLIV -

Though Imogene may have felt like a traitor to Matt, it seemed that Matt himself had few such worries. In school all the rest of that week, Imogene could not help but notice how convincing was his portrayal of a man _not_ pining for love. He was dismayingly considerate to the new girl in his life, and it seemed that everywhere, art class included, he smiled with eternal pleasure, even in reply to Imogene's most sorrowful looks.

Yes, this was precisely the part she had ordered him to play, but it troubled Imogene that he so perfectly fitted the role.

She noted too that, though the conversations of her classmates had begun to focus on the senior prom, her closest friends were oddly silent on the matter. This puzzled Imogene until she overheard in history class one day (probably not by accident) that Matt was taking his new 'steady' to the dance, and that the girl was even making her own gown for it.

On Friday morning her friends confirmed this: "It's all she ever talks about!"

But the girls showed looks of relief when, on hearing this, Imogene merely shrugged and took another bite of her blueberry pancakes. (They were sharing an early breakfast at a restaurant near the school.)

"I'm so sorry, Geenee," they said.

"It had to happen."

"God they're just _stuck_ on each other!"

Imogene chewed contemplatively while gazing out the big windows at the purple morning light. It had become something of a concern to her that this new girlfriend may get her feelings hurt when, in the end, Matt takes her, Imogene, to the dance instead. But surely Matt had informed the girl of his true intentions ... hadn't he?

Imogene's brow began to furrow. Knowing Matt, it would actually be more consistent for him to say nothing at all about it. (The big turd!) When prom night arrives it will probably not even occur to him that the poor girl is sitting home alone, in her homemade dress — in her tears! — waiting for the corsage that will never come.

Well, rival or not, Imogene determined herself to be the one making a sacrifice that night; if necessary, _forcing_ Matt to fulfill his obligations to the girl. It will be the final ruin of her senior year, but the righteousness of such an act will repay many hours of her own tears. At least it ought to. Certainly, it will be more welcome than that most unthinkable of alternatives: that she, herself, is the one he intends to leave behind.

Mary Helen was grumbling: "I think they _deserve_ each other."

"Right!" said Becky. "Good riddance, I say!"

Polly touched Imogene's arm. "You okay?" she asked softly.

Imogene nodded with a smile. She was aware of the spectacle she and her friends were already making, they in their cheerleader uniforms and she in a daring casual (with an almost genuine Paris label) which her boss had urged her to wear. (Supple and mauve, the dress was so décolleté Imogene had to leave Matt's ring and golden chain at home.) She was careful not to give the solitary truck drivers and other whiskered characters — tapping cigarette ashes into empty egg plates — anything more to leer at than they already had. She giggled light-heartedly with her friends and asked for the butterscotch syrup.

From that moment on, the spirits of her friends began to pick up. Legs flashed in crossing themselves, sneakers and flip-curls jiggled with nervous excitement.

The girls chattered at length about their own preparations for the prom, and of the cheerleader tryouts to be held that afternoon (they were morbidly keen to relive the foibles of each other's past auditions). Imogene entered this gabble with eager noises, but could not, in the end, fend off their descending on her once again with demands to find an escort for the dance. She laughed agreeably but made no real commitment to do so.

It was clear that, to them, Matt was lost to her forever, and she the better for the loss. They saw only benefits and opportunities arising from this sad divestiture. They erred of course, but knowing how accurate were her friend's intuition in these matters, Imogene could not fully dismiss the fear that ultimately _she_ may prove to be the one, dear Cassius, who has misconstruèd everything.

By the time the girls had finished their meal, they were resolved to put out the word of Imogene's availability, and Imogene herself (fingers crossed under the table) to put Matt out of her mind.

Imogene did receive a number of shy requests that day, but she found it easier to invent kind refusals for them all than to grant a possibly irrevocable acceptance. Besides, if she went, what joy could there be in watching — and being watched — as Matt danced the night away with someone else?

The pep fest that afternoon began, as usual, directly after last period. For weeks now, it had been one of Imogene's prime agonies to sit high in the stands at these events watching Matt's gaze riveted (or pretending to be riveted) on this tall and slender blonde as she danced around with the rest of the cheerleaders.

And — Oh! — how Imogene longed to be down there herself!

With her friends!

When the band thundered, she could not keep herself still; her shoes pattered on the bleacher boards as she cried out the words of the school song. And, insult to injury, not only had she now become a nobody, but she was forced to sit and watch that — Jeez! You can see the blue of her eyes way up here!

Sighing, Imogene had to admit that the girl was indeed gorgeous and moved with the grace of a ballerina, a queen.

It hurt as well to reflect that, going to a women's college, she will never again have the opportunity of being a cheerleader. She had, already, lost one of the few great joys of her life — because of Stanley!

Frequently, amid all this noise and commotion, even while laughing with an acquaintance beside her, Imogene would look furtively around for her nemesis. If she found Stanley at all he was sure to have a book on his knees. (Which, by the way, was nothing short of pretentious contempt; one time she had even seen him stuffing bits of Kleenex in his ears!) Yet his eyes would ever be darting among the pretty cheerleaders below him — never once scanning over the crowd in search of his fiancée! She fully understood the instinctive bitterness this caused within herself. What a _fine_ husband he'll make!

To reduce the number of whispers and pitying remarks, Imogene would usually sit in one of the upper rows and stare down over the heads of all her classmates. But on this Friday, the afternoon of the cheerleader tryouts, she came down as close to the action as possible, shouting and clapping while all the terrified young ladies, one by one, ran out to the middle of the gym and made the walls echo with their vibrant, solitary cheers.

Stacy was among them of course, and Imogene busied herself pointing out her sister's name on the ballot and begging all within earshot to vote for _Elena_ Urich. "That's her real name," Imogene explained, "but she hates it!"

When at last it came to be Stacy's turn, Imogene could not restrain herself. She jumped up and dashed across the gym to her sister's side. There, while Stacy crouched in readiness, waiting for Miss Beaver at the microphone to finish introducing her, Imogene planted a fervent good luck kiss on her sister's cheek.

In spite of this distraction, Stacy performed exceedingly well: not a single flubbed word, not a stumble, and the stands roared their approval.

Miss Beaver, before announcing the next candidate, glanced back at Imogene a moment and did something very strange: she smiled, broadly, and in public.

But as Imogene returned to the bleachers she detected a small hollowness within herself. She was glad for her sister of course, and Stacy was clearly the one among all the applicants most capable of bringing credit to the school. (Although, truth to tell, the competition was not all that severe — one girl even hobbled out lugging her leg cast behind her. You _never_ go skiing the weekend before tryouts!)

Yet even so, there was for Imogene a measure of sadness in realizing that her sister, now assured of placement on the varsity squad, would carry on and almost certainly eclipse all of her own efforts. From this time forward Imogene will be known only as Stacy Urich's sister. She had been given her chance to shine, to soar, to be remembered, but she had made a mess of it.

All that was left now was her commencement address, and this, though also a great honor, was sure to be among the first details forgotten after graduation.

But the memory of Stacy's cheers will be carried by boys to their graves.

Later, in the evening, robed and sleepy-eyed from her bath, with all the day's turmoil behind her, and the dear little ring once again on her finger (its silver band accusingly chilly for having been entombed in her jewelry box all day), Imogene sat and stared at the framed picture of Matt on her desk, recalling the many, many times she had gazed at him in this same solemn way — and the many times _his_ eyes were gazing at someone else!

Looking down at the tiny valiant sparkle, she was filled with the pride of her own fidelity and, increasingly, the fear of the loss of his.
\- XLV -

That weekend a sudden, furious storm hit the Twin Cities.

Imogene and her sister were home alone when the sirens went off all over town; the girls ran around the house shutting the windows and staring in awe at the dark, greenish clouds writhing above the treetops. The little saplings across the street were lashed cruelly in the wind, their leafy heads whipped all to one side.

An unsteadiness had quickly appeared in Stacy's voice, but Imogene, in spite of her fears, found herself intrigued by something unexplainable in the scene. She stood peeking out from behind the heavy living room drapes, enthralled by the storm's expanding fury.

She wondered what made the neighborhood suddenly so unfamiliar. Then she discovered that there were no shadows. There was light to see by but every tree and shrub, and the occasional car speeding by, seemed severed from the ground by its lack of a shadow. She was on the point of running upstairs for her sketch pad when the rains finally burst, shuddering the house and slapping the pavements black. Within moments, the street was shining; wavelets appeared on the asphalt and were spanked into wide arcs with every gust. All around her, Imogene felt the house rumbling under the sudden deluge, as if overrun by galloping animals.

Stacy, now nearing panic, had been trying to get hold of their parents, but the phone at the country club only beeped its busy signal. After gasping this news to Imogene, she fled to the basement with their brother's radio — cranked to full volume — and scanning the channels for disaster reports. Every few minutes she would thump back up the stairs, yell at her sister to get away from the windows, and inform her of all the latest dangers. Her face, lined and pale, had lost all hint of its usual caprice.

Yet Imogene was calm. Before the alert, up in her room, she had been spending the Sunday afternoon mulling over further stratagems for eluding Stanley, and here was another one. She had visions of the house pulled asunder and she herself crushed beneath collapsed ceiling beams: dead, or dying, and on her way to a place where, at least, Stanley could never bother her again.

"Will you get away from that _window!_ " Stacy shrieked at her. "There's tornadoes in Shakopee! They'll be here any _minute!_ " She sounded precisely like their mother.

Imogene hurried to join her sister. And their shoes (both girls were too frightened to remain sock footed) clattered quickly down the basement steps.

They looked around awhile, then tried to make themselves comfortable on the cases of soup and fruit cans in one corner of the laundry room; the corner which, years before, the parents had designated as their fallout shelter. The cat darted past them and stood with raised tail beside the furnace, watching the girls and their altered behavior.

The radio announcer was repeating names of affected communities (punctuated by frequent outbursts from Stacy), and Imogene glanced around at their tomb-like surroundings: the concrete floor, bare block walls, the porcelain light fixture above them with its long pull-chain still swaying from Stacy's frantic yank.

Imogene wondered why her own pulse was not racing; the scenes of destruction that flashed through her mind still brought only a mild fascination. She asked herself: Is this the calm of those with nothing to lose? The broke bluffer at the poker table? The whore being raped?

She thought of Stanley and his belief that life is without meaning, that death implies no loss. How useful — how convenient — a creed this must be when faced with unavoidable danger. Her lips twisted sourly. But what a cheap way to be brave!

She looked down at her hands. Unlike her sister's frenzied limbs, no part of Imogene seemed to be trembling at all.

Across from the girls sat the washer and dryer, a very sedate pair, interred here ever since that hectic moving day so many years before; their skins of appliance-white had long since lost their sheen. They, too, were calm. Imogene tipped her head as she gazed at them. How alike they seemed on the outside, so squat and square, their flat flanks touching, but how different within — like sisters.

Overhead were the rough, strong, parallel boards on which sat the weight of the entire house. An image of snapped Popsicle sticks occurred to Imogene, and she wondered again what it would be like to die in agony, all alone, beneath the crush of rubble — dug up only to be buried somewhere else.

She moved closer to her sister and kissed her on the cheek.

"God, _Bloomington!_ " Stacy wailed.

Not long after this, the electric door began to growl and the girls dashed up to the garage, overjoyed to see the big Chevy, plastered with tiny green leaves, pulling gently into its stall. Imogene and her sister stood in the narrow doorway and shivered at the roaring chaos beyond the raised outer door and at the cold, misty air gusting in; they could smell angleworms.

Their brother hopped out of the back (he and his fielder's glove had evidently been pulled from a ball game) and began to tell the girls of a fallen tree they had nearly crashed into. The father directed him to take the golf clubs out of the trunk, then turned to interrogate his daughters concerning the status of the house. Imogene was comforted by his blunt, sure, Lieutenant's voice.

The mother was pale when she also stepped out of the car. Stacy flew to her arms.

The balance of the afternoon was spent sitting on the soup boxes in the basement and listening to radio reports. Dan pulled ceaselessly on the little antenna trying to improve reception, while the father held Stacy on his lap. She, her head on his high shoulder, was once again his little girl.

The mother had become almost cheerful. All her family was about her as she sat between son and elder daughter with an arm around each (and it was not often she had the chance to hug her son). She even smiled down at the cat who was still pacing back and forth, whiskering questions at them.

The father had been restless too. Earlier, he had dashed upstairs several times as various precautions occurred to him, once he came back with a flashlight, another time with a shoe box full of supplies from the medicine cabinet. Now he was busy comforting his daughter, but his eyes, with every creak of the house, looked appraisingly at the low ceiling. Outside, hardly muffled through brick and earth, the storm bellowed around them — perhaps, thought Imogene, watching her father's firm but worried face, perhaps like those long booming nights on Iron Bottom Sound.

Then the announcer patched into a phone call from an agitated Elnora resident who reported, between gasps, that he was watching a funnel cloud forming over the shopping center.

Stacy cringed deeper into her father's arms, and Dan, in a small, awed voice said, "Jeez. Six blocks."

"Shh," the mother gently hushed, kissing her son, then her daughter.

Quietly, Imogene set down the can of minestrone she had been fiddling with and gathered the cat into her arms. She hid her eyes in the warm, dark fur.

They waited, saying nothing, hardly breathing. The house, it seemed, spoke for them: groaning, ticking, swaying imperceptibly.

Daring to look up once, Imogene saw that her family's eyes were all closed, tightly closed. 'And all their visage wan.'

The announcer rattled away without letup, relaying news, repeating facts and cautionary information. Though he had little actual tragedy to report, it was clear they were all in great danger.

Then, from way upstairs, the phone began its long forlorn trill, and the father consigned Stacy to the arms of his wife.

Mrs Urich welcomed the added charge, but made a frightened look at her husband. "Dear," she said, "just let it ring."

The father shook his head. "Might be calling for volunteers."

"That's what she means!" cried Stacy.

Cautiously, Mr Urich climbed the stairs to the kitchen while the family sat motionless and listened for his voice.

They were surprised to hear sudden laughter. "No, we're fine!" the father was assuring someone. "We're all wettin'our pants in the basement, but we're fine!"

Dan made a sound of manly disgust.

When Mr Urich returned, Stacy reclaimed his lap and he chuckled, "That was Stan. Crazy kid wanted to know if he should come'n help with anything. I told him to stay put'n take care of his _own_ family! Crazy kid."

Imogene felt her parents smiling down at her.

She now thought what it would be like if it was Stanley who died in the storm. That, too, would set her free.

Then the power failed. The little bulb overhead winked out, and the furnace, in the sudden dark, rattled to a deadened silence.

Stacy was slapping around for the flashlight. Finding it, her hands clasped it fiercely, shaking it in terror whenever its little spot of light began to dim.

But the squeaking joists had hushed above them, and the announcer seemed to have no more to say about Elnora.

In time, after the father and son had made a quick inspection upstairs, they all emerged to stand on the dripping porch out front and view their neighborhood. Without streetlamps and lit windows, the surrounding homes were merely blacker patches against the dark night; the air was frigid and smelled of Christmas trees; leafy branches could be heard fluttering in the street and on the lawns. This, apparently, was the extent of the damage.

The joy of their salvation was soon subdued, however, when, with the waning flashlight, they stood in the kitchen and examined the now useless stove. The mother decreed that a gas range _must_ be part of their remodeling plans. "Imagine! Not having a _hot_ meal after a day like this!"

The family gathered around the refrigerator and stared at the cold, wrapped things on its shadowed shelves. Then Dan suggested they roast wienies in the fireplace. And that's what they did. The girls grabbed the flashlight and dashed away in search of sweaters and picnic supplies, while the men, feeling their way through the dark, brought up armloads of lumber scraps from the work shop. Soon, all of them (now clad in campfire plaids) were kneeling at the never-used hearth in the living room, bumping close to one another and giggling over what had been their silly fears.

They discovered that the telephone had also stopped working, and before the flashlight died Mrs Urich chopped up several dinner candles and fastened each to a pot-pie tin with a drop of melted wax. After placing a few of these around the living room, she laughed and declared that the house looked positively medieval. Stacy said it was romantic, and Imogene, though she too smiled, held her candle close to her eyes and thought of Mary Queen of Scots staring into just such a solitary flame on the long, last night of her life.

By this time the storm had moved on toward Wisconsin, leaving behind only one wrecked suburb on the far side of town. The family listened dutifully to the announcer's sad reports but soon wearied of all the details: the torn houses, the overturned autos, the looting, the deaths. They were eager to get on to happier things.

Perhaps, thought Imogene, it was sinful to enjoy one's deliverance while knowing others had perished helplessly beneath their ruined homes. She wondered if any of those the rescuers would reach too late had been content to come to such an end; had they, too, lost fervor for a life which had ceased to be perfect?

It was a strange thought, but hardship and injustice do perhaps serve a useful purpose: 'How considerate of life to smack no sweeter than its loss.' (Terence.)

Imogene looked about herself, at all her smiling family. Were not these glad survivors like those of the house of Amram and Jochebed emerging from _their_ first Passover? Surely joy had reigned in their hearts too, but which of them could feel no guilt for Pharaoh's grief?

Eventually, the radio was tuned to the rock and roll station, and amid its cheerful songs:
... yeah, we're goin' surf city,

gonna have some fun ...!

the family moved closer together. They smiled and glanced shyly at one another, as if they had all come together for the first time.

The music was compelling (and likewise mortal, for Dan had no more batteries). After their quaint supper, the twins sneaked off to the kitchen with the ailing radio and closed the door. The mother and father said nothing, but Imogene well knew the sound of socks happy-dancing on linoleum.

She was sitting on the couch between her parents, licking her fingers and sharing the last hot dog with the cat on her lap who, remarkably, did not mind the taste of scorched meat.

"He's a good boy," said the mother.

Imogene smiled at the cat's dainty manners.

Then the father said, "If I hadn't answered the phone, he'd of run all the way down here with a first-aid kit. Bet he would've."

Imogene blushed. Then, forcing a look of defiance, stared up at the music box on the mantelpiece. She had been glancing at it all through their meal and noting how everyone else ignored it, not only that night, but ever since its presentation weeks before (although her mother never allowed dust to accumulate in its varnished carvings). No one ever played it except Imogene; her fingerprints alone stained its polished wind-up key.

She recalled how it had been playing one night when Stanley was ushered in from the front door, and how he had gazed into the open lid, apparently fascinated by the intricate mechanism or by the gentle, ancient air. Slapping her novel closed, Imogene had stood up and come to harsh attention, burning to proclaim to him the significance of that elegant object, of the love and respect of which it was a treasured symbol. But he never asked about it. He was going to, it seemed, but then suddenly turned red and began to look distressed, as if he had stumbled into someone's dressing room.

Possibly one of her family had mentioned to him the origin of the gift, but it was not unlike Stanley simply to figure things out on his own, especially those things that could bring most shame upon himself.

Now, looking down at the quiet feline crouched contentedly over the morsel in her palm, Imogene let her head sway side to side, admitting to herself that sometimes (more frequently than her own family in fact) Stanley did show a respect for Matt, and of her love for Matt, which — had he been anyone else in the world! — would have earned her eternal gratitude.

Before long, the tunes from the kitchen came to an end, and the twins reappeared bearing deep dishes and a can of Hershey's syrup. "Ice cream's turnin't'soup, you guys!" Stacy giggled.

The family ended their evening all crowded together, chuckling to one another and clicking spoons in their bowls. They had turned the couch toward the fireplace and their faces flickered in the warm glow.

After an extended silence the father said, "Call me stupid, but — and I'm not even _counting_ my birdie this morning! — but ..." he sighed, gazing at all his family, "I think this's been one a'the best days of my life."

"Amen," whispered the mother.

Later, Imogene tripped upstairs to bed with her candle, just like all her favorite little girl heroines. She bathed by its plaintive light and, after puffing it out against a tenderly cupped hand, lay in bed (shivering, though with the cat's warm weight on her ankles) and listened to the utter stillness of their home.

But then — with the sting of sudden tears — she heard the music box playing downstairs. Its sadly carefree song filtered through the darkened rooms like fresh love filling a long-unhappy heart.

The melody always called to mind the opera which Imogene and her Latin Club had attended the previous spring. She had bullied Matt into coming along too, and it surprised her that he had ceased his griping even before the end of the first act. The music had somehow reached him, and the story, and (most probably) the tiny soprano who played the unhappy girl. "What're they sayin' _now!_ " he kept whispering.

Imogene could have cried that he seemed so moved by the tragedy. It was unlike him to be interested in any drama which did not contain secret agents or World War Three.

Yet she herself had felt actual embarrassment over the story's many faults, particularly the heroine who, if possible, was an even bigger dope than Juliet Capulet. How could _anyone_ be so willing to die for so worthless a lover. And a tubby one too!

Now, however, listening to the tenor's libertine tune tinging in the quiet house, Imogene could summon no contempt for the foolish girl. There _are_ priorities in the human heart which transcend all rational judgment, which can rob us of our sense and dignity, and make blockheads of us all. She could not escape the feeling that God loves best those who live, and die, by the cruel laws of their meticulous hearts.

Imogene smiled to hear a further sound: the swish and giggle of her parents waltzing on the living room carpet.
\- XLVI -

The electricity was restored during the night, and in the morning all three kids groaned to hear on the news that none of the schools would be closed.

In Latin class Imogene and her friends chattered feverishly about the storm and their individual ordeals. Stanley had made a large smile when he saw her enter the room, but then seemed to content himself with listening, head lowered, to the many gasps and 'Omygods!' around him, including those of Imogene's own greatly abridged narrative.

Again, eyeing Stanley, it occurred to her how simple life would now be if one of them, or both of them, had died.

At supper that evening the storm continued to be a major topic, and though Stanley was not questioned about his phone call, Imogene detected her parents' eyes all but canonizing him.

She, however, would not be fooled: the sudden storm had been a propagandist's dream come true: what better way for one to _appear_ to be brave and self-sacrificing while remaining safely on the other end of the line!

But Imogene made no comment on this, for she had, despite her ire, a blushing suspicion that Stanley might indeed have laid down his life for her and her family. Moreover, she was ashamed to recall that never once during the storm had she herself thought to phone any of her own dearest friends.

As the days passed, the storm was gradually forgotten; the grim news of its aftermath being happily replaced by the approach of the Latin Club banquet. This was the last major event before the prom and Imogene had been waiting for its arrival since ninth grade. Of course she had attended the galas every year, but this would be the one and only time she would be spared the menial duties of an underclassman.

Long in advance she had begun tailoring for herself a Roman _stola_ of appropriate opulence. As ranking goddess, her gown was allowed to be of glimmering satin, as sheer and billowy as a cloud, gathered at the waist in the Doric style and graced with ' _fibulae_ of the finest wrought _aurum_.' (Actually, her father had made the shoulder clasps out of old coat hangers and spray painted them gold; but they looked real, and Imogene kept them in her jewelry box with all her other treasures.)

It pleased her to know that she would be the one most lavishly adorned. But her joy in this had been tarnished one afternoon while she and several others were helping Mr Grove tally up the grades of his students. It was discovered that, had Stanley not made such a mess of his oral assignments (and had he deigned to join Latin Club in the first place!), he, instead, in a toga of deepest purple trim, would have been the one to wear the laurel leaves. Ever since that day, Imogene had allowed her half-finished garment to hang drooping and ignored in her closet, chief among her procrastinations.

She felt that this and other reminders of Stanley would be sufficient to spoil whatever pleasure she might find in this long-awaited night of Roman decadence. In fact, Stanley's own day of infamy, May 20th, was now less than a week away, and nearly every private moment was lost in useless contemplation of this evil.

Imogene was convinced she would have a miserable time at the banquet. None of her closest friends would be there (unless she counted Mr Grove), and the regard of her general acquaintances had yet to return to that unhesitant warmth she had taken for granted in the days before Stanley. Most of all — despite the many times she had performed cheers before her classmates — it did always bother her to be the looked-to leader in anything. She was far more comfortable as author than orator, choreographer than dancer.

But, as usual, in the excitement and flurry of getting ready, things managed to fall into different perspectives, with the smaller problems overwhelming the big ones. Imogene had to work later than planned at the shop that Saturday, and consequently found herself, and her mother, still sewing tucks in her attire while on the way to the school.

Once arrived, however, she took deep, calming breaths, and when joined by Debbie and Jennifer and other similarly draped and sandaled classmates, they all strode the long corridors with as much pomp and stateliness as their twitchy lips allowed. "God I feel like a sailboat!" cried JoAnn, struggling with her linens.

The juniors had cleverly transformed the cafeteria into a vast and padded _atrium_ fit for lolling Romans. When Imogene entered, Mr Grove (also in ancient costume) hurried forward to bestow on her the leafy coronet, then led the entire assembly in a rousing Roman cheer. The room rocked with the hundreds of lusty voices. Imogene tried hard not to giggle as she mounted the bench of highest honor and reclined regally with her cluster of grapes.

First order of business was the selling of the slaves (ninth graders from the first year classes), and since Imogene was also possessor of the greatest wealth (250 _denarii_ per grade point) she was expected to obtain the most and the best.

But for years now, ever since her own stint as auctioned slave, it had been her plan to make offers on only those kids too undistinguished in feature to command opening bids. She had not experienced this shame personally, but her heart always went out to those poor, unpromising things, often in spectacles, who stood on the market block totally unwanted, despite Mr Grove's most clever Latin auctioneering.

Her resolve in this was strengthened by remembrance of that other auction, earlier in the year, in which she had played so shameful a part.

But then, among the first to be put up for bid was Drusilla.

Drusilla was a lovely little thing (Imogene had no idea what her real name was), and she had been quite an eye-catcher at many of the club's activities that year.

On seeing the girl now, in scanty slave apparel, Imogene discovered within herself a flash of spontaneous scheming. She recalled how, at the start of basketball season, she had once seen her brother glancing at this same enchanting maiden from his seat on the player's bench. It was a junior varsity game and the stands were so nearly empty there could be no doubt at whom he was staring. And the girl, Imogene noted, was sitting with only girlfriends beside her. For several days afterwards, Imogene had wondered how she might, innocently, arrange an introduction for them, but then forgot all about it.

Something deep inside Imogene, with the quickness of her best insights, now made her raise a hand with spread fingers to open the bidding at five hundred _denarii_ , a respectable price for any slave.

But the chattel was not to be had so easily. Many others, all boys, showed an equal interest in acquiring this property. Their eager arms, amid shouts of excitement, shot up one after the other. Brad even went to a full thousand.

Little Drusilla clapped hands over her mouth and squeaked like a beauty queen toward the line of lowly freshmen waiting behind her. She was pink with sudden prominence, and Imogene felt no displeasure at the girl's apparently genuine surprise. Surely though, she must have some inkling of her considerable attractions. Then Imogene made twisted lips to think how lasciviously Stanley would drool — or Matt! — were they here, and rush to pour out their coffers at her feet!

Feeling eyes upon her, Imogene assumed a look of haughty shrewdness. There was something in the boys' eagerness that riled her passions. She felt compelled to foil them at all costs.

Besides, Imogene believed she possessed the kind of insides which always told her when her choices were just right. Usually this only occurred when she had a paintbrush in her hand, or a pen, but now the sudden, familiar warmth in her bosom prompted her to say aloud, calmly, and in Latin of course, "Two thousand."

This was triumphant. Whoops and whistles resounded in the wide room. And the poor girl on the block, heartbreakingly cute in her little tunic and shower sandals, held limp hands in front of her like a bunny and had a look of almost terror on her face, as if, indeed, she were being sold into slavery.

But presently, after Brad and one of his friends had conferred privately a moment, an offer of twenty-one hundred was made. The girl's eyes turned imploringly to the auctioneer.

The rules were not specific on joint bids, and Mr Grove, tugging at the folds of his tattered robe, seemed to be engaged in some quick thinking to produce a humorous solution.

Imogene aided him greatly. "Three thousand," she said, placing another grape into her mouth.

Following this, there came only the collective hush of indrawn breaths and, soon after, the delicate flip-flop of quick sandals as the wide-eyed girl approached and knelt down before her new lord and master.

In consequence of this extravagant purchase, Imogene had to endure the occasional sight of slaves being given away in shame for a pittance. She had only seven _denarii_ left and for _her_ to offer so little would have been an even greater dishonor for them.

So, while all her classmates reigned above their enlarging litters of servants, Imogene had to make do with just this one, exquisite, awestruck creature, who, it seemed, could not do enough for her; the girl fetched food and drink, suffered impertinent questions and harmless abuse, and all without a dropping of eyebrows or a loss of eagerness. She remained so unfailingly puppy-joyful at it all, Imogene began to suspect her of intending a parody of her own first Latin banquet when she too had cavorted in this same naïve way: too good, or too stupid, to know of anything but happiness.

Whatever the case, Imogene greatly enjoyed the evening. The only discomfort she felt was in realizing that perhaps, like ants in autumn, she was merely storing up a kind of nourishment against the certain bleakness of future days. She dreaded to think of next weekend's prom, and her place in it, if there at all; and even so great a concern as this paled to nonsense when she thought of the days and months and years that lay beyond, a lifetime perhaps without Matt, without the hope of Matt. If Stanley somehow got his way, this surely would be the result, and even if he did not, Matt could still be — already perhaps — lost beyond retrieval.

It did baffle her that she could find such mirth and high spirits when, on every paused reflection, there were only these leaden thoughts deep within her.

She looked closely at the little slave sitting cross-legged on the floor before her. Drusilla, and all others in the room, were laughing uproariously at the band of cardboard-armored sophomores, up on the dais, who were flashing their tin-foil _gladeii_ and chanting a ribald Roman marching song of their own invention. Imogene looked down at the beautiful young innocent and wondered if she too — her laughter notwithstanding — might be hiding private woes.

Imogene could not recall having seen the girl in extended conversation with any of the boys at the club meetings, and even now the many young men in the room all failed to elicit from her more than a cursory though courteous glance. Still, it seemed unlikely that this charming girl could ever have known a great sadness; her eyes were too bright, her giggles too ready, her gullibility too obvious.

But then, thought Imogene, was not her own disguise so successful that it seemed not one person in the room looked at her with anything short of envy or admiration? Not even Mr Grove — to be fooling _him_ was an achievement indeed.

For reasons unexplained, the teacher had dressed himself this year in the rags and limp of an aged Greek slave, complete with phony white beard and a sort of begging bowl dangling from his clothesline belt.

Earlier, Imogene had glanced at the writing on the bowl, and though confident in her skill at reading Greek, as were many of her classmates, she had, like them, made puzzled eyebrows at the apparently nonsensical word there imprinted: 'μελκo' (transliterally: 'melko').

Later on, however — during one of her poisonous recollections of Stanley — it came suddenly to Imogene that the cryptic slogan could perhaps be an anagram for the word: 'emlok.'

'Hemlock'? she smiled. (Hardly precise of course, but just the sort of linguistic treachery one could expect of Mr Grove!)

Thus, when finally the teacher approached Imogene, enthroned within her _locus res publica_ , she held out her hand with full Roman graciousness, "Ah, my dear Socrates," she said, "greetings and salutations!"

His grin was such that Imogene knew she had been the only one to guess his identity.

They chatted awhile in their casual, idiomatic Latin, and then, in simpler syntax, he stooped to exchange a few words with Drusilla.

Imogene had to concede that the girl was intelligent and quick with answers, more so, she felt, than she herself had been at age fourteen. But the tone of eternal delight in the young voice (which Imogene now recognized derived from the girl's callow certainty that she will love all, and all will love her), this, Imogene knew, was identical to the trusting candor she herself had once enjoyed, in the days before Stanley.

Mr Grove congratulated Imogene on her fine purchase, but added, with a trace of disappointment, that she could probably have gotten the girl for a good deal less.

Imogene blushed to agree. (She realized suddenly that he too had been counting on her to buy up all the unwanted slaves.)

In leaving the girls, the teacher quoted that old Ovid bromide: 'Wise in love: foolish with funds,' but luckily had turned away before Imogene was obliged to make a response. She was not fully sure what Mr Grove had meant. Possibly — to her severe resentment! — he was under the misconception that she and Stanley cared _equally_ for one another!

Drusilla, staring up at her mistress, seemed puzzled as well. She was stretched tall on her knees, her face tipped to one side and the bright, abiding smile, remarkably, _in absentia_.

"Peel me a grape!" barked Imogene in crass English. And the girl, laughing, dashed away to the food tables.
\- XLVII -

After church the next day a blue station wagon stopped in front of Imogene's house and dropped off the little slave. NanciKay was her real name. She came dressed in sweater, jeans, sneakers and a brunette ponytail, and seemed overjoyed to continue her period of servitude.

Imogene, however, had nothing planned for the girl to do. After a quick consultation with Polly and Becky, both of whom she had invited over to watch the fun, Imogene set her happy minion to work in the living room with dust cloth and a bottle of Lemon Pledge.

The day was warm and sunny, perfect for golf, but Mr and Mrs Urich were staying home in accordance with the banquet rules requiring chaperones for all slaves and slaveholders. The parents kept themselves busy puttering around the house in their old clothes. But Stacy was gone; she had slept over at a friend's house and would be away until suppertime at least.

Down in the basement, Dan could be heard bouncing balls and making other assorted noises while waiting for a call from his friends. No mention had been made to him of the pretty girl who would be spending the entire afternoon under their roof.

When the phone rang, Imogene hurried to answer it and report to the astonished caller that Dan was _much_ too busy with homework to go out and play. Her friends laughed to hear an actual lie from Imogene's lips, while the puzzled slave, unable to fathom their hilarity, only smiled and went on with her polishing.

The vacuum cleaner was tried next but everyone, other than the operator, objected to the whine. Finally, impatient with the continuing absence of her brother (and fearing he might wander away through the garage), Imogene announced that she and her friends wished to play cards.

Imperiously, she dispatched her slave to the basement for the little card table with folding legs. The girl was halfway to the stairs when Imogene added, "I'm not sure where it is exactly. Behind the workbench I think. Ask my brother."

As the tiny sock feet were pattering down the basement steps, the girls collapsed on the couch in an orgy of muted squeals.

"Lamb to the slaughter!"

"Which one's the lamb I'd like to know!"

They tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened with held breath. The thumping of Dan's tennis ball had ceased, but no voices could be heard.

"Ten to one she comes back preg — !"

"Shh!"

Before long, they heard scraping sounds and harsh banging. Imogene knew that all the folding furniture was kept behind the massive slabs of the stored Ping-Pong table; it was generally a family effort to get at any of those items.

When at last they heard footsteps, the girls rushed back to the living room and began chatting innocently among themselves. Soon, the table arrived, its legs still retracted, and each end borne by a grinningly pink-faced carrier.

"Where d'ya want it?" they asked with one voice.

Such clumsy intimacies were repeated throughout the day, and the girls wondered what was on their victims' minds that they could remain so long oblivious to the amusement they were providing.

The second feature of the Channel Eleven matinee was an old Tarzan film, and by that time all pretense of slave labor had been abandoned. Imogene and her friends reclined on the couch, munching popcorn and making wisecracks at the hammy movie, while on the floor, off to one side, Dan and NanciKay shared a bowl between themselves. When the part came where all the white women were strapped to trees by savages, the girl gazed up at the TV in earnest empathy of the ladies' torment.

Dan stared only at NanciKay.

Late in the afternoon, after the friends had left, Imogene and her brother and slave were shooting baskets in the driveway. It was clear now, from the way the girl seemed always to gravitate toward Dan and addressed all of her giggles to him, that there was more than a passing interest on her part. Also, she was surprisingly knowledgeable of his athletic record. She knew, for example, what his jersey number had been and that he was now one of the relay runners on the track team.

Pleased beyond words, Imogene could hardly keep her mind on the game at hand. She was keen to make herself as silly as possible. "No-o!" she cried. "I _almost_ made it! I should get something!"

"Right," said Dan. "You get H-O-R- _S!_ One more'n you're out." He gave the ball to her opponent.

Imogene was not through debating. "It would've gone _in!_ I should get like ... H-O-R an'a half! H-O-R point five."

Dan could only shake his head at the girls' combined laughter.

Later, after running inside to answer a phone call, Imogene retreated to her bedroom for awhile. She knelt at the window and through a gap in the curtains looked down on the boy and girl in the driveway. For long moments Dan stood bouncing the ball with great deliberation, precisely as he did at the free-throw line, only now, with head bent low, he was shyly nodding to hear the girl's endless, wide-eyed chatter. The ponytail seemed a live thing for it never once came to rest. Sniffling, Imogene saw in this tender scene how Matt and herself must once have been, now long ago, and she felt achy and old.

With the stranger finally out of the house, the cat made himself visible once more; he climbed into Imogene's sun-warmed arms to close his sleepy eyes.

Then, around the corner of the garage, Mrs Urich came into view with several tall cuttings cradled in her work gloves. The girl dashed over to admire the flaming lilies, and Dan followed with the basketball held manfully on one hip. The words of their conversation were inaudible, but there was much smiling and tipping back to laugh.

Imogene hugged the cat, pressing him tight against the hot, sweet gash in her heart.

When the blue station wagon returned, Imogene hurried downstairs. NanciKay was at the dining room table collecting her things and saying goodbye to the parents.

The girls raced across the lawn to the parked car. Dan, bashfully, was still bouncing the ball in the driveway, and Imogene had to run back and grab him by the arm. They gathered beside the car as their visitor hopped in, chirping to her mother at the wheel. Introductions were made and Imogene praised the girl in resplendent tones, much to the mother's obvious delight. Among her eager comments, Imogene found many places in which to emphasize her brother's name.

Eventually, the car drove off amid a blossoming of waved hands.

Dan continued to gaze after the car, and the look on his face, blank and timeless, was worth realms to Imogene. Hiding a sniffle, she punched the ball out of his grasp and ran for a lay-up, which, predictably, came no closer to the hoop than her bedroom window. They laughed and threw the ball around for a long time, avoiding all mention of the girl.

Then another car halted at the foot of the driveway. Stacy jumped out with a little suitcase in her hand and an armload of recent purchases. Goodbyes were squeaked, but even before the car had pulled away, the burdens were dropped to the grass and Stacy, with skirt flying immodestly, came running to capture a rebound. She dared the others to a game, girls against boys, and the sisters ran their brother ragged. Both of the twins laughed at Imogene for throwing like a girl.

She was glad though, while they played, for the opportunity to tell again of her banquet the night before. Imogene spoke mainly to her sister, but the details she chose to illuminate were those which Dan would be most interested to hear.

Stacy, in her comical way, also had much to relate of her own adventures, but Dan, by his silence and sheepish grins, made himself most conspicuous.

Supper was finally called and the girls went to fetch the items jettisoned on the lawn. When out of Dan's hearing, Stacy came close enough to whisper: "Vas macht _du_ , Fraulein!" She glanced back at their brother. "He fall in love with your little slave girl or something?"

"Oh Stace!" Imogene threw arms around her sister. "I was like honest-t'god _Cupid_ today! I could just _see_ the arrows sticking out of their hearts!"

The girls continued to hold each other, and in doing so Imogene discovered something remarkable: she and her sister were no longer the same height. Her eyes, she found, came only as high now as Stacy's cheek. With unclear logic, Imogene hugged all the harder for having become at last — and once again — the smallest in the family.

Stacy, too, seemed reluctant to let go. The neighborhood was filled with squealy kids and screen doors slamming, bikes and ball games and the buzz of lawnmowers; people _must_ be looking at them, yet the girls continued to hold one another without a word.

Late that evening Imogene was sitting on her bed, in her lush lavender robe, brushing her hair. All the pleasures of the weekend were now past, and the black thoughts, though slowly, were returning in full. The wonder was how they had stayed away so long.

She scolded, even derided herself for succumbing to these pointless fears. Whatever happens, happens! she sighed. It was all delusion anyway, thinking she had some privileged right to a future with Matt. She never had any more chance of keeping him than does her brother — and NanciKay — of keeping the wonderful thing _they_ just found!

She thought about this for awhile, then, shaking her head, laid down the brush and turned to her reflection in the dressing table mirror.

With care, she mouthed the opening lines of her graduation speech, raising her hands to practice a gesture or two, and studied her face for the appropriate tilt and earnestness. The silent words flowed from her like the lyrics of a well-known tune.

But then she froze. She had recalled something from her earlier paper on Mary Queen of Scots, the one from her tenth grade history class that Matt had copied. In delineating the character of her subject, Imogene had been forced to decide about a letter the doomed queen had, allegedly, written hours before her execution, asking that her servants be adequately cared for after her death.

Imogene, confident in the acuity of her then fifteen years, had dismissed the report as patently apocryphal. No one, even one so saintly as MQS, could have spent any of her last precious moments in selflessly requesting provision for her maids. It was foolish to think so.

Yet now, remembering the sting in her heart as she watched the kids playing in the driveway, Imogene wondered: Perhaps — when evils are long in coming — perhaps one's better nature may occasionally surmount an unkind destiny. It may even be a natural instinct, before martyrdom, to perform acts worthy of so distinguishing a fate.

Sighing, Imogene went on with her speech. The face in the mirror was a trifle ruddy now, ashamed of having so underrated her heroine and, even more, of daring to suppose herself of comparable merit. But she was pleased nonetheless; her gestures became flamboyant, her lips and eyebrows rounded each unspoken word distinctly.

Then she spun around. Dan was standing at the doorway, in bathrobe and bare feet.

"Goofball!" She threw her hands at him. "Can'tcha _knock_ once'n awhile?" Now she was really blushing.

"Door was open," Dan mumbled.

Despite the itchiness in her face, Imogene arose and walked boldly up to her brother, grinning now at his turned-away eyes.

He looked angry. "I knew all along," he told the woodwork. "What y'were tryin' t'pull."

"Sure."

"I did!"

A limp hand was held up to him. "Smack me if I've been naughty."

A moment went by, then he threw arms around her.

Imogene was taken completely by surprise. While he was gently crushing her, and with her head on his shoulder, she tried to think when was the last time he had held her so. All that came to mind was that one day, years ago, when she brought the twins to their first Sunday school class. Stacy fitted right in of course, but her brother was terrified of all the strange faces.

Back then Imogene was the taller one, and Danny was crying. Now it was her tears most in evidence.
\- XLVIII -

But despite her conscious efforts and perpetually rebounding spirits, the deep dread continued within Imogene, contaminating all of her private hours and even, as the days passed and the twentieth of May became imminent, spreading despair to her more public times. The cursed date and its significance recurred to her endlessly, compulsively, like swallows that keep testing the pain of a sore throat. Often now, while on her desk stood piles of neglected homework, she would sit and stare at the unmarked day on her calendar.

Her bracelets chimed as she argued her case before imaginary courts, proclaiming her right to a life of her own choosing, and the justness in treating with limited respect those who would limit our freedom. All agreed with her. Not only her quorum of owls, but the multitude of sage, unseen judges in their togas and cardinal robes; they nodded as well to all of her points and allowed that her oppressor be deprived of his right of fair treatment. Even Professor Einstein (his hand forlornly on the defendant's shoulder), with wild, white hair and eyes that drooped with the sadness of a cruel century, even he acquiesced.

But Imogene herself (the debate over, praised and congratulated) remained staring at the vile date and contemplating the dark decades that loom beyond.

Yet in spite of this interior torment, her body continued, perversely, to be healthy and robust. Try as she might, she could only rarely make herself exhibit any real loss of appetite, even when seated beside Stanley. Nightly, she sighed at the bathroom scale for its persistence in registering 107.

Her sleep dysfunctions, however, were genuine. She was often awake to see the small morning hours glowing on her clock, its dial, to her fuzzy vision, luminous in the dark like a moonlit skull. She yawned often during the day and her movements became groggy and deliberate. Occasionally, the sight of Stanley in class made her recall pieces of a bitter dream.

The prom, too, was approaching and she dreaded her friends' concern.

"How can y'go stag!" they cried at lunch the Wednesday before the big dance. " _You!_ "

"I know for a fact at least two guys've asked ya!"

"Three!" said Polly.

"Who y'waitin'for. A Kennedy?"

"I'm not going," Imogene mumbled.

"Oh, like we're really gonna believe that." Mary Helen laughed and began ticking items off on her fingers. "... the dress is paid for; we've had hair appointments since ... the Dawn of Man!"

Imogene made her head sway resolutely side to side, while her friends all sat back in their chairs, looking at one another.

"I'm not going," Imogene repeated in a low, sullen voice.

Becky let out a sigh. "Geenee, you can't _not_ go to your senior prom. What's wrong with you."

"Just forget him already!" said Mary Helen. "He's a royal jerk, okay? He doesn't _deserve_ you!"

Polly was stabbing at the noodles in her bowl. "Pete's really nice. An'he's lots smarter'n Matt."

Imogene's head was still in motion.

"Or whatsisname," said Becky, "Y'know from Ski Club? The guy who's always — "

"Just forget it! I'm not going!" Imogene spanked her hand on the table, and her friends' look of surprised hurt, like slapped infants, made her want to cry.

She looked down and tried to eat amid the silent gaze of her friends.

Gradually, new topics were opened for discussion, and before the end of the meal, to everyone's greater comfort, Imogene's contrite smiles had worked their way back into the conversation. But no further mention was made of the prom.

That night Imogene lay long awake in bed. It was her constant, revolving thought that on the next day, May 20th, she will either have to sign the contract or not sign it.

She had often thought of simply refusing to sign, and then relying upon the apparent love Stanley had for her to prevent him from carrying out his threats. As her family repeatedly declared, it was inconceivable he could be so cruel. But how could she take such a chance? All her future success and happiness was at stake — to say nothing of Matt's. And Stanley, beneath his timid manner, must harbor some degree of ruthlessness, for only such could have thought of so heartless a scheme in the first place. His own life had clearly not been a happy one; how much trouble will he take to preserve the happiness of others?

Besides, of late another thought had been occurring to her. If she defied him now and refused to sign, then any future benevolence he might show to her — such as releasing her unconditionally — could, in her heart, enslave her to an even more insurmountable obligation, for 'debts owed to kindness are more certain of repayment than those exacted by craft.' (Emerson.)

And the alternative: signing the contract while knowing full well she will not keep her word, had by now become as unthinkable an act as actually marrying him. This development had come about through her mistake one evening of attempting to pray for help.

Ever since her years in junior high when she sat puzzling through science courses, in which were taught concepts clearly opposed to the lengthy creeds memorized in her confirmation class — and the instructors of each refusing to explain how both could be right! — Imogene had found it more and more difficult to believe there was really someone listening whenever she spoke her heart to God.

Her faith in science, and its rational theorems, had also suffered a loss in this debate, but it was God who fell further from her power to believe. His repeated failure to fix her eyes had been a major point against Him. And even after receiving her first pair of contact lenses Imogene was more inclined to view these tiny magic coins as a product of science than as a long-delayed answer to her prayers.

But in desperation one night, in bed, in the dark of her quiet room, she had clasped hands and wetted knuckles with her tears, praying with all her heart that she be given the strength and courage to be dishonest with Stanley, to be able to sign his paper and then, calmly and with an _everlastingly_ clear conscience, go back on her word.

She did not expect anything to come of her plea, but something did, almost immediately, as quickly in fact as if she had been speaking to God on the phone. Her face had burned as an abrupt knowledge flooded into her, the certainty that she cannot — she absolutely cannot — under any hint of premeditation, make herself deceive Stanley, or anyone, ever. Regardless of what duress had been applied, or what misfortunes must ensue, she _will_ stand by her given oath, _in aeternum!_

God was not putting this stricture into her; He was pointing out that it had always been there. And that it would be easier for her to lose an arm or a leg, or a loved one, than to dispose of this, her debilitating and unalterable integrity.

Though occasionally she had taken the word of God _cum grano salis_ , it seemed that now, to God, _her_ word had become a sacred thing.

That strange feeling came into her once more: the agony of undeserved torment, the frustration of being one's own worst enemy, of being too good for her own good. But also there was the warmth of an elevating, almost ecstatic pride; to be the venue thus chosen, by Him, for so noble, so moral, so Miltonian a conflict.

It amazed Imogene that such unfair treatment of herself could result in so fatherly a concept of God. With bold impertinence she had even wondered: Did His Son, bleeding on the cross, feel this way too: bitter, yet beloved?

Nevertheless, on every subsequent occasion Imogene reminded herself that all manner of dishonesty is fair when one's freedom is at stake. Her ancient advocates were ever on hand with phrases of reassurance and eminent good sense, confirming her just defiance.

With each application, however, their advice seemed to console her less, for never could she fully believe that they themselves, the conscience of all creation — the host to which she aspired — would ever have chosen mere happiness over their deepest call of honor. Therefore how could she? 'For what shall it profit a man, though he gain the world, yet lose his own soul?'

God, indeed, was on Stanley's side, the two of them employing her best nature — her very definition of worth — as the weapon of choice against her.

But despite all rhetoric, Imogene knew her situation remained ludicrous. Her friends would laugh themselves silly if they ever found out. 'How can you get A's in school and be so dumb in life!' they would say. 'The guy's a jerk! He's just trying to get what he can get. Don't give him a second thought!'

Imogene slapped hands to the mattress. It's so _stupid!_ This whole thing! It's just so stupid!

Her clock said ten past four when she finally arose, put on her glasses, and padded downstairs to make herself some toast and cocoa. She and the cat curled up against the door of the refrigerator (where the floor was warmest) and nibbled on their respective snacks. The cat only licked the jelly on his piece of toast.

Imogene looked down and scratched at a puckered seam in the linoleum. Presently she heard the creaking of stairs and her mother appeared in robe and slippers. Nothing was said, but room was made for the newcomer, and much of an hour passed in their sniffled embrace.

The cat ate the jelly on Imogene's toast as well.
\- XLIX -

All through school the next day Imogene wandered around as if lost. In Latin class she had turned toward Stanley her most pleading, woebegone face, to which he blushed and dropped his eyes, but there was no hint of leniency in his manner.

She avoided her friends that day and spent the entire lunch hour sitting in the end stall of a girls' room, fiddling with her bracelets and reading the contract over and over, still seeking her escape. She found that all the words were now memorized; she could even see herself, with right hand raised, reciting them in a courtroom, and — it was strange — but just the sound of the phrases, as they endlessly restated themselves, had come to be pleasing to her in some unexplainable way, like a sad, sweet, end-of-the-movie melody:
... to solemnly and with full spiritual and social commitment become his lawful wife, to perform all duties and honor all responsibilities attendant thereto with courtesy, decency and respect, and to continue so for as long as we both shall live.

(Even the massively split infinitives had ceased to offend her.)

She took a moment to step outside her sorrow and wonder if, perhaps, her years of translating the words of vintage Latin lawyers were causing her to confuse Stanley's attempt at cold attorney talk with poetry.

At home that evening she hid herself away from the compassionate eyes of her family. She sat on her bed, the cat in her lap, and listened vacantly to the quiet thump and jingle downstairs as the dining room table was being set with its finest china.

When the doorbell rang, she heaved the cat to the mattress and rumbled down the steps. Without raising her eyes, she hurried over to Stanley and pulled him away from her mother's small talk, then led him back up to her room and closed the door.

She watched for awhile, arms crossed, as a blush deepened on his face and he tried not to look at her. Abruptly, he hurried over to the dresser and began examining the bottles and doilied knick-knacks on its top. He smiled at the puffy little earthenware owl, and raised the lid of her jewelry box to hear its gentle tinkle. (He seemed not to notice the tiny ring glittering back at him from its place of pride.)

Imogene looked on tolerantly for awhile, but when his head tipped to read the bindings on her bookshelf, she grabbed his shirt sleeve and sat him down on the bed directly beside the now erect and tall-tailed cat.

She pulled open a desk drawer, making Stanley chirp with glee: "You're gonna sign it?"

Instead of answering, Imogene handed him a small booklet and sat down on the bed, leaving the cat narrowly between them. The feline was allowed into her arms and petted while Stanley leafed through the inky pages of Imogene's bank book.

He came to a surprised stop on reaching the last entry, which had been imprinted only a few days before. From the height of his eyebrows it was probable that her current balance was greater than any he had known.

"And I _earned_ every dime," Imogene declared, though more to the cat's fur than to her guest. Then she sighed. "It's yours. All of it. Just ... get up an'get out'a my life. And stay out."

Her eyes were still lowered, and she felt him staring at her. "Deal?" she snapped, then heard him turning the pages some more.

With curiosity in his voice, Stanley asked, "What're all these big deposits back in nineteen-sixty. You were only ..." he thought a moment, "... thirteen."

"Babysitting. Do we have a deal or not."

He was peacefully nodding and turned to even earlier pages, where the entries were handwritten. "This very first one," he asked, "September thirteenth. 'Fifty-seven. Ten bucks ..." He grinned at her and poked his glasses back. "Your folks gave ya'ten dollar bill for your tenth birthday, right? An'a bank account, right?"

Imogene dumped the cat to the floor. "Just yes or no."

He laid the book in her lap. "No thanks."

"Stan! Three hundred'n — _four_ hundred! — there's my checking too!" She shook the little booklet at him. "You could buy a car with this."

He shrugged. "I don't have a license."

"Well buy a _bike_ then!"

He was smiling down at the cat, who was contemplating the toes of his black and gray socks. "I'd rather have you."

"But you're never gonna _get_ me! You must know that. I'm not gonna sacrifice my entire adult life to you."

"I think y'might. If y'sign the contract."

"Yes, I'll sign it! But there's nothing in the world's gonna make me keep my word! You _know_ that!" The blush on Imogene's face felt like acid.

Becoming wary of his mistress's voice, the cat hopped back onto the bed but hid from Imogene beside Stanley's hip, where he permitted the young man to caress his back.

"Yeah but just the chance, an' ... ," Stanley glanced at the booklet, "maybe you're kind a'scared y' _will_ keep your word?" His ugly grin was lifting one side of his glasses higher than the other.

Imogene made a disgusted sound and slapped her skirt. "You're just toying with me. You can't possibly be this stupid. Four hundred dollars, Stan. Or nothing. Ever. Take it or leave it." Her eyes were wet and she desperately needed to sniffle.

The cat meanwhile had climbed onto Stanley's warm lap and was composing himself into a soft, black bundle under the affectionate hands. His big cat eyes drifted shut.

"I know it sounds like a lot," said Stanley, looking down at the glossy fur. "More'n I got, but ... really it's not very much. Not in the long run. A thousand maybe, y'know, for college'n that. But ..." He shrugged. "It's not enough for anything important."

Imogene pressed her lips thin as she stared at him. "Well it's all you're gonna get." She sniffled. "I'm tryin't'be fair, but if you're just too dumb to know a good offer — "

"Can I ask y'something?"

"What."

"If y'made so much money babysitting, how come y'never changed a baby _boy's_ diaper before."

Hotly exhaling, Imogene got up and strode out of the room. On yanking the door open, she found her brother and sister dashing for the steps.

Imogene followed them, slowly.

Down in the living room she allowed her parents a view of her face before wiping her eyes.

Stanley remained behind, no doubt to inspect her furnishings some more, but eventually he too came downstairs. The cat was in his arms.
\- L -

Though their dinner that night was subdued, Stanley seemed more at ease than usual; almost as if, for once, he felt he belonged among them. When he ate, his face was held not quite so close to his food.

Part way through the meal he asked the twins about their activities and was plainly intrigued to hear of Dan's achievements in track and field, and even more when Stacy made laughing allusion to the new girlfriend her brother had taken to the latest meet. Dan, it was noted by all, appeared comfortably resigned to the raillery concerning his private life.

But for the most part, while they ate, only the click of silverware could be heard. Occasionally, Imogene looked toward her parents and was annoyed to find no frowns of sympathy. They seemed, in fact, more inclined to dart smiles at her.

Then Stacy, smirking, tipped toward their guest. "So, y'got a date for the prom yet? I think Geenee's available." Both she and her brother chuckled over this until hushed by the mother.

Imogene had prepared herself for jokes of this sort. She continued to gaze tilt-headed at the tablecloth, as if lost in thought, while Stanley, seated beside her, could only reply with his clumsy, simpleton's shrug.

Stacy sighed, "Y'said y'never go to dances. Aren'tcha at least curious?"

Imogene turned now to look at Stanley. He was blushing and shaking his head. "I went to a dance once," he muttered. "I'm never goin'again."

Later, when a plate of dessert was before everyone (Dutch apple pie topped with a perfect scoop of French vanilla, plus a cherry, its bright red Italiano stem uplifted like a saber), the father leaned back and cleared his throat. "Well ... I guess now's the day an'now's the hour, so they say."

"Yes sir." Stanley had begun to blush once more.

"But before you ask Geenee to sign her life away, we'd like to offer you an Option B."

Imogene looked up at her father, then her mother; both were smiling pleasantly and Mr Urich handed her a small slip of paper. "Pass this down to our guest."

It was a check, made out to 'Stanley Alan Ratt,' and signed in her father's familiar scribble.

Stacy snatched it from her and gasped:
" _Five Thousand Dollars!_ "

Dan grabbed the check and likewise froze.

"All right, kids," said their mother. "Just let him see it."

Imogene felt hot blades slicing through her; she flashed eyes from one parent to the other.

As Stanley was gazing at the check, adjusting his glasses to do so, the father went on; a grim but confident look was on his face. "It's not a loan," he said. "It's all yours. I don't ever wanna see it again." Then his eyes narrowed. "The only stipulation: you let my daughter go. Completely. No contract. No talking to the principal. Nothing."

Imogene was unable to breathe.

Mrs Urich leaned forward, tapping her lip with a napkin. "We gathered, Stan — from talking to your parents the other night? — that you could maybe use some help with your college tuition. I hope you won't be too proud to accept this." She smiled. "I can hardly think of anything better to spend it on."

"Mom!" cried Stacy. "Your new kitchen!"

"Oh shush!"

Imogene had finally broken her trance. She glanced once more at Stanley's eyeglasses devouring the check, then hopped up and brutally hugged her father. "An'your boat? Daddy, your _boat!_ "

"Now just you never mind," said Mr Urich, turning pink. "Our kids come first. Always. No matter how much trouble they get us into." A smack on her bottom sent Imogene to the other end of the table where she collapsed into her mother's arms. Her brother and sister, mouths still open, were sitting tall in their chairs.

"Besides," the father laughed, "I can't pass up a bargain. _Two_ presents for the price a'one. Wish I could buy cars like that."

"Um ..." Stanley looked up suddenly, "she's still goin'to her college, right?"

"Of course," said the father.

"An' ... the other kids ... ?"

"Of course!"

A worried look was forming once more on Imogene's face.

The mother relaxed her hold. "Stan," she said tenderly, "dear, this isn't a hardship for us. You must know that we think of you almost as if you were our own. We hope — we're sure you'll want to be as kind to Geenee as her family has been to you. We've loved having you here, all of us." She squeezed her daughter. "Even Geenee, in her own way."

Feeling eyes upon her, Imogene made no denial.

Stanley was swaying his head at the little slip of paper. "But ... it's so _much_."

The father responded with emphasis, "You think she's worth one dime less? I'd give twice that if I could afford it. By the way," He lowered his voice. "Don't take it to the bank 'til, oh, Tuesday or so? I have to cash in some bonds'n things an' ... you understand."

Stanley was nodding.

"Oh, and," the father tugged an earlobe, "I suggest you keep it hidden from your folks. They'd probably make you give it back. I sure would."

His wife added, "We thought maybe you could — oh I hate to say this, but — we've all told so many lies already, maybe you could ... pretend to win scholarships along the way or something?"

"You'll get killed on taxes though," said the father.

The twins' faces were flopping back and forth between their parents.

"We could split it up," Mr Urich went on, "A thousand a year for five years, somethin'like that. Wouldn't lose so much to Uncle Sam."

Stanley was still nodding, though absently now, hunched over the little piece of paper, as if suddenly aware that it was all his.

"You could say it's for, y'know ... odd jobs, handyman work, that sort'a thing."

Large crimson blotches, like rising continents, had established themselves on Stanley's face.

As Imogene stared at him, it occurred to her that his bruise, and even its yellowed remnant, were no longer visible. She could not guess how long ago it had vanished, but the absence made her feel warm inside. She felt, in fact, almost ashamed of the wanton joy that was flooding into her. Happy tears stood tall on both cheeks, high above her wobbly smile; she sniffled, squeezing her mother, and wished, dearly wished, that she could breathe a prayer of gratitude — one she could be sure was genuine — for it was likely she had far more to thank than the mere astonishing generosity of her parents.

Eventually she was sent back to her chair, and they all went on with their dessert. Stanley was mumbling shy and profuse thank you's to everyone. He slipped the check into his shirt pocket, while Imogene, at his elbow, turned and smiled at him, a helpless, wet-eyed smile, and had to restrain herself from throwing arms around him as well. Thank god he's greedy!

But moments later it came to her how blatantly outrageous all of this was. (She was scowling now at the melted ice cream on her plate.) Days from now she will be screaming over this colossal extortion. She knew all too well, from the infuriating negotiations with the scholarship committee, that her parents could hardly afford to send _her_ to college, much less the twins — and now Stanley too? An acknowledged criminal? It was monstrous!

Yet, at the moment, she could feel the weight of chains falling from her limbs and glimpse the sun dawning on a future of her own. Her very _own!_

The terror was gone. Stanley was gone. He ceased even to register in her thoughts as her mind raced on to fresh worries over Matt and the remaining few hours before the prom. Plans and eloquent persuasions were already occurring to her. She felt her heart pound and her lips go thin with the effort.

"Dear," the mother tipped toward her. "Dear, eat. Really, everything is fine."

The father patted Imogene's hand.

Breaking into a huge smile, she grabbed his arm and pressed her cheek against the warm white sleeve. "Oh, Daddy — !" was all she could say.

When they finished supper, Mrs Urich tried to talk Stanley out of helping with the dishes this last time, but he firmly insisted and took his turn at the sink.

The new kitchen had not often been a topic of conversation, and Stanley now asked several questions concerning it, for example, where the dishwasher would go. Then he fell silent, staring at his arms in the soapy water and listening vacantly to the infectious chatter of the twins. (They were deciding for him which color T-bird he should get.)

Imogene, her bracelets tinkling while patting the plates dry, watched him carefully.

When all the dishes were done, while she was wiping the counter and Stanley had hung up the two china coffee cups on their high hooks, he took the check out of his pocket and walked over to the father seated at the kitchen table.

"I just can't," said Stanley, his head hung low. "You're right. She's worth a lot more. She ... it's not enough."

Startled, the father and the twins looked up at him, then at the check he had laid on the table. The mother, across the room, was paused at her dust mop.

Turning to Imogene, Stanley mumbled, "Y'have to sign the contract." His face was very pale.

"The guy's cracked!" wailed Stacy. "You _don't_ turn down five _grand!_ "

"'Specially — " Dan tried to say.

"She'll _never_ marry you!"

Stanley, having returned to the counter, was gazing down at his dark socks and the worn patch of floor in front of the sink. "She might," he said, then raised his eyes, for just a moment, into Imogene's fierce gaze.

"Please?" he added, now speaking to the cuff he was unrolling down his arm. "Sign it? That's all I want."

Imogene placed stiff fingers on her hips. The dishrag was still in her hand and its clammy chill went through the fabric of her skirt. "Well too bad," she said. "I'm not signing it."

Stanley began to nod, as if in agreement, ignoring the wide opened eyes all around them. "So ... d'ya wanna come with me then? When I go to the principal?" He was pulling down the other sleeve. "Or, maybe it's better if y'go by yourself. Y'know ... like you're makin'a confession or something?"

She stared at him. His words were obviously rehearsed, and he was turning pink. She knew he was lying. He was bluffing.

Certainly, he was bluffing.

For that long moment the humming bulb on the ceiling presided over them all.

Stanley had re-buttoned his cuffs, and his hands seemed now to have no place to put themselves. He began scratching the back of one wrist.

With a sigh of extreme calm, Imogene draped the cloth over the handle of the oven door, then paced slowly into the dining room. She passed the cat eyeing a fallen pea by the table leg and went up to her room.

From the kitchen came her mother's despairing whimper, "Oh ... Stan."

This could not have had much effect, however, for when Imogene returned, her face frozen and the contract and a pen in her hands, everyone was in their same places; nothing had changed except that Stanley, from his ears to his fingernails, was bright red.

Imogene stooped over the kitchen table, amid the array of her family's arms and fists, and slashed her name on the indicated line, then handed the document to her sister. "Sign it," she ordered.

Stacy looked around, as if for help. Everyone remained silent.

Haltingly, the paper made the rounds of the table. The father signed it last, and Stanley, with reverence it seemed, gathered up the document and tried to smooth its many wrinkles. "Thanks," he said, folding the paper into a small rectangle; his voice was very low. "I'm sorry ... y'know ... 'bout everything." He sighed, then shrugged. "So ... see y'in four years I guess."

Imogene was staring at the cat, now lapping at his bowl by the back door. She felt Stanley trying to catch her eye, but she made no movement, and soon he was gone.

Her sister dashed after him. "But you're still coming to my concert, right? Next week, right?"

One by one the others left too, even the cat.

Squeezing the pen in her fist, Imogene hurried upstairs, past the sight of her mother hugging Stanley at the front door, and enclosed herself in the bathroom. She grabbed the little aspirin bottle from its shelf in the medicine cabinet, dumped the dozen or so tablets into the toilet and flushed them away. Then replaced the empty bottle.

She opened the door slightly and, with concern, listened to her mother offering — begging — to drive Stanley home. "Just _look_ how nasty it is out there!" she pleaded.

But Stanley refused, and when Imogene heard the last sounds of his departure, she went to the head of the stairs, "Mom? We got any more Buff'rins?"

The reply was preceded by a sniffle. "Just what's in the cabinet, dear. They can't all be gone."

"I've been popping'em like candy!" Imogene retorted, then darted into her room for a quick clothing change. Soon, she came thumping down the steps in an old, unflattering skirt and blouse. And gone now were the bracelets from her arm.

The twins had settled themselves in front of the TV set, waiting for it to warm up. They glanced intermittently at their parents who were still at the front window watching Stanley's slow progress down the street. The father's arm was around the mother's waist; he was trying to make a joke. "First to leave the nest," he chuckled.

Imogene paid little attention as she scoured the inside of her purse for the car keys. She had a book under one elbow.

"Dear," her mother sniffled again. "I'll go get some right away."

"Never mind." Imogene made her forehead wrinkle, as if she did indeed have a headache. "I gotta renew a book anyway." She paused before heading down the basement stairs. "Need anything at the drug store?"

Her father came forward and clutched her in his big arms. "Oh sweetheart," his voice was striving to be cheerful, "It's gonna be okay! Everything's gonna be fine! I guarantee it!"

Imogene grinned, her cheek pressed to his warm, wide chest. "I know. I'm just glad it's all over. _Now_ at least I can get on with my life. Oh, by the way?" she added, leaning back to display her brightest cheerleader smile, "I'll prob'ly stop at Matt's on the way home? If no one minds?"

No one did. She squeezed her father once more, tightly, and peeked around his shoulder at the family's shy expressions. She had to struggle to keep her lips turned up.

With a light step and a chirping "See y'later!" Imogene hurried down to the garage, started the big Chevy — slapped off her father's news station — and drove away.

Stanley had not gone two blocks yet when the car's headlights, as Imogene sped by, made him hop onto a neighbor's lawn.

Her face, now, was grim as a centurion's, and the steering wheel squeaked within her knuckled fists.
\- LI -

Imogene drove with all dispatch to the shopping center (her eyes peeled for police cars) and careened into the Raccoon Lot, then hurried past the rows of parked vehicles to the entrance. The air felt ominously hollow; far to the west she could see black clouds crowding above the treetops.

In Walgreen's, Imogene grabbed a box of pills at random and marched with them to the pharmacy counter. She was thankful that the giggly girl with freckles was not on duty; it was the motherly woman tonight; she greeted her customer with a big smile.

Tapping the pills on the counter, Imogene nodded to the clerk, then pointed at the small, discreetly colored packages behind the cash register. "One of those too, please."

The woman, paused by this, tried not to look flabbergasted. "W-which ... ?"

Shame had flashed over Imogene like a grease fire. "The brown ones," she mumbled.

Neither she nor the clerk raised their eyes throughout the rest of their transaction.

Outside, at a waste can by the door, Imogene opened the box of prophylactics and threw all but one of them away. This, a small square of cardboard no bigger than a matchbook, she slipped into her purse with the pills. Her arms, she noted, were the color of watermelon pulp.

Rain was beginning to fall as she dashed back to the car; the tiny drops stung her heated flesh; the wind clawed at her skirt.

With headlights on and wipers flapping, Imogene sped back to her neighborhood. There she patrolled up and down several streets until she spotted Stanley pacing quickly along an avenue already bright with drizzle. His hands were in his pockets; his jacket zipped-up against the gusty wind.

Pulling alongside, she rolled down her window and barked, "Get in!"

He did so and she drove off.

Stanley was quick to say thank you, but receiving no reply (and soon realizing that she was not driving him home), he settled himself into the corner and stared quietly at her.

Imogene drove a considerable distance, across the Beltline and far beyond the homes of all her richest friends, coming at last to a dark and densely wooded area where imposing residences were being built. Early in the winter, she had driven Matt out this way one weekend when his car had failed to start. She could not recall though which house he and his crew had been working on; it all looked different now without snow on the ground.

Eventually, they arrived at a winding road high in the Elnora hills, where new streetlamps still hung dark on their poles, and the skeletons of incomplete mansions peered down from forested lots. The treetops bobbed and nodded in the wind like gawking spectators.

Imogene drove more slowly now, as if looking for something, then, abruptly, swung the car off the road and up a narrow, steep drive. The engine roared and the wheels skidded over sheets of coarse gravel.

Soon, the framework of a vast construction flashed into view. The car jolted over freshly graded earth and came finally to rest between a stand of tall, obscuring pines and the cavern of a two-car garage clad in tar paper.

Imogene looked around a moment, then shut off the engine and sat back in the sudden dark. She was dressed only in the flimsy cotton outfit she had put on, and despite the heat that had been blasting from the vents she was shivering uncontrollably. A heavy, wavering sigh escaped from her.

Stanley had said nothing further. He had made no movement at all other than occasionally to tap his hair with the cuff of his jacket; now he was staring at his knees. All they could hear outside was the whisper of dribbles collecting on the windshield.

Imogene opened her purse and felt around for the little square envelope. This she handed to Stanley. She had to poke him in the shoulder to get his attention.

"What's this," he asked, and she unlatched the door to make the interior light come on.

There was a pause before he spoke again. "W-what ... right now?" His voice trembled, and he glanced into the back seat as Imogene slammed the door closed. "Just as soon as you tear up that stupid contract!" She was pressing elbows against her ribs to stop the shivering. "An'promise to stay out of my life. Forever!"

His tongue clicked. "Geenee. I just turned down a fortune." Stanley had apparently recovered from his momentary surprise. In the darkness she could barely make out that he was waving the little package at her. "Y'think this is worth more'n — "

"That's not the point!" Imogene snapped her purse closed and threw it on the dashboard. "Look, you can't have my whole life, okay? This is the most y'can have. I'm making the offer in good faith an'if y'turn _this_ down, well ... that's it. You've had your chance. An'four years from now? I won't have one single ... qualm when I tell ya to go to hell!"

Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim light. She paused for a few breaths and could see him sitting stiffly upright, turning the little tan package over and over in his hands. Her own hands, she found, were clutching fistfuls of her skirt. There was an ache in her fingers as she pressed them straight against her thighs. Overhead, the rain continued its gentle patter, and smears of condensation were forming on the windshield, concealing them from the upright boards before them.

Imogene let out an angry sigh. "Do we have a deal or not."

There was a bright flash outside followed at once by a crash of thunder, making both of them flinch. Little by little the rain on the roof began to clatter.

Stanley remained silent, but soon both he and Imogene stretched their necks at the sight of the earth all around them blushing white with hordes of tiny hailstones. The car became comically noisy inside.

After watching through the foggy windows for a few moments (it looked like popcorn was popping on the hood of the car), Stanley turned to her. "That day? When you'n Matt were in that little room?" His voice cracked to be raised above the fury of the storm. "I heard y'sayin' — _he_ was s'pose to get this, right?"

"Just yes or no."

"I mean ... you've never ... ? With anyone ... ?"

"Yes or _no!_ "

There was silence for awhile, then the lightning flashed again, bright and wavering, and another crash, but from farther away.

The boy's face shone pink. An irrelevant expression, something like curiosity, was behind the thick lenses. Stanley was tilting his head at the object lying flat in his palm like a big bug.

After a further moment he dared to pull open the flap of the package and peek inside. He quickly closed it again. Then his nose wrinkled, lifting his glasses. "Won't it ... hurt'cha'n stuff?"

"That's not your concern! All _you_ have to worry about is having a good time. An'don't say y'don't want it. I've seen y'lookin'at girls. At me! Oh you're so good'n sweet'n innocent. Makes me sick!"

Stanley was clearly visible now, but his features had contracted themselves into something dulled and ugly, his jacket still zipped to his chin. He seemed unable to look at anything but the little pale package in his hand.

Trembling, Imogene climbed out from behind the steering wheel and crawled toward him on the seat, letting her loafers fall to the carpeted floor. His hands raised themselves at her approach and she patted them away, then curled herself into his lap, slowly, like a kitten.

She removed his glasses and gently, very gently, pressed her lips to his. He did not pull away, but his mouth was cold and tasted faintly of maraschino. She leaned back a moment to reach arms around his damp jacket collar, then kissed him again. "Lick your lips," she whispered, tilting her head to the other side, and kissed him again.

Though tense at first, Stanley soon responded with unmistakable ardor. His arms about her acquired a sudden force and command, making it difficult for Imogene to breathe, but she made no resistance.

The windows were nearly opaque now from their breathing, and the hail had ceased. All that could be heard was the soft drumming of a steady downpour.

Stanley was placing kisses on her face and hair, excitedly, in panic almost, as if he had only a moment to live. The long lashes of her eyes fluttered against the onslaught. His hands seemed to be everywhere on her blouse (she had left off the bra when changing clothes), and his cold fingers were rummaging her with clumsy awe.

It bothered Imogene that she felt no disgust.

Tipping out of his embrace, she reached over and pulled the keys from the ignition, then forced them in front of his eyes. Without glasses he appeared dazed and dimwitted, much as one looks when shaken awake, and, contrary to her scornful words, she felt only pity now for the helpless boy, drowning in his ungovernable lust.

She was pinching one of the keys, the rest dangling below. "There's an old navy blanket in the trunk — under the newspapers I think — lay it on the back seat, okay?"

She thought it odd that her voice should have the chirpy-ness of summertime fun. It was the voice she used whenever her family went camping (which was the last time the blanket had been out of the trunk). "Hurry!" She patted his shoulder. "Before it starts pourin'again."

He stumbled awkwardly out of the car, and it was obvious that the storm was far from over. A blast of cold spray made her gasp when she pulled the door closed behind him.

As she was climbing over the seat, the trunk lid popped open and blocked the view in back, but she looked closely through the other windows (her fist rubbing peepholes in the film) to make sure there were no unwanted eyes in the area.

She was trembling violently now, as though stricken with fever, for, irrevocably she realized — 'to death or glory' — she was now committed. She had, like Caesar before her, 'crossed boldly the Rubicon.'

Then her face soured as another apt phrase occurred to her: 'The challenge of coming to an end.'

With some difficulty, she wriggled free of her underpants, then huddled tightly in the corner by the rear door on the driver's side, her knees raised and clutched against her chest, the faded skirt pulled tight about her legs. (It was an old party skirt she had not worn in years, the paisley one with a ripped hip; a garment which, if stained, could painlessly be tossed away.)

The whitened ground outside seemed to have bathed everything in twilight. Her eyes, through the filmy windshield, had fastened themselves on the gaunt, timbered structure before her, standing tall and menacing like a ghost ship emerging from the fog, the tuck-under garage gaped hollowly back at her from within its black shrouds.

Possibly, thought Imogene, some of those boards had been erected by Matt himself, cut to length with a squealing saw and nailed in place by his big iron hammer. Years from now, she wondered, when this house is fully built and occupied by some happy family, the driveway paved, the lawn all lush and green, and she, perhaps arm-in-arm house-hunting with Matt (or _Stan!_ — or god knows who!), she wondered: How will she feel to see again this very spot?

The car sagged gently and recovered. There was a soft thumping in the trunk as Stanley searched around in the rainy dark. Then the car sagged again.

And then again.

What is he _doing_ out there! He'll be wet as squid by the time — "Stan!" she cried at the ceiling. "I haven't got all night!"

This was odd. A moment ago the boy had wholly devolved into some kind of sex-crazed animal. So why, now, was he taking his sweet time about it? And getting soaked!

Suddenly, perversely, there popped into her mind the vision of Milton's pale and willowy Eve: 'Serenely bare in Eden, enrobed in golden tresses ... her ivy-tendrilled ringlets swayed,' (but also wearing glasses, Stanley's glasses). Like some careless, carefree shopper, this mincing lady paused and dawdled among her flowers, was fussy beyond belief, believing her paradise cannot be lost. And making, thereby, all of future mankind wait upon her 'sweet reluctant amorous delay.'

Imogene gave a peevish snort. She realized, by this logic, if Stanley is cast as placid Eve, then she herself must be that most yearning of all young virgins: Adam.

She shook her head. And just how much credit can she claim for submitting so utterly, indeed for proposing — _coercing!_ — such trite iniquity as this!

Then another thought struck her: What if this had been his plan all along? What if Stanley had threatened her with a lifetime of couplings merely to be assured of having her once? And by her own design!

She felt herself turning lollipop red.

But this quickly passed. Stanley was weak of flesh, surely, but something — in the many days she had known him now — something made it difficult to believe that his heart was truly evil. In fact, since Stanley's options in life seemed to include suicide, it might even be dangerous to let him go home tonight believing all the sin was on his side.

God! Imogene grabbed her hair. Who but _she_ could wish to talk her rapist out of his guilt!

The air in the car had become cold. Imogene was still shivering, but there seemed now to be a soothing warmth down the center of her bones, as often comes when the hardest part of some ordeal has been gotten through.

For days now, these very moments were her darkest imagining. She had rehearsed this scene dozens of times, and now there was but one more repetition to be made.

She was content. Rationally, she knew that Stanley could harm her no more than would a genuine lover; his own self-reproach will probably last forever; and she felt somehow that he will comprehend — perhaps even better than would a friend — the true magnitude of her sacrifice. 'Is it not hard to hate the victor who feels his victim's loss?' (Boethius.) (No wait! ... Saint Augustine.)

Yet the stark faithlessness to Matt shamed her every moment. It was unforgivable what she was doing to him. (Despite knowing how unlikely it was that he and his hot blonde were staying out of the back seat of _his_ car!)

But then, while Imogene squirmed on the cold cushion (her bare bottom unaccustomedly intimate with the car-seat's roughened twill), an even worse transgression began to reveal itself: She had been repeating silent prayers ever since getting behind the wheel that night, and now, in sacrilege to these pleas for strength (or perhaps in answer to them), she was beginning to sense a dirty anticipation, a feeling such as would come into her while laughing with her friends over a page of _Playboy_ jokes. (Mary Helen's brothers, when home on leave, would often hide recent issues in easily found places.)

Imogene flashed hot to realize how unnecessarily receptive Stanley will find her.

Nevertheless, her eyes were dewed with the stupid tragedy of it all. She was only thankful that Stanley was so helplessly enslaved to his desires, for an outright refusal from him would have been her ultimate failure.

She had knowingly lied when declaring that the mere offer of herself, whether accepted or not, would absolve her of all commitments. In her heart she knew, after these many days and nights of misery (especially after seeing her name actually signed on the contract, and the signatures of her family, each with its own endearing tilt), she was certain now that there was nothing in the world which could fully free her from her given word but this or some other equally irretrievable loss.

The image of a bloody chopping block came quickly to mind, and the countenance of a dry-eyed queen forgiving her kneeling headsman.

With a start, Imogene realized she was staring into space, her eyes achy from having neglected to blink themselves. She could not guess how much time had gone by, but Stanley still had not returned.

She rolled down the window. "Y'find it?" she yelled into the stinging rain.

There was no answer.

"Look behind the spare! Or just ... bring some newspapers or something!"

Imogene cranked the window back up and wiped the rain-splash from her lips and chin. She waited some more. The view behind her was completely blocked.

She tried calling again. Then, sighing angrily, slapped the backrest and reached down for her shoes.

Dashing outside — the frigid blast tore the breath right out of her lungs! — she found the trunk standing wide open, gulping rain, the keys still hanging from the lock. The blanket was lying open in the bottom of the compartment, wrinkled and sopping wet, as if it had been shook out and tossed back in. Stanley was nowhere to be seen.

She called his name in several directions, but the roaring of the storm made her voice no more than a peep.

Looking around, she saw what seemed to be a trail of dark footprints, barely discernible in the gloom, leading across the whitened ground. The tracks were in a straight line, each step far apart, as if made by someone running. They headed toward the far end of the un-built house, where roofs had been erected.

"Sta-an!" she cried, lifting wads of sodden hair from her eyes. She squinted into the slapping rain and ran a few steps along the trail, but soon had to stop and pick her way back to the car, curling her toes so as not to lose her loafers in the crunchy mud.

In just these few moments her clothing had become wet through and through. She gasped every time she turned into the wind, and there was something frozen and aching in the pit of her stomach. The cold air under her skirt made her feel whorish.

She slammed the trunk, dashed back inside with the keys and started the engine. The wipers flapped; her fingers scrubbed a ragged patch of visibility on the windshield. For a long moment, panting, she peered out at the skeletal boards illumined in the car's high-beams, looking for a shadow moving among the narrow studs. But there was nothing.

She rolled down the window and leaned out. "Stan!" she yelled, her eyes shut tight against the rain. "Come on now. We're goin'home!"

There was no response.

"We won't _do_ anything, okay? Stan? _Stan!_ " The downpour was battering the side of her head.

She closed the window and sat with heaving chest, gazing out at the torrent, but Stanley did not appear. She honked the horn, twice — long, irritating blasts — and mouthed swear words at the windshield. Her nose and earlobes were dripping; she made dainty spitty noises to rid herself of the taste of shampoo.

With a growl, Imogene put the car in reverse and lumbered it backward over slushy ruts to the driveway. The tires braked and skidded all the way down to the paved road.

There, as if stuck at the bottom of the hill, she waited for a further minute, impatiently clicking the lights on and off up the steep drive, revealing by their flash the unending hail of slanted needles.

"Okay. Fine," she sighed at last, wrenching the car around and driving away over the wide avenue of virgin ice.

She cruised through several neighboring areas, becoming lost amid the curving, wooded lanes. Her intention had been to return to the same location and perhaps catch Stanley walking home. But she found there were no 'blocks' to drive around, the roads twisted on and on, up one hill and down another. It was impossible even to find her own tire tracks again.

Noting suddenly that the fuel gauge was very low, she gave up on Stanley and began searching for a way home. Several miles of slow driving and backing out of cul-de-sacs went by before she found a street-sign bearing a familiar name.

Finally, once again in the garage — with the gas needle on E! — she sighed deeply and switched off the engine. Her teeth gritted when she made even the tiniest movement within her soaked clothes.

Patting her face with a handful of tissues, she reached to the far end of the dashboard for her purse and the unreturned book (it was not really a library book) — then froze to find Stanley's glasses.
\- LII -

Before leaving the garage, a strange clarity of thought made Imogene remember about the drenched blanket. She opened the trunk and let the lid stay up to dry out the interior; the blanket itself — it must have weighed fifty pounds! — she lugged, dripping, to one corner and draped it over a trash barrel. Her muddy shoes were left there as well. Imogene wondered how in the world she would explain all of this.

But once inside, since it was 'Perry Mason' night, she had little trouble sneaking past the visible members of her family. (Although, while peeling off her wet things in the bathroom, she went stark white suddenly and had to skitter down to the garage and grab her panties from the back seat!)

Eventually, her slender, wearied body eased itself into a tubful of steamy water. She sat for nearly an hour, feeling the sting of her extremities returning to existence — and pondering the pair of thick glasses on the vanity.

At one point her mother tapped on the door to ask how her headache was.

"Oh ... b-better," Imogene replied with some confusion.

"And ... Matt?"

Imogene tried to recall what she had said about Matt. "No, I didn't ... I ... it's his night for cards. I didn't — I'll see him in school tomorrow."

She heard her mother pacing away, apparently satisfied with this clumsy testimony, and Imogene ducked to splash her face again.

She could not begin to count the sins she had committed this night, but uppermost in her mind now was the fate of Stanley, all alone in the rain, in the cold, in the dark; on a deserted, unfamiliar hillside, and probably filled with the shame of his filthy desires — and without his glasses!

What if he should perish in the night? By exposure to the storm. By his own hand ... ?

The thought of this made her insides swarm like a boxful of beetles.

If Stanley should fail to survive the night — for whatever reason! — could _she_ be held responsible? Had anyone seen them together? Could she be suspected?

Moments before, Imogene had stilled to catch the dialogue from Mr Mason's courtroom downstairs. She had listened intently as the conniving witness was tricked into confessing his guilt, followed by the silence of pitiless stares, and then his own unmanly weeping for the stupid ruin of his life.

The water in the tub became as glass around Imogene while she focused deeply on this image. Then, with a shudder, her body remembered to breathe.

Terrifying as all this was, she also could not dismiss an uncomfortably recurring phrase: 'Potiphar's wife.'

Sometime later, in robe and slippers, Imogene removed her contacts and tried on the heavy spectacles. She found that Stanley was even more nearsighted than herself; in the darkness of night he must be virtually blind without them.

Then the telephone rang.

"I'll get it!" she cried, dashing to her parents' room. She closed the door and answered the phone with hands almost too weak to lift the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Geenee?" It was a woman's voice, cautious.

"Yes."

"Are you ... all right? This is Stan's mother. Are you, dear?"

"Y-yeah."

"He didn't — in the car coming home — he didn't ... _do_ anything? To hurt you?"

Imogene pushed the heavy glasses back into place. She was trying to make sense of this. Her heart was pounding.

" _Did_ he?"

"N-no! Nothing ... we ... nothing happened. We talked for awhile — nothing happened."

There was silence, then a sniffle. "You're sure? He showed us this ... this _thing_ he was going to use on you!" Loud sobs followed this.

"No! Nothing happened! We just — " Imogene broke off. Her face was in flames. (And there was a pang in her heart, realizing he was home. He was alive.)

"And this, this ... contract thing he made you sign, all of you. Dear god! And all these ... _letters!_ I can't believe it! My own _son!_ " The woman was losing control of her speech. "Is it true," she demanded. "Is it true!"

"Y-yeah, but ... is he there? Can I talk to him?"

The woman's voice became more distant, "She says it's _true!_ "

Imogene spoke louder, "Is he there? I just wanna talk to him real quick."

The voice, sniffling, returned in full. "He's in the tub. He just now got home, _soaking_ wet, no cap, no glasses, just ... dumped all this — oh Geenee, what he's been _doing_ to you! And I thought ... !"

There were sudden noises on the far end and a man's voice in the background, then another loud sniffle. "We have to call our lawyer. I'm so sorry, Geenee! I'm just so _sorry!_ " The line tumbled to a final click, then there was silence.

Imogene sat up, staring at the receiver in her hands. The flesh under her robe was awash in icy sweat.

Though still enormously puzzled, she had to believe that — whatever else was going on — _her_ ordeal was over: truly, all over; that Stanley _intended_ it to be over.

She was free.

Free forever!

A hot, almost frightening joy was creeping into her. It was the thrill of salvation, deserved or not. She could hardly breathe for the sudden crush of gladness in her heart.

Soon the blurs in her vision began to fog and distort as Stanley's glasses, now heavy on her cheeks, were damming-up helpless tears. The phone was beeping at her, rapidly, like an irate mouse. She laughed to hear such tiny rage, then tapped the cradle button. With sniffles and happy slashes she dialed her favorite number.

When it was answered, she could hear familiar voices in the distance, Matt and his poker buddies, and her heart leapt. "Hi Tim!" she cried. "Lemme talk to Matt."

"Oh ... hi," came the reply with distinct unease. "Um ... just a minute ... lemme check."

Imogene felt her smile fading the longer her call was left unattended. The laughter in the background had all gone silent.

Finally the receiver was picked up again. "I ... guess he's not here right now. He went out for some ... stuff."

The phone went quiet once more, neither end so much as letting out a breath.

"Okay," said Imogene. The heavy glasses had begun to slip once more, and she tossed them to the carpet. "Could y'have him gimme a call?"

"Sure."

Though she lay long awake that night, with Matt's ring proudly on her finger, the phone made no further sound.

She hugged her cat and cried.

But in the morning, after only a few hours of actual slumber, Imogene awoke so completely refreshed that her fears and sadness would not return.

Her first thought was that Stanley, at last, had disappeared from her life. She had a future once more. And if Matt also was gone: well, at least she could fight for him now. And she would win, for her love was deeper and fiercer than that of any _ten_ blondes!

Besides, she grinned — after her association with Stanley? — she knew how to fight dirty!

Nearly dancing to this tune, Imogene flitted about her bedroom getting dressed. She chose the pink blouse and plaid skirt she had worn that bitter day when she and Matt were forced to part (a close inspection revealed no remaining blood stains), and though, on that woeful day, this 'stolen gown' had not belonged to her, it now most certainly did: so dearly had she paid for it!

Her smile turned harsh: The outfit will be a signal — to Matt and Stanley both — that she was taking back her life right where it had been snatched from her. She was undefeated, undaunted. She was Ulysses routing the wrongful suitors; she was Ahab smashing his sextant! (A happy curl returned to her lips. She was also Miss Muffet reclaiming her tuffet.)

And even the way Matt had refused to speak to her — the night-long sorrow of a call unreturned — even this was overcome when Imogene considered that, given the strange illogic of Matt's love, invariably, his strongest feelings were shown in conduct least conventional. A reluctance to talk, for example, was more likely to mean he had too much in his heart than too little. And what better way to dramatize the magnitude of his love than by withholding its bestowal. How many times — in just this way — had he surprised her with some stupendous enchantment? Like that overweening deity in _Cymbeline_ :
Whom best I love, I cross,

To make my gift,

the more delayed,

delighted.

While tugging her seams straight, Imogene laughed aloud to think this must be her inevitable doom — and perhaps her greatest blessing — to have the kind of heart that can be given only to one who (sorry, Mr. S.) 'who loves most wisely but not well!'

Her high spirits could even grant a word of kindness for Stanley. It was pleasing to know that he had a conscience after all, that he at least knew when he had gone too far. It did give her pause, however, to wonder at the extreme and almost self-destructive way he chose to bring his criminal activities to an end. She thought how like a Poe murderer he was, ripping up floorboards to expose his evil deed — or like whatsisname-ikoff in that stupid Russian novel!

Oh well. That was his problem, and his parents'. And they were welcome to it. Imogene had much happier concerns to deal with now. Her legs would not keep still as she picked and primped before the mirror; she dared hardly imagine what preposterous joy might be hers this day.

Yet even so, for fear of having to explain too fully about her activities the night before, Imogene took time to pout her lips and flatten her eyebrows as she trudged down to breakfast. Her family thus saw only what they had been accustomed to seeing for the past many mornings.

Her appetite, however, was impossible to conceal.

"That's my girl!" boomed the father, watching Imogene attack her eggs.

When Mrs Urich brought over the hot chocolate, she stooped to kiss the top of Imogene's head. "Oh, sweetie. Don't you _dare_ let this spoil your life! Not for one minute!"

Imogene nodded bravely.

"I know Stan," the mother went on. "He'll give this up ... long before — oh he won't hurt you, dear! Ever!"

The daughter was all but suffocated in the arms of her mother's robe. She blushed and struggled to say, "Mom, I'm fine. Really."

Across from her, the twins were quietly dunking their triangles of toast. "He's just playin'with ya," said Stacy. A napkin was tucked into her cheerleader top. (She was wearing her new varsity uniform.) "This whole thing, it's just a big joke. A big scare." She slurped up a soggy mouthful. "Guys do that. The girls they can't have? They scare. Or throw snowballs at'em." She flinched suddenly, then thumped a fist on her brother's shoulder. "They _do!_ "

At school, when Imogene opened her locker, two small white envelopes tumbled out. Her heart thudded at the sight, but she recalled at once that Matt was not the one who sneaked letters into people's lockers. Clearly, they were from Stanley. (Although the one addressed to 'Miss Imogene Urich' showed only a slightly smudged 'g,' the other one, for 'Mr and Mrs Daniel Urich and Family,' had every one of its a's out of line.) She stashed the letters in her purse.

Before entering her Latin class, she spent several minutes wandering empty-armed up and down the crowded hallway, smiling and greeting friends, but with her eyes searching in all directions for any sign of Matt, who never appeared. She was also waiting for the hallway's traffic to thin out.

When all that remained were a few students dashing to distant classrooms, she hurried back to her locker, grabbed her books, and removed from her purse a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses (now cleaned and polished). With some clumsiness, she set these spectacles hanging precariously on the handle of Stanley's locker, then sprinted for her classroom door.

The tardy bell had already begun its long ring. "Late as usual!" she giggled to her friends.

After settling herself, she waited a few more minutes before turning to glance at Stanley beside her. Though blushing, he looked remarkably fit for someone who must have caught almighty hell the night before. The storm, probably, had been the least of his thrashings. His pencil was busy as ever though, scribbling equations or something. He did not look toward her, but she smiled anyway for she noticed that the glasses he was wearing (a maroon pair) had a crude wrapping of electrical tape between the lenses.

Then she saw Mr Grove sitting very alert at his big desk up front. He had obviously caught her smiling at the red-faced boy, and the look on the teacher's face, a tiny, twisted smile of pleased — almost impudent — comprehension, made Imogene's returning grin very tentative. (She still longed to tell him everything, especially now that her ordeal was over, but there was prudence, she felt, in waiting till all final grades were in the book.)

Stanley volunteered no recitations that morning, but several times she saw him touching a shirt cuff to his upper lip, and after Stanley's blush had faded, his nose stayed red and very sore-looking.

Later, out at their lockers, he seemed not at all surprised to find his regular glasses dangling from the locker handle; with an easy motion he slipped them into a pants pocket.

Matt was still nowhere to be found.

At the beginning of her next class, while Polly (in cheerleader gear) and several others warbled over their preparations for the prom, Imogene bent close above her purse and removed the envelope addressed to herself. It was heavy and thickly packed; she dreaded what long, wearying apology or plea — or diatribe! — it might contain. She was surprised, therefore, on opening it, to find many small scraps of paper inside. Examining a few of these, she discovered they were the remains of her contract. She smiled tenderly at the torn signatures. And, yes, there was a long letter enclosed as well. She only glanced at the first page of it, shaking her head at the densely typed paragraphs. She returned it all to her purse.

As the day progressed — and Matt still failed to come forward — the morning's happy confidence continued to fade. With the arrival of lunchtime, Imogene ran up to his locker and waited nervously in the crowded corridor, fiddling alternately with her purse, her charm bracelet (her luckiest one), and the tippy little ring which, so far, no one had even noticed was back on her finger.

She began to blush, realizing that, unthinkingly, she had put the ring on her _right_ hand that morning. Just then, before she could switch hands, Matt came into view, his blond girlfriend close at his side; they were laughing.

On catching sight of Imogene, both of their smiles turned to looks of worry, and the voices in the hall became subdued.

Imogene stood as tall as she could, fists clenched, inhaling deeply.

The girl was dazzling in her cheerleader frills, highlighted by a very dark — very prompt — suntan. (It was only mid-May after all, and didn't _real_ blondes always burn in the sun?)

The two women grinned fiercely at one another, then the girl, whispering something to Matt, sauntered away.

"Hi," said Imogene, her smile became genuine.

"Hi."

"Get my message last night?"

"Yeah ... it was so late when I got back ... I figured ..."

Imogene nodded with unfocused eyes while Matt rattled the combination dial on his locker.

"It's all over," she said, trying to make her voice sprightly. "My thing with ... mouse."

Matt nodded. His head was inside the locker now.

"Everything. Even that dumb contract." She sighed, happily. "I just thought ... y'might wanna ... hug me or something?"

He was still nodding, and her brave smile began to fall apart. She looked down at her hand and rotated the ring back into position. "What I said, y'know," she lowered her voice, "about what we'd do when this's all over? That's still true."

Matt had no more books to put away. He stood with one foot on the bottom edge of his locker and one hand on the top shelf. He glanced warily at the hushed people passing by. Then his feet changed position.

Imogene was still gazing down at the tiny, warm, twinkling gem.

On looking up, she found Matt staring at her shoulder. His hands made obscure, helpless gestures, and his mouth was ajar with words that would not come out.

Delicately, she pulled the ring from her finger and held it up to him. He received it with a small nod. Then she raised herself on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Anyway," she said with a catch in her throat. "Thanks for — at homecoming? — the nominations n'stuff?" She sniffled. "I'll never ever forget that, Matt!"

She watched a moment while great slabs of red began forming on his face and neck, then she hurried away, down the stairs and toward the far end of the building.
\- LIII -

Imogene was running by the time she reached the gymnasium. She pattered across the dim interior and into the little equipment room which, for some reason, seemed larger to her now. She huddled down at the end of the short aisle, as far from the glaring bulb as possible, and got out the new Kleenex pack she had wisely brought that day.

She found, however, while unfolding several tissues, that they would not be required; her eyes, incomprehensibly, were dry.

Where was the sadness? she asked herself, looking down at her naked fingers. Where was the anger? The will to fight for what was hers!

As she sat in the stuffy little room, her only true emotion was humiliation. It stung her to reflect that now, not only her enemy, but her chosen lover as well had spurned her most intimate offer. She could just hear the laughter of her friends: "The poor kid can't _give_ it away!"

After some minutes of head shaking, Imogene let out a deep sigh and withdrew the compact from her purse. She looked into its little mirror and used the wad of hankies to touch unnecessarily at her face. On returning these items, she took out the pages of Stanley's letter, gave her charms an irritated shake, and began to read:
May 20th, 1965

Dear Geenee,

My folks want me to say I'm sorry, but I don't think I can do that. I feel infinite guilt toward your family of course, for having tampered with the happiness of their greatest treasure; but to you, personally, any apology I make will be insincere.

I know, too, that you can never forgive me, that I've earned your everlasting hatred, and I've been certain from the start that this was the only possible result, but I still prefer it to the alternative of your never having known me at all.

I should confess that my crime is even more unjustified than you believed it to be. You thought I was trying to get honest revenge on Washburn (and I guess I was), but the truth is I've already been to my own private hell, and compared to that the small evils he's done to me, or will do, are unimportant. I only used him as an excuse for getting close to you.

This was essential because, in case you ever had any doubt, I'm desperately in love with you, and I've been this way since even before I knew your name. The first week of school, remember? That day Mr Grove had us go to the board one at a time and work out a line of Virgil. When I stood up and faced you and all the other brains in the class, everything I knew about Latin vanished from my head and I turned into a complete dumbbell. (Just like my oration the other day, only worse.) Remember how everyone laughed? Everyone except the girl in the cheerleader suit; the one whose intelligence gave her the most right to. It stabbed me to the heart to see your tiny mouth and caring eyes, and your look of wishing you could do something to help.

All year long you've been like that (all your life, your mom says), in things you do and things you say, and refuse to say, always alert to the unhappiness of others, and risking your own to lessen theirs. (Well, maybe you've said a few mean things in your life, like the rest of us, but never, I think, without regret.) How fragile must your own feelings be to take such care with ours. And how alluring to one not used to warmth so freely given, who is astonished to find, if things had turned out differently, someone he could blindly trust to never do him harm.

And how have I repaid your kindness? By making your life wretched! By taking from you, or threatening to, all that is as dear to you as you are to me. I know you won't believe this, and you'll find no comfort if you do, but I had absolutely no intention of holding you to your contract (although I was sure going to let you sweat it out for the next four years). I would never have interfered with your graduation speech either, or your right to give it; and it made me want to cry to see the way you and Matt yearned helplessly for one another. All I wanted was to be close to you, familiar to you, hated by you; anything, so long as you'd have cause to remember me throughout your life, and I'd have cause to know that my life has at least that much meaning.

But tonight scared the hell out of me. All along it was fun to pretend that you were so honest you'd keep your bargain even with the devil; but I never dreamed you really would have. Tonight I witnessed someone so terrified of her own good conscience that she could choose an undying shame as an evil smaller than her broken word. Only once before have I seen so deeply into the unreasonable standards we carry within ourselves, the failure of which makes life not worth the effort. I was so glad when my mom told me you were safe at home!

So my guilt is extreme. What I've done was purely cruel and unprovoked, and I deserve more punishment than you or your kind parents will ever authorize, but still, nowhere in me can I find remorse. I know this because, if I had it all to do again, I'd do just the same.

It's probably hard for you to believe that anyone can be so incorrigible. I think, in your life, despite your tiny crime, you've been always too cherished and happy to discover that there are things in the world so treasurable that even the merest glimpse can be worth the loss of everything else, including the loss of hope for another glimpse. I feel no more shame than does any devout follower who has been saved through his savior's agony. It seems, in fact, just as it was for the enemies of that lady in your speech: 'Honored alike are countrymen and foe, fallen at her feet.'

And, Geenee, even on graduation day, when you stand before us all and speak your wise and beautiful words, even then, especially then, I'll feel no shame. There's only pride in having stolen from so precious a life, and in having a heart that has chosen so well.

Stan

[At the bottom of the page was scribbled:]

P.S. —

In homeroom on Monday, can I borrow your speech to make myself a copy? Please?

Despite the length, Imogene read the letter twice, then returned it to its envelope. She set aside her purse and curled herself more tightly into the narrow aisle, her back against a stack of exercise mats, one armwrapped about her legs, the other, with index finger extended, idly rotating the open loop of the door's combination lock which she had set on the floor beside her.

Round and round it went, the unlocked lock, its dial of numbers numbering nothing. It occurred to her that, in a way, she and Stanley had made a swap, for it seemed now that his life had gained as much 'meaning' as hers had lost.

Then the door rattled.

Joy blossomed on her face. She was halfway to her feet when, not Matt, but Miss Beaver looked in, frowning.

Imogene slumped back to her warmed patch of concrete as the teacher sighed, "I need a new lock for this thing."

"I'm sorry. I just — "

"Skip it." Miss Beaver was dressed in one of her sweat suits, and let out a small groan as she sat down facing Imogene but with her back against the vaulting horse lying on its side. The teacher's legs were too long for such cramped quarters, and her knees, in their baggy slacks, poked up like little pup-tents.

"It's Matt, huh." said Miss Beaver, as softly as the voids in her patchy voice allowed. "I've known for awhile now. He never looks at me anymore. He's ashamed as hell."

Imogene was nodding, and for many seconds there passed no words or looks between them. Even now (Imogene marveled at this) she did not feel like crying. She pulled her legs tighter and began to finger the silly items on her wrist: the phone, the heart, the little car.

Miss Beaver was looking down at the chrome whistle in her hands. "It's okay, y'know, if you're mad at me. If I hadn't been so eager to get'er on the squad ..."

"No!" Imogene interrupted. "N-not a bit! Not at all! Don't ever ... !"

"I sure didn't _mean_ to make a mess a'things."

Imogene could think of nothing constructive to add. Clutching her legs, she stared down on the shiny flats of her knees.

The teacher was still examining her whistle. "I'm no expert on romance either. Only time I tried it, I couldn't even make the regionals." She smiled to herself, then sighed. "But people go to pot, y'know? Inside'n out. Memories don't. So ... who's better off: The girl who gets the guy? Or the one that gets to stay in love with him."

Imogene tilted her head at the blushing face across from her.

Looking up suddenly, Miss Beaver added, "If it makes any difference, those two're completely nuts about each other. She's really changed. She had two strikes against'er even before she started on the squad. _I_ had to bail'er out once. But ... not everyone's as bad as they seem. After awhile y'just ... y'get to know which ones're worth the trouble."

Imogene was blushing as well.

"Anyway, since she's been goin'with Matt? Best thing's ever happened to'er. Ask your friends. They actually talk to'er now. Sometimes." After a pause, Miss Beaver added, "This hurt?"

Imogene shrugged.

"Somehow, I don't think you'd grudge happiness to anyone. Even when it's _your_ happiness. That makes you either an angel or an idiot. Take your pick."

A smile jumped to Imogene's lips.

"That's more like it." Miss Beaver stood up, creakily, and slapped the back of her sweatpants. "She's goin' to La Crosse, y'know. That is, soon as I get that darn letter written. I've got a little pull down there still. I can get'er in. God knows her grades won't!" The teacher became serious again. "Matt's goin'there too. _That_ hurt?"

Imogene shook her head, though her smile had leveled.

A warm hand was pressed on her shoulder, then Miss Beaver strode away. "Go talk to your friends," she called back, "They're lookin'all over for ya."

Imogene remained sitting for a few minutes more, noticing how cold the floor had become. Then she got up and brushed her plaid, pleated skirt, still spotless, and re-tucked the pink blouse, switched off the light and locked the door. Before leaving the gym she walked over to the pushed-back bleachers, where Stanley had been bleeding that day. There was no trace of anything now.

Throughout the afternoon, Imogene attended her classes with an air of preoccupation. In history and French her hand never once was raised, and in art class she pitied the aspect of guilt in Matt's head-bent posture and busy movements.

Sitting quietly at her desk, in her stained and crusty smock, Imogene poked thumbs into a lump of gray clay which remained shapeless the whole hour.

After the bell she wandered back to her locker, then fell in with the vast crowd shuffling toward the gym for the afternoon's pep fest.

Her bones resonated with the band's bass drum as she climbed the bleachers (now pulled from the wall) and searched for an acquaintance to sit beside. Her closest friends were all down on the floor, her sister among them. It was the last rally of the year and all of the cheerleaders, new and old, were there, singing and stepping gaily back and forth. Imogene waved to them, those that saw her.

Unbidden, her legs carried her to the uppermost row of seats where, at least, no one could stare at her back. In the past few weeks, this had been her usual tactic; generally, someone or other, also currently unattached, would come and sit beside her. Today however, with everyone paired for the prom, it was not surprising that she remained alone.

Then she saw Stanley seated on a crowded bench high in the middle section; his short hair and black glasses (his good pair), and the book on his knees, identified him. His nose still looked sore, and frequently he pressed to it something coarse and brown, a paper towel from the lavatory it looked like. As usual, he was paying bashful attention to the vibrant limbs below him, but when the band descended into the opening chords of the national anthem, his head bent down to his book as he and the rest of the audience rose to their feet. Imogene also refused to sing or even pretend to.

They both ignored the many speeches, except the short, emphatic one given by Matt and the other co-captain of the baseball team. She observed how Stanley watched, with apparent interest, the pride and confidence in the players' faces and their shy acceptance of the crowd's adulation.

She also noted how Matt's happy eyes kept drifting back to the blond-haired girl sitting cross-legged on the floor among her frantic companions, pom-poms shaking high above their heads, voices cheering madly.

But for the most part, Imogene watched only Stanley, although, from time to time, her eyes would drift down and gaze into the skeletal darkness below the foot boards.

When the program ended, howlingly, she soon lost track of Stanley among the released multitudes. Her dawdling legs carried her back through noisy hallways, arriving at her locker long after Stanley had departed from his. Once there, Imogene began quietly gathering up the items to take home. Goodbyes were chirped to her, but it was an effort to make cordial replies.

With her coat folded and neatly placed among her books, she closed the locker door and stood gazing at it for many seconds. Then, her steps uncertain (the purse on its long strap patting her hip), she headed down the hall toward the big glass panels of the administration office. She knew her face was very white.

Mr Ziskind was not there and a secretary informed her that he had taken some visitors on a tour of the school. Nodding, Imogene said she would leave him a note.

She sat on one of the chairs outside his office, got out a pen and opened her notebook to a blank sheet of paper. After halting a moment to rub palms on the pleats of her skirt, she wrote:
5/21/65

Dear Mr Ziskind,

I'm very sorry for waiting so long to tell you this, but I must decline the honor of being valedictorian.

For a long time now I've been guilty of something which, I feel, completely disqualifies me. I should have told you as soon as you called me that day, but I didn't — and that's an additional crime!

In any case, it would be extremely unfair if I were to be given a place of distinction above so many others whose behavior and honesty are far more deserving than my own.

I'm sorry I took so long to tell you; I wanted so much to give this speech!

Please don't ask me for details.

I'm so very sorry!

Imogene Urich

She unsnapped the paper from her notebook and stepped into the quiet, carpeted den of the principal's office. Her hand trembled as she placed the note on his desk. Her heart was pounding. She stared down at her words for a moment, until her vision blurred and a peppery knot came into her throat. Then she hurried out of the office and out of the school.

The buses having all departed, she slipped on her overcoat, hefted books to her bosom, and started for home. It was drizzling.
\- LIV -

When she arrived, the heartiness of her mother's hug disclosed to Imogene that Stanley's parents must have called during the day with their apologies. She nodded to all of this happy news, and listened tolerantly to Stanley's repeated praises. "I just knew!" her mother whimpered. "Oh I just knew!"

By the time they were gathered for supper it was clear that everyone had been told, and Imogene found herself surrounded by smiles which could only be returned with difficulty. She had volunteered no information concerning Matt or the state of her own feelings, but the continuing glumness of her expression advised the others to speak only of ordinary things. Specifically avoided was any talk about the prom to be held the following night.

When it grew quiet around the table, Imogene produced the envelope from Stanley that was addressed to the family. Smirking, she handed it to her mother, "Here's something you'll prob'ly get a kick out of."

Mrs Urich opened it with a table knife and began silently reading the letter inside. All but Imogene watched as tears began to form in the mother's eyes.

Stacy grabbed the pages next.

Mrs Urich, head bowed, was holding a napkin pressed to her lips.

"Pretty pompous, huh," said Imogene through a mouthful of goulash.

"You ... hush." The mother sniffled. "Just you hush."

The letter was passed around the table and read somberly by all.

Clicking her tongue, Stacy observed: "How come, y'know, all his letters're like right out of a book. But whenever he _talks?_ It's like ... Depity Dawg or something!"

Imogene was last to read the letter. Her flesh warmed on discovering that Stanley's apology to her family was even more abject than was hers to the principal. As she stuffed the letter back into its envelope her head swayed side to side with all the frustration of one who — time after time! — comes in second.

Before supper was over a phone call came from Mr Ziskind, and Imogene talked to him on the extension upstairs. He was stunned by the note she had left, and Imogene, as she knew would be the case, could not keep herself from blurting out every particular of her crime. Tears rolled down her face to involve Matt's name, and she made it unreservedly clear that she alone was at fault.

Yet, to her surprise, the principal forgave her, declaring that her own sense of guilt must already have brought more punishment on her than she deserved.

But there was a slight coolness in his voice, and Imogene guessed that this clemency was not genuine, and that his chief concern was how, at this late date, he was going to explain to the school — and the entire community — why they needed a new valedictorian.

Also absent was any reference to the 'exceptional' nature of her speech, and how it would be a shame if it were not given. She had greatly feared, had he alluded to this, that her resolve might be overcome. It occurred to her that perhaps his praise, as well as his pardon, had not been in earnest.

She thanked Mr Ziskind with all her heart but still insisted on stepping down.

Reluctantly, he yielded to her wishes.

For several minutes after this, Imogene sat on the edge of the bathtub with a cold towel pressed to her eyelids and listened to the cat scratching at the gap under the door.

When she returned to the kitchen, her mother was lifting cubes of marble cake from a rectangular pan and asked what the principal had wanted.

"Oh, just some stuff 'bout my speech," Imogene sighed. "That's too small. Gimme a _big_ piece."

Mrs Urich smiled to see her daughter smile.

The father made a loud clap and asked Imogene: "Sweetie, whad'ya say we go out for a real fancy supper tomorrow." He pointed at the twins. "These two brats are buggin'out anyway." (They had volunteered to wait on tables at the prom.) "Just you'n the fogies, whad'ya say."

Imogene nodded and let her lips curl. "I'd like that, Daddy." Then her smile twisted, "It's just like you guys to never ask me out when it's _my_ turn to do the dishes."

Everyone laughed.

The balance of the evening was passed in ease and tranquility. Up in her room, Imogene could finally write a reply to the letter she had received from little Mark. There was no difficulty now in finding the right words to explain to him (and to the rest of his family) how it is that, sometimes, relationships must come to an end, but that friendships, real friendships like theirs, never do.

She put on her raincoat and trotted down to the mailbox with the letter. When she returned, her mother cornered her in the kitchen and asked what the principal had _really_ wanted.

Imogene smiled to speak the most artful lie she could command. This was distasteful to her, but rushing to the bathroom afterward, she examined her face and grinned to find no hint of a blush.

All of Saturday was spent at the dress shop. Pam had begged to be let off early to prepare for the dance that night, and Imogene agreed to hold down the fort alone. This was a small sacrifice since, as a rule, the day of the prom was one of the slowest of the year, and the continuing rain did nothing to help.

She had also brought with her the elegant gown which for several months past had been hanging in her closet. It too, like the Roman stola, had been destined for personal adornments (the two garments hung side by side for weeks awaiting the sewing machine), but since her attendance at the prom had become so uncertain, she dared not alter the dress in any way. There was some pleasure now in filling out a return slip for herself and stuffing the cash into her pocketbook.

But after that, and for hour after hour, Imogene sat behind the counter finishing her homework, as well as a bagged lunch her mother had thoughtfully provided. And, other than calls from a couple of her friends still ordering her to get a date for the prom, the time dragged on.

During the sleepy part of the afternoon she got up, yawning, and walked around the little shop. She paused at the rack of formals a moment and took out her dress again. She tilted her head at the graceful cut and contour, the misty sea-green hue, then carefully replaced it, sighing to herself that, perhaps, this was but one of the many 'stolen gowns' she must ultimately return.

Still yawning, she wandered up and down the aisles, straightening things, sorting sizes; a few fallen threads were pinched from the carpet; she tidied the scarves.

Then she stopped to gaze out the window at the forlorn shops across the street. There was intermittent bustling in front of Clancy's and the supermarket, but farther down the block the sad little library, hazy in the rain, seemed utterly abandoned. Imogene herself had not been inside since the night she had seen Stanley there — when was that? — a lifetime ago?

This troubled her. Though Stanley had finally met his Waterloo (Hiroshima, more like!), thoughts of him continued unabated, defensive thoughts, as if she were a nation still mobilized against a global threat.

No doubt this was natural, she told herself; traumatic events were always long in leaving one; it may take years for grass to hide these tumbled walls within her, this cratered no-man's-land: her heart.

Stanley had wished to give her cause to remember him? Well, he had succeeded beyond his dreams.

What bothered her most was that she seemed to dwell endlessly on the many discovered similarities between herself and Stanley. In every category it seemed — even sociability and personal relations — she could prove themselves to be far more alike than opposite.

On one hand could be counted the number of new friends she had made this year, while on the other hand, perhaps on two other hands, were logged all of those acquired by Stanley, the grump who never says 'Hi.'

His scientific perspective had always implied a kind of pessimism and disparagement of life, as though there could be no point in living in a world doomed to extinction. Yet observe to what lengths he had gone in securing the mere memory, fond or not, of one of the silliest creatures in his meaningless world.

And she herself: Just look at the fall her own philosophies had taken. She could be certain of nothing anymore. God, for example, had been comfortably cataloged in her mind as no more than a literary allusion, akin to, say, Lear or Agamemnon, describable at least in words. But in these last few weeks the sureness of her conceptions had been progressively eluding her, provoking her, even frightening her, until now it seemed that God was as unsolvable a puzzle as Stanley's gravity. The purpose and stability of her entire world, as if plagued by burrowing worms, had become riddled with voids.

Clearly, neither she nor Stanley had done each other a service. For him, the complacence of his bleak outlook must be spoiled by the addition of someone to love, and her own treasuring of life was now equally tainted by this doctrine of pointlessness she had picked up from Stanley. How could one ever again be truly happy, having lost one's unquestioned beliefs?

Then it dawned on Imogene, looking out at the dull gray day where no sun dawned; it came to her with almost a crash: _This_ was God! This knowing full well that life _is_ without meaning — yet cherishing it nonetheless.

Abruptly she saw it all. Meaninglessness itself was the clue. The role of mankind's science was to make plain our great inconsequence, and it was the task of God — with love and laughter all the more inconsequent — to help us spurn such awful truth.

God is nothing less than our necessary delusions, forever duping us despite our better knowledge: causing us to be happy where only fools can be happy, to strive for the betterment of what cannot endure, to achieve all that will never be worth the struggle.

This was a consuming thought. Imogene swayed off-balance a moment as her attention suddenly returned to the dress shop.

Her eyes came into focus on two young girls in woolen coats on the sidewalk outside the display window. They were smiling and pointing down at the 'scarf-ish starfish' Imogene had fashioned one day from a handful of silken neckerchieves.

She tipped her head and smiled sweetly at the kids.

But sudden fright filled their little eyes, terror even, to see what they must have supposed to be a mannequin come eerily to life. The girls scampered away, splashing the pavement puddles with their boots.

Imogene, too, began to worry, wondering how long she had been standing there stock-still.

She sighed and once again cautioned herself about these unscheduled reveries of hers. After all, next year she will be living in a house crowded with eighty or more homesick and very jumpy young women; it would certainly not do to reign among them as their resident spook, their 'Creature from Paradise Pond!'

Imogene smiled weakly to herself, contemplating for a moment those future days, now completely free of Stanley (and also, alas, Matt).

But she could not prevent her face from falling slack once more, and soon the shops across the street all fuzzed again to grayish fog.

The two little girls reminded Imogene of herself and her friend Becky, as they once had been, long ago, laughing at the pedal-pushers and archaic pinafores in this very window.

And from even farther back, she recalled a distant autumn-time when frost was in the air and curly brown leaves were strewn about. She and Becky had gathered the best of these and seated themselves, zipped snug in their jackets, at the edge of the unguttered avenue outside their homes.

The leaves, they pretended, were teacups and saucers and pitchers of cream; and the stones and bottle caps their many cakes and candies.

Oh, the tea was so sweet! they declared. The pastries so delicious! Politely, they inquired of each other's family, where their husbands were employed, which church they attended. They stated with pride how excellently their children were doing in school.

And then the girls collapsed into peals of idiotic giggles.

The significance of this long-forgotten scene was that both she and her friend had perfectly good — elegant even — tea sets packed carefully away in their toy chests: plate of the finest plastic Christmas could provide. Yet here the girls sat, among the dirt and broken asphalt, in the depths of their own imaginations, immeasurably happy — at least until some angry motorist (or maybe it was their mothers) scolded them back inside.

Oh, the blissful _ache_ that had filled her heart that day! That hot, hurting slug of promised joy!

Imogene had felt this dear agony many times since, with other friends, with her family, her cat, her books, her beaux, her dreams, her worries, even her woes — even with Stanley a few times.

It was the voice of God, this sweet pain in her heart. He was speaking to her in words she would never understand, a language hopeless of conjugation or decline. What He said could never mean anything useful or even rational, yet it was there, somehow giving depth and point and pleasure to all of the ultimately meaningless matters of life.

Imogene was standing still again. She knew it, but did not want to break the charm. For in just this way had stood that spellbound voyager, 'silent upon a peak in Darien,' weeping that he was so small:
... and he the one,

Of all his world,

To glimpse the brow of God.

Her eyes narrowed once more and the blurs untangled to bricks and buildings, umbrellas and passing cars. The sky was still gray. It was drizzling still.

Sometime later, Imogene was again seated behind the sales counter with her studies and private thoughts. The glow in her bosom had, by now, lost some of its luster as subsequent, fussier considerations occurred to her, inevitably tarnishing her sudden insights. Nevertheless, that moment of privileged knowing had sparked a cheerful flame within her. 'Happy dreams, betrayed at dawn, yet warmed one's heart throughout the day.' (Horace.)

Imogene stared down at the final copy of her graduation speech. She was reading it all the way through for the last time, but the words seemed now to have been written by someone else, someone young and clever and 'going places,' someone far too earnest to be wise.

And she was still thinking of Stanley, though with pity now more than resentment. What a shame that — despite his analytical mind — he still failed to see the full picture. To most everyone, life was a chest filled with riches, and though Stanley, correctly, viewed all of this wealth as but an empty box, what he seemed to miss was that this box, empty though it is, is beautiful: figured with love, inlaid with dearest laughter, enameled in the tears that come of sudden kindness. Seen this way, all our love and charity, our comedy, become a kind of meaning of life, without which we truly do have nothing.

What a shame that Stanley had never seen this. But how could he, with his eyes always on the floor, his thoughts rarely higher. Someone ought to clue him in, thought Imogene, but then she sighed, for who could be, for him, a better mentor than herself?

Actually, she felt not unwilling except: consider the lifelong task that this would be, teaching _him_ to be silly and wise.

And what of his kids (if any there be)? Poor little owls, perhaps more dour even than their dad. Who will there be to guide and keep _them_ from falling among such melancholy creeds?

Imogene, still gazing down at her speech, made a sudden, mischievous smile. She grabbed a pen from the cash register and scribbled a few words in Latin at the top of the first page.

When closing time came, Imogene locked the door and counted out her till, tearing up the return slip when she came to it and replacing the money. After putting all the cash into the safe in the back room she called home.

"Hi Mom," she said when the phone was answered. "Um ... I won't be coming right home. I'm keeping the car, okay?"

There was a pause before the mother replied. "Dear, are you all right? I called Mr Ziskind today. Are you _sure_ this is what you want to do."

Imogene sighed.

"He said it's all right if you want to change your mind." A sniffle accompanied this.

"Mom. I'm sorry. It's what I want. It's what I have to do."

There was another long pause. "I'm not sad, dear. Not in the least. Well, maybe a little. But ... Dad and I've been crying all afternoon. Oh sweetheart, we're just so _proud_ of you! You can't imagine ..."

While her mother blubbered peacefully, Imogene moved the receiver to her other ear and smiled. Even this, she mused, was not making her blush.

"Mom, I've got a date for the prom. I'm leaving right from work."

"Who." The weeping was forcibly paused.

Imogene's reply contained more than a trace of sarcasm. "Well, it's someone you wouldn't _mind_ having in our family."

"Oh sweetheart!" The tears were about to start again.

"So, I just wanted to ask — I s'pose Dad's taken the kids downtown already?"

"They left a while ago."

"That's okay. I was just wondering ... it'd be really neat if _both_ you'n Dad went to pick'em up afterwards ... so we can all be together? Sort of?"

The mother was scarcely able to express her pleasure.

Imogene hurried their conversation to a close, then ran to get the dress.

With help of the meager toiletries in the store's tiny rest room she groomed herself as best she could. Her burgundy flats looked like combat boots beneath the pale emerald gown, but she only laughed.

After locking the back door, she dashed to her car and drove through the wet, dreary avenues to Stanley's house.
\- LV -

By the time Imogene arrived, her face had been schooled to a demanding frown.

Stanley's mother answered the door and stared in apprehension at Imogene and her rain-spotted overcoat. The younger kids, who were watching Saturday night wrestling and playing with the baby on the living room floor, looked up with equally frightened eyes. There was an aroma of frying chicken in the air.

Imogene stepped inside, clearing her throat with severity. "I was just curious what you're doing for Stan's punishment ... if anything."

The mother looked even more alarmed, then hurried to a doorway. "Dear!" she ordered, "Go get Stan. Downstairs." She turned back to Imogene. "He's ... scrubbing floors." The mother looked down at herself, as if ashamed, and adjusted her glasses. "There's — it's really hard to punish him," she said. "Oh, and we're so grateful you're not pressing charges! We just don't deserve that."

Imogene, wiping her purple shoes on the entry rug, nodded patiently.

"But ... for punishment? ... he has so few friends. He doesn't drive or — and your mother did say we shouldn't — but really, there's nothing that — "

"I know," Imogene broke in with a smile. "I was just thinking about that today. What can you do? Force him to stay inside and take care of the kids? Forbid him to do his homework? He _likes_ all the things normal kids hate, right?" She chuckled while unbuttoning her coat. "How fiendish of him to have no vices he can be deprived of." Her face again went stern as she gripped a damp lapel. "Well, don't worry. I have the perfect dose of medicine for him."

Soon Stanley's father appeared, stepping with caution from the kitchen doorway. He halted behind his wife who barely stood as high as his shoulders. Then came Stanley, even more timidly, with sleeves rolled up and the knees of his jeans dark with moisture. His nose was still pink. On sight of the unexpected visitor, his face brightened like a child's, but only for a moment.

Imogene had fixed a bitter stare on him and slapped her purse down on an end table. "So ..." she growled, striding to the limit of the mud rug. "... you just can't find any _shame_ in you, huh!" Clutching both lapels, she straightened to her full height. "Well, I suggest you haven't been looking in the right places. Tonight, sailor, you're going to learn what shame and remorse are all about."

Stanley was regarding her from under the rims of his glasses. Then, abruptly, his eyebrows hopped into view as Imogene whirled off her raincoat to expose the gown of shimmering green, as snug and narrow as a dagger's sheath.

"Get dressed," she said. "You're taking me to the prom."

The room went silent except for the thumping of the wrestlers on the TV and the incensed commentary of their announcer: "... it's a choke hold! The Crusher's _choking_ him ... !"

Stanley stood frozen for a moment, then looked down and grabbed his waist. His head swayed sourly at the carpet.

The father had come forward and towered over Imogene. There was a smile on his face, but it was a worried smile.

"Now, just ... what're you gonna do."

"Sir!" She glared up at him, her coat fisted on one hip and preparing in her mind a blast of her mother's collegiate A-student ire. "For the past two months your son has put me through hell! Absolute hell! I be _lieve_ I have the right to inflict at least a modicum of revenge?" She strained to keep her lips from smiling.

The father, however, showed no doubt of her anger, and retreated back to his wife.

Imogene continued, now facing Stanley, "In the ballroom downtown? There's a large podium with a microphone. I'm sure the entire senior class will love hearing your ... profound and eloquent oration on what exactly you've been up to. And why."

Stanley was gazing at her; in shock it appeared.

"Just think of it as _your_ graduation speech." She paused to clear her throat. "You don't have to go into any great detail — and don't use Matt's name! Say something, like ... one of my former boyfriends or something. Anyway, the _main_ thing ..." She glanced at the parents. "The main thing will be your very sincere — and very public — apology to your mother and father. They're the ones you really hurt, right?"

Stanley's mouth was open, and his face had gone completely ashen, all but his sore nostrils which shone now like brake lights. The parents, Imogene saw, were hardly less amazed.

In a softer voice, while laying her coat on the back of the couch, Imogene added, "After that, I have a few more tortures in mind for you. Such as parading you in front of my friends? You'll apologize to them too. They've been goin'crazy trying to figure out what's wrong with me. An'you think _I'm_ a harpy? Just you wait! Believe me, you will _never_ forget this night!"

Smiling, Imogene turned to the parents. "Can you come? I've got my dad's car. There's room for all of us."

They were staring back at her, and Imogene's smile faded to a look of worry. "I mean, if it's okay. Or would it be, y'know ... embarrassing ... ?"

The mother had a confused look on her face. She glanced up at her husband, then slowly smiled at Imogene. "I think we'll survive." Her hand was touching a corner of her glasses to straighten them. "Actually, it's just what we all deserve." She turned toward her son, "Isn't it!"

Stanley, with hands still on hips, was staring at the wall, as if accusing it of something.

"Go get cleaned up," said the mother. She looked across the room. "Laney? Call Gramma and ask her to come right over."

The girl dashed toward the kitchen.

Stanley had turned away, his head shaking vigorously, and was headed for the basement steps. The mother hurried after and grabbed his ear.

"Ow! Mom!"

"Pew! Upstairs and take a shower! Right now! — And be quick about it!" She looked sternly at her husband. "Get a decent tie for him. He's _not_ wearing that clip-on thing! You change too."

The father left the room, making the staircase creak as he ascended two steps at a time.

"Mom!" Stanley's eyes were filling with awe to see his parents siding against him. He coughed and cleared his throat, piteously, as if near death. "Mom!"

The mother was bending over the little boy. "Go get Stanny's shoes, the brown ones for church, and shine'em up really good, okay?"

Little sock feet also pattered up the steps. The room was emptying.

"Mom, I'm not going!"

"Stan!" the father bellowed from the top of the stairs. "Get up here'n do as you're told!"

"Right now!" The mother smacked Stanley on the seat of his pants. "Don't keep us waiting."

He fled before he could be struck again, but halted on the bottom step, gripping the banister with both hands. He looked at Imogene over his shoulder. "I'll ... I'll tell about everything!" (his voice now sharp and clear) "Your _cheating_ 'n everything!"

With head atilt, Imogene let her eyes go casually large.

"I will! I'll wreck your whole speech!"

She sighed. "'To the end of our lives, deep in my heart' ... ?"

Stanley was silenced. For a moment he stared back at her through lopsided glasses, then dropped his eyes. A grimace of nausea had appeared on his lips, as if some bloodless horror was filling his mind. It was the face, thought Imogene, of one beholding his own eternal damnation:
Ugly hell! ... Gape not!

Lucifer come not!

Ahh ... Mephistopheles! ...

_etc_. _etc_. She was smiling at the poor boy (compassion being remarkably absent this evening).

"Mr Grove'll be there," she informed him. "He's one of the chaperones this year. And your science teacher? Miss Bechtle? She'll be there too. Won't they be _pleased_ to see you mixing with the other kids."

Stanley, still clutching the handrail, stared down at his whitened knuckles; sparkles of sweat had populated his brow.

"Hurry up now." Imogene gave her bracelets a shake. "We're gonna be the last ones there, and we'll get absolutely soaked runnin'across that big parking lot."

Heavy treading sounded as the father came down the stairs and grabbed his son's arm. "I'm _not_ telling you again!"

Stanley was all but dragged up the steps and out of sight.

Doors were slammed and there were assorted thumping sounds until the mother barked, "Stop that kicking!" She turned to make a serious look at Imogene. "You won't ... he's awfully shy."

"I think it's good for him." Imogene was nodding. "And I'll be, y'know — we'll be holding hands the whole time." She grinned. " _I've_ got a few apologies to make too. But, yeah ... lemme know when he's had enough?"

Suddenly, in jeans and T-shirt, Stanley appeared at the top of the stairs, panting. "How 'bout if I write a letter — a long one." There was flutiness in his voice. "I'll make copies. For all the bulletin boards ..."

Imogene's head moved slowly side to side.

"Come _on!_ " he cried.

"I've had just about enough of your letters, thank you."

"God ... Geenee!" He was nearly in tears.

"Listen. The point I'm trying to make ... !" Imogene turned a moment to glance at the baby, now sitting by himself on the carpet. His forehead had begun to wrinkle from all the harsh voices.

Looking back at Stanley, Imogene went on in a softer tone. "You broke my heart, okay? You wrecked my life. And you think you can get away with it by just saying you love me."

"I _do!_ "

Imogene stared at him before replying. "My point is ... you want me to remember you, right? Well, however you behave tonight, that's what I'll remember. Forever."

The father, also in T-shirt and trousers, had come into view. He stood beside his son, staring down at the boy's hung head and helpless fists. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he said, gently, "C'mon now. Hurry up."

Stanley returned to his room, but this time the door did not slam.

At the bottom of the stairs, the daughter was whispering to her mother: "Gramma's on'er way ... and the drumsticks're really splatterin'. Should I turn'em down?"

"Yes ... yes." The mother pinched at her forehead, then turned and tapped up the stairs while the girl dashed back to the kitchen. Imogene, still on the entry rug, was keeping out of everyone's way.

"Do you have a shirt that's _clean!_ " the mother called, halfway up the steps. She stopped and looked back at Imogene, "Is there ... a color scheme or anything?"

Imogene, nodding, made happy eyebrows at her. "All the boys'll be in white tuxes."

"Oh!" A fist was on the mother's mouth. "He only has the brown suit he wears for church."

"That's fine! It's important we stick out." Imogene raised her dress a few inches and pointed a toe.

The mother smiled, then paused to stare at the tender, tilted glow on Imogene's face. She rushed down the stairs, and the two women, nearly identical in height, threw arms around each other. Imogene clung fiercely, her eyes squeezed shut, her head pressed hard against the warm kitchen-scented shoulder.

In a moment she was released, and the mother hurried up the stairs again.

Meanwhile, the daughter had returned from her errand and was watching from a doorway. She looked baffled.

"Laney?" Imogene sniffed, reaching under her still rain-wet waves to tug an earlobe. "Would you maybe have a pair of earrings I could borrow?"

"Uh-huh," the girl nodded eagerly and also dashed up the steps.

Glancing around, Imogene found that she was alone with the baby. Across the room, the TV set was gently murmuring; someone must have turned it down.

Poking at her eyes a moment, Imogene tipped her head at the infant abandoned amid his scatter of toys. His pacifier, a white one this time, began to fall as the baby's face crumbled with sudden despair.

She kicked off her shoes and rushed to him. "Ohh, Davy," Imogene whimpered, kneeling down beside him. "Did everybody run away from you? I know just how you feel." She took him into her arms and they sat in front of the TV set, awkwardly since the tight formal did not allow her to have a lap. "Now look at those sillies. Pulling hair an'fighting _dirty._ " Her smile became immense. "Shame on them." She bounced the child on her knees, squinting to hear the crinkling of taffeta.

The baby was gazing at her with the eyes of a condemned prisoner.

"You don't remember me at all, do you," said Imogene, reaching over to the end table.

She presented him with her little purse of raincoat-colored cloth which he immediately grabbed (plucking out his pacifier) and began toothlessly to gnaw.

From overhead came the sound of hurried activity, doors opening and closing, squeaking floors, questions, answers, "I can't _find_ it!" someone yelled.

Soon the girl returned, thumping down the stairs, and dropped herself beside Imogene and the baby. She opened a small painted chest lined with cotton. A few pieces of jewelry were inside. "These're my fav'rits," she said, picking out a pair of screw-on earrings sporting bright, magenta-colored stones.

Imogene gasped. "Oh they're perfect! May I?"

"Uh-huh!" The girl was delighted.

"Oh thank you! Help me put'em on."

Imogene held her hair away from one ear, then the other.

"How do I look?" she asked when the busy knuckles were done tickling her neck.

"You're beautiful," said the girl, gazing.

Imogene smiled radiantly.

There was a sudden loud clatter upstairs. Laney looked at the ceiling and giggled. "He's really hating this."

Imogene nodded. "Do _you_ hate me?"

The girl seemed to think carefully a moment before shaking her head.

"He _was_ pretty mean to me," said Imogene.

Laney nodded, firmly, as if she had been told (or had overheard) the extent of her brother's crime.

Both girls became quiet for awhile as they listened to the busy noises above them. There was the distinctive squeal of shower plumbing. Imogene laid her cheek on the baby's hot little head and rocked him back and forth.

Then she asked, "Do y'know if Stan's been to see _My Fair Lady_ yet?"

"I don't think so." Laney shrugged. "He didn't go with us. Why."

"Oh, I was just wondering, y'know, what tomorrow night's punishment should be."

Slowly, the lips of both girls stretched into broad grins.

Sneaking the purse away from the baby, Imogene pulled out several sheets of paper and whispered, "Could y'do me another favor? After we're gone, could you hide this in Stan's room, under the covers or someplace, so he'll be sure to find it when he goes to bed?"

"Uh-huh. What is it?" The girl unfolded Imogene's graduation speech.

"Oh, it's ... sort of a present for him."

The baby was scratching at the catch of the purse, trying to make it open again. He began to whimper and Imogene swayed him gently in her arms; she hummed a tune and bent down to kiss a tiny ear.

"What's this funny stuff at the top." asked the girl, bunching her eyebrows. "So ... so lum per ... ?"

Imogene deepened her voice. " _Solum per infernum_ , _perventum caelum est_ ," she recited as gravely as she could (while grinning at the little hammers pounding inside the Anacin head on the TV). "It's a Latin quotation by Imogena Urica — a famous Roman pom-pom girl." She laughed.

"What's it mean?"

Imogene's merry eyes widened to an owl-like omniscience. She held the baby close to her and said, softly: "Only through hell is heaven found."

Upstairs, a door banged loudly open. From within came an echo-y mousey squeal: " _Mah-om!_ I'm naked!"

The girls laughed.

