CHAPTER THREE.

THE CROSSLAND MULTIPURPOSE room was a huge expanse of high ceilings and a few narrow windows. Opposite the entry doors was the kitchen area, which opened up to create the school cafeteria. Today I could see food workers scurrying behind the steamed windows to prepare the daily gruel.

In the front of the room was a large heavy black curtain, which was ominously closed. Today a podium stood on the lip of the proscenium, armed with a mike. Last night there must have been a PTA meeting.

The multipurpose room always felt stark and unfriendly and more than a little nasty, but it was warmer than outdoors. Most of the students hurried in and gathered into groups of friends. There was a good deal of yawning. Many students used the opportunity to lay their heads on the table to catch a few more winks. I never found this possible, since the din of chatter was enormous.

After we said hello to Mr. Hendricks, the night custodian who was just finishing up some floor mopping, Harold and I found a quieter place at the end of the table, near the stage, and we sat down at the end, huddled together companionably, watching the mob.

Harold looked back at the heavy curtain with misgivings. "One of these days I expect to see that curtain open. We'll see King Kong, chained up. Flashbulbs will go off. He'll roar and thrash. And then he'll pull off his chains, grab you, and head for the Empire State Building."

"Me?" I said. "I'm no svelte beauty. Why not one of the cheerleaders, the ones who spend a half hour on their hair before they come to school?"

"He's my King Kong, that's why," said Harold Lumpkin.

I would have pursued the issue further, but it was then that the reason I had the thing in my bag came into the room.

He arrived with style. The way he moved never failed to fascinate me. He took dancing lessons, sure, but he'd also told me that he liked to watch Fred Astaire movies. Even though he was a bigger guy, he walked like Fred Astaire. He had a flowing grace to him.

I couldn't help myself. I grabbed Harold's arm and squeezed emphatically. "Oh my god," I said. "He's here."

He leaned over a nearby table and chatted for a moment with the occupants, then he smiled, turned, and looked for someone. That dazzling smile again, and he pointed. Laughing, showing a set of white, flashing teeth, he waved, called, and then started that graceful walk again...

Toward our table.

"Ouch! Your fingernails are digging into my arm!" said Harold, obviously irked for other reasons as well.

"Harold. Harold a he's coming to our table!" I said through clenched teeth.

Sure enough, the object of my attention moved blithely down the aisle. The din of the room seemed to die down, and my attention focused into a narrow tunnel, fixed on this young man.

Peter. Peter Harrigan.

He was, quite simply, beautiful.

He was tall with broad shoulders. He had piercing dark eyes that sparkled below dark brows. His chin had a dimple and his cheeks, in fact his whole face, worked together as a team in quest of perfect symmetry. His body had an agile strength to it. You could see that strength in the way he moved.

I was never much for boys.

Boys being boys, when I started getting a figure, I got attention.

But it was like being the only human in a monkey house. I just didn't get it. I didn't care. There were too many other important things in life to bother with adolescent males.

When I saw Peter Harrigan, though, I understand the whole female-male attraction thing.

"Hey," said Harold. "Your fingernails are really hurting. I mean it!"

"Sorry," I said, easing my grip.

I felt giddy and excited. The slight trembles of feeling started awakening the wells of deeper emotions that I had for this handsome, charming and sweet young man.

Sometimes lately I would wake up in the middle of the night and I'd be thinking about Peter. It was as though I'd started some sentence about him while I was sleeping, but could only finish it awake. I would just lie there, clutching my pillow, thinking about the few conversations we'd had, thinking about his kind smile, thinking about the twinkle in his eyes...thinking about having those strong arms around me....

....and his hot breath on my neck.

I kept on telling myself, you've just got a crush. A crush!

You've heard about crushes. They're a dime a dozen at high school.

But these feelings a they felt just overwhelming. Moving inside me like a tsunami, they felt like the Dark Tides of Fate being pulled by the Moon. Or something like that.

"You don't have to take a deep breath or anything," said Harry, "but breathing would be a good idea."

I gasped. "Oh, God, I'm holding my breath again. Not good, not good."

I took in a deep, deep breath and closed my eyes. I guess the theory was, with boys, you get into the shallow end of the pool first. You dance, you hang out, you flirt a maybe a kiss here, a make-out session there. Some long phone calls. And then, of course, lots and lots of dramatic conversations with your girlfriends.

But not me.

No, I didn't do that. My nose was in books and I was busy moving between Air Force bases.

No, for me it was a dive right into the deep end. And a belly-flop dive at that!

"Maybe you'd better open your eyes," said Harry. "He's coming this way."

"Coming this..."

My eyes shot open. Sure enough, Peter was wending his way along the side aisle, headed toward the sparsely populated tables by the stage.

"Coming this way. Harold - he's going to sit by us!"

Harold got a pained look on his face. Pained but patient. He knew what would have to happen then.

"Look, if you are going to get to know this guy, you're going to have to start talking to him."

"I will. But if I've got an icebreaker around, why not avail myself?"

"Oh, I feel so used," Harry said, mock dramatically. "I'm not exactly the social butterfly."

"But I freeze up!" I said. "I just totally can't talk to him right away. You know that. So, just start talking."

I was getting desperate, since I could see that Peter had broken off from a conversation. His head was down. He was alone. He was coming toward us!

"Oh my god, is he going to talk to me?" I muttered. "Why would Peter want to talk to me?"

"Maybe he knows about what's in the bag," said Harold. "And what your afternoon plans are."

"Nobody knows that. Nobody knows but you and me, Harold."

Peter Harrigan moved was about halfway down the table from us. He looked directly at us. When he saw me, he smiled and gave a nice, gentle wave. Then he sat down. Immediately, he opened a book.

With extreme delicacy, he drew out a pair of reading glasses from a sleek black case, put them on, and absorbed himself in a history book.

He recognized me!

We had no classes together. Peter was a senior, and I was a junior. I saw him only when he came into the library while I was manning the front desk during my library period.

As far as he knew, my vocabulary was limited to "Hi," and "I'm afraid this book is overdue."

"Harold," I said, kicking his leg.

"Oh, hi," said Harold. "Got a history test today, Peter?"

"Yes," said Peter. "Well, actually just a quiz."

"Uhm a I'm not really much at history but my friend here.... is just the best history scholar you've ever seen!"

"Oh, yes," said Peter. "You work at the library, don't you? I've seen you."

I nodded. It wasn't one of my more articulate moments.

"I'm pretty good at American History," continued Peter. "But this is World History and the teacher, I believe, is a frustrated English scholar with his head in the clouds. All kinds of strange theories. We're studying the Victorian period now, and I'm at a bit of a loss."

The Victorian period!

I lived in the 19th Century!

"Well, as a matter of fact!" I said, suddenly finding my voice.

It was then that disaster struck.

CHAPTER FOUR.

IN MY VICTORIAN World, the sun had been coming up and shining on me through the smile of my beloved!

Suddenly, it was a dark and stormy night.

Disaster! Unmitigated disaster!

Two dark forms moved like shadows, settling down into seats, separating Peter's bright eyes from my hopeful smile. One shadow was tall, yet stooped. The other was short and squat. One was male and one was female.

They looked like cut-outs from a particularly creepy Charles Addams cartoon. They were talking to each other in a kind of loud mumble I could not decipher and didn't care to at the time.

Peter, of course, used the opportunity to shrug, wave a kind of sweet toodle-loo, and immerse himself back in his books.

"Do you two mind!" I said, losing control. "We were just having a conversation here!"

"Pardon?" said the guy.

His head was covered in long, limp hair that didn't look recently washed. He had a long high forehead, and deep set eyes. He had high cheekbones and a sharp regular chin, but any good looks were diminished by the extreme pallor of skin. He had the paleness of a dead earthworm you find washed up on your sidewalk after a storm.

His companion was a short lump of a girl, dressed in black, with limp black hair too, but with a doughy face too, pale and not much character. Only her eyes showed any life about her. They had a kind of dim, almost interesting glow.

"Good morning, Rebecca," said the guy.

"Good morning," I said, with cutting politeness. "You kind of interrupted us." I whispered pleadingly.: "Could you move?"

"Move?" said the girl. The glow in her eyes turned a bit crimson, almost baleful.

"Ummm...or how about this," said Harold. "We trade places, okay. Only six minutes till the bell. What's the harm?"

The guy's eyebrow furrowed. He got a look of righteous indignation on his face, flavored with a bit of hurt.

I knew this guy.

Not well, but I'd talked to him.

His name was Emory Clarke. He was the son of a U.S. Senator who'd been in Congress since before Emory had been born.

Emory Clarke had a soft-spoken Southern accent and seemed to have more manners than your average high school teenager. He wore dark clothes, and liked dark baggy suits and ties. His clothes were always clean but unpressed, and he smelled of lilacs. Nobody bothered him much because of who his father was, but he was the kind of guy who'd get taken out in an alley by his fellow Southern good ole boys and beaten up on suspicion of homosexuality if he didn't have connections.

I'd been naturally drawn to talk to him once in awhile, especially since I saw a copy of Confessions of Nat Turner by William Styron, a popular book of the sixties about a slave rebellion, tucked into his book bag. I'd just read that book and I talked to him about it, but didn't get much more than monosyllables from him.

"The table was free," he said, voice dripping his sarcasm. *Pardon the intrusion, Rebecca, but please, do not bother me with this. Can't you deal with your own petty needs."

He wasn't looking at Harold. He was looking at me.

"Petty?" I said. "Petty! Look, we were having a civilized conversation without mumbles."

"I resent that," said the girl.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh please, please....look, let's just calm down. I'm sorry..."

"My friend Emory has received nothing but derision from people like you."

"People like me? I know Emory. I've tried to talk to him," I said. "Sorry, but look, let's just..."

But there was nothing for it. They'd descended in a cloud of fumes. I hadn't noticed the volatile nature of the fumes, and had struck a spark.

Her name was Cheryl Ames. I knew her because she was in my English class. She resented me, I think, because she was a very good English student....but I was better.