"And I've always heard of Washington D.C. referred to as a genteel Southern town."

He smiled broadly at that one. "Perhaps, if you're from Boston!"

His eyes changed when he smiled.

They absolutely twinkled. There was a golden, secret joy there, gleaming as though reflecting some private sun. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

"Have you ever lived in the Deep South, then, Rebecca?" he said. "Not that you need to, of course, to appreciate Southern literature like you do."

"Well, for a couple years Dad was stationed in Texas. But I was like five! I mostly remember the heat and the flies...and really nice people."

"Texas is quite large," he said, nodding to himself. "And unquestionably it is a part of the heritage of the South. But it is not the Deep South."

"No. No, I guess it's not. Your father is a Senator, right?"

Emory nodded gravely. He looked suddenly as though their was added weight on his shoulders. "My daddy is the U.S. Senator from the state of Alabama. Has been for quite some time."

"Do you miss Alabama?"

"I do. But we go back to our home in Birmingham often enough."

"I guess, Emory, one of the things I've always wondered about you was why you're going to a regular school and not some more, ah - exclusive school..."

Emory's face somehow grew even more grave. He looked far older than his years.

"My Daddy is a populist Senator. A man, he says, of the people. He believes in the public education system and believes his children should use the public educational system. My brothers and sisters did in the past. I do now."

"I know....but Crossland."

"You speak of the vocational program here. Crossland Senior High is an important school. My daddy is a great supporter of President Lyndon Johnson. He believes in the Great Society. If integration of coloreds - pardon me - of Afro-Americans is important, is not the integration of other different classes?"

I nodded. I'd steeped myself so in the class-ridden British society of now and yesterday, I didn't even think much about "integration". It was, however, an issue I could not ignore now.

And besides, if being a cheerleader for the Great Society was something that would help me understand, somehow, this guy - why not?

"Oh. Yes. I see. Yes, that's more or less the sort of thing that the Principal was saying to me the other day in his office."

Emory suddenly seemed to break out of his withdrawn shell. His face softened a bit and empathy showed through, like the sun suddenly peeking out of dark clouds.

"Oh yes. He asked you to go to his office after that unfortunate business the other day. Was it very terrible?"

"It was kinda weird."

"Oh?" I saw an increasing interest. The subject of Principal Canthorpe was something that oddly concerned him. Or was he really interested in me, and just cloaking it?

I had to pursue that possibility.

"It's kind of a long story," I said. "Say, though. We're working on this play together. Maybe we could get to know each other better. My best friend and I hang out and listen to music in his basement. And tonight is Thursday. Star Trek night. Why don't you come over and hang out with us."

"I don't know. I..."

"You can bring your best friend."

His face lightened.

"We do like Star Trek?"

"It's a big screen color TV."

He nodded, and a quiet smile touched his lips. Making him look, I thought, rather like an old fashioned movie star. Emory Clarke, I thought, was really rather handsome!

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

IT WAS THE night of the Star Trek party that I first had the notion that I might be getting into something dangerous.

I went straight over to Harold's after rehearsal. He lived just a few blocks from school, and so this was something I did once in a while. Mrs. Lumpkin always seemed to have at least one extra salisbury steak or piece of meatloaf for me if I wanted to have dinner there, and I was almost becoming part of the family. A previously clear day had gone cold.

Clouds moved briskly across the high Eastern sky, and night clamped down like a tight lid. I was very glad I'd worn my heavy down coat with the white fleece hood today. The temperature seemed destined to dive into the twenties.

I walked to Harry's house after rehearsal, tingling. Not tingling with with the chill, though. Tingling with the memory of Emory Clarke's breath on my face. It was very odd. I was still fascinated with Peter. I liked that I got to watch him, be around him. But he seemed no more interested in talking to me with a blonde wig and a British accent on than without.

Emory, on the other hand, was a surprise. And he was rather sweet as well, and shy and happy to talk, once you got him warmed it up. It wasn't as though I was a social butterfly, but I'd read enough novels of manners - from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer - to at least try to engage in conversation when the right times arose. Somehow I sensed now that Emory Clarke had that kind of breeding as well. And he wasn't taking on airs like Peter did. His soft-spoken speech flowed from someplace natural.

So I guess I had no idea of what I had been doing when I invited him over to watch Star Trek that night. It had been impulsive and reckless and perhaps instinctive...

And certainly, as it turned out, indeed very, very dangerous.

Harold was happy to see me. Mrs. Lumpkin was happy to see me as well, her jolly red cheeks glowing with the cold she'd collected out grocery shopping. Why yes, of course Rebecca can stay for dinner. A couple of other guests for Star Trek. Wonderful. I'll make popcorn for you and I've just gotten more soda pop. The idea of bookish Harry socializing always pleased the chubby, happy woman immensely. I didn't mention that Emory was a Senator's son, for fear that she'd burst with happiness - or at the very least, fawn over him.

I wanted it to be just us.

Harold, on the other hand, was more than bemused.

"Emory Clarke? Here? That weird girlfriend of his? Here? What? Are you crazy?" he said later, down in the basement, with some Beatles playing on the stereo.

"Oh Harold, you know I'm crazy!"

"What?"

I shook my head and laughed ruefully, banging my head back into the headrest of the couch.

"Oh, it was just a really, really interesting rehearsal and I thought that we should get to know each other, that's all. He seems like a really nice guy after all."

"Kinda strange!"

"Look who's calling the kettle black!" I said.

"Right, Vampira!"

"Okay, Buck Rogers!"

We glared at each other, doing our evil eye worst. As usual, though, that sent us both into fits of giggles.

"Okay, gothic lady," said Harold, adjusting his glasses. "Maybe they are a bit like us. Merely that they aren't blocks or collegiates."

"Outsiders."

"Hey, every body else are outsiders," said Harry. He tapped his chest. "I'm an Insider here."

I flung my head back into the pillow with exasperation. "You know what I mean."

"Okay, okay, I know what you mean."

George Harrison's *Within You and Without You' was playing. It was my favorite song on Sergeant Pepper, and Harry knew it. We just sat in the dark and a bit dank basement, watching the black vinyl disc rotate on the turntable, the needle and arm riding the grooves.

When George was finished singing and the sitars stopped, Harry turned to me. "So what? You're not so ..uhm...keen on Peter. You suddenly like Emory better?"

"What!" I said, standing up. "You think the crush has magically transferred or something? Well it hasn't! No no no! How could I possibly get a crush on a guy in just one day. And Emory Clarke at that!" I stamped an adamant foot. "And blast it all, Harold! Who says I have a crush at all? That's such..such an odious word! I have something...something that should be a French word! Yes, and maybe it is a French word."

"You'll have to ask Madame DuBonnet now, won't you?"

"I'll check the library thank you!"

Harry held up his hands. "Okay, no need to get intense."

"Just what makes you think this ...this business with Emory Clarke...is..is... "

"Physical?"

"Okay, that'll do for now," I said. "What makes you think that I have....physical feelings for Emory Clarke."

"I don't know. You're just so ...well, flushed and excited."

"I am?" I felt my face. "Harry, I am not."

"Well, you kind of were when you came in."

"Harry, that was because of the cold. I'm mean, surely."

"Point taken. No problem." He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Should be interesting. I mean, if those two are going to open up a bit... Always wondered what they were like."

"They were always like that? I mean, chummy and everything...but like you and me. Nothing romantic."

"Who knows about that, but they kind of gravitated together last year. That's the first year I noticed them, anyway. Last year was Crossland's first year, you know. It's a very new place. They both came from different schools, I think. Word was that Emory could have gone to another public school, but Crossland worked out better politically for his father."

"That's kind of what he told me, but from a different viewpoint."

"Well, he could go to a fancy school for certain, but probably wouldn't fit in anywhere. So why not here." His face grew a bit troubled.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. I just remember something ....uhm... no, never mind."

"What is it, Harold!"

"Okay. Well, you know how Emory's a bit weird. In a good way from our outsider perspective, okay, but he doesn't exactly make people feel comfortable. Well, last year, there was this collegiate. A junior named Bulmer. Ted Bulmer. Football player. Lineman. Jock. Big guy. Always said he wanted to go to Yale because that was William F. Buckley's alma mater - but Yale didn't have a good football team, so he was going somewhere else. Well, Ted picked on Emory something fierce. Just really ragged him. Like, when they were both in a room together, you could see hackles going up. Well, ther was a couple of months of this. And then one weekend about a year ago, Ted Bulmer went to Canada to cross country ski. He got lost...and they found him.... It looked as though a pack of wolves got him."

"Yikes!" I said. "Ouch! "

"Well, there were others who bothered Emory - not just collegiates but some of the more , you know, red-necked blocks. They just laid off him after that happened."

"In Canada? You're not linking Emory with murder, are you? Sounds like an act of Mother Nature, so to speak."

"Well, no, of course not. And there was no connection made by anyone. It was just something that I noticed, you know?" Harold shook his head. "Don't mention Ted Bulmer to Emory tonight!"

"Of course not!"

"You do blurt sometimes."

"No blurting... And never that kind of nonsense, ever!" Hmm, though I thought. It did intrigue my inner Nancy Drew, though. I knew that I was going to check into Emory Clark and Emory's family and background a bit with my library skills. If only for something to talk to him about with.

"Well okay. You say he likes Star Trek, so there's plenty to talk about there."

"And Cheryl? Does she like Star Trek too?"

"Not particularly, but she watches it sometimes."

I kind of fudged that. I'm not sure why. I wasn't exactly sure I liked my weird best guy friend getting to know Emory Clarke's best gal friend. Why? I am not entirely certain. But then, as I look back on all of this, I'm not at all certain why I did any of this. It just seemed so important, so very very important at the time.

I had a very nice fried chicken and mashed potatoes dinner at the Browns. My mother hadn't been surprised at all, but admonished me to make sure I did my homework. It was supposed to snow though, so if it did, could I stay in the Brown's guest room? Mrs. Brown was happy to oblige.

As we were eating dessert - jello pudding with that new fangled non-dairy topping - a pair of headlights splashed through the front window. I looked out through the dining room, and sure enough, a large car was easing into the apron of the front driveway.

"Good grief!" said Mr. Lumpkin, taking out his glasses and sliding them on as he peered out the window. "That's a Rolls Royce!"

With the motor still purring, a tall slender chaffeur in cap and jodphurs got out the car. He opened the back door. Two figures got out, one even taller than the chauffeur, the other short and stumpy.

"They say he's independently wealthy, that Senator," said Mrs. Brown, still a bit taken aback that a Senator's son was coming to her house. "That he donates his government salary to charities."

"Well, John D. Rockefeller always said if you had a lot of money you should money around before it stinks," said Mr. Brown "But I can still smell this money."

The doorbell rang.