"Go on," he mouthed, winking. It seemed Roge, in his yellow cotton sweater and khaki pants-creases down each leg, clear cut as the International Date Line-would make a very convincing wholesaler of junk, white girl, afghan black, billy whiz and joy powder. he mouthed, winking. It seemed Roge, in his yellow cotton sweater and khaki pants-creases down each leg, clear cut as the International Date Line-would make a very convincing wholesaler of junk, white girl, afghan black, billy whiz and joy powder.

I obliged, took one. It began to melt in my hand.

"Roger!" said Patsy, said Patsy, tisking tisking (two dimples snagging her cheeks) as she took what was now our sixteenth picture, this one with Zach and me on the floral couch, our knees positioned at a perfect ninety degrees. (two dimples snagging her cheeks) as she took what was now our sixteenth picture, this one with Zach and me on the floral couch, our knees positioned at a perfect ninety degrees.

Patsy was a self-proclaimed "picture nut," and all around us, covering every hard, flat surface like thousands of wet, unraked leaves in a gazebo, were framed photos of skew-smiled Zach, urn-eared Bethany Louise, a few with Roge when he had sideburns and Patsy when her hair was a redder brown, which she wore as an amaretto bundt cake atop her head, drizzled with ribbons. The only hard, flat surface in the living room devoid of pictures-the coffee table in front of us-supported a paused game of Parcheesi.

"I hope Zach didn't embarra.s.s you with his dance," said Patsy.

"Not at all," I said.

"He was practicing all the time. So nervous! He had Bethany Louise up all hours of the night going over the steps."

"Mom," said Zach.

"He knew it was risky," said Roge. "But I told him to take that leap of faith."

"It runs in the family," said Patsy, nodding toward Roge. "You should have seen this one when he proposed." "Sometimes you just can't help yourself." "Thank goodness for that!" "Mom, we should get going," said Zach. "All right! All right! One more by the window." "Mom." "Just one. There's gorgeous light over there. One. I promise." I'd never been inside a household full of ! and even more !!! I wasn't even aware these nests of goodwill, these bubble baths of clasps and cuddles actually existed, except in one's head when one compared one's own fitful family to the seemingly blissful one across the street.

An hour ago, as Zach and I drove up the driveway and I saw his wooden house - up-front as an open-faced sandwich, served to the sky on skinny wooden stilts-Patsy in her beetle-green blouse scurried down the porch steps to greet us before Zach had even parked the car ("You said she was pretty, you didn't say drop dead! drop dead! Zach never tells us anything!" she exclaimed. And that was her voice, even when she wasn't greeting people on the driveway, an exclamation). Zach never tells us anything!" she exclaimed. And that was her voice, even when she wasn't greeting people on the driveway, an exclamation).

Patsy was pretty (though some twenty-five pounds heavier than her bundt cake days) with a cheerful, round face suggestive of a fresh vanilla cake blessed with a cherry and placed lovingly in a sweet shoppe's window. Roge was handsome, but in the opposite way of Dad. Roge (Have enough gas in the car Zaehary, Just had her filled, Good boy) displayed the sparkling air of a brand new bathroom fixture in sought-after White Heat tile. He had sparkling blue eyes and skin so clear, you almost expected to see your own reflection winking back at you when you peered into his face.

Finally, after logging photo number twenty-two (Patsy made that word all her own, foe-toe) foe-toe) Zach and I were finally granted permission to leave. We were heading out of the living room into the neat beige foyer when Roge stealthily pa.s.sed me a cloth napkin full of bonbons he ostensibly hoped I'd traffic out of the house. Zach and I were finally granted permission to leave. We were heading out of the living room into the neat beige foyer when Roge stealthily pa.s.sed me a cloth napkin full of bonbons he ostensibly hoped I'd traffic out of the house.

"Oh, wait," said Zach. "I wanted to show Blue the Turner. I think she'd like it."

"Of course!" said Patsy, clapping her hands.

"Just for a second," Zach said to me.

Grudgingly, I followed him up the stairs.

For the record, Zach had held up remarkably well during his encounter with Dad when he picked me up in his Toyota. He'd shaken Dad's hand (from the looks of things it wasn't a "wet washcloth," Dad's pet peeve), called him "Sir," jumpstarted a conversation about what a beautiful night it was going to be and what Dad did for a living. Dad gave him the thrice-over and answered in stark replies that would've frightened Mussolini: "Is it?" "Is it?" and "I and "I teach civil war." teach civil war." Other dads would have felt sorry for Zach, recalling their own wobbly days of adolescence, and they'd take pity, try to Make the Kid Feel Comfortable. Unfortunately, Dad decided to Make the Kid Feel Small and Less Than a Man, simply because Zach hadn't known, innately, what Dad did for a living. Even though Dad knew the readership of Other dads would have felt sorry for Zach, recalling their own wobbly days of adolescence, and they'd take pity, try to Make the Kid Feel Comfortable. Unfortunately, Dad decided to Make the Kid Feel Small and Less Than a Man, simply because Zach hadn't known, innately, what Dad did for a living. Even though Dad knew the readership of Federal Forum Federal Forum was less than 0.3 percent of the United States and hence only a handful of individuals had scoured his essays or noted his romantic (a June Bug would say "rugged" or "dashing") black-and-white was less than 0.3 percent of the United States and hence only a handful of individuals had scoured his essays or noted his romantic (a June Bug would say "rugged" or "dashing") black-and-white foe-toe foe-toe on display in "Contributors of Note," Dad on display in "Contributors of Note," Dad still still didn't like to be reminded that he and his educational efforts weren't as recognizable as say, Sylvester Stallone and didn't like to be reminded that he and his educational efforts weren't as recognizable as say, Sylvester Stallone and Rocky. Rocky.

Yet Zach displayed the optimism of a cartoon.

"Midnight," decreed Dad as we walked outside. "I decreed Dad as we walked outside. "I mean mean it." it."

"You have my word, Mr. Van Meer!"

At this point, Dad wasn't bothering to hide his You've-Got-to-Be-Kidding face, which I ignored, though it quickly dissolved into his This-Is-the-Winterof-My-Discontent look, and then, Shoot-If-You-Must-This-Old-Gray-Head.

"Your dad's nice," Zach said as he started the car. (Dad was an infinite number of things, yet clammy-handed, sigh-by-night Nice was the one thing the man absolutely wasn't.) Now I trailed after him, down the airless, carpeted hallway, which he presumably shared with his sister if one went by the his-n-her hallkill along the floor and the onslaught of sibling odor (smell of athletic socks bullying peach perfume, cologne competing with fumes off a limp gray sweatshirt and threatening to go tell mom). We walked by what had to be Bethany Louise's room, painted gum pink, a pile of clothes on the floor (see "Mount McKinley," Almanac of Major Landmarks, Almanac of Major Landmarks, 2000 ed.). We then pa.s.sed a second bedroom, and through the crack of the not-quite-closed door I made out blue walls, trophies, a poster of an overcooked blonde in a bikini. (Without much imagination, I could fill in the other obvious detail: held captive under the mattress, a ravished 2000 ed.). We then pa.s.sed a second bedroom, and through the crack of the not-quite-closed door I made out blue walls, trophies, a poster of an overcooked blonde in a bikini. (Without much imagination, I could fill in the other obvious detail: held captive under the mattress, a ravished Victoria's Secret Victoria's Secret catalogue with the majority of its pages stuck together.) catalogue with the majority of its pages stuck together.) At the end of the hall, Zach stopped. In front of him was a small painting, no bigger than a porthole, illuminated by a crooked gold light on the wall.

"So my father's a minister at the First Baptist Church. And when he did one of his sermons last year, 'The Fourteen Hopes,' there was a man in the congregation visiting from Washington, D.C. A guy by the name of Cecil Roloff. Well, this guy was so inspired he told my dad afterward he was a changed man." Zach pointed at the painting. "So a week later this came by UPS. And it's real. You know Turner, the artist?"

Obviously I was familiar with the "King of Light," otherwise known as J.M.W. Turner (1775-1851), having read Alejandro Penzance's eight hundred-page X-rated biography of the man, published only in Europe, Poor and Decayed Male Artist Born in England Poor and Decayed Male Artist Born in England (1974). (1974).

"It's called Fishermen at Sea" Fishermen at Sea" Zach said. Zach said.

Nimbly I stepped around the pair of green plastic gym shorts dead on the floor and leaned in to examine it. I guessed it probably was was real, though it wasn't one of the "light fests" where the artist "screwed convention and took painting by the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es!' as Penzance described Turner's hazy, almost completely abstract work (p. viii, Introduction). This painting was an oil, yet dark, depicting a tiny boat seemingly lost in a storm at sea, painted in hazy grays, browns and greens. There were slurpy waves, a wooden boat forceful as a matchbox, a moon, wan and small and a little bit of an acrophobe as it peered fretfully through the clouds. real, though it wasn't one of the "light fests" where the artist "screwed convention and took painting by the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es!' as Penzance described Turner's hazy, almost completely abstract work (p. viii, Introduction). This painting was an oil, yet dark, depicting a tiny boat seemingly lost in a storm at sea, painted in hazy grays, browns and greens. There were slurpy waves, a wooden boat forceful as a matchbox, a moon, wan and small and a little bit of an acrophobe as it peered fretfully through the clouds.

"Why is it hanging up here?" I asked. He laughed shyly. "Oh, my mom wants it close to my sister and me. She says it's healthy to sleep close to art."

"A very interesting use of light," I said. "Faintly reminiscent of The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons. The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons. Especially in the sky. But a different palette obviously." Especially in the sky. But a different palette obviously."

"My favorite part's the clouds." Zach swallowed. A soup spoon had to be stuck in his throat. "Know what?"

"What."

"You kind of remind me of that boat."

I looked at him. His face was about as cruel as a peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich with the crusts cut off (and he'd had a haircut so his Panama-hat hair didn't slant quite quite so low over his forehead) but his remark still made me-well, suddenly unable to so low over his forehead) but his remark still made me-well, suddenly unable to stand stand him. He had likened me to a diminutive vessel manned by faceless dots of brown and yellow- him. He had likened me to a diminutive vessel manned by faceless dots of brown and yellow-poorly manned at that, because in a matter of seconds (if one took into account the oiled swell curled to strike down with vengeance), the thing was about to go under and that brown smudge on the horizon, that unwitting pa.s.sing ship, wasn't coming to rescue the dots anytime soon. manned at that, because in a matter of seconds (if one took into account the oiled swell curled to strike down with vengeance), the thing was about to go under and that brown smudge on the horizon, that unwitting pa.s.sing ship, wasn't coming to rescue the dots anytime soon.

It was the cause of many of Dad's outrages too, when people elected themselves his personal oracle of Delphi. It was the grounds for many of his university colleagues going from nameless, harmless peers to individuals he referred to as "anathemas" and "bete noires." They'd made the mistake of abridging Dad, abbreviating Dad, putting Dad in a nutsh.e.l.l, watering Dad down, telling Dad How It Was (and getting it all wrong).

Four years prior, at Dodson-Miner College's opening day World Symposium, Dad had delivered a forty-nine-minute lecture ent.i.tled, "Models of Hate and the Organ Trade," a lecture he was particularly fond of, having traveled in 1995 to Houston to interview one mustachioed Sletnik Patrutzka who'd sold her kidney for freedom. (Through tears, Sletnik had showed us her scars; "Steel hurts," she'd said.) Immediately following Dad's speech, College Provost Rodney Byrd scuttled across the outdoor stage like a shooed c.o.c.kroach, dabbed his sloppy mouth with a handkerchief and said, "Thank you, Dr. Van Meer, for your keen insight into post-Communist Russia. It is very rare that we have a bona fide Russian emigre emigre on campus"-he said it as if it were some mysterious individual who was a no-show, a very elusive Ms. Emmie Gray-"and we look forward to spending the semester with you. If anyone has a question about on campus"-he said it as if it were some mysterious individual who was a no-show, a very elusive Ms. Emmie Gray-"and we look forward to spending the semester with you. If anyone has a question about War and Peace War and Peace I suspect he's your man." (Of course, Dad's lecture had covered the organ trade rife in Western I suspect he's your man." (Of course, Dad's lecture had covered the organ trade rife in Western Europe Europe and he'd never set foot in Russia. Though proficient in other languages, Dad actually knew no Russian at all except a well-known Russian proverb, which meant, "Trust in G.o.d, but lock your car,".) and he'd never set foot in Russia. Though proficient in other languages, Dad actually knew no Russian at all except a well-known Russian proverb, which meant, "Trust in G.o.d, but lock your car,".) "The act of being personally misconstrued," Dad said, "informed to one's face one is no more complex than a few words haphazardly strung together like blotchy undershirts on a clothesline-well, it can gall the most self-possessed of individuals."

There was no sound in the claustrophobic hallway except Zach's breathing, which heaved like the interior of a conch sh.e.l.l. I could feel his eyes dripping down me, coursing through the folds of Jefferson's crispy black dress that resembled an upside-down s.h.i.take mushroom if you squinted at it. The silvery-black fabric felt flimsy, as if it could stiffly peel away like tinfoil around cold fried chicken.

"Blue?"

I made the grave error of glancing up at him again. His face-head light-bright from the light on the Turner, eyelashes absurdly long like those of a Jersey Cow-was heading straight toward me, drifting on down like Gondwa.n.a.land, the giant Southern landma.s.s that inched toward the South Pole 200 million years ago.

He wanted our tectonic plates to collide, forcing one on top of the other so molten material from the earth's interior gives rise to a wild and unstable volcano. Well, it was one of those sweaty moments I'd never had before except in dreams, when my head was in the cul-de-sac of Andreo Verduga's arm, my lips by his alcoholic cologne in the dead end of his neck. And as I stared up at Zach's face hovering at the intersection of Desire and Shyness, patiently waiting for a green light (even though there wasn't a soul around), you'd think I'd flee, run for my life, lie back and think of Milton (throughout the evening, I'd been engaged in covert Neverlanding, fantasizing it'd been Well, it was one of those sweaty moments I'd never had before except in dreams, when my head was in the cul-de-sac of Andreo Verduga's arm, my lips by his alcoholic cologne in the dead end of his neck. And as I stared up at Zach's face hovering at the intersection of Desire and Shyness, patiently waiting for a green light (even though there wasn't a soul around), you'd think I'd flee, run for my life, lie back and think of Milton (throughout the evening, I'd been engaged in covert Neverlanding, fantasizing it'd been he he who'd met Dad, who'd met Dad, his his mother and father who'd squirreled around the living room), but no, at this bizarre moment, Hannah Schneider slipped into my head. mother and father who'd squirreled around the living room), but no, at this bizarre moment, Hannah Schneider slipped into my head.

I'd seen her at school just that afternoon, right after sixth period. She was dressed in a long-sleeved black wool dress, a tight black coat, moving unevenly down the sidewalk toward Hanover carrying a cream canvas bag, her head bent toward the ground. While Hannah had always always been thin, her figure, particularly her shoulders, looked unusually hunched and narrow, dented even-like she'd been smashed in a door. been thin, her figure, particularly her shoulders, looked unusually hunched and narrow, dented even-like she'd been smashed in a door.

Now, caught in some gluey moment with this kid, feeling like I was still in Kansas, the reality of her getting so close to Doc she could count the number of gray hairs on his chin felt gruesome. How could she stomach his hands, his rocking-chair shoulders or the next morning, the sky sterile as a hospital floor? What was wrong wrong with her? Something was wrong, of course, yet I'd been too preoccupied with myself, with Black and the number of times he sneezed, with Jade, Lu, Nigel, my hair, to take it to heart. ("The average American girl's princ.i.p.al obsession is her hair-simple bangs, a perm, straightening, split ends-to the breathtaking rebuff of all else, including divorce, murder and nuclear war," writes Dr. Michael Espiland in with her? Something was wrong, of course, yet I'd been too preoccupied with myself, with Black and the number of times he sneezed, with Jade, Lu, Nigel, my hair, to take it to heart. ("The average American girl's princ.i.p.al obsession is her hair-simple bangs, a perm, straightening, split ends-to the breathtaking rebuff of all else, including divorce, murder and nuclear war," writes Dr. Michael Espiland in Always Knock Before Entering Always Knock Before Entering [1993].) What had happened to Hannah to make her descend into Cottonwood the way Dante had willfully descended into h.e.l.l? What had caused her to perpetuate a marked pattern of self-annihilation, which was obviously replicating at an alarming rate with the death of her friend Smoke Harvey, the drinking and swearing, her thinness, which made her look like a starved crow? Misery multiplied unless it was treated immediately. So did misfortune, according to Irma Stenpluck, author of [1993].) What had happened to Hannah to make her descend into Cottonwood the way Dante had willfully descended into h.e.l.l? What had caused her to perpetuate a marked pattern of self-annihilation, which was obviously replicating at an alarming rate with the death of her friend Smoke Harvey, the drinking and swearing, her thinness, which made her look like a starved crow? Misery multiplied unless it was treated immediately. So did misfortune, according to Irma Stenpluck, author of The Credibility Gap The Credibility Gap (1988), which detailed on p. 329 one had only to suffer a tiny misfortune before one found one's "entire ship sinking into the Atlantic." Maybe it was none of our business, but maybe it was what she'd been hoping for all along, that one of us would unstick from our self and ask about (1988), which detailed on p. 329 one had only to suffer a tiny misfortune before one found one's "entire ship sinking into the Atlantic." Maybe it was none of our business, but maybe it was what she'd been hoping for all along, that one of us would unstick from our self and ask about her her for once, not out of snoopy intrigue but because she was our friend and obviously crumbling a little bit. for once, not out of snoopy intrigue but because she was our friend and obviously crumbling a little bit.

I hated myself, standing there in the hallway, next to the Turner and Zach still hovering on the edge of his dry canyon of a kiss.

"You have something on your mind," he quietly observed. The kid was Carl Jung, f.u.c.king Freud.

"Let's get out of here," I said harshly, taking a small step backward.

He smiled. It was incredible; his face had no expression for anger or annoyance, just as some Native Americans, the Mohawks, the Hupa, had no word for purple.

"You don't want to know why you're like that boat?" he asked.

I shrugged and my dress sighed.

"Well, it's because the moon shines right on it and nowhere else in the picture. Right here. On the side. She's the only thing that's incandescent," he said, or some other word-of-the-day response to that effect, full of oozing lava, lumps of rock, ash and hot gas I opted not to stick around for because I'd already turned and headed down the stairs. At the bottom, I again encountered Patsy and Roge, positioned right where we'd left them like two shopping carts abandoned in the cookie aisle.

"Isn't it something?" Patsy exclaimed.

They waved good-bye as Zach and I climbed into the Toyota. Big smiles fireworked through their faces when I waved and shouted out the unrolled window, "Thank you! Look forward to seeing you again!" How strange it was that people like Zach, Roge and Patsy floated through the world. They were the cute daisies twirling past the mirror orchids, the milk thistle of the Hannah Schneiders, the Gareth van Meers snared in the branches and the mud. They were the sort of giddy people Dad loathed, called fuzz, frizz fuzz, frizz (or his most contemptuous put-down of all, (or his most contemptuous put-down of all, sweet people) sweet people) if he happened to be standing behind one of them in a checkout aisle and eavesdropped on what was always a painfully bland conversation. if he happened to be standing behind one of them in a checkout aisle and eavesdropped on what was always a painfully bland conversation.

And yet-and I didn't know what was wrong with me-though I couldn't wait to unload Zach as soon as we arrived at the Cabaret (Jade and the others would be there, Black and Joalie too, Joalie, I hoped, suffering from a unforeseen skin irritation that refused to budge, even with persistent entreaties of various over-the-counter medications) I sort of marveled at the kid's buoyancy. I'd approached his would-be kiss with no less dread than if a plague of locusts had started to descend upon my lands, and yet, now, he smiled at me and cheerfully asked if I had enough leg room.

Incredibly too, at the bottom of the driveway, when we were about to make a right, I glanced back, up the sharp wooded hill toward his house, and saw that Patsy and Roge were still standing there, most likely with their arms still still snug around each other's waist. Patsy's green blouse was visible, shredded by the matchstick trees. And though I'd never confess it to Dad, I snug around each other's waist. Patsy's green blouse was visible, shredded by the matchstick trees. And though I'd never confess it to Dad, I did did wonder, for a second, as Zach turned up the pop song on the radio, if it was wonder, for a second, as Zach turned up the pop song on the radio, if it was really so atrocious to have a family like that, to have a dad that twinkled and a boy with eyes so blue you wouldn't be shocked to see sparrows winging through them, and a mother who stared, unwaveringly, at the last place she'd seen her son like a dog in a supermarket parking lot, never taking its eyes off the automatic doors.

"Are you excited about the dance?" asked Zach.

I nodded.

The Housebreaker of Shady Hill

The Christmas Cabaret was held in the Harper Racey '05 Cafeteria, I which, under Student Council President Maxwell's iron fist, had trans- formed into a sweltering, Versailles-styled nightclub with imitation-Sevres vases on the side tables, French cheeses and pastries, gold tinsel, big, crudely painted posters of deformed girls on makeshift swings affixed over the "World Enough and Time" Wall (Gallway cla.s.s photos from 1910 to present) which were meant to invoke the flouncing fiddle-dee-dee of Fragonard's The Swing The Swing (c. 1767), but inadvertently conjured (c. 1767), but inadvertently conjured The Scream The Scream (Munch, c. 1893). (Munch, c. 1893).

At least half of all St. Gallway faculty had shown up, those who'd been asked to chaperone, and there they were, the Mondo-Strangos, turned out in their monkey suits. Havermeyer stood next to his pale, rawboned wife, Gloria, in black velvet. (Gloria only rarely made public appearances. They said she rarely left the house, preferring to laze around, nibbling marshmallows and reading romance novels by Circe Kensington, a beloved author of many June Bugs, and thus I knew the most popular t.i.tle, The Crown Jewels of Rochester de Wheeling The Crown Jewels of Rochester de Wheeling [1990].) And there was bulge-eyed Mr. Archer gripping the window ledge, neatly fitted into his navy suit like an invitation into an envelope, and Ms. Thermopolis talking to Mr. b.u.t.ters in flighty Hawaiian oranges and reds. (She'd done something to her hair, a styling mousse that turned locks to lichen.) There was Hannah's favorite, Mr. Moats, nearly as tall as the door frame by which he stood, wearing a jacket in Prussian Blue and plaid pants. (His was a disastrous face; his nose, puffy mouth, chin, even most of his cheeks seemed to crowd into the lower half of his face, like pa.s.sengers on a sinking ship trying to avoid sea water.) [1990].) And there was bulge-eyed Mr. Archer gripping the window ledge, neatly fitted into his navy suit like an invitation into an envelope, and Ms. Thermopolis talking to Mr. b.u.t.ters in flighty Hawaiian oranges and reds. (She'd done something to her hair, a styling mousse that turned locks to lichen.) There was Hannah's favorite, Mr. Moats, nearly as tall as the door frame by which he stood, wearing a jacket in Prussian Blue and plaid pants. (His was a disastrous face; his nose, puffy mouth, chin, even most of his cheeks seemed to crowd into the lower half of his face, like pa.s.sengers on a sinking ship trying to avoid sea water.) Jade and the others had promised (sworn on a range of grandparents' graves) they'd show up at nine, but now it was ten-thirty and there was no sign of them, not even Milton. Hannah was supposed to be here, too-"Eva Brewster asked me to drop by," she'd told me-but she was nowhere. And thus I was stuck deep in the heart of Zachville, homeland of the Sticky Palm, the Hazardous Wingtip, the Rickety Arm, the Calcutta Breath, the Barely Discernable Off-Key Hum Annoying as Any Wall's Drone of Electricity, largest city, cl.u.s.ter of freckles on his neck beneath left ear, rivers of sweat at his temples, in that small gorge at his neck.

The dance floor was meat-packed. To our right, less than a foot away, Zach's ex-girlfriend, Lonny Felix, danced with her date, Clifford Wells, who had an upturned, elfin face and wasn't as tall as she was. He didn't weigh as much either. Every time she instructed him to dip her ("Dip me," ("Dip me," she coached) he gnashed his teeth together as he struggled to keep her from falling to the floor. Otherwise, she seemed to be enjoying her self-styled tornado-twirls, flinging her elbows and th.o.r.n.y bleached hair harrowingly near my face every time Zach and I completed one revolution, when I was facing the buffet table (where Peron was making Nutella crepes, uncharacteristically subdued in a puff-sleeved Rhapsody in Blue) and Zach faced the windows. she coached) he gnashed his teeth together as he struggled to keep her from falling to the floor. Otherwise, she seemed to be enjoying her self-styled tornado-twirls, flinging her elbows and th.o.r.n.y bleached hair harrowingly near my face every time Zach and I completed one revolution, when I was facing the buffet table (where Peron was making Nutella crepes, uncharacteristically subdued in a puff-sleeved Rhapsody in Blue) and Zach faced the windows.

Maxwell, a sort of mad Phineas T. Barnum in crimson velvet jacket and cane, completely ignored his date, Kimmie Kaczynski (a sad, dejected mermaid in green satin unable to lure her sailor) and presided with delight over his sideshow of freaks, the bleary-eyed, burnt-out Jelly Roll Jazz Band.

"Pardon me," said a voice behind me.

It was Jade, my knight in shining armor. Immediately, however, I noticed something was wrong. Donnamara Chase in her unwieldy pink Liberty Bell dress and her date, lip-licking Trucker, and a few others, like Sandy Quince-Wood, Joshua Cuthbert and d.i.n.ky, a living, breathing b.o.o.by trap, arms tightly clamped around the neck of poor, destined-for-captivity Brett Carlson, they'd all stopped dancing and were staring at her.

I saw why.

She was wearing a thin silk dress the color of tangerines, the neckline plunging down her front with the force of a skydiver's free fall. She was drunk, in possession of neither a bra nor shoes, and though she surveyed Zach and me with a hand on her hip, her customary gesture of intimidation, now it simply looked as if she was doing her best to hold onto herself, in case her self fell over. She was holding a pair of black stilettos.

"If you don't mind, coup-coupon"-she lurched forward; I was terrified she might fall -"I need to borrow Gag for a minute."

"Are you okay?" Zach asked.

Quickly, I stepped forward and grabbed her arm. Force-feeding a smile to my face, I pulled her after me, hard, hard, but not so hard she dissolved into a puddle of orange juice on the dance floor. but not so hard she dissolved into a puddle of orange juice on the dance floor.

"Geez. I'm sorry sorry I'm late. What can I say? I hit traffic." I'm late. What can I say? I hit traffic."

I managed to move her away from most of the faculty chaperones, and pushed her straight into a crowd of freshmen tasting the gateaux au chocolat et aux noisettes gateaux au chocolat et aux noisettes and the French cheeses. ("This tastes like a.s.s," someone said.) and the French cheeses. ("This tastes like a.s.s," someone said.) My heart was pounding. Within minutes, no, seconds, she'd be spotted by Evita and would be arrested, in Gallwanian terms, "roundtabled," inevitable suspension, Sat.u.r.day morning community service with men who licked their lips at her when she served them lukewarm vegetable soup-perhaps even expulsion. In my head, I began to st.i.tch together an excuse, something to do with an accidental pill slipped into her 7-Up by some pimply psycho; there were plenty of articles I could reference on the subject. There was also, of course, simply pretending to be stupid ("When in doubt, feign oblivion," ("When in doubt, feign oblivion," Dad chanted in my head. Dad chanted in my head. "No one can fault you for being born with a lean IQ"). "No one can fault you for being born with a lean IQ"). But before I knew it, we were slipping past the buffet table and the bathrooms and out the wooden doors, undetected. (Mr. Moats, if you are reading this, I'm certain you saw us. I thank you for simply replacing your look of marked boredom with one of cynical delight, sighing, and doing nothing more. And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, ignore the above.) But before I knew it, we were slipping past the buffet table and the bathrooms and out the wooden doors, undetected. (Mr. Moats, if you are reading this, I'm certain you saw us. I thank you for simply replacing your look of marked boredom with one of cynical delight, sighing, and doing nothing more. And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, ignore the above.) Outside, I yanked her across the brick patio ringed with wrought-iron love seats ("Ow. That hurts, hurts, you know.") where Gallway's most earnest couples were marooned. you know.") where Gallway's most earnest couples were marooned.

Glancing over my shoulder to be certain no one followed, I yanked Jade across the lawn, down the mineral-gritty sidewalks, through the orange floodlights where our thin shadows dragged farther and farther behind us. I didn't let go of her until we were in front of Hanover, where it was dark and desolate, where everything-the black windows, the wooden steps, a folded sheet of Algebra homework mumbling in its sleep-was nightwashed, uniformed in grays and blues.

"Are you out of your mind?" I shouted. I shouted.

"What?"

"How can you show up up like this?" like this?"

"Oh, stop yelling, Gag. Gaggle."

"I -are you trying to get kicked out?" "f.u.c.k you," she said, giggling. "And your little dog too." "Where is everyone? Where's Hannah?" She made a face. "At her house. They're making apple pie and watching Heaven & Earth. You guessed it. They ditched you. Thought this scene would be a bore. You guessed it. They ditched you. Thought this scene would be a bore. I'm I'm the one with loyalty. You should thank me. I take cash, check, MasterCard, Visa. No American Express." the one with loyalty. You should thank me. I take cash, check, MasterCard, Visa. No American Express."

"Jade."

"The others are traitors. In our midst. Aye too brew tays. And in case you're wondering, Black and that little petunia are off somewhere doing the nasty in a cheap motel. He's so in love I want to kill him. That girl's a Yoko Ono and we're going to break up-" up-"

"Get a hold of yourself." "For Pete's sake, I'm fine." fine." She smiled. "Let's go somewhere. Some bar She smiled. "Let's go somewhere. Some bar where the men are men and the women are hairy. And have smiles of beer." "You have to go home. Now." Now." "I was thinking Brazil. Gag?" "What." "I think I'm going to throw up." She did look ill. Her lips had faded into her face and she stared at me "I was thinking Brazil. Gag?" "What." "I think I'm going to throw up." She did look ill. Her lips had faded into her face and she stared at me with huge nocturnal eyes, touching a hand to her throat.

I took her arm with the intention of directing her toward the crowd of now ill-fated young pines to our right, but suddenly, she made the short, high-pitched squeak of a kid when it didn't want to eat some final piece of cauliflower or get strapped into a car seat, and she tore free, sprinting up the stairs and across the porch. I thought the doors would be locked, but they weren't. She disappeared inside.

I found her in Mirtha Grazeley's admissions bathroom on her knees in one of the stalls getting sick. "I hate throwing up. I'd rather die. Kill me, would you? Kill Kill me. I me. I beg you." For fifteen sickened minutes, I held her hair. "Better," she said, wiping her eyes and mouth. After she rinsed her face in the sink, she collapsed facedown on one of the couches in Mirtha's Greeting Room. "We should go home," I said. "Give me a second." beg you." For fifteen sickened minutes, I held her hair. "Better," she said, wiping her eyes and mouth. After she rinsed her face in the sink, she collapsed facedown on one of the couches in Mirtha's Greeting Room. "We should go home," I said. "Give me a second."

Sitting there in the quiet, the lights off, the green floodlights from the M. Bella Chancery lawn spilling through the windows, it felt as if we were at the bottom of the ocean. The thin shadows from the bare trees outside stretched across the wooden floor like sea gra.s.s and sarga.s.sum weed, the grit dappling the windows, a little bit of zooplankton, the floor lamp in the corner, a gla.s.s-rope sponge. Jade sighed and turned over onto her back, her hair stuck to her cheeks.

"We should get out of here," I said.

"You like him," she said.

"Who?"

"Coupon."

"Like I like noise pollution."

"You're going to run off with him."

"Right."

"You're going to have tons of s.e.x with him and have his gift certificates. Seriously. I know these things. I'm psychic." "Shut up." "Hurl?" "What." "I hate the others." "Who?" "Leulah. Charles. I hate them. I like you. You're you. You're the only one who's decent. The others are all sick. And I hate Hannah most of all. Ugh." the only one who's decent. The others are all sick. And I hate Hannah most of all. Ugh."

"Oh, come on."

"No. I pretend I don't because it's easy and fun to go over and have her cook and watch her act like St. Francis of friggin' a.s.sisi. Sure. Blah blah. But deep down I know she's sick and repulsive." I pretend I don't because it's easy and fun to go over and have her cook and watch her act like St. Francis of friggin' a.s.sisi. Sure. Blah blah. But deep down I know she's sick and repulsive."

I waited for a moment, enough time for, say, a spinner shark to swim by seeking a school of sardines, for that peculiar word she used, repulsive, repulsive, to disband, dissolve slightly, like ink from a cuttlefish. to disband, dissolve slightly, like ink from a cuttlefish.

"Actually," I said, "it's a common feeling for people to feel intermittent antipathy toward individuals they're familiar with. It's the Derwid-Loeverhastel Principle. It's discussed in Beneath the a.s.sociated Beneath the a.s.sociated-"

"f.u.c.k David Ha.s.selhoff." She raised herself up on an elbow, narrowing David Ha.s.selhoff." She raised herself up on an elbow, narrowing her eyes. "I don't like the woman." She frowned. "You "You like her?" "Sure," I said. "Why?" like her?" "Sure," I said. "Why?"

"She's a good person."

Jade huffed. "Not that that good. I don't know if you're aware of it, but she killed that guy." "Who?" Obviously, I knew she was talking about Smoke Harvey, but I chose to good. I don't know if you're aware of it, but she killed that guy." "Who?" Obviously, I knew she was talking about Smoke Harvey, but I chose to feign ignorance, volunteer only the barest words as a question, much in the reserved manner of Ranulph (p.r.o.nounced "RALF") Curry, the intemperate chief inspector of Roger Pope Lavelle's three standoffish detective masterpieces composed in a decade-long fit of inspiration, from 1901 to 1911, works ultimately overshadowed by the sunnier tomes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It was a pretext artfully a.s.sumed by Curry while interviewing all eyewitnesses, bystanders, informants and suspects, and, more often than not, leading to the discovery of a certain sharp detail that ripped open the case. "Tut, tut, Horace," says Curry in the 1017-page Conceit of a Unicom Conceit of a Unicom (1901). "It is a capital error in the art of detection to insert one's own voice into the ungoverned words of another. The more one speaks, the less one hears." (1901). "It is a capital error in the art of detection to insert one's own voice into the ungoverned words of another. The more one speaks, the less one hears."

"That Smoke person," Jade went on. "Dubs. "Dubs. Knocked him off. I'm positive." Knocked him off. I'm positive."

"How do you know?"

"I was watching when they told her about him, remember?" She paused, staring at me, her eyes s.n.a.t.c.hing, then holding on to what little light there was in the room. "You weren't around, but I saw the performance. Completely overdone. She's really the worst actress on the planet. If she was an actress she wouldn't even make the B movies. She'd be in the D or the E movies. I don't even think she's good enough for p.o.r.n. Of course, she thinks thinks that she's going on that she's going on Inside the Actor's Studio Inside the Actor's Studio like next friggin' like next friggin' week. week. She went over the top, shouting like a crazy person when she saw the guy dead. For a second I thought she was screaming, 'The dingo ate my baby.' " She went over the top, shouting like a crazy person when she saw the guy dead. For a second I thought she was screaming, 'The dingo ate my baby.' "