"I'm Charles Loren," he said, as if revealing a secret.

Dad was a devotee of St.u.r.dy Eye Contact, but what Dad never addressed was that staring directly into a person's eyes was nearly impossible at close range. You had to choose choose an eye, right or left, or veer back and forth between the two, or simply settle for the spot an eye, right or left, or veer back and forth between the two, or simply settle for the spot between between the eyes. But I'd always thought that was a sad, vulnerable spot, unkempt of eyebrow and strange of tilt, where David had aimed his stone at Goliath and killed him. the eyes. But I'd always thought that was a sad, vulnerable spot, unkempt of eyebrow and strange of tilt, where David had aimed his stone at Goliath and killed him.

"I know who you you are," he said. "Blue something. Don't tell me - " are," he said. "Blue something. Don't tell me - "

"What on earth is that hubbub hubbub in the back there?" in the back there?"

Charles jerked back in his seat. I turned.

A stocky woman with sour orange hair-the same person who'd glowered at Dad shouting Byron when he dropped me off-had replaced Havermeyer on the auditorium stage. Wearing a turnip-pink suit that strained like a weight lifter to remain b.u.t.toned, she stared up at me with her arms crossed and legs planted firmly apart resembling Diagram 11.23, "Cla.s.sic Turkish Warrior during the Second Crusade" in one of Dad's favorite texts, For the Love of G.o.d: History of Religious War and Persecution For the Love of G.o.d: History of Religious War and Persecution (Murgg, 1981). And she wasn't the only one staring. All sound had been sucked out of Love Auditorium. Heads were turned toward me like a troop of Seljuk Turks noticing a lone, unwitting Christian taking a shortcut through their camp on his way to Jerusalem. (Murgg, 1981). And she wasn't the only one staring. All sound had been sucked out of Love Auditorium. Heads were turned toward me like a troop of Seljuk Turks noticing a lone, unwitting Christian taking a shortcut through their camp on his way to Jerusalem.

"You must be a new student," she said into the microphone. Her voice sounded like amplified heel scuffs along pavement. "Allow me to let you in on a little secret. What's your name?"

I hoped it was a figurative question, one I might not be expected to answer, but she was waiting.

"Blue," I said.

She made a face. "What? What did she say?"

"She said blue," blue," someone said. someone said.

"Blue? Well, Well, Blue, Blue, at this school, when people take the stage, we give them the respect they deserve. We pay at this school, when people take the stage, we give them the respect they deserve. We pay attention." attention."

Perhaps I need not point out that I was not accustomed to being stared at, not by an entire school. The Jane Goodall was accustomed to doing all the staring, always in solitude and always from a location of dense foliage, which made her in her khaki shorts and linen blouse virtually indistinguishable from the bamboo canopy. My heart stuttered as I stared back at all the eyes. Slowly, they began to peel off me like eggs on a wall.

"As I was saying. There are critical changes in the Add-Drop Deadlines and I will not make exceptions for anyone. I don't care how many G.o.diva chocolates you bring me -I'm talking to you, you, Maxwell. I ask you be on time when you make decisions about coursework, and I mean it." Maxwell. I ask you be on time when you make decisions about coursework, and I mean it."

"Sorry about that," Charles whispered behind me. "I should've warned you. Eva Brewster, you want to lie low around her. Everyone calls her Evita. It's a bit of a dictator situation. Technically, though, she's only a secretary."

The woman -Eva Brewster-dismissed the school to cla.s.s.

"Now listen, I wanted to ask you something-hey, wait a sec - !"

I darted past Mozart, pushing my way to the end of the row and into the aisle. Charles managed to keep up with me.

"Hold on." He smiled. "Dang, you're really gung ho about cla.s.ses- typical A personality, sheesh-but, uh, seeing how you're brand new, new, a few of my friends and I were hoping . . ." He was apparently talking to me, but his eyes were already floating up the stairs to the EXIT. Goodnight Moons all had heliumed eyes. They could never be tied to anyone for long. "We were hoping you'd have lunch with us. We snagged a pa.s.s to go off campus. So don't go to the cafeteria. Meet us at the Scratch. 12:15." He leaned in, his face inches from mine: "And don't be late, or there'll be serious consequences. Understand?" He winked and dashed away. a few of my friends and I were hoping . . ." He was apparently talking to me, but his eyes were already floating up the stairs to the EXIT. Goodnight Moons all had heliumed eyes. They could never be tied to anyone for long. "We were hoping you'd have lunch with us. We snagged a pa.s.s to go off campus. So don't go to the cafeteria. Meet us at the Scratch. 12:15." He leaned in, his face inches from mine: "And don't be late, or there'll be serious consequences. Understand?" He winked and dashed away.

I stood for a moment in the aisle, unable to move until kids started pushing against my backpack and I was forced up the stairs. I had no idea how Charles knew my name. I did, did, however, know exactly why he'd rolled out the red carpet: he and his friends were hoping I'd join their Study Group. I'd toiled through a long history of Study Group invites extended by everyone from the Almond-Eyed Football Hero Who'd Have a Son by Senior Year to the Rita Hayworth Sunday Newspaper Coupon Model. I used to be however, know exactly why he'd rolled out the red carpet: he and his friends were hoping I'd join their Study Group. I'd toiled through a long history of Study Group invites extended by everyone from the Almond-Eyed Football Hero Who'd Have a Son by Senior Year to the Rita Hayworth Sunday Newspaper Coupon Model. I used to bethrilled when I was asked to join a Study Group, and when I arrived at the designated living room equipped with note cards, highlighters, red pens, and supplemental textbooks, I was euphoric as any Chorus Girl who'd been asked to understudy the Lead. Even Dad was excited. As he drove me to Brad's, or Jeb's or Sheena's, he'd start muttering about this being a wonderful opportunity, one that would allow me to spread my Dorothy Parker wings and singlehandedly spearhead a contemporary Algonquin Round Table. when I was asked to join a Study Group, and when I arrived at the designated living room equipped with note cards, highlighters, red pens, and supplemental textbooks, I was euphoric as any Chorus Girl who'd been asked to understudy the Lead. Even Dad was excited. As he drove me to Brad's, or Jeb's or Sheena's, he'd start muttering about this being a wonderful opportunity, one that would allow me to spread my Dorothy Parker wings and singlehandedly spearhead a contemporary Algonquin Round Table.

Once he dropped me off, though, it didn't take long to realize I hadn't been invited for my scathing wit. If Carla's living room was the Vicious Circle, I was the waiter everyone ignored unless they wanted another scotch or there was something wrong with the food. Somehow, one of them had discovered I was a "geek" (a "cardigan" at Coventry Academy), and I'd be a.s.signed to research one out of every two questions on the Study Sheet, sometimes the entire Study Sheet.

"Let her do that one, too. You don't mind do you, Blues?"

The turning point came at Leroy's. Right in the middle of his living room crowded with porcelain Dalmatian miniatures, I started to cry-though I didn't know why I decided to cry on that that particular occasion; Leroy, Jessica and Schyler had only a.s.signed me one out of every particular occasion; Leroy, Jessica and Schyler had only a.s.signed me one out of every four four questions on the Study Sheet. They began to chant in high-pitched, saccharine voices, "Oh, my G.o.d, what's questions on the Study Sheet. They began to chant in high-pitched, saccharine voices, "Oh, my G.o.d, what's wrong?" wrong?" causing the three live Dalmatians to run into the living room, circling and barking, and Leroy's mother emerged from the kitchen wearing pink dishwashing gloves shouting, "Leroy, I told you not to egg them on!" I ran out of the house, all the way home, about six miles. Leroy never returned my supplemental textbooks. causing the three live Dalmatians to run into the living room, circling and barking, and Leroy's mother emerged from the kitchen wearing pink dishwashing gloves shouting, "Leroy, I told you not to egg them on!" I ran out of the house, all the way home, about six miles. Leroy never returned my supplemental textbooks.

"So how do you know Charles?" asked Sal Mineo next to me as we reached the gla.s.s doors.

"I don't know Charles," I said.

"Well, you're lucky because everyone wants to know him."

"Why?"

Sal looked troubled, then shrugged and said in a soft, regretful voice: "He's royalty." Before I could ask what that meant, he skipped down the cement steps and disappeared into the crowd. Sal Mineos were always talking in spongy voices and making comments that were as vague as the outline of an angora sweater. Their eyes weren't like everyone else's but had enlarged tear glands and extra optic nerves. I thought about hurrying after him, letting him know by the end of the movie he'd be acknowledged as a character of great sensitivity and pathos, an archetype of all that was lost and injured about his generation, but would be gunned down by trigger-happy police if he wasn't careful, if he didn't come to an understanding about himself and who he was.

Instead, I'd spotted the royal: Prince Charles, backpack slung over his shoulder, a playful grin, was striding quickly across the courtyard toward a tall, dark-haired girl wearing a long brown wool coat. He snuck up behind her, threw his arm around her neck with an "Ah-haahhhh!" She shrieked, and then, when he jumped in front of her, laughed. It was one of those chime-laughs that knifed cleanly through the morning, through the tired muttering of all the other kids, hinting this person had never known embarra.s.sment or awkwardness, that even her grief would be gorgeous in the off chance she ever experienced it. Obviously, this was his dazzling girlfriend, and they were one of those tan, hair-tossing Blue Lagoon Blue Lagoon couples (one per every high school) who threatened to destroy the bedrock of the chaste educational community simply by the muggy way they looked at each other in the halls. couples (one per every high school) who threatened to destroy the bedrock of the chaste educational community simply by the muggy way they looked at each other in the halls.

Students observed them with wonder, like they were fast-sprouting pinto beans in a clammy covered aquarium. Teachers -not all, but some-stayed awake all night hating them, because of their weird grown-up youth, which was like gardenias blooming in January, and their beauty, which was both stunning and sad as racehorses, and their love everyone except them knew wouldn't last. I deliberately stopped staring (you'd seen one version of Blue Lagoon, Blue Lagoon, you'd seen them all), but when I'd walked to Hanover and pulled open the side door, I nonchalantly glanced back in their direction and realized with shock, I'd made a major blunder in observation. you'd seen them all), but when I'd walked to Hanover and pulled open the side door, I nonchalantly glanced back in their direction and realized with shock, I'd made a major blunder in observation.

Charles now stood at a respectful distance (though the look on his face was still like a kitten staring at string) and she was talking to him with a teacherly frown (a frown all decent teachers mastered; Dad had one that instantly turned his forehead into rippled potato chips). She wasn't a student. In fact, I had no idea how I, given that stance, could possibly have mistaken her for one. A hand on her hip, chin tilted as if trying to make out a falcon circling above the Commons, she wore brown leather boots that resembled Italy and dug the heel of one into the pavement, grinding out an invisible cigarette.

It was Hannah Schneider.

When Dad was in a Bourbon Mood, he'd make a five-minute toast to old Benno Ohnesorg, shot by Berlin police at a student rally in 1967. Dad, nineteen years old, was next to him: "He was standing on my shoelace when he went down. And my life-asinine things I'd wasted time worrying about-my marks, my standing, my girl girl-it all congealed when I looked into his dead eyes." Here, Dad fell silent and sighed (though it wasn't so much a sigh as a Herculean exhale one could use to play a bagpipe). I could smell the alcohol, a strange hot smell, and when I was little I guessed it was what the Romantic poets smelled of, or those nineteenth-century Latin generals Dad enjoyed talking about who "surfed in and out of power on waves of revolution and resistance juntas."

"And that was my Bolshevik moment, so to speak," he said. "When I decided to storm the Winter Palace. If you're lucky, you'll have one."

And every now and then, after Benno, Dad might go on to expound upon one of his most beloved principles, that of the Life Story, but only if he didn't have a lecture to compose, or wasn't midway through a chapter in a new book on war written by someone he'd known at Harvard. (He'd dissect it like a gung-ho coroner hoping to find evidence of foul play: "Here it is, sweet! Evidence Lou Swann's a hack! Counterfeit! Listen to this dung! 'In order to be successful, revolutions require a highly visible armed force to unleash widespread panic; this violence must then gain momentum, escalating into out-and-out civil war.' Fool wouldn't know civil war if it bit him on the a.s.s!") "Everyone is responsible for the page-turning tempo of his or her Life Story," Dad said, scratching his jaw thoughtfully, arranging the limp collar of his chambray shirt. "Even if you have your Magnificent Reason, it could still be dull as Nebraska and that's no one's fault but your own. Well, if you feel it's miles of cornfields, find something to believe in other than yourself, preferably a cause without the stench of hypocrisy, and then charge into battle. There's a reason they still put Che Guevara on T-shirts, why people still still whisper about The Night.w.a.tchmen when there's been no evidence of their existence for twenty years. whisper about The Night.w.a.tchmen when there's been no evidence of their existence for twenty years.

"But most critically, sweet, never try to change the narrative structure of someone else else s story, though you will certainly be tempted to, as you watch those poor souls in school, in life, heading unwittingly down dangerous tangents, fatal digressions from which they will unlikely be able to emerge. Resist the temptation. Spend your energies on s story, though you will certainly be tempted to, as you watch those poor souls in school, in life, heading unwittingly down dangerous tangents, fatal digressions from which they will unlikely be able to emerge. Resist the temptation. Spend your energies on your your story. Reworking it. Making it better. Increasing the scale, the depth of content, the universal themes. And I don't care what those themes are-they're yours to uncover and stand behind-so long as, at the very least, there is courage. Guts. story. Reworking it. Making it better. Increasing the scale, the depth of content, the universal themes. And I don't care what those themes are-they're yours to uncover and stand behind-so long as, at the very least, there is courage. Guts. Mut, Mut, in German. Those around you can have their novellas, sweet, their short stories of cliche and coincidence, occasionally spiced up with tricks of the quirky, the achingly mundane, the grotesque. A few will even cook up Greek tragedy, those born into misery, destined to die in misery. But you, my bride of quietness, you will craft nothing less than epic with your life. Out of all of them, your story will be the one to last." in German. Those around you can have their novellas, sweet, their short stories of cliche and coincidence, occasionally spiced up with tricks of the quirky, the achingly mundane, the grotesque. A few will even cook up Greek tragedy, those born into misery, destined to die in misery. But you, my bride of quietness, you will craft nothing less than epic with your life. Out of all of them, your story will be the one to last."

"How do you know?" I always asked, and when I spoke it sounded tiny and uncertain, compared to Dad. "I just know," he said simply, and then closed his eyes, which indicated that he didn't want to talk anymore. The only sound in the room was the ice melting his gla.s.s.

VII.

Les Liaisons Dangereuses

Knowing that Charles was on familiar terms with Hannah Schneider tempted me a little, but in the end I decided not to meet him at the Scratch.

I didn't have a clue what the Scratch was and didn't have time to care. I was, after all, weighed down with six AP courses ("Enough to sink a fleet of USS Anythings," Dad said) and only a single free period. My professors had shown themselves to be sharp, methodical, altogether on the ball (not "entirely in the outhouse," as Dad described Mrs. Roper of Meadowbrook Middle who boldly brought a grand finale to her every sentence with a preposition: "Where's your copy of The Aeneid The Aeneid at?"). Most of them had perfectly respectable vocabularies (Ms. Simpson of AP Physics used at?"). Most of them had perfectly respectable vocabularies (Ms. Simpson of AP Physics used ersatz ersatz within fifteen minutes of the bell) and one, namely Ms. Martine Filobeque of AP French, had Permanently Pursed Lips, which could present a serious threat as the year unfolded. "The enduring pursed lip, a trait a.s.sociated exclusively with the female educator, is a sign of erratic academic anger," Dad said. "I'd think seriously about flowers, candy-anything to get yourself a.s.sociated in her mind with all that's right in the world, rather than all that's wrong." within fifteen minutes of the bell) and one, namely Ms. Martine Filobeque of AP French, had Permanently Pursed Lips, which could present a serious threat as the year unfolded. "The enduring pursed lip, a trait a.s.sociated exclusively with the female educator, is a sign of erratic academic anger," Dad said. "I'd think seriously about flowers, candy-anything to get yourself a.s.sociated in her mind with all that's right in the world, rather than all that's wrong."

My peers too-they were not exactly airheads or fools (pasta, (pasta, as Dad called every kid at Sage Day). When I'd raised my hand in AP English to answer Ms. Simpson's question regarding Primary Themes in as Dad called every kid at Sage Day). When I'd raised my hand in AP English to answer Ms. Simpson's question regarding Primary Themes in InvisibleMan InvisibleMan (Ellison, 1952) (which turned up on Summer Reading Lists with the regularity of corruption in Cameroon), incredibly, I wasn't (Ellison, 1952) (which turned up on Summer Reading Lists with the regularity of corruption in Cameroon), incredibly, I wasn't quite quite fast enough; another kid, Radley Clifton, pudgy, with an eroded chin, already had his fat hand in the air. While his answer wasn't brilliant or inspired, it also wasn't crude or Calibanesque, and it dawned on me, as Ms. Simpson handed out a nineteen-page syllabus solely covering Fall Term, perhaps St. Gallway wouldn't be such Child's Play, such Easy Victory. Perhaps if I actually wanted to be Valedictorian (and I think I did, though sometimes What Dad Wanted blatantly made its way into What I Wanted without having to go through Customs), I'd have to launch an aggressive campaign with all the ferocity of Attila the Hun. "One is only eligible for Valedictorian once in one's life," Dad noted, "just as one only gets one body, one existence, and thus one shot at immortality." fast enough; another kid, Radley Clifton, pudgy, with an eroded chin, already had his fat hand in the air. While his answer wasn't brilliant or inspired, it also wasn't crude or Calibanesque, and it dawned on me, as Ms. Simpson handed out a nineteen-page syllabus solely covering Fall Term, perhaps St. Gallway wouldn't be such Child's Play, such Easy Victory. Perhaps if I actually wanted to be Valedictorian (and I think I did, though sometimes What Dad Wanted blatantly made its way into What I Wanted without having to go through Customs), I'd have to launch an aggressive campaign with all the ferocity of Attila the Hun. "One is only eligible for Valedictorian once in one's life," Dad noted, "just as one only gets one body, one existence, and thus one shot at immortality."

I also didn't respond to the letter I received the next day, though I read it twenty times, even in the middle of Ms. Gershon's introductory AP Physics lecture, "From Cannonb.a.l.l.s to Light Waves: The History of Physics." Paleoanthropologist Donald Johanson, when stumbling upon early hominid "Lucy" in 1974, probably felt the way I did when I opened my locker door and that cream envelope fell at my feet.

I had no idea what I'd found: a wonder (that would forever change history) or a hoax.

Blue, What the heck happened?? You missed out on a nice broccoli cheddar baked potato at Wendy's. Guess you're playing hard to get. I'll play.

Shall we try this again? You're filling me with longing. (Kidding.) Same place. Same time.

Charles I also ignored the two letters discovered in my locker the next day, Wednesday: the first in the cream envelope, the second written in pointy cursive on celery green paper emblazoned at the top with an elaborate tangle of initials: JCW.

Blue, I'm hurt. Well, I'll be there again today. Every day. Until the end of time. So give a guy a break already.

Charles Dear Blue, Charles has obviously made a mess of this situation, so I'm staging a family intervention. I'm a.s.suming you think he's stalkerish. I don't blame you. The truth is, our friend Hannah told us about you and suggested we introduce ourselves. None of us have you in a cla.s.s so we'll have to meet after school. This Friday at 3:45 go to the second floor of Barrow House, room 208, and wait for us there! Don't be late.

We're DYING to meet you and hear all about Ohio!!!

Kisses, Jade Churchill Whitestone These letters would have charmed the average New Student. After a day or two of wordy resistance, like some silly eighteenth-century virgin, she'd tiptoe into the dark shadows of the Scratch, excitedly biting her cherry-plump bottom lip, and await Charles, the wigged aristocrat who'd carry her away (culottes (culottes flying) to ruin. flying) to ruin.

I, on the other hand, was the implacable nun. I remained unmoved.

Well, I'm exaggerating. I'd never received a letter from someone I didn't know (rather, never received a letter from someone who wasn't Dad) and there is an undeniable thrill when faced with a mysterious envelope. Dad once observed that personal letters (now alongside the Great Crested Newt on the Endangered Species list) were one of the few physical objects in this world that held magic within them: "Even the Dull and the Dim, those whose presences can barely be stomached in person, can be tolerated in a letter, even come off as mildly amusing."

To me, there was something strange and insincere about their letters, something a little too "Madame de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont at the Chateau de - ", a little too "Paris. 4 August 17-".

Not that I thought I was the latest p.a.w.n in their game of seduction. I wouldn't go that that far. But I knew all about knowing people and not knowing people. There was drudgery and danger in introducing a newcomer into that exclusive circle of belonging, far. But I knew all about knowing people and not knowing people. There was drudgery and danger in introducing a newcomer into that exclusive circle of belonging, le pet.i.t salon. le pet.i.t salon. Seating was limited, and thus it was inevitable someone old would have to move (a horrifying sign of losing one's foothold in the court, of turning into Seating was limited, and thus it was inevitable someone old would have to move (a horrifying sign of losing one's foothold in the court, of turning into une grande dame manque). une grande dame manque).

To be safe, the newcomer was best ignored, if her background was obscure enough, shunned (coupled with insinuations of illegitimate birth), unless there was someone, a mother with a t.i.tle, an influential aunt (affectionately called Madame t.i.ti Madame t.i.ti by all) who had the time and power to present the newcomer, to squeeze her in (never mind that everyone's birdcage wig knocked together) rearranging the others to positions which were comfortable, or at least bearable until the next revolution. by all) who had the time and power to present the newcomer, to squeeze her in (never mind that everyone's birdcage wig knocked together) rearranging the others to positions which were comfortable, or at least bearable until the next revolution.

Even more bizarre were the references to Hannah Schneider. She had no grounds to be my my Madame t.i.ti. Madame t.i.ti.

I wondered if I'd come off at Surely Shoos as a particularly sad and despondent person. I thought thought I'd exuded "watchful intelligence," which was how Dad's colleague, hearing-impaired Dr. Ordinote described me when he came over for lamb chops one evening in Archer, Missouri. He complimented Dad on raising a young woman of "startling power and ac.u.men." I'd exuded "watchful intelligence," which was how Dad's colleague, hearing-impaired Dr. Ordinote described me when he came over for lamb chops one evening in Archer, Missouri. He complimented Dad on raising a young woman of "startling power and ac.u.men."

"If only everyone could have one of her, Gareth," he said, raising his eyebrows as he twisted the k.n.o.b in his hearing aid. "The world would spin a little faster."

There was the possibility that during her ten-minute exchange with Dad, Hannah Schneider had set her romantic sights on him and resolved that I, the quiet daughter, was the small, portable stepladder she'd use to reach him.

Such had been the machinations of Sheila Crane of Pritchardsville, Georgia, who'd only encountered Dad for twenty seconds at the Court Elementary Art Show (she tore his ticket in half) before she decided he was Her Guy. After the Art Show, Miss Crane, who worked part-time at the Court Elementary Infirmary, had a habit of materializing during Break near the seesaws, calling out my name, holding up a box of Thin Mints. When I was in close proximity, she held out a cookie as if trying to tempt a stray dog.

"Can you tell me a little more about your daddy? I mean," she said nonchalantly, though her eyes bored into me like an electrician's drill, "what kinda things duzzie like?"

Usually I stared blankly at her, grabbed the Thin Mint and spirited away, but once I said, "Karl Marx." Her eyes widened in fear.

"He's h.o.m.os.e.xshull?"

Revolution is slow burning, occurring only after decades of oppression and poverty, but the exact hour of its unleashing is often a moment of fateful mishap.

According to one of Dad's little-known history texts, Les Faits Perdus Les Faits Perdus (Manneurs, 1952), the Storming of the Bastille would never have happened, if one of the demonstrators outside the prison, a barley farmer by the name of Pierre Fromande, had not noticed a prison guard pointing at him and calling him (Manneurs, 1952), the Storming of the Bastille would never have happened, if one of the demonstrators outside the prison, a barley farmer by the name of Pierre Fromande, had not noticed a prison guard pointing at him and calling him un bricon un bricon ("fool"). ("fool").

On the morning of July 14, 1789, Pierre was on a short fuse. He'd had a fight with his voluptuous wife, Marie-Chantal, for her flirting sans scrupule sans scrupule with one of their field hands, Louis-Beige. Pierre, overhearing the insult, dimly aware the prison guard had the same chunky Roquefort torso of Louis-Beige, lost all self-control and charged forward screaming, with one of their field hands, Louis-Beige. Pierre, overhearing the insult, dimly aware the prison guard had the same chunky Roquefort torso of Louis-Beige, lost all self-control and charged forward screaming, "C'est tout fini!" "C'est tout fini!" ("It's all over.") The frenzied crowd followed, believing he was speaking of the reign of Louis XVI, though Pierre was, in fact, referring to the image of Marie-Chantal screaming in pleasure in barley fields, Louis-Beige melting all over her. Yet, Pierre had misunderstood the well-meaning guard, who'd simply pointed at Pierre and shouted, "Votre ("It's all over.") The frenzied crowd followed, believing he was speaking of the reign of Louis XVI, though Pierre was, in fact, referring to the image of Marie-Chantal screaming in pleasure in barley fields, Louis-Beige melting all over her. Yet, Pierre had misunderstood the well-meaning guard, who'd simply pointed at Pierre and shouted, "Votre bouton;" bouton;" when dressing that morning, Pierre had missed the third b.u.t.ton on his chemise. when dressing that morning, Pierre had missed the third b.u.t.ton on his chemise.

According to Manneurs, most of history has played out under similar circ.u.mstances, including the American Revolution (the Boston Tea Party was the work of 1777-era frat boys) and World War I (Gavrilo Princip, after a day with his drinking buddies, the Black Hands, fired a few rounds into the air, simply to show off, just as Archduke Ferdinand cruised by in his royal arcade) (p. 199, p. 243). Hiroshima was unintentional too. When Truman told his Cabinet, "I'm going in," he wasn't, as was believed, referring to a j.a.panese invasion, but giving voice to the simple desire to take a dip in the White House pool.

My revolution was no less accidental.

That Friday, a Know-Your-School Sorbet Social was held after lunch. Students mingled with teachers on the stone patio outside the Harper Racey '05 Cafeteria, feasting upon a selection of exclusive French sorbet, doled out by the Head Chef, Christian Gordon. Eager students (including Radley Clifton with his belly peeking out of his partially untucked shirt) swarmed around the key Gallway administrators (doubtlessly those in charge of end-ofyear honors; "Brown-nosing in this day and age backfires," Dad attested. "Networking, hobn.o.bbing-it's all painfully out of season."). After saying modest h.e.l.loes to a few of my teachers (smiling at Ms. Filobeque who stood rather forlornly under a hemlock, though in reply she only pursed her lips) I headed to my next cla.s.s, AP Art History in Elton House, and waited in the empty cla.s.sroom.

After ten minutes, Mr. Archer appeared, carrying his tub of Mango sherbet and I'M EARTH FRIENDLY biodegradable satchel (see "Red-eyed Tree Frog," The World of Ranidae: From Frog Princes to Tadpoles, The World of Ranidae: From Frog Princes to Tadpoles, Showa, 1998). He had so much sweat on his forehead he looked like a gla.s.s of iced tea. "Would you mind helping me set up the slide projector for the lecture?" he asked. (Mr. Archer being EARTH FRIENDLY was APPARATUS HOSTILE.) Showa, 1998). He had so much sweat on his forehead he looked like a gla.s.s of iced tea. "Would you mind helping me set up the slide projector for the lecture?" he asked. (Mr. Archer being EARTH FRIENDLY was APPARATUS HOSTILE.) I agreed, and was just finishing loading the 112 slides, as the other students began to arrive, most of them with big, slurpy grins on their faces, tubs of sorbet in hand.

"Thank you for your a.s.sistance, Babs," Mr. Archer said, smiling at me and affixing his long, sticky fingers to the top of his desk. "Today we finish up with Lascaux and turn to the rich artistic tradition that emerged in the area that is now southern Iraq. James, will you get the lights?"

Unlike Pierre Fromande, I'd heard the man correctly. Unlike Truman's cabinet members, I'd understood his true meaning. Certainly, I'd been given aliases by teachers before, from Betsy and Barbara to "You in the Corner" and "Red, No, I'm Kidding." From years twelve to fourteen, I actually believed the name was cursed, that it was whispered among instructors "Blue" had the erratic properties of a ballpoint pen at high alt.i.tudes; if they uttered the name, a permanent blueness, dark and inexorable, could very well leak all over them.

Lottie Bergoney, Instructor of the Second Grade in Pocus, Indiana, actually telephoned Dad and suggested he rechristen me. "You won't believe this!" Dad mouthed, cupping his hand over the receiver, gesturing for me to listen on the other line.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Van Meer. The name's not healthy. The kids in cla.s.s make fun of it. They call her navy. A few of the smart ones call her cobalt. And cordon bleu. bleu. Maybe you should think about alternatives." Maybe you should think about alternatives."

"Might you suggest some possibilities, Miss Bergie?"

"Sure! I don't know about you, but I've always loved Daphne."

Perhaps it was Mr. Archer's particular choice of name, Babs, the nickname of a restless wife wearing no bra during her tennis lesson. Or perhaps it was the confidence with which he said it, without a trace of uncertainty or second thought.

Suddenly, at my desk, I couldn't breathe. At the same time, I wanted to leap from my chair and shout, "It's Blue, you sons of b.i.t.c.hes!" "It's Blue, you sons of b.i.t.c.hes!"

Instead, I reached into my backpack and removed the three letters, still tucked into the cover of my a.s.signment notebook. I reread each one, and then, with the same clarity that overtook Robespierre as he lounged in a bath and liberte, egalite liberte, egalite and and fraternite fraternite sailed into his head-three great merchant ships coming into port-I knew what I had to do. sailed into his head-three great merchant ships coming into port-I knew what I had to do.

After cla.s.s, I used the student payphone in Hanover to call Dad at the university. I left a message explaining I wouldn't need a ride home until 4:45; I was meeting with Ms. Simpson, my AP English teacher, to discuss her Great Expectations for research papers. At 3:40, after confirming in the Hanover ground-floor ladies room that I had sat on neither gum nor chocolate, that I had nothing in my teeth and had not accidentally pressed my ink-stained hand against the side of my face leaving it a mosaic of black fingerprints (as I had once before), I walked, as composedly as I could, over to Barrow. I knocked on the door of 208 and was instantly greeted with a few flat, unsurprised voices: "It's open."

Slowly, I opened the door. Four flour-pale kids sat at desks in a circle at the center of the cla.s.sroom, none of them smiling. The other desks had been pushed to the walls.

"Hi," I said.

They stared at me sullenly.

"I'm Blue."

"You're here for the Dungeons & Dragons Demonology Guild," a kid p.r.o.nounced in a squeaky voice like air being let out of a bicycle tire. "There's an extra player's handbook there. there. Right now we're choosing our roles for the year." Right now we're choosing our roles for the year."

"I'm Dungeon Master," clarified a kid quickly. Dungeon Master," clarified a kid quickly.

"Jade?" I asked hopefully, turning to one of the girls. It wasn't a terrible guess: this one, wearing a long black dress with tight sleeves that ended in medieval Vs on top of her hands, had green hair that resembled dried spinach.

"Lizzie," she said, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

"You know Hannah Schneider?" I asked.

"The Film Film Studies teacher?" Studies teacher?"

"What's she talking about?" the other girl asked the Dungeon Master.

"Excuse me," I said. Holding onto my tight smile like some crazed Catholic her rosary, I backed out of Room 208, hurried back down the hall and stairs.

In the aftermath of being brazenly hoodwinked or swindled, it's difficult to accept, particularly if one has always prided oneself on being an intuitive and scorchingly observant person. Standing on the Hanover steps, waiting for Dad, I reread Jade Whitestone's letter fifteen times, convinced I'd missed something-the correct day, time or location to meet, or perhaps she'd she'd made a mistake; perhaps she'd written the letter while watching made a mistake; perhaps she'd written the letter while watching On the Waterfront On the Waterfront and had been distracted by the pathos of Brando picking up Eva Marie Saint's tiny white glove and slipping it onto his own meaty hand, but soon, of course, I realized her letter was teeming with sarcasm (particularly in the final sentence), which I hadn't originally picked up on. and had been distracted by the pathos of Brando picking up Eva Marie Saint's tiny white glove and slipping it onto his own meaty hand, but soon, of course, I realized her letter was teeming with sarcasm (particularly in the final sentence), which I hadn't originally picked up on.

It had all been a hoax.

Never had there been a rebellion more anticlimactic and second rate, except perhaps the "Gran Horizontes Tropicoco Uprising" in Havana in 1980, which, according to Dad, was composed of out-of-work big band musicians and El Loro Bonito chorus girls and lasted all of three minutes. ("Fourteenyear-old lovers last longer," he'd noted.) And the longer I sat on the steps, the cruddier I felt. I pretended not to stare enviously at the happy kids slinging themselves and their giant backpacks into their parents' cars, or the tall boys with untucked shirts rushing across the Commons, shouting at each other, cleats slung over their bony shoulders like tennis shoes over traffic wires.

By 5:10 P.M. I was doing my AP Physics homework on my knees and there was no sign of Dad. The lawns, the roofs of Barrow and Elton, even the sidewalks, had tarnished in the fading light of Depression-era photographs, and apart from a few teachers making their way to the Faculty Parking Lot (coal miners plodding home) it was all quite sad and silent, except for the oak trees fanning themselves like bored Southerners, a coach whistle far off on the fields.