"Bob Zartell is worth a zillion dollars."

"Get out!"

"Really! He owns a huge condom company."

"Condoms? That adds new meaning to the word d.i.c.khead."

We parked and got out. I was already so sweaty that I had to peel the dress off my back. A bunch of dark sweat patches would make my grand entrance complete. Why hadn't I gotten tan before tonight? Or worn more of a power outfit, one that radiated money and cool?

Before I had a chance to think more such happy thoughts, Zoe put her arm through mine. "Let's go."

The only other time I had been to Spence Hill Country Club was in tenth grade when a girl invited me to spend a summer afternoon there. She had a face the color of wet cement and a personality to match. After a few hours, I got so tired hearing about how she hated everything that I excused myself early and went home. What I remember most about that day was arriving home so happy to be there that I sat in the kitchen and talked with my mother till dinner.

"Here we go, Miranda."

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"Zoe? Zoe Holland?"

We turned and there was Henry Ballard, the nicest person in our cla.s.s, looking exactly as he had fifteen years before.

"And Miranda! Both of you. How great!"

It was the best way to begin the evening. Henry, like Zoe, had been everyone's favorite. In a moment, we were all gabbing away while people walked around us into the building. Some said h.e.l.lo, others smiled, some we even recognized. For the first time all day I felt relaxed. Maybe everything was going to be all right.

"I guess we'd better go in?"

He nodded, but turned and looked behind. "I'm just waiting-ah, there he is!"

A nondescript guy in a beautiful blue suit waved and hurried toward us. Zoe and I exchanged glances but neither could place him.

"Sorry I'm late. I dropped the car keys; they hit my knee and slid under the car." The man smiled and their look said everything.

Why did it jolt me? Because Henry had played football and dated s.e.xy Erma Bridges? Because I'd once made out with him at a movie and could still remember how gently he kissed? Or because some obnoxious part of me couldn't accept he'd lived a life where he'd learned he liked men and ended up kissing them the same tender way we'd once kissed?

"Zoe, Miranda, this is Russell Lowry."

We shook his hand and talked as we moved slowly toward the door. Henry kept touching Russell in the way one does when a relationship is new and still sending off sparks. I've never been able to figure out if those touches are to rea.s.sure yourself the person is still there, or just the delight of knowing they're close enough to touch whenever you like.

"Henry told me about you. He made sure I was well prepped on who's who tonight so I don't make any serious faux pas."

I stopped and asked, "What'd he say about me?"

Russell narrowed his eyes and pretended to be scrolling through a mental file. "Miranda Romanac. Smart, attractive rather than pretty. Big crush on her in tenth and eleventh grades. Several serious make-out sessions. Most of all, Henry said you were the first girl he ever wanted to hang around with."

"Wow! That's a compliment."

"That's what he said."

Suddenly I was overwhelmed by familiar faces that shot a cannonful of fifteen-year-old memories at me. I was looking for James among them.

Some looked good, some terrible; some were impossible to recognize unless they introduced themselves or were pointed out as so-and-so. We entered the ballroom and the four of us beelined for the bar. We stood with big drinks, wearing the kind of tight, phony smiles North Korean diplomats use.

There was no way I was going to circulate, at least not until I got the lay of the land. Surveying the room, I was amazed to remember how much of an affect some of these people had once had on me. There was beautiful Melinda Szep, who'd saved my life in Algebra 2 by letting me cheat off her tests. Linda Olson, who one night in tenth grade had the kindness to explain and answer a hundred questions about what really happened in bed with a man. It was a turning point because hearing what she said allowed me to relax. Then there was Steve Solomon, who'd been the first person on earth to put his hand on me down there .

Even seeing cla.s.smates I'd never had much contact with filled me with a delightful warmth and nostalgia. At a table in one corner were Terry West and Eric Maxwell, cla.s.s party boys, dumb and sweet as cows. Both were fat and red-cheeked now. They looked so happy to be together again. Had they kept up over the years? Had their lives been good?

Only a few couples were dancing. It was still too early in this dangerous evening. Like us, most people were smiling uneasily or trying to remain invisible until they got their balance.

"Is that Mike Sesich and Kathy Aroli?"

"Yup."

"He looks so old. Do we look that bad?"

"I hope not. But she looks good. Too good."

I finished my drink and ordered another. Were we going to spend the whole evening like this, figuring out who people were and then either envying them or feeling aghast?

Henry and Russell excused themselves and went off to mingle.

"Just because they're happy doesn't mean they can abandon us!"

"What do you think? Henry and Russell?"

"Adorable, but I keep remembering the time we made out at the movies. It's strange."

"I'm just having trouble adjusting my gyroscope. I'm okay, but I have to go to the bathroom. Don't move. Stay right here."

I nodded and watched her walk away. Brandon Brind came to the bar and ordered a drink. Here was a guy I'd always liked. After a hesitant greeting, we fell into easy conversation. He'd done all right. From the way he spoke about his life, he sounded happy and sane and looking forward to what tomorrow had to offer.

We talked a long time. I didn't realize how long until Zoe came back from the bathroom, looking very shaken. She was pleasant to Brandon and asked several questions, but it was plain she needed to tell me something. I excused myself and we took off.

"Look at us, running off to the bathroom to talk. What? What happened?"

"Oh, Miranda, you can't believe-"

"What, what's the matter?"

As we were about to enter the bathroom, from out of nowhere came one of the eeriest human voices I have ever heard. Hearing a voice like that, you instinctively know something is terribly wrong with whoever owns it. A midget's voice? No, it was higher. I wondered if it was a joke, a gag recording. It came from behind me, so I didn't have a chance to turn before seeing Zoe's expression freeze, then melt to pure dread.

"What, going to the bathroom again? What's wrong with your bladder? What's the matter with you, Zoe?" It started out playful but ended aggressive.

Then I heard, "h.e.l.lo, Miranda."

I turned, and the first thing that registered was his haircut. It was the worst haircut in the world. Not even in Ulan Bator could a man get worse. Thick and unkempt in some places, it was much too short in others. It looked like someone had randomly hacked away at his hair with a pair of scissors, then grown tired and simply stopped.

Then I recognized his face, the eyes particularly because they still contained some of the same jollity they'd once had. But now there were other things in them too-lunacy, anger, and confusion like no other. You could not look for long.

And you didn't want to look because everything there was wrong, off: his expression, the way his eyes wouldn't stay on you for more than a second before sliding away then back, then away....

"Kevin?"

He smiled and twisted his head to the side, like a dog when it's confused. Kevin Hamilton, Zoe's beloved Kevin. Captain of the football team, Dartmouth College, the halest fellow you ever met. Now he was so bizarre that my mind flooded and all its circuits shorted out.

"Aha! I knew you'd be here! I told Zoe when I saw her, I bet Miranda Romanac's here. And I was right. I was right."

I was speechless. I looked at Zoe. She stared at him horrified, fascinated.

"I came back to town just for the reunion. We live in Orange now. Know where that is? In New Jersey. We have ever since my dad died. But I forgot your telephone number, Zoe, so I couldn't call to tell you I'd arrived. My sister said I shouldn't call, but I said, 'Look, we were going out for years.

He went on and on like that in a high-pitched, weirdly sonorous, disconnected ramble about himself, the reunion, Zoe, his "research." I was glad because it allowed me to absorb the shock and watch him closely without seeming rude.

Within seconds you knew he was mad, but what species of madness was hard to say. Although he spoke strangely, much of what he said was coherent, even intelligent. Seeing him this way, I had to keep reminding myself that Kevin Hamilton had been one of our cla.s.s scholars. We were sure he would do great things. I had heard almost nothing about him except that he had graduated from Dartmouth and gone to Wharton School of Business, but that was expected. Even at eighteen, you knew you'd see him interviewed a decade later on TV or read about him in Time magazine.

Apparently others at the reunion knew about Kevin, because no one got near us while we stood with him. A couple of times I saw others I recognized and smiled. They smiled back and started over, but on seeing him they quickly veered away. He kept talking.

Gradually what had happened came out. He was the oldest of four children. His father, with whom he was very close, died suddenly when Kevin was in graduate school. Kevin had had to quit and come home to take care of the others. Somewhere along the line, the pressure sent cracks up and down his psyche and he simply fell apart. He was inst.i.tutionalized and since then had been on heavy medication. He spent his days in the library researching things, but when I asked what, he looked at me suspiciously and changed the subject.

I could not imagine how Zoe was feeling. Whatever she had brought with her to this night-dreams, expectations-had been met at the door by this human nightmare of everything gone wrong, all hope abandoned. Once again my poor friend had lost.

"Excuse me, Kevin, but we have to go." I didn't care if I hurt his feelings. I took her by the arm and we fled into the ladies' room. He was still talking when the door whooshed shut behind us.

Luckily no one else was in there. Speechless, we stared at each other. It was as if a beautiful piece of crystal had dropped and shattered on the floor. Of course you sweep it up, but first you must accept the fact that it is gone forever.

Zoe went to the sink and turned on both spigots. She lowered her head and cupping handful after handful, threw water on her face. Then she squirted out a handful of bright green hand soap from the dispenser and thoroughly washed her face clean of all the makeup she'd so carefully applied an hour before.

I wanted to be so much smarter than I was, able to come up with something right to say that, even for a moment, might fill the black s.p.a.ce I knew was in her heart and would be for a long time.

"Where did I learn my cliches?" She was looking in the mirror. Her face was blank and shone from water.

"What do you mean?"

"Love never dies. Hope springs eternal. The one thing we should have learned by now is to put a seat belt around our heart. The road is dangerous but we never put the d.a.m.ned seat belt on."

"Zoe-"

"He said something to me once I'll never forget. He said, 'We'll start to reminisce when we're a hundred and four because till then we'll be too busy.' I was going to bring Hector tonight. He could have come. But I thought about Kevin, you know, and maybe there was a chance that something might happen... so I didn't."

Where was my wisdom? I kept licking my lips and scouring my brain but nothing came. She continued to look blankly in the mirror, as if seeing her face for the first time.

The door opened and Kathy Herlth sauntered in. She was as gorgeous as ever but still carried the icy wind of disdain for everything on earth that froze the rest of us humanity to death.

"G.o.d, did you see Kevin Hamilton? He's got to change his lobotomist! He's standing out there talking like a Klingon. Sort of looks like one too."

It was so cruel and true that Zoe coughed out a huge laugh. I did too.

Kathy shrugged. "I knew I shouldn't have come to this. It's so depressing. You two have sure come full circle tonight. Kevin's mad and James is dead. That ends that chapter, huh?"

"What?" The word came out much slower than I wanted. My hand froze as I was about to wipe tears of laughter off my cheek. I looked at my hand when she spoke again. It had already made a fist. I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything.

She looked surprised. "What do you mean? About what?"

"About James."

"James? What about him? Oh G.o.d, Miranda, didn't you know? He's dead. He died three years ago. In a car crash."

Everything was so clear, incredibly sharp and accentuated: Zoe's gasp, the sound of water hissing in the sink, Kathy's high-heel sc.r.a.pe across the tile floor. Their faces-Kathy's cool but interested, Zoe shocked beyond her own new trauma. These things were clear, but some essential part of me had already left. Something left my body and floating high above the room looked down, taking one last glimpse before leaving forever.

The part that had loved James Stillman with the energy and abandon only beginners have. The part that had smoked twenty delicious cigarettes a day, laughed too loud, didn't worry about dangerous things. The part that wondered what s.e.x would be like and who would be the first. The part that looked too long in mirrors at the only flawless face I would ever see there.

Fearless teenage me, so sure one day I'd find a partner with whom my heart would rest happily ever after. A man I would put on like lotion. James taught me that, showed me great happiness was possible right from the beginning. He was dead.

"Jesus, Miranda, I thought you knew. It happened so long ago."

"How-" I stopped to swallow. My throat was dry as cork. "Um, how did it happen?"

"I don't know. Diana Wise told me. But she's here tonight! You can ask. I saw her before."

Without another word, I walked out of the room. Zoe said something but I kept going. I needed to find Diana Wise immediately. Without the facts, a precise description, James Stillman's death would stay liquid in my brain and it had to be solid, real.

Hadn't the ballroom been billiard-chalk blue before I'd gone into the bathroom? Blue with white borders? I could have sworn it was; yet now it was a weak ocher, the color of young carrots. Even the colors had changed with the terrible news.

People mulled around talking, laughing, and dancing. Tonight they could be eighteen and thirty-three at the same time. It was wonderful. Mouths were full of teeth and shiny tongues. Words surrounded me as I moved. I felt like a visitor from another planet.

"They moved to Dobbs Ferry-"

"I haven't seen him since, Jesus, I don't know-"

"The whole house was carpeted with the most ugly brown s.h.a.g-"

When we were eighteen, people still listened to records. There were three speeds on a record player: 33 1/3, 45, and 78. The only time you ever used 78 was when you wanted to laugh. You turned it up there and played 45s on it. Hearing familiar voices transformed to a high silly chirp was always good for a laugh. As I walked more and more quickly through the room searching for Diana, thinking about James, thinking about him dead, the world around me switched to 78. Voices became a speeded-up muddle. This whizzing chaos became so strong that I had to stop and close my eyes. I breathed deeply a few times, telling myself not to panic. When I opened my eyes, Zoe was standing in front of me.

"Are you okay?"

"No. Have you seen Diana? I can't find her."

"We will. Come on, she's got to be here." She took my hand and we walked together. Later, when my mind cleared, I thought, How kind of her. Zoe had had her own nightmare only minutes before. Yet here she was, holding my hand and helping when she could just as well have been shut off in her own pain from meeting Kevin Hamilton.

"There! Over there."

Unlike so many others at the reunion, Diana Wise looked almost exactly as she had when we were in school. Interesting face, long black hair, the s.e.xy smile of an Italian movie star. We had been almost-friends in high school, but she was so much maturer than we that we had always held her in awe.

"Diana?" She was talking to a man I didn't recognize. Hearing her name, she turned and saw me. Touching the guy on the hand as a good-bye, she took me by the arm.

"Miranda. I've been looking for you." Her voice was strong and a.s.sured. The expression on her face said she knew what I needed. I was grateful not to have to ask the question. Not to have to say the words out loud, into the world: Is it true? Is he really dead?

The three of us walked through the lobby back out into the summer evening. It was warm and beautiful, the air still heavy from the day and full of the voluptuous smell of honeysuckle. I was empty and scared. I knew what was coming. Even though answers were what I wanted, I knew that when I heard them there would be no way back to a part of my life that, until a few hours before, was still intact.