And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. Shari was to be protected, to be dissuaded from driving in cars with older boys at night, to be steered away from dope and beer and certain friends who had no plans to work or to go to college. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. It’s time she knew. Last time I left home I felt as hard as nails.
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