
Just back from a rewarding experience at summer
stock, Jan, who has always garnered the lead parts in
school plays, is in for a surprise. A new
student, Kerry, wins the part Jan wants in this
semester's production of
The Crucible,
and Jan's name is at the very bottom of the cast list.
Her role: Stage Manager and Assistant
Director.
  Jan has to admit that Kerry is especially right
for the part. And as they work closely together in strengthening
Kerry's theatrical technique, they find that their
feelings for each other are evolving beyond friendship.
Kerry and Jan's fellow cast members begin
to wonder about their friendship, and one actor in particular
is determined to expose them. Eventually,
Jan and Kerry must face a decision, one that could
change their lives forever.
  A love story, a portrait of aspiring young
actors, and a powerful reminder of cruelty met through
intolerance,
Good Moon Rising is
Nancy Garden at her finest.
TEEN
OCT1997
NANCY GARDEN has written numerous books for
children and young adults, including the ground-breaking
novel
Annie on My Mind.
Her most recent book was
Dove and Sword: A Novel of Joan of Arc,
about which
Kirkus Reviews
wrote in a pointer review: "In a season of
plenty for fine historical fiction, Garden's
gripping, gritty tale ranks as one of the best."
Ms. Garden lives in Massachusetts and
Maine.
Jacket art [*copygg'1996 by
Hilary
Mosberg
FARRAR STRAUS GIROUX
19 Union Square West
New York 10003
GOOD MOON RISING
For the company of the world premiere of
the stage version of
Annie on My Mind,
especially
Kim Smith Aaronson, adapter and director,
and actors:
Copyright [*copygg'1996 by Nancy Garden
All rights reserved
Published simultaneously in Canada
by HarperCollinsCarwdaLtd
Printed in the United States of America
Designed by Caitlin Martin
First edition, 1996
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data
Garden, Nancy.
Good moon rising still Nancy Garden.-1st ed.
people. cm.
[like. Lesbians-Fiction. 2. Theater-Fiction.
3. High schools-Fiction.
4. Schools-Fiction. 5.
Identity-Fiction.] 1. Title.
PZ7.G165Ga 1996 [Fic]-dc20
96-11836 C1P AC
Excerpts from
The Crucible
by Arthur Miller. Copyright 1952, 1953,
1954, renewed [*copygg'1980 by Arthur
Miller. Used by permission of Viking Penguin, a
division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
Excerpts from
Gawdor and Medea
by Robinson Jeffers. Copyright
[*copygg'1965 by Robinson Jeffers.
Reprinted by permission of New Directions
Publishing Corp.
B. J. Backman, Lea Burgess-Garland,
Anna Chappell, Julie Chappell, Brooke
Emerson, Lanya Fent, Charis Gibbs,
Ashley Griffin, Lakin Griffin, Sarah
Cipriana Heivonimus, Juanita of the
Buffalo People, Jill Jurado, Lijia
Lyles, Martin Martin, Jon Eric Narum,
Cory Poul, Keith Scott, Jeremy Shawl,
Myka Small, Catherine Ushka
GOOD MOON RISING
ONE
THE DREAM AGAIN:
A bright circle of light on a dark stage and the
three of them tightly in it: Jan herself and her
fellow apprentices, Raphael and Corrin. No
audience, no set, no other apprentices or
actors from Jan's recently completed first season
of summer stack; no sound or motion-just the three of
them. Only . . . only . . .
  Only Jan had no sense of why she was there,
though she'd dreamed the same dream at least three
times since she'd been home in the small town of
Southview, New Hampshire. No idea, either,
why Corrin, who'd been her roommate, and
Raphael, her new friend, were watching her oddly. In
the dream, Raphael's kind green eyes were
uncharacteristically mocking, and beautiful Corrin seemed
both startled and cold. It was as if they'd been bound
into silence at the moment they'd tried to tell her
something, or as if they'd been about to warn her of something
they saw and she didn't . . .
  Covered with sweat, Jan woke in her small
square room, reassuring herself with familiar
objects: the battered pine
desk where she'd struggled harder each year
to do homework that meant less to her as her certainty
about acting deepened; the script for this year's
junior-senior play, Arthur Miller's
The Crucible,
on her bedside table; the bright rag rug that always
slipped a little, as it did now, when she put her
feet on it.
  "Jan-Janna!" Her mother's rich voice, though
it called insistently, was also reassuring.
  It's only a dream, Jan told herself, trying
to ignore the dread it had left with her. Not even a
dream, really: a disturbing, plotless image. Just a
picture, that was all.
  "Jan! It's time! You don't want to be late
on your first day of senior year!"
  "Okay, Mom."
  Jan pulled off the T-shirt she wore for
sleeping, and fumbled in the still-dim room for her
clothes. The image began to recede.
  "Jan, your eggs are freezing. And Ted's here."
  Guiltily, Jan let her eyes close for a
moment, then opened them and sat down on her bed to put
on her Nikes. Of course Ted would pick her up
the first day of school, even though she'd written him
only once all summer and hadn't called
him since she'd been home. Good old loyal
Teddy Bear, just about her best friend since fourth
grade-until a certain awkward scene in his car
last spring, which was one reason why she hadn't felt
eager to get back in touch with him.
  "Coming!" she called again. Then, reluctantly,
"Hi, Ted!" She tugged her brush through her short
unruly blond curls. "I'll be right down."
  What a contrast Ted would be to Raphael, and the
girls at school to Corrin! Not that she'd really
gotten to know Corrin, in spite of rooming with her.
Raphael was different. They'd become close so
quickly that Jan had barely been surprised
  when he'd confided in her that he was gay and in love
with Don Jeffords, one of the actors; it seemed
to fit, to be right for him. But with Corrin, despite
the intensity of their talks about theater, there had always
been an odd distance, perhaps partly because her beauty had
sometimes made Jan stare at her, until
Raphael pointed out that the other apprentices
  might notice . . .
  "Hey, Janna, Janna Montcrief!"
came Ted's familiar impatient voice, with a
grin in it, and close, as if he'd come partway up
the stairs. "How's the great actress?
Any big contracts yet?"
  "Not yet," Jan called down. "But the seasons
young." At least, she thought, putting the brush down and
tucking her shirt into her jeans, I can still kid around
with him, and he doesn't sound mad about my not having
written. "Hot or cold out, Ted?" she shouted.
  "Cold."
  "So're your eggs," her mother called mournfully.
"You could ski on them."
  Jan grinned. Morns funny comments had made
Jan smile for as long as she could remember. "You
should've been a comedian," Jan's now married and
pregnant sister Anita had often told their mother.
But "I
like
being a housewife" had always been Mom's reaction
to any suggestion she be more than that. It was a good thing,
though, Jan had thought sometimes, since for years their
father had worked night and day building up his law
practice, and was often out of town. This time he'd
been away since the middle of the summer.
  "Be right there," Jan shouted.
  The dream image gone now, Jan tugged her old
green sweatshirt over her head and started for the
bathroom. Then she stopped: should she take
the script to school?
Tryouts weren't till the following week, but she
picked up
Crucible
anyway and propped it against the mouthwash bottle
while she brushed her teeth. She didn't have
to turn to the big scene between Elizabeth and John;
she'd worked on it so often during the summer that the
script fell open there by itself. Even if the play was
basically John's-and hence Kent Norris's, who
everyone knew would get the part-Elizabeth was an
excellent role. Most girls at school, Jan
knew, would want to play Abigail, the villain in
this play about the seventeenth-century witch-hunt in
Salem, Massachusettsor they'd want Mary
Warren, who'd almost but not quite had the courage to stop the
terrible accusations that had led to so many cruel,
unjustified hangings. Both parts were openly
dramatic, calling for a good deal of hysteria and
weeping. But quiet, withdrawn, moral Elizabeth
Proctor, falsely accused of witchcraft-that was
a part for a real actress. Mrs. Nicholson,
Southview High's drama coach, had even said so
herself last spring when she'd announced what the play
would be, and she'd been looking right at Jan
when she'd said it.
  was "The town's gone wild, I think,"" Jan
whispered around the toothpaste in her mouth to an
imaginary John Proctor, Elizabeth's
husband-not so imaginary, since he had Kent's
face. was "She speak of Abigail, and I thought
she were a saint, to hear her."" She repeated the
line, trying to make the oldfashioned words sound
smooth and natural, then said it again.
  A firm knock interrupted her. "Jan," said
her mother, just a hint of testiness in her voice, "the
neighbors" cat is eyeing your eggs:"
  Good-naturedly, confident of getting cast as
Elizabeth, Jan flung the door open, grabbed
her small, plump mother around the waist, and twirled
her around. "Mother, I come," she intoned, kissing
her.
  Mom laughed fondly and then tweaked the sleeve
of Jan's sweatshirt. "Even the great French
actress Sarah Bernhardt washed her clothes
once a year or so," she remarked without reproach.
  "Yeah," said Jan, darting back for the script and
tossing it into her bookbag, "but sweatshirts take
too long to dry. Hey there, Ted!" she shouted before
her mother could point out that she owned more than one.
This was the one she'd had in stock, and so was good luck.
  Applause greeted her from the foot of the stairs.
Jan waved and did a curtain-call curtsy,
thinking, as Ted answered with a sweeping bow, of a line
from the sentimental song she'd learned years earlier in
camp about new friends being silver, but old ones
gold. It was good to see him after all.
  "La Montcrief at last," Ted said with the
familiar slow grin that started with just a twitch of his
wide mouth and gradually spread till it put a
twinkle deep in his brown eyes. "La Divine
Montcrief, fans. And such an entrance," he
added as she deliberately thumped clumsily down
the stairs. "Such a costume!"
  "Sarcasm," said Jan, ducking around the corner
into the kitchen as he bent to kiss her cheek, "will get
you everywhere." He caught her hand and kissed her
anyway.
  "How've you been?" she asked, avoiding his
eyes.
  "Not bad." He let her go.
  "What's the matter? My head on crooked?"
  "Your head's fine." The breeziness was gone; he
looked like a whipped dog.
  She went into the kitchen with him following, and
to the stove, wishing she knew what to say. The congealed
yellow mass that was her eggs stared up at her from the
frying pan on the front burner. "Yuck."
Ted stood there watching her, then draped himself with
exaggerated carelessness on one of the four green stools
at the long kitchen counter that doubled as a table.
"Meet anyone interesting this summer?" he asked, a
little too casually.
  "Well, yeah." Jan scraped the eggs onto a
plate and pushed down the bread her mother had left for
her in the toaster. "A few people. But not-not what you
think How about you?"
  "hope."
  "Too bad." Jan wondered briefly what
Ted would make of Raphael. Raphael, she
felt sure, would be drawn to Ted, who was, she
had to admit, pretty good-looking, especially now
that the acne was almost gone from his strong, square face.
  "Your face has cleared up," she said, thinking that
might make him feel better.
  "You noticed. I figured I'd surprise you.
It took a whole drugstore full of glop and
nine visits to that creep Dr. Zolotow. But"-he
ran his hand over his chin-"at least I can get within ten
feet of a razor without ending up looking like
something Dracula bit in all the wrong places."
  Jan laughed.
  Ted rearranged himself on the stool, seeming more
relaxed. "You going to eat that mess?" he asked as
she put the plate an the counter.
  Jan shrugged.
  'We could stop for pheasants" tongues," he
said, like the old Ted again. "What matter if we be
late the first day? Nary a whit, I say, if
lateness lets me serve you, lady."
  "Nay, gracious sir, nay." Jan,
relieved to return to banter, tried not to gag as she
bolted down the eggs and toast, then poured herself a
cup of coffee; that, at least, was still hot.
"Lateness likes me not on such a day."
  "What day, madame?" Ted shifted again on the
stool. His
s
too long legs jutted out grasshopper-like at the
knees; she'd envied him his height since fourth
grade. "Surely the-ernoted academy we have good
fortune to attend has such a day in every year, nay, in
every month . . ."
  "Yea, verily," said Jan, over her coffee
mug. "But . . ."
  "Yea, verily, indeed!" Jan's mother came
into the kitchen, a pile of laundry in her arms.
"If you two don't hie yourselves to yon noted
academy instanter, you will . . ."
  "Instanter?" asked Jan.
"Instanter?"
"Just what it sounds like." Her mother kissed her and
pushed her toward the door. "You have exactly ten
minutes before the first bell, and I don't want
to hear you've gotten a speeding ticket, Ted."
  It was two late slips they got instead of a
speeding ticket, because Ted turned morose again about
Jan's not writing or calling, and Jan's
attempt at explanation took closer to fifteen
minutes than ten. But later, sitting in her usual
back-row seat in English, Jan knew she hadn't
even begun to make him understand. How could she, when she
herself really didn't understand and when she felt she'd
changed over the summer and he hadn't? Obviously,
the easy banter was still there. And so were the quick
improvisations they'd fallen into spontaneously
since freshman year when Jan had first gotten
involved with theater and Ted had tagged along, sometimes
acting, sometimes working backstage. But Jan felt
those things weren't enough anymore, and she
wondered how she and Ted would be together if Ted got a
part in
Crucible,
for which he'd told her that morning he was trying out.
  his('anna MontcrieFrom, I asked you a question."
  There was a faint wave of tittering; heads turned
as the teacher walked toward Jan.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Smathers," Jan said
calmly. "I guess I was daydreaming."
The Crucible
slipped out of her notebook and onto the floor.
  "Ah, yes." Ms. Smathers picked it up.
"Our actress. But tryouts, I believe, are not
until next Wednesday. In the meantime, kindly
turn your attention to the task at hand. In a short
story . . ."
  The day did not improve. When math let out,
Jan got her paper-bag lunch out of her locker and
took it and
Crucible
to her favorite corner table in the huge
cafeteria. It was a sterile, noisy room, with
ugly chrome-and-vinyl furniture, but she'd found
even as a freshman that the chairs were uncomfortable enough
to keep her awake if she wanted to study
and the noise, with a little extra concentration, could become
its own insulation.
  Jan unwrapped her tuna sandwich and opened
Crucible
again to Elizabeth's first scene with John. It was an
uncomfortable scene, in which it becomes obvious there
is tension between them, partly because John is attracted
to their servant, Mary Warren-and not long after it,
Elizabeth is arrested for witchcraft. Jan
decided to reread the whole play that night, and then the
next day write an autobiography of
Elizabeth, starting with Elizabeth's earliest
memory and going up to the time of the play. The
apprentices' acting teacher in stock had
recommended that as a good way to give depth to a
characterization, and Jan had found that it worked well for her,
at least in the scenes she'd done in class there.
  "Hey, Sarah Bernhardt, beware. Competition
stalks, methinks."
  Annoyed at the interruption, Jan slid her
lunch over to make room for Ted's.
  "Oh, yeah?" she said, her eyes still on the
script. "How come?"
  Ted poked her in the side with his elbow, and then
gestured toward a girl who was just coming out of the
lunchbuying line, somehow managing to balance her
tray, a load of books, and an enormous shoulder
bag without looking awkward. "New kid," Ted
explained. "Junior. Kerry
Ann-umSocrides. Just moved in with her aunt.
Signed up for tryouts. Looks like an
Elizabeth type to me."
  Reluctantly, Jan glanced up.
  "Well, maybe she can't act," she said
brusquely, pretending to return to the script. But
her mouth had gone dry, and she had to admit Ted was
right. The girl's clear pale skin and her long
black hair-which she'd have to wear up, of course, as
Elizabeth would have-the precision of her delicate
features, the dignity with which she carried herself-all
exactly matched Jan's own picture of
Elizabeth Proctor. But more than that-oh, much more
than that-was the girl's air of quiet strength, the
sureness she'd radiated even in the short moment
Jan had watched her.
  "More like Elizabeth than Elizabeth," Ted
whispered. "Wow! You're going to have to give one heck
of a reading to convince Mrs. Nicholson she shouldn't
cast that one! But I know you'll do it, Jan-hey,
remember, you're the school star." He
turned slightly. "And here's the other school star.
Hiya, Norris."
  Kent Norris plunked his tray down next
to Jan's, and again Jan thought how perfect he'd be
for Proctor. His longish brown hair, edged with
new sideburns, was still tied back in a severe
ponytail as it had been last spring. The
ponytail, plus his thin straight mouth, which remained
solemn even when his dark eyes smoldered, made
him look like the men in many
pictures Jan had seen of early New England
settlers. According to Miller,
Crucible's
author, John Proctor was "not easily led," and
that certainly worked for Kent, though another part of
Miller's description-"even-tempered"-did not.
Jan had seen Kent's rage mare than once when
he hadn't gotten his way.
  "So, Jan," Kent said, ignoring Ted, "how was
stock?"
  "Great," Jan answered amiably. She
didn't like Kent much and was pretty sure he felt
the same way about her, but they did share the same
professional goals and she enjoyed working onstage with
him when he was at his best as an actor.
"How was your summer? You did some community theater,
right?"
  "I did Stanley Kowalski in
A Streetcar Named Desire."
He tossed it off as if it didn't matter, but
Jan could see he was proud of it. "At the beach.
You know, the Marlon Brando part." Kent thumped his
chest with his fist. "Stella!" he bellowed, and Jan
recognized the super-macho attitude Marlon
Brando had made famous in the old black-and-white
movie of
Streetcar
that she and Ted had seen twice.
  Startled eyes looked up from lunch trays at
Kent's outburst; he stood up and bowed.
  "Yeah," he said, sitting again, "it really was
great. We got terrific notices and the girls were
all over me. So were a couple of fags, but I
got rid of them pretty quick."
  "Oh?" Jan said noncommittally; Ted raised
his eyebrows.
  "Yeah, you know," said Kent. "Kept following
me around and staring. Just couldn't resist my gorgeous
hard-muscled bod, I guess." He shivered.
"Creeps."
  "This has to be my cue to leave," Ted
announced, picking up his tray. "See you."
  "Later," Kent said with an indifferent wave.
He turned
  back to Jan. "So stock was great, huh? Man,
I'd like to do it next year, but after the fags this
summer, I don't know. That's the one thing I like
less and less about this business, you know what I
mean?"
  "No," said Jan coldly, thinking of
Raphael. "I don't know what you mean. One thing
I learned this summer is that the important things in
theater are talent and hard work, not who people like to sleep
with. Besides, I call them gays, not fags."
  "Well, excuse me!" Kent gave her an
odd look. "Gays, spays-hey, that's pretty
good!-what's the difference?"
  Jan stood, picking up her tray. "The
difference," she said, "is that it's the same as calling
someone a nigger instead of calling them black or
African-American or a person of color.
I'll see you at tryouts, Kent." She walked
briskly to the counter, slammed her tray down, and was
about to leave when she saw the new girl again, alone in
a corner with the
Crucible
script propped up against her milk carton. "More
like Elizabeth than Elizabeth," Jan muttered
reluctantly, and headed for the girls' room, where
she studied herself in the mirror. She tried to convince
herself that looks didn't matter, especially
to Mrs. Nicholson; talent mattered.
  But Mrs. Nicholson, she knew, was as much a
pro in her way as were the people Jan had met in stock,
and Jan herself knew enough about real theater to know that
looks
did
matter. Could she play Elizabeth convincingly
despite her curly hair and the short squarish
body that one of the professional actresses in stock
had told her would limit her to character parts once she was
out of school? How could solemn Elizabeth
Proctor have a tipped-up nose like a little kid's,
or greenish-blue eyes that, for all the misery in
them now, could never, never look as self-assured as
that new girl's had, even at a distance?
Especially at a distance. If Kerry
What's-Her-
Name could project that quality across the school
cafeteria, she'd have no trouble at all
projecting it from a stage.
  "Are you an actress or aren't you?" Jan
whispered to her reflection, throwing her shoulders back
and malting her eyes flash into the mirror. There! That
was better. was "John,"" she said in
Elizabeth's voice, "'x come to naught that I should
forgive you, if you'll not forgive yourself. It is not my
soul, John, it is yours . . ."
  "And, oh, please, Mrs. Nicholson," Jan
prayed, turning from the mirror as a group of girls
came loudly in, "it's my soul, too. It's my
last part with you, my last big show here at
Southview. It's my soul, too!"
TWO
THE AFTERNOON OF
tryouts was crisp, but with a trace of summer's
humidity to remind one that it was still only
September. Jan had spent most of the intervening time
working on Elizabeth, and now she sat at her
homeroom desk,
Crucible
open inside her Western Civ book, but her eyes
staring blankly outside. Her stomach was jumpy and
her hands restless; she finally picked up a pencil and
began doodling on the cover of her
notebook. Then she noticed she was sketching
Crucible
characters, and stopped. If only the bell would ring; if
only it were six o'clock and tryouts were over; if only
it were tomorrow, next week, next year!
  When the bell did ring, Jan, seeing Ted
waiting for her at the door, got stiffly to her
feet, picking
up Crucible.
What was it Raphael had said last summer? Something
about how playing Elizabeth would "stretch" her as
playing Abigail never would? And yet she'd been
working on Abigail, too, a little, just in case.
  The classroom Mrs. Nicholson always used for
tryouts was crowded when Jan and Ted got there, even
though they ar-
rived early. Books and sweaters were strewn on the
floor and on chairs, and an excited buzz, shot
through with bursts of laughter, rose from the clusters of
juniors and seniors that filled the room. Jan
sat in the back near the door, after telling Ted she
wanted to be alone. She closed her eyes, trying
to use her cafeteria trick to shut out the audible
bits of conversation, but it didn't work; they came through
anyway:
"Yes, but Jack didn't call last night."
"What did Clarendon say about the social
studies homework? How many pages?"
"Look, jerk, we've got to beat Northern.
There's no way we can get through the season if we
don't."
Don't be snobby, Jan admonished herself when the
chattering annoyed her; don't be stuck up; stop
making yourself into some kind of elitist. But the interest the
others seemed to have in everything but the play made her
miss Raphael and Corrin, who would be talking about
Crucible
if they were waiting to try out, or who would be wrapped
in silence as she was, trying to feel their way into it.
Except for Ted, Jan had never had a close friend
at Southview, and coming back after a season of stock
made that clearer to her than it had ever been before . .
.
"Sorry. Hi."
Jan felt her legs being tripped over and pulled
them back, grabbing for her books. Then she opened
her eyes to see Brenda George, a brittle
senior with a tough manner that would make her a good
Abigail. Brenda's brown hair, Jan saw,
was bushier than she remembered it, and was
streaked with silvery blond.
"Hi, yourself," Jan said reluctantly; Brenda
had never been one of her favorite people. She was part
of a clique Jan and Ted called The Cheerleaders.
Some of them-not Brenda-

actually were cheerleaders, and all of them spent most of
their time aggressively seeking dates, clothes, and
popularity.
"It's okay," Jan said. "I mean, if I
kept my eyes open I'd know when to get out of the
way, wouldn't I greater-than was
"Yeah. But you said it; I didn't." Brenda
moved on to sit with her friends, and Jan heard her
ask, "Like my mane? Mom and I went to Mr.
Jerome's in New York in August. He does
all the stars. I sure hope Kent notices."
She dropped her voice, but Jan could still hear.
"He is so-o-o gorgeous," she gushed. "And
guess what? He actually asked me to try out for the
play. Oooh, look, there he is now!" Brenda
stood up and gave a flirtatious wave in
Kent's direction as he walked to an empty seat
in front, acknowledging Jan with a characteristically aloof
nod. Will Omlin, a somewhat clumsy but
earnest boy who wasn't a very good actor, followed
worshipfully in his wake.
Jan wasn't surprised at Brenda's reaction
to Kent, for almost every girl in Southview had a crush
on him. But she was surprised he'd asked her
to try out; Brenda wasn't known for her acting
ability.
The door opened again and Jan heard someone ask in a
low, musical voice, "Is this the right room?"
She turned around to see Kerry Ann Socrides
walking uncertainly toward her. "The right room for the
play tryouts?"
No, Jan was tempted to say;
no, this is band practice. Tryouts are in the
basement, Room OOS.
Or even:
Tryouts are cancelled.
But something in Kerry's face-maybe it was the
unexpected uncertainty, hinting that perhaps she
wasn't always as confident as she'd seemed at lunch
that first day-made Jan smile and say, "Yes,
it's the tryouts; you're in the right place." The
next minute, though, Kerry was sitting beside her, ar-
ranging her books on the floor, and pushing up the
sleeves of her deep-red turtleneck; the
room was getting hot with so many people in it. "Wow, am
I nervous!" Kerry exclaimed. "Aren't you?"
  "Yes," Jan said. She wanted to bury herself in
Crucible;
she didn't want to talk at all and certainly not
to Kerry, but she found herself noticing things about her
even so. They were Elizabeth things, mostly, but not
exclusively: the calm behind her eyes, warring with
nervousness; the laughter that seemed ready to spill
over; a certain infectious eagerness.
  "I've never been in a play before," Kerry
confided to her, "but I've always wanted to be. Have you?
Been in plays, I mean?"
  It was funny, having someone at Southview not know
the answer to that; that was Jan's first thought. Her
second thought was that it was nice. And only then did
she realize how relieved she was that Kerry had no
experience. "I've been in a few," Jan told
her modestly.
  There was a rustle behind them and Mrs.
Nicholson-Elvira Nicholson-pushed open the
door. Her straight, stout figure was heavy with
jewelry as usual, and her hands and arms were full of
director's paraphernalia: scripts, pencils,
a huge clipboard with a thick legal pad
fastened to it, the now grimy sign-up sheet, covered
with names.
  Jan leapt up to hold the door open.
  Mrs. Nicholson gave Jan the special
smile she reserved for the few she called "her"
actors: Jan, Kent, a kind, plump girl
named Nanny Davis whose talent was only
average, but who was reliable, worked hard, and always
helped with costumes and makeup. "Thank you,
Janna," Mrs. Nicholson said, her vibrant,
husky voice automatically set to reach Jan's
ears and no one else's. She bent toward Jan,
her heavy gold earrings
  and pendant swinging. "You look as if stock
agreed with you. We'll have to have a talk later."
  "Sure," said Jan. "I-I hope you had a
good summer." She wondered if she had. Somehow,
under the thick but wellapplied makeup Mrs.
Nicholson always wore, her face looked strained
and pale, and close up she looked as if she'd
shrunk a little, though it was hard to tell under the
voluminous paisley tent dress that floated around
her body.
  "Splendid summer, splendid!" Mrs.
Nicholson emphasized her words with a beringed
hand. "A trifle dull, perhaps, now and then"-the hand
turned gracefully onto its side equals a little
trying somewhere in July?-the hand dropped-"b"-and went
up again-"some good theater, oh, very good. We will have
to talk. Nevertheless-well, it's good to be back."
Mrs. Nicholson bent closer; Jan could smell
heavy but not unpleasant perfume. "I suspect you
hate being back, though, don't you?"
  "Yes, some," Jan admitted.
  Mrs. Nicholson patted Jan's hand,
murmured "Never mind," and swept majestically to the
front of the room as if she had just come down a
gracefully curving staircase into a glittering
hallway lit with crystal chandeliers and crowded with
elegantly dressed, partying people.
  Despite the photos from ancient
Theater Arts
magazines that adorned its walls, the room was used
for English classes and had the usual yellow-brown
teacher's desk and plastic bolted-down
desk-armchairs. But, as always, as soon as Mrs.
Nicholson faced her students, the scarred floor
in front became a stage, the walls were transformed
into a set with the blue-green chalkboard for a
skydrop, and the students into a waiting
audience.
  Jan knew that many Southview students thought
Mrs.
Nicholson was both bizarre and superficial, but
even so, most also admitted she was the most exciting
teacher there and certainly the best thing that had ever
happened to their rather stuffy English and Speech
Department. Twenty-five years earlier, the story
went, Mrs. Nicholson had left the Broadway
stage and moved to New Hampshire to marry her
beloved Robert, a banker, who couldn't bear the
idea of a wife who faced the public every night. But
by the time their son Robert junior, who now did
TV commercials with an embarrassing lack of
talent, had entered Southview High, Robert
Senior had mellowed enough to agree to his wife's
teaching. She'd stayed on ever since, despite
threatening every year to resign because no one, neither
students nor teachers, took producing plays
seriously enough to suit her.
Kent had straightened up in his seat, Jan saw, as
soon as Mrs. Nicholson's commanding figure had
reached the front of the room. "Kent," stated Mrs.
Nicholson, nodding at him. It meant "Hello."
"Mrs. Nicholson," answered Kent in the
same way.
"Whoa," Kerry whispered. "Isn't she something?
Is she always that regal?"
"Pretty much always."
"Someone," Kerry said, "told me the best thing about
doing plays here is that the teacher who directs them
is really good. She looks like a housewife who's
trying to be elegant, but she acts like she just stepped
off a stage or out of the movies or something. She's
so powerful!"
Jan studied Kerry with growing interest. She
didn't know anyone except Kent and herself who
hadn't laughed at Mrs. Nicholson at first and
grown to respect her only after working with her. But before
she got a chance to say anything more to Kerry, Mrs.
Nicholson held up her hand and everyone knew
tryouts were about to begin.

Jan's mouth went dry, as usual, as soon as
Mrs. Nicholson, all business now, called her
and Kent to read the first Elizabeth-John scene.
A few kids grumbled, but everyone else in the
room settled back to be entertained. Ted mouthed
"Good luck" from across the room as Jan went up to the
front. She mouthed "Thanks" back, and
then smiled at Kent, aware that both of them knew
some of the kids felt Mrs. Nicholson would always
cast them as leads whether or not they read. "But why
shouldn't we do leads?" he'd said to her once.
"We're good and it means more to us than to the others.
Besides, we need the practice. You don't think
we're going to get big parts right away in New
York, do you?"
Jan and Kent sailed through the scene; Jan was
calm, as always, the moment she started reading. Kent
reacted to every nuance of her voice, just as he always
did; she concentrated on his every line as if she were
hearing it for the first time. When they finished, most everyone
clapped, although Mrs. Nicholson held up her
hand for silence immediately.
"Thank you," she said, not a twitch betraying her
reaction. "Kent, you may sit down for a minute, but
I'll call you again soon. Janna, stay here,
please, and read the same scene again with Will Omlin."
Poor gangling Will tried, but he stumbled over every
line and his face shone with nervous sweat. He never
failed to try out for every play Kent tried out for, and
he never failed to get a goad small part, as if
being rewarded for the agony he suffered at tryouts and
would continue to suffer at rehearsals and in
performances. No matter how hard the others tried
to calm him down, he had never gotten through a
rehearsal or performance without blundering. This time he
messed up the line "I know I cannot keep it. I
say I will think on it," saying instead, "I know I
cannot think on it. I say I will keep it." Everyone
laughed, but Jan squelched the laugh quickly, step-
ping on it with her next line, which she revised to
"Good, then. Let you keep it," covering Will's
mistake as she would have in a performance.
"Thank you." Mrs. Nicholson again betrayed no
reaction, except to say, "Good recovery, Jan.
Don't leave; I'll call you later. But now
I'd like to hear you again, Kent, in the same scene
with"-her bracelets clanked as she reached for the
sign-up list-"Kerry Ann Socrides."
Jan walked back to her seat, more nervous now than
when she herself had been called to read. She felt she
should say "Good luck" as she passed Kerry, then
wondered if she could avoid it, and finally said it
anyway.
"Thanks," Kerry breathed nervously.
Jan sat down, her palms damp. Easy out, she
promised herself. Easy out.
Kerry waited, as had Jan, for Kent
to indicate his entrance, then read, was "What keeps
you so late? It's almost dark.""
Her voice was clear, gentle, and strong, with just the
right hint of reproach-less than Jan had put in
hers, but enough to communicate instantly that Elizabeth
had been both worried and suspicious when John
had came home late.
was "I were planting," was Kent answered,
obviously surprised she read so well, was "far
out to the forest edge.""
was "Oh, you're done then,"" Kerry responded.
Another subtlety, this time, a perfect shadow of a
smile.
Jan groaned inwardly, but she leaned forward in her
seat, noticing as she did that everyone else was doing
the same. She stayed leaning forward till the scene was
over. Every line was a gem, or nearly.
When he'd put down the script, Kent ran his hand
over his skinned-back hair and gave Kerry a
dazzling smile. From the audience there was silence, then
applause. This time

Mrs. Nicholson was too busy scribbling on her
pad to hold up her hand. Finally, when the applause
had died away on its own, Mrs.
Nicholson stopped writing and said, "Thank you,
Kerry Ann. Is it Kerry Ann or just
Kerry?"
"Just Kerry, usually."
"Kerry, then. I'd like you to do the last scene now, just
a bit of it, with Kent, but with more authority. I'd like
to see Elizabeth a little surer of herself. She'd like
to seem that way to John in that scene, even though she
doubts herself. Do you understand?"
"I-I think so," said Kerry.
She looks scared, Jan thought, scared but
determined. It was a difficult scene, in which
Elizabeth refuses to tell John whether or not
he should sign a confession that would, if signed, save
him from hanging.
"Splendid," said Mrs. Nicholson. "Let's
try it, then."
Kerry sounded even more convincing this time.
"Some people are good readers and lousy actors," Ted
remarked on the way home; Jan was driving her
mother's car this time, having borrowed it for the day.
"You've said that yourself, often."
"Yeah." Jan slowed down at an intersection, then
speeded up again. "That's true, but I don't think
this kid's like that."
"You never know."
"Maybe, but I'd cast her if I were Mrs.
Nicholson. She's so good I can't even dislike
her! I want to hate her; I want to cut her up
in little pieces and-and . . ."
"And throw her to the lions or flush her away. I
know, Jan, I know." Ted put his arm around her.
"Don't do that while I'm driving," Jan said
testily.
"How about stopping driving then?"
"Oh, come on, Ted!"
  "Come on yourself," he said, his mood changing.
"It's time we had a talk anyway."
  "I don't want to talk," she said
irritably. "I just want to go home."
  "Jan, you'll get some kind of part; you always do.
I've been wanting to have a real talk with you ever
since you got back from stock, and I haven't because of
tryouts. But tryouts are over.
  "Can't you at least wait till the cast list
goes up tomorrow?"
  "I've got a dentist appointment after school
tomorrow."
  Jan sighed. He sounded so forlorn she suddenly
felt sorry for him. "Okay. Where to?"
  "The park. Down by the river. Anywhere.
Doesn't matter."
  Jan drove in silence to the wide river that flowed
behind Southview, linking it to a medium-sized port
city ten miles away. The air was even crisper
now that the sun was beginning to set, and near the river the
few prematurely red and orange leaves glowed
brightly against the green ones. But Jan was too
miserable to care.
  She pulled the car to one side of the road and
switched off the ignition. A small powerboat, in
great need of paint, was chugging slowly downstream.
She watched it, to avoid Ted.
  "Hi." He touched her shoulder gently. "Hey,
I'm sorry about that girl. But, like I said, you'll
get something, even if you don't get Elizabeth.
And aren't you going to have to get used to competition?"
  "That's not what you made me come here to talk about,"
she said gruffly, shrugging his hand away. How could she
tell him that it wasn't so much the idea of competition
that bothered her as it was the nagging thought that she might not
have as much talent as everyone had always told her she
had?

"Jan, why do you always move away from me?"
  "Do I?" she asked, startled. "I hadn't
noticed. I've hardly seen you since I got
back."
  "Yes, you do. I know you've hardly seen me,
believe me! And this year we don't even have any
classes together."
  "Is that what you wanted to talk about?"
  "Sort of." Ted put his hand under Jan's chin and
turned her face toward his.
  She started in surprise. They'd never touched
much, except for that one awkward time last spring.
He'd kissed her and then tried to go further, and
she'd bolted-but this time she was so startled she let him
turn her. His eyes were as troubled as she'd ever seen
them, and she tried to concentrate on what he was
saying, but it was too soon after tryouts. Lines from
Crucible
were still repeating themselves in her head-Elizabeth's
lines, in Kerry's voice.
  "Jan, we're seniors," she finally heard him
say, smoothly, as if he'd rehearsed it.
"Don't you think it's time we started talking about
going steady?"
  She felt herself blink in astonishment.
"Going-going steady?" she repeated
stupidly. "But we're not even "going' at all!"
  "We see each other nearly every day. We did
most of last year, anyway. It could be nights,
too."
  Jan shook her head vigorously, surprised
at the strength of her sudden panic. "No!" she
told him, not meaning to say it so emphatically.
"No."
  "But-but why?" Ted fumbled. "Why, Jan?
We've known each other so long, we're friends, we
care about each other. Don't we? I hardly dated
anyone else last year; you didn't date at
all. I thought-well, I . . ." He broke
off, his face red and miserable.
  This is Ted, this is Teddy Bear, Jan thought,
miserable
herself. She put her hand lightly on his arm, though
she couldn't think what to answer. "I'm sorry,"
she said at last, trying to be honest. "I do care
about you, Ted. But I guess I don't want
to date anyone."
  Ted took her hand and stroked it as if he had
wanted to for a long time. She, surprised again, let
her hand lie limply in his, embarrassed and
uncomfortable, but not wanting to hurt him
anymore.
  "Why?" he asked again. "My don't you want
to date?"
  She watched the powerboat again. Except for
feeling left out once in a while on weekends when
she knew everyone else was partying, it had never
bothered her much. When it did, all she had to do was
read a play and she'd forget.
  Maybe that was it.
  "Theater," she answered tentatively. "I
don't have time, or room, I guess, for anything
else."
  Ted turned her face toward his again, and before she
realized what was going to happen, he'd pulled her
close the way he had last spring. He kissed
her, first gently, then hard.
  She felt her body stiffen; she wanted to pull
away, but he gripped her shoulders firmly, so she
waited, feeling trapped and struggling for air.
  Abruptly, Ted let her go. "Okay," he
said, facing the river. The powerboat, Jan noticed
as she surreptitiously wiped her damp mouth, had
moved around a bend and was nearly out of sight. "I
don't think that's it," he said, "but okay:"
  She heard the pain in his voice, felt
sorry for him again, and said so. She wanted to touch
him, comfort him, as a friend, but didn't dare now. Had
he always thought she meant something else whenever she'd
squeezed his hand or patted his shoulder?
  "Ted, you're-we've been so close," she began
hesitantly. "It's . . ."

"I know," he said ruefully. "It's incestuous,
right? We're like brother and sister, or something."
  "I'm sorry."
  "Yeah, okay."
  "Ted . . ."
  "It's okay, Jan. Let's go, huh?"
  Jan turned the car engine on again and drove Ted
home in silence.
  The next morning, the cast list went up.
  It was a few minutes before Jan could ease her
way through the crowd around it. Will Omlin, right in
front of her, muttered, "Cheever? That must be the
smallest part in the whole play!" Then, giving
Jan a look she couldn't read, he bolted down the
hall.
  Jan had to skim the list twice before she could find
her name, though she had no trouble seeing Kent's name
after John Proctor's. Ted was to play
eighty-three-year-old Giles Corey;
Nanny, gentle, elderly Rebecca Nurse;
Brenda, Abigail, as everyone had
expected-she'd read surprisingly well comand
Kerry, Jan saw through suddenly rising tears she
immediately struggled to blink back, Elizabeth
Proctor.
"Janna Montcrief,"
she saw finally, at the bottom, below the cast and
heading the crew.
"Stage ManagerlAssistant Director."
No part. No part at all.
IT WAS DARK AND
silent on the stage, as in an empty church. On
the other side of the thick act curtain, a chorus
rehearsal was in progress. Jan could just hear the
muffled voice of Mrs. Dunson, the music
teacher, preparing to warm up her singers. There was no
set on the stage yet, just a pile of wood-framed
canvas flats leaning against the blue back wall,
painted that way so it could double as a cyclorama. The
tormentors, heavy curtains on each side of the
stage masking the backstage area, swayed softly;
a window was open near the old-fashioned light
board. There'd been talk for years about
replacing it with a computerized one, but the school
committee kept allocating the money to other things.
Jan closed the window, thinking dully that it wouldn't
be good for rain to come in on the board. If it should
happen to rain.
She put her hand on a dimmer handle, saw that the
main switch was off, moved the handle slowly as if
she were taking a light cue, then returned it to its
original position. Her introduction to theater,
back when she'd been a freshman, had been at this
board, when she'd run lights for the dramatic
club's spring one-acters. It had been like playing
music to dim the big Lekos and the smaller
Fresnels down slowly, making the stage gradually
dark, or to bring a single dramatic spotlight up
on an important character.
"Magic time," Jan whispered.
She went over to the sound console and ran her hand over
its controls. She'd have to learn about them if she was
going to stage manage.
Not that there were a lot of sound effects in
Crucible.
was "I cannot think the Devil may own a woman's
soul, Mr. Hale,"" she said softly, quoting
her favorite speech of Elizabeth's,
"'when she keeps an upright way, as I have. I am
a good woman, I know it; and . . ."" Jan's
voice strengthened as she walked onstage,
oblivious to the chorus, who had now begun
vocalizing-""and if you believe I may do only
good work in the world, and yet be secretly bound
to Satan, then I must tell you, sir, I do not
believe it." his
"You wanted Elizabeth," said a voice behind her.
Jan wheeled; it was Kerry.
"I'm so sorry." Kerry's eyes met Jan's
and she reached out sympathetically. "I didn't know,
I . . ."
"It's okay," Jan said thickly, turning away.
"You were good. You deserve it."
"You were good, too," Kerry said to her back. "The
kids say you were in summer stock, that you're almost a
professional. It must be awful,
Jan-Montcrief, isn't it?"
"Right," Jan answered, but she wished Kerry would go
away. It made it worse, knowing that she understood.
"Jan, it's not fair. I just did it for fun. I
bet the only reason I got it, really, is that I
look like Miller's idea of Elizabeth, a little.
Or someone's, Mrs. Nicholson's.
I'm not at all like her inside. I . . ."
Jan faced her now, noticing again Kerry's clear
skin and
her softly shining hair, twisted today into a single
braid that fell over her shoulder. "Don't," she
pleaded. "Please don't. I'll be all right.
There's a saying that there are no small parts, only
small actors. I'm just up here trying to remind
myself of that."
"But you didn't get a part at all!" Kerry
cried indignantly. "That's not fair. You're
better than any of us; you have more experience.
Nanny, that girl who got Rebecca Nurse?
She said everyone was sure you'd get Elizabeth-that
Mrs. Nicholson almost promised you would last
spring. I-I feel awful about it, really, I . .
."
"Don't feel awful. I told you that you were good.
Actually, you were almost perfect."
"It was luck," said Kerry. "I'm terrified of it
now. I even tried to read it again at home and it
sounded terrible. I wish I could give it back
to you." Quickly, Kerry left the stage.
Jan buried her head in the soft velour of a torm.
It's all going away, she thought, falling
apart. First Ted, then Elizabeth. Or maybe the
other way around. I don't know . . .
Mrs. Dunson played a loud chord on the
auditorium piano. The chorus, released from their
exercises, burst lustily into song.
After school the next afternoon, Jan watched Mrs.
Nicholson let herself heavily down into the chair at
her desk in the English and Speech office. Her
hands, as they sorted through a pile of scripts,
seemed thinner than Jan remembered them; they shook
slightly, making her rings slip. The words
"villain, villain, smiling, damned villain" from
Hamlet
popped into Jan's head, but she suppressed them
quickly, determined not to show disappointment or anger.
"Do you know how to make a prompt book out of these

silly acting editions?" Mrs. Nicholson
asked, handing Jan two scripts.
"Yes."
"Good. I want you to be a real stage manager, not
just a high-school prompter, you know. That means hard
workwriting down blocking and all tech cues and scene
changes; it means cueing the crew during performances
and being in charge backstage, et cetera, et
cetera, et cetera. I'm sure you know." She
handed Jan a ring binder and a stack of three-hole
paper sheets on which to paste the acting-edition
pages. "You'll be my brain, in other words,"
Mrs. Nicholson said, looking through the window at the
thin rain that was now falling outside. "You'll know
everything I do about the show, technical and otherwise.
You'll keep track of how each character develops so
you can take over for me if I miss a rehearsal.
Any time an actor's absent, you'll read that
part."
Not Elizabeth, Jan thought. Please not
Elizabeth.
Mrs. Nicholson turned away from the rain.
"It'll be so good to have a proper stage manager.
You're the first student I've dared trust with the job in
all my years of teaching. I know, Janna," she
said. "I know you're disappointed, and maybe very, very
angry. I probably shouldn't have let you read, but
until I saw and heard Kerry, I didn't know
this-erarrangement-would be possible." Her eyes were
unnaturally bright, as if with unshed tears. "If I
told you this will strengthen you, you would tell me, rightly,
that you'll have plenty of time to be strengthened when you're
pounding pavement in New York looking for
jobs that don't come. But, Janna, this is a
school with others in it besides you, and there are still
dramatic club's one-act plays in the spring."
"They're not
Crucible,"
Jan said bitterly before she could
stop herself. "They're not even a major production.
They're not Elizabeth. And last year you almost said
. . ."
"I know. But that new girl is the image of
Elizabeth. And she's goad."
"Better than I am."
Mrs. Nicholson studied Jan closely.
"Don't ever doubt your talent," she said. "You have
the makings of a fine actress. I'm going to tell you
something you won't believe, but that I want you
to remember. Someday you won't be satisfied with just
acting. You'll want something more, something more creative.
This will help you prepare for that."
"Stage managing!" Jan exclaimed. "That's not
creative, that's . . ."
"It's one step removed from directing, Janna.
And . . ." Mrs. Nicholson fingered her
pendant, a heavy green stone set in gold. "I
need you to help me on this show. Also, just
to make for good cast-crew morale, I think I should
tell you that Kerry Ann Socrides came to me this
morning and asked me to give you Elizabeth, and that
I refused."
Jan stared at her. "But why?" she managed to ask
finally. "Why did she do that?"
"Oh, my dear, I don't know her reasons! But
I refused because I gave her the part, not you, and because
I made you stage manager, not her. It sounds
stubborn, I know, butyou'll understand someday, perhaps.
And now," she said, pushing her chair back heavily
and reaching into a drawer, "I have to work out a rehearsal
schedule. Even though the play's not till nearly
Christmas, it's a difficult one and we're going
to need all the time we can wangle. I anticipate
more than the usual number of arguments with academic
teachers about homework, and-Janna, dear, trust me.
Please."
Jan didn't-couldn't-react. She didn't want
to argue with
Mrs. Nicholson; she knew she'd either lose or
say something she'd be sorry about later. But she
didn't want to pretend to agree with her when she
didn't. "May I go now?" she asked thickly.
"Yes, of course," said Mrs.
Nicholson, and Jan left.
And, unknown to Jan, when the door was tightly
closed again, Mrs. Nicholson put her head down
on her desk and wept silently for a minute before she
returned to her scripts and her schedules.
rOUT-N
MONDAY WAS WET AND
windy, fitting Jan's mood. She overslept,
forgetting that she couldn't count on Ted anymore
to drive her to school; at least she assumed she
couldn't. She'd arranged to borrow her mother's car
several times a week and to take the bus the rest of the
time. Because she overslept, she left without
breakfast. Then she realized she'd forgotten a
book, and when she went back for it, she tramped
mud all over a rug her mother had just vacuumed-which
reminded her that her father was coming home from his long
business trip that night and that her sister and
brother-in-law were coming for dinner. An evening with
Anita, Hal, and Dad was the last thing Jan
wanted to come home to after an afternoon of seeing someone
else play her part.
But it's not your part, she scolded herself all morning,
trying to concentrate on her classes; it's not your
part. She thought it again as Kerry walked
cheerfully by, carrying her new script on top of
her books.
Not my part,
she thought, too, when Kent waved laconically to her
at lunch-waved but didn't go over to her and say he
was sorry or even congratulate her for being stage
manager.
"Hi, green eyes," Ted said when she went into the
auditorium for rehearsal that afternoon.
Jan, recognizing his reference to "jealousy . .
. the greeney'd monster" from
Othello,
bit her lip to keep from saying something cutting to him,
and walked two rows past him to sit down. Another
time she might have asked, "Does it show?" and he'd
probably have said, "No, just to me. It must be awful
for you." Another time-but now she couldn't be sure what
he meant anymore, or how he felt.
Kerry came in with Kent and W; Kent, with
unusual animation, seemed to be pointing something out in
the script. Jan pretended to hunt for a pencil,
then went to the back row to ask Brenda if she could
borrow one.
"You poor thing!" Brenda gushed as she held one
out. "What's a stage manager do,
anyway?" But Jan sensed that she didn't really
want an answer. Brenda's eyes were on Kent,
devouring him.
"Helps the director during rehearsals," Jan
said, trying to make light of it. "And runs things
backstage during performances. It'll be kind of
neat, actually. I've never done it."
"We'd both better keep an eye on that
Kerry:" Brenda gestured toward where Kerry and
Kent were still deep in conversation. "I don't know about
you, but I have no intention of letting her get her
mitts on Kent the way she did on your part.
Look at the way she's watching him!"
Jan looked, but it seemed more to her that Kent was
trying to impress Kerry and Kerry wasn't buying
it. Then Kent focused on the back of the
auditorium, and Jan knew Mrs. Nicholson
was about to make one of her famous firstrehearsal
entrances. She sat down quickly next to Brenda,
determined to enjoy that, at least.
"Good afternoon," boomed Mrs. Nicholson from the
auditorium door. Then, with a swirl of long red
plaid skirt, she
swept down the center aisle, again carrying
scripts, papers, pencils, and
clipboard, talking as she came, welcoming them to the
first rehearsal, saying the usual things about working hard
and being on time and letting her know if they were going to be
absent and telling them there might be a couple of
extra rehearsals after Thanksgiving. Then, reaching
the stage, she sailed onto it via a step unit that
had been set up on the auditorium floor, put
her books and papers down on the table that was waiting
for her center stage, and with another swirl of her
skirt pivoted around to face them.
  The effect was electric; no one in the
auditorium moved.
  "This," intoned Mrs. Nicholson
dramatically, holding up a script, "is a great
play." She paused long enough to lock eyes quickly but
piercingly with each of them in turn. "We have never
done a great play in this school. It is a play
about misguided power and the cruelty of falsehood,
and about the sin of blindly following the common herd. I
trust we will all be equal to the task before us."
  She looked piercingly at them again, giving Jan
goosebumps, and then stepped back with one foot,
turning her body slightly upstage and making her
full skirt swing sharply around her legs in a
flash of red. Gesturing at the double circle
of chairs behind her, she said, "On stage, please.
Cast in the inner circle, crew in the outer.
Janna, you sit in the inner circle next to me."
  The first reading began.
  And when they got to the end, where Elizabeth
watches John's unjustified execution through a
window and cries out, "He have his goodness now. God
forbid I take it from him!" Jan felt limp with the
play's power. Mrs. Nicholson's right, she
thought, about its being a great play. Everyone was
silent; even Kent seemed moved, the thin line of his
mouth unusually taut. Jan glanced out of habit
at Ted and saw he was
  looking at her. "Hi," he mouthed, so she went
to him as soon as Mrs. Nicholson said quietly,
"Let's all take ten minutes."
  "Truce?" said Jan, following him to the fire
exit.
  "Always," he answered, gazing out at the rain.
"You know that. For what it's worth, it was dumb of me
to say "green eyes." I'm sorry. It's just that
I don't know quite how to react to you now. And I
guess I have to convince myself I don't care. But
I know saying crummy things isn't the way.
Okay?"
  "Okay."
  He faced her then. "I've always kind of liked
Nanny Davis anyway. And since she's in
Crucible,
too, I ought to be able to get to know her. Think
she'll go out with me?"
  "She's not going with anyone else, I'm pretty
sure," Jan said. And Nanny, she realized, would
be perfect for Ted. Her gentleness hid a quiet
strength, Jan was sure; she had a sense of
humor-yes, Nanny was a fine choice. She was
well cast, too, as Rebecca Nurse.
  "I'm glad you're playing Giles Corey,
Ted," Jan said. "It's a good part."
  Ted laughed. "Well, since I'll be hidden
behind a ton of makeup and have lines drawn all over
my face and white glop in my hair, it shouldn't
matter too much. No one'll know who I am
anyway:"
  Jan laughed, too. "There's always the
program," she said.
  "Yeah, but there's always pseudonyms. I'm
thinking of calling myself Reginald Spotswoodie.
Like it?"
  Jan pretended to consider it. "Not quite
right," she said. "Spotswood, I think. The
ie
part seems too frivolous for Giles. After all,
he may be a grouchy old man, but he ends up a
hero of sorts."
  "Oh, right! Pressed to death offstage, with a ton
of rocks on his chest. Ugh!" He shivered.
  "Be glad it's offstage. Come on, Teddy,
it's a great part."
"It's a great play." Ted leaned against the fire
door. "As Mrs. Nicholson said. I just hope
she can do it. She seems kind of tired or something.
Old, maybe. Older, anyway."
  Jan turned, studying Mrs. Nicholson as she
spoke earnestly with Nanny and Ms. Grillo, the
art teacher, who would be supervising the work on the set
and costumes. Now that Mrs. Nicholson wasn't
actually directing them, Jan had to admit that she
did seem older, and she remembered her face had
looked strained and pale at tryouts. But except
for maybe being a little thinner, and for her hands shaking
once or twice, she'd seemed fine since then, and
fine when she'd been talking about the play or taking
notes while they read.
  "So what?" Jan said stubbornly. "I
bet none of us will be as lively as she is when
we're her age."
  "She's only fifty."
  "So what?" Jan repeated. "How do you know how
old she is, anyway?"
  "Kent looked her up in an old Who's Who
or something, and told me. But fifty's not old. I
bet your own mother's close to fifty."
  Jan studied Mrs. Nicholson again. Anita
was twenty-two and her mother had had her when she'd been
twenty-three, which made Mom forty-five, not
fifty-but that wasn't the point. She knew
perfectly well that fifty wasn't old enough to look
old, and again she wondered about Mrs. Nicholson's
summer: had something bad happened?
  "Jan," said Ted as Mrs. Nicholson slowly
stood and called them back to the stage, this time
to discuss their characters. "Jan, I'm not going to give
up, you know. If it takes me all year, I'm not
going to give up on you and me, Nanny notwithstanding.
Nanny's just for fun."
  He walked away before she'd had time to absorb
what he'd

said, and by the time she did absorb it, it was
too late to call off the truce.
  Her father's craggy face beamed at Jan from the
door, and he hugged her, dripping slicker and all.
  "Sorry I'm late," she muttered against his
chest.
  "I can't even be mad," he answered, pushing her
gently back by the shoulders, the deep vertical
wrinkles in his cheeks crinkling deeper with his
smile. "How are you? Here comlet's get rid of that
sodden garment." He helped her out of her slicker,
flung it carelessly on the hall chair, where it would
be sure to drip on the floor, and reached down-he was
over six feet tall-to put his arm around her.
Apparently not remembering he'd just asked her how
she was, he asked her again as he led her into the
living room, where her sister Anita, a flowered
maternity smock billowing over her swollen
belly, sat on the sofa across from her husband,
Hal.
  "Look what I found out in the rain," Dad said,
still beaming. "The family actress, fresh from her
latest triumph!"
  Does he know, Jan wondered as she bent
to kiss Anita and Hal, that I didn't get
Elizabeth? Does he even know what
play we're doing?
  "Look how big I am, Jan," Anita said
proudly, patting her belly. "Remember you said
last June you didn't believe I was three
months pregnant? Believe me now?"
  "I sure do." Jan grinned; she was fond of
Anita, even though there were too many years between them for
them to have been really close.
  "Sit next to me, Jan." Anita made a
little-girl pout with her palely lipsticked lips.
"I'm sick of talking to these boring men. Let me
tell you the latest names for your new niece or
nephew."
"Not," said Hal, "before she fills us in on her
summer, eh, Jan? People have babies all the time,
honey, but they dolt go to summer stock. Right,
Jan?"
"Right," Jan answered. Hal was sweet, really,
and he meant well, but sometimes she wished he wouldn't
try quite so hard to be chummy.
"Hey"-Hal leaned forward equals pretty good
crop of boys there in stock, huh? I bet you
gave them quite a time."
"Not really." She couldn't resist adding, "Most of
them were gay."
Hal looked shocked, his conspiratorial wink
stopped halfway.
"Jan," said Anita, "that's not nice. Those people are
to be pitied, not laughed at."
"Who's laughing?" Jan said, now annoyed. She
thought of how ludicrous it would be to pity Raphael,
and, her bad mood deepening, she added, "Some of my
best friends are homosexuals. I think I'll go
see if Mom needs any help. Excuse me.
Jan had two cups of strong coffee at dinner, and
they kept her awake till after two. Toward
morning, she had her summer-stock dream again,
except that the characters in it changed from Raphael and
Corrin to Ted and Kerry and back again.
It must have been the coffee, she thought, waking in the
familiar miserable sweat.

I tilde I1f Ir
"nl.t,
RIGHT, KENT;
good. Hold it there." Mrs. Nicholson leaned
against the stage-right side of the proscenium, shifting
her script from one hand to the other. It was the next
week, and they were blocking out the movements in
Elizabeth's first scene. Jan had
expected to have trouble watching Kerry, but she found that
she was so busy she felt only an occasional pang
at being out front instead of onstage. Mrs.
Nicholson had already let her go over some
complicated first-act blocking with the cast. And she'd
been pleased when Jan had made a suggestion that
cleared up an awkward move, so Jan was paying
careful attention now, trying to be alert to potential
problems.
"Kerry," Mrs. Nicholson was saying, "turn
away left on your line-no, no, not yet, on the
line, as you say it, on . . ." The script
fluttered to the floor and Mrs. Nicholson bent,
oddly graceless, to pick it up. "Damnit," she
said through clenched teeth, though Jan had rarely heard
her swear. "I've lost the place."
was "Good, then, let you think on it,"" Jan
prompted quickly, giving both Mrs. Nicholson and
Kerry the line.
Jan saw Kerry nod and then rub her shoulders after
she'd made a mark in her script. No wonder,
she thought; her shoulders must be stiff, the way she's
been hunching them. It was becoming more and more clear to her
that although Kerry's voice and line readings suggested
Elizabeth perfectly, her body did not.
was "Good, then, let you think on it,"" said
Kerry, forgetting to move till after she'd said it.
Then she made a tense, awkward turn, in the
wrong direction and not like Elizabeth at all.
Kent shot his arm out in obvious exasperation.
"Left,"
he snapped, spinning Kerry around roughly.
"Left,
for Pete's sake."
"I'm sorry," Kerry gasped. "I get mixed
up between left and right anyway, and stage left and right
mix me up even more. I'm sorry."
Jan was suddenly angry; Kent could be such a jerk
sometimes. It was one thing for someone who was professional
enough and confident enough to give it right back to him, but...
Mrs. Nicholson had sat down and still seemed to be
hunting for her place in the script, so Jan
vaulted up onto the stage. "Kerry," she said,
glaring at Kent, "stage left and right are from your
point of view, as you face the audience. And" comshe
searched Kerry's hands for a ring or some other thing that
would help her tell the difference at least till she
learned the move-"and your left wrist's the one with the
watch. Elizabeth turns this way," she said,
demonstrating. "Toward your watch.
Okay?"
"Very clever," Kent said dryly.
Kerry smiled gratefully as Jan jumped down
off the stage, ignoring Kent. "Okay," Kerry
said. "Thank you."

"Take it again," said Mrs. Nicholson as Jan
returned to her seat in the first row. "A few lines
back. Jan?"
"How about from Proctor's line "I'll think on
it"?"
"Good," said Mrs. Nicholson, and Kent shouted,
was "I'll think on it!"" before Kerry was in
position.
was "Good, then, let you think on it,"" said
Kerry, jumping two lines and turning first the wrong
way, then the right one.
Kent rolled his eyes and strode dramatically
downstage. "Shall I skip to where she skipped to,
or go back, or what?" he asked Mrs.
Nicholson with a long-suffering grimace. "Seems
to me we
both
ought to get this scene right."
"Seems to me," muttered Jan under her
breath, "that you could be more patient."
"I agree," Mrs. Nicholson muttered back.
"We'll break here," she announced, "for a few
minutes. Ted, Will, the rest of you, we'll go right
on with the remainder of Act Two when we finish this
scene, so don't go away. Kerry and Kent, come
over here, please." Then, turning to Jan, she said
in an undertone, "Do you think you could calm Kerry
down a bit while I tell our male prima
donna he's not quite Kevin Costner yet?"
"Sure," said Jan.
"If you could find some time to coach her on how
to move," said Mrs. Nicholson, "it might
help. All her stage presence is in her voice,
heaven help us. I should have realized that," she added
apologetically to Jan. "If I had, then maybe
. . ."
"She's nervous," Jan said quickly; she didn't
want to think about that now. "She'll probably be
okay once she gets used to what she's doing."
"I hope so." Mrs. Nicholson got up as
Kent and Kerry approached, and, taking Kent's
arm, she led him to the back of the auditorium.
Kerry sat down despondently beside Jan. "As
an actress," she said, "I make a
pretty good biologist."
  "Is that what you want to be?" Jan asked,
realizing that Mrs. Nicholson was leaving it up to her
to broach the subject of coaching Kerry. She
wondered how she could do that tactfully.
  "No," Kerry answered. "I just said it because I
couldn't think of anything else. I like biology, but
not that much. About Elizabeth-tell me what to do."
  "Just try to relax, first of all. It's only a
rehearsal. No one expects you to be perfect."
  "Kent does."
  "Kent's a bag of wind sometimes."
  "Yeah."
  "And try to loosen those shoulders a bit." She
touched Kerry's left shoulder lightly and then drew
her hand away, surprised to find even more tension there
than she'd expected. "Waggle your arms around before
you go on, or bend down and swing them, anything to get
the kinks out. And look, here's an easy trick.
Never move when you're not talking, unless the
director tells you to, or unless you feel it's
really right. In other words, as a general rule,
move only while you're actually saying a line, not
before or after. Okay?"
  Kerry sighed. "Okay. I feel like such
an oaf up there."
  "You shouldn't," said Jan, liking her. "You're not
clumsy offstage."
  "No, but when I get up there I Feel like the
whole world's staring at me. Dumb, I know, but there
you are."
  "Would it help," asked Jan in as offhand a way
as she could, "if we-you and me, I mean-went over
your scenes sometime, maybe ran through your blocking?
It might make you feel more comfortable about it."

"Sure! That'd be great! I was hoping you'd want
to do that, but I didn't dare ask. I know I'm
playing what you wanted to
  "Maybe that's what's hanging you up, Kerry.
Look, I don't care that much anymore. I like
doing this, stage managing and stuff. It's fun."
  "You're sure?"
  Jan realized then that the last of her resentment had
vanished. She'd always wish she could have played
Elizabeth, she knew, but it didn't hurt
anymore. "Yes," she told Kerry. "I'm
sure."
  "Okay."
  "You're so good at reading lines. It's just
a question of the rest of you catching up."
  "Okay," Kerry said again. "When can we start?"
  "Tomorrow after school? Mrs. Nicholson has a
doctor's appointment, so there's no rehearsal."
  "Sure."
  It was odd knowing she was going to be working with just one
person instead ofwitha group as she'd done during the
first-act blocking rehearsals, and it would be
especially odd working without Mrs. Nicholson there.
Jan couldn't figure out, as she went into the
auditorium and switched on the houselights, whether
the boiling in her stomach meant she was excited or
nervous.
  After a few minutes of waiting for Kerry, she
got up from her usual front-row seat and climbed
onto the stage. She stood for a moment down center,
head bowed, then snapped her head up and, lifting her
arms high, felt the tragic strength of Medea, one
of the great classical parts she'd been told by the
acting teacher at stock that she was too short to play.
Her clear voice filled the auditorium:
I will look at the light of the sun, this last time. I
wish from that blue sky the white wolf of lightning
Would leap, and burst my skull and my brain, and like
a burning babe cling to these breasts . . .
Someone is here? I did not know I had visitors
. . . Women of Corinth:
If anything has been spoken too loudly here,
consider
That I believed I was alone; and I have some
provocation. You've come-let me suppose
With love and sympathy-to peer at my sorrow. I
understand well enough
That nothing is ever private in a Greek city;
whoever withholds anything
Is thought sullen or proud . . . undemocratic
I think you call it. This is not always just, but we know
that justice, at least on earth,
Is a name, not a fact; and as for me, I wish
to avoid any appearance
Of being . . . proud. Of what? Of affliction? I
will show you my naked heart . . .
Then she switched to Medea's nurse, a part she'd
played in scene class in stock, and liked almost as
well:
I wish the long ship Argo had never passed that
perilous channel between the Symplegades,
I wish the pines that made her mast and her oars still
waved in the wind on Mount Pelion, and the gray
fishhawk
Still nested in them, the great adventurers had never
voyaged
Into the Asian sunrise to the shores of morning for the
Golden Fleece.
For then my mistress Medea
Would never have seen Jason nor loved and saved him,
nor cut herself off from home to come with him
Into this country of the smiling chattering Greeks and the
roofs of Corinth: over which I see evil
Hang like a cloud. For she is not meek but fierce,
and the daughter of a king.
A muffled thump in the auditorium broke her
concentration and made her angry at herself because nothing
should ever be able to do that. Then she noticed Kerry standing
halfway down the center aisle, her long braid
over one shoulder and her eyes riveted on Jan.
"Go on," she said quietly. "That was beautiful.
I dropped a book," she added apologetically.
"But please go on."
Jan crouched, her hand on the stage floor, and
jumped tightly down. "Nopeeation she said. "I was
just killing time."
"You-you're so good."
"But so are you!" Jan exclaimed, meaning it.
"Look, I'm not the most graceful person
who ever walked across a stage either. I sure
wasn't at first; I was just as awkward as you. It
takes practice and confidence, that's all."
"I hope so," said Kerry. "I do want to be
good, Jan. It's more than just fun now; I want you
to know that. I want to be good partly to justify getting
the part in the first place, and partly because-well, I
guess I just want to be good for my own sake."
"That's a fine start," Jan said briskly.
"Okay. Let's walk through your blocking. Come
on." She jumped back onto the
stage and held her hand out to Kerry, pulling her up.
"I'll read John:"
  They worked for more than an hour and by the end of that time
Kerry was moving as if she'd begun to feel she had
a right to be on a stage.
  Playing opposite her, Jan realized after a
while, was as satisfying as playing opposite
Kent-maybe even more, as Kerry's
self-consciousness diminished and her confidence grew.
Kerry, unlike most inexperienced actors,
seemed instinctively to know how to listen and react.
  At around five-thirty they stopped, and suddenly
Jan was the one who felt awkward, as if there were
nothing to say.
  Kerry sat on the apron, dangling her feet
over the edge of the stage. "It's like sitting on a
giant curbstone," she said. "We're three inches
high. Look, there goes a car!" She followed a
gigantic imaginary car with her eyes. "Oh," she
squealed. "It splashed me! Help, I'm
drowning!"
  Jan, mentally shrinking herself to three inches high,
too, grabbed Kerry's hands and pulled her to center
stage; Kerry gurgled dramatically and lay still.
Jan rolled her back and
  forth, as if to get the water out. "Careful," she
said, as Kerry came to dizzily, "you'll bump
into that twig. Wait-there's a daisy over here.
Better lean against it for a minute."
  Kerry pretended to lean against the daisy. She
seemed perfectly relaxed now, as much at ease as
she'd been that first day in the cafeteria when Ted had
pointed her out.
  "Here's a petal," said Jan, watching her
closely. "Fan yourself with that."
  Kerry took the imaginary petal carefully by one
end and waved it back and forth at just about the right distance
from her face.
  "You know," Jan told her, surprised
and pleased, "you're doing fine now. Perfect
control. No awkwardness."

"You almost made me drop the petal," Kerry said,
still fanning.
  "Here." Jan held out her hand. "I'm giving you
an acorn."
  But Kerry refused it. "You grew," she said
reproachfully. "Get small again."
  "You're right." Jan adjusted in size, holding
the "acorn" in both hands now, as if it were heavy.
"Here you are. I bet if we could get it open we
could eat some of the inside. I'm hungry."
  This time Kerry took the acorn, and they continued the
improvisation, developing it into a story with a
squirrel for a villain, until the custodian
switched off the houselights from backstage and they
both shouted in indignation. "Hey," Jan yelled,
"don't lock us in!"
  "Sorry, miss," came an elderly voice from
somewhere behind the stage-right torms. "Didn't know you were
there. Turn the lights off when you leave, would you?"
  A few minutes later, outside, Jan walked
Kerry in silence to the rack where Kerry had left
her bike. The leaves were crunchy underfoot,
the darkening sky just slightly pink.
  "Today seems important." Kerry leaned
pensively against the rack. "I don't know why. It
just seems important."
  Jan nodded; she felt it, too. "There's only
one other person outside of theater I've ever been
able to do improvs like that with," she said, thinking of Ted.
"And he's not as quick as you. Are you sure you never
wanted to act?"
  "I want to do everything," Kerry said, "not one
thing. I want to feel everything, be everything. Like
Faust. Did you ever read Faust?"
  "No," said Jan, deciding that she would.
  "He's the main character in this long German play,
by Goethe. He wants to experience everything there is
to
experience-good, evil, everything. I'm like that, I
guess." Kerry looked quizzically at Jan.
"What are you like?"
  This is weird, Jan thought; people don't talk like
this. I don't talk like this to people I don't know-to
Raphael, maybe; once to Ted-but somehow this is
different . . .
  Still, she found herself answering with complete honesty.
"I want to act, to be in theater. Theater
is-it's all I am. I'm nothing without it."
  Kerry touched Jan's arm, then moved away.
"That's why," she said.
  "Why what?"
  "Why today is special. Important. Because
we're both strange. Strange in different ways,
but strange. Not like the others:" Kerry put her hands
behind her on the bike rack and jumped up, sitting
on it. "Everyone in my family
does
something. My mother used to be a microbiologist and
now she's just graduated from divinity school. She and
my father are in Europe, traveling around
to celebrate. My father's head of a plastics
company. 'Fantasies in Plastics," they say
in their ads. He's always inventing new novelties.
I've got an uncle who's mayor of a town in the
Midwest, and his wife's a big-deal lawyer. My
other aunt-she's who I'm staying with till my
folks come back in January and we go back
to Boston, where we live-my aunt's kind of
silly and eccentric, but she runs a gift shop.
Do, do, do-no one is, everyone just does. You're
another doer. But," she added, "you're not like them. You
seem to care more about what you do-to love it.
I don't think any of them really cares, not
deeply. With themmaybe not my aunt so much-it's the
doing itself that seems important, not what they're
doing."
  "I care, all right," Jan said emphatically.
  "Too much?"
  Jan shrugged. She was still thinking how strange the
con-

versation was. But she was drawn to it nonetheless,
to Kerry's intensity, and to Kerry herself. And she
didn't want them to stop talking, so when Kerry
fell silent and jumped down to strap her books
onto her bike carrier, Jan said, "Did you
really mean that, about experiencing everything? I mean,
how about things like murder and war and insanity-rape-things
like that?"
  "Maybe I draw the line at rape and
murder," Kerry said after a minute in which Jan
realized she was actually considering them. "But yes,
I think I do. At least enough to become a person.
  "If I did any of those things," Jan told
her, "it would be for a part or to become a better
actress."
  "Quite a pair," said Kerry, "aren't we?
Can we work together again, on Elizabeth?"
  "Yes, I'd like to." Jan realized she was
already looking forward to seeing more of Kerry. "You
don't need much more work, though. But I could cue you,
help you learn your lines."
  "Sure." Kerry straddled her bike seat, then
threw her head back, tossing her long braid
loosely behind her. "Look." She pointed to the now
dark sky. "The moon's rising. We met by the
rising of the moon."
  "Dreamer!" But Jan felt herself smiling. "We
met in Room 206, at tryouts. I first saw you
in the cafeteria the first day of school."
  "Pedant!" Kerry cried. "Hopeless, hopeless
pedant! For an actress, you have no sense of
poetry-poesy, whatever." She threw her head
back again, shoulders, too, this time. Jan found herself
noticing the curve of Kerry's throat, and she
turned away, her face suddenly hot in the cool
air.
  "I love fall," Kerry said. "Don't you?
Well, do you?" she asked. "It's important."
  "Why?" Jan laughed self-consciously.
"Sure, I love fall. Re-
ally," she insisted, when Kerry seemed
skeptical. "Honest." "Good." Kerry pointed
to the sky again. "Then it's a good moon rising." She
touched Jan's arm lightly again and said, "I have to go.
Work with me again tomorrow? At lunchtime? I don't think
Mrs. Nicholson's doing any of my scenes, but
I'll probably go to rehearsal anyway. The more
I know about the play, the better:"
  "Sure." Jan felt like shouting,
running-dancing, even. "Tomorrow, at lunch."

SIX
AS THE FALL PROGRESSED,
Jan saw more of Kerry and less of Ted, even
during rehearsals. By mid-October she found herself
thinking of Kerry at odd moments during the day,
writing notes to her, storing up things to tell her,
jokes and anecdotes to laugh about with her. They
began reading plays aloud together, and Kerry read
Jan some of
Faust
late one night over the phone, then lent her the
book. "Only one good woman's part," Jan
joked when she returned it.
  "If Sarah Bernhardt played Hamlet," said
Kerry, "surely you or I could play
Faust. Especially you."
  So they took turns reading from
Faust,
after rehearsals on the darkened stage, using
  a background.
  Toward the end of the month, when the ground was covered
with red and gold leaves and pumpkins began appearing
on porches, posters went up around school
announcing what was billed as a "Junior-Senior
Get-Acquainted Dance" in November. "It should
be called a Veterans" Day dance," Ted
explained, "since that's when it is.
"Get-Acquainted Dance'
  the slowly growing
Crucible
set as
was someone's idea of a joke. You know, since the
freshmen and sophomores have one in September."
  "Blagh," said Jan.
  But the day after that, Ted sauntered over to Kerry and
Jan in the cafeteria. "Hi," he said, sliding a
chair between them. "The show looks pretty good now,
don't you think?"
  Kerry, forced to move her chair to make room for
his, murmured noncommittally.
  "Yeah, not bad," said Jan. "You're doing great
as Giles, by the way."
  Ted bowed in his chair. "Why, thank you, madame
stage manager-assistant director. Which
doesn't really bring me to my next point, but
hey, why not?" He turned to Kerry. "Kerry, would
you excuse us for a sec? I'd like to talk to Jan, and
I never get a chance at rehearsals anymore.
And last night when I tried to call the phone was
busy. I tried eight times."
  "Talk," said Jan, annoyed; she'd been on
the phone with Kerry, but that wasn't any business of
Ted's. Besides, he could have asked to sit down instead
of just barging in between them.
  "It's kind of private."
  "I don't have any secrets from Kerry," said
Jan.
  Kerry raised her eyebrows at Jan; Jan
winked.
  Ted's eyes went from one of them to the other.
"What's going on?" he asked. "You two got some
kind of secret society going or something?"
  "Sure," Kerry said lightly. "It's called
the SSS-SECRET Society Society."
  Ted was the only one who didn't laugh.
  "Come on, Teddy," Jan said when they'd
stopped. "Whatever it is, Kerry can hear it,
too."
  "I'm not used to asking girls out with other girls
around," Ted said angrily.
  "Other guys do," Jan said to Kerry, ignoring
the mild feeling of dread that was worming its way
into her stomach. "Don't they?"
  "Sure," Kerry answered promptly. "Why,
just the other day, that big creep on the football
team-what's his name?"
  "Creep Jones-no, Charley Jones," said
Jan.
  "Yeah, that's the one. He came right up to a
whole bunch of junior girls and he said,
"Okay, women'-someone's told him not to say
"girls'-"Okay, women, which one of you is going
to the dance with me?"'"
  "What aplomb," said Jan.
  "Dash and panache." Kerry fluttered her
eyelids and put on a phony voice. "I mean,
like totally awesome."
  "Of course everyone jumped at the chance," Jan
said.
  "Oh, absolutely. Simply leapt.
But our hero lost his nerve, I guess, because he
did a twenty-five-yard dash out the door. Of
course the fact that Katy Jenkins was swinging at him
and the rest of us were laughing hysterically had nothing to do with
it."
  "Nothing," Jan said solemnly.
  Ted pushed his chair away from the table. "Look,"
he said, "send me a fax or something when this meeting
of the SSS breaks up, okay?"
  "Hey!" Jan caught his arm as he stood up.
"Ted, I'm sorry."
  "Yeah," said Kerry. "I am, too, Ted. That
was mean. Jan and I just got carried away."
  "Oh, I don't mind. Much."
  Kerry got up. "Come on, Ted. Sit down.
I give you Jan, okay? At least for now.
I've got a class." She blew an exaggerated
kiss at them both. "Farewell."
  Ted watched her leave. "That is one weird
kid," he said. "You sure pick "em."
  "She's doing okay in the play," Jan said
defensively.
"Yeah, she's doing great. She ought to. She
spends all her time with you, these days. Pretty
weird for a junior."
"You know I'm coaching her," Jan said, angry
again. "And she's our age-but you don't know that. I
didn't either till she told me the other day. She
missed a year because her parents were in this village in
Turkey and the school there wasn't any good."
"Turkey! No wonder she's weird." Ted
made a noise like a turkey.
Jan neither laughed nor made a noise back.
By the time she realized that was what Ted expected, and
knew it was what she'd usually have done, it was too
late. "Her mother was working for some government health
department or other," she told him. "She was a
microbiologist."
"Oh." Ted sounded as if he were trying hard to stay
interested. "She dead or something? You said "was:
Maybe that's why Kerry's weird. Growing girls
need their mothers, I hear."
Ted, Jan thought as she answered him testily,
seems like he's growing down, not up, these days.
"No," she said. "She's not dead. She's just not a
microbiologist anymore."
"Look," said Ted, "I could make this conversation
last all afternoon by asking what a microbiologist,
who I happen to know usually sits in a lab all
day surrounded by Petri dishes and
electron microscopes, was doing in Turkey on
a health project, but I've got a class,
too, and I don't want to be late because I'm
talking about your nutty friend. I want to ask you to the
dance."
Aplomb, thought Jan. Dash and panache. Aloud
she said bluntly, "I'm not going. Why don't you
ask Nanny?"
"Of course you're going. Everyone's going."
"Ted, don't bully me!" Jan said, furious.
Surprised at her own reaction, she got up and
slammed her chair back into the table. "I said I'm
not going, and I'm not."

Leaving an openmouthed Ted staring after her, she ran from
the room, forgetting her books. He was still staring when
she ran back and snatched them up.
"Well," said Kerry after rehearsal that afternoon, when
the others had gone home, "you were pretty rotten
to him, from what you say. Maybe you ought
to apologize, for openers. I'd say that's a note
from a hurt person who's trying not to show it.
Jan, who'd been talking about Ted while Kerry
helped her put away the props the actors had
been using, read the note again over Kerry's
shoulder; she'd found it stuck to her clipboard after a
break in rehearsal, during which Ted had left.
"Madame," it said, "I do not wish to offend, but I
would deem it a matter of infinite joy if you would
honor my humble self with your presence at the dance
we have, I believe, discussed. I miss you sore.
yr ob't etc., Ted."
"He likes you a lot, Jan."
"Yes, but I don't like him a lot. I mean, I
do, but not that way.
Kerry raised her eyebrows. "What way, then?"
"He's a friend, that's all."
"Not to him, apparently." Kerry handed the note
back to Jan. "Oh, heck, Jan, why don't you
put the poor beast out of its misery and go to the silly
dance?"
"You and I are going to the movies that night.
Olivier's
Hamlet,
remember?"
"I sure do."
"Well, I'd rather do that."
"Would you?" Kerry asked.
"Yes," Jan answered defensively. "Is that so
weird?"
"Some people would say so." Kerry faced Jan again.
"Don't you know that?" she asked.
Jan fought not to let the thought through. "What? II .
. ." she sputtered. "I don't know what you're
talking about:"
  Kerry picked a small speck of dust off her
suede jacket. "Are you sure? Don't you think
some people would think it's weird that you'd rather be with me than
with Ted?"
  "No," Jan answered stubbornly. "You're
my-friend. Aren't you?"
  "Yes, of course," said Kerry. "But Ted's a
boy. You're maybe saying you'd rather be with a girl
than with a boy. At least some people would think that's what
you're saying."
  Jan closed her eyes. The thought came through after
all, and her dream-image was suddenly there with it.
"Yeah," she said after a moment. "Yeah, I do
know." The dream-image stayed, and she opened her
eyes again. "I know. Look, I've thought about
it-or, rather, I've not thought about it. I don't want
to think about it, I-oh, I don't know!"
  "It's only fair," said Kerry quietly,
"to tell you I've thought about it, too."
  Her face was open, unsmiling, but her
eyes hid nothing as, her voice very low, she said,
"A good moon rising. I wonder."
COLD NOVEMBER SUN
slanted dimly around the edges of the thick
auditorium drapes. Jan shivered in spite of the
wool blazer she wore on top of her sweater, and
saw that Kerry, who sat hunched in the second row,
had her coat over her shoulders.
"ANYONE KNOW WHY HEAT'S OFF?"
Jan scrawled on her clipboard notepad and
without thinking showed it to Ted, who was sitting two
empty seats away from her. By the time she realized
maybe he'd still be too hurt about the dance to want
to talk to her, he'd answered.
  "Boiler's busted," he whispered. "I heard the
custodian say so when I went past the office on
my way over here. The secretary said there'd be no
school tomorrow if it doesn't get fixed, and if it's
cold enough out. Which it's supposed to be."
  "Terrific," Jan whispered back
sarcastically, glad that he seemed just about normal
again. "With Kent being such a jerk, we need all the
rehearsals we can get. What's with him,
anyway?"
  "Maybe his brain's cold."
  "Something sure is." Jan shifted her attention
to the stage
again as Kent hurled his script to the floor and said
for the third time, "I don't get it. It just
doesn't seem right for Proctor."
  Brenda, who was onstage also, playing
Abigail, glanced imploringly at Jan. She'd
gotten her wish and had been dating Kent for a couple
of weeks, but she seemed even less able to cope with
his increasing temperamental outbursts in rehearsal
than she had been before they'd become a couple. But
Jan ignored her. Sympathize though she did with
her, she was not going to interfere with Mrs.
Nicholson's directing unless Mrs. Nicholson
asked her to help. Besides, she thought Kent
probably understood what Mrs. Nicholson
wanted, even though his brooding eyes seemed to belie
it. She felt sure it was just that he didn't agree
and that he wanted his own way.
  "Transitions, Kent, transitions," said
Mrs. Nicholson tiredly, pushing herself up from her
front-row seat. "Surely you know what a
transition is?"
  "I guess," Kent answered sulkily, shoving
his hands into his pockets. He moved
upstage to the improvised bed where a junior named
Gail Torson, playing little Betty Parris,
who was supposedly bewitched in the beginning of the play,
lay uncomfortably.
  "A change," Gail said helpfully, lifting
her small freckled face; Betty Parris was
only ten years old in the play and Gail was the
smallest girl in the junior class. Jan
didn't know her very well, but she was in a couple of
Kerry's classes; Kerry said she was smart, and
popular with both boys and girls. "You know, Kent,
like in English class:"
  I asked Kent," said Mrs. Nicholson
dryly.
  "Yeah, well, I know." Kent sat on the edge
of the "bed8x was three chairs, seats lined up like a
bench-and dra-
  matically cradled his head in his hands. "Look,"
he said, standing again, "Proctor's no fag. He's
still thinking how much he likes Abigail in this scene.
I don't care what else is on his mind, as
soon as he sees Abigail, he . . ."
  "That's right," interrupted Mrs. Nicholson,
one hand on the step unit's wooden banister, the
other pulling her black wool cardigan
closer around her body and buttoning it. "But only
for the first few lines. You're doing the whole scene as
if you wanted to be in bed with her, and . . ."
  Two or three people in the back of the auditorium
tittered, and Ted muttered to Jan, "Not so far from the
truth. You should have seen him and Brenda at the
movies Saturday night. Kent's no fag either:"
  "Maybe he's trying to prove that," Jan
muttered uneasily, thinking again of the conversation in the
cafeteria and what Kent had said about the gay men
during
Streetcar.
"I thought," said Mrs. Nicholson, turning
to face the auditorium and projecting her voice
clearly out over its empty seats to the small group
from which the titters had come, "that I asked all of you
to be quiet while we worked on this scene. Anyone
who can't be, or who is going to be silly, can
leave. I thought you were all mature enough to do this
play:"
  There was an uncomfortable silence while Mrs.
Nicholson glared out at those who had laughed.
"That's better," she said finally, turning to go up the
steps to the stage.
  And then she fell.
  Fell, and didn't move.
  It was so quick Jan didn't really see it
happen, and it was so quiet afterwards in the hushed
auditorium that there was hardly a sound following the
thud and the rustle of Mrs. Nicholson's long
skirt.
Kerry was the first to react. With a gasp, she shot out
of her seat behind Jan and ran to Mrs. Nicholson.
"Someone call a doctor," she said quietly.
"An ambulance, something. They'll know in the office.
Kent, why don't you do it?"
"I will," said Brenda when Kent remained staring,
statuelike, down at Mrs. Nicholson.
Brenda put her hand briefly on Kent's
shoulder, then ran up the center aisle and out the door
to the lobby. Mrs. Nicholson didn't move; she
barely seemed to breathe.
"Jan, get me some water, would you, in case she
comes to?" asked Kerry, still calmly efficient.
She opened the top buttons of Mrs.
Nicholson's sweater and blouse, loosened her
belt, anxiously scanned her still, white face.
"Someone see if there's a blanket backstage;
I think I saw one the other day. She's breathing but
she's unconscious, I think. Maybe in
shock."
Jan had stood, but was frozen in the aisle with most
of the others; now Kerry's competent voice giving her
a job to do freed her to move and to think more clearly.
As the others in the cast began whispering and moving
forward, Jan ran out into the hall for water, half
her mind thinking, Cup; I
should get a paper cup for the water;
and the other half fervently praying,
Please, oh, Tease, let her be all right!
The strain on Mrs. Nicholson's face at
tryouts came back to her; her shaking hands; her
thin, tired appearance; Ted's ominous concern-but she
pushed those thoughts aside, and found a cup and water.
When Jan got back, there was a tight knot of
peopleationanny, Will, Gail, Kent, most of the
rest of the cast-around Kerry and Mrs. Nicholson.
Jan had to force her way through, holding the cup high
so no one would jostle it. Damn the heat's being off,
she thought, shivering-but then she saw
Ted with a blanket and moved aside after handing the cup
to Kerry.
"Thank you," Kerry said to both of them, putting the
cup down behind her and carefully covering Mrs.
Nicholson with the blanket, tucking it around
her with great politeness.
I lave
you, thought Jan, watching Kerry, barely noticing the
thought at first. Then it came again, and she caught herself
almost wishing that she were Mrs. Nicholson, so Kerry
would be touching her so gently.
Overflowing with guilty confusion, Jan turned
away.
Someone touched her arm-Ted. "It'll be okay," he
was saying kindly. "She'll be all right."
Jan felt herself tense, unable of course to tell
him it was Kerry, not Mrs. Nicholson, who had
suddenly made her unable to face the group near the
stage.
"Look," he was saying soothingly, "it's a tough
play, right? And old elephant-ego Kent's been
giving her a hard time. Even though they like each other
a lot, it must be hard for her to have him defy her the
way he's been doing. We've all noticed that she
came back tired from the summer. So maybe
this'll make her rest a couple of days, and then
she'll be herself again. And then .
"Look!" Nanny shouted suddenly.
Jan spun around and saw Mrs. Nicholson
struggling to sit up, half supported,
half held back, by Kerry.
"Well," Jan heard Mrs. Nicholson say
thickly but clearly, "I certainly didn't know
that
was in the cards, too." She sounded surprised.
Ted let go of Jan's arm and they both moved
closer. What does she mean by "in the cards,
too," Jan wondered.
"Mrs. Nicholson," Kerry was saying, "don't
you think you'd better rest some more? Brenda went
to get a doctor and I'm
sure he'll be right here. You had a terrible fall.
How's your ankle?"
"My ankle?"
Mrs. Nicholson looked bewildered, one hand at
her head. "My
ankle?"
"Well," Kerry said uncomfortably, "I think you
must've fallen on it. It was sort of twisted under
you, and . . ."
  Slowly, Mrs. Nicholson struggled to get
up. "Now that you mention it," she said, "yes. It
hurts. But . . ."
  "Please:" Kerry caught her arm. "Please:"
  Jan eased her way past Ted,
Nanny, Will, and one or two others. "Mrs.
Nicholson," she said, kneeling, trying to avoid
Kerry's dark and anxious eyes, "please take it
easy. Would you like me to call Mr. Nicholson?"
  "What?" Mrs. Nicholson's hand went to her
head again; she seemed dazed. "Who-oh, hello,
Janna. No. Robert? No. He'll-worry.
Just bother. It said. I-fine. Fine:"
  Out of the corner of her eye, Jan saw Ted and
Nanny exchange a look. She's just come out of
shock, Jan told them silently, trying to believe
it. Of course she's not quite herself.
  "Mrs. Nicholson," Kerry said firmly,
"excuse me, but I don't think you are fine. I
don't mean to be rude, but really-please wait for the
doctor."
  "Yeah, you'd better wait:" Ted knelt beside
Kerry. "Hey, look, think of the school, for
Pete's sake, Mrs. Nicholson. Suppose
you fell again, you know, just sort of slipped or
something, and then Mr. Nicholson got mad and sued
the school:" He clapped his hand to his head in
mock horror. "Wow! Suppose he sued us
kids! You know what that'd do to us!"
  The nervous laugh that followed seemed
to cheer Mrs. Nicholson a little. "Perish-the
thought," she said weakly, with a slight smile. Then
her smile faded and she slowly raised her left
arm and scratched her nose. "Where's my John

Proctor?" she asked, her speech clear again.
"If I have to sit here like a lump, waiting, I can
at least finish what I started."
  Kent brushed past Jan and knelt next
to Kerry. "How're you doing?" he asked Mrs.
Nicholson awkwardly. "I'm sorry if
I..."
  "What I meant," said Mrs. Nicholson
quickly, as if she wasn't sure how much time she
had, "was that you're not changing enough in the scene.
Proctor's"-she winced as if something hurt, and
Kerry hovered, ready, Jan could see, to support
her again if she needed it "Proctor's a
chameleon in that scene-doesn't know his own mind.
That's pivotal about him, Kent. Not weak-or-as
you-crudely put itfaggy-ugly word. Most of the
play-once he . . ."
  She's losing the thread again, Jan thought
painfully. What is wrong with her? And where's that
doctor? She saw Kerry move closer
again and put her hand behind Mrs. Nicholson's
shoulder, supporting her once more.
  "Nurse Kerry," Mrs. Nicholson said.
"Thank you, my dear. One minute," she went on,
to Kent again, "Proctor lusts for Abby. Next
minute-feels guilty about it. Thinks of
Elizabeth, and morality. Loves Elizabeth.
Though she's cold sometimes. Understand?"
  "Okay." Kent took her hand; it looked even
thinner in Kent's large one. "You just take it
easy, Mrs. Nicholson. You just take it
easy."
  Mrs. Nicholson leaned against Kerry and closed
her eyes as Brenda and two men-Mr. Taylor,
who was Southview s principal, and a man carrying
a black satchel-burst into the auditorium and
hurried down the aisle.
  "You take over, Jan," said Mrs.
Nicholson. She spoke clearly, but her eyes were
now closed. "You know what I mean about
Proctor?"
"I think so," said Jan. Sure, she thought, lust
and guilt and morality-yeah, I understand! Quickly,
she squelched the thought.
"All right, everyone," boomed Mr.
Taylor; no one had ever heard him speak
quietly. "Step back now." He bent over
Mrs. Nicholson, who opened her eyes and then
closed them again, murmuring, "I'm sorry,
Michael. I didn't think it would be this soon."
"You just rest, Elvira," Mr. Taylor said.
"Take it easy now. The doctor's here." He
squeezed Mrs. Nicholson's hand, then
straightened up and shouldered people out of the way. "Move
along now," he said impatiently.
"Thinks he's a freaking cop," Ted muttered.
"Thank you, Kerry Ann," Mr. Taylor went
on. "We'll take over now." Without really giving
Kerry a chance to curl her feet out from under her, he
pulled her up.
"She's been helping," Jan said angrily. "If
it hadn't been for Kerry..:"
"Good girl." Mrs. Nicholson opened her eyes
again. "Thank you. Good little Elizabeth."
"It'll be okay now, Mrs. Nicholson,"
Kerry said. "The doctor'll fix you up." Jan
saw tears glistening in her eyes, though, and longed
to touch her, but she remained still, rigid, by Kerry's
side.
"I'm sure she twisted her ankle when
she fell," Kerry said to the doctor.
"I'll see to it." He knelt beside Mrs.
Nicholson. "Nice job," he said to Kerry,
nodding at the blanket and the cup of water nearby.
"Looks like you know some first aid."
"Girl Scouts," said Kerry.
"Cookies and all?" Jan whispered, trying to cheer
Kerry up as the doctor bent to examine Mrs.
Nicholson's ankle, asking her questions in a soft
voice.

"Okay, everyone," said Mr. Taylor. "Time
to go. Come on, let's . . ."
"No," Mrs. Nicholson interrupted.
"Rehearsal's still going on-still time. Finish the
scene. Jan, you take over, I said."
"All right," said Mr. Taylor, "later, but for
now in the lobby, all of you. Come on." Briskly,
he herded them out.
"Cookies, badges, the works," Kerry whispered
nervously to Jan when they were waiting by the door for
Mr. Taylor and the doctor to bring Mrs.
Nicholson out. "And I worked in a hospital one
summer. Oh, Jan . . ."
Jan finally let herself touch Kerry's hand.
"You were great," she said.
"I think she's terribly sick. I think she
fainted and then fell, not the other way around."
"No," Jan said. But she knew she was denying it
too quickly.
"Didn't knave that was in the cards, too . . .
didn't think it would be this
soon"-it did sound as if Mrs. Nicholson had
suspected something like this would happen. But aloud Jan
said stubbornly, "She's tired," trying to convince
herself as well as the others. "She's been tired
since school started. She'll be okay. She's
tough. You'll see."
Kerry's sympathetic eyes told Jan she was just
being kind when she said, "Yes, you're probably
right. You know her better than I do."
"What badges?" Jan asked, desperately
changing the subject; why were they taking so long in
there?
"I wanted to get all the outdoor ones, but my mother
made me get the cooking ones and the arts and crafts
ones, stuff like that. She said she couldn't teach me
housewifey things because she's no good at them, but she
thought I ought to know how to do them and this was an easy way
to learn. She said I could go for the badges
I wanted later. But, except for working on the
first-aid badge, I hated the whole thing."
"Then how come . . ."
"My mother, the doer. Look."
The doors opened and the murmur in the lobby stopped as
Mr. Taylor and the doctor, wrists and hands
clasped to make a human chair, came out carrying
Mrs. Nicholson. Her arms were hanging limply
around their necks.
But Mrs. Nicholson gave them a weak salute.
"Carry on," she said almost cheerfully. "The show must
go on, you know. Good luck, dears. I'll be back
soon. Jan knows what I want. She'd better,
anyway."
Smiles, laughs. Then Ted-bless him, Jan
thoughtstepped forward, saying, "Come on, everyone. A
big hand for our director, for good luck."
Obviously relieved to have something to do, they all
clapped.
And Mrs. Nicholson exited on a wave of
applause.

OUT
BUT WHEN THE OUTSIDE
door closed after Mrs. Nicholson, the
applause died away and everyone except Kent
turned expectantly to Jan.
"Well, let's go," she said, shaking off the tears
that threatened and her desire to run after the doctor and
grab him, begging like a small child, "Make her
well, oh, please, make her well!"
"We've got about half an hour left," Jan
told the cast after glancing at the lobby clock, "and
I guess Mrs. Nicholson wanted us to go on
with the same scene." She held the heavy
auditorium door open, then followed the others
back in and down to the stage. "Act One," she said,
picking up her clipboard. "From your entrance,
Kent."
Brenda, Gail, and the others in that scene quietly
went up the steps and got into position, but Kent, who
had been the last to leave the lobby, stayed behind,
glowering moodily at Jan.
"Look," said Jan, trying to avoid his angry
eyes, "I think what Mrs. Nicholson meant was
. . ."
"Stow it," Kent snapped. "Just stow it. You're the
stage manager, not the director. You'll take us
through our lines, nothing more, till she comes back."
It was as if everyone else in the
auditorium had suddenly stopped breathing.
"I love Mrs. Nicholson, too," Jan said
as steadily as she could. "But I think we ought to do
what she asked, which was go on with rehearsal."
"I'll walk through my lines:" Kent's voice was
like stretched steel. "That's all."
"That's not what she meant and you know it," Jan told
him quietly, trying to hold back her anger.
"Come on, Kent. I know how you feel, but she
wanted to get the scene right, and..:"
"Kent," put in Gail from the stage, her freckled
face looking very earnest, "she did say she wanted
Jan to work out the problem with Proctor and everything.
I think we should all..."
"I'm playing this part," Kent shouted, whirling around
to face her. "Not you, not Jan, not anyone. Not even
Mrs. Nicholson. No one's telling me how
to play my last big part in this school, no one.
Maybe my last big part forever," he added
dramatically; Ted snorted.
"Kent, let's go out in the lobby for a minute,"
Jan suggested, feeling that she might be able to reason
with him better without an audience. "Come on." She
started down the aisle, but Kent stayed still.
"Just because of one lousy summer in stock,"
he said nastily to Jan, "you think you're some great
director, Stanislavsky himself or something.
Well, you're not. You're an actress, not a
director. I'm not taking direction from an
actress, and that's that."

"Right," Brenda said under her breath.
Will gave a couple of tentative claps, but no
one else joined in. Still, Jan felt everyone's
eyes on her, especially Kerry's. To gain time,
she kept herself from looking at Kent as she walked
slowly back to her front-row seat. Then she
picked up her prompt book, opened it carefully
to the right page, and said slowly and distinctly,
"Places for Act One, Proctor's entrance.
Abigail, Proctor, Mercy Lewis, Mary
Warren, Betty Parrisright, Gail, on the bed.
Rebecca Nurse, Reverend Parris, Mrs.
Putnam, Giles Corey: ready to enter-a little
closer, Tedgood. Kent, places, please," she
said briskly, directly to him. "Let's really
see it this time, the whole thing; I know you can do it. You
know, the lust for Abby in the first few lines, the
realization that she still wants to sleep with you but that you
can't because of being married to Elizabeth, then
the anger when she keeps at you. Underneath
everything-what was the line from that dumb one-act you and I
did last spring? "The two things war in him until
he knows not who he is'? That's how Mrs.
Nicholson sees Proctor, I think, for the whole
play:"
Jan turned deliberately away from Kent to the
group onstage and then to the rest of the cast, waiting out
front. "Listen, there's something I want you all
to know. I'd rather Mrs. Nicholson were doing this than
me. And all I'm going to tell you to do is what I
think she wants. If you don't agree, tell
me, and if 1 don't agree-if I don't think
Mrs. Nicholson would agree-we'll just have to save
it for when she comes back. But meanwhile we've got
a show to rehearse and that means someone's got to watch
to make sure everything fits together the way the
director wants it to. Okay, everyone,
places."
Kent didn't move.
"Oh, come on, Kent," Gail said, beckoning
to him impatiently. "We all want to do the
scene."
  "Yeah, Kent, let's go," the boy playing
Reverend Parris said from backstage.
"I'd kind of like to get through Act One today."
  Jan felt Kerry, next to her, tense; she
herself stopped breathing.
  Kent swore under his breath at Jan. But he
stomped up the step unit, glared at her, and moved
into position for his entrance.
  "Curtain," said Jan.
  Kent entered, and the scene began.,
  Jan felt herself breathe again.
  "Well done," Kerry whispered. "Well,
well done!"
  For the next couple of rehearsals, Kent was
surly but cooperative and there were no more open
arguments. There was no news of Mrs. Nicholson,
though Jan tried several times to call her husband and
stopped by the school office at least once a day
to see if anyone there had heard anything. Finally,
on Thursday, Mr. Nicholson answered his
phone, and after an awkward moment when Jan had
to explain who she was, he told her brusquely
that Mrs. Nicholson had been in the hospital but
now was home and would be back in school on Monday.
  "What happened?" asked Jan. "I mean, when
she fell and everything?"
  "She sprained her ankle," Mr.
Nicholson said with obvious reluctance, as if he
didn't want to talk to her. "Not badly. She'll
be using a cane for a while, that's all:"
  "No, I meant-why she fell and-well, why she
fell. She's-some of the kids thought she might be
sick. It's just

that we're worried. I don't mean to
pry
or anything like that."
  There was a long silence.
  "Mr. Nicholson greater-than was Jan said
cautiously. "We really are worried. She's my
favorite teacher. Other kids', too."
  "She must have tripped," Mr. Nicholson said
gruffly. "You'll
  have her back on Monday." He sounded bitter,
as if he resented his wife's going back to school.
Jan was sure, as she sent Mrs. Nicholson her
"best wishes" and hung up, that there was something he was
deliberately keeping from her.
  Saturday was the dance, and Kerry and Jan
figured out on their way in Jan's mother's car to see
Olivier's
Hamlet
that everyone involved in
Crucible
except themselves would be there: Ted with Nanny, Kent
with Brenda, almost everyone else with someone from the cast
or crew. "Wow," said Kerry, counting on her
fingers after Jan had found what had to be the last
parking space, way in a back corner of the theater's
small lot, "it'll be just like a rehearsal. Hey,
do you realize there are ten girls and eleven boys in
the cast?" She got out of the car. "But if you count the
crew . . ."
  "Matchmaking?" Jan got out, too.
  "Hope. Just an exercise, I guess. Like if
Team A has seven members and Team B has
eleven members, what's the color of Team C's
uniforms?"
  Jan laughed.
  "It was a dumb exercise anyway, figuring out
how many kids in the cast and crew. It's almost like
I'm nervous or something." She paused for a
second. "Are you nervous or something?"
  "Umm-hmm." Jan realized that she was and that she
was glad Kerry was, too, even if it didn't
make much sense. After all, even though this was the first
time the two of them had
gone anywhere special together, there was nothing inherently
odd about it. So what if most kids were at the dance?
They both really did want to see the movie-Mrs.
Nicholson had even recommended it-and it was only
playing once; it was a very old movie. It's not our
fault, Jan thought, that the artfilm theater scheduled
it for the same night as the dance.
  "Look." Kerry pointed to the sky, and shivered
under her suede jacket. "There's that old moon again,
our good moon."
  Jan looked up at the bright, cold moon,
full now. Then, shivering herself, she pulled Kerry
toward the theater. "Hey, crazy woman," she said,
"come on, I'm freezing. And look. There's a
long line."
  The movie, black and white with frequent mist
swirls and dramatic camera angles setting off
what seemed to both of them to be a near-perfect
performance, made Kerry and Jan huddle very close
together in the dark theater and finally, in an especially
moving scene, reach for each other's hands. After a
few minutes, when Jan's mind strayed from the
screen long enough to be fully conscious of it, she
thought, What if
someone sees?
But Kerry's hand felt good in hers, not awkward like
Ted's-not awkward at all, in fact, but as if it
belonged there. She didn't let go till the film
ended and the houselights went on. Friends touch each
other, she told herself; we're both emotional about the
movie; it doesn't mean anything.
  But in the fresh air of the parking lot, back in the
far corner in the cold car, it was as if they were both
silently embarrassed.
  Or scared.
  "I think I'll wait till the other cars clear
out a bit," Jan said, putting her key in the
ignition without turning it. "I hate traffic,
especially at night." She rubbed her hands together
to

warm them, then turned the key partway, just to start the
heater going.
  Kerry leaned back, gazing outside. "You know the
one thing I'd change," she said as the cars around them
coughed, roared, or purred into motion, and left, "is
that bit at the end when the moon's on Olivier's
face. You know, when he's dead and being carried up
to the top of the castle or wherever."
  Jan agreed. "Melodramatic,
right?"
  "Like Kent."
  "He'd lave it. If he were playing Hamlet,
there'd have to be a spotlight called the Kent
Morris Special, just the right color to bring out his
brooding features . . ."
  "Brooding even in death . . ."
  "Perfectly chiseled . . ."
  "Perfectly accented . . ."
  "With Max Factor Number Something to make his
beautiful cheeks glow palely in the moonlight.
Oh, Kerry, I . . ." Jan stopped herself in
time. "I
like you,"
she said.
  "I-like you, too," Kerry answered slowly, her
voice clear but so quiet Jan had- to strain
to hear. "You're a very special friend. Like Horatio
was to Hamlet. When Hamlet said to Horatio,
"If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart," I
thought of you. Of me. When Horatio called
Hamlet "sweet prince," too."
  "So did L" Jan felt she was being slowly
mesmerized and could no longer hold thoughts in her
head, except she wondered absently why
her heart was pounding so uncomfortably. She wished,
from a great distance, that it wouldn't.
  Neither of them moved and then at the same moment they
both leaned toward each other. Kerry's lips
lightly brushed Jan's cheek, then found her mouth.
It was a quick, soft kiss, over soon, but Jan
felt all her muscles melt and feelings she had
never had before stirred in her. She felt as if she were
waking out of a long sleep into something new and
wonderful-scary, too.
  They were still holding hands, but when Kerry leaned her
head against Jan's shoulder, Jan changed hands
quickly so she could slip her arm around Kerry. She
bent her head and kissed Kerry's hair, then knew
she wanted to touch it, to take it out of its braid,
to bury herself in it . . . could she? The thought intruded
till she felt Kerry turn closer against her,
felt the softness of Kerry's breast against her arm and
then Kerry's arms tightly around her, holding her
closer than she'd ever been held, pulling her
away from the steering wheel. They moved at the same
time to kiss each other again, a little clumsily, but the
clumsiness didn't matter, and Jan felt that her
dizzy heart was going to burst. Her hand went up
to Kerry's face, moved Kerry's head
slowly back so she could see her, and found her own
awe and wonder and fear mirrored in Kerry's
eyes. Kerry's cheek was smooth and warm; Jan's
hand slid down to the curve of her throat, and then
lower, nearly to her breast-and though Kerry seemed
to lean against her hand, Jan pulled it away
suddenly, as if to punish it or herself, and gripped the
steering wheel. It was too much, much too much too
quickly; she was going to explode with it.
  Jan could feel Kerry shaking and realized she was
shaking, too. "I'm sorry," she said. "I
don't know what happened. I got-sort of carried
away."
  "Sorry" Kerry whispered. "Don't be."
She touched Jan's face. "Jan, I liked it.
I didn't want you to stop."
  "I know," said Jan. "But . . :"
  "I know."

They sat in silence at the far edge of the lot until
the lights went off on the theater marquee and they were
left with only moonlight.
  "If we don't leave soon," Kerry said, her
voice unsteady, "I don't know what'll
happen."
  "Oh, Kerry, neither do L" Jan turned the
key the rest of the way in the ignition.
  "A fine pair," said Kerry.
  Jan could tell from her voice that she was smiling;
she, too, felt more in control now that the familiar
sound of the engine had broken their mood.
  "Weird," said Kerry. "Well, we knew that
long ago."
  "Weird," answered Jan. She felt suddenly
elated, strong, powerful, as she backed the car around
in a huge swoop and drove out onto the nearly
deserted road. With Kerry beside her, with Kerry
having touched her, kissed her, with Kerry . . .
  "Jan," Kerry whispered. "Jan-Jan."
  Jan shifted her eyes momentarily away from the
road. Kerry's face was in shadow now that the moon
was behind them. "H'mm?"
  "Just your name. And could you still drive if I moved
over? I want to be close to you. It's lonely
way over here."
  Jan held her arm out till Kerry had snuggled
under it. "Okay?"
  .
  "Okay."
  Jan drove in silence, realizing after a
while that she was gently stroking the sleeve of
Kerry's jacket, as if she wanted to go through the
suede to the skin, and realizing, too, that she was growing
more and more conscious of Kerry's head nestled in the
crook of her neck, of her breathing, of the warmth of
her breath. "Kerry," she said, stopping at a
light,
kissing her quickly on the top of her head, "Kerry,
it's no good. I can't concentrate."
Kerry reached up and kissed Jan's cheek just before the
light changed. "Okay." She moved back. "I
know what you mean. It was nice, though:"
"Maybe with practice."
"Right." Kerry clasped her hands in front of her,
stretching. "Oh, can't we drive all night?
Can't we never go home, or back to school, or
to rehearsal, or anything? Can't we go down to the
river, and . . ." She broke off, fidgeted with a
loose button on her jacket, looked everywhere but
at Jan.
Jan pulled onto a side road and stopped,
turning off the ignition. "It's just hit you like it's just
hit me, right?" she said after a second or two of
silence. "Right? When you said that about the river? Because
that's where everyone goes to make out? It's just
hit you that that's what we're doing."
Kerry nodded.
"So I guess it's true," said Jan, avoiding
Kerry's eyes. "What we talked about after Ted
asked me to the dance. You know, when you said about me
wanting to be with a girl instead of a boy. Kerry?"
"I-I'd rather not think about it like that."
"I know. Neither would I. It's sort of like giving it
a label. But maybe we ought to talk about it."
"I just want to feel," said Kerry. "I just want
to feel."
The memory of the evening by the bike rack came
vividly back to Jan and it was as if it twisted
inside her. "Just want to
experience
it?" she asked harshly. "Like Faust? Is that it?"
"Oh, no!" Kerry gripped Jan's arm. "No,
no, it's not like
that. It's only, only . . ."
"Only what?" But Jan found herself reaching for the
key, turning the ignition on main anyway.
me? I love you!"
"Only nothing," said Kerry dully. She let go
of Jan's arm and moved farther over on the passenger
side. "I guess we'd
better go home."
"Right." Jan had to swallow hard and blink against
her sudden tears. Why hadn't she remembered
Kerry's Faust thing
earlier, and stopped in time? It fit so well
At Kerry's house, Jan parked and then sat
stiffly in front of the steering wheel. "I'll stay
here till you're inside, just like a good date," she
said sarcastically. "But I guess I'd better not
tilde alk you to the door and kiss you good night."
"You could kiss me here."
But Jan didn't, couldn't, move.
"Jan, don't be like that! Believe me, I-oh .
. ." Kerry threw her arms around Jan and kissed
her hard. "I love you," she whispered. "I'm not
experimenting! I'm not being Faust now. I'm being
Kerry Ann Socrides, and I love
you.
Do you hear
Light shot onto the front path as the house's
heavy front door opened and a plump woman in a
dark red bathrobe and hair rollers emerged,
framed by the porch columns and roof.
"Kerry Ann, is that you?"
diserry moved away from Jan and rolled down
the car window. "Yes, Aunt Elena," she called
breathlessly. "Be rieht
there." She gripped Jan's hand tightly. "Do you
believe me?
Oh, please, please believe me!"
"Is that your girlfriend with you?" Kerry's aunt came
partway down the porch steps. his('an
What's-Her-Name from
11 11
arn, whispered Kerry. "Yes, it's Jan
What's-Her-Name,"
she called to her aunt. "Quick, Jan
What's-Her-name, do you

r
elieve me? she whispered aeain
Jan had to laugh then, and as soon as she did she
began to let herself believe. "I'm sorry," she
said. "I guess I got scared-look out, your
aunt's coming down the path. Yes, I believe you.
And I-I feel the same way about you."
  Kerry dropped Jan's hand as her aunt came
up and peered into the passenger-side window.
  "Da-dum," sang Kerry, switching on the
inside light. "Aunt Elena, this is
Jan Montcrief. Jan, this is my aunt,
Ms. Socrides. Haw's that? Real Amy
Vanderbilt stuff, huh?"
  "How do you do, Ms. Socrides," said Jan
politely, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the
situation and at this redhaired woman with her bird-like
wrinkled face, greeting them in hair rollers and
bathrobe and makeup.
  "Pleased to meet you, dear," chirped Aunt
Elena, thrusting a faintly liver-spotted but
carefully manicured hand toward Jan. "Do call
me Aunt Elena. Ms. sounds awfully
schoolteachery, don't you agree?"
  Jan reached awkwardly across Kerry and took the
woman's hand. It was so limp Jan almost felt she
ought to kiss it, like an old-fashioned European
courtier.
  "Do come in for some cocoa," Aunt Elena said
brightly. "That is, if you gals haven't already
stopped off for a big gooey sundae-which I bet you
did," she said, wagging a knowing finger at them, "because the
movie let out an hour ago. Oh, it's all right.
I always used to do that, too, when I went out with a
girlfriend. I remember. Somehow we never quite felt
we could do that with a boy, have a sundae, I
mean, but we felt we could with another girl; that was
different. But, ladies, it's cold out here! Do come
in, Jan, anyway."
  Jan hesitated. It was late, but she didn't
want to leave Kerry yet, even if she'd have to put
up with Aunt Elena in order to stay with her a while
longer, and to see where she lived.

"Oh, come on." Kerry opened the passenger door.
"It's not that late. You can always call your mother."
  "Well, okay:" Jan climbed out of the car.
"Thank you."
  "I was unpacking a new shipment," said Aunt
Elena cheerfully, leading them up the front path.
Jan remembered Kerry's telling her that her aunt
ran a shop and she noticed the giltlettered
sign-Gi F'rES'-SWINGING outside what she
had at first thought was the garage but which she now saw was a
small single-story building behind and to one side of the
sprawling yellow house.
  "It's such fun and of course it gave me something
to do while you were out, Kerry Ann. I've gotten so
used to Kerry's company," Aunt Elena said
to Jan as she opened the front door, "that I
hardly know what to do with myself when she's not
home. Here." She reached for Jan's jacket.
"Make yourself at home. Kerry Ann, please
hang your guest's jacket up, and I'll put on
some milk."
  Jan saw, now that they were inside, that Ms.
SocridesAunt Elena-was wearing tattered
bunny slippers on her feet. She looked even
older than she'd seemed outside. Despite her
heavy makeup were Jan wondered if she slept in
it, since she seemed ready for bed), she seemed at
least old enough to be a grandmother.
  "You should bring friends here more often, Kerry Ann,"
Aunt Elena said. "It's such fun! Take Jan
into the shop if you want. You girls can help me
unpack, what a treat!" With a swish of bright red
robe, she left. ,
  They looked at each other.
  "Hi." Kerry touched the tips of Jan's fingers
with her own. "Okay?"
  .
  "Okay. Hi yourself." "I meant what I said."
"I know. I meant it, too."
  They moved apart quickly as Aunt Elena's
voice came car-
  oling out from someplace beyond the living room.
"Marsh-
  mallows greater-than was
  "Sure," Kerry shouted after Jan said yes.
"She's silly," she
  said, "but she's sort of a dear."
  "She seems to like you. Your father's sister, right?"
  "Yes, but much older sister. My mother hates
her, but don't mind her, and there was no one else for
me to stay
  with. Besides, she's kind of lonely."
  Jan scanned the living room, trying to confirm
her first impression. Yes, there actually was at least
one china figurine, or a planter with a fussy
plant, or a glass animal, or a garish
  ceramic bird, on almost every available surface,
  "Appalling, isn't it?" Kerry grinned. "She
moves her surplus in here-anything she can't sell.
But even so, you should see
  the shop."
  I don't know if I could stand it," said Jan.
  "Oh, come on." Kerry tugged her toward a bright
yellow door at the far end of the living room. "After
all, she did ask
  us. And unpacking's kind of fun."
  "I better call Mom first," Jan
said, and Kerry led her to the
  phone
  Her mother was fine about her staying at Kerry's, at
least for a little while. "No more than an hour or so,
though, Jan,"
  Mom said. "Promise?"'
  "Okay. Promise."
  When Jan hung up, Kerry bustled her through the
yellow door and across the yard and a small parking lot
to the shop, which was even more of a jumble than the living
room. Glass animals filled two shelves that
ran the length of one wall, with china ones on the
shelves below, interspersed at random

put the cherub and while she was still trying to balance her
cup and saucer in her other hand. Kerry took the
cherub just in time.
  "These cookies are from England," Aunt Elena
said. "I just opened the tin. It's wonderful how tins
keep things fresh. I've had these nearly a year,
I think, but they're yummy, aren't they?"
  Jan bit politely into a cookie, found it was
nearly as hard and as tasteless as its tin probably
would be, and saved herself from choking only by downing half
her tiny cup of chocolate. Too late
she realized that it and its melted marshmallows were still
too hot to swallow. She tried not to wince
obviously as she felt the skin on the roof of her
mouth pucker with the burn.
  "You okay?" Kerry asked.
  "Careful," warned Aunt Elena. "The
cocoa's hot:"
  "I'm-fine," Jan gasped, exploring the roof
of her mouth tenderly with her tongue. "Just-took too
big a swallow, that's all."
  "Kerry Ann tells me you're helping direct
the play she's in." Aunt Elena refilled
Jan's cup and passed her the cookies again. "How
wonderful! I always dreamed of going into the theater
myself," she went on with a faraway look. But?-she
spread her hands in front of her, palms down, for
effect, Jan was sure, but it didn't work because it
looked as if she was examining her nails equals
alas, no talent. I do envy Kerry Ann so!
I was reduced to shopkeeping, and in a talented
family, that's not much. But Kerry Ann-she'll do
something grand, I just know it. Like her wonderful
mother-although Kerry Ann's more artistic, I think,
while her mother is a real scientist, even though
she's in theology now."
  "Oh, Aunt Elena," Kerry said, struggling
with a cookie, "you

know you love the shop. And I'm really not very
talented. Here, let's unpack." She put the
half-eaten cookie down behind a shepherdess and
rummaged in the crate. Jan heard what sounded like
either a burp or a concealed guffaw and then Kerry
held up a pink china pig, its belly studded with
tiny magnets. A moment later she held out her
other hand, a litter of tiny piglets, matching
magnets on their mouths, nestled in her palm.
"Oh, Aunt Elena," she exclaimed with what
Jan knew was mock admiration, "these are so
cute!"
  Jan had to put her cup down very quickly.
  "Do you think so, dear?" asked Aunt Elena
thoughtfully. "You don't think they're just the tiniest
bit-risque?"
  "Oh, no," said Kerry solemnly. "They'll
even help teach kids, you know, the facts of
life."
  Jan stuffed another dry cookie into her mouth
to keep from laughing.
  "Then they're yours, dear, if you like them.
I'm not sure I should teach the facts of life in
my shop. I know!" Aunt Elena pushed up the
sleeves of her robe. "Why don't we each
pick one thing we'd like to keep as we unpack? That
way we'll have a real incentive, and it'll be heaps
of fun, don't you think?" Without waiting for an
answer, she thrust her arm into the crate. "Oh, now
this is really Fab!" she gushed, holding up a
thickly stuffed lemon-shaped potholder mitt.
"Isn't it darling? And look, girls, it's got
a slice out of it, just the right size for a pot handle.
Well, I can't keep that, much as I'd like to;
it'll sell wonderfully. Too bad there isn't
another." She rummaged deeper in the crate.
"No. An orange and an apple-how clever. No
more lemons. Your turn, Jan." She put the
pile of felt fruit aside and settled back on
her heels on the floor.
Pick anything decent and I'll disown you,
Kerry's eyes signaled mischievously to Jan.
That's easy; there's nothing decent to pick,
Jan signaled back as she bent to hunt for something
to rival the piglets.
  "How about this?" suggested Kerry, bolding up a
plastic outhouse with
GONE FI-SHTATION
scrawled on the door.
  "Oh, we've got one at home," Jan said
casually.
  "Really?" Kerry cried, instantly falling
into Jan's game. "Hey, that's super! Aunt
Elena, did you hear that? Jan says she has one
of these adorable outhouses."
  "Kerry Ann," said Aunt Elena, wagging her
finger, "I wouldn't be surprised but what you're
having just the eeniest joke on me, now am I right?"
Before Kerry could answer, Aunt Elena let out a
shriek of laughter that sounded to Jan like the noise the
piglets would probably make if someone yanked
them away from their mother's magnets.
  "Aunt Elena," explained Kerry, "likes a
good laugh."
  "Oh, you're right there, Kerry Ann, you're right
there." Aunt Elena wiped her eyes. "Even when
it's on me. But I'm on to you girls; you can't
fool me for long. I know some of this stuff is
terrible. I simply
loathe
those outhouses, but I have to stock them. Do you know they
sell almost better than anything else? Can
you imagine?"
  Just as Jan was beginning to think there might be some
hope for Aunt Elena after all, Aunt Elena
picked up a large water-lily-shaped purple
bath sponge. "Now, how about this, Jan?"
  Jan gulped, avoiding Kerry's eyes.
"Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous."
  "Then it's yours." Aunt Elena beamed, handing it
to her.
  "Oh, I couldn't," said Jan.
  Kerry kicked her. "Oh, but you must."

"Well-wow-thank you," Jan sputtered. She put
the sponge next to her, wondering if Aunt Elena
wasn't having her own private joke on them, or
if running a "gifte" shop had made her so
tolerant of other people's bad taste that her own taste
had suffered.
  Later, after Jan had said she had to leave and she
and Kerry had run through a thick drizzle to the house
so Jan could get her jacket, Kerry said it was
lack of taste. "For instance," Kerry said in
explanation, "she used to have a poodle, a
miniature white one, and the poor dog bad a
collar to match every outfit Aunt Elena
wore. Had her toenails painted, too. And she
had a pink satin cushion in the living room that
Aunt Elena used to call "Little Poo-Poo's
beddie-bye . . ." his
  "Kerry Ann Socrides," said Jan, "you are
making that up. Next you'll be telling me that she
took little Poo-Poo out in a doll carriage with a
satin coverlet and . . ."
  "And a rattle-pink-dog-, no, cat-shaped,
dangling from it; she did. And she knitted her pink
booties at Christmas..."
  "And a matching coat for the winter," Jan supplied
promptly, trying not to laugh, because Kerry seemed
to be making a game of that, "with idiot mittens . .
."
  "Four idiot mittens, of course, attached to the
coat's sleeves with pink crocheted strings . . ."
  "Which darling Poo-Poo kept chewing off . . ."
  "So Aunt Elena was always having to make new
ones, and finally she just crocheted one that was yards and
yards long and..."
  "And someone thought it was a leash and offered to buy
it..."
  "And that's how the gift shop started." Kerry
clapped her
hand over her mouth, then burst out laughing. "You win,"
she gasped, clutching her stomach. "You broke me
up."
"Thank heaven." Jan let herself laugh at last.
"I couldn't have held out much longer. Hey, tell
me there never was a poodle named Poo-Poo?"
"Oh, but there was," insisted Kerry, her eyes
round and solemn, "and she had little gold dishes with
her name on them, and . . ."
"Stop!" Jan protested helplessly. "I can't
keep it up. Please, ma'am, mercy. I've
got to go." She opened the front door.
"It's really raining now," Kerry remarked, coming
close behind Jan and looking out over her shoulder.
"Astute observation," said Jan, very aware of
Kerry's body pressing against hers. "Kerry . .
."
Kerry moved away. "In fact, it's raining
cats and dogs, you might say. Sorry."
Jan put her hand on Kerry's shoulder. "Don't
be sorry. But your aunt's still around, and I don't
think she'd be too happy to see us-well, close
together."
"Yeah." Kerry dipped her head and kissed
Jan's hand. "Cats and dogs," she said
loudly. "Poodles and fox terriers and
Abyssinians and Siameses . . ."
Jan kissed Kerry's cheek quickly, then said, "And
little ceramic cherubs with gold wings."
"And outhouses that say
GONE FtsHtation . . :"
"And magnetic pigs and piglets . . ."
"And-and-oh, Jan!" Kerry dropped her voice and
leaned against the door. "Besides all the rest of it, I
have such fun with you."
"Here," she called a minute later when Jan was
running to the car. "Don't forget your bath sponge!"

HIM
IT WASN'T UNTIL LATE
Sunday night that Jan finally finished the homework
she'd neglected all week because of substituting for
Mrs. Nicholson. By then it was too late to call
Kerry.
Dummy, she thought, getting up from her desk and going
to the window. Just one day without seeing her and you miss
her like crazy.
She lifted the window shade, wondering if Kerry was
looking at the moon. "I love you, Kerry Ann
Socrides," she whispered against the
windowpane. "I love you and I don't dare think
about it any more than you do."
But she knew she was thinking, even so.
Jan returned to her desk and took out a clean
sheet of paper. "Dear Raphael," she wrote
at the top, and then sat staring out the window. Pushing that
piece of paper aside, she took another and
wrote:
Dear Kerry,
I just finished my stupid homework and looked out the
window at the moon and told it I love you. Or
told you, via
the moon. My mother's gone to bed and Dad's away
again and the house is very quiet. I ought to go to bed myself,
but I don't think I could sleep anyway.
I don't really have anything to say, do I?
Yes, 1 d. I have to say that I Love you, even
though I don't think I really came right out and said
it out loud to you yesterday. I don't know quite what that
means or what's going to happen next and I'm
trying not to worry about it or think about it too much, but
suddenly, even after being around my gay fife"
Raphael that I told you about, all summer . . .
Jan crumpled that piece of paper violently and
went back to the first one:
Dear Raphael,
Guess what, I think I'm in Love. And
if
I am, I guess I'm gay. 1 bet you
wondered about that last summer. I Look back on
it now and wonder myself. Listen, what did you think
about Corrin? I mean about me and Corrin? I
didn't think anything about it, but I do wonder now.
I mean I never touched her or anything, but now I
think I must have sort of wanted to, I don't
know. I knave 1 thought she was beautiful, but I
also know straight women like my mother and sister sometimes
think other women are beautiful, so I guess that
doesn't mean much.
But when I Look back on myself, I see that I
always liked being with girls best. Sometimes I was a
tomboy and sometimes I wasn't, but the idea of
having to someday go out with boys or get married always
seemed weird to me. It just never seemed to fit me,
except I knew it was what I was supposed to do,
to want to do, too.
Anyway, I keep having this dream with you and
Corrin in it, only now sometimes this other girl is
in it instead.
See, the thing is that I feel about this other
girl the way 1 guess I felt about Corrin,
only much, much more so, and this time I know it. Is that
how it starts? Is that how one finds out? I always
felt 1 wasn't quite like other people. If 1 am gay,
maybe that's why.
Raphael, remember I told you about that guy I
grew up with, Ted? Sometimes he's in the dream now,
too. He tried to kiss me, I mean in real
life, not the dream, and I hated it. But last night
I kissed this girl-no, not "this girl"-this wonderful
girl, maybe I should say "woman," except
she's my age and I'm not used to calling myself that.
She's great-funny and kind and deep and intelligent
and talented and strangenot as beautiful as Corrin
(no one could be), but pretty, especially her
eyes, which are very dark brown and show almost everything she
feels. She's a little weird, too, but we've
decided we both are.
Oh, Raphael, 1 never felt this way about
anyone and I don't know what to do. I sure never
felt this way about Ted or any boy. (funny,
I thought I was going to like you that way at first, isn't
that dumb?) If this is how you felt about Don
Jeffords last summer, then I can see how come I
had to poke you sometimes to get you to hear what
I was saying.
By the way, I'm stage managing
Crucible.
(right, I didn't get Elizabeth. Kerry
did. Kerry's the girl. It's okay about
Elizabeth. She plays her better than I could.
And I Love her so much I'm not jealous. Where was
I? Oh: Parentheses.) There. We'll have two
performances, the third weekend in December. Can you
come?
The thing is, Raphael, I can't think except about
Kerry. 1 can't study. I can't even worry too
much about Mrs. NichoLike-
son, our director, who seems to have something wrong
with
her but no one will say what. Kerry says she
loves me, too. Raphael: AM 1 GAY?
Love, Jan
Quickly, before she could change her mind, Jan stuffed
the letter into an envelope, addressed it to Raphael's
apartment in New York City, stamped it, and put
it with her clipboard so she'd be sure to mail it in
the morning.
  Then she took the crumpled letter she'd started
writing to Kerry, tore it into tiny
pieces, and went to bed.
  Mrs. Nicholson was sitting front-row-center
when Jan, Kerry, and Ted went into the auditorium
Monday afternoon. The rest of the cast was already clustered
around her. Nanny was pretending to sign the bandage
on her ankle as if it were a cast, and Will was clowning
around ineptly with the goldheaded cane by her side.
Jan thought Mrs. Nicholson still looked pale and
tired and thin under her makeup, but not much more than she
had before the accident. Her wide and happy smile,
anyway, was reassuring, as was the fact that she showed
no signs of the mental confusion she'd had right after
she'd fallen.
  "I hear you and Kent had a little altercation,"
Mrs. Nicholson said to Jan while the cast got
into position for Act One.
  "Oh, it's okay now," Jan answered, not
wanting to worry her, but hoping that it would be okay now
that Mrs. Nich-
  olson was back. "I think he's finally figured
Proctor out, at least:" She hesitated
briefly. "I'm kind of nervous about what you'll
think, and I sure am glad you're back!"
  Mrs. Nicholson patted Jan's hand
affectionately, but

quickly withdrew her own, which Jan realized felt
oddly fragile. "Janna, thank you for taking over
far me," she said. "It must have been hard."
  "It was fun, Mrs. Nicholson, really. It was
only hard at first. I liked it. More than I
thought."
  "Did you, Janna greater-than Goad!
Well." She settled back, smoothing her skirt
and draping an extra sweater carefully over her
shoulders. "Call places, please, stage
manager. And"-her voice rang out in almost the old
vigorous way-"entertain me, cast. Let's try
to run through the whole thing-no interruptions, just notes
at the end of each act. I want to weep over this
play, over the injustice that is done to these innocent
people. I want to be at the edge of my chair by the end
of the first act, and in tears by the final curtain."
  "Places!" Jan called. "Act One.
Ready? Curtain."
  Jan watched Mrs. Nicholson anxiously as
much as she could while the first act progressed, but as
in auditions, her face was unreadable. During the
Proctor-Abigail scene, Jan tried to see
Kent's familiar performance freshly, as
Mrs. Nicholson would be seeing it. Was he angry
enough? Did his mood shift cleanly and clearly as
well as quickly? Was he really communicating?
  But except for a faint smile at the end of that
scene, Mrs. Nicholson gave no sign of
approval or disapproval.
  At the end of the act, she sat still, making notes
on the large legal pad attached to her clipboard,
until the cast had come back down off the stage and were
seated in the auditorium. Then she slowly got up
and faced them. "All right," she said. "All right!
It's going well. I see you've been working hard,
all of you. Kent, you've got it now:"
  Jan closed her eyes in relief and leaned
back; Kerry, sitting beside her, punched her
triumphantly on the shoulder.
"Whew," breathed Ted. "That's over."
  "Kent, come here, please." Mrs. Nicholson
sat down again. "Take five, everyone. Then
we'll go on to Act Two. No, Jan, you might
as well stay with me."
  Without looking at Jan, Kent got up from his
seat and stood in front of Mrs. Nicholson.
  "How do you feel about Proctor now?" Mrs.
Nicholson asked, studying him intently,
as if trying to see beyond his swagger.
  "Okay, I guess," he said indifferently.
"I guess I sort of worked it out while you were
away. I just didn't want him to seem weak, that's
all."
  "No, Kent," Mrs. Nicholson said. "I
think you didn't want to seem weak, playing him.
Don't identify so totally with your character. Proctor
is weak at times. Norris isn't."
  Kent looked embarrassed but not entirely
convinced. He scratched his chin and Jan noticed it
was stubbly, as if he hadn't shaved for a while.
  "Anyway," said Mrs. Nicholson dryly,
winking at Jan, "I agree that you've probably
worked it out. Not growing a beard, are you?"
  Kent looked startled, as if he hadn't
expected anyone to notice. "Just haven't had time
to shave," he said evasively. "It's an idea,
though, don't you think?"
  "Not for Proctor, it isn't," Mrs.
Nicholson answered, then called briskly to the
cast. "All right, everyone. Back to work."
  They succeeded in running through the whole play that
afternoon, breaking only briefly between acts. About
halfway through, Jan realized that Mrs.
Nicholson had gone to the back of the auditorium and
that she herself had been too absorbed in what was
happening onstage to even turn the

pages of her script. I am on the edge of my
chair, she realized excitedly, hastily finding the
place, just as Mrs. Nicholson said she wanted
to be!
  After Kerry, as Elizabeth watching
Proctor's execution, had said the play's ringing
last line, there was absolute silence in the
auditorium. Then Mrs. Nicholson's voice
came quietly from the back row. "Thank you,
ladies and gentlemen. I think we have ourselves a
play."
  But there were still scenes to polish, still problems
to solve, still parts of the play to rehearse over and over
again, out of context, before Mrs. Nicholson would let
them run through it again as a whole. Jan found herself being
fascinated at the way Mrs. Nicholson shaped
scenes bit by bit, resolving one problem and then,
when the actors had grasped whatever it was and done it
smoothly several times, building on the change,
deepening characterizations and clarifying action.
  "She's amazing," Jan said to Kerry
at the end of that week as they walked to the parking lot.
"Just amazing. She can get more out of an actor than
anyone I've ever seen, even in stock."
  "She sure can get a lot out of me." Kerry
buttoned her jacket and shivered. "Brr! That
wind's cold"
  "I'll drive you home," Jan said; they'd just
reached her mother's car. "Can't have you getting sick!"
  "My mother says you can't catch a cold from
being
cold." Kerry opened the passenger door when Jan
unlocked it. "But I accept. Any excuse to be
with you a little longer," she said when they were both in the
car.
  "I know," said Jan. "But we really don't
need excuses, do we?
  Kerry lay back against the seat. "Hope.
Sometimes I won-
der how I existed before I knew you," she said as
Jan pulled the car out of the lot. "I used to dream
of having a perfect friend, someone who'd be almost a
second self, or another half of me, a friend I
could say anything to, who'd accept me and love me
and not expect me to be someone else. But I never
thought I'd find that person." She leaned
over and gave Jan a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Thank you," she whispered.
  "Hey," said Jan, "don't thank me. I've
dreamed of a friend like that, too."
  "A lover," Kerry said. "That's what we both
really wanted, isn't it? Only since boys
somehow didn't fit, we thought what we wanted was a
friend. You had Ted, though . . ."
  "Ted's wonderful, but there was always something missing.
Since I grew up, anyway." Jan glanced at
her watch, then said hesitantly, "Want to come
to my house for a minute?" she asked. "It's only
five-fifteen. Your aunt doesn't expect you
home till after six, does she? I can't believe
I haven't asked you there yet. The play-was
  "I've been hoping that's the reason," Kerry
said, smiling, "not that you didn't want to invite me.
I'd love to see where you live."
  Jan turned the car around in someone's driveway
and backtracked to her street, then pulled into her
driveway. She studied the house and the yard
critically as she got out, trying to see them as
Kerry would.
  "What a neat garden!" Kerry exclaimed,
heading straight for Mrs. Montcrief's
perennial bed, which formed a half circle at one
edge of the lawn. Most of the plants were frostbitten
and withered, but a few chrysanthemums, asters, and
sedums still bloomed.
  "It's a sheltered spot, Mom says," Jan
explained while Kerry examined the flowers. "I
don't know much about it, but she usually still has something
flowering at Thanksgiving."

"I'd like a garden like this someday," Kerry said. "Can
we have one?"
  "Sure!" said Jan, startled and then excited at
the thought of living with Kerry, of Kerry's wanting
to live with her.
  "And a little gray house with a big maple tree on
one side, and a white picket fence . . ."
  "Or maybe a gray split-rail one . . ."
  Kerry shook her head. "But a dog can go right through
a split-rail fence. Can we have a dog?"
  Jan grinned. "Of course we can! I've always
wanted a dog, but my mother's allergic. What
kind?"
  "What kind have you always wanted?"
  Jan was about to answer when her mother called from the
front door. "Jan! There you are," she
said, coming down the steps. "I thought I heard
voices, and I was waiting for the car; I've got to go
to the store." She smiled at Kerry, and Jan
introduced them quickly. "Kerry's the one who's
playing Elizabeth," Jan explained, and her mother
asked, "How's it going?"
  "Okay, I hope," said Kerry. "Largely
thanks to Jan."
  "I'm sure thanks to you, too," said Jan's
mother. "And now I'm afraid I'm going to be very
rude and run off. Keys, please." She held out
her hand to Jan. "I'm in the middle of making a
complicated recipe for Thanksgiving, but I've
run out of butter."
  "Keys," said Jan, handing them to her. "Gas is
low!" she called after her.
  Her mother waved in acknowledgment, and drove off.
  "For Thanksgiving?" said Kerry as Jan led her
up the front steps. "Isn't it a little early?"
  "She makes stuff ahead and freezes it.
Pies, usually, and rolls. Come on in. Golden
retriever, by the way."
  "I was hoping you'd say that," Kerry answered
without hes-
itation, as if Jan's mother hadn't
interrupted their conversation at all. "My favorite
kind. I like your mother . . ."
"dis
. . and I like your room," she said a few minutes
later when Jan had taken her up to it. "But"-she
put her arms around Jan-"not as much as I love
you." She kissed Jan, and for a long moment they stood
there, holding each other.
  "I'm still sort of nervous," Kerry whispered.
"It's so new. Sometimes I feel I might burst
with feeling, with love." She kissed Jan again.
"It's okay, though. It's fine. It's
wonderful." She moved out of Jan's arms, did
an awkward pirouette, stumbled against Jan's
desk chair and, laughing, sat down when Jan said,
"Madame, a chair?"
  "Did you really mean it," Jan asked, sitting
on the edge of the desk to be close to her, "about the
garden and the house and the golden retriever and all?"
  "Of course!" said Kerry indignantly.
"Didn't you?"
  "Yes," Jan said softly. "A thousand times
yes."
  Right before the Thanksgiving break, when everyone in the
cast was exhausted, Mrs. Nicholson
let them have another run-through, and despite everyone's
fatigue, Jan felt the same electricity coming
to her from the stage then as she'd felt the day Mrs.
Nicholson had come back.
  But Mrs. Nicholson, though she seemed even more
tired than the cast, was still not satisfied. "There are
still rough spots for us to work on separately," she
said. "But I don't want us to do any more run-throughs
till close to technical rehearsal. I don't
want you to lose your spontaneity. Janna,
let's work a bit on the end of Act One, the
Abigail-Betty scene, where they start accusing people
of witchcraft. I don't need the men in that scene,
just the two girls. The rest of

you can go home if you want. Kent, I trust you'll
find time to shave over the holiday. Happy
Thanksgiving, all."
  But no one moved except Gail and Brenda,
who got quietly back into position.
  "You have to
build
this scene, ladies." Mrs. Nicholson leaned
against the apron. "You have to start small and build
high," she said. "You're starting well, but
you don't take the scene anywhere. Brenda, what
happens to Abigail? What does she want here?"
  "Well, she wants Proctor, of course,"
Brenda answered. "Like who wouldn't?" That got a
laugh, quickly stifled by a glare from Mrs.
Nicholson.
  "What else?" asked Mrs. Nicholson.
  Brenda hesitated, then said, "She suddenly
sees her chance to get rid of Elizabeth? Like she
thinks if she starts calling other people witches, she can
get away with calling Elizabeth one, too, and
get rid of her that way. Right?"
  "Right enough for the play," said Mrs. Nicholson.
"But for the scene, remember she's more or less been
accused herself, and she wants to save her own skin.
Understand?"
  "I think so," said Brenda, after a quick glance at
Kent, who was sitting in the third row, watching.
  "Good," said Mrs. Nicholson. "Now,
Gail. What about Betty?"
  A frown creased Gail's freckled face.
"Oh. Well, I think Betty just gets
hysterical when Abby starts yelling out names. And so
she yells out names, too. She doesn't really know
what's going on."
  "What's she feeling?"
  Gail's frown deepened. "Excitement? Sort
of-sort of like she gets carried away? Till she
can't keep from screaming?"
  Mrs. Nicholson straightened up, holding her
hands high
as if for emphasis. "That's what I don't see
yet," she told them. "That rising excitement, that
growing hysteria-I don't see it enough. One
girl's hysteria feeds the others', back and forth, and
it rises, rises . . . Kerry Socrides, are
you still here?"
Kerry, next to Jan, seemed surprised.
"Yes," she said.
"Good. Janna, Kerry, on stage, please:"
Kerry raised her eyebrows inquiringly at Jan,
but Jan felt bewildered, too. She scrambled up
onto the stage; Kerry followed.
"You know how to improvise, Janna," said Mrs.
Nicholson, following them and leaning against the
proscenium. "Kerry, I'm sure Jan's told
you about doing improvs in stock. That's when you take
a basic situation and some characters, and play the situation
out, making it up as you go along. Sort of like children
pretending. Nothing to it, really. All
right," she went on, addressing the four of them.
"Let's see. You areah-not quite yourselves, but younger
girls, twelve or thirteen. You giggle a lot,
you're imaginative, and you're very susceptible
to suggestion."
"Like the girls in Salem, right?" asked Gail.
"Exactly. You and Brenda can think of yourselves as
Betty and Abby, if you like, but, Brenda, you be a
younger version of Abby." Mrs. Nicholson bowed her
head, as if thinking, and then said, "All right. You're
outside, and it's night, very dark. You've all been
going somewhere, a party maybe, but you've lost your
way. You've come upon a barn and you decide you'd
better stay there for the night. I don't care what you
do with the improv except for one thing." She lowered her
voice dramatically, as if telling a ghost story.
"At some point, Kerry, you think you see-something.
That something, whatever it is, must never emerge
corporeally, never enough so any of you actually see it.
It may not even be there, of course; it

may be nothing, but you think it is, all of you.
Understand?" "Yes," said Jan, but the others just stood
there looking nervous and confused. Although she was sure
she knew what Mrs. Nicholson was after,
Jan realized she was nervous herself, suddenly
onstage again with so many people depending on her.
"Okay," she said, trying to sound confident. "You
guys ready?" she asked the others.
When they said they were, Mrs. Nicholson waited
a few seconds longer, then called,
"Ready-curtain."
Gail and Brenda immediately started walking aimlessly
around the stage, Brenda poking at her hair and both
girls looking vaguely up at the lights and out
into the auditorium. Kerry stood upstage for a
minute, then joined them. They're still outside, Jan
thought, watching; okay, we'll have to start there. She
walked, too, for a moment, with as much purpose as she
could muster. Then she stopped and said, "Hey, look!
Isn't that a barn up ahead? Maybe we could go in
and get warm. Came on!" She walked a few
steps farther, and then peered around, saying, "It
looks deserted." She pantomimed pushing open a
heavy door and holding it for the others. "Sure is
dark in here," she whispered, groping, her hands out in
front of her, fervently wishing that someone else would
say something.
"Sure is," said Kerry, as if she'd read
Jan's mind. "I can see a little, though."
"Yeah, me, too." Jan sank down onto an
imaginary pile of hay. "I'm so tired," she
whined. "I think we'd better stay here. I can't go
another step." Come on, Jan, she scolded herself.
Can't you think of anything better? This is terrible!
"I'm hungry," moaned Kerry, sitting next
to Jan.
"So'm I," said Gail at last, and then Brenda
said, "I'm scared."
Jan saw Mrs. Nicholson nod and go slowly
back to her first-row seat, near Ted and Kent and Will
and the others, all of whom were watching intently.
  "Well," said Kerry, getting up.
"Um-maybe there's something to eat somewhere:" She
started walking around, searching behind curtains and
flats.
  Jan hugged her arms around herself, deciding it was
time to inject some atmosphere. It was odd, half
directing an improv when she was also participating in
it. "I'm so cold," she said. "Kerry, I
don't see how you're going to find anything in this
light. You'd better be careful. Hey, watch out!
You never know what you might . . ."
  Kerry screamed as if on cue and ran back
to Jan, huddling next to her, her eyes
huge as if she were really frightened. "I saw-I
saw a-a mouse, or a snake, or
thing
over there-in that corner . . ."
  Jan peered fearfully in the direction Kerry was
pointing. "You're right," she whispered. "Something just
moved! Abby, Betty, can you see anything?"
  "I saw it
again,"
squealed Kerry. "It's a mouse. I just know it's
a mouse. I
hate
mice. I'm so scared!"
  "Me, too," Gail said timidly. But she
didn't really sound frightened yet.
  Jan got up and walked cautiously to the
corner, pretending to peer into it. Then she shrieked and
ran back. "It's not a mouse," she cried.
"It's a snake. I know it's a snake!"
  "Maybe it's a ghost," Kerry suggested. She
clutched Brenda and screamed, staring into the corner.
"It is, oh, it is! It's a ghost. Betty,
look-is it?"
  "Don't make me look," Gail moaned in the
little girl voice she used for Betty.
"Abby, I'm scared. I don't want to.
Don't make me. Don't make me look!"
  Brenda, finally in character as Abby, pushed Gail
roughly
  -I don't know,
some-

toward the corner. "You look, Betty," she said
severely. "You look."
  Gail hid her eyes. "Oh, it is, it is!
I saw it, too! I saw it, too!"
  "Use the line," came Mrs. Nicholson's
voice quietly. "Jan, use Abigail's
line."
  "So did I," said Jan, her voice controlled
but rising as she worked into the line from the play. "I
saw it-I saw-"I saw Sarah Good with the
Devil. I saw Goody Osburn with the
Devil."" She turned to Brenda; Abigail still
had one more accusation to make.
  was "I saw Bridget Bishop with the
Devil,"" said Brenda, low but intense, staring at
Gail.
  Kerry, glancing at Jan, who nodded, moved
away.
  was "I saw George Jacobs with the
Devil,"" Gail answered in character as Betty
mimicking Abigail. was "I saw Goody Howe
with the Devil!""
  Jan made her voice deep so they would know she
was playing Parris and then Hale, both of whom had
lines in this scene. was "She speaks! She
speaks,"" she said, and then, in a slightly
different but still underplayed voice, was "Glory
to God! It is broken, they are free!""
  Brenda and Gail were facing each other; they
hardly seemed aware that Jan and Kerry were still
onstage. was "I saw Martha Bellows with the
Devil,"" Gail said, her voice rising,
beginning to lose control.
  was "I saw Goody Sibber with the Devil,""
Brenda said, topping her.
  was "The Marshal, I'll call the Marshal,""
said Jan, quietly playing still another character. She
moved aside and stood close to Kerry, who by now was
far upstage.
  was "I saw Alice Barrow with the Devil!""
Gail cried.
  Brenda answered without giving Jan time
to provide the
last intervening line. was "I saw Goody Hawkins
with the Devil!""
  was "I saw Goody Bibber with the Devil!""
  was "I saw Goody Booth with the Devil!""
  I saw . . ." screamed Gail, "I saw .
. ." Her voice trailed into silence and she
dropped her arms, which she'd been flailing wildly
over her head. "Oh, my God," she sobbed. "I
got so caught up in it I didn't even realize
it was over."
  Brenda flopped down on one of the chairs that
served as part of Betty's bed in rehearsals.
"Whoa!" she said weakly. "I think we did it,
huh?" She peered out front. "Mrs.
Nicholson, did we? I feel Like-I don't
know. A wet towel, maybe."
  "So do I," said Gail.
  There was scattered applause from the auditorium,
from Ted, Jan saw, and Kent, and one or two
others.
  "My good girls:" Mrs. Nicholson, beaming,
came up to the stage. "My good actresses.
Yes, you certainly did do it. Thank you. That's the
way to play the scene. Thank you, Janna and
Kerry, also. Fine work, all of you.
We'll stop now. Have a good Thanksgiving,
girls. The rest of you, too," she said to the other
cast members.
  Mrs. Nicholson gathered up her script and
pencils and clipboard and notes and sailed out of the
auditorium.
  "See?" said Kent when Jan, still shaken,
returned to her seat. "See? Actress, not
director. You were good, Jan; you got them going.
Your experience showed. Ever hear the saying that the
cobbler should stick to his last?"
  "Oh, dry up," said Kerry, dropping down beside
Jan. She pointed at Kent's bristly chin.
"Why don't you go shave yourself?"
  Jan laughed.

THE POLISHED APPLES
gleamed brightly among the oranges and grapes in the
Montcriefs" Thanksgiving centerpiece. The
old papier-mache turkey, which had topped it for as
many years as Jan could remember, glowered down at
the family all through their early-afternoon dinner, as if
he resented having been placed so far away from the
nuts that Jan's mother had strewn plentifully on the
tablecloth. Dinner was perfect: the roast
turkey golden brown and succulent with moist, rich
bread-and-apple stuffing; the sweet spicy yams,
topped with melted, lightly browned marshmallows; the
tiny onions, the peas, the turnips for those who
liked them. Jan ate as if nothing else mattered,
perhaps to hide from herself that something did. Still, she tried
to make the expected flattering comments about Anita's
new red corduroy maternity smock and about
Hal's diligent preparation for the law-school
entrance exam he was planning to take. She
dutifully helped her mother clear the dishes and bring
on the pies; she carried in the coffeepot and passed
around the cream-thinking, as she had since yesterday when
she'd gotten Raphael's answer
to her letter: I am different from them; their world isn't
my world.
  And underneath that was the constant ache of missing
Kerry, who was far away in Connecticut, visiting
her grandmother. Four days without Kerry, four days
without talking with her, touching her, hearing her voice and
seeing her smile-and next year, she thought, next
year when I'm in drama school, where will she be?
Next year-heck, what about January, when her
parents come back from their trip?
  I wish, she thought, looking around as her
family finished their desserts, chatting about the new
baby, about Hal's test, about who was going to have
everyone for Christmas-I wish I could tell them about
Kerry. Then she thought: Maybe I could!
  But now everyone was getting up from the table. Mom was
stacking dishes; Anita was eating a walnut,
saying, "I wonder if nuts are okay for
babies"; Hal and Dad were loosening their belts and
heading for the living room and the usual football
games on TV, Dad with his pipe and Hal with one
of the terrible cigars he'd recently started smoking.
"The boy can't even wait till his kid is
born," Dad had joked earlier.
  Where do I fit, Jan wondered, a sudden catch
in her throat. Where do Kerry and I fit? If we
stay together, end up together, could we make a place for
ourselves here?
  Anita tossed a pecan at Jan, who ducked
but caught it. "Here, dreamer. I bet you didn't
hear a thing I said."
  Jan shook her head and tossed the pecan back.
  "I said why don't you join Daddy and Hal or
read or do homework or something, and I'll help
Mom with the dishes? You helped a lot during dinner,
and before, and"-Anita pushed herself heavily
away from the table, her pink face pinker with the
effort-"and I am not an invalid, in spite of

how all of you've been treating me. Go on," she
said, giving Jan a gentle push. "Scram!"
Gratefully, glad to escape, Jan hugged her
sister quickly and went up to her room. Upstairs,
she closed her door and took out the letter from
Raphael, even though she'd already read it three
times:
Dear Jan,
I assume it was you writing that oddity-I can't quite
bring myself to call it a letter. Honeybunch, you are so
far gone I could barely read your name!
Congratulations! Have you done IT yet? (you know
what 1 mean, sweetie, so stop blushing.) I
bet you haven't; girls take so long. Oh,
well, you just go right on being soulful, sweetikins;
I think it's lovely.
Now I'll be serious, so please listen.
First, baby, take it easy, take it slow (forget
what I said in Paragraph One, too). Do what
you feel okay about doing, but don't jump
to conclusions. Maybe she's not gay; maybe you're
not. Now, you're right that I wondered about you
last summer. You seemed to have such a thing for Corrin,
and you didn't for any of the guys (except, ahem,
for me, but I hardly count, Lovey, though tin
flattered!). Corrin, by the way, just wrote me
to say she lost her virginity on Halloween to a
boy named Edgar (allan Poe?). I guess that
won't destroy you now that your affections are
elsewhere.
Listen, honeybunch, I don't want to be
cruel, but you've got to think of everything. It might
be love (it probably is, if I know you), but I
feel it my duty as your gay uncle (not auntie
yet, I hope!) to tell you that it could be one of those
things called an Adolescent Crush. Girls
get them, too, I believe. So have fun and feel
what you feel right now, but be honest with yourself and don't
go putting yourself for all time into a little
Lavender box marked "gay" until you're really
sure. I'm sure, but I'm almost twenty. You're
only-what are you? Sixteen? Seventeen? I
came out in high school, too, and you better
believe it was pretty damn rough. Maybe kids
are more understanding where you live, but don't count on it!
School's not show biz, hon. So be careful,
okay?
AM 1 GAY? you asked me in big letters. I
can't answer
that. Only you can, and maybe you won't be able to till
you i tilde e
done a lot more living. I
am
trying to say, though, that I think
there's a pretty good chance of it. There's Corrin,
and there's
the fact that you were the only girl on the plantation
last
summer who wasn't chasing my ass (you really
weren't, you
know) or some other boy's. I never got the
impression that you
really had the hots for old Teddy back home, and
you weren't
shocked when I told you about me and Mr. Donald
Jef fords.
(who, by the way, has left me for a dancer, of all
things. I
believe you mentioned that he seemed fickle. You were
right.)
As far your thinking at first that you "liked" me well,
maybe
you did a little, and maybe I did a little; the point
is who you
like
best
usually, not who you like at all. I think I read some
place that there really aren't very many 100% straight
or gay
people in the world (i speak as a 99% gay, however,
I hasten
to add!), so don't be shocked if you're not
100% anything ei
ther. Did I ever tell you that I slept with a girl
once? It was
nice, too. But 1 Like guys better, in all
ways. Like it's guys 1
relate to emotionally. I can talk to girls, sure,
but it's guys I
fall in love with, guys 1 want to spend my
life with. No of
fense, but I could live without ever seeing another
woman,
but I'd die if 1 couldn't ever see another man.
Baby, I feel like your father or something! I mean
I bet there's not a soul for you chickens to talk to up
there in darkest New Hampshire-what's the
name of that hick town
you live in?-Southview. If you were in a city
there'd be places you could go, people you could talk to.
ALL I can say is be kind to each other, and
fair, and as honest as you can be, because even if you
don't end up in each other's arms forever, that could be
your gay sister you're in love with now. Even if she
turns out to be straight, she's still your sister-another
woman and a human being who deserves to be
respected and cherished. (don't we all?)
And if you do turn out to be straight (i write,
slanting off the page in horror, pouring myself
another glass of
vin ordinaire-1
always take
vin ordinaire
with difficult lettersggif you turn out to be straight,
well,
c'est la vie;
that's not so bad either, and maybe you'll both grow up
to be nice ladies who don't dish gays.
Honeybunch, got to go. I f you ever want to talk
more, write
again. Or call. If my cat answers, hang
up.
P.s. I do want to come to your show. Particulars,
please.
P.p.s. This is even more embarrassing.
Lesbians can get AIDS, too, a dyke friend of
mine reminded me when 1 mentioned you (no, not in any
real detail; trust me). She said to tell you that
if you haven't slept with anyone else, boy or
girl, and if your girlfriend hasn't either, and if neither
of you does drugs, which I'm sure you don't,
you're probably pretty safe. But if you have
ANY DOUBTS and you do you-know-what, you should, um,
protect yourselves. She mentioned condoms, and Saran
Wrap and something called a dental dam, but the
details elude me. Thank God she said you could
write her. She's Margie Zamack, and she
lives in the apartment upstairs from me, so you've got
the address. For God's sake write her if you have
questions!
Love, Raphael
Jan put her head down on her desk, on the letter,
and stayed there motionless, listening to a squirrel
chattering outside and to the distant scrape of someone
raking leaves. That last P.s., incomplete as it
was, was more than she wanted to know; it made her
feel queasy.
She closed her eyes, trying not to think, until her
mother called up to her, "Jan, telephone! Mr.
Nicholson. Your teacher's husband, I guess."
Immediately Jan went cold inside.
Reluctantly, she went downstairs and, full of
dread, picked up the phone.
"After first year," Dad was saying to Hal in the living
room, "law school gets a lot easier. But,
boy, do I remember . . ."
"Hello?" Jan said into the phone.
Jan.
"Yes:" The dread increased, threatened to overpower
her.
""This is Robert Nicholson-er, Mr.
Nicholson. Mrs. Nicholson's husband."
"Yes. Hello."
"Jan, Mrs. Nicholson asked me to call you."
Then she's not dead, Jan thought; it's just something about
rehearsal, just some message.
"She asked me to tell you she'd like you to take over
rehearsals for the next couple of weeks."
Jan sat down abruptly. "But-but," she
stammered, "what's wrong?" Then, panicking, she
exclaimed, "There's only a couple of weeks
left till the technical rehearsal. And
that's the week of the show!"
"I know. She told me that. She said to tell you
she's sorry. She said you know what to do, that you can do
it, that she believes in you and that you've been doing
fine. She also said to tell you that it's been cleared
with the principal. You know, Mr.-er-Mr. Taylor.
He says it's all right for you to take over."
Jan barely heard the last part of what he said.
"But, Mr. Nicholson, what's happened?
Please, what's wrong with Mrs. Nicholson?"
"She's in the hospital," he said slowly.
"She-she's had some surgery. She'll have to stay there
awhile."
"But what's wrong? Can you tell me what's wrong
with her? It's not just her ankle, is it?"
"No." There was a pause. "I guess you do have
to know," he said at last. "I know she'd rather keep it
quiet; she doesn't want a lot of people fussing
over her, but . . . I guess you do have to know. She
has cancer, Jan."
Jan closed her eyes. Somehow she'd known it
since tryouts, someplace way down inside where she
didn't have to face it till it faced her, the way
she'd known somewhere inside that she was gay, that she
loved Kerry and had been attracted
to Corrin.
"I'm sorry," she managed to say politely.
"I'm so sorry. Is she-in pain or anything?"
That's what you ask, she remembered; that's what
Mom always asks.
"Some. We've known for quite a while." Mr.
Nicholson's voice shook slightly.
Jan nodded silently, remembering Mrs.
Nicholson's words to Mr. Taylor the day she
collapsed: "I didn't think it would be this soon."
But she'd recovered; she'd been all right after that;
she'd been fine . . .
"Can she have visitors?" Jan asked finally.
"Not right now. Maybe in a week or so. I'll
let you know."
"Thank you." Jan struggled for control. "Could
you-could you please tell her everything'll be okay, with the
show, I mean? It'll be fine. She's already done the
hard part. We'll keep it going the way she wants
it. Tell her not to worry."
Tell her not to die. Oh, tell her not to die!
"I will. Thank you, Jan. You've been very helpful
to her, I know. I want to thank you for that." He
cleared his throat as if he didn't know what else
to say, said, "Er-happy Thanksgiving,"
and hung up.
Happy Thanksgiving, thought Jan. Sure.
IT WAS A BLEAR SAY,
neither fall nor winter, when school started again after
Thanksgiving. The wind rustled dry leaves across the
ground; the sky threatened snow but no snow fell.
Jan, early because she hadn't been able to sleep, had
trouble starting her mother's car. Finally, after the third
try, the engine turned over and she backed out of the
driveway through billows of gray exhaust.
If it weren't for Kerry, she thought once she was out
on the main road, I'd cut school.
And if it weren't for rehearsal.
She swung the car slowly into the street leading
to Southview High and drove into the parking lot. But
it was still early enough for the lot to be empty, grayly
bleak like the day.
Maybe if Kerry's walking I could pick her
up, Jan thought, backing out as another early student
pulled in.
A small group of kids from Crucible-Kent,
Nanny, Will comwere walking toward school on
Kerry's street when Jan turned the corner.
Jan waved, amused at the surprise on their
faces, and she laughed aloud when Nanny
gave her a friendly
smile and shouted, "Wrong way!" The day seemed
better then, and since she hadn't seen Kerry
walking to school, Jan decided to find out if she was
still at home. She parked outside Kerry's
aunt's house, and ran up the porch steps to ring the
bell.
The house was tightly closed, still sleeping-or still
empty. For a moment Jan was afraid Aunt
Elena and Kerry weren't back yet from
Connecticut. But when she checked in the garage, she
saw Aunt Elena's car, and when she went up
onto the porch again and knocked, Aunt Elena
sleepily answered the door.
"Jan! How nice," she said, and then launched into a
nonstop stream of worry. "Come in. What time is
it? Have we overslept? Oh, dear, I'm sure
we have! We got home so late last night. The
traffic was terrible and we left later than we'd
planned. Kerry Ann!" she called up the
stairs, then selfconsciously smoothed the skirt
of her red bathrobe. "You're going to think I never
take this off. Come on into the kitchen and I'll make
some coffee. Or-no, why don't you go upstairs and
see that my lazy niece gets up?
Goodness, I hope you'll be on time for your first
class. Will you?"
"We'll be a little late, I guess, if
Kerry's not up yet. But not very." Nervously,
Jan started up the stairs, aware that this would be her
first time in Kerry's room. And Kerry would be
sleeping there, still in bed . . .
"Second door to the right when you get to the top,"
Aunt Elena called cheerfully. "You'll
probably have to shake her. She sleeps like a
rock."
Jan felt the smoothness of the highly polished
banister as she climbed the stairs; felt the thick
carpet under her shoes, the dryness in her mouth.
Take it easy, take it slow;
she heard Raphael's voice saying his written
words.
Be honest-be kind to each other, and fair.
The second door to the right was exactly like the first
door and the one opposite it, except the other
doors were open and this one was closed. Funny, that
Kerry's door should be like any other.
Jan knocked.
There was no answer.
I should knock again, she thought, pushing the
door open instead.
The room was still dusky, even though one shade and the
window behind it were partway up. It was a small room,
cluttered with books and strewn with clothes; not neat
at all, though Kerry herself was always neat.
Jan closed the door quietly behind her, thinking,
I probably should leave it open, and went to the heap
of quilts and blankets that now moved on the bed.
"Kerry?" Jan said awkwardly. "Hey, Kerry,
it's me. Jan."
Kerry grunted and turned over.
Well, Jan said to herself defensively as she bent
tentatively down, her aunt said I'd have to shake
her. She touched Kerry's shoulder gently.
"Kerry, sleepyhead, wake up."
Kerry's eyes fluttered open, then opened wider.
"Jan! I was dreaming about you, and here you are!"
"It's late," Jan explained. "Your aunt said
to wake you." She realized her hand was still on
Kerry's shoulder and loosened its hold, but Kerry
seized it quickly and held it to her lips. "I
missed you," she whispered. "I missed you more than
I ever thought I would."
"I missed you, too." Gently, Jan touched
Kerry's face. "Understatement:"
There didn't seem to be anything else important
enough to say.
"Your aunt's making coffee," Jan said at last,
realizing someone had to be practical. But she felt
Kerry pulling her closer.
Jan...
"Kerry, I-you should get up." But she knelt by the
bed and put her head down near Kerry's.
Kerry smoothed Jan's hair, and Jan felt her
muscles melt. "I wish Aunt Elena weren't
downstairs," Kerry whispered.
"Raphael said we should be-honest, that maybe we
can't be sure yet."
"You heard from him." Kerry still smoothed Jan's
hair.
Jan barely managed to nod.
"Well, I'm sure," Kerry whispered. "I
spent the whole weekend thinking about you, dreaming about
you, writing you long notes." She moved to one side
and reached down to her suitcase, which Jan now saw was
on the other side of the bed, and handed Jan a bulging
envelope. "Here. Entertain yourself while I get
dressed." She got up-she was wearing, Jan
noticed, red-and-white-striped pajamas-and put her
hands on Jan's shoulders. "The top
note," she said, "is the one where I tell you I
asked Aunt Elena if I could ask my parents
to let me stay here the whole year, not just till
January."
Jan felt her heart speed up.
"Okay?" Kerry asked.
"Of course, yes!" Jan said, finding her voice
at last. "That's wonderful; I . . ."
"Kerry Ann, aren't you up yet?" Aunt Elena
shouted from downstairs. "You're going to be terribly
late.
Shake
her, Jan!"
They looked at each other and then both laughed so
hard tears came to their eyes. Jan stood, stuffing
the envelope in her pocket, and put her arms around
Kerry, feeling the smooth warm skin of her back
under her thin pajama top. "Kerry, you are very, very
pretty," she whispered, holding her. "And I
love you very, very much. But would you be hurt if I said
I think I'd better go downstairs and talk to your
aunt while you dress? Okay?"
Kerry kissed Jan's nose. "Okay." Hugging
her again, she said, "I don't have any doubts,
Jan. That's why I asked to stay. Aunt
Elena said yes, by the way." Kerry's voice
dropped and Jan had to strain to hear. "I never
wanted anyone to touch me before. And nobody ever
has. I've only kissed a boy a couple of
times, last year, but it-I don't know. Didn't
feel right, I guess. But it's different with you. It
does feel right, and I don't see how loving
someone can be wrong, like some people say. How can it be?
What could be immoral or sick about love? As I
said before, I'm scared and I don't knowyou
know-anything about it, really, but . . ." She hugged
Jan harder. "I've never felt anything like this.
My head's spinning, I'm dizzy, I . . ."
Jan felt her clinging, felt Kerry's body
pressing tightly against her own, felt her own
dizziness, and her own nervousness. But the feelings
weren't really disturbing-just new.
"I know," Jan whispered. "I know."
They stayed far away from each other in the car on the
way to school. But when Jan told Kerry about
Mr. Nicholson's call and about having to take
over rehearsals, and asked Kerry to assist her between
Elizabeth scenes, it was as if she were talking
to another part of herself.
That's it, too, she realized as they went
inside, got late slips, and separated to go to their
respective homerooms; she felt warm inside,
thinking about it, and remembering the house and the garden and the
golden retriever.
The day dragged, except for the two or three
glimpses she got of Kerry, and Jan's mind was
too much on her and on rehearsal to be able
to concentrate on her classes, or to concentrate on
Ted when he asked her how her Thanksgiving had
been, or even on Mr. Taylor's words when he
talked to
her about taking over rehearsals. She tried
to write a poem to Kerry during history, but she
wasn't able to translate what she felt into words,
and finally she decided to go to the auditorium to calm
herself down and focus her thoughts before rehearsal.
  was "I wish the long ship Argo . . ."" she
whispered when she got up on the stage, but it was no
good. It wasn't acting she bad come to think about, not
even
Medea.
It was Mrs. Nicholson, as well as Kerry. And
it was directing.
  All day, when she hadn't been thinking about
Kerry, she'd been feeling
Crucible
almost as if it were in her hands, and she a sculptor,
shaping it. It was true that Mrs. Nicholson had
done most of the hard work already, but Jan knew it was
also true that she herself had helped, and that some of the
ideas incorporated in the production were hers. Now
that she had complete responsibility for it, she
realized that the whole had come to matter more to her than
any of its parts, and she wondered if she would ever again
be able to see a play from the perspective of just a
single character. What was it Mrs. Nicholson had said
so many weeks ago? That she'd someday want to do
something more creative than acting?
  And here it was
  It felt right, as right as loving Kerry did.
  In a way, Jan realized, Mrs. Nicholson
had given her both.
  When the cast came straggling in for rehearsal,
Jan was sitting, outwardly calm, in her
front-row seat, clipboard on her lap, pencil
behind her ear. She'd rehearsed the speech she was going
to make to the cast; she'd swallowed her nervousness
earlier, alone onstage, and by the time Kerry walked
in with Ted, she felt confident and ready.
  When everyone was quiet she stood next
to the step unit and began. "You've probably heard
rumors all day that Mrs. Nicholson is very
sick, and by now you probably know they're true.
She is very sick, in the hospital, and . . ."
  Jan saw Kent wave his arm, about to interrupt.
Still the beard, she noticed with annoyance; why hadn't
he shaved it off over Thanksgiving as Mrs.
Nicholson had asked?
  "What's wrong with Mrs. Nicholson?" Kent
asked. "You could at least tell us that."
  "I'm sorry," said Jan. "I got the
impression from Mr. Nicholson that she didn't
want everyone to know. He said she didn't want people
fussing over her."
  "Do you know?"
  "Yes."
  "Well, haw about that?" Kent glared at her.
"Extra-special you, huh? Since when does the
stage manager keep things from the cast?"
  "When the director wants it that way," Jan
answered.
  She went quickly on with the few other things she had
to say-that they'd keep the rehearsal schedule as it
was, that Mrs. Nicholson wanted them to go ahead
and that Mr. Taylor did also-but by the time
she was finished, Kent was whispering to Brenda, and
several of the juniors plus one or two other
seniors, including Will, were frowning.
  "Okay, Kent," Jan said, deciding it would be
better to get whatever it was out in the open. "Spit it
out."
  Kent got laconically up from his seat and stood
next to her. "Mind if I address the cast,
Madame Stage-er, Madame Substitute
Director?" he asked sarcastically.
  "Suit yourself." Deliberately Jan left him
to face his audience alone; she sat back down in the
front row.
  Kent made a deep, theatrical bow. "Thank
you. Hi, there,"
he said, waving at the others in the cast. "Remember
me? I'm the star-er-lead-in this show. How could you
forget, huh?"
Everyone laughed uneasily and Jan saw Kerry
close her eyes as if thinking "Oh, no."
"And so, ladies and gentlemen, I think what I have
to say might be more representative of the cast, of the
way the actors feel, than what you've just heard.
I mean, we're up there together, and she's out
front-well, you know." He cleared his
throat, made his voice squeak in an exaggerated
fashion, and said, "Unaccustomed as I am
to public speaking . . ." That got another laugh.
"Get to the point, Kent," Ted growled, and one or
two others, Jan was glad to hear, joined him.
Someone else said, "Yeah, come on, Kent. We
haven't got all afternoon."
Immediately, Kent held up his hand. "Let me have the
stage," he said, reaching around and thumping it, "and you
all know I won't give it up without a struggle."
His face suddenly became more serious, and he
dropped his voice, as if confiding in the cast. "And
that's the point. Jan's done a good job of stage
managing-yes, Jan, you have-but a director she's
not. We all know you're an actress, Jan.
That's okay; it's not your fault! But the point is,
I think, and some of the others in the cast think, that this
play is in bad trouble and that we need our real
director to straighten it out. I. think we should ask
Mr. Taylor if we can postpone the performances
till after Mrs. Nicholson comes back."
"But Jan said Mr. Taylor approved of us going
on," said Nanny, her round face troubled.
"Maybe Mrs. Nicholson won't be back in
time. I mean, Jan said she's very sick.
Suppose she's going to be out for months or
something?"
"Well, if Jan would tell us what's wrong with
her we might
be able to figure out what to do more accurately,
Nanny, but since she won't, we'll just have
to guess about it. Right, Jan?"
"Right." Jan felt trapped. It would be so easy
to say "She has cancer; Nanny's probably
right"-but how could she without Mrs. Nicholson's
permission?
"I think Kent's got a point," Brenda said,
pouting. "Why shouldn't we find out about postponing it?
Besides, maybe Mr. Taylor will tell us what's
wrong with Mrs. Nicholson even if Jan
won't." She faced Jan. "Kent won't say
this, so I will. He's not sure that your interpretation of
Proctor is the same as Mrs. Nicholson's."
"Then Kent and I should discuss that," Jan said
evenly.
Kerry stood up. "I'm not very experienced in
plays, but I have a lead, too, and I don't think
the play's in trouble at all. I think it's just the
way Mrs. Nicholson wants it."
I love you, Jan thought.
"You don't have a very long lead, Kerry," Kent said
with an air of long-suffering patience. "And as you
say, you don't have much experience."
"Well, what's wrong with the play, then? You tell
us. Maybe we can fix it ourselves."
"Pace," Kent said grandly, looking bored.
"Timing."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Kent!" Jan
exploded in disgust. "That's wrong with almost every play
at this stage and you know it as well as I do!"
"And you're going to fix it, right? All by yourself? You,
an actress, are going to fix it. Well, I
don't think you can, and this play is too important
to me and to Mrs. Nicholson for me to want to risk
your fooling around with it."
"Why don't you fix it, then, Kent?" Ted asked
quietly.
"Because, pal, I'm in it, onstage nearly every
minute, in case you hadn't noticed. That's why."
  "That," said Nanny, shooting Jan a
sympathetic look, "must mean that if the pace is
off, it's got a lot to do with your pace, Kent!"
  There was a nervous laugh.
  "Jan's got a lot of experience," said
Kerry. "And she's not onstage. I
don't see why she can't help us with pacing and
timing, if that's what's wrong."
  "You wouldn't, Kerry," Kent snapped. "You
think Jan can do anything. We all know that."
  Jan quickly scrawled "Thanks, but leave it"
on a scrap of paper, got up, and handed it
to Kerry.
  "Love note?" said Kent under his breath to Jan.
"H'mm?"
  Will, close enough to have heard, raised his head, his
eyes round and startled. Brenda gave Kent a
thinly disguised thumbs-up sign.
  Jan felt a momentary stab of fear, but she
managed to retort, "You're going to turn into a
dirty old man if you don't watch out." Pushing
Kent's words and his friends' reactions away, she
faced the cast herself. Immediately Kent made another
sweeping bow and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the
great Janna Montcrief will now give us the
benefit of her predictable opinion."
  "Look," said Jan, trying to restore reason,
"instead of sitting here all afternoon wasting time, let's
take a vote. Some of you seem to agree with Kent,
so let's see how many. If most of you do, then I
guess we should ask Mr. Taylor about a
postponement. Maybe we could get him to find out how
Mrs. Nicholson feels about one, or if there's
any way of telling when she'll be back."
  Jan heard an approving murmur from most of the
cast, but Kent cut it off. "And who's going to count
the votes, Madame Director?"

"I will," said Kerry quickly.
  Kent gave a short, bitter laugh "Not you,
doll. You're just a little too involved, don't you
thik?"
  Jan heard a suppressed snicke and asked
quickly, "How about Nanny?" She felt her hads
making fists and found herself wishing she could punch beent
into silence. "Will you accept that?"
  "I didn't even say I'd agree to tilde
vote," Kent answered.
  "Come on, Kent," Gail said imatiently.
"You're wasting a lot of rehearsal time."
  "How about this?" said Ted. "El in favor of
having a vote, and having Nanny count, say aye'
  Everyone but Kent, Brenda, ad Will shouted
"Aye!"
  "Opposed? What's the mattes Kent?" Ted
asked when there was complete silence. "Cat
pt your tongue? How about you, Brenda? Will?"
  Brenda poked Kent, who sloubed back to the
front row and sat down. "Paper ballots," he
aid. "And if Nanny counts, Brenda helps
her."
  "Right," Will said emphatically "That's only
fair."
  "Okay," said Ted. "Write "Go o' or
"Postpone' on your ballot, depending on how you
feel. Okay, Jan?"
  "Sure." Jan scrawled "Go on" o a
scrap of paper, handed it deliberately to Brenda
insteadof to Nanny, and walked rapidly up the
aisle and out to this water cooler in the lobby.
  Ted followed her, after handin in his ballot.
  "Thanks." Jan gulped down a cp of water
she didn't really want. "That would have gone on
cggrever."
  "Jan," Ted said anxiously, "yowl better be
careful. I don't know why-maybe some kind oipower
thing-but I think Kent's out to get you. And if he
lees this vote I wouldn't put it past him to do
something reallbbrotten."
Jan crushed her paper cup fiercely and threw it
away. "Like what?"
  "Like-I don't know."
  "You do know. I can tell that you think you do,
anyway. Come on, Ted, what?"
  "Well, for instance, Nanny told me that this
morning she met Kent and Will when she was walking
to school, and that all three of them saw you driving
to Kerry's house. She said Kent made some kind of
crack."
  Jan froze; her stomach lurched, and for a moment
she was afraid she might have to run to the bathroom and
be sick. I
came out in high school, too, and it was really rough
. . . so be careful.
She wished she could stop remembering scraps of
Raphael's letter-wished she could stop remembering
Kent's comments about fags, too.
  But, aloud, she managed to say "What kind of
crack? Kids pick each other up for school all
the time. Look at you and me-was
  Ted took a cup from the side of the water cooler
and filled it. Jan had never seen him blush in all
the years she'd known him, but now his face was almost
purple. "Some garbage about the hottest romance of the
century," he blurted out finally, and then quickly hid
his face in his water cup.
  "Oh, good grief." Jan felt sick again. And
cold. And frightened. That most of all.
  "I thought you should know," said Ted miserably. He
shoved the empty cup down into the wastebasket as if
he wanted to hide his face there, too. "Jan, I
don't think I want to know what's going on,
okay? But-well, just watch it. Kent's a real
pain, but some kids listen to him. Will, for instance. And
obviously Brenda will go along with anything he
does, and some girls listen to her. Maybe only a
couple in

cared anymore
  the cast, but there are all her other friends, too."
Abruptly, he yanked open the auditorium
door, then called back,
  "Looks like they've finished."
  "I'll be right there."
  Jan stood still for a minute after led left, trying
to force her mind to work again. But it wouldn't, so she went
slowly back into the auditorium and sat down next
to Kerry, careful
  not to touch her or even brush against her.
  "What's wrong?" Kerry whispered.
11
Tell you later." Jan kept her eyes on
Nanny and Brenda, and on the two piles of
paper, one a bit larger than the other, on the stage
behind them. But she wondered if she really
  "Okay," Nanny said. "It wasn't even
close. I guess I should say it quickly. The
"Go on's' win. It was sixteen to six."
  Kerry gripped Jan's arm, but Jan shook her
off roughly, almost in a panic, and pulled away.
The shock on Kerry's face made her feel almost
physical pain. She started to scrawl Kerry an
apology and explanation, but Kent came sauntering
up to them. "Congratulations," he said to Jan
coldly. He started up the step unit, but then
pivoted deftly on his downstage foot so that he was
facing the auditorium three-quarters
  front.
  "By the way," he said crisply, looking straight
at Kerry and rubbing his chin with the tip of one forefinger,
"I've decided not to shave off my beard. As I
said before, Proctor's no fag, and I just thought
I'd let you know in advance that you're going to have to get
used to kissing a real man in our Act Two
scene."
TWELVE
AFTER A SHORT REHEARSAL
Friday afternoon, Jan and Kerry went to the Southview
public library, which was only a few blocks from
Aunt Elena's house. While Kerry examined the
picture collection, Jan sat at a table under the
mullioned windows of the reference room, surrounded
by costume books and history books, along with
books about Salem and Massachusetts Bay
Colony. None of them really answered her question, but
the illustrations-mostly photos of old
paintings-showed her that although most men in those days were
clean-shaven, a few had worn beards. And that
meant Proctor could have worn a beard, too.
  So that won't work, she thought tiredly, unless
Kerry finds something in the encyclopedias and
historical dictionaries and the picture collection
to contradict it. But that's unlikely. Maybe
Mrs. Nicholson can think of something. Jan had
permission to visit her in the hospital in a week,
on the Saturday before the final week of
rehearsals, to give her a progress report on
the play, and she'd gotten Mr. Nicholson to ask
her if Kerry could go, too, on the grounds that
Kerry was acting
126
as her assistant when she wasn't onstage herself.
Mrs. Nicholson had agreed.
  Jan pushed aside her notepad and put her
aching head down on the table. All week she had
tried reasoning with Kent and kidding him, but no matter
what she tried, he resisted, as if he were
silently saying, "Make me shave it off. Go
on. Prove you're really the director!"
  How dumb, she thought. How stupid, childish, and
petty. Dumb.
  But even though she believed that, she could see that
Kent's defiance was beginning to weaken the cast's
confidence in her. On Thursday, Ted had heard Will
and Brenda talking about postponement again, and the pace,
especially in Kent's scenes, was still sluggish
despite two rapid-fire line rehearsals. It
was as if Kent was deliberately putting the show in
trouble to prove he'd been right about its problems all
along.
  Jan felt Kerry brush her shoulder and she
leaned against her for a moment while Kerry rubbed the
back of her neck, as if she knew how stiff it
was. But then someone came into the reference room and
they moved apart.
  "Find anything?" Jan asked as Kerry
sat down opposite her.
  "Not really. A couple of beards in one or two
pictures, none in the rest. No mention of
Proctor in the text. The picture collection's
good, but we can't prove anything with it. Most of the
books didn't have any pictures at all from that
period." Kerry straightened one of Jan's stacks
of books. "I looked up about us," she said.
  "Huh?"
  "You know. Homosexuality. In the
encyclopedias."
  Jan raised her eyebrows.
  "They don't say much." Kerry sighed. "The
old ones call it
  arrested development or mental illness and the new
ones give a lot of conflicting theories-you're
born gay; you're not born gay-that kind of thing.
Some of them talk a lot about law reform and stuff like
that. I guess teachers are right when they say
encyclopedias really aren't that great."
  "There must be books," said Jan, "if you want
to read about it.
  "Before the stuff about homosexuality," Kerry
went on, "in one of the new encyclopedias, there's
this little paragraph about homophobia. Fear
of homosexuals, it says, or of
homosexuality. "Prejudice, sometimes leading
to violent acts," it says, too." Kerry
fiddled with her pencil. "It says sometimes the most
homophobic people are that way because they're scared of being
gay themselves. Guys, mostly, it says, so they try
to act extra-masculine."
  "Kent," said Jan.
  "I thought that, too."
  Something in Kerry's voice made Jan look
up sharply. "Hey, what is it?" she asked.
  Kerry brushed her hair back. "Oh, nothing."
Her chair made a scraping sound on the floor as
she pushed it away from the table. The person who'd come
into the room earlier, a middle-aged woman, frowned
disapprovingly.
  "Can we get out of here?" Kerry whispered. "Are
you done?"
  "Only if when we leave you'll tell me
what's wrong."
  "Okay."
  Jan gathered up her notebook and
schoolbooks, flung her jacket over her
shoulders, and followed Kerry out into the dark early
evening.
  "Your mother'll be here soon," said Kerry
evasively. "She's picking you up, right?"

"Kerry." Jan dropped her books on the steps
and sat down,
  "Come on."
  "It's just Kent, I guess:" Kerry shifted
her books and sat, too. "It's getting harder
to play those two scenes with him. He really
doesn't react anymore. Even after you told him
today that he doesn't, he just stood there staring at me
with this weird look on his face, and-well, you
remember when I pulled away from him in the
second-act scene and said
  ouch?"
  "Yes. What happened?"
  "I know I shouldn't have stopped like that, but he
kept rubbing his cheek on mine, like some huge cat.
Like he was trying to scratch me, to make a big
point of that dumb beard."
  "Jerk," muttered Jan. "Okay, look,
I'll say something next
  time if I see him do it. I honestly didn't
notice today."
  "Maybe you shouldn't say anything. I just
wanted you to
  know. But-oh, never mind."
  "What?"
  Kerry's gaze shifted to the sidewalk, where an
Irish setter, burnished copper in the glow of the
streetlight, was sniffing
  industriously at a pile of leaves. "Nothing."
  Well, when we did the kiss again," she said, still
watching the dog, "he stuck his tongue in my mouth.
And then he said
  something like "I bet a girl never kissed you like
that,
  Jan winced, groaning inwardly.
  "If he does it again," Kerry said, "I'm
going to bite him,
  okay? Even if he is doing it to prove
something."
  "Yes, okay! Bite his stupid tongue off!"
  Kerry smiled faintly. "I didn't know you'd
be so jealous.
  "It's not that so much-well, sure, it is. But
it's also that if he's got something to say about us, I
wish he'd come right
out and say it. I mean, he doesn't really know
anything's going on; he can't. And he knows
that's no way to rehearse a kiss. Besides,
Proctor wouldn't kiss Elizabeth like that. Abby,
yes, but Elizabeth, no."
"I know. I hate him so," Kerry said under her
breath. "I wish he'd leave us alone."
"Maybe he'll stop if we don't react."
Jan waved as her mother drove up blinking her
headlights. "But the trouble is that he's obviously
trying to screw up your performance along with trying
to play Proctor as if he were Stanley
Kowalski; I think you might be right about the reason
for that." She told Kerry what Kent had said about the
gay men during Streetcar. "I don't envy you up
there onstage with him. But I really do think we
shouldn't react. I think we should treat him like a
fourth-grade bully."
"He is a fourth-grade bully. And I don't
envy you having to direct him. It's you who have the
brunt of the beard fight, plus the whole show."
Kerry stood up. "I'd better go. I'm getting
morbid. Call me later?"
"Sure." Jan stood and tried to see Kerry's
eyes in the dim light on the library steps, but
couldn't. "You know you're going to be very, very good as
Elizabeth," she said, wanting
desperately to hug Kerry, but putting her hands in
her pockets instead; her mother was waiting right there-and
what if someone should come out of the library? "Kent or
no Kent. You do know that, don't you?"
Kerry smiled, faintly again. "I hope I'm
going to be good. I want to be, for you and for Mrs.
Nicholson. I'm sure trying. Like you're trying
to win the beard fight with Kent."
"It's such a symbol of everything else," Jan
called as Kerry ran down the steps. "I've got
to win it," she added under her breath. "I've got
to."
But by the end of the next week Kent still showed no sign
of giving in.
"Good grief!" exclaimed Jan's mother Saturday
morning at about ten-thirty, at the door to Jan's
room. "I didn't know it was still the hurricane
season!"
"I can't find anything clean," Jan grumbled,
"to wear to see Mrs. Nicholson." She sat down
on the edge of her bed among the heaps of jeans,
shirts, turtlenecks, and even a couple of
skirts she'd pulled out of her closet.
"Far be it from me to criticize," said her mother, "but
as I've said before, there's this wonderful
modern invention in the cellar, called a-now let me
see. Machine of laundry? No, that's not it.
Laundry machine? Nope." She snapped her
fingers. "I've got it! Washing machine, that's it!
Amazing thing, really. You don't even have to put
quarters in it. You push a button, and the darn thing
fills itself up with water, wiggles the clothes around .
. ."
"Oh, Mom," Jan moaned. "I'm meeting
Kerry at twelve."
Her mother picked a pair of brown corduroy jeans
up from the floor. "What's wrong with these?" she
asked. "They're a dark color, anyway."
"I've worn them so much they reek."
"Well, dear, if you called Kerry and changed your
lunch date to twelve-thirty, you'd have time to do a
small load of whatever you want to wear, just so you
wear all darks or all lights. We've got a
dryer, too; did I tell you that?"
Jan snatched up the brown jeans with a dark blue
turtleneck, and pelted down the stairs.
There was an odd, unpleasantly sweet smell in
Mrs. Nicholson's hospital room when Jan
and Kerry walked in after a
quick sandwich lunch. At first they stood
uncertainly in the doorway, not sure whether Mrs.
Nicholson was awake or not. Then she moved and
Jan was stunned to realize that part of what she'd thought
was the pillow was really a bandage on Mrs.
Nicholson's head.
"Mrs. Nicholson?" Kerry said softly.
Mrs. Nicholson's eyes, dull when she first
opened them, brightened, but that couldn't distract Jan from
her taut cheeks or her pallor. As Mrs.
Nicholson lifted a thin hand to straighten the
bandage, her bed-jacket sleeve fell back and
Jan noticed with shock that her arm had wasted away
almost to bone. Of course, Jan thought; that's why she
wore long sleeves all fall, even on hot
days . . .
"Janna, Kerry, how nice," Mrs.
Nicholson said weakly, struggling to raise herself.
Kerry went swiftly to the bed and put her hands under
Mrs. Nicholson's shoulders, helping her move
higher on the mound of pillows. "I could roll your
bed up more," she said.
"No, dear, this is fine, thank you." Mrs.
Nicholson waved in what would have been a strong,
unmistakable invitation a few weeks ago, but was
now only a vague flutter, as weary as
her voice. "Sit down and tell me about the show.
How are you, my Elizabeth? How is my
Proctor?"
Jan cleared her throat, still too shocked at
Mrs. Nicholson's appearance to speak. She
glanced desperately at Kerry.
"Jan tells me I'm doing okay," Kerry
supplied promptly, "and your Proctor's being his
usual childish self, but he'll be brilliant
when it matters, we're all sure. The
Betty-Abigail hysteria scene is terrific
now. That improvisation really helped. And . . ."
Jan found her voice at last. "It builds the
way you wanted," she said. "At least I think it
does. One of the secretaries from

the office wandered in the other day when we were doing it and
she said it gave her the shivers. The pace is a
bit slow still, in some places, but it'll pick up
by dress, I'm sure."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Nicholson. "I'm
sure it will. But don't panic if it doesn't.
With high-school shows, it doesn't always get
sorted out till the first performance. Line rehearsals
do wonders, of course, but you know that."
"We had one just the other day," said Kerry.
"There you are, then." Mrs. Nicholson shifted
position tiredly and her gaze strayed to the window.
"You're sweet to come and see me. The cast was so
nice to send those flowers, too." She pointed to a
huge bouquet on the windowsill.
"I'm glad they got here," Jan said. The flowers
had been Nanny's idea, and they'd all chipped
in; Jan had forgotten about it till now. She
made a mental note, though, to tell everyone that
Mrs. Nicholson had mentioned them, and that they were
beautiful.
Mrs. Nicholson pulled herself up higher in the bed
and bent her head toward them. "I've talked my
doctors into letting me come to first dress
rehearsal," she said, and some of the old sparkle
leapt back into her eyes. "That is, if the
director will have me."
"Of course!" said Jan.
"I shall sit very quietly and unobtrusively in the
back of the auditorium. And I shall have Robert
wheel me out as soon as the curtain falls. It would
be bad luck to scare the cast with a real Salem
witch a few days before the first performance."
"But they'd love to see you," Jan said
quickly. "I wish you'd come to both dress
rehearsals."
"Both performances, too," added Kerry.
"I'm not sure I could manage that," said Mrs.
Nicholson.
"And I don't think I want the cast to see me."
She touched her bandaged head again. "I can disguise a
great many things-any actress can-but not this. They shaved
off some hair, you see. To operate," she
explained.
"We could get you a hat," Kerry said, "or make
you a wonderful stylish turban. Look-I just
happen to have . . ." Kerry ran to the door, on whose
handle she had draped her jacket, and pulled a
green-and-brown scarf out of the pocket. "We could
use something like this," she said, holding it up. "May
I try? Does your head hurt?"
"No," said Mrs. Nicholson, with a faint shadowy
smile. "Nothing hurts very much at all anymore.
They told me they just took a look around inside and
did something to relieve some pressure, and then they
put my head back together again. It was rather like making a
trapdoor in a stage floor. And they give me
wonderful pills and shots, so nothing hurts.
Yes, you may try. What a marvelous
girl you are!" she said as Kerry draped and twisted
the scarf skillfully over the stark white bandage.
"Isn't she, Janna?"
"She sure is," said Jan fervently. She
turned quickly away, though, struggling to conceal the
tears that persisted in rising in her eyes no matter
how much she blinked. The contrast was painful-young,
strong, attractive Kerry, beside Mrs.
Nicholson's wasted, feeble body. And yet she
loved them both and couldn't resent Kerry's strength.
She knew she could never do what Kerry was doing, could
never be so accepting of what obviously was a terminal
illness, could never adjust so easily.
Her eyes moved back to them again-Kerry like a little
girl playing hairdresser, Mrs. Nicholson
submitting almost merrily, helping hold the turban
in place while Kerry tucked it in, laughing . .
. Or was it the other way around, with Mrs.

Nicholson the little girl and Kerry the understanding
adult?
Suddenly Jan wanted desperately to leave,
"There." Kerry stepped back. "Got a
mirror?"'
"On the dresser," said Mrs.
Nicholson. "But I'm not sure
I want to see, scarecrow that I am."
Kerry had already found the mirror. "It's up to you,"
she said cheerfully, holding it. "But I think you
look terrific. You
can't see the bandage at all, can you, Jan?"'
"No," Jan answered with difficulty. "No, not
at all." But
Mrs. Nicholson did look like a scarecrow. It
was grotesque, the painfully prematurely old
face beneath the cheerful scarf.
"With makeup," Kerry said gently, "you'll look
grand."
"Oh, all right. Let me see," Mrs.
Nicholson decided. "I saw myself in a mirror
a few days ago. I can't look much worse
than I did then."
Kerry took the mirror to her, tactfully holding
it, Jan noticed, to show more of her turbaned head
than of her wasted
face,
"Umm," said Mrs. Nicholson. "Not bad."
She poked the turban. "I wonder if Robert
could figure out how to do this."
"I'll do it," offered Kerry, "if you
let me come early, before I have to be at school for
dress rehearsal. I'll be glad to do it for you.
And maybe, since I'm not on till the second
act,
can even be late to rehearsal."
"IF you promise to be there by the time the curtain
does
up," Jan said.
"I promise."
"Accepted." Mrs. Nicholson touched the turban
again, this
time patting it gently. "I shall meet my
public-well, my cast-radiantly transformed.
Now take it off, dear; the nurses wouldn't understand.
It would spoil their wonderful hospital decor.
Did you know that white is for funerals, too? Now,
Jan," she said with a hint of her old briskness
while Kerry obediently unwrapped the turban,
"what's this about Kent? From your face earlier and from
what Kerry said, I gather things aren't perfect with
him."
As lightly as she could, Jan told Mrs.
Nicholson about the beard, trying to make it seem
less important than it really was. But she
felt, when Mrs. Nicholson nodded
approvingly when Jan told her about the research she
and Kerry had done at the library, that Mrs.
Nicholson was too shrewd and knew Kent too
well not to understand.
"It's okay," Jan finished, anxious not to worry
her; she suddenly seemed very tired. "I'll think of
something in time. It's just annoying, that's all:"
"Appeal-to his-manly pride." Mrs.
Nicholson closed her eyes as if listening had
exhausted her. "His-vanity. For what it's
worth, I cast him as much for his face as for his
acting." She paused a moment, then opened her
eyes. "He's got a-wonderfully expressive
face, especially-mouth. Kent's mouth-is
Proctor's. Couldn't see it, though, through a
beard. You may quote me."
Kerry poked Jan's arm and pointed to the door.
Jan nodded. "Thank you," she said, standing beside the
bed. "I'll tell him that. But we should go now;
you're tired."
Mrs. Nicholson took Jan's hand; Jan
tried not to notice the way her fragile bones showed
through her thin, dry skin.
"It'll be fine, Janna." Mrs. Nicholson
gripped Jan with surprising strength. "I
know it will. I'll be proud of all of you. If only
I could shake Kent! He makes me so angry.
He . . ." She closed her eyes again, then opened
them; Jan couldn't believe she wasn't in pain.
"He's-a troubled boy, I think. Trying to be a
man. Doesn't-yet know how. Jealous, too.
But-but you'll manage; you will. And-I'll come
to dress,

protected-disguised-by-your costume, Kerry.
Now, go, dears-please. Please go:"
Mrs. Nicholson's voice broke.
Impulsively, Jan bent down and kissed her.
Kerry kissed her, too, and then they left.
Jan strode to the elevator, fighting tears. She
bumped into a bin marked "Laundry," then kicked it
fiercely. "It's not fair," she shouted, not caring that
there were people around. "It's just not fair! She's always
been so strong, so alive."
"I know." Kerry took Jan's arm when the
elevator came, propelled her into it and then out of
it when it reached the ground floor, among passengers
who were obviously trying not to stare.
In the lobby, Jan spotted a cigarette machine
and fed it quarters.
"You don't smoke," said Kerry as they went through the
swinging doors into the pale December sunshine.
"I do now." Savagely Jan ripped the pack
open. "Why does it have to be a nice day? What
right has the sun to be out when she's up there dying?"
"You don't know that."
Jan lit a cigarette, tried to inhale, and
immediately coughed. She shook out the match and ground it
against the pavement. "Oh, come on, Kerry, look
at her!" She headed briskly for the parking lot,
groping in her pocket for her keys; Kerry
followed. "People don't get that thin when they're going
to be okay. And that bandage on her head-come on!"
She thrust the wrong key into the car's lock, jamming
it.
"What do you mean?" Kerry eased the stuck key out.
"About the bandage?" She took Jan's key ring from
her, found the right key, and unlocked the car.
"Her falling down at rehearsal, the way her hands
shook
sometimes, the way she couldn't talk quite right when she
fell. Her husband just said she had cancer, but-well,
what do you think she meant about their looking around
inside her head?"
Kerry stared at Jan for a moment. "Oh,
no," she said quietly. "Oh, no."
"Right." Jan squashed the cigarette out and got
into the car. "A brain tumor," she said, when Kerry
got in beside her. "What else could it be? I
don't know why that would make her so thin, unless she just
doesn't feel like eating. Or maybe they've
given her chemotherapy or something and it's made her
feel sick. But if they relieved some pressure
in her head and put it back together again, that must mean
they couldn't take the tumor out. Which also must mean
she's-finished. She's going to die, Kerry, I know
it. And she must've known it, too, or suspected
it, all this time:" Jan leaned her head for a moment
against the steering wheel. "She must've known back at
tryouts. She must've known then that she might need
someone to take over. Maybe she even asked Mr.
Taylor way back then if I could. Oh, God
. . ." She let the tears come at last.
"Jan-Jan." Kerry put her arms around her,
rubbing her shoulders, stroking her hair. "I could
try to convince you that miracles happen, or that we
don't know for sure she's dying, but I think you're
probably right. I know you love her, I know . .
."
"She was-is-the only teacher who ever
meant anything to me, who ever made me feel I could
do anything. She trusted me, Kerry, I mean, she
believed in me. If it weren't for her I
probably wouldn't have dared even dream that I could be
in theater someday. I certainly wouldn't have tried out for
stock. I'd-oh, I don't know." She wiped her
eyes, trying to stop the flow of tears; Kerry handed
her a tissue. "I

wouldn't ever have thought of directing, and now I really like
it, even though I was mad at first when she didn't
cast me."
"I know," Kerry said gently. "I know."
Jan beat her fist on the steering wheel. "It's just
that I feel so helpless! Someone I love is dying
and there's not a single thing I can do."
"You can give her a terrific dress rehearsal,"
Kerry said. "We all can. And you can try to get
Kent to shave off his beard, because of Mrs.
Nicholson, not because of me or even the play. You
can't make her live, Jan, but you can help make
her dying easier."
was "That's not an office for a friend, my lord,"" said
Jan, quoting Shakespeare.
"Oh, yes, it is! When there's nothing
else a friend can do, it is." She turned Jan
toward her and ran her finger under Jan's eyes,
wiping leftover tears away. "And you'll do it,
too; I know you will."
"With your help. You're the one who convinced her to show
herself at dress."
"A turban is nothing."
"Wrong. It's a lot. She'd never have agreed
to meet the cast without it. And I could no more have made
that-thought of it, even-than I could fly. So there:"
"Well, I could no more direct a play than I
could fly, so we're even. Jan-okay, she's
probably going to die, maybe even soon. But because
of you she's going to die knowing the last thing she did was
a fine production of
The Crucible.
She called it a great play, remember? And she
said the school's never done a great play. Doing one
is worth a lot to her, I bet. If only Kent
. . ."
"Precisely:" Jan started the car. Her eyes were
dry now, and her mouth was grim. "If only
Kent."
THE NEXT DAY WAS
Sunday, the day of the first technical
runthrough, to be followed by a dress parade to check
costumes and makeup, and then a run-through with
costumes, primarily to make sure the actors could
work in the clothes they'd be wearing and to practice the
few costume changes. Jan was thankful that she
already knew about lighting and that she'd taken the time
to learn the sound system-thankful, too, that she'd
made it a point to work backstage in stock as well
as onstage. For the first time in weeks she would have to be
more of a stage manager than a director, giving
cues and supervising the scene changes that Ms.
Grillo had worked out with the crew. At least she
wouldn't have to worry much about costumes or makeup;
Nanny had been working with Ms. Grillo all
along on costumes, and had been doing makeup
since sophomore year. She was really good at it,
and had even taught some of the cast to do their own.
Kerry handed Jan a note as soon as she arrived:

Ms. Elena Alexandra Socrides
and
Ms. Kerry Ann Soerides
cordially invite
Ms. Janna Montcrief
to dinner
this Sunday evening
at 6:30 p.m.
RSVPI-NFORMAL
Hastily, Jan folded a lopsided paper
airplane, scrawled "Ms. Montcrief
accepts with pleasure" on it, and tossed it
to Kerry, making a mental note to call her mother,
who she was sure would let her go. Then she said,
patiently, to the junior who was going to be running the
old light board, "Let's try that again,
Marianne. I'll count it this time. Ready?
Remember, all "warn" means is to get ready
to take the cue. Don't actually do it till I
say "go." Okay. Warn cue six." Jan
paused for a slow ten count. "Cue six-go.
Slowly, Marianne, slowly. Move the dimmer
handle up while I count. Let's try it again, on
a count of eight. Warn cue six . . . Cue
six, go. One-two-threefour-you should be at half
now-seven-eight." Jan peered into the auditorium
at the big Leko spotlights that were shooting blue
and amber light onto the stage. "Perfect," she
said. "Do it just like that and it'll be fine."
The technical run-through without the actors was long and.
tedious, for Jan made the crew rehearse
each scene change until it went smoothly, and had
Marianne and the boy doing sound go through their cues
several times. When at last she was satisfied, the
cast had already assembled for the dress parade, and the
costumes were fine, except for a couple of minor
problems like missing buttons and sagging hems.
Jan decided not to call the run-through with costumes a
dress rehearsal, because she wanted to be able to stop
to repeat light cues and scene changes. She did
stop a few times, but the actors for the most part bore
the interruptions patiently. At first, Jan was still
concentrating too much on technical details
to notice the show as a whole, but gradually she
realized she was noticing, and soon her exhilaration
grew to the point where she could no longer ignore it.
It became clear to her that despite Kent's
antics, one or two sloppy light cues, and a
couple of misplaced props, all
Crucible's
parts showed clear signs of fitting together as smoothly
and tightly as a perfectly cut jigsaw puzzle.
Once again she realized Mrs. Nicholson had
been right; it was hard now to imagine limiting herself
to playing a single character when she might be capable of
staging an entire production.
But the hardest test was still ahead of her.
She'd worked it out carefully, lying awake half the
night, drawing on all her knowledge of Kent, going over
the words she planned to say, rehearsing them like lines.
When rehearsal was over and she'd finished giving the
cast and crew the notes she'd taken about things they still
needed to work on, she put her clipboard down, said,
"Wait a sec," to the two or three people who'd
started to leave, and made sure she had a smile on
her face when she began.
"I've got good news," she said, "and I've got
one more note, a costume note, to give. That's for
Kent; you don't all have to stay for it. The good news
is that Mrs. Nicholson is coming to first dress . .
."
There was a whoop-except from Kent, who was staring
blankly at her.
"She's very sick, still," Jan warned them. "She
looks-well, she looks pretty awful . . ."
"I didn't know anyone was allowed to see her,"
Kent said.

Jan found herself glancing quickly at Kerry. was I
had to talk to her about the show, Kent," she said
quietly.
But Kent must have seen her glance, for he said, "You and
your sidekick, right?"
"Kerry did come." Jan tried to keep her voice
steady. "You know she's been assisting me."
"Yeah, right," Kent snarled. "So what's the
costume note? You might as well give it to me in
public. I don't have secrets from the rest of the
cast."
"Okay." Jan looked at him levelly. "The
costume note is to shave off your beard by first
dress." She forced a smile. "As if you hadn't
guessed."
"Is that from Mrs. Nicholson?" Kent asked.
"Or from you?" He got up from his seat and stood
facing Jan. "I mean, did you go running to her
whining, "Ooooh, Kent won't shave and I
don't know what to do . . .""
Jan saw Kerry's angry face and said quickly,
"No, Kent, I didn't. She asked about you, and
I told her. Kerry and I also looked up about
beards in the 1690's and I'm sure you'll be
glad to know that some men wore them. So maybe you're
right; maybe Proctor would have. But Mrs.
Nicholson said she finds your face "wonderfully
expressive"-I think those were her very
words-and she said that your mouth, especially, looks like
Proctor's. Now, I don't think anyone's
going to be able to see your mouth under all those whiskers,
even if we aimed every Leko in the house on you, up
full. But it's up to you. I'm not going to hold you
down and shave it off for you."
"Might not be a bad idea," Ted muttered.
"I'll volunteer," said Nanny, who was sitting
next to him. "Hey, it's part of my job," she said
innocently when Kent glared at her. "I'm the
makeup person, remember?"
"Damn you, Jan," said Kent. "Damn you!
Since Mrs. Nich-
olson's coming to dress, she must be a lot better.
I bet we could have postponed the show. I bet we
could . . :"
Ted got up from his seat, shot a quick look at
Jan as if apologizing, and said quietly, "What
if she's not better, Kent? What if this is her
last show, and she wants to see it before she dies and
that's why she's coming? Did you ever think of that? You
heard Jan say she's very sick and she looks
awful. Put it together, man:" He leaned down, his
face close to Kent's. "I think Mrs.
Nicholson might be dying. And she wants
a Proctor without a beard. You figure it out."
Ted went back to his seat, leaving Kent slumped
angrily in his, subdued, but obviously still
seething.
There was a growing murmur among the others in the cast,
and finally Gail asked timidly, "Is that true,
Jan? About Mrs. Nicholson dying?"
Jan saw Brenda get up and try to touch Kent;
he ignored her, but she sat down next to him. Will,
on Kent's other side, said, "Well, is it?"
Jan took a deep breath and made her decision
quickly. "Yes, I think it's true. She has
cancer. I didn't tell you because, as I said, when
her husband first talked to me about it, he said she
didn't want a lot of fuss. She herself didn't
specifically ask me not to say anything, so I
guess it's okay that you know. But I still don't think
she wants a fuss made over her."
"I'm sorry," Ted said gruffly to Jan. "It's
my fault you had to tell. But that jerk . . ."
Brenda jumped up. "What do you know about jerks?"
she shouted. "Always sticking up for that-that-for Jan!
Kent has as much right to know about Mrs. Nicholson
as she does. He loves her."
"So does Jan," Ted said. "We all
do. Brenda, look, I'm sorry, but..."

Jan went up to Kent. "Kent, Kent," she said
miserably. "Maybe I was wrong not to tell
earlier, especially not to tell you, but I thought I
shouldn't because of what her husband said. Please let's
stop all this. Let's just do a fine show for her."
He looked up at her and for a moment honest feeling
seemed to penetrate his swagger. "Oh, God," he
said. "IJ-AN, I've been-fooling around with this
play so much, I . . ." But then his eyes blazed
again as if something else had taken over. "You could have
told me," he said. "It still comes down to that. But
no. You always have to be first, you have to be the important
one, you have to win every argument. Mrs. Nicholson and
I have disagreed before; I could win this argument if I
could just talk to her. And I could have directed this play
as well as you:" He pushed himself violently away
from his seat and strode rapidly up the aisle toward
the lobby, with Brenda close behind.
Will glowered poisonously at Jan.
"So that's it, too," Jan said under her breath in the
stunned silence that followed. "Jealousy. Right again,
Mrs. Nicholson."
But, she thought, there's still the beard, and what
happened to him last summer.
Later, after dessert at Kerry's, Aunt Elena
excused herself, saying she had to work on her
Christmas display. Waving cheerfully to Jan and
Kerry, who were still at the table, she went through the
yellow door and outside into the shop.
Kerry got up from her chair. "Come on up to my
room. Let's forget the dishes."
"Won't she expect us to do them?"
"We can do them later. Or I can." Kerry went
around Jan's chair and put her hands on Jan's
shoulders, massaging them gently. Jan leaned
back, closing her eyes.
The house was very quiet.
"Kent was so hurt," Jan said after a while. "He
does love Mrs. Nicholson, and aside from
everything else, it's got to be super-hard for him that
we saw her and he didn't. It's funny; I
shouldn't be sorry for him, but I am. I'm even
sorry about what happened to him last summer-assuming
that a couple of gay guys really did make pests
of themselves."
Kerry knelt beside Jan and took her hands. "But
maybe they didn't. I have a feeling Kent would
get almost violent if a gay guy so much
as said hello to him. And," she said, "you're sorry
for him because you're a decent person. Deep down
anyway," she added lightly, pulling Jan up and
putting her arms around her. "After you get past the
rough edges."
"Oh, Kerry, Kerry." Jan held her
tightly. "You always make things seem so much
better; you always . . ."
But by then Kerry's mouth was on her mouth, and there was
nothing more to say.
There was only a single light on, across the room on
Kerry's desk, when Jan opened her eyes later.
She froze in panic, not remembering where she was.
Then she felt Kerry's warmth beside her on the narrow
bed, felt her own cramped muscles, and knew.
She wondered vaguely what time it was and let her
eyes close again for a moment; her throat ached with
unwept tears, but not tears of sadness.
When she opened her eyes once more she found Kerry
watching her in the dim light, touching her gently.
"Hi," Kerry whispered.
"Hi." Jan felt herself tremble, melting closer
to Kerry; remembering how they'd lain down together,
holding each other, kissing softly and talking till
they'd fallen asleep. Now

Jan touched Kerry gently wherever Kerry touched
her, wanting to feel what Kerry felt as well as
what she herself felt; it was as if her body had been
waiting for this all its life and hers, as if it were
suddenly coming alive on its own. It was wonderful and
terrifying at the same time.
They were still slowly touching, exploring each other in
wonder, when a door slammed sharply downstairs.
Kerry wrenched herself away from Jan and their fragile
mood shattered like glass.
"Oh, no!" Kerry whispered. "Elena!"
Elena's voice called clearly, "Kerry Ann?
Good heavens, are you asleep?"
"No, Aunt Elena, I'm not asleep," Kerry
answered, switching on another light and putting her
clothes to rights. "Be right down."
Jan sat up and fumbled with her own clothes.
"Kerry, the door," she whispered sharply when she
heard Aunt Elena's feet on the stairs. "Your
door's open a little."
Kerry pushed it shut, and quickly pulled her hair,
which had come out of its braid, into a loose
ponytail. "I'll go out to her. It'll give you a
minute or two more. Oh, Jan-what a
way to end it!" She blew Jan a kiss, then
left, and Jan could hear her cheerfully talking to her
aunt in the hall, something about Santa Claus and
tissue paper and then hot chocolate.
"Jan," Kerry called a moment later, "we're
going to make hot chocolate. See you downstairs
as soon as you finish that cue sheet, okay?"
"Okay," Jan answered. My sweet liar, she
thought, then wished neither of them would ever have to lie again about
themselves, or have to hide.
Jan closed her eyes briefly and put her head
back down on the pillow-Kerry's pillow; it
smelled of her hair and Jan's,
and the bedspread was rumpled and still warm where they had been
lying.
"My love," Jan whispered. "My dearest
love." She ran her hands over her body,
remembering Kerry's gentle hands and her own, and their
bodies close together, and the clumsiness, for they
hadn't known what to do, and the sweet long
unpracticed kisses that left her mouth aching, even
now.
So this is what it's like, she thought, not wanting to leave
the bed. This is what it's like. Some of it, anyway.
She was still lying there when Kerry came back
in, carrying a mug of chocolate. "Aunt
Elena's watching a movie," she told Jan, "but
she said hadn't you better go home or call your mother
or something. Then she said you could stay if you wanted
to spend the night, if it was okay with your mother. There's
a cot . . ."
"Of course I want to spend the night!" Jan said
weakly, sitting up.
"We'd have to be pretty careful. Her room's right
across the hall."
"Just sleeping in the same room with you would be-well,
it would be fine."
Kerry sat on the edge of the bed and kissed Jan.
Then she handed her the chocolate. "I'll get the
cot while you call your mother, okay?"
Jan took a big swallow of chocolate and
burned her mouth again. "Okay," she said, wincing.
"You know I'm always going to remember you and your aunt
passing out boiling-hot chocolate if I remember
nothing else."
"You'd better remember quite a lot else," said
Kerry, standing up. "But you will. I'm going to be there
to remind you. Always."

rOURTEEN
RAIN DROVE HARD
against Kerry's window, waking them both at dawn.
"What a thing," whispered Jan, "to wake up with
you."
They lay in each other's arms and watched the thin
gray light brighten.
"Let's go out," Kerry said. "Let's go out in the
rain." She propped herself up on one elbow and
leaned over Jan, her loose tangled hair making
a dark curtain covering them both. "Let's walk
in the rain," she said, "and come back and make a
huge breakfast for us and Aunt Elena, and just
pretend to go to school. We could come back here and
stay all day."
"Rehearsal." Jan lifted a handful of Kerry's
hair and let it fall again. "Your aunt."
"Aunt Elena'll be in the shop. She's having a
sale tdpre-Christmas specials. And we could go
to school in time for rehearsal. Oh, Jan, how can
we go back to scratched wooden desks and teachers and
kids after last night? I don't know about you, but I
need some time."
Jan kissed her.
The rain dripped from bare branches onto their
heads, and their feet sloshed in sodden
leaves. A cold wind blew in with the morning, but
Jan hardly felt it. She spread her arms wide
as they stood on the riverbank watching the current
rush downstream; she threw her arms to the sky and
shouted, "I love you, world!"
They played tag on the riverbank before anyone
else in Southview was up, and hurried back
to make breakfast, only to find that Aunt Elena
had already gone into the shop. "Hi, early birds,"
said a note propped up against a bowl of deviled
ham and mustard on the kitchen table. "I saw you go
out to walk in the rain. Hope you come back for
breakfast before school. Take some deviled ham for
lunch if you want-I made myself a sandwich of it
to eat in the shop between customers. Kerry Ann, see
you at dinner. The rush begins! Merry (groan!)
Christmas!"
Kerry grinned. "See?" she said. "She'll be in
the shop all day."
Jan grinned back, and kissed her.
"Breakfast," said Kerry.
"Right." Jan opened a cupboard. "Where does your
aunt keep the coffee? Hey-I don't even know
how you like your coffee. Or if you like it. Maybe you
drink tea. Maybe you drink herb tea.
Maybe you drink milk. Or-oh, spare meffhot
chocolate?" She paused, her hand on another
cupboard door.
Kerry laughed. "Real coffee's in the fridge,
instant's in that cupboard-no, the next one. Yes,
I do like coffee. Light, with lots of sugar." She
put her arms around Jan from behind and rested her head
on Jan's shoulder. "I don't know how you like your
eggs. Or if you like eggs. Or how you like your steak.

Or hamburger. Or tofu, for that matter. I
don't know if you hate cauliflower."
"Scrambled. Yes. Rare. Rare. I've never
had tofu. I do hate cauliflower, but I can
manage to get it down if it has lots of cheese
sauce on it." Jan turned, still in Kerry's
arms.
At around eleven the phone rang.
"Won't it ring in the shop, too?" Jan asked.
They were on the floor of Kerry's room, listening
to tapes, Jan's head in Kerry's lap.
"No. The shop's another line:" Kerry moved
Jan's head gently. "I'd better answer it.
Sometimes packages for here get sent to a gift shop
downtown. I can just tell whoever it is
to send them on if it's that, and if it isn't, I can
hang up or say wrong number or something."
Jan wasn't sure she agreed that was a good idea,
but she didn't want to argue, so she said "Okay"
and lay still, dozing, while Kerry was gone.
"No one there," Kerry said cheerfully when she came
back. She knelt beside Jan. "Never change,"
she said, touching Jan's face. "Please never
change."
"The sun's out-look!"
Kerry raised her head from the pillow, then pulled the
curtain to one side. "It's shining on you now," she
said, kissing Jan's bare shoulder.
"And on you." Jan traced the sunspots on
Kerry's body. "My golden love," she
whispered.
After they dressed, they had tomato soup and deviled
ham at the kitchen table. Several customers"
cars, nearly soundless
through the closed window, drove up and parked near the
shop while they sat there.
"I don't believe us," Jan said, crumbling a
cracker into her soup. She was suddenly ravenous, her
eyes heavy from lack of sleep. She lifted her
hand and touched it to her mouth, then reached across
the table for Kerry's hand. "I never knew hands and
mouths could make anyone feel what I've felt
today," she said.
"Neither did L" Kerry ran her own fingers
lightly over Jan's. "I don't think I knew
anything till today. It's like getting older and being
born all at the same time." She lifted Jan's
hand to her cheek and held it there. "It's almost holy,
touching
you."
"Touching you, too."
"I can't imagine doing anything like that with a boy."
Kerry kissed Jan's hand and let it go.
"Imagine it, maybe," said Jan slowly. "But
want it, feel the same way about it, no."
"It's like another way of talking with you, of us learning
about each other. Of being close."
"My friend Raphael," said Jan, discreetly
biting into her sandwich, "says the important thing is
who you feel something for emotionally as well as
physically. Who you want to spend your life with.
He said in his letter that he'd slept with a girl and
liked it, but that he likes boys better in all
ways."
"I always liked girls better," said
Kerry. "Being with girls,
talking with them. You didn't. You had Ted."
"I usually liked playing with boys better than
playing with girls when I was little. I didn't much like
playing house and stuff like that. I don't think we have
to be the same as each other, Kerry, just because we're
gay. We can still be different people. We should be."
Kerry laughed and munched her sandwich. "Yes, of
for their walk.
course," she said. "I wouldn't want us to be the
same. But it's like I expect a-a direct
translation. You know, that one
can put everything one's been taught about being straight
into gay terms by just turning it around, making it
opposite,
sort of."
Jan shook her head. "I don't think it works like
that. Not from what I know from Raphael, and what I
feel. I mean, I don't want to be a boy,
even though I liked playing with boys when I was little.
I just feel as if I've always been a different
kind of girl. But still a girl."
"A different kind of girl,"" Kerry repeated.
"Yes. That'
good way to put it, I guess."
Jan lay on her back on Kerry's bed, watching
Kerry unbraid her hair and brush it, long,
shimmering, and dark, over her shoulder. She'd undone
it from its ponytail the night before, but Kerry had
twisted it quickly into a braid when they'd Qone
Kerry looked at Jan in the mirror. "You're
staring at me. I
"You're so pretty. Beautiful, right now."
"Garbage. You're just prejudiced. Didn't you
ever hear that
think about love's being blind?"
Jan got up and took the brush from Kerry; Kerry
let Jan push her back gently till she was
sitting on the bed. "May I
"Sure." Kerry reached up and tangled her fingers
in Jan's unruly curls. "You're beautiful,
too," she said, pulling her
closer and kissing her.
"Garbage," Jan said.
The phone rang again while Kerry was in the shower, as
they were getting ready to go to rehearsal, so Jan
picked it up,
since Kerry had answered it earlier. Still, she
felt annoyed at the break in the house's comfortable
stillness-nervous, too; was someone checking
to see if anyone was home before breaking in? Or-she
thought guiltily, just as she said "Hello?"-is
someone from school checking on us?
But by then it was too late to hang up.
There was no sound, really, nothing like the heavy breathing
she realized she'd half expected, or even
breathing at all, yet something told her someone was
listening intently.
Suddenly frightened, she said "Hello!" again, sharply
this time.
There was a choked sound like the beginning of a laugh, and then
a click.
Kerry poked Jan when they went into the auditorium
for what was to be a quick rehearsal, without costumes,
to fix a few remaining rough spots. "Look at
Kent."
Kent was onstage, doing the "To be or not to be"
speech from
Hamlet
to a rapt audience of most of the cast-Kent, with no
trace of a beard on his arrogant face.
Jan winked at Kerry as she went quietly to her
front-row seat, and Kerry went to her usual seat
behind her.
""Nymph,"" quoted Kent, reaching the
end of the speech and turning to Brenda, ""in thy
orisons be all my sins rememb'red."" He
held up his hand, silencing his audience as they began
to clap. Quickly turning till he was facing Jan and
Kerry, he bowed.
"Thank you, Kent," Jan said quietly. "You
look great, by the way.
But Kent, eyes flashing, stepped to the edge of the
stage, bent forward, and launched into the middle of
another speech from
Hamlet:

was "Who calls me villain?"" he quoted, and
Jan, knowing the speech as well as he, closed her
eyes briefly as the rest of the cast watched,
mesmerized. "'Who calls me villain?"'" he
repeated, shouting this time. ""Breaks my pate
across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my
face?"" He snapped his body straight and,
skipping to the very end of the speech, lifted his arms above
his head and shouted, was "The play's the thing wherein
I'll catch the conscience of the-king!""
Jan saw Ted glance at her uncomfortably,
heard Kerry's indrawn breath behind her-and Will's and
Brenda's echoing applause.
"Places," Jan said briskly, ignoring them
all, knowing she had to. "Act One. Remember this
is primarily another technical rehearsal for the
crew, but please give it everything you can. Let's
get all the remaining bugs out before tomorrow's dress,
when Mrs. Nicholson will be here." She vaulted
up onto the stage; she'd be working backstage from now
on. "Lights, you ready? Sound? Close the
curtain, please. Let's do this right."
mrTEIN
TUESDAY MORNING,
Jan woke up again to the sound of driving rain, but this
time against her own window. Her room was so cold she
shivered as she dressed, and when she went downstairs,
her mother was on the kitchen phone saying, "I don't
care if you are shorthanded, Mr. Riston; it's
fourty-eight degrees in my kitchen!"
  "Furnace blower again?" Jan asked, pouring
herself some coffee from the pot next to the stove. "I
wonder if Mr. Riston's the guy who services
school, too."
  Her mother sighed. "I am so sick and tired of
that-that
dope
telling me he can't find anyone to-oh,
well." She kissed Jan. "Eggs? French
toast? This is the big day, right? First dress
rehearsal?"
  "Yup. I wonder what Stanislavsky had for
breakfast on dress-rehearsal days," Jan
mused, opening the refrigerator.
  "Probably caviar and vodka," said her mother.
"For pity's sake, Jan, close that thing. It's
already cold enough in here!"
  Jan took out bacon and eggs and closed the
door. "I'll do it, Mom; you don't have to wait
on me. You've got enough troubles."

"So do you." Her mother picked up the frying pan.
"We'll both do it. I could do with bacon and eggs
myself, and I'd like nothing better than to be as close
as possible to the stove. Bacon, maestro,
please."
  Jan tossed her mother the bacon. "How about
scrambled?"
  "Terrific." Her mother peeled bacon slices
into the frying pan and then watched Jan beat four eggs
with a fork. "Nervous?" she asked.
  "Not a bit. No, this tremor in my hands is
simply a new way of beating eggs quicker,
and the weird feeling in my stomach is just hunger."
  "Am I right that you don't want to go out to dinner with
Dad and Anita and Hal and me Friday night before
the first performance?"
  "You are right. I'll have something here. Maybe
I'll invite Kerry over. I don't know. I
think I'd rather be alone. Hey, Mom, what
happens if Anita has her baby right in the
middle of the show?"
  "Well, if it's a boy your father will cheer, and if
it's a girl Anna will cheer, I suppose." Her
mother flipped the bacon and reached for the eggs. "Honey,
don't worry. That baby's so reluctant to be
born I think the doctor's going to have to induce
labor. I must say, I hope you'll have a more
eager first baby than your big sister when your turn
comes."
  "Umm." Jan dropped four slices of bread
into the toaster.
  When she got to school, her jeans soaked below the
hem of her old yellow slicker, the school
secretary, her eyes wide and frightened, beckoned
her into the office and said, "There's a
telegram
for you. I haven't seen one of those for
years! I don't think I even knew one could still
send them." She stood beside her desk uncertainly,
holding out a yellow envelope. "When I was a
girl, telegrams mostly meant bad news. I
hope
  that's not what this is. I can't imagine why it
wasn't sent to your home . . ."
  Jan reached for the envelope, feeling warm for the first
time all day. He'd remembered-early, but nonetheless
Raphael had obviously remembered the pledge
they'd made last summer to send each other
telegrams every opening night regardless of where they
were. "Oh, it's just a thing I have with a friend," Jan
explained. "An old theater custom. It's okay.
Not bad news at all."
  She took the envelope from the mystified
secretary and opened it in the hall on her way
to find Kerry before classes started. She'd have
to remember to send Kerry a good-luck telegram in
time for it to be delivered to her Friday.
SENDING THIS NOW FOR IST DRESS INSTEAD
BE
CAUSE AM NOT SURE WHEN IT'LL BE
DELIVERED.
WILL ARRIVE ON SATURDAY IN
TIME FOR FIRST PER
FORMANCE AS PER YOUR INVITATION. STAYING
WITH
FRIEND IN MIDDLETON. MUST I GO
TO CAST PARTY?
MAY CRUCIBLE BE PINNACLE OF
SUCCESS FOR YOU
AND AHEM YOURS. LOVE, RAPHAEL
"What a sweet guy he must be," Kerry said a
few minutes later when Jan showed it to her.
  "A little lewd at times," said Jan, "and
flaky, but yes, he's sweet. I'm glad you'll
have a chance to meet him. And I am going to make him
go to the cast party. I can't wait to see Kent's
face when Raphael walks in with me. Or with us.
Kerry-how're you feeling?"
  "Terrified. I couldn't eat breakfast."
"You've got to eat breakfast!"
  "Oh, Jan, I couldn't!"

"What's your first class?"
  "Chemistry."
  "You like doughnuts?"
  "Yes, but . . ."
  "You go on up to the lab. I"11
meet you there with a doughnut. No arguments. Go!"
  It was when she stopped off in her homeroom to get
a book she'd left there that Jan saw them-the words
scrawled on the chalkboard.
  They didn't really register right away; it was
almost as if she didn't see them, couldn't read them.
They made no sense to her at first:
I SAW JAN MONTCRIEF WITH THE
DEVIL.
I SAW KERRY SOCRIDES WITH THE
DEVIL.
Then they did make sense, and she grabbed an
eraser and rubbed them out before anyone else could see.
And when she went up to the chem lab, having gotten a
doughnut at the candy stare across the street from the
school, she found Kerry outside the door, staring
at a copy of the school newspaper. Wordlessly,
Kerry pointed to the gossip column, regularly
written by Brenda:
What noted theatrical personage were former star of
stage) has been seen lately flirting gaily with
what upcoming young actress? A new romance,
perhaps?
Jan told Kerry about the words on the chalkboard
then. Kerry leaned against the wall outside
the lab. "Saw?" she said finally. "Saw with the
Devil? I don't understand. Except
for that one morning when you drove to my house, who could
have seen us do anything that . . ."
  "Little things. We've touched each other more in
rehearsals lately. And," Jan added, suddenly
remembering, "the mysterious phone calls the other day
when I was at your house."
  Kerry's eyes were wide and full of pain. "But
I don't understand," she said again. "Calls? What
. . :"
  "There was another call while you were in the shower,"
Jan told her. "I answered it."
  "But..."
  "Kerry, it could have been someone from school who'd
noticed both of us were gone and was trying to check up
on us. And then if whoever it was recognized my
voice . . ."
  "Kent," breathed Kerry.
  "'The plays the thing,"" Jan quoted. "You
heard him."
  "That bastard," Kerry said fiercely. "That
bastard!" For a moment Kerry looked as if she was
going to cry. But then she said, "What are we going
to do?"
  "What can we do? It's just sticks and stones, so
far. Again, let's try not to give him any
reaction, and let's hope that doesn't make him so
mad he'll pull something else."
  "What else could he possibly pull?" asked
Kerry as other members of the chem class started
to flock up the stairs. "Everyone in the whole
school will see the newspaper."
  "I don't know," Jan answered, "but I'm
sure he's capable of thinking of something." She handed
Kerry the doughnut. "Please eat it."
  "Hi there, you two," said a boy who was in
Kerry's class but not in the show. He grinned-almost
leered, Jan thought-as he passed them. "Got today's
paper, I see."
  Jan saw Kerry's fists clench and murmured,
"Easy. Can you get through chem?"
  "Oh, I'll get through it," said Kerry, "if
I don't end up killing half the class."
  "Good. I'll see you at lunch, okay?"
  "Okay," Kerry answered, but then, when she was
halfway through the lab door, she hesitated and said,
"Should we? See each other at lunch, I mean?"
  "It's up to you," Jan said stiffly, trying not
to feel hurt.
  "I-I don't know."
  Jan swore silently at Kent. To Kerry,
she said, "I'll wait for you in the cafeteria.
Usual place. IF you don't come, I'll
understand." She reached out to squeeze Kerry's
shoulder, but Kerry shrank back as two girls
came up the stairs, looked their way, and exchanged
a significant glance.
  "Right," said Jan, moving away. "See you
later."
  In history, Ted slipped her a note with
%@.-and%@.**ffat to to drawn on it, and under
it "The newspaper advisor must've slept through this
issue. Want to talk?"
  Jan scrawled "Don't know, but thanks" on a
scrap of notebook paper and passed it back
to him.
  Ted came up to her table in the cafeteria at
lunch when she was waiting for Kerry and trying not
to notice that several kids she didn't even know very
well whispered and giggled as they passed. Kent and
Brenda, sitting by themselves at a corner table,
pointedly didn't look her way, but Will, who was
with a couple of
Crucible
cast members, did, and then leaned toward them,
whispering.
  "Hi." Ted slid into the chair Jan had made
sure was there for Kerry. "Okay if I join you?"
  "Unless Kerry comes," Jan said.
  "I saw her outside," he told her. "Like she
was going home or taking a walk or something."
  Jan started to get up, then thought better of it and
sat down
  again.
  "Kent," said Ted with great emphasis, "is a
seriously deficient human being, and almost everyone in
the cast thinks so, except Brenda and that little nerd,
W. Nanny said none of the girls in the show are
talking to Brenda since they saw the paper."
  "It's probably not really Brenda's fault,"
Jan said dully. "He probably put her up
to it. She's such an airhead she'll go along with
anything someone she's dating wants her to do."
  "Jan." Ted poked idly at his uneaten
sandwich. "Tell me to go to hell if you want, but
is it true? I mean, if it isn't, I could
tell him that, and . . ."
  "And if it is?"
  "If it is . . . I don't know."
  "Yeah," said Jan bitterly. "That's what I
thought." Deliberately, she changed the subject.
"I guess Kerry's not going to come. I'm going to go
find her. Thanks," she said, again sarcastically,
"for the company."
  Ted reached for her hand. "Jan . . ."
  But Jan brushed him aside and left.
  She found Kerry outdoors, shivering under a tree
near the parking lot, her face glistening with tears.
  "Your cheeks will freeze," Jan said, rubbing
them.
  Kerry caught Jan's hands and pressed them to her
face, then let them go guiltily and put her own
hands in her pockets. "Oh, Jan," she said
miserably. "I'm so sorry. I hate myself for
what I said before. For-for doubting, for not coming to lunch.
I'm so sorry."
  "Shhh."
  "I love you; you know that."

"Yes, I do, but thank you for telling me right now."
Jan paused, then said, "Kerry, maybe we
shouldn't see each other till after the show. What do you
think? It's only a few days. Kent will
probably calm down once the show's over
and everyone tells him how great he was, and neither of
us will have to see him much after that. I have one class with
Brenda, but none with him, and since you're a junior
. . ."
  "Isn't that sort of giving in?"
  "Yes, but there's the play to think of."
  "How about us?" asked Kerry angrily.
"Isn't there us to think of? Or is the stupid play
more important?"
  Jan felt as if she'd been slapped. She
pivoted sharply and went back across the parking lot
to her mother's car.
  "Jan!" Kerry called after her. "Jan,
wait!"
  But Jan yanked open the car door, thumped down
onto the seat, and roared out of the lot, leaving Kerry
staring after her.
  That night, when Jan called half hour for
rehearsal, she didn't go all the way into the
girls' dressing room, but she saw immediately that
Kerry wasn't there. Okay, she told herself,
she's not on till Act Two. But by the time the
curtain went up on Act One, Kerry still hadn't
arrived. And when it fell at the end of the act on
Brenda's hysterical scream of was "I
saw Goody Booth with the Devil!"" Ted went up
to where Jan was standing backstage and said, "Mrs.
Nicholson's out front, Nanny says, but no
one's seen Kerry. Maybe you're going to have to read
Elizabeth."
As SOON As THE
houselights were up full for intermission, Jan
dashed to the costume room under the stage and rummaged
along the racks till she found a simple long
gray dress. As she slipped it on over her
jeans and shirt, she tried to remember what it felt
like to want to play Elizabeth. To want to play
Elizabeth-read her, actually, for she'd
probably need the script-opposite Kent.
  But all she could find where her desire for
Elizabeth had been was a hollow place rapidly
filling up with fear as the minutes passed and there was still
no sign of Kerry.
  "I can't even be mad at her for being
unprofessional," she said to Ted, pacing back and
forth during what was left of the intermission.
  "You care about her too much," he said simply.
Then he jerked his head toward the stage, where Kent was
standing and watching them, a faint smile playing about his
lips. "Careful," Ted said, leaving as
Kent strolled over.
  "Well, well, well, well, well." Kent
draped himself over the prompt desk where Jan stood
as stage manager. "I see our

star hasn't shown up." He wagged his finger at
Jan. "I told you the play's the thing," he said.
"Now we'll see how great you are, won't we?
Sure you remember how to move in a skirt?"
  Cold fury built in Jan and she wheeled on
him, eyes snapping. "If what you're saying is that
you had anything to do with Kerry's not being here," she said,
  "You'll what, friend" Kent interrupted, smiling.
"The show must go on, after all. Pity you'll have to do
Lizzie with the script."
  "Pity you'll have to play opposite someone who's
holding book," she retorted.
  "I'll manage." He picked up the prop
gun he used in the beginning of Act Two and got
into position to enter. "Oh, this is going to be fun!
Play's the thing," he mouthed at Jan as she,
too, got into position and said, "Warn
houselights."
  But as she did, Jan heard something behind her and then
she saw Kerry, in costume and makeup,
but not enough makeup to hide her red, swollen eyes,
standing beside her.
  "You-you're dressed like Elizabeth," Kerry
said.
  "You weren't here:"
  "The show must go on," Kerry said coldly.
"Right?"
  Jan reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Kerry, for
heaven's
  sake! Maybe you've got a good reason for being
late. I'm glad you're here. And I hope you're
okay. But I've got to get the curtain up and
start Act Two. Are you okay?" She lowered her
voice. "I was worried about you," she said. "That was
worse than worrying about the play."
  "Jan." Marianne's voice came out of the
near-darkness. "I'm on a warn for the houselights."
  ,, I know," said Jan, her eyes still on
Kerry. "Kerry, I'm sorry-but can you go on?"
Kerry nodded, and Jan, trying to ignore the fact
that she still looked angry and hurt, mouthed "I love
you." Aloud, she said, "House to half. Warn
curtain."
Kerry moved silently into position for her entrance.
Kent, still watching from the opposite side
of the stage, looked startled, then furious.
"House out," Jan told Marianne. "Warn cue
eleven."
Kerry started singing softly as she was supposed to do as
the act opened.
"Curtain," said Jan, and when it was open, "Cue
eleven-
I"
go.
Proctor entered, and the act began.
It was a bitter victory. The applause,
tumultuous for a dress rehearsal, surprised
all of them when the final curtain came down. Jan
leaned against the prompt desk after the last curtain
call, unable to enjoy it, still too upset and worried
about Kerry's continued coldness and her lateness to go out
and congratulate the cast. Then, just as she was about to,
a weak but unmistakable voice came from the other
side of the curtain's thick folds, and Jan
remembered Mrs. Nicholson-and that Kerry had
promised to help her with her turban.
"You idiot!" Jan scolded herself under her breath,
reaching for the ropes as Mrs. Nicholson called,
"Please open the curtain."
The cast surged forward, Kerry among them,
as soon as the curtain parted. The first thing Jan
noticed was Kerry's green-and-brown scarf, wound
around Mrs. Nicholson's head.
"Oh, my dears!" Mrs. Nicholson held out
her hands. "Oh, my dears!"
They leapt down off the stage and surrounded her
wheelchair, clasping her hands and hugging.

"My dears, my dears," she said again, her voice
thin and quavering, her eyes bright with tears. "Thank
you. You were all wonderful. It is a beautiful
play, sad and noble-such cruel misunderstanding, such
evil, such courage, such ignorance-and you made it
sing; you found it all, and showed all that's in it, and I
am so very proud. Kent . . ."
He stepped forward, smiling.
"You were so much better without the beard, and you were
splendid. Kerry," she went on quickly, "what a
perfect Elizabeth, such quiet strength, such
truth. Ted, excellent Giles, and Nanny,
what a poignant Rebecca. And Brenda, my
wonderful Abigail, and Gail, fine little
Betty, and Will-what a smooth, steady Cheever, with
few mistakes-oh, all of you, each and every one."
Her eyes sought Jan's then, and Jan, still
onstage, tried to smile, but all she could really
concentrate on was how small Kerry's shoulders were
under the grayness of Elizabeth's dress.
"How'd you like my scene with Hale in Act Two?"
Kent asked, pushing eagerly past the others. "And the
big Abigail scene-did you notice the new . .
."
But Mrs. Nicholson's eyes were still on Jan, and
she cut Kent off, putting her hands together as if
to clap, saying, "A round of applause for my
reluctant stage manager who had to become
director." Feebly, she clapped; Ted quickly
covered her weakness by leading the rest of them in
applause.
All except Kent. Left out, he turned
away, scrubbing at his makeup with a tissue as if
he wanted to tear his face off.
Then he jumped back up onstage, elbowing Jan
aside as he exited.
"1 WANTED To TELL
you," Kerry sobbed later, in Jan's mother's car.
"I wanted to, but you seemed so mad; you were so
busy, and the curtain had to go up. And at first I
didn't know what to do, and my aunt kept me so
long I was almost late for Mrs.
Nicholson, and then I just had to be by myself for a
while, and then get dressed and made up, and . .
."
Jan tightened her arms around her. "It's okay,"
she said, still staring at the sign Kerry had handed her-the
cardboard sign her aunt had taken off the door of
her shop that afternoon:
I SAW KERRY SOCRIDES WITH THE
DEVIL.
I SAW JAN MONTCRIEF WITH THE
DEVIL.
"It doesn't help much," said Kerry, wiping her
eyes with the tissue Jan gave her, "to know Kent's
mixed up and jealous, and maybe wants to prove
he's a man and a11. It did at first, some, but it
doesn't anymore."
"No," Jan agreed. "It doesn't." She stared
out at the snow

and-and stuff." "What stuff?" "Oh, nothing."
"Kerry!"
.
that was now falling; they were parked near the river, and the
weather had turned very cold.
Kerry blew her nose. "Aunt Elena
asked me what the sign meant and I tried to say it
was a joke from the play, that
someone was just kidding. She was mad, though. She said it
was bad for business, or would be, if a customer
saw it. And then she asked me if you're popular,
if you have a boyfriend,
Well, she asked how come I don't have a boyfriend.
And how come we spend so much time together." She leaned
her head against Jan's shoulder. "It's so hard
to believe. So much
beauty. And then this."
"I'm so sorry," Kerry said. "About my aunt,
about getting mad, about being late, about Brenda and Will
and Kent . . ."
"Shh. I have it a lot easier. I don't have
to play opposite
Kent or live with your aunt."
"I wish we could run away."
"So do L" Jan bent her head to kiss Kerry,
then thought better of it, and straightened up again. "You
look so tired."
"Jan, she . . ." Kerry broke off and fell
silent.
The snow, Jan noticed in the glow of a distant
streetlight, was falling faster now,
swirling down, but aimlessly, as if its destiny were
controlled by something beyond itself. Like me,
she thought; like us.
"She said she wants me to have other friends," Kerry
said finally. "She wants me to ask other people to the
house, to go out with other people. She said she's worried
about me,
"I'm not surprised," Jan said, watching the snow
and feeling momentarily defeated. I can't let myself
drift like that, she thought, we can't; it's not right. It
would be a lie . . .
She took Kerry's hand. "Like I said, I don't
have to live with your aunt. And," she added, remembering
painfully, "you don't either, once your parents come
back. I want you to stay in Southview, Kerry,
more than anything in the world. But you could go home with them
in January, the way you were supposed to originally."
There was a long silence.
"It would be pretty bad for you," Jan said finally,
"if your aunt figured out about us. Wouldn't it? I
mean, she doesn't strike me as someone who'd
understand."
"No," said Kerry. "Well, I'm not sure. Not
without a lot of explaining, anyway." She
hesitated. "Aunt Elena said-she said the
same thing you did-that maybe I should go back with my
parents after all in January instead of staying. She
said she'd leave it up to me. I haven't written
them about it yet. I was going to after the play. But . .
."
Jan tried to ignore the tight feeling in her
throat. "I can't tell you what to do," she said
carefully. "You know I'd like you to stay. But I
don't want you to stay if you're going to be
miserable. Maybe you shouldn't decide yet. Wait
a bit, and see how things develop with Kent and the
others after the show. It might all die down then. But
. . ." Once again, she thought of what Raphael
had said about his own high-school years and wished he'd
told her more. "I guess it could get pretty
bad, Kerry."
"I know. But most of me thinks it's worth it."
"So do I, my love. But all of you has to think
so."
"'My love,"" Kerry repeated. "That sounds so
good. Funny, what I really want to say is
thank you."

"Thank you?"
"For calling me that. For loving me."
Jan hugged her. "Thank you, too." She moved
away gently. "But we still need to be careful."
"You mean," said Kerry slowly, "sort of
protect what we have by pretending we don't have it."
"It sounds terrible that way. But-well, yes. At
least for a few more days. Once the play's over, as
I said, maybe things will calm down. Then Kent
won't have the jealousy motive anymore. And he
won't have Proctor as a vehicle to, you know,
try to show how macho he is. Maybe the others
won't notice us so much after the show either."
Kerry looked out the car window, intently, as if she
were counting snowflakes. "I hate myself," she said
finally in a very soft voice. "I hate myself for
saying okay, let's try to be careful."
"Yeah, I know. I hate myself for suggesting it, and
I hate both of us for going along with it. But the thing
is that we can't let Kent or anyone else
destroy us."
"I miss you already." Kerry stroked Jan's hand.
"Me, too. But it's not as if we'll really be
away from each other. And, anyway, for now there's the
play, and the cast party Saturday." She paused a
moment, thinking. "Your aunt might be relieved about
your going to that. And about my going with
Raphael. He's a boy, after all."
Kerry nodded. "I hate it," she said. "But-but you
could pretend he's-you know. Your boyfriend. That might
help with Kent, too, if you did it at the party."
Jan chuckled mirthlessly. "Raphael and I used
to kid about my covering for him when his parents came
to visit him in stock. They're very old-world and
they're worried that he isn't married yet. He
keeps telling them he's married to his career,
but he doesn't think they believe that anymore.
When we'd go out with his parents he'd always make a
big show of putting his arm around me, stuff like that. I
guess we could do that at the party; I guess he'd
agree."
"Hey," Kerry said, sounding as if she was trying
to be brave. "Don't take it too far at the
party. I'll be jealous."
"Don't be:" Jan touched Kerry's shoulder.
"I don't think you'll ever have to be jealous of
anyone, Kerry."
"Nor you-oh, Jan." She flung her arms around
Jan's neck. "It's snowing so hard no one could
see even if there were anyone here, and it's dark
anyway."
Jan slipped her arms under Kerry's
jacket and for a long time they clung to each other.
"Good luck for all the times I won't be able to say
it properly," she whispered. "And good night for all
the nights."
"To you also." Kerry hugged Jan tighter. "Until
Saturday. It'll be our party, then."
The next dress rehearsal went smoothly; at
least there were no backstage dramas and Kent seemed
to be pulling in on himself, too preoccupied at last
with his own performance to notice anyone else.
"We'll get through," Jan mouthed to Kerry behind
Kent's back, bringing down the fourth-act curtain,
and Kerry, still frozen in her final position as
Elizabeth, nodded imperceptibly. Jan took
the cast through their curtain calls quickly and then, without
looking at Kerry, said, "Well, that's it, gang.
Line rehearsal tomorrow, but we'll make it as quick as
possible, okay? And then you can all take it easy
Friday afternoon till performance. See you tomorrow." She
picked up her clipboard and went backstage again,
pleased to see that Kent was watching her and hoping it
registered in his mind that she wasn't with Kerry.
And then she ran into Will near the prop table.
"Lose something, Will?" she asked, trying to sound
casual.
His expression was unreadable. "No," he said. He
put his hand out, laying it on her arm. "I've been
waiting here for you, Jan." He dropped his voice.
"Everyone knows," he said, "about you and Kerry. But
it's a sin, Jan; don't you know that? A terrible,
unnatural sin."
For a minute Jan didn't know whether to take him
seriously or not. But his look chilled her, and she
could see from his eyes that he meant every word he'd said.
While she was still trying to think what to answer, he
tightened his grip on her arm. "You need to change
your ways, Jan, you and Kerry. Even the Bible
says it's wrong, you know. I'm trying to help,"
he added, his eyes boring into hers, "for the good of your
soul. I wouldn't want you to be-punished."
She shook free of him, jumped down off the stage,
and headed up the center aisle, shaking-and almost bumping
into the school secretary, who had just come in from the
lobby.
"Someone told me you'd still be here," the secretary
said. "Your mother's on the phone in the office. Says
it's important."
Puzzled, Jan went into the office. Why would Mom
be calling me here, she wondered, when she knows
I'll be coming right home? Then she thought of
Anita and so wasn't surprised when she picked
up the phone and her mother said tensely, "Hi, darling.
The baby's coming after all. Now, don't worry.
I just wanted to catch you before you left. Daddy and I
are at the hospital."
"Okay," said Jan. "How is she?"
Her mother seemed to hesitate, then said, "She's
having a little trouble. The doctor says it'll
probably be a while, so we might be here all
night. Do you want to drive over?"
"No." Then, thinking that sounded crass, Jan added,
"Unless you want me there, or unless "Nita
does."
  "Well, it'd be lovely, of course, but they
won't let me and Daddy see her, and they're not
even letting Hal stay with her very long at a time.
No, I don't think you need to come. But will you be
all right? Could you get Kerry to stay with you? I'd
feel better if you weren't alone."
  Jan allowed herself an ironic smile. "No,
I'll be okay, Mom, really."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Yes. Give 'nita my love if you do see
her. Hal, too."
  "I will, honey. And I'll call you first
thing in the morning if we're still here. Oh,
dear-Jan, I'm so sorry! I forgot! How was
rehearsal?"
  "Fine, just fine." A sudden thought hit her.
"Mom, she'll be all right, won't she? 'nita?
You said she was having some trouble-was
  "She'll be fine. First babies are often hard.
You just get some sleep, and let us worry. You've
got the play. You're sure Kerry can't stay with
you? Or maybe you could go there."
  Jan felt the secretary watching her. "Mom,
I'll be okay."
  "I'll call you in the morning, then. Don't
forget to turn down the thermostat when you go to bed.
Riston came after you left for school, so the
furnace should be working again."
  "I won't forget."
  "Good night, hon."
  "Good night."
  "Everything okay?" the secretary asked when Jan
got off the phone.
  "My sister's having a baby"
  "Wonderful! Boy or girl?"
  "Having," said Jan. "It's not born yet. And
she and her husband didn't want to know in
advance."
  "Very wise," said the secretary. "I always think
it's better that way. Good luck."
  "Yeah," Jan said. "Thanks."
  The house was cold when Jan got home and
seemed twice as large as it really was. She
checked the thermostat but it was on 65, even though the
thermometer said 42; Riston can't have done a very good
job, she thought. I'll just have to freeze.
  She went up to her room, dug her heavy ski
sweater out of its mothballs, shook it out, and put it
on. Then she went down to the kitchen, leaving a
trail of blazing lights behind her. Maybe she could
make an omelette. Something hot, anyway.
  But there were no eggs, so she had a can of chicken
soup instead, and crackers. Then, thinking of Kerry,
she made hot chocolate. "Can't even burn myself
on the dumb stuff when she's not around," she
muttered, sipping it.
  She went into the living room and switched on the
TV, but was bored in ten minutes. The news was
over, and there was a Western, several situation comedies
and police shows, and a nature documentary. The
latter was almost interesting, but she found her mind
wandering, so she turned it off.
  "Blast it," she said out loud to the empty room.
"I wish I could call her." But she decided not
to take the chance.
  was "I wish the long ship Argo,"" she
intoned, standing in the middle of the living room-but
Medea
didn't work either.
  She went back to the kitchen and found a root beer
in the refrigerator, but then she felt too cold
to drink it in the cold house, so she left it on the
counter and went upstairs. Maybe a hot shower, she
thought. Thank goodness the water heater works even when the
furnace blower doesn't.
  She was warmer after the shower, but no more cheerful. She
put pajamas on instead of her usual T-shirt,
and her ski
sweater over them, opened her Shakespeare to
Romeo and
Juliet, and crawled between the icy sheets on her
bed.
An hour later, when she'd just finished reading
Romeo's speech when he thinks Juliet is
dead, the phone rang.
Anita, she thought-and ran to answer it.
But it was Kerry, and Jan felt warm again.
"Where were you, Jan, where were you?" she asked. "I
tried before, twice, but there was no answer . . ."
The warmth left her at the sound of Kerry's
agitated voice. She explained about the shower and then
said, "What is it?"
"Jan-oh, Jan, I have to see you. I can't tell
you on the phone."
"Tell me what?" said Jan. "You shouldn't come
over at this hour. Your aunt . . ."
"I have to see you. Aunt Elena's asleep. Can
I come right over? Would your mother mind?"
"Mom's not home; no one is. Anita's having
her baby. Kerry, quick, are you all right?"
"Yes. Jan, it's-it's not me. It's Mrs.
Nicholson . . ."
It was as if the world had stopped and Jan with it.
"dis
. . Jan, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you in
person. Sheher husband called me when he couldn't
get you. She-she died tonight. Peacefully, he said.
Please, Jan, I'm coming over.
"I-okay," Jan said numbly. She couldn't
move, except to replace the receiver. The words
we killed her
burst into her mind and stayed there, echoing.
She saw Mrs. Nicholson sitting there in her
wheelchair, Kerry's scarf on her head; Mrs.
Nicholson trying weakly to clap, to tell them
they'd done well. If Mrs. Nicholson hadn't
come, or if she'd left right afterwards, would she still be
alive?
Jan sat by the phone till the doorbell rang, and
then Kerry's

arms were around her and her head was against Kerry's
breast. From somewhere she heard Kerry say, "Jan,
my love, I'm so sorry"-but she couldn't speak
herself, or cry, or even feel much. It was as if
she were wrapped in cotton, insulated from her
surroundings. An odd feeling, but it protected her
from thinking much about it except at what seemed a great
distance. She wondered, though, what it was like to die.
She found lines from plays in her mind and repeated
them silently, screening out everything else.
"Please, Jan," Kerry said. "Please. It'll
be better if you talk."
But Jan couldn't. She found she did want to speak
to Kerry, but cotton still surrounded her and it was almost
as if Kerry weren't there. She was drifting like the
snowflakes; everything was slipping away,
leaving her chilled and immobile in an alien,
too-fast-moving world. It was only when the phone
rang again and Kerry prodded her to answer it that she
found she was able to speak at all. Consciousness told
her it would have to be her mother, and that it would fit the day
if Anita or the baby or both were dead, too.
But it was Kerry's aunt, and in the shock of that,
Jan began to fight back to herself again.
"Jan?" Aunt Elena's sharp voice was saying
formally, as if she barely knew her. "Is my
niece there? She doesn't seem to be here, and my
car is gone. I'm afraid that . . ."
"Kerry's here," said Jan. With the sound of her own
voice, tiredness possessed her and she had to sit
down quickly; she was dizzy and felt sick. "Yes,
Ms. Socrides, she's here."
Kerry gasped, "Oh, no!" and took the phone
away from Jan. "Aunt Elena? I'm sorry.
I should have left you a note."
As if from very far away, Jan heard Kerry
explain why she'd come, gently, evenly,
obviously trying to reassure her aunt. Then
Kerry hung up and put her hands on Jan's
shoulders.
"She was really worried," she said
apologetically. "Mad, too. I think I
calmed her down. But I'd better go, before she
starts thinking again about my spending too much time with you.
She doesn't really understand about Mrs.
Nicholson. Or us either," Kerry added, touching
Jan's face. "I wish I could stay, love."
"It's okay," Jan managed to reply. "I'm
okay." "Are you?"8allyes." Kerry kissed her
quickly and was gone. The cottony feeling descended
again and, wrapped in it, Jan went upstairs to bed,
closed her eyes, and slept as if she'd been
drugged.

"AND THEN," HAL SAID
expansively Thursday night, "the little
son-of-a-gun curled his feet up in the darndest
way; you should have seen him, Jan."
  "He really does look like you, honey," Jan's
father said to her, pouring his son-in-law a second
glass of wine. "Curly hair and big eyes and
all."
  Jan managed a smile, but she was still too
shattered to share everyone else's joy. Mr.
Taylor had called a brief assembly that
morning to announce Mrs. Nicholson's
death, and the cast had been too shocked and strained for
there to be any point in holding a line rehearsal.
Except for Kent, who'd bolted from the
auditorium as soon as Jan cancelled the
rehearsal, they'd all hugged and cried and
reminisced for an hour after school, and then Jan had
sent them home. Grieving together had helped, but now,
especially in the middle of her family's
celebration, Jan felt hollow again, lost, and
alone . . .
  "Charles Dana Anthony," Jan's mother was
saying with a happy sigh. She took Hal's
plate, already heaped with a sec-
and helping of roast beef, and filled the rest of it
up with mashed potatoes and carrots. "What a lot
of names for such a tiny tyke!" She chuckled
fondly. "But you know what Anita said when they
finally let me see her? She said she's already
decided to call him Squirt:"
  The phone rang sharply through the laughter and Jan
nearly upset her chair in her haste to answer it.
  "I worry about that girl," she heard her father
say as she ran to the hall and almost answered
"Hi-Kerry?" instead of her usual impersonal
"Hello?"
  It was Kerry anyway. "Hi," she said. "How
are you?"
  "Okay," Jan lied. "Not allowing myself to think.
Everyone's in raptures about the baby. How are
you?"
  "Okay, too," Kerry said unconvincingly, after
a second's pause.
  "What's the matter?"
  "Nothing. Really. I'm fine. Just worried about
you is all:"
  "Why don't I believe you?"
  "How do I know? Look, it's okay!"
  "Kerry, come on!"
  "Oh, just a couple of stupid phone calls. You
know-hangups. Mostly just that."
  "Mostly?"
  "Well, one was a little weird. It was some guy.
He said "Watch out' in a funny voice, like he
was trying to disguise
  Jan closed her eyes. "Could it have been Kent?
Or Will?" "That crossed my mind. But I'm really
not sure. Like I said, he disguised his voice. It
was really deep, basso profundo."
  "What did you do?"
  "Hung up."
  "Good. Maybe he'll stop if you don't
react."

"And maybe it wasn't Kent or Will at all,"
Kerry said lightly. "Maybe it was a wrong
number. Let's not jump to conclusions."
  But later that evening, when Hal had gone home and
Jan and her parents were watching TV, the phone
rang again.
  Jan dashed into the hall, shouting, "I'll get
it," trying to tell herself it might be okay; it might
be Kerry.
  It wasn't.
  "Watch out," a deep male voice said slowly,
drawing out each word. "Everyone knows. "The wages
of sin is
death."
Romans 6:23. Watch out."
  Jan slammed the receiver down, then regretted it.
"That's a reaction, you idiot," she snarled
angrily at herself between clenched teeth. "Stupid,
stupid, stupid!"
  "Janna?" Her mother came into the hall. "Who was
that?"
  "Wrong number," Jan told her.
"I've got homework I should be doing." And without
giving her mother a chance to protest, she ran up the
stairs to her room and threw herself down on her bed.
  Kent's face swam dizzily before her eyes,
followed by Will's and Brenda's, then Kerry's, then
Mrs. Nicholson's, the images fading and
returning, fading and returning as she dozed
fitfully. Finally they combined in a face-collage
with Ted's and Corrin's and Raphael's. The
images rose up together, then separated so that
Kerry's face was by itself, to one side. The others
floated, first lazily, then fast and with purpose
toward Kerry's, and Jan realized, as Aunt
Elena's face appeared above them all, laughing, that
they were all pursuing Kerry, that Kerry was calling out
to her in terror, and that she, Jan, watching from her
dreamer's distance, was powerless to help . . .
Jan was conscious of gentle pressure on the
mattress, and her mother's voice in the dim room.
"Jan, honey! Jan, you're dreaming. What is
it?"
Jan, foggy from sleep and feeling about six years
old again, threw her arms around her mother and held her
wordlessly.
Her mother patted her hair, rubbed her
shoulders, and repeated, "Little one, little one, this too
will pass," over and over again, the way she had long
ago when Jan really had been six.
Only I'm not six now, she thought; I'm almost
three times that. She pulled herself away from her mother and
sat up. "I'm sorry, Mom," she said. "I'm
okay now."
"Life's a bad dream sometimes, isn't it?" her
mother said calmly. "And it's being one for you right now,
I think. Want to talk? I know how much you loved
Mrs. Nicholson . . ."
"No-no. I'm really okay. You've got
Anita to worry about."
"Anna's fine," said her mother. "And little Charles
Dana Anthony Squirt is fine, too. They can
look after themselves for a while. Honey," she said, "we
haven't talked much since you got back from stock.
You've been so busy, with the play and with Kerry." She
paused, as if she expected Jan to say something,
then added in a very low voice, "Troubles are better
shared, Jan."
"I know, Mom. But maybe some can't be."
"You forget that I know you pretty well. My little
artist," she said. "Everything's so hard for you;
feelings are so strong. That's why you can
act, honey, and direct. I suppose it'll always
be hard, but maybe never so hard as now, when feelings
and experiences are new. I'm so sorry about Mrs.
Nicholson. That was a terrible blow, I know. But
I also know you're going to make sure the play is
wonderful, for her."
Jan swallowed and licked her dry lips. "I'm
sure trying," she managed to say.
"That's my girl. Now"-her mother stood up-"how about
you get undressed? I guarantee you'll sleep
better." She tossed Jan the old T-shirt she
usually slept in. "Hot chocolate?" she
asked, standing in the doorway, her head cocked.
Jan felt herself smile. "No thanks," she said.
"But reallythank you."
Her mother blew her a kiss and left.
Jan got undressed, turned off her light, and
lay down again, her eyes wide open this time, staring
at nothing in the pitchdark room.
Friday was a gray, lowering day, with the smell of snow
in the air. The old snow had melted, but the weather
had turned cold and damp again; the forecast was for a
storm by evening. "Just in time for the show," Ted said
gloomily, meeting Jan as she arrived at school
early that morning. "What lousy timing.
Now no one will come."
"Pessimist," said Jan, then added absently,
"See you," and went down the hall to Kerry's
homeroom. There was still about twenty minutes before
classes started.
Kerry was sitting at her desk, writing something;
two other juniors sat in the back row, talking.
Jan slid into the seat next to Kerry's. "Hi,"
she said, scanning her face.
Kerry's dark eyes were hollow with pain. "Hi.
How are you?"
Jan said, "Okay," then told her about the phone
call.
Kerry handed her a crumpled piece of paper.
"Taped to my desk," she said. "Where everyone could
see."
ELIZABETH PROCTOR MUST HAVE BEEN
GAY.
IT TAKES ONE TO PLAY ONE.
SINNER, BEWARE!
  "Kerry . . ." Jan put her hand on
Kerry's; Kerry slipped hers away.
  "I'll talk to Kent," Jan said, trying
to ignore the hurt. "Will, too."
  "No," said Kerry. "Don't." She
touched Jan's hand briefly. "I'm sorry I
pulled away."
  The PA system crackled, as if someone in the
office had just turned it on, and the two juniors in
the back picked up their books and left, glancing
curiously at Jan and Kerry.
  "Do you hate me for it?" asked Kerry.
  "Of course not! I hate the situation for making us
both so jumpy. And I hate Kent. Never you."
Jan got up. "Kerry, what if this doesn't
stop after the show? I'm not sure it will anymore.
Again, maybe you should forget about staying. Maybe it's
not safe."
  "Don't you want me to stay? I guess it would
be easier on you if I left . . :"
  "No!" Jan almost shouted. "That's not what I
meant. I meant for you."
  "Thank you," Kerry said evenly, picking up her
books. Then she turned anguished eyes to Jan.
"I-I don't know anymore," she said. "I know
I love you. But I don't know if I'm strong
enough. I'm just trying to get through the show right now.
I'm really nervous about it, Jan, about the play,
aside from all this other stuff. I can't think about much
else. I'm so scared of forgetting my
lines or of doing something dumb . . ."
  "I know, love." Jan felt a huge wave of
sympathy for her. "And you'll be more nervous tonight. But
take a deep breath before you go on, and waggle your
arms around to relax them. You'll be okay once you
start speaking, trust me."
  "Yeah, but what if I do forget my lines?"

"I'll prompt you. But you won't forget them.
You've been word perfect for weeks. Just concentrate
on the play, on being Elizabeth. And remember that
Kent's Proctor, not Kent."
  "I wish I could remember that," said Kerry
grimly. But she seemed a little better.
  Jan, still aching for her, leaned forward to give her a
quick kiss before anyone else came in.
  But just as Jan moved toward her, Kerry dropped
her notebook and ducked down to pick it up.
  After school, Jan resisted the temptation to find
Kerry and at least smile at her, wave at
her-anything to connect with her, however briefly.
Instead, remembering that she'd planned-it seemed
years ago-to send Kerry an openingnight
telegram, she called her mother from the pay phone in
the candy store across the street from school
to say she was going downtown, and then had to tell her
again that she'd rather not go out to dinner before the performance.
Anita, of course, wouldn't be there now, but Hal
would.
  "You're sure you're all right?" her mother asked
anxiously. "How's Kerry?"
  "I'm fine," Jan said, choking on the words.
"Kerry seemed okay this morning. She must've gone
right home after school; I haven't seen her.
Look, I really do want to be by myself before the show
anyhow. You know how I am. I know I'm not
performing, but I sort of feel like I am."
  "Butterflies?"
  "Swarms of them."
  "Well, look, why don't you come home now and
come with me to see Anita and the baby for a few
minutes, to take your mind off the play? It might
calm you down. Then you could come back with me, have
dinner by yourself at home while
we go out, and take my car to school for the show instead of
having us drop you off after dinner in Daddy's car."
"It's okay, Mom. I would like to take your car to the
show-thanks. But right now I've got something to do
downtown. I can see Anita and the baby tomorrow. I
wouldn't be any good seeing Anita today.
I'd be too nervous to pay attention to the baby.
She'll understand."
There was a moment's pause, and then Mom said, "I
know, and I should understand, too. Okay, honey. Good
luck. We'll be rooting for you-Kerry,
too-everyone. Drive carefully, especially if
it's snowing. And-oh, my word, I almost forgot! Your
friend Raphael called to wish you luck. He said
he'll see you tomorrow after the show."
"Thanks for the message. And the good-luck wish. And the
car. Give my love to Anita."
With great relief, Jan hung up. She found an
800 number for Western Union in the phone
book, called it, and asked how to send a written
telegram. It turned out there was no way to do that on
such short notice, so she went to the art room and
wrote her message out on soft yellow paper,
making it look as much like Raphael's as she could:
YOU WILL OUT-ELIZABETH ALL ELIZABETHS
AND
SHINE BRIGHTER THAN ANY STAR. BEST OF
LUCK.
JAN
She begged an envelope from the school secretary,
answered the woman's questions about Anita's
baby, and, after putting the "telegram" in its
envelope at Kerry's place in the girls'
dressing room, she went downtown in the light snow
that was beginning to fall. She wished there was something more she
could give Kerry, something Kerry could keep with her
al-

ways, no matter what happened after the show or in
January. She walked slowly along Southview's
short main street without any clear plan or
purpose, peering into stores for some idea-bakery,
bookstore, gift shop, auto-supply store,
insurance and law office, card shop, small
grocer, drugstore, fabric store, jewelry
store . . .
Jewelry store.
She stopped, though she'd rarely looked in its
window before, and found herself staring at a simple silver
ring, three wires twisted together, and she imagined how
it would look on Kerry's finger, against her clear
smooth skin.
She'd be able to wear a ring always, even onstage. And
even if she left in January.
You jerk, she told herself, avoiding the stab she
felt at that last thought; Elizabeth
Proctor probably wouldn't wear a ring!
Mightn't she wear a wedding ring? Even though this one
was silver and they probably only made wedding rings
out of gold back then, maybe from a distance it would
look all right.
But would Kent notice it and use it against them? Or
Will? Or Brenda?
How would they know who'd given it to Kerry?
Did women even wear wedding rings in Salem in the
late seventeenth century?
Some director you are, she admonished herself,
twisting her head to try to read the upside-down
price tag.
"Thinking of breaking in or of buying the Hope
diamond?" asked a familiar voice behind her.
Jan jumped, startled, and found Ted at her elbow.
"Now don't ask why I'm not at home resting before
the performance," he said. "These directors! Always
at one, never letting one call one's soul one's
own." He regarded her quizzically, then put out his
hand. "Why, hello, Jan! Janna Mont-
Grief, isn't it? How do you do? My name is
Theodore Woodruff, and I . . ."
  Jan finally laughed and slapped his hand in
greeting; he slapped back.
"Woolgathering," she said.
  "Silver-gathering, more like," he said. "Would you
consider it some obscure form of graft if I bought
you a soda or a cup of coffee or something? If
it's against your principles as a liberated woman-you
are a liberated woman, no?-then I'll let you
buy. Or we could each buy our own."
  "You're on," said Jan, realizing suddenly how
much she'd missed him. "Maybe we could sneak out
without paying."
  "My God!" Ted looked over his shoulder as if
there were
  someone behind him. "Can it be true? That sounded like
Jan
  Montcrief. The old Jan Montcrief
jolly, fun-loving . . ."
  "Oh, come on before I change my mind!"
  They found a booth at the back of the small
coffee shop at the end of the street, and squeezed
in. Ted ordered a chocolate soda, Jan a
root beer. When the waitress finally left, Ted
peered across at Jan and said, "It's none of my
business, and I know Kerry must be really nervous about
the show, but-well, is Kent getting to her? That
newspaper thing was awful, and she's looked
pretty tense since then, and..."
  The waitress brought their drinks, gave the soda
to Jan and the root beer to Ted, then realized her
mistake and came back to switch them just after they had
done it themselves. "It's okay," said Jan.
"Thanks. Anyone can make a mistake:"
  "Well, it's embarrassing," said the waitress.
"I mean, the last couple that came in, the girl
had the soda and . . :"
  "Really?" said Ted, as if he were fascinated.
"Well, we don't like to run with the common herd.
Thank you. We'll-erwe'll ring if we need you:"

He eyed Jan as the waitress scurried off.
"Okay," he said gruffly. "Tell Uncle
Ted. You haven't been looking any too relaxed
yourself."
  "Nothing to tell," Jan said stiffly.
  "Crap. Plain down-to-earth unadulterated
crap. Look, if it helps, I have no designs
on you anymore. I really like Nanny. She's a
great girl. We're doing fine. I might even
marry her someday, for Pete's sake. We've got
quite a thing going. Okay?" He leaned forward. "I
know I asked this before, but it seems to be
getting more important. Let me put it this way.
Should I go paste Kent after the last performance because he
and Brenda and Will are telling lies about you and
Kerry? Or should I paste him because he and Brenda
and Will are telling the truth in a dirty rotten
stinking way about something that's none of their business?
It's-it's okay," he added hastily. "I can deal
with either answer now."
  It took Jan a moment to recover, but then, with
great relief, she said, "The latter."
  Ted looked momentarily startled, then leaned back
and said, "Well. Okay. I did wander, sometimes.
You know. After we-well, after we broke up."
  "I didn't even know then," Jan managed
to say. "I just knew I didn't want to-to be
that way with you."
  "Funny how that makes me feel better. Must
be true, what Nanny keeps saying about my male
ego. Anyway, look," he went on, "I read
the newspapers, you know what I mean? I thought people were
sort of enlightened now, about gays."
  "Oh, Ted!"
  He shrugged. "If it helps, I don't know
too many kids, really, except Kent and Brenda
and a few of their fellow turds like Will who
care much if anyone's gay as long as they don't
bother anyone. Hey, I didn't mean that as
anything," he said
as Jan started to protest. "Take it easy." He
studied her curiously. "Jan-do you mind? Being
gay, I mean?"
  "That's not the point," she said tensely, wanting
to shout. "It's not the point at all. No, I
don't mind being gay, at least not so far. It's
what I am, at least I'm pretty sure it is.
What I mind is people butting in, especially
Kent, and malting a mess of-of something beautiful.
And people like Will yelling about sin when it seems to me that
ignorance and hate like his are what's really sinful, not
love like Kerry's and mine. This is love, Ted,
it's . . ."
  The waitress came over again. "Will there be
anything else?" she asked.
  "No," Ted told her. "Thanks."
  "Separate checks or together?"
  "Separate," said Jan.
  The waitress stood there, writing on her pad.
  "I saw a three-headed hydra right outside this
shop day before yesterday," Ted remarked conversationally
to Jan. "One head was green, one was
brown, and the other was speckled."
  "Funny," said Jan, but without zest. "The one
I saw had all speckled heads, four of them:"
  "Hydras," Ted continued as the waitress
crossed out what she had added up and began writing a
fresh check, "never have four heads."
  "It must have been some kind of freak," Jan said.
"Queer. A queer hydra."
  "Not many of those around these days. Oh, thanks."
  The waitress had thrown a check at Ted, and
fled.
  "You owe me ninety cents," he said to Jan.
"She wasn't able to deal with separate checks after
all. Some people have no ability to concentrate.
Look," he said as they both got up, "would you
please keep someplace in a corner of your stub-

born mind that I'm your old buddy Ted, at your
service? If I can help with Kent and company if
they try anything more, or with anything else-I mean
it, and Nanny understands . . ."
  "Oh, great! I suppose everyone in the cast who
isn't on Kent's side is standing around with the
stretchers and the resuscitator and everything just waiting
for Kerry and me to keel over . . ."
  "Now, hang on," Ted said angrily. "That's
not true, first of all. I haven't said anything
to any of them, and I really don't know what they're
thinking. But Nanny and I are close. You don't
keep things from Kerry, do you?"
  Jan leaned her head against him for a moment. "No,
of course not. I'm sorry, Ted. That was rotten.
It's just embarrassing, thinking everyone knows. Or
thinks they know. Or suspects, or even just
wonders."
  He put his arms around her briefly. "Yeah, it
must be. Look, believe it or not, it's
embarrassing for me, too. I don't want to talk
about it a lot. That may not be fair, but there it is.
I just want you to know I'm around if you need me. I
want Kerry to know that, too."
  "I might ask you to get a message to her
sometime," Jan said awkwardly. "I don't know.
I'll try not to. It depends on how much we
think we can see each other."
  "Fine." Ted held the door for her. "Did I
ever tell you I wanted to be a mailman when I was
about five? It's true. Want a ride home?"
  "No thanks," Jan told him. "I've got
an errand."
  When Ted had left, she went into the jewelry
store before she could change her mind and bought the silver
ring.
MUM
DESPITE WHAT SHE'D
said to her mother on the phone, Jan's nervousness
butterflies didn't start swarming in earnest till
she headed home in the snow to change and eat something
before the show. Stage fright was something Jan had accepted
for some time as a normal part of a theatrical life.
She welcomed it now and gave in to it, allowing its
familiar patterns to drive all other problems from
her mind.
  At home, she made herself a sandwich with some
chicken slices her mother had left in the
refrigerator, but she wasn't very hungry and her
mouth by this time was so dry that the meat stuck in her
throat. Resigned, for that had always happened when she
was acting, she poured herself a big glass of ginger
ale instead, and went upstairs to change into clean
jeans and her good-luck sweatshirt.
  But, nonetheless, Kerry edged persistently into her
consciousness as she drove to school. What was Kerry
doing now, how nervous was she, would she be able to handle
it, would, the "telegram" make her smile
or embarrass her?
  Should she have made it in the first place?
  Jan's was the first car in the parking lot and she went

immediately backstage and started checking props to give
herself something to do. She checked the lights and the sound
equipment also, and then went out onstage, standing down
center with her head bowed.
  She let it flow through her and possess her, the
befshow reverence she had always felt along with the stage
fright.
  But it didn't work as well this time. She couldn't
feel anymore that the only thing that mattered in her
life was theater, that she would pledge herself with each new
show to some invisible god of art through which she believed
ultimately all problems, all injustices, all
ugliness in the world could someday be healed, or that people could
be made sufficiently aware of them through theater to know
how to heal them. The dark set's expectant silence
washed over her, soothing and exciting her as it always
had, and she felt the same gladness she had always
felt, but less intensely, less surely. In the
corner of herself that was left free of that feeling, there
was Kerry.
  And there always will be, she thought, smiling
at the irony of it. She, Janna Montcrief,
a pawn of art for at least the last two years; she,
Janna Montcrief, for whom love was never going
to be more than an interruption; she, Janna
Montcrief, was so much and so deeply in love that
art was rapidly receding to second place.
  And being fed by love, she thought, and the other way
around, too; the one feeds the other . . .
  She thought of Mrs. Nicholson and for the first time
understood why she had left her career for Robert,
something she had always thought weakness, though most of the other
girls at school had thought it wonderful and right.
"One for you again, Mrs. Nicholson," she
whispered. Then, for the first time since Mrs.
Nicholson had died, Jan let herself re-
member her as she'd been when she'd been well, her
strong, sure voice booming out at her cast, her
hands and body instantly showing the truth of whatever character
anyone was having trouble with. "I hope you can see the
show from heaven," Jan whispered. "And I hope this
show will be as good as you wanted it. We tried for you,
we really did. I tried for you."
  She remembered what Mrs. Nicholson had said
about her creativity, and, in a sharp burst, realized
she'd just about said goodbye to her dream of
playing Medea even as she'd said goodbye to playing
Elizabeth. But I'll find someone to play Medea
someday, she vowed, and direct that play. "Mrs.
Nicholson," she said aloud, for no one else was
there to hear, "thank you!" She held her arms out to the
set, then to the act curtain, as if embracing the
audience that was about to arrive. "Ladies and
gentlemen," she said, "I dedicate this performance
to Elvira Nicholson, the greatest lady of the theater
I have ever known, who . . ."
  She dropped her arms and paused.
  Well, why not?
  Why not make a curtain speech dedicating this
performance and tomorrow's to Mrs. Nicholson, whose
production, after all, it was?
  She looked at her watch. There was just about enough time
for her to go home and call Mr. Taylor to ask
permission to make the speech-assuming his number was in
the phone book-change, and work out exactly what she
was going to say. And then of course she'd have to tell the
cast.
  Thirty-five minutes later Jan was back at
school, calling "Half hour!" outside the two
dressing-room doors, tense from nervousness and from
driving through what was now a heavy snowfall.
She was wearing a black pants suit she had dubbed

her Hamlet suit when her mother had given it to her the
Christmas before, with a loosely flowing white
blouse-a poet's shirt, her mother called it; she'd
stuffed her jeans, turtleneck, and good-luck
sweatshirt into a bag to change into as soon as she'd
made the speech. Mr. Taylor, whose number was
indeed listed, had given his permission immediately, and had
roared that he thought it was "a most fitting idea, most
fitting!"
  Jan went out onstage for a quick look around the set
to make sure everything was still in place, and to wish the
crew good luck. And then she went backstage,
realizing she hadn't checked to see if everyone had
arrived, annoyed at herself for not posting a sign-in
sheet like the one they'd had backstage in stock.
  She went first to the girls" dressing room and
called "Hiis everyone here?" before she was far enough
inside to notice that the room was strangely quiet.
  "Everyone's here," someone said softly.
  "Hey, you look nice, Jan," said someone
else.
  But by then Jan's eyes were at the far end of the
room. Brenda and a couple of other girls
were busily fussing with their makeup, but Nanny and
Gail were huddled around Kerry, who was sitting in
front of her mirror, head bent. They seemed
to be patting her shoulders, talking gently to her,
soothing her.
  As Jan approached, their voices quieted and
she heard Kerry whisper to Nanny, "Don't
tell Jan," so she said quickly, "Don't tell
Jan what?"
  "Nothing," Kerry said as the other girls faded
back to their tables. Nanny returned awkwardly
to her own mirror, and started drawing the lines on her
face that would make her look as old as Rebecca
Nurse in the play.
  Jan noticed two similar sheets of yellow
paper face down
  between a jar of cold cream and an eyebrow pencil.
One was certainly her own "telegram." She
picked up the other one before Kerry could stop her.
  It certainly wasn't a real telegram, but
instead a piece of math paper made to look like one,
with words printed neatly on it in black capitals.
  "I guess," Kerry said with a weak smile,
"Kent came in here to find Brenda and saw your-your
message, and got jealous again. It's my
fault. I shouldn't have left it here when I went to the
bathroom. But I did and I-I was there awhile."
  "She was sick, that's what happened," Nanny
said furiously, half her face lined and half not.
"I'd like to kill Kent."
  "It's all right, Jan," Kerry said weakly.
"It's all right."
  "It's not all right." Jan's hand shook with fury
as she read what Kent had written:
SOON MY DEAR ELIZABETH YOU WILL
SEE WHAT
HAPPENS TO SUCH A QUEER GAY WITCH
AS THYSELF
WHICH KNOWS NOT HER PLACE AND CONSORTS
UN-
NATURALLY WITH A WOMAN MADE LIKE
HERSELF. IT
IS A SIN. IT IS AN ABOMINATION.
"THERE BE NO
HIGHER JUDGE UNDER HEAVEN THAN
PROCTOR IS."
YOU SAY IT YOURSELF. KNOW THY PLACE,
WOMAN. IT
IS MY PLAY, NOT THINE.JOHN
PROCTOR
Jan glanced toward Brenda, who shrugged, scowling,
and
  said, "I didn't write it. It was just a joke,
anyway."
  "Oh, so you knew about it." Jan tried
unsuccessfully to, keep her voice from shaking.
"Right?"
  "I knew that Kent was-oh, I don't know."
Brenda gestured airily. "He doesn't tell
me everything. I mean, he's a pretty independent
man," she added, stressing the last word. "I

haven't seen whatever that is:" She gestured toward
Kent's fake telegram.
  "He must be crazy," said Gail. "He must
really be crazy."
  Nanny pivoted angrily around, away from her
mirror. "He's just plain downright mean and
hateful. There's nothing in the world wrong with him
except that."
  "Oh, lighten up, Nanny!" Brenda spat.
"Can't any of you take a joke? Geeze, what
creeps!"
  "There are jokes and jokes," Nanny said. "But
this doesn't even begin to qualify as one."
  Brenda shrugged, picking up her lipstick, and
Jan, disgusted, turned back to Kerry. "Nanny
said you were sick," she said. "What's wrong?"
  "Oh," Kerry said apologetically, "I just
lost my dinner, that's all. It wasn't a whole
lot anyway; I was too nervous to eat much. I
hadn't even read Kent's thing yet. I don't
see how people can perform every night. I . . ." She
put her head down on the table, shoulders heaving, but
obviously struggling to bring her sobs under control.
  "Damn him!" Jan seized Kent's fake
telegram. She gave Kerry a quick, awkward
hug, then turned to Nanny.
  "Give him hell," Nanny said, getting up.
"I'll take care of Kerry." She put her hands
on Kerry's shoulders, though now they were still and steady.
  Jan tore out of the girls' dressing room and
barged into the boys', ignoring the startled looks and the
half-jovial, halfshocked cries of "Hey,
look out-a woman!"
  She shoved her way past everyone till she got
to Kent, who was carefully applying eyeliner.
  "You've gone too far, Kent," she barked,
slamming the fake telegram down in front of him.
  He lifted an eyebrow at her.
"Got your goat at last, eh?
Dissolved in tears, is she? Well, well,
guess you'll be playing Lizzie after all.
We'll see who runs who into the back wall."
"I will not be playing Elizabeth and Kerry is not
dissolved in tears. And if you upstage anyone tonight,
I'll play Proctor tomorrow."
"Really, dear? In drag? Don't you think the
school would have something to say about that?"
Jan shook her head tiredly. "Kent, I don't
know what your game is, and I don't understand how
anyone with your talent can be so vindictive just out of
jealousy, but . . ." Out of the corner of her eye
Jan saw Ted slowly approaching and she signaled
him to go away, but he stood there, not far from Kent's
table, watching. "It's got to be something more than
jealousy, Kent," she went on. "What's the
matter? Are you afraid you might be gay?"
She regretted it the moment she said it, but then saw
that it seemed to hit home, for Kent's liner brush
stopped moving in mid-stroke and he gave her a
look of such hatred that it chilled her whole body.
Will, Jan saw, was watching both of them. The other
boys were, too.
"Get out of here," Kent said under his breath.
"Not until you tell me you're going to stop this."
"Oh, baby, I'm not going to stop anything. Not
now. You know what you just said about me, and about Brenda
by saying it?"
Ted came up and stood between Kent and Jan. "It's
nearly time, you two."
Jan looked at her watch. "Ten minutes," she
said as briskly as she could. "Get onstage as
soon as you can. I've got an announcement
to make." She explained what she was going to say, and
then ran back to the girls' dressing room, where

Nanny was supervising Kerry, who wasn't on
till the second act, as Kerry smoothed
greasepaint onto her face.
"Ten minutes," Jan called, repeating what
she'd said to the boys about her announcement. Then she
went to Kerry's table as Kerry lifted an eyebrow
pencil and drew a shaky line.
"It's crooked," Kerry said, her voice shaky,
too.
Jan took the pencil, and Nanny faded back
to her own table, poked briefly at her whitened
hair, and left. "I yelled at Kent," Jan
said, skillfully and quickly doing Kerry's
other eye. "It probably made things worse, but
I yelled anyway." She erased Kerry's first
line with a tissue and cold cream, patched the
greasepaint base, and redrew the line.
"Someone will see you touching me," Kerry said.
"So what? What more can he do? Besides, it's only
makeup. And most of the girls seem to be on your
side. On our side. Just about everyone's gone up
to the stage anyway. Close your eyes."
Kerry closed her eyes, and Jan finished making
them up. "I want to ask haw your aunt was this afternoon
and all that, but I can't, Kerry; it's too late."
Kerry nodded. She seemed smaller suddenly,
defeated, and Jan thought with irony and pain of her first
glimpse of her, strong, self-assured . . .
She put her hand on Kerry's. "You can do it,
love," she whispered. "You really can, you know. Kent
or no Kent."
Kerry nodded again, and Jan could see that she was trying
to smile.
Jan remembered the ring then and reached into her pocket
for it, positioning herself between the one or two remaining
girls and Kerry. "Good-luck present," she
whispered, holding out the box. "Luck for now and for
always. Wear it on your
left hand for Elizabeth." Quickly, she opened the
box and slipped the ring onto Kerry's finger.
Kerry gasped, touching the ring, then smiled mistily.
"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes filling with
tears. "1I love you," she added almost
inaudibly. "I . . ."
"And I you," Jan mouthed back.
"Jan," said one of the remaining girls, getting up.
"Isn't it time for . . ."
"Oh, good lord!" said Jan. "I forgot to call
five minutes! And I've got to make a speech.
On stage, everyone," she shouted, raising her
voice. "Places! Everyone on stage, please,
for Act One."
She looked for a long moment into Kerry's eyes, then
left swiftly, calling, "Places-on stage,
please!" into the door of the boys' dressing room as
she passed.

TWOT
"IT WENT WELL, MOM
and Daddy told me," said Anita from her
hospital bed, her face pink and happy against the
pillows-a painful contrast to how Mrs. Nicholson
had looked the last few times Jan had
seen her. "And you should have heard Hal rave. He
thinks you must be pretty terrific to have practically
directed that play. I wish I'd seen it, Jan.
I'm so sorry I couldn't."
"Hey," said Jan, "it's okay. You had something
much more important to do." Keep it cheerful, Mom
had warned, telling her that people tend to get depressed
easily after giving birth and that Anita was worn out
because it had been such a difficult delivery.
"You haven't said how you feel about it," Anita
persisted. "Do you think it went well?"
"Sure." Jan glanced out the window to where the snow
lay glittering in the sunlight along the edges of
shoveled walks and plowed roads. Well, yes,
Kerry had more than gotten through it and Kent had tried
no other stunts; the audience had clapped enough for
five curtain calls, and Mr. Nicholson,
who had stunned everyone by arriving at the last minute
with Mr. Taylor, had been pleased, although teary,
at her dedication speech. Yes, it had gone well.
  "I wish I could see it tonight," Anita said,
sighing. "I even asked my doctor, but she said
no."
  "It's okay." Jan turned back from the window.
"There'll be other shows." She forced herself
to concentrate on Anita. "And, like I said, you had
something more important to do." She squeezed
Anna's hand. "He's cute, "Vita, your little
Squirt. He's really cute. I couldn't see
much of him when they held him up, and what I did
see was kind of wrinkled and red, but I could tell that
he's cute. And, hey, I'm going to have to learn how
to be an aunt."
  Anita squeezed Jan's hand back. "I'm
going to have to learn how to be a mother. A mommy!
Remember when we were little girls wanting to be
mommies?"
  "I remember when you were a little girl wanting to be
a mommy. At least I think I do. I never
wanted to be one."
  Anita stretched. "You will:"
  Jan felt her mouth go dry, and the thought
I'm going to tell her; I can't stand that everyone
thinks I'm something I'm not; I'm going to tell
her-but then
she remembered what Anita had said about pitying
homosexuals, and the moment passed.
  "Well, for now," Anita was saying, "do you
want to be Aunt Jan or Auntie Jan?"
  "Good grief, 'nita, I don't
know," Jan said, both relieved and disappointed that the
conversation had shifted to safer ground. "Let's let
him decide."
  "Okay." Anita yawned. "Sorry-Jan,
it's awful, but I'm suddenly sleepy. I think
I'm going to have to have a nap before they bring
Charley-Squirt in. Anyway," she went on,
"I think you're going to be a terrific aunt!"
  Jan put her coat on. "I'll be a lot
better one when he's big enough to throw a ball around,
and by the time he can read
Hamlet
there'll be no stopping me. Bye,
'nita-Mommy."
  "Bye, Auntie Jan. Good luck tonight."
  It was when she drove into the parking lot, early as
usual and dressed in her Hamlet suit for her
before-the-show dedication speech, that she saw it: hanging
outside the school was a banner that said in letters at
least three feet high:
KERRY SOCRIDES IS GAY.
JAN MONTCRIEF IS GAY.
Jan sat numbly in the car, staring at it for a moment
before she was able to move. Then all she could think of was
getting rid of the banner before Kerry saw
it-before everyone coming to see the play saw it, too, but
mostly she thought of Kerry. She burst out of the car
then, climbed up on a nearby dumpster, and tore
the banner down.
  But as soon as she got inside, she saw that there
were

signs all over, saying the same thing. There were
signs in the lobby, signs backstage, and signs
outside the dressing rooms. Some were scrawled on
the walls in what looked like colored chalk; others
were written on cardboard and tacked or taped in
place. The ones in the lobby were written on the
backs of posters, which Jan yanked down and tore
savagely apart.
  It took quite a while to deal with all of them, and she
heard people arriving as she worked frantically. When she
was through, she burst into the girls" dressing room and
found Gail and several other girls in the cast
clustered around Kerry's table again. Then she saw that
Nanny was scrubbing with cold cream at the mirror,
where the same words had been
scrawled in lipstick. Only Brenda sat apart,
calmly doing her hair.
"It's okay," Kerry was saying
insistently as Jan came in. "Really. It's just
another stupid trick. It's fine." But her
voice was brittle, her eyes too bright. "It's
funny, really."
Jan ignored the other girls and tried to put her
arms around Kerry. But Kerry maneuvered deftly
aside with a remote smile and sat down in front
of her mirror. "Thanks, Nanny," she said as the
girls moved away. "That's great. I can hardly
see it now."
"Are you sure you're okay?" asked Jan,
uncertain of how to react to Kerry's brittleness.
"I'm fine." Kerry seemed to be holding herself
in, as if she were afraid that if she didn't she'd
collapse. "He was bound to do something tonight. It's
okay. The show will go on."
"I think we should tell Mr. Taylor," Gail
said to Jan. "With the signs all over the place . .
."
Jan saw Kerry's back stiffen.
"All over?" Kerry moaned. "All over? What
. . ."
Jan glared at Gail. "I got rid of them,"
she said. "I don't think anyone coming to the performance
will see them; no audience people are here yet."
"All over?" Kerry repeated.
"There were a few," Jan said, suddenly conscious of
Brenda listening to them, though her back was to them and she
was making a great show of leafing through her script. "I
got rid of them," she said again. "Don't tell
me," she added pointedly to Brenda's back, "that it
was just a joke."
"Any girl," said Nanny, moving menacingly
toward Brenda, "who can't stand up to her own boyfriend
when he does something wrong is a coward."
Jan saw Brenda's face go pale under her
makeup. "Maybe I don't want to stand up
to him. I don't know about the rest

of you, but I'll be glad when this play's over and I
don't have to share this room with a-a lezzie. I
mean, I didn't even know what I was getting
into when I tried out for this play, and I sure don't
like what I've found. And Kent doesn't either. It
wasn't too bad at first, but now it's so obvious
it's disgusting. And I'm glad Kent had the guts
to, like, expose it."
"Right on, Brenda," said a girl who had a
small part and was standing next to her. "I'll be glad
when we don't have to take orders from a
lezzie or share a room with one. I bet Mrs.
Nicholson would be really upset if she knew."
Before Jan could say anything, Kerry got up,
grabbing a stick of greasepaint, the eyeliner and
pencils and rouge and lipstick that she used, plus a
box of powder and a jar of cold cream. "I don't
think Mrs. Nicholson would care one way or the
other," she threw over her shoulder as she marched out.
"But I certainly don't want to share this dressing
room with someone like you!"
"Way to go, Kerry," Gail called after her.
"You coward," Jan heard Nanny say to Brenda.
"You weak, sniveling coward . . ." But Jan
left, following Kerry, who had gone into the girls'
bathroom.
Kerry was standing in front of the sinks, her reflection
framed in another
KERRY SOCRIDES IS GAY
sign, written in lipstick along the four sides
of a square.
"Clever," Kerry said bitterly as Jan came
in. "Look. Isn't it clever the way it goes
all around the mirror?"
Jan grabbed the lipstick from the pile of makeup
tools Kerry had dumped on the edge of the
sink and scrawled
IAN Moation'rGRIEE Is GAY
on the other mirror. Then she reached for the cold
cream and erased the sign about Kerry.
Kerry leaned against the sink. "Oh, Jan," she
said. "Thanks, but what's the use?"
Jan put her arms around her, but Kerry slipped out
from
under them. "Better not," Kerry said, smearing a
paper towel with cold cream and rubbing out Jan's
sign. "You've got to stay in this school. I can
leave."
Jan told herself not to react to that, that this wasn't the
time to show how she felt. "Then you've decided," she
said evenly.
Kerry shrugged and went into one of the booths.
"Kerry, I do understand. It's just . . ."
"It's time for you to call five minutes," Kerry
said from behind the closed door.
"Kerry, I...
"The show must go on."
"Damnit, come out of there!"
"Jan, please. I can't talk about it now. I
can't touch you. I can't even think about it or I'll
fall apart. I've still got one more
performance."
Jan hung her head. "I know," she said humbly.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Kent wants me to fall apart so I'll be bad and
ruin the show. Then he can be a big man and pull it
together. So I can't fall apart."
"I know. I-it's just . . ." Jan turned on the
cold water and splashed it on her face, then
finished her sentence. "It's just that I'm so afraid
he's driving a wedge between us that we're never going
to be able to get rid of. I can't help thinking that if
it weren't for me there'd be no signs."
"It takes two," Kerry said bitterly, "for
anything we've done. I think he knows that."
There was the sound of flushing and then silence from Kerry's
booth.
"It's also . . ." Jan began, feeling herself
break finally, and then hating herself for it.

"What?" said Kerry.
"Nothing."
"Come on."
Jan hesitated, then finally said, "It's also that
it's been hard not knowing about next year. But now I
guess I know. Right? I know I shouldn't
ask, but . . ."
"You shouldn't," Kerry said. "Please. I'm really
not sure yet, okay?"
Jan shivered and wondered if it was the cold water.
Surely not; it hadn't even been very cold. "Would
you at least come out of that booth so I can wish you good
luck properly?" she asked.
There was a long silence. Then, so quietly that Jan
had to strain to hear, came Kerry's answer:
"No."
During the performance Kent successfully upstaged
Kerry twice in their first scene. Jan scrawled
"Two can play that game," on a piece of paper,
explained how to do it, and gave it to Ted at
intermission to give to Kerry. Kerry tried it
once, and from then on, Kent moved according to the show's
blocking.
Kerry's last scene with Kent was better than it had
ever been, and even Kent seemed too moved and too
involved in it to try any more tricks. Jan felt
tears sting her eyes during Elizabeth's final
speeches, and when she said the line "I never knew
how I should say my love" there was a pause before and
after it that filled Jan with hope.
But when, after the performance, which got six
curtain calls this time, Jan went down to the
girls' dressing room to pick Kerry up before
meeting Raphael, Kerry wasn't there.
TWENTHHE
"LOOK, I'M A WALKING
clich6," Raphael had said once in stock at a
party, mincing across the room, hands dangling from limp
wrists, amid friendly laughter. "Put me on a
TV show and nine thousand gays would complain to the
producer about stereotyping."
  But he wasn't a stereotype, although he often
chose to'talk and act like one, and he could mimic
nearly anyone, straight or gay. Jan had seen
his thin, rather sharp features take on a feline
coyness when he wanted them to, or, slackening,
make' him look like a dissipated lout, as readily
as she had seen them harden into a look of resolute
strength, or soften into kindness. "Rubber face,"
someone had nicknamed him in stock, telling him he
should do film instead of theater.
  Now, beside her in his rented car as they drove
to Kent's party, Raphael looked attentive and
concerned while she told him more about Kerry, and then
about Kent and Brenda and Will, and about Kerry's idea
of pretending to play straight at the party.
He winced at that but agreed, and gave her a quick
pat on the arm when she finished.

"Do you want to try calling Kerry?" he asked
then. "See if she's homey"
  Jan tugged her jacket tighter around her.
"I'm tempted," she admitted. "But if she's not
at the party, I'll know she's home and doesn't
want to come, so what's the point? I don't much
want to go myself . . ."
  "Hey." Raphael slowed down and stopped at a
light. "Maybe I shouldn't say this, and you can be
mad at me if you like, but don't stop fighting. I
mean, if you've really got something worth holding on
to with this girl . . ."
  "I know. I won't stop. It's just-hard
sometimes."
  "Right, left, straight? Where do I go when the
light changes?"
  "Right. Then straight for a while till the next
light. Left there." Jan pulled in on herself,
suddenly tired and not wanting to talk, not even
to Raphael. Not anymore.
  "Did I ever tell you," he asked, "about the time
I was beaten up in high school?"
  She looked at him, startled. "No."
  "It was the end of junior year, and there was this
ridiculous class picnic at the beach. And this
other kid, Chris, his name was, and I had been
seeing each other for a couple of months. We'd been
pretty careful, but there'd already been the usual
faggot jokes and stuff like that. Chris was a
terrific athlete and he was on the school
baseball team-you know, varsity; he was a real
jock. He was also beautiful-golden hair, skin,
everything. Well, he did have blue eyes." He
turned his head briefly in Jan's direction.
"That was a laugh line," he said reproachfully.
"Golden everything, except for blue eyes?"
  "Sor was ry.
  "Okay. Watch for the next one, ladies and
gentlemen. Anyway, like I said, he was a real
jock, but the other guys had
  started staying away from him in the locker room and
they made cracks every time he was around. You know."
  "Oh, yes," Jan said. "I know."
  "Well, for some insane reason Chris and I
decided to go to the beach party anyway. I don't
know, some kind of weird defiance, I guess. Come
to think of it, maybe it was a little like you and me
going to the cast party tonight and pretending to be straight,
to throw your pal Kent off the track. But only a
little. Anyway, off we went, Chris and I, trying
to act butch, and everything was okay for a while. But
finally we couldn't stand the butch act any longer, or
staying away from each other, so we went up into the
dunes-for a walk, you understand." He snapped his
fingers. "You missed again. Laugh line."
  "Sorry again."
  Raphael gave an exaggerated sigh. "You're
in some mood for a party. Not that I blame you. And come
to think of it, this story isn't going to do much for your
mood. That's probably the last laugh line in the
whole thing. Forget it. Do I turn again?"
  "Not for a while." Jan struggled to concentrate on
his story. "Go on. You can't stop now."
  "Well, one of the straight guys was a character like good
old Kent, only his name was Rodney. Hey,
maybe they all have elegant names like that, huh?"
  "Is that a laugh line?"
  "Any time you want to laugh, honeybunch, I'll
wait for it. Sure."
  "Hahahaha."
  "Wow."
  "It's the best I can do," Jan said, but
she felt herself beginning to relax a little. It was hard
not to, with Raphael. "You've got to admit it's
better than before."

"True. But let's face it, it wouldn't make the
old laughometer needle even quiver." He
studied her face for a moment. "I can see I should go
on with this story. Okay. So old Rodney, he
saw Chris and me leave and he started making
cracks to the other guys, loud cracks, and to the
girls, too, showing off. You know, lots of laugh
lines. But Chris and I went on walking, trying
to ignore them, and then Rodney said, "Come on,
let's get the queers." And all of a sudden a
bunch of them came roaring after us." Raphael
paused, and Jan could see that he was gripping the
steering wheel harder than necessary.
  "Go on," she prompted gently.
  "A couple of the girls screamed and I heard
someone yell, "Oh, forget it, Rodney; they're
not worth it." But then someone tackled me, and as I
fell I heard Chris give a sort of a choking
sound-you know, like a gurgle-and I tried to look over
to him but I couldn't because someone was banging my head up
and down in the sand. I heard someone yell
"Eat it, faggot," though, and later I found out
that Rodney had stuffed sand in Chris's mouth. That was
before he broke his shoulder."
  "Oh, no, Raphael." Jan touched his arm.
  "To make a long story short," he said,
"Chris had a broken shoulder and a mouth full of
sand, some of which he was actually forced to swallow, and I
had a concussion and a sprained wrist. We both had a
lot of bruises. When they were finished with us, they
left, and we lay there for a while. Then we crawled
over to each other and held each other, and cried. And
later we somehow made it back to my car and drove
to the hospital emergency room. And no, we
didn't report it to the cops as a gay bashing because
we were too afraid."
  "What happened to Rodney?"
  "Rodney? Honey, I wish I could say we
went after him the next weekend and beat him up, but
we didn't. What we did
was go back to school Monday, terrified, and
Rodney got both of us in the hall separately and
said that if we told anyone about it we were dead meat,
and so we said "Yes, sir," or words to that
effect, and prayed for the end of school. Luckily,
it came soon. Chris went to Camp
Something-or-Other, and then his parents moved. I never
saw him again. Rodney graduated, and I kept
my hands to myself, so to speak, all senior year. So
you see, honeybunch, I know a little about what you're
facing."
"What you went through was worse, though. So much
worse! I wish I could take it away,
somehow$11
,'allyeah, me too. I wish I could find Chris and
take it away from him also, and from you, and from all other
gay kids who've gone through the same kind of thing."
He swung the car in an angry arc around a pile
of plowed snow that had spilled over from the sidewalk;
then he stopped at another light. "But I guess
I can't. Do I turn here?"
"Yes. It's the big white house. The one at the
end of the street with all the cars. Raphael, let's
not go!"
Raphael deftly fitted the car into a tight parking
space. "Hey, we can do this," he said, a little
grimly. "If you really want to. It's not as if
we never have before. Remember all those times we
played straight with my parents, in stock. We
convinced them; my mom still asks about you. Someday soon
I'm going to tell them the truth, but they
weren't ready for it then. It's the same with the kids in
your school, I guess. For now, it makes sense
for you to be careful, to protect yourself and Kerry.
Right?"
"1-I don't know. Maybe not. Kerry's not
going to be there, probably, and even if we do the
straight bit, what good will it really do? The show's
over. I'm not sure it even matters anymore."
Raphael turned and looked at her; his face was more
serious than she'd ever seen it. "Sweetie, I
know how you feel," he said. "But it probably
does matter. Even if most of the kids at your
school didn't see those signs, you'd better
believe word about them's gotten out. Your pal Kent
may very well have started something you and Kerry are going
to have to deal withforthe rest of the year. If you manage
to convince everyone you're straight, you might be able
to nip it in the bud as far as people who weren't in the show
are concerned. And that matters. Think of me and
Chris."
"I'm going to have to deal with it for the rest of the year,"
Jan said. "I'm not sure Kerry is." She
explained about that, too.
"Well, it's up to you, sugar. You do have a choice
here. I'll go along with whatever you want
to do. If you don't go, nothing will change, and things
could get worse, because they'll all have a chance to talk
about what they've done. If you do go, and we manage
to convince them, maybe they'll leave you and Kerry in
peace." He squeezed her hand. "You're doing it for
Kerry. For survival."
Jan looked toward Kent's house, blazing with
lights from every downstairs window. A Christmas
tree, resplendent with tinsel and red, blue,
green, and yellow lightbulbs, twinkled from one
window and a huge wreath covered most of the front
door.
"I feel about as festive as last year's wreath,"
she said, nodding toward the one on Kent's house.
"And mostly I just want to be with Kerry." She
sighed. "But I can't be with Kerry, and you're
probably right that I should go. And that we should go ahead
and pretend. Can I say I hate it, though?
Putting on an act like that? A lie."
"Sure you can," he said. "Yes indeed, you can say
that.
  Between you and me, I'm not thrilled about it either.
Never have been, not even with my folks. Maybe
especially not with them. But think of it as an acting
job. I'll do my too-too
sophisticated Hollywood-actor routine, and
youyou'd better be my adoring girlfriend.
Lover-type girlfriend,
not sister-type girlfriend." He smiled, and
squeezed her hand again. "Let's have fun with it," he
said, "as directors say. And speaking of
directors, remember that you've got to be some kind
of heroine to those kids. That was one terrific
directing job. You saved that show, sugar.
Remember the show?"
  Jan finally smiled, too.
  "Well, it was. And your Kerry was marvelous."
  "Kent wasn't bad either." Resignedly, Jan
got out of the car.
  "No." Raphael came around to her side and
hooked her arm through his. "But I wouldn't dwell
on that with him, if I were you. Now come on.
Remember to gaze at me adoringly and don't
slug me if I paw you. We're going to make this
look good and we're going to shut that bastard up once
and for
  all, if we're lucky, and if we give a
really great performance.
  Right?""
  "Right. But, Raphael, if Kerry is
there . . ."
  "If Kerry's there, we can do the same act,
except we all three leave early. You and I will
be driving Kerry home, as far as Kent will know, and
then going out afterwards." He winked. "Or something."
  Jan walked beside Raphael up the path, her
feet crunching in the snow, wondering how she was going
to pretend, if Kerry was there, that it was Raphael
she really cared about.
  She hoped Kerry would remember that they'd
planned to play.
  straight.

Of course she'll remember, she scolded herself.
It was even mostly her idea.
  Warmth and smoke hit them as they went in the
door. "Geeze," said Raphael, "you'd think
they'd open a window at least. Whew!" He shucked
off his jacket, dropped it on a chair, and helped
Jan off with hers. "Let me open doors, too,"
he whispered, "and make sure you go in front of
me. We'll do all that courtly old-world stuff."
He draped his arm possessively over her shoulder
and propelled her into the living room. "Look
happy," he said under his breath. "Come on,
smile. A little radiance wouldn't hurt either. You
look wonderful in that suit, by the way, but it's just a
tiny bit butch, so swing your hips or something."
  "Oh, come on," Jan said, annoyed, "the kids
all know me, for Pete's sake, even if they
don't really know for sure I'm gay." Her eyes
darted around the crowded room, seeking Kerry. She
spotted Ted and Nanny first, dancing near a few
other couples beside a CD player at the
opposite end of the room, and then Kent and Brenda,
obviously playing host and hostess, near the
fireplace. Brenda was passing someone a huge
bowl of potato chips and Kent was poking a flaming
log, unnecessarily and a bit unsteadily, as if
he'd already had too much to drink. She saw Gail
and Will and most of the other kids from the cast and crew and a
few more besides-but no sign of Kerry.
  Brenda looked up from the chips bowl, straight
at Jan, and tugged Kent's arm, whispering something
to him. The voices died down and suddenly it seemed
as if everyone in the room was staring at Jan and
Raphael.
  "Well, hi, Jan," Brenda called in a
saccharine-sweet voice. "Kerry's not here. We
thought you two had decided to-well, you
know. Party on your own, I guess."
There was a not very well suppressed snicker from some
of the kids. Gail, Jan saw, seemed
embarrassed, and Nanny and Ted looked furious.
Will looked puzzled, then hopeful, almost as if he
were relieved to see Jan with a male date.
Jan felt Raphael's elbow in her ribs.
"Introduce me," he said without moving his lips.
"Then let's dance. They'll stop staring then."
"Hi, everyone," Jan said as casually as she could.
"This is my friend Raphael Bartrol from stock last
summer. He saw the show."
With jock-like casualness, Raphael raised his hand
but not his arm from Jan's shoulder, dropped his voice
at least twothirds of an octave, and gave a
nonchalant single wave toward the group. "Great
job, kids," he said. "Really great. Showed a
lot of hard work, and it's a toughie, I know. I
did it back a few years ago . . ."
Jan squelched her surprise; he'd never told
her he'd done
Crucible
and she was sure he would at least have mentioned it if he
had.
"What," asked Kent, unfolding himself from
the hearth and coming up to them, weaving a little, "did you
play?"
"Proctor," said Raphael, looking straight at
him.
"Really," Kent said without expression.
"Tough part. I like the way you did it. Not my
interpretation, of course, but quite credible."
"Oh?" Kent lurched drunkenly, and continued
to speak without expression. "How did you interpret
it?"
Raphael laughed and pressed his fingers into the small
of Jan's back, pushing her toward where the kids
who'd been dancing were now standing, watching them. "Good
lord, not now, man," he said. "This is a party. I
want to dance with
my girl, not talk shop."
Leaving Kent openmouthed behind him, Raphael took
Jan's hand and started to dance. Someone changed the
music, and Jan panicked; it was very slow. But
Raphael put his arms around her and murmured,
"No, that's good for us; good for the performance. Come on,
sweetikins, let me lead. Move closer.
Relax . . . I
think
we're doing pretty well," he said a
moment later. "Yes, Kent's staring at us."
"Probably trying to think of something cutting to say,"
Jan said in Raphael's ear.
"That's the girl. Now do something mildly outrageous
but sexy if you can stand it. Nibble on my ear or
look into my eyes or kiss me or something."
Accidentally, Jan stepped on his foot.
"Ouch!" he whispered, pinching her. "Not
that
outrageous! Come on, snuggle a bit. He's coming
up to us. I think maybe he's going to cut in. Do
people still do that? Nope, he's dancing with his own girl."
"Yeah, I can see that," Jan told him.
"No, no, no, no!" said Raphael. "Keep
your eyes closed, honeybunch, while we're slow
dancing, except when you open them to look at me
dreamily. There's no one else in the room but us.
Now, come on. Aren't I the most divine creature
you ever saw?" He cupped Jan's chin in his hand and
gazed longingly into her eyes.
"I'm going to crack up, Raphael," Jan
whispered, feeling more relaxed in spite of herself, and
trying to return his look. "Careful, you're
dropping the butch act."
"The only way," he said
apologetically, "that I can look at you like that-no
offense-is to think of a certain man named Jacques,
and that's not conducive to my being very butch. Come on.
A touch more Ophelia in your Hamlet, old
girl. Look at me meltingly. Think of her, for
goodness' sake."
"If I do that," said Jan, closing her eyes and
leaning against Raphael as the music stopped,
"I'll probably burst into tears."
"Here comes John Proctor," Raphael
murmured, kissing Jan's forehead. "Where in
blazes is your hand? It should be in mine,
sweetikins. Remember, we're lovers, or
nearly."
Kent walked toward them unsteadily while the music
changed again, this time to something faster; more kids got up
to dance. Someone at the other end of the room turned off
a light. Someone else spilled the chips and there was
loud laughter as two or three others dove to pick
them up. "Floor's clean," Brenda called
loudly. "Kent's mother said she had the cleaning lady
yesterday."
"Let's sit this one out," said Raphael louder
than necessary as Kent came up to them. He put his arm
around Jan and led her toward an empty
chair.
"I thought you were so anxious to dance with your girl," said
Kent, barring their way.
Raphael looked him up and down contemptuously.
"We did dance," he replied finally. "Now I'd
like to-er-talk to her."
He steered Jan around him, but Kent's voice
fired at their backs.
"Just how long," he asked, "have you two been going
together?"
"Since last summer," Raphael answered
promptly. "I live in New York, so we
haven't seen each other since then. I'd
like
to see her now. Maybe it's time to leave, baby?"
he said to Jan.
Kent planted himself in front of them again; Brenda
came up and stood beside him, so close she was almost
leaning on his arm. Jan could see people watching, and saw
Nanny poke Ted, who turned around and watched
also.
"Well, if you haven't seen her since last
summer," said Kent, slurring his words, "there's one
or two things you should know."
"I already know that you're drunk," said
Raphael, "and so I doubt that there's much of interest
you could tell me."
"Kent," Brenda said, laughing nervously and tugging
at his arm. Maybe . . .
"Shu' up, Brenda. Man," he said
to Raphael, "look. Lemme do you a favor.
One thing you oughta know. I mean, if I was going with a
girl, I'd want to know it .
Ted came up behind Kent and tapped his shoulder.
"Lay off, Kent," he said. "The show's over,
okay? Your little game didn't work, and you were a good
Proctor anyway. No one disputes that. So lay
off now."
Kent shot his arm out and caught Ted in the chest,
sending him sprawling into a chair. Jan heard
Nanny gasp and saw two of the boys go to Ted and
help him up again.
"You mentioned leaving," Jan said quietly
to Raphael, trying to keep her voice from shaking, for
something ugly had come into Kent's face when he'd
pushed Ted. "Good idea." She moved toward the
front hall, maneuvering Raphael in front of
her-and then stopped, frozen.
For there, just coming into the now silent room, was Kerry,
in a pair of black pants and a
blazing-red tunic, her hair tied back with a
matching red scarf, her mouth set in a defiant
smile, and her eyes terrified.
"Hi, everyone," she said, a little too loudly.
"Sorry I'm so late." She laughed
self-consciously. "What an entrance, huh?
Sorry to interrupt . . ."
Jan moved swiftly toward her, hands out to take
hers, but Raphael stepped in front of her. "This
must be the Elizabeth," he said. "What a
performance!" He patted Kerry's shoulder.
"Marvelous, dear. And Jan tells me you've
never acted before. Really, you must think about going on with
it. I'm Raphael Bartrol, by the way.
Jan's-er-friend from stock."
"Kerry," Jan began; everyone was still staring
silently, as if they were all holding their breath.
"It's great you got here." She moved closer
to Kerry, but Kent pushed between them. As Raphael
reached out as if to brush Kent aside, Kent grabbed
Raphael's arm. "Hang on," Kent said. "You
oughta know Jan's been two-timing you-with
her."
He pointed at Kerry and then paused, leering at
Raphael. "Bizarre, huh? Thought you'd
. . ."
Raphael threw back his head and guffawed,
clapping Kent on the back. "Bizarre? Oh, my
poor boy, you don't know what bizarre is! But
I wouldn't expect you to, stuck in a small town
like this. Sonny," he said, draping a brotherly arm
across Kent's shoulders, "you ever hear of the maternal
instinct? Jan's a sweet, warm, motherly woman.
She's told me all about her friend here." His manner
changed, became angry, judgmental even, in the
quiet room, with everyone still watching. "Jan told
me about those stupid signs, the phone callseverything.
I don't know where you and your pals got such a
crazy idea, but if anyone knows this girl, I do.
There's no way she's what you've been saying she
is, and if she isn't, her friend isn't either.
Haven't you ever heard of friendship? Haven't you . .
."
Suddenly Jan wanted to scream. She felt even
worse than she'd expected, and it was clear to her that
it was all wrong. It was a denial of what she was,
what Kerry was; it was almost like calling it dirty,
even dirtier than Will had been saying it was.
She saw the same feeling on Kerry's face.
Kerry moved to Jan's side and, with
everyone in the room watching, took her hand. "Say
it," she whispered urgently.

"It's okay with me. Tell them." She gripped
Jan's hand so hard it hurt.
Jan took a deep breath. "Never mind,
Raphael," she said. "Thanks. It's okay."
She faced Kent and, loud enough so everyone would be able
to hear, said, "You were right. The signs were right. I am
gay."
With the words came a sense of relief and liberation so
great that she felt she never wanted to hide again, even
though she knew at the same time that she might have to.
"And so am I," came Kerry's clear voice.
"Jan and I-we love each other very much. And I
don't think that's anyone's business but ours."
Jan saw the astonished faces around her-even
Ted's, even Nanny's-heard the few
self-conscious giggles, felt Raphael's
supportive hand on her shoulder, saw his other hand
on Kerry's as he murmured, "All right,
sisters!"
Kent, with Brenda beside him, remained motionless,
frozen in place. Will opened his mouth as if to speak,
but then snapped it shut.
Ted broke into applause, and soon nearly everyone
else in the room joined in, except Will,
Brenda, a few kids who were whispering to each other,
and Kent, who wheeled and went abruptly to the table
where the drinks were, popped the top off a can of
beer, and downed it in what appeared to be a single
long gulp.
Brenda followed him, and Will stepped toward Jan,
Kerry, and Raphael as if he still had something
to say. But he stopped midway, went to an empty
chair, and sat down instead.
"Come on, my brave chickadees," Raphael
said. "I think this is our cue to exit. I am so
proud of you both," he added quietly as he steered
them toward the door. "So proud!"
Jan took Kerry's hand, suddenly exhausted.
What she most
wanted to do was leave with Kerry, hold her, and
sleep for days.
But as she went tiredly out of Kent's house with
Kerry and Raphael, with people patting her shoulder and
saying things like "See you Monday," and "That took a
lot of guts," and "Hey, you know I don't
care"-as she went out of Kent's house and down his
front steps to Raphael's car, she was
acutely conscious of the fact that she still didn't know
if Kerry was going to stay after January, and she
knew she wasn't sure she could-or should-ask.
"See you Monday," Kerry whispered, kissing
Jan while Raphael discreetly looked the other
way when they dropped Kerry off at her aunt's.
"I promised Aunt Elena I'd go to a
giftware show tomorrow. I didn't go today because of
Crucible." She pushed back Jan's hair. "I
love you. You were so brave tonight."
"So were you," said Jan.
But she wondered, as she and Raphael drove
away, if Kerry was going to be brave enough to stay.
She wondered if she'd be brave enough herself, if she
had the same choice. As Raphael said later,
gently, when he dropped her off before driving to his
friend's in Middleton where he was spending the weekend,
the kids in the show were one thing, but the other kids in
school might very well be another matter, once word
got around.

SUNDAY MORNING AND
afternoon went by without word from Kerry, and when Jan called
several times in the evening, there was no answer.
Raphael came to dinner and charmed both her
parents, so much so that, after he left, her mother said,
"Are you sure he doesn't like you? I mean, as more
than a friend? He certainly seems interested, and
he's so nice, Jan!"
"Yes, isn't he?" she said vaguely, and went
up to her room, pleading homework.
But all she could do was stare out of her window at the
frosty world outside and wonder why Kerry hadn't
called.
Monday morning, after next to no sleep, Jan was
tempted to go to Kerry's house and pick her up for
school. But what if, after coming out so bravely at the
party, she'd gotten scared and didn't want to see
Jan anymore? Instead, Jan went to school
early, but Kerry never did arrive. Kids looked
at Jan curiously on and off all day, some
seeming sympathetic, some just prying, but she couldn't
bring herself to say anything to any of them.
At lunch, Ted plunked himself down at her table.
"News," he said, spearing a sad-looking mass of
noodles and hamburger with his fork. "Justice may
be blind, but she's not dead. Interested?" He lifted
the forkful into his mouth and chewed.
"Depends," Jan told him, trying not to watch him
swallow; she herself had no appetite and
had barely touched the small salad she'd chosen.
Ted took a swallow of milk and wiped his mouth.
"Rumor has it," he said, "that Taylor had
Kent in his office for all of third period. Will and
Brenda, too, but not for as long. Rumor also has
it that they're all suspended for defacing school
property and "harassing other students," I
believe is the official term. Suspended till
after Christmas break." He gave her a
quizzical look. "Happy?"
"Sure," she said, but she discovered she was unable
to feel any reaction. "Ecstatic."
"Well, it ought to help. It'll give you time, if
nothing else. And maybe it'll make them think
twice before they start anything again."
"Maybe." Jan toyed with her salad. If
Kerry's not around, she thought, what difference will it
make if Kent shuts up?
Ted reached across the table and tapped Jan's fork.
"You're killing that tomato needlessly," he said.
"It's December, for Pete's sake. The poor
thing's dead already. You want me to call Kerry?"
he asked finally. "You said something once about
messages."
She was able to smile at him then,
gratefully. "Not yet," she told him. "But
I'll keep it in mind."
After school, Jan drove through the icy streets,
almost missing two lights, straight to Kerry's.
The house was dark, though dusk had fallen, and there

was no answer when she rang the bell, so she went
to the shop. Not giving herself time to question what she was doing,
she walked briskly in.
Aunt Elena was at the cash register, ringing up a
sale. Jan waved at her and went quickly to the
stockroom door, where she'd caught a glimpse of
red-Kerry's red turtleneck, she was sure-and
heard a sneeze. "Kerry?" she called, looking
into the room. Then she saw her, blowing her nose in
the middle of gift wrapping one of the ghastly cherubs.
"Oh, thank God-Jan!" Kerry exclaimed,
dropping the cherub. It smashed, and she stepped on it
as she ran to Jan comto Jan, whose heart was beating
wildly, joyfully, for the look on Kerry's face
answered her most important question.
Kerry flung her arms around Jan and held her as
if she would never let go. "I kept sending you
telepathic messages all day," she whispered.
"I've got a stupid cold; I had a
sore throat yesterday, and I sneezed so much last
night Aunt Elena made me stay home today.
We got back too late last night from that
giftware show for me to call and warn you. And I
overslept this morning. But I'm working in the shop
to show her I'm well enough to go to school tomorrow.
She-umshe's started talking again about how I should have
other friends."
Jan moved out of Kerry's embrace and told her
what Ted had said about messages. "If she gets
too snoopy," Jan said, "feel free to call
him. Kent's been suspended," she added. "Brenda
and Will, too:"
"Jan?" Aunt Elena stood in the doorway,
looking more confused than angry.
"Hi," said Jan. "I was worried about Kerry.
There wasn't any answer when I called last
night, and since she wasn't in school today, I was
even more worried. So I came over."
Aunt Elena laughed self-consciously. "Ruth and
Naomi,"

she said. "That's what you two are. "Whither thou
goest, I will go"-from the Bible. But I think now that
the play's over, we should have a big party,
with lots of boys, h'mm, Kerry Ann?" Aunt
Elena put her arm around Kerry. "Wouldn't that be
fun?"
  Kerry sneezed violently, twice.
  Jan laughed in spite of herself. "Feel
better, Ker'," she said casually, moving toward the
door.
  Kerry murmured "Thanks," sneezed again, and
winked.
  At about ten that night, the phone rang in Jan's
house and Jan nearly upset a vase of holly as
she leapt up to answer it.
  "I don't know," said Ted as soon as Jan had
said hello. "This message business isn't all
it's cracked up to be."
  "You have a message?" said Jan tensely. "Come
on-what?"
  "It doesn't make sense. Well, maybe it
will to you. I guess it would to me, too, if I
looked it up . . ."
  "Ted!"
  "Oh, all right. Kerry called me a few
minutes ago, whispering like she was afraid she'd be
overheard. Said something about her aunt telling her again
to see other people, not to hang around you so much, and
that she'd been about to call you but her aunt had said,
"I hope you're not calling Jan at this hour,"
and Kerry said she thought of me and said, "No, I'm
calling a boy," and her aunt said, "That's all
right, then. But don't talk long; it's late.""
  "The message, Ted," said Jan, not wanting
to think about the implication of Aunt Elena's
increasing firmness.
  "She said, "Tell Jan
Hamlet,
Act Two, scene two, Hamlet's letter
to Ophelia." And she said to be on the stage at
school at six o'clock tomorrow night."
  Jan closed her eyes in relief; she knew the
Hamlet
lines well. "Yes, okay. Fine. Ted-thank
you."

"Don't mention it. By the way, I never liked
Hamlet
much. Certainly not enough to check out that message."
  "Thanks for that, too," said Jan. "But I
don't think I'd mind if you did. You're a good
friend, Ted."
  "Oh, I know, I know. True to the end
and all that. Well, see you tomorrow. Wow, the
intrigue!"
  As Jan expected, Kerry wasn't in school
the next day either, but this time, though she had almost as much
trouble concentrating on her classes as she'd had the
day before, she wasn't nearly so worried. She
actually managed to whistle as she helped Ms.
Grillo and the crew strike the
Crucible
set.
  An hour more, she thought when everyone left at
five. One more hour.
  She opened her history book and tried to read;
there was a test right before Christmas break. But though
she could hear the words in her mind individually as she
read them, they made no sense put together. She
closed the book after about twenty minutes and went
backstage to the small equipment storage room,
where she found a music tape, and put it on the sound
machine, with the volume low so the custodian wouldn't
hear and come prying. Then she bunched up her jacket
for a pillow and lay down on the bare stage, closing
her eyes to listen.
  And the next thing she knew, Kerry was beside her,
softly touching her face.
  was "Doubt thou the stars are fire,"" Kerry was
quoting, smiling down at her, "'Doubt that the sun
doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, But never
doubt I love." Sleepyhead."
"Hamlet."
Jan sat up. "Act Two, scene two,
Hamlet's letter to Ophelia. Kerry-how are you?"
  "Fine," Kerry said. "Except for this rotten
cold. Fine. And very, very proud."
"Huh?"
Kerry took Jan's hand. "Because of the party."
"Hey, I'm proud of you, too. I'd never have said
anything if you hadn't told me to."
"But I wouldn't have dared actually say anything myself
if you hadn't said it first. And now we're free.
Kent can write anything he wants on the walls
when he comes back from being suspended and it can't really
do us any harm."
"Don't count on it," Jan said, remembering
Raphael's beach story. "If there's a way, he
or Will or Brenda might still find it. Or other
kids might. And now there's your aunt . . ."
"Right." Kerry sat down next to Jan on the
stage floor, and with her free hand poked absently
at a bit of dust. "The way I see it,
it's only a matter of time before she really catches
on or before someone tells her. And I'm not sure
she'd know how to cope if she knew."
"So," said Jan, trying to blink back the tears that
rose in her eyes, "you're going to go back with your
parents in January." She squeezed Kerry's
hand. "It's okay. It's probably the best thing.
I-I'm sad, but I understand. And I'd hate
to see you hurt. I . . ."
But Kerry was shaking her head vehemently. "No,"
she said. "No. I wrote my parents. I told
them about us."
Jan stared at her. "You what?"
"I wrote them about us. Saturday night, after the
party. And I asked them to let me stay with Aunt
Elena after January, and I suggested that maybe when
they come back, we could all talk about it, I mean
my parents and me, with Aunt Elena. You, too,
if you want. I think Mom and Dad will be okay
about it, at least after a while. And I think they'll
help with Aunt Elena. They're pretty decent
people."
"Now who's proud?" said Jan, letting the tears
rise after all. "That was an incredibly brave thing
to do."
Kerry smiled. "I think we should go on seeing each
other any time we want until we know what's going
to happen, at school and with my folks. And then, when
whatever happens does happen, we can go on from there.
If my parents make me go home, which I really
doubt-well, there are letters, and post-office boxes
are pretty private if someone's trying to interfere
with one's mail."
"And school?" Jan asked. "Things could get
pretty bad, Kerry, even dangerous, when Kent
and his friends come back. I have a feeling suspension
may not change them a whole lot. They'll
probably blame us for it, and . . ."
"Shh. You are the most important person in my
life, Jan. I'm not going to let you go. I'm not
going to let people walk all over me, either. School
won't last forever. And if bad things happen,
we'll deal with them. A lot of kids are on our
side, I think. As long as we've got each
other, I think we'll be okay. It took me a
while to trust that, and to sort out how I feel about not
being straight. I mean, you know, there are things that one
expects one's life to be, and then when it isn't
going to be that way, it's sort of . . ."
"A jolt?" Jan supplied, remembering
how she'd wondered what Thanksgiving would be like if
her family knew about Kerry, and how she hadn't
dared tell Anita. But now I will, she promised
herself. I'll find a way to tell all of them.
They're decent people, too . . .
"Yes, a jolt. That's a good way to put it. But
it's okay, because it explains why I've always felt
sort of different. And as long as I've got you,
I think I can handle the other stuff." Kerry
paused. "What about you?"
Jan felt the tears in her eyes, but knew she was
too happy to let even happy tears spill over.
"I think I can, too," she said. "But it's not going
to be easy, Kerry, for either of us:"
"Nothing worthwhile," said Kerry, handing Jan a
small box
that she pulled from her pocket, "is easy. Even
Faust knew that. Here."
It was a ring so like Kerry's Jan had to look very
close to tell them apart.
"See?" Kerry said softly. "Now that almost everyone
knows, it won't matter if kids at school
notice they're almost the same." She put the ring
on Jan's finger. "Remember that moon we saw
together? It seems like years ago! But it was
a good moon, Jan, after all. What do we care
what people think of us? Some of them will probably never
understand. But maybe we can try to show them the truth.
Maybe we've already started."
Jan looked down at the ring on her finger, and then
moved into Kerry's arms. "Right," she said.
"Maybe we have."

THE END