booth in the far corner. The booth would quickly fill up with his friends and become the
center of boisterous conversation. Catherine stood behind the counter near the cash
register and when Ron entered, he would give her a pleasant, absent nod and move on. He
never addressed her by name. He’s forgotten it, Catherine mused.
But each day when he walked in, she gave him a big smile and waited for him to say
hello, ask her for a date, a glass of water, her virginity, anything. She might as well have
been a piece of furniture. Examining the girls in the room with complete objectivity she
decided she was prettier than all but one girl, the fantastic looking Jean-Anne, the
Southern blonde with whom Ron was most often seen, and she was certainly brighter than
all of them put together. What in God’s name then was wrong with her? Why was it that
not one single boy asked her for a date? She learned the answer the next day.
She was hurrying south along the campus headed for the Roost when she saw Jean-
Anne and a brunette whom she did not know, walking across the green lawn toward her.
“Well, it’s Miss Big Brain,” Jean-Anne said.
And Miss Big Boobs, Catherine thought enviously. Aloud she said, “That was a
murderous Lit quiz, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t be condescending,” Jean-Anne said coldly. “You know enough to teach the
Lit course. And that’s not all you could teach us, is it, honey?”
Something in her tone made Catherine’s face begin to redden.
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Leave her alone,” the brunette said.
“Why should I?” Jean-Anne asked. “Who the hell does she think she is?” She turned
to Catherine. “Do you want to know what everyone says about you?”
God, no. “Yes.”
“You’re a lesbo.”
Catherine stared at her, unbelievingly. “I’m a what?”
“A lesbian, baby. You’re not fooling anybody with that holier-than-thou act.”
“Th—that’s ridiculous,” Catherine stammered.
“Did you really think you could fool people?” Jean-Anne asked. “You’re doing
everything but carrying a sign.”
“But I—I never—”
“The boys get it up for you, but you never let them put it in.”
“Really—” Catherine blurted.
“Fuck off,” Jean-Anne said. “You’re not our type.”
They walked away, leaving her standing there, numbly staring after them.