Ron and Jean-Anne left shortly afterward. Ron didn’t say anything as he paid his
check, but he gave Catherine a long, speculative look, smiled and walked out with Jean-
Anne on his arm. Catherine looked after them, feeling like an idiot. She didn’t even know
how to make a successful pass at a boy.
When her shift was up, Catherine got into her coat, said good night to the girl coming
in to relieve her and went outside. It was a warm autumn evening with a cooling breeze
skipping in off the lake. The sky looked like purple velvet with soft, far-flung stars just out
of reach. It was a perfect evening to—what? Catherine made a list in her mind.
I can go home and wash my hair.
I can go to the library and study for the Latin exam tomorrow.
I can go to a movie.
I can hide in the bushes and rape the first sailor who comes along.
I can go get myself committed.
Committed, she decided.
As she started to move along the campus toward the library, a figure stepped out from
behind a lamp post.
“Hi, Cathy. Where you headed?”
It was Ron Peterson, smiling down at her, and Catherine’s heart started to pound until
it began to burst out of her chest. She watched as it took off on its own, beating its way
through the air. She became aware that Ron was staring at her. No wonder. How many
girls did he know who could do that heart trick? She desperately wanted to comb her hair
and fix her makeup and check the seams of her stockings, but she tried to let none of her
nervousness show. Rule one: Keep calm.
“Blug,” she mumbled.
“Where are you headed?”
Should she give him her list? God, no! He’d think she was insane. This was her big
chance and she must not do a single thing to destroy it. She looked up at him, her eyes as
warm and inviting as Carole Lombard’s in Nothing Sacred.
“I didn’t have any special plans,” she said invitingly.
Ron was studying her, still not sure of her, some primeval instinct making him
cautious. “Would you like to do something special?” he said.
This was it. The Proposition. The point of no return. “Name it,” she said, “and I’m
yours.” And cringed inwardly. It sounded so corny. No one said, “Name it and I’m yours”
except in bad Fannie Hurst novels. He was going to turn on his heel and walk away in
disgust.
But he didn’t. Incredibly, he smiled, took her arm and said, “Let’s go.”
Catherine walked along with him, stunned. It had been as simple as that. She was on