xxiii

Michael jumped, and realized that his nerves were still jangling. But it was just Tim, who had been hiding around the corner, just out of sight.

—I waited for you. Jake told me to. He said the cops were only going to scare you, and they'd let you go in a few minutes. He was right

—Thanks, Tim.

—No problem. It was all my fault to begin with, Tim said bitterly. I don't know why I thought we should go to that part of the beach.

Tim ran his hand through his hair and signed loudly. To Michael, he seemed absolutely dejected. He couldn't understand it. He has escaped, after all. Tim should be happy.

—Did Jake and Sophie go back to their house? Michael asked.

—Yeah, yeah, they did, Tim said shortly.

What was wrong with Tim? Maybe Tim blamed him for their getting caught. In some way, if something bad happened to you, it was your fault, even if you didn't do anything. The one time he had come along with Tim's friends, had ended in disaster. That meant you were bad luck, a jinx.

Would it always be this way? Maybe there was some force, a malevolent spirit, that kept him from social success. It was not meant to be for him to have friends, to be accepted. He had never been accepted, really-and even when he had made friends, he had always felt inferior and not quite a full member of the group.

They walked through the quiet suburban streets. Fog moved in overhead, a blanket of gray that hid the stars. Michael looked up at the oval moon, which briefly shone through the fog, a pale blue disc, before it too was swallowed. He felt the sting of light rain falling on his face.

He thought of everything that he had seen that night. It seemed like forever since he and Tim had gone to the bank machine and set forth. The elation that he had felt when the cop had let him go had completely left his body. He felt drained, the left side of his forehead ached just above the eyes. He supposed that Tim would take him home now, the long night ended. Would it be the last time? Was this just a brief taste of real life before his old one resumed, and he would again sit in his room and hear the shouts and laughter down the hall?

xxiv

They turned left onto Petersburg Street, a wide street with rounded gutters, heading back to the claimstake.

—The cops were pretty funny, Michael said, wanting to break the silence between them.

—Were they?

—They spent all their time arguing. When the cop took me back to his car, he found out that the rest of the cops had gotten coffee, and they didn't get any for him. And he said he didn't like donuts.

—Hilarious. A cop that doesn't like donuts.

—I know. They don't like UCSZ students, either.

—No, I'm they don't. They consider us really spoiled, and they're right, we are. We come from comfortable backgrounds. Most policemen are working class. They don't go to a nice university on the hill. They spend their time in the city below, protecting us, while we sit up there and criticize, protest police brutality and call them "pigs." I don't really like cops, but I understand them.

Tim seemed to be back to normal. Whatever it had been, it had now passed.

—I'm sorry, Michael, Tim continued after a pause. That you got singled out. Oh, well. At least you didn't get a ticket. Or arrested. It could have been worse.

-It could have been a lot worse.

—Yeah. People like us don't belong in jail. It's just not our world, and we wouldn't last long there.

—Nope.

Michael felt his mouth involuntarily open. A huge yawn poured out. As it did, it seemed to drain his body of every last bit of energy he had, like a huge blanket covering his senses.

—Getting tired? Tim asked.

—Yeah. I'm about ready to go home.

—Home?! Tim said incredulously. The night's still young. Come on, Michael. We can't go home, now. Who knows what will happen. Anyway, I'm in no condition to drive right now.

—Oh. Okay. Let's stay.

—Of course, Tim said, there's a chance that they everyone else has decided to crash, which would be weak.

When Michael & Tim got back to the claimstake, though, they found everyone awake and eating, gathered around the round table. Jake and Sophie stood when they saw he and Tim come in. Michael saw a third person at the table.

—Hey, you're back, Jake said. What happened?

—They just had me stand for a while, Michael said, then the cop told me I could go.

—Well, cool, Jake said.

—Yeah, Sophie said. I'm glad you're back. Are you hungry?

—Yeah, I am.

—You sit down, and I'll make you something.

Sophie guided him by the arm to the table. Michael sat, and found himself the center of attention. Jake questioned him while Sophie rummaged around in the refrigerator.

—So, what happened? Jake asked.

—It was really weird, Michael answered. They kept me standing around for a while, then told me I could go.

—They were just trying to scare you, Jake said. Anyway, you're back and that's all that counts. By the way, this is Peter. Peter, this is Michael.

Jake indicated the guy, seated across from him.

—Hey, Michael, Peter said.

—Hey.

They shook hands across the table. Peter was about Tim's height, with short brown hair. He wore a Standford University sweatshirt, which made Michael guess that he was from Alta Lara as well. How ironic that he would go away to college and everyone he met ended up being from his hometown.

Tim pulled a chair up and sat down between he and Jake. He took a beer from the middle of the table, where Jake had piled the leftover beers from their expedition.

—You know, Jake, Tim said. You took a big risk, showing that cop your fake ID. You could have just said you weren't twenty-one. All he would've made done is make you throw them away.

—I paid for these beers, Jake said. I wasn't going to lose them.

Sophie emerged from the kitchen, carrying a steaming plate.

—Here, Michael. I made this a few nights ago. Thai stir-fry.

—Thanks, Sophie. Thank you very much.

Michael looked down at the mixed vegetables in a light brown sauce. It smelled indescribably delicious. He took a bite, and realized that it tasted as good as it smelled. He saw Tim and Jake, both staring at the plate.

—Uh, Sophie, Jake said. Do you have any...

—No, that's the last of it, silly. And let Michael eat it. He's had a rough night.

Michael wolfed it down.

—What'd you do tonight, Peter? Tim asked.

—Went to a movie with Jamie.

—Which movie?

—I don't even remember it. We had a big fight about which one we were going to go to, and an even bigger fight after it was over.

—Oh, dear.

—Yeah, it was pretty lame.

—Well, drink beer. That'll make you feel better.

Sophie sat down at the table, between Jake and Peter.

—Let's play, Jake said. Do you know the rules, Michael?

—No, not really.

Jake proceeded to explain them to Michael, but with his mind clouded by fatigue and alcohol, they made absolutely no sense. It all had something to do with two dice, one red and one white, a cup that got passed around, and different combinations of numbers, but beyond that, Michael couldn't keep any of it straight. He decided to watch what everyone did, and try to learn by example.

Jake shook the cup, rattling the dice inside, then slammed it down on the table. He lifted the cup, peered under the rim, then covered the dice again. He looked at Peter evenly.

—Twenty-two.

—I believe you.

Peter took the cup, slid it off the table, catching the dice in his other hand. Holding his hand over the mouth of the cup, he shook it even more violently than Jake had, and brought it down hard on the table. He checked under the cup, then looked at Sophie commandingly.

—Thirty-three, Peter said.

—No, Sophie answered sweetly.

—Damn, Peter said.

He picked up his beer and took a quick gulp. Sopie took the cup, showed everyone that the dice had actually been a twenty-five. Michael wasn't exactly sure why Peter had to lie. What would happen if he just said '"twenty-five"? Perhaps he would have drink, then. Jake had said something about "double numbers." In any case, Sophie was shaking the cup and Michael had no idea what to do. She rolled, and Michael caught a quick glimpse of the two dice before she put the cup over them.

—Forty-two, she said.

—I believe you, Michael said quickly, before she had a chance to say anything else.

Jake and Peter laughed.

—Social! Sophie announced in a happy voice, and raised her beer. Michael saw everyone else lifting their beers, toasting each other and drinking.

—A four and a two is a social, Tim explained. It means everyone drinks.

—Oh, okay.

Michael raised his beer and took a good-sized gulp, then reached for the cup. His hand hit its side about a second before it was supposed to, and he ended up knocking if over instead of grasping it. Moving his hand more slowly, concentrating on each individual motion of his arm and hand's muscles, he picked it up off the table. He couldn't take any movement for granted.

However, he didn't like to appear like he was thinking about what he was doing too carefully. Michael shook the cup, rattling the dice thoroughly, whipped the cup upside down and tried to place it on the table before the dice fell out. Unfortunately, they did. One of the dice slipped off the table and plunged to the floor.

—Party foul! Jake exclaimed.

—Unintentional, Tim said. One drink only, for a first offense.

—That's reasonable, Peter said.

Michael heard these voices while bent over, peering into the darkness underneath his chair and feeling blood rush into his head. He felt dizzy and disoriented, like he'd forgotten which way was up. Lucky for him, he found the die after only a few seconds of looking, otherwise he might not have been able to sit back up. He picked it up between his thumb and forefinger and sat back up. He saw Tim pointing at his beer.

—Unfortunately, Tim said, dropping a die on the ground represents an infraction of Mexicali decorum colloquially referred to as a "party foul," sometimes also known as a "stony move"; however, in this case, we know, a priori, that the latter condition could not apply; thus, it was, and is, a "party foul." Which means you have to drink.

—Oh, okay. Everything in this game seem to end up with someone drinking. Usually me.

—That's the idea, Tim said.

—Yeah, bra, just get wasted, Sophie said.

After taking his drink, Michael again rolled the dice. This time, he managed to do it without knocking anything over, dropping the dice, or any other catastrophes. His reward was to look at the dice and have no idea what he should do. He stared at the pips on their upturned faces. The white die had one black mark. A one. The other, though, had a complicated cross-like pattern. After several seconds, Michael remembered that it was a five. Fifteen. Or fifty-one. Which?

Michael looked at Tim, who sat, smiling vaguely and moving his hand wildly in the air above his lap. Everyone else looked at him, waiting.

—Fifty-one, he blurted out.

—I believe you, Tim said.

—Wait, Jake said. Fifty-one doesn't mean anything. He has to drink.

—Oh, that's right, Tim said. Sorry, Michael.

He looked down at the top of his beer. He was sure taking a lot of drinks. He took a small sip and tried to make it look like a large one. Tim took the cup and dice, and rolled.

—Fifty-five! he said in a cheery voice, and looked at Jake with a bright half-smile.

—Bullshit, Jake said instantly. He lifted the cup, showing that Tim's dice were not double fives, but a four and a two. Jake had done the right thing.

—That's a social, Jake added.

—Oh, that's right, Tim said. I can never play this game right.

Tim giggled and took a drink.

—That's a party foul, Peter said. Bluffing on a social is very weak.

Jake nodded. Tim's chin dropped and he raised his finger. He opened his mouth, then shut it, shrugged like it was no big deal and rolled again.

The game continued around the table. Sophie ended up having to drink three times.

—I'm done with that beer, she said after she took her drinks.

Sophie carefully laid the can on the pile of cans that were already in a grocery bag between the kitchen counter and the dining table. Someone knocked loudly on the front door.

—I wonder who that is? Tim asked.

—I think I know, Jake said.

—I'll get it, Sophie said.

She went to the door. Michael heard her say hi. A minute later, Sophie came back down the stairs, her arm around George, who was smiling cunningly. His stubble had lengthened to the point that it was almost, but not quite, a beard.

—Dude, George, what's up? Jake said.

—Hey, George, Tim said.

—Hey, guys. You haven't been here all night, have you?

George sat down where Sophie had been sitting and grabbed a beer from the middle of the table.

—Oh, would you like a beer? Jake asked, just as George was pulling the tab.

Sophie pulled up a chair next to George.

—To answer your question, Tim said to George, no, we haven't. We raged up in the hills.

—You went to Blythe Canyon? George said. I tried to make it up there, but ended up staying at Oceanclear Brewery, drinking endless pitchers.

—Then, Tim said, we came down here. Went to the beach and had a run-in with some of Santa Zita's finest. Michael here just about got himself arrested.

—Man, George said. Fuck the po-leece.

—That's right, Tim said.

—How'd you get here, George? You didn't drive, did you?

—No, I'm not that irresponsible. I rode my bike.

—George, Sophie said in an exasperated tone.

—Oh, that's good, Jake said.

—Wasted the whole way, George said.

—Sounds exciting yet life-threatening, Tim said.

—No, not really, George responded. I just went slow. There was one point, though, when I thought I wasn't going to make it. So I had to pull over and vomit. Then I felt fine.

Sophie yawned hugely.

—Oh, my, she said when she finished. I'm sorry. It's time for bed.

—I admit to feeling a little fatigued myself, George asked. You mind if I crash...

—Of course not. Good night, everybody. Come along, George.

Sophie and George got up as one.

—Don't drink too much more, Sophie said to the remaining guys at the table. You don't want to feel too bad in the morning.

—We won't, Tim said. Good night. Sleep well.

Jake and Michael said 'good night' as well. Sophie climbed the stairs, followed by George, who took a might swig from his beer just as he rounded the corner.

—My, my, Tim said to Jake.

—Like clockwork, Jake responded.

—Are they back together? Michael asked.

Tim flipped his hand over, as if he were pointing at one thing and then another.

—It's Sophie and George, he said. In a sense, they're always in the process of getting back together. Or breaking up.

—That's true, Jake said. Sophie lets him get away with the most shit, though.

—Back to the game, Peter said.

He took the 7-Eleven cup and shook it with both hands with a determined look on his face.

A few turns later, Michael heard a key jiggle in the house's front door. The door flew open, like it had been blown by a huge gust of wind. In walked Mick, wild-eyed and wavey-haired. He surveyed the scene, squinted for a second, then his eyes lit up and he grinned.

—Hey, everybody, Mick said as he walked down the stairs.

—Hey, Mick, Peter said. Been painting the town red?

—Just another night of carousing through Santa Zita

—You're back pretty early, Jake said.

—We had to leave this party, Mick said as he picked up a milk crate from next to the stereo. Actually, we were asked to leave. Then we went to a bar and we were asked to leave there, too. So I decided to come home and call it a night.

Mick stood the milk crate on its side between Jake and Tim. He sat down, ignoring the empty chair where Sophie had been sitting. Mick looked at Tim and thrust his hand out over the table. They shook.

—Hey, Tim, Mick said.

—Hey, what's up?

—But then I come home and find you-all. Mexicali?

—You know it, Jake said. Do you know Michael?

Mick turned and regarded Michael as if he had just noticed him.

—Yeah, we've had dinner together many times, up at Kane. How are you, Michael?

—Fine.

—Whose turn is it? Mick asked.

—Yours, now.

—Good. I get to do it to Jake.

—Less talk, more walk, Jake said. Roll 'em.

The game went around the table a few more times after Mick joined them. Michael began to get the hang of it enough that he was not drinking anymore than anyone else. Jake and Peter were the best players, Michael thought, while neither Tim nor Mick seemed to care whether they drank or not. Tim liked to make fun of the rules.

—Did you go the Blythe Canyon party? Mick asked Tim. I didn't see you there.

—Yeah, we did. Michael and I. We were there for a while, actually. We were trying to find Helen.

—Was she there? Mick asked. I haven't seen her in quite a while.

—She was, for about ten seconds. Jake saw her.

—Hmm? Jake said, who had been about to roll.

—You saw Helen, Tim said.

—Yes, I did, Jake said, and

—Then she disappeared, Tim said.

—Typical, Mick said.

—I know. Michael really wanted to meet her. When it looked like she wasn't there anymore, we left with Jake and Sophie, and came back home.

—So you wanted to meet Helen? Mick asked Michael.

—Yeah, Michael said, trying to sound casual. She's a section leader in one of my classes. So, in a way, I have met her, but not really.

—Well, well, well.

Mick turned and looked at Tim. They nodded slowly to each other. Michael hoped that they wouldn't start talking about he and Helen, or asking him more questions. The idea of four guys, all more experienced than he was, and friends of Helen, discussing it made him feel very nervous and embarrassed. But Peter and Jake weren't really listening. He felt Mick's eyes on him again. Michael glanced up quickly.

—Another one, Mick said.

—The cycle continues, Tim responded.

Michael looked down, hoping they didn't mean what he thought they did. He felt something bump his elbow. It was the cup, put there by Peter. Michael took it and rolled, hoping to get a social, or anything that required him not to think.

xxv

—Fuck you, God! Just fuck yourself! Mick shouted up at the ceiling. He raised his hand and gave it the finger, vigorously jerking his hand several times.

—Dude, you lose, Jake said. Shotgun.

—Shotgun, Peter said.

Mick had just lost third double-or-nothing in a row. This was as the result of a rule Mick himself had proposed: if you rolled and didn't beat the previous person's rule, you could double-or-nothing. If you made it, you didn't have to drink, but if you lost, you had to drink twice instead of once. Unfortunately, Mick had just lost three in a row, which, according to Jake and Peter's judgment, meant he had to shotgun a beer.

Mick smiled coolly and grabbed a beer from the few that were left on the table.

—I need a knife, he said.

—Hard-core, Jake said.

—Mick's from the old school, Tim said.

Mick returned from the kitchen with a black-handled paring knife. With a smooth stroke, he stabbed the can in the side, just under the top. As soon as he pulled the knife out, he sealed the hole with his thumb. He tilted his head back, lifted the beer over him and let it pour down his throat.

—Go, Mick, Jake yelled. Yes!

It hardly took half a minute for Mick to finish the beer and slam the empty can on the table. Jake gravely picked up the can, shook it and nodded. Tim clapped his hands.

—Ah, said Mick. That felt good.

Mimicking Jake's action of a moment before, Tim lifted the can.

—Once it was full and heavy, and now it's empty and light, exhausted and used up.

—So what are you saying? Jake asked,

—It can get full again pretty quickly, Mick said.

—Mick really sucked it down, Peter said.

Jake snorted.

—And you were watching the whole time, Tim said to Peter.

—That's right, Peter said.

—Anyway, Jake said.

The game sort of ground to halt after that. Michael felt his head clear a little, the result of not having to take so many drinks.

—So, Mick, what exactly happened to you at Blythe Canyon? Tim asked.

—Well, well. It went a little something like this: Peter, Davey and me, we bought a bottle of Jack before we drove up there.

—Oh, no, Peter said. Not the Jack.

—Yep. The very one. By the time we finally found the house, we were feeling pretty amped. It was raging inside. Davey immediately went for the slam pit. When we got back, Davey had struck up an acquaintance with these fools-total So-Cal, Palos Verdes, "yar dude" assholes. In fact, Mick said to Tim, I think they were friends of Helen's ex. They looked familiar.

—Was one of them tall, built like a tree trunk, with curly blond hair? Tim asked.

—Yeah, I think so. I think he was there. Yeah, he was. That fuckin' asshole.

—So Davey knows these guys.

—Well, I think they've met. Actually, I think they're customers, but whatever. This is Davey's version of what happened: he tried to stage-dive, and, unfortunately, he tried it off the drummer's shoulders, while the drummer was playing and not looking, and landed on these guys. For some reason, they weren't happy about it.

—Imagine that, Tim said.

—So, some punches got thrown, and Davey ended up falling on the lead singer.

—Oh, my.

—And after that, we were asked to leave. Which pisses me off. Those So-Cal dicks started it. They really irritate me. They're all rich, well-off and think they can get away with it.

—Yeah, I never liked Todd's friends, Jake said. I didn't like Todd, either.

—So, Mick said, that was that. We ended up going downtown and getting thrown out of the Misty. Quel fucking nuit.

Mick took a long swallow from his beer and wiped his hand across his face.

—Guess you've heard about Todd, huh, Michael? Mick asked him.

—A little, he answered. Why did Helen go out with him, if he was such an asshole?

—Ah, Michael, Tim said. If we knew the answer to that question, we wouldn't be here, we'd be somewhere else, in a happier place, lying warm and contented.

—Yeah, said Mick.

—Whatever, Jake said. You're depressing me. I need a cigarette.

xxvi

Jake stood and headed for the screen door. Peter stood as well, saying as he did:

—I'm going to crash. Good night, you guys.

Stopping in front of the screen door, Jake turned.

—Good night, Peter.

—Good night, Tim said.

Jake slid open the door and stepped out on the house's back porch. Mick picked up his beer and followed Jake,

—Let's go out and get some fresh air, Tim said to Michael.

Carrying their beers, Michael and Tim joined Jake and Mick on the porch. Michael sat down on the rectangle of dark brown wood, which was built at the level of the house's first floor, about a foot above the dried-out lawn. Jake leaned against one of the rough posts that support the upstairs deck, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

—Hey, Jake, can I bum a cigarette off of you? I'll owe you.

—Sure.

Jake reached into his leather jacket and withdrew the white & red cigarette pack. Holding the pack in his right hand while he continued to smoke with his left, he slid one cigarette halfway out with his index finger. Mick took it the rest of the way out and put it to his lips.

Jake put the pack away and pulled out a lavender lighter. With a single flick of his fingers, Jake ignited Mick's cigarette. Michael stared at the red glow. It faded for a moment, then Mick breathed in and it swelled. Smoke trickled upwards.

The night was still cold, but not as cold as it had been down at the beach. The fog, which had looked like it was coming in for good, had disappeared from the sky, allowing the stars to be seen once again. The constellation Orion hung in front of Michael in the sky overhead.

He looked back at Jake, who was puckering his lips with an intense look of concentration. After a few seconds, he opened his lips and blew. Out came a ring of smoke which stretched and distorted as it floated away into the night.

—Good one, Tim murmured.

Jake blew three quickly in succession. The rings of gray smoke followed each other up and across the yard, until they separated and disintegrated.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael thought he saw a streak and a flash. He instantly looked up, but saw nothing. Had it been a shooting star? No one else noticed. Jake tried a few more smoke rings, but none were as successful as the first. No one else said anything. Crickets hummed in the grass.

After a few minutes of silence, while Jake and Mick smoked, Tim drank his beer and Michael studied the sky, hoping to see another shooting star, Tim suddenly asked:

—Jake, as someone who's had a lot of cool experiences, what's the most shamelessly decadent thing you've ever done, or had happen to you?

—Well, said Jake.

He took out another cigarette, put it in his mouth and held out another one for Mick. Once they were lit, Jake continued:

—Fall quarter of our sophomore year, Sophie had a party at her folks' house in Napa. You guys remember it, I'm sure. Sophie had some people from her high school there, too, including this one girl who really caught my eye. Sophie had told me about her, and I was psyched to meet her. She was really pretty and her parents were loaded. Her name was Miranda. Her parents owned one of the largest wineries in the Napa Valley. I ended up talking to her and we got along really well. She seemed to like me, so I got up the gumption to ask her out on a date. I was sure I would be denied-I mean, she could have had any guy in the world, but, amazingly she said yes. Unfortunately, she went to school in France, so she couldn't go out until the next time she came back. She told me she would get in touch with me before then. I figured this might be her gentle way of shining me, so I kind of forgot about it.

—Then, winter quarter, I actually got a letter from Miranda, telling me that she was coming home for spring vacation in March, and that there was a weekend when she was free. She invited me up to her place in Napa. I was incredibly psyched. This was too good to be true. Sophie had told me stories about Miranda's house-it was a huge mansion that had once been used for the exterior shots for this TV soap opera. There was one problem, though. The weekend was about a week before finals. My car was busted and I had no money to fix it. I couldn't ask my mom or dad to borrow a car because it was so close to finals and would have caused too many awkward questions. I managed to convince Sophie that we should go up to St. Galena that weekend to hang out and study. But I didn't tell her about my date, which I should have done immediately. I was planning to bring it up while we drove up there-I'm not sure what I was thinking. So, we were driving up that long, steep road to parents' place, and I'm like "oh, remember Miranda? She's in town and I promised I'd give her a call." Sophie was a little bummed, I could tell, but I was starting to get so psyched I didn't care.

—When I got to Sophie's house, I called Miranda, and she answered instantly. She told me to come down as soon as possible. I explained the situation to Sophie, how Miranda expected me to be there, and she agreed to drive me down. She said she would pick me up, too, if I needed a ride. I told her I hoped that wouldn't be necessary. Miranda's house, or I should say, estate, was about a half-mile from downtown St. Galena, although you couldn't see the city at all from where they lived. Sophie dropped me off, and I looked up at their house in awe. It was literally the nicest house I've ever seen. It was a three-story villa, built in the style of a French manor in Provence, with lush trellises, green shutters, old mossy stones, flowers, everything. I felt like I was in a dream. I rang the doorbell, half-expecting a weathered old butler in a monocle to greet me, but instead, it was Miranda. She wore a tight, sexy black dress and gave me a friendly hug, ushering me in. I stepped into their entry hall. The first thing she said to me after 'hello' was "My parents are gone for the weekend, and we have the house to ourselves." I couldn't believe it. It was like winning the lottery, rolling seven ten times in a row, like sinking a game-winning shot at the buzzer from half-court while wearing a blindfold. I followed her into their dining room, a huge room with arched doorways and twenty foot high windows, like a cathedral. Not only that, there was a long table with throne-like chairs, just like a movie. A candelabra was lit in the center. Down at one end, two places had been set. I wondered if there were any servants there, but I saw no sign of any. Miranda then told me she's made the dinner herself. She told me to sit and to please open the wine. I looked at the bottle: a twenty-year old Cabernet Sauvignon from Burgundy. The best wine I've ever had, by far. The food was excellent, too. Miranda could certainly cook. I tried not to eat too much, but of course, I did. I was being styled beyond my wildest dreams.

—After dinner, I explored her kitchen and found a bottle of Dom Perignon being chilled. I looked at her, said "May I?" and she smiled. I brought it out to the table, along with two glasses. I popped the cork and was just about to pour her glass when she grabbed the champagne out of my hands and drank straight from the bottle. She invited me to go for a swim. I asked her if she had a pair of swimming trunks I could borrow, and she told me I wouldn't need any. So, I picked up the Dom and followed her out to the pool. It was, like everything else in that house, amazing-huge, lit by bright lights all around the edge, underwater, and was completely enclosed by glass. In the summer, Miranda told me, the glass panels retracted so it was like being outside. The bottom of the pool was made of dark blue Mediterranean tile. We ended up swimming in the nude, then finishing the champagne in the adjacent hot tub. By that time, I was almost starting to lose my mind from sheer pleasure. The tub's heat was set on high, and combined with the alcohol, I was getting dizzy. I closed my eyes and sort of drifted away. I was wondering to myself if I should make a move on Miranda, but I felt too mellow to do anything. I sensed Miranda moving towards me, but I didn't have the energy to open them, I was so burnt. As it turned out, Miranda took the initiative for me. We began kissing and I got my energy back. It didn't take long for things to move beyond that. She took me by the hand, out of the hot tub and proceeded to have sex on a towel right next to it. And it was really great. A while later, we moved upstairs to her parents' bedroom. As you might have guessed, it was very grand, with a king-sized four-poster bed, an actual bearskin rug and a stone fireplace. I built a fire and we made love in front of it. We ended up doing it all night, in many different positions, some of which I'd never tried before and haven't tried since. It was definitely the best night of sex I've ever had, except that she kept demanding to be on top. Oh, well. We spent the rest of the weekend eating, drinking, swimming and making love. I felt amazingly isolated. From the windows of her house, you couldn't really see any signs of civilization, just endless rows of grapevines, trees and hills. No one ever called while we there, no one visited, I didn't see anyone working in the vines. We never turned on the TV or the radio. I felt like Miranda and I were the only people left on earth, exploring each other and our capacity for pleasure. I forgot about everything, including the fact that I was supposed to be studying with Sophie that weekend, and that I should at least call her and let her know where I was. On Sunday evening, Miranda told me that I should get dressed, since her parents would be back in an hour. I found my clothes, which had gotten scattered all over the house, and put them on in a daze. I met her in the front hall and she led me to the door. In a very nice, frank way, she told me that I was a nice guy and that she had really enjoyed our weekend together, but that I wasn't all that great in bed, although I had good stamina, and that I shouldn't bother calling her again. She kissed me, let me out the door, and closed it. I walked down the driveway, completely spaced, then remembered that I didn't have a car. I was too embarrassed to go back and ask Miranda for a ride, or to use her phone, so I ended up walking into town and calling Sophie from there. As I walked, I realized that I was utterly and completely sunk. I had thought Miranda was really psyched for me, and that I was going to have a rich girlfriend and just have an amazing life but instead; I had to drive back to Santa Zita with Sophie, who was going to be very pissed at me. I thought my life was going to be so different and cooler, and then, suddenly, it resumed, exactly as it had before.

xxvii

When Jake had finished his story, Tim shook his head and let out his breath.

—Man, said Tim. I'd never heard that story.

Everyone shifted position on the porch. Michael stretched his arms.

—I've never told whole thing before, except to Peter. I'm sure you can see why.

—Yeah, Tim said. A little hard on the male ego.

—I was so dogged. And the way she put it: just okay, but with great stamina. It made me sound so mediocre.

They all laughed.

—I don't know, said Mick. I'll be just as happy if I never come across a woman like that. Too stuck-up.

—She was cool, said Jake. She was using me, but at least she was honest about it at the end. I mean, I got a great weekend out of it. I don't regret it. I just wish she had been more psyched for me as a person.

Mick scowled and looked sideways at Michael.

—What do you think, Michael? he asked.

—I don't know. She used you and then she said she wasn't interested in you. I guess she was just doing what guys do to girls a lot.

—Excellent application of UCSZ principals, Tim said. You're right. As males, we're threatened by it and yet we're also incredibly turned on by it, too. Except for the ending, which makes it a perfect fable of male/female role reversal.

Jake took out another cigarette, offered the pack to Mick.

—That's your last one, Mick said.

—Take it. I've been smoking too much.

—Thanks, bra.

Jake sat down and rested his back against the post.

—In a way, Jake said after a few minutes, I'm grateful to Miranda for what she did. It kind of cut me off from her. It she hadn't, I'd probably still think about her. As it is, I don't. I don't hate her, I just remember her as someone I knew briefly, then left behind.

—Well, that's good, Tim said. By the way, you don't happen to still have her phone number, do you?

Jake laughed and took another puff. Everyone followed Jake's example and sat down on the deck. Michael wondered what time it was. For some reason, the night felt even later to him, the cold stillness in the air, or something like that. It was quieter, too. Concentrating, Michael could now hear the waves breaking against the cliffs. It must have been past two, maybe even three, in the morning. Michael removed his hand, felt the cold, then quickly put it back in his pocket.

—It's weird that Helen and Todd finally called it quits, Tim said in a low voice. It lasted so much longer that I thought it ever would, I had almost given up thinking that it would actually end.

—Thank God, said Jake. Todd and I never got along.

—I liked him, Mick said. He had some interesting things to say.

—Wait, a minute, Tim said I thought you got in a fight with him, tonight.

—His friends are assholes. But Todd's got some ideas in him. He can be cool.

—He was definitely not cool to me, Jake said. Just very arrogant.

—He could be that way, Tim said. At first, he was that way to me. But then he got used to me, and I think he figured out that it was better for him to be nice to me than ignore me.

—Wasn't it hard for you? Jake asked.

—How so? Tim countered.

—Oh, I don't know. Never mind.

—I think they've broken up for good, Tim said. I talked to Helen last week and she won't go back.

—I've heard that one before, Mick said.

—Yeah, I know, Tim said. But I still have some faith.

Hearing Tim, Jake and Mick discuss Helen like this, intrigued Michael. He wondered if they had ever been in love with her, before they had become friends. They had all been friends for a long time, but there must have been a time when they had first met. Tim had said that Jake and Helen had been friends in high school. Had she rejected them? If guys like Jake and Mick could be interested in her and be rejected, what business did he have even thinking about it?

In a way, Michael wished they would talk about something else, because for them to talk about Helen and Todd might lead them to ask Michael about it, and they might wonder what he thought of her. They had already come close to talking about it earlier.

To his relief, though, the conversation died and the night was silent except for the crickets and the inhaling and exhaling of the two smokers.

Jake took his cigarette, now an exhausted stub, out of his mouth and crushed into the top of his beer can.

—I'm going to crash, he announced.

—Yeah, me, too, Mick said. Got to get to the library early tomorrow.

—Do you guys want to crash here? Jake asked. We have blankets and sleeping bags.

—Yeah, that'd probably be a good idea, Tim responded. Okay with you, Michael?

—Sure. Thanks, Jake.

—No problem.

Michael would have preferred to sleep in his own bed, if he could have, but it was exciting to sleep somewhere you hadn't planned to, in your clothes, without even a toothbrush along. That was real college life.

xxviii

The loud clink of dishes woke Michael. He blinked and felt fine for a moment-surprisingly well-rested considering he had spent the night in a sleeping bag on the carpet. Then his head began to throb. He opened and closed his mouth and felt the woolly stickiness inside. This is what a hangover felt like. Another new experience, but this one he could do without.

Michael rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but a patch of sunlight covered his entire body, and no matter where he moved his head, some of it seemed to get in his eyes. The light made him feel even hotter and more dried out. The throbbing in his head spread and increased.

He rolled over on his other side and looked at Tim, who slept a few feet away, wrapped in a beige comforter. He appeared to still be asleep. Dishes clinked again. In the kitchen, just out of his view, someone was making breakfast. Michael rolled on his back, looked, and saw Jake, wearing a sweatshirt and shorts, drinking something out of a cup. Michael didn't feel up to any conversation yet, so he half-closed his eyes and tried to appear asleep.

Someone fairly heavy thumped down the stairs. In the hazy gap between his eyelids, Michael saw George walk by, heading towards the kitchen. To stop him from thinking about his headache, Michael listened to their conversation.

—Mornin', Jake said.

—Nice day, George said. Once the fog finishes burning off.

—Yeah. So, how are you feeling?

—Haven't felt this good in ages.

—Dude, said Jake, and he sounded mildly reproving to Michael.

—What? said George.

—What's up with coming over here at one in the morning? Not that I wasn't glad to see you, but still...

—I just wanted to see if anything was going on. As it turned out, there was...

—Uh huh. What about Karen?

—She's cool with it. She knows Sophie and I are close friends.

—Okay.

George chuckled.

—What about Karen's boyfriend?

—Well, I guess he's not as understanding. I got together with her at exactly the wrong time. She had just told him she didn't want an open relationship anymore.

George chuckled again, a kind of mock-evil laugh like a villain in a cartoon.

—Oh, well, he said.

—Anyway, Jake said. Don't make too much trouble.

—It'll all work out, trust me.

More steps on the staircase. This time, it was Sophie who came down. How much did she know about George? Having just heard what George told Jake, and then seeing Sophie, gave Michael the strangest feeling: he hardly knew these people, yet he already knew more than they would probably want him to. He could have jumped up and told Sophie about George's fooling around, and probably caused a huge change in their lives. He felt like a low-level spy who had chanced upon a key secret which could trigger a war between too countries.

Maybe he shouldn't have pretended to be asleep, but then again, George hadn't been too careful. And he sort of liked learning what was going on. Would Sophie find out? Or would they still get together? Michael realized that the kind of gossip he had always disdained in middle and high school, which he had considered so pointless and time-consuming, had now taken over his brain. He actually cared about these questions, and he wanted to know what was going to happen.

—Good morning, Sophie said in a cheerful voice.

—Morning, Jake said. Sleep well?

—Very, Sophie answered.

Michael saw Sophie go up to George and put her arm around him.

—Would you like some breakfast? she asked him.

—That would be grand. I'm starvin'.

—It's time, Jake said, to get our guests up and at 'em.

Michael hastily shut his eyes. He heard Jake's feet approaching on the carpet.

—Up, up, Jake said. Before I put on The Steve Miller Band Greatest Hits 1974 to 1978.

—No, anything but that, Tim mumbled.

Michael opened his eyes and peered up at Jake, pretending to focus them.

—Good morning, he said.

—Good morning, Jake said. Let's call Helen and ask her if she wants to go out to breakfast.

—Good idea, Tim said. I'll do it.

Tim got under from under the comforter Jake had given him the night before, ran his fingers through his hair and stood up. Michael decided to take it a little slower. He sat up, and his brain exploded into pain at the same time that his stomach turned very queasy. He rubbed the skin above his eyes and saw Jake, looking down at him sympathetically.

—We have some aspirin, he said.

—Thanks.

Jake walked away, and Michael decided that he really needed to be able to stand up. He did, realized he wasn't ready for it, and immediately sat down on the couch. He heard Tim hang up the phone.

—Well, Tim said, nobody answered. Either they already went out, or they're still asleep. Or I'm not important enough to answer the phone for. What time is it?

—About eleven, Jake answered. Here, Michael.

Jake handed him a glass of water and two white tablets. Michael swallowed the aspirin, felt them slide down his throat, and drank some water. The water tasted good. He took another large gulp. It seemed to be what his body needed-his headache immediately lessened.

—I left a message, Tim said to Jake, telling her that we're going to MacFarlie's for breakfast, and to meet us there if she wants to. Do you want to go?

—Yeah, I'm hungry.

—What about Peter? Should we wake him?

—No, he won't want to come. Mick got up already and went to the library.

—Damn, studious. Just let me pee, and I'm ready. Michael?

Michael took a deep breath and stood. He didn't fall over, and he didn't throw up, so he decided he could make it out of the house. Amazingly, he could even feel his appetite starting to return.

—Yep, he said. Let's go.

xxix

Tim and Michael drove in Tim's blue Mazda, while Jake took his own car, a dented brown Datsun. Tim wanted to take separate cars so they wouldn't have to return to the claimstake after breakfast.

—Did you hear what Jake and George were talking about, before Sophie came in? Michael asked Tim once they were under way.

—Yeah, I did. It's so typical. George delights in causing chaos.

—Is he an asshole?

—No... well, yes, a little. Actually, George is a very honest person in a way. He's completely honest in his deception. He's reliable-you can always rely on him to be consistently self-interested. I like him. Bit he and Sophie have this weird bond that seems to transcend petty things like that. So far.

—I feel...

—Yucky? Scummy? So do I. After breakfast, I think we should go back to campus.

—Fine with me, Michael said, though he was a little disappointed to hear Tim suggest it. Just when it felt like they had been away from the dorm forever, they were planning to go back. Michael liked being away. He pictured Andy in their room, wondering where he had gone. For once, he was the one who was out all night and the next day.

______________________

They had to wait a long time to get in MacFarlie's, standing outside with a lot of other people, most of whom looked like UCSZ students-bleary-eyed, unshaven and wearing sunglasses. Michael leaned against the wall of an adjacent store and wished he himself had a something to shield his eyes. The sun was making everything too bright that morning.

About half an hour later, Michael's stomach growling loudly, Jake's name was called and they got a table. The dish Michael ordered, recommended to him by both Jake and Tim, turned out to be a vast oval platter covered with a mound of scrambled eggs, grilled red peppers and onions, hash browns, mushrooms, bacon and sour cream. Although it looked three or four different breakfasts mashed together into one pile, it turned out to be quite tasty.

It was also very filling. Michael stuffed himself until he thought he would explode and looked down at his plate. More than half of it remained. He sat back and shook his head.

—That's all right, Jake said. You're not supposed to eat it all at once. It's supposed to last all day.

—That's a relief, Michael said.

They had their leftovers packed into styrofoam containers, paid the bill and slowly walked out of the restaurant. Outside, even more people gathered, waiting to get in. Jake yawned and stretched his long arms, then rubbed his tummy.

—I'm stuffed, he said. I shouldn't have worn a belt.

—I'll say, said Tim. God, that was more than I really needed to eat. I'm so wired.

—It was good, Michael said. Worth waiting for.

—Quite so, Tim said. MacFarlie's is a Santa Zita institution.

They walked down the mall, past a vacant lot where a building had collapsed during the earthquake. As they passed, Tim pointed into it.

—This is one of the places where someone died. A woman got decapitated by falling masonry.

—How terrible, Michael said. She was outside?

—That's right. Could have been anyone, but it turned out to be her.

It was turning out to be a warm day. Michael took off his sweater and tied it around it waist.

—Let's check out that tattoo parlor slash piercing place slash comic book store, Tim said. I heard about it when I worked at the movie theater. It's quite the place for people who want to get pieces of metal inserted into sensitive parts of their body.

—It's an ear-piercing place? Michael asked.

—I think it starts with that, Tim said, and goes on from there. Goes very far from there.

—Let's go in, Jake said.

They reached the place Tim was talking about a block later. It was housed in a faded green storefront, where the name of the previous tenant (Starr Pharmacy) could still be read in the spaces where the letters had once hung, in that the paint underneath had not faded nearly as much as the rest. The letters had been taken down but the storefront had never been repainted.

Inside, it was still except for a monotonous pulse of electronic pings and sirens. Every so often the music would have nonsensical sounding words spoken over it, old voices saying things like "I always do it at night" and then what sounded like bits of dialogue from Star Trek: "Fascinating, captain...fascinating, captain..." Hearing the music and seeing the kinds of clothes they had hanging on the thin metal racks scattered randomly on the burnt orange carpet, Michael instantly felt out of place.

While Jake and Tim headed for the wooden magazine racks in the back of the store, Michael wandered awkwardly between the racks, trying to look like someone who actually knew what they were doing. He inspected one garment, an assembly of rubber, thin chains, straps and studded leather, trying to figure out how anyone would put in on, and what they would do then. He peeked at the tall, girl with short, jet black hair sitting on a stool with her chin resting on her chest behind the counter. He expected at any moment to be asked to leave because he wasn't cool enough to be there. However, she paid no attention to him; in fact, she seemed to be asleep.

In a back room of the store, Michael heard a sound like a dentist's drill. The shrill, metallic whine set Michael's teeth on edge and reminded him of dentists' strange instruments and the raspy, grating sensation when they cleaned his teeth. Michael looked again at the clothing. He saw a picture on a post which showed people wearing the clothes, and he realized that all the straps and loops were for tying people up. Michael started to walk away, feeling very creepy.

He went over to where Jake and Tim stood with their back to him, leafing through a magazine and laughing.

—Damn, said Jake. I could never imagine having one ring there. Let alone ten.

—It's supposed to increase the pleasure, Tim said. Even when you pee-it makes peeing feel better.

—What is it? Michael asked from behind them.

They turned around. Tim smiled and closed the magazine.

—Oh, nothing, Tim said.

—Can I see? Michael asked, wondering why Tim was being so secretive.

—Okay, if you want.

Tim held the magazine out to him, opening to the page that he and Jake had been looking at. Michael looked and couldn't believe his eyes. The entire page was taken up by a single photo of a reddened, half-erect penis. Running through the hole at the end, into the urethra and out on the side, were about ten silver rings. Michael gaped, shut the magazine and handed it back to Tim, who giggled.

—That's disgusting, Michael blurted out.

—Well, to each his own, Tim said.

—I just can't see how it could be pleasurable, Jake said. I mean, what if someone started pulling on them? Or they got caught in your fly?

—Ouch, Tim said.

As Tim and Jake talked, Michael felt a strange tingling in his penis, almost as if what they were talking about was happening him. He wanted to leave. The store was too strange.

To Michael's relief, Tim and Jake started to move towards the door. The drill-like sound started again, and Michael started to imagine what kinds of things they might be doing at that very moment, in the back of the store. He walked more quickly, past Tim and Jake, and ended up being the first out of the store.

—Well, I'm burnt, Jake said. I'm going to head home.

—Good hangin' out with you, Tim said. What're you doing tonight?

—No plans right now.

—Maybe we should do something with Helen.

—I think she's going to Alta Lara, Jake said. She has plans with Sarah.

—Oh, too bad. Oh, well, I'll give you a call.

—Do that. I'll see you later, Michael.

Jake reached out his hand, which Michael shook warmly. Jake then turned around and headed back for his car. Once Jake had rounded the corner, Tim looked up at the blue sky.

—I suddenly realized what a nice day it is, he said. Too bad, Helen is going to be here tonight. I wonder what suddenly possessed her to go to Alta Lara?

—To see Sarah?

—That's what Jake said. I don't know what Sarah's doing here, though. Anyway, let's walk around for a while. I'm not quite ready to go back to campus.

—Neither am I, said Michael.

xxx

Michael and Tim crossed the street and walked back up the mall on the other side. Michael looked up at the clock-tower set in front of the bus mall, where the green, yellow and white striped buses of the Santa Zita bus systems stopped to deposit their passengers and take on more. The clock's hands read one-thirty in the afternoon. The day was half over and they had just finished breakfast.

They really should go back to campus. He had a paper due Monday in his Intro. to American Society class and he still needed to finish the book the paper was on, a long treatise on the desegregation of schools in the 1960s.

As they pass across the entrance to the bus mall, Tim said:

—Here, one may conveniently change buses when traveling from the north side to the south, or vice versa. The Metro Mall provides countless opportunities for hours of amusement, and as you can see, many people take advantage of them.

Tim pointed at a small, weathered hispanic man, sitting against a wall; a brown pitted cheeks visible just under the red mesh baseball cap he had pulled over his eyes.

—Let's go to Cornerstone Books, Tim said. It's the best bookstore in Santa Zita.

—The last thing I need is more books to read, Michael said. I have enough as it is.

—But if you get books that you want to read, then you won't have to read the ones you need to.

—Except that I have to write a paper on the one I have to.

—Write it on the book you end up buying.

—What if it has nothing to do with the class, as I'm sure any book I bought on my own will be.

—I'm sure you can make some argument somehow linking the paper topic with whatever you happen to be reading. The sillier and more obscure the connection, the more impressed your professor will be.

—But... Michael said, and stopped.

A few yards ahead of them was an area of the sidewalk with benches and large tan planters. Here camped a group of homeless people. Michael couldn't tell exactly how many, since they crowded together in a mass of bodies, blankets and sleeping bags, both sitting and lying on the benches and the ground.

Parked next their sleeping spots were several shopping carts, filled with bags of junk, bottles and cans. Ragged, dirty clothes hung off the sides. One cart caught Michael's attention because, in addition to the junk and stuff to be recycled, it had little odd sculptures made of painted wood bits nailed to the rim of the cart, little stick figures and bird shapes.

Between the homeless people snaked a clear area which pedestrians were now walking down single file, carefully staying in the middle but trying to appear casual about it. Tim waited for these people to finish coming from the other direction before he started up. They began walking between the homeless. A few steps in, Michael stopped breathing, as he smelled the sweat and urine, even worse than the deadheads' house.

One homeless man with a gray beard that surrounded his red, chapped face and hung down his chest, grumbled and moaned to himself as Michael passed. He rocked back and forth. Michael, who had never been so close to any homeless people, couldn't help looking into his face and searching for his eyes. He found them peering back, clouded and out of focus. They seemed unable to fix themselves on Michael's.

With surprising swiftness, the homeless man sprang up and poked Michael in the chest. He froze, and Tim, who didn't notice, continued on ahead.

The bearded man, his eyes still askew but now blazing, poked Michael repeatedly in the chest, muttering incomprehensibly. Michael, not knowing what else to do, stuck his hand in his pocket to find some change, but he couldn't seem to get it deep enough in his jeans to where the coins lay. Finally, he found a quarter.

—Um, here, Michael said, and held the quarter out by the edge.

The man mumbled something, which ended with:

—...to get me?

—I'm sorry, what? Michael said. Here, take this.

He ignored the coin and looked up, down, left and right, grumbling the entire time.

—I'll take it, kid, said a voice from behind Michael. I'm not too proud to beg.

The homeless man lurched slightly to the side, giving Michael just enough room to get around him. Michael edged carefully around the man, who didn't seem to notice. He then walked quickly towards Tim, who was standing about ten feet away, gazing on the scene with folded arms.

—What happened? Tim asked. You tried to give them money?

—This one guy freaked while I was walking by him. I tried to give him a quarter, but I don't think that's what he wanted.

—Oh. Must be too far gone to know what the hell he's doing.

—What's happening now?

Michael turned back to face the homeless people. The man Michael had tried to give the quarter to was still standing, moving around randomly and almost falling over the others.

—Where is he? Michael heard him say.

He staggered dizzily and crashed into one of the shopping carts, nearly knocking it over. A black man in a skicap, who had been asleep, sat up and yelled.

—Hey, man, be cool.

The black man pushed the older man away, nearly knocking him into the bushes. The other homeless people started yelling and waving their arms.

—Let's go, Tim said.

—Aren't you worried about what's going on? That old guy is really going crazy.

—It's not nice to stare at them, like it's some kind of show. If you're not planning to help them, you should just leave them alone.

—That's not what I'm doing, Michael said. Maybe we can help.

—There's nothing that we could do that wouldn't make the situation worse. We don't know anything about them. We're not professionals.

The shouting increased. Now the entire group was aroused and surrounding the bearded man.

—I guess you're right.

He and Tim began to walk away. Michael heard a crash like a shopping cart being knocked over, and a scream, but he didn't look back.

xxxi

Despite Michael's earlier reluctance to buy any more books, when he saw the size of Cornerstone Books' science fiction & fantasy section, he ended up buying some, of course. They ended up spending more than an hour there. Cornerstone Books was one of the stores housed in temporary "tents" erected on parking lots next to the mall, because the building it used to be in had been condemned after the earthquake.

Since Tim had bought some used books as well, he proposed that they walk to Cafe Nightingale and read. Michael, who was beginning not to care whether they ever went back to the dorms, agreed.

This time at Cafe Nightingale they sat in a quiet back room. On the wall hung several art pieces, collections of desk supplies, like paperclips, scissors and pencils, pasted to cardboard and painted with bands of bright colors. Below hung a white piece of cardboard with the words 'Rainbow Office Dreams.'

—Maybe we should stop by Helen's house later on, Tim suggested after they had been reading for a while.

—Don't you think she would have left for Alta Lara by now?

—Oh, I don't know. You're probably right, Tim said, and returned to his book.

They read for another half an hour, completely absorbed in their respective books, when a voice boomed from high above them.

—Hey, Tim. Wake up!

—Hey, Tim said uncertainly, and looked up.

Towering above them was a huge guy, even taller than Jake and much more heavy set, with swarthy features and slick, dark hair. Not even noticing Michael, he narrowed his small, brown eyes at Tim.

—Oh, hi, Frank, Tim said after he looked up. I haven't seen you in a while.

—No, you haven't. You haven't been over at Ivy Street lately.

—No, I haven't. Not that I haven't tried.

—You must not have been trying very hard, Frank said, stooping slightly. He placed his immense hands on the edge of their table, rocking it and spilling water out of Michael's glass.

—Have you been there this weekend? Tim asked Frank.

—I was just there, now. I'm having a party tonight-you're invited, by the way, and I had to make sure Gretchen and Helen were both going to come.

—Helen? Tim said. Is she going, too?

—That's what she told me. Anyway, I've gotta go. 1123 Eastcrest. That's my house. I'll expect you there.

—Sure, Tim said.

Frank lifted his hands off the table. With a creak, it leveled, and Michael's water spilled again. Frank cuffed Tim on the shoulders and ambled slowly out of the room, ducking his head slightly to get through the door. As he left, he sang a song tunelessly with nonsensical words.

—Who was that? Michael asked.

—This housemate of Gretchen's boyfriend. I saw him a lot last summer, when we were all living in Santa Zita. I don't really like him that much. Ouch.

Tim rubbed his finger over the spot where Frank had punched him.

-Did it hurt?

—Yeah. Frank is much larger than any person needs to be.

—He said Helen's still here.

—I know. And she's going to his party. Hmmm... I think I'm going to call her. Ready to take off?

—Sure.

xxxii

A block up the street from Cafe Nightingale, Tim found a bank of payphones outside a hamburger stand. Michael sat down on a bench and waited while Tim went to the phone and inserted a quarter. After about half a minute, Tim began speaking into the phone.

—Hi, this is Tim, I called you earlier today... Hello, hello?! Hey, Helen. You're there. Did you get my message earlier?... Oh, too bad... Anyway, what are you doing tonight? First I heard you were going to Alta Lara, then I heard you were going to a party in Dead Oak... Right now?... Uh, okay.

Michael saw Tim glance back at him. Were they going to go to her house now?

—I'll see you soon, Tim said in the phone. Bye.

He hung up the phone slowly and froze, his hand still gripping the receiver. Michael stood and waited for Tim to say something, to tell him what their plans were. Tim turned and faced Michael, still not saying anything and appearing lost in thought.

—So, you actually talked to her in person? Michael said.

—Yeah, I did.

Tim looked to his right, up at the sun hanging low in the sky, being blurred by a film of blue-white haze as it set.

-It's about four-thirty, now, Tim said. I can drive you back to campus and have you there in time for dinner.

—What? Michael blurted out.

—It's just that... Tim said, and he trailed off.

—Did I do something wrong? Michael asked in what he hoped was a calm voice. Does Helen not like me? he continued, and his voice broke at the end. He had to look away from Tim and force himself not to cry.

Tim didn't answer. Once Michael got himself under control, he turned his eyes to Tim, who stepped back and returned his gaze blankly. His hands flew out of his pockets and met in mid-air, clasping each other tightly, then rubbing them together.

What should he say? What could he do? If he wasn't invited to Helen's house, that was that. It had been a mistake to say anything, he should have just accepted it and waited for another time. That was the way things worked. He couldn't force people to like him. But he had this awful feeling; that if he didn't meet Helen now, he never would. There was no reason for him not to come to Helen's house.

Michael looked up again and his eyes met Tim's, who now seemed profoundly relieved.

—I'm sorry, Tim said. I don't know what I was saying. Or... anyway. Do you want to come to Helen's house? I'm sure it would be fine with her.

—Yes, Michael said. I'd love to.

xxxiii

It took them five minutes to walk back to Tim's car, and another five to cross Laurel, drive past the 7-Eleven and make the left onto Holly. Michael felt his heartbeat increase as every minute passed. As Tim drove down Holly, Michael saw the sun setting behind a row of tall trees behind the houses, throwing long streaks of pale orange across the street. Tim parked across from Helen's house and turned off the car.

—Ready? Tim asked.

—Um, yeah, Michael answered, and he unlocked his door.

Michael exited the car and looked towards the house. Just as he did, the sun disappeared completely behind a bank of low, gray clouds.

—There's Helen's car, Tim said, pointing at a red Volvo parked in front of the duplex. Its front passenger door was dented and rust spots ran along the car's bottom edge.

Tim quickly crossed the street, and Michael had to half-run to catch up with him. Just as Michael caught up, something attracted Tim's attention and he stopped, making mewling sounds. He pointed to the fence.

Sitting there, Michael saw a small, white, gray & brown cat. She gazed back at them with large, bulging light blue eyes, slightly askew.

—Silly Bristle. That's Helen's cat, Tim said to Michael. Todd gave her to Helen for their first anniversary. She's a strange cat, appropriately enough. She likes to bite.

—She's funny looking.

—Yeah. She's sort of a mixed-up Siamese. But she's a nice kitty.

Bristle was now ignoring them, twisting her head around so she could wash her behind.

—Sometimes, Tim said, I wish I had been born a cat. It would be nice to sit around all day, watch things and wash yourself. Oh, well. We have more important business to attend to.

With that, Tim bounded up the stairs two steps at a time. He knocked on Helen's front door just as Michael reached the top of the stairs. He heard a girl's voice through the wood.

—It's me, Tim!

—Come in, Michael heard.

Tim pushed the door and it flew open, revealing a room lit by the pale light coming through the large window overlooking the street. Michael saw Helen in the center, on a white and brown rug, lying on her stomach and facing away from the door, reading a book.

—Hey, Tim, she said without turning her head. What's up?

—Not much, he responded. Umm...

Michael closed the door behind him. When he looked again at Helen, his eyes rested on her back, beneath her hair. She was wearing a skin-tight ivory shirt, and he could see the strap of her bra pressing through it. He found his eye traveling down her back and resting in the space of her blue jeans between her legs, which were spread slightly apart on the rug.

One foot moved back and forth as she read. He broke his eyes away from her body, afraid that Tim might notice his gaze. He looked over Helen's living room. For the first time, Michael saw the inside of Helen's house. It was slightly messy, to say the least. Paperbacks, newspapers and mail-order catalogs lay scattered around the living room. The only pieces of furniture were a low table, a set of rough, wood shelves which leaned to one side from the weight of the books and stereo, and a rocking chair with one leg broken off in a far corner. It was all a bit of a shambles. The carpet was brown and stained, mostly hidden under the newspapers and a beige oval rug. There seemed to be too many things and not enough furniture to store them in. Instead, they were left in random heaps on the floor.

He wondered if he should say something, to let Helen know he was there.

—Helen, Tim said. I brought someone with me.

She instantly turned here head around, looking directly at Michael, surprised. She closed her book and stood. When she did, her shirt scrunched up and Michael briefly saw her bellybutton and the smooth, curved skin around it. She adjusted her shirt and smiled.

—Hi, Helen said to him. I'm Helen. I recognize you-you're Mark, aren't you?

—No, actually, I'm Michael.

—This is Michael, Tim said. He's in your Contemporary American Fiction section.

—I know that, Helen said to Tim. I'm sorry, Michael. How are you?

—Fine. How about you?

—Oh, getting by. So, how do you know Tim?

—He lives on my hall, Tim said. Up at Kane College. We met a few weeks ago.

—He's from your hall, is he? Helen said to Tim. Does he know about you and those freshman girls, who used to traumatize you so much?

—Uh, anyway, Tim said. I've been guiding Michael through Santa Zita.

—Really. How do you like UCSZ, Michael? Are you having a good time here?

—Until the last two weeks, not very much. I wasn't having any fun at all. But Tim's taken me to a few parties.

—Well, that's good. Have you guys eaten?

—No, not since breakfast, Tim answered We went to MacFarlie's.

—I know, I got your message. But I had already gone to the Bagel Zone with Gretchen.

—That's too bad.

—Would you like some dinner? Helen asked. I'm planning to make stir-fry.

—Sure, Tim said.

—Yes, please, Michael said.

—Well, come on into my kitchen.

Helen crossed the room and ushered them through to the kitchen, which wasn't very far. Helen's house was very small. As they passed into the kitchen, Michael saw another door to his right. Through the half-closed door, he caught a glimpse of a bed and piles of clothes.

Tim sat at a small wooden table set against the wall, in the chair facing the door. Michael sat across from him. Helen went over to the refrigerator and opened it.

On the wall above the table, hung a bulletin board crowded with little bits of paper, postcards and photographs. He looked at one of the photos-one showing Helen, Tim, Jake and another girl, all holding cans of beer, their eyes reddened discs from the flash.

—So, Tim said, what exactly are you doing tonight?

—Oh, it's such a long story, Helen replied. I was supposed to go to Alta Lara because Sarah's back for the week, but I'm not up to it, and neither is my car. And then Gretchen needs me to go with her to her boyfriend's party in Dead Oak.

—We heard about that, Tim said. We ran into Frank at Cafe Nightingale.

—I feel sorry for you.

—He's dreadful, Tim said. And he's too large. Dreadful people shouldn't be allowed to grow so big.

—I know. Gretchen hates him, but what can she do? He's her boyfriend's best friend, and housemate.

—So you're going to go?

—I might not. She's over there, now, having dinner. I promised I'd drive over at eight.

Helen paused and scratched her belly.

—I'm going to flake on her, though, I know it. And then she's going to hate me.

—Don't worry about it, Tim said. Hang out with us.

—I think I will, Helen said.

She opened the refrigerator and got down on her haunches. She began pulling plastic bags full of vegetables out.

—By the way, Helen, do you have anything to drink in the house?

—Indeed, I do.

After putting the vegetables on the counter, Helen went to pantry and began rummaging through a pile of newspaper and grocery bags. She pulled out an enormous green bottle of wine.

—Cool, Tim said. Should we drink it?

—Why not? Helen said. One of Ellery's silly friends left it here last weekend and has forgotten about it, I'm sure. It's just going to go bad.

She placed the bottle on the table.

—I'll get some glasses, Tim said.

He leaped up and sped across the kitchen, hooking his fingers in the cupboard handle and flinging it open. After extracting three glasses, he brought them back to the table. Michael looked at the wine, which looked exactly like the wine he had drunk in Tim's room a week ago, the night they had gone to the deadhead party. Had it really only been a week? It seemed like a month had passed, or a year.

Tim arranged the glasses in a triangle and pulled the cork out with a moist pop. He carefully poured three glasses and set the bottle down. Michael looked at the golden liquid as it gently moved in the glasses. and wondered if it would taste as nasty as Tim's wine, sweet and sour, and mouth twisting. He reached out and took the closest cup.

___________________

An hour later, after a glass and a half of wine, Michael again felt quite pleasantly buzzed. He was also very hungry. While he and Tim sat, Helen stir-fried vegetables in an iron skillet. Tim was describing their adventures of the night before. Michael had already told Helen how he had been briefly taken by the Santa Zita police, and she was very sympathetic.

While Tim went on, retelling Jake's story about Miranda, which Helen thought was hilarious, Michael looked into his half-full glass of wine and realized that, for perhaps the first time in his life, he had gotten what he wanted. He had been accepted by Santa Zita, he was hanging out with people he liked, who liked him back.

He looked over at Helen, her face set, concentrating on her cooking, repeatedly brushing her hair out of her eyes as she moved the skillet back and forth over the burner. Maybe it could happen. So many things had happened that he would have never believed could.

Michael saw himself with Helen later in the night. Tim had somehow disappeared. It was just them, talking and finishing the wine. Helen told him how she had broken up with her boyfriend, and how mean he had been to her. He told her that he would never treat her that way if it had been him.

From there, they began kissing, like the girl and guy at the party, completely focused on each other and forgetting about everything else in the world. They walked hand in hand to the bedroom.

Michael felt his erection rising in his jeans, and he tried to subtly shift position, feeling ridiculous. He stopped fantasizing and concentrated on Tim's words.

—So, that was that, Tim said. Jake was utterly and completely fucked.

—Serves him right, Helen said, for being so mean to Sophie. I've never heard such a ridiculous tale in my life. Things like that only happen to Jake.

— I know. And there's even more gossip to report, Tim added. Guess who showed up at the claimstake, wasted, at one o'clock in the morning?

—I could never guess, Helen said. George?

—You got it. He biked over from Oceanclear Brewery, vomiting the entire way, proceeded to walk in just as Sophie was going to bed. So, of course, he took one of our beers and went upstairs with her.

—I can't believe it, Helen said. I mean, of course I believe it, it's Sophie and George, but still... I thought Sophie was psyched for that guy, the friend of Davey's.

—I don't know, Tim said. She didn't say anything about him last night, but...

Tim shrugged and put his hands behind his head.

—I heard Jake and George talking this morning, Michael said. They thought I was asleep. George has been seeing this other girl.

—Really? Who, Irene's friend?

—I don't know, Michael said. Her name was Karen.

—Oh, my God, it is her, Helen exclaimed. I can't believe he's sleeping with Karen. That's terrible. If her boyfriend finds out, that's the living end.

—I think he already has.

—That's terrible. And so, now that he's wrecked Irene's relationship, and Karen's, he goes back to Sophie. George is like a tomcat.

—Jake didn't seem to approve, Michael said. He didn't really come out and say it, though.

—Jake never would, but even Jake, as amoral as he is, I'm sure would be a little bit appalled at the kind of stunts George has been pulling lately.

—He's probably worried about Sophie, Tim said. He really wants her to see someone other than George-

—Well, there's Davey's friend, Helen broke in.

—I don't think that's much of an improvement. Anyway, Jake set her up with this awful guy from his French class.

—That's bullshit, Helen said. About Jake protecting Sophie. I'll tell you something super-secret, but you can't tell anyone about it.

—What? Tim said, and bowed head closer to the table, smiling crookedly.

—Well, Helen said. Last summer, Jake and Sophie went on a camping trip to Tahoe. The second night of the trip, they ended up totally romping.

—What? Tim said. That's unthinkable. Who told you that?

—I heard from Roxy, who heard directly from Sophie, who made her swear not to tell anyone.

—So, of course, you're telling us.

—Well... Helen said. If she really wanted to keep it a secret, why did she tell me?

—Does George know?

—No, not at all. And he can't find out, at all costs.

—I won't say anything, Tim said.

—Neither will I, Michael added.

—Everybody's betraying everybody, Helen said. I love it. And I'm no exception.

She looked at the wall-clock, which read eight-thirty.

—I guess I'm not going to Dead Oak. Gretchen's going to hate me.

—Don't worry. Just tell her you got drunk, and didn't want to risk a run-in with the Dead Oak police.

—She'll never understand. She needs me to protect her from her boyfriend. Oh, well, I'm not going to worry about it now. More wine, Michael?

—Yes, please.

—God, Tim said. You're right. Everybody is stabbing everybody in the back. It's ridiculous.

—It's so incestuous, Helen said. It's gross.

—What about that party last night? Tim asked. I saw you there at one point, but then you disappeared.

—Oh, yeah, Helen said. I stopped by, but then I had to go. Gretchen insisted I go to her boyfriend's house.

—Todd was there.

—What a drag. Did you talk to him?

—No.

—Actually, Helen said, I've been thinking of taking revenge on Todd. I want to do something really mean to him.

—Like what? Tim asked.

—Oh, I don't know. I have these fantasies of stealing his stupid Jetta that he lavished so much attention on, loading the trunk full of dynamite, going up the coast and driving it off a cliff.

—With you in it? Tim asked. That's kind of like cutting off your nose to spite your face.

—No, silly. I'd get out with the parking brake off, and push it off.

—It seems like more trouble than Todd's worth.

—It would be so great, though. I can just see his face as he watched his virgin-white, polished pride and joy plummet off the cliff, hitting the rocks and exploding into a billion little pieces. And I'd put all of his lame cheez-jazz CDs in the back seat, along with his red and yellow paisley ties.

Helen grinned evilly, leering at Michael. Not knowing what to say, Michael nodded back at her. Everybody had been right-Helen and Todd's breakup had been very bitter.

—I think it would be better to forget about him, Tim said. Anyway, I'm intrigued to find out how your section's been going, Helen. Michael's told me a little. What have you been discussing?

—Oh, you know. Books.

—But which books? What books have triggered the best discussions?

—Less Than Zero, Michael said. I think. Everybody in the section hated the kids in the book. They all said they were superficial and didn't care about anything except themselves.

—Yeah, said Helen. That particular section went pretty well. At least I didn't have to spend all my time trying to get someone other than myself to say something.

—I read Less Than Zero, Tim said. I hated the characters, too, but I thought the guy who wrote it, whoever he was, did a pretty good job of capturing their essential soullessness. So, in a way, I respect it. But ultimately, it's a book about people who are nothing, and it describes nothingness really well, but that's all it does. I mean, I guess all literature is about nothing except words, in a way, but, at least most books have the illusion of being about something.

Helen yawned, and Michael looked into her mouth, at her yellow-stained teeth and beyond. Tim cleared his throat and said:

—What do you think, Michael?

—Um... I'm not sure. The kids in the book had such completely different lives than me, it was like reading about a totally foreign place. I couldn't believe they were the same age, from the same state. They had done everything. I haven't done anything.

—Lucky for you, Helen said.

—Why? Tim asked.

—Oh, all experiences like that, all that partying, all that fooling around, all it does is get you into heaps of trouble.

—If you do it too much, sure, Michael said. Couldn't there be a balance, between too little and too much?

—Maybe, Helen said.

Michael sipped his wine and looked over at Tim, who was studying both he and Helen thoughtfully, glancing rapidly from one to the other.

—I think, Tim said, that you have to balance by going from one extreme to the other, not by always doing things halfway. Either live like a monk, like I have for the last month, or go totally crazy, like I did last fall.

When he finished, Tim brushed his hand through his hair and then laid it on his stomach. A wave of distress passed over his face. He stood and walked quickly out of the kitchen without explanation. He went into the bathroom and shut the door. Helen rolled her eyes.

—Oh, Tim.

She turned to Michael and looked him squarely in the eyes, as if she expected him to say something. Michael decided to show Helen that, even though he was a freshman and two years younger than her, he could still hold his own in an intellectual conversation. He could say the things he had wanted to say in section, but hadn't.

—I was thinking about Raymond Carver, Michael said, after we studied him in class. He had an amazing ability with details. The more I studied the story I wrote my paper on, the more I noticed. The first time I read it, I thought it was really plain and boring, but it wasn't.

—Yeah, I really like Raymond Carver. I think he's my favorite writer in the course.

—What other writers do you like? Michael asked.

—Oh, said Helen... I'm not sure.

—Are you talking any other literature classes right now?

—Yeah, I'm taking this class in Latin American literature, but I can't understand anything the professor says, because she has a thick Spanish accent, so as a result, I never go and I'm going to flunk the class.

—Oh.

—What's Tim doing? Helen asked after a pause of a few seconds.

—He's still in the bathroom. I hope he's all right.

—He's always doing this. Poor Tim.

After this last remark, Helen fell silent, and Michael couldn't think of anything else he could talk to her about. She didn't seem to in the mood to talk about literature right now. He could understand why-she probably spent all week thinking and discussing it, and now that it was the weekend, she wanted to take a break.

xxxiv

A few minutes later, Tim reappeared in the kitchen.

—Ah, he said as he sat. Much better.

—Everything come out all right? Helen asked.

—In the end, yes.

—Tim, Helen said to Michael, has the most unreliable bowels of any of my friends. Most of the time he spends in this house he spends in the bathroom. Many times he's made our bathroom uninhabitable for weeks, Helen said. It's because of all the coffee and dorm food.

—Helen, Tim said, that's a total exaggeration.

Helen's eyes bugged out and she giggled wildly at Tim. Michael realized what an expressive face Helen had, like it were made of rubbery, constantly changing. Tim blushed, and Michael couldn't blame him. How embarrassing, to have how often you went to the bathroom made fun of. It reminded him of the kids in his elementary school; when they had started talking about things like that, he had been mortified and had never joined in.

It was something he hadn't expected to see in Helen. She had always seemed so neat and polite when she taught their section. Here, though, with her friends, she was as opposite as she could be. Michael looked over at Helen, and when he saw her crazy smile, he realized she was still just as attractive.

—Anyway, Tim said. I'm sure there are much more interesting things we could be discussing than my excretory habits. Like-

—Oh, really, Helen interrupted. I don't think so.

She collapsed into hysterics again. Michael found himself laughing, too, for no reason, other than Tim's mock-serious expression.

—Yes, definitely, Tim said. For example, why don't we talk about literature? Helen, what's your favorite book in the class you're TAing? Raymond Carver? Toni Morrison?

—I liked Grapplings, she said. I learned a lot about anal sex, which really intrigues me.

—How? Tim asked.

—I don't know. Nothing. If you have to ask, you don't need to know.

—I know about butt sex.

—What do you know about butt sex? Oh my God, that's so ridiculous.

Tim looked across the table and shrugged helplessly at Michael, who sat, shocked. Every moment, the scene became less and less like the way he had envisioned meeting Helen and hanging out with her. He took a huge gulp of wine. Maybe he just needed to drink more, and it would all seem normal.

—You're shocking your guest, Tim said to Michael.

—What are you, his guardian?

—I'm his guide.

—Oh, please. Anyway, Michael, would you like some more wine?

—Sure, he said, and held out his glass.

After she had poured wine to the rim of his glass, Helen poured more for herself, splashing a great deal of it on some binder paper that was lying on the table.

—Whoops, said Helen. So much for Gretchen's Latin American fiction notes, which I was supposed to be copying.

—Oh, Helen, Tim said.

—So, Michael, Helen said. What did you think of Grapplings?

—Oh, I already asked him that, Tim said. He hasn't read it yet, unfortunately.

—Uh, no, Michael said.

His eyes fell to his lap. He suddenly felt the urge to tell the truth. He was really drunk. He couldn't possibly admit to Helen, and to Tim, what had happened.

—What? Helen asked. Did you read it? I want to know what you thought.

—I did look at it, Michael said hoarsely.

He took a long swallow of wine.

—I don't know what happened, but I read the first page, and I got really excited. Somehow, I ended up-

Michael paused. What was he doing? He was doomed.

—You masturbated?! Helen exclaimed.

She began cackling and shrieking with laughter. Tim laughed as well, and slapped his hand on his thigh. Michael couldn't believe he had actually confessed, looked up, feeling both ashamed and relieved. He saw Tim staring back at him, shaking his head with amazement.

—That's awesome, Helen said. How funny.

—I'm not gay, Michael said. At least, I don't think so. It just happened.

—Well, that's cool, said Helen. You don't have to be gay to get off on something like that. I'm not a lesbian, but I get aroused sometimes, thinking about two women together.

—Really? asked Tim. Tell me more.

—No, Helen said to Tim. I don't think so. Anyway, she said to Michael, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody does it. I do, and Tim certainly does. I'm surprised he ever leaves his room.

—Ha, ha, said Tim.

Helen turned her head in his direction, away from Tim. She looked at him sympathetically until she screwed her eyes up and warped her cheeks.

—Ah, she said, and relaxed her face. I farted, she announced.

Tim let his breath out in mock-disgust. Helen took a deep sniff.

—Oh, this one's a doozy, Helen said. It's a real stinker.

She waved her hand in front of her face. A heavy, fecund odor filled Michael's nose. For some reason, he sniffed deeply as well, wondering what it really smelled like.

—Oh, God, Helen, Tim said. That was beyond the bounds of decency.

—That really was a bad one, Helen said. Almost stained my panties. I hate those really wet farts that kind of bubble out.

—Helen! Tim said, and started giggling uncontrollably.

Michael, who couldn't believe what Helen had just told them, found himself laughing, too. At first the corners of his mouth twitched upwards while he tried to control them, then laughter burst out.

—Helen, what had come over you? Tim asked. Why have you become so scatological all of the sudden?

—I don't know, Helen responded. I started doing it around Todd, because it pissed him off so much, and now it's uncontrollable. I just feel the need to talk about gross things all the time.

Michael sat back in his chair, grinning, as Helen's smell surrounded him. He felt so comfortable, he could have sat there forever. He had no worries, nothing he needed to do, other than a slight urge to pee. He closed his eyes, felt the house's warmth and waited for the smell to go away.

___________________

They spent another two hours, finishing the wine and talking about all sorts of things, mostly having to do with various bodily functions. Michael talked about things he had never discussed with anyone before. Finally, once they had emptied the wine bottle, Helen yawned mightily and told her guests that she was sorry, but she had to get to sleep.

She gave them both sleeping bags and told them they could sleep on the living room floor. Tim wanted to sleep on Gretchen's bed, but Helen told him there was a chance Gretchen might be back that night, so they'd better not.

Helen said good night to them and went in her room. Michael and Tim spread their sleeping bags on the rug, took off their shoes and jeans. Tim got glasses of water for himself and Michael, turned out the light and slipped in his sleeping bag.

Michael got in his as well, rolled over on his back and shut his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he had trouble getting to sleep, as memories of everything that had happened that weekend flashed through his mind. Despite the thick rug, the floor felt hard against his spine. Unlike the night before, they didn't have pads to sleep on, and it made a difference.

He rolled over on his side, then on his stomach, onto the other side and returned to lying on his back; repeating the cycle several times as he tried to sleep.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, because he suddenly awoke when he heard a toilet flush. The instant he heard the sound, and opened his eyes, he felt strangely awake, like a dream where you wake up and think you're not dreaming anymore.

Someone came out of the bathroom. Michael looked, and saw Tim, wearing his jeans.

—Hey, Michael, he said in a half-whisper. Are you awake?

—Yeah, I am.

—I think I'm going to drive back to campus. I feel like sleeping in a real bed. Do you want to go?

—Sure. I can't really sleep, either.

Michael got out of the sleeping bag, put on his jeans and shoes. Following Tim's example, he rolled up the bag and set in on the couch, next to where Tim has already put the one he had used.

—Let's go, Tim said. We can still get four or five hours of sleep before brunch.

Michael followed Tim out the door, into the cold, crystalline air. Over the hills, in the direction of campus, Michael saw the rosy pink and light blue of dawn.

As they walked slowly down the staircase, Tim first and Michael second, Michael looked upwards. Patches of gray fog covered the sky. In a crack between them, he peered into the deep, dark blue and saw stars still faintly shining.

SEATTLE, WA

SEPT '93 - FEB '94