Never Love a Stranger by Harold Robbins

folks. There was a crowd around them, and Jerry couldn’t see past them or he would have called me over. After a while I started to ease towards the doorway. It looked as if no one was coming to see me anyway, and I’d feel better outside. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. It was Brother Bernhard. Father Quinn was with him, and both were smiling.
    “Congratulations!” boomed the good brother. Father Quinn, still smiling, echoed him.
    I smiled suddenly, just beginning to feel the salt stinging my eyelids. I couldn’t speak for a moment.
    Brother Bernhard looked at me shrewdly; there were times when I thought he could read my mind. “Thought we weren’t coming, eh?”
    He didn’t give me time to answer before he continued: “We wouldn’t be after missing the graduation of one of our boys, would we, Father?”
    “That we wouldn’t,” answered Father Quinn. “We’re very proud of you, Francis.”
    I found my voice at last—not the same voice I usually used, but a voice. “Thank you,” I said, “thank you.”
    Brother Bernhard put his hand on my shoulder as we walked towards the door. I began to feel pretty good again. Once we were outside, Father Quinn shook hands with me and wished me luck again and walked off towards the church while Brother Bernhard and I walked towards the orphanage.
    We entered the courtyard silently. Suddenly he stopped me. “Francis,” he blurted gruffly, “I’ve a present for ye.” He held out his hand.
    I was so surprised that for a moment I stared stupidly at the package in his hand. “It’s for ye,” he said, thrusting it at me. “Take it.”
    I took the package and opened it. It was a wrist-watch. I gulped and held it up. The sun shone on it, and it was beautiful. I strapped it on my wrist with trembling fingers.
    “D’ye like it?” he asked.
    “Like it!” I said, my voice suddenly light and gay. “I like it better’n anything in my whole life.”
    He smiled and took my hand, and together we walked into the big grey building.
    Chapter Nine ‌

    T HAT summer was the first I had ever spent so much time with people. I learned how to get along with them—how to joke and laugh, how not to get sore at every insult. I learned lots of things that summer, and Julie taught me most of them.
    The day after I graduated, Marty had invited me to his house for supper again. His parents were out that evening.
    I got there early. He met me at the door and greeted me. “How about a little boxing now,” he said, “and after supper we’ll loaf around?”
    “O.K.,” I replied.
    We had been boxing almost an hour when Julie stuck her head in the door. “Supper’s ready,” she said.
    We took off our gloves. I washed my hands. Marty wanted to take a shower so I went into the kitchen to wait for him.
    “Where’s Marty?” Julie asked.
    “He’s taking a shower,” I replied. “He’ll be right out.”
    She was wearing a smock tied at the side. It was tightly fit and she looked almost like a kid except for the way she would walk. “How are the boxing lessons coming along?” she asked, coming over and taking my hands.
    “All right. He’s O.K.,” I said.
    “How about your other lessons?” she asked with a slow smile. “What other lessons?” I asked stupidly.
    “These,” she said, pulling my arms around her.
    I held her close. She was warm and she felt good close to me. It seemed that her warmth reached out towards me. I kissed her on the lips. She closed her eyes. When she opened them they were soft and swimmy.
    She tilted her head to one side. “Kiss me here.” She indicated her throat. “Why?” I asked.
    “Because I like it, silly,” she said. “You’ll like it too. Don’t you love me?” “That’s kid stuff,” I said awkwardly.
    “Kid stuff?” She looked at me in pretended amazement. “And how old do you think you are, Mr. Rip Van Winkle?”
    “I’m almost sixteen.”
    “Well, I’m almost four years older than you are, and I don’t