Quinn by Sally Mandel Page A

was now audible over the dining room clatter.
    â€œThe Noble Sir William thing.”
    â€œOh, come off it.”
    â€œYou don’t have any obligation to go through with—”
    â€œIt’s a matter of ethics,” Quinn interrupted.
    Van broke out laughing.
    â€œGod damn it.” Quinn wadded up her napkin and tossed it onto her tray.
    â€œHas anybody ever pointed out that you’ve got a problem with control?”
    â€œYes, Vanessa, ad nauseam. Why don’t you just quit Fine Arts and be a shrink?”
    â€œYou’d make a great case study. Really, this whole contest thing is fascinating. You’ve set up all these controls as precedents for
losing
control. I mean orgasm, of course—”
    â€œOn second thought,” Quinn interrupted irritably, “better stick with Fine Arts.”
    They sat in silence for a moment. Quinn’s freckles had grown perceptibly darker. “You’re mad at me,” Van said.
    â€œIt’s just that you are constantly psychoanalyzing everybody.”
    â€œNot everybody. Just you.” Van tried out an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Well, I
can’t
stop, but I’ll keep it behind closed mouth.”
    â€œMuch appreciated.”
    â€œDo you think it’s a sin? Sex, for you, I mean.”
    Quinn shook her head slowly. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, “eternal damnation’s gotta be more interesting than virginity.”
    Van laughed, and they finished their coffee amid speculation regarding Jerry Landring’s alleged conquests, two of whom were sitting together at a table near the window.
    Monday morning, Quinn lingered at the garage until finally Gus asked her if she was feeling all right. When she arrived at Lit class, she slid into a seat at the back of the room nearest the door and tried to concentrate on Dr. Buxby’s remarks concerning Jane Austen. Her attention strayed around the room, and came to rest on the back of Will Ingraham’s head. His hair was light brown with pale, sunny streaks. Amazing, really, for the beginning of December. It waved slightly, particularly at the neck, where it curled over the back of his collar. She wondered if it was coarse or soft. It looked soft, even though it seemed very thick.
    â€œMiss Quinn Mallory?”
    Her eyes flew to Dr. Buxby’s face. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her to say something. “I’m … sorry, I guess … I didn’t hear the question,” she stammered.
    Dr. Buxby frowned at her and snapped, “Mr. Ackley.”
    During Ackley’s response Will turned to look at Quinn. She felt his gaze and stared straight ahead. When the bell rang, she bolted from her seat, down the corridor, and out the heavy wooden door onto the quadrangle.
    Although in fact she managed to avoid him, her imagination found him everywhere. Lying on her back beneath a crippled truck on Tuesday, she concocted reasons for him to appear at Gus’s tiny glassed-in office. Maybe Will needed a job. Maybe he wanted to borrow a special tool to fix something in his room, like … She stopped hammering on the muffler line and invented. Like his emergency generator. Surely he had a generator stowed away in his closet just in case the lights went out while he was studying for a crucial exam.
    Gus’s feet appeared, two sturdy shadows in the slice of light beyond the truck’s underside. “Your friend’s here,” he said.
    Quinn heard pounding in her ears.
    â€œShe’s got your books.”
    Quinn scrambled out and blinked at Van in the sudden brightness.
    â€œIt’s a good thing I happened to stop by your room,” Van said. “You left everything on the bed. Aren’t you going to Religion?”
    â€œYeah.” Quinn reached for a clean rag. “I guess I just forgot them. Thanks.” She took the books from Van.
    Van stared at Quinn’s smudged jeans.