persistent, conscious dream, Jake was beside her, his hands on her, her ears filled with the harsh profane words he used. Then, in that crazy state of half awareness, she projected herself into Jake's ways and saw Mitch, large and muscular, but less strong than Leda, who held onto her. Suddenly she heard the footsteps in the hall and Mitch appeared, shaking the dream, chattering noisily about the decorations, how Marsha had helped her with her French assignment, and what Mother Nessy had said about the basement.
"Mitch," Leda said, breaking in, "who's the guy?"
"What?"
"They say you're hanging around with some guy after classes."
"Oh, Charlie. He's in a couple of my classes."
"Like him?"
"Sure."
Leda blew the smoke from her cigarette toward the ceiling. Mitch thought it was time now for the harangue on independents if Leda knew, and if not it would be time after she asked and knew then.
"Why don't you ask him to come Saturday? Tell Roberts to go jump and ask him."
"I can't. Marsha asked me to do this. Leda, you know why I had to ask Roberts."
"That's Marsha's idea. Listen, kid, don't be pushed around. Marsha could have settled it some other way."
"But I thought," Mitch said, confused, "I thought it was the only choice I had. I don't understand you now, Leda."
"You understand Marsha, apparently."
Mitch sat down on the bed and tried to reason why Leda was afraid again, almost as she had been that night. Weeks had passed and Leda had seemed aloof and busy, with Jake all the time, and tired in the evening. Now this, and Leda was angry.
"Charlie is an independent," Mitch said, "so he wouldn't be a good date to bring anyway."
"Charlie?"
"The boy you said I should ask instead of Roberts."
Leda searched in the bookcase for her Spanish text and finding it she grabbed her coat "I've got work to do," she said. "I can't think about it all the time. Do you hear me, Mitch? I can't think about it all the time!"
Mitch didn't say anything.
"Marsha! I'm so sick of hearing that girl's name. You think she's God, don't you? You think that girl is God?"
Mitch reached in the drawer beside her bed and found the nail polish. She was wearing it regularly now, bright red, and her nails were growing long and tapered.
Leda stood before her waiting for an answer but it did not come. She said, "I thought you were my friend. I thought you cared about me because no one else had ever given a damn. No friend. Jake cares for his own damn reasons and Jan doesn't care. The two Fs in my life. J for junk. But I thought you gave a damn and I ran around pouring my heart out telling you things. Then you run to Marsha when you have a problem and you do what Marsha says."
"I haven't." Mitch's voice cracked. "I talk to her because she's president."
"President! President of what? Of the world? Of the United States of America? I laugh my fool head off at her being president."
"I don't know what to say, Leda. I don't know why you're mad all of a sudden."
Leda shook her head and walked out of the room, sla mmin g the door. She walked down the hall and the steps and out of the door to the street, and she knew why it was this way. She knew. Before she had thought she knew, and she had erased it like a pencil mark on a sheet of new paper. It came back. And Susan Mitchell, of all those it might have been, and the way she was, like a baby.
Mitch watched her from the window until she was out of sight. Across the street the Delta Pi's were staging a song practice on their side lawn. In even rows of more than a dozen, they faced their white-flanneled leader and sang out in fine, gruff voices. They were singing the Cranston football team's "Fight Song," and listening to them, Mitch thought that this was the way she had pictured college. This singing, and the fall leaves outside, and the hazy questions in her mind about the French translation and the English composition, and no Leda, or Bud Roberts —nothing like that. Still, there were Leda's eyes, and the
"Mitch," Leda said, breaking in, "who's the guy?"
"What?"
"They say you're hanging around with some guy after classes."
"Oh, Charlie. He's in a couple of my classes."
"Like him?"
"Sure."
Leda blew the smoke from her cigarette toward the ceiling. Mitch thought it was time now for the harangue on independents if Leda knew, and if not it would be time after she asked and knew then.
"Why don't you ask him to come Saturday? Tell Roberts to go jump and ask him."
"I can't. Marsha asked me to do this. Leda, you know why I had to ask Roberts."
"That's Marsha's idea. Listen, kid, don't be pushed around. Marsha could have settled it some other way."
"But I thought," Mitch said, confused, "I thought it was the only choice I had. I don't understand you now, Leda."
"You understand Marsha, apparently."
Mitch sat down on the bed and tried to reason why Leda was afraid again, almost as she had been that night. Weeks had passed and Leda had seemed aloof and busy, with Jake all the time, and tired in the evening. Now this, and Leda was angry.
"Charlie is an independent," Mitch said, "so he wouldn't be a good date to bring anyway."
"Charlie?"
"The boy you said I should ask instead of Roberts."
Leda searched in the bookcase for her Spanish text and finding it she grabbed her coat "I've got work to do," she said. "I can't think about it all the time. Do you hear me, Mitch? I can't think about it all the time!"
Mitch didn't say anything.
"Marsha! I'm so sick of hearing that girl's name. You think she's God, don't you? You think that girl is God?"
Mitch reached in the drawer beside her bed and found the nail polish. She was wearing it regularly now, bright red, and her nails were growing long and tapered.
Leda stood before her waiting for an answer but it did not come. She said, "I thought you were my friend. I thought you cared about me because no one else had ever given a damn. No friend. Jake cares for his own damn reasons and Jan doesn't care. The two Fs in my life. J for junk. But I thought you gave a damn and I ran around pouring my heart out telling you things. Then you run to Marsha when you have a problem and you do what Marsha says."
"I haven't." Mitch's voice cracked. "I talk to her because she's president."
"President! President of what? Of the world? Of the United States of America? I laugh my fool head off at her being president."
"I don't know what to say, Leda. I don't know why you're mad all of a sudden."
Leda shook her head and walked out of the room, sla mmin g the door. She walked down the hall and the steps and out of the door to the street, and she knew why it was this way. She knew. Before she had thought she knew, and she had erased it like a pencil mark on a sheet of new paper. It came back. And Susan Mitchell, of all those it might have been, and the way she was, like a baby.
Mitch watched her from the window until she was out of sight. Across the street the Delta Pi's were staging a song practice on their side lawn. In even rows of more than a dozen, they faced their white-flanneled leader and sang out in fine, gruff voices. They were singing the Cranston football team's "Fight Song," and listening to them, Mitch thought that this was the way she had pictured college. This singing, and the fall leaves outside, and the hazy questions in her mind about the French translation and the English composition, and no Leda, or Bud Roberts —nothing like that. Still, there were Leda's eyes, and the
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