The Rock Star's Homecoming

By Linda Gould

Nestled in the Appalachian foothills, Glendary College is the epitome of a small-town college. Calm and studious on the surface, the mixture of jocks, religious fanatics, and hippies is a powder keg waiting to explode. The igniting spark comes in the form of a homegrown rock band that was expelled two years before. Now a phenomenal success, the band returns for an explosive homecoming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Gould
• Release date: Dec 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458030221

Linda Gould

Linda Gould is a career bureaucrat. She has a bachelor?s degree in English from Western Maryland College and a master?s degree in political science from American University in Washington DC. Her first novel, Secretarial Wars, was published in 2003. Gould lives in Silver Spring, Maryland.

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THE ROCK STAR’S HOMECOMING

by

Linda Gould

Smashwords Edition

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Published on Smashwords by:

Linda Gould

The Rock Star’s Homecoming

Copyright 2010 by Linda Gould

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Chapter One

She’s perfect. She’s what all of us—even the grinds in the dorm who hardly ever take their noses out of their books—would love to be. It’s like she was born to glide down a carpeted runway with a crown on her head. She’s got it all—honey blonde hair with perfect dips and curls, large bust and small waist, a model’s height and grace. And she knows how to show it off. Look at the way she choreographs those halftime pom-pom routines to feature her own legs.

I admire her a lot. I diet and bleach my hair to try to look just a little bit like her. But the truth is, I don’t like her. She’s so superior, sometimes to the point of rudeness. She thinks she’s the busiest, most put-upon girl on campus, with her endless committee meetings. Nobody around here really likes her. My friend Imogene, who’s an English major, nicknamed her Supercilia. A group of fat slobs on the hall, who’re really not my friends, have made a point of spreading that name around. I don’t come up with things like that myself—I’m just plodding little Carolyn, not exactly a deep thinker. But I love the name because it fits.

She’ll be elected Homecoming Queen for sure, because of her regality, if that’s a word. Hell, I may end up voting for her myself. She’s such an obvious choice. It’s just that—I wouldn’t mind seeing her crash to earth afterward. I’m no psych major, so I can’t really explain this feeling. Her perfection, I guess, is just too—perfect. Sometimes I imagine what that gorgeous face would look like all bruised and battered. It chills me, but it intrigues me too.

There’ve been threats made against her, and I guess they’re serious. Rumors are flying around everywhere, which goes to prove I’m not the only person with feelings like that. I’m no political science major either, but if something bad should happen to her, it would be almost a revolutionary act. What else do you call it when people turn on the very girl they picked as their ideal and try to tear her down? If you ask me, it’s not a question of who would do it. It’s more like, who’ll get there first?

Imogene knew that a showdown was in the offing with her boyfriend, Steve, when he kept her waiting over an hour for their Thursday night date, and didn’t bother to call with an excuse. She had heated up pizza in the basement kitchen for a late evening snack to go with the two bottles of beer that were staying cool on the window ledge, well concealed from the housemother’s snooping eyes. She had sliced the pizza with a carving knife borrowed from the cafeteria—a small perk of her menial campus job.

Now the pizza lay sodden and greasy on paper plates, and Imogene had downed her own beer, wishing it were something harder. Too upset to sit down and study, she put on the She Moves Me album by the Sunburst, Glendary College’s homegrown rock band, and paced the room as if propelled by lead singer Jake Murphy’s gravelly voice. She picked up the album jacket and studied the rock star, who seemed to stare back. He looked larger than life, although he was wearing the same psychedelic T-shirt, gold necklace, and gold earring of his pre-fame days.

Where’ve you been? she demanded when Steve came in at eleven—almost too late to talk or eat or do much of anything before the eleven thirty curfew at Mary Ellen Clemens dormitory. His non-committal answer and spacey-eyed look disturbed her further. He ignored the pizza but took his beer and chugged it down.

Where’re your roommates? he asked, eyeing Imogene’s bed.

Who knows? They probably won’t be home for hours. Lately they’ve started sneaking through the basement window after midnight, if they come in at all.

Imogene paused to get her resentment under control. "I know Sara likes to hang out in the

Baltimore clubs, sitting in with the house bands. She’s Jake Murphy’s sister, after all. And Emily—she practically lives at the drama department. She’s planning to make a movie or something in collaboration with a certain favorite professor."

Imogene’s anger level rose. Her roommates were too busy and too important on campus to be real acquaintances of hers, much less friends. Her life was pedestrian compared to theirs. She had no marital prospects after she graduated next spring, other than this increasingly scruffy, inattentive boy whose ponytail was beginning to exasperate her.

Even her choice of music was likely to cause an argument these days. Steve always belittled her for preferring the Sunburst’s first album, with its romantic themes. He insisted that the more inflammatory second album, Glowing Strings, made the first seem like kindergarten stuff. As he fiddled with his zipper and smiled vaguely, Imogene’s temper boiled over. She turned off the music and faced him.

Listen, there’s something we’ve gotta get straight right now. Homecoming weekend is two weeks away. Are you taking me to the dance or not?

I haven’t given it any thought.

Well, give it some, right now, said Imogene. It’s our last Homecoming as students here, and the biggest dance of the year. A date for Homecoming shows at least some kind of commitment.

Who told you that? Steve smirked. Some pom-pom waver?

Nobody had to tell me that, said Imogene. It’s traditional.

She caught herself, but too late to avoid sounding like a ninny to her own ears. Since when had she been the typical bubble-headed coed who agonized about dates for the big dances and aspired not to leave college without the prospect of a Mrs. degree? She felt she was meant for bigger things; still, she knew the subject of Homecoming dates would heat up as soon as the first-floor Clemens women gathered for their next afternoon bull session.

Why did they still have to endure such nonsense ten years after Gloria Steinem had passed through Glendary on her historic tour of college campuses? In the decade since 1971, this small college nestled in the Appalachian foothills had experienced marijuana, the pill, anti-war demonstrations sparked by a leftist preacher, and Jake Murphy’s riot-making music. Yet nothing had shaken the typical coed’s obsession with her hope chest.

Imogene raised her voice as she pressed her point, although she feared her nearest neighbors might overhear. On one side lived Eva and Weird Lila, members of the local God Squad. Eva, nicknamed Sermonette by the local wags, worried about her hallmates’ souls and was always holding impromptu prayer meetings. Lila, who tried to play hymns (or praise songs, as the religious kids called them) on an acoustic guitar, had an unnerving habit of lurking silently. On the other side lived Carolyn, known as the Walking Cliché, Imogene’s best friend in the hall but something of a busybody. Thanks to her, news always traveled fast whenever a girl fought with her boyfriend. Nevertheless, Imogene demanded a commitment from Steve.

Do we have to talk about this now, at fifteen minutes to curfew? It takes me almost that long to get the fucking condom on. Steve jerked his head toward the bed.

Watch your language. And since you mention it, it seems to me that ever since we figured out how to do it, there’s been too much quickie fucking in this relationship and not enough communication.

You know I’d be worthless to you at the dance. Steve attempted a jocular tone. Didn’t I practically break your foot last year?

That was a sensuous pain. Imogene almost smiled, and then recalled how serious she was. Are you afraid to slow-dance with me in public, Steve? Is that it? Slow-dancing doesn’t take any dancing skill, but it does take some romantic skill.

If you must know, I have no plans to go to the dance except as an observer. I’m gonna sit as close to the stage as I can and study the musicians’ techniques.

Oh, now I get it, said Imogene. You’ll be doing a research project on the power of rock and roll. Or maybe you’ve decided to be one of those longhaired freaks who always gather in front of the stage like they’re at a revival meeting. What’s the deal, Steve? You studying to be a roadie now instead of a lawyer?

Maybe I’ll be a roadie lawyer. Anything wrong with that? And as long as you’ve decided you wanna go traditional, here’s a suggestion. Try crashing the football players’ elite section in the dining hall. If you could convince one of those hulks to take you to the dance, your girlfriends on this hall would go green with envy.

It’s too late to snag one of them, said Imogene, although the idea intrigued her. I’ve wasted too damned much time on you.

Don’t say wasted. Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom in a small square wrapper. I taught you the basics of sex. You’re not very good at it, but at least you’re not a virgin anymore. Here. He tossed the condom at her. Use this on your next conquest.

How dare he throw away their relationship like that? Imogene picked up one of the drained beer bottles, sitting on her desk next to the cold pizza, and threw it at Steve’s head. The bottle flew past his shoulder and hit the closed door.

Steve looked startled but put on a quick grin. That time of month?

Imogene picked up the second bottle with greater conviction and even eyed the knife stuck in the pizza. Just as she was coming to her senses, a knock sounded on the door.

Must be the witching hour, said Steve. Old Lady Mason is here to flush me out.

Shut up, she’ll hear you. Imogene almost chuckled in spite of herself. Old Lady somehow described the twenty-five-year-old housemother, who had received her master’s degree in education from Glendary College only last spring. She had been hired to supervise the Clemens women on the apparent theory that they would relate better to an authority figure who was almost one of them, at least in age. Imogene raised her voice and called, Come in.

Lynne Mason tried to open the door but couldn’t. Would you please take off the chain? she yelled. A chain on the door before bedtime was a tip-off that sex was going on.

Once Imogene let her in, Ms. Mason surveyed the scene with her bespectacled eyes. She frowned at her watch and then at the couple.

It’s still a couple of minutes till curfew, said Steve, showing her his own watch.

You’re cutting it close, said Ms. Mason, eyeing the beer bottles. The one lying on the carpet seemed to startle her. Imogene realized it had cracked when it hit the door. She hadn’t known her own strength.

Despite her annoyance at being disciplined, Imogene felt a kinship with the housemother that frequently perplexed her. Lynne Mason was usually apologetic about enforcing the rules, yet could grow steely if her dignity was threatened. It reminded Imogene of her own conflict between coed frivolity and studiousness.

I’m sorry about this, said Imogene, motioning Steve out the door. He was just leaving.

I was just leaving, said Steve over his shoulder.

In the silence after her boyfriend’s departure, which felt permanent, Imogene picked up the bottle next to the door and studied it as if someone else had thrown it. Ms. Mason stood by with folded arms, awaiting an explanation.

I guess we lost our tempers, said Imogene. Sorry about that.

Try not to let it happen again, said the housemother. She seemed to be appraising the bottles to determine if they had been drained. How like her, thought Imogene, to chide someone for violating the drinking policy while sidestepping the issue of violence.

Imogene was preparing to say something in self-defense when the housemother backed off. It was her habit to let her charges off on technicalities, especially when the evidence was circumstantial. She had seen empty bottles, but she had not actually seen anyone drinking. I’m sure you’ll keep the rules in mind, she said. Good night. She turned and disappeared down the hall.

Imogene was not ready to call it a night. The circumstances demanded that she find a shoulder to cry on. Almost none of the residents went to bed before midnight, and there was no telling who might have overheard the argument and drawn her own conclusions. She quailed at the thought of telling Eva or Lila, who would advise her to ask the Lord for forgiveness and guidance. That advice had been known to backfire—hadn’t she petitioned the Lord for a boyfriend at one of those prayer meetings, and wound up with Steve? True, he had been a blessing for a year or more, but shouldn’t an omnipotent God have had more long-range foresight? Telling Carolyn might not be so pleasant either. The Walking Cliché had started to get agitated about the approaching Homecoming festivities, and might consider it a major calamity that Imogene had jeopardized her chance for a date.

Where could she find the style of sympathy she needed? Imogene left her room and proceeded down the hall, drawn by the sound of clinking Coca Cola glasses. Betty and Shelley would be home as always, watching The Tonight Show while munching a snack. Imogene didn’t believe either of them had had a date since freshman year, when this late night snacking habit had begun. Some nights they hosted a group of nondescript women like themselves, a crowd that Shelley herself had nicknamed the Greek Chorus, underlining their lack of real roles and separate voices on campus.

What’s your idiot boyfriend done now? asked Betty, seeing Imogene’s distraught face. This stern English teacher-in-training always advised Imogene to drop Steve. Shelley, a less judgmental art major, served as Betty’s ironic echo. She patted Imogene’s shoulder and offered to salve the wound with popcorn and Coke.

Imogene described the quarrel with relish as she ate and drank. Shedding a few tears, she proclaimed her liberation. Betty and Shelley backed her up, declaring, You can do better than that creep.

What did you ever see in him in the first place? demanded Betty.

He used to be nice. Imogene’s eyes welled up again. Intolerable as he seemed to her now, Steve had been her soul mate.

What’s with the ponytail, anyway? asked Shelley. He was a clean-cut guy when he first started coming here.

I’ve heard the atmosphere in the men’s dorms has deteriorated. Schoolmarm Betty spoke with authority for someone who never ventured into those places. Their resident officials never enforce any rules. A double standard, if you ask me.

Poor Lynne Mason at least tries to enforce a few, for our own good, said Shelley.

Everybody knows about Boulder dorm. Hunk City is also drunk city, said Betty. They party all week long, and it peaks on Saturday nights after football games. Sizemore dorm is a different world—a drug market. The hippies there hate sports and just about everything else, except rock music.

I’ve spent time in Sizemore, said Imogene, and not everybody there is a drugged-out freak. In fact, I’ve never seen a single drug deal go down.

That’s because it’s all underground, you dork, said Shelley. It’s the part of the sixties revolution that hangs on and on.

Maybe you just haven’t wanted to see things like that, added Betty, in case your boyfriend is involved.

Her companions seemed so familiar with every nook and cranny of campus life that Imogene feared they were right. She couldn’t wait to cleanse Steve from her life. Do you know what the jerk suggested I should do about the Homecoming dance? Pick up some football player in the dining hall and ask him to take me.

The women began to discuss such an audacious act as if it were a possibility. We must be drunk on this cola, thought Imogene.

The football players are mostly jerks, said Betty, but at least they don’t do drugs.

Not anymore, said Shelley. Remember when the Sunburst used to play every weekend in Boulder lounge? The football team didn’t win too many games that season—until the band got expelled.

Imogene perked up. She heard herself say, I wonder if the Sunburst will ever come back to Glendary.

Again with the Sunburst, said Betty. You’re so obsessed with Jake Murphy and his crew, I’m surprised you haven’t left college to be one of his groupies.

No, thanks. That’s not the lifestyle I’m looking for, said Imogene. It’s just that some of Jake’s songs really speak to me. They’ve pulled me through some tough times.

Betty and Shelley groaned. Imogene didn’t know if they thought she exaggerated the band’s importance or her own struggles.

The Sunburst has affected us all in various ways, insisted Imogene, whether we realize it or not.

Oh, sure, said Betty. "We all remember that critique you wrote of their latest album in the Campus News last spring. You treated the lyrics like holy scripture."

Plus, you overlooked the dark side, said Shelley. "Your fellow intellectuals could’ve told you, not all the fire imagery in Glowing Strings is metaphorical."

They practically advocated blowing up the administration building while they were still here, said Betty.

That was mostly the girl Jake married, said Shelley. A gorgeous ringleader of the campus left.

I think Marianne’s reformed since her radical days, said Imogene. She’s become rich as Mrs. Murphy. And there’s a baby on the way.

Hopefully, that’ll short-circuit her singing career, said Betty. I never thought her so-called harmonies did much for Jake’s music.

She’s just trying to add a touch of chaos. Imogene knew this artistic point would be tough to sell. The best thing about the Sunburst, she added, is their rags to riches story. That’s the path a lot of us would like to follow.

Please, Imogene, said Betty, don’t try to make us believe you’re struggling up from poverty. That may be your father’s story, but now he owns the biggest chunk of countryside west of campus. If he makes you work for your spending cash, it’s no big deal. Most of us aren’t rich bitches. Shelley and I work campus jobs too.

You both have cushy office jobs, said Imogene, grappling with self-pity, while I sling hash in the dining hall.

Oh, cut the crap, groaned Betty. You’re not some two-bit waitress living in a trailer park.

God, thought Imogene, I know I’m not. How can a fellow English major be so literal-minded? I pity Betty’s future students. They’ll have their imaginations strangled with spelling and grammar exercises.

Have another Coke, offered Shelley. I’m with you on the rags to riches bit. We can overlook the Sunburst’s transgressions because they’ve made it. Maybe even the administration has forgiven them by now.

Imogene considered this as she sipped her Coke. Along those lines, she might try to forgive her father for insisting that she share his struggle. She might appreciate the benefits of getting up at five thirty, four mornings a week, to sling hash with other cash-poor students.

Thanks for your hospitality, ladies, said Imogene, setting down her glass, but I better hit the sack. I’ve got one of my early mornings tomorrow. Oh, my God, she added, as she stood up, I just remembered. Steve is scheduled to work breakfast too.

So what if he is? Betty’s store of sympathy had run out with the last of the Coke.

Just try to restrain yourself from beaning him with a frying pan, advised Shelley. You don’t want to get too much of a violent reputation. Your father is dangerous enough.

Oh, that’s a— began Imogene, but gave up. It was too late at night to try to dispel this myth.

Shelley grinned to let her know she was kidding. You just gotta face the music, she said. Yeah, ‘Face the Music.’ There’s an immortal Sunburst lyric for you.

And it’s good advice, said Imogene. Even when she was angry with Steve, she related to him better than she did to most of her hallmates. He was the son of a Baltimore bus driver and aspired to be a lawyer. She was the daughter of a farmer, and aspired to be—what? A rock journalist, or maybe a public relations executive? Regardless, a working class romance had been brewing over the soapsuds in the Glendary cafeteria. Could it be saved?

Imogene said good night to her snacking partners and returned to her room. The nightly praise song being sung in Sermonette’s room next door was far from soothing. She barely curbed her impulse to pound on the wall.

Neither of her roommates had come home, although it was past midnight. Imogene grabbed a spiral notebook from her desk and flipped through the sporadic diary she kept there—not a narrative so much as a list of goals. Her long-range hopes seemed almost grandiose: happy marriage, perfect family, stimulating career. The marriage goal was listed first, as if the others depended on it. She had not, until now, envisioned anyone but Steve in the husband role. To calm her anxiety about him, she climbed into bed, nestled her head against the pillow, and tried to conjure up an appealing alternative. A confused image, with the body of a football player but the flowing hair and sharp profile of a rock star, teased her half-waking dream.

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Chapter Two

Sometimes I really hate my parents. I know that would shock the whole college community, especially my jealous hallmates, if it got out. After all, they’re the wonderful Palmers, everybody’s ideal couple. What’s not to admire about their glamorous past? Daddy was the star quarterback of the early sixties, winner of several Conference championships. Mother was head of the pom-pom squad and consensus choice for Homecoming Queen her senior year. They personified the cliché, a match made in heaven, when they walked down the chapel aisle that spring. The one blemish in that picture was well hidden—little Emily, the bun already in the oven.

Even if my creation was a little hasty, my path seemed pre-ordained. When it was my turn on campus, I cultivated the look and walked the walk of a perennial pom-pom waver and Homecoming princess. I dated a slew of guys with the potential to duplicate my father’s feats. I was supposed to fall in love with and marry the one that would look best escorting me down the aisle. All my parents wanted for me was a picture-perfect wedding just like theirs.

I haven’t broken it to them yet, but I’ve come to realize that isn’t for me. Not one of the college jocks I’ve dated has managed to ignite the spark of ambition, the thirst for creativity that was born in me. That’s my bun in the oven, and there’s only one man on campus who has ever nurtured it. I didn’t meet him on the dance floor or follow his exploits on the ball field. His eyes first met mine over a lecture podium. The lesson that day was about Shakespeare, or maybe Lenny Bruce. Whatever it was, it blew away my expectations of life. As I got to know him, I lost all interest in posing for pictures myself. Under his direction, I turned a camera of my own on the hypocrisies of the world.

I know what becomes of a golden couple that lives in the past. It’s the most frightening picture I’ve ever seen. Mother and Daddy are professional alumni who only come alive while reliving their ancient exploits at the drunken gatherings they organize. Worse, they can’t conceive of any other path for me and my younger sisters. Well, I can imagine my sisters ending up like that. As for me, I’ve forged so far ahead, my own family doesn’t know me anymore. The man I’m in love with is forbidden to me—not only a teacher, but still married, at least in name. The only way I’ll pose for any wedding pictures is if I videotape my own elopement.

Imogene’s self-pity continued to flourish next afternoon, when her hallmates began dropping by for the usual Friday afternoon bull session. The girls preferred gathering in the corner room since it was the most spacious in the hall. They also liked to be around in case Imogene’s high-powered roommates came in.

As always in her bad moods, Imogene felt contempt for the petty jealousies that marred these discussions. The gathering itself seemed trite. On a crisp late September afternoon like this, they all should have been outside playing tennis, jogging around the track, or hiking. The clear air made the distant mountains look vivid and close; the campus seemed as peaceful as a painting. Sometimes, to shake up this somnolent picture, Imogene contemplated how it had been in the late sixties, when a bomb had exploded in the administration office where selective service records were kept. Suspicion still swirled around the left-wing Reverend Jennings, then a theology student, but the case had never been solved.

It would have been comforting to feel more like one of the girls, but what did they know of tragedy? That morning in the dining hall, Steve had greeted her briefly and then brushed past her. He had stayed in the kitchen, as far from her as possible, while she worked the serving line. She longed to confront him, but her pride would not allow it. Ever since then, her nerves had been rubbed raw from playing and replaying the scene that had never happened.

As soon as a quorum was present, Carolyn brought up the topic of dates for the Homecoming dance. Don’t forget, it’s only two weeks off. How’re we all doing on getting a commitment from someone?

Discomfort with this line of questioning was evident. Betty and Shelley and the rest of the Greek Chorus, infrequent participants in the social scene, were typically sarcastic. Guess we’ll have our usual date with the popcorn machine that night, said Shelley. The lovely Christine, a pom-pom waver who had dropped in to recruit for one of her Homecoming committees, shrugged and smiled. She probably had too many guys on a string to choose one on the spot. Imogene found herself in the middle, a girl with a boyfriend who might or might not still be her boyfriend. Why did Carolyn have to turn what should be a pleasant afternoon chat among friends into a contest?

If the guys could hear us obsessing about snagging one of them for a Homecoming date, thought Imogene, they’d howl with laughter. Even those of us who’re seniors are still trapped in this mindset. Seems we’ve never gotten around to discussing any of the items on Ms. Steinem’s agenda.

But Carolyn startled Imogene as never before. I have a reason for asking, she said. I’m thinking of breaking up with Jack—before the dance. He’s just too cocksure that he’s the one taking me. Besides, all he’s ever gonna be is an accountant. Bor—ing. I want to get some excitement out of life before I whither away.

Imogene regarded Carolyn with dismay. Had she overheard last night’s battle with Steve and become inspired to toss aside her own sure thing? What’s this about? You got your eye on somebody better than Jack?

No, not really, said Carolyn. I’d just like to look around and see what’s available. Is that a crime? Or a sin? This last was directed toward Eva, who had begun frowning as if she smelled something evil.

What’re you gonna do? asked Imogene. Barge into the football players’ section of the dining hall and start picking them up?

Carolyn turned red, but she giggled at the idea. Her perky roommate Annie, a promising gymnast, intervened. Carolyn, Homecoming is supposed to be a traditional boy-ask-girl dance. You can’t turn it into a ‘Sadie Hawkins’ thing all by yourself.

No? And why not? Carolyn faced Annie with simmering eyes. Imogene, contrasting these roommates, sensed that they were approaching a blowup. Their mutual boy-craziness had brought them together last year, but now their different rates of success threatened to drive them apart. There was simply no denying that Annie was prettier and slimmer than Carolyn—some might say slim to the point of anorexia—and had begun making her mark in sports. Carolyn, Imogene had to admit, was something of a plodder—pedestrian looks, ordinary student, no extracurricular activities except man-chasing. She was a sociology major who harbored vague, patronizing ideas of pursuing a career that somehow involved helping the poor.

Of course, my charming, gifted roommate Annie doesn’t have to worry about a date for Homecoming, Carolyn announced to the room. She’s already lined up her soldier boy. Right, dear?

Annie admitted that she had a commitment from Sidney Howe, the number one gymnast on the men’s team and a ROTC officer-in-training.

If only you were the number one woman gymnast, said Carolyn, it would be a match made in heaven. But you’re not yet, dear. You’d have to pass Sara Murphy first.

It’s about time someone passed Sara Murphy, said Betty. She breaks curfew so routinely, she has no business representing this school in sports. But even if no one has the guts to kick her off the team, she’ll do herself in eventually. Too much carousing in the city clubs.

Shelley smirked at Betty during this typical lecture. It’s only fair to warn you girls, my roommate has lately appointed herself the unofficial eyes and ears of Lynne Mason—a regular assistant housemother, sworn enemy of all curfew breakers. And we also have Sermonette, the eyes and ears of Jesus, sworn enemy of sex and most other forms of fun. Is this dorm covered with virtue, or what?

What’s your problem? asked Eva in an offended tone. For your information, I have a boyfriend, and he’s taking me to the dance.

Oh yeah, I know that guy, said Shelley. "A combination ministerial student and football team mascot. Have you taught him how to slow-dance yet, or does