Imogene

By G.A. Jahn

A story of high school life in the 1960s -- long before the internet -- when bullies were bare-handed, and a young woman seeking wisdom was still a novelty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.A. Jahn
• Release date: Dec 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370925520

Book preview

Chapter I

There is nothing so defenseless,

yet so enduring,

as a generous heart.

Imogene Urich pondered these words, and others, while getting ready for bed; they were from the page of Horace she had translated that evening. The phrases, especially in their Latin brevity, recurred to her without end, as if they were the melody of a lovely new song. And their truth made them precious.

Lying motionless in the tub, she allowed the wise sayings to settle indelibly into her mind, then a smile appeared as another passage was recalled: ‘Even at her leisure does she learn.’

It was still early when Imogene finished her bath and padded down to the kitchen in robe and slippers. She closed the door against ‘Dr Kildare’ in the living room, where her mother was knitting on the couch and her father snoozed peacefully alongside. The warbling of her sister’s phonograph also diminished as did, from the basement, the dull thud of her brother’s basketball. The kitchen felt warm and homey in the glow of the stove’s amber panel light; a fragrance of fried chicken still lingered in the air.

Imogene was tired, and the weariness showed clearly in her droopy eyes and slow movements, but it was a contented kind of weariness. In addition to her studies that evening, she had survived a ninety-minute cheerleader practice after school. Imogene rarely did anything at less than full intensity, and such prolonged endeavors, like a night filled with dancing, left only her lips with strength enough to show her pleasure. She was humming a vague tune, but this was silenced when, suddenly, she grabbed the edge of the countertop and cavernously yawned. Her eyes wetted themselves like wrung rags, and her ears, for a moment, went luxuriously deaf.

Another Latin phrase came to her, this time an epigram of her own devising. (It was not unusual for Imogene, even when exhausted, to exhibit a flash or two of brilliance.) Grinning, she planted herself oratorically erect — ‘Caesar on the Lupercal’ — and declaimed with Latinate splendor at the dark cat lapping at his bowl by the back door. In English her words would have been: ‘Thus do they yawn whose vigor is spent and idleness earned.’

The cat, halting only to blink, returned to his water bowl.

Yawning once more, Imogene cut a slice of coffee cake then dragged a chair over to the telephone. She curled up on the padded seat and let her fuzzy yellow slippers, one after another, flop to the floor. Her little body seemed to become lost in the folds of the matching yellow, and somewhat kitty-tattered, robe.

On seeing his mistress come to rest, the cat bounded tail-high across the room and up onto Imogene’s lap. For several minutes the two of them purred and tussled with one another, the feline making playful claws at the girl’s brunette tresses. These, still wet from the tub, hung in dank twists that fluttered and felt itchy on her cheeks.

When the cat had settled himself, Imogene dialed a well memorized number and soon was exchanging pleasantries with her boyfriend’s mother. While they chatted, Imogene gazed down at the back of her right hand, alternately stretching out her fingers, then making them into a fist, just to watch the little gem on its silver band blaze and dim like a distant beacon. She had been wearing the ring since homecoming night, and the intervening weeks had not been sufficient to accustom her to the pleasure of its tiny weight and wobble.

But after the mother had left to call her son, Imogene found herself listening to a deep and uncomfortable silence, for many minutes it seemed, until the young man’s irritated sigh came finally on the line.

She hurried to speak first. I’m sorry, she said, elongating the words for sincerity. I know it’s early, but I’m heading for bed already. I’m just beat.

He made no response.

Did I get’cha’way from that darn paper? You better be working on it.

He sighed again. No, not anymore.

You finished it? she cried with delight. Oh, Matt!

There was a long pause instead of an answer, and her eyebrows came down from their high arcs.

Look, he said, just give up on me.

Imogene slapped her bare feet to the floor. Matt! You get back to work on that right now. (In the sudden movement the cat tottered and snagged at her robe.) You know how important it is.

God just forget it.

They’re not gonna give y’another chance. The counselor said — 

"I don’t even wanna go there! All the guys I know’ll be at the U."

"An’what’m I s’pose to do? Just sit out there all by myself for the next four years?"

Imogene could hear the phone thump to the other side of his head. He was hissing with exasperation.

In a gentler voice she asked, So how many pages didja do.

Geenee! (He pronounced her diminutive identically with Aladdin’s ‘genie.’) Just forget it.

Imogene dumped the cat to the floor and stood up. I’m coming over, she announced and banged the receiver down.

A few minutes later, Imogene was haphazardly dressed and hurrying once more down the stairs to the living room. She had thrown on a light jacket as well, and a stocking cap had been pulled over her wet hair.

The father was still asleep on the couch, but the mother, surprised, looked up.

I’m goin’t’Matt’s for a little bit, said the daughter, jiggling keys from her purse. There was a thick book under her arm, one of the volumes from her set of encyclopedias.

Dear, Mrs Urich lowered her knitting (even when sitting down she was tall and straight). I thought you said you were so tired.

I am!

Down in the garage, the electric door made a piercing crack as it broke loose from the icy concrete, then squealed in agony climbing up its iron rails.

Imogene stared out at the dark and silent night; the air drifting in was so frigid every inhalation seemed to make stinging needles in her nose. These last weeks of January were always the worst of a Minnesota winter. She thought of running back upstairs for her boots and a warmer coat but was afraid the look in her mother’s eyes might not let her escape a second time.

The seat of her father’s Chrysler was no less forbidding; the cold went through her jeans as if she were sitting in a puddle. Privately, Imogene wished the car would not start, but it did, after several tries.

She drove first to the library, ignoring most of the speed limit signs; although there was a mild slowing down in going past the little dress shop where she worked on weekends. The store was well lit inside, but nevertheless seemed forlornly empty; only the nighttime college girl was there, slumped at the counter over a large textbook.

The library in the next block was far busier; Imogene had to wait while several exiting cars made their turns before she and her grinding molars could access the tiny driveway.

The Elnora Community Library (just this side of the Minneapolis city limits) was an elderly, many-gabled residence which had, years ago, been gutted of household furnishings and filled with books and bookshelves. This evening a dismaying number of cars were packed into its undersized parking lot, and Imogene entered the building with head held low, hoping she would not be recognized by anyone from school.

With purse clamped awkwardly under one elbow, her fingers kept themselves busy tucking clumps of cold hair back under her dark blue stocking cap — her brother’s actually. She had grabbed it from the hall closet on her way out, but now, dashing past a mirror, glimpsed in fright the beanie’s blazing white slogan:

!YVAN OG

Anchors aweigh, Geenee! someone giggled from behind the checkout desk.

Then, upstairs, she saw Stanley.

Stanley was the puny, silent, homely kid who sat next to her in Latin class. She never talked to him. No one did, at least no one with anything pleasant to say.

On seeing the boy, Imogene made a tiny gasp, then paused awkwardly to find that they were the only ones in the room.

Faded Raggedy-Ann’s on the wallpaper behind the shelves proved this to have been a nursery at one time, but now the little room held only dusty biographies and the single small table and chairs where Stanley was sitting.

His face and thick-rimmed glasses were bent close above his book as if oblivious of her, but he must have looked up when she and her wet sneakers had come squeaking in over the varnished floor.

Instinctively, Imogene pulled the jacket closed over her untucked blouse (the cap also was thrust out of sight), and she tried not to have petty thoughts about the rumpled shirt and pants he was wearing; the same he had worn to school that morning. (The same since Monday in fact!)

And his hair! She could not help staring at his hair. Patches of unruly fuzz seemed to have outgrown his unkempt heinie. Like the kids in class often chuckled to each other: his head does look like Rover’s back yard!

Imogene scolded herself for this, or tried to, as she hurried to the shelves on the far side of the room. Her eyes scanned the rows of bindings while she made hot breath on her fingertips. Stanley, seated behind her, remained silent and eerily unmoving.

Almost at once Imogene found the book that was wanted, but she refrained from reaching for it, preferring to wait for someone else to enter the room so that her departure would be less conspicuous.

This plan was foiled however when, soon after, the ten-minutes-till-closing announcement was made. With a sigh, Imogene grabbed the book and strode past Stanley toward the door. She kept her eyes on him and was prepared to smile if he should look up, but he never did. His posture was unchanged from before, still huddled over a large book, though now his face and ears were bright red, and Imogene felt a kind of shame for having so clearly disturbed him.

Downstairs, the checkout line had become colossal. After some minutes of slouching in last place and rummaging through purse and pocketbook for her library card, she caught sight of Stanley once again as he hurried toward the exit. He was fussing now with his dark blue notebook and jacket zipper, glasses angled at the floor, hatless — and still blushing.

All of this left Imogene with something like pity in her heart. It puzzled her a little that she had never been able to like Stanley, for the fragile things in life always endeared themselves to her, and he seemed to be such a lost little boy. Everything made him blush: his clumsiness, wisecracks from the other kids, even praises from the teacher. Just being seen in a library for petesake!

(And this, Imogene reflected, was in laudable contrast to her boyfriend, for she considered it one of Matt’s major deficiencies that nothing in the world, it seemed, could ever hurt him.)

Moreover, Stanley appeared to have an intelligence comparable to her own. In class, whenever papers were handed back, she often found him staring down at a large red A, which always gave Imogene a sense of shared camaraderie (except that one time when her own paper — quickly interred within her notebook — boasted but an A-).

Yet she realized now, with more than half the year gone, that she had become like all the others and had allowed her heart to harden toward Stanley. He was so helpless, so aloof, so determined to stay in his own little world … (The check-out line, with Imogene still at its end, took a lazy step toward the librarian.) … and she guessed it was this shunning of Stanley’s peers which provoked the occasional taunts and laughter; people disliked being ignored, even by those they themselves ignore. And Imogene — wanting all the world to be her friend — felt more keenly than others any hint of rejection. Finding smiles everywhere was her delight, not hung heads and hurried strides to get away from her.

Thus, she too had been tempted to share in the levity directed at Stanley, but insults and unkind remarks never came easily to Imogene; her social vocabulary contained only words of companionship. How many times — tonight even — had she readied herself to smile and make a friendly greeting, only to be snubbed like some irksome acquaintance!

(Frowning intently, she had not noticed the line advancing without her. When she did, her tongue clucked at herself as she trotted to catch up.)

And so Imogene was content to let the kid fend for himself. After all, his problems were his problems, and, like her, Stanley must accept his share of raillery from the others. Smart kids were always picked on. Besides, in the editions of the various commentators they had studied, she noted how heartily these Latin scholars berated their colleagues. She reasoned: if Stanley was ever going to succeed in this field — or in any walk of life — he had better learn how to deal with the ready tongues of others and his own quick shame.

Still, she could not help feeling sorry for him — that is, until she began wondering about the large volume he had been reading upstairs: had he intended to take the book home with him, but instead left it abandoned — in preference to having to stand beside her in the checkout line?

(Once again, her molars were tightly clenched.)

But regardless of whatever shame or anger (or pity) she had been contemplating, when Imogene returned to the parking lot all thoughts of Stanley vanished.

The stupid headlights are still on!

Furious with herself, Imogene dashed to the car and jumped in, tossing things in all directions: book, purse, library card — the purple beanie went spinning into the back seat.

The battery was all but dead. She whimpered and squeaked and pounded the steering wheel, but the Newport’s big motor just growled at her like an angry dog, the keychain jingling gaily as she wrenched the ignition back and forth.

This went on for several despair-filled moments, but eventually a cough sounded from under the hood, then another. Soon, though rough and erratic, the engine was running once more.

With this, a prayer of thanksgiving came out under her breath, no more than a handful of syllables memorized since childhood, but Imogene quickly silenced herself and looked around at the foggy windows, as if preparing to be laughed at.

Before long, the car was purring quietly. Imogene had returned to taking normal breaths, and she scraped with deadened knuckles at the frost on the windshield. Her license was little more than a year old, but already she had learned that there was no lonelier place in the world than in a car that will not start.

The lot was empty now except for one or two other vehicles, but the way snow had been plowed around their tires it was not likely anyone was coming for them. The library itself had gone completely dark. Imogene thought again how close she had come to being stranded. Although, glancing down the block, she saw that her dress shop still had its windows aglow; she could easily have called her father and brother from there, Matt even, but it was her fear that, this late in the winter, she may already have exhausted the patience of her many saviors.

Intermittently, Imogene was flexing her toes to preserve what little feeling was left down there, and her earlobes, as if from far away, tingled in the icy breeze from the defroster. Then, just when her composure had finally returned, she was startled anew by sight of herself in the rear-view mirror — and the scatter of madwoman’s hair sticking out of her head.

Her eyes snapped shut, as she recalled the way Stanley had refused to look up at her. And no wonder!

But soon Imogene was cruising down the street once more, allowing herself to be soothed by a sweetly mournful tune on the radio:

… away from home

through no wish of my o-own …

Sighs were escaping from her (and frequent yawns), yet she could take heart at least in calculating the elegance of the dinner — and the chick-iness of the movie! — which Matt would now be owing her for this night of trouble and near disaster; provided, that is, he could be convinced she was doing him a favor. His voice on the phone had been far from receptive.

Pausing at a stoplight, Imogene reached down for the tumbled library book and began contemplating how one might rouse a young man’s interest in seventeenth century England. (A subject, obviously, not high on Matt’s list of best delights.)

It was imperative that he write this paper — and write it well — for his grades were technically below the standards of the august institution to which she had urged he apply. But his leadership and —

"Beep, Beeeep!"

Sorry! she squeaked, jerking the car forward toward the now bright green lights.

— but his leadership and sports renown carried great weight, and after several interviews, on campus and locally, it had been decided that, if his grade average in history could be brought above a C, they would waive his mediocre college boards and accept him under a full athletic scholarship.

It was a joy to think of him, for the next four years, only a short bus ride from her own college. Imogene knew — deeply she knew — that any greater separation would be sure to end in heartbreak.

She was just thinking how the English Civil War might be presented as some kind of locker room strategy, when she passed a young man with a blue notebook hurrying along the sidewalk; he was wearing glasses and a dark jacket, and had no cap.

Stanley? Half a mile from the library? Did his car freeze up too?

Numb toes were pressing down on the gas pedal, and for a long, unblinking moment the trees and boulevard lights flashed by.

Glimpsing the needle swung high on its dial, Imogene relaxed her ankle and the car slowed down, but she refused to turn her head or look in any of the mirrors. Her mind kept blank for several more blocks, then — slapping hair out of her eyes — she muttered aloud: "Would he have given me a ride?"

Chapter II

At her boyfriend’s house (after checking to make sure the headlights were off), Imogene was forced into several more minutes of irritating delay as she stood shivering on Matt’s front stoop, waiting for the door to be answered.

A gusty wind had been picking up as well and now was flecked with tiny, stinging snowflakes. She clutched the books to her belly and hissed several of those words which only her closest friends had ever heard her speak.

While doing so, an apt seventeenth century British phrase came suddenly to mind:

They also serve

who only stand and wait.

— Milton.

(Even if only to herself, Imogene tried always to cite her references.)

From somewhere inside the house a television was audible, but the door remained callously inert. Imogene let out a stream of white breath and punched the bell button again.

In time, the door opened, and she was greeted by a young boy, a freckled eight-year-old with a root beer Popsicle. Geenee! he squealed.

Hi Marky! Imogene’s face had become sweet. Can I come in?

Though muted now by an icy chunk of treat, little Mark was hopping up and down with great excitement, his free hand tugging at her jacket.

Okay, okay! Imogene giggled. She pushed back her tangle of hair (the frozen ends of which were stiff as boxed spaghetti) and let a huge yawn overtake her. The warmth within the home and the scent of freshly Glamorene’d carpets made her long to curl up in front of the couch like an old mutt.

She yawned once more while shedding her tennis shoes and scanty jacket. Pretty cold out there, huh.

The boy had no patience for small talk. His sticky fingers pulled Imogene and her armload of books toward the TV room where stood a pile of crashed trucks, road graders and other hollow metal vehicles, many with missing wheels.

Also in the room was Imogene’s boyfriend, Matt Washburn, in sweaty T-shirt and jeans, slouched deep in a battered sofa. His pose was similar to what her father’s had been, asleep on the couch in her own house, but here there was no sense of contentment. Huge arms bristled over his chest as Matt stared sullenly at a movie filled with fighter planes and explosions. He did not bother to look toward her.

Little Mark watched with sudden quietness as Imogene dropped herself lightly beside Matt and kissed him on the cheek; her cold nose made him flinch. Where is it? she laughed.

He nodded at some papers on a spindly TV-tray, then returned his attention to the screaming dive bombers.

Imogene sighed at him.

Grabbing the papers, and then her boyfriend’s arm, she firmly led the way back to the dining room. Matt’s resistance was limited to the half-hearted whine, Wait’ll the commercial.

She brought him to a large table adorned with cloth and centerpiece and had him sit down beside her. Mark followed as well and stood on the far side of the table, noisily sucking his Popsicle and looking down with somber eyes.

Get lost! yelled Matt.

Bravely, the younger brother continued to lick his treat and mumbled something about a free country.

There was a quick movement, and the chair opposite flew backward, hitting the boy with a crack.

Imogene gasped.

The boy’s treat broke apart and fell to the carpet.

Nice catch, dipstick! shouted the older brother.

Mark, holding his arm, ran for the kitchen. The long laces of his shoes slapped at chair legs and baseboards along the way.

"God you’re always like that! cried Imogene as she hurried around the table to pick up the fallen pieces. Y’always gotta — !"

She hushed herself on entering the kitchen. At the phone desk in the corner the boy was collapsed into his mother’s lap, wailing fitfully.

Imogene dropped the icy chunks into the sink, then remained there awhile, rinsing and drying her hands (and took a moment to peek into the odds-and-ends drawer for a rubber band with which to snap her hair into a crude ponytail). She stayed until the boy’s crying had noticeably eased and the women could exchange unhappy grins.

Back in the dining room, Imogene found her boyfriend slouched over the table; his brow and tumbled black hair now reclining on a mountain of forearms. He was deathly still. She could believe he was feeling remorse, but this was doubtful.

Resuming her seat, she watched him for a while, then picked up the history paper he had begun writing. It was not quite a page in length, and her heart sank as she skimmed through the shallow and barely coherent phrases.

Well, that’s a good start, she said, suppressing a yawn. I think though … it’s important to establish Cromwell’s motives more fully before, y’know, y’get inta this other stuff. She stared at him. Are you listening to me.

God just forget it. His voice was muffled within his arms. "I hate this shit!"

Then he sniffled, an actual little boy sniffle, and a chill scattered over Imogene’s flesh.

I can’t ever keep up with ya.

Yes you can, sweetheart! You can! She rubbed his wide, warm back. "You get good grades in everything else: math, physics — enriched physics! — history’s no different."

He sat up and stared at his fingers. "Look. Why don’t we just go to the U instead. Save everybody a lot a’money — they actually got a ball team! All our friends — "

Matt! She slapped the table. "You’re talking about quitting now? When we’re this close? How many games have you ever walked out on. Even hopeless ones."

But when y’just don’t have the stuff — 

"You do! That’s my whole point! I know you do. You think I’d love you if you didn’t?"

The weeping in the kitchen had faded away by now; Imogene lowered her voice to continue: "An’don’t ask me to give up my potentials to come down to where y’think yours are. She lifted a palm. On the team, Gimmestad doesn’t tell the best guys to play as bad as the worst ones. He says — time’n again he says — ‘Do it like Washburn!’ An’if they push’emselves hard enough, they get to be on first string with you. She thumped the books down beside his elbow. So now it’s your turn to start pushing. Make it hurt, okay?"

The T-shirt’s big white shoulders jerked back and forth. Matt clearly had more objections to make, but Imogene hurried on, opening the books and reading out pertinent passages, translating for him, as best she could, the dry facts into live action, until his sighs began to sound more forced than genuine. She thought of an intriguing angle for his topic, and after laying down a clean sheet of paper prodded the first few sentences out of him.

Soon, within several paragraphs, his own thoughts became evident, and she praised his insights. It delighted Imogene to watch the brightening of his eyes as he discovered the unexpected strength of understanding within himself.

Much time passed. The tall oaken clock, brooding in the corner, tick-tocked contemplatively to itself and made incomplete music every quarter hour. Imogene yawned without ceasing, though always behind her hand or within achingly clenched teeth.

In the other room the war movie had been turned off, and the boy’s crying had ceased, but traces of distant bickering could still be heard (chiefly from Matt’s younger sisters, both of whom considered themselves too clique-worthy to be seen with their brother’s goodie-goodie girlfriend).

After some time, little Mark looked in again. He was dressed now in Yogi Bear jammies that were much too small for him. He hurried to sit next to Imogene, on the side away from his brother, and dropped an arithmetic book onto the table; with paper and pencil Mark began his own studies. His jumble of hair, dark like Matt’s but tinged with auburn, smelled of week-long sweat. Imogene reached around and patted him softly. With her cheek on his temple, she found corrections and compliments in his work as well.

There were kettle noises from the kitchen, and before long Mrs Washburn, tall and thin like Imogene’s mother but younger, with hair still dark, brought in three cups of hot chocolate, a plate of cookies, and a very tender smile.

Another hour went by; Imogene counted the ten long bongs of the grandfather clock and quietly sighed. Her ankles ached with want of sleep. Matt was on his third page now and had even begun smiling again, while Mark was trouncing her in game after game of Dots and Tic-Tac-Toe.

Imogene felt guilty. Both of these boys were precious to her, but, at the moment, she wished only to be back home in her warm, cozy bed. She hated the thought of getting into that frigid car again.

Then the mother returned to plead bedtime with her younger son. He resisted of course, pouting and cranky, and Imogene leaned back to rub one of her eyes with the heel of her hand.

I’m not crying, she said, detecting everyone’s attention. My contacts’re startin’t’feel like sandpaper. I better git. She stood up, sniffling, and poked at a teardrop. Her smile, she felt, could be no more than a weak imitation.

In their year and a quarter together Imogene had endured several major crises with Matt, but she was convinced that this one tonight had been the worst. Had she simply gone to bed early, as she had planned, their next four years might well have been spent in colleges half a nation apart, instead of half a state. Certainly, she would have lost him.

England was not alone in having a tragic history. Her own tribulations, during the time of Matt’s predecessor, had taught her scathingly that ‘out of sight was out of mind.’ Never would she be a woman worshiped from afar.

Imogene was drained. And, as always when nearly stumbling with fatigue, her emotions broke their fragile reins; her itchy eyes continued to weep.

Jacketed once more, she bent down to give Matt a long, significant kiss, wetting his face with hers.

Mark cried Yuk! and ran away before she could kiss him too.

There were tears as well in the mother’s eyes as Imogene was warmly hugged at the front door.

Fortunately, the engine started right up, but while driving away Imogene noticed her library card still lying on the dashboard where she had tossed it. She sighed, for the card reminded her of Stanley, of his bowed head and thick glasses, his blushing, his walking home in the cold and the dark and the bitter wind.

And of one other thing as well: the un-generous heart which had offered him no help.

Chapter III

The next morning Imogene was shaken awake from a deep slumber. She wandered around her room, yanking curlers from her hair and looking for clothes that matched, then went down to breakfast.

Everyone was grumpy, notably her mother, in robe and slippers, who was still mad at her for letting That boy! keep her out so late on such a night. And a school night, too!

Her father’s frown warned Imogene not to let it happen again, while her brother and sister, both sophomores, exchanged wry sniggers between themselves, as if to say: ‘Sure they were doing homework!’

Later, after her siblings had dropped their oatmeal bowls in the sink, Imogene took hers to the telephone and called Matt. She faced away from her parents, who were still sipping coffee, and spoke softly into the receiver.

J’get it done? she asked, then strangled the coil-cord to hear his disgusted sigh.

Don’t tell me you didn’t do it! She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. You were goin’great guns.

Just give up on me, okay?

Matt!

God it’s two thousand words! How’m I s’pose to do it all in one night!

"I didn’t say it was easy! I … Matt, y’hafta — !"

Just give up on me. I have. The phone clicked.

Imogene stood for several seconds with the black, dead, receiver in her hand, gazing down at its tiny perforations.

From the table came a sound of gruff tenderness. Her father, stocky but crisp-looking in his white shirt and charcoal tie, had elbows planted on the table and stared at his daughter over a fisted cigarette. Anything we can help with, sweetie?

Imogene smiled. Thanks, Daddy. Her blouse shrugged. Lovers’ tiff.

The mother said nothing.

Before leaving for school, Imogene searched through her bottom desk drawer, the one in which she kept all her old assignments, and pulled out the handwritten draft of a Mary Queen of Scots paper she had prepared for her world history class back in tenth grade. At its top was printed:

"IN MY END

IS MY BEGINNING"

THE VICTORY

OF A FALLEN QUEEN

With a blush of bitter anger, Imogene stuffed these pages into her notebook and hurried out to the windy bus stop.

Once on her way to school, with old 51 bucking over the frozen ruts, she turned from the chattering of her friends and beneath raised shoulders scribbled an unaddressed and unsigned note:

Copy this. It’s well over 2000 wds. But don’t let anyone see you doing it!! Don’t use the same title. Misspell some words & leave out commas & stuff. Make it look like something you’d write! [This was followed by a picture of a face with a zigzag line for a mouth.] If she asks why you changed topics, tell her you couldn’t find any books on Cromwell. Destroy this note. I love you.

At the school, as soon as Imogene had hopped from the bus, she ran upstairs to Matt’s locker, opened it, and placed the note and penciled draft in plain view.

From that moment on she could not keep her limbs from trembling, and every voice spoken to her seemed an accusation. Even the cheery G’morning!’s in her first hour Latin class could make her stomach bounce.

She noted too that Stanley, across the aisle from her, was safe and apparently unharmed after his cold walk home from the library the night before. He had begun blushing though, and she feared that her own coloration would be pointed out by one of the jokers in the class.

Second and third period were no better. Before long she even caught herself using mannerisms unwittingly copied from Stanley, such as bending nose-high over her studies to hide as much of her scarlet brow as possible.

It was a horrible morning, but soon after lunch, when Imogene and two of her friends were coming out of a girls’ room, Matt appeared before them with a wicked smile on his face. He grabbed Imogene’s arm and pulled her down a nearby stairwell. Becky and Polly laughed after them with ribald delight.

At the bottom of the stairs, Imogene was forced into a cold corner near an entrance door and fiercely kissed. She made no resistance. The door behind them opened and closed several times, without comment, and he pressed his cheek to hers. Oh … baby! he whimpered.

In the days that followed, Imogene continued to be jittery and, even to her friends, became increasingly distant. She was reluctant to laugh in the hallways, and her cheering was noticeably subdued. On practice nights she stepped through the routines with her eyes flashing frequently over her shoulder. At home she rarely left her room and could not answer the phone except with painful trepidation.

Her mother, however, was the only one to remark on the change, which she did one night while drying the dishes Imogene handed her from the sink. What is it, sweetheart, she said tenderly. Something’s bothering you.

Helpless, with her arms deep in suds, Imogene could only mumble a rehearsed comment about her grades. Without daring to look up, she soon turned their conversation onto topics that could make both of them laugh. But the mother’s look of concern (and the daughter’s blush) did not go away.

Then one afternoon Imogene and Matt left their last period art class together, each bearing the other’s latest work: tribal masks. (His was almost pervertedly grotesque and fully deserved its A, but Imogene’s, as Miss McCarthy had mocked to great effect, was about as savage as a cherub with dirty feet. Imogene felt no loss in giving it away.)

But Matt did not drive her home; nor did they go anywhere to meet with friends. Instead, Imogene was puzzled to find they had arrived at the unplowed parking lot of the municipal swimming pool, long unused at this time of year. Through foggy windows they gazed out at the leafless trees all around. The playground on top of the hill had swing sets still barren of swings, and there were mounds of old snow, like sheeted cadavers, resting on the picnic tables.

As usual, Matt left the engine running to retain whatever warmth his little Volkswagen had managed to produce; the feeble coughing of the motor seemed like a third person sitting in back.

(Imogene had no great liking for these cramped foreign cars, but she understood her boyfriend’s fondness for them, ever since Matt and the previous year’s hockey squad had impishly kidnapped their coach’s VW. She had been obliged to look on as poor Mr Costello, in utter bafflement, followed the nine sets of boot prints across the parking lot to the practice rink, there to find his little red beetle neatly squeezed into the penalty box. Much laughter accompanied the spinning wheels as he and the tiny car tried vainly to regain terra firma.)

And now again, Matt displayed that same crafty smile which could only mean that someone else would soon be yelling at him.

Without a word, he brought out a set of stapled pages filled with his draftsman-neat penmanship and titled, simply: ‘Mary Queen of Scots.’

A large red A was beside his name.

Gasping, Imogene jumped into his arms, and they kissed feverishly for many minutes until both grew dizzy for lack of breath.

When she released him, Matt laughed to point out Miss Wiesner’s scribbled comments:

This is an excellent paper, Matt!

You write in a manner which is easy to read!

Keep up the good work!!

I still can’t believe it! he chuckled. How can she be so dumb!

Imogene could not laugh with him. She fell on his chest and cried, "I’ve been just sick, Matt! Don’t ever, ever make me do anything like this again! Ever!"

His laughter continued however and Imogene looked up in anger. You know how wrong this was. How far my neck’s been sticking out! You better say yes. She was shaking the flaps of his jacket and the jingling of her charm bracelet could be heard even above the wailing radio:

… and you know you should

be gla-ad. Oo-oo-oo! …

Instead of answering, Matt reached into the back seat for a second set of papers and this he laid in her hands as well. It was entitled ‘Oliver Cromwell’ and seemed to be of equal length to the essay he had turned in, but there was no grade at the top.

Took me all this time to finish it, he said. But I didn’t copy from anyone. That’s all me — it’s crap! — but it’s all me.

Imogene, amazed, began slapping through the stack of handwritten sheets, her mouth unable to close. Then her eyes lifted up to his.

Anyway, he said, I’m not a quitter.

The shadows of the naked trees had doubled in length before she had finished kissing him. Truly, thought Imogene: ‘Love is only known through astonishment.’ (Dante.)

She could easily have remained in her boyfriend’s arms, but his sudden stillness began to frighten her, and she crawled back to the passenger seat. With glistening eyes she begged him not to spoil the moment.

She was pleased then to hear nothing further but his whistling to the radio while he drove her home, and the offer (though still tentative) to take her t’that dumb movie y’been buggin’me about. She clung to the sleeve of his green and white jacket and smeared happy tears on the ’65 she herself had sewn to its shoulder.

At her home, when she invited Matt inside, his hand paused on its way to the ignition key, and he asked, Your mom still mad about that music box thing?

Imogene made a sour little laugh, Umm … yeah. But she continued to smile while gathering the new possessions into her lap: the luridly suggestive mask, and that precious — astounding — Cromwell paper. She sighed however, for, despite such testament to Matt’s talent and integrity, neither effort could ever be shown to her mother.

So often this was the case, she mused, gazing blankly at the glove compartment knob. But what can you do with a man whose candle — though brightly it shines — shines only under the bushel of his questionable behavior?

Matt was looking down at his hands, awaiting Imogene’s return from meditation (a pause often required of his patience), then, almost bashfully, clunked his car into gear.

She gave him one last kiss.

Chapter IV

So her days of agony were over, and Imogene returned to a life of active, happy tumult. She could once again laugh and chatter with her friends, although an occasional flash of color still came into her face whenever she let herself ponder too deeply on her actions. But this she tried not to do in public.

The college sent Matt a letter of acceptance. He showed it to her with boyish pride (as much, thought Imogene, as ever attended his many golden trophies), and she hung on him like a baby’s bib and cried.

At the next practice night, near the weary end of it, Imogene and the other Elnora High cheerleaders were each catching their breath in a small area of the gym vacated by a bank of pushed-back bleacher seats. Dressed in cutoffs and sleeveless jerseys, the girls wandered around on legs nearly numb from exertion or leaned against the wall fanning their red faces.

Though all of them were on friendly terms with one another, the squad tended to divide itself into smaller groups, Imogene and three others: Becky, Polly and Mary Helen, made up one of those more private sets. This close quartet had been best friends since even before high school. In the preceding years some of them were more successful than others at the cheerleader tryouts, but now, as seniors, they found themselves all on the varsity squad, and this was an endless source of happiness for them. Although currently, after more than an hour of squealing labor, each could think of little beyond her own raspy throat and aching limbs.

While they rested, too tired even to smile, they watched the jungle of strong male limbs on the court before them thundering with basketballs through their own practice. The pounding and squeaking of the boys’ sneakers was an incessant din, punctuated by frequent bad language and chirps from the coach’s whistle. Matt glittered with sweat as he took his turn in the lay-up runs and slammed the backboard.

Imogene feared to gaze too longingly at him for her friends never tired of making innuendoes.

Every once in a while, one of the dozens of balls would get away from the boys and someone among the cheerleaders had to boot it back into the chaos.

Suddenly, Imogene launched herself into the air, kicking her legs as wide as they would go; then, landing with a springy bounce, knuckles on hips, she paced and twirled through the steps of the cheer she and the other girls had just been practicing. The stomps of her dingy-white ‘tennies’ were barely audible amid the general noise, but her barking shouts made boys even on the far side of the gym spin around:

"H! O! R! N! E! T! S!" she cried with the voice of Achilles.

God, said Mary Helen, pulling her face from a towel, "somebody sit on her, okay?"

Soon the girls’ advisor returned from the locker room: Tall and solid in sweatshirt and baggy pants, black hair salted with gray, and a chrome whistle swaying from her stout neck, Miss Marilyn Beaver always carried herself with a look of preemptive aggression. (With such a name, the girls tittered, who could blame her!) Miss Beaver strode the wooden floor as would a captain on his cruiser. Even the team’s towering center made way for her.

Cindy, tallest among the cheerleaders, hopped up and spanked her hands to get the girls in line for another run-through. All had looked at the clock and knew that — thank god! — this would be the last time.

They cheered their hearts out while Miss Beaver, clipboard cocked between hip and hanging arm, glared at them and shouted such words of encouragement as, "You stink, ladies!"

When the girls had finished, Miss Beaver called out a short list of times, dates and equipment; she held the clipboard at arm’s length and squinted.

While listening to this, and gasping for breath as quietly as possible, Imogene collected herself close to her friends and tapped a forearm on her brow. None of her ponytailed colleagues were any the less fatigued; Becky, nearly as tall as Cindy, slouched like a wounded soldier, and Polly, who in photographs of the squad always stood next to Imogene on the short end of the line, tried bravely to smile over her little heaving chest. Mary Helen was a bit taller; she and Imogene (shortest of all) leaned against one another for support.

Finishing the announcements, and now with clipboard knuckled on one hip, Miss Beaver paused a moment to survey her raggedly assembled troupe; each wearied maiden seemed ready to collapse.

When the teacher went on, she had changed to her non-combat voice. Her tones when speaking as a normal woman were unexpectedly plaintive and whispery as if she had smoked too many cigarettes in her life, although, since she had been teaching health and P.E. for twenty-four years, this was unlikely.

Cheerleaders are actors, she said, and immediately, as if they had heard this before, several girls thumped backwards against the wall of flattened bleachers.

"They have to look happy, always, the teacher continued. I don’t care what’s goin’on inside or how cold and windy it is or how tired they are. She raised her voice. Or how much they wanna make cutlets outa their coach — "

Mary Helen, turning to Imogene, whispered across the back of her hand: Would you believe … ground round?

"Got somethin’t’say, Reinberg!" came the clear, commandant’s voice.

Imogene was stepping daintily away from her friend.

Miss Beaver ended her comments with reminders of this being the best team the school had ever produced; a thumb over her shoulder indicated the pummeling high-tops behind her. And you prissy misses are gonna be in the same championship class. Or die tryin’. Do I make myself clear. She pointed at Cindy. Go through everything. Twice. Now.

The girls, all but Imogene, gasped with shock and indignation; fingers flew to the clock.

"Three times! the teacher bellowed. And it’s four, next frown I see!"

The girls jelled grinningly before their advisor.

"Anyone drops dead better have a smile on’er face!" The whistle squealed to start them off.

Later, in the locker room, while stripping off their sweat-soaked garments, the girls paused from chattering when Miss Beaver stormed through the double-doors and called out, Urich! My office!

Uh-oh! said Kristi, grinning at Imogene. And the two Sues crooned in unison: "Now you’re gonna get it!"

Imogene tried to laugh with the others but felt herself turning pale. With gritted teeth, she tugged her dank clothes back on, all but the sneakers, then padded across the concrete in icy wet socks. Her mind had filled itself with sudden horrors, and Cindy and Caroline’s chanting of the death march was not much of a joke to her.

For many days Imogene had lived with the chronic fear that, if anyone were to find out about the copied paper, the first result, surely, would be her getting kicked-off the squad.

She entered the cluttered office just as her friends’ squeals could be heard coming from the shower room. Miss Beaver was checking something on her clipboard; she set it down and strode over to Imogene who, backing away, banged her arm against the doorframe.

The advisor raised one tennis shoe to the seat of a chair