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Amazed at myself, I cradled and comforted her as Jefferson drove us the hill to home. It was a very near thing. The closest I can ever recall to making such a mistake. Unavoidable business kept me from seeing her in the morning, before after two hour’s sleep Jefferson drove her to her own business appointments. I told myself that she had only reacted to the situation, that she had run into my arms only because, after the trauma of fearing for her very life, I was familiar. But as I replayed the night over and over in my mind, it kept seeming that she had actually been glad to see me at the airport and that she had been disappointed at my coldness. Around noon, Jefferson called to tell me that she had refused his offer of a ride to LAX for her flight back to Boston. I asked Maria to prepare something I could eat cold and gave her the night off, and had my evening drink alone by the pool that evening. Like some stupid lovesick pimply faced adolescent, my thoughts were of her, flying. No squealing was the unwritten, number one rule. He knew there was a small group of boys who sneaked out of the cafeteria and hid behind the hill at the back of the big playground to smoke cigarettes at lunchtime. Everybody knew that but nobody talked about it. And he knew there was a group of girls who used lipstick, perfume and eye makeup in school but did not wear it going home and always sat together in the cafeteria and squealed when they laughed. Some of them made their skirts shorter by rolling them up at the waist. Most people called them the Debs and some called them sluts. Rigby was not sure what they meant but he knew it was bad. He had also seen that some boys, usually called jocks, had peroxided their hair over the summer and now had orange or yellow crew-cuts. And then there were the motor scooter guys, mostly ninth graders, who roared around before and after school on their Cushman’s, giving girls a ride and racing each other.At the end of the second week of school.
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