Of course, Louise Francis and Etta Benjamin completely agreed with her and expressed their sympathies. I was sinking into a deep funk and thought I would just spend the whole day in my room with the door shut. But as I was going back upstairs, I heard a knock on our front door. My first, hopeful thought was I was receiving a telegram from Garland, who had discovered I had fled from Charlottesville and was feeling very guilty. I was still debating with myself whether or not I would forgive him.

It was as if there really were good and bad angels, one of each on my left and right shoulders, whispering in my ears. The bad angel told me Garland Foxworth, no matter what his faults, was still the most exciting and best-looking man I had ever met. Whether I had drunk the limoncello or not, I’d have wanted to make love with him, wouldn’t I? I just wanted it to be more romantic. Well, couldn’t that happen the next time? The good angel stressed I was violated and reminded me how rough the sex had been. That wasn’t gentle and loving, but the bad angel said, “You liked it. Deep down, you liked it.”

Did I?

Thinking about this caused me to move slower to the door. Whoever it was knocked harder. This had to be important, I thought.

But it was only Elsie Daniels and Emma Lawrence, who had ridden their bikes over to my house. They both were wearing divided skirts, having convinced their parents to buy them for them after they had seen me wearing one.

“What?” I asked instead of saying hello. The sight of them was too much of a letdown.

“We came by to see if you wanted to go with us to Bessie Raymond’s house,” Elsie said. “Her cousin Arthur is visiting, and we remembered how handsome you thought he was. He’s in his first year at Penn State, and he’s on the football team. We asked Daisy to come, but her mother has her doing chores in the house.”

Emma’s smile reminded me of a splattered egg. I imagined how they gossiped about me on the way over to my house. Nevertheless, I pondered the possibility. I had seen Arthur Raymond two years ago, and like most of the boys who first met me, he spent most of the time talking to me. His mother was from Dublin, and he had her striking kelly-green eyes, rust-brown hair, and what I thought was a very sexy smile because of his firm lips. He was easily six feet tall, with very manly shoulders. It wasn’t until after he had left that I remarked about him, because I saw how jealous the other girls were of his attention to me.

“He’s good-looking,” I had said, but made it sound so casual that no one bothered even to attempt to tease me.