“Kenneth Rutledge, you are a liar!” She reddened, and her mouth puckered to stifle a smile.

“Pop! Just like bubble gum.”

“Oh, what a liar you are!”

The telephone rang. It was Frank.

“I’m outside the store,” he said. “Should I get some ice cream for the pie?”

“Sure. And hurry back.”

He smacked a kiss into the phone.

My father lit another cigarette, imperious once again. “Irene, you’ve always enjoyed playing devil’s advocate. That wouldn’t have anything to do with your taking up with Frank, would it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” He looked me squarely in the eye. “He’s not exactly what anyone would expect you to choose. It would be cruel to let him fall for you if he’s only a novelty to you.”

“Novelty—you sound like Gloria. You make me out as some kind of prize going to waste. Did it ever occur to you I might consider Frank the prize?”

“It’s just that Gloria made it sound—well, we pictured Frank as the local Lothario making a conquest of our daughter. And now here I am, looking out for his welfare. Just promise us one thing: Keep your head and go slowly. Because, like it or not, you’re our prize. You’re our only daughter and that’s the way it is.”

“That makes us even, since you’re my only parents.”

He shook his head and sighed. “I can’t remember when you didn’t have an answer for everything.”

The afternoon proved to be a victory over Gloria and her scheme. At first, Frank and my father had little to say to one another. Then they landed on the subject of cars, and my father explained the trouble he was having with his transmission. Together, they went down to the parking lot to look at it. When they returned, we spent the rest of the day playing bridge. Frank and my mother established an easy rapport because they discussed me. My mother got a little tipsy on the wine, and by evening the two of them jokingly exchanged suggestions for improving my humility, and ended up assigning me the title Irene the Arrogant.

I lived up to that title the very next night, when I returned to Gloria’s apartment to confront her. Initially, she wouldn’t even deign to justify what she had done, but by the time I finished packing the first suitcase, she was well into a defensive oration on friendship. In the bathroom, where I scooped my toiletries into a box and snatched up my bath mat and toilet-seat cover, she finally apologized by saying she didn’t know what had come over her. Back in the bedroom, she grabbed my wrist as I unplugged my clock-radio.

“Don’t, Irene. Please. I was wrong, I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to Frank, too, if you want me to. You don’t have to do this.”

“Let go,” I said calmly. She released my wrist.

“I’ve made a mistake. Nothing like it will happen again, believe me. This is all so ridiculous.”