It was in her junior year, in late September, that she lost her appetite and sat dreamily at the dinner table. She spent most of her time in her bedroom. The eye make-up was toned down, the lipstick grew lighter, the rouge disappeared altogether. The second Thursday in October, she announced she had a date, and on Friday at seven-thirty, Virgil Evans rang the doorbell.

He was as handsome as anyone the movies or TV had to offer. Just half an inch taller than Regina, he had the solid, sinewy build of a swimmer. His sandy hair was not fashioned in the popular layered look but cut close to the scalp, with a part on the right side. His features, strong and angular, were softened by large brown eyes and full, almost overripe lips. When he smiled, he showed slightly gapped teeth, similar to Frank’s. Frank shook his hand and invited him to sit down. Regina said they couldn’t or they would be late for the movie. Frank said they could come back to our house for a snack afterward. Regina rolled her eyes at me with that all-too-familiar message “Get him off my back.” But Virgil liked the idea. Regina’s face changed. It was apparent that any idea Virgil had would be just fine with her.

It was when Frank closed the door after them that I saw that alien look on his face. He stood there gripping the door handle, his eyes squinted and his jaw pushed forward. For a moment, he appeared to be calculating something; then his lips tightened and he opened the door with a furious yank and glowered at the street as they drove away.

We both sat in the living room grading papers. Now and then, I would look up to find him staring at the floor. At ten-thirty, he began checking his watch, which he continued to do at ten-­minute intervals until they walked through the door at eleven forty-five. I went into the kitchen to put the pizza in the oven. I wasn’t gone five minutes when Regina burst in.

“He’s starting again!”

“What?”

“Asking all those questions about Virgil’s family, where they live, everything!”

“He does have the right to know a little bit about a boy who takes you out.”

“Then I’ll tell him! I don’t want him asking questions. He never stops. Will you please go in and shut him up? I’ll watch the pizza.”

When I got to the living room, Virgil was telling Frank how he had just recently come up from Florida to live with an aunt after his father died. Right now, he was looking for a job until he entered the community college the following fall.

“Where in Florida?” said Frank.

“Fort Lauderdale.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“Same as mine—Evans.” Virgil smiled.

“I mean his first name.”

“Frank, really.” I turned to Virgil. “He’s writing a book about first names.”

Virgil laughed. But Frank was not to be put off. “What was his name?”