That night I necked with him on a bed in the fraternity house. Wearing all our clothes we struggled against each other for several hours. “Do you want my new pin when I get it?” he asked me. “I lost the one I had last year, but I ordered a new one. If you want it you can have it.”

“Wait till you get it. When you get it, I might take it.” I sat up on the bed, straightened my sweater, looked down at him, ran my hands across his fine soft face, caressed his soft brown hair, pushed his shoulders down upon the pillows.

“Something terrible happened to me last summer,” I began. “And now I keep thinking about death all the time. I think I’m the only one who thinks about it.”

“No, you aren’t.” He sat up beside me. He took my hands. “My grandfather died last year. He was the greatest man. I went to sit by him while he was dying. He told me a lot of things. He said it was okay to die because he had all of us. He said he’d had a good life. He was the newspaper editor in Hope. He’d gone to a war. But I didn’t see him die. I was asleep when he died.” He pulled me back into his arms. “You’re a funny girl, Rhoda. I can’t tell if you like me or not.”

“I like you. I’m just in a funny mood right now. I’m so mad about the dean saying all that stuff about my play. She made me so mad.” I lay back down against his chest. I stretched my legs down beside his legs. I thought about a boy in junior high who had put his hands inside my pants one night. The silky wet memory of that night overwhelmed me and when Hap put his hand beneath my sweater I did not move it. Later, when he lay his hand across my stomach, I let him leave it there. “I love you,” I said finally. “I think I love you to death.”