“He could spark a team,” my admirer said. “I played against him when he was at CMA. You let me know if you get rid of this guy,” he added. “When you get tired of him, let me know.”

“What’s your name?” I looked up at him. He was sandy haired and blue eyed and laughing. He was a boy you could get to know. “Where did you go to school?”

“Get out of here, Shelby,” Stanley said. “Stop bird-dogging on my date.”

* * *

The steaks came and we ate them and had another martini and I guess one after that. We got up from the table and danced on the crowded dance floor. We talked to people. We smoked. My girdle was killing me. My shoes were killing me. The room was hot. I was burning up. I wanted to find Shelby and talk to him some more. Instead I was dancing with Stanley. A deliberate two-step. His hands clenched me around the waist. The flesh on my waist was squeezed in by the elastic top of the girdle, then covered with my slip, then my blouse, then the jacket of my Davidow, then Stanley’s hand. I felt his heaving breath. I felt his legs soft against my legs. When I danced with Bob Rosen we were music. Each other and laughter and music. This was heaving ego and sorrow.

“Rhoda.” It was May Garth, touching me on the shoulder. “Oh, Rhoda, I’m so glad you’re here. Look here, my cousin’s with me. You remember him, my cousin Sheffield Hughes. Sheffield, it’s Rhoda.” She had me by the arm. Sheffield was right behind her. There would be no escaping her. Everyone would know she was my friend. This girl whose family was not received.

“This is May Garth,” I said to Stanley. “This is her cousin Sheffield.”

“Is your father Cal Sheffield?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Stanley Mabry,” I said. “I’ve got a date with him. We’re with all those people over there.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I looked out and there you were.” She kept on trying. She stretched her hand out to me but I backed away. I wasn’t going to ruin my chances of being somebody by being seen with May Garth out in public.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I answered. I looked at Sheffield. He was very quiet, very thoughtful. He would grow up to be the president of a great university. He would fulfill his genes. But on this night he was only a twenty-year-old boy. Gangly and unfinished and out with his first cousin trying to figure out how to act at a nightclub.

“Come sit at our table,” he said. “Come and talk to us.”

“We can’t,” I answered. “We were just fixing to leave. I have to get back or I’ll be late for curfew.”