The two or three school dances we went to were exercises in humility. I stood in a corner with my knuckles up my ass while she took turns dancing with different guys. S.D. was “gunning” for one of the Top Ten positions appointed to juniors before their senior year. The school picked these leaders purely on the basis of how much of a kiss-ass, or “gunner,” you were. Gunners were historically a prideless bunch, and S.D. Stuart proved that history repeats itself. She’d rat on her roommate to clinch an appointment to the Top Ten. So if her roommate wanted a smoke she had to hide from S.D. One day over the crescents and Italian Joe, she outlined her policy to me.

“You fink,” I said. “How could you turn in your own roommate?”

“Oh, shut up. You make it sound like I’d be stabbing her in the back.”

“You would be.”

“Rubbish,” S.D. said. “She knows perfectly well that her smoking puts me in a precarious position with the administration—and I’ve asked her several times to simply smoke elsewhere … or not at all.”

“Excuse the expression, but I still think that’s fucked up.”

“Well that’s too bad but I’m not going to compromise my beliefs just for her filthy habits. And by the way, nice language.” She served me one of her lemony squints.

“Come off it, S.D. Half the people in the world smoke butts, and nobody except the surgeon general says tiddly-poo about it. Besides, those aren’t your beliefs. They’re Cornwall Academy’s beliefs, and you’re just one of the tools they use to grind their fu—riggin’s rules into everyone else’s head.”

S.D. didn’t speak to me for a week. It was kind of nice having a seven-day hiatus from the runs (coffee opens me up like you wouldn’t believe), but I regretted pissing her off. I think I missed having plans made for me. Every day Wheeler would ask me, “Any word from S.D.?” and “Hey, are you two still seeing each other, or what?” These questions were always accompanied by an ear-to-ear grin, but I guess I had that coming.

“Don’t let it get you down,” Irving said to me one night during study period. He’d been sitting at his desk reading the Wall Street Journal. I looked up from a National Lampoon. “Huh?”

“S.D. Don’t let her get to you.”

“I won’t,” I said. “She ain’t my type anyway.”

“I know what you’re going through. Had the very same thing happen to me last summer. I was taking out this absolutely stunning gal, and after about three dates she told me to stop calling her.”

I felt bad that Irving would confess this just to make me feel better.

“She give you any reason?” I asked.