Janine’s face was flushed as she made her way slowly to the podium, and Marianne could see that her hands trembled as she held the pages of her work. “I wanted to say before I started that I am grateful to Lorraine Kominski, who has taught me so much about poetry, and to my fellow writers, who have made all kinds of sacrifices to be here. I also want to thank Marianne Stuart, who believed in me from the beginning. Marianne, I would not be here—none of us would be here—if it weren’t for you.”

Students and guests craned their necks to look at Marianne, who slunk down a little in her seat. Janine read Ferlinghetti’s “Poetry as Insurgent Art,” then turned to her own work. Her voice was clear and even and just slow enough, full of feeling for the words. Lorraine smiled and closed her eyes to listen, but Marianne could barely hear her, she was so intent on intercepting Tad Tucker, who stood and clapped as Janine finished, starting a standing ovation that cascaded through the hall.

Marianne jogged down the center aisle. She was faster than Tad, and made it to the microphone first. “Thank you, Representative Tucker, but I can’t let you—”

He was still clapping manfully as he made his way to the podium and cleared his throat. “I want to talk to you about freedom. Freedom of speech. Freedom of thought. Educational freedom. And before all those, the freedom to be a person,” he began. Patty Connor got up and walked out. Stricken, Janine kept her eyes on Marianne as she edged back to her seat.

“But before I get into that, I want to acknowledge another person, crucial to this school’s founding.” Marianne thought he would talk about Frances, quickly thought of what she would say, if prompted, about this woman she’d never met. An artist! Who wanted a place for others to find inspiration! Tad threw an arm around her shoulder and yanked her close to him. “That’s this gal right here, Marianne Stuart, and Janine is right—none of us would be here without her. She had the whole idea to begin with, years before it was any kind of possibility. I want to confess that I was skeptical at first—what could some New York City poet know about our culture, our values? But I’ve gotten to know Miss Stuart, and, well, I’m the first to admit when I’m wrong.”

There was some pointed coughing. Marianne tried to lean toward the microphone—Thank you! What an evening! Let’s all have some punch!—but Tad’s grip on her shoulder held her fast.