Ella forced her thoughts to the coming first day of school; what she would wear and whether Daddy might be talked into giving her the money for a couple of new blouses. She had one in mind that was regulation white, but it had a tailored look to it that set it apart, and it cost $9.95. She considered the blouse in her mind, then went on to her new status as a junior and the possible hardships of the course. She wondered vaguely if one of the Negroes would be assigned to any of her classes. She hoped not, without hoping. Like almost everyone else in Caxton, she assumed that the proposed integration would not actually take place. Something would come up, some loophole or something. The subject dissolved and was replaced by further contemplation of the situation with Hank Kitchen. Perhaps when she became a junior, he’d stop treating her like such an awful child: perhaps he’d sort of suddenly discover she was a woman, the way it so often happened in the movies. He’d be helping her down from a wagon and have her in his arms and they’d be laughing; then, all at once, their eyes would meet and he’d stop laughing. And he’d pull her very close to him. It could happen while they were swimming, too, for that matter. Easily. Hank hadn’t seen her in a bathing suit for quite a while . . .

But, of course, they weren’t speaking now; and maybe they wouldn’t ever, ever again. Certainly not until he apologized. And he was pretty strong-minded.

“Hi. How about another coffee?”

“Okay, but I don’t know how you can drink hot coffee on a day like this.”

“I don’t, either. It’s all in the way you were brought up, I guess.”

Ella shook her head and served the young man. The peculiar thing about his eyes, she decided, was that they were old—much older than the rest of him. They didn’t fit, exactly.

“You must have been brought up in a telephone booth,” she said, laughing.

He laughed with her, but was obviously not inclined to explain the phone calls. He pulled his shirt away from his flesh. “Don’t you get hot?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“But I mean, how do you stay so fresh?”

Ella shrugged.

“No pores,” the young man said. “That’s it. Listen, you haven’t answered my question—the one I asked an hour ago.”

“I can’t remember what it was,” Ella said, glancing over to see if Mr. Higgins was watching. He wasn’t.

“Now, now. I asked if you’d show me the town. How about tonight? When do you get off work?”

“At nine-thirty, but I’m afraid—well, see, my father, he always picks me up after work; and besides, you couldn’t see very much of the town in the dark, could you?”