Connie Steffano sometimes felt younger than her roommates, and sometimes older -- almost parental.

Chronologically, of course, she was younger, 16 where they were 18. Then too, she had spent the previous three years in an all-girls school. Except for the typing and driving courses the previous summer, she hadn't had any males in her classes since grade school. Now there were men in this dorm, if not -- when they were obeying the rules -- on this floor. All three of her roommates had attended coed high schools.

On the other hand, they had -- at most -- summer-camp experience living with other girls. (Well, Kim had shared a room with a younger sister.) They felt the 'suite,' with two bedrooms of two girls each, destroyed the privacy they so much wanted. Connie had lived in an unpartitioned room not much smaller than one of the bedrooms with five other girls. "What you have to remember," she told them, "is that you don't tell any of our secrets. Tell your best friend your own secrets, if you want. Don't tell her mine." They agreed readily; Connie thought it was too readily.

The dorm didn't have room inspections to see that all the clothes were put away properly -- which Connie felt was a mixed blessing. She'd hated those at St. Wigbert's, but her roommates were such slobs.

Lisa, with whom she shared a bedroom, clearly thought she was being generous when she offered to let Connie watch her TV with her. Connie would have appreciated silence more. When did Lisa expect to study?

Then she had second thoughts. She remembered all the conversations at the pool. The kids she'd get to know here were immersed in TV. The People magazine Connie had read on the plane hadn't really brought her up to speed; it assumed too much background knowledge. They had a week before classes began; Connie would watch for that week, taking notes. That would clue her in on a good many of the conversations she'd hear. Later, they'd probably be talking about their classes.

Since she'd be taking notes and she wanted to keep writing verse, she figured she might as well write a limerick about each show. They'd be easier to remember than prose notes.

The first day in the dorm, there were some orientation meetings. They had counselors, one senior counselor for the boys, one for the girls, and a junior counselor on each floor except the ones the senior counselors lived on. Confusingly, the junior counselors were seniors; the senior counselors were grad students. Jenkins was a huge building, seven floors counting the one marked 'G.' The boys lived on floors 1 - 3, and the girls on 4 - 6. The building had elevators; the stairs opened only from the outside except on the ground floor. And Connie was going to have to learn to call boys and girls 'men' and 'women'; the counselors and staff did.

It took Connie a couple of days to figure out why Jenkins looked so odd to her from the outside. She'd known taller buildings, but those stood among other tall buildings. Jenkins stood off by itself, a hike from the classroom buildings. The downtown was an uncomfortable walk beyond those, and the bus service was abominable and expensive. Well, she had plenty of time now; freshman orientation took a few hours in the morning and a few in the afternoon with a large gap in between. Only dorm events occurred in the evening.

That gave her plenty of time to go into town Monday and find a bank. There, she established an account with Andre's check. The woman dealing with her was used to seeing newly-arrived college students; the Connecticut driver's license as Connie's only ID didn't bother her. The bank even cashed a traveler's check so Connie would have money to buy her food in the cafeteria.

Tuesday, she went to the university library, but she couldn't check out any books until she had registered for classes. Still, she acquainted herself with the amenities. That evening, she typed letters to Andre and Helen. Mostly, it was just giving them her complete address and telling them that she'd not been eaten by wolves on her trip here. Maybe it was that she hadn't been eaten by vultures; the trip had been mostly by air.

She typed and sent a letter to Joe, as well.

Wednesday evening, there was a mixer in the social room on the ground floor of Jenkins. For the first time in public, Connie wore a stuffed bra. It didn't seem to attract boys -- she meant men -- to her side. On the other hand, she didn't really expect a B cup to impress them.

When they started to play dance music, she got on the floor by herself. Kent had taught her the fast dances and, more important, taught her that doing the dance that was strictly called for by the music wasn't a social necessity. Connie enjoyed herself, and nobody seemed to snicker at her.

One thing which had attracted her to the school was that the student body was more than 55% male. The residents at Jenkins seemed to be equally divided. The orientation sessions told her more than she wanted to know about the social life of the campus and, those held at Jenkins, the rules of the dorm. What they didn't seem to cover was class work. She knocked on the door of the counselor for her floor Thursday. Diane opened the door. You had to open your door from inside unless the person outside was a roommate who had a key.

"Problem?" she asked when Connie had entered. The "living room" Diane had for herself was a little larger than the one that four girls shared in a standard suite. Of course, a counselor was expected to entertain groups in that room.

"Not really a problem. I'm Connie Steffano, by the way."

"Hello, Connie. I'm Diane." Connie knew that. The counselors had been introduced to the residents several times, and Diane, as the only counselor who was black, was especially memorable. Then too, Diane was telling her that last names were unnecessary.

"They've told us gobs about the social activities of the university, and that's fine. But Tuesday I'm going to register and they haven't told us anything about classes."

"There are class descriptions in the catalog. I gather that's not what you're asking. Your department, the department you plan to major in, can tell you about their requirements. More than I can, even if you plan to major in chemistry."

"Well, I haven't decided on my major."

"You came here wanting the college experience?"

"Yeah. Which makes it silly to complain that all they talk about is the college experience, but I'm used to studying and getting good grades."

"Not silly. Despite Hollywood, being in class is a big part of the college experience."

At this point the door opened and a boy slipped inside. Connie recognized Jerry, one of the boys' counselors. She was startled, but no more than the other two. "Oops," said Jerry.

"Jerry," said Diane, "this is Connie. She wants to know what classes she should register for. Connie, this is Jerry, the counselor for the second floor."

"You're probably going to take English," said Jerry. "All freshmen do. And a social science. Do you have a major in mind?" They weren't going to discuss that one of the counselors who was responsible for keeping the boys on their own floors was on one of the girls' floors with a key to the room of the counselor who was responsible for keeping boys -- and men -- off this particular floor. They were going to deal with the questions Connie raised. Fine. She could expect them to deal seriously with her question. A St. Wigbert's girl would break all ten of the Commandments before she'd reveal another person's secret, but they probably wouldn't know that.

"She's here for the college experience," Diane said.

"Well, the university tells you that more men than women attend, which is true but not complete. Aside from engineering majors, there are a few more women than men; significantly more if you only count undergraduates. How did you do in high-school math, Connie? It is Connie, isn't it?"

"Yes. I wasn't a star, but I didn't flunk or anything like that. I was better in geometry than I was in algebra."

"Can you do arithmetic in your head? What's twenty-three times seventeen?"

She had to think for a minute. 230 plus 161. "Three hundred and ninety-one."

"Okay. Well, economics doesn't use more than simple arithmetic. They even use a special word to avoid saying 'derivative.' You have to take one of economics, sociology, psychology, or anthropology. It's smart to get rid of that requirement your freshman year. The engineering majors usually end up taking economics. So, introductory econ is more than half male; introductory anthro and psych less than half male."

Diane shoved his shoulder. "There is more to the college experience than men."

"I'm sorry, Connie," Jerry said. "Are you into women?" Diane shoved him again.

"Anyway," Connie said, "you recommend economics. I'll take English and second year French."

"How did you do in science?" Jerry asked.

"I got good grades in general science, but I had to work for them."

"And later courses?"

"I didn't take them." For that matter, St. Wigbert's didn't offer them.

"Well, you have to take a natural science. Again, you might as well get it out of your way your freshman year. Diane and I both took both chemistry and physics, but we're chem majors. People who don't know science usually take geology. And you'll not like the sex ratio in there, although there are all sorts of men taking arts courses. There aren't many women majoring in engineering, and most of those are dykes or tomboys who want to play against the boys, not date them. A woman taking engineering, a real woman, has her choice. That's even true of science. Diane had her choice, she just has poor taste."

Diane shoved him again. "I'm seriously reconsidering."

"I have to take gym, don't I?" Connie asked.

"One thing which surprised me," Diane said. "The university doesn't have a gym class, like my high school had. We have gym classES. So you can sign up for golf or swimming, or something like that. And then you can take one more class, or not -- as you choose. Usually, people either get farther in their major or take something light."

"And, as you've heard," said Jerry, "there are lots of clubs and activities. Now chemistry, that's all class work. But there's guys who've graduated from this school and got jobs on newspapers 'cause they've worked on the school newspaper. If you're going to go out for one of the heavy activities, team, chorus, drama club, it's probably not wise to also take a fifth course. And, unless there is something which really draws you, you might consider taking four solid courses and seeing how that goes. That's one of the blessings of the quarter system -- maybe the only one. You'll make another choice soon enough."

"But, basically," said Diane, "the courses we've mentioned, English, social science, natural science, those are one-year courses. Start one and you'll either finish it or you'll have wasted your time."

"But," Jerry put in, "freshmen can change the times or the professors. If you want to take quantitative analyt, you take it from Stein. If you want to take freshman English, you have your choice."

"And which is second year French like," asked Connie.

"Probably like more like freshman English," said Diane. "You had French in high school, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you know more about it than either of us do. Hope we've been some help."

"Oh you have." Connie got up and headed for the door. "I still have loads of uncertainty, but that's mostly uncertainty about what I want."

Diane let her out. Jerry moved behind the door without being ostentatious about it. "Thanks, Diane," Connie said from the doorway. Thanking Jerry just then would have been a mistake.

Tuesday, she enrolled in English, French, economics, and geology. The university having an indoor pool, Connie signed up for swimming Mondays and Wednesdays at 2:30.

Economics, geology and French met MWF, as the catalog said. Economics was at 9:00, geology lectures at 11:00, and French at 1:00. Jerry was right about the ratio of boys to girls in economics class. Still, there were more girls in that class than in any class Connie had ever been in before. The class was in a lecture hall which Connie guessed could have held the entire student body of St. Wigbert's. She saw Beth and Lisa waiting to go in as she went out.

French was held in a room of reasonable size. Geology was split. The lecture section was in a large hall, maybe half or a third as large as the Economics hall; the discussion section she attended, on Mondays at 3:00, was held in a room the same size as the on in whch she took French.

"What's your class at 10:00 Wednesdays?" she asked Lisa that night.

"First year anthro, aren't you taking that?"

"I'm taking economics. Meets an hour earlier in the same hall."

"Word is, anthro is easier."

English was scheduled for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at 11:00. Connie had never had a Saturday class before then. At least she could sleep in. The classroom was of ordinary size. Connie had noticed that Benson students drifted in to classrooms later than a St. Wigbert's teacher would have tolerated. Surprisingly, when she got to English a few minutes early, the front two rows were filled, all girls. Boys, and more girls, drifted in over the next few minutes. When the clock at the back of the room showed exactly 11:00, the teacher entered. According to the schedule, he was Bruce Walters. The schedule didn't mention that he was also a dream boat, long blond curly hair, a trim figure -- not much taller than Connie, but looking somehow athletic, a voice to drool over.

And, fairly clearly, the front rows were drooling over his voice. Connie had just decided to get to English classes earlier when she found that that was not going to work. "When I call the roll," Walters said, "speak and hold up your hand. This sheet," he held up a clipboard, "has those seats marked on it. This way, I can take attendance without going through this roll call every day. If your seat is filled, you're here. If not, you're not here even if you participate in class." The girls in the front row clearly had better connections to the grapevine than Connie did.

Connie gave up on her plan to wear different styles of makeup to different classes. Not only did she need to go from one to the other, but the classes had overlapping attendance. Even French, which had more sophomores than freshmen, had a couple of students who were in geology with her.

How it benefited her to attend a heavily-male economics course, Connie couldn't see. You walked in, took notes, and walked out. After an hour of stupefying lecture, she barely noticed the men -- a word she was learning to use -- in the classroom, and they didn't seem to notice her. Connie doubted that they would have noticed Marilyn Monroe.

The swimming class broke into three parts Monday. Connie found herself in the intermediate section. The beginners were really beginners.

When Lisa didn't have the TV on, she had friends visiting. Connie took to studying in either the suite's "living room" or the social rooms downstairs. As far as she could see, these were intended for the entertaining that Lisa was doing in the bedroom. And Connie was used to reading while lying in bed. There were mixers for the start of the year. Connie attended, but didn't seem to make many acquaintances.

She'd gone to church for purely social reasons. But, now that she no longer had social reasons, she found that she missed the services. She looked up Episcopalian churches in the Yellow Pages and walked to St. Matthew's Sunday morning.

French class had been a struggle for the first two weeks. Their textbook was the second one in a series. The students who had taken French at Benson the year before had used the first book. So they already knew a few words that Connie didn't. Connie knew a few words they didn't, too, but the book introduced those carefully. In the third week, though, she started to pull ahead. Two years of high school French counted for one year of college French, but two years of St. Wigbert's French seemed to have given her more than one year at Benson had given the others.

One of the things she'd wanted from Benson was a bit of anonymity. She was getting more than she had dreamed was possible. In English class, in particular, she sat in the third row while the girls in the first two rows unbuttoned their blouses enough to give Walters glimpses of cleavage. Except for taking roll, he didn't seem to even look at Connie. She shook herself one night. Maybe she didn't have a chance at Walters, who was married anyway according to the grapevine -- and married to a bombshell. He had something of a reputation, too, as a bad-boy poet. That should have warned Connie off before now; much as she loved Andre, she'd had her lifetime quota of bad-boy poets, maybe several lifetimes. There were boys in the class, though, and with all the attention of most of the girls going to the professor, Connie had a chance at them -- a better chance, she realized, if she called them 'men.'

Anyway, Andre had told her long before that she was a good student and should let boys see her in the best light.

When Connie had reached that point in her thoughts, Lisa returned from some visit and turned on the television. "Look," Connie asked, "don't you have an earphone?" She was supposed to; the dorm rules said that any TV installed in a bedroom had to be used with an earplug if your roommate requested it.

"I do, but it's so uncomfortable."

"I'm trying to study."

"You can study and watch TV. I do it all the time."

She was tempted to tell her that Connie, unlike Lisa, wanted to actually learn something from the studying. Maybe another way would be better. "Look, the rules don't say that you have to use the earplug if I convince you that I need the quiet. They say 'if I request it.'" Lisa plugged the earphone in and scowled at her.

Anyway, Connie had a plan to get to know boys. She took the opportunity over the next week to introduce herself to each of the attractive boys. It was entirely casual; what she wanted was names to identify them. Meanwhile, she worked hard on the English assignments.

When Walters handed back the first test on Thursday, Connie took surreptitious note of the expressions on the faces of some of her selected men. Three showed dismay.

"How did you do?" she asked Jack as they left the class.

"Horrible. You?"

"Not too badly."

"Lucky you!" But he didn't seem to want to continue the conversation.

"How did you do on the test?" she asked Neil Saturday.

"Not too good." She could understand that. A guy who thought 'good' was an adverb might have a tough time in English.

"I think I have this Walters guy psyched out," she said. "I'd studied most of the stuff which got on the test." Of course, she'd studied the entire assignment; and, moreover, most of it should have been no surprise to anybody who'd had a basic education in high school. Still, she had studied what was on the test. And these guys would be more interested in short cuts than in grammar.

"That's good." So much for Andre's advice to get noticed by being good in her subjects.

She did, however, have another choice. "I don't see it," she told the teacher of the economics discussion section on Monday. "I go to the store and it's two for something less."

"Well, yes. That's because the store buys in large quantities. Your purchase doesn't affect their unit cost for materials, or doesn't affect it appreciably. What happens is that they have to pay the guy on the checkout line, and he takes almost the same amount of time selling one item as he does selling two. See?"

She didn't. Not that she would have changed her plans if she had. "Josh," she said to a likely-looking boy as the class broke up, "I'm confused. Do you understand it?"

"Understand economics? No way! But I think I can see what he's saying."

And they found a quiet corner for Josh to explain rising supply curves to her.

Saturday, Walters assigned a paper to be handed in a week later. If Connie had struck out getting the men students in class to notice her, she had a lot of experience getting the notice of teachers. Why should she compete on the cleavage level with girls who had more cleavage than she had? She'd compete on a level they couldn't reach. First, she had to find a suitable subject. "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" was in the section of the lit book they'd covered not long before, if not something Walters had emphasized. She reread it that night, prepared to sleep on her idea.

Lisa turned her TV so Connie couldn't see it. That helped Connie's studying, though there was still a variable light against the ceiling. It gave another problem, though. Connie had developed the habit of pleasuring herself silently while Lisa was facing away from her and engrossed in a TV show. The silence was mostly for Connie's sense of privacy; she could probably entertained a chain of boys while "Dallas" was on without Lisa noticing. Now, at every commercial, Lisa was likely to look -- glare as often as not -- in Connie's direction.

Sunday she stayed home from church. The weather was miserable anyway. After breakfast, she outlined what she wanted to say about Byron's poem. Then, she turned a notebook -- French looked like it would have lots of space by the end of the year -- upside down and started on the back page. She put the ideas in her outline into iambic pentameter couplets, the same rhyme scheme and rhythm that Byron had used. It didn't flow so well, but she was Connie -- she wasn't Byron. For that matter, she wasn't Steffano the poet, either. She was Steffano the doggerel writer; and that would have to suffice. She wrote her first draft on every thrd line, giving her lots of room for corrections.

Her first draft was much too short, would still be too short after she filled in the ideas she had skipped. But she had enough to see that she could finish it in a week.

Monday after the economics lecture, she asked Josh to explain what Professor Franke had said . "That was a help," she said when he had, "too bad I can't reciprocate. You aren't taking French, are you?" Josh shuddered theatrically. "You're probably taking English, but a smart guy like you would get that stuff. If you can understand economics, English must be child's play."

"Actually, I don't get it all."

"Wednesday," she said, "bring your English book. After you clear up whatever Franke says that morning, I'll try to see if I know anything about what puzzles you in English."

"Say," Josh said after Economics on Wednesday, "want some coffee?" They went to one of the University cafeterias, he bought coffee for the two of them, and they stayed there dealing with economics and English until it was time for her geology class.

Meanwhile the poem-paper was going swimmingly. When she turned it in Saturday, she had it typed in paragraph format. Several students asked for more time, including a good many from the front two rows. It was not how Connie would want to draw the attention of a teacher, but maybe they figured that any attention was better than none. "There is no such thing," Andre had said once, "as a bad review in the New York Times."

Josh wasn't really bad in English. He was maybe a little below the St. Wigbert's standard -- not that he wouldn't have been a popular student there. She could still help him without disturbing his status as the one who knew more than she did in general. She considered doing worse on the next economics test than she had to, but probably he would do better than she, anyway. She was not going to show him her English tests, much less her paper.

Walters finally got around to handing the papers back the next Saturday. "Miss Steffano," he said, "would you read your paper out loud?" When she started, he added "rhythmically." She read it in verse form, but many of the students looked as if they didn't get it. "Read 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers' again," Walters said. "This is not only an essay on it but a parody of it. Some of the content could be improved, but this is the best form I've ever seen in first year English class. 'Steffano' is not that common a name; might I hope?"

"Andre Steffano," Connie admitted, "is my father." And he'd told her that her brain would get more notice than her body.

"Andre Steffano," Walters said, "is a poet. It's common to add some adjective to that, 'major' or 'great,' but it's unnecessary. Steffano is a poet; the rest of us are rhymesters. Did he teach you?"

"No." Andre wouldn't even teach her to drive. "He says he's the worst person in the world to teach me."

It was late enough in the year that she didn't have to figure whether Andre would be home that weekend. Still, when she called collect, she called person-to-person. She recited what Walters had said. "You know the guy?" 'Living poets' constituted a rather small world.

"Know his work. Wrote some good stuff. Wedlock disappointed."

"I don't want to hear about your troubles with Helen."

Andre laughed. "'Wedlock,' Princess, is the title of his last book. For all I know, his marriage was a disappointment, too. Look, you have a library there; they must have a faculty member's books on the shelves. Look him up."

She'd do that, look up the reviews as well. Andre was not to be trusted with regard to a book titled 'Wedlock.'

Monday Josh begged off studying with her. "I have a frightful cold." he said. She could hear it in his voice. "Don't want to give it to you, and -- besides -- I doubt if I can understand anything in this condition."

When she checked the library, they had four books by Walters. According to a list in the last one, that was all he'd written. She took out Wedlock and the one before that, A River in Africa.

The reviewers agreed with Andre, and she could understand why. the poems in A River in Africa -- none of which so much as mentioned rivers or Africa -- burned. The poems weren't pleasant experiences; there was more discussion of vomit than Connie really cared to read. But every single one of them was an experience. Wedlock didn't have one poem as strong as the weakest in A River In Africa. That it had been published at all surprised Connie, and the three years since it had appeared was longer than any previous gap in Walters's works.

Josh had become a friend without suggesting that he might become a boyfriend. Wednesday, he told her why. Josh was being faithful to his high-school sweetheart, who was going to school in Madison. "I feel I'm betraying Jessica by even saying this, but recently she hasn't written very often, and there isn't any news. I mean, there isn't much news in my letters, either. 'I'm still going to the same classes I did last letter, still haven't got the quarter's grade.' How many times can you say that? But her letters used to be so full of news, not big stuff but little stuff. Now she doesn't write about the leaves changing."

"It's just that she's written that already," Connie told him. "I have a full life in class, but not one that I could express in a letter."

If Josh wasn't going to be a date, the sensible thing for Connie to do was to drop him. But she cared for the poor sap, who'd never learn when to use an adverb instead of an adjective without her help. And he was a great help in econ, too. And the school was still holding events where you could feel comfortable going without a date. Connie decided to wear an A-cup to the next such dance (under her blouse). If she danced a slow dance, the stuffing would feel different to the boy than a breast would. That was one problem with the stuffing; it might attract men sometime -- Connie didn't see that it had yet -- but they could only get so close before she had to reveal her secret.

At the dance, the problem didn't arise. Connie danced the fast dances, several by herself, several with a partner, a different partner each time. Nobody asked her to dance a slow dance.

Lisa had a group of her friends in the room Monday night. "I don't know what to do," she said. "I may be flunking three courses. And I have to take English. I'm desperate."

Connie considered suggesting that Lisa study. But, in the first place, the comment had been addressed to her friends, not to Connie who merely lived there. In the second place, she doubted that Lisa was that desperate.

A few minutes later, Lisa turned on the TV set, and the group gathered around to watch. "You are supposed," Connie said on her way to the door, "to use an earphone with that."

"Look," one of the friends, a girl named Mary, said, "we could watch it downstairs. For that matter, my set is in the living room of my suite. We could all watch it there."

"Don't mind her," said Lisa. "This is an important episode and all of us want to watch it. She's just being a bitch 'cause I don't let her watch my TV any more. And I used to until she decided to be a bitch."

"Asking you to use an earplug wasn't being a bitch. And I didn't want to watch your television. If I had, I wouldn't have asked you to use the plug."

"You're a bitch all the time, a bitch that stuffs her bra pretending to be a woman."

Connie went down to the lounge, but she didn't do the studying she had planned. Lisa had broken the first law. She could moan; she could entertain as if Connie had no rights in that room. But telling Connie's secrets was way beyond the pale. Connie, and her room at St. Wigbert's, had declared war on Heather and her room for not one tenth of that. But Connie didn't have a room to support her, and Lisa had those friends.

One thing was easy to decide. Connie would wear A-cups from now on. The stuffed B-cups hadn't done her any good, and they provided a weapon for Lisa -- and for any other Lisas there might be in her future.

Still, five allies or none, Connie fairly well had to go to war. Limericks still looked like the best weapon. And there was no reason to use just one. Connie thought out five limericks about Lisa before returning to her room.

The next afternoon, she selected three of them. She typed out each of those three on a separate sheet of paper. Wednesday, she used the enlarging Xerox in the Student Union on each one. Then she used it on the results to get really large print. She went to the library to get a cheaper Xerox. Once she had three copies of each poem, she bought a roll of Scotch tape in the campus bookstore.

Thursday, she bided her time. Friday, she taped a copy of the first limerick on the back of the elevator as she was going down. Then she went all the way up in the other elevator and taped a copy of the second limerick on the back of that one while she held it at the sixth floor. She stood innocently in front of the limerick all the way down, and walked off as if she had not a care in the world.

She told Josh she would meet him in the cafeteria. After Lisa went into the lecture hall, but before the class began, Connie taped the third limerick to the inside of the door. Josh got much less English tutoring than he deserved that day, and she didn't absorb any economics, either.

She carried the limericks and tape with her for the next few days. She put them up in odd spots, not expecting Lisa to see most of them, but -- having seen the first three -- she'd be looking. She'd put the fourth limerick up in the elevator Monday, she decided. Lisa should be hoping that there were only three by that time.

The weather turned bitterly cold. Connie Steffano not only stayed home from church on Sunday, she decided to not even try for the next few weeks.

Tuesday, Walters said "Miss Steffano, could I see you in my office for a minute?" at the end of class. When they got to his office, he closed the door and sat down with his back to his desk facing her. She was where half his class would give their right arms, certainly bare their right boobs, to be. His expression didn't look like she was going to enjoy this.

"Who, pray tell," he asked, "is Lisa?"

Should she act innocent? But anybody -- certainly any faculty member -- could find out one relationship. "She's my roommate."

"And what did she do to deserve this?" He handed her a copy of the third limerick.

She would endure torture rather than tell him. "She insulted me."

"Insulted you this much, this effectively?"

"Probably not," she admitted, "but she has friends. I don't want to engage in a war. I want to scare all her friends from joining in. I want to make her sorry."

"And how sorry must she be before you stop this?"

"Sorry enough to stop the insults. As I said, I don't want to engage in a long drawn out war. I want it over."

"Don't you think that this is prostituting your talent?"

"No! It is my talent. You, you and Andre, produce poetry. I produce doggerel; that's my talent. This is doggerel. But it's talented doggerel. If it persuades anyone else not to tell my secrets, that's all to the better. I'm not going to go around picking fights, but I'm not going to be a punching bag, either."

"Well, you did choose to write about Byron, not Blake. Did you read Byron's preface to 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers'?"

"Yes." Hardly could avoid it. Did he think she'd write a paper on one single piece of writing without reading it all? Probably not even Lisa would do that.

"Is that what she did? Told your secret?"

"Yes." And she'd die right here rather than say what the secret was.

"Well, it wouldn't be a secret if you told me. Anyway, I'm not an administrator so that it would be appropriate for me to settle a fight between roommates. I can't threaten to give you a low grade in English, not for writing this. I will, however, ask that you take it no further."

"And, if Lisa won't, I won't. I can't promise not to put up more limericks if she continues the fight. I don't have many weapons."

"You think you could write another limerick like this one?"

"I wrote five and pasted up four. You have the third."

"Ouch! Remind me not to make an enemy of you."

"You've never done the least thing to be offensive. Anyway, I'd think twice before using this sort of weapon against you. I'll pick the fights I can win, thank you. With Lisa, it's fighting a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent. Anyway, I'll wait for her next attack before I make my next one."

"That's as much as I can ask. But think about the problem of prostituting your talent. I wouldn't write off my talent at 18. I know it feels like doddering old age to you, but you still have some growing to do, mentally if not physically. And now I sound like I'm at a doddering old age." He got up to open the door, and she walked out.

"Boy," one of the girls from the front row asked her after class on Thursday, "what does it take to get Walters to ask to talk to you? And you weren't showing any cleavage at the time, either." Connie decided she was saying that Connie had had her blouse buttoned. It was sensitivity on her part that made her think that others would remark on her absolute lack of cleavage.

"It was nothing like that. He's a teacher. You have to remember that teachers sometimes want to talk to their students."

"And was the teacher careful to keep his door open? You'd think the man was afraid of being raped. It's sure not the teacher who insists on always keeping his door open."

"Look, I signed up for this course before knowing who he was. I signed up to learn English, and I've learned some." Which didn't answer the question about his always keeping the door open. That was something for Connie to think about.

Kim came to her Friday evening. "You know what I want, Lisa," she said. "Could you leave us alone?" For a miracle, Lisa did. Maybe the limericks had had some effect. Lisa hadn't said anything; she'd neither asked for peace or continued the war. Connie had promised Walters that she wouldn't do anything if Lisa wouldn't. For that matter, it was in her interest to follow that rule.

"You wouldn't do that to me, would you?" Kim asked, "if I was your roommate." She was Connie's roommate. She must mean trading places with Lisa.

"Certainly not. You're a nice girl. I wouldn't have done it to Lisa if she hadn't broken her word about keeping secrets. Look, I had to fight to make her put in an earplug when she watched TV. She made this room a party center, and parties to which I wasn't invited."

"I've entertained in my room."

"How often?" Connie asked. "Anyway, the point is that I was leaving the room after she'd brought a bunch over to watch TV. I wasn't happy, but I didn't post a limerick because of that, didn't even think about it. Then she told one of my secrets. You wouldn't do that."

"Well, she isn't the only one who knows you stuff your bra."

"Have you told your friends?"

"No."

"Look, I'd be happy to have you as a roommate. I would obey the dorm rules, I wouldn't insist on anything that I wouldn't give. I wouldn't even insist on every tiny technicality of the dorm rules. I would, however, object to your telling my secrets. I said that the first day. I've been a roommate before. I'm used to the idea that roommates are allies -- not always friends, but allies."

"You're saying that you wouldn't do that to me?" Kim asked again.

"Not while you treated me half-way decently. And, if I thought somebody were picking on you unjustly, I just might do that to her."

"No thanks."

"Not without your asking me to," Connie assured her.

"I don't want to have that sort of enemies."

"Neither do I."

"Deal?"

"Deal," Connie agreed.

The end of the quarter came on in a rush. None of the exams were impossible, although geology was harder than she had expected. There was a break scheduled for Thanksgiving, and most of the kids would be gone then. Connie planned to get some books from the library.

Right after his last exam Friday, Josh went down to Madison to surprise Jessica. He would drive her home -- they lived in Milwaukee -- for the Thanksgiving weekend. Connie would see him a week from Monday.

Josh called Connie late on Saturday, instead. She sat with him in his car, there being no privacy to talk anywhere else at that time of night. Jessica had found another man; she hadn't written to tell him that because she thought it might hurt him. When he arrived acting as her boyfriend, she told him and broke with him.

Connie comforted him as well as she could, realizing that it wasn't much. Josh went home by himself.

The Sunday at the end of the break, Connie went back to church. Several people greeted her.

Kim stored her stuff in the living room when she got back that afternoon. Lisa moved her stuff directly from Connie's room to Beth's that evening. Connie helped Kim move in.

Walters was teaching a course titled, "Mechanics of Verse," at 10:00 on Mondays and Wednesdays the second quarter. Connie signed up for it, not making any other significant changes in her schedule at registration. She cut economics Wednesday to be outside the classroom door five minutes before the previous class broke up. Third in the classroom, she immediately took the furthest left seat in the front row.

"The title of this course is deliberate," Walters began. "I'm not going to argue about whether some expression is 'poetical' or not. Beautiful prose doesn't count. What you are going to learn here is to write verse."

"Haiku?" asked one girl in the back.

"No. That's a legitimate verse form, but it's a Japanese verse form. You'll learn to write standard English verse forms, and you'll be graded on how well you write them, even Miss Steffano, who could argue that she already knows how."

"I won't argue," Connie said. "My father told me that you have to learn the mechanics of verse -- not his term, but what he meant -- first. Then you have the means of producing poetry, even -- sometimes -- poetry which doesn't rhyme." Of course, she wouldn't argue. She had a front-row seat to watch Walters all quarter, and he'd already noticed her the first day. The only problem is that this class met in her and Josh's study time.

"He told you that?" asked Walters. "I thought he'd refused to teach you poetry?"

"He did." And how long ago had she mentioned that to Walters? The man not only had noticed her, he had remembered what she'd said. "That's about all he told me, to practice the old forms before trying the freer ones."

"Well, that's really all there is. Everything else is details. And,..." he looked over the class, "...those details are what this class is about. It's not too late to drop it and take something else." Nobody looked inclined to follow that advice. The front row, except Connie, looked like they were planning to drool over the lecturer whatever his lectures might be. For that matter, Connie had taken the course because of the teacher, too.

"What did you do?" the girl who'd asked about haiku asked her as they were leaving.

"Did? Nothing." She wasn't going to mention the limericks. For that matter, Lisa could justifiably call it another attack if she mentioned them very concretely.

"How come he notices you? I want to be a poet, and he's the only poet on campus. But will he talk with me? No."

"One of the papers he assigned last quarter, I wrote it in verse. I'm sure that he'll assign verse this quarter. He'll read it. Connie Steffano, by the way."

"Steffano? That wouldn't have anything to do with his noticing you? I'm Sharon, Sharon Douglas."

"It might have a little bit. You recognize the name? I'm Andre Steffano's daughter."

"Of course, little Connie. You've grown up, though."

"Look, want to be friends?"

"Sure."

"Then don't mention the poems about me. I still blush."

"I wonder why. 'Little Connie bathed and bare,..' Anyway, I won't mention them again. Think you had it rough? Imagine Christopher Robin going to school with kids who knew: '...whisper who dares / Christopher Robin is saying his prayers...' Every one of them knew it."

"Yeah, 'They only cut off your foot, I met a guy once who was missing both legs.'"

"Point taken. Peace?"

"Peace. Friends. Sharon, I think I like you."

But, even so, she was late to geology class. Friday, she got to Josh before economics class started. "I have a ten-o'clock class. We have to set another time."

"You could have told me earlier. You didn't come to class. I thought you might be sick."

"Sorry. When do we meet?"

"Noon? A little after, in the same cafeteria?"

"Good. Maybe we'll find another place, another cafeteria, later."

"It's all the same food." But it wasn't all the same ambience, all lousy ambience, but different kinds of lousiness.

Josh seemed a little antsy that session, and he broke off her explanation of English at 12:50. She didn't have to leave for French for at least 5 more minutes, and he was even closer to the physics lab. "Look," he said, "what do you think of folk?"

"People? Some are good; some are bad. I might have a general opinion of cats or owls, but I don't think I have a general opinion of humans. I'm too close, if you know what I mean."

"Not what I mean. Look, Peter, Paul, and Mary are coming to Milwaukee, Monday night. Would you like to go?"

"Is that an invitation? I'd love to go."

"'Kay. You live in Jenkins, right? Or do you want to leave from the cafeteria? We'd have to leave not much later than 6."

"6:00, this cafeteria, right outside?"

"Yeah."

"It's a date." And it was a date. The music was great, the crowd was enthusiastic. The lyrics were poetry, of a sort -- closer to her limericks, maybe. Josh drove her back to Jenkins late. His car had one front seat all across, like a rear seat. She sort of remembered Andre's having a car like that when she'd been young.

"Thanks, Josh."

"Thank you." She leaned over and kissed him. Then she let herself out of the car and walked to the entrance. He didn't drive away until she was inside the door.

Connie got a surprising 'B' in gym. English and French were both 'A's. Economics, thanks partly to Josh's help, was a 'B.' Geology was her only 'C.'

There was another dance scheduled for Saturday in Jenkins's social hall. Tuesday evening Connie called Diane on the phone, being a little leery of knocking on her door. "Diane, this is Connie, one of your charges."

"Yes, Connie, I remember you."

"There's this dance coming up Saturday. Would inviting a student who lived in another dorm be acceptable?"

"If it wasn't, a third of the kids wouldn't be there."

Connie noticed that the 'men' or 'women' were 'kids' when they were together. Well, many of them sure acted like kids when they were together.

Walters was setting a fast pace in his class. He'd covered the vocabulary the first session, gone to iambic pentameter couplets the next Monday. "Your assignments will be to use the particular rhyme and rhythm schemes we're studying right now. Your verse has to make sense; you can't string together words just because they have the right beats. That is the only limit on content, though. Master the forms this quarter, and you can worry about content later." He assigned a rhyme a day, first couplets, then quatrains. This meant two pieces of verse to be handed in on Wednesday, and five on Monday. He graded on a numerical scale, and gave five points for neat typing. She wrote her rough drafts in the notebook for that course, then typed a final draft. Connie was glad she'd learned to type.

Wednesday, at the beginning of their study time, she invited Josh to the dance. "Why, thank you," he said.

Kim turned out to be a much more pleasant roommate than Lisa had been, neater for one thing. She kept her TV in the living room, and let others watch it when she wasn't watching and didn't have guests there. She was in another section of geology, but neither she nor Connie was of much help to the other. Connie was able to help her in English, and did so gladly. Connie heard from Kim, who had apparently heard from Beth, that Lisa was on academic probation -- blaming that on the dust-up with Connie.

"Ignoring her situation before then," said Connie, "I didn't choose the fight. She did. Her only surprise was that I could fight."

Josh was a pleasant dance partner He was by no means expert, but neither was Connie. He was attentive, and he held her close for the slow dances. She walked him out to his car, and they kissed there on the curb.

The afternoon studying was getting to be a drag, the course on mechanics of verse taking the only convenient time. They decided to eat together Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and then study in the cafeteria afterwards. University meal plans paid for food at any cafeteria on campus.

They started sitting together in economics, and Josh invited her to a movie the campus film society was showing Friday. When he drove her home, he parked where they were out of anybody's eye. His kisses were warm and sweet. Then they talked. When they kissed again, he stroked the outside of her blouse. She was very glad she'd abandoned the stuffed bra, although the feelings weren't all that strong. When Josh reached for the buttons, she decided he was moving too quickly. She moved his hands away, but didn't break the kiss. He put his hands back on her shoulders and deepened his kiss. Whatever his technique, his front seat was the best designed for making out she'd seen in her limited experience.

Josh went home for Christmas. So did her roommates. Connie enjoyed herself for two weeks. She read ahead in all of her textbooks, even economics. Every evening, she lay splayed on her bed and brought herself to a slow climax. She pulled the covers over herself and went to sleep. Some nights she remembered Joe's hands on her; some nights she imagined Josh. A few nights she imagined Walters -- if your lovers were going to be only imaginary, why not imagine big-time?

She called home to wish her parents a merry Christmas. Helen answered, but after that conversation was done, she knocked on Andre's door so that Connie needed to make only one call. "I sent some more money," Andre told her. "Two checks. The small one's a Christmas present, buy yourself something you'll enjoy, not something you need. The big one's to refresh your bank account."

"Thanks, Andre." Although, when the money came, she was puzzled as to why he thought she needed $4,000 to refresh her bank account. Still, she was happy to have the money under her own control. Andre and Helen could run out at the most embarrassing times, occasionally both at the same time. The smaller check, $25, mostly went for her own copy of A River in Africa.

Helen sent her a warm coat.

She went to the Christmas Eve service at St. Matthew's. All the people after the service who wished her a merry Christmas made her feel lonelier than she had felt the rest of the break.

Kim came back Sunday night Josh got back, too, and called her up. He'd caught a bad cold at home.

Classes resumed that Monday. She got Wedlock out of the library when it reopened. It didn't improve on second reading. She was puzzled by the absence of any poems about children or even childbirth. There were definitely two which implied pregnancy. For that matter, there was no mention of morning sickness, either. Not that she regretted that, but Walters had seemed fixated on nausea in A River in Africa.

She and Josh ate and studied together that night. Wednesday, they called it off right after dinner. "Somehow," Josh said, "the nasal passages aren't the only things that get clogged up. Anyway, I don't want to give you the cold."

Back at Jenkins, Connie walked into her room. Kim, who obviously had depended on Connie's staying with Josh for hours, had her bedside lamp on illuminating some magazine. It also illuminated the lumps from her hand playing with her boob under the sheet and the other one busy between her legs. "Sorry," said Connie, and backed out. She went downstairs and did two hours studying in the lounge. Lots of kids studied in the lounge, some with other kids of the opposite sex.

When she came back, Kim was still awake. "Sorry," Connie said again. "Josh has a bad cold, and we called the study off."

"You aren't going to tell, are you?" Kim asked.

"Who? You're my friend. And far fewer people would be shocked than you might think. Anyway, I've said it before. I don't tell my roommates' secrets."

"You know what I was doing?"

"And I wasn't shocked. I was disturbed at invading your privacy, but that was totally inadvertent. Maybe we should arrange times when we both know that only one of us will be in the room. Anyway, it's late. We can talk about that tomorrow."

And Thursday, they almost talked about it. Connie said that she would be out of the room from 6:00 ("Really earlier. I usually meet Josh at 6.") to 8:00 Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. If Josh weren't available, she'd study elsewhere.

"I don't need that much time," said Kim.

"Well, that's what's usually available. And you need more time than you think. If I only give you privacy when you are going to use that privacy, then I'll know what you're doing, which wouldn't really be privacy. See?"

Kim figured out her TV schedule, which took her out of the room. "And if it's not on or I need to study, I'll be somewhere else."

"That's fair."

Friday, she got a letter from Andre with a new phone number and a check for $5. "Please call," it said. While Kim was watching TV, she did.

That her parents were getting a divorce didn't surprise Connie. This was a marriage? The grounds did. "Andre," she asked, "what happened to incompatibility?"

Andre laughed. "Incompatibility is one of the grounds for marriage, Princess. You're thinking of 'irretrievable breakdown of the marital relationship.'" That would apply, too. "Adultery is still one of the grounds for divorce in Connecticut. I caught her, caught her on film. She can't bring a man into my bed."

"Your bed? You two haven't shared a bedroom in five years."

"Closer to ten. This was at the cabin. That's my cabin. I go up there for inspiration and quiet. What inspiration will I get after I saw them together? What spiritual quiet? It never was all that soundless, it's just that the sounds of nature are soothing. Now, there's nothing soothing about that place. She can't expect me to turn my back on that sort of behavior. I finally got suspicious when she went up there in midwinter."

Helen was still in the house. "All the payments are now mine, dear. I'll really have to stretch to cover you next quarter. And after all I put up with over the years. He'd better watch out. The other spouse's adultery is a defense, you know."

Connie figured she was well out of it. For all Andre's statements about finally getting suspicious, the idea of divorce must have been on his mind for years. His suggestion that she go to college far from home had taken her out of the situation. He could be a subtle writer; as a person, he was mostly transparent.

Monday she and Josh resumed studying after dinner. He was almost over his cold. He asked her to a dance that was being held in his dorm, Brewer, the coming Saturday.

He drove her there. Connie thought this was a little silly, since she took longer walks getting to breakfast every morning. Still, it was cold; and he had to drive her back to Jenkins. If he didn't, they couldn't park.

But he did, and they did. "I don't think I'm contagious any more," Josh said before kissing her. His car had been parked in the cold for hours, and the heater hadn't managed to warm it all that much. She didn't object when he unbuttoned her coat, but she shivered at the touch of his hand.

"Let me," she said. She took his hand between hers, blew on it, and rubbed it. She put it back on her boob and covered it with her coat. It was still chilly, even through the bra. But the nipple rose in response to the chilliness as much as to the caress. She welcomed the kiss and the stroking. Finally, she broke the kiss. "I'm getting cold," she said. He drove her back to Jenkins. Their kiss at the end was brief. "Don't get out," she said. "You'd freeze."

She'd let her assignment for mechanics of verse slide. She needed five quatrains (ABAB) of trochaic tetrameter on Monday. She stayed in bed except for a trip to the bathroom until they were all written. Then she went for a heavy lunch. Afterwards, she checked over the verse for any errors. She typed all five quatrains up very carefully. She'd spent most of her Sunday on the course which had the fewest hours, but she had all her other actual assignments done. All that was left was readings. She concentrated on geology.

Monday was warmer. Only the true Wisconsin types would call it warm, but her new coat kept Connie comfortable on her way to breakfast. When Josh drove her back from their evening study, he parked on the way -- out of the way, actually. The new coat had a zipper; that would make her more conscious of his opening it than she'd been of his unbuttoning the old coat. She grabbed Josh's hand and held it in front of the vent of the heater. When she was satisfied with its temperature, she dropped it and unzipped the coat.

Josh was grinning. You could tell when you kissed someone who was grinning. This time the hand wasn't chilly through her bra, wasn't chilly against her belly through the shirt. She enjoyed his touches and his kisses. When she got upstairs, Kim was watching "Cagney and Lacey," allowing Connie the privacy to finish herself off.

The next afternoon, when she had done her verses for Wednesday, Connie considered her situation with Josh. All the other guys in her past -- all? there were three -- had loads more experience than she had. Josh had gone out with one previous girlfriend. Anyone before Jessica had been as a freshman in high school. So Josh had not the slightest idea of how fast he could move under the high-school rules, let alone the college rules. Actually, since they had this long past of study dates before their first real dates, Connie suspected that the college rules would be vague anyway. She would have to decide. And, really, she would have to decide anyway, always and with any boy. She liked Josh, liked him far more as a person than she had Kent. It wasn't his fault that she was really one of those coeds drooling over Walters. Not that she would admit that to Josh; it hurt to admit that to herself.

Besides, Connie was getting a little tired of providing all her own stimulation. Josh seemed to respect boundaries. When it got warmer, she would go without a bra on special occasions and move into the backseat. When Josh suggested it, of course; she wouldn't be so forward as to suggest something. And when would she say no? The waist was a good boundary.

Wednesday, Walters stopped class a few minutes early to hand back the papers which had been turned in on Monday. There were complaints about his grading system. "Look," he replied, "I know that I require more work from you on Monday assignments than on Wednesday assignments, and then I grade them by the same system. But the grade on your transcripts will be from both. As long as you turn in the requisite number of quatrains, you start with a hundred points. I'll allow one typo per line in the assignment, if it's corrected neatly in ink. If it's not corrected, it's a spelling error. Those are two points. When in doubt, use a dictionary. An error in rhythm is five points, ten points if it's egregious. If you turn in a list of nonsense words instead of a coherent thought, I'll treat it as a quatrain not written. Copying from someone else is more likely to fail the course than to take off points. For that matter, it can get you thrown out of school. Other than that, I don't look at content."

"Word lists," said a boy in the back, "are a legitimate form of poetry."

"So they are, John. But they aren't one of the forms we're learning."

"What did you get?" Asked Sharon as they walked out the door. Connie showed her. "105! It's not fair that the best poet in the class is also the best typist."

"I don't always get that high."

"I don't ever get that high. John!" John came over. "This is Connie Steffano. Don't mention where you've seen that name before. She'll kill you. John," she told Connie, "is the poetry editor of The Quill." That was the literary magazine for the university.

"Are you going to submit?" John asked.

"I've read it." She hadn't been impressed. "Do you take verse that rhymes?"

"If it's poetry. And if it's submitted. Don't blame me for some of the stuff we print; we have to select among the things which are submitted. You should see the shit we reject."

"I'll think about it. When does the next issue come out?"

"Third week in the quarter. But deadline is Monday the seventh. People don't consider all the stages that you have to go through between seeing their deathless prose and putting out a magazine with a cover and fifteen pages of print."

"And it's submissions? I thought it was staff."

"Everybody gets equal access."

"But," Sharon said, "some animals are more equal than others." John laughed. "It's awfully hard," Sharon explained to Connie, "to work for hours beside somebody whose work you've just rejected. And, of course, there's always the guy who stomps out 'cause you wouldn't dedicate ten of the fifteen pages to his pointless, plotless, short story. Which just might mean that somebody who has never done pasteup needs to learn in a hurry."

"This is just an example," John assured Connie. "Nothing like that has ever really happened."

"And," said Sharon, "I didn't really go into that exam without either studying or sleeping for the previous forty-eight hours. Now, if we could just persuade Professor Michaels of that, he might change the grade he gave me for that quarter."

Connie really couldn't afford being late for geology, but this was an insight into the 'college experience' Diane had talked about. She didn't want to be one of those people staying up all night to put out a pretentious literary magazine. Distributing toilet paper was a maintenance responsibility, not a student responsibility. For that matter, Andre might not like it if Connie told him she had crossed the divide and worked -- worse, volunteered -- for a publisher.

That night Josh drove her home from the study date again. He held his left hand in front of the vent of the heater while he kissed her. She was wearing her new coat, and when he fumbled with her zipper she said, "I'll get it," not wanting him messing it up. His kisses already had her excited, and his touch brought her higher and higher. Finally, she pushed him away and buttoned her shirt before zipping up her coat. She held his face for one final kiss before leaning back in her seat and refastening the seat belt. "Friday," she said when he stopped at the door to Jenkins.

Connie brought herself to a rapid completion and was asleep when Kim got in from watching "Quincy."

"A word with you, Miss Steffano," Walters said after English class on Thursday. As he didn't seem headed for his office, she waited with him outside the classroom until the rest of the students had left. "Look, I've often complained about students worrying too much about grades, and it isn't as if you were in the slightest danger of failing, but...."

He took a breath and seemed to start over. "I think you could get an 'A' in this class; you certainly got one last quarter. You're not quite at that level this quarter. On the other hand, your grades in the verse course are embarrassingly high, far above the grades of the upperclassmen. You could afford to relax in that class, not go to sleep, but relax. And a little more effort in this class might get you an 'A.' "Are you on a scholarship?"

"No."

"Then the difference between an 'A' and a 'B' probably doesn't matter. Forget I mentioned it."

"It might matter to me. I seem to have difficulty pulling my geology grade above 'C.' I'll think whether it does matter. Thanks for telling me."

Perversely, instead of digging into the English homework, she began planning out a poem for The Quill. She wanted the college experience, after all. She'd describe the 'mechanics of verse' course, from the subject matter to the seating arrangements. She'd use several quatrains, each one with a different rhythm. Would they print it? The poetry they printed seemed mostly to be unrhymed gushes of emotion with sprung -- if any -- meter.

Anyway, she had both geology and French to do before the next day.

Friday, Josh invited her to another movie the coming Monday. She was impressed that he would schedule a date to conflict with the after-study makeout session.

Of course, he wasn't so disinterested as to not park after the movie. She got back to her room greatly excited. Unfortunately, Kim was already there. It took Connie a while to get to sleep and she woke cranky the next morning. She stopped working on her poem for The Quill on Tuesday to bring herself off while Kim was watching "Saint Elsewhere."

It was snowing so badly when they got out of the cafeteria Friday, that she asked Josh to drive her straight back to the dorm. Mindful of her promise to Kim, she studied in the social room of Jenkins until 8:30.

The snow stopped falling by Monday, but it was so deep that they gave up on driving altogether. They found an unused nook for deep kisses while standing, but Connie was too nervous to allow actual making out. Josh grabbed her buns during the kisses and pulled her hard against his erection. Appreciating this acknowledgement of her power to arouse, Connie ground her belly against his hardness during the kiss. Still, standing was less comfortable than sitting in a car, making them both happy to cut the time short. That night, and subsequent nights she walked home, Connie got back to Jenkins before 8:00.

And the end of the quarter was coming up. Connie concentrated on economics and his English with Josh, on her English and on geology when alone. She didn't ignore French, but she figured that not too much effort was needed to keep her 'A.'

She had finished the poem and put it aside. On Thursday, with the deadline looming, she got it out, cleaned up a few rough spots, and typed it out. She carried it over to the offices of The Quill on Friday. Nobody was there, but she dropped it in a box for submissions.

The snow didn't actually melt, but -- as the temperature got warmer -- the piles of snow got smaller. Josh started driving her back from study again, although they still didn't see anywhere to park. For that matter, his heater barely cut the chill in the car.

When she met him in the cafeteria Monday, Feb. 14, he handed her a box of candy. She hadn't even got him a card! She opened the box, then had an idea. When they were done studying, she said "Come with me." When they were out of sight in an empty hall, she put her coat on top of her books and the candy box on top of that. She selected a piece of candy that looked firm and put it in her mouth. When she straightened, she pulled him against her and used her mouth to put the candy half into his. They stood like that eating the same piece of candy and kissing. "Thanks, Josh," she said after the piece of candy was gone. "Nobody has ever given me such a nice present for Valentine's Day."

Since all she had received was cards from her parents (and real cheap ones from an occasional grade-school classmate, usually a girl) this was totally true.

Josh got his heater fixed, and the weather got better. Connie was used to New England winters, but they had never been as consistently cold as the Wisconsin weather this year. Even so, occasional parking lots got cleared, and uncleared areas got worn down. Both she and Josh were keeping their eyes out for possible spots, as well. They started parking again, and -- after Josh had warmed his hand -- she was unzipping her coat again.

The Quill wasn't due out for a long time, but Sharon phoned her the Sunday before exam week that her poem would appear. She saw Josh only after the tests that week, and he was going home the next. They took a drive after her last test on Friday, his last test having been on Thursday. They drove past three of their usual parking spots. At the third occupied one, she started to giggle. "Those people shouldn't park their cars there today. Don't they know we need the space. We're going to be apart for two long weeks!"

He laughed, too. "Bet there's a spot free at the mall." They'd gone there sometimes very late, but they'd still worried about security.

"Yeah. And, since you just want to talk, there's plenty of space today in student parking." He didn't just want to talk -- for that matter, neither did she -- but she wasn't going to make out in a mall with shoppers walking past.

Finally, he found a spot near the athletic fields. Nobody would use the fields in this weather, but maintenance plowed every parking lot sooner or later. "It would be more comfortable in the back," he suggested.

"Not in this weather," she said. She unzipped her coat, and he began their kiss. They had enough time, for once. He kissed over her face and neck while he stroked her boob through the bra. She was aroused when he dropped her off at the cafeteria for an early dinner. The arousal dropped over dinner; university meals would do that.

Kim was gone when she got back, however, and she had the room to herself. She lay on her elbows naked under the sheet with her lamp on, pulling the nipples and twisting them very gently. When she was completely aroused, she turned on her back. Even then, she stroked her thighs with her right hand and her left boob with the other. Only when she couldn't stand the tension did she touch her cunny. A few strokes on the trigger brought her over. She pulled the blanket up, turned off the lamp, and went to sleep.

Helen called late Saturday. "Dear, how are you fixed?"

"I'm not hurting." If she had to pay tuition, she would be.

"I have sent the tuition and the room and board checks off to the university, but that leaves me strapped indeed. Books are my responsibility, too. But could you buy them with your own money and send me the cash-register tape? I can't get the money to you in March; I'm delaying some bills to get this money out now. But I will get it to you in April. Can you hold out that long? Real early in April. I'll drop my pay check off at the bank instead of mailing it."

"That would be fine." And Andre was scheduled to pay her first quarter's tuition next year, but how would Helen manage next January? Well, that was a year in the future; anything could happen.

Walters was scheduled to teach a course on Robinson Jeffers the next quarter. Unfortunately, it conflicted with the times of her geology course on Wednesdays and Fridays. It also had a prerequisite of American literature. She was taking English 102, which was a prerequisite for English 211, American literature, which was a prerequisite for English 329, poetry of Robinson Jeffers. Actually, English 103 and 213 were the prerequisites. Delightfully, however, the catalog said, "or permission of the instructor." So she could go talk with Walters, assuming Walters kept office hours during the break time. Half the front row visited Walters all the time, with damn-all excuse. She didn't want him to see her as one of those groupies, but what could be more legitimate than asking for a permission that the catalog said he had to decide?

Monday, she checked his office. He wasn't there, but a hand- lettered sign on his door listed "break hours." She could come back Tuesday after breakfast. And, if she were going to claim a deep interest in studying Jeffers, it might be wise to read something he had written. Luckily, the library was still open in the daytime during the break. Jeffers had written a bunch of poetry, some of it single book-length poems. She checked out three books: one collection, one single poem, and one biography.

The Stallion was good stuff, why hadn't she found it when she was looking for erotic poetry among Andre's books? Well, that was the answer right there; sometimes -- among Andre's books -- you were lucky to be able to find the door. She couldn't remember whether he had any Jeffers or not. And, as usual, St. Wigbert's had been absolutely no help.

"Why not?" Walters said when she asked to take his course. "Well, I can think of one reason. Read any of Jeffers?"

"A little." Connie knew that rule. You had only read a 'a little' of a poet's oeuvre even if you had committed all his published work to memory. And it was a useful rule, she really had only read a little of Jeffers, and Walters was quite likely to ask about specific works.

"You know that some of his poems are explicitly sexual?"

"Yes." Although she hadn't known it for long, which was why she'd only read a little.

"Well, if that doesn't embarrass you, it doesn't embarrass me. Do me a favor, though. Don't sit in the front row this time. Lecturing on sexual matters with an eighteen-year-old girl staring at me just might be embarrassing."

She wouldn't. And she sure-as-hell wasn't going to correct his guess about her age. Well, he'd asked her to not sit in the front row for one particular course, and new seating arrangements in English 103 would be available for the new quarter.

She went back to the library for more Jeffers. She'd been going to study her ongoing courses over the break. Jeffers, however, was something she'd need to know for the next quarter. And, besides putting a slip of paper in the pages to mark the good parts, she did read the poems. Connie would have to go back more slowly, but she could get through one hell of a lot in two weeks.

She went out with Josh briefly when he got back Thursday. They talked more than they made out although the car was warm enough to be comfortable for once. Kim came back a few hours after Josh did. Lisa didn't come back at all; Beth would have their room all to herself.

Friday, she registered for the Jeffers course, English 329, a section of geology 103 which met TTS after English 103, and archery for a gym class. The rest of her schedule matched her previous quarter's.

She made sure to get to the English classroom before the previous class got out on Tuesday. She got the left-hand seat in the front row. Wednesday, she felt virtuous about taking a seat in the third row, for the Jeffers course, the left-hand one. Walters had only asked her not to sit in the front row. Many of the students who filed in were people she remembered from the mechanics-of-verse class. It seemed that everybody else knew each other. They were junior and senior literature majors. "Who are you?" one boy who hadn't been in the mechanics class asked after class.

"Connie Steffano."

"Oh."

"She has a poem in the next Quill," said John. "Connie, this is Bill Gibson. Don't take his arrogance personally, he treats everyone the same way."

"A poem in The Quill. I'm impressed," Bill said in a tone which implied that he wasn't.

"It rhymes," said John. Bill raised his eyebrows before walking away.

She got 'C's in geology, economics, and -- of course -- gym. She got 'A's in French and both English courses.

Arlo Guthrie came to campus. It was a big event, and Josh took her. She was impressed, and not only by the long parking session afterwards. She sent in a poem describing the concert to the student newspaper, The Bensonian. She'd intended it as a letter to the editor, but they printed it as a review. Josh expressed admiration. He hardly noticed the meter, but felt the description of the music was right-on. Since she'd mostly paraphrased him in doing it, she shouldn't have been surprised at his agreement.

The weather turned soggy, if a bit warmer. The Wisconsin natives were saying that March, which had come in like a lion, was going out like a lamb. Connie could see the lion, but the lamb?

Wednesday, John brought a copy of The Quill to her personally. Josh called that afternoon and offered to pick her up for the study date because of the rain. She accepted. They parked in what seemed like a monsoon. She showed The Quill with her piece marked to Josh, who was less impressed than he had been by the piece in The Bensonian. He still held his hand in front of the heater vent, and the rain afforded them a privacy that relaxed her.

They got Good Friday off school and she went to church both for Good Friday services and for Easter. She remembered all the catty comments back at St. Wigbert's about people who only showed up in church on Easter.

She got another copy of The Quill and clipped the poem out. She sent it and the newspaper piece to Andre. "We can see," she wrote, "that there is no question as to who the poet in the family is."

He called her. "You do the family name proud," he said. "It's light verse. You intended it for light verse, didn't you? But it's good light verse. I could see the classroom when I read it.

"Another subject entirely, Princess. Did your mother come through with the tuition? I tried to get enough money to you that you could cover it, and that money's yours if she came through. If she even suspected that I would cover, she would ignore her duty. Your money, she might not want you to spend; mine, she'd enjoy diminishing." She assured him that she was all right. "Well, I can deal with September, but I wouldn't plan on summer school, if I were you. Sorry to get you in the midst of this; I tried not to."

"It's all right, Andre. I'm way up here. I wasn't thinking of summer school this year, anyway."

When the weather cleared, it was warm. Wednesday, she remembered how patient Josh had been. "Wait here a moment," she told him, on their way out of the cafeteria. She ducked into a women's room. Once in a stall, she doffed shirt and bra. She stuffed the bra in her purse and put the shirt back on. After she'd used the stall for its intended purpose, she washed her hands and donned her coat. "Ready," she said when she'd come out. She held his hand in front of the heater vent for an extra long time before unzipping her coat.

Josh reacted visibly when he felt the boob through her shirt. "Darling," he said. She kissed him. She didn't want declarations of love. She would have to either reciprocate, and lie to reciprocate, or keep silent and disappoint him. He fumbled getting her shirt open, but he knew what he was doing after that. His hand was gentle as it moved on her, but it was always moving. He stroked her boob, brushed her nipple, stroked the boob again. And all the time he was kissing her.

She decided that taking the archery course had been a mistake. She'd had to buy a bow and 12 arrows, spending more than she did for the books she needed for all her real courses for the quarter. St. Wigbert's had provided the equipment. On the other hand, she did well in the course.

The Jeffers class was a struggle. It wasn't so hard as geology or economics, but she wanted an 'A' in this course. Her competitors in class had all studied literature before; many of them had studied another modern poet under Walters. And, for once, her classmates were better read than she was. They were at least juniors, of course, and interested in literature. Besides that, the two years she'd skipped were beginning to haunt her. These kids were four or five years older than she was, and they'd spent that time reading books -- not simply watching television.

She confessed her worries to Sharon. "Flunked any tests?" she asked.

"Not flunked." She'd not reached anywhere close to 90 on either one, though.

"You're keeping up in class, too. That I can tell. Look, you're spoiled. You beat out a bunch of English-lit majors on the mechanics class; made us look like saps. You've published in both The Quill and The Bensonian, and without putting in your time as a galley slave, either. You were sitting pretty. Now you've reached your level, and reached it as a freshman. Now, you have to work hard to get good grades in an advanced class. But one thing you'll learn from this, one thing I learned -- though maybe two years later than you are learning it -- is to work hard. Get out of college, and they won't give a fuck that you can write better poetry than anybody else. They will care that you can work like a coolie. Unless you want to make your living writing poetry."

"Does anybody?"

"Only if you work for Hallmark. Look, this course is supposed to be over a freshman's head. It would have floored me if I'd taken it two years ago. It's not flooring you. Stretching you, testing you, maybe; but it's not flooring you. Take the American lit course next year. You'll shine, though there's not much on Jeffers in it. Then you'll be the best-prepared junior when you take this sort of course instead of the worst-prepared student in the course."

Sharon had a point, besides Connie got to sit watching Walters five class periods a week. On the other hand, Connie had been moaning when she could have been working; she was, after all, the girl who had learned three subjects over a summer. High-school subjects, it's true -- but it had been a good high school. She knew how to study, and she was going to study. There would be a paper on Jeffers; Walters made no secret about his teaching pattern. The book said that Jeffers had reacted against some dictum of Mellarme's. She looked up Jeffers's essay and Mellarme's original statement. Then she looked in the early poems by Jeffers to see where he'd followed Mellarme and the later ones to see where he'd gone against him. By the time Walters got around to assigning it, she had done more preparation for this paper than she'd ever done for another, and she had another two weeks for more work.

She dropped her daily poems completely, not that she'd been very faithful this year. She tried, on the other hand, to keep up on her other subjects. She also helped both Josh and Kim in English. They were in different sections, neither of them in hers. The three perspectives actually helped her learn.

One roadblock to her studying was the time she spent parking with Josh, but it was too pleasant to cut down. As the weather warmed up dramatically, Josh found them spots out in the country far from prying eyes. They took to driving out before the meals and study dates instead of after. He brought a blanket from his bed, and they lay on it kissing and making out. She lay there naked above the waist while he kissed all over her boobs.

At first, when his hand went to the belt of her jeans, she gently took his hand in hers and moved it higher. One Friday afternoon, though, he returned to the belt immediately. The two of them ended up wrestling, and Connie realized that she'd lose any actual physical contest. Josh stopped, though. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't want you doing that. I'm perfectly happy with my jeans on, thank you."

"And why not? I've been very patient. You used to say it was too cold, and it was. What's the excuse this time?"

"Why do I need an excuse? There's a limit. The waist is the limit."

"Why can't I? We've been going together for a long time."

"You can't because it's me." She remembered what Helen had said about boys accepting limits for the girl, but really resenting limits that only applied to them. Anyway, Joe had been a self- limiting case. Maybe Joe had touched her below the waist, thrilled her below the waist, but it was on the last week they'd see each other -- the last week ever. "I don't do that."

"Nice Italian girls don't do that?"

"I don't know about nice Italian girls. I don't. And I'm not sure I'm a nice anything."

"Jessica let me; Jessica let me do all sorts of things." And that statement was one more reason not to let him go any farther. If she did, some other girl would hear about it. Maybe his male friends would, too. Of course, they might hear that she'd let him even if she actually hadn't.

"I don't know what Jessica did, and I don't care. Connie doesn't do that sort of thing."

"We can draw a line for now."

"We don't have to. I've already drawn the line. Want to go back, or want to continue above the waist?" And Kim would let her alone in the room (or alone with Jeffers) to solve her own problems.

"It's about time to head back for dinner anyway. Look, I'm sorry I was so insistent."

"That's okay, but I'm not sorry I was so insistent."

Josh laughed and drove her back to their dinner. She was staying downstairs after her return to the dorm these days, unwilling to suggest to Kim that they change their schedule.

When she started on the Jeffers paper, she typed her first draft. Until then, she'd written the papers and corrected them in longhand. Only when she was satisfied with the results did she type the final version to hand in.

Monday, Josh kept his hands above her waist, seemingly content with that. He did kiss her boobs much more than had been his habit, and she was happy to let him. Let him? She was delighted with every kiss.

Wednesday, she turned in the paper for the Jeffers class. That afternoon, Josh drove her out to a nice shady spot off a dirt road. When they'd kissed for a while, he pressed her down on the blanket. Fearing that he intended a real assault, she began struggling. Apparently, that was what he'd wanted. He kissed her and pressed his weight above her, but his hands went nowhere near her belt. Finally, her motions went from struggles to get way from him to writhings to press her body against his. He finally broke away to kiss her boobs and suck on her nipples. They stayed there until the sinking sun brought a chill.

It was after seven when they got back to the cafeteria. It was still serving -- would be until 8:30 -- but the Swiss steak was all gone. By the time she got back to Benson, she went straight to her room. Kim was already watching "Fall Guy."

At the end of English class on Saturday, Walters said, "Miss Steffano, might I see you in my office for a minute?" She could only think of the paper, but she'd never known Walters to deal with one class during another. Having ushered her into his office, he shut the door. He pulled a newspaper out of a drawer. "I'm sorry to be the one who tells you this," he said, "but once information is out in public, it can spread everywhere -- certainly it can spread to Benson." He handed her the paper and turned his back to look at something on his desk.

The paper was a tabloid she'd only seen on newsstands and grocery checkouts in Hartford. It wasn't even the Courant which some of her friends had around the house. (Andre, who read the New York Times, only got the Courant when it printed an article about him.) The headline was huge: "ANDREW STEVENS." Since it obviously affected her in some way -- Walters was acting as if it were a tragedy for her -- her first thought was that this Stevens guy was Helen's lover. From the picture, he looked a lot like Andre; and she thought it funny that Helen would choose two men who looked so much alike.

When she read the story, though, the news was quite different. The picture was of Andre. Apparently he'd been born Andrew Stevens. She'd considered reinventing herself when coming to Benson -- Andre, and Helen with him, had really reinvented himself. They'd gone from a black couple in Harlem to a white couple in Hartford. This was the reason Connie had never met any grandparents, uncles, or aunts.

Connie's world shifted. If Andre and Helen had never told her the truth, neither had they ever based anything on her alleged Italian heritage. Others had, though, from Michelle's assurance that Connie would end up with big Italian boobs to Josh's assumption that she didn't put out -- and she had no illusions as to what he really wanted -- because 'nice Italian girls' didn't.

"Thanks," she said, "I think."

"Did you know? I'd hate to take this rag as a source, but they cite the divorce trial. Papers making things up generally don't make up public documents to cite."

"I didn't know. But I don't know anything to contradict it. I mean, there were never any snapshots of the old family when I was growing up."

"I've often lamented publicly that nobody cares about the poets in our midst. This might be a good thing. Is there any sort of social circle of people from Connecticut on campus?"

"Not that I've heard of."

"And you don't belong to a sorority?"

"No."

"They might care. Sorority and frat rules are archaic. And this is apparently news in Connecticut, but -- then -- Andre Steffano is news in Connecticut. There is no reason for anyone else to care. Which is no guarantee that nobody else will care. Still, you can deal with this -- or ignore it -- as you see fit. My class on modern poets next quarter -- the first quarter of next year, not the summer -- will be on Andre Steffano. Like the Jeffers course you're taking. I teach something like that most quarters, only a different poet. I don't think this will affect my lectures."

"Well, thank you for telling me." She handed him back the paper before she walked out.

When she thought about it, it was nobody's business. She hadn't built any of her identity on being Italian. She wasn't going to build any on being black, if she were. She could ask Diane about that. Andre and Helen had been black. They had grown up in Harlem -- what could be blacker than that? She hadn't grown up in black culture, and -- of course -- almost all her genes were 'white genes.' Well, she wasn't going to ask Diane. She was going to keep her own counsel.

She did call Andre. "Andre, how could you?"

"It was worse back then, Princess. Maybe I could have landed a better job as a black man with a BA from CUNY than I did as a white man with a GED, though my experience doesn't support that supposition. I sure couldn't have risen so high. And a black man who wanted to be a poet would be a black poet. I never wanted to be a black poet."

"And you never told me?"

"When, Princess? When you were in grade school? And, by the time we could be sure you wouldn't tell, we knew you'd ask 'Why didn't you tell me sooner?' Anyway, the two of us lay enough burdens on you, we didn't want to lay any more."

"Is it going to cause you problems?"

"At work? It doesn't seem to. After all, I had no expectations of a promotion anyway. Fire me for lying about my race? That's a civil-rights violation straight off. For lying about my education? But I did have a GED. For lying about my name? According to my lawyer, I wasn't really lying. The name you use is your name. Anyway, there is all this evidence that they were happy with my work; getting unhappy now would cause more problems than they're looking for. And the same guys in the department who liked me still like me; the guys who disliked me have to watch out for a charge of racism if they express their dislike."

"And your publisher?"

"There is no such thing as bad publicity. I've already heard of a couple of research papers reevaluating my works."

"That ought to sell one book to each reviewer."

"Well, a couple of books to the better ones. Then, since they will have done the work, they'll want to teach Steffano. Which should sell a classroom's worth of books, but probably won't. There's a loophole in the copyright laws for colleges which allows them to print up collections just for the classroom. And, of course, the more people who are supposed to read me in college, the more people with an itch in later life -- 'I heard those lectures, I wonder what that guy's poems are like.'"

"Andre! You are a cynic."

"I'm a poet, Princess. Some of those professors get more pay for teaching courses on my poetry than I ever got for writing them. Anyway, nobody publishes poetry for the profits from sales. They publish poetry for the recognition. The more guys doing research on me, the more recognition. Forgive me, Princess?"

"I forgive you."

Still, he should have told her. Helen was the one who wanted all the bad news hushed up; Andre let everything hang out: "Little Connie bathed and bare...." It did explain Andre's comments on college, though. He'd spoken from experience, not from watching movies. Considering how seldom he watched movies, that made more sense.

The paper on Jeffers came back with a 90, and that included 5 points for neat typing. While that shot down her hopes for an 'A' for the course, it did solidify her chances for a 'B.' Walters, who -- as a poet -- was worse than Andre about letting it all hang out, was careful to return papers and tests so that only the recipient could see the grade. Of course, that all went for naught as the kids showed each other what they had received. Her not-so-hot grades seemed to improve her popularity with the upperclassmen. Apparently, they'd thought her high marks in mechanics-of-verse were signs of Walters's infatuation with her. Infatuation? The man scarcely knew she was alive, and there was all that cleavage in the front row of English 103. And he still called her by her last name and used their first names for all the upperclassmen.

As her wrestling with Josh got less serious, it got more satisfying. A week after the first struggle, Josh had his leg between hers and his groin pressed against her. A lot of his weight, though, was resting on his elbows, and his hands were on her boobs. His thumbs stroked across her nipples as his tongue explored her mouth. She found herself moving rhythmically. This rubbed her mound against his thigh. Her excitement went higher and higher. Finally, she brought herself off against his leg.

"Oh, Connie," he said. He kept rubbing himself against her for a little bit longer, then stiffened and gasped. When he got his breath back, he suggested that they needed to get to the cafeteria. They arrived before the cafeteria opened for business. She stood in line and then grabbed a table for two while he went off somewhere. When he got through the line and joined her at the table, they had a pleasant meal and a productive study session.

To show her how unlikely it was that Walters would show any interest in her, the English department held a social event which faculty, wives, and students in advanced courses attended. That let Connie see, if not speak to, Mrs. Walters. She was everything Connie wasn't, blonde, busty, and a bombshell. Well, Josh -- at least -- was interested in Connie. Unfortunately, he was more and more interested in the parts of her that she didn't intend for him to touch. But he wa interested in her boobs, too.

The next Friday, it rained and she and Josh had to be content with the back seat. Monday, though, Josh took off his own shirt as well as hers. That was exam week, but they still met when they could. They dropped the excuse of studying together.

Connie's last exam got out at noon on Wednesday. She took the afternoon off, except for getting a local paper. Thursday, she kissed Josh good bye. Friday, she started searching for work and a place to stay over the summer.