In One Person

her—but Miss Frost (very patiently) asked me her question again. “William? You’re interested in reading, I presume, but could you tell me if you like fiction or nonfiction—and what subject in particular you prefer?” Miss Frost asked. “I’ve seen
this boy
at our little theater!” she said suddenly to Richard. “I’ve spotted you backstage, William—you seem very
observant
.”
    “Yes, I am,” I scarcely managed to say. Indeed, I’d been so
observant
of Miss Frost that I could have masturbated on the spot, but instead I summoned the strength to say: “Do you know any novels about young people who have … dangerous crushes?”
    Miss Frost stared at me unflinchingly. “Dangerous crushes,” she repeated. “Explain what’s dangerous about a crush.”
    “A crush on the wrong person,” I told her.
    “I said, in effect, there’s no such thing,” Richard Abbott interjected. “There are no ‘wrong’ people; we’re free to have crushes on anyone we want.”
    “There are no ‘wrong’ people to have crushes on—are you
kidding?
” Miss Frost asked Richard. “On the contrary, William, there is some notable literature on the subject of crushes on the wrong people,” she said to me.
    “Well, that’s what Bill is into,” Richard told Miss Frost. “Crushes on the wrong people.”
    “That’s quite a category,” Miss Frost said; she was all the while smiling beautifully at me. “I’m going to start you out slowly—trust me on this one, William. You can’t rush into crushes on the wrong people.”
    “Just what do you have in mind?” Richard Abbott asked her. “Are we talking
Romeo and Juliet
here?”
    “The problems between the Montagues and the Capulets were not Romeo’s and Juliet’s problems,” Miss Frost said. “Romeo and Juliet were the
right
people for each other; it was their families that were fucked up.”
    “I see,” Richard said—the “fucked up” remark shocked him and me. (It seemed so unlike a librarian.)
    “Two sisters come to mind,” Miss Frost said, quickly moving on. Both Richard Abbott and I misunderstood her. We were thinking that she meant to say something clever about my mother and Aunt Muriel.
    I’d once imagined that the town of First Sister had been named for Muriel; she exuded sufficient self-importance to have had a whole town (albeit a small one) named for her. But Grandpa Harry had set me straight about the origins of our town’s name.
    Favorite River was a tributary of the Connecticut River; when the first woodsmen were logging the Connecticut River Valley, they renamed some of the rivers from which they ran logs into and down the Connecticut—from both the New Hampshire and Vermont sides of the big river. (Maybe they hadn’t liked all the Indian names.) Those early river drivers named Favorite River—what they called a straight shot into the Connecticut, with few bends that could cause log jams. As for naming our town First Sister, that was because of the millpond, which was created by the dam on the Favorite River. With our sawmill and the lumberyard, we became a “first sister” to those other, bigger mill towns on the Connecticut River.
    I found Grandpa Harry’s explanation of First Sister’s origins to be less exciting than my earliest assumption that our small town had been named for my mother’s older, bullying sister.
    But both Richard Abbott and I were thinking about those two Marshall girls, when Miss Frost made her remark—“Two sisters come to mind .” Miss Frost must have noticed that I appeared puzzled, and Richard had lost his leading-man aura; he seemed confused, even unsure of himself. Miss Frost then said, “I mean the Brontë sisters, obviously.”
    “Obviously!” Richard cried; he looked relieved.
    “Emily Brontë wrote
Wuthering Heights
,” Miss Frost explained to me, “and Charlotte Brontë wrote
Jane Eyre
.”
    “Never trust a man with a lunatic wife in an attic,” Richard told me. “And anyone named Heathcliff should make you suspicious.”
    “Those are some
crushes
,” Miss Frost said meaningfully.
    “But aren’t they
women’s
crushes?” Richard asked the librarian. “Bill might have a young
man’s
crush, or crushes, more in mind.”
    “Crushes are crushes,” Miss Frost said, without hesitation. “It’s the
writing
that matters; you’re not suggesting that
Wuthering Heights
and
Jane Eyre
are novels ‘for women only,’ are you?”
    “Certainly not! Of course it’s the
writing
that