In One Person

would carry their gear from the buses to the new gym, where the lockers and the showers were. If the movie was still playing, some of the jocks would stay in the gym to see the end.
    But they were showing a Western on this Saturday night; only morons watched the end of a Western without seeing the beginning of the movie—the endings were all the same. (There would be a shoot-out, a predictable comeuppance.) Elaine and I had been betting on whether or not Kittredge would stay in the gym to see the end of the Western—that is, if the wrestling-team bus returned before the movie was over.
    “Kittredge isn’t stupid,” Elaine had said. “He won’t hang around the gym to watch the final fifteen minutes of a horse opera.” (Elaine had a low opinion of Westerns, which she called “horse operas” only when she was being kind; she more often called them “male propaganda.”)
    “Kittredge is a jock—he’ll hang around the gym with the other jocks,” I had said. “It doesn’t matter what the movie is.”
    The jocks who did not hang around the gym after their road trips didn’t have far to go. The jock dorm, which was called Tilley, was a five-story brick rectangle next to the gym. For whatever mindless reason, the jocks always whooped it up in the quad of dorms when they walked or ran to Tilley from the gym.
    Mr. Hadley and his homely wife, Martha, were out; they’d gone off with Richard and my mom—as they often did together, especially when there was a foreign film playing in Ezra Falls. The marquee at the movie house in Ezra Falls capitalized it when a film had SUBTITLES . This wasn’t just a warning to those local Vermonters who were disinclined (or unable) to read subtitles; this amounted to a caveat of a different kind—namely, that a foreign film was likely to have more sexual content than many Vermonters were used to.
    When my mom and Richard and the Hadleys went to Ezra Falls to see those films with subtitles, Elaine and I weren’t usually invited. Therefore, while our parents were out watching sex movies, Elaine and I were alone—either in her bedroom or in mine, always with the door open.
    Elaine did not attend movie night in the Favorite River gym—not even when they weren’t showing a Western. The atmosphere in the academy gym on movie nights was too all-boys for Elaine’s liking. Faculty daughters of a certain age did not feel comfortable in that young-male environment. There was intentional farting, and far worse signs of loutish behavior. Elaine hypothesized that if they showed the foreign sex films in the academy gym on movie nights, some of the boys would beat off on the basketball court.
    Generally, when we were left alone, Elaine and I preferred her bedroom to mine. The Hadleys’ fifth-floor dormitory apartment had more of an overview of the quad; Richard and my mom’s apartment, and my bedroom, were on the third floor of the dorm. Our dormitory was called Bancroft, and there was a bust of old Bancroft, a long-dead professor emeritus at Favorite River, in the ground-floor common room—the
butt
room, it was called. Bancroft (or at least his bust) was bald, and he had bushy eyebrows.
    I was in the process of acquainting myself with Favorite River Academy’s past. I had encountered photographs of the actual Professor Bancroft. He’d been a young faculty member once, and I’d seen his photos—when he had a full head of hair—in those long-ago yearbooks in the academy library. (You shouldn’t guess about someone’s past; if you don’t see any evidence of it, a person’s past remains unknown to you.)
    When Elaine went with me to the yearbook room, she demonstrated little interest in the older yearbooks that fascinated me. I had barely inched my way through the First World War, but Elaine Hadley had begun with the contemporary yearbooks; she liked looking at the photographs of boys who were still at the school, or who’d only recently graduated. At the rate we were going, Elaine and I estimated that we might arrive at the
same
yearbook in the early years of World War II—or just before that war, maybe.
    “Well,
he’s
good-looking,” Elaine would say, when she fancied this or that boy in the yearbook photos.
    “Show me,” I would say—ever her loyal friend, but not yet giving myself away to her. (We had somewhat similar taste in young men.)
    It’s a wonder I dared to suggest that I’d
wanted
to fool around with Elaine. While this was a well-meaning lie, I may also