In One Person

more philosophical. “Look at it this way, Nymph—there’s no such thing as a working actor with a restricted vocabulary. But it’s a positive discovery, to be made aware of your limitations at such a young age,” Kittredge assured me. “How fortuitous, really—now you know you can never be an actor.”
    “You mean, it’s not a career choice,” I said, as Miss Frost had once declared to me—when I’d first told her that I wanted to be a writer.
    “I should say not, Nymph—not if you want to give yourself a fighting chance.”
    “Oh.”
    “And you might be wise, Nymph, to clarify another choice—I mean, before you get to the career part,” Kittredge said. I said nothing; I just waited. I knew Kittredge well enough to know when he was setting me up. “There’s the matter of your sexual proclivities,” Kittredge continued.
    “My sexual proclivities are crystal-clear,” I told him—a little surprised at myself, because I was acting and there wasn’t a hint of a pronunciation problem.
    “I don’t know, Nymph,” Kittredge said, with that deliberate or involuntary flutter in the broad muscles of his wrestler’s neck. “In the area of sexual proclivities, you look like a work-in-progress to me.”
    “ O H, IT’S
YOU !” Miss Frost said cheerfully, when she saw me; she sounded surprised. “I thought it was your friend. He was here—he just left. I thought it was him, coming back.”
    “Who?” I asked her. (I had Kittredge on my mind, of course—not exactly a friend.)
    “Tom,” Miss Frost said. “Tom was just here. I’m never sure why he comes. He’s always asking about a book he says he can’t find at the academy library, but I know perfectly well the school has it. Anyway, I never have what he’s looking for. Maybe he comes here looking for you.”
    “Tom who?” I asked her. I didn’t think I knew a Tom.
    “Atkins—isn’t that his name?” Miss Frost asked. “I know him as Tom.”
    “I know him as Atkins,” I said.
    “Oh, William, I wonder how long the last-name culture of that awful school will persist!” Miss Frost said.
    “Shouldn’t we be whispering?” I whispered.
    After all, we were in a library. I was puzzled by how loudly Miss Frost spoke, but I was also excited to hear her say that Favorite River Academy was an “awful school”; I secretly thought so, but out of loyalty to Richard Abbott and Uncle Bob, faculty brat that I was, I would never have
said
so.
    “There’s no one else here, William,” Miss Frost whispered to me. “We can speak as loudly as we want.”
    “Oh.”
    “You’ve come to
write
, I suppose,” Miss Frost loudly said.
    “No, I need your advice about what I should read,” I told her.
    “Is the subject still crushes on the wrong people, William?”
    “
Very
wrong,” I whispered.
    She leaned over, to be closer to me; she was still so much taller than I was, she made me feel that I hadn’t grown. “We can whisper about this, if you want to,” she whispered.
    “Do you know Jacques Kittredge?” I asked her.
    “Everyone knows Kittredge,” Miss Frost said neutrally; I couldn’t tell what she thought about him.
    “I have a crush on Kittredge, but I’m trying not to,” I told her. “Is there a novel about that?”
    Miss Frost put both her hands on my shoulders. I knew she could feel me shaking. “Oh, William—there are worse things, you know,” she said. “Yes, I have the very novel you should read,” she whispered.
    “I know why Atkins comes here,” I blurted out. “He’s not looking for me—he probably has a crush on you!”
    “Why would he?” Miss Frost asked me.
    “Why
wouldn’t
he? Why wouldn’t
any
boy have a crush on you?” I asked her.
    “Well, no one’s had a crush on me for a while,” she said. “But it’s very flattering—it’s so sweet of you to say so, William.”
    “I have a crush on you, too,” I told her. “I always have, and it’s stronger than the crush I have on Kittredge.”
    “My dear boy, you
are
so very wrong!” Miss Frost declared. “Didn’t I tell you there were worse things than having a crush on Jacques Kittredge? Listen to me, William: Having a crush on Kittredge is
safer
!”
    “How can Kittredge be safer than you?” I cried. I could feel that I was starting to shake again; this time, when she put her big hands on my shoulders, Miss Frost hugged me to her broad chest. I began to sob, uncontrollably.
    I hated myself for crying, but I couldn’t stop. Dr. Harlow had