"You don't know what face I'm making."

"I'm your mother, I don't need to see your face to know

you're crunching your nose. You're going to get horrible

crow's-feet that way."

"Around my nose?"

"And guess what she said?"

I waited while she dangled further information in front of

me like cheese in front of a rat.

"She says he's moved up there. Where you are."

Wel, at least I'd forgotten to keep staring at the note with

hungry eyes. "Harrisburg isn't a foreign country, you know.

It's only forty minutes away." I tried not to sound sharp,

but failed.

My mother didn't care. When "going away" in the

vernacular of the area means you're taking a trip to the

store, forty minutes was an eternity. I was gone. Anyway,

I'd already known about Austin.

Harrisburg was my place. Not his. He didn't belong here.

He should've stayed in Lebanon, where his family lived

and had always lived and would always live. He should've

stayed there where every street could remind him of me

and he could weep bitter, salty tears at the loss.

"Lemoyne," she said as though I hadn't spoken. "His mom said he got a new job with some big heating-and-cooling

company. He's not doing construction with his dad

anymore."

"Good for him."

"I'm sure I could get his number for you."

"I have his number." She was silent to that, because as far as she knew, Austin and I hadn't spoken since the day I'd

walked out of our apartment.

"Fine. Be that way. I just thought you might like to know,

that's al. He's got a good job."

"Depends on what you consider good."

This time, her silence was longer. "Wel. When did you

become such a snob?"

I sighed. "I'm not a snob. I'm just…trying to change things

for myself. That's al."

There realy was no better way to put it, and no way not to

say it without offending her. My mother had everything I

never wanted. Most parents want better for their kids, and

I know my mom wasn't different. But there's always that

sting when you realize what you gave someone hasn't been

enough, even though it was your best.

"I just thought maybe you might…"

"What?"

My mom cleared her throat, a sure sign she was getting

ready to pretend she hadn't done something to piss me off

when she knew she had. "I just thought maybe he'd seen

you. That's al. Been in touch."

"Stalked me, you mean?" Angry again, I paced the length

of my living room and then around my kitchen table, and

finaly into my bedroom, where I stopped so I didn't have

to make another round. "How could you tel him where I

lived, Mom? You know I don't want to see him!"

"You know, Paige, once upon a time you'd have been mad

at me for keeping him from you."

"Once upon a time was a long time ago," I said.

"I'm sorry," my mother said stiffly. "He caled and asked if I could tel him where you were living. I didn't think you'd

mind. You said yourself you had his number."

"Mom…" I sighed and pressed my fingers between my

eyes to keep myself from completely losing my temper. "If

I wanted him to know where I lived I'd have sent him a

card."

card."

"I'm sorry, Paige." She sounded sincere, but I knew her

wel enough to know she was sorry I was angry. Not sorry

because she thought she was wrong. "I have to go. I'm at

the mal."

"Okay. Fine."

"You know," she said suddenly, "it wouldn't kil you to come back home every once in a while. Arty misses you.

Me, too."

I didn't suggest they come up to visit me. Even meeting

halfway would've taken her out of her comfort zone. "I'l

be there tomorrow night, remember? Taking him to the

movies? Power Heroes? "

"You could come on Friday, instead. Spend the

weekend."

She might be able to know what my face looked like

without seeing it, but I doubt she knew about the shudder

crawling over me at the thought.

"I can't. Busy."

She didn't push it. "Okay. Fine."

We were so alike, sometimes it was scary. Which, of

course, was one reason why I'd moved away. We hung

up.

I stripped out of my clothes and headed into the bathroom,

wishing the conversation could be washed away as easily

as soapsuds down the drain. Growing up, I'd lived with my

mom in a series of low-income-housing apartments, rented

trailers and dilapidated houses owned by men who often

seemed more interested in the way my mom cooked and

kept house than anything else about her. There had never

been enough of anything, but especialy hot water for

showers.

In the best of them, I'd been able to sneak a late-night

shower when nobody else needed to use the bathroom,

the washing machine wasn't running and nobody was

cleaning dishes. In the worst of them, I'd sought the

shower as a refuge from the shouting and the slamming

doors, shivering under spray that turned frigid long before I

was ready to get out.

I worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the smalest

I worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the smalest

unit and cheapest maintenance package in one of

Harrisburg's hottest new apartment buildings. Unlimited

hot water might be wasteful, and I didn't care. I took

advantage of it every chance I could.

By the time I came out dressed in a pair of stretched-out

fleece pants and a T-shirt that had been threadbare when I

stole it from Austin's drawer, I felt better. I fixed myself a

sandwich and a glass of cold milk, and I set it on the table.

The note was stil there.

It slid into my hands as though it had been made for my

fingers. The same black letters stroked this paper with the

same black ink, and this time, with nobody to see, I

brought it to my nose and breathed in deep.

Fresh, good ink smels like nothing else in the world. I

closed my eyes and breathed again. The paper stil had a

scent, faintly musky like cologne or perfume I didn't

recognize. I sat to study it. Bold, heavy strokes of the pen

carved the number on the front. No envelope, no name, no

postmark to show where or when it had been mailed. Not

even a fingerprint smudge to give me an idea of the size of

the hand that had written it. The elegant handwriting

showed no gender.

showed no gender.

Without an envelope and stamp it couldn't have come

through the mail, which meant someone had pushed it

through the slot. The wrong slot, again. They'd taken the

time to write the number on the front, but hadn't paid

attention to the number on my mailbox. It wasn't a note for

me, and I should not have read it. If I hadn't, everything

would have been different.

If only I'd done the right thing.

Chapter 12

You wil take your finest paper and your best ink.

You wil write down in explicit detail your most erotic

experience. It may be real or it may be fantasy, but you

are to write it without error in your best handwriting,

without blots or misspelings.

You wil return this essay to me by Thursday.

The note listed the same post-office box as before.

I blinked and read the note again as heat rose in my

cheeks. I closed it and put it aside. I shouldn't have read it.

It wasn't for me.

I opened it again, read over the words in that fluid,

beautiful hand that gave away nothing of its origin, and

something twisted inside me. Finest paper and best ink.

Already I could feel my fingers curving around the pen,

could imagine the words unscroling under the tip as I put

my secret thoughts onto paper. I even knew the paper I

would use. Creamy white, unlined, bordered in gold. It

was the perfect sheet to use for writing something so

was the perfect sheet to use for writing something so

intimate and explicit as had been demanded. I had only

two sheets.

I folded the card carefuly and slipped it back into the

envelope, closing it up as tenderly as I might pul the

blankets higher on a lover next to me in bed when I woke

to a chil. I pushed it away from me on the table, and

folded my hands while I stared at it. The mystery of who

was sending these notes, these lists, had been

overshadowed by the more intriguing enigma of why.

I got up from the table and puled a glass of water from the

tap, but even though I drank it back in a few quick gulps,

more the way a practiced drinker wil take whiskey than

water, it didn't cool the heat rising in my throat to my

cheeks. I turned, my back to the counter, and leaned. The

note sat on my table. Not accusing.

Inviting.

In a long, long list of sexual experiences, what would I

consider my most erotic? Not the first time I ever sucked a

guy off, or the first time I came from someone's else's

hand. Not the first time I ever fucked, either. Al of those

had been memorable. I'd had a lot of sex, a lot of it good.

had been memorable. I'd had a lot of sex, a lot of it good.

Quite a bit bad. I had a long list of experiences I could

have written, but what was the one worthy of my finest