This is one of them: this sitting in front of the glass grid again, sitting gnawing at my Apple again—it’s a mystery; indeed. It’s not at all a sensible place for a girl in my position; I shouldn’t even be back in Cambridge yet; it’s only Monday and, well. Certainly I acted like I needed more time … Yet I’ve made a decision, don’t you know. My baby, I’ve come round to something; I’ve come round and round and round . Kit was reeling himself. His ears and face burned, but he had to blink away splatters of cold rain. The wet streamed out of his hair. As soon as he’d come in the kitchen he’d discovered the printout, unseparated pages with feeder-strips still attached, a neat white stack in the middle of the curling pink memos that still littered the breakfast table. He’d found it and stormed first around the apartment, then back out onto the sidewalks. He’d jogged for blocks in either direction, over frost-buckled brick under freezing rain. In high school, you know (do you know about high school, wherever you are?), the sweet sixteens scribble in their diaries, scribble scribble about the season’s infatuations—and then they show off what they’ve scribbled; they reveal their heart’s secrets (o, sigh) to whoever they think might whisper them, eventually, to the person they actually want to know … So I’ve heard, at least, my baby; I never went in for that sort of thing, playing Telephone, all that silliness; in my case the stakes were much too serious for that, in high school, much too serious.
