The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. The Storm. "Tom," continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, "don't go home. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again.
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