She was up ahead, just coming out of her Home Room. She had her coat on, but unbuttoned. She was about the last one to leave tonight, Ponce supposed, quivering slightly, watching her. She would go down the stairs, to her left, she probably wouldn’t even see Ponce, as a matter of fact. He could be lucky. His heart pounded hard, but in a different way now, he was very embarrassed, he just didn't want her to see him. Though he loved her. Madly. So madly in love with her. Her heels tapped in the hallway. His quivering increased. He wished he could just sink through the floor. Disappear. Anywhere. She didn’t turn to the left, she turned right, surprisingly enough, morti-fyingly enough, and headed toward him. There wasn’t any way in the world now he could avoid her—unless he took a fast dive into that lavatory, lightning fast, no less. Like ihe quarterback would have to dive on that new “I” play—
“Why, Ponce! Hello!” He heard her fabulous voice, and he halted, not that he had ever started, and nearly fell over, wishing suddenly and powerfully that he could fall into her arms, marvelously, and be swallowed up by her, completely. She approached him.
“Ponce, how are you?” She said to him, coming up to him, a fragrance like roses hitting him, all the roses in all the rose gardens of the world, plus lilacs, at least. “Oh, Ponce, you sweet kid, honestly—” She said to him, near him, in fact before him, as he stood there, paralyzed, yet throbbing. Where was his voice? He fought for it.
“H-h-H-H-Hello, Miss S-S-Smith,” He said, at last.
“What a terrible thing, oh you poor kid, I’ve been so worried about you—” She said.
“I’m—I-I-I-I’m—oooo—O.K.—Miss—Smith,” he told her.
“Are you sure? Are you alright? Oh, how awful! They sent you home, didn’t they? Did you come back? Are you alright?”
“I-I-I—think—” He faltered.
She examined him, she laid a royal hand on him.
“You poor kid,” She said, softly, passing her hand fantastically tenderly over his face, leaving roses on it, as he staggered, “Oh you poor kid, you dear kid, what a terrible thing, you poor kid, my heart goes out to you,” She murmured, looking at him.
“G-G-G Going—H-H-H-Home—Miss—S-S-S-Smith—?” He managed.
“I was just leaving, yes,” she answered, “What about you, Ponce? What are you doing here? May I ask?” She added, so softly. What held him up?
Ponce stammered, “Talking—with Tiger—Mr. McDrew—” He said.
“Mr. McDrew?” She asked him, “Is he still here, Ponce?” She also asked him, “I’m sure he helped you, he’s a wonderful person, isn’t he?”
“S-S-S-S—He—sure is—Miss—Smith—”
She kept her warm eyes on him, he was aware only of them. Where was the rest of the world? “Feel better?” She asked.
“Sure do—M-M-M-Miss—Smith,” he told her.
“I’m glad you do. That was a terrible shock, wasu’t it? It’s going to take quite some time for you really to get over it. You don’t know how I’ve been thinking of you,” she said, tenderly.
“R-R-R-Really, Miss Smith?”
“Yes. That’s so.”
“I—” he said, “I-I-I’ve been thinking—a 1-1-lot about you —too—M-M-M-M-Miss Smith—” He halted.
She smiled at him. That beautiful mouth, those lips, those perfect teeth—smiling at him.
“I’m glad, Ponce,” she said.
He stood there. Never again would he move from there. How could he? One day, he would nail a plaque here, when someone finally hauled him away from here. He still felt her magnificently marvelous hand on him, and would, forever, though she had taken it away, of course. He was enveloped by the warmth of her, as they stood there.
“Well—” she murmured, finally, “I’ve got to be running along now, Ponce—” she said.
“O-K-K-K-K—Miss Smith—” He managed.
“Are you going home now?” She inquired.
“Y-Y-Yes—Miss Smith.”
“Well, take care, won’t you, Ponce?” She said.
“You—Y-Y-You—too—I mean—I-I-I will—Miss S-Smith—”
She still stood there, looking at him. He watched with astonished eyes as her hand reached out again for him, and touched him. He closed his eyes.
“You poor kid,” she murmured.
“I'll be—alright—” His voice said.
He opened his eyes.
“Are you reading?” She asked.
“Always—M-M-Miss—Smith—” He said.
“How do you like Paradise Lost?"
“Great—” He said.
“I’d like you to write a theme on it—•”
“For when—M-M-M-Miss Smith?”
“Oh—say next week—alrighty?”
“All—right—у—” He said.
“Are you coming to school tomorrow?”
“I—think so.”
“Well, fine. I hope you do,” she said, “And if you want to talk with me about the theme, don’t be shy, Ponce—please do so.” She paused, tenderly, surveying him, “Do you want to come over to my place to do so?” She asked. “You know where I live, don’t you?” She said. “In fact, Ponce, I would like to talk with you about it.” She stopped.
Ponce stood there.
He felt a tremendous roar, he was blasted off, no doubt of it, he was outside the building now, high above it, soaring. Where was he soaring? He tried to see, he had to—
"Really?" He said, hearing a strange noise, his own voice, no less.
“Yes, really,” she said, as he soared and soared, heading far into space.
“W-W-W-When?” He said, or thought that he said.
“When would you like to?” She said.
“T-T-Tonight?” He said.
“Yes, alright,” she said.
“T-T-There’s no-no Practice—It w-w-w-would be f-fine,”
He said.
“That’s fine,” she said.
“I’ll s-s-see," He said, “I’ll t-t-try hard to m-make it,” He
said.
“Alright then. I understand. Come about seven or so, if you can.”
Tiger nodded.
“I couldn't agree more.”
Miss Smith pulled on her cigarette, held the smoke a long while, then blew it out, finally, slowly. She touched her hair. Who had such gorgeous hair? Tiger stared at it
“No practice tonight?” She asked.
“Canceled.”
“Is Saturday’s game canceled?”
“We’re working on it. We’ll know for sure tomorrow. I think it will be,” he answered.
Silence. Their eyes met. And held.
Now, “How’s Hilda?” She asked, softly.
She meant his wife, Looby Loo, of course. He shrugged, looked to the left a moment, the right, then back at her.
“Same as ever,” he told her.
“Poor old Tiger,” she said, placing her smooth, white hand on the desk, near him. He looked at it.
“What does it matter?” He told her, placing his hand on hers, “You make up for it,” he told her, "You honey—”
“Do I?” She queried.
“And how you do,” He told her, moving his hand over her wrist now, and upward, inside her arm, traveling, slowly, "But do you"
“I’m glad I do—”
“You do, you know it—”
"Poor Tiger—”
“Lock the door. Want to?” He murmured.
“Of course I want to,” She murmured.
“O.K.,” he told her, caressing her arm, his fingers lingering inside her elbow, stroking gently there, it was so warm.
“O.K.,” she whispered, blowing him a little kiss, and some smoke also, and he loved both. She rose and walked to the door. She set the lock. He was observing her. That gorgeous form. What a form. Who else had such a warm form?
She turned, faced him, walked to him. She put out the cigarette.
She sat on the desk, near him. She looked at him.
“How did you ever marry her?” She murmured to him.
“Don’t ask me. God, don’t ever ask me—O.K.? Honey?”
She leaned toward him, she placed her arms around his neck.