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"Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever read?" Trisha said, sighing. "I hope someday someone very rich falls in love with me and has my name engraved in marble."

"Someone will," I said and she smiled.

"Thank you. It's very nice of you to say that. I'm so glad you're here." She threaded her arm through mine to walk me through the entrance.

I looked up at the circular entrance to the school. This close, it looked even more intimidating than I had imagined. In those hallowed halls, really gifted people practiced and developed their talents. Many

of its graduates were famous. These teachers saw the best and finest. Surely someone like me would stand out like an unripe tomato in a basket of ripe ones. I had only just learned how to play the piano and I had never had formal voice lessons. And after all, Grandmother Cutler had gotten me in without an audition. No one had said I had enough talent to enroll. My head bowed with the panic I felt.

"What's the matter?" Trisha asked. "Are you tired?"

"No. I . . . maybe we should wait until tomorrow," I said, pausing in the driveway.

"You're not afraid of this place, are you?" she asked quickly. By the way she asked, I suspected she had had similar feelings on first arriving. "Come on," she added, urging me forward. "Everyone is very friendly here and everyone understands what it means to be a performer. Stop worrying."

Once again, she was pulling me along. I was beginning to feel like a puppy on a leash. We hurried up the driveway to the front entrance. A tall, slim man in a light blue sports jacket and matching slacks was just coming out. He had silvery gray hair and a silvery gray mustache which contrasted sharply with his cerulean eyes and rust complexion.

"Trisha?" he said as if he couldn't believe it was she.

"Hello, Mr. Van Dan. This is Dawn Cutler, a new student who just arrived. I'm showing her around."

"Oh, yes," he said, gazing at me from head to foot.

"You're going to be in my class."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow." He turned toward Trisha, his eyes twinkling. "Subtract fifty percent from whatever Trisha tells you, Dawn. She has a propensity for hyperbole," he added and continued on.

"What did he say?" I asked, grimacing.

"I tend to exaggerate," she said and giggled. "He's very nice and very funny in class. See," she said, "I told you people are friendly here."

When we entered the school, we were greeted by an enormous mural in the lobby. It ran up the wall almost from the floor to the ceiling. It was a portrait of Sarah Bernhardt with her left hand up as if she were reaching for something and her eyes tilted toward the heavens.

"This way," Trisha said and we went off to the right over the light brown marble floors. Late afternoon sunlight was filtered through the high, stained-glass windows, painting a rainbow of colors over the walls. Trisha led me down a long corridor. We stopped in a smaller lobby in front of two sets of double doors. On a large bulletin board was a poster advertising an upcoming production of Chekhov's The Sea Gull.

"This is the amphitheater," Trisha explained and opened one set of doors softly. She gestured for me to get closer, and I peered in over her shoulder.

It was a large auditorium with seats in a semicircle facing a stage. At the moment there were a half dozen people on the stage rehearsing a scene. Trisha pressed her right forefinger up against her lips and indicated I should follow her down the aisle. About midway to the stage, she stopped and directed me to sit beside her. For a few moments we listened as the young director explained where he wanted one of the actors to stand during the scene. Trisha leaned over to whisper in my ear.

"That boy all the way on the right is Graham. Isn't he dreamy?"

He was a tall, blond-haired boy with chiseled facial features. His hair lay lazily over his forehead and he leaned back against a wall as if he were totally uninterested in whatever was going on.

"Yes," I said.

After a moment she urged me to get up and we retreated up the aisle.

"Come on," she said as soon as she closed the doors behind us. "I'll show you the classrooms and the music suites and the dance rehearsal room."

Although our tour was done with lightning speed, I felt more secure about attending the classes the next day. Now I knew where most everything was. When Trisha saw what time it was, she hurried us out through a side exit and took me on a shortcut over the grounds to what was the delivery entrance for the school. We burst out on the sidewalk and rushed to the corner. All we had to do was go down another block and we were at the apartment building.

The moment we entered, Agnes Morris popped out of the sitting room as if she had been hovering at the door.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, her hands on her hips.

"Dawn and I went to George's Luncheonette to have ice cream sodas and then I took her to the school to show her around," Trisha said. "Why?"