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Tears began to stream down my cheeks.

"You're crying," Arthur said. "No one has ever read my poems and cried."

"I'm sorry, Arthur," I said. "It's not because your poems are bad." I handed the notebook back to him. "It's just hard for me to read these things and not think about my own painful times."

He looked astonished for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, his thin lips pressed together with understanding and his protruding Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"You don't like your family, do you?" he asked and before I could reply he added, "I know about the letter of lies your grandmother wrote to Agnes."

"You followed us that night and saw us sneak into her room to read it, didn't you?" I accused him sharply.

"Yes. I know you saw me that night." He looked down at his long-fingered hands folded in his lap and then looked up. "I listened through the door and heard how angry you and Trisha were after reading it. Why does your grandmother dislike you so?"

"It's a long story, Arthur."

"Are you angry about my following and spying on you?" he asked, holding his breath.

"No. But I don't like to be spied on. It makes me feel dirty all over and gives me the creeps."

He nodded, and we were both silent and tense for a long moment.

"I don't like being with my parents," he confessed. "I hate going home and I can't stand going on holiday with them."

"That's terrible, Arthur, a terrible thing to say about your mother and father. Why do you say it?"

"They're always disappointed in me. They want me to be a professional musician. They're determined that that's what I will be. I practice and practice, but I know I'm mediocre. My teachers know it too. The only reason they tolerate me is because of who my parents are."

"Why don't you just tell them how you feel about it?" I asked.

"I have, dozens of times, but they refuse to listen. All they say is keep practicing; it takes practice. But it takes more than practice," he emphasized, his eyes widening. "It takes some talent too. It has to be in you to be something. My parents can't see that they want to make me into something I'm not."

"You're right, Arthur. They're just going to have to understand. Someday, they will, I'm sure."

He shook his head woefully. "I doubt it. I don't even care anymore." He took a deep breath, his narrow shoulders rising and falling. Then he looked at me with those beady eyes again.

"I'm going to write a poem, just for you, Dawn," he said quickly. In fact, it will be about you," he said, "because you're different," he added and then blushed when he realized how emphatically he said it. "I . . . I mean . . . you're very nice." He stood up so quickly that he almost stumbled and fell over.

"That's very kind of you, Arthur," I said. "I look forward to reading it."

He stared at me a moment and then smiled for the first time. A moment later, he was gone.

I shook my head in amazement and wiped the last lingering tear from my cheeks.

The next day I had a wonderful surprise waiting for me when I returned from school. Jimmy had written to tell me he was getting his leave the following week and he would use the time to visit Daddy Longchamp and then swing around to see me. He would be in New York on the weekend and be at our apartment house by twelve o'clock to take me to lunch. I couldn't contain my excitement. Every night I planned the things I would wear. I wondered aloud about changing my hair style. Trisha said I was driving her insane.

"You would think a movie star was coming," she said. "I never got so excited about my boyfriend's visits," she said a little enviously.

"It's been so long since I've seen Jimmy and so much has happened to both of us. Oh Trisha, what if he's met so many pretty girls that he thinks I'm still a child next to them," I moaned.

She laughed and shook her head.

"If he likes you as much as you say he does, nothing can change the feelings you have for each other," Trisha declared.

"I hope you're right."

The next day we went to Saks Fifth Avenue. I was in luck because there were two beautiful models in the cosmetics department lecturing customers on the proper way to apply makeup. I chose a different shade of lipstick and bought some perfume. The model showed me how to put on eye liner and blush and even gave me some advice about my hair. I used some of the money my mother had sent me to buy a new sweater and skirt outfit I had seen in a fashion magazine.

I was on pins and needles from the moment my eyes snapped open the day Jimmy was to arrive. I had been practicing with the makeup just the way the model had shown me, and after I was finished I brushed my hair long and hard till it shone like a fairy princess's. I put on my new sweater and skirt and then I nervously looked in the full-length mirror. I couldn't believe my eyes. Excitement had made my cheeks flush pink and my eyes sparkle, and the soft blue wool molded itself gracefully around my breasts and waist before falling to my knees, like a dancer's skirt. I couldn't help thinking, conceited though it was, that I looked beautiful.