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"What is it, Arthur?" I asked. He looked like he would stand there forever.

"I thought you might want to play checkers."

"Checkers?"

He tapped the box.

"Oh."

"You don't have to," he added quickly, his face already registering disappointment, his eyes glum, his mouth drooped. He started to turn away.

"Oh, no. I'd like to," I said, not sure whether I was doing it for him or for me. He brightened immediately and we set the checkerboard up on my desk.

I was positive he was letting me win most of the time because I saw moves he should have easily made, but avoided because it would mean the game would end much faster.

"I'm working hard on your poem," he told me. "Even though I want it to be something special, it won't be much longer now."

"I'm looking forward to it, Arthur. Have you spoken with your parents about your playing the oboe?"

"A dozen dines since you and I talked about it," he replied, "and always with the same result. Wait and see. Just practice. They don't want to hear anything but what they want to hear," he said. "You know I'm supposed to play a large solo part during Performance Weekend this year."

Once a year in the spring, the seniors at Bernhardt put on an exhibition of their talents during what was known as Performance Weekend. Their parents and families arrived and there were two nights of variety. Real New York critics were invited as well as producers and directors and many often attended.

"I'm sure you'll do better than you expect, Arthur," I said.

"I'll be dreadful and you know it," he said firmly. "I'm dreadful now and I've been at it forever; there's no reason to expect any changes. I told my parents and begged them to ask that I be excused from the weekend, but they were outraged that I would even suggest such a thing."

"What do your teachers say?"

"I told you," he reminded me, "they're intimidated by my parents. They aren't going to prevent me from performing. I'll be a laughingstock. Anyone who has any sense of music will see immediately just how inferior I am." He sighed and bowed his head into his cradling hands. Then he glanced upward, tears shining in his eyes. "Everyone will laugh at me."

He stared at me with those wet, beady eyes a moment.

"Dawn," he said softly, "you know music; it's in your blood and you'

ve heard me play. I know. I've seen you walk past the music suite while I was practicing and you've heard me here. I don't know anyone who is as honest and as thoughtful as you are," he added with such sincerity it made me blush. "Please don't lie to me. What do you really and truly think of my oboe playing?"

I took a deep breath. It was usually easier to lie to people than to tell the truth about them, even though they knew you were lying. My sister Clara Sue was like that. She knew she was overweight and selfish and when I told her the truth about herself, she hated me even more for it. Many people lived in illusion and fantasy and didn't want anyone to disturb their world of comfortable lies.

I thought about Madame Steichen and how she was so dedicated and devoted to her music that she would never pretend anyone was good if he or she wasn't. Her honesty was what made her stand above so many others even though that honesty often made her seem very cruel.

And here was Arthur Garwood, who wanted to hear the truth about himself, who was depending on me to tell it to him. If anything, he needed an ally in his battle to face reality.

"You're right, Arthur," I admitted. "You don't play exceptionally well. I could never see you as a professional musician, no matter how much influence your parents have.

"But it's all right to do things to please them for a while," I added quickly. "Surely in time they will realize it too, if they are as good as everyone says they are and . . ."

"No!" he snapped, pounding the checkerboard so hard with the palm of his hand he made all the checkers dance out of their squares. "They are blind when it comes to me. If I fail, they fail, and they can't stand failure."

"But you can do other worthwhile things. Maybe you will be a great writer. Maybe you . . ."

"They won't listen!" His eyes filled with tears. He shook his head and looked down. When he took a deep breath, his narrow shoulders rose and then fell so sharply I thought he would fold up like a suit of clothes that slipped off a hanger. Neither of us said anything for a moment. I was afraid of how he might explode with frustration and anger. One moment he was docile and so soft spoken, he was barely audible; and the next moment he was screaming, his small eyes stretching open, his face red, his thin, wiry body contorted.

"I'm adopted," he confessed as though it were a crime. He spoke through his clenched teeth, telling me something I had suspected from the first day I had set eyes on his parents and saw how different they looked from him. "But they don't want anyone to know it. It's a secret we've kept all my life."

He lifted his head to gaze at me and choked off his sobs and swallowed them.

"You're the only person I have ever told," he said.