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I stared into his eyes, mesmerized. It was as if my heart had stopped. I didn't dare to breathe for fear I would shatter the fragile moment. His smile came slowly, softly and then he sat back again.

"Tonight," he declared, "there is a recital at the Museum of Modern Art, and afterward, there is a wine and cheese reception. Of course, I am one of the honored guests and now I would like you to be one as well."

"Me?"

"Yes. Be at the museum at eight o'clock. I'm sure you know how to dress. Don't look so surprised," he said, smiling. "In Europe it is très chic for a teacher to invite one of his prize students to a recital. Anyway, I want you to hear these people sing. There are things to learn. Each moment of our day must be a positive and worthwhile moment. From this moment on," he said, "don't let any opportunity slip through your fingers."

He looked at his watch and then reached for his wallet.

"I have to be going. Errands to do before I can be free to enjoy. I'm glad we had this informal chat and got to know each other a little better and I look forward to seeing you tonight. You will be there?"

"Oh, yes," I said quickly. My mind raced along as I considered my wardrobe and what would be proper attire. Wait until Trisha found out, I thought.

Michael stood up and we left the café. On the sidewalk outside, we parted. I watched him hail a cab. He waved just before he got in and then he was gone.

I stood there, my thoughts whirling around in my head making me so dizzy I had to lean against a street light pole and catch my breath. Was I dreaming? Finally, I started across the street, feeling as if I were walking on air. I had to look down to be sure my feet were touching the ground. I didn't even realize where I was until I found myself standing in front of the apartment house. Then I rushed up the stairs and through the door. I raced up the stairway, and burst in on Trisha who looked up from her magazine.

"You will never believe," I said with a gasp, "where I am going tonight and who asked me to go."

Then I proceeded to tell her everything in a single breath.

My stomach churned so with anticipation, I couldn't eat a thing for dinner. The food just lay there on the plate staring up at me. I picked away at what I could when Mrs. Liddy looked in because I didn't want her to think I didn't like what she had made. I had washed my hair and set it in large rollers. Agnes and Mrs. Liddy knew I was going to the recital and that Michael Sutton had invited me.

Before dinner Trisha and I had gone through my wardrobe trying to decide what was appropriate to wear to an evening recital. Most everything was too informal, we thought. Finally, we settled on my sleeveless black taffeta with the V neckline. It had a wide, black bow tie belt at the waist and a full skirt that reached between my knees and ankles.

After dinner when I went up to dress, Trisha stuck her hand into her top dresser drawer to produce her padded bra. She dangled it before me.

"Oh, no," I said, eyeing it with temptation. "I couldn't wear that."

"Of course you could. You want to look older and enhance what you already have developed, don't you? You're going to be among grown women; you can't look like a child," she emphasized. "The bodice of your dress requires it," she concluded. "Just do it," she snapped when I still hesitated.

I took it from her slowly and put it on. When I slipped into the dress and she zipped up the back for me, my image in the mirror took me by surprise. It wasn't only the padded bra. There had been subtle, but significant changes in my looks since my mother and I had gone shopping in Virginia a little over a year ago. I had been sensitive to the changes in Jimmy, but somehow not to the changes in myself.

Just as with him, my face had lost its childhood plumpness in the cheeks. I saw a more mature glint in my eyes and found that whenever I looked at anything intently now, I tended to raise my right eyebrow like a question mark. My neck looked softer, the curve into my shoulders more graceful and smooth, and my cleavage deeper with the shadow at the bottom, suggesting and promising. Even Trisha was surprised.

"You look so much older!" she exclaimed. "Here," she cried, rushing to her jewelry box and producing a gold necklace that sparkled brightly with tiny diamonds. "Wear this."

"Oh, I couldn't, Trisha. What if I lost it? I know it was a special gift to you from your father."

"All his gifts to me are special," she shrugged. "Don't worry, you won't lose it and you need something around your neck with that deep neckline. Or should I say, 'plunging neckline'?" she teased.

"I look like a fool, just like someone trying to appear ages older, don't I?"

"Absolutely not," she insisted. "I'm just kidding. Don't you dare change into something else, Dawn. Now march yourself right down those stairs and call for a cab this instant before you lose your nerve. Go on," she insisted.

Agnes was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairway. For a moment I thought she was going to insist I turn around and change into something that would make me look far less enticing and more my age. But suddenly, her dark brown eyes brightened and she brought her hands to the base of her throat.

"For a moment," she said, her voice nearly breathless, "I thought I had fallen through time and was looking at myself coming down that stairway in a melodrama I starred in when I was only four or five years older than you." She sighed and shook her head.

"I have to call for a taxi," I explained and started toward the sitting room. Lost in one of her memories, Agnes could go on for hours.

"Yes, but wait right here afterward," she ordered and rushed off. She returned with a mother-of-pearl white shawl and draped it over my shoulders. "Now," she said, standing back, "you look fully dressed and elegant and like one of my girls."

My heart was racing so quickly when I walked out and down the stairs to get into my cab that I thought I just might fall in a faint and have to be carried off to a hospital. I felt myself trembling after I got into the taxi. For a moment I couldn't remember where I was going.

"Which museum?" the cab driver asked again.

"The Museum . . . of Modern Art," I gasped.