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She turned and lifted her arms. "Culture is no fun."

There was nothing shy about Sarah Burnside, I quickly decided. When I introduced her to people, she began to talk to them as if she had known them for years and years, and she didn't have the slightest inhibition about sharing her opinions about things Or offering her opinions about what they were wearing. She had her own words for some things, too, especially things that displeased or annoyed her. If it was a minor annoyance, she called it Spewch; if it was something absolutely horrible to her, she labeled it Pewch. Our food was merely spewch, but many of Our rules fell into the category of pewch.

"We should organize a protest committee and demand a meeting with Herr Director, Professor Greenleaf," she declared.

When Courtney Bryer told her we weren't here long enough for any of it to matter, Sarah responded with a vehement declaration that "Even an hour in a totalitarian state is too long! Just because we're studying music, it doesn't mean we have to give up basic human rights."

Most everyone simply stared at her; then when she wasn't looking, wagged their heads at me in sympathy. After all, she was my roommate,

As it turned out. Sarah talked about rebellion, but did nothing to foster it. She was going in four different directions at the same time most of the time, but when she finally sat and began to take her lessons and play, she turned out to be very talented and bright. Our teachers actually enjoyed her. She was capable of saying outrageous things, raising eyebrows and cracking serious faces into soft smiles, but as soon as the mouthpiece reached her lips, it all went away and beautiful music flowed.

She was immediately put into the senior orchestra and was gobbled up by the jazz ensemble. Although she was truly a character, she became popular and loved to move about the cafeteria bursting in on one clique or another to offer her flagrant opinions about anything and everything. Sometimes. I had the feeling she liked to shock or enrage other students just for the fun of it.

Our room quickly began to resemble a splitscreen television picture. My side was neat, clean, organized. Hers had drawers half open with clothes spilling over the edges, clothes on chairs or even the floor: her bed was usually unmade and something was always hanging on her closet door, usually a slip or a blouse. Mrs. Bernard, our dorm headmistress, came by often and expressed her displeasure. Sarah would nod her head as if she was really paying attention and concerned, criticizing herself even more harshly, but the moment Mrs. Bernard stepped out, she exclaimed a loud "Pewch" and returned to her sloppy ways.

Her mother had provided her with some acceptable skirts and blouses: however she only had large-heeled and large-soled shoes that made her look comical walking from the dorm to classes or the auditorium. She looked like she was on stilts. I suppose everyone accepted it because it gave her another few inches of height.

She liked to talk herself to sleep every night, so I learned a great deal about her family whether I wanted to or not. I learned that her mother had given birth to her and that her parents had lived together with her for nearly three years before they actually married.

"If they hadn't, they wouldn't have had any significant legal expenses when they divorced," she told me. I'm never going to get married. I'm going to live with four or five different men, in succession of course, and then live alone in Paris or London."

"You don't want to have a family?" I asked her.

"I might have a family or I might not, but if I do. I won't give up my independence. It's very important to have your independence." she lectured. "Don't become a Mrs. Somebody and lose yourself in your husband. We've been liberated from all that. Men have to accept us as equals or not at all."

"I think you can be equals and still have a family," I told her. "And I don't think you have to give up your identity to be a mother and a wife."

She was silent. I had the feeling that she would rather not speak than say anything that might offend ine. I also felt that she often sounded like someone who didn't really and truly believe in what she was saying. In fact, I thought that sometimes she wanted to believe the exact opposite.

"Are you still a virgin?" she followed that night,

"What? Yes," I said quickly.

"A lot of girls these days want to be virgins until they actually marry." she said sounding like it was a wild, new idea. "And not just because of al

l the sexually transmitted diseases. They just think it's important. Is that why you're a virgin?"

"I suppose it is," I said. "I think there are some things that should be kept sacred or special."

She was silent again. I was afraid to ask her if she was a virgin, but she offered the answer.

"My mother keeps telling me to be sure, Im careful, to be sure, I'm careful about not getting pregnant or sick, as if that's the only thing that matters,"

"It is important," I said.

"Pewtch," she said and surprised me by adding, "The only thing that matters is that you really care for the person you're with, that you want to do it with him more than anyone else, ever. That's all that's mattered to me whenever I've done it."

"But you said you're going to have five love affairs."

"So? You can love more than one person like that, can't you?"

"I don't know," I said, "No," I concluded after another moment.

"I don't think so. My parents were meant for each other and no one else. I believe in soul mates."

She was silent for a long moment again. Then she turned to me and stared so long and hard. I had to ask. "What?"

"You have to be especially lucky to have only one love forever and ever," she declared. "I don't feel I am or will be. I guess I'm more like my mother than I care to admit."