CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY / forget whether the debate topic that year was FederalA id to Education or WorldPeace Through WorldLaw, but it d id not intrigue Amanda Hubert. the strange attraction that emanated from Amanda, if such a thing could be separated from her beauty, her voice, and her economy of conversation, was her maturity. We were all chortling toddlers beside her. She observed and condoned without participating. She would not hurt our simple feelings, but she had other things to occupy her. Amanda was in her final year and the only class I shared with her was Speech. It was a class composed of the very ambitious; future lawyers and aspiring politicians, and the very frivolous. How she came to choose the course I can’t guess, but her behavior there was probably duplicated in all her other classes. She was silent. She did all the written work and when called on for answers would reply softly and succinctly and then revert tcvsilence. She must have been general^ attentive to the procedure but she sat with her hands lying in her lap and her eyes either half closed or directed at her hands. I was afraid to talk to her but I watched her and admired her with all the rest. Her hair changed from day to day, a bun at the back of her neck, a pony tail with a ribbon, or loose and moving around her shoulders. But it always strayed softly, strands and wisps drifting toward her face or curling on her cheeks. The fashion of the period demanded rigidly disciplined hair, thickly sprayed with lacquer. Her hair alone, its black softness, obviously not subdued in the restroom between classes, set her apart from us. Gradually I became aware that her clothing was also peculiar. It took a while because her body imposed itself as an independent image and her face drew the eyes. The seating arrangement in speech caused her back to be turned to me for long periods and allowed me to notice finally that her skirt was big and old, washed a hundred times. Her blouses were faded cotton and she didn’t have many. Her shoes were old loafers, broken at one edge, though later in the year they were replaced and accompanied by her knee socks that graced the incredible length of her slender legs. We all spent large sums on nylon stockings and made sure that our skirt and sweater sets were perfectly complementary if not matching. Amanda took no part in our discussions, though from the moment she entered the class they were all calculated to impress or entertain her. She also gave no speeches. This was odd and contrary to the intentions of the class, but she and Mrs. Olsen had some understanding that was never made public. During the debating season Amanda was assigned to help me with research. This random coupling caused me a pleasant excitement. I went up to her after class and asked her if she could come to supper at my house and work afterwards. Amanda looked troubled. A line appeared between her sooty brows. “ I prefer being at home when my father comes. Would you mind terribly working at my house instead?” I was privately delighted. It was an opportunity to indulge my curiosity. We met after school and walked toward the upper slope of the town where Minor Hanson had chosen an imposing site for his house. Amanda’s long legs accommodated themselves awkwardly to my stumpy stride and her small delicate head inclined solemnly to my chatter. I was afraid to let a silence fall between us and rattled on only half sensibly. “ This is where I live,” she said at last, and we turned up the drive toward the front door. I exclaimed that of course I knew where she lived and gave her an account of the extragance that Minor Hanson had used in building the house. She seemed mildly interested. The door opened on a large empty foyer with an elaborate parquet floor. Then the carpeting began. It was a rich gray carpet, thick but not shaggy. Amanda kicked off her shoes and proceeded across the room. I slid mine off and lined them up on the parquet, anxious not to dirty the carpet. “ Perhaps you know that this is the living room?” “ No, I’ve never been inside.” “ And my room is here,” she pointed to a raised alcove. The carpet continued inside. There was also a pillow, rumpled and coverless, its ticking striped gray and white. Beside the pillow two blankets lay extended as though someone slept there. Four books were stacked neatly at one end of the pillow. This, constituted the entire furniture of the room. “ Do you sleep on the floor?” I asked in some confusion. “ Yes. Would you like to sit down? I have something to do in the kitchen.” “ Could I come? I’d love to see the kitchen.” She nodded as she moved back through the living room. I dropped my box full of file cards beside the stacked books and trotted after her. The second trip through the living room confirmed my initial impression. There was no furniture. The fireplace was laid, paper and kindling ready for the match and the black of the inside brick indicated that it was used often. The huge windows opened on the surrounding woods and were uncurtained. They filled the room with a green brightness. There was not so much as a cobweb in a corner. The carpet in its, endless quiet cushioning was the only ornament in the room. In the kitchen Amanda stood at the green sink and looked calmly out the window while she chewed what seemed to be several large pills. “Why don’t you have any furniture?” I asked. “We haven’t bought any yet.” She was still looking out the window but I was suddenly afraid of having offended her. “ It’s really pleasant and open but my mother wouldn’t put up with it for ten minutes and you’ve been here for a couple of months.” She turned to the refrigerator and took two steaks out of the freezer compartment. “ My mother doesn’t live with us,” she said, as she slit the wrappers and laid the steaks out on the counter to thaw. There was no distress in her voice. She opened a cupboard to replace the pill bottle and I saw a tall stack of paper plates and a tower of paper cups. There was no table in the kitchen but tw o . tall stools were drawn up at one end of the counter. 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