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the CATCH office, I tell the officer I'd know if it were him. She says they'll check it out anyway.

    I ask what I can do in the meantime.

    "Change your hair, your address," she says. "Try not be alone." "What do you mean, my address?"
    "Move."

    "All because of him ?" I say. I tell her I can barely afford what I'm paying now, that it was the cheapest room I could find.

    She sighs; she's heard this before.

    "Let me know if you see him again," she says, and hands me her card. She adds her cell phone number in pen.

    "Thanks," I say, and stick the card on top of my drivers license in my wallet, her name over my picture.

    I get an e-mail from Freddie. She's in England. She's gotten a scholarship to Oxford for the year, to study and row crew. She's a few inches taller than I am, and all muscle, no stomach. Our parents have told her something's happened.

    In my reply, I downplay things for her. "It only lasted a minute and I knew he was bluffing," I type. I turn to other matters: "I can't wait to see you at Christmas. Do you want to go in on a gift for Mom and Dad together? If so, what?"

    When my father left home, I played along with my mother by lying to Freddie, saying that he was just away on business. Sometimes I'd pretend he'd called while she was out. "You just missed him!" I'd say. "Now he's in a big meeting."

    When my father was gone, I'd sleep in my mothers bed. It seems strange now—a teenager sleeping in her mothers bed every night, hoping it would make her feel less alone. I'd watch my mother go through her nightly rituals: applying her hand cream, putting aside her book, checking the alarm clock twice. When I was certain she was asleep, I'd turn off the light.

    A friend of mine calls and asks if he can take me out, get my mind off things. He's from San Diego and in ROTC. He has six brothers, all of whom were ROTC too.

    "I'll protect you," he says. "Okay," I say.
    The ROTC boy usually wears a hockey jersey. His favorite one says "99"—Wayne Gretzky's number, he's explained. But when we meet at the subway station, by the last car, he's wearing a tightish white T-shirt under an unbuttoned peacoat. No sweater. His black hair has been cut shorter since I last saw him. We go to a club to dance.

    The club has a live singer, a woman wearing a bra with black leather fringes hanging down. They tickle against her ample brown belly.

    The ROTC boy gets me a drink and dances close to me and not too badly. His nose is piggish, and his eyes are cactus green and thirsty.

    "I dig that woman's belly," he says. "I know, I like it too."
    "You what?"

    "I like her belly," I yell.

    "So do I," he says. He turns back toward me and I step toward him and we dance. We dance in tribute to the woman's protruding belly.

    Another band comes on and a cage slowly descends from the ceiling. Inside is a woman stripping.

    We stop dancing and stand at the back of the room and sip our drinks through red straws that are so narrow he's using four.

    "You know what?" he says to me. He looks angry, his pig nose pigging up.

    "What?" It's hot in here. He's soaked through his T-shirt. I'm wearing a sweater and the skin on my face is pulsing like it's sunburned.

    "If I ever see that guy who did that to you …"

    "Yeah?" I say, and wait. I'm actually balancing on my tiptoes.

    "I'll kill him."

    "With what?" I say, suddenly enthralled, thrilled, and in love. "With my bare hands."
    "Your bare hands?" I ask. I come down off my toes, deflated, and look at his hands. "Would that really work?"

    "Sure," he says. "Why not?"

    "You're right, why not?" I say, doubtful and depressed. I excuse myself to go to the rest room.

    . . .

    We stay there until three, watching the girl in the cage dance and wishing for the woman with the belly to come back onstage. It's still so hot and we drink and drink to cool ourselves. Here, they make you pay for bottled water—you can't even get tap water—so we drink vodka.

    Outside the club, in the welcome cold, the