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out to his car, got in, and drove through the elm-shadowed streets in the gathering dusk. There was a great lump of self-pity in his throat. It was mixed with anger at himself, at Joyce, at his mother--meaningless anger at them--and a very reasonable anger at the sequence of events.
    He drove down Howard Street, braking sharply at the traffic lights, and racing the engine to leap forward as they changed. She must be somewhere downtown. Everything was on Front Street--everything and everybody.
    He turned at the corner of Howard and Front. The traffic was heavy. It was Friday evening and the shops were open and people were downtown for the movies. He had to wheel slowly through the jam. Just as he reached Park Avenue, he saw Joyce standing on the curb about to cross. Her slender figure drew his eye like a magnet, and be felt a wave of affection for her. He called to her--though he was on the other side of the street. "Joy! Joy!" She turned, looking about without spotting him. Then she said something to the man standing beside her. He nodded his head and smiled. Together they started across the street, the man--an older man--taking her arm.
    "Joy!" Tony screamed again, but the wild honking of blocked cars behind him drowned his voice. Desperately he tried to pull the car close to the curb and get out, but a traffic policeman blew his whistle and the cars behind him honked louder.
    He started up, perforce, and drove down the block, at last finding an opening in which he parked. Then he ran along Front Street, panting with anger and disappointment and jealousy. Hs ran all the way along Front as far as Howard, but there was no sign of Joyce.
    4 ~ Frustration
    For long moments after Tony had slammed the receiver on the hook, Joyce stood with the earpiece still dangling from her hand. It had been so important to tell him, so necessary, so vital to share her good news with someone who loved her. It would have been like going to her father--who was not around to be gone to, who was never around to be gone to. She replaced the telephone instrument. She felt unduly disturbed without knowing exactly why. Yet she had some inkling of it; knew she was terribly frustrated at not having reached Tony, talked to him, rejoiced at the news with him.
    The whole purpose of getting the job was defeated. What did it mean if there was no one to understand its importance, no one to take pride in her? But Tony hadn't even allowed her to tell him the good news, hadn't even allowed her to say there was good news. He acted as though he owned her--as though she must always do his bidding, and if he told her to meet him after school then that was what she had to do--and what right had he to demand that?
    And then she thought: But I did promise to meet him, and he does love me. Doesn't he? He's supposed to love me. That's what giving yourself to a man means, isn't it? When you sleep with him you love him, don't you? And that makes him love you, too? Doesn't it?
    There had to be someone to love you--really love you, want you, possess you, the way your parents were supposed to. And sex was just love, wasn't it? It was love carried to the nth degree. Then she thought about last night, trying to understand herself, trying to get some kind of grip on the fleeting impressions which had shot through her mind, leaving quickly fading traces like fast-falling stars. She thought about the strength with which Tony had carried her to the car, the tenderness of his embrace yet the impassioned need implicit in it--a need no less urgent than her own--the terrible, terrible need to be cherished, to be protected within a warm shield of affection.
    You couldn't let Tony misunderstand about this afternoon. You had to put him straight, and then he would come and hold you in his arms and understand and kiss you and tell you how wonderful you were.
    She pressed down on the hook of the phone, heard the coin collected, inserted another and dialed Tony's number. There was a busy