“Well, it could’ve been worse. I twisted my knee, but it’s not too bad.”

“I’m so sorry. I really am. And I’m so grateful.”

“Hey!” said Hoyt. His face brightened. “Come meet a couple of the guys.”

Another yawp of laughter, convulsive this time, and mock-cheering. Charlotte looked up at Hoyt quizzically.

“That’s just a bunch of guys playing Beirut.”

“Beirut?”

With great relish he described the game and the Pantagruelian beer-drinking it involved. “We can go watch if you want to, but first come meet a few guys.”

Limping, Hoyt led her toward a room that opened off the entry gallery. As they neared it, she could see flares of TV colors within, followed by a collective groan and some guy saying, “Ho-lee shit! Mo-ther-fucker-er!” As they reached the doorway, Hoyt put an arm around her shoulder. Charlotte considered that a bit forward, but she was immediately distracted by the sight of six, eight—how many?—guys sprawled on the leather furniture, their faces blanched by a flare of white from a football jersey that filled the screen of a TV set on the wall.

“Gentlemen!” said Hoyt in an arch way, as if to admonish them to clean up their language, “I want you to say hello to, uh, uhh, uhhh, my friend”—he gave her a quick glance, as if to remind himself who she was—“uh, Charlotte.”

Ironic applause and attaboys. They were all staring at her with big grins on their faces. Charlotte knew she must have looked bewildered, because a guy in khakis and a white T-shirt that showed off his muscles said to her in a kind way, “We’re laughing at Hoyt. He has trouble remembering names.”

More laughter.

“Come on, you guys,” said Hoyt. “Charlotte doesn’t want to see a bunch of assholes give a brother shit.”

Groans and laughter.

Charlotte felt Hoyt give her shoulders a squeeze. It all came back…his constant touching that night, but she had too many conflicting emotions to make an issue of it. She also felt she was at the center of a stage.

“Just pretend they’re gentlemen,” said Hoyt. “Charlotte, this is Vance.”

“Hi,” said a slim, handsome guy with an open, friendly face and tousled blond hair, sitting on the arm of a fat leather-upholstered easy chair, his arms around his knees.

“I think we met,” said Charlotte. Her voice seemed so tiny. Oh, she wasn’t likely to forget his face. He was the one Hoyt had chased off that night because We’ve got this room.

“Oh, yeahhh,” said Vance, obviously not remembering at all.

“And this is Julian…” Hoyt took his arm off Charlotte’s shoulders—to her considerable relief…she didn’t want to be presented to this room full of boys as his—and introduced her to them all, one by one. In fact, they did prove to be gentlemanly…hospitable, friendly…lots of welcoming smiles. Vance insisted that she have his easy chair, and Hoyt eased himself into the chair next to it.

Charlotte couldn’t imagine what she could possibly talk to any of them about, but it was a moot point, as it turned out. Everybody returned to watching the screen. The flaring light lit up everybody’s face in colors. On the screen…a seemingly interminable series of collisions…smacks, clatters, thuds, oooofs…of football players tackling one another, ramming each other headfirst, colliding torso to torso in midair. Charlotte’s pulse was rapid, but it had nothing to do with the TV screen. She was excited…the only girl in a room in a fraternity house with a whole bunch of cool boys. What did she look like to them? Terribly young and immature? They were all upperclassmen. Hoyt and Vance and Julian seemed a generation older than she was. Sunk this far down into an easy chair, she became terribly conscious of how tight her jeans were on her thighs. Her legs—were they really as great as she thought they were? Without moving her head, she glanced about to see if any of them were drawn irresistibly…to taking a look. To her disappointment, none seemed to be, not even Hoyt, who seemed to be watching TV and not watching it. He looked as if he had an appointment somewhere else.

On the TV a voice said, “Wait a minute, Jack, you’re not saying teams are instructing players to go out there and wreck the other guys’ knees—”

The roly-poly boy called Boo said, “You ever see those old-timers’ introductions before the Fiesta Bowl? Guys look like they got two-by-fours for legs.” He hopped off the arm of the couch and did a rocking, stiff-legged walk across the floor. “Fucking look like they just got a five-hour furlough from the rheumatoid arthritis ward.”

Much laughter. Even Hoyt smiled, Charlotte noticed out of the corner of her eye. But how could they find it funny? To Charlotte, what she had just seen was sickening. It filled her with alarm and pity. What was it about boys? These boys were rich, rich enough to pay dues, on top of everything else, just to belong to a fraternity. They were smart. They had to be, just to get into Dupont at all. But they were no different from the boys at Alleghany High. She glanced at Hoyt—and Channing popped into her head. They were all crazed on the subject of manliness, and manly violence was the manliest thing of all. Seeing an athlete being crippled—it didn’t drown them in pity, not for a moment. It intrigued them. They identified not with the victim but the assailant. Being here frightened her—and thrilled her. She was no longer on the outside desperately denying that she wanted to be inside. I’m Mr. Starling’s rock, she thought to herself, and I only think I have free will.

She felt three pats on her knee. Without looking, she knew it was Hoyt—three times? She tried to translate that as affection. Touching her again.

Now everybody’s eyes swung to the doorway. A beaming couple was peering in—a very tall, rawboned guy with a high forehead—Harrison!—and a much shorter blond girl, the cute sort, in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.

“It’s the hairy man!” said Boo. “And the Janester!”

“Hi-i,” said the girl, the Janester presumably, with an up tone and a down tone. She obviously knew them all.

Harrison was so tall that when he put his arm across the girl’s shoulder, it came down at an angle.

“Hoyt,” said the girl, “what happened to your head?”

Hoyt, without a smile: “Comes from banging it on the floor every time you hear the same question.” He still didn’t smile.

Recovering from a paroxysm of laughter, Boo said, “How bummed out is Hoyt, Jane?”

While Jane was saying something to Julian, Boo began singing a ditty under his breath: “CDs are a-coming, their tails are in sight…” He immediately looked to Hoyt for his reaction. Hoyt just looked back at him.

For the first time, Harrison noticed Charlotte. “Yo! Hey, uh…uh…”

“Charlotte,” said Hoyt. He still wasn’t smiling.

“Have you noticed?” said Boo. “Hoyt has a way with names.”

“Everybody knows that,” said Harrison. To Charlotte: “Wuzz good?”

“I just wanted to thank Hoyt.” She sounded so tiny and weak to herself.

“Thank Hoyt?” said Harrison, genuinely puzzled. Then he seemed to get it. “Oh yeah…”

Everybody was looking at the screen again.

Harrison said to Hoyt, “Hey, Dawg, I’d love to stay and shoot the shit and all, but we gotta bounce.” He looked at Charlotte. “Nice to see you, uh, uh—”

“Charlotte,” said Hoyt.

“Right, good going,” said Harrison. “Later.” Harrison and his little friend began climbing the shabby grand stairs.

Charlotte felt a tap on the outside of her leg, just above the knee. Touching her—

Alarmed, thrilled with alarm, she turned. Hoyt had withdrawn his hand but was still leaning toward her. He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t have his cool, ironic gleam in his eye. If anything, he looked tired. He motioned toward the doorway with his head and stood up. So she stood up, too, and they headed out of the room. No one seemed to notice except Vance, who said to Hoyt, “Real nice, Clark.”