That Night... louise de wit It rained that night remember? Like the tears that were to come. We watched the fire's last ember; Its dust and my heart were one. Then, through clouds, a moonbeam fell And a star rode forth gaily bright, But the silvery beam rang as a knell And the star made an ash of delight. The wind's deep moan echoes my cries Your goodbye is still in my heart. Always will star dust torment my eyes For ours was a love torn apart. Not That Kind... (Continued from page 9) "What would you think," she finally said, "if I told you I wasn't going home with you tonight. That's what you deserve for the way you've treated me." "I'd know that you had fallen for this guy from Kemper, and were trying to get rid of me." For once I shocked her out of her superiority. She looked stunned and didn't say a word. Then Mort walked up. This dance was his and he could have it. I danced with a couple of local girls. We talked about the convention and the funny way the strangers danced. But the visiting boys were having a wonderful time; I didn't last long with either of them. I went to a window for some fresh air. The first breath chilled my lungs. The next one felt clean. Then Cal tapped me on the shoulder. I guess he was number one of the first five. "Helen wants to see you." "Thanks." I finally spotted her and moved toward her. She was dancing with the same Kemper Casanova. I tagged him. He didn't say anything and I just scowled. Heading into a dark corner, she started to talk. She was very sorry. She had been thoughtless. Our friendship meant very much to her. She hoped I would forgive her. She was very sorry. I don't know how this sounds now, but it went across that night. I felt sorry for her before she was through. Once Mort asked if he could cut. I told him no, and he went away without an argument. And so in the dim corner we danced to music that I remember still. She smiled and the night was beautiful. After awhile number three cut in. I told Helen I'd see her after the dance and went out to try to solve the California dancing style. Like other dances, this one too, finally ended. The girls said how tired their feet were; the boys searched for coat-checks and argued about who would go in whose car. Helen and I went with Max and Irene, a cuddlesome little brunette. I was thinking and didn't have much to say. Helen said she had a headache. Irene was worried about getting in before her father did. That night even Max's good humor was wasted. We got a coke and took the girls home. Helen told me she didn't see how she could have done what she did. I told her to forget it and left her in the doorway. Max took me home. With the lights out, we sat in front of my place and talked of the perfidy of women, and how foolish it was to get to really like one of them. His downfall had been a blonde; his big mistake, an orchid for graduation. He was just wishing it had been forget-me-nots when a car stopped by the side of ours. It was Cal. He thought I ought to know that the lad from Kemper was down at Helen's. He further said that the Kemper boy had boasted of a date with her. Max asked him, "When?" "Right now," said Cal. "I just took him down there." "Thanks," I said and didn't even try for sarcasm. "Let's go down there, Max." On the way down I thought how silly I'd look if I waked her family for no reason. I shouldn't have worried. Crossing the street in the glare of an arc light were Helen and her bright-haired boy. "Stop the car," I said. Max didn't say anything, but he didn't stop. Maybe he doubted my conviction. Driving back to my place, he continued regretting the orchids. I climbed out and went to bed. A couple of nights later Helen and I were out riding. It's beyond explanation just one of those things. But there we were, and she talked like she always did. Some of our , friends had given her a rough outline of the events after the dance. Again she was very sorry. She hadn't thought I would take it that way. She didn't have a date with the boy, he just came down of his own free will, and what could she do? Wasn't there something she could do to make me feel better? Losing my friendship would hurt her, it meant so much. I ended up by believing her. Sometimes now, thinking it over, I believe her still. But then I never asked what happened to her headache. I took her home. She cried a little, just enough. I kissed her and said it was all right. It was quite tender and beautiful. She wiped her eyes and moved away. "I want you to know that I don't do this with every boy. Mort never kissed me. Neither has Dave. I'm not that kind of girl." "Yeah," I said. It wasn't beautiful now. I took her up on the porch. She thought I hadn't heard her, "I'm not the kind of girl who does that sort of thing very often." "Yeah," I said and walked back to the car. TWENTY "PARK POLITICIAN" budd johnson TWENTY-ONE