"Probably at seven. I'll be there right after supper … Bye, Gay." He turned and left.
Gaylord's very soul seemed to follow the swaying strides. All life, all time, had gone from him and mixed themselves among the glistening hair. He had become lifeless, and the arms that closed his locker door were bloodless pieces of flesh, and the legs that now moved were its continuation of floating veins.
Tuesday afternoon, a soft rain began to fall. It was still raining when Gaylord pulled his car up to the wet curb in front of Rogers' home.
"Thanks for the lift, Gay." Rogers smiled. "Won't you come in for a while?"
"No, I guess I'd better get home … and you're more than welcome."
"Wish it wasn't so nasty," cried Rogers.
Looking at the clean-cut face, Gaylord asked, "Why, Glenn?"
"Rain makes me lonesome." Rogers squirmed in his seat. "I hate to sit in the house." Then, with a wide grin, "Say, how about a show: can I take you to the show after supper?"
"I can't tonight … I've … Some other night, huh?"
Rogers dropped his head and Gaylord knew he was disappointed. "Yeah," he said and tried to force a smile, "some other time."
They were silent and awkward sitting so close to each other. Gaylord apologized. "I wish I could go tonight."
"That's o.k." The dimples deepened. "Thanks for the lift." He slapped Gaylord's leg and opened the car door.
"I'll come by for you in the morning. Same time."
Rogers nodded. The rain splattered across his face. He waved and ran for the house; Gaylord drove away.
Here was his house now. He turned the car into the water-soaked driveway. The shrubbery looked fresh and strong and the house looked retired behind it as though withdrawing from the busy street. He left his car under the car-port and went inside. The house was cool and empty.
He went to his room. On his dresser was a large sheet of white paper, his mother's handwriting on it; under the paper was a grey
