Listen to the silence that hangs overhead like a poised guillotine blade.  It 
is mocking you, taunting you, telling you that your life may be over before 
it's ever really begun.

	Finally:  "Martin, this is a highly serious offense.  If you refuse to 
cooperate with us, you'll only be making this harder on yourself."  Dr. 
Sangerson's voice is deep, resonant, authoritative.

	And more:  "Please, Martin.  Don't do this.  Let us help you."  Mrs. 
Eichtenstein's voice is high, quavering, nervous.  You almost wonder if she is 
the one in trouble instead of you.

	You can feel their eyes on you like red-hot pokers; the only way to keep them 
from searing you is to turn away.  Your best defense is silence.  Keep your 
eyes on the dirty tiled floor, the shuffle of papers and forms on the oak desk 
in front of you, the busy between-class bustle outside the partly-closed 
blinds.  Say nothing, especially about Rosaly.  Don't even think about her.

	A picture of her comes to mind unbidden.  Dark eyes, dark lashes, and dark 
hair.  Long, luxuriant hair, which cascades down her shoulders in raven 
rivulets.  Shy pink lips which blossom into a smile with the most perfectly 
white teeth you have ever seen.  She is slender and tiny, a thing of porcelain 
beauty.

	Think of Rosaly.  Remember the time you first saw her in Mrs. Eichtenstein's 
English class.  She was slim, with a dancer's poise and grace.  Her hair was 
tied in a single braid which reached down to the small of her back.  But most 
of all, you were struck by the depth, the darkness of her eyes.  She paused in 
the doorway, looking around the room for signs of familiar faces, and those 
eyes -- her eyes -- met yours for a brief moment.  Then she walked quickly 
across the room and took a seat without stopping to talk to anyone.  She was 
alone, like you.

	Relive that moment, that feeling, several weeks later, when she approached 
you after class.  "Your name is Martin, right?"

	"Yes.  You're Rosaly Llanores, aren't you?"

	She hadn't expected that you would know her name.  She looked down, unable to 
meet your gaze.  When she lifted her eyes again, she said, "I liked your poem. 
 I liked it a lot."

	"Really?"

	"A world of grey men, walking around in a world full of color, but unable to 
see them because they everything they see is merely black and white. 
 Sometimes I feel like that, that there are things around me that I can't see. 
 Anyway, I wanted you to know...  I think I felt like I understood something, 
after hearing it.  None of the other poems did that."

	"Gracias.  Do you speak Spanish?"

	"Solamente un poco.  My father used to speak, but he doesn't live 
with us anymore, and my mother isn't Mexican.  Most of what I know is from 
Senor Enriquez's Spanish class."

	Your father spoke Spanish before he left, too, but your mother is still 
Cuban.  Not that you'd know it, though, since Mama insists that you speak 
English all the time.  Your siblings hardly know any Spanish at all.  "You 
speak very well, though."

	"Gracias.  Do you write much poetry?"

	"Only when inspiration strikes, which isn't often.  But when it does, then I 
have to grab the nearest sheet of paper and scribble it down at once, or it 
feels like it will explode out of me by itself."

	"That's poetic, too.  You're good with words."

	You did something you'd never done before; you asked her to the movies.  She 
said that she hadn't any money, so you offered to pay for her ticket.  She 
agreed, but promised that she would pay you back as soon as she was able.

	The movie was dull.  It hadn't been one that you'd wanted to rush out and 
see, but the the other fare at the theatre seemed alternately too violent, too 
bizarre, or too silly.  Rosaly seemed to enjoy it, though; during the funny 
parts she laughed, and during the sad moments you could hear her sniffling. 
 At one point you dared to look at her.  Her eyes were luminous with welling 
tears.  You wanted to lean over and take her in your arms, but that was a line 
too early to cross.  

	When you left the theatre, her hand found yours.  Her grip was so light you 
hardly felt it there; your own palm was cool and moist.  Remember the taste of 
your mouth desert-dry and the pounding of your heart jackhammer-quick.  You 
were worried that if you so much as smiled at her, your joy would race like 
wildfire through your body, and you would erupt in a cataclysm of exultation. 
 So you kept yourself guarded, revelling in the awareness of her touch and her 
closeness and the fragrance of her hair.

	Outside, the sunlight was blinding.  Some kids -- kids you knew better than 
to get near -- were hanging around, trying to look either dangerous or cool. 
 "'ey, baby -- you want you should come by tonight?"  The speaker was a tall 
boy with a shaved head and a small crucifix dangling from one ear.  

	You thought he was just heckling passersby, but Rosaly surprised you when she 
responded.  "No.  I don't want to see you tonight.  Or any other night."

	"Quien es?" you whispered:  Who's that?

	"No one," she replied out loud.  "Let's go."

	The shaved kid looked at her, then looked at you from head to toe, as if he 
could estimate the worth of a man by sight alone.  "Who's the spic, Rosie? 
 Your new boyfriend?  I know 'e can't give you whatchoo need.  I got what you 
want, baby."

	If you'd been alone, you would have done as you always have done.  Swallow 
your pride.  Walk away.  But this wasn't about you.  Rosaly stopped you, her 
small hand still in your clenched fist.  "Martin, no."

	She was looking at you with pleading eyes.  You could still hear him going on 
and on behind you:  "Walk away now, babe.  You'll be coming back to me soon 
enough."

	You didn't ask until you were out of earshot.  Even then, that mocking tone 
and sneering face wouldn't leave your mind.  "Rosaly -- who was that?  You 
knew him?"

	"Brett Samuelson.  I sort of knew him.  He was a prick."

	"Does he bother you like that all the time?"

	Rosaly refused to speak on the subject any further.  Quietly, she asked if 
you would take her home.  You did.

	Rosaly did not speak to you for the next few days, would not even make eye 
contact with you in the classroom.  You tried to approach her once during this 
time, but before you could utter a greeting, she looked up at you with deep, 
sad eyes, and said, "I'm sorry, Martin, but I need to be alone right now."  It 
was then that you knew it was over between you and her.

	She proved you wrong two days later, after school.

	"Hi, Marty!"  No one ever called you "Marty", but you were so overjoyed that 
she was speaking to you again that you could forgive her faux pas.

	"Rosaly!"

	"How are you doing?"

	"I should ask you the same thing."

	"What do you mean?"

	"You looked like you were having some sort of trouble this past week.  Are 
you feeling better?"

	"Much better.  I feel wonderful.  Let's go somewhere."

	"Would you like to catch another movie?"

	"No.  I still owe you for the first one.  No, I've got a better idea."

	You went to the playground out behind the school and did things you hadn't 
done for years, things that you hardly did even back then.  Chased each other 
around the equipment, tried to see who could go the highest on the swings. 
 Ran and tumbled and laughed in the grass, and wound up lying side by side in 
the large, heavily-graffitied section of concrete pipe, talking about poetry 
and life and everything until the sky began to grow dark.  She was so close, 
so energetic, so alive that it made you feel alive, too, alive in a way you'd 
never felt before.

	There is a hand on your shoulder; you are not sure how long it has been 
there.  "Martin," says Mrs. Eichtenstein, trying to keep her voice calm, 
level, "have you been having problems at home?  With friends?"  Feel the blood 
rush to your face, an instinctive Judas.  Force yourself to ignore Mrs. 
Eichtenstein's touch.  Don't react.  Don't move.

	You and Rosaly began to see each other.  You didn't go out much, although you 
spent lots of time together.  Mostly, it was hanging out, especially at the 
playground.  Often, she'd ask you to read your poetry, and you'd oblige; 
later, you wrote stories and poems for her.

	Rosaly was moody; after a while, you could almost predict the patterns.  She 
would be happy -- almost ebullient -- some days, then morose and irritable the 
next few.  One week, she was so withdrawn that you began to wonder if she was 
mentally unstable, if she was one of those manic types.  You looked for her, 
and found her on the first try, huddled in the large concrete pipe.

	"Rosa?"

	She was sitting quietly, staring at the ceiling of the tube.  She started 
when you said her name, but then she turned and smiled -- the first time you'd 
seen her smile in days, maybe a week.  "Oh, Marty!"

	You crawled into the pipe next to her.  "Rosa, we have to talk."

	She put one arm around you, and with one finger of the other, began tracing 
the outline of your lips.  "Do we?"

	"Yes."

	She began to kiss you lightly, across your cheeks, your lips, your chin. 
 "Could it wait?"

	"No.  I don't think it can."

	"What do you want to talk about, then?"

	"About us.  I've been worried about you, Rosa.  Lately, you've been so 
worried -- depressed."

	"Oh, that.  I guess sometimes, I just feel -- I don't know.  Maybe it was 
just one of those weeks."

	"This isn't the first time this has happened.  Maybe you should see the 
counsellor about this.  It's not healthy."

	"No!  I mean -- I was just having a bad time.  I'm all right now.  Really."

	"It's just that...  Rosa, I - I think I love you."

	She drew you close and placed her lips on yours.  You closed your eyes and 
you felt her hair fall over you in tangles, across your shoulders and through 
your fingers like light rain.  She moved her hands across your shoulders, your 
chest, your stomach.

  	"Rosa -- "

	"Shh, Marty.  Everything is all right, now."  She was right.  She was in your 
arms, light against your body, soft beneath your fingers.  She pressed closer, 
and you did not object when she began to loosen your clothing.  And before you 
even knew what was happening, it was over, and you could do no more than lie 
there, gasping, clutching her, holding her, never wanting to let go.

	Dr. Sangerson is speaking.  "You're a very bright student, Martin.  You must 
know what's at stake, here.  Do you know the penalty for even first-time 
possession of cocaine in this state?"

	Think of Mama, the look of pride she wears whenever she sees you, eldest and 
wisest of her children.  Think of the green spiral notebook she keeps in the 
top drawer beside her bed filled with newspaper clippings, report cards, and 
award certificates, each bearing your name and taped neatly in place.  Think 
of how she trembled when the envelope came, and how when you read the contents 
she dropped to her knees, praising God in Spanish and crying.  Think of the 
first of the Chavez to attend a university, let alone Harvard.  

	"Martin!  Martin!  Look, look what you get today!"

	"Que es, Mama?"

	"It is from Mr. Ferguson and all the other worker at the market.  They are 
happy that you get into Harvard."

	"Mama, you told them all?"

	"Ay, Martin, of course I tell them!  How I should not say when my oldest son 
go to the best school in the country?"  She handed you a thin colored 
envelope; it was obviously a card of congratulations.  You opened it anyway. 
 Inside the card, was a crisp new one-hundred dollar bill.

	"Mama, this is a hundred dollars!"

	"The college today is very expensive.  They give this to you, because they 
think you do well.  The next time you at the market, you see Mr. Ferguson and 
thank him.  This was his idea."

	"Yes, Mama."

	"Wait.  Tengo uno otro mas."  She handed you another envelope, this 
one old, battered, and beginning to yellow with age.  Inside was not a card, 
but a bank passbook.  Across the front, in typewritten letters, it said, 
"Cecilia H. Chavez, representando a Martin O. Chavez".  You flipped through 
the entries, some as long as ten or eleven years ago, and already beginning to 
fade.  The last entry, however, was as recent as last week, still bold and 
fresh, and listed the account balance as $6,749.32.

	"Ay, Mama, donde -- ?"

	"When we first come here from Cuba, I know we need money to send you to 
school, so I go to the bank and put in a little of my money every week.  Not 
even your papa know about this.  There are some weeks I don't put in money, 
some I put in a little more, but now you are old enough, now the money is 
yours."

	"Mama, this is six thousand dollars!  We could get a car, or new furniture, 
or -- "

	"No car.  No furniture.  Why you think I need car, if I no use one for ten 
years?  And what we need new furniture?  If I don't give you this money now, 
do you think we need new furniture?"

	"No, Mama."

	"Then we no need these things.  This money I give you is for school."

	"But if you give me this, what about Carlo and Consuela?"

	"I take care of them, too.  It is several more year before they are going to 
college."

	"Ay, Mama, gracias.  Thank you so much."

	She bent your head down so she could kiss you on the forehead.  "Now, go 
study.  I call you when dinner is ready."

	Rosaly was enthusiastic, too.  "Marty!  Harvard's the best school in the 
country!  That's so wonderful!"  She threw her arms around you, kissed your 
cheek.  "Will you miss me?"

	"If I go."

	"What do you mean?  Why wouldn't you?"

	"I don't know.  It's a long ways away."

	"Marty -- you're such a wonderful writer.  You have to go."

	"I'm applying for pre-med."

	She seemed surprised by this.  "Well, I'm sure you'll do fine."

	"I hope so.  Mama certainly hopes so.  What about you?  Where will you go?"

	She shook her head.  "I'm not going to college."

	"Rosa -- "

	"I've already gotten a job as a secretary working at a temp agency.  When I 
make enough money, I can move into my own apartment.  College?  I wouldn't 
even know what to major in."

	"What about poetry?"

	"Don't be silly, Marty -- "

	"Well, it's something you like, isn't it?"

	"I'm not as good a writer as you are."

	"Maybe, maybe not.  But you can analyze it, can't you?  You've read all of my 
poems, and told me where my meter fails, or the imagery is inconsistent, or 
the symbolism is vague.  And it's something you like to do, right?"

	"But poetry?  What sort of job will I get?"

	"Teaching, or writing papers or reviews.  Maybe you could be a writer 
yourself.  It's worth a try."

	"No.  It's silly.  You're just filling my head with silly ideas."

	"Well, I'm a writer.  I'm full of silly ideas."

	"I don't have the money to pay for it."

	"You were going to live at home until you got the money to pay for an 
apartment, right?  Well, what if you just stayed at home and paid for your 
tuition instead?  The rates at the community college aren't that high.  And 
the registration starts sometime next week."

	Rosaly bit her lip, then finally said, "I'll think about it."

	The idea came to you later.  You toyed with subtlety, with subterfuge, with 
the simple idea of not telling Mama at all.  In the end, you decided to take 
the direct approach.  "Mama, I'd like to give some of the money to Rosaly."

	"Madre de Dios, Martin!  Estas loco?"

	"Wait!  Please, listen -- "

	"This money is for this family!  I do not save for someone else to use!"

	"Mama, she just needs a little to pay for her registration fees, and maybe a 
few books.  Once she's in, she can get a job to help pay off her tuition. 
 She'll pay us back.  Five hundred dollars, maybe.  Or less."

	Mama was looking down, shaking her head sadly.  Finally, she said, "No." 
 Then, more strongly:  "No.  No."

	"I can get a job, Mama."

	"Martin, is bad enough that you are spending so much time with this girl. 
 You do not study as much -- "

	"My grades are still good, Mama."

	"Yes, now.  But what you do when you get to college, and she is here, on the 
other side of the country?  What you do then?"

	You couldn't think of an answer.  Mama put her hands on your cheeks, turned 
your head down to face hers.  "Martin, this Rosaly -- will you marry her?"

	"I love her, Mama."

	"The young love too much like fire.  Too hot, too quick.  When Mama was 
young, she was in love, too.  I don't tell you this before, but you had an 
older sister."

	You weren't sure if you'd heard what you thought you'd heard.  "Mama?"

	"Her name was Elena.  I have her when I was a little older than you are.  Her 
father and I, we are too young.  He have no money, I have no money.  We do not 
marry, and I have to leave school.  One day I am at work, Elena gets sick, and 
I have no medicine to cure her.  She die a week later.  She is less than a 
year old."

	You felt shock, horror.  But when you could finally look into Mama's eyes, 
you could detect neither grief nor remorse.  Instead, she met your gaze 
firmly, as if she could read the thoughts in your head through your eyes.  She 
went on:  "When I finally marry, I am sure I have money, a good home.  We come 
to United States, we have a good home.  Even when your Papa leave and go back 
to Cuba, we have a good home.  What kind of home do you give to Rosaly?"

	Registration day at the community college came.  "How did it go?" you asked.

	"I didn't go."

	"Rosa, why not?"

	"I'm not going to college, Marty."

	"But I thought you said -- "

	"No, I was wrong.  It was a stupid idea.  It was stupid to even think I could 
go."

	"Is it the money you're worried about, Rosa?  Is that it?"  You reached into 
your pocket, found the hundred dollar-bill still crisp in your wallet.  Mama 
would probably object, but this was entirely yours to give.  "I know it's not 
much, but it will help -- "

	She pushed your hand away.  "No, Marty, I don't want your money!"

	"Then what's wrong?"

	"Nothing's wrong, Marty!"  She seemed surprised by the vehemence of her 
outburst.  "I - I have to go."  She ran from you, and by the time you called 
her name, she was already a tiny figure, disappearing into the distance.

  	Dr. Sangerson is holding up a small ziploc bag.  Its insides are dusty 
white, and there is still a small amount of fine powder inside.  "I'll ask you 
just this once:  where did you get this, Martin?"

	Remember moments after she ran.  Panic gripped you; you were losing her 
again.  You went after her.  She was not looking back, did not see you.  You 
followed her to the playground, to the pipe.  She was hunched over, her head 
low over the outstretched flat palm of her hand.  You heard her inhale deeply, 
and you felt yourself stop breathing.  You stepped closer, and saw the bag of 
white powder at her side.  

	Your action was swift.  Seize the bag, empty its contents into the dirt and 
sand, scuff it around with your feet until they are mingled, 
indistinguishable.  The bag has both yours and her fingerprints.  Set it on 
fire with a match from a discarded matchbook, then stomp out the smoldering 
slag with your shoe.  Look around the park.  Make sure no one has seen what 
your or she has done.

	"Rosa, what are you doing?  Where did you get this?"

	"Marty, what are you doing here?"

	You grabbed her by the shoulders.  "Rosa, don't you know what you've done? 
 Don't you know how dangerous that stuff is?"

	"Marty, I -- "

	"Rosa, have you done this before?  Tell me!"

	She could not look at you.  "Yes, once or twice."

	"Look at me, Rosa.  Look at me!"  When she acquiesces, you see tears in her 
eyes.  Tears, and terror.  "You must never do this again, Rosa.  Never!  These 
drugs are dangerous.  What would have happened if -- "  You could not finish. 
 "Promise me you will not use them, ever again."

	"Marty -- "

	"Promise me."

	Remember two weeks later.  You saw her in the hallway and she smiled. 
 Impishly.  Blankly.  You took her somewhere away from prying eyes and 
eavesdropping ears.  "Please," you pleaded.  "Rosa.  Tell me you have not used 
it again.  Please."

	A strand of hair fell across her face.  She tried ineffectually to push it 
aside.  She giggled.  "Oh, Marty, you're so cute."

	You grabbed her purse, emptied its contents onto the floor of the closet. 
 There, between the lipstick and the keys and loose change was a dusty plastic 
bag.  Inside was a small amount of white powder.  Outside, a bell rang.  You 
scrabbled for her belongings, shoved them back into her bag, pushed it and her 
to homeroom.  As for the bag of powder, it went hastily into your pocket where 
it could do Rosaly no further harm.

	"You have nothing to say for yourself?  Nothing at all?"  Mrs. Eichtenstein 
turns and walks back across the room.  The look she gives you is a mix of 
frustration and pity.  Nearby, Dr. Sangerson is opening a manila folder.  You 
glance up enough to see the precise, felt-tipped lettering on the tab: 
 "Chavez, Martin O."

	Watch.  In slow motion:  a hand moves across the vast expanse of desk, 
searching for something.  It stops when it reaches the telephone; when it 
lifts the receiver one of the many clear buttons along the bottom of the phone 
turns brightly on.  You know that if Dr. Sangerson touches the phone seven 
times, Mama will know everything.  

	Imagine Mama when she hears the news.  She will not shout, or beg, or even 
cry.  Instead, she will stare at you with astounded, uncomprehending eyes, 
wondering what she has done to turn you from the golden path she has laid 
before you, if she has been delinquent in her duty as a mother, of having 
loved you too little.

	Wonder if she would know this is connected to Rosaly.

	Stop him.  Before it is too late.

	The guillotine falls.  You feel the sharp-edged silence cut deep and hard. 
 Your voice is severed from the rest of you, and even if you tried to speak, 
you wouldn't be able.

	Mrs. Eichtenstein is shaking her head.  "You've left us no choice, Martin.  I 
hope you've thought about the decision you've made."

	Dr. Sangerson is already speaking into the telephone.