“I don’t want to get cancer.”

She tossed the pack down, shrugging. “I figure they’ll be able to cure it by the time I get it.”

“I hope so. For your sake.”

She inhaled again, even more deeply. She held the smoke in and then turned in cinematic profile and let it out.

“You don’t have any bad habits, I bet,” she said.

“I’ve got tons of bad habits.”

“Like what?”

“Like I chew my hair.”

“I bite my nails,” she said competitively. She lifted one hand to show me. “Mummy got me this stuff to put on them. It tastes like shit. It’s supposed to help you quit.”

“Does it work?”

“At first it did. But now I sort of like the taste.” She smiled. I smiled. Then, briefly, trying it out, we laughed together.

“That’s not as bad as chewing your hair,” I resumed.

“Why not?”

“Because when you chew your hair it starts smelling like what you had for lunch.”

She made a face and said, “Bogue.”

At school we would have felt funny talking together, but here no one could see us. In the bigger scheme of things, out in the world, we were more alike than different. We were both teenagers. We were both from the suburbs. I set down my bag and came over to the sofa. The Object put her Tareyton in her mouth. Planting her palms on either side of her crossed legs, she lifted herself up, like a yogi levitating, and scooted over to make room for me.

“I’ve got a history test tomorrow,” she said.

“Who do you have for history?”

“Miss Schuyler.”

“Miss Schuyler has a vibrator in her desk.”

“A what!”

“A vibrator. Liz Clark saw it. It’s in her bottom drawer.”

“I can’t believe it!” The Object was shocked, amused. But then she squinted, thinking. In a confidential voice she asked, “What are those for, anyway?”

“Vibrators?”

“Yeah.” She knew she was supposed to know. But she trusted I wouldn’t make fun of her. This was the form of the pact we made that day: I would handle the deep intellectual matters, like vibrators; she would handle the social sphere.

“Most women can’t have orgasms by regular intercourse,” I said, quoting from the copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves Meg Zemka had given me. “They need clitoral stimulation.”

Behind her freckles, a blush rose to the Object’s face. She was, of course, transfixed by such information. I was speaking into her left ear. The blush spread across her face from that side, as if my words left a visible trace.

“I can’t believe you know all this stuff.”

“I’ll tell you who knows about it. Miss Schuyler, that’s who.”

The laugh, the hoot, shot out of her mouth like a geyser, and then the Object was falling back on the couch. She screamed, with delight, with revulsion. She kicked her legs, knocking her cigarettes off the table. She was fourteen again, instead of twenty-four, and against all odds we were becoming friends.

“ ‘Unwept, unfriended, without marriage song, I am led forth in my horror—’ ”

“ ‘—sorrow—’ ”

“ ‘—in my sorrow on this journey that can be delayed no more. No longer . . .’ ”

“ ‘. . . hapless one . . .’ ”

“ ‘Hapless one!’ I hate that! ‘No longer, hapless one, may I behold yon day-star’s sacred eye; but for my fate no tear is shed, no . . . no . . .’ ”

“ ‘No friend makes moan.’ ”

“ ‘No friend makes moan.’ ”

We were at the Object’s house again, going over our lines. We were in the sun room, sprawled on the Caribbean sofas. Parrots flocked behind the Object’s head as she squeezed her eyes shut, reciting. We’d been at it for two hours. The Object had gone through almost a full pack. Beulah, the maid, brought us sandwiches on a tray along with two sixty-four-ounce bottles of Tab. The sandwiches were white, crustless, but not cucumber or watercress. A salmon-colored spread caked the spongy bread.

We took frequent breaks. The Object required constant refreshment. I still wasn’t comfortable in the house. I couldn’t get used to being waited on. I kept jumping up to serve myself. Beulah was black, too, which didn’t make it any easier.

“I’m really glad we’re in this play together,” the Object said, munching. “I would’ve never talked to a kid like you.” She paused, realizing how this sounded. “I mean, I never knew you were such a cool kid.”

Cool? Calliope cool? I had never dreamed of such a thing. But I was ready to accept the Object’s judgment.

“Can I tell you something, though?” she asked. “About your part?”

“Sure.”

“You know how you’re supposed to be blind and everything? Well, where we go in Bermuda there’s this man who runs a hotel. And he’s blind. And the thing about him is, it’s like his ears are his eyes. Like if someone comes into the room, he turns one ear that way. The way you do it—“ She stopped suddenly and seized my hand. “You’re not getting mad at me, are you?”

“No.”

“You’ve got the worst expression on your face, Callie!”

“I do?”

She had my hand. She wasn’t letting go. “You sure you’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Well, the way you pretend to be blind is you just, sort of, stumble around a lot. But the thing is, this blind man down in Bermuda, he never stumbles. He stands up really straight and he knows where everything is. And his ears are always focusing in on stuff.”

I turned my face away.

“See, you’re mad!”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being blind,” I said. “I’m looking at you with my ear.”

“Oh. That’s good. Yeah, like that. That’s really good.”

Without letting go of my hand, she leaned closer and I heard, felt, very softly, her hot breath in my ear. “Hi, Tiresias,” she said, giggling. “It’s me. Antigone.”

The day of the play arrived (“opening night” we called it, though there would be no others). In an improvised “dressing room” behind the stage we lead actors sat on folding chairs. The rest of the eighth graders were already onstage, standing in a big semicircle. The play was set to begin at seven o’clock and finish before sunset. It was 6:55. Beyond the flats we could hear the hockey field filling up. The low rumble got steadily louder—voices, footsteps, the creaking of bleachers, and the slamming of car doors up in the parking lot. We were each dressed in a floor-length robe, tie-dyed black, gray, and white. The Obscure Object, however, was wearing a white robe. Mr. da Silva’s concept was minimal: no makeup, no masks.

“How many people are out there?” Tina Kubek asked.

Maxine Grossinger peeked out. “Tons.”

“You must be used to this, Maxine,” I said. “From all your recitals.”

“I don’t get nervous when I’m playing the violin. This is way worse.”

“I am sooo nervous,” the Object said.

In her lap she had a jar of Rolaids, which she was eating like candy. I understood now why she had pounded her chest the first day of class. The Obscure Object suffered from a more or less constant case of heartburn. It was worse during times of stress. A few minutes earlier, she had wandered off to smoke her last cigarette before showtime. Now she was chewing on the antacid tablets. Part of coming from old money, apparently, was having old-person habits, those gross, adult needs and desperate palliatives. The Object was still too young for the effects to tell on her. She didn’t have eye bags yet or stained fingernails. But the appetite for sophisticated ruin was already there. She smelled like smoke, if you got close. Her stomach was a mess. But her face continued to give off its autumnal display. The cat eyes above the snub nose were alert, blinking and resetting their attention to the growing noise beyond the flats.

“There’s my mom and dad!” Maxine Grossinger shouted. She turned back to us and broke into a big smile. I’d never seen Maxine smile before. Her teeth were jagged and gappy, like those of a Sendak creature. She had braces, too. Her unconcealed joy made me understand her. She had a whole other life apart from school. Maxine was happy in her house behind the cypresses. Meanwhile, curly hair gushed from her fragile, musical head.