He lowered the book and read a short description of the Art Club’s activities. Bonnie, he learned, had been the secretary.

Must’ve been smart. You don’t appoint someone secretary unless she’s intelligent and responsible.

Probably a straight-A student, he thought. One of those kids who has everything going for her — looks, a terrific personality, brains.

He checked the index again, and discovered that the next photo was on page 126. He turned back to the Art Club, flipped the next page, and immediately recognized Bonnie in the top photo. She’d been in the school’s Legislative Assembly, whatever that was. A quick scan of the small print informed him that the group was responsible for “passing school laws and putting them into action.”

Bonnie was seated on risers, feet on the floor, legs together, hands cupping her knees. She was dressed just the same as in the Art Club picture. In this one, her socks were even. Larry smiled. She had a bemused look on her face. Her bangs hung a little crooked, showing a vee of uncovered brow.

Larry brought the book closer to his face. Her head was turned slightly. Her hair was swept back behind one pale ear. She seemed to be leaning forward. Her blouse looked snug against her belly, and her breasts cast a vague, horizontal shadow across the white fabric.

He was about to turn to the index when he spotted Bonnie on the opposite page. She was in the top photo, front row, third from the right. A member of the Social Activities Committee.

“Ah-ha!” Larry whispered.

So she decorated the gym for dances, after all.

“I knew it.”

In this photo she wore a crew-neck sweater with a large B on its chest.

A cheerleader?

Figures, he thought. I should’ve guessed.

Bonnie looked different, somehow. Larry stared at the picture. She had been caught without her smile. The glimmer was gone from her eyes, and her lips were pressed together in a soft, straight line.

Something was obviously troubling her.

Maybe she was feeling sick, that day. Maybe she’d messed up a test. Maybe her boyfriend had dumped her.

Something had happened. Something, at least for a moment, had robbed her of happiness.

It didn’t seem fair. Bonnie’s life should’ve been perfect — there’d been so little of it left.

Larry felt a tightness in his throat.

He turned quickly to the index, then searched out page 133.

Bonnie stood in line with six other girls. “Songleaders,” not cheerleaders. They all wore light-colored sweaters with the huge B in front, and dark, pleated skirts. They stood with pompoms raised in their left hands, right hands on hips, right legs thrown high.

Bonnie looked as if she were having the time of her life. Her head was tossed back. The shutter had caught her laughing. She’d kicked up her leg higher than any of the other girls. Not straight toward the camera, but a little to the side. The toe of her white sneaker seemed about to collide with her left armpit. Her skirt hung down from the upraised leg. She wore no socks. Larry gazed at her slim ankle, the curve of her calf, and the sleek underside of her thigh. He saw a crescent of underwear not quite as dark as the skirt, rounded with the slope of her buttock.

He fought an urge to bring the book closer to his eyes.

He looked away from the picture. He picked up his stein and took a sip of beer.

Glanced again.

It’s not actually her panties, he told himself. It’s part of the outfit.

But still...

He turned his attention to the second picture on the page. Same girls. Same costumes. In this one they were all facing the camera and leaping, pompoms thrust overhead with both hands, backs arched, legs kicked up behind them. Bonnie’s sweater had lifted slightly. It didn’t quite meet the top of her skirt. A narrow band of bare skin showed. Larry glimpsed her flat belly, the small dot of her navel.

He shook his head. He took another sip of beer, but had a hard time swallowing. He turned to the index.

Only one more page number after Bonnie’s name. He turned to 147.

And sucked in a quick breath.

A three-by-five close-up of Bonnie filled more than half the page.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He glanced at the caption. “Bonnie Saxon, 1968 Spirit Queen.” On the same page were small photos of four other girls — princesses. Her court.

He postponed studying her picture. It was the last. He wanted to savor the anticipation.

On the opposite page was a photo of a tackled football player smashing to the ground. The heading beneath it read, SPIRIT WEEK HIGHLIGHTS FALL SEASON. Larry scanned a description of the festivities, which were apparently marred by Buford’s loss of the game. Then he came to the part he’d hoped for. “Sherry Cain, Sandy O’Connor, Julie Clark, Betsy Johnson, and Bonnie Saxon were presented as homecoming princesses at halftime. Bonnie Saxon was crowned queen at the Homecoming Dance that night. In spite of the defeat of the varsity, tremendous spirit was shown.” Nothing more about Bonnie.

Fantastic, Larry thought.

Homecoming queen.

“Good going, Bon,” he muttered.

Then he turned his attention to the photo.

And flinched as someone knocked on his door. “Time to eat,” Lane called.

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Larry glanced at the Spirit Queen, then shut the book.

He lay motionless in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. When the sounds of Jean’s breathing convinced him that she was asleep, he crept out of bed. The air was chilly. He shivered with the cold and nervous excitement. At the closet he pulled his robe off a hook. He put it on as he stepped into the hallway. The soft velour felt warm on his bare skin.

In the living room he found Lane’s book bag propped against the wall beside the front door. He opened it, searched inside with one hand until he felt the annual, and slipped the book out.

He carried it to his office. He shut the door, flicked on the light, and eased himself down onto his chair.

In spite of the warm robe, he was shaking. His heart felt like a pounding fist.

I must be crazy, he thought. What if Jean wakes up? Or Lane? What if one of them catches me at this?

They won’t. Calm down.

With the book on his lap, he turned to the Spirit Queen.

God, so gorgeous.

She wore a dark top that left her shoulders bare.

He could look at her later.

He took an X-Acto Knife from his desk drawer, pressed the open book flat against his thighs, and drew the razor-sharp blade down the annual’s gutter, neatly slicing off the page where it joined the spine.

He cut out every page that showed a photograph of Bonnie.

When he was done, he hid them in his file cabinet, sliding them into one of over fifty folders that contained copies of short stories he’d written over the years.

His pictures would be safe there, from Jean and Lane.

He sat down again and riffled through the yearbook. A few pages were loose. He touched their edges with glue and carefully inserted them.

He shut the book and peered at its top. Along the spine tiny gaps were visible where the pages had been removed. But only an extremely close inspection would reveal the damage. And if someone did notice, who was to say when the desecration had been performed? Maybe years ago.

Larry shut off the light and left his office. He returned the annual to Lane’s book bag, fastened the straps, and went to his bedroom.

From the doorway he could hear Jean’s long, slow breaths.

He hung up his robe. He crept to the bed and slipped cautiously between the sheets. He sighed. He thought about the pictures.

They were his now. His to keep.

He remembered the way Bonnie looked in each of them. But his mind kept returning to the songleader shots.

Then she was alone on the football field. She thrust her pompoms at the sky and twirled, her long golden hair floating, her skirt billowing around her and rising higher and higher.