She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. Then she had a baby and became as old as any really grown-up person, or older, and very dull. CHAPTER I.
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