Chapter 25: GIRL MEETS BOY—PALLAS' STORY

From a young age Pallas Athena Ross'd held a pragmatic view of her own attractions. She may not have been the fairest one of all but held a healthy advantage in the looks department, having never wanted for male admirers from the time she hit puberty. Hers wasn't a genius intellect but she consistently scored top grades, headed up honor rolls year after year, graduated summa cum laude, and missed being chosen valedictorian by two measly votes. Her naturally outgoing and engaging personality assured her popularity among peers and adults alike. She'd been blessed with a singing voice of operatic quality, inherited from her mother's side of the family. In all other respects, however, she was no different from any other teenage girl. She'd as keen an interest in romance and sex as any of her friends, but the boys she'd dated so far'd left her uninspired, mainly because they were so absorbed in their own burgeoning manhood they failed to meet her expectations.

As the Ross girls'd always been encouraged to put at least some of their summer vacation months to good purpose, Pallas'd elected to spend her post-graduation summer in community service, signing on as a music and swimming instructor at a camp for disadvantaged youth.

Established decades earlier by a well-known Seattle philanthropist, Mountainview Youth Camp occupied hundreds of acres along the western shore of Montana's Flathead Lake—the largest natural fresh-water lake in the western United States, tucked between the Mission and Salish mountain ranges. Although not affiliated with the national non-profit organization Big Brothers Big Sisters®, the privately-owned facility was aimed at children aged eight through fifteen and operated on many of the same principles. Applications were submitted by sponsors and pared down to two-hundred-forty kids per each of the three four-week sessions.

Open to high school and college students seventeen and older, counselor positions were voluntary and highly sought after. Only individuals with sterling academic records and high grade-point standings were considered. Another requirement was possession of one or more skills pertinent to camp activities, which the counselors would be required to teach. The camp's reputation for par excellence programs offered an additional benefit: Certification of successful completion of service counted as a full floating credit at many private colleges—in Pallas' case, the goal was a pre-admission sociology credit at Glacier Institute.

As volunteers, counselors received no compensation other than room and board and had to provide their own pocket money, which further ensured that only the most highly motivated and qualified young people applied. Counselors also doubled as cabin leaders. Management attempted, where possible, to maintain a ratio of one counselor for every six children. With twenty cabins altogether this devolved to twelve kids plus two leaders per cabin. Ten cabins for boys, named after wildlife, were clustered around a central bathhouse on the north side of the communal buildings. This arrangement mirrored the girls' facilities, with plant-inspired names, on the south side.

For obvious reasons of sanitation, the stables were located at some distance from the main concentration of buildings and water's edge. The wranglers, two young men and two young women, had their own duplex cabin close to the stables and were exempt from sharing it with campers. The only occasion for proximity with counselors was when they came into the dining hall, generally eating in a corner by themselves, or when it was a counselor's turn to shepherd a crocodile of children across the greensward for their riding class, then collect them afterwards. The wranglers were always busy adjusting this, that and the other bits of gear between classes and rarely condescended to speak to the escorts.

Pallas was assigned to 'Buttercup Cabin' with another girl and a dozen eight-year-olds. By the end of the first week, she and Penny'd already scoped out all the boy counselors. After lights out and with the twelve little girls bedded down, the two girls settled on the cabin steps to trade assessments of the prospects… by and large a not unattractive assortment but in their estimation few worth writing home about. Meh! Except maybe for one of the wranglers—square-jawed, tall and brawny with heavenly blue eyes and blue-black hair curling out from under the requisite Stetson—stereotype All-American Cowboy hunk in hand-tooled boots, indecently form-fitting jeans and a pearl-snapped shirt. Probably with a colossal ego to round out the package, Pallas sniffed. On her first trip to the stables with her string of little riders, Pallas'd felt herself coolly appraised and found wanting as he gave her a cursory examination, winked and turned back to whatever he'd been doing.

On her second trip, the other boy wrangler'd come forward to take charge of Pallas' gaggle of girls. Under the brim of a disreputably tattered Vietnam-era boonie hat glowed eyes the pale amber of buckwheat honey. Surely tinted contact lens! Conscious of her own winter pallor, Pallas assumed he must have started his tan in a salon long before reporting to camp—the exposed bits she could see... face, forearms and a vee of smooth chest above the open neck of a faded chambray work shirt... were the color of burnished hazelnuts, as was the shoulder-length hair streaming from under the hat. With a wide mouth and narrow face, he reminded her somewhat of the actor in the Mac versus PC commercials… Justin something.

He didn't return her cheerful 'Hi!' but flashed a startled look before turning his attention to the clamoring children and ushering them toward the line of tethered ponies.

"That there's Rowan. Goes by 'Row'. He don't talk much." The voice in her ear caused her jump. She twisted around to come face to face with a petite blonde, pony tail poking out from the back of a baseball cap. The girl grinned, sticking out the hand not clutching a manure fork.

"Howdy. I'm Phoebe, Pooperscooper Extraordinaire."

"Pallas... nice to meet you." She returned the handshake, inclining her chin in 'Row's' direction. "What's his problem?"

Phoebe shrugged. "No idea. Just met 'im a couple days ago and he ain't said five words since."

"His manners could use some polishing," Pallas opined.

"Nawww... I reckon he's jes' real shy. 'Cept with the little 'uns... then he shines... look at 'im!"

Watching his feline grace as he moved among the ponies and noting his care with the fledgling riders, Pallas easily understood what Phoebe meant by 'shine'. She decided this one merited a closer look but, when she returned an hour later to exchange the next group of little girls for the ones finishing their class, he wasn't anywhere in sight and Phoebe was there to receive them. Pallas was unaccountably both disappointed and disgruntled.

For the next few weeks she only got close to him twice each day, delivering and retrieving children. He never showed up in the dining hall at same time as she did. Two evening staff meetings were held back-to-back after campers' lights out, with half the counselors attending the first meeting while the other half minded the cabins, then they'd switch for the second meeting. It didn't matter which one she attended, he always seemed to be at the other one. Darn the luck!

After a few initial abortive attempts to initiate conversation with this reticent wrangler, Pallas began wondering if he might not be marginally autistic—academically a high-achiever (he'd to have been in order to be accepted at the camp) but a social retard in other respects. When he did speak—infrequently and only when obliged to answer a question—it was in a soft voice in a very low register at times difficult to follow. More often as not he responded only with a gesture, a shrugged shoulder or a head nod. The only extended conversations he held were with the children and the only times he ever raised his voice was to address the riders with commands or instructions. Pallas considered the possibility that he might be differently oriented or... although her pride compelled her to reject the idea outright... he was downright uninterested in her, either as a girl or as a person. But every now and then she caught him looking at her with a speculative expression on his face.

Yvonne Ross was a firm believer in the Golden Rule—do unto others—and had done a thorough job of pounding that into her daughters' psyches. The best way to make a friend, she said, was the same way you gentled a horse... patient, consistent attention sprinkled with generous applications of kindness. Pallas Athena Ross was nothing if not stubborn and persevering. Whatever this Row's problem was, she resolved to wear him down until he allowed her to become a friend to him.

Midway into the second week , one of the girl wranglers had to leave due to a family emergency. Pallas was asked if she would take Sharon's place—they needed another female to bunk in with Phoebe and she was the only other riding-qualified counselor. She'd still be eligible for that credit, of course. Twist my arm! In less than thirty minutes Pallas was toting her kit over to the wrangler's duplex.

The horsekeepers worked twice as hard as the other counselors. They had to be up at dawn to feed, water and groom the two dozen horses and ten ponies in their charge then have them saddled and ready for the first group of riders—the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. As senior counselors, Phoebe and Joe took this batch for their hour of instruction while Pallas and Row grabbed a thirty-minute breakfast break in the dining hall… separately, because someone had to mind the horses. The next group—ten- and eleven-year-olds—was their responsibility as well as the eight- and nine-year-olds comprising the last morning class before lunch. Phoebe and Joe had the better deal... leading their group on morning trail rides after sharing a leisurely breakfast. In the afternoons they took out the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds.

It was sweaty, physically demanding work but Pallas didn't mind—she liked children and loved horses. In the afternoons the classes were repeated with children not in the morning sessions. And before anyone went to supper, the horses had to be tended. By the time Pallas'd eaten, showered and attended the evening staff meetings, she was ready to collapse into bed. Aside from sleeping, she and Row were in each other's company almost constantly… yet as the end of first session and Family Day approached, Pallas couldn't claim to have made any significant headway in getting him to open up. She refused to be discouraged. She knew he was capable of smiling and even laughing, frequently doing both with the children—and he had a killer grin! Her new goal, since she'd been unable to draw even one of those smiles her way, was to get him to respond to a query with an entire sentence. Which would still be a very long way from carrying on an actual conversation, however.

On First Session Family Day a full range of activities and entertainment in which parents and visiting siblings could participate were on tap, culminating in the presentation of awards and a Farewell Luncheon on the grounds. There would be no riding that day. Other than the usual morning and evening chores the only duties assigned the wranglers were escorting walking tours of the stables. The four divvied up watches, Pallas drawing the four to six time slot. By that time most of the first session campers would be on their way home, either collected by their parents or loaded on city-bound busses.

Pallas spent the remainder of the morning in the company of her father and sisters, showing them around the grounds—Vonda Ross'd been unable to attend. As they approached the wranglers' living quarters, Phoebe was just exiting the girls' side and Joe was bounding down the steps from the boys' side. Pallas introduced them, pleasantries were exchanged, and the pair went on their way. Cabin inspection concluded, they progressed to the stables where Rowan was busy with a tour group. Before Pallas could manufacture an excuse to hang around until he was free to be introduced to her family, the loudspeaker system announced that lunch was being served buffet-style in the dining hall. Additional seating in the form of folding chairs and picnic tables'd been brought out from storage and now dotted the grounds under the surrounding trees.

After going through the buffet line and commandeering a table, the family was just tucking in when Pallas spotted Rowan with an older woman who looked too much like him to be anything other than his mother. Both of them were looking around for someplace to set down their laden plates. She was toying with the idea of calling out an invitation to join their table when he noticed her, said something to the woman, and steered her in the opposite direction. How rude!

At three-thirty the visiting Rosses took their leave and Pallas trotted back to the cabin to change into her workclothes and boots before going to relieve Phoebe at the stables. She was sitting on her bed unlacing her sneakers when she heard two people entering the boys' side of the cabin. With both doors of the connecting bathroom slightly ajar, the continuation of an in-progress conversation was clearly audible…

"She said I'd know when it was time..."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Scared, mostly. I'm not ready for this..."

"No one ever is..."

"I thought it would be, like... years... not this soon."

"I know."

"What do I do now?"

"Trust your instincts, son... and the rest will follow. But Bobcat... go lightly, okay?"

Bobcat?

The conversation trailed off as the unseen speakers left the duplex. When the door slammed, Pallas let out the breath she'd been holding. Although the exchange'd held no meaning for her, she was struck with the certainty that it'd been about her.

Not too long after second session had launched, Pallas became aware that Joe and Phoebe'd embarked on an intimate relationship—neither a unique nor an unusual development among older counselors in summer camps. Official policy was 'thou shalt not' but interpretation leaned more towards 'thou shalt not get caught.' Discovery would result in termination, therefore discretion was the watchword and any hankypankying had to be conducted under cover of darkness. Pallas started noticing that, very often when she woke up in the middle of the night, Phoebe's bed was empty. Occasionally she heard, through the thin bathroom doors, muffled noises coming from the other side of the duplex. When she broached the subject to her roomie, the blonde girl told her not to worry.

"But what if someone comes to check on us?" Pallas insisted.

"Ain't gonna happen... this is Joe's and my second summer. His partner was my boyfriend last year and vice versa. No one ever bothers with bed check. Too far to walk and no little kids to monitor."

It wasn't long before Pallas started wondering where Rowan was spending his nights (surely not in the same room!). A change in the weather answered that question.

A cold front moved in and stalled over the valley. Such events were not unknown although the camp'd been relatively fortunate, weather-wise, during the first half of the summer. The sharp drop in temperature was a welcome relief from the summer's heat, but the steady downpour was not. Pallas didn't envy the other counselors being cooped up with children in the rec hall and classrooms all day as well as in the cabins all night, although there were plenty of alternate indoor activities to keep the kids occupied. The wranglers had no choice but to bundle up in foul weather gear and slosh over to the stables several times a day. Mucking out stalls with their restive residents in situ wasn't easy, but it had to be done. A rainsuit afforded some protection while trundling a wheelbarrow full of manure to the heap or trudging to the dining hall, but not enough to keep the wearer completely dry.

Pallas'd been whiling away the evening hours sprawled on her bed, alternately listening to her iPod, reading her Kindle or surfing the 'net on her Notebook. Presumably Phoebe was next door... again. And where was Rowan? Best not to think about it. That was their business. It'd actually gotten chilly enough to warrant starting a fire in the little cast iron potbellied stove, which she did. Checked the mini-fridge to see if any interesting new edibles had surfaced by magic (not!). Rummaged through the vermin-proof chest that held her and Phoebe's noshie stash (cookies, more cookies, chips, other cookies, a few candy bars). Decided some hot tea would be in order and plugged in the kettle. Sighing and looking down to check the time on her wristwatch… discovering it wasn't there. Shoot!

She remembered having removed it earlier and leaving it on a shelf in the tackroom—it'd been her turn to run out the barrow and she didn't want to risk getting her watch wet. She debated if it would be all right to leave it where it was for the night, then decided not to—it was valuable and, besides, a graduation present from her sisters. She'd be sick if something happened to it. Complaining to herself, she struggled back into her raingear and boots, picked up a heavy-duty flashlight and squelched back to the stables.

With water dripping off her nose, Pallas slid open the breezeway door just enough to slip through and turned to the tackroom. Opening the door, she flipped on the light switch and froze. For days she'd been wondering why there were three bales of hay lined up against the far wall with loose hay strewn on top. Now she saw they were providing a makeshift sleeping pallet for Rowan, rolled up in a sleeping bag… and not asleep.

"Do you mind?" he growled, flinging an arm up to shield his eyes.

"Sorry. Forgot my watch." She held the object up so he could see. "Why are you sleeping out here?" Dumb question... mental head slap!

"Why do you think?"

"Doesn't look too comfortable."

"It isn't."

"Or warm."

"It's not."

Pallas knew right then and there what the little red demon on one shoulder was going to make her do, even though the little white angel on the other shoulder was saying 'Are you nuts?!'

"This won't do at all," she said briskly. "You're coming with me. There's a perfectly good empty bunk in my room."

"Are you serious?"

"Do I strike you as a comedienne? Don't worry, your virtue will be perfectly safe." Later Pallas would wonder how she was able to maintain a straight face when that slipped out.

Rowan sat upright, still hugging the blanket around him, looking uncertain.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea…"

"It's a better idea than you catching cold… come on, then."

She wasn't at all sure he was actually going to follow, and then was nervous when he did... all the way back to the cabin and through the door. What was she thinking? She could rationalize her rash offer as humanitarian outreach, but why lie to herself? She knew she was inexplicably obsessed with this boy… wanted to be near him, to touch his face… to get inside his head. All she was offering was comfort and cookies, right? Not anything more complicated. Yeah… right.

Whatever Pallas was expecting might happen—or hoped would happen or wanted to happen—didn't. Accepting tea and cookies from his hostess, Rowan sat cross-legged at the foot of his borrowed bed and skillfully deflected any sorties in the conversation that seemed to be straying onto personal turf. Doing most of the talking, Pallas swiftly found herself running out of safe topics. But that was okay—there'd be plenty of time later to plumb for details. One pleasant surprise was that he was already a student at Glacier Institute and they'd be seeing each other there in September. In the meantime, she wondered when—or if—when he was ever going to make a move on her… or at least a proposition. Isn't this a teenage boy's ultimate dream... to be sequestered in a cabin in the middle of the night with a girl and hardly any chance of interference? Evidently it wasn't his dream.

With a sigh partly of irritation and partly of relief, Pallas went off to brush her teeth and wash her face. When she returned, Rowan was already bunked down with the quilt pulled up to his ears and facing away from her… pretty much the universal signal for wanting to be left alone.

Stripping down to panties and tee shirt, Pallas flicked off the bedside lamp and slid between her own sheets. Sleep didn't come right away, though, as Pallas considered what might have… but had not… transpired this evening. She was eighteen years old and so far had not given herself to anyone, as had so many of her girlfriends before they were hardly out of puberty. She'd gone on The Pill at sixteen with her mother's knowledge and approval… but with the tacit agreement that this wasn't to be considered license to engage in promiscuous behavior. Though not a hardline feminist by any means, Yvonne believed that young women were entitled to their measure of wild oats before settling into a monogamous relationship… and she'd ensured that Pallas entered that playing field responsibly and fully informed. The one promise Vonda'd extracted from Pallas was that when the time came to choose who would be her first, she would choose wisely… someone she'd been around long enough to form a reasonably accurate opinion of character, someone who treated her with respect and whom she respected in turn, someone whose company she enjoyed.

After nine weeks of observation, Pallas Ross'd made up her mind that Rowan Cameron was that someone. Oddly enough, the very fact that he'd been a perfect gentleman only reinforced this belief. All that remained was to tempt him down the garden path.

Pallas dreamt she was standing in an airport concourse, surrounded by hordes of people scurrying this way and that, in urgent need of a restroom with not a one in sight. Then, of course, she woke up to find she was in fact in desperate need. Bolting out from under the covers and wrenching open the bathroom door, she dove into the cubicle containing the throne in the nick of time. Ahhhhhhh!

Also in tee shirt and panties, Phoebe was standing at the sink with a toothbrush in her mouth and foam dribbling down her chin. "Uh ih ell?!"

"Sorry, sorry! Hadda go... couldn't wait!"

"Ah uhs us cumn ake ou!"

"What?" Pallas finished, flushed and emerged from the stall.

Phoebe removed the toothbrush, turned and spat into the sink. "I said, I was just coming to wake you and get dressed myself. Your alarm didn't go off. The rain's quit and you've got a class in... oh!" Her eyes widened as she spied through the still open door the quilt-shrouded man-shaped lump occupying the far bed—her bed!

"Why, you sly little critter, you!"

"It's not what you think!" Pallas objected.

"I hope this ain't too personal, gal, but are y'all usin' protection? I got some if ya need it..."

"On the Pill," Pallas gritted as she bent over the sink to wash her face.

"Okeydokey, then... I kinda like ta think of myself as the Big Sister here."

"Thanks... I appreciate having such an excellent role model!" Pallas retorted drily. "Socks... I need socks... where're my socks?"

Somehow the girls managed to get themselves dressed and shod without waking Rowan, then quick-stepped to the stables—or as quickly as they could step in the ankle-deep mud. On the way Phoebe made Pallas a seemingly reasonable proposition to which she readily agreed and hoped Rowan would as well.

"Seein' as how things is the way they is..." Phoebe concluded. "Nobody needs to know unless one of us spills the beans." Pallas knew her about-to-be-ex-bunkmate's cowgirl-speak was nothing but put-on—Phoebe was an English major at the University of Puget Sound.

"I'll sound him out at lunchtime," Pallas promised.

Mucking out was completed in record time and the mounts ready and waiting for their diminutive riders. The schedule'd been amended so that the junior wranglers now had breakfast after the first class instead of before. Their stomachs rumbled in complaint as they watched the ponies plodding in circles and called out encouragement to the eight-year-olds aboard. Newbies were never allowed out of the paddocks.

Pallas marveled at the devotion Rowan inspired in these youngsters—he was so patient and never had any behavior problems with them... or with the ponies, which Pallas found strange because in her experience almost all ponies were either uncooperative or downright naughty. She'd always counted herself 'good with children' but she wasn't anywhere near as good as this. He'll make a great dad someday. Holy moly! Where had that come from!

Pallas didn't have an opportunity to bring up Phoebe's idea until lunchtime, when on their revised schedule she and Rowan were huddled in their special corner in the dining hall away from everyone else.

"Will you at least consider it for their sake? It's only six weeks. After that Phoebe goes back to Seattle and Joe goes back to Texas and who knows when they'll get to see each other again?"

Rowan didn't answer at first, taking the time to refill his coffee mug from the carafe, sugar it, add cream, stir, take a sip... Pallas wanted to scream.

"I mean… we're both adults here. We're friends, right? We don't have to… it's not like you're… like we're… interested in each other. In that way…" Pallas knew she was blushing.

Finally he raised his eyes to hers… and for the first time held the gaze with an intensity that was almost hypnotic. His expression was totally devoid of the guardedness she'd come to expect. She couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to.

"What makes you think I'm not interested in you, Pallas… in that way?"

Pallas' mind went blank at this unanticipated response. She'd thought herself in control of a situation… only to find that she wasn't. It took a few seconds to marshal her thoughts back onto terra firma.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to you. But in six weeks you've not given me any indication that you've even noticed I'm a girl, much less expressed any feelings for me one way or another… not once since we met." She nibbled her upper lip, stalling for time. "What was I supposed to think?"

"I have feelings, Pallas. I'm just… hesitant about where they're taking me."

Which means what, exactly?

"Doesn't answer my question if we can be roommates or not… if you don't think we can, or just don't want to be around me that much, then all you have to do is say so…"

Row sighed, not disengaging his eyes from hers. "I'd like to believe I'm responsible enough to govern my own behavior… it's not a question of whether or not I want to be around you… Pallas... if we do this, you do understand, don't you, what might... what's likely to happen? Consider your future and decide if this is what you really want… because what I want is more than just a roll in the hay."

This was an extraordinarily intimate declaration from someone who'd yet to kiss her or even hold her hand. To cover her consternation, Pallas quipped, "I hope that's not a marriage proposal because I haven't thought that far into the future."

"No, it's not," he answered quietly. "But some day it will be."

What an odd thing to say.

Over the next several weeks Pallas Ross and Rowan Cameron shared their room with no one the wiser other than Joe and Phoebe. Pallas wrote off the tail end of that extraordinary lunchtime conversation as a perfectly deadpanned leg-pulling performance on Rowan's part. He hadn't come right out and said he found her attractive, had he? No. He hadn't acted in any way that would indicate romantic interest, had he? No. As for that 'probability' he'd mentioned... as Pallas understood it, you didn't necessarily have to be in love—in like would suffice. Why'd he even brought up the subject if he'd no intention of following through? On the other hand, she found encouragement in the fact that Rowan was loosening up conversationally.

Only once did Pallas and Rowan come close to an argument which could have damaged their slowly evolving relationship. Pallas'd finally worked up the courage to ask him about his ethnic background… which he was surprisingly open to sharing. At first he tried to outline it in terms of inherited percentages... one-half of this, one-fourth of that, one-eighth, one-sixteenth and one-thirty-second of something else. Fascinated beyond measure, Pallas demanded an indepth accounting of how each ingredient'd been added to the pot.

Rowan explained that his Acadian Creole ancestor Armand de Passepartout had in 1863 fathered a mulatto son on one of his Senegalese slaves. After the Civil War, Passepartout Senior'd removed his extended family from the devastated South to the unspoiled wilderness of Wyoming, along with his former Cajun overseer's family and whichever emancipated slaves wished to join them. Armand's son Emile, now a freedman of color, took up ranching with a generous bequest from his father and a Shoshone maiden as his wife. Their quadroon daughter Adèle moved farther north to Montana where she cohabited with but did not marry another Shoshone-Métis by the name of Gabriel Many Ponies. Adèle's maiden surname passed to her octoroon daughter, Solánge, who married Bernard Florentinus di Camerata. Despite his baroque Italianate name, Bernard was a descendant of the born-on-the bayou Cajuns who'd followed the Passepartouts from Louisiana. His and Solánge's children—including Rowan's mother, Madeleine—thus could be classified as mustefino, were such distinctions still being made and such archaic labels still in use.

"So what does that make you?" Pallas'd asked ingenuously.

"I have no idea," Row grunted, "but most ignorant white people just call us 'breeds'—a handy all-purpose category."

Stung, Pallas temper had flared. "Are you calling me ignorant? I've never called you that. I've never even thought of you that way! I only asked because I was curious. I love the way you look. As far as I'm concerned you've inherited the best of everything so don't get all pissy with me! You should be proud of your heritage and not act like it's some deep, dark secret that you've got to hide. I wish I had such an interesting background instead of a plain old ordinary whitebread family..."

On the verge of telling her off, Rowan fortunately recognized that it was naïveté that'd spurred her outburst… blonde-haired, brown-eyed, fair-skinned Pallas... who'd never in her life experienced a single moment of ethnic prejudice. That evening, after chores were done and they were free to relax in the privacy of their cabin, Rowan sat her down and told her what his life'd really been like, growing up on the rez… but having to maintain a second skin—a masque—for those times he was required to live 'on the outside'. Granted, his tribe was a hundred times better off than the majority of Native Americans living on reservations. But it was still an artificial environment, by no means equal to the world of white European Americans.

After that, the emotional barrier that had been keeping Rowan from expressing his true feelings was weakened, though not entirely swept away. The first holding of hands occurred… and the first embrace… and the first tentative kiss. Pallas wanted more and said so, but Row held firm… insisting the time wasn't right.

The end of July and Second Session brought another Family Day. Pallas had advised her folks it wasn't necessary for them to visit again as they would be coming to pack her up and take her home at the end of August anyway. Pallas continued to text her sisters and parents regularly but carefully edited her news. She didn't, for instance, let it be known that she and Rowan'd be dorm neighbors when the fall quarter started in September. She was also circumspect about the photos she posted on FaceBook.

Vonda and the girls came to Third Session Family Day at the end of August. Jesse sent his regrets that business precluded his coming along to help Pallas pack up… not that she'd a great deal of stuff that needed packing! Rowan's mother hadn't shown up for either second or third session, which Pallas found rather odd. No… he assured her… as a teacher herself, she was too busy with pre-school-year activities and he'd his own car, so no need for momma's assistance.

The moment Pallas introduced her mother to Rowan Cameron, she knew something was terribly off kilter. Vonda made all the appropriate comments and was trying very hard… too hard… to keep a pleasant expression plastered on her face. As for Rowan… the stone wall of reserve at which Pallas'd been so resolutely chipping away all summer rebuilt itself in an instant. He, too, was being overly polite, keeping Pallas at arm's length as if she were no more than a casual acquaintance… and almost immediately withdrawing from the scene. Vonda remained tight-lipped throughout the Farewell Luncheon while Pallas desperately cast about for a reason… any reason… her mother'd been so repulsed.

Vonda Ross and the girls were staying overnight in the visitors' dormitory, along with the other parents there to collect their counselor offspring. Some of the counselors'd already left on the busses or in private vehicles. Others would be going the next day… the wranglers after the horses'd been loaded onto stock trailers. After the light dinner that evening, Vonda sent the younger girls off to the dormitory and rounded up her eldest for a mother-daughter heart-to-heart. For privacy's sake they walked out to the lake and sat on the end of the dock.

"Tell me about this boy," Vonda said.

"There's nothing to tell, Mom. We're just good friends." Which at that point was technically still the truth.

"What do you know about him? His people?"

"Oh come on, Ma… it's not like we're planning on eloping or anything…"

"Pallas… you're not…?"

"No, Ma… we're not… we haven't… but…" Here Pallas took a deep breath before going for the deeper plunge. "He's the one…" Pallas watched her mother's expression carefully… what she could make of it in the twilight. Vonda clearly had an objection and was struggling to maintain a calm façade. Pallas couldn't imagine what the problem might be. It couldn't be because of his ethnicity… her parents were too open-minded for that.

"Can I ask one question?"

"Huh! Just one?"

"Why?"

"Why?" Pallas parroted. "I'm not sure, Mom… I like him. I like him a lot. We've been working together almost the whole three months so it's not like he's some stranger I just picked up in a bar…" Oooooh… that sounded too defensive.

"I should hope not. Is he… um… aware of your plans for him?"

Pallas almost giggled. "Yeah… for all the good it's not doing me. He's acting like he's the one who's the virgin here!"

I can't believe I'm having this conversation with my mother!

Vonda did allow a chuckle to escape. "Well, honey… maybe he is… have you thought about that?"

No… Pallas hadn't thought about that. "Oh."

"So why this particular boy?" Vonda persisted. "Is it because… he looks an awful lot like your Dad? Like he did at that age, anyway."

"Does he? I guess he sorta does… now that you mention it. And Mom… you know, he's quiet like Dad, too… and really nice."

"I'm sorry you won't have a chance to exercise your… um… choice, honey, seeing as how we're leaving tomorrow. Are you planning on keeping in touch with him?"

"Um… yes, Mom. We are planning that." I guess now isn't a good time to tell her about the college dorms.

STILL IN THE AIR

Two hours away from Heathrow... Vonda and Maddy shared a chuckle as they gazed across their slumbering progeny. At the beginning of the flight, Maddy'd turned to her seatmate and said, "There's something you need to know about our family... and this is as good a time as any..."

Vonda absorbed the information with surprising equanimity. When an attendant drifted by offering coffee, they each took a mug and clinked them in a toast. "May our children live in interesting times!" she said, paraphrasing the ancient Chinese curse. "I can hardly wait to see what awaits us at Follyfoot! Now... tell me more about this witch stuff..."

Pallas woke up when the stewards came around to take breakfast orders although it was closer to lunchtime, London time—the plane was nearing the end of the nine-plus-hour flight and scheduled to touch down at 12:45 p.m. Row was still dead to the world so she took the liberty of placing his order for him rather than attempting to wake him up—a futile and frustrating process if he wasn't ready. Fortunately their seats were only a few steps away from the lavatory. During a lull in the waiting line, she dashed in to perform hasty ablutions and returned to her seat feeling greatly refreshed. Evidently her mother and sisters and Row's mother'd awakened much earlier and were looking none the worse for the wear.

Row looked so cute, burrowed into his seat with a bunched-up blanket pulled up to his face and his hair sticking out all over like a golden brown hedgehog. Everything about him was golden brown, which was what'd attracted her attention in the first place. She tried to summon up some of the indignation she'd felt at his choosing to wait until he'd a captive audience to dump that load of tripe on her. Witches and prophecies indeed! Who were they to decide who her life partner would be? Only her parents had the right to regulate her life—to a degree—and even those rights would terminate when she came of age. On the other hand... she had Row, so what difference did it make what the purported witches'd seen in their stupid old cauldron or whatever they used to spy into the future? Short answer: None.

There was no denying he'd an otherworldly air about him that defied description. True, she'd been aware from the beginning that Rowan Cameron was exceptional... different from any other boy she'd ever met. True, she found the differences endearing... like the way he talked to animals—not in babytalk like most people, but in normal adult speech ala Doctor Doolittle... with the animals responding as if they understood exactly what he was saying. But witches and warlocks and fairies? Oh, please!