Autumn is definitely in full force Sunday morning. There's a cold wind blowing from the east, causing the remaining leaves to fall from their branches, only to be carried away down the street. Even so, Kristy Thomas is in her driveway in cut-off shorts and a white thermal, washing her station wagon. I watch her for awhile from the formal sitting room window, sipping from a mug of chamomile tea, and feeling very warm inside the quiet of my house. Upstairs, Tiffany and Maria are still sleeping. It's eleven o' clock, later than I usually allow them to sleep in, but theirs was a late night. My parents are already gone. Surprise, surprise. Dad to the golf course, Mom to an Open House in Mercer. I overheard her tell Dad. She isn't speaking to me.

When I tire of standing at the window, I call for Astrid and head out the front door. Astrid trots happily behind me as I cross the street toward Kristy. I shout out to her and wave. Kristy glances up from the windshield she's soaping and grins.

"You look so grown up walking over with your coffee," she says, teasingly. "Here on a social call?"

"It's tea," I reply, leading Astrid toward the side gate. I unlatch it and hold the gate open for her. "Go play with your daughter," I instruct and as if understanding, Astrid gallops through the gate. "It's a tad chilly to be washing your car," I comment.

Kristy shrugs. "Yeah, but Mom's been after me to do it. She doesn't like it dirty, even if it does just sit behind the gate." Kristy picks up the garden hose and begins rinsing the station wagon. The soap slips down the sides, rolling over the hood, and onto the driveway. "I overheard Watson and Charlie discussing cars when Charlie was home last weekend. I think maybe Watson's getting ready to buy me a new one. I hope so."

I regard Kristy's station wagon, now dripping wet with water. There are dents in the fender and along the passenger side with scratches across the hood. Some paint has peeled off the roof. It's out of place in our neighborhood. Doesn't fit in. And maybe that's exactly how it makes Kristy feel. "That would be great," I tell her.

"Yeah, I'd kind of like a Mustang like Abby's, but I'd rather eat my shoe than let Abby think I was copying her."

Smiling, I set my mug on the flower bed curbing and pick up an extra towel. I begin helping Kristy dry off the station wagon. "Speaking of Abby, where is she?" I ask, surprised Abby isn't over here spraying us with the garden hose and avoiding any actual work.

"Holed up in her house doing homework," Kristy answers. "I haven't seen her since Friday night. She came over while I was baby-sitting Sari."

"Oh, did she tell you about Greer and I?"

"Yeah," Kristy replies, not looking up from the tail light she's drying. "And I have a few things to say about it to Greer on Monday. But right now, I think we're done. So, what if there's a few water spots?" Kristy says, tossing her towel to the ground. "Let's make hot chocolate."

"Shouldn't we clean up first?" I point out, surveying the driveway which is scattered with wet rags and a tipped over bucket and the garden hose coiled around the station wagon.

Kristy sighs. "I guess. Go inside and put the milk on the stove. I'll clean up."

Kristy's house is eerily silent. I'm slightly disappointed. It's like being at home. In the kitchen, I pour milk into a saucepan and begin heating it on the stove. I take out a blue and white speckled mug for Kristy, then rinse out my own mug.

"Where is everyone?" I ask Kristy when she walks into the kitchen.

"Nannie and her movie club went to an early showing of that snooze-fest about Franz Ferdinand," Kristy answers, opening a cabinet and removing a large assortment of hot chocolate packets. "David Michael slept over with Nicky Pike last night - either a very brave or very stupid move on his part. Watson took Emily Michelle to a birthday party up in Levittown. And Mom's upstairs in the shower. Now, I'm having double milk chocolate. How about you?"

I peer into the box. "Um...raspberry chocolate."

"Good. That's my least favorite," Kristy says, pouring the warm milk into our mugs. She carries the mugs to the table, where I'm waiting with the open packets. "I wish we had mini-marshmallows, but Emily Michelle poured them all in her Cookie Crisp this morning." Kristy sits down and stirs her hot chocolate. A little too fast. Some sloshes over the sides. "So, is Greer Carson a moron or what?"

I actually laugh. "Kristy!" I cry.

"What?" Kristy asks, innocently. "It's true, isn't it? I mean, Greer has her good points. She's fun to be around. Most of the time. But man, she can be a real blowhard."

I nod, stirring my hot chocolate. "She hurt my feelings a lot," I admit. "I guess Mick and I had our problems. I see that now. But it isn't all my fault. He couldn't have dumped me just because I wouldn't sleep with him. If he really loved me, it wouldn't have mattered." I take a sip of hot chocolate. "Mmm. How can you not like this? But about the sex thing, it was bad enough having Mick nag at me. He could be relentless sometimes. And then I had to deal with Greer, too. She thinks she's so sex savvy. And she thinks everyone ought to have sex anytime with anyone."

Kristy's quiet, stirring her hot chocolate, needlessly. It embarrasses her when anyone talks about sex. She'd rather talk about anything else. Except maybe menstruation. "I think you should talk to Lindsey," she tells me.

"I can't talk to you about this?" I ask.

"No, it's not that," Kristy replies. "You just need to talk to Lindsey."

I set down my mug. "Why? Does Lindsey know something? What does Lindsey know?"

"I can't tell you. I promised. Softball team code, you know. You have to talk to Lindsey."

I stare at Kristy, thinking, turning possibilities over in my mind. What does Lindsey know that she'd tell Kristy and not me? "Fine," I say, coolly. "I'll talk to Lindsey."

"Good," Kristy says, not bothered by my coolness.

We sit silently awhile, sipping our hot chocolate, the room's only sound the ticking of the wall clock. Kristy drains her mug, then stands and pours more milk into the saucepan. I'm only half-finished with mine.

"I'm really glad I didn't sleep with Mick, you know," I tell Kristy when she sits back down. "I would have regretted it so much. I probably would hate myself now. I wonder...I wonder how you keep that from happening. Hating yourself later. Your first time, you know, you're probably not going to be with him forever. It'll end and then do you regret it? Do you regret giving that away to this person you now despise?"

Kristy shrugs. "Maybe you won't despise him. Maybe you'll stay friends."

"Maybe..." I look down at my hot chocolate and stir it absently with my spoon. "I would never want to be like Greer or Lindsey though. Giving away my virginity at the first possible opportunity, just to be done with it. I think that's worse than ending up hating the other person. You should be in love. How do you think you know it's the right time and the right person though?" I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand, still stirring.

Kristy shrugs again. "I don't know. I'm not having sex until I'm married."

"Good girl," Elizabeth says, walking into the kitchen. She's in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with her hair wrapped in a towel. She tugs on Kristy's ponytail and kisses the top of her head.

I sit up straight, embarrassed. I wonder how much Elizabeth overheard.

"Is this your milk, Kristy?" Elizabeth asks, lifting the saucepan of milk off the burner.

"Yes, but you can have it."

"Thank you," Elizabeth says, removing a mug from the cabinet. "So, what did I interrupt?"

"Shannon was just saying how she's glad she didn't have sex with Mick."

I kick Kristy under the table. "Kristy!" I hiss, giving her a sharp look.

Kristy is undaunted. "What? That's a good thing," she tells me. "You didn't give into peer pressure. That's something to be proud of." Kristy turns to Elizabeth, who's just sat down beside Kristy. "Greer Carson's had sex with five guys. Like real sex. It's so gross."

Elizabeth tears open a packet of dark chocolate mint and pours it into her mug. She steals Kristy's spoon to stir it. "I think that's very sad," Elizabeth comments.

"Elizabeth," I start, setting down my own spoon. "how do you know it's the right time to have sex?" I feel my face grow warm as soon as the words leave my mouth. But who else am I going to ask? Not my own mother.

"Didn't you hear Kristy? When you're married," Elizabeth replies. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug. "We were just talking about it. About Mick and Greer and everything."

"You'll know when it's the right time. And the right person," Elizabeth assures me. "I can't explain how, but you just know."

"What if it's the wrong time and the wrong person?"

"Well...then you learn from that mistake. You move on and try to make a better decision next time. I know that with me - "

"Oh, no, no, no!" Kristy shrieks. She clutches her throat and falls backward off the bench, writhing on the tile and gagging.

Elizabeth gives me a pointed look. "I guess I don't have to worry about her making any poor decisions anytime soon," she says, then glances back down at Kristy. "Get off the floor, Kristy. Nannie just cleaned it."

"I'm not sure anyone would want her," I say, seriously.

Elizabeth laughs.

Kristy's eyes appear over the top of the table. "I've eaten enough meals with Sam and Janet to know not to make stupid decisions. You'd think Greer's been over often enough to know too."

"Mrs. Carson made sure she got on the pill after we came back from Camp Erie last summer."

Elizabeth's eyebrows shoot up. "Well! I'm not sure I agree with that," she says. "I like to think I'm progressive, but that may be a little too liberal for me."

"Maybe Mrs. Carson knows Sam and Janet, too," Kristy suggests.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "Just what I always envisioned for my son - to be the poster child for birth control." Elizabeth slides off the bench and dumps the remainder of her hot chocolate into the sink. "I have laundry to fold upstairs. Enjoy the rest of your morning, girls," she tells us. She hooks an arm around Kristy's neck, pretending to choke her. "Don't have sex," she says, presumably to Kristy, but she's looking at me.

It's later in the afternoon when I drive to Lindsey's. She's still grounded. Her three weeks will be up on Tuesday. But I'm counting on the Duprees bending the rules for me again and allowing me to see her. Kristy has more than piqued my interest. If Lindsey holds some kind of secret not meant for my ears, then I must know. And I can't wait until tomorrow.

Standing on the front porch, I can hear the vacuum running inside. I press the doorbell and hold it down, so the chimes ring twice as long. The vacuum shuts off abruptly and a voice calls out, "It's open!"

I walk inside. Dr. Dupree's on the stairs with the vacuum, stretched across several steps, struggling with the hose attachment. Her glasses are sliding off her nose and her hair is bursting loose from its clip atop her head. It's strange seeing someone do their own housework.

"Hello, Dr. Dupree," I greet her, crossing the living room to the staircase. I lean against the banister. "May I see Lindsey? I have yearbook photos." I hold up the photo envelope as proof. They're photos from the Creative Arts Faire. I picked them up on my way here. As Student Life editor, Lindsey must label and approve all the photos. Dr. Dupree knows this.

Dr. Dupree sits back on her knees and pushes her glasses up her nose. "You may," she replies. "Lindsey's upstairs. She's...in her closet."

"Oh," I say, surprised. "I didn't know she still did that."

Dr. Dupree frowns. "It's a more recent development," she says.

"Oh, well, okay. It was nice seeing you, Dr. Dupree," I say, lamely, squeezing passed her on the stairs.

"Lovely to see you again, Shannon," she replies, then switches the vacuum on again.

Lindsey's bedroom door is closed, but she doesn't answer when I knock. I crack the door and peer in. The room is deserted. I slip in and cross the room to the closet door, which is also closed. I knock loudly.

"Who is it?" Lindsey calls out, sounding agitated.

"It's Shannon," I reply.

"Oh...you may enter."

I open the closet door and step inside. Lindsey has the largest walk-in closet I've ever seen that is not attached to a master bedroom. When we were kids, we called it our clubhouse. We decorated the inside with posters and set out potpourri and scented candles. The closet gets rather hot in the summertime, but stays cool in the autumn and winter. When I spent the night at Lindsey's, we even slept in the closet. We were strange kids. I'm not sure why the Duprees permitted it.

Lindsey's propped up against several pillows, seated on a pallet between two bookcases. There's a radio on one of the shelves, playing the new Great Blue Whales tape. I shut the closet door and sit down on the floor. I glance around. All our posters are still on the walls. Frolicking kittens and pudgy puppies and flutes laying beside blood-red roses. It's like stepping through a time warp. Shannon Kilbourne, this is your childhood! The only thing that has changed are the shoes in the shoe rack and the clothes hanging above them. I thought Lindsey stopped coming in here years ago. I thought her grandparents made her.

"My jailers let you in," Lindsey says, dully. She's twisting her braid around her hand. The end is damp.

"Yes, your grandmother let me in. What are you doing in here?"

Lindsey shrugs. "Listening to music and reading a magazine," she replies, showing me the new copy of #1 Fan. She tosses it aside.

"I didn't know the new issue was out yet."

"George bought it at the supermarket this morning."

"I want to borrow it when you're done. There's supposed to be an interview with Desmond from Great Blue Whales," I say. I pick up a plate with a half-eaten egg salad sandwich and carrot sticks. "You're eating your meals in here, too?"

Lindsey shrugs again. "This is where I was when Sadie brought it up."

It's good that I am so experienced with masking my emotions because I manage to not look at Lindsey as if she is crazy. "Are you okay?" I ask her, as gently as possible without sounding patronizing.

Lindsey makes her sour lemon face. "No, I'm not okay. My grandparents are punishing me for no good reason. Greer was grounded for three days. I've been locked up in this house for almost three weeks. My grandparents just like to torture me. I think they're sadists." Lindsey wraps her braid tighter around her hand, not looking at me, still making that face. "They're sending me back to Dr. Petrinski," she tells me, bitterly.

I raise an eyebrow, then quickly lower it before Lindsey notices. "I thought you liked Dr. Petrinski," I reply. Dr. Petrinski is a psychiatrist.

"I never said I liked her," Lindsey protests. "I said she wasn't as bad as the others. She still messes with my head. Sadie and George want me to be screwed up. They send me to quacks on purpose. They like controlling me. They like bossing me around. I told you, they're sadists."

"Are you taking your medication?" I ask, bluntly.

Lindsey looks offended. "Of course."

I look at her, doubtfully.

Lindsey ignores the look. "I want you to know," she tells me, "that I'm probably going to run away. So, don't be surprised when Sadie calls you, pretending to be upset when really she's just mad she doesn't have anyone to push around anymore. Don't worry, Shannon. I'll be okay. My mother was okay for years when she ran away. I'll send you a postcard."

Even my mask has cracks. As I stare at Lindsey, it's difficult to not display the full scope of my disbelief and alarm. I absolutely don't know what to say.

"Are those the photos from the Creative Arts Faire?" Lindsey asks, reaching out and grabbing the envelope off my lap. She dumps out the photos and begins flipping through them until she finds a photo of herself. "Ugh. I do look like a moron!" She rips the photo in half and tosses it into the air.

Technically, that's the property of Stoneybrook Day, but I don't point that out. Instead, I stand up and brush off my tan slacks. "Well...I need to go home," I tell Lindsey. There's no use discussing Greer or anything important with her. Not when she's like this. "I'll see you at school tomorrow."

"Are you coming to George and Sadie's Halloween party Tuesday night? I can't leave. My grounding doesn't expire until midnight."

I'd forgotten Tuesday was Halloween. "Sure. I'll come," I reply.

"Good. You can protect me from the sadists," Lindsey says, picking up her magazine. "Will you tell Sadie I'd like my banana pudding now?"

"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow, Lindsey." I open the closet door and slip out, shutting it behind me. I stand outside the door a moment. Inside the closet, I hear Lindsey's flipping through the magazine, the Great Blue Whales droning on in the background. I close my eyes tight and take a deep breath.

Dr. Dupree is vacuuming under the couch when I come downstairs. I lean against it, watching, until she notices me and turns off the vacuum. "That wasn't long," she says, straightening up. She wipes her brow and smiles. "You finished labeling already?"

"Yes," I lie. I take a breath. "Lindsey wants her pudding now," I inform Dr. Dupree. "And you should know, she says she's going to run away, and I don't think she's taking her medication."

Dr. Dupree doesn't reply. She stares at me, blankly. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Finally, Dr. Dupree smiles, faintly. "Thank you, Shannon," she says. "Thank you for telling me."

Normally, I would never betray a confidence. But sometimes secrets are too important, bigger than ourselves, and must be spoken.