A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.

But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies,
Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.

-Emily Dickinson, "A Charm Invests a Face"

Moving to Bath was perhaps the best decision my family ever made, from a purely superficial standpoint. Not only does it save them money in the long run, but it makes them some of the most important—if you measure importance by connections and family standing—people in town. Even after they turned down invitations then didn't show up to things to which they'd RSVP'd, more invitations have come pouring in to this party or to that benefit. I don't understand how the news of their financial ruin hasn't reached Bath, what with the internet and all, but somehow it has miraculously escaped the attention of the social climbing set in Bath that the Elliots are, in fact, completely broke. If Dad and Elizabeth have their way, no one will ever find out.

And so they're happy. Yesterday there was a dinner, tomorrow there's a party, and they're always busy, always doing something, always seeing someone. I guess there's really not that much difference between them and me: we like to be occupied. But I have my job (they don't know where, and I won't tell them—why invite disaster?), not social engagements. I don't have friends here, really.

Elizabeth, my father, and Hope are sleeping. The apartment is silent, blissfully so, and I can hear the sound of traffic off in the distance. Not highway traffic, not rough city traffic, but the steady trickle of high-class cars down narrow, high-class roads. The roads here are as monitored as the hedgerows.

I am eating breakfast in the kitchen. It's my day off, and I'm savoring being up at seven instead of five. The bowl of Cookie Crisp in front of me tastes especially chemically delicious, and I have an individual cup of coffee made from my dad's supposedly-artisanal machine. It has the "aroma of hazelnuts, offering a comforting retreat from everyday life…" but pretty much tastes like regular overpriced coffee.

And okay, I admit it, I'm mulling over what Rochelle told me. Because it troubles me, and I have no idea why it should trouble me. It's not like I'm really going to date him or anything, so the mere fact that he likes me shouldn't be enough to send me into a tailspin. It's not like I haven't had to deal with guys liking me before.

And it wasn't the fact that it was Rochelle who told me about him liking me, either. If Romeo and Juliet were standing in front of her, declaring their love for each other, she would probably purse her lips and insist that Juliet likes Paris better. Sentiment is not her thing. I don't feel obligated to date who she tells me I should date.

And it's not Ahmir, not really. His existence doesn't bear any weight in this matter. And besides, if it did, it would be idiotic, because Ahmir is…Ahmir is…

There's a knock on the door. I start, and then stare at it dumbly for a second, because who comes to visit at 7:45 in the morning? It's ridiculous.

But there's a thing about knocked doors and ringing phones—even if you don't want to answer them, the mystery can pull you in. And so I get up, albeit reluctantly, and open the door.

"Oh good, it's you," Elliot says from where he leans on the door jamb casually. "I didn't want to have to wade through the rest of your family this morning. Did I wake you up?"

I open my mouth, but all the comes out is an "Ooohp" sound. He chuckles. "Can I come in, at least? Or have I done something wrong? Am I not allowed in the Elliot household anymore?"

"Ha ha," I say, backing away from the door. He strolls in after me, hands in his pockets.

"She speaks! Is it too early in the morning for this?" He leans again, this time against the counter where my unfinished bowl of cereal is getting soggy.

"That depends. What is this exactly?"

He reaches into the open box of Cookie Crisp, then grabs a handful. "I'm taking you out, Miss Elliot."

I raise my eyebrows, smiling in spite of myself. "Taking me out? Out where, exactly?"

"How should I know? Who the hell cares? We're getting out of this apartment, and then we'll go…somewhere. Not sure where. I just want to talk to the people I want to talk to, and that's a pretty short list. Basically, it's you, so strap on your shoes, and let's get out of here, okay?" He grabs another handful of cereal ("One for the road") and starts off. I don't follow.

He turns around. "Come on, Anne. I'm not going to seduce you or sell you to for medical experiments or steal your kidneys. We're cool. Now let's go." I slip on my shoes and follow him to the door. He grabs my jacket and flings it behind him. It lands in my face, but I laugh, and we run out the door together.

I haven't explored Bath. Ever. The last time I was here, I was at the hospital most of the time, and this time I've been preoccupied with work and everything else, and I have to admit, Bath is beautiful. I never knew that before.

The park that we're sitting in now is green and peaceful. There's a Japanese rock garden to our right, and a group of college-age guys playing Frisbee to our left. The occasional mom with her baby carriage strolls past, but it seems to be a refuge from the city, as small as it is.

"Wait, okay, so your father doesn't know about your job yet?"

'Nope."

"When are you going to tell him?"

"I don't know…When he asks me, I guess."

"Unbelievable. Would he be pissed?"

"So pissed. He'd disown me probably."

"Then why do it?"

"I like it. It's fun, and I like being busy. Is that enough?"

"I mean, I guess. Well, damn. That's insane."

"I'm an adult, I can work wherever I want."

"Okay, sorry, okay. You're right."

"Thank you."

"But here's the thing: if you're an adult, why can't you just tell him without being afraid?" He's looking at me earnestly, his blonde hair in perfect disarray, his face serious. His question stops me up short, I have to admit. But for some reason, I don't want to admit that he's right. It's only after a minute of searching for a response and failing to find one that I am forced to admit to myself that he is right. I frown, perplexed.

He jumps in. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I was just asking."

"Okay."

"It's your life, so you…I mean, you do what you think is right, right?"

"Right."

There's a moment's awkward silence. He leans forward, his eyes searching. "Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not mad. You're right."

"And that doesn't make you mad?"

"Not really, no." Which is a lie. A surprising lie.

"Okay. Good. Now, I want to do something, do you want to do something? Let's do something."

I smile at his garrulousness. I can't dislike him, that much is clear. He stands up from the bench, and holds out his hand. "Well, my lovely companion, what shall we do next?"

I have fun with Elliot. Really, I do. And it's just fun. There are no complications, no politics, no history. Just two people having a good time.

But I'm finding him hard to read. And I want to read him, so I can understand his intentions. Because I've figured it out, why it is that he disquiets me so much—I can't tell what he wants from me. Does he want to be friends, does he want to be more than friends? I have no idea, and that's strange for me. I can usually read people pretty well, and my utter failure to gain insight into Elliot's personality is unsettling for me. I don't like it.

When I get home, Elizabeth and my father are out. I go to my room, and look around for the first time since I arrived. The walls are covered with pictures I collected when I was thirteen, the chair and desk are small for me. I look at myself in the mirror, which is purple and glittery and has a sticker of a glow-in-the-dark smiley face at one edge. My hair is long and bedraggled, my clothes old and frayed, my face a little tired.

Elliot's right. If I were an adult, I wouldn't be shy about telling my family about my job. I wouldn't really worry about displeasing my dad. If I were an adult, I would take matters into my own hands.

I lift a strand of hair off my cheek, then let it fall. It's long, it's limp. I don't like it. I haven't had a change, a real change, in five years. I haven't made myself change, haven't demanded progress from myself. I've been stuck in one place for half a decade. I figure now's about as good a time as any to grow up.

There is a pair of shears on my desk. I pick them up and test them. Still sharp. I used to cut dolls' hair all the time. Isn't this essentially the same thing? I take a piece, and measure it carefully, then cut it, a little longer than I want it to be. I can always cut more off. The hair falls in a curl at my feet.

No going back now.

Breaking news: Margaret Dalrymple is in Bath. Not such big news, really, to the rest of the world, but in the Elliot household, there has been talk of little else all week. The matriarch of the steel magnate is among the richest women in the world, and as a result, among the most important. Even more important is that my dad knows her a little through my mother, so there is a connection there that is worth keeping. Or something like that.

It's not very important to me, but "knowing someone important makes the entire Elliot family more important," according to my father, who hasn't said much else for days. We've had lunch with her once—on my second day off, and I couldn't escape—and I found her deathly boring and all in all not worth my time. But Elizabeth, Hope, and my father are enchanted by her and keep waiting for another invitation to arrive. I can't help but hope one never does.

"But why are you so dead-set against her?" Elliot wants to know. " I mean, she's good company." I'm wiping down the counter where he sits, drinking a coffee. Artie, a small man in an all-denim outfit, keeps raising his eyes at me and indicating Elliot, as if he Knows What's Going On. I shake my head at him whenever Eillot's not looking.

"My idea of good company is a group of intelligent people with a lot to talk about and mutual interest in each other," I retort, replacing the napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers, and rearranging the plastic cups on the lower level of the counter.

"Nope. Wrong." He leans forward, waving his spoon in a business-like way. "That's not good company."

"Oh, really?" I flip my rag over my shoulder and lean forward as well. Artie raises his eyebrows. I ignore him.

"Really. That's not good company, that is the best company, and if you knew how infrequently it actually happens, you'd probably vomit and die, Miss Elliot. Seriously. No," he continues, leaning back to stir his coffee, "good company is a group of people with the same basic understanding of the world, manners, and education, although that's obviously less than necessary."

"That's tragic."

"Think about it. How many times have you spent time with someone when you didn't like them because you thought you should? Even you've done it, admit it. Okay, so," he went on when I opened my mouth to disagree, "The Dalrymple isn't much of a person, all things considered, but she's a good person to know. If you ever want to leave the wide world of diner waitressing, it's probably useful to have someone like her to vouch for you in whatever it is you want to do. Think about it."

"Your boyfriend's got a point, Annie," Artie says, raising his orange juice in a salute.

"He's not—" I begin, but Elliot's talking, too. "Thanks, Artie. See? You're the odd lady out, here."

I shrug, focusing on cleaning. After a little time, Elliot clears his throat and says, "That woman who's always with your father, who is she?"

I stop abruptly, and look at him. "Hope? She's…"

"His girlfriend? His wife?"

"Oh, no, she's…well, she's my dad's lawyer's daughter. She's friends with Elizabeth. Why do you ask?"

"Because I can see a way that we think the same."

"Oh, can you?"

"Yeah. We're both a little suspicious of her, of what she wants. Am I right?"

I take a moment to dry my hands. "Maybe."

He settles back in his chair, a charming smile touching his eyes. "I thought so. I like you hair, by the way. It suits you." He goes back to his coffee, and I finish cleaning the counter, thinking hard. It's back again, that troubled feeling, but I don't know why.

I have to think. As if I don't think enough.