Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

-From Courage by Anne Sexton

The call takes me by surprise, and I conceal it very poorly. I am back from work, footsore and weary, and I have already flopped down on my purple-bedecked bed when the phone rings in the hallway. I wait for a moment, hoping against hope that there's someone else to answer it, but knowing all the while that that's not true. When it's on its fourth ring, I let out a sound like a whimper and haul myself out of bed, tiptoeing on feet that have begun to throb in time to my heart.

"Hello?"

"Anne? Anne Elliot? Is that you?" The voice sounds so familiar, but deeper than I remember, and I fight to place it in time to answer, but I don't.

"It's Megan. Megan Smith. From Exeter." She doesn't sound offended, and suddenly the voice is obvious, and I can't imagine having forgotten it. I grin, my face breaking into a real, genuine smile, and I take the phone with me into my bedroom and flop down on my bed and talk to my old roommate the way I used to talk to my friends when this room was mine, staring up at the stars on the ceiling, and not caring about the time that passed.

Megan was my best friend, once. We had both arrived at Philip's Exeter Academy a day earlier than everyone else, and as such had been assigned the same room. Megan was an excellent ally to have on campus—where I was shy, she was outgoing, but she didn't crave attention. She just liked talking, and talking was what she excelled at. I faltered in that area, especially when it came to gossiping, which she adored, but she never made me feel like I was lacking in any desirable characteristic. We had kept in constant touch during the first few years of college, but when I had stopped taking care of myself, I had gradually stopped calling her, and so it had been a long time.

She doesn't say how she'd tracked me down, but she does want to see me, and I am obviously interested in that arrangement. I take a hasty shower, and comb out my hair where it dries quickly. She won't care what I wear, but I care. I care what I look like when I get there.

I'm deciding between two equally serviceable shirts when I hear my father's voice from the hallway, calling my name. I can hear from the tone that he's angry.

"Anne!"

I step out my door, buttoning the collar of my shirt, which meanders its way down my shoulder. He, Elizabeth, and Hope are standing in the foyer, elegantly turned out and obviously impatient. The look that Hope gives my outfit can only be described as withering.

"Is that what you plan on wearing to Margaret Dalrymple's?" My father asks, indignantly.

"This is what I intend to wear to Megan Smith's." I reply, suddenly defensive. The way they're looking at me makes me angry, as if they would change every last thing about me if they could.

"I told you. We're all invited to dinner at Margaret Dalrymple's house, and we're going."

"I can't. I have plans."

"Plans? What plans could you possibly have that are more important than this."

"I'm going to visit a friend tonight. I haven't seen her for a long time, and tonight was the best night for both of us."

"What friend? Who? What's her name?"

"Megan. Megan Smith, she was my roommate at—"

"Megan Smith? Megan Smith? Who the hell is Megan Smith?"

"She's a friend," I repeat, trying very hard not to raise my voice. It's a losing battle. "You three should go without me, have a good time. I'm going to meet Megan."

"How is it possible," my father starts, hands planted on his hips, his head thrust forward like an angry pigeon. "How it is possible that this woman is more important to you than the most important woman in the country? Besides Oprah. How is that possible?" Hope makes a small noise, a slight exclamation, and retreats to the living room, where she can still hear everything we say, but where she's out of sight.

My father continues, "This is outrageous! You'd rather visit this nobody than commit to a promise you made? Who raised you?"

One. Two. Three.

"I never said I'd go, Dad. And yes, I would rather spend my time with my friends."

"All the friends you have," Elizabeth mutters next to me. I pretend not to hear. Well, I try to pretend not to hear.

"She's a good friend of mine, and she's not the only single woman in this city with nothing to distinguish her but her charm and her friendship with the Elliot family." Elizabeth stiffens next to me. There is no noise from the next room. "Now I'm going to finish getting ready. You go and have a good time with Margaret. I hope it's every bit as rewarding for you as you expect it to be." And with that, I go back to my room and quietly close the door. I stand in the middle of the room for a moment, then move calmly to my bed and grab the pillow, bring it to my face, scream into it, replace it, and go to back to preparing myself for going out. It's been a long time since I've taken the time to care what I look like, and I want to make an impression.

Megan's wheelchair is covered in stickers. My Little Pony, Hello Kitty, and an odd assortment of generic fairies. I don't want to stare, but I do, and she catches me at it several times, until finally she pats the metal chair and smiles wryly at me. I blush, embarrassed at my rudeness.

"Don't freak out," she says, looking at me fondly. "You can look. It's weird, I know."

"When did…I mean, how long have you been in…" I run out of words. How can I dance around a subject that's right in front of me? Should I even try to be delicate about it?

"Two years, give or take. Car accident. I always did drive too fast, didn't I, Funshine?" she uses my old nickname, and I grin back at her. "Slipped on some ice. That's the way it is. I get around pretty well most of the time, but I have some trouble with my muscles sometimes, so Rocio, my caretaker, comes in a couple of times a week, don't you Rochi?"

Rocio smiles at me from where she's pouring us all glasses of water. I offer to help her, but she waves me away impatiently. She and Megan have set up a steady rhythm between them, and Rocio seems largely unsentimental about Megan's predicament. So too is Megan, who is only marginally inconvenienced by it all, if attitude is any judge.

Megan's apartment is like an explosion from a crayon box. The walls are white, but that's the only color they could possibly be to balance the layers of pink, orange, yellow, and lime green that are everywhere. A large mirror on one wall has a waving exchange of hot pink suns and bright blue crescent moons on a sun—yellow background. The couch on which I'm sitting is covered in a rainbow-patterned afghan, and psychedelic pillows are wedged all around me. Potted plants explode from the corners and shoot out in all directions. The kitchen, which I can just see from my perch, is all lime green, with an incongruous bright purple chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"What do you do with your time?" I can't help but ask. I can't believe how down-to-earth she is about it.

"Oh, you know, I knit."

"Knit?"

"Yup. K-n-i-t. That's me. Rocio showed me how to do it, and you would not believe how fun it is. I turn on a movie, or some music, withmy handy-dandy remote," she shows me yet again her universal remote, of which she is very proud, "and knit away until my fingers bleed. Do you want a sweater? How about a scarf? Is red still your favorite color?"

I burst out laughing at her enthusiasm. She's exactly the way I remember her, only more grounded. I realize again how much I missed her.

"And you? Do you have a favorite color?" I gesture to the décor. Rocio grins behind Megan, shaking her head at me and grimacing.

"Oh, I'm egalitarian when it comes to that sort of thing," Megan waves away the implication. "As long as they're bright, I really don't give a shit. Pardon my expression, by the way," she adds, tipping a pretend hat in a salute, "I just really like saying 'shit,' it's satisfying to say." I smile back at her, shrugging. She always thought I didn't swear for moral reasons, it was the one opinion of my character that never faltered.

"Speaking of red, how are things with Elliot Williams?" Megan asks as Rocio hands water around and settles down herself. Both of them turn their eyes on me with identical expressions of innocent curiosity.

"How do you—"I start, then shut my mouth. Anything I say right now will be incriminating, one way or the other. I change tactics. "What do you mean, speaking of red?"

Megan smirks, then fakes a terrible French accent. "But of course, my angel, red is ze coleur of passion!" she giggles, then jerks her head at Rocio, who is smiling an impish smile. "Rocio takes care of other people around the city, and I have to say that for such a drama-free queen like you, you're making a lot of noise in the society set."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Mon amie. Rocio keep telling me these stories about what people are saying about you two. And I have to say, that knitting aside, gossip is my favorite pastime. And with Rochi here it's like I have a personal US Weekly all the time."

Rocio, who seems to be reserved in company, just smiles her impish smile and raises her glass. I smile back, but I'm dying of embarrassment and curiosity at once. I don't ask. I won't ask.

But Megan knows me too well. She sees it in my face. "You want to know what they're saying about you, don't you?" I don't answer. "Well, they're saying…Rochi, you tell it best." Rocio leans forward, as if imparting a great secret, and I can't help but lean forward, too.

"I take care of General Wallis, who has acute renal failure, and his wife just talks talks talks all the time, like a parrot, you know? Well, she went to a party, and met Elliot and a friend, and well General Wallis says that his wife says that Elliot says that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and that he is crazy for you. That's what I hear."

"You're spending time with him? Lots of time?" Megan seems deeply interested. She's leaning forward in her wheelchair, her eyes narrowed a bit. I am deeply uncomfortable.

"A little. We're friends, that's all. There's nothing else between us."

"Uh huh," Megan says, disbelieving. Rochi looks unimpressed. "Just be careful, Petite Fille, okay?" She doesn't elaborate.

I can't answer. I don't know what to say. I look around the room for something else to talk about, but there's nothing. But there's water in my hand, and I drink it. You're supposed to drink eight glasses a day.

Walking home, I have a lot to think about. What is it that makes everyone in the entire world want me and Elliot to get together? Why is it that the larger Bath metropolitan area is taking a sudden interest in my love life? And why Elliot, of all people?

It's inescapable. If a woman talks to a man, they're having an affair. If they're platonic friends, then they've been denying their mad love for each other for years. And any denial of that well-proven fact only counts as indirect admission of guilt. So I can't walk around in a park with a man, or serve him coffee in the diner, without the General Wallis with the acute renal failure finding out and talking about it.

I'm angry, but more than that, I'm puzzled. Why am I so interesting, all of a sudden? I've never been the object of gossip before, because I've never done anything worth gossiping about, really. And I prefer it that way. How is it that suddenly, I am interesting enough to merit all of this attention? And how is what I do any of anyone else's business?

I'm not angry at Megan. I don't have it in me to be angry at Megan, and she needs to have entertainment now. Now, I'd rather not be the source of that entertainment, but still. I can't want her to be occupied and then complain about the manner of that occupation. That would be hypocritical.

But still. Since when is watching what other people do with their lives a valid use of one's own life? And passing judgment on that life, on the choices that person makes, which, even to the keenest observer, must be taken out of context?

I've fallen prey to that judgment, time and again. And, I admit, I've judged others in my turn. But I feel oddly constricted, like an ant in an ant farm, now that I know that I've been watched by other people when going about my daily business. All this time that I've been content, and busy, and focusing on change, all this time, people have been commenting about me behind me back.

Megan, at least, has the decency to tell me what they're saying. And my family, for all their faults, don't shy away from expressing their displeasure to my face. But those are people who are close to me, who have direct contact with me, and who have a way of measuring (however feeble) by some other measure than by the general whim of the world. They are some of the people I would expect to judge my life. But General Wallis and his wife, of whom I have heard only one or two things and nothing very much either time, are educated enough on my life that they can tell other people who I went out with and when. And Rocio, while nice, is not a close friend, or even an acquaintance before today, and she's heard gossip about me, too.

I understand the rules of the world I live in. I understand them, and for the most part I uphold them. They make sense to me, they make my life and the culture I live in make sense to me. I'm not revolutionary, I'm not counter-cultural. But sometimes what I want and what is normal are so at odds that I can hardly breathe, and I don't consider myself to be very demanding. All I want is a small corner of the world that is my own, and no one else's. I'd like to be able to walk freely down the street, say hello to whomever I want, spend time with whomever I want (or avoid whomever I want) without getting feedback from the wide selection of people I don't know.

Dad and Elizabeth may have already heard about my job. I haven't told them, not yet. I was waiting for the right time, under the impression that no one care enough to know what I do with my time.

Oh well. I have a response to that, as well. Or will do soon.

The intersection I stop at has a full bin of free newspapers. I open it up to the classifieds section, and start looking for apartments. Tomorrow will be a new day, I suppose. And then the next day after that. In tiny baby steps.

A/N: I just realized today how long I've been writing/not writing this story. When I first thought about doing this adaptation, I was finishing up Never Better, and working in a sandwich shop in my town. A lot of scenes (most of which didn't make it to the final cut of the story) were developed while doing some mindless task in the kitchen.

I'm really sorry it's taken so long. I'd like to have a better excuse than my own laziness (after all, it's based entirely on another work, it shouldn't be that hard to write, right?) but I don't have much. I'm just glad everyone who reads it seems to like it. And if you don't like it, you haven't told me. No news is good news.

Have a good weekend, and thanks again for reading!