Crewcut

Igot my hair cut today in honor of this trip to visit my mother. I had the guy cut it so short in the back that when I rub my hand against it, it feels prickly, so rough and razor sharp that it makes my hand tingle.

The guy says to me, "A pretty girl like you shouldn't have such short hair--yours is so nice and thick--you sure you want to do this?" I just nod and watch him clip away until all my curls drift to the floor. It's weird seeing it on the ground, a shaggy carpet that a few minutes before was attached to my head. It almost looks lonely.

I doubt that my family will make a big deal about my hair. It's always so loud and crowded in my house, with the five of us, plus my dad, and other people passing through. Whether it's the radio, the TV or the humming of the dishwasher, there's always some sort of noise beneath the chatter. I imagine our house as a winter coat that's too small for the fat man wearing it; one false move and the whole thing will rip apart, bursting at the seams.

When I walk into the house, Janie, my 13-year-old sister, glances up from the kitchen table, where she's doing her homework. "Sammy, what did you do?"

I just shrug my shoulders. "I couldn't deal with it anymore; it was always getting in the way."

The twins pay no attention, sitting zombielike, their mouths agape as one of the Ninja Turtles--Michelangelo, I think--gets beaten over the head. A couple of minutes later, Kevin barrels down the stairs, sticking his tongue out at Janie. "What's for dinner?" he asks me sweetly.

"I don't know. It's not my turn."

"Yeah, uh-huh, it is. I called Daddy at work and he said," Kevin whines.

"I have to pack," I say, rolling my eyes. "Well, fine. If I'm in charge, we're having pizza," I announce, picking up the phone and dialing.

Janie, my dad and I take turns with dinner. After my mom left three years ago, when I was 12, Dad drew up a schedule, neatly charted and drawn with a ruler. "You guys have to pull your own weight around here," he told us. "I can't do everything."

Janie and I do the shopping. Dad gives us a check at the beginning of the week, $50, and we all go to the market together, the little ones in tow. Kevin and the twins shuffle their feet, grabbing and pleading for candy they've seen advertised during Saturday-morning cartoons. We all have weak spots; I'm a sucker for exotic fruits, anything that I've never tasted before--passion fruit, cactus apples, kiwis and kumquats. But we can't indulge often. Doing the shopping ourselves makes us hyper-aware of prices. We're probably the only kids in school who watch eagle-eyed for specials on bacon, who know that $1.89 is a great price for a carton of orange juice.

Dad never asks us what we get, never questions our decisions, except for the time we got 23 Hungry-Man dinners for the week. He's not home much and when he is, he sinks into the easy chair and tells us to keep it down. "I listen to people complaining all day long," he tells us when the twins ask him to settle a dispute or when Kevin pleads for a new skate board. "Can't you guys give me a little peace and quiet?"

He's not a tyrant or an ogre or anything. He's just tired, permanently tired, I'd say, and has been for as long as I can remember. He's a sales rep for a light-fixture company. Sometimes, when we're all eating dinner and making a fuss--Kevin telling knock-knock jokes and the twins stuffing unwanted food into their napkins--Dad will sit there, silent, his eyes wandering around the room, like he's pulled a layer of film over them. He's wondering how he ever ended up in this situation. It's as if he took a wrong turn somewhere and can't get back on track.

•

We haven't seen our mother in more than a year. The last time was for dinner. She called the house about a week before and told us she would be passing through and wanted to take us out. "A real dinner," she said. "I want to take you kids someplace nice. Sergio's is still there, isn't it?"

The sky's the limit with Mom.

Janie spent hours helping the twins get ready, dressing them in the ruffles and bows my mother adores. About ten minutes before we were supposed to leave, I slid into a black-leather miniskirt, applied a streak of crimson to my lips and piled my tangled curls on top of my head, remembering full well that my mother likes me to wear my hair down. Janie shook her head disapprovingly. "Why can't you at least try?"

I just smirked and grabbed a twin with each hand. "Come on, we don't want to keep Mommy waiting."

When we got to the restaurant, she looked exactly the way I remembered her. Platinum hair sprayed into place, lipstick that precisely matched her nail polish, birdlike bejeweled hands. As the little ones ran up and hugged her, almost knocking her to the ground, I stood back. "Where's Samantha? Where's my first-born?" she said, looking around till she spotted me.

We sat in the elegant dining room, the little ones' faces hidden behind enormous menus, and she asked us about school, friends, sports. "Janie, are you still taking ballet?"

"We're getting toe shoes next week."

"That's wonderful. This may sound old fashioned, but there's nothing like ballet to give a girl grace and poise. What about your ballet, Samantha?"

"I quit."

"Oh," she said, and gave me a puzzled look. "Honey," she said, leaning over, smoothing my hair, "you need some new clothes. I'll give you the money. You're such a pretty young lady, you should take advantage of your looks."

I said nothing.

Her eyes got glittery, and she turned to the other kids. She raised a glass of champagne. "It's so good to see all of you. I wish I could come more often, but it's hard to get away. If only I could show you kids some of the things I've seen."

"Take us somewhere. Take us somewhere really good," Kevin said, jumping up and down on his chair.

"Where do you want to go? Las Vegas, Tahiti? How about Disneyland?"

"The moon, Mommy! I want to go to the moon!"

"You've got it!" she said, toasting him. "Next summer vacation, the moon it is!"

A month after our dinner, extravagant presents arrived: an Erector set for Kevin, a Barbie ice-cream shoppe for the twins that they already had and matching Laura Ashley dresses for Janie and me. That night, Kevin mumbled to me when I put him to bed, "When is Mommy coming back to take me to the moon?"

(continued on page 146) Crewcut (continued from page 102)

•

About a month ago, she called me. "Samantha, honey, I have a big surprise for you, a belated fifteenth-birthday present."

"Yeah?" I said, suspicious.

"I have to go to Miami--to this medical convention I booked speakers for--and I want to take you with me. Not any of the other kids, just the two of us. I don't have that much work, just a couple of meetings, and you're big enough to take care of yourself. It would be more of a vacation than anything else. Just an excuse for us two girls to play together for a couple of days in the sun. What do you say?" she said, suddenly aware that I hadn't spoken.

"I don't know. I'm not sure if it's such a good idea." I wrapped the twisty phone cord around my wrist until red marks appeared.

"Why not? It'll be so much fun. Samantha, you'll go back home golden brown and everyone will be so jealous of your tan. We'll have a great time, I promise."

"I'll have to ask Dad," I said, knowing he wouldn't care one way or another. "How would I get there?"

"I'll send you a plane ticket. You can take the train to Philadelphia and fly from there."

"Wait, Mom. Could I take the train all the way?"

"Samantha, it's more than a thousand miles to Miami. The train would take forever, and besides, trains today are awful--"

"I'll only come if I can take the train," I interrupted. "I know you don't understand, but I don't want to fly."

"Oh, honey!" she exclaimed. "Oh, honey, you're not afraid to fly? Samantha, it's really perfectly safe."

"Mom, I'll come if I can take the train."

That settled it. After a flurry of I'm-so-exciteds and I can't-wait-to-see-yous, she hung up. It didn't bother me that she thought I was scared. Whatever she wanted to believe was fine with me. The longer the train ride took, the better. It would be one of the first times I would be alone for more than a couple of hours in my life. No brother and sisters to look after, no parents breathing down my neck. It was a good-enough trade in my eyes to make up for three days or so of dealing with my mom.

•

Janie watches me pack, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the room we share as I stuff clothes into a bag.

"I'm so jealous of you. You're going to eat in great restaurants, go shopping, swim in the ocean, all while I sit here freezing in New Jersey. I hope Mom takes me somewhere when I'm fifteen."

"Don't bet on it. You can't depend on her. It's going to be fun, but she'll watch me like a hawk. 'Don't sit like that, Samantha, it's not ladylike.' 'Let's go out and buy you some real clothes, Samantha; you don't need to wear hand-me-downs.' " I imitate her high voice and clucking noises of disapproval.

Over the past year, I've started shopping in dusty, dimly lit secondhand stores, rummaging through boxes of jumbled clothing. I wear faded and sometimes ripped men's jeans several sizes too big for me, so large that I swim in them. I cinch them tightly around my waist with my favorite find, a belt with a brass buckle in the shape of Texas, the words dont mess with texas embossed on it. I wear men's work shirts, broadcloth pinstripes with buttondown collars and a previous owner's initials stitched into the breast pocket. I've been wearing hats. A five-gallon hat and a bowler are my favorites, but I think I'll retire them for a while, to show off my newly shorn head. The only part of my outfits my mother will approve of are the camisoles: They're mostly white, lacy and look like they should smell of moth balls. But I don't hide them; I wear the shirts unbuttoned so the lace of the camisoles peeks through. I can just hear what my mother will say.

She would throw a fit if I told her about the sex. How sometimes after school, I go out behind the soccer field and into the woods near the boys' school. Even though they come in pairs or clusters of three, we go one at a time, while the others kick up dirt or throw stones waiting for their turns. They're well-behaved, polite boys. Sometimes, while I'm pulling down their pants--I love the charged sound of the zipper slowly unzipping--they'll ask me, their voices breathless, "How about if you meet me in town on Saturday night? I'll take you out in my car." I shake my head no, diving down. I enjoy it and so do they--why make it more complicated?

Sometimes I feel like telling my mother when she calls and asks, "How's school, Samantha?"

I want to answer, "It's OK. I had a math test today that was pretty hard, but I gave this guy a blow job after school and that cheered me up."

I don't think she'd take it all that well.

•

Janie mumbles something and rolls back over when the alarm goes off. When I steal out of the dark room, all I can make out of her is a lumpy figure under the covers and masses of curls covering her pillow. I walk to the corner and wait until the bus lumbers up, its headlights still beaming.

The brightly lit train station is worlds apart from the stillness of the early morning. It's bustling, brimming with men and women in business suits, hurrying to buy the paper and a cup of coffee, or making one last phone call before the train arrives. They're all probably taking the train into Philadelphia or maybe New York. I doubt that anyone here will be going to Florida with me.

I sit down on one of the straight-backed wooden benches, hugging my bag close. I don't want anyone to get the idea that just because I'm young and traveling alone, I'm an easy target. There's a family sitting across from me. Two little kids climb all over their mother as if she were a jungle gym; her hands are everywhere, wiping the snotty nose of one, grabbing a half-eaten lollipop from the other. They bombard her with questions: "When are we going?" "How long till we get there?" I'm glad I'm leaving home for a while.

The board lights up with the track number for my train and swells of people crowd the stairway to get downstairs to the platform. I climb on the train and find myself a seat.

"Tickets! Tickets, please!" the conductor bellows as he slides open the door to my car.

"All the way to Miami, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Well, young lady," he says, smiling at me, "you've got a nice long ride ahead of you. We should be arriving in Miami in a little more than twenty-four hours--around nine A.M. tomorrow."

As he moves on to the woman in a business suit sitting across the aisle from me, I settle back into my seat and fall asleep to the rhythmic clanking of the wheels.

I wake up several hours later to the sun shining so brightly in my eyes I can't even focus. My whole body is stiff from sleeping in a cramped position for so long. As I stretch out, I see that the businesswoman is gone. Now sitting across the aisle from me is a woman with gray hair pinned into a disheveled bun, playing cards with herself.

Noticing that I'm awake, she smiles at me and says, "Lord, child, I didn't think anything would bring you back to the land of the living."

I just nod.

"I'm going to visit my son and new grandchild--my first granddaughter, mind you; there are already three boys ahead of her. They live in Raleigh," she says, nodding back at me.

"Where are we?" I ask, looking out the window at empty fields and a ribbon of highway that looks like it's chasing the train tracks.

"Oh, about twenty minutes, half an hour outside of D.C. How far are you going?"

"Miami."

"My God, honey, you've got a long ways to go. Want me to get you something from the club car? I'm going."

"Well, OK, if you could," I say. "Orange juice or apple, whatever they have." I reach into my pocket, but she shakes her head.

"My treat," she says, and wobbles down the aisle, clutching the tops of seats so she won't fall. I settle back into my seat and put on my headphones. As Sinéad croons to me about another lost love, I think about my mother.

•

I was eight when my mother first left, or at least that's the first time I remember. She taped a note to the refrigerator, between the macaroni collages and the finger paintings. It said something like, "(1) Mike--lunches for girls are inside. (2) Don't forget to pick up the laundry Friday. (3) I've gone away for a while. Be back soon. Love, Carole. P.S. Samantha and Janie, be good to Daddy. XXXXOOO, Mommy."

She left for good about a year after the twins were born. She told us she was going away for a couple of weeks to Aunt Carrie's in Arizona. "Even mommies need vacations," she said, smiling, as she brushed her lips against our foreheads--but I knew she wasn't coming back.

Dad didn't like us to talk about her. He never forbade it, but he didn't like it. After a while, we just stopped bringing up her name. By the time she called to tell us about her new job booking speakers for conventions all over the country, we had already fashioned a routine without her.

•

The woman across the aisle gives me a tiny bottle of orange juice and begins to collect her baggage.

"Raleigh! All passengers for Raleigh, North Carolina, next stop!"

"Enjoy your granddaughter," I say as she hurries down the aisle. "Thanks for the orange juice."

Our car begins to lurch and I feel the brakes pleading the train to a complete stop. New people board, elbowing their way through the crowded aisle.

Except for the juice, I haven't had anything to eat all day, and my stomach has started to grumble and groan. I leave my jacket so people will know the seat is taken--and make my way to the club car.

•

I come back loaded down: barbecue potato chips, chocolate-covered peanut-butter cups and a Coke. Someone is in the seat next to mine and I'm annoyed, but I have no right to be. Luckily, my window seat is still free. If he's a pest, all I have to do is lean against the window and pretend I'm asleep.

"Excuse me."

He looks up at me, startled, as if I've interrupted him or something.

"Yeah?"

"That's my seat," I say, gesturing to the window with my chin.

"Oh, sorry." He gets up and moves out of the way so I can get in. He has a long face with perfectly straight dirty-blond hair that hangs in his eyes. He's wearing a faded orange T-shirt with go climb a rock printed on it and when he stands up, I notice how loose his jeans are; they sit low on his hips and look as if there's very little keeping them up.

I squeeze past him into my seat and pick up the copy of Rolling Stone that I bought in the train station.

"Nice day for a train ride," he announces.

"Hmmm."

"How far you going?"

"Miami," I answer, looking him straight in the face. He looks away.

"I'm going there, too," he tells me. Then there's just silence.

I turn to look out the window. I had thought there would be some interesting scenery, that when we entered the South, I would see a difference, or at least feel a difference. But I don't. It looks like the same flat land I left behind in New Jersey.

"You always had such short hair?"

"What?"

Embarrassed, maybe realizing it wasn't the most polite thing to ask, he repeats it.

"No. Why?" Why the hell does he care?

"I don't know." Mr. Go Climb a Rock shrugs his shoulders. "I like it. I just wondered."

I pull my headphones out of my bag. De La Soul pounds loudly in my ears, a steel curtain of sound isolating me from the rest of the world. While Mr. Go Climb a Rock stares ahead, fixating on something that I can't make out, I study his face. He looks older than I first thought. His skin is pitted and he has tiny wrinkles that radiate like sun rays from the corners of his eyes. He turns to look at me, but when he does, I twist around and curl up against the window, pretending I'm asleep.

•

I wonder if my mother is dating anyone now. I can just imagine what she's like around guys--men other than my father, I mean. I just hope that if she has a hot date, I don't have to watch. It honestly makes me sick.

"Excuse me," I say to Mr. Go Climb a Rock. He gets up as I grab my small bag and move into the aisle.

In the cramped bathroom, I sit on the toilet breathing heavily. I hold my face in my hands. I don't know why I agreed to this in the first place. Every time I see her or think about seeing her, my stomach gets so knotted up I can't breathe. She doesn't have a hold on you anymore, I tell myself. I stand up, throw cold water on my face and give myself a good, long stare in the mirror. My features seem odd to me, naked and out of place: my blue eyes puffy and too far apart, my lips too pale and cracked.

I reach into my bag and pull out a heavy black eyeliner and carefully outline my eyes. It doesn't look right, so I extend the lines to my temples. My eyes still look strange, but in a good way. I put on scarlet lipstick until my lips look stained with blood. My cheeks are pale; I pat on powder until they become even whiter. I unlock the door and open it, only to find Mr. Go Climb a Rock standing there.

"Sorry," he says, cheeks turning red. "I didn't know--"

"That's OK." I start to squeeze past him, to make my way out of the bathroom, but he's standing in the way and staring at me and all of a sudden, I realize that I don't want to go back to my seat at all.

I grab his hand and pull him in after me. He doesn't protest, doesn't say anything. He just smiles and lets me lead the way. The bathroom stinks of stale cigarette smoke and urine. I slide the lock on the door closed and sit on the toilet. While he's pressed up against the door, I slide my hands down to his hips, ease off his jeans and start to go down on him. He stops me, grabbing my hands.

"C'mere," he drawls, saying it as one word. He pulls me up, smiling slowly, but I hold back.

"No, you come here."

"Have it your way," he says, and comes to me.

He sits down and I pull off my jeans and straddle him. He doesn't say anything, doesn't try to woo me, and I'm glad for that. He just tightens his grip, his arms weaving through my (continued on page 174) Crewcut(continued from page 148) underarms, his hands grasping the back of my neck, holding on.

"Spartanburg," I hear the conductor yell. "Next stop, Spartanburg. Five minutes."

As the train lurches and staggers, I can feel that Mr. Go Climb a Rock is about to come. I push off his thighs and climb off him before he does. I pull on my jeans, put on more lipstick, staring into the dirty mirror. He hasn't moved, but I can see him watching me in the mirror's reflection.

"Do you want me to go out first, or do you want to?" he asks me.

I don't turn around. "What are you talking about?" I'm still studying myself in the mirror, the palm of my hand grazing the back of my head, running against the grain of my hair.

"If we walk out at the same time, people will wonder."

"So?"

"I just thought you might care."

"No."

"All right," he says, standing up and pulling up his pants. "Let's go."

I open the door and step outside into the aisle. Nobody turns around to stare, and nobody seems to notice two people coming out of the bathroom instead of just one. I walk back to my seat and Mr. Go Climb a Rock follows, sliding in next to me.

I stare out the window. I know Spartanburg can't be that interesting, but I have the urge to jump off the train and stay, not showing up in Miami at all.

"What are you looking at?"

"Not much," I answer, turning around to face him.

He nods and keeps nodding for a while, as if it were conversation in itself.

"I'm going to try and get some sleep," I say, rolling my sweater into a ball and leaning it up against the window.

He nods again but doesn't answer.

"Good night," I say, even though it's still light outside.

I spend the rest of the train ride in a daze or a doze, sleeping in snatches. At one point, about three in the morning, I wake up hungry. I walk to the club car, but it's closed. Instead of going right back to my seat, I stand at the front of the car, watching people sleep. It seems so peaceful being in a room filled with strangers, not knowing or feeling responsible for any of their problems. The sway of the train and the steady rhythmic clanking of the wheels seem luxurious somehow. It's like a long soak in a steaming hot bath to be speeding along in the middle of the night toward Miami.

•

When I wake up again, it's morning and so bright that for a moment, I'm scared that I've missed the stop. But the conductor comes around and, after seeing my worried face, informs me that it's still 45 minutes to Miami.

Mr. Go Climb a Rock is still asleep, curled up in his seat, his mouth opening and closing as if he is chewing on something. I start gathering my stud', putting away my Walkman and magazines, taking out my make-up kit and toothbrush.

In the bathroom, I spend a long time lingering over every detail. During the night, I almost forgot what I was doing on this train, but now that we're nearly there, it's becoming real, almost too real for me to deal with. What am I going to say to her?

Back at the seat, Mr. Go Climb a Rock is awake and is contorting his body in the strangest way. He sees me watching him, but he doesn't stop.

"I need to crack my joints when I wake up in the morning. I'm just addicted to it," he explains.

Shrugging my shoulders, I squeeze past him to my seat.

"So, you never told me what you'll be doing in Miami," he says.

"Visiting my mother."

He nods. "Maybe we could see each other while you're there."

"I don't think so."

"All right," he says, humoring me.

We turn from each other; I start looking out the window and he turns toward the aisle. We don't say anything to each other the rest of the way to Miami.

When I step off the train into the crowd of waiting people, she's the first person I see. Arms outstretched, a smile fixed on her face, she must have spotted me before I saw her, because she's gesturing wildly for me to hurry over. She's wearing lilac shorts with a matching striped shirt, twirling her sunglasses in one hand. I feel rumpled just looking at her.

"My baby, my baby girl," she murmurs as she wraps her arms around me. "Let me take a look at you."

I stand back stiffly for inspection.

"My God, Samantha, what in the world did you do to your hair?"

I don't answer.

"OK. OK. It doesn't really matter. I'm just so excited to see you. Come on, let's get out of here. Is this all you brought with you?" She grabs my small bag and starts pulling me toward the stairs. Just ahead of us, I spot Mr. Go Climb a Rock, looking lost.

"Hold on, Mom," I say as I break free of her hold. "I want you to meet somebody." I reach for his hand. "Umm, Chris," I say, looking him in the eyes, "I want you to meet my mother. Mom, this is Chris, Christopher ... uh ... Marks. Chris, this is my mother."

"It's nice to meet you, ma'am," he says politely. "Your daughter, well, she's something."

Her head is cocked to one side and she looks at him distrustfully. "Yes, my daughter is something. Excuse me, Mr. Marks," she says, nodding faintly, "we have to be leaving now. It was very nice to meet you."

"Maybe I can see you at some point over the next few days?" Mr. Go Climb a Rock asks me.

Before I can say anything, my mother answers for me. "I'm so sorry, Samantha and I have a lot planned for our vacation. I don't think we'll have the time. Come on, Samantha."

As she pulls me toward the exit, I turn to wave to Mr. Go Climb a Rock. He's just standing there, looking sort of confused, the only person standing still in a sea of rushing, harried people.

Outside, the hot air hits me full blast, sticky and stifling, like I've walked into an enormous hair drier. I already (eel out of place; a pale, sallow creature trying to blend into a smiling, tanned crowd.

In the car on the way to the hotel, my mom plays tour guide: "Samantha, look down that street--there's the beach! Aren't the palm trees wonderful?" She keeps up the chatter. "Isn't it amazing to be able to wear shorts in January? You know, Samantha, we're traveling in style. The hotel is gorgeous, it's got everything you could possibly want."

After a careful pause, she continues, "Maybe the beauty parlor can do something with your hair. What did you do, Samantha?"

"I cut it, Mom."

There's another pause. She pats my leg, smiles and says, "Did I tell you the hotel is right on the water? I really love it down here--sunshine three hundred sixty-five days a year. What more could you want?"

•

The hotel is pink and turquoise, heavily mirrored, a glittery structure that's shaped more like a boat than a building. Inside, the air is frigid and everything's blown out of shape, yanked from its context. The walls are stark, blinding white; steel sculptures in geometric shapes, like giant Tinkertoys, sit on pedestals flanking the entrance hall. On the other side of the lobby, water cascades from a rock garden, then snakes through the lobby, emptying into a pond filled with Japanese goldfish.

"It's a great place for a convention," my mother says, surveying the scene with satisfaction. "Our room is on the fifth floor, overlooking the pool. You're going to love it."

The room is standard decor compared with the lobby. We unpack, my mother carefully unfolding and hanging her blouses and suits, while I yank my clothes out and stuff them into drawers. I catch her glancing at me in dismay. "Honey, you've gotten so tall in the last couple of years, I bet we're almost the same size. Try this on," she says, holding a delicate mauve-silk blouse under my chin. "This would look gorgeous on you."

"I don't think so." I flop down on the nearest bed. "It's not my style."

She sighs and hangs it up. "Well, honey, OK. Maybe we can check out the shops in the mall later. But right now, I'm going to have to meet some people from the convention for an hour or two. I wish I didn't, but I do."

She takes a pink suit into the bathroom to change, but her voice goes on relentlessly, "Why don't you check out the pool while I'm gone? It's enormous! Or, no, you must be hungry after that long trip. You can go to any of the restaurants and put the bill on your room key. Or order from room service if you're tired. There's a list of all the movies they have and the cable stations right on top of the TV. And there are Cokes and stuff in the minibar. Just leave me a note if you go to the mall or the pool. And we'll go out for a terrific dinner tonight."

"Mom?" I call. "Why wouldn't you let me see that guy?"

"What guy?"

"From the train."

"Samantha." Her head appears in the doorway. "We don't have that much time, and I want to spend it with you, not some stranger from a train. Besides, I bet that man was twice your age."

"If that's the way you want it, fine," I say. "Just fine."

She reappears, pink and perfect. "Samantha, I just want you to know how happy it makes me to have you here. I'm so glad we can be friends." She ducks out, waving, not waiting for my response, and the door slams behind her.

' "Bye," I say.

•

The pool really is enormous and brilliant blue in the hot sunlight. No one is swimming, but people are sitting under striped umbrellas or lying in lounge chairs working on their tans, and waiters are taking them drinks and sandwiches. I think of going back up for my bathing suit, but maybe I won't stay long. Instead, I take off my shoes and roll my jeans above the knee. I sit at the shallow end, with my feet on the second step, cooling them in the water. New Jersey seems a long way away.

When the waiter comes by, I hold up my hand with the room key in it.

"Can I get a drink?"

He's about 22, wiry and dark, maybe Mexican or Cuban. "What can I get you?" He doesn't have an accent when he answers.

"A blue Hawaiian?"

He gives me a sharp look and laughs. "In three years, maybe." He keeps walking, delivering drinks to the next table. On his way back, he says, "Want a Coke? Or something?"

"Rum and Coke?"

He crouches down and grins at me. "What do you need a drink for? How old are you, anyway?"

"Believe me, I have serious reasons for needing a drink. Besides, I'm almost eighteen."

I can tell he doesn't buy it, but he's playing along. "You know what they say about almost."

"Yeah, horseshoes and hand grenades, right?" I say. "But who would know?"

"Listen, I can't," he says, and looks at my room key. "But if you're desperate, what's wrong with the minibar?"

"What?" I say, not knowing what he means, but then I realize that the thing my mother said had the Cokes in it must have liquor in it, too. "Oh, sure," I say, "but who wants to drink alone?"

"I'm off at three," he says. He stands up and raises his eyebrows.

"Room 503," I say, raising mine.

He definitely looks surprised, starts to say something but moves on. He turns around and looks back at me, then gives me a thumbs up.

•

It's nearly 4:30 when the door opens abruptly, casting harsh light through the room. I see my mother's silhouette in the doorframe.

"I'm going out to wait by the elevator for exactly ten seconds," she says, her voice straining for composure. "Mister, you'll be gone when I get back. Samantha, you wait for me here."

The waiter apologizes quickly as he hurries out the door. I am left with two gin and tonics and my mother to face.

She returns and stands at the door, hands on her hips. "Was this really necessary, Samantha?"

"Yeah, actually, it was necessary," I say, my head down, eyes on the carpet. For some reason, I feel calm, though my heart is racing.

My mother is livid, pacing back and forth like she's in a cage, "Just what is it that's troubling you? Why do you insist on spoiling this for both of us? Why ruin it, Samantha?"

"What makes you think you haven't ruined it already?"

"And what is that supposed to mean? You are a fifteen-year-old child and you are acting like a--"

"How would you know what I am?" I interrupt, raising my head. "You've seen me maybe three hours in the past three years. How much chance to be a child do you think I gel cooking dinner, doing the laundry, buying the fucking groceries?"

She drops her hands from her hips and looks toward the ceiling, exasperated. She doesn't reply. How can she?

I've made my point. I grab my bag and push past her to the door.

"What are you doing?" she demands shrilly.

"Leaving."

"You can't."

"Yeah, I can. You should know about that."

I close the door behind me and duck into the stair well so she can't catch me by the elevator. I hurry down one flight of stairs, then slow down for the remaining flights. The door at the bottom of the stair well opens onto the pool area.

Instead of going back to try to find the lobby, I walk over to the pool. The area is almost deserted, with empty lounge chairs and steam rising off the pool in the late-afternoon sunlight. I take my shoes off again and roll up my jeans. I sit down at the shallow end, where I sat before, and think about Kevin and Janie, how much they'd love this pool. The bright-blue water invites me to slide right in. But I don't. I just sit there, really quiet, moving my hand back and forth, gently skimming the surface of the water.

My mind wanders and I think of my train ride. I wonder what Mr. Go Climb a Rock is doing. Not in an abstract sense

but what he's actually doing this moment. I wonder what he thinks I'm all about. And what about the others? Then again, they probably don't care.

In some ways, I long to be back on the train, not with anyone else but myself, speeding toward some exotic place: Los Angeles, New Orleans, San Francisco. But it really wouldn't matter where. I draw my knees to my chest, hugging them tight, and despite the warm kiss of the sun, I shiver.

I remember that the room I've just left overlooks the pool. I look around, counting up five floors. She's there, behind the glass of the sliding door, looking down at me. It's too far for me to be able to see her expression. For a long time, we stay like that, like statues, neither of us moving, and then my hand raises first to the rough stubble on the back of my head and then upward to give a small, almost imperceptible wave.

" 'I had a math test today, but I gave this guy a blow job after school and that cheered me up.' "

"It's like a long soak in a hot bath to be speeding along in the middle of the night toward Miami."

Other prize winners in Playboy's College Fiction Contest: second place, "Properties," by Bernardine Connelly, University of Virginia; third place, "Hema, My Hema," by Matthew Chacko, University of Alabama, and "Roads Out of Lost Soldiers," by Lee Durkee, University of Arkansas. For details on how to enter next year's contest, see page 174.