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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 111 learned. They were trying to find hot water so they could wash the dishes. Then the pressure struck me again. Weakened, but curious that none of my classmates seemed to know what was going on, I gave in. It seemed better than facing the doorless stalls in the bathroom. By the time we marched back to class, I had a full load in my pants. I watched everyone's face to see if anyone sensed something wrong. Nothing. And, in fact, I sat out the day unchanged, doing my lessons on Roman Numerals as if nothing had happened. I do remember Miss Vincent watching me carefully as we filed out of school, but no one said a thing. Walking home up the alley, out of sight, however, I had to walk bowlegged because of a rushing chafe. Every step, though, I was sure I could still work hard and get a school named after me, regardless of what I saw as my body's peculiarities. In fifth grade we had studied rockets, my favorite being the Bomarc, and Butch and I had launched a few cardboard tubes of our-own, starting fire to the willows that grew out of Quail's sheds only once. It was a small fire. But rocketry bored Butch, who saw its limits right away- And in sixth grade, we had learned to dance: square dancing and the two-step; and Linda Aikens had sent me that note. Butch danced because he had to, but he hated it. "Show me the point, and I'll be happy," he would say. "There's no point to |