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Show CHAPTER SIX I went to sleep that night with a tingly feeling of expectation, the knowledge that I had something to look forward to standing in the corner of my mind. I hadn't told Mother about Andrew. I knew she wouldn't understand, might even be angry at what I had done. I didn't want to explain to her or to anyone about Andrew, about his face, about why I stayed and talked to him, about why I wanted to see him again. I didn't know what I would say. When I woke the next morning, the exhiliration had faded and I felt a bit embarrassed, as if I had done something vaguely disgraceful. I couldn't remember Andrew's face, only his hands. I kept running our conversation through my mind as I lay in my sunny bedroom, examining it to see if it had really happened the way I remembered it. He was a grown man, a man who had suffered horribly. How could he want to see me again? Wasn't I really bothering him? After all, he had been on the bench first. He hadn't even asked me to sit down. I just sat. I, who guarded my privacy so carefully. "Annie?" Mother's voice from downstairs. My feet were on the floor instantly. She musn't catch me thinking of him. "I'm up!" I called and dressed hurriedly. I had no chance to decide whether to go to see Andrew that day or not. Grandmother was having her church circle that afternoon and I had been enlisted to pour tea, pass cookies and be charming. I hated it. All these women seemed to feel that they had the right to touch me, on the head, under the chin, around the waist. They patted and poked, asked |
