It was unreasonable that her heart beat faster. She

could hear Cinny's soft soprano in her head, singing one of the ditzy high school chorus songs they'd learned. Cinny's voice in her ear, crooning, "Rett, I need you. Rett, I can't believe you make me feel this way. Rett, I want you to ..."

She could almost taste Cinny's lip gloss and smell the herbal shampoo in her hair. Just the sight of her name and Rett was in the rear seat of Cinny's brother's car and Cinny was slowly sliding onto her back.

"Rett, I can't help it. That feels so good, Rett." An aching whisper, "Please, Rett, please. Please, Rett, stop. Stop it, Rett!"

Rett snapped out of her reverie when Mrs. Bernstein set down a delicate saucer and cup and a plate of ginger cookies. Cinny Keilor had been good at saying yes and even better at saying no.

"Looks like a party invitation," Mrs. Bernstein observed. She settled onto the barstool next to Rett and sipped from her steaming cup.

Rett pulled a card and a folded sheet of paper out of the envelope. "Oh my God — my twenty-fifth high school reunion. Unbelievable."

"Twenty-five years? Did you graduate when you were sixteen or have you been fibbing about your age?" Mrs. Bernstein sounded disapproving, but the faded gray eyes behind the thick lenses twinkled.

Rett set the papers down as if not touching them would help her not remember the silk of Cinny Keilor's skin. "Actually for me it's twenty-three years. Our high school was really small the years I was there. There was a lot of talk of closing it and com¬bining it with Greenleaf High, even though they are homecoming rivals. God, I haven't thought about that in years. Homecoming."

Rett caught herself before she said "shit." Home¬coming was not a pleasant memory.

"Anyway," she continued, "there were less than twenty in my graduating class. So the tradition is to have a reunion every five years and invite everybody who graduated in that five-year range. So it's exactly twenty-five for some and two years more or less for everyone else. I haven't gone to any of the earlier ones, though." Rett inhaled the bracing aroma of the coffee, then delicately sipped. Very nice.

"But you'll go this time—just think of showing everyone what a success you've become."

Rett started to protest that she was not a big success as success was measured in the music world, but then she realized that she was about as big a success as anyone from Woton, Minnesota, had probably ever been. It was not an unpleasant reali¬zation. Trish might call her trash, but in Woton she would be a star. That is, as long as her mother wasn't around to remind everyone that Rett would never amount to anything.

Mrs. Bernstein asked all about New York and they talked through two cups of the Viennese coffee. She accepted with equanimity Rett's news that Trish was no longer living with her. All the while Cinny Keilor's name seemed to glow on the paper in front of Rett and a ludicrous flutter of breathless anxiety flitted in the pit of her stomach.

Mrs. Bernstein settled in front of her favorite soap as Rett went back to her apartment. When she opened the door she remembered that Trish could still get in. There was no sign of her, though. A quick flip through the yellow pages had a locksmith on the way.

She studied the reunion invitation for a long time.

There were a variety of parties and get-togethers over the one-week period preceding the official reunion set for the third Saturday in August. August in Minne¬sota — the humidity didn't get any higher and the mosquitoes didn't get any bigger than August in Minnesota.

Cinny was chairing the reunion committee — that was typical of her. Head cheerleader, organizer of the student prayer group, secretary of the student coun¬cil... the list went on and on. Cinny had handwritten her name on the back of the envelope as Cinny Keilor, but in the official announcement she was Cinny Keilor-Johnson. So she'd married. That was hardly a surprise.

There was a reservation card included and when Rett unfolded it, she found a note. / hope you'll come, Rett. I'd love to see you again. Hugs, Cinny.

It was just an innocent little note, Rett told herself. Cinny would have long forgotten their code. Whenever they'd ended up in each other's arms Cinny referred to it later as "seeing" each other. Cinny had always initiated their encounters by asking for a hug.

It was easy to slip into memories of Cinny Keilor. One hot, humid summer night she had nibbled Cinny's neck and nuzzled her earlobe for the first time. Cinny's breathing was shallow and ragged.

She had whispered, "I want to, Rett. You know I do."

Rett had been beyond words. Cinny's top was half-unbuttoned and Cinny was clutching Rett's mouth against her breast with desperate intent. Rett knew what she wanted. Had known that was she wanted for what seemed like all her life.

"Yes," Cinny whispered. She gasped when Rett's

tongue found her nipple. "That feels so good when you do it."

Rett was on the verge of tears. She had no words, just pent-up need. She wanted to be inside Cinny, to be everything to her. Her hand was sliding down the tight front of Cinny's jeans. Cinny had never let her get so far before. Instead of nuzzling through her shirt and bra, her mouth was exploring Cinny's breasts. Her searching fingertips found silky hair and Cinny let out a hard groan. She was arching, trying to give Rett more room for her hand.

"Oh, Rett, oh my lord. I can't believe the way you make me feel..."

She couldn't get her hand any farther down the tight jeans. She pulled it out and fumbled with the snap and zipper.

Cinny's hand captured hers, then Cinny was trying to sit up. "I can't. . . Rett, I can't do it."

Rett bent her head to Cinny's breasts again and for a moment, when Cinny sighed and offered them, she thought Cinny would relent.

"I really want to, but... I just can't, Rett."

She found enough voice to mumble, "I can make it really good for you, I promise."

"I know you could . . . but I can't..."

Cinny's voice faded into memory and Rett put a hand on her stomach. She had begged Cinny until Cinny got mean. Rett had tried more than once to leave Cinny alone. After a week or two Cinny would always suggest they "see" each other and then she would ask for a hug to show they were friends again. A hug always led to kisses, kisses to touching, touching to Rett's sexual frustration. All through their junior and senior years in high school they'd repeated

the dance. Even when Rett knew Cinny was going all the way with her steady boyfriend, she would still come running when Cinny wanted to see her. Cinny always said yes, then Cinny always said no. It had been pathetic.

' Rett shook herself out of her self-condemnation. How was she supposed to have known any better? She was the pervert, and perverts didn't deserve to get laid — or so she had thought then. It had been easy when she'd left Woton to think of Cinny as a manipu¬lative tease, but all these years later it occurred to Rett that Cinny probably just hadn't been able to cope with her own sexuality. Proving to herself that she could say no to Rett had probably bolstered Cinny's desperate need to believe she wasn't gay. She couldn't blame Cinny for being confused and afraid, not when "lesbo" was a worse insult than "slut."

Begging for sex — Cinny was the last time Rett had ever done that. Then Trish had almost manipu¬lated her into that place again. It had felt rotten at seventeen, and even worse at thirty-nine.

Now Cinny was married. Rett wondered what would happen if... No, she thought. There's no point to that what-if scenario. Finding out was not worth at least a week in August, temperature and humidity at ninety-nine and mosquitoes the size of sparrows. It would mean almost certainly having to see her mother and endure God only knew what kind of verbal abuse for the sake of nonexistent filial devotion.

She pushed the invitation to the back of her sock drawer. All dealt with, she thought. No need to think about it anymore.

3

The next week passed too slowly and Rett got too much rest, practiced too little and spent too much time thinking. She imagined going to the gym more than she actually went and discovered the comforting properties of fettucine Alfredo takeout from a nearby restaurant.

Her first meeting with Naomi as her manager again had been depressing. She graduated from the Alfredo to carbonara della casa. Even after the steps she'd taken to clean up some of the financial mess, Naomi had said she would have to pull in an account-

ant to make heads or tails of it all. The worst news was that Trish had moved her investment accounts around a lot and Rett had paid and repaid load charges. The accounts had earned nothing for the last two years as a result. Naomi had also reminded her about the car Trish was still driving. Rett sent a short e-mail requesting its return within five days.

Trish never called, not that Rett wanted her to. She didn't even call to arrange to pick up the rest of her stuff. So Rett spent all of one day boxing up Trish's clothes and odds and ends. She put the boxes in the guest bedroom where she didn't have to look at them.

She exhausted herself moving furniture around and didn't like the results. She ate far too many Snackwells, knowing full well that low in fat did not mean low in calories. She broke every promise she made to herself about going to the gym. Thank goodness she had a gig that night. She felt unwanted, unappreciated, unloved and just plain unhappy.

It did not matter that the gig was completely volunteer, "starring" at a Friday night karaoke event at Monica's, a women's coffeehouse by day and bar by night. It was a good deed combined with an opportunity to perform with a live audience. She had her own karaoke CD for her numbers. It had cost a bundle but in the end was far cheaper than hiring a keyboardist to accompany her every time she needed live practice. Her ego could certainly use an apprecia¬tive crowd.

She could have driven to the bar — many Angelinos would have preferred a four-block drive and then a skirmish for parking that cost nine dollars an

hour and still meant a two-block walk to the final destination. But she knew the short walk would clear her mind and cast off the self-pitying blues refrain she'd been hearing in her head.

Within a few minutes she was glad she was on foot. Fabulous hibiscus the size of dinner plates hung over walls like springtime flags. Roses were blooming all along the boulevard, leaving the night drenched with their heady scent. The cool air was bringing out the heavy aroma of watered soil and greenery. Nights like these made her forget that most of Los Angeles was a concrete freeway. By the time she got to Monica's she felt less like she had been put through an emotional meat grinder. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da.

"Rett, you doll!" Monica Green hugged with her whole body. Given her size and tendency to wear flow¬ing caftans, it was always an enveloping experience. Rett emerged from the fluttering fabric slightly mussed and smelling of rosewater. "How do you want things to go tonight? Like the last time?"

"Well, I thought you could —"

"About forty minutes for the amateurs, right?" Monica pushed her yellow-blond curls out of her eyes. The fix lasted no more than a second. "Then a set for you — thirty minutes. Is that too long? I think you went longer than that last time."

"No, I—"

"Then amateurs for the rest of the night. Could you host the first part? You know, sing along when people chicken out, that sort of thing?"

"I was planning to —"

"Then we're all set." Monica was beaming. "I have room-temperature water set aside for you. I'd have

never known how important it was if you hadn't told me. I'd have thought iced water was better. Is it for your throat or your vocal cords?"

"I'm not sure, it just works—"

"This is Camille Masterson. She's the D.J. and she'll be more than happy to help jolly people up, won't you?"

Camille just nodded. Rett decided Camille knew that actually talking to Monica took more energy than any one person could maintain. Rett nodded back and added a belated smile. Camille was all in black with short-cropped white hair and a body that looked like she spent half of each day doing Tae-Bo workouts. Just looking at her made Rett feel slovenly and overdressed in her jeans, denim vest and what now seemed like an ultra-femme linen shirt with poetically full sleeves. If she was looking for a diversion, Rett was sure Camille could make her forget all about Trish.

Yeah, that would be a good step, she thought. A little meaningless sex so you can feel guilty for weeks for not calling and then avoid all places where D.J.s might hang out. Better yet, move to another city just to avoid any chance encounter. That would put your life back on the right track.

The seats were starting to fill and Rett felt the familiar rush of anxiety and adrenaline that always accompanied a performance. This space of time was when Trish would do something to distract her — chat about nothing in particular, or discuss some minor business matter. It took the edge off, but was a piss-poor reason to start missing Trish.

"Your disc is in the machine." Camille was loung-