"I dont have a pen," David said, grinning.
Mrs. Haynes handed him a pen and led the way forward. They merged into the stream of traffic. As always, the crowd parted for them. They were the senior couple, the pair voted most likely to stay in love. Dozens of friends waved or said hi.
They went from booth to booth, picking up literature and talking to the representatives. As always, David did everything he could to help Lauren. He told everyone he saw about her stellar grades and achievements. He was certain shed be offered countless scholarships. In his world, things came easily, and in that world, it was easy to believe in happy endings.
He stopped at the Ivy League schools.
When Lauren looked at pictures of those venerable campuses, she felt queasy. She prayed he didnt decide to go to Harvard or Princeton. She could never fit in there, even if she could get accepted; not there, in those halls where the girls were named after food products and everyone had parents who believed in education. Still, she smiled her prettiest smile and took the brochures. A girl like her needed to make a good impression at all times. There was no room for error in her life.
At last, they headed for the Holy Grail.
The Stanford booth.
Lauren heard Mrs. Hayness trailing voice as she marched ahead of them. ". . . the wing named after your grandfather . . . "
Lauren stumbled. It took pure willpower to keep her posture good and her smile in place.
David would probably go to Stanford, where his parents had gone, and his grandfather, too. The one school on the West Coast that matched the Ivy League for exclusivity. Stellar grades werent enough. Perfect SAT scores didnt guarantee admittance, either.
No way would she get a scholarship from Stanford.
David tightened his hold on her hand. He smiled down at her. Believe, that smile said.
She wanted to.
"This is my son, David Ryerson Haynes," Mrs. Haynes was saying now.
Of the Ryerson-Haynes Paper Company.
She hadnt added that, of course. It would have been tacky and wholly unnecessary.
"And this is Lauren Ribido," David said, squeezing Laurens hand. "Shed be a real asset to Stanfords student body. "
The recruiter smiled at David. "So, David," he said. "Youre interested in following in your familys footsteps. Good for you. At Stanford, we pride ourselves on . . . "
Lauren stood there, holding Davids hand so tightly her fingers started to ache. She waited patiently for the recruiter to turn his attention to her.
He never did.
THE BUS JERKED TO A STOP AT THE CORNER. LAUREN grabbed her backpack off the floor and hurried to the front of the bus.
"Have a nice night," Luella, the bus driver, said.
Lauren waved and headed down Main Street. Here, in the tourist hub of downtown West End, everything was sparkling and beautiful. Years ago, when the timber and commercial fishing industries had hit hard times, the town fathers had decided to play up the Victorian cuteness of the town. Half of downtowns buildings had already fit the bill; the other half were hurriedly remodeled. A statewide advertising campaign was started (for a solid year the city government paid for nothing else-- not roads or schools or services), and West End, "Victorian getaway on the coast," was born.
The campaign worked. Tourists drifted in, drawn by the bed-and-breakfasts, the sand castle competitions, the kite flying, and the sport fishing. It became a destination instead of a detour on the road from Seattle to Portland.
But the veneer went only so deep, a
nd like all towns, West End had its forgotten places, its corners that remained unseen by visitors and unvisited by locals. That part of town, the place where people lived in apartments without decorations or security. Laurens part of town.
She turned off Main Street and kept walking.
With each step, the neighborhood deteriorated; the world became darker, more rundown. There were no Victorian-inspired curliques on the buildings here, no advertisements for quaint bed-and-breakfasts or seaplane rides. This was where the old-timers lived, men whod once worked in the timber mills or on the fishing boats. The people whod missed the tide of change and been washed into the dark, muddy marshlands. Here, the only bright lights were neon signs that advertised booze.
Lauren walked briskly, looking straight ahead. She noticed every nuance of change, every shadow that seemed new, every noise and movement, but she wasnt afraid. This street had been her home turf for more than six years. Though most of her neighbors were down on their luck, they knew how to take care of one another, and little Lauren Ribido belonged here.
Home was a narrow, six-story apartment building that sat dead center on a lot overgrown with blackberry bushes and salal. The stucco exterior was grayed with dirt and debris. Light shone from behind several windows, giving the place its only sign of life.