That seemed to expose all her nerve endings, and leave them raw and tingling. Biting her lip in anger, she said, "I do not! I don't understand things at all." If he didn't quit being serious, she would get down and walk away. "Better than most kids, I meant. Better than _I_ do." She wanted to laugh hysterically, and she could feel her fingers curl in toward the palms. "You just think I do," she said. "No. I'm serious, Margy. I mean it, really. You're more grown up than we are." Her heart raced with terror, and her face was drained. She looked away so he would not notice. "Don't say things like that, Clyde. Clyde, if you say any more about that I'll--I'll just not ever speak to you again!" "Aw, Margy. I don't want to get you sore. I'm sorry." "It's all right," she said, her heart quieting slowly. What did he want? she wondered. Surely something. She could tell by the intentness of his face, the awkwardness, the suppression in his gestures, but what, she dared not guess, even though she was afraid that she already knew. She wanted to say, "Look, Clyde, let's just go on laughing like we have been. Let's laugh and laugh. And not talk very much. Not about things like death. I like you when you're a little boy and laughing. I'm afraid of you when you're a man and not laughing." But she said, "It's nice today, don't you think so?" "Uh-huh." * * * * * She looked at him, and his face was red with embarrassment. He avoided her eyes, and he was his former self, at least for a moment. The self she wanted to touch and hold onto in the face of a swirling, mysterious, and frightening world: except, more than anything else, she could not afford to touch him, and every day he was growing more and more away from her until one day he would be gone altogether, and she would not want to touch him any longer. It was infinitely sad to sit helplessly by while that happened. "What did you want to see me about?" she said. "I ... uh ... guess I forget," he said. But everything was about to break and shatter, and she could sense it. She sat pitted against herself and her own confusions, knowing what he wanted to ask her. It had been bound to come, sooner or later. What was she going to _do_ about it? That, she was afraid to guess. Not today, she prayed intently, God, don't let him ask me to marry him today! "Look, Margy," he said. "Can I walk you home, after school?" But it would be today. Again, she could sense it. And if she said he could walk home with her, he would touch her, probably try to kiss her. Somehow, she would have to stop him from doing that. "Part way," she said hesitantly. Because she was afraid to deny him; she was afraid to lose him, yet. She didn't want that. "I ... want to ask you something, then." "Please ..." she said. "Yes, Margy?" "Let's not be serious. You've been getting so _serious_, lately. I don't like you when you're that way." "I have not!" he said hotly.