“I have to. I can’t help myself any more than you can. I had no idea you’d be like this—Jesus, so hot! You look so cool, so damn far above the rest of us. But you’re not, poor baby. Better than some of us, maybe, but not above us.” Laura turned her face to the wall. “Answer the phone,” she said. Beebo left her then and went into the living room. Laura could hear her voice when she answered. “Hello?” she said. “How are you, doll? Fine. Laura’s fine. No, I didn’t rape her. She raped me.” Laura sat straight up at this, her face flaming. Beebo was laughing. “Tell her what? It’s all fixed up? You mean I can send her home to Marcie?” Her voice became heavily sarcastic. “Well, isn’t that too sweet for words. Okay, Jack, I’ll tell her. You what?... With who?... Oh, Terry! Yeah, I’ve seen him. You got a live one there, boy. Hang on to him, he’s a doll ... Okay, don’t mention it. It’s been a pleasure. Most of it. She’s lovely ... So long.” When Beebo returned to the bathroom, Laura was standing at the washbowl, rinsing her face, trying to compose herself. “What did he say?” she asked Beebo. “It was Jack.” “I heard.” Beebo put her arms around Laura from behind, leaning a little against her, front to back, planting kisses in her hair while she talked. “He says you’re forgiven. He handed Marcie some psychological hocus pocus about a neurosis. You are neurotic, love. As of now. As far as Marcie’s concerned, you have attacks. She should have a few herself.” “Don’t be so sarcastic, Beebo. If you knew what I’ve been through—how scared I was—” “Okay, no more sarcasm. For a few minutes at least. God, you’re pretty, Laura.” Like Jack, like Marcie, like many others, she realized it slowly. Laura’s singular face fit no pattern. It had to be discovered. Laura herself had never discovered it. She didn’t believe in it. She grew up convinced she was as plain as her father seemed to think, and when she looked into the mirror she didn’t see her own reflection. She saw what she thought she looked like; a mask, a cliche left over from adolescence. It embarrassed her when people told her she was pretty. “Don’t flatter me,” she said sharply to Beebo. “I hate it.” Beebo shut her eyes and laughed in Laura’s ear. “You’re nuts,” she said. “You are _nuts_, Bo-peep.” “I’m sane. And I’m plain. There’s a poem for you. Now let me go.” “There’s no rush, baby.” “There is. I want to get home.” She twisted away from Beebo, turning around to face her. Beebo let her hands trail up the front of Laura. “Home to Marcie?” she said, and let them drop suddenly. “Okay. Go home. Go home, now that you can stand it for another couple of days. And when the pressure gets too great, come back down again. Come back to Beebo, your faithful safety valve.” “You said you wouldn’t be sarcastic.”