Free The Society of S by Susan Hubbard Page A

Kathleen said. “Your dad’s not mad — he bought you your own computer. You’re so lucky.”
    I didn’t think luck was a factor, but I kept quiet. The computer, it occurred to me, was a convenient means for my father to avoid answering my questions. He seemed to want me to find the answers on my own.

    It was around this time that I attended my first dance.
    Michael telephoned (for the first time ever) to invite me, and he sounded nervous. “It’s just a dance,” he said, sounding needlessly argumentative. “It’s the stupid school Halloween dance.”
    Halloween was not celebrated at our house. Every October 31, Root pulled all the window shades and locked the door. No one responded to the occasional pounding of the door knocker. Instead, my father and I sat in the living room playing cards or board games. (When I was younger, we’d also played with a Meccano set, which we used to build a machine that moved pencils from one end of the dining room table to the other.)
    We were particularly fond of Clue , which we played in rapid games never lasting more than three turns each; at the McGarritts, I learned that others took much longer to solve the crimes.
    I told Michael I’d have to ask my father’s permission. When I did, my father surprised me. “It’s your decision,” he said. “It’s your life.” Then he turned back to his reading, as if I weren’t there.

    Kathleen found time to talk to me about what to expect at the dance. She said she was busy after school most days with rehearsals for a class play and with flute lessons. But as it happened, she would be free on Wednesday after school, and we could meet downtown at the thrift store to hunt for costumes.
    I was examining a rack of dresses when she rushed in. She’d had her hair cut so that when she stopped moving, it fell to frame her face. “You look cool!” she said to me, and I said, “So do you.”
    But I thought that the Kathleen who met me at the thrift store wore too much makeup. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, and her hair had been dyed black; it was darker than mine. “You’ve changed,” I said.
    She seemed pleased to hear me say it. “My new look,” she said, lifting her hair to show me her ears. Silver hoops and studs punctured her lobes and upper ears — I counted seven on each ear.
    We hadn’t met for nearly two months, and I’d begun to think our friendship was at an end. But her eyes glistened with affection.
    “I have so much to tell you,” she said.
    We worked our way through the clothes, pulling out hangers, nodding or grimacing, as she talked. The smell of mothballs, stale perfume, and sweat was intense, but somehow not unpleasant.
    The news from the McG house wasn’t all good. Bridget had developed asthma, and her wheezing kept Kathleen awake some nights. Mr. McG was being treated badly by the local supermarket where he worked; they made him work weekends now, because someone else had quit. And Mrs. McG acted “all worried” about Michael.
    “Why?” I asked.
    “That’s right, you haven’t seen him lately.” Kathleen shook a pink satin dress, then shoved it back into the rack again. “He’s let his hair grow, and he’s got into some trouble at school. He’s developed a major attitude.”
    I wasn’t sure what that meant. “Do you mean he’s a bully?”
    “Michael a bully?” She laughed. “No, more kind of uncooperative and intense. He’s reading about politics a lot. He acts mad most of the time.”
    That could be interesting , I thought. “What’s he wearing to the dance?”
    “Who knows?” She pulled out a tight-fitting black sequined dress. “You are so trying this one on.”

    I ended up wearing that dress. Kathleen found one in red satin, vnecked front and back. She said we should wear masks, but I preferred not to.
    On Halloween night, Michael showed up at our front door wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt with the word ANARCHY painted across it. He didn’t wear a mask, either. We