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first to the concession stand, where she bought herself the giant-size box of Milk Duds. Valentine could put away the food, but unlike her mother, no matter how much she ate, she never gained an ounce. Her frame was willowy; she was tall, long-waisted, an ectomorph.
    The box of Milk Duds tucked under her arm, Valentine waited outside the bathroom for Beth to emerge, from caterpillar to butterfly.
    Or from teenager to celestial being. “Oh Beth,” Valentine gasped. “You look like a constellation in the sky.”
    “A constellation? In the sky?” Beth’s eyebrows shot upward in time with her inquiry.
    “Yeah, like the Little Dipper. You know, all twinkly.”
    Beth sat on a bench to tighten the laces on her skates and looked up at Valentine, who remained standing. “Valentine, you’ve seen this costume a thousand times, if you’ve seen it once.”
    “I know, and it always gets to me. Right here.” She patted the spot between her throat and her heart.
    At that, Beth muttered, “Definitely weird,” and swept onto the ice.
     
    Although Miriam Kessler thought her daughter could’ve used a little more on top, maybe a B instead of the A cup she barely filled, Miriam was relieved that Valentine did not inherit her heartache with weight; a heartache because it signaled surrender. Indeed Miriam had given up. She had traded a chance at happiness for the midmorning Danish she sank her teeth into, and as she savored the cherry preserves and the cheese and the buttery crust all lolling across her taste buds, she told herself, I put my life aside to be a mother, but really Miriam put her life aside because she loved Ronald Kessler with all her heart and soul, with every fiber of her being, and the loss of him was an eternal void. Without Ronald, she might as well eat.
     
    From her vantage point, the third and top row of the bleachers, where she sat alone, away from the handful of divorced dads who were looking forward to the close of the weekend visitation, Valentine’s eyes beheld Beth Sandler as she did triple toes and figure eights and double salchows and double-lutz combinations to a Muzak rendition of “Funky Stuff.” Imagine that. The Ice Palace was modernizing, making an effort to keep up with the times. Soon, within a matter of months, a mirrored ball would descend from the ceiling, and Thursday nights would be advertised as “Hustle On Ice.” But now, on a near empty rink, in long, graceful glides, Beth slid effortlessly into a figure eight, which led to a pirouette, spinning like a top on the tips of her blades, faster Beth spun and faster,seeming as if she might spin until she lifted off the ground, all the while Valentine sang softly to herself, Arrrrrre vey Maaaa reee er, which was far, far away from “Funky Stuff.”
     
    Miriam Kessler née Rothstein could scarcely believe it when Ronald Kessler singled her, Miriam, out for a date. She, Miriam, who was certainly pleasant to look at, not gorgeous, but sweet looking, cute, just over five feet tall, and a little bit chunky. Not fat, but plump, with D-cup breasts which looked as if they kept her teetering off balance, as if it took effort not to fall forward under the weight of such a set.
    It was that—the D-cup boobs—which caught Ronald Kessler’s eye. Ronald was a boob man of the bigger-the-better school, and that girl who was sitting with three other girls at the table across from his in the Boylan Hall cafeteria, she had some pair. Never one to lack confidence, Ronald knew he was smooth with the girls. Walking right up to Miriam, he crouched beside her and whispered in her ear, “I want you,” which was a brash and bold thing to say even by today’s standards. Then he straightened up and said, “Tomorrow night? A movie? Something to eat?” After all, this was 1959 and girls, nice girls, who attended Brooklyn College, weren’t going to put out so easily, not even for Ronald Kessler. Even he, the best-looking boy at Brooklyn College plus the third