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breasts bouncing.”
    Andy was eating lunch with friends by the fire. Beamer stopped and stole half of his sandwich, then trotted out to center field, her usual spot.
    It was a routine game. During her second time at bat Beamer hit a solid double, brought in two runners, and then, because the fielder bobbled the ball into a nearby snowbank and could not immediately dig it out, came home herself, sliding down the long icy groove from third base just ahead of the ball. She rose, brushed off snow, turned to give a mock bow to the cheering spectators, and saw Rae Ramone.
    The reporter waved and smiled. She was standing with a cluster of students by the fire, roasting a hot dog.
    “Hey, Laura,” Beamer shouted to one of the players on the bench. “Take over for me, okay?” Laura lifted her hand in agreement. Beamer walked over to the bonfire. “How long have you been here?” she asked Rae.
    Rae bit into the hot dog. “Not long. This is my second dog. What a marvelous way to spend lunch hour. Much better than staying in a dreary cafeteria. You’re a very good athlete.”
    Beamer didn’t reply. She wondered if her friends would help her pelt the woman with snowballs, or maybe hot dogs.
    “Can we talk now?” Rae asked.
    “No.”
    “Your friends have been telling me lots about you.”
    “What friends?” said Beamer, glaring at the students.
    “Not me,” said Andy. “Except the stuff about the commune’s annual Halloween drug and sacrifice ritual.”
    Rae smiled. “He’s nice, Beamer. Look, I’m sorry I was such a pest yesterday. I deserved worse than what you gave me. But I do want to talk with you. Forget about the bombing. I can understand your reluctance to talk about it, and I admire your loyalty to your friends. But I’d love to hear your story—your childhood, the commune, the bait shop.”
    “I’m really pretty boring.”
    “That’s a fact,” said Jessie. Several others agreed loudly.
    “Oh, it’s not boring at all,” said Wendy. “All that group sex in the commune!”
    Rae’s eyes widened.
    Beamer sighed. “Don’t listen to her; there was no sex.”
    Wendy giggled and laid her hand on Andy’s shoulder. “I was kidding. Actually, ‘no sex’ is a fine and famous commune tradition that Beamer upholds today. With help.” Andy slipped from her hand.
    “Beamer,” said Rae, “I’d love to hear anything. I work for the St. Paul paper, but this could go out to papers all over the country—Detroit, Philadelphia, Miami. You are interesting, Beamer. Let me write about you. I promise I will not ask about and will not mention the bombing.”
    “Oh, no!” someone shrieked on the field, moments before everyone heard glass shattering.
    “What was that?” Rae asked.
    “A long foul ball,” said Beamer. “That’s the teachers’ parking lot next to the pond. It’s the lot closest to the lounge door, so they all park there. I just hope that wasn’t a windshield. We pool money for repairs, and the pool is almost empty.”
    Jeff Whitehorse ran up to Beamer. “My hit. Bea, good buddy, do you want to do me a big favor?”
    “What?”
    “It’s Ms. Elliot’s car—the right headlight. You wouldn’t want to tell her, would you?”
    Jenny’s car. Beamer nodded. Jeff blew her a kiss and ran toward the school. Most of the other players followed. Damage to a faculty car automatically ended a ball game.
    Beamer looked at Rae, then smiled. “You really want to hear about the commune?”
    “Yes.”
    Beamer waved to the others, who were deserting the field and the fire. Andy shook his head slightly. A warning.
    “Okay,” said Beamer. “But let me introduce you to someone. I’m not doing this alone.”

Chapter 5
    Jenny Elliot was a Woodie. When the group had organized the commune, she had been a twenty-three-year-old high school teacher, already divorced from the man who had waited only until the honeymoon was over to start beating her. It was Jenny who suggested that they settle in northern