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into the water, where I’d be happy to float until I forgot all about what had happened and how his tongue had felt in my mouth.
    Instead, I stumbled out to the edge of the party to find Forrest Ritter standing with a hand on his cheek, announcing to the world, “That uptight little bitch hit me! She did! She struck me!”
    As I sunk shaking against the wall, I heard a general gasp and saw people rush toward him. I saw Michael push past Catalina and hurry to catch me. I heard Michael’s uncle Don asking Forrest Ritter “Who hit you?” as Dr. Endicott hurried over to me, right behind Michael, and asked quietly, “Are you all right?” They formed a human wall between me and the rest of the party, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t make any noise somehow except a little squeak when Michael put a hand on my shoulder. His dad suggested he take me home and as we left, I felt, rather than saw, everyone staring at me; I wanted to disappear somewhere—after boiling the taste of Forrest Ritter out of my mouth.
    Michael waited to ask me what happened until we had walked down the terraced steps to the path to his parents’ house, the cozy-by-comparison gray-shingled bungalow we’d moved into upon his parents’ arrival that morning.
    As soon as I managed to gulp out, “Forrest Ritter tried to jam his tongue down my throat. It was aw ful—” I broke off and started crying really hard. Michael put both his arms around me and let me cry onto his soft blue cotton shirt until I had calmed down enough. Then, using one arm to steady me, he slowly guided me into the house and onto the blue and white striped couch in the white, wood-paneled living room. He sat next to me, then jumped up and hurried away, returning with a box of Kleenex. I blew my nose and wiped up tears as we sat in silence until I sort of choked out, “It’s so humiliating … first he does that and then everyone was staring. Having him jump on me was disgusting, but now your family thinks I beat up some famous old man!”
    Michael sat back against the couch pillows. His jaw flexed and he punched one knee with the arm that wasn’t around me. He said, “No one thinks you beat him up, George. I know I kind of joked away when he put his hand on you before but—now I should go punch him in the nose.”
    “No!” I cried so fiercely he pulled me into his arms and began stroking my hair like I my dad did when I was a little girl with a nightmare. “I don’t want to upset your family or disrupt Rose’s big celebration any more. I just want Forrest Ritter to stay away from me.”
    “We’ll see to that,” Michael assured me. I could see his knee shaking underneath his always impeccably pressed khaki pants. And while he was upset on my behalf, I had a feeling that the rest of the party up on the hill was more upset with me for ruining the pre-wedding cocktail party.
    Michael’s mom walked into the bungalow, then into the little kitchen for a glass of water for me. She sat on the edge of the coffee table, put her hand on my knee, and said, “If you really did hit him, Georgia, I hope you knocked some sense into him.” She reached out and stroked my hair for a moment, setting all of her silver bangle bracelets jingling, as she began to explain, “Forrest Ritter used to be a real ladies’ man back in his day. And he hasn’t quite figured out that alcoholism, bitterness, and advanced age have made him significantly less attractive to most of the female population, except the occasional literary groupie. He probably thought you were interested, Georgia. It’s sad, I suppose, but certainly no excuse for his repulsive behavior.” She looked at her son, whose jaw was set in a grim, straight line; I could see a muscle flicker slightly right below his ear. She sighed, then smiled at me gently, asking, “Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine,” I said firmly, hoping I sounded braver than I felt because I didn’t want Michael to keep looking like he was going to