9
What slows down time? What makes it pass faster? Certainly, the minutes felt like hours to me when I was locked in Anthony Cabot’s basement. Even the days immediately following my release seemed to last more than twenty-four hours. There was so much recuperating to do, so much therapy to endure, and so much horror to hide, even from myself.
During the first few weeks at Littlefield, the days were long to me because I was under tension, despite how welcome I felt and how comfortable it was. On most of the early days, I became tired earlier than I expected and certainly earlier than Marcy wanted, but tension is subtly exhausting. She had boundless energy and an insatiable appetite for intimate conversations, which usually became more intimate the later it became in the evening. She was constantly fishing to learn about my experiences with boys. I knew when I was getting tired enough to slip and mention something that might lead to my real reason for being here.
“I hate going to sleep,” she told me when I pleaded for a breather and time to prepare for bed this evening. “Either I lie there regretting things I didn’t say or do, or I fill with fear that tomorrow won’t be any more exciting than today.”
“Why does every day have to be exciting? Try not to be so intense about it,” I said. “Constant expectations diminish good results.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?” She looked at Claudia, who, despite how she would seem to be intent on reading or writing a paper when we talked, was really listening to every syllable we uttered.
Claudia didn’t nod in agreement with me or say anything, but her face was full of reinforcement.
“All I’m saying is you’ve got to relax a little more, take your time, Marcy. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” I smiled. I knew how old and wise beyond my years I was sounding. “We just read that in Alexander Pope’s poem, remember?”
“Alexander Pope? That’s what you’re thinking about now?”
“What’s the point of reading great things and great words if we don’t learn from them?”
Marcy leaned back on her hands and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, Lord,” she said. “What have I done to make you bring back my grandmother?”
We both spun around when Claudia laughed. She finally laughed at something outrageous Marcy had said, and the first week or so not a day passed when she didn’t.
“Sorry,” she said, looking shocked at herself.
Neither of us spoke.
“When you mentioned your grandmother, I thought of my own,” Claudia said. “She was a walking book of lessons concerning how I should live. Her claim to fame was having sex only to give birth to my mother and my uncle Matthew, who became a priest and moved to Canada before he was twenty-three. He joined the church to escape from her.”
I glanced at Marcy. Neither of us wanted to interrupt her, especially Marcy. Sometimes Claudia was so quiet Marcy forgot she was in the room with us.
“She was always giving my mother advice about how to bring me up,” Claudia continued. She had apparently loosened the knot that was choking her personal memories. “Her favorite expression was ‘There will be time for that sort of thing later,’ which was why I didn’t go to parties when other girls my age were going to them or wear lipstick when they were wearing it. ‘That sort of thing’ took in everything that was any sort of fun. Sometimes I thought she was made of wood and I’d get splinters when she hugged me like a robot.”
“And your grandfather put up with all that? I mean, didn’t he want sex?” Marcy asked.
“My grandfather owned a car dealership, and although no one came right out and said it, he was in an affair with his bookkeeper at the company for years and years. When he died, the bookkeeper left to live with her sister in Cancún.”
“Mexico?” I asked.
“Yes. She was Mexican and very pretty. I liked her a lot but could never admit it in front of my mother and father and especially not in front of my grandmother.”
She paused and thought for a moment. “Funny,” she said. “No one told me to be quiet about it, but even when I was only nine, I sensed I’d better be.” She shrugged and returned to her reading.
Marcy looked at me and smiled. Then the smile flew off her face as her thoughts returned. “Never mind her grandmother. What makes you so wise?” she asked me. “Sometimes you act twice, even three times your age.” She pointed her right forefinger at me. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve got secrets, Kaylee Blossom Fitzgerald.”
I could feel my face flush. Claudia stopped reading again and looked up. Marcy was saying something that Claudia felt about me, too, I thought.
“Do you know when you’re really naked?” I asked Marcy.
“I think I can figure it out without a mirror.”
“Maybe not. You’re really naked when you have no secrets.”
She slapped her right palm against her forehead. “It’s true!” she cried. “My grandmother has been resurrected. Okay. I’m exhausted. I might fall asleep without fantasizing about Rob Brian. Thanks to you.” She stood and turned to Claudia. “If you find out any of those secrets that keep her from being naked, don’t forget to share them. Good night, Grandma.” She smiled and left us.
Claudia looked at the closed door. Despite the face she made and the way she seemed to be disinterested in anything Marcy and I did together or discussed, I realized she liked Marcy, too. Perhaps, just as I was on the days immediately following my rescue, she was locked away in herself, secretly hoping someone would find the key and let her out.
“I really had little to do with my grandparents,” I said. “They lived too far away and visited too little, and we visited them too little, too.”
“I wish I could say the same when it came to my maternal grandmother. My father’s parents were okay, but they retired to Costa Rica, and my mother hates traveling.”
“I want to do a lot of traveling,” I said.
“Yes, so do I.”
She glanced at her history text and quickly closed it. Then she sat there staring at me—or staring through me. Most people would have been put off by it, but I sensed she was struggling with the possibility of telling me something very serious, so I didn’t want to interrupt the argument she was probably having with herself.
All the time we had been roommates and shared schoolwork, I avoided asking her any questions about her personal life. She dropped hints about herself here and there, but I deliberately avoided picking up on any and starting a more detailed conversation. Whenever you ask someone something most would consider personal, you inevitably begin to reveal personal things about yourself, and until now, I had been on constant vigil to make sure I didn’t give even the slightest hints about what had happened to me, especially slipping and revealing that I had a twin sister. Despite all I had been through, including the therapy, it wasn’t easy to be on constant guard, measuring every sentence, every word I uttered to anyone. All my life, even during my horrible incarceration in Anthony Cabot’s basement, it was nearly impossible to think of myself and not think about Haylee simultaneously. The words my sister Haylee were practically engraved on my tongue.
I never doubted that was almost literally true. Even back when I was only eight and we were finally in a public school and not homeschooled, I mentioned her more than she mentioned me when I talked with other girls. Despite how alike Mother insisted we should be and were in her mind, in my mind, Haylee was stronger and especially wiser when it came to interacting with others our age. Common phrases for me were My sister Haylee says or My sister Haylee thinks. Whatever I was asked to do, my first thought was, Would Haylee do it? I’d even answer with Haylee wouldn’t do that. Or I’ll see if Haylee wants to do it.
Now, ironically, I believed I had to filter her out of my daily thinking in order for me to survive. Every morning when I woke up, I recited my mantra: Don’t mention or think of Haylee. It was only natural for me to study the way others looked at me whenever I spoke, to see if they somehow had seen through me and sensed that I was keeping a very big secret from them. Never telling anyone that I had a twin sister, a perfect replica of myself, was certainly a very big secret.
Although Claudia was so introverted and shy, especially when it came to meeting new people and making friends, and although she was unsure of herself when it came to socializing, I couldn’t help but suspect she was a great deal more perceptive than she made out to be or anyone thought she was. I often caught her looking at me intently at times and thinking deeply about something I had done or said. Perhaps there was something of herself that she recognized in me, or perhaps I wasn’t as invulnerable when it came to protecting my secrets as I thought I was. Maybe there was something I did or was doing that stirred her suspicions. You can’t live so intimately with someone without exposing something about yourself. The question was simply how perceptive was she?
Right now, I was expecting a question about myself, something she had sensed, but she surprised me.
“Despite what everyone thinks here, I’m not a virgin,” she said. She didn’t say it with any note of self-praise, nor did she say it like a confession to a priest. “Maybe I did it to get back at my grandmother or my mother. I can’t think of any other reason.”
“You didn’t like the boy?”
“He was all right, I suppose, when it came to looks, but I didn’t have that special affection for him I guess you should have. Everything I’ve read or heard told me it should be one of the most important events of your life, even for boys.”
“You mean you weren’t even that attracted to him? Didn’t he arouse you first? I mean, didn’t he . . .”
“Physically, yes. I don’t know if I was that attractive to him. I think I was sort of an accomplishment. I certainly wasn’t infatuated with him the way Marcy is with this Rob Brian. I didn’t fantasize about him, exactly. I fantasized about the act.”
“So for you it was more like experimenting?”
“No. I think it falls more properly into what school psychologists call ‘acting out.’ Anger and frustration brought me to it.” She thought a moment. “Maybe it involved a little experimenting, too. After all, I had only what I read and saw in movies to go by. I wasn’t exactly anyone’s particular confidante in the schools I attended. And besides, that would be secondhand anyway. I’d say this comes under one of the things you have to do yourself.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Last year. That’s the real reason I’m here and not in the school I was in. The boy talked about it, and so did the girls when they found out. Somehow the story got to the dean, Mrs. Mintz, and she informed my mother that there were rumors she should check out. She had to be pretty explicit about the rumors, I’m sure. My mother is as good as any CIA interrogator.”
“Really.” I smiled. “No one would ever guess any of this.”
I paused, thinking she was as good at hiding her secret as I was at hiding mine. We both had a need to keep a part of ourselves under lock and key. Serendipity had made us roommates.
“I was wondering why your father seemed so intense when you first arrived. I don’t think I saw him smile once.”
“He was still quite angry. My grandmother had heart failure over the rumors.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, she might have been having it anyway, but of course, my mother blames it on me.”
“Did she die?”
“Not yet. She’s in assisted living. I’m expressly forbidden to go see her, not that I was rushing out to do it.”
There was a long moment of silence between us. It felt like a dark cavern into which all her words of confession had fallen. This was the moment when I knew that she, like anyone else, would now expect me to reveal my sexual experience, a sort of tit for tat. My most forward and adventurous was with my first real boyfriend, Matt Tesler. I was afraid of talking about my sexual relations with him. I was sure one thing would lead to another and I would eventually reveal how Haylee had fooled him into thinking she was me and then had sex with him the night we had a party and she and her boyfriend had gotten Matt high. Although that wasn’t Haylee’s intention, she had kept me a virgin.
I didn’t ever want to think of how the sexual threats that occurred in Anthony Cabot’s basement changed that. It was a nightmare, and nightmares are just bad dreams. I’d have to live with that theory or not live at all.
I wondered now if Claudia was looking for my approval or if she was trying to get me to respect her more and become a closer friend, probably the closest she’d ever had. I didn’t want to sound superior and tell her it was okay with me. That would sound too condescending. I struggled to find a way to give her something intimate about myself. She trusted me with her big secret, and I had already admitted to Marcy and her that I did have secrets, too.
“I came close recently,” I began. “I really liked this boy in my school, and I had him over one night when my mother was out on a date. We made out in my bedroom, actually got naked together.”
“How did you stop from going all the way?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I was going to do it, but he had taken something to get high earlier, and . . .”
“He passed out while he was having sex with you?”
“Yes,” I said. “He was embarrassed and apologetic, but by then, it was too late. I had to get him out of the house before my mother came home so she wouldn’t see how wasted he was. Then things just happened, and his family had to move away.”
“So you never got another chance to be with him before he left?”
“No, but I won’t deny that I was ready to do it then and if another chance had come up,” I said.
Was she buying it all? It was partly true. Was she going to be upset now?
She surprised me by smiling. “Who’d ever think I was more experienced than you?” she said. She looked very pleased with herself. “However,” she added, afraid I might be the one upset now, “I didn’t have an orgasm. Can you really call it having sex if you don’t have an orgasm?”
“I don’t think I would,” I said, happy with that definition. It helped me more than it could ever help her, but she had no idea why. “Why didn’t you?”
“What do they call it? Premature ejaculation? I didn’t have time. He was too quick. Of course, he never mentioned that when he bragged to other boys at school, and it got to the girls, too.”
I smiled. “I bet he couldn’t look you in the face afterward, not for too long, anyway.”
“Oh, no, but none of the girls really cared to ask me about it. They were happier talking about me behind my back and would not have believed me no matter what I said.”
“I hope your next experience is positive,” I said. “It helps if you really like the guy.”
“Really liking the guy was not that important to the girls I knew, so I didn’t think about it. For some, even just liking him was okay. They acted like it’s simply something else you do for fun. You think Marcy is like that?”
I smiled to myself. She was comfortable enough with me to expect me to talk about Marcy behind her back.
“No,” I said. “I think Marcy likes to talk, but I wouldn’t buy into everything she says.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“She’s sweet, though, don’t you think?”
She nodded.
I felt hypocritical saying it, but I thought I had to. “Thanks for trusting me with your experience, Claudia.”
She nodded. I wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or satisfied with what I had given her in return. “There is a boy who’s been paying attention to me here,” she added, almost like a bonus.
“Who?”
“Ben Kaplan.”
“Oh, yes. He’s very cute.”
“He was the one who talked to me in the lunch line the first day. I guess I can thank Marcy for that. He’s been talking to me between classes and walked me back to the dorm once.”
“You sneak. I never even noticed you paying attention to him.”
She smiled. “He noticed,” she said, and then rose to go out and get ready for bed.
How surprised Marcy would be, I thought, if Claudia went on a date with Ben Kaplan and ended up double-dating with her and Rob Brian instead of me.
Later, instead of just turning off her light and turning on her side with her back to me to go to sleep as usual, Claudia first said, “Good night.”
“Good night,” I responded, and turned off my light. I didn’t fall asleep for a while. I lay there instead and looked up at the ceiling. Dim light from the outside lamps still pierced our curtains and created what looked like a ganglion of twisted shadows on the walls. I could hear Mrs. Rosewell telling some of the girls they should be going to sleep as she patrolled the hallway. I heard the imitation quacks that followed her and smiled.
There was no question that I was happy to be here and avoid what would have been unmanageable challenges at my old school, challenges perhaps even more difficult because I was living with Mother. Most of the time when I was home, I would feel like I was walking on thin glass. Every time she looked at me, I knew in my heart she was looking for Haylee as well. Maybe the day would come when she would finally ask me questions about my abduction, but did I want that day to come? Did I want to relive it, even to win her full sympathy?
No, it was better to be here, where I could grow stronger and comfortable with myself. Talking to Claudia and listening to her intimate revelations renewed my hope. I could return to a full and normal life with relationships and maybe even enjoy the youth that was nearly stolen completely from me. Yes, I had to be careful. I had to continue to lie about my past and my family, but for now, at least, I was okay with it.
When something terrible happens, like what happened to me, you can’t help but wonder who will be the stranger you eventually will confide in? Who will be able to win your trust? Can anyone ever? Would it be impossible to give that trust no matter what? Keep up the baby steps, I told myself. Maybe it’s slow going, but you’re going in the right direction, hoping nothing will happen to send you reeling back.
The following weekend, what I had humorously imagined happened.
Ben Kaplan asked Claudia out for pizza and a movie in town, and Rob asked Marcy. It was going to be a double date, because Rob and Ben were good friends. Claudia had told me first, but I hadn’t mentioned it to Marcy. She looked stunned when she approached me in the hallway just before our last class on Friday.
“Claudia is going on a date,” she said, pulling me aside. “With Rob’s friend Ben. He wants us to double-date with them. What will I talk about?”
“She’s really good at math.”
“Very funny, Kaylee. This is my first big date with Rob. She could make it a disaster.”
“No, she won’t. Stop hyperventilating about it.”
“Hyper what?”
“She’ll be fine. Let Ben worry about her.”
“I can still find you a date in time,” she said. “Rob told me about four boys alone who’d like to ask you out. Why aren’t you showing interest in anyone?”
“When someone is interesting, I’ll be interested,” I said, practically singing. “Let’s go. I want to shower and change for dinner.”
“Dinner here on a Friday night when you could go to town? Look, if you’re gay, tell me, and I’ll find you a girlfriend.”
I simply smiled and started down the hallway.
She hurried to catch up. “Are you?”
“I’m not gay,” I said. “I’m simply . . . very choosy. I don’t want to make mistakes.”
“So that’s one of your secrets?”
“What?”
“Bad romances. How many?”
“Weren’t you ever taught to put your disappointments in a bag of rocks and let them sink to the bottom of the sea?”
“Not that way, but yes, and you know who told me. Maybe you are the reincarnation of my grandmother,” she said. “Oh, mercy. I hope Claudia doesn’t wear one of her Amish dresses. I’ll be such a contrast.”
I laughed. “They’re not Amish dresses. Maybe we’ll take her shopping on Saturday and find her something more appropriate for future dates.”
“You mean something more twenty-first century?”
“Whatever.”
As we started out, I saw Troy Matzner heading toward the boys’ dorm. Marcy saw which way I was looking.
“Forget him,” she said. “He’s not worth wasting your eyesight on. He’s never asked any girl out here, and I doubt he ever will. Or, more important, no girl would accept an invitation to go out with him.”
“What does he do on weekends?”
“Dress up for his mirrors. I don’t have the foggiest. I did hear that sometimes he goes home for the weekend. He’s got that red Jaguar convertible all the boys swoon over.”
“Really? I didn’t notice it.”
“You don’t go over to the boys’ dorm, or you would. Speaking of clothes, what will I wear? I want to be sexy but not obvious. And that’s not something my grandmother told me. I just know it.”
“I’ll help you choose something.”
“Thanks.”
I glanced once more at Troy. He was walking with his head down. How, I wondered, could he be satisfied with his solitude? I was an expert with that challenge now. It wasn’t something I thought I would ever choose for myself.
“Spending eyesight,” Marcy warned.
I didn’t argue. I hurried along and followed her to Cook Hall.
Claudia was very excited, and Marcy reluctantly talked up their double date. She came into our room to help Claudia choose something from her closet, swinging her eyes my way every time Claudia reached for something.
“You know what?” Marcy finally said. “Wear that dark blue skirt, even though it looks like my grandmother’s, and maybe Kaylee will lend you that turquoise knit sweater. You can wear it over one of those granny blouses and with a pair of earrings and a necklace I’ll lend you. You’ll look great.”
“Really?” Claudia looked at me. I was already taking out the sweater. Marcy knew my wardrobe better than I did by now. “Thank you,” Claudia said.
Marcy raised her eyes toward the ceiling and then smiled.
Afterward, she got Claudia to come into her room to do her makeup and hair under her supervision. When Claudia stepped back into the room, I had to smile and clap.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Marcy stood behind her, looking very proud. “Imagine what I could do for you when you find someone interesting,” she said.
I laughed and wished them both a good time. After they left, I made my way over to Asper Hall to have some dinner. Later, I was planning on writing a long letter to my mother. Perhaps if I put my feelings into written words, they would have a good impact on her, I thought.
The cafeteria was about a third or so less populated. I saw the girls Marcy, Claudia, and I hung with already seated. Terri waved to me. I nodded and smiled, imagining their conversation was about Marcy’s and Claudia’s dates. That would lead to them talking about the boys they liked at the school and boyfriends they’d had in the past. Once again, I would feel their eyes on me, waiting for me to reveal more of myself.
Just as I stepped off the line with my tray, however, I heard someone say, “Thought you’d have a date by now.”
It was Troy Matzner. I didn’t see him behind me in the line and didn’t anticipate seeing him. I thought he might have left for the weekend.
“More puzzling is why you don’t,” I replied, and he laughed.
“I’m what you call the more serious student,” he said.
“Can’t you have a serious date?”
He nodded, a glint of appreciation in his eyes. “I would if you would sacrifice dinner with the dissectors and join me at that table,” he said, nodding at one in the far left corner.
He started for it. There was an invisible chain wrapped around my waist and anchored to the girls’ table, but, more important, it was anchored to all my fears. Was I ready to get more involved with any boy? How could I do that and not eventually reveal my sister’s and my horrid history? Right now, even when some boy accidentally grazed my arm in the hallways, I felt my insides cringe.
I took a deep breath. I could hear my father telling Haylee and me that if we fell off a bike, we had to get right back on, or the fear of it would sink so deeply into our hearts and souls we’d never ride again. Maybe riding a bike wasn’t exactly the proper analogy to make, but it seemed to work.
I followed Troy, knowing that the moment I sat at his table, all the girls at ours would have the topic for the weekend, and it would get to Marcy with lightning speed. I watched him sit and neatly unfold his napkin to place on his lap, something I rarely saw any boy do, even here.
He looked up. “This open-faced turkey sandwich is surprisingly good, especially the gravy on the mashed potatoes.” He looked at my Asian chicken salad. “That’s all you’re having?”
I sat across from him. “I like a light dinner sometimes,” I said. “So why do you call them dissectors?”
“Aren’t they? Don’t they spend most of their time together tearing apart other girls?”
“Boys don’t do that, sit and take apart other boys?”
“They usually do it with a single banderole.”
“A what?”
“A diagonal cut across the chest or abdomen. It’s a term from fencing. When I was in a junior prep school, we had fencing lessons instead of regular physical education. Sons of noblemen,” he added.
“Your father is a nobleman?”
“My mother believes it and convinced him. So no one asked you out yet? Really?” He looked down and began to eat again, as if he had tossed the question into the air and didn’t expect me to answer.
“Why is that so important to you?”
He shrugged. “It’s a way of finding out what your defenses are,” he said, as if no other purpose could even be suggested. “Fencing again.”
“So, I repeat, why is that so important to you?”
He laughed and sat back. Then he looked up and nodded. “I’m always right with my first impressions of people I meet.”
“You’re always right? Doesn’t your arm hurt?”
“My arm?” He smiled, confused and amused.
“From reaching over your shoulder to pat yourself on the back so much?”
He looked stunned for a moment, and then he laughed. “I repeat,” he said. “I’m always right. I thought you were different. I just haven’t figured out why yet.” His eyes narrowed as if he was studying me scientifically. “It’s like you’re some kind of an observer here, above and beyond the din, like wiser or something. You seem to have more patience than other girls your age, too. I watch how you move. It’s like . . . you’re afraid you’re going to step on a land mine or something.”
“When are you watching me?” I asked, now not sure it had been smart to join him at his table. “And so closely?”
He looked away quickly. “Anytime I see you, I guess.” He said it nonchalantly and then started eating again.
I ate some of my salad. He glanced at me as if he was waiting for me to respond. For any other girl, what he’d said would be quite flattering, but the idea that someone had been watching me so intently without my knowing it only made my nerves vibrate like piano strings.
“Well, now that you bring it up, everything you said about me also applies to you, and from what I hear, I’m far from the only one here who thinks so.”
“Birds of a feather,” he replied.
“I didn’t say I accepted your analysis of me.”
“Which only proves I’m right about you,” he replied with a smug expression of self-satisfaction. “There’s something wiser about you. You’re more concerned with what you wear, how everything coordinates. You’re just neater, better put together than the other girls here. Frankly, I think most of the boys are intimidated by you.”
“What?”
“You challenge anything anyone says and take nothing at face value.”
“How do you know all that so quickly? What are you, a mind reader or something?”
“Something,” he said. “Maybe you’ll tell me what I am.” He suddenly sounded more depressed than witty. He looked down at his food and then sat back again and took on a more formal, stiffer posture. “What brought you to Littlefield? I mean, why this school?”
“You sound like a guidance counselor or . . .” I stopped myself from saying therapist.
“So? What would you tell a guidance counselor?”
“My father researched it and thought it was a good choice.”
“You always do what your father wants you to do?” he asked, and immediately looked at his food again.
“I thought it looked good and was willing to try it. I’m not a puppet,” I added, my building rage undisguised. Maybe Marcy was completely right about him, I thought.
He looked unscathed, not even blinking fast. “Where else did you go?” he asked.
“Public school. This is my first private school. Anything else?”
“Any conclusions yet?”
“Yes.”
He looked up quickly.
“The open-faced turkey sandwich is very good,” I replied.
His smile seemed to grow out of his eyes and trickle down to his lips. “What are you doing after dinner?”
“Nothing special. Writing some letters.”
“Writing letters? You mean emails?”
“No, old-fashioned letters. There’s still something about you in your handwriting.”
“To old boyfriends?”
“I wouldn’t write to more than one, would I?”
“Most of the girls here would. So it’s a boyfriend?”
“No. I’m writing to my mother, if you have to know.”
He nodded, sat forward, and ate some more. I did, too.
It did feel like some sort of fencing match, I thought, but strangely, as my surge of rage subsided, I realized that I liked it.
“How would you like to go for a ride first? I’ll show you the neighborhood,” he said, still looking at his food. “Nothing special, just a chance to get away for a while.” He paused, like someone waiting to hear an explosion. I realized he was even holding his breath.
And I thought, Here I go. I felt like I was about to attempt a deep-sea dive.
“Okay,” I said, and then, with caution still in control, added, “but not too far or for too long.”
He went back to his dinner as if I weren’t there.
“Are you shocked by my answer?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, just hungry,” he said. “And this is a good open-faced turkey sandwich.”
Another girl might have felt taken for granted or something, but I felt just the opposite. It was a feeling I had practically disowned for the rest of my life when it came to being with a boy.
I was excited.