Barbara was fourteen, and she hated living in Louisville's Portland neighborhood. Not with a fiery, exciting hatred, but with a dull, throbbing, ceaseless loathing. She hated their tiny apartment with the peeling wallpaper. She hated the loud voices and the strong smells and the broken glass on the sidewalks.

Most of all, she hated the boys. She wished she had the nerve to take a kitchen knife to school; then, if a boy touched her breast or bottom in the hall, she'd slice his hand off. He wouldn't leer at her out of the corner of his mouth, then. It would be worth getting detention for a week and having to clean up the blood.

Her older sister, Bev, liked it; she had all the wild boys wrapped around her little finger. Bev was the queen of Jefferson High.

Most Fridays, Bev managed to slip out alone or went to a friend's after school. Every couple of months, though, Mom would get wind of a plan or a party; then she'd roll up her sleeves and declare that Barbara was going to be included.

#

Matt was an older friend of Bev's--at least nineteen. He had graduated the year before and was going into the Marines; his parents were leaving him the house for an overnight farewell bash.

He met the sisters at the outside basement door with a kiss for Bev and a friendly nod for Barbara. "We'll see if we can't scare up a Coke for you, Little Sister."

The basement was unfinished except for a room built, like a house-inside-a-house, in one corner. Matt opened the door and the sound of rap and laughter rolled out on a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"Enter my domain." He bowed from the waist.

Bev's boyfriend, Glen, and his friend Travis were already there, along with Lorraine, a girl Bev said was "kind of popular, but nobody likes her." Lorraine and Travis were doing a dance that seemed to consist of jumping up and crashing into one another. Glen sat on Matt's black-and-red futon drinking beer from a bottle. When he saw Bev, he held out an arm. Bev slid onto his lap and he gave her a swig of his beer.

Hell, Barbara thought. I'm in Hell, and I didn't even get to die first.

"More of the same?" Matt shouted over the noise. Bev gave him a thumbs-up and he got her a beer from a little refrigerator. He got another for Glen, one for himself, and a Coke for Barbara. He lit a cigarette and tossed the lighter to Glen, who lit one for himself and one for Bev.

Matt offered the pack to Barbara, but she shook her head. "Smart girl."

The song ended. Matt picked up a remote and pushed a button. "Okay, you all, now listen." He held the remote, rubbing the edge of it with his thumb. "Uh . . . Okay, I'm going into basic on Monday, and . . . Well, the fact is, some guys don't come back, you know?" He waved a hand to quiet the automatic protests. "So I'm giving this stuff away before I go. That way, I'll know it belongs to people who want it and my folks won't have to mess with it. If I do come back . . . I'll buy some new stuff, right? So come on and see what you want. You too, Little Sister."

A single-size bed, which took up most of the space in the room, was covered with CD cases, car magazines, videos, Japanese comic books, and Magic--The Gathering cards. A closed shoebox nestled on the pillow.

The others pounced. Barbara could tell at a glance there was nothing there she cared for. Not that she would have fought for a place in the rummage, anyway. Nobody had so much as glanced at the shoebox. She was almost afraid to look in it, but Matt urged her forward and that was the only uncontested item. She lifted the lid.

It was filled with picture postcards. The one on top was of the Grand Canyon. She turned it over and read, "An awful lot of noise over a big hole in the ground!--Ha, ha! Matt Wexler, July 10, 1998," hand-printed neatly in the message space. It was addressed to Matt. She looked at the one on the bottom. It showed an Old West town, with "Greetings from Gun-Town Mountain, Cave City, Kentucky" across the bottom. On the yellowed back, a childish scrawl proclaimed: "fun" and "Matt W age 6."

"We go somewhere on vacation every year." Matt spoke so quietly, only she could hear. "I always get a postcard and mail it to myself."

"You don't want to give these away."

He shrugged. "I wasn't going to, but last night I got to thinking about Mom and Dad looking through them if . . . you know. I guess I'll burn them."

She snatched up the box and snugged the lid closed. "I'll keep them for you. When you get home, I'll give them back."

He nodded solemnly.

The others gathered their spoils and stashed them on top of their jackets, with awkward expressions of thanks.

Matt pressed the remote. A slow song started. Lorraine and Travis moved into the rhythm of it, arms around each other. Bev stood and pulled Glen up into her arms. They swayed and shuffled around six square inches of floor.

"Dance, Little Sister?" Matt dropped the butt of his cigarette into the tag end of his beer, where it sizzled out.

He took her right hand and put his left hand on her waist. Almost at arm's length, he guided her in a formal pattern of steps. "My Mom taught me how to dance. REALLY dance, I mean. Like it?"

Barbara nodded. Her heart pounded.

The song faded into electronic silence as the CD changer rotated.

Matt's arms were still around her. He smiled, then bent his head and kissed her. It was a soft kiss with no demands or unwanted promises, just a moment of shared sweetness between a boy who might never come back and a girl who might never get away.

"LOOK!" Bev shrieked. "The VIRGIN's kissing a MAN!"

Lorraine and the boys joined Bev in a round of applause.

A new CD started and the other couples turned their attention back to dancing. Matt went to the futon to retrieve his lighter. Barbara escaped into the basement at large.

She sat on the bare wooden steps leading to the real house, legs drawn up, arms around them. She would take refuge out here for two or three hours, then she and Bev would go home and tell Mom what a nice party it had been.

Hot tears trickled down her face and fell onto her knees. She wished she could topple sideways off the steps and crack her head open and let all her brains flop out. Then she could live like a normal person around here: rub herself up against boys, get pregnant, get married, play poker and drink highballs on Friday night, go to church on Sunday, raise her kids to do the same.

The door to Matt's room opened and he came out, smoking, a Coke in each hand. He hooked the door with his toe and flipped it shut behind him, hopping on one foot until he regained his balance.

"Hey, Little Sister," he said, around his cigarette.

Barbara wiped her face with her palms. "I'm okay." The last thing she needed was for Matt to go back in and tell Bev her baby sister was blubbering.

He sat on the step beside her and handed her one of the bottles. He nudged her. When she looked at him, he was smiling. It was kind and direct, a smile like his kiss; it held no meaning but itself. "There's nothing wrong with being called a virgin. It isn't a dirty word."

"You could have fooled me." She sniffed loudly. "I ruined your party for you."

"No, you didn't. They're having a great old time."

"Lorraine was supposed to be your date, wasn't she? But Travis saw me come in and he cabbaged onto her and stuck you with me."

Matt laughed. "I'd like to see the day Travis Pitt could take a girl away from me. Besides, I don't have a girl, and if I did, it wouldn't be Lorraine. She's got just about enough sense to get from bed to Wal-Mart and back." He shook his head and drew on his cigarette, puffs of smoke coming out with every word. "There's a whole world out there. I'll get some education in the Marines. If I don't get blown up or shot to pieces someplace I never heard of yet, I might make something out of myself." He flipped the cigarette toward his room. It lay on the concrete floor; the curl of smoke rose and faded into air.

"I wish I was getting out, too," she said softly. "I don't want to be trapped here all my life. I wish . . ." She didn't say it out loud: I wish I was dead. In the light of this bare room, next to this actual human, she knew it wasn't true.

"You don't have to settle for it, any more than I do."

Her heart lurched, as if she were lost and blind and heard a sound that could guide her home.

Matt swirled the soda left in his bottle and watched the bubbles pop. He swirled it again and more bubbles formed. "Stick to your guns, Little Sister. Let 'em laugh. Bein' laughed at don't kill you."

"I'm living proof of that." She tried a chuckle. It didn't sound too bad.

"You're a tough little gal." He nudged her again. "Outlast the bastards." Grinning around the neck of his bottle, Matt drained the last of the cold drink.

The door to Matt's room opened and Bev stuck her head out in a fog of smoke. "Hey, Party Boy, where you hiding? Come on back."

"Soon as everybody's got their clothes back on." He winked at Barbara.

Bev relayed his answer to the room, and the others hooted laughter. "You can come back. It's safe. You come on, too, Barbara." She stepped out and pulled the door partway closed. "I'm sorry we laughed at you."

"It's okay. Don't worry--I won't tell Mom you're drinking naked."

Bev's mouth popped open. Matt lit another cigarette, hiding a smirk behind his hand.

"Be right in," he said. "I hate that song that's on now."

" . . . Okay." Bev retreated.

Matt stretched his long legs down the stairs to the floor and leaned back on his elbows.

"What's your name, Little Sister?"

"Barbara."

"Dodson, like Bev?"

"Yes."

"Same address?"

"Yes."

"Well, listen, Barbara Dodson: How about if I write to you while I'm in the service? Send you picture postcards from ever-where I'm stationed? Would you write me back?"

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to dance, to jump up and down and clap her hands like a kid. "Sure, I'd write you back. I'd love to."

He quirked a smile. "Well, okay, then. That'll be great."

Bev opened the door again. "Song's over."

Matt grabbed the railing and hauled himself to his feet. He held out a hand to Barbara.

She shook her head. "It isn't my party. I'll just sit out here and think."

Matt gave her a power salute and went past Bev into his room.

"'Think'?" Bev said, as she closed the door.

Barbara imagined a walkway to a different life, a walkway lit by little white rectangles--postcards with stamps from foreign countries. Of course, she reminded herself, he won't really do it. He'll get busy and forget. He won't write postcard one.

But that didn't matter. It didn't matter in the least.