Poindexter and the trustees, and my parents and poor bewildered Chad. I have to work through it all again-everything-the bad parts, but the good ones too-us and the house and Ms. What I have to do, I think, before I can mail you a letter, is sort out what happened. Liza put down her pen, but in a few moments picked it up again. Even so, there was still an unfinished floor plan on her drawing board, and the unfinished Frank Lloyd Wright paper on her desk. The girl who lived across the hall teased her for being a perfectionist, but since many of the other freshman architecture students had arrived at MIT-Massachusetts Institute of Technology-fresh from summer internships with large firms, Liza had spent her first weeks trying doggedly to catch up. She moved her shoulders forward, then back, in an unconscious attempt to ease the ache that had come from sitting too long at her drawing board and afterwards at her desk. Her shoulders were hunched tensely in a way that made her look, even when she stood up, shorter than the 5'3' she really was. Liza closed her eyes, absently running her hand through her short, already touseled brownish hair. Annie, I still can't write, I guess, for I already know I'm not going to mail this. But I don't blame you for not writing any more, really I don't. It's especially not fair because your letters have been wonderful, and I know I'm going to miss them.

The trouble is that I kept thinking about what happened-thinking around it, really-and I couldn't write you. It's true I haven't written since the second week you were in music camp this summer.

Then your last letter came, saying you're not going to write any more till Do other people get goose-bumps when you sing, the way I used to? Annie, the other day I saw a woman who reminded me of your grandmother, and I thought of you, and your room, and the cats, and your father telling stories in his cab when we went for that drive on Thanksgiving. Liza turned to a fresh page in her notebook and wrote: Dear Annie, It's raining, raining the way it did when I met you last November, drops so big they run together in ribbons, remember? Annie, are you all right? Are you happy, did you find what you wanted to find in California? Are you singing? You must be, but you haven't said so in your letters. ' But the gray November rain splashed insistently against the window of her small dormitory room, its huge drops shattering against the glass as the wind blew. 'Frank Lloyd Wright's house at Bear Run, Pennsylvania,' she had meant to write, 'is one of the earliest and finest examples of an architect's use of natural materials and surroundings to.

Liza-Eliza Winthrop stared in surprise at the words she'd just written it was as if they had appeared without her bidding on the page before her. Annie On My Mind by Nancy Garden Publisher: Farrar Straus & Giroux (Juv) ISBN: 0-374404143 Reissue edition (September 1992)

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