the hell out of me, even at a distance. I'd go up to her and stammer till my teeth fell out. Wouldn't know the first thing to say.'
'That's one of the things I've always liked about you, Shelby. You know your limitations.'
'And you don't, Troy. Your successes are grander than mine, but so are your failures, and you have more of both.'
'That's called living.'
'Don't get philosophical with me, man. Save that for Gilead's class. Now, move something. I'm getting hungry.'
Troy's queen crossed nearly the entire board. 'Checkmate.'
Shelby stared at the quilted pattern of squares and pieces. 'Well, hell. Where'd you learn that one?'
Troy rose from the couch. 'Improvised it.'
His roommate sighed. 'You'll have to do more than that to make it with Ms. Strange upstairs.'
Troy's gaze lifted ceilingward. 'We'll see.'
The bell rang many times before the door was opened a crack.
'Who's there, please?'
Odd accent, for sure, he thought. 'Excuse me. My name's Troy Brevard. I'm on the third floor. I understand you're a student at State.'
'That's right.' He tried but could not see into the room beyond. The voice was smooth, soft, assured despite the fact that it was obviously utilizing a second language.
'I'm a grad student. Poli Sci. I'm having a lot of trouble with a paper I'm doing on motivations in World War II, and I was wondering if maybe you could help me.' Surely a foreign student would be interested in a world war, no matter what her actual major might be.
Silence from the other side. Then, 'You're a graduate student. I'm an undergraduate. Why come to me for help?'
'Because there are stupid grads and brilliant undergrads.'
'What makes you think I'm one of the brilliant ones?'
'Aren't you?'
Laughter then, or something akin to laughter. The door swung inward, announcing his minor triumph.
'All right, Mr. Brevard. Come on in and I'll see if I can help.'
He stepped over the threshold. The apartment was nearly identical to the one he shared with Shelby except for the view. They lived on the third floor. This apartment was on the sixth and topmost. Off to the left of the small den would be a bathroom and bedroom, to the right the compact kitchen. Through the tall picture window he could see the sunbathed campus of Arizona State University.
The door hid her, and so he didn't see her right away. His attention was caught instead by something else. The den was swamped with frogs.
Stone frogs of Mexican onyx and soapstone lined the wall shelves, guarding endless rows of textbooks. A turquoise Zuni frog fetish sat in a position of honor atop the glass coffee table fronting the couch. Stuffed frogs stared bubble-eyed from the back of the couch, on which lay several hand-sewn frog pillows. There were ceramic frogs and jade frogs, stylized frogs of stainless steel and traditional frogs of wood and pewter, cardboard put- together frog cutouts and paper frogs dangling from the ceiling. Portraits of frogs in oil and watercolor, pastel and pencil, and acrylic decorated the walls. Terraria bubbled and burped as spotted green things moved lazily about behind glass walls. He stepped inside and found himself standing on a thick frog rug.
'You like frogs,' he said dryly.
'My collection,' she replied.
Then he turned to face her and forgot all about frogs.
Placing her proved impossible. Her skin was coffee-colored. That implied a home located anywhere from the Congo to the tanning salons of southern California. Her features were slight to the point of rendering petite an indication of grossness. Except for her eyes. They dominated that delicate face, huge, damp orbs in which a man could drown with little effort. They were a bright, electric green, as pure as anything generated by a laser, as alive as the floor of a rain forest.
Aware he was staring, he forced himself to look elsewhere.
'Mind if I sit down?'
'Oh, excuse me. I forget my manners sometimes. I don't have many visitors.'
He flopped down on the couch. Frogs eyed him from high shelves, inspected him from the top of the crowded coffee table. He readjusted a frog pillow behind him and arranged his notepad and books.
'It's real neighborly of you to help me out like this.'
'Why didn't you use the library?'
'Libraries can't give you every viewpoint, especially contemporary ones. Besides, I'm lazy. I'd rather ask someone. Especially a pretty someone.'
Good Lord, was she blushing? It was hard to tell with that skin. Could it be that no one had had any luck with her simply because no one had tried?
'I'm not pretty. Actually, I'm still kind of ugly.'
Was she playing with him? The woman was gorgeous! Slight, almost boyish, but with features that would put many a professional model to shame. If it was a put-on, though, she was playing it well. If it wasn't, maybe it explained something else.
'Is that why you like frogs so much? Because you see yourself as unattractive and they're the same?'
'Oh, no,' she said intently. 'They're beautiful. I try to see myself as them.' As if she'd already revealed too much of her private self, she became suddenly businesslike. A tiny hand indicated the study materials he'd brought with him. 'Now, what's your hang-up, and how can I help you?'
He made a show of shuffling through his notes. 'How about going out with me Friday night? That would be a helluva help to me. Improve my mental state no end. I know a great place for Mexican. Willy's.'
She smiled apologetically, shook her head. 'Sorry. I don't go out.'
'Someone as pretty as you? Come on!' He had a sudden inspiration. 'I know what it is. You're from a foreign country, right? You're not sure how to act, how to react to our peculiar American customs. Don't let that, make you a shut-in. Half the time us natives are just as confused about how to act. Just relax. You can't do anything to embarrass me. I don't embarrass. And I won't push you into anything that makes you nervous. I just think you'd enjoy my company. I know I'd enjoy yours. How about it?'
'You're right, Mr. Brevard. I am from a foreign country.'
'Just Troy, please. What do I call you?'
'My real name's a bit longer than you'd find comfortable. I use Eula for short.'
Eula. That was no help. 'Ethiopia? Somewhere in the Caribbean, maybe? Jamaica?'
She shook her head, showing a shy, reluctant smile
'Too close.'
'India, then?'
'I won't tell you, Troy. Let me hold on to some secrets.'
'You seem to be all secrets, Eula, but okay. See, I said I wouldn't push.'
'I don't think you will.' Oh, those eyes.
'I think I will go out with you Friday night. Yes, I think I will. It should be educational.'
'Real dedicated student, aren't you? Intense observer of local culture.'
'I have to be dedicated, Troy. I'm going to graduate this June.'
'Me, too. Going to grad school?'
'Yes, but not here.'
'Whereabouts?'
'Back home.'
'Which is where?'
She wagged a warning finger at him, and it was his turn to grin.
'Okay.' He raised both hands. 'Guilty. I won't do it again.' Maybe she was a refugee from one of the several minor wars that always seemed to be going in the Third World. He could see where that might embarrass her. Time
