She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. “They might do you good,” she remarked. Ann Veronica ignored her friend’s confusion. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark.
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