Late one Friday morning, Nathan returned to his dorm room from a pop quiz in a college class. He had to identify slides of fifty medieval and renaissance artworks and thanks to his photographic memory, he aced the test. Others were left panting in their seats. He knew he should be more sympathetic, but he loved to gloat, secretly, over his victories, and the suffering of his competition tended to give him a private thrill. Despite his reputation of being a short little nerd, (his "skinhead" look, notwithstanding) Nathan was actually a competitive young man. He was talented, after all, so he felt justified in being competitive.

He came into his dorm room around noon, and to his dismay, saw his roommate, Don, lying on his unmade bed.

"Oh," said Nathan. "Hi."

Don looked up and said, "Hi," then looked down at his book. (He was reading an economics text.) Don was usually boisterous the way athletic straight boys often are, but that hour, he didn't seem himself.

"Anything wrong?" said Nathan.

"Sheila and I had a fight last night."

"I'm sorry," said Nathan, afraid that Don would be hanging out at the dorm, more often, as a result.

"We were fighting about supply-side economics."

Nathan tried not to smirk. "Do lovers usually fight about supply-side economics?" he asked.

Don laughed and stretched. "She hates Reagan. I think he's an asshole, but he's a winner, so I love the guy. Most popular president the country's had in years. She's mad at me, because she knows deep down, I'm right."

"I don't give a shit one way or the other about Reagan, as long as I can make money some day off the trends he's started," Nathan said.

"Trends, hunh? Nathan, what is it you hope to do after college?"

"Travel. Then, I'll go back to school and specialize in something that makes me money."

Nathan's foot brushed a note at the doorway. Don must have missed it.

It was an envelope with Nathan's name on it.

He opened it and said, "Shit." It was from the woman he had been trying to reach all week.

"Nathan - call me as soon as you can. It's urgent. Marissa."

There was a phone number Nathan didn't recognize.

He stared out the window, for a few seconds, wondering what the note could mean.

Then he slipped onto his bed, picked up the phone from a stack of Don's sports magazines and started dialing. "Marissa never does things like this," he mumbled. "I wish to god we had an answering machine that worked."

The phone kept ringing. Nathan hung up, then he dialed Marissa's home number and left a quick message on her machine, promising to be at the dorm for the next hour.

Without saying anything more, he sat up on his bed and tried to study, although his eyes kept drifting over to the message from Marissa. He was vexed, but more so, he was feeling vague sensations of guilt and alarm.

***

That same hour, Sean got a telephone call at his Wall Street job.

"Hey, guess who?" said a cheerful voice at the other end.

"Mark! Where have you been? I called you all day Monday and Tuesday."

"I've been planning a trip to Mexico," said Mark.

"You're kidding."

"No. I'm serious. I need a break."

"I heard the awful news."

"You mean, in the papers today?"

"I was talking about the Social Defense League booting you out," Sean said.

"Oh. Is THAT how they're describing it?" Mark laughed.

"That's what I heard. What did happen?" Mark chuckled and didn't speak. Sean was frustrated. How could he defend Mark, if he didn't know the facts? "At least tell me how you're doing?" Sean said.

"I'm okay."

"Are you going to fight their decision?"

"Man, fuck 'em," laughed Mark. "I don't even know what went on at that meeting. If they did boot me out, well, I've been booted out of classier groups than that one."

"Maybe we can change the Steering Committee's mind -"

"Nah!" Mark chortled. He reviewed the activist stuff that he had done over the past few years for groups like GLAAD, GMHC, and AmFAR. (Those were groups he preferred to the League, anyway.) He also had done some organizing for a group promoting the Gay Rights Bill (the one that finally passed in the city the previous year.) He even stuffed envelopes for the AIDS funding group that Samantha worked for (although he and Samantha didn't know each other, personally.) It sounded like Mark needed a break.

"What's this about something in the newspapers?" asked Sean.

Mark paused. "Do you remember that Vatican letter from last October?" Mark described it. It was almost like an encyclical reasserting Catholic disapproval of homosexuality. It was a particularly troubling note to have to hear in the age of AIDS, given all the suffering gays were going through, already. "Well," Mark continued, "Now Pope John Paul and some Cardinal are ordering gay groups out of the American churches immediately."

"They're forcing queers out of the church?"

"The self-accepting ones, yes. The ones who say it's okay to have gay sex. The Eucharist service is going to be denied them. Tomorrow night's the last gay service that Saint Xavier is going to have. And so I'm calling my friends about it and asking them to show up to give our Catholic brothers and sisters some support."

"You're serious."

"Yes."

"They're really kicking out the self-accepting gays?"

"Saint Xavier has no choice. They have to do what the Vatican says. Will you come?"

Sean said he'd have to think about it. He wrote down the specifics, then hung up. The news troubled him. He wondered if history was gradually turning against gays, and doing so, globally. He had always been taught to respect the religions of others (his Mom was a typical California liberal), but he had no choice but to admit how political the Catholic Establishment's power really was in New York City, and for that matter, in the world.

***

Nathan was feeling restless in his dorm room, waiting for Marissa to call. Then, half past noon, the telephone rang.

"Hello?" Nathan answered. It was Marissa. "Marissa - what the hell is going on --?"

"Listen very carefully," she said, sounding haggard. "Emily is still here in the hospital. She's not going to make it. That's why I'm phoning. I hate to be the bearer of the news, but she's just not going to make it."

"What do you mean?"

"The doctors say she may be going, soon. The worst thing is that not one of her family is coming to see her. They've known for over two weeks she's been here, but no one is coming."

"Have you actually spoken to them?"

"Emily did, when she was first moved into this room. I've left messages for her folks, but they don't return my calls. Now, I'm just trying to get her friends here, instead, because I don't have time to waste on a homophobic family."

Nathan couldn't believe what she was saying. He felt instant fear of the whole situation.

"Is there an emergency?" asked Nathan.

"What?"

"That sound -"

"Oh, hold on… No, a nurse is taking care of the monitor for the IV."

"Can you tell me anything more about Emily?" Nathan asked. He assumed it was Emily's promiscuity and lesbianism that repelled her family. Nathan wanted to know more about her actual condition. There was cancer, there was swelling, and there were fungal infections. She didn't want to take in food, anymore. She didn't want the therapies, anymore, either. Just the anesthetics.

"Should I come tonight?"

"The sooner the better."

Nathan paused. He got the information on the hospital and hung up. He'd have to miss a couple of afternoon classes and skip studying at the library.

The idea that Emily was dying seemed impossible. Nathan did feel fear, however, and anxiety, even as he half-convinced himself this was only a bad dream.

He grabbed his keys and headed to the door.

Don said, "Nathan, what's wrong?"

Nathan said, "I'll tell you later."