I followed and kept repeating, out loud, “I am your humble slave boy, supreme Mistress Becky; I am your humble slave boy supreme Mistress Brigitte�... all the way home. No one passed to hear my chant. That would have been pretty embarrassing, but I had already been so embarrassed by all these girls that it might not have made any difference. When we came in the yard, Janice was waiting and had Roberta with her. Brigitte and Becky led me right up to the other two girls and Becky turned and slapped. Tricia Saratopia, an attractive and confident deli clerk from Hampton, New Hampshire stirred about, shifting uneasily in her bed slowly, almost slow motion, touching her face and her closed eyelids with her finger tips, softly stroking her thick eyebrows and freckled nose to feel the sensation of life. It was real. This was an unusual morning, unexpected, and now becoming very troublesome. “I wouldn’t have done what I did, oh wow! …Why?” Tricia repeated almost chanting “why, why” over and over. More

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