Seating herself in the comfortable chair, Barbara adjusted her trousers to remove the inconvenient twist that always seemed to restrain her movements. Wearing pants added a lot of ease to Barbara's life, but sometimes she recognized the benefits of wearing woman's garb. Skirts felt cooler and didn't constrict, but pants made moving around so much easier.

Barbara pulled open the file drawer and retrieved her work for the day, then grabbed her to-do list from the shelf where she always stashed it. According to her father, Barbara wasted too much time with the professor. She only volunteered a couple of hours three days per week, but "Marshall Crenshaw's daughter needed to focus on developing marketable skills, not wasting her time with useless mental pursuits." Irritated, Barbara sighed at the thought.

Though she stared at the to-do list for several minutes, she couldn't focus on it to any practical extent. Her mind wandered compulsively back to the events of the last several weeks. Marshall Crenshaw held the coveted political position of having both a content electorate and an uncontested political race in which to run. The imminent election did not compel Barbara's dad to any great anxiety.

Just because he didn't feel nervous about winning the election, however, did not mean that he would allow his daughter to behave in any way that might besmirch his pristine character. Marshall Crenshaw toed the line of convention, and Barbara's tendency to buck the system often sent him into paroxysms of apprehension.

"I am not an unfamiliar name in this town," he would chastise his daughter on her more vocal days. "You cannot parade around campus offering your outlandish opinions like every other university student."

Barbara appeased him to his face, but away from his presence, she relentlessly pursued every opportunity to express her thoughts. Too many ills blighted the society of her little world in northwest St. Louis; too many people still suffered injustice at the hands of corrupt men. From her perspective, the mere presence of the gangs that manipulated every aspect of business in their town required decisive action, and though Barbara knew she held little power in any true sense, did that fact preclude her taking every opportunity to change things?

For instance, she mused, the current city council election that involved two men of vastly different character. One received all the accolades, one deserved them. Barbara knew she couldn't actively campaign for either, but why, she wondered, did she have to stay entirely out of the political race since it didn't involve her father? Couldn't she involve herself in causes that didn't affect him?

It all affected him, he would counter.

So, Barbara should just sit idly by while dishonest and corrupt politicians got in bed with gangsters, offering protection to the criminals so they could victimize honest men? Barbara couldn't stomach the thought.

The professor's office provided her with a respite, a place where she could encounter all of the latest information, offer her opinions, and not have to defend herself against her father.

Still, Barbara loved her father, a kind man with good intentions. She would not, however, concede to curb her candid expression of thought, and if she ever found it within her power to stem the tide of evil that had arisen over her lifetime in St. Louis, Barbara would do it.

Staring at the phone, Barbara wrestled for the hundredth time with her desire to stir the political embers of the city. Her father would never approve, but Barbara had one ace that she would love to play before the coming election. Anna Cosgrove.

Since Barbara could remember, Anna had lived next door to the Crenshaw house. Ten years Barbara's senior, Anna had doted over the curly-headed little blond from next door. Barbara had never taken advantage of her older friend's affection, but desperate times called for more intense methods. Zealousness for a just cause, Barbara reasoned.

Now, Anna Cosgrove held a byline in the major St. Louis paper, quite a feat for a woman, Barbara knew. Despite the perilousness of Anna's position, Barbara couldn't help but think that the position also offered manifold opportunities. Suppose, Barbara reasoned, I could convince Anna to publish some of my suspicions about Regis McReynolds? Of course, Anna would protest if Barbara requested the publication sans proof, but Barbara held out hope that she would eventually find some acceptable form of evidence. If she did find it, she wondered, would she actually go through with her ambitious plans? Barbara felt certain that she would, even if her father protested. Someone needed to interfere with the status quo in St. Louis, and no one seemed particularly willing to do the job.

Barbara stared back at her to-do list, straining to harness her unbridled thoughts.

When she heard the hesitant tapping on the door, her brain finally kicked in, and she sidled over to the cubbyhole where Mario usually studied.

"Mario," she tapped on a wood panel and infused her voice with a measure of urgency. Not that Barbara ever managed true excitement, but for Mario's sake, she tried to invoke some enthusiasm. "I think she's here. Your father is expecting a shipment of books today, and someone just tried to knock confidently on the door."

Barbara smirked at her own joke, though no one else would have. Really, she liked Marissa a lot, but the girl affected much more self-assurance than she actually possessed.

Within a few seconds, Mario appeared from his desk looking disheveled, and as he rushed toward the door, he tried to pull himself together. Barbara felt her mouth widen in genuine pleasure at what she considered a charming display of gentlemanly attention.

Placing his hand on the door, Mario swung the large wooden slab open and offered his most gracious smile to the face that greeted him. "Hello?" he offered indifferently.

"Um, hi," came the surprised reply. "I'm here to deliver books for Professor Garner."

"Oh, of course," Mario answered innocently. "My father isn't in right now, but I would be glad to take them for you."

Marissa's eyes lit up when Mario said "my father," and Mario reined in a sigh of pleasure at the response. "Oh, the professor is your father?" she began. "You are so fortunate. He is such a wonderful man. Not that my father isn't; he's a great father, but your father is wonderful, too."

At her nervous chatter, Mario's mouth twisted in pleasure. "Would you like to come in for a few minutes?"

"I couldn't," she simpered without conviction. "Mr. Ellenwood has another delivery for me to make, and I have some things that..."

"My father is expected in the next few minutes," Mario cut her off. "Just have some tea with Barbara and me, and you can see my father when he arrives. I'm sure Mr. Ellenwood won't mind."

To his delight, Marissa acquiesced, and as she inched into the room, he began to take in more of her appearance. When he had seen her last, she had looked so small and helpless, but now that he stood next to her, she stared almost directly into his eyes. He tried to hide the sour look that threatened to mark his face. Though he liked to think of himself as beyond such superficiality, Mario had always pictured "his girl" as a small, helpless thing, someone that even he could dominate just a little. Marissa's demeanor spoke of a definite meekness, but somehow her height bothered him just enough to give him pause. Maybe if she had looked like Barbara but had Marissa's personality, he mused. No, he corrected himself.

Mario actually liked the way Marissa looked, except her height. Everything about her seemed to shimmer, elusive and just beyond description. For instance, her hair, though definitely in the brown family, held just enough gold to lighten it to blond in places, and when the light caught a strand in a certain way, Mario could see a hint of a reddish tone. In similar fashion, her eyes seemed blue, but with each new expression, they took on hints of green and sometimes even gold.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Just like her ambiguous personality, he marveled. Insecure, yet determined. Serious, yet not morose. The more he thought about it, Mario realized he wouldn't reject her just because of a couple of inches.

"Well, at least I don't need a nursemaid this time," Marissa smiled warmly at Barbara.

"No more run-ins with high-quality shoes?" Barbara teased, and Marissa rolled her eyes.

"They had a distinctly low quality. Otherwise, I wouldn't have hit them."

For a moment, Barbara stared uncomprehendingly at her new friend, not expecting the girl to run over someone's foot just because he wore second-hand shoes. After a second, though, Barbara realized the joke and rolled her own eyes. "Right. The only reason you hit them is because they were out of your sight, on the ground. Low."

Marissa scrunched up her nose in a goofy grin, obviously aware of the corny tone of her comedy. "No," she answered Barbara's question. "No more run-ins. I've found an alternate route for the time being. I think I should avoid the plaza if I can help it."

“Avoid Sam Lincoln,” Barbara advised. “That man has no conscience about who he hurts if he gets what he wants.”

“Well, I don’t know much about him except the way he has treated me, but I’m not exactly a fan. So, I make a wide sweep.”

While the ladies had chatted, Mario had quickly begun to float into the mental zone that he entered whenever women around him engaged in useless prattle. Though he recognized intelligence in his particular companions, he always seemed to find himself a few steps behind the discursive path that women trod in conversation. Somehow, however, Marissa's last comment yanked him back to attention.

"Where, exactly, is this alternate route?" he queried, forcing himself to maintain a casual tone. When he thought of Marissa, completely oblivious, meandering down certain tough, unpoliced roads, he wanted to shake his finger at her in reproach.

"Oh, I just skirt the edge of the Village, cross the Square instead of the park. Anything to avoid," she paused, "unsolicited attention. I've met some of the most wonderful people down that way."

Mario closed his eyes, her words confirming his concerns. Though she probably faced little danger during the day, the light wouldn't prevent the rodents from peering out of their dark holes. Someone as out of place as Marissa would draw voluminous amounts of unsolicited attention to herself in the Village whether she wished to or not.

"For instance, “she continued, and Mario held his tongue long enough to ensure he wouldn't chastise her. "I met a woman who is so amazingly strong." Marissa paused, drifting off into deep thought before continuing. "I don't know how she survived. Sixteen years ago, she lost her eldest grandson." When Marissa stopped with no apparent intent to continue, Mario and Barbara exchanged an impatient glance.

"Did she tell you how?" Barbara prompted.

"Oh, yes. Sorry," Marissa apologized. "The woman and her grandson had gone for a stroll through the park. It was late afternoon and her shop was closed - she owns the five and dime on Oakland. Her grandson – he was eight - had run ahead of her, and he fell into the pond. Since he couldn't swim and neither could she, she started screaming for help."

Despite himself, Mario grew interested. Marissa's story had deflected his concern for her safety as he found himself rapt with her tale.

"Fifteen people passed by," Marissa's words slowed, and Mario could see a wave of pain wash over her face as she fell into thought again. Almost immediately, however, she reigned in her sadness and perked up. "Anyway, this is a story about how amazing this woman is; there's no reason to bring up sad memories."

"But the grandson died?" Barbara couldn't help but ask.

"Yes," Marissa answered petulantly, "but that's not the point of the story."

"Why didn't anyone help?" Mario interrupted her protest.

Shrugging her shoulders, Marissa turned to face Mario. "The grandmother doesn't know, exactly, but she told me she suspects that her son was the wrong color."

A knowing look spread over Barbara's and Mario's faces, and now Mario's own history rose up before his eyes – a vague memory of childhood slights.

"What color is she?" Barbara pressed.

To the two friends' surprise, Marissa's face screwed up in concentration, and she pursed her lips as she looked around the room, searching for a memory. "I'm not sure what color I would call her skin," Marissa admitted. "I guess it kind of reminds me of autumn leaves. It's very beautiful. But does that really matter to the story?

I daresay it matters to the woman, and to most people who she meets, Mario shook his head. Most likely, Marissa had seen the effects of the politics of color, but maybe she didn't understand the implications. She is still pretty young, and definitely naïve. He decided not to bring it up just yet.

“Here's where I realized how amazing this woman is. The grandmother, instead of wasting away in misery or losing herself in resentment, raised the fifty dollars to pay for several months' swim lessons for herself, and when she learned how, she began to volunteer to teach swimming for free to all the neighborhood kids so no one else would have to lose a grandchild or child the way she did. Even her brother, who runs the barber shop a few doors down and across the street, got as involved as he could, handing out a free soda once a week to a passing child. Each child who receives a drink is entered into a lottery, and the uncle pays for swim lessons to the winner. He says it's to honor his nephew's memory."

Marissa sighed wistfully, and Mario thought he caught a tear welling up in the corner of one of her eyes. Though she, too, seemed effected, Barbara seemed more shocked at her friend than at the story, and Mario shared the small blond's sentiments. Ignorance of the struggle faced by the children and grandchildren of slaves would not move far in helping them. Still, at least where the majority of her peers either shied away from people different from them or actively disdained them, Marissa seemed instinctively to recognize the struggle of the Negro population of St. Louis and to work to aid those who needed a hand up.

Even though Mario worked hard not to treat people differently based on stereotypes, he rarely accomplished his noble ideal. To fail to acknowledge differences was as likely to place oneself in danger as to help an unwitting victim. He was far too practical to completely ignore the concept of cultural differences – not when they might place him in an unfamiliar situation he couldn’t predict.

In fact, he not only separated people by skin color, but by country of origin, socioeconomic status, education. He could intellectually disregard the differences, but he acted practically when it came to his day-to-day relationships. Most everyone did the same, he reasoned. When he encountered a poor man on the street, the man often gazed at Mario suspiciously, as if Mario bore some ill intention. People of different backgrounds seemed to group themselves together by some sort of shared history, and Mario didn't see how anyone could disregard that.

Certainly, the people who had hurt his mother had judged her by superficial standards, and as a result Mario's pain superseded his ideals in his day-to-day behavior. Each group of people chose to separate itself from the others and built up an animosity between them. It could accomplish no good to deny that the prejudices existed, Mario reasoned. Such denial just resulted in injury or death, and though touched by Marissa's generosity, he longed to enlighten her about the true state of the world.

Still, the somewhat cynical and imminently practical Barbara seemed touched by Marissa's story, whether by the story itself or by Marissa's naivete, Mario couldn't tell.

"Were you just riding along and this woman volunteered all of this information to you?" Barbara wondered, her skepticism rearing its head.

Marissa chuckled, "Of course not. I stopped by her store twice, and you know how I am. I just started talking and told her about my little mishap, then I saw the picture of her grandson by the cash register. When she told me he had died, I had to ask how. It just didn't seem right for such a young child to die." Marissa sighed, as if absorbed in the memory once again.

For several seconds, Barbara sat in uncharacteristic silence, and Marissa looked awkwardly around the room, smiling shyly at Mario whenever he caught her eye. He still couldn't decide what to think of her, and he realized the comfort provided by Barbara's warmly cynical commentary had evaporated, leaving behind it a void of cool insecurity. Finally, Barbara came to herself and took up her normal banter. The other two occupants of the room breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.

"So," Barbara asked Marissa, changing the subject abruptly, "What are your plans for your first weekend in St. Louis?"

"Well, it's not really my first. I was here part of last weekend, and I managed to find my way to see a talkie. That is certainly something I never saw in South Carolina. And after that, I read some new books."

Mario smirked at the way she said, "Care-line-uh."

"And this weekend, I intend to stay around the bookstore and straighten up some things for Mr. Ellenwood. In fact, I've got to get back to him now. He probably thinks that I've had another accident," she glanced sadly at the door. "I guess I'll have to miss the professor."

"Yes," agreed Mario. "But you'll make him very happy when I tell him that you have another delivery for us tomorrow.

"I do?" she asked.

"Of course. I'll send over the request in a couple of hours."

To his great delight, she reached out to squeeze his hand. "It was wonderful to meet you."

Her eyes, currently flecked with gold, met his, and he could read her genuine pleasure at their meeting. Internally, he sighed with contentment. "And you," he answered a bit dumbly, returning her smile just before she walked out the door.