Erich Segal - The Class

say the least, derivative. Imitation may be the sin-

cerest form of flattery, but Stravinsky and Aaron

Copland could justifiably ask Rossi to pay royalties.

To Danny’s consternation, this was all being read aloud by the stage manager, who was growing steadily uneasier as he recited.

Danny was stung. Why was this sarcastic Crimson smart-ass trying to make herself look good at his expense? Did she have any idea how this would hurt?

He felt a sudden urge to run out of the room. Just as he stood, there was a hand on his shoulder. It was Maria.

“Hey, Danny —”

“Don’t bother,” he muttered bitterly. He could not turn around and face her. And forgetting he had left his parka folded on a backstage chair, he started slowly out of the room.

As soon as he reached the stairway he quickened his pace. He had to get the hell out of there. To escape all those pitying glances.

When he reached the ground floor he noticed the sign pointing toward the public telephone and remembered his promise to call Dr. Landau as soon as the performance was over.

Oh, shit, no. How can I repeat those crushing things that bitch reviewer said? In fact, how could he ever call his teacher now? He was a failure. A conspicuous and public failure. Like that long-ago day on the high school track.

He pushed open the glass door and walked out into the cold March night, insensitive to the harsh wind hitting his face. He was too preoccupied with the thought that this unexpected turn of events would deprive him of his beloved teacher’s respect.

Danny always knew he would be Landau’s last pupil. And he wanted to be his best.

He could go no farther. He sat down on the stone steps and put his head in his hands.

“Hey, Rossi, what are you doing there? You’ll catch pneumonia.”

Maria was standing above him, just outside the door.

“Go away, Pastore. You shouldn’t hang around with second-raters.”

Ignoring his words, she came down and sat a step below him.

“Listen, Danny, I don’t care what Sonya says. I think your music’s brilliant.”

“Everybody in the college’s gonna read that tomorrow morning. That’ll give those bastards in Eliot House a few laughs.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “Most of those preppies can’t read anyway.” And then added gently, “I only wish you’d believe that I hurt just as much as you.”

“Why? You got good reviews,”

“Because I love you.”

“You can’t,” he answered as an unwilling reflex. “You’re much too tall.”

She could not help laughing at this absurd reaction.

Then he began to laugh as well. And reached down and drew her toward him. They kissed.

After a moment Maria gazed at him and smiled. “Now it’s your turn.”

“What?”

“I mean, is this a one-way thing or not?”

“No,” he answered softly. “I love you too, Maria.”

They did not feel the chill wind blow as they continued to embrace.

Harvard spring vacations can mean many things to many people.

Seniors stay in place to finish off their dissertations, which are due the day that classes recommence. The more affluent undergraduates fly off to Bermuda for that fabled rite known as College Week. The program includes sunning, sailing, waterskiing, calypso dancing, and — at least hypothetically — seducing the girls who flock there for most of the same reasons.

Spring normally visits Cambridge in name only. And athletic muscles need the vernal warmth to tone them for the crucial competitions yet to come.

The track team gets to fly to Puerto Rico. Which sounds more exotic than it is. Because, unlike the tourists on the beaches of Bermuda, the harriers get up at 5:00 A.M., go ten miles before breakfast, and then sleep all day until it’s time to run again that afternoon. Few have the energy, or even the desire, to seek out señoritas in the evening.

Tennis, golf, and baseball tour the southern states to limber up, competing against some of the local universities. These teams live less ascetically than the runners, and thus have reservoirs of energy for nighttime entertainment. After dinner they strut through the richly landscaped campuses wearing an irresistible lodestone for the lovely southern coeds: sweaters with that noble H.

After a hard-earned victory against the University of North Carolina, Jason Gilbert and his teammates were preparing to go out and captivate the female population of Chapel Hill. As they dressed and showered, Dam Oliver, the coach, was offering constructive criticism to his men — including Jason, who, although he’d won, had looked a little sluggish on the court.

“Because I’m tired , coach,” he was protesting. “All this traveling and practicing and playing matches isn’t really what you’d call a picnic.”

“Come on, Gilbert,” Dam reprimanded with good humor, “you’ve been putting too much effort into postgame partying. May I remind you this is not supposed to be a holiday?”

“Hey, coach, you do remember that I won today, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but you were sleeping on your feet. So shape up, or I’ll slap a curfew on you. Do you read me, Gilbert?”

“Yessir. Sorry, mother dear.”

As laughter echoed even from the shower room, a graying academic type in suit and tie appeared and asked to have a few words with the coach.

“Who is that guy?” Jason whispered to Newall, who was drying himself at an adjacent locker.

“Probably an FBI man after you, Gilbert,” he quipped. “I think you’ve violated the Mann Act four or five times so far this week.”

Before Jason could reply, the coach was calling for the team’s attention.

A dozen players in varying states of undress obediently assembled.

Coach Oliver addressed them. “Guys, this gentleman is Rabbi Yavetz, the director of the U.N. C. Hillel Society. He tells me that this evening is the first night of the Passover holiday. And all Jewish players on the team are welcome to attend his service.”

“It will be short and festive,” the rabbi added in a southern accent. “Just a simple seder with some pretty good food and the songs I hope your granddads taught you.”

“Any takers?” asked the coach.

“I’ll be glad to come,” said sophomore Larry Wexler, new to the team at number seven. “That’ll smooth things over with my parents, who were sort of disappointed that I won’t be home.”

“Anybody else?” Oliver inquired, glancing at Jason Gilbert.

He looked back blandly and replied, “Thanks a lot, but I’m not really … interested.”

“You’re always welcome if you change your mind,” the rabbi said. And then turned to Larry Wexler. “I’ll send one of our members to the dorm where y’all are staying about half past six.”

When the clergyman departed, Newall asked with casual curiosity, “Say, Wexler, what’s this holiday for, anyway?”

“It’s kind of neat,” replied the sophomore. “It celebrates the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. You know, when Moses said, ‘Let my people go.’ ”

“Sounds like a colored folks’ jamboree,” Newall commented.

“Listen,” Wexler retorted, “as Disraeli once told an English bigot, ‘When my ancestors were reading the Bible yours were still swinging from trees.’ ”

An hour later, as he was carefully adjusting the knot in his Varsity Club tie, Larry Wexler noticed a reflection in the mirror.

It was Jason — dressed, with uncharacteristic formality, in a sedate blue blazer.

“Hey, Wexler,” he said uneasily, “if I go to this thing, will I look like a total asshole? I mean, I don’t know what to do.”

“No sweat, Gilbert. All you’ve got to do is sit, listen, and then eat. I’ll even turn the pages for you.”