RANSVESTIA

to do something about it. She needed someone to talk to take her mind off Jean.

—

someone to

She had passed the Wesley turnoff, when she saw a lone figure at the side of the road. She braked and pulled over. The blonde girl came running up, her pack only over one shoulder. "Devon," she panted ex- pectantly. Annette nodded and, leaning over, opened the rear door for the girl to deposit her pack on the back seat.

She hardly looked more than seventeen, yet she had a general air of sophistication about her. She wore a wide leather belt atop her cutoffs, her long, shapely, brown legs bare and exposed to sunlight to the top of her thighs. Her mocassins were old, tattered and dusty. She saw Annette glance at them and smiled prettily. "I like to be comfor- table on the road," she said in a pleasant, musical voice. She stretched, the tight sweater lifting to expose her tiny waist and to contrast her body tan with the whiteness of the sweater. She wore little makeup, just liner and mascara about her eyes, which highlighted their blueness. Her hair was long, straight and brushed in the modern fashion. A thin pink knitted ribbon, the bow centered on the top of her head, kept the long hair behind her ears, giving her a girlish, innocent look.

"Do you live in Devon?" Annette asked.

"Not any more," she said quietly. "I'm only supposed to be going back for my sister's wedding, but I might stick around longer. I have to be a bridesmaid."

"My name's Annette Marshall," said Annette. "My folks live a lit- tle way out of town, past Latham."

The girl nodded. "My name is Tina," she said and hesitated. "Tina Holman.”

Annette frowned. Holman, she knew that name. Yes, they owned the store on Lower Water Street. Jake Holman was reputedly an alcoholic, but, in his time, had been Devon's greatest baseball player. His eldest daughter, Marcia, had married into the Richards family.

"How is Marcia these days?" she queried.

The girl was shaken visibly. "You know my family," she said. hoarsely.

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