I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door. The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here. I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name -- not an encouraging response -- and of course I flushed tomato red. But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting... and boring. I wondered if my
This guy could have been 121-that night the temperature was -21C. He should be grateful to your book that he is alive. Author's note: Several years ago, I was involved in a rather serious automobile accident that oc- curred at an intersection. Both I and the other driver were hurt: He was slumped, unconscious, over his steering wheel while I had staggered, bloody, from behind mine. Cars began to roll slowly past us; their drivers gawked but did not stop. Like the Polish woman, I had read the book, too; so, I knew what to do. I pointed directly at the driver of one car: "Call the police." To a sec· and and third driver: "Pull over, we need help." Not only was their aid rapid, it was infectious. More drivers began stopping-spontaneously-to tend to the other victim. The principle of so· cial proof was working for us now. The trick had been to get the ball rolling in the direction of help
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