"So," I said, "what happened when you asked Dori Dilson?"
"She said no. She's mad at me."
"I could tell."
"Ever since I became Susan. She thinks I betrayed myself" (27.11-13).
She stood apart from the teachers, alone in the black shimmering sea of asphalt. As we approached, she held up a sign, a huge cardboard sign bigger than a basketball backboard. She set the sign on edge and propped it up, erasing herself. The red painted letter said: WAY TO GO, SUSAN WE'RE PROUD OF YOU (29.22-23).
I waited until the last of the students had left the courtyard, and Stargirl and Dori were performing for no one. To my surprise they went on and on. It was too painful to watch. I left school by another door (30.42)