POSTCARD FROM WESTCHESTER COUNTY

Last Saturday night, during a visit to Washington, D.C., several friends and I were standing on a street corner deciding whether to walk to Ben & Jerry's in Georgetown or just buy a pint of ice cream at 7-11. As youths that still enjoy the novelty of independence in a big city, we were confident, lighthearted and safe. It was easy to forget that there is trouble in the world.

Then Nisha said, "Barbara, what's that red spot on you?" I looked down at the little spot of red light drifting around my body.

"It looks like a laser pointer," Rachel said, as the spot drifted over to her.

Suddenly we were on our guard. "Where's it coming from?" I asked, frantically scanning the intersection. But there was no way to tell which driver was pointing at us, until the light changed and he drove by, laughing.

We quickly decided to consider the ice cream question at home and began to walk briskly down the avenue. Suddenly, Anjali stumbled. She gripped her foot and cried out in pain. A few minutes later we were all sitting in the E.R., waiting for a doctor in the understaffed facility to attend to our friend.

The laser pointer incident was only the first disturbing event of the evening. Soon a man in the E.R. waiting room, whose friend was being treated for a bloody head wound, began asking Nisha for her address and offering to be her boyfriend. Scared, Nisha and I joined Anjali by the receptionist.

"You can both go back to the waiting room now," the receptionist said. Nisha and I just looked at her. We had no intention of returning within the sight of Nisha's unwanted amant.

Luckily, at that moment an obliging intern fetched Anjali. Nisha and I followed surreptitiously behind like concerned friends. Really, we were too apprehensive to sit alone in the waiting room. In the treatment area, Anjali got to sit next to the friend with the head injury, whose clothes were covered in blood. The two of us huddled nearby.

Finally, feeling slightly emboldened by the activity and bright lights behind the scenes, we struck up a conversation with a girl whose finger was bandaged.

"They might have to cut off my finger," she said. "I can't believe it." She then told us that, earlier in the evening, the car she was driving with a friend to their home in Virginia was forced into a guardrail by some men asking for their phone number. When the car skidded and flipped over, the assailants drove off, leaving the two girls bleeding in the overturned car.

This is the kind of attack that I usually associate with local TV News, not with my Saturday night. The girl's story shocked me though because I could see myself in her position, just as vulnerable.

This summer I am working in bucolic Westchester County and live across the Tappan Zee Bridge in Rockland County. Although the long daily drive is not particularly treacherous, I began the summer ignorant of the commuting mores that now keep me safe.

One June evening, I left work late. Desperate to relax and enjoy the fresh air, I rolled down my windows and turned on my music, driving at a leisurely pace. On Interstate 287, I looked with pity at the other drivers, their tinted windows shut tight, racing to be the first home. They weren't having nearly as much fun as I was. They rushed past me, cutting each other off, fighting to gain even one car length. I thought I knew the secret to a happier existence.

Then I noticed one vehicle that had slowed next to me, rather than rushing with the pack. I looked up at the men's leering faces. They were licking their lips. There was nothing to do but shut my own tinted windows and switch into the fast lane, discretely trying to escape.

And I thought I had, until on the other side of the bridge the blue van suddenly cut in front of me causing me to slam on my brakes and horn. I sped to the right and away, faster than that blue van ever could go. I see the incident as my own fault, even though driving with one's windows open should be an inalienable right. The world just isn't a safe place, and it's best to be scared, to protect oneself and to stay in safe situations.

That is why Nisha and I followed Anjali and the intern into the E.R. And that is why we all felt better taking a cab home, even though it was only a four block trip.

This summer has made me afraid. As part of my job every day, I read the record at five police stations in Northern Westchester. The activity has unveiled my suburban homeland. The pretty little towns with tree-lined streets and expensive properties are a mask for crime and tension. Just this past weekend, one group of teens in picturesque Cross River, N.Y., violently beat a boy from a rival high school.

When the victim escaped to his car, the assailants surrounded it and smashed the windows, injuring the passengers and causing over $5,000 of damage with their fists. The 17-year-old accused ringleader was charged with second-degree gang assault, a felony. The teens had just been idle and decided to settle an old feud, according to police investigators who added that teen violence is on the rise in these suburbs.

At the beginning of the summer, I did not realize that in Northern Westchester I need to be on my guard. Now I see the quiet tree-lined streets and well-dressed Westchester residents as a mask. I feel a little unsafe and a little less free than I did in June. The E.R. scared me, but it was not shocking. In a city, we know to be wary of crime and of other people. I respect city residents for their courage. They take measures to keep themselves safe so they can live in a community that does not wear a mask.

Barbara E. Martinez, a junior in Quincy House, is reporting for Gannett Suburban Newspapers in Westchester County, N.Y. this summer.