“Because Valentine’s Day is on Tuesday, a school day. It’s more fun to go to a dance on Saturday night.”
Abby set the pearls down and picked up the single red rose that the florist had delivered that afternoon. Zander wanted her to wear it in her hair, but how? She stuck it behind her ear and it promptly fell onto the dressing table. She wished Mama were there to help her with it, and with about a million other things — her jewelry, for example, and her perfume (Abby had an idea that she had put on way too much) — and to answer some questions about boys that had arisen twelve days earlier when, it seemed, every boy in her life had come calling in one fashion or another.
That day, a Monday, had started off in a mundane manner, but slid out of kilter in the afternoon when Abby realized that she’d misplaced her history notebook. It held her essay entitled “The Influence of History on Seventeenth-Century Music.” Abby had nearly panicked before she’d recalled standing up from her desk at the end of her previous class, turning to laugh at Rose, who’d been making faces at her from the hallway, and rushing out of the room, leaving her notebook on her desk.
Abby had raised her hand. “Um, Mr. Fleming? I think I left my notebook behind in English class. Could I please go get it? My essay is in it.” She’d ignored wheezy Elvin Burrows, who’d been snickering because Abby had said “behind” and was now pointing to his own.
Mr. Fleming, looking vaguely annoyed, had waved Abby to the door and indicated that Elvin should move to the front row, where he could keep an eye on him.
Abby had hurried into the hallway. She liked walking through the halls of Barnegat Point Central High when classes were in session and the school was a calmer place. She passed her algebra classroom and the library and the freshman science room, where Rose was struggling through her basic biology course. Then she turned a corner, retraced her steps to her English class, knocked on the door, and retrieved her notebook. She’d taken a different route back to Mr. Fleming’s room, a slightly longer one, hoping that weird, snuffly Elvin had calmed down and wouldn’t feel the need to whisper “behind” the moment Abby opened the door.
As she passed the office of Miss March, the nurse that Darcy and Maureen still claimed could be a star out in Hollywood, the door had opened suddenly and, to Abby’s great surprise, her father, looking cheerful, had stepped out into the hallway, followed by the glamorous Helen March herself.
“Pop!” Abby had exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Is Rose okay? I just saw her. She —”
“Rose is fine,” Pop had said. “Um …” He put his hand to his head, felt around for his hat, found that he was holding his hat in his other hand, put the hat on, then took it off again.
“Pop?” said Abby.
Her father had gripped the hat firmly in both hands. “I was just dropping off a form … a form for … I forgot to hand it in earlier.” Pop had begun backing down the hallway. “Don’t be late tonight,” he said.
“Okay,” replied Abby as Miss March scurried back inside her office.
Abby had peered after her, taken a last look at her father, and nearly reached Mr. Fleming’s room when she’d felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around to find Wyman.
“I thought you were Pop!” she’d exclaimed.
Wyman had frowned. “What?” He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been wanting to ask you something, and I didn’t expect to run into you.”
“I’m supposed to be in class,” Abby had said, glancing at the doorway. Beyond it she could see Mr. Fleming, who was writing busily at the chalkboard.
“But I wanted to know if you’d go to the Valentine Dance with me,” Wyman had whispered. “I mean, would you like to go with me?”
Abby, who had harbored a secret but futile wish that the very cute Richard Lord would invite her to the dance, smiled at Wyman and, after a pause that she hoped was too brief for him to have noticed, said, “Thank you. I’d love to go.”
“Really? That’s great. I’ll see you after school, okay? Wait for me by the front door.”
When the last class of the day had ended and Abby was bundling herself into her coat, hat, and muff — standing uncomfortably with Darcy and Maureen, who were putting on their own shabby and considerably thinner coats, and who had neither hats nor gloves, let alone muffs — Wyman had appeared at her side.
“Walk you home?” he’d asked.
Abby had glanced at Darcy, who’d raised her eyebrows, and at Maureen, who’d given her a sly smile. Then she and Wyman drifted into the crowd of students leaving school.
“Want to stop at Drugs and get a soda?” asked Wyman as he and Abby, arm in arm, had walked through town.
“I can’t,” Abby said with a sigh. “Now that Mama’s gone, Pop keeps a closer eye on me than ever.”
“Isn’t your father at work now?” Wyman had asked.
“Yes. But he always finds out what’s going on. You won’t even be able to walk me to the house. We’ll have to say good-bye at the corner. And we probably shouldn’t be walking so close to each other.” She’d withdrawn her arm from Wyman’s elbow.
“Oh,” he’d said. “Okay.”
At the corner of Haddon Road, Abby had given Wyman a little wave. “Thanks for asking me to the dance. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Wyman lit up. “Sure! See you tomorrow.”
When Abby had reached her house, she climbed the steps to the porch and opened the letter box. She’d pulled out a handful of mail and glanced through it before she went inside. Two bills, a Florida postcard from Aunt Betty and Uncle Marshall, and a letter with no return address on it, Abby’s name written in the distinctive handwriting that belonged to Orrin Umhay.
She had ripped the letter open. How could Orrin have done this? What if Pop had seen the mail first? With shaking hands, she had let herself inside, tossed the rest of the mail on a table in the parlor, and run upstairs to her room. She’d closed the door and lain on her bed, the letter before her.
Dear Abby, it had begun.
I hope you arent mad. I couldnt figure out how to write to you now that your mother is gone.
Abby had rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. The things she missed about her mother surprised her every single day. The sight of her mother watering the rosebushes. The sound of her mother’s voice calling to her and Rose and Adele in the cottage. Very, very simple things — her mother tying Adele’s shoelaces while Adele wiggled and whined and wagged her feet back and forth.
When first-term grades had been handed out just before Christmas vacation and Abby had earned straight As, her very first excited thought had been, I have to tell Mama! Half a second later, as she remembered that Mama was gone, Abby had felt chilled. How could she not have remembered such a thing? Maybe something was wrong with her.
And now this letter from Orrin. Ever since Sarah had died, Orrin had managed to write to Abby by mailing his letters to Mama with various vague return addresses that Pop wouldn’t question if he saw the envelopes. Mama had known whom the letters were actually for and whom they were actually from, and had slipped them under Abby’s pillow before Pop could see them.
But in August, panicked and frightened after her mother’s funeral, Abby had written Orrin a hasty note and mailed it from the post office, telling him that they would have to find some other way for him to write to her. She had sent him four more letters after that and hadn’t heard from him, until that very moment.
I am so sorry about your mother. My parents send their condolances too. What should we do about writing. I like getting your letters but I want to write to you too and I dont know where to send them. I hope you dont get into trouble because of this letter. Well we’ll figure something out.
Here is good news. Ma and Pap and I are going to visit Lewisport this summer. I hope we can see each other and talk in person. I know it will have to be in secret, I guess thats okay.
You must be very sad now but this will be something to look forward to. Tell me what you think in your
next letter.
Abby had skipped to the end of the page where Orrin had signed his note, as always, Your Orrin. Below that he’d added a postscript: P.S. I can drive now! You give me any kind of car and I can drive it.
Abby had smiled. She’d just added the letter to the stack that she hid in a box in her closet, when she’d heard the doorbell ring. A moment later Rose’s voice called from below, “Abby, your sweetheart is here!”
“Rose!”
“You’d better come downstairs before he runs away.”
“Rose, get up here,” Abby had whispered loudly, and when Rose stuck her head in the room, Abby said, “Who is here?”
“Your boyfriend Zander.”
“Zander? What’s he doing home?”
Rose had shrugged dramatically. “I never heard anyone ask so many questions. Just go downstairs. He came over to see you.”
Abby, flushing pink and breathing fast, had run downstairs. “Hi!” she’d squeaked when she saw Zander Burley. His height had surprised her. He’d seemed taller than ever. His Adam’s apple was now exactly at her eye level. Did boys continue to grow even when they were in college? Boys were very mysterious creatures.
Abby had tried to lower her voice. “I didn’t think you were going to be back until the end of the term.” Zander was halfway through his second year at Harvard.
“I’m taking a couple of days off,” he’d said.
“Well, won’t you —” Abby hesitated. She’d been about to invite Zander inside, but if letting Wyman near the house wasn’t allowed, then surely letting Zander all the way into the parlor would have been a huge mistake, no matter how highly her father thought of Mr. Burley.
Zander had waved her off. “Thanks, but I can’t stay. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be back the weekend of your Valentine’s Day dance and I wondered if I could be your escort.”
“You want to take me? To the high school dance?”
Zander had grinned. “Sure. I miss the place. I’d like to see the old crowd.”
Abby could feel herself flushing again. “I wish I could go with you. It’s just that someone … Do you know Wyman Todd? He asked me to go with him. But,” she had continued hastily, seeing the disappointment on Zander’s face, “you should go to the dance anyway. Everyone would love to see you. And I can’t dance every dance with Wyman.” She’d smiled.
Zander had smiled back in his lazy way. He didn’t look so owlish anymore, Abby had thought. He was confident and sturdy and he grinned easily. “I think I will go,” he’d said. “Wear a red rose in your hair, all right, Abby?” He’d turned to leave.
Abby had closed the door softly behind Zander and returned to her bedroom. Two invitations to the dance and a letter from Orrin, all in one afternoon. It had been exactly the kind of day she wished she could tell Mama about.
And now it was seven o’clock on the night of February 11th. The dance would start in an hour, and Abby had to choose her jewelry and decide how to wear the rose and …
“Adele? Do I have too much perfume on?”
Adele sniffed the air and shrugged.
“Go out in the hall and see if you can smell —”
The doorbell rang.
“Ooh, Abby, it’s Wy-man!” Rose sang from below.
Abby stuck Zander’s flower behind her ear again (this time it stayed put), and decided there was nothing more to be done about her appearance. She turned off her light, walked down the stairs in as elegant a manner as she could muster, and found Wyman standing nervously in the hallway, holding out a box containing a single red rose.
“Oh!” exclaimed Wyman. “You already have a rose.”
Abby could feel herself blushing. “I’ll — I’ll pin yours on my dress,” she stammered, before Wyman could ask where the rose in her hair had come from.
She did so, then kissed Pop on the forehead.
“Be home by ten o’clock,” he said firmly.
The gymnasium at BPCH had been transformed. When Abby entered it, her arm hooked through Wyman’s, she felt her breath catch. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Red hearts of all sizes fluttered just below the ceiling. Red and silver streamers crisscrossed the room. Wooden cupids, painstakingly fashioned by one of the art classes, stood at either end of the refreshments table, which held a glass bowl full of red punch and an array of red cakes and cookies. Helen March and Madame Ponsin, the French teacher, were smiling and ladling punch into cups. Abby looked around at the students, who had been equally transformed since she had seen them the day before. Gone were the plaid skirts and saddle shoes and bobby socks. Gone were the letterman jackets and loafers. In their places were red gowns and full-skirted dresses, suits and jackets and ties.
“May I have this dance?” Wyman asked, and he swung Abby onto the dance floor. They swirled past Maureen, who was in the arms of Richard Lord. When she was facing Abby, Maureen pointed to the back of Richard’s handsome head and made the thumbs-up sign. They swirled past Darcy, who was dancing with Elvin Burrows and who, when she was facing Abby, crossed her eyes and smacked herself on the side of her head.
Abby, her arms wrapped around Wyman’s neck, was struggling not to laugh when Wyman suddenly came to a stop. She heard him say, “What?”
She let go of Wyman and turned around.
“I asked if I could cut in,” Zander Burley was saying. He paused. “Abby, you have two roses.”
“What?” said Wyman again.
“What?” said Abby.
Wyman and Zander frowned at each other.
“Do you mind if I dance with Zander?” Abby asked Wyman.
Wyman shrugged.
“You can have the next dance,” she told him, feeling generous. And soon she was swirling around the gym with Zander.
This was how she spent much of the evening: Zander cutting in on Wyman, Wyman cutting in on Zander.
At last she said to Wyman, “I’m tired! Can we go get some punch?”
They found a long line at the refreshments table and Wyman groaned. Then to Abby’s surprise, a cup of punch was pressed into her hand, and she looked up into the face of Helen March.
“Hi, Abby!” exclaimed Miss March. “I’ll bet you need this. Are you having fun?”
“Um, yes.” Abby glanced at Wyman and raised her eyebrows.
“You look lovely,” Miss March went on, and suddenly Abby wanted to cry. She had longed to hear those words all night, had longed for her mother to take her by the shoulders and look into her eyes and say that she would surely be the most beautiful girl at the dance.
And now here was the school nurse telling her she looked lovely.
“Thanks,” Abby replied, and found herself supremely grateful when, moments later, Zander once again approached her, and soon they were rocking back and forth in each other’s arms, as if they were the only two people in the gym.
It was wrong, Abby thought. It was so very, very wrong.
Helen March was only six years older than Abby. Six years.
Abby awoke half an hour before her alarm clock went off, and she was glad. She probably hadn’t allowed enough time for all the preparations that would be needed that morning. She ran down the hall to Adele’s room, knocking on Rose’s door on the way. “Get up, Rose!” she called.
She peeked into Adele’s room, which was stuffy and littered with dolls and discarded doll clothes. “Adele,” she said, “time to wake up.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Adele from under a mound of covers and a pile of naked baby dolls.
“Yes, it is. We have a lot to do this morning.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do. It’s a big day.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Adele.”
“No!”
“You have a new dress, and yesterday I got a pink ribbon for your hair.”
“No, you di — A pink ribbon?”
Abby withdrew it from the pocket of her dressing gown. “Here it is. You are going to be the most gorge
ous four-year-old at the wedding.”
“Four-and-a-half-year-old.”
“Yes. The most gorgeous four-and-a-half-year-old at the wedding.”
“I’m the flower girl.”
“Right. And that’s why you need to get up now. You need to eat breakfast and have a bath. Then I’m going to curl your hair, and you’ll get dressed. Rose and I have to get ready, too. We have to look perfect for Pop.”
Adele slid out of her bed. “Can the dollies come to the wedding with me?”
“Not all of them.”
“One dolly?”
“If you put some clothes on her.”
“Okay. I choose” — Adele pawed through the dolls — “Shirley.” She selected a curly-headed doll and dressed her in a red sweater and a flared pink skating skirt. “There.”
“Wonderful. Now come on downstairs. Ellen’s fixing breakfast.”
The morning was spent in a whirl of bathing and hair curling and fussing in front of the mirror, and then of buttoning buttons and tying sashes and straightening lace flowers under the critical eyes of Sheila.
Abby and Rose were facing each other in the bathroom, Abby adjusting Rose’s collar and Rose combing Abby’s hair, when a knock came on the door.
“We have to leave in half an hour, girls,” Pop warned them.
“Okay!” they chimed out.
Abby waited until Pop’s footsteps had retreated down the hall. “Try to smile today, Rose,” she said quietly. “For Adele’s sake, if no one else’s. She’s so excited about her dress.” Rose made a face. “Just try,” said Abby again. “We can’t look like sourpusses in front of Aunt Betty and Uncle Marshall either.”
“I’m surprised they’re even coming.”
“They’re coming for us. But they aren’t going to go to the reception.”
“I don’t blame them. Anyway, you have to try to smile, too,” said Rose.
“I will.”
“Just think of one of your many beaus.”
“Very funny,” said Abby, but she blushed as she recalled her secret visit with Orrin. They’d spent an afternoon together when the Umhays had returned to Lewisport six weeks earlier. A single afternoon that had slipped by like a minute: an afternoon of sitting on the rocks at the far end of the beach, the pine forest at their backs, the sun warming their skin.
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