Meg at Sixteen

by Susan Beth Pfeffer

  “Yes, Aunt Grace,” Meg said.

  “You’re mumbling again,” Aunt Grace replied. “I trust you won’t spend the evening mumbling and stooping, Margaret. It is your birthday, and people will expect to see you proud and tall. In addition, they’ll want to hear you when you say your various pleasantries. Now, put on your dress, and meet me downstairs. I want you ready to greet your guests as they arrive.”

  “Yes, Aunt Grace,” Meg said, and watched with relief as her aunt left the room. At least she hadn’t been forced to open the box while Grace was there.

  Maybe this time it’ll be all right, she thought, but one look at the dress killed that fantasy. It was pink, a color Meg hated, because she blushed so often, and wearing pink seemed to emphasize her embarrassment. Pink chiffon with endless ruffles. Meg was not one for looking at Vogue, but even she knew ruffles were all wrong. It was a dress for a little girl. It even had a ruffled collar. The black velvet dress she’d worn when she was eleven was more sophisticated than this.

  Meg put on the dress, and glanced at herself as best she could in the mirror over the bureau. Aunt Grace regarded full-length mirrors as an invitation to vanity, and refused to have one in her home. At that moment, Meg was just as glad. As awful as the dress was, it was comforting not to be able to see a complete view. Pink with a ruffled collar and puffed sleeves, and worst of all, even worse than all those ruffles, a bow to tie around her waist. The only thing you could do with a dress like that was burn it.

  Meg allowed herself one moment to dream about wearing a different dress to her party, not that the rest of her wardrobe was so much better. But even if it had been, she was stuck with the pink ruffles for the evening. Aunt Grace had allowed her no alternatives.

  She brushed her hair so hard she began to cry, then stopped, put on the white shoes that Aunt Grace had also insisted on, and the white gloves to complete the outfit, and went downstairs. No one had arrived yet, thank goodness.

  “Very pretty,” Aunt Grace said, checking Meg out. “You took such a long time, though, I thought you were putting on makeup.”

  “It was hard to get to all the buttons,” Meg replied.

  “You should have rung for Mary,” Aunt Grace said.

  “I figured she must be busy,” Meg said. “Preparing for the party.”

  “You do not need to worry about what a maid is busy with,” Aunt Grace said. “They’re paid very well to do what we ask them to. I would have assumed that that, at least, your mother taught you.”

  Meg could feel herself blushing. “I’m sorry,” she said, although she was unsure what she was apologizing for.

  “Don’t mope,” Aunt Grace said. “This is your birthday. What will your guests think if they see you standing there looking so gloomy?”

  Meg trusted that was a rhetorical question, since she had no idea how to answer it.

  “Go outside now, and wait for the guests,” Aunt Grace said. “I’ll speak with Delman to make sure everything is in order.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Grace,” Meg said. It seemed to her that was all she ever said, “Thank you” and “I’m sorry.” No wonder she mumbled, with such a restricted vocabulary.

  She stood in the garden, in front of the bar, and blushed when she felt the bartender’s eyes on her. He was a year-rounder, hired for these occasions, and Meg had seen him at parties she’d attended.

  “Nice dress,” he said. “How old are you? Fourteen?”

  “Sixteen,” she choked out.

  “Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

  Meg nodded, and walked away from him. The bartender wasn’t half as sorry as she was. What a dump, she thought. What a dumpy dumpy dump. The words proved no comfort at all.

  Then the guests began arriving, and although Meg was sure their looks were full of pity for her, at least there were a lot of people, and she didn’t feel unprotected anymore. Aunt Grace stood by her side, and made sure she said thank you to everybody.

  “Hi, Meg,” Tinker Thomas said as she came over, carrying a large, promising box.

  “Her name is Margaret,” Aunt Grace declared, and Meg took a certain pleasure in seeing Tinker blush.

  “I meant Margaret,” Tinker said. “Hi, Margaret.”

  “Hello, Margaret,” Aunt Grace said. “We do not approve of slang here.”

  Tinker clenched her teeth, and Meg’s pleasure in the moment evaporated. She liked Tinker, and thought Tinker liked her, and now Tinker would avoid her or feel sorry for her or simply not bother to be her friend. “Hello, Margaret,” she said. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you, Tinker,” Meg said, and watched helplessly as Tinker ran from her side to join some of the other kids. Meg could see them all staring at her, and knew they were laughing at her, at her dress, at her party, at her obvious misery.

  “Hello, Margaret.”

  “Hello, Clark,” Meg said, smiling at the one true friend she had among the party guests.

  “I brought you this,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said. “Hello, Miss Winslow.”

  “Clark,” Aunt Grace said, and jutted her cheek out for Clark to kiss. He did, with an ease that Meg envied. Clark Bradford was eighteen, and had grown up in Boston. In many ways, he knew Aunt Grace better than she did, and maybe because she wasn’t his aunt, he even seemed to like her. It occurred to Meg then that she might marry Clark. It made sense. Aunt Grace would approve, as would Clark’s family, and Clark, she was sure, loved her. It would be nice to have a husband who wasn’t afraid of Aunt Grace. Maybe Clark would propose to her that very night, pink ruffles and all. If she were engaged, that would make her special. She would feel protected if she were engaged.

  She smiled at the thought, and Clark smiled back at her. “I hope you’ll save me a dance,” he said.

  “Of course I will,” Meg said. She could talk to Clark. He didn’t frighten her. They’d played together when they were children, and her parents had gone up to Boston for holidays and family occasions. Clark was safe and appropriate and he loved her. Meg immediately felt better about things.

  “Oh no,” Clark said. “My father has his camera out again. I apologize for him, Miss Winslow. Ever since he got the camera for his birthday, he takes it with him wherever he goes.”

  “Motion pictures?” Aunt Grace said.

  “Home movies,” Clark said. “Dad, really. Do you have to point that thing at us?”

  “Smile, Margaret,” Mr. Bradford said, and Meg did as she was told. “Very good,” he said. “Lovely party, Grace. Happy birthday, Margaret. Many happy returns and all that. I’ll be sure to film you while you’re dancing with Clark.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said.

  Clark grinned at her, and moved up the line. Meg continued to stand by Grace, accept her presents, and say her thanks, but her mind was on Clark. She didn’t know why she’d never thought about marrying him before, but maybe marriage was one of those things you didn’t think about until you were sixteen.

  “Happy birthday, Margaret.”

  “Thank you, Isabelle,” Meg said. Isabelle Sinclair looked wonderful. She was wearing a pale green strapless gown with not a single ruffle on it.

  “Happy birthday, Margaret,” Robert Sinclair said. He was Isabelle’s older brother, and Margaret knew he would ask her to dance that evening as a courtesy.

  “Thank you, Robert,” she said.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Robert said. “I brought along a friend of mine. He’s staying with us this summer. Margaret Winslow, I’d like you to meet Nick Sebastian.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  This is the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, Meg thought, and then just as quickly she thought, but that doesn’t matter, and the two thoughts bumped into each other and made her blush. She felt like a fool standing there, turning red in that ridiculous dress, with Aunt Grace standing by her side, making sure she didn’t slouch or mumble or forget to tha
nk people. He’ll hate me, she thought, and then she couldn’t remember his name, or why it was important that he not hate her, and she wished she could vanish, and she wished the moment could last forever.

  “Let’s dance,” he said.

  “But I have to stand on line,” she replied. Did she mumble? Probably.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  Meg considered his question. “No,” she said. “I don’t, do I.”

  He stared at her and she stared back, and she knew she wasn’t blushing anymore. He took her hand, and led her away from the line, away from Aunt Grace. The band was playing Gershwin. They began to dance.

  “I don’t know your name,” Meg admitted. “I heard it, but I guess I didn’t listen hard enough.”

  “Nick Sebastian,” he said. “Do people really call you Margaret?”

  “My aunt does,” Meg said.

  “I’ll call you Daisy,” Nick said. “You should be called Daisy.”

  “That’s what my parents called me,” Meg said. “Most people call me Meg. Aunt Grace insists on Margaret.”

  “May I call you Daisy, then?” Nick asked.

  Meg nodded. She couldn’t get over how wonderful it felt to be in his arms. She prayed he wanted to have his way with her.

  “Robert and Isabelle said something about a birthday,” Nick declared. “Yours, I take it.”

  Meg nodded.

  “I should have brought something,” he said.

  “You brought me my name,” Meg said. “That’s a very special gift.”

  “I want to give you more than that,” he said. “But there’ll be other birthdays. We’ll dance on each of them, I promise.”

  “Don’t tease,” Meg said.

  “You know I’m not,” Nick replied. “What birthday is this, Daisy?”

  “Sixteen,” she said. Please let that be the right answer, she thought.

  Nick shook his head. “You’re older than that,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  Meg thought about the hideous baby dress Aunt Grace had forced her to wear, and she pledged at that very moment to spend the rest of her life with Nick Sebastian. She intended to tell him that but Clark tapped Nick on the shoulder, and cut in on the dance.

  “Do you know him?” Clark asked her. Meg felt herself inch away from Clark, stiffen her body just slightly, turn back into Meg Winslow, stoops and mumbles and all.

  “He’s a friend of the Sinclairs’,” she said. “Robert introduced us.”

  “He’s a bit pushy, don’t you think?” Clark said, being sure to lead as they danced. Meg hated it that Clark led. Not that she’d minded Nick leading. “There were people on line waiting to wish you happy birthday.”

  “They’ll know where to find her,” Nick said, tapping Clark right back, and stealing Meg away from him before Clark had the chance to react. “Daisy, may I?”

  “Who’s Daisy?” Clark asked, but they didn’t wait to answer. They left him sputtering on the dance floor, as they ran, hand in hand, away from the party guests.

  “This is terrible,” Meg said, when they’d reached a safe distance. They could hear the sounds of the party, but they knew they couldn’t be seen. “Aunt Grace will be so angry.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I needed to be alone with you.”

  “I know,” Meg said, and then she laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. “I’m not sorry. The hell with Aunt Grace.” She waited for the gods of gratitude to strike her down, but the only thing that happened was the band kept playing, and people still danced. The gods have the night off, she thought. I have never been so happy in my life.

  “I know you don’t know me,” Nick said.

  “You don’t know me either,” Meg said.

  “I know who you are,” he replied. “In some ways I know how you got here. Robert and Isabelle told me a few details. Margaret Winslow of the Beacon Hill Winslows. Your parents died in an accident a few years ago. You go to school with Isabelle. You do well academically; you’re fairly popular. You live with your aunt, Grace Winslow. People treat Grace Winslow with respect. They do not steal her niece from under her nose.”

  “It’s such a terrifying nose,” Meg said. “I remember even when I was little, Aunt Grace’s nose scared me.”

  “I don’t want you to be frightened ever again,” Nick said. “I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

  “What can I do for you?” Meg asked. “I want to do something too.”

  “You can love me,” Nick said.

  Meg laughed. “That’s too easy,” she said. “I do that already.”

  Then Nick smiled, and Meg realized all those wonderful flirty words were true, that everything they’d both been saying, they meant. She looked then, really hard, at Nick, tried to see who it was she felt so instantly connected to, tried to understand what it was about him that made her feel more eager to live than she’d ever dreamed. But all she could see was he loved her, and for the moment, that was all she needed to see.

  “What’s your middle name?” she asked. She wanted to know his complete name. He required a full identity, this man she loved.

  “George,” he said. “I hate it.”

  “I hate my dress,” she replied.

  “We can burn it,” he said. “We can turn it into ashes.”

  “We’ll do the same with your name,” she said. “We’ll print it on a piece of paper and tear it into a hundred pieces and put it on the fire, and let it burn. And then you won’t be George anymore.”

  He kissed her then, and Meg was so surprised that she shifted awkwardly, and he thought she was resisting. “I’m sorry, Daisy,” he said.

  “Oh don’t be,” she said. “Don’t ever be sorry again.” She yearned to kiss him, but before she had the chance, Clark came storming over to them.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked, and Meg was uncertain which one of them he was speaking to, until she saw him grab Nick by his jacket collar as though intending to punch him.

  Nick merely shook him off. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he said. “I’m Nick Sebastian.”

  “I don’t care if you’re Santa Claus,” Clark replied. “You have some nerve dragging Meg off like that. Her aunt is furious. And I imagine Isabelle Sinclair isn’t any too pleased either.”

  Nick laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound. “Isabelle doesn’t matter. Neither do you nor Aunt Grace. Daisy is all that matters.”

  “Who’s Daisy?” Clark asked again.

  Meg found herself standing so tall Aunt Grace would have to look up to her. “I am,” she said.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Clark asked. “Have you been hitting the champagne?”

  “I’m happy, Clark,” Meg said. “That’s your problem. You’ve never seen me happy before.”

  “You won’t stay happy once Grace gets through with you,” Clark said. “Look you, Sebastian, whatever, if you really care for Meg the way you claim you do, you’d better bring her back to the party and apologize like crazy to her aunt. Otherwise Grace will take it out on Meg for what you’ve done.”

  “Let her,” Meg said. “I don’t care.”

  “You heard her, Clark,” Nick said. “Will you leave us alone now, please?”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Clark said. “And I don’t know what you’re doing to Meg to make her act this way, but I’m going to tell Grace, and that will be the end of that. Meg, I’ll do what I can for you, but Grace is furious already, and your best chance is to go back to her alone and apologize like the blue devil.”

  Meg shook her head. “Aunt Grace can’t do anything to me anymore,” she said. “Nick will protect me.”

  “It’s drugs,” Clark said. “You slipped her some kind of drug, didn’t you. If you hurt one hair of her head, I’ll kill you.” He paused, and Meg used all her self-control to keep from laughing at him.

  “Calm down,” Nick said. “You’ve done your good deed for the evening. Y
ou’ve earned your merit badge. Go back to the party and have a good time. It’s been a pleasure knowing you. Good night, Clark.”

  “Meg, please,” Clark said, but Meg took Nick’s hand in hers, and entwined her fingers with his. Clark looked at them, shook his head with funereal solemnity, and walked back to the party.

  “We don’t have much time,” Nick said. “May I see you tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” she said. “We’ll find a way.”

  Nick nodded. “I love you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

  Meg smiled her reply.

  “We’ll get married, you know,” Nick said. “I suppose we’ll have to wait a couple of years, but we will get married. I’ll make you so happy, Daisy. I’ll give you everything you want.”

  “You already have,” Meg said. She looked up at him, to commit his face to her memory, and saw a small scar by his right ear.

  Nick turned his head slightly away from her. “I’m imperfect,” he said. “Damaged goods.”

  “How did it happen?” Meg asked.

  “The truth?” Nick asked, and Meg realized he wasn’t being flippant.

  “The truth,” she said. “You can tell me anything.”

  “My stepfather hit me there,” he said. “With a skillet. We were fighting and he wanted to kill me. My mother was so scared she called the police, and I wound up living in foster care for a few months. No one knows that about me, none of that. No one. They think my parents … they think I’m respectable.” Nick looked straight into Meg’s eyes. “You have power over me now,” he said. “I’ve trusted you with who I really am.”

  “I won’t fail you,” she said, and she kissed him. “No matter what, I won’t ever fail you.”