That was that. With a sigh of regret Jean decided that she might as well spend the rest of the afternoon sewing on a cappella choir stoles. Next time—if there was a next time—she would know better. She left the telephone and went to the bedroom, where she was startled to see Sue lying on her bed, with her head propped up on her hand, reading a book. “Oh—hello, Sue,” she said, realizing that Sue must have overheard her telephone call. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“I ran into Ken Cory at the library and he gave me a ride home,” said Sue. She looked levelly at Jean and said, “Your sweater is lying on your bed.”
“Why, so it is!” Jean tried to cover up her feelings by picking up the stole she had been basting together. “I could have sworn I had lost it.”
Sue sat up and closed her book. “Jean,” she said. “Please don’t.”
Jean moistened her fingertip and tied a knot in her thread. “Please don’t what?” she asked, although she knew very well what Sue was talking about.
“Please don’t chase Johnny.” There was real concern in Sue’s voice.
That concern put Jean on the defensive. “I’m not chasing him,” she said, and her voice was cool.
“Oh, Jean!” exclaimed Sue. “Who do you think you are fooling, phoning a boy on such a made-up excuse?”
Jean flung the stole on her bed. “Is there anything so terrible about phoning a boy?” she demanded. “Is there?”
“No, there isn’t anything so terrible about it,” said Sue, “but I don’t think it was the thing to do when you didn’t really have a reason to phone him.”
“You don’t think it was the thing to do! Just because you are two years older you think you know everything.” Jean did not like the sound of her own voice. She did not want to quarrel with Sue, especially when Sue was right; but that, for some obscure reason, was exactly why she was quarreling. “And what about you? You probably went to the library this morning hoping to meet that awful Kenneth Cory.”
Sue lowered her eyes an instant, just long enough to tell Jean her guess was right. “Hoping to meet a boy and telephoning him are not the same,” said Sue. “And anyway, Ken had spent the whole morning in the library, hoping I might come in again. He said so. And he isn’t awful. He’s a whole lot nicer than that Johnny Chessler.”
“He isn’t either,” protested Jean. “Johnny is the nicest boy I know.”
“Did he make a date with you?” asked Sue.
“Well, no, not this time,” admitted Jean.
“Ken is coming over this evening to take me to the movies,” said Sue quietly, “and what is more, I expect he will really get here.”
Jean had no answer for this. Both girls sewed in silence in the small bedroom, which seemed stifled by their hot words. Their house was not large enough to hold a quarrel.
Jean mulled the argument over in her mind. It seemed as if suddenly everything she did or said was wrong. First she had made the mistake of telephoning Johnny, and now she was calling the boy her sister liked awful. She felt mixed-up and miserable, and she did not know what to do about it. Couldn’t Sue see what a desirable boy Johnny was and how much all the girls admired him?
“Sue,” ventured Jean at last, “don’t you like Johnny at all?”
“Jean, can’t you see?” Sue sounded almost sad. “Johnny just isn’t good enough for you.”
“Why, how can you say that?” demanded Jean. “Practically every girl in school likes Johnny. I’m the one that isn’t good enough.”
“Jean, don’t think that way about yourself,” begged Sue. “You are much too nice to be satisfied with…crumbs from a boy like Johnny. I don’t know how to say it exactly, but Johnny—oh, I don’t know. Maybe we better just forget it.” She looked miserable too, as she bent over a stole.
“Johnny what?” persisted Jean.
“Well, for example,” said Sue. “One day in English he told Miss Pritchard that he didn’t see any reason for wasting his time on trivial assignments.”
“Maybe Miss Pritchard’s assignments are trivial,” said Jean. “Maybe he was right.”
“He doesn’t get A’s. Anyway, it wasn’t just that,” said Sue unhappily. She put down her sewing and looked pleadingly at Jean. “Don’t you see—he doesn’t really like you.”
“He does like me,” said Jean stiffly. Or he had liked her before she had made the mistake of telephoning him. “I know he does.”
“How do you know?” asked Sue.
“He—he expects to see me after school every day,” said Jean.
“You mean you hang around the halls hoping he will come by,” said Sue. “Naturally he is flattered. What boy wouldn’t be?”
“He always says, ‘Hi, how’s the cute girl?’ And—”
Sue interrupted, “He says that to all the girls. He even says it to me.”
It immediately became urgent for Jean to prove that Johnny really did like her. “And he said that night at the clubhouse dance, when Elaine and I were sitting there, that he asked me to dance because I looked so cute and eager.”
“In other words you looked as if you were asking, ‘How much is that doggie in the window?’” said Sue. “And Johnny gave the little girl a break.”
This stung Jean. “Well, I don’t care. He does like me. I know he does. And I am going to ask him to go to the Girls’ Association Dance with me. So there!” Instantly Jean regretted her last two words. It was such a childish phrase, one that she and Sue had often used in disagreements when they were little girls. On second thought Jean regretted the whole rash statement.
Sue jerked at a basting thread. “Go ahead and ask him,” she said, “but he won’t go with you.”
“Yes, he will.” Jean sounded much more positive than she felt.
Sue unreeled an arm’s length of thread from a spool. “If you really want to take him to the dance,” she said slowly, “I hope he goes with you. Maybe I am wrong, but I don’t think so. And I don’t like quarreling.”
“Neither do I.” Jean went to the sewing machine to stitch a stole. It would be difficult to talk while the sewing machine was running, and right now she did not feel like talking. She slipped one end of the stole under the foot of the machine, dropped the foot, and began to stitch. While the machine hummed she found that in her thoughts she was still arguing with Sue. She explained to Sue that Johnny really did like her. It wasn’t easy to put into words, but she could tell in little ways—the way he looked at her, the way he always, or almost always, left the building by the door nearest the sewing room. And he didn’t have to do that, did he? There were at least six exits from the building, weren’t there? So you see. The advantage of an imaginary conversation was that the person argued with did not have the opportunity to advance any unwelcome points to support his side of the debate. Jean could always win an imaginary debate.
When Jean finished stitching her seam she glanced at her sister, who was basting another turquoise edging to a stole. Sue was frowning slightly, as if her thoughts were on something more serious than basting together two pieces of rayon crepe. I’ll bet she is going right on with the argument too, thought Jean wryly.
The girls sewed silently, and while they sewed Jean thought, Johnny, Johnny, please go to the dance with me, even if I was foolish enough to phone you on a flimsy fibbing excuse. He had to accept. He could not turn her down, not after this conversation with Sue.
But first Jean, who was no longer sure Johnny liked her, had to find the courage to ask him.
Chapter 6
Jean spent an uncomfortable weekend. Her argument with Sue hung in the air like a threatening cloud on a bright day, spoiling their pleasure in working together on the choir stoles. After supper Jean continued to sew alone, but sharing a room with Sue forced her to watch Sue’s blithe preparations for her first date. She could not understand Sue’s attitude, which was serene as well as happy. Sue knew exactly what she wanted to wear, and she had no trouble getting her lipstick on. One would think she went out with a boy every night of the week. Whe
n Jean could not bear to watch Sue another moment, she gathered up her basting thread and material and took them into the living room. Sue would probably be glad to have the bedroom to herself, and Jean could duck out of sight before Ken came. She did not know why, but she did not want to meet her sister’s friend.
Jean was so gnawed by the fear that Johnny might be angry with her for telephoning him, and so worried that she might not have the courage to ask him to go to the dance with her and that he might refuse her if she did ask him, that she lost track of time and was surprised when the doorbell rang.
“Answer it, somebody,” Sue called.
Because Kenneth could see her through the glass door, there was nothing for Jean to do but put down her sewing and open the door for him.
“Why, hello, Jean!” Kenneth’s voice was deeper than she had remembered.
“Won’t you come in?” asked Jean. “Sue will be ready in a minute.”
“I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl,” remarked Kenneth, as he stepped into the living room. “You’ve grown so much that I am not sure I would have known you if I’d seen you on the street.”
Kenneth could not have said anything that would have pleased Jean more. While he spoke to Mrs. Jarrett and shook hands with Mr. Jarrett, Jean folded her sewing and at the same time appraised this boy her sister liked. Sue was right. He wasn’t awful at all. The ugly duckling had turned into…not exactly a swan, but a young man with poise. He seemed grown up, compared to the boys at school; and although he was not handsome, or even particularly good-looking—there were still some scars on his face from the skin trouble he had had when he was younger—his face was agreeable because it was so…What was the word? Kind, perhaps. Or gentle. But strong, too. He was genuinely glad to see all of Sue’s family, and when Sue entered the room and he helped her on with her coat, Jean thought he acted as if her sister was someone precious to him. And Sue…the way she glowed when she looked at Kenneth…
As soon as Sue and Kenneth had gone, Jean did the only thing a girl could possibly do when her sister had a date and she was left at home worrying for fear the boy she liked was angry with her. She went into the bedroom, muffled her face in her pillow, and had a good cry. Then she dried her eyes and sewed furiously on a cappella choir stoles the rest of the evening.
The first thing Monday morning, Jean managed to just happen to meet Johnny in the hall. “Why, hello, Johnny,” she said, registering great surprise.
“How’s the cute girl?” asked Johnny, with his lazy grin.
Did he really say this to all the girls? “I’m fine except—”
“Except what?” asked Johnny.
“Johnny—you aren’t mad at me or anything, are you?” Jean began bravely, determined to get at least one of her worries out of the way this morning.
“Mad at you?” Johnny leaned against a locker and looked down at Jean. “What for?”
“For—telephoning you about my sweater.” Jean carefully examined the corner of her notebook, which was beginning to fray. “I mean—I thought I had lost it and I thought it would be all right to phone you. I—I just hoped I didn’t make you mad or anything.”
“Why should I be mad?” Johnny sounded amused. “What was wrong with that?”
“Nothing, I guess, only I thought you sounded sort of—oh, I don’t know. Funny.” Jean realized she was saying too much. She could have been mistaken about the tone of his voice over the telephone. Maybe he had not been impatient after all. It would be a graver mistake to accuse him now.
“Funny little girl.” Johnny sounded almost affectionate.
“I just didn’t want you to be mad or anything. I mean—” Oh, shut up, Jean told herself. She should stop trying to say what she meant. Babbling on like this was only making things worse. She smiled up at Johnny. “It was nothing, really. I guess I was just imagining things. Well, I have to hurry or I’ll be late for English.” So that was all right, she thought, and found her heart was not as light as she had hoped it would be. She would consider the significance of the phrase “funny little girl” later, when she had time. Now her next problem was to find courage to ask Johnny to go to the dance.
Before Jean found that courage she was swept into the activities of the Costume Club. She attended rehearsals of the variety show and watched acts being pruned and altered to fit the theme “Through the Years.” Indians war-whooped, cowboys gathered around a wastebasket to sing campfire songs, colonial ladies and gentlemen in modern school clothes danced the minuet. The Dance Club, whose members had studied modern and ballet dancing, had trouble deciding what they should do; they felt that anyone could do a square dance, and their talent should be used for something more unusual. They argued with one another and with Mr. Kohler, the director, until a member of the stage crew, a muscular type who could not see why a bunch of girls had to make such a fuss about a dance, said in obvious disgust, “Aw, go haunt a house.”
The girls decided that haunting a house was exactly what they would do. The art department could design a set that suggested a crumbling Victorian mansion and a few moss-hung trees, and they would compose a bat dance. Still better, at the first of the act, the lights would be bright and some of the girls in Victorian dresses would perform a dance that suggested a game of croquet. Then they would dance off, the lighting would gradually grow dim and eerie (some blue spotlights should do it), and the bats would flit out of the wings to haunt the house.
Because Jean was new to the club and had no particular duties at first, she sat in one of the front rows of the auditorium near the orchestra pit, where, to her amusement, Homer was engrossed in a book, oblivious to the rehearsal when not actually playing his violin. The members of the cast began to ask her to hold their valuables while they rehearsed their act, and Jean found herself guarding a lapful of wallets and purses. No sooner had the minuet group finished and collected its belongings from her lap than the Charleston dancers dumped their valuables upon her. Jean did not mind. It was such fun to be participating, even in this small way, that she wondered why she had not thought of joining a club before. She now felt as if she were a part of the school and not just a girl who attended classes.
And through it all, Johnny, the narrator’s script in his hand, was present. “Testing. One, two, three. Testing.” He spoke frequently into the microphone, and his voice filled the auditorium.
Elaine, too, was part of the crowd. Unfortunately, Mr. Kohler decided that a boys’ war dance would make a more effective opening for the show and assigned the girls who had planned to do the hoop dance the part of Indian maidens who stood on papier-mâché rocks and watched the dance. After rehearsing her motionless part, Elaine walked down off the stage and dropped into the seat beside Jean. “How!” she said, raising her arm in an Indian salute.
“How!” answered Jean.
“I’m frustrated by my role,” Elaine said, in a world-weary voice. “There is no scope for my talents just standing there like Minnehaha or somebody, on that lover’s leap by the shores of the shining big sea water or whatever it is supposed to be.”
“Too bad. All you have to do is look at boys,” said Jean wickedly. “And aren’t you thinking of Old Nokomis?”
“The boys are a consolation,” agreed Elaine, “but the trouble is, they don’t look at me. And speaking of boys, have you asked him yet?” Elaine had heard about Jean’s dilemma on the way to school.
Jean looked at Johnny, standing in front of the curtain with his script in hand. He looked so attractive and so important that she wondered how a mere wallet holder would ever find the courage to offer him an invitation. “No,” she admitted.
“Don’t put it off too long,” cautioned Elaine. “You don’t want some other girl to grab him. Well, I’ve got to run. Mom is expecting me.”
A fat and battered wallet slid from Jean’s lap and disappeared under the seat ahead of her. She piled the rest of the purses and wallets on the seat that Elaine had vacated and got down on her hands and knees to pick up t
he wallet, which was so stuffed with bits of paper, small change, a comb, and a lipstick that its snap had popped open. As Jean picked up the wallet and started to close it, she could not help noticing a plastic-protected snapshot inside. Still kneeling on the floor, she paused, unable to stop herself, to look at the picture, which was dog-eared beneath the plastic, as if it had been held in a girl’s hand many times. It was a snapshot of a boy sitting on some wide steps—the steps of a school, perhaps. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and he was leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees as if he happened to be sitting there in the sun when someone came along and snapped his picture. Someone he liked must have been holding the camera, because he was smiling.
Ashamed of herself for looking into someone else’s wallet, Jean snapped it shut, returned to her seat, and gathered up the property she was guarding. She continued to watch the rehearsal, but her thoughts persisted in returning to that snapshot somewhere in the heap on her lap. It seemed to her that knowing a boy well enough to carry his picture in her wallet must be one of the happiest experiences a girl could have.
On the stage Johnny read from his script. “And now time dances on! Allemand right and dos-a-dos—” There was a suggestion of a square-dance caller’s singsong in his voice. On the next-to-the-last word Homer closed his book and picked up his violin. On the last word he began to play Turkey in the Straw with the other violinists. The curtain parted on the square dancers.
Johnny Chessler, thought Jean, I elect you the Boy Whose Snapshot I Would Most Like to Carry in My Wallet.
As the show took shape Jean had more to do. No longer a mere holder of wallets, she helped take inventory of the costumes in the storeroom behind the auditorium, to see what the school had on hand that could be used for the show. When the Costume Club decided it could make the costumes for the Indian maidens, she stayed after school to stitch the brown outing-flannel dresses and to snip the lower edges into fringe. She also helped make up the list of costumes to be rented, including a suit of evening clothes for the narrator. She could hardly wait for the dress rehearsal.
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