The Luckiest Girl

by Beverly Cleary

  There was a wonderful Christmas box from home, full of all the things a girl would like to receive—a new sweater and a matching skirt, pretty scarf, two frilly slips, a bottle of perfume, a purse with a crisp five-dollar bill inside. Shelley could tell that her mother had found a lot of pleasure in packing that box. Christmas afternoon there was a long-distance call from home. Shelley was excited and a little sad to talk to her mother and father so far away.

  And then New Year’s Eve came. The Michies celebrated by inviting all the neighbors, young and old, for a buffet supper. Babies were bedded down, toddlers ran around in their sleepers, and grandparents were given the most comfortable chairs. Philip came too. He joined the crowd in making paper hats out of the crepe paper Mavis had supplied because she found paper hats for a crowd cost too much and decided it would be more fun and much less expensive if everyone made his or her own. Philip’s hat looked something like a football helmet and a little like a baby’s bonnet. Shelley thought it was the nicest party she had ever attended.

  There was New Year’s Day to be spent picking up after the party, and then vacation was over and it was time for school again. One damp day Shelley and Jeannie were eating their lunches in the study hall. From the window Shelley could see the top of an acacia tree in full bloom, each panicle a burst of fluffy balls of pure yellow. The blossoms were the essence of yellow, and Shelley knew that whenever she thought of the color she would remember this sight—the soft blue-green foliage bending under the weight of raindrops and the sharp, clear yellow of the blossoms that somehow never looked wet no matter how hard it rained.

  “Starry-eyed Shelley,” remarked Jeannie.

  “Am I starry-eyed?” asked Shelley, surprised.

  “All the time,” said Jeannie positively.

  “If I am I guess it is because everything is so new and exciting down here,” said Shelley, “but I don’t really think I am starry-eyed.”

  “How you can find a dull little town like San Sebastian exciting is a mystery to me,” said Jeannie, stuffing the waxed paper wrapping from her sandwich into her brown paper bag. “I can’t wait to leave it and go out into the world and find some excitement.”

  “Isn’t that funny?” remarked Shelley. “I won’t even let myself think about the time I have to leave it.”

  “You don’t know how lucky you are,” said Jeannie. “I would give anything to go to a big-city high school and live in a town when there is something to do on Saturday night besides riding up and down the main street tooting at everyone else riding up and down the main street.” She paused and wadded the brown paper bag into a tight ball. “I’m tired of living in a town where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and I’m tired of living in a little house practically hidden by a clump of dusty pampas grass, and I’m tired of scorching-hot summers. Why, my family took a trip to Oregon once, and do you know what we saw? In downtown Portland on several street corners there were drinking fountains—each one was really four fountains made out of bronze or something—and the water ran all the time! There weren’t even any handles so you could turn the water off.”

  Shelley laughed. “Why, that’s true. I’ve seen those drinking fountains hundreds of times, and I never thought a thing about them.”

  “I thought they were the most wonderful sight I have ever seen,” said Jeannie. “All that lovely cold water.”

  Both girls were silent. Jeannie was occupied with her own rebellious thoughts. Shelley was thinking that this was the end of the semester. Half her precious months were already gone. “Report cards today,” she remarked. “I wonder what the verdicts will be.”

  Jeannie did not appear to hear her. “Anyway,” she remarked as they prepared to leave the study hall, “I’m not so sure it is San Sebastian that makes you starry-eyed.” This time it was Shelley who did not appear to hear.

  After the last class the students returned to their registration rooms to receive their report cards. When Shelley’s grades were handed to her in a white envelope with her name typed in one corner, she accepted them with a nice feeling of accomplishment. One semester was behind her, another was about to begin. One by one she pulled out the cards for her different courses. A in English. A in Latin. Shelley always got A’s in Latin, a language that she enjoyed because it seemed to her like a complicated puzzle. B in history. She had expected this—she was good at remembering dates, but this teacher had a way of wanting to know why historical events had taken place rather than when. Never mind, she would do better next semester. B minus in physical education. Field sports in this heat—she was lucky to get a B minus! D in biology.

  Biology, D. It couldn’t be! Shelley had never received a D in her life. Of course she realized she wasn’t exactly at the head of the class, but D—why, Mr. Ericson could not do that to her. She wouldn’t make the honor roll. She had to have a B average to get into college. She simply could not get a D; that was all there was to it.

  Shelley turned around to speak to Hartley, because she had to confide in someone and she was sure he would understand.

  “Shelley, is something wrong?” he asked when he saw her face.

  “Mr. Ericson gave me a D in biology,” she said. “I can’t understand it. I’ve never had a D in my life.”

  Hartley’s expression showed genuine concern. “Maybe there is a mistake someplace. Why don’t you go talk to him?”

  Yes, there must be a mistake someplace. There had to be. “Maybe he accidentally wrote someone else’s grade on my card,” Shelley said to Hartley. “You are right. I’ll go talk to him.”

  “Good luck,” said Hartley.

  It was nice to know a boy who understood that grades were important. As Shelley walked toward the biology laboratory she began to have some misgivings. There had been that C on her first report card, but she had not been too worried about it because it was not a semester grade. And maybe her drawings of some of the things they had examined through a microscope weren’t exactly works of art, but they weren’t supposed to be, were they? This was biology, not art. And there was the time she had forgotten to draw the nucleus in the pleurococcus—that was the day Philip had asked her to go to the barn dance and naturally she had a lot of distracting things to think about. But a D! Shelley Latham did not get D’s.

  Shelley entered the biology room, where she pretended to look at some exhibits until the room was clear of students and she could speak to Mr. Ericson alone. “Mr. Ericson,” she said tentatively as she approached his desk, where he was busy with some papers.

  “Yes, Shelley,” he said, looking up from his work.

  “I think there might be a mistake on my report card,” Shelley said nervously, because she was always ill at ease with Mr. Ericson. “I—I have a D in biology.”

  “There is no mistake,” answered Mr. Ericson. “You earned that D fair and square.”

  Shelley felt her face turn red. “But I’ve never had a D in my life,” she protested.

  Mr. Ericson leaned back in his chair and smiled sardonically. “You have now.”

  “But Mr. Ericson,” said Shelley desperately. “I want to go to college—”

  “Why?” interrupted Mr. Ericson.

  Shelley paused. Why did she want to go to college? No one had ever asked her this question before and she felt confused. She could not tell this man she wanted to go to college because all the girls she knew were planning to go or because her parents had told her she should go. Those were not the real reasons. “Because I want to have a career,” she said lamely, although this was not the right answer.

  “Oh, you do,” said Mr. Ericson. “What sort of career?”

  “I—I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t made up my mind yet.” Shelley felt more and more uncomfortable with Mr. Ericson looking at her as if he expected her to explain herself concisely in outline form on a moment’s notice. She decided to try changing the subject. “To go to college I have to maintain a B average,” she said. “I just can’t get D’s.”

  “Then I would sugg
est that you stop doing D work,” said Mr. Ericson.

  Shelley found that there was not one thing that she could say. She was filled with anger and humiliation.

  “Perhaps the seating arrangement for the semester was unfortunate,” said Mr. Ericson.

  Shelley looked sharply at her biology teacher. Was he referring to Philip? The gleam of amusement in his keen blue eyes told her that he was. “The seating arrangement had nothing to do with it,” she said with all the haughtiness she could manage.

  “You know, I would not be doing you a favor if I gave you a B for D work in high school,” Mr. Ericson said. “You will have to take a laboratory science in college, too, and if you do poor work, it is better to find out about it now while there is still time to do something about it than to wait until you are in college.”

  Probably this was true, but the way Shelley felt toward Mr. Ericson, she did not want to admit that anything he said was right. D—and this was only the first semester. She had months ahead of her of drawing crawly things under a microscope and dissecting the worm and the frog and the crayfish that came in the second semester. And all under the sardonic eye of Mr. Ericson, because in a school of this size there was only one biology teacher. Now she wouldn’t dare even look at Philip during the whole eighty minutes of the period.

  “I’ll make a bargain with you,” said Mr. Ericson. “If you turn in B work the second semester, I’ll give you a C for the whole year.”

  “I’ll do B work,” promised Shelley, and thought, If it kills me.

  “Good,” said Mr. Ericson, as if the subject were closed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ericson,” Shelley said stiffly, and left the room. Oh, she thought as she left the building, that man! Who did he think he was, anyway? As if Philip had anything to do with this. Well, she would show him!

  But gradually, as she walked down the road, Shelley’s explosive mood spent itself. She felt ashamed because she had done poor work and embarrassed because Mr. Ericson had noticed her preoccupation with Philip. New feelings began to replace her anger.

  The trouble with me, Shelley thought, is that I don’t really have any brains. In elementary school she had kept her handwriting neat, her papers unsmudged, and her two-finger margins straight, so her teachers approved of her and gave her good grades. In high school, too, she was neat, prompt, and conscientious and so her teachers liked her. But brains, no. Giving good grades to Shelley Latham was just a habit with her teachers at home. Probably she didn’t deserve them at all. But even while she railed at herself, Shelley knew that what she was telling herself was not true. Being conscientious had helped, of course, but she had always been a good student and had enjoyed most of her studies. Even in the subjects she had not enjoyed, her pride had kept her near the top of the class. That this was her first experience with a laboratory science was no excuse. Perhaps if Philip had not sat beside her…

  Shelley turned into the opening in the privet hedge. And the worst of it was, Tom or Mavis would have to sign her report card and know about the D. It seemed as if there was to be no end to her humiliation. If only she hadn’t taken biology. Maybe chemistry would have been better. But then Philip would not have been in her class and she might not have known him. Besides, chemistry smelled so awful. Now, knowing that Mr. Ericson’s eagle eye was upon her, she wouldn’t dare look at Philip. Old Eagle Eye Ericson. She had promised him B work and now she would have to study like a fiend at a subject she hated. She thought she hated it, but actually until today she had not thought much about the subject one way or another. She had been too busy thinking about Philip.

  Shelley entered the house, tossed her books on a couch in the living room, and flopped down beside them. She sat brooding about the D. Dear Mother and Daddy, she would have to write. Today was report card day and I was unpleasantly surprised to get a D in biology. I thought I had studied….

  Before Shelley could compose the letter, Katie burst through the front door. At first glance Shelley was shocked at the sight of her, and then she saw that Katie was smeared with lipstick. There were daubs of lipstick on her arms, smears of lipstick on her cheeks, and smudges of lipstick on her blouse; but her expression was radiant.

  “Katie!” exclaimed Shelley. “What happened to you?”

  Katie dropped into an armchair. “Well,” she began, “Pamela and I were walking home from school. We were walking along just minding our own business and not doing a thing when Pamela took a lipstick out of her purse to show me. It’s a new shade called Lucky in Love and I think it’s yummy. I don’t see why Mommy won’t let me wear lipstick for dress-up. She never lets me do anything. Anyway, Joe and Rudy came along and they asked Pamela if they could see her lipstick. Pamela gave it to them, never dreaming what they were going to do.” Katie paused for breath. “And do you know what those crazy boys did?”

  “I can guess,” said Shelley.

  “They started smearing us with lipstick,” Katie continued with relish. “It was simply awful. They got lipstick all over us. And then I grabbed it away from Rudy and rubbed it all over his face.” Katie sat smiling at this happy memory before she said regretfully, “I guess I better go wash it off before Mommy sees me. You know how she is.”

  Shelley recalled her own thirteen-year-old adventures walking home from school—the rain hat grabbed and thrown up into a tree, the scarf snatched and tied around the neck of a passing dog. “You like Rudy, don’t you?” asked Shelley.

  “Yes,” admitted Katie frankly. “I have a terrible crush on him.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Simply divine,” said Katie, getting up to admire her smudges in the hall mirror. “Taller than I am, if you count the way his hair sort of sticks up.” She started up the stairs. “Promise not to tell what I said about Rudy.”

  “I promise.” After this interruption Shelley felt more cheerful. Watching Katie go through a phase she herself had outgrown always made Shelley feel serene and experienced, capable of meeting any situation that might arise in the course of growing up. She picked up her books and went to her room, where she looked through the second half of her biology book to see what lay ahead of her during the second semester.

  When Shelley came downstairs sometime later she found Tom studying Luke’s report cards while Luke, his face smudged with grease from his motorcycle, sat staring moodily out the window. “Luke, this doesn’t make sense,” Tom was saying. “An A in Latin and a C minus in English.”

  Luke was silent.

  “You must have some explanation.” Tom waited expectantly. “I am glad you earned an A in Latin, but how do you explain your grade in English?”

  Luke looked unhappy. “Aw, Dad, you know how English is. All that stuff about sentence structure and having to read Idylls of the King.”

  “Sentence structure!” exclaimed Tom. “You complain about sentence structure in English and then get an A in Latin, which is much more complicated. Ablative absolute and hic, haec, hoc—Latin is much more difficult.”

  “Aw, Dad, don’t you understand?” Luke asked. “I like my Latin teacher.”

  Shelley sympathized with Luke’s problem. The next semester would be so much easier if she liked Mr. Ericson. Postponing the moment when she must confess her D, Shelley went into the dining room to set the table while Mavis prepared supper. When Tom finished discussing Luke’s report card, he went into the kitchen and helped himself to an olive that Mavis was about to stir into a tamale pie.

  Katie came thumping down the stairs and appeared in the kitchen. Her face was rosy from its recent scrubbing. “Dad, do you know what?” she asked with an air of suppressed excitement. “Pamela said her father said if we divided up our orange grove and this property into lots and sold them we would be rich.”

  “Oh, he did,” answered Tom dryly. “And what would we do with our riches?”

  “Pamela says we could build a new house,” said Katie. “A ranch house.”

  Oh, no, thought Shelley, forgetting her own problem for the moment. Not
give up this comfortable, creaky old house and live in a house just like anyone else’s.

  “For the information of Pamela and her father, not that it is any of their business,” began Tom, “it just so happens that I don’t want to live in a new house. I like this house just as it is, slanting floors, too many doors, creaking stairs, and all. I like having my own trees around me, and room for the dog to run, and a place for your mother’s studio, and extra bedrooms for Shelley and your grandmother and anyone else we want to visit us.”

  “Yes, that is nice,” agreed Katie, and added wistfully, “but Pamela’s house has wall-to-wall carpeting and all the furniture is Early American.”

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Mavis. “I wouldn’t have wall-to-wall carpeting. I don’t like to run the vacuum cleaner that much. And we have some Early American furniture. The secretary and those two little tables in the living room came from your grandmother’s family home in New England and are very, very old.”

  “Oh, Mommy,” said Katie impatiently. “I don’t mean that kind of Early American. I mean new Early American like you buy in a store.”

  Mavis began to laugh. “Katie, you funny little girl. I think you see too much of Pamela.”

  Katie was injured. “I am not a funny little girl,” she said with her most dignified air. “I don’t know why you always have to say things like that. Or why you have to criticize my friends all the time. Pamela is—”

  “Katie,” said Tom sternly. “You aren’t by any chance trying to avoid the subject of report cards?”

  Katie’s dignity wilted. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I got a C in cooking. But it really wasn’t my fault at all. The teacher just doesn’t like me. She picks on me.”

  “Poor kid,” said Tom jovially.

  “Daddy, do you always have to make fun of me?” asked Katie.

  Tom ignored her question. “Perhaps you would do better in cooking if you had a little more practice at home.”

  “I do cook at home,” said Katie. “I baked a cake yesterday.”

  “I mean cook from the basic raw materials, not from a mix in a package,” said Tom. “How about cooking some of the things you cook at school?”