“Eating who?”
Beatrice giggled in embarrassment. “It’s not a who; it’s a what. Ground beef in spicy tomato sauce on a bun?”
Gwen still looked puzzled.
“Never mind. I guess I’m just a hopeless case.”
“Are you kidding? Why, with that bone structure and your height, you could be a fashion model.”
Beatrice looked down at her white sneakers, her cheeks stinging with self-consciousness. “Oh, I don’t think so. I’m just plain old Beatrice.”
Gwen studied her for a moment. “Well, plain old Beatrice, I’m convinced there’s a beautiful girl being held hostage behind that headband and those…” Gwen eyed her outfit disapprovingly. “So anyway, how about we free her sometime? I loved playing dress-up as a kid. Guess I haven’t outgrown it yet.”
“Sure.” Beatrice flashed a toothy grin.
“Say, have you started the ancient-Greece project yet?” Gwen said, sitting down next to her on the bench.
Beatrice squinted in the high afternoon sun. “Oh, yes. I got a jump on it as soon as I heard the assignment.”
“You don’t say. What are you doing it on?”
“Women’s impact on ancient architecture.”
“Really? Wow, that’s amazing. I didn’t know women were allowed to do anything back then besides serve men.”
“Well, it didn’t happen too often, and it isn’t easy to find documentation. That’s why I’m still not finished. I’m almost sorry I picked that subject.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry. That’s a great idea.”
Beatrice smiled. Gwen’s dark, dreamy eyes, creamy complexion, and rosy cheeks reminded her of an undisturbed gallon of Neapolitan ice cream.
“I’m planning to spend the entire day at the library this Saturday,” Gwen said. “Maybe we can meet up and do our research together and then get a bite for lunch.”
Beatrice chose to dismiss the flutter in her stomach as the excitement of having made a new friend. Although her studies had been keeping her busy, she couldn’t help feeling wistful whenever she heard the other girls in her dormitory clamor down the halls giggling about the silliest things. She could hardly deny that even the most independent woman would enjoy someone to share meals with occasionally in the cafeteria. She was sort of friendly with her roommate, Ruth, the gum-smacker, but when Beatrice realized she was a nympho, she determined they weren’t likely to become bosom buddies.
“Sure, that would be great.” The stained literature book collapsed through Beatrice’s knees into the grass between her feet.
Gwen flashed an angelic smile. “Okay, then, Beatrice Darby. See you Saturday morning.”
Beatrice watched Gwen’s swan-like form until it disappeared around a corner. She suddenly longed to tell Abby about her new friend, to talk to her about what she was feeling, to see her face. How could she have walked away without so much as a forwarding address? With a long sigh, she closed her book, stood, and inhaled a breath of light ocean air. She’d deal with Emerson later.
*
In the reference room surrounded by encyclopedias, Beatrice sat at a table fidgeting as she scribbled facts on a notepad, her mind more engrossed in the stream of people entering the room. She tapped her pencil’s eraser against the pad with the rapid flutter of a drum roll until the boy a few seats away gave her an irritated glance. Staring at the meaningless arrangement of letters on the page, she drifted off into a reverie of her lunch with Gwen later that day. Would they dine in the campus café or hopefully walk to a nearby luncheonette crowded with people who would see her with her new, beautiful friend? When her elbow slipped off the edge of the encyclopedia and landed hard on the desk, she winced and tried to refocus on her research.
“Hey there, Darby,” Gwen said in a loud whisper. “I’m sorry I’m late. I must’ve rolled over after I hit the alarm. What a goof.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’d lost all track of time anyway,” she lied, slapping the shiny encyclopedia page for emphasis.
Gwen skidded into the chair next to Beatrice, her large open purse spewing its contents on the table. Lipstick tubes, chewed pencils, loose change, and elastics for her honey-blond hair landed on Beatrice’s notepad.
“Oh, sorry about that.” Gwen cupped her delicate hands to scoop up her things.
“That’s okay. Here you go.” As she handed Gwen some nickels and dimes, her whole arm tingled when Gwen swept the change from her hand.
“Let me go get my books, and then I’ll tell you what I’m up to next weekend.” Gwen got up and disappeared into the World History section.
Beatrice shivered at the suggestion. Next weekend? What did Gwen mean by that? She probably just wanted to tell Beatrice about the social escapades she had planned—a date or maybe a party at a sorority house. She couldn’t possibly intend to include Beatrice. Could she?
After a few minutes, Gwen returned to the table buried behind a pile of books.
“I envy you for having the gumption to get yourself started early on these kinds of things.” She let the books cascade through her arms onto the table. “Now I’ve really got to scramble.”
Beatrice smiled to herself. Gwen envied her? All her life she’d dreamed of having what Gwen had—that easy, effervescent personality everyone loved to be around. Instead, she was aloof, bedeviled by a persistent need to keep up her guard.
“I can help you if you need me to,” Beatrice said. “I’m pretty good at writing.”
“You’re a peach. I might have to take you up on that.”
The warmth and sincerity in Gwen’s smile radiated through Beatrice. Before long, they settled into a focused research session, with pencil lead etching words and scribbles on page after page of legal pads. Beatrice made herself ever more helpful to Gwen as she struggled for the appropriate words and phrases for her term paper.
Beatrice found herself staring at Gwen during moments of thought, careful to hide her glances before being caught—most of the time.
“Do I have something on my face?” Gwen finally asked.
“Uh, no, no,” Beatrice stammered. “I was just, uh, trying to figure out what famous actress you look like.”
“Jayne Mansfield,” Gwen said without hesitation. “I’ve gotten that before. Must be the blonde hair and brown eyes ’cause it’s certainly not the boobs.”
She smiled at her joke, but Beatrice was too preoccupied fighting the urge to survey her boobs to appreciate it.
“Maybe the lips, too,” Beatrice added, fascinated by the lusciousness of Gwen’s plump bottom lip.
“Screen-siren lips? That’s a new one,” Gwen said with a smile, “but I’ll take it.”
“You must have a lot of boyfriends,” Beatrice said, dreamily.
“No more than the average girl. You must have a bunch, too.”
“Nah.” Beatrice gazed fiercely into her book, fearing she was on the verge of revealing too much.
“Come on, you don’t date at all?”
“No, I do. I mean I did. I had lots of boyfriends in high school, but of course, I couldn’t take them with me.” She forced a grin, hating that she was such a convincing liar.
“Fret not, my friend. Mixer season is upon us,” Gwen said, pointing an index finger in the air. “We’ll have to start ourselves a new collection.”
“Super,” Beatrice drawled.
*
It was nearly four p.m. by the time they remembered they’d made plans to have lunch together. They settled for the relaxing atmosphere of an off-campus luncheonette that catered strictly to a college clientele.
“Boy, I realize how much of a math person I am every time I try to write one of those papers,” Gwen said, stretching her arms across the Formica restaurant table. “Please, let me buy your sandwich as a thank you.” She aimed her straw at Beatrice’s chest like a blowgun and, in one hard puff, launched the wrapper at her.
Beatrice clutched the paper spear and rolled it into a little ball, too distracted by the implication of Gwen
’s offer to appreciate her playful gesture. “Oh, no, Gwen. That’s really not necessary. I didn’t mind at all.”
“I know you didn’t mind. It’s a little thing I’d like to do.”
Beatrice worried that Gwen somehow knew that the only way she was at Salve was thanks to her scholarship. “I mean if you think I can’t afford to pay—”
“What? No, please don’t view it that way.”
Beatrice looked away, embarrassed by her defensiveness. “I can afford it, you know,” she said softly.
“Sure you can. I just want to thank you,” Gwen said, seeming confused. “Bea, have I offended you?”
Maybe she didn’t know after all.
“No, no, I just, I’m just not used to people offering to buy me lunch.”
Gwen smiled in relief. “Oh, well, if that’s all, then you put that change purse away. Your money’s no good here.”
“If you insist,” Beatrice said, smiling and relaxing into the red vinyl booth.
After a moment of awkward silence, Gwen asked, “So, what type of boy do you go for?”
“Uh, I don’t really have a type. Cute and nice, I guess.”
“Everyone has a type. Do you like the James Dean type or the Troy Donahue type? Roughneck or clean-cut?”
Beatrice’s palms started sweating from Gwen’s persistence on a subject in which she had no interest. “Right now, I’d rather focus on my schoolwork.”
“Well, sure, but you don’t want to spend every Saturday night doing homework, do you?”
“No,” she replied sheepishly. “Is that why you mentioned next weekend earlier?”
“Boys? Oh, no. I’m rushing Delta Lambda next Saturday night. Thought it’d be a hoot.” She shrugged with what seemed moderate interest. “Say, since I know you won’t be busy, how about rushing with me? I’m a legacy so I’m all but guaranteed. I can put in a good word for you.”
Beatrice squirmed. Her shyness made it so difficult for her in large groups. And a large group of girls she’d never met? She shuddered as she flashed to the horror show her gym class had been earlier that year—all those girls ganging up on her, trying to expose her, laughing while doing so.
“Ah, I don’t know, Gwen. I don’t think I’m sorority material.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gwen said. “What is sorority material anyway?”
Beatrice’s knees started knocking wildly under the table. “I’m not really that outgoing, and even though I’ve had plenty of dates, I’m kind of shy around boys.”
“Then joining a sorority is the perfect remedy. You’ll learn how to be outgoing, and there’ll be plenty of boys to help you break out of your shell.” Gwen chuckled. “If there’s one good thing about sororities, there’s never a shortage of boys to choose from. Now what do you say?”
Gwen’s dazzling smile was too much for Beatrice. How could she possibly refuse?
*
The harvest moon shone big and orange as they approached the steps to the Delta Lambda house, a white, two-story clapboard with pink cornice and shutters. Beatrice stopped for the third time to scratch her calves, which had broken out in unbearable hives.
“Are you nervous or something?” Gwen finally asked.
“Aren’t you?”
“Nah. What’s to be nervous about? My mom pledged in ’34, so I’m not sweating it. They’ll probably accept me, but if they don’t, it’s no skin off my apple.”
Beatrice ambled over to the steps and sat. “If it’s all the same, I’ll wait here for you.”
“It’s not all the same. Now don’t be a party pooper. I even did your hair and makeup all nice and snazzy for the occasion.”
“I know, Gwen, but I just don’t feel like I’ll fit in. You go ahead.” Beatrice looked away to hide her pooling eyes.
Gwen sat down next to her. “Why don’t you at least meet the girls before you abandon the idea?”
Beatrice tapped her shoe on the step.
“Come on, Bea.” Gwen nudged her playfully. “You don’t want to be unpoopular, do you? You don’t want to pop out at parties.”
Beatrice tried to resist a grin as she recognized the lines from her favorite I Love Lucy episode. “The answer to all your problems is in this bittle lottle.”
“Atta girl.” Gwen hoisted Beatrice to her feet by her armpit. “Come on. Let’s go face the firing squad.”
“Couldn’t you have phrased that some other way?”
Gwen giggled and threw her arm around Beatrice as they went inside.
*
Beatrice spent most of the hour-long ceremony cowering on a lopsided tweed sofa in the Delta Lambda sitting room. She’d watched Gwen win acceptance without much ado but grew increasingly uncomfortable as she witnessed each subsequent candidate get grilled. A few pledges fell victim to the randomness of the black ball, while others were summarily rejected for not possessing the right look or pedigree. As the night went on, she realized she would end up being the last to face the panel of girls with folded arms and menacing glares, a small favor for which she was immensely grateful.
When Shirley Dandridge was called forth to face the inquisitionist, she approached and tripped on her own heels, eliciting roaring cackles from the rest of the girls. Her kinky red hair and crooked eyeglasses were equivalent to wearing a giant bull’s eye on her chest.
“Miss Dandridge,” Claire Billingsley, Delta’s president, began. “What prompted you to attempt to join our illustrious sorority?”
Shirley cleared her throat and began speaking slowly and deliberately. “Well, I want to spend my time here at Salve with an organization dedicated to doing good deeds for the community and making a difference in the world.”
To everyone’s surprise, the panel burst into laughter, evidently a private joke.
“That’s very commendable, Miss Dandridge,” Claire said, pacing in front of her like Perry Mason. “But first we must ask you a series of questions to ensure your character measures up to the high standards set decades ago by our foremothers. Are you ready?”
Shirley fidgeted in the hard wooden dining-room chair and nodded.
“If you’re accepted as a Delta Lambda, would you lay down your own life to save the life of one of your sisters?”
“Of course,” Shirley said, sounding considerably less sure than her words proclaimed.
Claire dispatched a look to the other girls on the panel and smirked as one girl elbowed another, who giggled aloud. Beatrice crossed and uncrossed her legs, sensing this wouldn’t turn out well for Shirley.
“Do you know who your father is, Shirley?”
Shirley glanced around, seeming confused. “Sure, I do. William Dandridge.”
“How can you be sure?” Claire asked.
“Well, ’cause I’m sure,” Shirley said, her voice quavering. “My mom always says I have his smile.”
Claire stared at her for what seemed like an hour with eyes sparkling full of mock sympathy. “Shirley, we’ve done some investigating, and I’m sorry to say that we’ve determined that Mr. William Dandridge is not your real father.”
A snicker came from the panel as several of the girls in the room gasped. Even Beatrice was drawn in.
“What are you talking about?” Shirley asked.
“Is it not true that the identity of your real father, given the color of your hair and your speckled complexion, is, in fact—Howdy Doody?”
The room erupted into laughter, all except for Gwen and Beatrice, who watched in suspense and surprise. Shirley sat silently, paralyzed by the mocking laughter.
“Which leads us to believe then that your natural mother can be none other than—Clarabell the Clown.”
Laughter erupted again, this time with girls doubling over and falling to the floor. Someone hurled a bucketful of wet, mushy beans into Shirley’s lap as another girl approached her and tried to place a red clown’s nose on her face. When the inquisition panel began chanting “Howdy Doody, Howdy Doody” in demonic unison, Shirley couldn’t take any more and
ran, skirt sodden with beans, out of the room and out the door.
Claire signaled with her hands for the girls to calm down. “Unfortunately, ladies, sometimes it isn’t pretty weeding out the undesirables, but as you know, this process is a necessary evil. Shirley Dandridge is clearly not of Delta Lambda ilk.”
Beatrice whispered in Gwen’s ear. “That was awful. I can’t do this.”
“It’ll be okay. They’ll go easy on you. They know you’re with me.”
“Last but not least, Beatrice Darby. Please approach the panel, Miss Darby.”
She rose from the couch, mildly reassured by Gwen’s words. After flicking a bean off the chair, she sank into the hot seat and looked Claire directly in the eyes with a polite smile. She remembered her father telling her to look people in the eyes whenever they talked to her, man or woman. He said it would make her appear confident even if she wasn’t.
Claire stood before Beatrice with a phony smile, scrutinizing her from head to toe. Beatrice didn’t know which was worse—being laughed at or being on the receiving end of Claire’s silent scorn. She cleared her throat though nothing was obstructing it.
Claire finally broke the awful silence. “I have ESP. Did you know that, Beatrice?”
“You have what?” She glanced over at Gwen.
“Extra…Sensory…Perception,” she drawled like Beatrice was half deaf. “I can tell things about people just by looking at them—things they’d never want anyone else to know—their deepest, darkest secrets.”
Beatrice’s stomach plummeted. What the hell was Claire talking about? ESP wasn’t real. Claire’s eyes bore into hers without even blinking. Or was it? Could someone actually be capable of detecting the feelings for Gwen she’d been careful to conceal since their friendship began? Did they know what she imagined doing with Gwen, the things that made her feel dirty, images she fought so hard until she couldn’t fight them anymore?
“I don’t believe in that,” she said, her mouth lined with cotton.
The Revelation of Beatrice Darby Page 6