He clambered out from under the table, and he and the four girls went into the living room, where they arranged themselves in a tidy semicircle. Mary played “Silent Night, Holy Night” and “The March of the Toy Soldiers.” She struck so many wrong notes that they gave up trying to figure out exactly what it was she was playing. It was weird, Jenny thought, looking around at all of them, their hands clasped in their laps as they listened to Mary butcher the music. Out in the kitchen Harpo and his pal shouted and laughed themselves sick. Jenny thought she heard the refrigerator door open again and wondered if they were going to drink all her father’s beer.
At last Mary stopped playing. “We better push off,” Sue said. She and Tina left.
“You better get those creeps out of here,” Jenny told the boy. “Our father will be home soon.”
“O.K.,” he said. They went to the kitchen door and looked in. Harpo and the other boy were sitting at the table, looking dazed and unwell. Four empty beer cans were strewn around.
“If you’re going to throw up,” Mary said, her voice as clear as a mountain stream, “don’t do it here. Get out.”
“You guys are off the wall,” the boy who had climbed under the table said. “We better split before their father gets home.” He led the way. Mary and Jenny watched from behind the curtains. Harpo hit the curb and bent over, retching his little brains out. The other boys took off down the street.
“What a nerd,” Jenny said fiercely. “What a first-class nerd.”
“If Mother had been here, it never would’ve happened,” Mary said, her voice distant and cold. “They wouldn’t have dared. It was a situation beyond our control, that’s all.”
They cleaned up the kitchen. “I’m going to take the beer cans and put them in the trash down at the corner,” Mary said.
“We’ll have to go out and buy four cans so Daddy won’t find out.”
“They won’t let us buy beer—we’re too young.”
“Maybe Mrs. Bates would buy it for us, if we pay her,” Jenny said.
“Why on earth would Mrs. Bates buy beer for you two?” Their father stood there, hot and dusty from his long day. His jacket was slung over his shoulder, and his tie was askew. He looked around and said, “You two been having a party?”
Jenny and Mary looked at each other.
“Sort of,” they said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“That’s exactly what I was afraid of.” Their father shook his head ruefully. “I knew your being here alone day after day would lead to trouble.” They’d explained what had happened, leaving out the throw-up part.
“We didn’t do anything, Daddy.” Mary refused to meet Jenny’s eyes. “They followed us home and just came in. We were all standing in line waiting to try out for being extras, and these boys we sort of know from school were in back of us and, before I knew it, they were walking home behind us, and then they came in and sat down and started drinking your beer. I didn’t ask them in—they just came in.”
“You are too young to deal with something like this. I’m not blaming you,” their father said. “But it never should’ve happened. This is precisely why I suggested calling your grandmother and asking her if you two could stay with her until your mother gets home. I’ll call her right now.”
“Oh, Daddy, please!” they both moaned softly. “Please don’t.”
The telephone rang, making them all jump. Their father said, “I’ll get it,” and from the tone of his voice, they knew better than to argue. He, usually a most agreeable man, was angry, very, very angry.
“Yes? … Who is calling? … Just a minute, please.” He held out the receiver. “It’s for you, Jenny.”
“Yes, it’s Jenny Chisholm.” Jenny listened. “What? Me? You want me?” Her voice cracked with excitement. “Sure. O.K.… Yeah, I’ll be there. Sure. Yes. Right.” She hung up.
Jenny’s eyes shone huge in her thin little face.
“I’m a movie star,” she told them, grinning. “How about that? A movie star. They picked me to be an extra.”
A shaft of pain pierced Mary’s heart. But she smiled bravely.
“Oh, you lucky, you!” Mary cried: She threw her arms around Jenny and squeezed her tight. “Oh, I’m so proud of you, Jen! How wonderful!” It should have been me, Mary thought. Why wasn’t it me?
“They want me to be at the skating rink tomorrow morning at nine. With my ice skates.”
“Ice skates?” their father said. “In July?”
“I can’t believe it.” Jenny walked around the kitchen, snapping her fingers and looking slightly befuddled. Right now, at this moment, she wanted to suck her thumb. Not for its soothing qualities, but because it might calm her down. Like a baby’s pacifier.
“I’ve got to call Sue,” Mary said. “And Tina. I can just hear them when I tell them you were picked and they weren’t. By the way,” she said casually, “that person on the telephone didn’t mention my name, did he?”
Jenny shook her head. “No. They just said they wanted me, Jenny Chisholm, to come at nine tomorrow morning. I don’t know why they chose me—they just did. Probably because I checked I could ice-skate on the questionnaire.”
“But, Jenny—” Mary had already started to dial Susan’s number. In her agitation, she put down the phone. “You skate on your ankles. You know you do. You’re famous for skating on your ankles. How’re you going to skate in a movie if you skate on your ankles?”
“I don’t always.” Jenny defended herself. “Not all the time. Only part of the time. If I lace my skates tight, really tight so I can hardly breathe, I don’t skate on my ankles.”
“After what happened this afternoon,” their father said in a stern voice, not even getting excited about Jenny’s new career, “I am not sanguine about letting one of you go off to film a movie. I’m not at all sure that’s a good idea, Jenny. I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, but I’m leery of this whole thing.”
They drew a deep breath and knew he meant what he said. Jenny’s whole life was at stake, Mary thought. It would be a terrible thing if, because of Scott Borkowski, Jenny missed out on getting her name in lights.
“Daddy, please, it was my fault, not Jenny’s,” Mary said tearfully. “I sort of asked the boys to come here. Well, not exactly, but sort of. You know, the way you do.”
His eyes were very dark as he looked at them.
“She’s never had any boys here before,” Jenny said in a small voice.
Their father pulled a cigarette from his pocket and struck a match. “I think I should call the parents of the boys and tell them what happened,” he said. “I think they should know.”
“Oh, Daddy, please don’t do that,” Mary begged. “They didn’t mean any harm—they just got carried away.”
“They were only showing off, Daddy,” Jenny said. “Showing how cool they were, drinking beer, popping open cans like they were forty years old. They wouldn’t have done it if there’d been a grown-up around.”
What a dumb thing to say. Jenny put her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The words hung on the air.
“Exactly, Jenny. They wouldn’t have done it if there’d been a grown-up present. The situation was out of your control and could easily have turned nasty. That’s the danger, when children, faced with adult situations, are expected to behave as adults.” Their father puffed angrily on his cigarette. They watched his face anxiously, trying to figure out which way he would turn.
If he doesn’t let her go to the skating rink tomorrow, Mary thought, Jenny will die. He’s got to let her go. It wouldn’t be fair if he said no, and Daddy’s always fair. He’s got to let her go. He let Mother go, didn’t he?
“You could come with me, Daddy, to check everything out.” Jenny smiled weakly. “Tomorrow, I mean.” Where had she left her ice skates? She couldn’t remember. Her mother would know. “Wear what you’d wear to skate in the winter,” the voice on the telephone had said. Lucky for her he’d said that. She might’ve gone in her shorts. Pe
ople didn’t skate in shorts, ever. Did they? Maybe in the movies.
Please, Daddy, Jenny prayed silently. Don’t call Scott Borkowski’s parents. Mary would die of embarrassment. Everybody in school would find out what had happened and make fun of her. They’d never believe Scott Borkowski would be the bad guy, would behave like that. Scott Borkowski was a hero. A star. You had to watch it when dealing with stars, Jenny knew. They were special. Stars and heroes were always in the right. The guys in the white hats, instead of the guys in the black hats, who were the villains. Scott Borkowski wore a white hat. He could get away with things ordinary people couldn’t.
Sometimes it seems that things that happen on television or in the movies never happen in real life. Like Jenny being chosen to be an extra. Like the telephone ringing at a very crucial moment.
Now that’s what happened.
Their father sat, scowling, trying to decide what to do. Trying to decide if he should call Scott Borkowski’s parents, trying to decide if he should allow Jenny to go to the skating rink tomorrow. Jenny and Mary held their breath, waiting.
And then the telephone rang. All three of them jumped. Their father picked up the receiver, continuing to scowl, as if the telephone were, in some way, responsible for the whole muddle.
“Yes,” he snapped, very unlike his usual polite self.
“Yes.” His voice changed, softened. “I’ll accept the charges.”
Their mother was the only person who called collect. It was, had to be, their mother.
“Hello. I was beginning to worry.… No, we haven’t heard from you in a while. You know the mail these days.”
He stopped, listening to what their mother had to say, and Jenny, remembering the postcard she’d hidden under the dirty clothes, slapped herself on her forehead, hard.
“What are you doing?” Mary’s voice rose. “Quit that. You might damage your brain, and if you did that, you’d really be up the creek.”
“Yeah, with only one oar in the water, har de har,” said Jenny.
Their father listened for some time to whatever it was their mother had to say. They could hear her voice, first speaking rapidly, then slowing down. She was nervous and excited; they could tell. Their father’s face told them nothing.
They hung around, and when he showed no sign of handing over the telephone to them, they snuck into the hall.
“What are we going to do?” Jenny wailed. “If he doesn’t let me go, I’ll die.”
“I know.” Mary nodded. “And if he calls Scott Borkowski’s father, I’ll die too.”
“Well”—Jenny turned suddenly philosophical—“I guess we’ll have quite a few dead bodies lying around here.”
“Shhh.” Mary put her finger to her lips. “I think Daddy’s hung up.” They listened hard and heard nothing, so they went back to the kitchen. Their father sat where they’d left him, smoking another cigarette.
“Your mother’s coming home,” he said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow or the next day. It depends on transportation. She wasn’t sure.”
“How come she’s not coming back in the van with the others?”
“Well, it seems she’d been promised the female lead in Our Town and wanted the role very badly. Then the director backed down and gave the role to someone else. Your mother’s upset. She really wanted the part.” For the first time that evening their father seemed relaxed, his old self. “So she’s decided to come home.
“So.” He looked at them. “I guess that solves our problems. For the time being, anyway.”
“Does that mean I get to go tomorrow?” Jenny asked in a small voice.
“Yes,” he said. “You can go. But I’ll go with you, just to check things out.”
Jenny raced from the room, and the noise her feet made clattering up the stairs was loud, very loud.
“Where are you going?” Mary shouted.
“To find my ice skates!” Jenny hollered back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Old Mrs. Carruthers rose to greet the pink dawn. It was going to be a scorcher. August first, Mama’s birthday, always was. Mrs. Carruthers went out to the porch in her robe and slippers, followed by her cat, Pebbles. They were the only two living creatures stirring.
A child zoomed by on a bike. It was Jenny.
“What are you doing up so early?” Mrs. Carruthers called out. Jenny jammed on her brakes. Her smile rode from ear to ear.
“I have to be in a movie today,” she said, her eyes and feet dancing. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to ride my bike until Mary and my father wake up.” Reluctantly she sat down on Mrs. Carruthers’ top step. It was hard for her to sit still today.
“You’re to be in a movie?” Mrs. Carruthers said. “That is exciting.” If Jenny had told her she was going to Venus or Mars, Mrs. Carruthers would have taken it in stride. The world was different from what it had been, and she prided herself on adjusting to the times.
“They picked me to be an extra,” Jenny said. “Me and Mary and some friends went to the church hall to try out. I couldn’t believe they picked me instead of Mary, but they did. I have to be at the skating rink at nine. My father’s coming with me on account of my mother’s still away, and he wants to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up.
“Have you ever been in a movie, Mrs. Carruthers?”
“No, but dear Mama played the piano in our local theater when movies were silent. I was in love with Rudolph Valentino, you see. He was a big star then. Oh, but he was handsome!” Mrs. Carruthers’ hand went to her chest, and her eyelids fluttered, illustrating how handsome Rudolph Valentino had been. “And Clara Bow. And Theda Bara. In those days they had stars, if you know what I mean. Real stars. Not like today.”
“Have you ever heard of Gloria Swanson?” Jenny asked.
“Well, of course. Everybody knew who Gloria Swanson was. I never cared much for her, but she was a big star. She died not long ago, I read, and she was only eighty-four.” Mrs. Carruthers’ voice held a touch of scorn for anyone dying so young. “But she had star shine, like the others. Real star shine. Anything those people did was all right. Some of them did scandalous things, too. Oh, I won’t go into that, but those actors and actresses got away with murder. People will put up with anything if there’s sufficient star shine. If their neighbors had done some of the things those stars did, why, they would’ve been run out of town on a rail. Their star shine protected them, you see. Still does, if I can believe the things I read. Oh, the things that go on under the guise of art! Those celebrities throw away the rule book and do their own thing. Isn’t that what they say—do your own thing?” Mrs. Carruthers sniffed in disdain. “Do your own thing indeed.”
“I have to split now,” Jenny said. “I have to go home and find my skates and my heavy sweater.”
“On a day like this?” Mrs. Carruthers’ eyebrows shot up.
“The rink’s air conditioned so the ice won’t melt. It’ll be just like winter inside.”
“Imagine. Ice skating in August. Is your mother on holiday, then?”
“No, I guess you could say she’s doing her own thing,” Jenny said, not having thought of it that way before. “She’s off acting in a Little Theater group. She’s always wanted to be an actress, and she got this chance, so she went.”
“Who’s taking care of you and your sister?”
“My father. But we’re very good at taking care of ourselves. Only once in a while we wish she was here.”
“I bet you do. Stop by and tell me how it went. I’d love to hear what it’s like to be in a movie.”
“Sure, Mrs. Carruthers, I will. I promise. Good-bye, good-bye,” and Jenny hopped on her bike and scooted homeward.
The sun grinned redly down on Mrs. Carruthers, who shook her head slowly as she went inside to feed Pebbles. Nothing surprised her anymore.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Four kids from Jenny’s class were hanging around the side door of the rink when she and Mary and their father arrived at
9:01. They pointed at Jenny and whispered among themselves. Jenny marched up to them, skates clanging on her shoulder, and said, “Daddy, this is Danielle, Michelle, Nicole, and Spider. They’re in my class at school.”
Danielle, Michelle, Nicole, and Spider had the grace to blush.
“Hey,” they said as one. “You skating today?”
“Yep.” Jenny didn’t want them to know her father was here to quiz the guy in charge before he’d let her be in the movie, so she said, “The guy out front said he was looking for some other kids who can skate in case some of the ones they picked don’t show up due to a toothache or something.”
As one, Danielle, Michelle, Nicole, and Spider dashed around the corner of the building, hoping to be first in the replacement line.
“I got rid of them pretty fast, didn’t I?” Jenny said.
“Can you tell me who’s in charge here?” their father asked a bearded man who happened to be passing.
The man poked a thumb over his shoulder. “Guy back there with a beard,” he said.
They all had beards. “I’ve never seen so many beards in my entire life,” Mary said.
“It’s a sort of a macho statement.” Jenny shrugged.
“Either that or they’ve all got weak chins. You the man in charge?” their father asked a tall, bearded man whose long dark hair stuck out on either side of his baseball cap. The peak of the cap was extra long, so long it made the man look like an anteater. Jenny thought maybe it was one of those trick hats with the hair glued onto it, and when the man took it off, the hair would come with it. If that was the case, she hoped she’d be around.
“I’m Norm Dubie, the director,” the man said. “Can I help you?”
Their father introduced himself. “These are my daughters, Mary and Jenny,” he said. “Jenny had a call last night from someone who said she’d been chosen as an extra to skate in your movie today. I’m here to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up.”
Mary and Jenny cringed, thinking their father shouldn’t have said that. But Norm Dubie said, “Good for you. More parents should be more careful about what their kids do, where they go. Anna”—he hailed a thin girl walking by carrying a clipboard—“have we got Jenny Chisholm on our list for today’s filming?”
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