This was the sort of thing Jane might have expected from her mother. “Well, may I, Mom? I haven’t a thing to wear tonight.”
“I don’t think so, dear.” Mrs. Purdy was pleasant but definite. “There are lots of girls who would be glad to have your pretty clothes. Besides, you are only going to walk five blocks to the neighborhood movie.”
That was Mom, always dragging “lots of girls” into arguments. And you’d think she could understand how important those five blocks were. “But, Mom—”
“Jane.” Mrs. Purdy sighed. “I don’t know what’s come over you. It wasn’t so long ago that I had a terrible time getting you out of play clothes and sneakers.”
And now that I want to dress up, you won’t let me charge anything, thought Jane, and it was her turn to sigh. Sometimes she, too, wondered what had come over her.
Jane spent half an hour pressing her blue princess dress and suffering qualms about herself. What would she say to Stan? She could ask him how long he had lived in Woodmont and where he had lived before. That would take up part of the time, but what could she talk about after that? The Teen Corner in the newspaper advised girls to ask questions about boys’ interests, but she couldn’t come right out and say, “What are you interested in?” If she said, “Are you interested in sports?” he might turn out to be a rugby fan or excited about something else she knew nothing about. Maybe she had better start reading the sport sections after this. And if he did take her to Nibley’s, would she know how to act? Going there in the evening with a boy was not the same as dropping in with Julie after school.
Cleaning her white Capezio slippers and painting her nails with Rosy Rapture polish took a good part of the afternoon. It was not until nearly three o’clock, as she wafted her damp fingertips back and forth to dry them, that Jane began to have qualms about Stan. What if he came in a T-shirt and jeans? Or one of those gaudy sport shirts with the tail hanging out? A plain sport shirt with the tail tucked in would be all right for a movie date in Woodmont, but not a T-shirt or a figured sport shirt. But he won’t, he can’t, she thought. He was not that kind of boy. And all at once she was no longer sure what kind of boy Stan was. Maybe he was the kind who would drive up and toot and expect her to come running out—as if her mother would let her. Or maybe he would chew gum and snap it and guffaw at the love scenes in the movie. Maybe he wouldn’t know how to talk to her mother and father, or maybe he would walk on the inside of the sidewalk and let her walk beside the curb. Maybe he would turn out to be like George and buy ice-cream cones to eat on the way home and lick his cone the way George did. Maybe he even had a rock collection like George and, like George, a scientific mind. Maybe she would have to listen to him tell about finding an unusual piece of contorted gneiss in the Sierras. George never picked up rocks that were just pretty. He always found specimens that he called by the exact scientific name.
Then Jane looked around the Purdy living room and wondered if she should try to get her mother to call in an interior decorator, now that she was going to have dates. She decided against it. The rug was worn by the door and one chair was pretty shabby where Sir Puss insisted on sharpening his claws on it, but the room was pleasant and comfortable.
Just before dinner Jane took the bobby pins out of her hair, because her father did not allow her to come to the table with her hair in pin curls. He said it spoiled his appetite to realize he had a pinhead for a daughter. It was not until she was seated at the table that Jane began to have qualms about her parents. Between bites of salad she considered them with a feeling of great detachment, as if she were seeing them for the first time. On the whole, she found them presentable, but she did wish her mother would put on some stockings and wear a dress instead of that striped cotton skirt and red blouse. It was so undignified for a mother who was practically forty and very old-fashioned to go around with bare legs, even if they were tanned, and to wear such gay clothes. Stan might think she didn’t know how to dress. And her father—if only he wouldn’t try to be funny when Stan arrived! His jokes were all right for the family, but he should realize that he had been out of college sixteen years and was too old to go around trying to be funny in front of company. Stan’s father probably didn’t make jokes all the time and Stan might think it was undignified. Jane barely touched the casserole dish, even though it was her favorite—the one her mother called “It Smells to Heaven.” There were onions in it and Jane did not want to breathe onions on Stan at the movie.
After dinner Jane decided the blue dress would not do at all. It was terrible, and how could she ever have thought she could wear it? She hastily pressed a pink blouse to wear with her suit. As soon as she had it pressed she realized it was all wrong and of course she would have to wear the blue dress. Hurriedly she locked herself in the bathroom, where she took a shower and washed her face carefully with a deep pore cleanser. She examined her face critically in the mirror and plucked one more hair out of her right eyebrow.
“Jane, you aren’t the only member of the family who uses the bathroom,” Mrs. Purdy reminded her through the bathroom door.
“Okay, Mom.” Jane scurried into her room. She slid the blue dress over her head and slipped into her clean white shoes. It took four attempts to get a straight part in her hair. Then, with a lipstick brush that she kept hidden from her mother, who was inclined to be old-fashioned about makeup, Jane outlined her lips with Rosy Rapture, which all the girls were wearing this summer. She filled in the outline, studied the effect in the mirror, and then blotted off some of the color so she could get out of the house without her mother’s saying, “Really, Jane, I do wish you wouldn’t wear so much lipstick.” A light dusting of powder on her nose came next. Finally she studied herself carefully and snipped off two wisps of hair with her manicure scissors. Then she was ready.
At five minutes to seven Jane walked into the living room and looked around with a critical eye. She was pleased to see a bowl of fresh begonias, vivid as flames, on the coffee table. Thank goodness her mother had changed to a dark linen dress and had put on stockings, and her father, who was wearing a plain tan sport shirt, had put on his horn-rimmed glasses to read the evening paper. He looked almost dignified. Even Sir Puss was stretched out on the rug, languidly patting at his rubber mouse with one paw and behaving properly for a cat. Now if they would all stay that way and not move until Stan came, everything would be all right.
“Well, how about it, Jane?” her father asked jovially. “Do we pass inspection?”
“Pop, just this once, please don’t try to be funny,” implored Jane as she sat carefully on the edge of a chair so she would not wrinkle her dress. Her mouth was dry and her hands felt cold. Her thoughts were anxious. In five more minutes…he did say tonight, didn’t he…tonight and not next Saturday? In three more minutes…Please, Stan, don’t be late! And please, please be as nice as I think you are.
At exactly seven o’clock Jane heard someone coming up the front steps. She had not heard a car stop in front of the house, so that was one problem she would not have to meet this evening.
“Hist!” said Mr. Purdy in a stage whisper from behind his paper. “I hear footsteps approaching.”
“Pop!” begged Jane, starting from her chair even though she had anticipated the sound of the doorbell. Sir Puss jumped up and glared, annoyed at this disturbance of his peace.
Jane opened the door. “Hello, Stan,” she murmured, suddenly feeling shy. “Won’t you come in?”
“Hello, Jane.” Stan stepped into the living room. He was even more attractive than Jane remembered. His greenish eyes and the dip in his hair were the same, but he was wearing gray flannel slacks, a white sport shirt, and a green sweater—not cashmere, but a good-looking wool. His manner no longer seemed easy and casual as it had yesterday when he delivered the horsemeat. Now he appeared serious, even a little nervous, as if he, too, were not quite sure how this date might turn out. He was a boy any girl would be proud to introduce to her parents.
“Uh…Mother, may
I present Stan Crandall?” said Jane carefully.
“Hello, Stan,” said Mrs. Purdy warmly, and Jane was proud of her.
“How do you do, Mrs. Purdy?” Stan answered.
The anxiety that had tormented Jane all afternoon now began to fade. “And Father, this is Stan Crandall.”
Mr. Purdy rose from his chair and extended his hand. Stan stepped forward to shake hands and, as Jane watched helplessly, seeing what was about to happen, he trod squarely on Sir Puss’s rubber mouse. The mouse gave out a piercing squeak. Stan jumped and turned red to the tips of his ears.
“Oh!” gasped Jane, embarrassed and ashamed that she had not foreseen this. That cat!
Gamely Stan grasped Mr. Purdy’s hand and said, as if nothing had happened, “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Won’t you sit down?” invited Mr. Purdy. Stan glanced uncertainly at Jane and remained standing.
In her relief that introductions were over, Jane leaned against the end of the sofa. So far so good, in spite of the rubber mouse. Now what happens, she wondered. Should they talk awhile, or should she suggest that they leave, or should she wait for him to suggest it?
Mr. Purdy sat down again, but Stan remained standing. “That’s a handsome cat you have,” he remarked.
Sir Puss stared balefully at the visitor, then sat down, hoisted his hind leg, and began deliberately to wash.
Inwardly Jane squirmed with embarrassment. Leave it to Sir Puss! You’d think he was the most important member of the family, the way he acted. Why, oh, why did he have to choose this particular moment, when everyone was looking at him, to wash his bottom? And be so industrious about it. Why couldn’t he wash his face prettily? And why did Stan have to stand there so awkwardly? Why didn’t he sit down?
“Yes, he’s a mighty fine cat,” agreed Mr. Purdy. “And he’s a good hunter. Keeps the garden free of gophers.”
Jane shifted her weight from one foot to the other and wished her father would not get started on Sir Puss. If only Stan would sit down instead of standing there looking so ill at ease. Jane wished desperately she could push him into a chair. He should know better than to stand there when her father had asked him to sit down. Then she caught her mother’s eye. Mrs. Purdy frowned ever so slightly and looked meaningfully at the place beside her on the sofa. Jane understood the message and, crimson with embarrassment, hastily sat down. Of course she should have realized that a boy with such nice manners as Stan’s would not be seated while she was standing. How could she ever have done such an awkward thing? Now Stan would think she didn’t know any better. In spite of her humiliation, Jane was tremendously relieved when at last Stan sat down.
“Yes, he’s a great cat,” Mr. Purdy went on, as if a crisis had not taken place before his eyes. “He always wants to be praised when he catches a gopher. If he can find an open window he will jump into the house with the gopher in his mouth. He weighs fourteen pounds and he lands with a thud that wakes up everyone in the house. You might say—”
Pop, implored Jane silently, not that joke. Please, not that old joke. It was all right for the family, but maybe Stan hadn’t read the poem about the fog coming on little cat feet. He might not get the point.
“You might say,” Mr. Purdy went on, “that what we need around here is a cat that comes on little fog feet.”
Stan laughed—a natural, boyish laugh. In spite of her annoyance with her father, Jane smiled. So Stan had also read the poem in his English I class. That was good to know. It gave them something in common. Now if she could just get her father to stop talking about Sir Puss and keep him from getting started on his begonias, maybe they could go on to the movies. But now that Stan was finally seated, how on earth was she going to get him up again? If she stood up he would probably get to his feet too, but that did not seem the way to do it. Sitting down and standing up had always been such a simple process until now. Suddenly life seemed unbearably complicated.
Not knowing what else to do, Jane smiled timidly across the room at Stan, who seemed to understand. “Perhaps we should go,” he said, “if we want to catch the beginning of the movie.”
“Yes, I think we should,” agreed Jane. She rose from the sofa, an act that brought Stan to his feet. She went to the hall closet and pulled her short white coat from the hanger. Another uncomfortable moment came when Stan took the coat from her to help her into it, and her arm missed the left sleeve twice before she groped her way into it. She was sure Stan would think she was not used to having a boy help her on with her coat. And how right he would be!
“Mrs. Purdy, is it all right if I have Jane home by ten thirty?” Stan asked.
Jane could tell her mother was pleased to have Stan ask this question. She herself would have preferred Stan to think she was old enough to come in whenever she wanted to; but on the other hand, if she wanted more dates with him, it was a good idea to please her parents. And it was pleasant to feel protected as long as it was Stan and not her parents who was doing the protecting.
“Yes, I think ten thirty is late enough for her to be out,” said Mrs. Purdy. She smiled encouragingly at Stan, while Jane did some rapid mental arithmetic. About two and a half hours for a single feature, cartoon, and newsreel; fifty-five minutes at Nibley’s; and five minutes to walk home.
“I’ll have her back by then,” Stan promised.
“Have a good time, kids,” said Mr. Purdy.
Kids! Pop would have to call them kids. Oh, well, thought Jane, what difference did it make? She was starting out on a date with Stan, and he was every bit as nice as she had thought he would be.
“I hope you don’t mind walking,” said Stan when they were outside. “Dad won’t let me have the car very often.”
“It’s a lovely evening to walk,” answered Jane. So his father did let him have the car sometimes! “Have you lived in Woodmont long?”
“A little over a month,” said Stan. “We lived in the city, but my folks decided to move over here to get out of the fog. Dad commutes to the city now.”
“We have fog here too,” said Jane, to keep the conversation going. She noticed that Stan walked on the outside of the sidewalk.
“Yes, but not like the fog in the city. It really dripped, out where we lived.”
Jane wanted to find out as much as she could about Stan in the five blocks to the movie. “Where do you live in Woodmont?” she asked.
“On Poppy Lane,” he said. “It’s sure nice over there. We have an acacia tree in the front yard and a big fig tree in back.”
Poppy Lane. About a mile from the Purdys’; on the other side of the shopping district, but in the same kind of neighborhood. If the Crandalls had a fig tree in the backyard, their house must be fairly old, like the Purdys’, and that meant they were neither very rich nor very poor. Just average. Jane smiled to herself. Things were working out better than she had dared hope.
By the time they reached the Woodmont Theater, Jane had learned that Stan, besides his younger sister, had one who was two years older than he was and that he would enter his junior year at Woodmont High in September. In the meantime, he had this job working for the Doggie Diner, because his cousin owned the business and because he liked dogs and planned to be a veterinarian when he finished college. He does have a purpose, Jane told herself triumphantly. Conversation was not so difficult, after all, and the five blocks were much too short. Stan was soon pushing his money through the hole in the glass window of the Woodmont Theater ticket booth.
Afterward Jane realized she had been too busy turning over in her mind all that she had learned about Stan to remember much about the movie they saw together. It began with a schoolmarm getting out of a stagecoach while a lone horseman rode into town, and it ended with a kiss against a technicolor sky, and in between there was a fight in a saloon, shooting on the street, the sound of horses’ hooves in the night, and something about a mortgage. What Jane did remember clearly were the admiring glances of several Woodmont High girls who had seen them take seats just before
the lights were lowered, and Stan’s shoulder above hers, and the way their elbows kept bumping accidentally until she folded her hands in her lap. She did not want Stan to think she was the kind of girl who expected to have her hand held just because she was sitting in the dark with a boy.
After the movie Stan said, “How about stopping at Nibley’s? We still have time.”
“Okay,” agreed Jane happily, and the two walked half a block down the street to Nibley’s Confectionery and Soda Fountain. Once inside, Jane could not decide whether it would be better to sit in a booth in the back, where she would be sure to have Stan all to herself, or whether it would be better to sit toward the front, where she could show him off to the rest of the crowd. She nodded and spoke to a boy who had been in her history class, a girl from her gym class, and two more from her registration room, and hoped she was behaving as casually as if she were used to walking into Nibley’s with a good-looking boy. The girls spoke to Jane, but they looked at Stan. Jane noticed wistfulness, envy, or just curiosity on their faces—depending, Jane decided, on whether they were with other girls, boys they didn’t like much, or dates they really liked. It was, Jane felt, a very satisfactory experience.
Jane was surprised that Stan, who had lived in Woodmont only a month, knew so many people and could call them by name. They couldn’t all have dogs that ate Doggie Diner horsemeat. Stan guided her into the only unoccupied booth, which was toward the front. Jane looked around her at the signs painted on the mirror behind the milk shake machines and remembered that only yesterday she had imagined herself sitting at the counter catching the eye of some strange boy in that mirror. Now she felt sorry for the girls who were sitting together at the counter sipping Cokes and watching the door to see who would come in next. The jukebox began to play Love Me on Monday, and Jane watched its colors turn and shift and thought how much they looked like fruits that boiled in the kettle when her mother made jam. The slow, rolling-boil stage, the cookbooks called it. Jane brushed this irrelevant thought out of her mind. She was wasting precious time that she could spend talking to Stan.
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