Fifteen

by Beverly Cleary

  Nadine, a pale, spindling child, was curled up in a chair with a book. “Hello, Jane,” she said, barely lifting her eyes from The Pinto Stallion Revolts Again long enough to peer at her sitter through her glasses. From time to time she sniffed. Nadine was allergic to cats and house dust, and although the Lashbrooks did not keep a cat, no one had ever figured out what to do about house dust.

  “We should be home by eleven. The number is beside the telephone in case you want us,” said Mrs. Lashbrook. Noticing Jane’s pile of books, she added, “You may use Mr. Lashbrook’s desk if you wish,” and cleared a pile of papers out of the way. “Good night, girls. Go to bed at nine, won’t you, Nadine?”

  “Yes,” said Nadine, turning a page and reading avidly.

  Jane sat down at the big desk that faced the room and the view, and briskly prepared to study. She opened her notebook, got out several sheets of paper, and pulled her English book out of the stack of texts. Brilliant students did not waste time. Then she read the assignment. “Rewrite a scene from Julius Caesar in modern English.” Feeling pleasantly intellectual to be spending part of her evening with Shakespeare, Jane flipped through the book until she found the play.

  Nadine gave a loud sniff, rose from her chair, and without raising her eyes from her book, walked across the room, took an apple from the bowl on the coffee table, returned to her chair, and curled up again.

  You’d think she’d trip over something, thought Jane, and turned to Shakespeare. Nadine gave a loud sniff and crunched into the apple.

  Jane read, “Act One. Scene One. Rome. A street. Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners.” There didn’t seem to be anything to change about that. It was modern enough. She read on. “Flavius. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday?” Jane considered this. Because she was full of intellectual curiosity this evening, she consulted the cast of characters to see who this Flavius was. He was a tribune. Some sort of old Roman army officer, she thought, although today a tribune sounded more like a newspaper.

  Nadine sniffed again, chewed noisily, and stopped abruptly.

  Jane waited. Well, go on and chew, she thought. Finish the bite. Nadine turned a page and, except for the snapping of the fire, the room was silent. Suddenly she began to chew vigorously once more.

  She must have come to an exciting part of the story, Jane thought. Now to get back to Shakespeare. “Hence! home, you idle creatures” in modern English? Jane stared out the window at the lights on the bridges, strung like two golden necklaces across the bay. After a moment’s thought she wrote down, “Flavius. Scram!” She looked critically at her work. This was not right. This did not fit into the picture of herself as a brilliant student. Miss Locke had said modern English, not slang.

  Nadine had eaten the skin off the apple and was now gnawing her way around the core in a series of rapid nibbles without pausing to take the apple away from her mouth. Nibble, nibble, sniff. Silence.

  Well, go on, thought Jane, distracted from Julius Caesar. Go on, chew it. Nadine prolonged the silence and suddenly began to eat again. Nibble, nibble, nibble, sniff. Jane relaxed. She crossed out “Scram” and wrote down, “Flavius. Go home.” Somehow that was not the effect she wanted to achieve, either. This old tribune Flavius should be more forceful. He shouldn’t sound as if he were ordering a dog out of a begonia bed. No, this was not the sort of thing a brilliant student would write. However, if Flavius could sort of orate instead of just yelling, “Go home,” it might sound more intellectual. Jane wondered if Miss Locke would object to the addition of directions. “Flavius (orating). Go home.” Most likely Miss Locke would not approve. She would want her students to think of a forceful phrase that would convey the meaning without directions. That was Miss Locke for you.

  The nibbles grew smaller and faster as Nadine turned the apple core in her fingers. She’ll be eating the whole thing, seeds and all, if she doesn’t look at it once in a while, thought Jane, as she looked up from Julius Caesar. Through the window she noticed soft fingers of fog slipping across the bay. She found herself thinking of Stan and the night in the city when he had touched her fog-damp hair and smiled at her. And now he was dancing with another girl, someone he liked better than Jane. Who could she be, Jane wondered. Someone from one of his classes, or a girl who lived near him? And would he touch her hair and smile down at her, too? But she must not think about it. Resolutely Jane turned back to her work and studied the next phrase, “you idle creatures.” Now what did that mean? Were these men lazy or were they unemployed?

  Somewhere in the house a clock struck nine. Nadine stood up and tossed her apple core into the fireplace. “Good night,” she said and, still reading, walked out of the room.

  “Good night, Nadine,” answered Jane, marveling that the girl did not bump into the furniture.

  The eucalyptus log in the fireplace burned through and sank into a pile of coals. A chill and a silence, magnified by the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, settled over the house. This was the lonely hour of babysitting, when the house was still and the minutes began to drag. Two more hours. Jane sat staring at the first scene in Julius Caesar until the sound of the furnace turning itself on made her start. Quietly she closed her book. She did not want to be a brilliant student. She did not want to be intellectually curious. She wanted to be Stan’s girl, dancing with him in the gymnasium of Woodmont High.

  Jane walked to the window and stood looking out over the lights of the town at the fog that billowed over the bay, blotting out the bridges and the city. The sound of a car driving up the road only made the house seem lonelier. In the distance the foghorns had begun their melancholy chorus. Yoo-hoo boomed a horn far away. Yoo-hoo, Come back moaned another near the bridge. Come back.

  Jane pressed her forehead against the cool glass. The dance had started and Stan was dancing with the other girl, the girl he had asked because he did not want to take Jane. And when the girl singer who had made the record that was tenth place on the Hit Parade began to sing, everyone would stop dancing and gather round the bandstand. Stan and the girl would stand close together and Stan would put his arm around the girl….

  Tomorrow Jane would know who the girl was. Julie would tell her, but she might never know why Stan had invited the girl to go to the dance. The humiliation that Jane had felt turned to something else—grief perhaps, or regret. Regret that she had not known how to act with a boy, regret that she had not been wiser. Perhaps next year when she was sixteen…

  The creeping fingers of fog began to blot out the lights of Woodmont below. Come back, come back moaned the foghorn, only to be mocked in the distance. Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo.

  Ten years from now I’ll look back on this night and laugh, Jane thought. But she knew in her heart it was not true. In ten years she might look back, but she would not laugh, not even then. This night was too painful to laugh about ever. Jane knew that. Slowly two tears brimmed her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

  Come back, pleaded one foghorn. Yoo-hoo, mocked the other.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday morning, soon after breakfast, Julie phoned.

  “Hi,” said Jane, as cheerfully as she could. “Did you have a good time last night?”

  “Wonderful,” answered Julie. “The music was good and Buzz is a smooth dancer, although I do wish he was a little bit taller.”

  “I’m glad you had a good time,” said Jane as she kicked off her loafers. There was a moment of silence. Both girls hesitated to bring up the real reason for this telephone call, Jane because she dreaded finding out the name of the other girl, and Julie because she knew the whole incident was distressing to her friend.

  Jane was first to break the silence. “Who was she?” she asked bluntly.

  “A girl from the city.”

  “Oh.” Jane had never considered the possibility of Stan’s having a girl in the city.

  “She was sort of an old family friend,” Julie went on. “Anyway, she came over to Woodmont with Stan’s dad after work and h
ad dinner with his family before the dance.”

  Jane felt a little better. She would not have to face Stan’s other girl at school. Maybe Stan’s father had made him take her to the dance because she was an old family friend. Maybe the girl was long and lanky and stepped all over Stan’s toes. Maybe she even had pimples.

  “Stan called her Bitsy,” said Julie.

  “Bitsy?” Jane thought she had misunderstood. “Don’t you mean Betsy?”

  “No. Bitsy. Everybody calls her Bitsy, because she is such a little bitsy thing.”

  Jane detected more than a trace of cattiness in Julie’s voice as her friend continued. “You know the type. She has to wear real high heels, because she is so little. The type that makes the other girls feel big and awkward. Especially me. She made me feel all wool and a yard wide as if I should be running around with a hockey stick instead of dancing.”

  “What did she look like?” Jane persisted. She had to know all the details, no matter how disturbing they might be. And so far they were very disturbing indeed.

  A gusty sigh from Julie came over the telephone. “Well…I hate to say it, but she was perfectly darling.”

  That, thought Jane, is that. Even if she was an old family friend, Stan’s father did not make him take her to the dance. If she was perfectly darling, Stan took her because he wanted to. Stan’s darling little Bitsy.

  Julie sighed again. “She was real smooth and she had one of those sleek new haircuts.” Jane resolved to stop snipping off her own hair with the manicure scissors. “And most of the girls were wearing full skirts,” said Julie, “but not Bitsy. She wore a dress with a straight skirt. You know, simple and sort of elegant, like you see in the shop windows in the city.”

  “Yes, I know,” agreed Jane. “The kind that even if we had the money our mothers would say we couldn’t buy because they were too sophisticated for us.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I suppose she has a terrible time finding anything to wear in her size, because she is so little.” Jane found a certain relish in being catty herself.

  “How did you guess?” Julie sounded surprised. “That’s exactly what she said when we were putting on fresh lipstick during intermission.”

  Jane had to know everything. “Was she nice?”

  “Yes, she really was,” said Julie regretfully. “She was friendly with everyone. Everybody liked her, and the fellows really went for her.”

  “Oh.” Jane felt this was the end. She did not have a chance with a smooth girl—a little bitsy smooth girl—from the city. A girl who was not only smooth, but a girl everyone liked. Probably the only reason Stan had taken Jane out at all was that she was handy. Good old Jane, always available for a date when Bitsy wasn’t around. She brought herself up sharply. What was she thinking about anyway? This was not the end. The end had come that day outside her English class over a week ago, when she had put Stan out of her life forever.

  “Jane, are you still there?” Julie asked.

  “Yes. I was just thinking,” answered Jane. “I suppose you traded dances?”

  “Yes, and Stan is a wonderful dancer, in case that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Yes, I was wondering,” Jane admitted.

  At that moment the doorbell rang.

  “I’ve got to hang up,” said Jane hastily, as she slid her feet into her loafers. “There’s somebody at the door and Mom’s downtown.”

  “Probably the Fuller brush man,” said Julie. “Bye.”

  Tucking in her shirttail with one hand, Jane opened the front door. Stan was standing on the front porch.

  An electric feeling flashed through Jane, the same sensation she had felt the first time she had picked up the telephone and found that Stan, the strange boy who delivered horsemeat, was on the line. She stood staring at him, and although she was unable to think of anything to say, she was aware that he was wearing a fresh white T-shirt and sharply creased suntans and that his identification bracelet was still on his wrist. At least he didn’t give his bracelet to Bitsy, thought Jane; not that it means anything to me.

  “Hello, Jane,” said Stan, without smiling. “I tried to call you this morning, but your line was busy.”

  Jane felt her cheeks begin to burn, as all the hurt and humiliation of the last two weeks came back to her. And after the description of smooth little Bitsy she had heard from Julie, she felt awkward and untidy in her jeans and plaid shirt with her hair carelessly combed. “Hello, Stan,” she managed to say, brushing aside a feeling of annoyance that a girl she had not even met could make her feel this way.

  “Could you come for a ride with me?” Stan asked. “I—I want to show you something.”

  Jane tried to collect her thoughts. Stan needn’t think he could treat her the way he did and then come around any old time and expect her to go out with him on a moment’s notice. She wasn’t going to be good old handy Jane Purdy. He needn’t think he could take her for granted. She forgot that only the week before she had found it pleasant to be taken for granted by Stan. “I’m sorry,” she said coolly. “I have a babysitting engagement at eleven.”

  Stan looked at his watch. “It’s only ten fifteen. Come for a ride and I’ll drop you off. Please, Jane I—I’ve got to talk to you.”

  Of course I won’t go, thought Jane. Then she wavered. For a moment she was undecided, but only for a moment. Curiosity won out. She had to find out what Stan wanted to show her and what he had to talk about. She would ride with him this once, but never again. She would be cool and aloof the whole time. Not that she would let him know her feelings were hurt. Nothing like that. Just…well, cool and aloof. “All right,” she said in a polite, impersonal tone. “Just a minute.”

  Jane scribbled a note for her mother and jerked a comb throught her hair. She did not bother to change her clothes, because she had found that jeans were practical to wear when sitting with little children. What difference did it make what she had on? Stan liked girls with sleek haircuts, who wore sophisticated clothes. Besides, it was all over between them and had been for over a week.

  “Where’s the truck?” Jane asked, as she and Stan started down the steps. The only car in sight was a blue coupé with the top down, which was parked in front of the house next door.

  “We’re not going in the truck,” said Stan. “We’re going in my car.”

  “Your car!” Jane was so surprised she could not believe Stan meant what he said. He must be joking.

  “That’s right. My car. There it is,” said Stan proudly, pointing to the blue coupé. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Why, Stan!” Jane, forgetting to be cool and aloof, was astonished and delighted all at the same time. “You mean it’s your very own?”

  “It sure is. I bought it with my Doggie Diner money and the money I saved from the paper route I had in the city.” Then he added apologetically, “Of course, it isn’t exactly new, and my cousin and I had to do a lot of work on it to get it to go, but it works all right now. And I have to leave the top down, because it’s sort of ragged, but I hope to get a new top before the rainy season.”

  “Why, Stan, how marvelous! How perfectly marvelous!” Jane stood admiring the car, and the thought flashed through her mind that now Stan would no longer have to hide his bicycle in the firethorn bushes. The car was a model-A Ford and, in the strictest definition of the word, a convertible. That is, it had a folding top. Or, to be more accurate, what was left of the top folded. The seat was neatly covered with an army blanket and the trim, which had very few dents, was polished until it twinkled in the sunlight. The fresh blue paint, which Jane felt was in quiet good taste and which had only a few streaks, gleamed. There was not a speck of dust on the car anywhere.

  “Like it?” asked Stan.

  “It’s perfect,” said Jane, and meant it. The car was neither a jalopy nor a hot rod. It looked plain and serviceable, exactly right for riding around Woodmont.

  “I knew you’d like it,” said Stan. “Some girls might think it wa
s old and funny, but I knew you wouldn’t.”

  “I think it’s neat looking,” commented Jane.

  “So do I.” Stan held the door open for Jane. “Hop in and let’s go for a ride.”

  Jane stepped onto the high running board and sat down on the army blanket. It seemed strange to be sitting up so high, and she found it much pleasanter than sitting in a more modern car. The view was better. The car started easily. Jane shifted her position on the seat, because she was sitting on a broken spring, and rode in silent admiration. Somehow, Woodmont looked different when seen from a boy’s own car. The air seemed clearer and the trees stood out more sharply against the sky line. A wisp of hair blew across her eyes, and Jane brushed it away with the same gesture Marcy used when she rode in Greg’s father’s convertible. This must be the way Marcy felt.

  “I—I wanted you to be the first girl to ride in it,” Stan said.

  “Did you really? Oh, Stan!” They drove past a girl who had been in Jane’s math class and who was now walking toward the library with an armload of books.

  “Hello there,” called Jane. Poor girl, going to the library on such a beautiful morning!

  “Hi,” the girl answered, and looked wistfully at Stan and his car.

  They drove into Woodmont Park, where Stan stopped under some bay trees by the stream. “I didn’t use my car last night, because I wanted you to be the first to ride in it,” he said, turning to Jane. “I took Dad’s car instead.”