Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  Donna must have caught her looking, because she averted her eyes. Allison tried to come up with a conversational subject.

  ‘I wonder when we’ll find out who had the best review,’ she said.

  Donna didn’t respond. She flung the backpack over her shoulder and walked away.

  ‘Strange,’ Allison murmured.

  ‘Very,’ Pamela agreed. ‘Sherry, have you two talked at all?’

  Sherry shook her head. ‘I can’t get a word out of her.’

  Back at Gloss, along with the other interns, they congregated in the conference room to get their afternoon schedule from Caroline.

  ‘I’m assigning each of you to work with specific people today,’ Caroline told them, and began calling out the interns’ names. Each was sent to a particular editor or to the director of a department. Pamela got beauty, Donna would be working in entertainment, Diane was sent to home and food, Linda would be working with the publicity manager and Ellen was assigned to fiction. Vicky was ecstatic to find she’d be going to fashion, while poor Sherry was assigned to that grim-looking Mr Simpson in features.

  ‘Allison, you’ll be with Dear Deedee.’

  ‘Dear Deedee?’

  ‘The advice columnist,’ Caroline said.

  Allison was directed to an office, where she tapped on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ a voice called out.

  She opened the door, and the pleasant-faced woman behind the desk looked up. ‘Yes? Oh, you’re one of the interns, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m Allison Sanderson. I guess you must be Deedee.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Barbara, but we thought Dear Deedee sounded snappier. Have a seat, Allison. Now, you may not know anything about this column …’

  ‘It’s advice, right? Like, what purse to carry with what shoes?’ She tried not to sound too disappointed with the assignment.

  ‘No, that’s “Help Me, Helen”, the fashion advice column.’

  ‘So it’s what lipstick goes with what nail polish?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, that’s “Beauty by Betty”. We get so many questions from readers, we’ve decided to have three advice columns in every issue. We’ll be working on the social advice column.’

  Allison brightened. ‘Oh, I like that much more!’

  ‘Good. And I’m looking forward to your assistance. I think it’s important to get a young perspective on the problems our readers have. For example …’ She ruffled through some papers on her desk, and picked up a sheet.

  ‘This question comes from a fourteen-year-old reader. She writes, “Dear Deedee, I think I’m old enough to buy clothes on my own, but my mother doesn’t agree. She insists on going shopping with me. How can I convince her I’m mature enough to choose my own clothes? Sincerely, Patti.” Now, Allison, how would you respond to this?’

  Allison considered the situation. ‘She should just say something like, “Mom, please leave me alone, I don’t need your advice, I know what I like.”’

  Barbara’s eyebrows went up. ‘Really?’

  Allison nodded fervently. ‘I think she should be honest and say what she thinks. Why beat around the bush?’

  ‘You don’t think she should try to compromise a bit?’

  ‘No — you can’t argue with overbearing mothers, they’ll never understand. This girl’s got to stand up for herself or she’ll never get to do what she wants.’

  ‘I see,’ Barbara said. She put the letter aside. ‘Let’s try another one. “Dear Deedee, I’m thirteen years old. There’s a boy I like at school. He keeps asking me out to go to the movies, but my parents won’t let me date yet. What can I do?”’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Allison said. ‘My parents wouldn’t let me go out on dates either when I was thirteen. So I’d tell them I was going to a movie with a girlfriend and meet the boy there.’

  ‘You’d tell her to lie to her parents? Do you really think that’s good advice?’

  ‘It always worked for me. But I’d tell her she has to be careful of course. It’s important to inform the girlfriend, so she doesn’t call you at home while you’re supposed to be with her.’

  Barbara was silent for a minute. ‘Allison … here at Gloss, we stress getting along with parents. We tell readers to be honest with them.’

  ‘I think we should be honest with the readers,’ Allison declared. ‘Parents have no idea what’s going on in their lives, and they’ll never understand.’

  Barbara got up. ‘Excuse me for a moment, dear.’ She left the room.

  Pleased with herself, Allison leaned back in her chair. She was determined to shake things up a little here, and she felt like she’d made a good start.

  A moment later, Barbara returned, with one of the other interns. ‘Allison, we’re making a few changes. Linda’s going to work with me. You’re going to be with Lydia.’

  Linda gave Allison a patronizing smile, which Allison ignored.

  ‘Doing what?’ she asked Barbara.

  But Barbara just ushered her from the office and pointed to a desk at the far end of the bullpen. ‘She’s the grey-haired woman over there. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Allison.’ She practically pushed her out and closed the door behind her.

  Allison crossed the space and approached the stern-faced woman with the eyeglasses dangling from a chain around her neck.

  ‘Hi, I’m Allison.’

  The woman didn’t make eye contact. She shoved a stack of papers across her desk in Allison’s direction.

  ‘File these.’ She pointed to a cabinet against the wall. ‘And when you’re finished with those, I’ve got more.’

  She looked at the first letter on the top of the pile. ‘Dear Gloss, I just loved your interview with Ricky Nelson, he’s my favourite singer —’

  ‘I said file them, not read them,’ the woman snapped. ‘By state. See the return address? That letter’s from a reader in Kansas. So it goes under K.’

  So this was her punishment for speaking her mind, she thought as she shoved the letters into folders. Well, she was just going to have to have a little talk with Caroline Davison.

  She filed a few letters while she waited for the grey haired woman to leave her desk, and then headed over to Caroline’s office. The editor’s door was open, but she had David, the photographer, and Belinda the fashion editor, in there with her. Allison hesitated outside.

  ‘I like the idea of focusing on the trench coat in that layout,’ Belinda was saying.

  ‘What about shoes?’ the photographer asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. What do you think, Caroline?’

  ‘How about red patent-leather pumps? There’s a pair in the samples closet.’

  Then Donna, Sherry’s roommate, approached Allison. ‘Are you waiting to see Caroline?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, I want to talk to her about my assignment.’

  ‘What kind of job are you doing?’ Donna asked.

  Allison made a face. ‘Putting old letters-to-the-editor into folders. It’s absolutely deadly. You’re with the entertainment editor, right?’

  Donna nodded. ‘Do you want to switch?’

  Allison was nonplussed. ‘You want to file?’

  Donna nodded again.

  ‘Sure!’ Allison turned to see Lydia returning to her desk. ‘See that lady? Just tell her you’re taking my place.’

  Donna went off in that direction, and Allison went in search of the entertainment editor. He turned out to be a harried-looking man sitting behind a desk on which a dozen record albums were stacked.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Allison. I’m one of the interns.’

  He didn’t introduce himself, but the nameplate on his desk told her he was Peter Connelly. ‘What happened to the other one?’

  ‘We switched jobs.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. Look, I need a list of these new recordings with descriptions for a new music round-up, OK? No reviews, just the names of the artists and the albums and a couple of lines about each one. Is it roma
ntic music, dance music, easy listening, that sort of thing. Just get the info off the liner notes and rewrite them a little, got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ Allison said. She happily picked up the stack of albums and went back out into the bullpen. Now, this was good. If she could make the editor happy with her work, maybe he’d want her to keep working for him. And maybe she could talk him into letting her write an article about folk music, and maybe she could interview that guy who reminded her of Bob Dylan …

  Sitting down at her desk, Allison turned to see Donna doing the filing. Once again, she marvelled at the strangeness of the intern. Why would anyone prefer filing to writing about music?

  She picked up an album and looked it over. Recognizing the singer’s name, she could guess at the album’s content — treacle, pure and simple. Teeny-bopper love songs, ‘Oh baby, how can I go on without you?’ as sung by a sweetly clean-cut and classically handsome non-threatening heart-throb. The words on the back cover — ‘He sings his heart out’ and ‘Dedicated to all his wonderful fans’ — pretty much confirmed this, and she was glad she wouldn’t have to actually listen to it.

  Who did listen to this garbage? The world was changing, the times were changing — teenagers were changing. Gloss needed to change too, to keep up with the younger generation.

  But this time she wouldn’t express herself honestly, like she had with Barbara. She needed to do everything she could to stay in Peter Connelly’s good books if she was going to be able to actually do anything significant at Gloss.

  Rereading the liner notes, she overheard Caroline and David returning from the samples closet.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe someone borrowed them,’ the editor was saying. ‘Check with Belinda and see if she gave permission.’ She disappeared into her office and came back out a few minutes later.

  ‘Could I see all the apprentices in the conference room, please?’ she called out loudly.

  She must have made calls to the other floors too, because within minutes all eight of the interns were there.

  ‘I’ve read and critiqued all your film reviews and made some notes in the margins. I hope you’ll find my comments useful in your future assignments. I’m afraid I can’t give you back your review, Sherry.’ She smiled. ‘It has to be copy-edited. Your review has been selected for publication.’

  Sherry gasped, and there was a polite round of applause from the other girls. A few looked disappointed, and one or two even jealous, but they all congratulated her. Allison wasn’t surprised at all about not having her review chosen. Given the fact that she’d written a scathing attack on teen films in general, she knew it wouldn’t be in line with the prevailing style at Gloss.

  ‘Congratulations, Sherry,’ Caroline said. ‘You can all go back to work now. Except for you, Donna. I’d like to speak to you privately.’

  As Allison turned to close the door, she caught a glimpse of Donna’s face. She’d gone completely white. And Allison could have sworn the girl was shaking. The image of a small animal caught in a trap flashed through her mind.

  Curiouser and curiouser. True, Caroline could be a little intimidating, but not so fearful as to give rise to a reaction like that. What was Donna so afraid of?

  16 May, 1962

  Mrs Forbes had a habit that Donna didn’t like. Whenever there was something to be handed back to the students, she would ask one of them to do the distribution. Donna was never sure if this was because the fat teacher didn’t want to get up from her desk, or if she wanted to show favouritism, or if she simply wanted to humiliate the students who hadn’t done well by letting another student see the poor grades. Probably the last reason.

  Donna wasn’t wild about any of her teachers, but Forbes was the worst. She had her ‘pets’ and she made no attempt to hide her preferences. She also made it very clear whom she held in contempt, and Donna was one of those. It didn’t help that Forbes taught the subject that came hardest to her.

  This particular assignment had been an essay on David Copperfield, a book that was almost a thousand pages of long, old-fashioned words. Reading was a slow and painful process for Donna, and it had taken hours and hours just to get through the first chapter. Writing was just as hard, and it was made worse in this case by the fact that she could barely understand what she was reading.

  She knew that some students went to a bookstore that sold Cliff’s Notes, little pamphlets that gave summaries of classic books and told you what you needed to know for writing a paper or taking a test. But Cliffs Notes cost money. And even they weren’t all that easy to read. At least, not for Donna.

  The essay was placed on her desk by one of Forbes’s favourites, Sandy Clement, and it held no surprises. The great big red letter F was circled, and there was another circle around her name, with a scribbled note in the margin from the teacher: ‘At least you spelled your name correctly.’

  She kept her eyes on her desk so she wouldn’t have to see the expression on Sandy’s face, but she couldn’t avoid hearing the snicker, which was just loud enough for Donna and everyone around her to hear. It didn’t upset her. She was used to it.

  This was the last class of the day, so when the bell rang everyone raced to the door. Donna moved in that direction too, but she wasn’t able to make an easy escape.

  ‘Donna!’

  She stopped, turned and went to the teacher’s desk. ‘Yes, Mrs Forbes?’

  ‘That essay was particularly bad, even for you,’ the woman said.

  Donna clutched her books tightly to her chest, as if they could protect her from the words.

  ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

  Donna shook her head.

  ‘Well, there’s not enough time left in the semester for you to pull up your grade. You won’t be passing English.’ There wasn’t the slightest trace of sympathy in her tone. She actually sounded triumphant.

  And she continued. ‘I’ve informed the guidance counsellor about this. Mr Breed wants to see you. Now. You’re excused.’

  Donna fled the classroom. In the hallway she looked up at the big clock on the wall. She had twenty minutes before she had to pick up her little sister.

  When she reached it, the door to the guidance counsellor’s office was slightly ajar, but she tapped anyway.

  ‘Come in.’ As she did, Mr Breed looked up. ‘Hello, Donna. Have a seat.’

  She did, but she made a point of looking at the clock.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ he assured her. ‘We’re concerned about you, Donna.’

  She nodded.

  ‘What can you do about your grades?’ he asked.

  ‘Work harder,’ she muttered.

  He looked over some papers.’ ‘You’ve been absent quite a bit.’

  ‘I get a lot of colds,’ she lied.

  ‘I don’t see any doctors’ notes in your file.’ He peered at her intently. ‘Are there problems at home, Donna?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Do you realize that this means you’ll need to attend summer school?’

  She nodded, and again looked at the clock.

  ‘That will be all,’ the counsellor said.

  Once outside the building, she had her first bit of luck for the day. Sticking out at the top of a trashcan was a discarded copy of the magazine Gloss. She snatched it up and stuffed it in her backpack.

  Summer school — that had been a blow. She was sixteen now, and she’d planned to get a summer job. They were hiring at Dairy Queen — minimum wage of course, but that was better than nothing.

  What would happen if she refused to go to summer school? What if she just dropped out? But then again — did she really want to operate soft-serve ice-cream machines for the rest of her life?

  In any case, she wasn’t even sure if she could get a summer job at DQ — plenty of classmates would probably apply. In a factory town like this, where the majority of parents didn’t have huge incomes, teenagers were always looking for ways to make money. And there was another problem. If she did get a j
ob there, would she be able to count on her mother to watch the kids?

  Too many questions, too many problems … Her worries were slowing her down. She quickened her pace, but she was still late. By the time she arrived at the nursery school, her little sister was the only child still waiting. The teacher glared at Donna.

  ‘Sorry,’ Donna muttered, refusing to meet the woman’s eyes. She’d had just about all the dirty looks she could handle in one day. Four-year-old Kathy took her sister’s hand, and Donna hurried her away.

  ‘Look what I made,’ Kathy said, handing Donna the paper she’d been clutching in her other hand.

  Donna took the drawing. ‘That’s a beautiful rainbow!’

  ‘I used all the crayons in the box,’ Kathy said proudly.

  ‘It’s going right up on the wall,’ Donna told her. ‘And I think you deserve a prize. How about some new paper dolls?’

  ‘Yes!’ Kathy exclaimed. She began to skip, which pretty much forced Donna to skip too.

  She looked down fondly at her. Kathy was like a little doll herself. She had their mother’s pink cheeks, blue eyes, blonde hair. Donna had been less favoured, with the mousy brown hair and sallow complexion of their father, Martin Peake, assuming he still had any hair at all. She hadn’t seen him for two years; he’d left before Billy was born. Kathy had been two.

  It was almost two miles to Eastside Trailer Park. By the time they arrived, Kathy had long since stopped skipping, and Donna was practically dragging her. As they approached their lot, she was alarmed to see their neighbour coming out of the Peakes’ mobile home.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘I could hear your little brother screaming,’ the woman told her. ‘Poor thing was hungry.’

  Donna’s heart sank. ‘Where’s my mother?’

  The neighbour cocked her head back towards the trailer and walked away. Donna held tightly to Kathy’s hand as they went up the steps to the door. Inside they were greeted with the pungent odour of spilled beer.

  ‘Go watch TV,’ Donna ordered, and pushed Kathy towards the bedroom. Once she had her settled in front of a cartoon, she went back into the so-called living room to assess the damage.