Betsy Was a Junior / Betsy and Joe

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  Betsy waited a little while, then followed her upstairs, knocked on the door, and went in.

  Margaret was sitting very straight in her little chair. Her eyes were red. Betsy sank to the floor and put her arms around her.

  “Margaret! You know, I love Tony, too.”

  “I thought you didn’t love him,” said Margaret in a choked voice. “I heard Mamma say that just the other day. She said that was the reason he’d stopped coming here.”

  “But I do love him,” Betsy insisted. “You know, Margaret, there are lots of kinds of love in the world. I love him in a different way from the way he loves me, that’s all. I feel badly, too, about his going away.”

  Margaret was silent a moment. Then she put her hand into Betsy’s. “Where do you suppose he’s gone?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Betsy. “But I know one thing, Margaret. He’s not hopping freight trains.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Betsy told her about the promise. Margaret’s small tense faced smoothed out a little.

  “And I’m like Papa,” Betsy continued. “I think we’ll hear from him.”

  “Do you?” asked Margaret.

  “Yes, I do. We’ll hear. You wait and see.”

  She tried to believe this and be happy as May came in with all its sweetness. Dooryards smelled entrancingly of lilacs; hillsides smelled of the wild plums in dazzling snowy bloom. Warmth came suddenly. One day the girls were wearing their spring coats; the next, they were in thin dresses.

  Betsy had two new gingham dresses. One was blue, the other a gay red plaid. She wore them both with the big straw hat covered with red poppies and had never, Anna said, looked punier.

  And one Saturday morning, Joe called for her to go to the high school and write the Essay Contest.

  Joe didn’t give a hang about the Essay Contest. He had, Betsy realized, a different attitude from hers about high school. It was more the attitude Julia had had. He was looking ahead to his own Great World, to the University, the Minneapolis Tribune.

  High school was still important to Betsy. The Essay Contest was important. She assumed that Joe would win, but as a loyal Zetamathian she was going to try her hardest.

  “I’ll do my best, too,” Joe said. “But how can I think about ’Conservation of Our Natural Resources’ when it’s so much more interesting thinking about Betsy?”

  The high school was empty except for Miss Clarke and Miss O’Rourke, waiting, of course, in the upper hall.

  “All notes and books must be left here,” Miss Clarke said, as usual.

  Betsy waved her pen and Joe jokingly pushed up his cuffs to show that he had no notes concealed. They went into the algebra classroom where two juniors, two sophomores, and two freshmen were already seated. The bell rang and they started to write.

  Joe finished first, but when Betsy came out he was waiting for her.

  “I did my best,” he said, “for the sake of dear old Philo. But somehow I have a notion my essay isn’t much good. It seemed to get all mixed up with Betsy. The color of her hair. The way she blushes. The way she sings when she dances. I just couldn’t seem to get going.”

  “Well, I did,” said Betsy. “But I don’t believe a word you say. I think I’ll have the unutterable chagrin of losing again to Joseph Willard.”

  With the Essay Contest out of the way, they had to think about Commencement orations. Betsy chose for her subject “The Heroines of Shakespeare,” and began to reread Shakespeare’s plays.

  Joe’s subject was “The Bread Basket of the World.” He wasn’t doing much research. He had done it in harvest fields, he said, from Texas to North Dakota. He was already writing.

  Tib was practising for the class play, A Fatal Message; Tacy was practising her Commencement solo.

  “Sylvia, take the lily, daffodil,

  Sylvia, take whate’er the garden grows,

  But Sylvia only shook her pretty head

  As she picked a simple wild red rose….”

  And all of them being members of the chorus were practising madly on “Hark! Hark! The Lark!” and “Hark! Hear the cannons’ thunder pealing.”

  “Lots of Harks!” Tacy remarked.

  To make life even more exciting, graduation presents began coming in. They came by every mail and were brought by friends every day. Betsy had received a Prayer Book and Hymnal, a hand-embroidered corset cover, a blue silk party bag, beauty pins, Dutch collars, a little silver pin tray, the U. of M. Gopher.

  Everyone was cramming, too, for final examinations, and these at last arrived. The seniors shuddered when they thought how awful it would be if they didn’t pass.

  “To think of being flunked out now!” they cried.

  Now Betsy’s oration was finished and she was learning it.

  “The heroines of Shakespeare are essentially human,” she chanted all day long. She asked Joe, “What’s your opening line?”

  “I let Walt Whitman write it,” he answered, grinning. But he didn’t say what it was.

  Festivities opened, of course, with the junior-senior banquet.

  “Remember how hard we worked last year?” Betsy, Tacy, Tib, and Hazel asked each other.

  The juniors had been working feverishly for days, and on the big night the high school was turned into a street fair with booths. Frankfurters were made of red tissue paper with fortunes inside. Betsy’s said she was going to live on a farm.

  Following Joe’s lead the year before, the menu was full of literary allusions.

  “…sit down; at first and last,

  the hearty welcome.”

  —SHAKESPEARE

  And the dinner was marvelous, beginning with fruit punch, and ending with demitasse and 1910 mints. In between were prime rib roast of beef, asparagus, fruit salad, and other good things.

  There were toasts. Joe, of course, spoke for the seniors. And the toasts were followed by dancing. Betsy wore the pale blue Class Day dress, Tacy wore pale green, and Tib wore lavender.

  The next day was Betsy’s last day of real school. She said so that night at supper.

  “What did you do?” her father asked.

  “Oh, finished my physics notebook, practised my oration for Miss O’Rourke, opened presents, and wept.”

  Mr. Ray got up abruptly and went into the parlor. He had been acting strangely for several days. He had been too cheerful, which usually meant that he was worried about something. He had gone around the house whistling, but with a little line between his brows.

  “I believe Papa hates to see you graduate,” Mrs. Ray said in a low tone.

  “Maybe he’s lonesome for Julia,” whispered Betsy. “It’s an awfully long time since we had a letter.”

  Mr. Ray suddenly reappeared in the doorway.

  “Do you like surprises?” he asked, looking at the group around the table.

  For a moment they were too startled to reply.

  “You know I don’t,” Mrs. Ray said at last.

  “Neither do I,” said Betsy.

  “I do sometimes,” said Margaret. “But not after I know there is one. Then I can’t bear to wait. What is it, Papa?”

  The line between his brows melted away.

  “Julia,” he said, smiling broadly, “is on the bounding billows.”

  “Julia!” Mrs. Ray stared in stupefaction. Betsy jumped up and began to scream. Margaret was too ladylike for that, but she hugged Betsy.

  Anna came running into the dining room. “Stars in the sky! What’s going on here?”

  “Anna!” gasped Mrs. Ray. “Julia… Julia….” Then Mrs. Ray began to cry and Mr. Ray went around the table and hugged her.

  “Julia’s on the way home,” he explained to Anna. “She wrote me at the store, and told me not to tell anyone. But Jule doesn’t like surprises.”

  “Oh, Bob! Bob! Oh, Anna! Anna!” Mrs. Ray wept, and Anna came around the table to help hug her.

  “Of course she doesn’t like surprises, my poor lovey! We have to clean this house, if Julia’
s coming. Don’t we, Mrs. Ray?” Anna wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “I know,” Mr. Ray said. “That’s what Julia was afraid of. You’ll even scour the coal scuttle.”

  “When will she be here?” Betsy asked.

  “Might be any day now. I don’t know just what boat she’s coming on. But I know she’s on the way. I wrote and told her to come. She’ll be going back, of course. But I thought she ought to be here to see Betsy graduate.”

  “She’ll be here to see me graduate!” cried Betsy. She ran to telephone Tacy, Tib, and Joe. Margaret went to the piano and started practising on her new piece, “Woodland Fancies.”

  “I want to have it ready for Julia,” she explained.

  Mrs. Ray and Anna began planning. They were going to wash the curtains and bedspreads, polish the floors, polish the brass and silver.

  “We’d better start baking, too.”

  “That spice cake Julia likes.”

  “And she always liked that Perfection Salad I used to make for the McCloskeys.”

  “But, Bob,” Mrs. Ray asked suddenly, “how will we know when she’s coming, if she’s planning to surprise us?”

  “She’s going to wire me at the store the minute her boat lands,” Mr. Ray replied.

  Monday was Memorial Day, but the parade was abandoned because of rain. It poured from every corner of the sky. Betsy practised her oration at the Opera House in the morning, and in the afternoon she washed her hair.

  The following day was the Assembly at which the Essay Cup would be awarded. The day after that was Class Day. And the day after the day after that was June third, Commencement Day itself. If Betsy’s hair was going to be soft and shiny for this great week, it must be washed, rain or no rain.

  There was one advantage in the downpour. It made visitors so unlikely that Mrs. Ray and Anna decided to continue their cleaning into the afternoon.

  “After all, we don’t know how many days we’ll have. That wire might come any time.”

  “I’ll bathe Abie,” said Margaret, “to get him ready.”

  Mr. Ray was at home from the store on account of the holiday. He retreated with his cigar to the bedroom. Mrs. Ray, still in a house dress, was polishing silver, Anna was washing windows, Betsy was drying her hair, and Margaret was rinsing Abie when the front doorbell rang.

  “The hack’s out in front,” Anna said.

  “Who under the sun could be coming in this rain! You’ll have to answer, Bob,” Mrs. Ray called, closing the door which led into the kitchen. She didn’t close it entirely. She peeked around it. Anna peeked in from the parlor, and Betsy and Margaret peeked down the stairs.

  Mr. Ray opened the door, and in walked Julia!

  The Rays forgot all about not liking to be surprised. They smothered Julia with kisses. Mr. Ray broke away only to pay Mr. Thumbler and bring her suitcases and trunk into the hall.

  Julia had changed.

  “You’re fat! You’re fat as a roll of butter!” Mrs. Ray cried.

  “The Von Hetternichs eat all the time. Besides, Fraulein wants me fat. I have to be fat to sing opera,” Julia said.

  “You look cute,” Betsy said. She did.

  “Let me see my baby sister,” Julia cried.

  Margaret stepped proudly forward.

  “Why, she’s grown tall! Bettina! Stop rubbing your hair and let me look at you.”

  “Did you know,” joked Betsy, “that people were wearing their hair this way? Wet, I mean. It’s all the rage in Paris.”

  “Speaking of Paris,” said Julia, “open my trunk! I brought something from Paris for your graduation outfit.”

  Mr. Ray unlocked the trunk and as Julia hunted through it, flinging things in all directions, they all watched her. She looked very different; and not only because she was plump. She looked foreign. She looked fascinating. She wore earrings!

  There were presents for everyone. Paris waists for Mrs. Ray and Betsy. Betsy’s was a pleated pink silk. There was a German doll for Margaret, a musical jewel box for Anna, a Meerschaum pipe for Mr. Ray.

  Mrs. Ray forgot to change her house dress. Betsy forgot to curl her hair. Abie dried himself, running about and shaking his damp little body.

  Julia went from one to another, giving them hugs and kisses.

  “Oh, it’s so good to be home!” she kept saying. “So good, good, good to be home!”

  She went to the piano and started to play.

  “How’s Tony?” she called suddenly.

  Silence fell into the room like a stone into a lake.

  “There’s bad news about Tony,” Betsy began. “That is, we hope it isn’t bad. But Tony’s gone away.”

  “Where?” Julia whirled about.

  “Nobody knows. He left unexpectedly.”

  “He’ll be back,” said Mr. Ray. “You know Tony. He’ll show up one of these days.”

  “Most any day,” added Mrs. Ray, with such brightness that Julia sensed a sore subject, and turned back to the piano.

  Betsy told her the story that night. It was wonderful to be back in Julia’s room, upon which the old gay confusion had descended. Wrapped in her kimono, Betsy sat in the window seat while Julia undressed. Then she changed to the foot of the bed and they talked till long after midnight.

  Julia’s comment on the situation was clean-cut.

  “It’s a very good thing he went away. You meant to be kind, but you weren’t being kind, really, when you deceived him all year. Now that he’s cut loose, he’ll find himself, I’m sure. I always knew you liked Joe, Bettina.”

  But Betsy couldn’t go into that, even with Julia.

  She asked about the Von Hetternichs.

  “They were wonderfully kind, but I got bored with my life there. Rich people’s lives are very stuffy. I grew to love the girls, of course, but what made the winter really glorious was my work.”

  She talked with the old contagious enthusiasm about operas and operatic roles, where and when she would make her debut.

  “It can’t be for a long time. I’ve so much to learn. You’ve no idea how much.”

  “When are we going to hear you sing?”

  “Not until I’ve had a chance to practise. And I want you all to understand that I’m just a beginner.”

  The next day the sun came out and the curtains in the Ray house were hung at sparkling windows. The kitchen was fragrant with the smell of spice cake baking. Neighbors dropped in, the Poppys, the Crowd.

  A boy from Windmiller’s Florist Shop came with a long box for Julia. She looked at the card.

  “He’s absolutely dippy,” she said, throwing it down.

  “Who’s he? Who’s he?” Betsy and Tib demanded.

  “Someone I met on the boat. A New York man.”

  She didn’t even open the box, but the others did, squealing. It held a forest of American Beauty roses.

  “And I thought that for once you didn’t have a beau,” Betsy said jokingly.

  “Well,” said Julia, “I didn’t in Berlin. Not exactly, that is. Of course,” she added, “Else had a twin brother but he was just nineteen. And I didn’t give him a bit of encouragement.”

  “Oh, didn’t you!” Betsy scoffed.

  Julia was still Julia, only more so. That night she played the piano and Betsy stood beside Joe to sing. Everything was wonderful! she thought. Julia had come home to see her graduate. She and Joe were going together. If only she could know that Tony was all right…somewhere!

  The next day, when Betsy came home from the Opera House where she had been practising her oration, she found Margaret waiting in front of the house.

  Margaret was standing as straight as a tulip, and a smile spread across her small freckled face.

  “Betsy!” she cried. “I thought you’d never get home. I’ve had a letter from Tony.”

  “Margaret!” Betsy pounced upon her.

  “He wants to correspond with me,” said Margaret, trying not to sound proud.

  “Where is he?” Betsy asked eagerly.

&n
bsp; “He’s in New York. He’s an actor, like Uncle Keith.”

  “An actor!”

  “He’s on the stage, and he likes show business. He says it’s the life.”

  Betsy sat down on the steps abruptly.

  “Margaret,” she said, “I don’t believe I was ever so happy in my life!”

  Margaret sat down beside her, after dusting off a little place to sit on and spreading the skirts of her stiffly starched gingham neatly beneath her.

  “I’ll read you his letter if you like,” she said, drawing it out of her pocket. She did not give it to Betsy, but read it slowly and carefully aloud.

  “‘Dear Margaret, I wonder whether you would like to correspond with me? I’d certainly like to have some news of you and the rest of the gang.

  “‘I’m in New York. I’m in a musical show called Lulu’s Husbands. I’m in the chorus now but Maxie thinks I’ll be doing better soon. He thinks I can sing comic bass roles.

  “‘That Maxie (he’s Mrs. Poppy’s brother) wasn’t fooling when he said he knew Broadway. I wired him from Minneapolis—couldn’t do it in Deep Valley for fear of someone tattling. He said he could get me a job here, and he did.

  “‘Tell Betsy not to worry about my not graduating. A high school diploma doesn’t matter in show business. And I like show business. It’s the life! I’ve told my folks, and everything’s hunky dory.

  “‘Betsy will be graduating along about now. See that she uses that curling iron! Give her my love, will you? Give my love to all the Rays. They don’t make cakes like Anna’s in New York or sandwiches like your father’s.

  “‘I’m depending on you, Margaret, to tell me all the news. Love, Tony.’”

  “There’s a postscript, too,” said Margaret, as Betsy did not speak. “He’s sending me a Statue of Liberty to put on my bureau.”

  23

  “After Commencement Day, What?”

  JULIA’S FINGERS HAD LOST none of their magic when it came to dressing Betsy’s hair. She dressed it in a Psyche knot—all the rage in Paris—for the Assembly Tuesday night at which the Essay Cup would be awarded. Betsy was wearing the pale blue Class Day dress, for she would be sitting on the platform, and she might…she just might…have to rise and bow as a winner.