Jean and Johnny (15 page)

“Yes. Your grandmother—I am so glad she is feeling better,” said Jean with a smile.

“Uh—yes,” said Johnny, and Jean was happy to see that he was embarrassed.

“Jean, would you like some punch?” asked Homer.

“Yes, thank you,” answered Jean. The uncom
fortable moment was over. She had been able to face Johnny after all. Her relief was followed by an unexpected feeling of gaiety, as she accompanied Homer to the little grass shack made out of crepe paper and accepted a paper cup of pineapple punch from Homer. It was so cold and refreshing that for an instant Jean wished she could pour it over her toes.

“What was that about wonder drugs?” Homer asked.

“Oh, that—” Jean laughed. “Johnny used a sick grandmother as an excuse for breaking his date with me, and I couldn't resist reminding him of it.”

When Homer threw back his head and laughed, Jean laughed with him. Over his shoulder Jean caught a glimpse of Johnny looking toward them, as if he was surprised to see them enjoying themselves. What did Johnny expect me to do, Jean thought in annoyance. Sob my little heart out? She smiled warmly at Homer.

Homer drained his cup of punch before he spoke. “Jean, let's face it. We aren't having a good time.”

“Why, Homer—” In her consternation, Jean did not know what to say. She felt as if she had failed, because everyone who came to a dance was
supposed to have a good time. That was what dances were for. “Homer, I am terribly sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?” Homer asked. “There's nothing so terrible about that, is there? Maybe we just aren't the kind of people who have a good time at a dance. I think it is pretty stupid myself, the way a lot of people come and don't dance at all, or don't trade dances. I belong to a folk-dance group that is lots more fun than this, because everybody mixes.”

Jean found that in her heart she agreed with Homer, but what could they do if they left the dance now? It was only nine thirty. Nobody went home at nine thirty. It even seemed too early to suggest going to the drive-in.

“Look, Jean,” said Homer eagerly. “Would you like to see my pigeons?”

“Your pigeons?” repeated Jean. What on earth was Homer talking about now?

“Yes. My homing pigeons. I have six in a cote in the backyard at home,” Homer explained.

“I didn't know you kept pigeons.” Jean was stalling for time to think. She wanted to leave the dance, but she wondered what her mother and father would say about her going to a boy's house. She had no idea, the problem was so unexpected.

“It would be all right for you to come,” said Homer. “Mom and Dad are home. They have some friends there.”

This settled the problem in Jean's mind. “I would love to see your pigeons, Homer,” she said.

“Swell,” said Homer. “Let's get your coat.”

As they left the checkroom, Johnny and Peggy Jo danced by. Johnny grinned lazily at Jean over Peggy Jo's shoulder, and winked. Oh, stop it, Johnny, thought Jean, and repinned her camellia to her coat, stem up this time.

When they climbed into the car, Jean realized that she did not even know where Homer lived. How heavenly it was to be able to take off both her shoes! They drove through the business district and took a road that wound uphill, twisting and turning until at last Homer drove up a steep driveway. Jean had to shove to get her shoes back on again. As they got out of the car Jean paused to look at the lights of the city below and of the cities in the distance strung together by necklaces of lights on the bridges across the bay. Jean breathed deeply. It was good to be out of the gymnasium, which always smelled faintly of sneakers and sweeping compound, and into the night air, so much cooler up here in the hills and scented with eucalyptus.

“Come on in and meet Mom and Dad while I get the flashlight,” said Homer, leading Jean toward the front door.

“Well, you are home early,” remarked Mr. Darvey when Homer had taken Jean into the living room and introduced her to his parents and their guests.

“I wanted to show Jean my pigeons,” said Homer. He seemed at ease in a roomful of adults—much more at ease than he ever appeared at school.

“But the dance can't be over this early.” Mrs. Darvey was concerned over her son's early return. “What happened?”

“Jean and I decided we would rather look at pigeons,” said Homer easily. “Come on, Jean.” He led her into the kitchen, where he found a flashlight in a drawer. They went out the back door and walked across a lighted patio.

Jean had an impression of blooming rhododendrons and azaleas and, beneath the flowering shrubs, masses of blue and yellow violas. “What a lovely garden,” remarked Jean as she followed Homer along a path that led into the dark.

“Mom's a spring-garden fiend,” said Homer, lighting the way for Jean. “Nothing much blooms
the rest of the year, but it is sure beautiful now. Mom says the seasons are so indefinite in California that she tries to make up for it with a good rousing springtime.”

Under a cluster of eucalyptus trees they came to the pigeon cote, a neat structure stained gray to match the house. Homer opened the door and flashed the light inside. Six sleeping pigeons stirred on their perches, blinked, and flapped their wings. Homer reached inside and brought out one pigeon. “This is Papa Pigeon,” he said. “Would you like to hold him?”

Jean took the uneasy pigeon in her arms and gently stroked the iridescent feathers.

“Papa Pigeon is the father of those two,” said Homer, pointing. “And that one is Mama Pigeon.” He lifted out another bird. “This one we call Ugh. He was the first squab I raised, and when he hatched he was the weirdest thing I had ever seen. He had a great big beak, all out of proportion to his skinny little body, and his skin was covered with yellow hair. But he grew fast and is a beauty now.”

“And do they really come home?” asked Jean.

“Always,” said Homer. “We have a lot of fun on Sundays when we go for a drive. We take them along and release them in the country, and no
matter which way we take them, they always circle around for a while and then head for home in the right direction.”

One by one Homer removed the pigeons for Jean to stroke. She had not realized how soft and smooth feathers were. “Just like satin,” she murmured, running her hand down a glossy back. “Smoother than satin.” The pigeon flapped its wings and for a moment Jean was afraid it might slip out of her fingers. Homer took it from her and returned it to the perch. “And did you build the pigeon cote?” she asked.

“Last summer,” answered Homer. “I drew up the plans and Dad helped me build it.” He closed and fastened the door of the cote and led the way back toward the house.

Jean put her hand in her pocket and felt the money her father had given her to treat Homer. “Homer,” she said hesitantly, “would you like to go to the drive-in? I mean, I made the date and I—I would like to treat you.”

“Let's not go to that crummy place,” said Homer. “Come on in the house and I'll make you a milk shake.”

“All right.” At first Jean was a little hurt by Homer's rejection of her invitation, but the more
she thought about it, the more she began to feel that Homer was right about the drive-in. She began to feel a kind of admiration for this boy who would come right out and say he did not like the most popular meeting place of high-school students and who saw nothing wrong with leaving a dance he did not enjoy. Jean had always felt critical of herself because she was not like everyone else at school.

In the kitchen Homer took Jean's coat after she had unpinned her camellia. “What kind of milk shake would you like?” he asked.

“I like any kind,” answered Jean, as she pinned the camellia, stem down, to her dress. She would not like to say she liked chocolate milk shakes if the Darveys did not have any chocolate syrup.

While Homer was opening the refrigerator, Jean looked around at the kitchen, which was larger than the Jarretts'. Instead of curtains, the windows had shades, made of pink-and-white striped ticking. I must tell Mother, thought Jean. Shades like that, instead of curtains, were attractive and would save a lot of ironing, too. Her mother could watch for a remnant of pink-and-white ticking…or yellow-and-white might look prettier in their kitchen….

Homer removed a carton of ice cream and a box of strawberries from the refrigerator. “We have bananas, too,” he said, “and there is a dish of pineapple in here if you like pineapple milk shakes.”

“They all sound good,” said Jean.

“I'll tell you what I'll do,” said Homer. “I'll use all three.” He spooned ice cream into an electric blender and added a banana, a few strawberries, and a slice of pineapple. He flipped the switch, let the blender whir a moment, and poured two milk shakes into two tall glasses. “We even have straws,” he said, opening a cupboard.

“Paper-covered straws!” exclaimed Jean.

“That's right,” said Homer. “All the comforts of a soda fountain.” He sat down at the table across from Jean, and together they peeled the paper from their straws and began to sip their milk shakes.

“Mmm. Good,” said Jean. “Banana-strawberry-pineapple milk shakes are my very favorite from now on.” It was fun to be sitting in a kitchen that looked like a magazine illustration, drinking a milk shake that a boy had made. “You are right about the drive-in,” she said. “It is a crummy place. I just never thought of it that way, because…well,
everybody goes there. I guess I thought liking the drive-in was compulsory.”

“You sure look nice in that dress,” said Homer.

“Why—thank you, Homer.” Jean had not expected him to be the kind of boy who would notice a girl's dress.

“I like it because it is sort of streamlined,” said Homer seriously. “It isn't a lot of material cluttered up with stuff.”

Even though Jean laughed at Homer's masculine description of her dress, she found it pleasant to have a boy appreciate her appearance.

“The color is nice too,” said Homer. “Plain and not a lot of swirls and swooshes and little pink rosebuds, like most girls wear.”

Jean smiled at him over her milk shake. “I am sure my sewing teacher would like to hear you describe girls' dresses.”

“Maybe I don't know the right words, but I know what I like.” Homer grinned at Jean and smoothed out the paper wrapper of one of the straws, which he handed to Jean. “Here is a souvenir for you.”

“Thank you,” she said gravely. There was something she very much wanted to ask Homer. She thought it over a moment and decided there was no reason why she shouldn't ask. “Homer, tell me
something. You and Johnny used to be friends. What happened?”

“Sure we were friends.” There was some bitterness in Homer's voice. “My dad lets me take the car and Johnny's dad won't. Oh, sure, I know I used to think he was great and tagged around after him and all. He was popular and I guess I thought some of it would rub off on me.”

“But he took me out in his car once,” said Jean.

“Just once, and I'll bet it was in the daytime,” said Homer. “His mother lets him take her car when his dad isn't home. He had his license taken away because a cop picked him up for doing ninety on the freeway.”

“Johnny drove ninety miles an hour on the freeway!” Jean was shocked.

“And then Johnny got sore at me that night he asked to come over to see you. He wanted me to go along and I wouldn't. I figured he asked you for a date, and you wouldn't want me coming along, too.”

“That stormy night,” reminisced Jean. “I remember it rained all day.”

“And he said he didn't want to walk to your house in the rain,” Homer went on, “and I said that was his problem. Johnny got sore, and after
that he didn't bother about me.” Homer grinned across the table at Jean. “I'll bet he was sopping when he got there.”

Jean bit her lip and looked into her empty glass. “He didn't get there, Homer,” she said quietly, hurt because Johnny had not been willing to go through rain and gloom of night to see her. She could not help thinking of her father, who delivered mail in all kinds of weather and even gave extra service to the people on his route without complaining.

“I'm sorry, Jean,” said Homer. “I didn't know. Like I said, after that Johnny was sore at me and I didn't think so much of him, either. And I got to thinking about a lot of things. Things like what was so wonderful about a fellow like Johnny and what was so wonderful about being popular. There are lots more interesting things to do besides hanging around a drive-in or cruising around town in a car.”

“Homer, does Peggy Jo have her own car?” Jean asked suddenly. “It seems to me I heard someone say something about it during the rehearsal of the variety show.”

“Yes, she does,” answered Homer. “A hard top.”

“Oh.” That explained a lot to Jean. Johnny did
not want to bother going to a dance with a girl whose mother had to drive them. Now that she knew the real reason he had broken the date, the unhappy question lurking in the back of her mind was banished.

“What are we talking about Johnny for?” Homer demanded. “Johnny is Johnny's greatest admirer.”

Why, that is true, thought Jean. Johnny liked Johnny, and the reason he had liked her was that she had been a good audience. An audience was important to Johnny, she realized, now that she looked back on the last few months, and she had certainly hung on every word he spoke. “Yes, let's not talk about Johnny.” Jean unwound the wrapper of the straw from her finger. “Maybe I should be starting home. Dad said I had to be in by midnight.” Since she and Homer had left the dance, time had gone surprisingly fast. Jean had heard the Darveys' guests leave some time ago.

“Sure, Jean,” said Homer with a grin. “I promised your father I would take good care of you.”

In the living room, while Homer got her coat, Jean said good night to Mr. and Mrs. Darvey.