Jean and Johnny (2 page)

“Not much,” said Jean. “I mean, what else is there to do?”

“But you saw her this afternoon after school,” said Mrs. Jarrett absently, as she scribbled something on the pad of paper.

“Another contest, Mother?” asked Jean.

“Yes. Why I like Swish detergent in twenty-five words or less,” answered Mrs. Jarrett. “Don't you think ‘elbow-grease efficiency' would be a good phrase to use? I have heard that winning letters are always full of hyphens.”

“Sounds good to me,” answered Jean, her hand on the knob of the front door.

“Of course, I don't like to give the impression that using Swish is work,” remarked Mrs. Jarrett critically. “I don't think the judges would like that.”

“You could say, ‘I like Swish detergent because it makes washday such a whale of a lot of fun,'” suggested Mr. Jarrett from behind his newspaper.

“Oh, I think that is going a little too far,” said Mrs. Jarrett seriously.

“Dad is just joking.” Jean smiled and opened the door.

“Why not use something that rhymes?” suggested Sue. “Something like, ‘I like Swish because when I Swish the clothes I have more time to doze.'”

“You can laugh all you want,” said Mrs. Jarrett agreeably, “but just the same, it would help a lot if I could win a new refrigerator. Our old one goes on and off so often I think it must be on its last legs. And don't forget, I won the television set by liking peanut oil in twenty-five words or less.”

“Better let Dandy out as long as you are going,” Mr. Jarrett told Jean.

Jean snapped her fingers to the beagle, who rose reluctantly. Dandy, who had half his tail missing, had once belonged to someone on Mr. Jarrett's route. When a car door had been slammed on Dandy's tail and several inches of the tail had to be amputated, the dog could no longer be exhibited at dog shows, and his owners had no further use
for him. Mr. Jarrett, who had grown fond of the dog in the course of delivering mail to the owners' house, heard that they wanted to get rid of him and offered to give him a home. When he brought Dandy home, Mrs. Jarrett protested, “But we can't afford to keep a dog.” She was still protesting, usually just before payday, but the Jarretts continued to keep and to love Dandy.

“Don't stay out late,” said Mr. Jarrett.

“I never do stay out late, Dad,” answered Jean. Some things were just habits with parents. You would think from the way Mr. Jarrett spoke that his daughters went out with boys.

The day had been smoggy, as December days so often were, but a late afternoon breeze had swept away the ugly haze and left the night clear and sharp. The change in the weather was exhilarating to Jean. As she ran down the sidewalk, the streetlight behind her making her shadow dance ahead of her, she wished for something more exciting than an evening writing to pen pals.

“Come in,” called out Mr. Mundy, when Jean had run up the steps and tapped on the front door.

As Jean stepped out of the cold air into the warm room, fragrant with Christmas greens, vapor formed on her glasses as quickly as if a white
curtain had been jerked down before her eyes. She pulled off her glasses and waved them around to let the moisture evaporate.

“Hello there, Half Pint,” said Mr. Mundy jovially.

“Mr. Mundy, I'll have you know that I am five feet one-and-one-quarter inches tall,” said Jean, who was used to being teased about her size by her best friend's father. “I was measured in gym last week.”

“Imagine that,” remarked Mr. Mundy. “Pretty soon you'll have to pay full price at the movies.”

“Oh, Dad, cut it out,” called Elaine from the kitchen. “Jean has paid full admission for years.”

“I need Jean's help,” said Mrs. Mundy, also from the kitchen. “Come on, Jean.”

Cedar boughs were heaped on newspapers on the kitchen floor. On the table lay a stack of Christmas wreaths and a pile of wire coat hangers that had been bent into circles. Mrs. Mundy, a plump, pleasant-looking woman, was wiring greens to the circles while Elaine fastened clusters of gilded eucalyptus buds to the wreaths. Elaine, who took after her father, was tall, thin, slightly round shouldered, and the kind of girl who could never keep her shirttail tucked in. She said Jean made her feel gawky, all knees and elbows. Jean
said Elaine made her feel like someone who should buy her clothes in the children's department. “The long and the short of it,” Mr. Mundy often remarked when he saw the girls together, and that was almost every day.

“What would you like me to do?” asked Jean, pleased that they were going to make wreaths instead of writing letters.

“Take the garden clippers and snip off pieces of cedar for me—limber pieces that I can bend around the wire,” directed Mrs. Mundy. “When we finish another half dozen I can deliver them to the clubhouse. Our lodge is having a bridge luncheon tomorrow, and I am in charge of the decorations.”

“And you know Mom,” said Elaine. “Always leaving everything to the last minute.”

“Oh, not always,” protested Mrs. Mundy, smiling.

The three worked swiftly. Jean enjoyed the fragrance of the cedar. Decorating for a party, even someone else's party, made her feel so festive she was almost sorry to see the last coat hanger camouflaged with green and the last cluster of eucalyptus buds wired into place.

“There,” said Mrs. Mundy, with an air of having accomplished something. “Wouldn't you girls like
to drive over to the clubhouse with me while I deliver these?”

The girls agreed that a ride across town would be a pleasant change. They put on their coats and carried the wreaths out to the car. Jean found it agreeable to have the illusion of going someplace, of doing something different, even though she was only going along on someone else's errand. Riding in a wreath-filled car on the first night of Christmas vacation seemed a promise of fun and festivity.

“Three and a half months,” whispered Elaine, who could be referring to only one thing—Kip Laddish's personal appearance.

“Three and a half months,” answered Jean fervently, as she enjoyed the lighted Christmas trees in the windows along the street.

When they reached the clubhouse they saw light streaming from the windows and heard bursts of music as the door opened and closed. “Come on, girls,” said Mrs. Mundy briskly. “There's an armload for each of us. We'll just leave them in the kitchen for tonight. I am coming over in the morning with the rest of the committee after the decorations from the dance have been cleared out.” The girls, with their loads of wreaths, followed
Mrs. Mundy into the building and past the ceiling-high Christmas tree in the lobby into the kitchen, which smelled of stale coffee. They piled their wreaths on the long drainboard beside a row of gallon coffeepots.

“There, that's done,” said Mrs. Mundy. “Now I have a few things to attend to in the office. Why don't you girls go in and watch the dance for a few minutes?”

“Yes, let's,” said Elaine eagerly, and Jean agreed. It would be fun to see what others were doing for a good time on the first night of Christmas vacation.

The girls slipped through the door into the room where the party was being held. “There are some chairs along the wall,” whispered Elaine. “Let's sit there.”

The two girls pulled off their coats and sat on the hard folding chairs. “I hope we don't look like wallflowers,” murmured Elaine.

“Not in these school clothes. They'll know we aren't part of the crowd,” answered Jean. “For us, I guess you could call dancing a spectator sport.”

“I see some juniors and seniors from school,” observed Elaine, “and a few fellows and girls home from college.”

Jean did not answer. She was too absorbed in the scene before her. It seemed to her an enchanting picture in motion. The room was fragrant with garlands of Christmas greens, and from the center of the ceiling hung a revolving ball made of bits of mirror that cast flakes of light, like confetti, over the boys in their dark suits and the girls in their light dresses. Never had Jean seen so many pretty dresses before—dresses of net and taffeta and lace, all of them fresh and graceful. And the flowers—the girls wore flowers on their shoulders or in their hair or pinned to their sashes. The fragrance of gardenias mingled with the scent of the greens.

“Some of them are even wearing orchids,” whispered Elaine.

“I know.” Jean's eyes slid from the flowers to the shoes—slippers and sandals of silver and gold and tinted satin. And for every pair of delicate shoes there was a pair of polished black shoes.

“When I have a formal I want a pair of shoes dyed to match,” whispered Elaine. “You can buy the shoes at Belmonts' for six ninety-nine, and the store tints them free.”

Jean felt a twinge of annoyance. She wanted to take in the scene before her without thinking of
the cost of shoes or the problems of matching dye to swatches of material.

“Kip Laddish has a new record of that piece the band is playing,” said Elaine. “I'm going to buy it when I get my allowance.”

The music stopped, and couples drifted to the edge of the room. The flowers, the smiling faces, the dresses dappled by the mirrored light made, it seemed to Jean, one of the loveliest scenes she had ever watched.

And then quite unexpectedly a boy was standing in front of Jean. A tall boy in a dark suit. A boy with a pleasant smile. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

He must be speaking to someone else. Jean felt Elaine nudge her.

“May I have this dance?” he repeated.

“Me?” Jean stared at the boy in disbelief, even though he was standing directly in front of her. A boy—asking Jean Jarrett to step into the scene before her?

“Yes, you,” answered the boy, with an engaging smile.

Like a girl walking in her sleep, Jean rose from her chair and stepped forward. The music started.
The boy put his arm around her and took her right hand in his left. She laid her left hand on his right shoulder. She was in the boy's arms, a part of the scene she had been watching. She felt as if she had stepped into a dream.

It was then that reality intruded. Jean remembered that she did not know how to dance.

The boy took a step, and Jean stumbled. “I-I'm sorry,” she managed to say. “I'm not a very good dancer.”

“That's all right,” he said cheerfully. “I won't try anything fancy.”

But he knows, thought Jean. Two steps, and already he knew she did not know how to dance. Her mind was awhirl. All she could think clearly was, My skirt. My awful homemade skirt with the jogs in the plaid. And she was wearing bobby socks and saddle shoes. Heavy, flat shoes. Sensible shoes that would wear a long time. Her hands grew icy, and her right hand, she now discovered, was sticky from the pitch on the Christmas wreaths. She stumbled. She stumbled again. She wanted to break away from this boy and flee through the crowd, but she did not have the courage. She did not understand how she had managed to get herself into this situation—it had
seemed so natural and so wonderful that first moment when she had risen from her chair and stepped toward him—and now…this….

The boy simplified his steps until he was walking to music and Jean only had to slide her feet backward. Then she found she did not know what to do with her face. In her flat shoes she could not see over his shoulder. She was afraid of smearing lipstick on his coat so she thrust her chin upward. She found this awkward and felt that she must be wearing the strained look Dandy wore when he swam and tried to keep his chin out of water. She tried turning her face to the right. Although still not very comfortable, this was better. At least she had a good view of the shirtfront of this boy, whoever he was.

They danced, or rather walked, in silence. Jean wondered desperately how much longer the music would go on. At the same time she was aware that the boy smelled pleasantly of clean wool and soap. Why, I never knew before that a boy could smell good, she thought in surprise. She had not, in fact, thought much about real boys at all. What boy would be interested in a fifteen-year-old girl who could pass for thirteen and who wore glasses, besides? Boys were people who lived in the same neighborhood and went to the same school. Some
of them were agreeable to talk to once in a while and some were noisy nuisances. Certainly she had not thought of any of them as dancing partners—that would come in that vague and happy time, the future. It had been so much easier to dream about a boy who followed a tap-dancing bottle of shampoo onto the television screen. With that boy she would be dancing lightly, gracefully…but with this boy, this real, live boy…Well, it was all so different from her dreams.

Jean stepped squarely on the boy's toe. “Excuse me,” she managed to say.

“That's all right,” he answered.

The music stopped, and Jean felt as if she had been set free. Then she remembered this was only a pause, that each dance was divided into three parts. Feeling that it was only fair to offer the boy his freedom, she looked up uncertainly at him while she surreptitiously wiped the palms of her clammy hands on her skirt.

The boy grinned. “You're catching on,” he said.

It was nice of him to say it. Jean did not know what to answer. She looked down at the floor and saw that her white saddle shoes were now marked with black polish. The boy's shoes were streaked with her white shoe cleaner.

The music began again, the boy put his arm around Jean, and once more she found herself propelled around the room. She caught a glimpse of Elaine staring at her and, beside her, Mrs. Mundy watching with amusement. How ridiculous I must look, thought Jean, seeing herself in relation to the rest of the crowd for the first time, walking around backward in saddle shoes and an old blouse and that skirt—that awful skirt—when all the other girls looked so pretty.

This time the boy stepped on Jean's toe. “I'm sorry,” he said pleasantly.

At least he was game. Jean was too miserable to answer.