Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls (25 page)

So anyway he begged me not to break up, I swear he almost cried. I gave his ring back and he threw it out the car window. If I didn't want it what good was it? I got out of his car and ran inside and told my dad he wouldn't leave me alone so he went out and cussed him out and Buddy drove away so fast I was scared he might wreck the
car and kill himself. I saw him the next day and he tried to talk to me but I was with Bobbi Jo and Ellie and they didn't let him near me. I told them I was scared of him which was a lie but I figured it was good to have them on my side. I also told them he gave me the black eye my father gave me last month.

Here's the reason I broke up with Buddy. I'm in love with Ralph Stewart. He broke up with his girlfriend, that stuck-up Sally Smith the cheerleader queen, and I think he likes me. He's been hanging out near my locker and talking to me before and after school. I'm scared Buddy will see me with him and ruin everything, but so far he hasn't. Now it doesn't matter what Buddy sees me do, I'm not his girl anymore.

Ralph's so cute and he's on the basketball team and the baseball team and he drives a brand new fifty-six Chevy convertible his parents gave him cause he's graduating this year. It's got these big fins and it's turquoise and white and the seats look like leather but maybe they're just vinyl, I can't tell. Anyway it's beautiful and guess what???? He asked me out!!!!!. We're going to the drive-in Saturday night to see The Searchers. I saw it with Buddy but I pretended I hadn't seen it. It's a western, not my favorite kind of movie, and it stars John Wayne, not my favorite actor, but who watches the movie at a drive-in? Ha ha.

My mother is really glad Buddy's finally out of the picture. She says he'll never amount to anything, no ambition or anything, just like my father. She told me it
was just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy as a poor guy. Smarter, too. It's practically the first thing she's ever told me that makes sense. She's right. A guy like Buddy won't get me out of a life like hers—no money, fighting all the time, trapped in a crummy little row house. But a guy like Ralph. His family's loaded, they must be if they live in Dulaney in one of those big houses. Besides, he's going to college, he plans to make something of himself.

Please God, let Ralph like me as much as I like him. Let him give me his class ring and ask me to go steady. Let me ride around in his car all summer with the top down and the radio playing loud. And when he leaves for Penn State, let him ask me to parties there. I'd love to see what college parties are like.

That's all, dear diary, wish me luck Saturday night!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ralph and Cheryl, Cheryl and Ralph,
Mrs. Ralph Stewart, Cheryl Stewart
Ralph and Cheryl 4-ever

I
DECIDE
to write Nora and not say anything about religion. I'll just tell her what I've been doing and all. Maybe by now she's forgotten she wrote that stuff. Hopefully she's changed her mind, gotten over her doubts, back in the fold as the sisters say.

Dear Nora,
I begin.
Hi, how are you? I'm fine.

I sit and stare at the paper. My room is hot. My hand's sweaty. It sticks to the paper. Perspiration rolls down my back. I don't know what to say next. It's like I don't know Nora anymore.

I bend over the paper and try to picture Nora's face, her freckles, her smile, but she's blurry, like a snapshot out of focus. I frown and hold the pen tighter. I decide to tell her what I've been doing. Like we're talking on the phone the way we used to.

 

It's not as boring here as I thought it would be. A few weeks ago, Uncle Ed and Aunt Marie invited some kids from church to a cookout in the backyard. Lou Ann's our age and Barb's a year younger. They go to Sacred Heart Academy and they're really nice. You'd like them. A boy
named Wayne also came. He reminds me of Paul, always joking but much cuter. Too bad he goes steady with Barb! It was kind of awkward at first, but after we had soda and hamburgers we all kind of warmed up and soon we were talking about movies and songs and stuff. They like the same things we do. Louise saw Picnic three times and On the Waterfront twice, just the opposite of you and me! They love Elvis just like we do, especially "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You." Except for Wayne. He says it's corny. His favorite is "Hound Dog" because you can jitterbug to it. He hates slow dancing. Boys!!!

Tomorrow we're going to the swimming pool. Wayne has a friend named Hank he wants me to meet. Lou Ann tells me he's a makeout artist, she says I better keep my buttons buttoned and my zippers zipped. Ha ha.

I have to say, it's really great to be with kids who don't know anything about Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. No questions, no funny looks. I'm not scared here either. Buddy's far away. I hope he's in jail by now.

Aunt Marie's house reminds me of your house. It's the same style. It's not as hot here though and the nights are lots cooler.

How do you like my lavender stationery? Doesn't it go well with this green ink? I bought it at the five and dime just to write to you.

Write soon and tell me what you're up to—nothing I wouldn't do, ha ha.

Your friend forever,
Ellie

 

The letter sounds dumb, but I don't know what else to say, so I put it an envelope and mail it. A dumb letter is better than no letter, I guess.

I
FINALLY
get a letter from Ellie. After I read it, I stare at the green ink looping cheerfully across the lavender paper. She's made circles over the i's instead of dots. When did she start doing that? I read it again—she's got new friends, maybe a boyfriend, she's going places, doing things. She's glad nobody up there knows about Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. She seems to be having fun, though, definitely more than I'm having.

I shove the lavender paper away and stare out my bedroom window at the leaves of the maple sighing and rustling in the morning breeze. It's the kind of letter you write to someone you don't know very well. She tells me what she's doing, but she doesn't say anything about what she's thinking. Or feeling. And that makes me sad. Really sad.

There's nothing in her letter about religion. Not one word. That probably means she doesn't feel the same way I do. Maybe she hates me for what I told her. Maybe she thinks I'm going to hell. What if she's right?

What if I told her about Buddy? She'd really hate me.

I decide not to answer her letter right away. Mainly because I don't know how to say what I need to say. Such as does she still want to be my friend? Is she mad because I don't believe in God?

What if she tells her mother what I said about God and church and all that? Suppose her mother calls my mother and tells her?

I look at my clock. Ten thirty. I decide to go to the used book store in Fullerton. It's a long walk, but I need something to read. I don't want to go the library because they all know me there and they'll ask about Cheryl and Bobbi Jo. I wonder how long I'll have to avoid people who ask questions about the murders. Lucky Ellie.

I take the path along the streetcar tracks. It dips through a patch of woods and I hesitate at the edge. The woods are full of shadows and splashes of sunlight and birdsong. I feel uneasy when the trees close in and I walk faster, looking over my shoulder, tensing at every rustle and snap in the underbrush. Anyone could be hiding in the shadows, waiting, finger pressing a trigger. My heart beats faster. I'm almost running when I leave the trees behind.

In Fullerton, I keep an eye out for dogs and mean kids. It's got some tough neighborhoods. One night last winter, Cheryl and Bobbi Jo and Ellie and I had some trouble with a few boys from there, they followed us back to Ellie's house from the bowling alley and Mr. O'Brien had to chase them away. If Cheryl hadn't been such a flirt. God, she just had to go after every guy she saw, even though she was with Buddy then. She'd toss her hair and smile and give them the eye and before you knew it they were expecting a makeout party.

I realize what I'm thinking and I feel awful. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I tell Cheryl. But does she hear me?

By the time I get to the bookstore, I'm melting. I must look awful—my blouse is sticking to me and the hair on the back of my neck is damp. I'm sure my bangs have curled up like I have a home permanent and whoever did it left the stuff on too long.

The bookstore's not air conditioned. An old fan whirs away, but it's just moving hot air around and making my hair look even worse. Not that it matters.

I wander between rows of tall shelves, crammed tight with books. Surplus books are stacked in piles on the floor. The store smells like old paper turning to dust, ink evaporating, glue dissolving. I breathe it in, loving it. I wonder how long it takes books to get this particular smell.

I come across a bunch of Kathleen Winsor's books. Ellie and I read
Forever Amber
last year, even though it's on the Index of books Catholics aren't supposed to read. According to the Church, it has too many sex scenes, which is why, of course, we read it.
Gone with the Wind
is on the list, too, because of Scarlett and Rhett's divorce, a sin in the eyes of the church. We read it, too. I had to hide
Forever Amber
from Mom and read it under the covers at night, but she didn't even know
Gone with the Wind
is on the list.

Near
Forever Amber,
I find a copy of
Marjorie Morningstar,
the story of a teenage girl who wants to be an actress. It's pretty new and I'm surprised to see a used copy. I think it's still number one on the
New York Times
bestseller list. Everybody's reading it. Maybe it's here because the person who bought it didn't like it after all. Their loss, my gain.

In the S's, I pick out the English edition of
Bonjour Tristesse.
It's supposed to be very romantic (in other words, it has lots of sex in it), and I'm pretty sure it's on the Index, but what do I care about the Index now? Or what the Church thinks? I'll read what I want to read, and I want to read this book because the author, Françoise Sagan, is French and about my age, which is amazing. I can't imagine writing a novel, let alone finding someone to publish it. The title means
Hello, Sadness.
Even I know that much French. It suits my mood perfectly.

I decide I can buy both books and still have enough left for a cherry Coke at Walgreen's.

The guy at the cash register looks like a beatnik. Pale and thin, longish hair, a beard, but handsome in a mysterious way. He's wearing a black T-shirt and black slacks. And sandals. I've never seen a boy wearing sandals. I'm kind of scared to talk to him, so I put my books on the counter and wait for him to look up from what he's reading.

"Seventy cents," he says. His eyes are a brilliant shade of green.

Still speechless in the presence of so much sophistication, I hand him a dollar and he counts out my change. While he's busy, I peek at the book he's reading.
Poems: 1909–1925.
It's an old book. I guess he found it here, among dozens of musty books in the poetry section. I can't quite make out the author's name.

He catches me looking and turns the book toward me. "Have you read T. S. Eliot?"

I shake my head slowly, aware of the sweat trickling down my spine and soaking my underarms. The name sounds familiar, maybe I've heard of him but I'm not sure. Feeling hopelessly stupid, I just stand there and wish I was smart and sophisticated and wore my hair long and straight and dressed in black and knew who T. S. Eliot was.

He closes his eyes and recites poetry unlike anything I've ever read, dark and strange and unsettling. Hearing it, I want to do things with words I've never done. I want to know what the poem means, I want to read it myself.

Suddenly he stops and opens his strange green eyes. "
That's
T. S. Eliot.
The Wasteland.
"

"It's neat," I say, blushing with embarrassment.
Neat—
is that the best word I can come up with?

"Neat." He smiles. "Yeah, it's neat, all right."

"I never heard poetry like that."

He comes out from behind the counter and beckons me to follow him. He's tall and lanky and his T-shirt is slowly fading from black to green. I notice a few holes in it. I can see his white skin through them. His shaggy dark hair clings to the back of his neck. I wonder what Dad would say if he showed up at our front door. Nothing good, that's for sure.

In the poetry section, he looks for T. S. Eliot's poetry. He has long slender fingers and his nails are short and jagged. He must bite them.

"Nothing here," he says. "Too bad."

He looks at me and turns back to the shelves. "How about Walt Whitman? Have you read him?"

The name sounds familiar. "Didn't he write a poem about lilacs or something?"

"That's him." He smiles and hands me an old paperback. "
Leaves of Grass,
" he says.

I look at the price. Thirty cents. If I buy it, I won't have enough left for a Coke. "I can't afford it."

He leads me to the counter. "Put
Marjorie Morningstar
back. It's a crappy bestseller. Plus Wouk's a crappy writer. Don't ruin your mind with junk like that."

I nod. Up until now I hadn't been sure I had a mind to ruin. "Okay."

"And look, you get ten cents back." He slides a dime across the counter. "How old are you?"

"Almost seventeen."

"Still in high school."

For the first time I wish I was older instead of shorter. "I'll be a senior this fall."