The Luckiest Girl (18 page)

Shelley and Mrs. Stickney exchanged a glance. What had gone wrong? Shelley shivered in the cool night air. She should have worn a sweater.

Katie walked to the car in silence. She slid into the seat beside Shelley, filling the station wagon with the spicy fragrance of her carnation
lei
.

“What happened, dear?” Mavis asked.

“I was having a perfectly marvelous time and then you had to come along and spoil everything,” Katie burst out.

“
Now
what have I done?” Mavis's voice was weary.

“You brought Shelley and Nana in and watched as if we were all a bunch of animals in a zoo or something,” Katie accused her mother. “You spoiled everything.”

“But there was nothing wrong with that,”
protested Mavis. “Other parents were watching, and I thought it was a very nice party. You girls looked lovely in your light dresses with your
lei
s.”

“I was the only one there with three people watching,” said Katie. “And nobody who is anybody lets his parents come and watch anyway.”

Of course, thought Shelley. She had felt exactly the same way at Katie's age about her mother's visiting school. How well she remembered those arguments. “But Shelley,” her mother would say, “the board of education wants parents to visit school and at P.T.A. we are urged to visit.” “I don't care, Mother,” Shelley would answer. “Nobody's mother visits school in the eighth grade.” Now she wished she had remembered and somehow kept Mavis and her mother from watching the party. She could have made some excuse about her date with Hartley and asked them to drive her home. Now they were wasting precious minutes.

“Katie, that's ridiculous,” said Mavis, inserting the key into the ignition. “The parents pay for the series of lessons and there is no reason why they shouldn't see what their children are doing.”

“Mommy, you don't
understand
,” complained Katie.

“Katie, I wish you would stop saying that,” snapped Mavis, her patience at an end.

“I understand,” said Mrs. Stickney. “What Katie is really saying when she complains about our watching is, ‘I am trying to grow up—I want to be free of my mother and grandmother and so I don't want them watching me.' And what Mavis is saying is, ‘Katie is still my little girl and so I have a right to watch.'”

“I guess you are right, Mother.” Mavis sounded tired. “Children do have to grow up.”

Everyone was silent as the station wagon traveled up the main street. Why, of course, thought Shelley. It was all as simple as that. That was all she and her mother ever really argued about. She was trying to grow up and her mother did not want to lose her little girl. The argument might be disguised as a disagreement about a slicker, or visiting school, or how late she could stay out, but it always meant the same thing. Shelley wanted to grow up and her mother felt she was still her little girl. And that was the reason she had stuffed the roses in the Disposall. She had been trying to say,
Now
I am going to grow up.

“I am at a very difficult stage,” said Katie in a voice that suggested everyone should sympathize with her problems.

“Not really?” said Mrs. Stickney, and laughed.

Shelley could see that Katie felt her grandmother was being most unsympathetic.

“Tell us about your difficult stage,” suggested Mrs. Stickney.

“Well, I read an article—” Katie began defensively.

“She's read an article,” chortled Mrs. Stickney. “And I suppose the article said a thirteen-year-old girl is going through a lot of difficult changes.”

Mavis shared her mother's amusement. “It must have been that article that said a thirteen-year-old girl is half child, half woman.”

“You don't have to make fun of me,” Katie said crossly. “What I mean is I am not like Shelley, who doesn't have any problems.”

“Why, I do, too,” said Shelley, surprised at this view of herself. “Lots of them. I had a terrible time with biology.”

“Oh, school.” Katie was scornful. “School doesn't count. I mean you have dates and things.”

“But school does count,” protested Shelley. “It's
terribly important. And just because I have dates doesn't mean they are always with the right boys.”

“Don't you like Hartley?” asked Katie.

“Of course I like Hartley,” said Shelley. “I mean…boys at home. And I have other problems, too.”

“What?” asked Katie.

“Katie, do you think because you are thirteen you have all the problems?” Mavis asked.

“Well, the article said—” began Katie.

“I don't care what it said,” snapped Mrs. Stickney. “Look at me. My hair is gray. I wear bifocals. I have bridgework. All because I have changed.”

“But you're…grown-up,” Katie pointed out, hesitating just enough so that Shelley knew she had been about to say, “But you are old.”

“Katie, just because a girl grows up doesn't mean she stops feeling,” Mavis pointed out.

“And take your mother,” said Mrs. Stickney. “Her life is difficult too. Her children are growing up whether she wants them to or not. She will have to let Luke ride his motorcycle whether she wants to or not. And probably the hardest part of all is having a daughter too old to read
Winnie-the-Pooh
but young enough to misinterpret articles in women's magazines. That is a terrible stage for a
mother to go through. I don't know why someone doesn't write an article about it.” Mrs. Stickney and her daughter both thought this was extremely funny.

“I never read
Winnie-the-Pooh
. Mommy read it to me,” said Katie grumpily. “Why does this family have to argue all the time?”

“Yes, for goodness' sake, let's stop arguing,” said Mavis. “Let's get Shelley home for her date with Hartley, and then the rest of us can go downtown for an ice-cream soda.”

“I'm starved,” said Katie as they turned into the driveway behind Hartley's parked car.

“Mavis, I've been meaning to tell you—I think you're putting on a little weight,” said Mrs. Stickney. “Don't you think you should cut out desserts?”

“Mother, you say that every time you come to visit us,” answered Mavis. “I think I am old enough to know what I should eat.”

Shelley stifled a desire to laugh as she climbed out of the station wagon. She found Hartley in the garage examining the motorcycle and talking to Tom and Luke. “Hi,” she said, feeling the pang she had felt so often lately. This was her next-to-the-last date with Hartley. “The others have gone downtown for a soda.”

“That's a good idea,” said Hartley. “Why don't we go for a ride and then stop in for a soda?”

“I'd love to,” agreed Shelley. “Wait till I get my sweater.”

She ran upstairs, and as she turned on the light in her room, her glance fell on the unfinished letter on her desk. She picked it up and read it over before she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. How silly she had been to be so indignant over nothing. All her mother really meant by her letter was that she loved Shelley. And all Shelley's answer meant was that she wanted to grow up. And she would grow up, was growing up every day. There was nothing her mother could do but accept it and there was nothing Shelley could do but try to understand her mother's feelings. Maybe neither of them would do a very good job, but it would all turn out all right, she was sure.

Shelley pulled her sweater out of the drawer and with a light heart ran down the steps to meet Hartley.

The moment Shelley awoke she knew there was something different about this day. It took her a moment to remember what the difference was and then it came to her—this was the last day of school, the last time she would see Hartley. Tomorrow her mother and father would arrive to take her home. She lay in bed a few moments looking around her room. The Japanese prints, the gilded flatirons that had held her books, the India print bedspread, the windowsills a few inches above the floor—all this she must remember always.

Shelley lingered in the bathroom, taking in the names on the adhesive tape over the towel racks
(how surprised she had been that first day to see seven towel racks in one bathroom), the hamper still left open for the cat, the rough white towels bearing the names of schools. These, too, she would remember.

Breakfast at the painted table in the dining room with the linoleum floor was to be stored away in Shelley's memory too. Shelley smiled as she helped herself to a piece of brittle toast made under the broiler. Before she had lived with the Michies she had thought that pop-up toasters and rugs on the dining-room floor were necessities. Now she knew they were not. Mavis would rather work at her potter's wheel than vacuum a dining-room rug. Toast for a family could be made more quickly under the broiler. It tasted better, too. It was toasted all the way through and not just on the outside.

“I just love the last day of school,” said Katie with a sigh as she sprinkled sugar over her oatmeal. “Half-hour classes are fun and we don't have to learn a thing. And this afternoon I am going to take my cooking notebook out to the incinerator and burn it!”

“You'll do no such thing!” said Mavis sharply. “There are some excellent recipes in your notebook.”

“But it is my notebook,” protested Katie.

“I don't care if it is,” said Mavis. “I would like to use the recipes even if you don't.”

Katie's expression showed that her mother always spoiled all her fun. Shelley smiled to herself. The same old mother-daughter tug of war.

“Katie thinks everything should be made out of a mix,” Luke told his grandmother.

“‘Mother, they've crowned me Queen of the May exclamation point,'” said Katie, to no one in particular.

“You keep quiet!” ordered Luke.

The Michies' day was starting normally. Shelley left the house early so that she could enjoy a leisurely walk through the sunshine to school. The groves were now bearing oranges the size of peas, and the pomegranate tree was covered with brilliant tangerine-colored blossoms. It was strange the way California flowers were so often gaudy. Slowly Shelley walked up the steps of San Sebastian Union High School. She would never walk up those steps again, only down.

The halls were filled with an atmosphere of excitement. Everyone was chattering, laughing, signing one another's yearbooks, making plans for the summer. Shelley was once more an outsider
just as she had been the first day of school. She could not share any plans for the summer or the next year. She could only say good-bye.

With her receipt in hand she went to the office of the yearbook to pick up her copy of the
Argonaut
. Then she, too, was swept into the crowd writing in one another's yearbooks. This was her last day and she was going to enjoy every minute of it. At San Sebastian, she soon discovered, it was the custom to write a message instead of merely signing a name. “It's been fun knowing you,” Shelley wrote in one yearbook after another. The more important the relationship between students, the longer the message was supposed to be.

It was during the first period that report cards were handed out. As Shelley held the envelope in her hand she was confident of the B in biology that would assure her of a C for the year. All her quiz grades had been high and she had taken such pains with the drawings in her notebook that she was sure even Mr. Ericson could not criticize them. She pulled out the cards and read her grades. A in English, A in journalism, B in history (those “why” questions always bothered her), A in Latin, C in physical education. Ah, here it was. Biology—B for two semesters. B for both
semesters! Darling Mr. Ericson! Bless his heart, he wasn't so bad after all. She only hoped he had been as generous with Philip.

“Good news?” Hartley asked.

“B for both semesters of biology!” said Shelley. “That was more than Mr. Ericson promised me.”

“Good for Mr. Ericson!” said Hartley enthusiastically. “But I'm sure you deserved it. You worked hard.”

“Here, Hartley, write in my yearbook,” said Shelley, holding out her pen.

Hartley shook his head. “Tonight. I need more time to write in your book.”

“All right,” Shelley's eyes lingered on Hartley's face. She wondered what he would write and what she would find to say to him. If only she did not have to say good-bye….

Few teachers made any attempt at teaching that last day of school. The English teacher made suggestions for summer reading. Mrs. Boyce, in journalism, read aloud a few examples of good reporting from the morning paper while the class passed
Argonauts
back and forth.

In biology Mr. Ericson looked sardonically at his furiously autographing class and said nothing at
all. Shelley approached him and said, “Mr. Ericson, I want to thank you for the B for two semesters. I only expected a C.”

Mr. Ericson smiled—a very nice smile for Mr. Ericson. “You deserved it, Shelley. You did excellent work when you finally settled down.”

“Thank you,” replied Shelley. He was the same old Mr. Ericson. He could not leave out that remark about finally settling down. Not Mr. Ericson. But in spite of her annoyance, Shelley was grateful to him. Now she did not need to worry about a laboratory science in college, where she wanted to study botany because she had always been interested in plants.

Back at her table Frisbie thrust his
Argonaut
into her hands and helped himself to hers. She read his scrawled message when he returned the book to her. “Hi, Webfoot—Remember the night we burned the hay? Friz.” Shelley laughed. She certainly would remember that night. Always. It was one of her happiest memories.

She turned to Philip and wondered if she dared ask about his grade.

“I got a C,” Philip confided without her asking.

“Oh, Philip,” Shelley exclaimed. “I'm so glad!”

“Yes, that's a load off my mind,” admitted Philip. “Now I can repeat the first semester next year.” He pushed his
Argonaut
toward her.

Smiling, Shelley opened the book while she remembered the Ping-Pong games, the rainy afternoon he had almost kissed her, the night they had all carried the hay out to the incinerator. She was not sorry she had liked Philip—she only regretted that she had not understood much sooner that he was not the boy she wanted him to be. She watched him bending over her yearbook and noticed that the sunburned patch had appeared on his nose once more. “Dear Philip,” she wrote slowly, trying to think of some reference she could make to the dates she had shared with him. “I am very glad I knew you. You helped make my year in San Sebastian complete. I hope you and Jeannie have fun this summer. Shelley.”

Shelley exchanged
Argonauts
with Philip and opened her copy to his message. “Dear Shelley,” he had written. “You are the gamest Ping-Pong player I have ever known. Good luck. Phil.”

“I guess you could say I play a game game even if I can't play a good game,” Shelley said. Philip was looking at her quite seriously. She returned his look for a moment and then, with a smile tinged
with sadness, she took her eyes from his face. He, too, was remembering the painful experience they had shared, an experience that neither of them would ever forget, because it had been painful.

“Next,” said Jeannie, trading books with Shelley, who saw her glance quickly at the words Philip had just written.

When the two girls took back their own books, Shelley read Jeannie's note. “Dear Shelley,” it began, “I have really enjoyed knowing you. It has been fun to share a table in biology and to eat lunch out on the lawn with such a wide-eyed innocent. Please stay that way always. I wish I were leaving San Sebastian too, but since I am not, please let's stay friends. We can write and sometime, someplace we are sure to meet again. I'll miss you terribly. With love, Jeannie.”

Shelley faced Jeannie across the table, which they now had to themselves because the boys had drifted off to sign more books. “What do you mean, ‘wide-eyed innocent'?” she asked curiously.

“Well, you are,” said Jeannie seriously. “That's why I like you. You really think it is fun to do the most ordinary things and because you had fun, I had fun too. You know. Things like eating lunch out of a paper bag.”

“But it was fun,” said Shelley.

“Yes, it was when I looked at things the way you do, as if everything were new and exciting,” agreed Jeannie thoughtfully. “I guess my trouble is that I have always lived in San Sebastian and I understand some things you don't. Like the way a lot of girls dash out to the gym and put their gym blouses on over their dresses to show that they were just too, too busy to remember ahead of time that this was the day of the football game.”

“Is that the way it really is?” Shelley asked, only half believing.

“Yes,” said Jeannie. “You didn't even see things like that, and you walked right into school and made the most sought-after boy like you. I really admired you for that. I've wanted to date Philip since I was in junior high school.”

“And now you are,” said Shelley.

“Yes.” Jeannie's face was alive with happiness. “But you know, I don't suppose he would ever have looked at me if I hadn't been the friend of a new girl. I was always just someone who had always been around. You know. Part of the scenery or something.”

“But you could help him in biology and I couldn't,” Shelley pointed out.

“That helped,” admitted Jeannie, flashing her old mischievous smile, which always reminded Shelley of a bright-eyed sparrow.

The last bell rang, and Shelley and Jeannie walked out of the building together. “My last time down these steps,” remarked Shelley as they emerged into the sunshine with their yearbooks in the crooks of their arms. They walked out to the sidewalk in silence and faced each other in the shade of one of the grevillea trees that lined the main street, a tree that was covered with blossoms like strips of orange fringe.

“I guess this is good-bye,” said Jeannie. “Remember what I said. Don't ever change.”

“It is only good-bye for now,” said Shelley. “Really it is.”

The girls parted quickly, Shelley walking toward the orange groves and Jeannie toward the little house behind the dusty pampas grass. It was sweet of Jeannie to want Shelley to stay as she was, but she would change, of course. Everyone did. She had changed this year, but perhaps in the way Jeannie meant she would not change. Perhaps she could go home and continue to look at the world as if it were a new and exciting place. Remembering the ragged palms of San Sebastian
would make the cool green firs that she had always taken for granted seem remarkable, something to look at as if she were seeing them for the first time.

The pomegranate tree reminded Shelley with a pang of Hartley. Her good-bye to Jeannie had been good-bye for now, but it was different with a boy. They would say good-bye too, and he would write and she would write. Then he would meet another girl, she would meet another boy, they would forget to write and that would be the end.

Shelley bit her lip. She did not want this to be the end with Hartley. She was not ready yet. He was too dear to her. Everything about him was dear—his dark eyes, the way they were both amused at the same things, that something about him that made her want to talk to him, the way she never worried about their next date.

I'm in love, thought Shelley suddenly. She was in love with Hartley and everything was happening too fast. She wasn't even sure she was ready to be in love, but there it was and there was nothing she could do about it but say good-bye. She was not ready for that, either. It had all happened too quickly. She had had so little time with Hartley, she had wasted so many precious months. Shelley
walked slowly through the opening in the privet hedge, which brushed against her arms because it needed pruning. Tonight the boy she loved would walk out through the hedge and she would never see him again.

Shelley spent the afternoon packing her trunk. It was good to have something definite to do. She tried not to think, but each garment that she folded had associations for her—the dress she had worn the first day of school, the skirt she had worn picnicking in the mountains with Hartley, the pink raincoat she had not minded wearing after all.

Katie sat cross-legged on the bed, watching and chattering. Shelley was glad to have her because she helped hold off the moment that lay ahead.

“Guess what?” Katie asked. “Rudy's mother is having a supper party for his birthday and I'm invited and Pamela isn't!”

Shelley wrapped paper around the galoshes she had never worn at all and tucked them into the corner of her trunk. “And you're glad your best friend isn't invited?” she asked.

“She isn't my best friend anymore.” Katie was emphatic. “Not after what she did at the dancing class party.”

“What did she do?” asked Shelley.

“Well, one of the dances was girls' choice,” Katie began. “The dancing teacher gave each girl a carnation, and she was supposed to pin it on the lapel of the boy she wanted to dance with. It is a rule that we are supposed to walk, not run, across the auditorium to ask a boy to dance. The teacher says walking means we have to keep one foot on the floor at all times. Well, Pamela cheated. She ran. I saw her. She got to Rudy first and she knew all the time I had planned to ask him.”

“But didn't you have the last dance with him when we watched that night?” asked Shelley, raising her voice because Luke had started to ride his motorcycle around the house.