Betsy Was a Junior and Betsy and Joe (9 page)

Irma threw a sofa cushion.

“Sister Biscay! Sister Root!” cried Tib, dashing about.

Order was restored and elections were held.

Carney was elected president.

“I don't mind mentioning to the Sistren,” Betsy said, “that I expect to be secretary-treasurer. I want
the fun of writing up the minutes. I've even bought a notebook. See?”

“And I don't mind mentioning,” said Tib, “that I expect to be sergeant-at-arms. You notice how well I've been keeping order. I'm little, but oh my!”

Obligingly, the Sistren made Betsy secretary-treasurer and Tib sergeant-at-arms. Betsy whipped out a pencil and began to write the minutes, reading them aloud when she thought they were exceptionally brilliant.

“The first thing to do,” said Carney, taking charge, “is to decide on a whistle. We simply have to have a whistle. Otherwise how would we know whether it was an Okto Delta trying to call us away from our supper or just some dumb boy?”

“Yes, how?” asked Winona. “That's what I'd like to know.”

“I will now listen,” said Carney, “to any whistles the Sistren care to propose.”

The response was a blast of whistles, loud, soft and breathy, in all combinations of notes.

“Wait!” cried Betsy. “Don't decide yet! I've got a wonderful one, but I can't seem to make it come.”

She struggled but in vain. The Sistren waited loyally. They clapped her on the back. The sergeant-at-arms brought a glass of water. Still no whistle, and Alice grew tired of waiting.

“How's this?” she asked. Her whistle came clear
and firm: “Dee
Dee
Dee Dee Dee Dee Dee Dee!”

“Oh, that's cute!”

“That's grand.”

“Let's take that one.”

“Sister Morrison,” scribbled Betsy, “proposed a whistle which was whistled and approved as whistled. Sister Root offered a handshake which was shook and approved as shook. Sister K. Kelly offered a salute which was saluted and approved as saluted.

“The Sistren Biscay, T. Kelly and Ray were appointed by the president to look up the matter of pins. A more suitable committee couldn't have been appointed. Sister Ray is especially competent. Long live our wise president!”

The pins, it was decided, when Betsy stopped reading aloud, would be engraved with the Okto Delta symbol, the triangle with a circle inside, such as Tib had drawn on the invitations.

“Gee, I'm important!” Tib said. “I thought up the name and I drew the first Okto Delta sign. What would you all have done if I'd stayed in Milwaukee?”

“I think we ought to entertain the boys,” Winona broke in. “After all, there are other girls in school. If we're busy every Saturday night our boys will find someone to take out.”

“Freshmen, probably.”

“Yes. They certainly fall for the freshmen.”

“Maybe they'll get up a fraternity,” Betsy suggested.
“Eight boys, to match our sorority.”

There was a chorus of approving cheers.

Nobody wanted to play cards that night. Making plans was much more entertaining. They had refreshments—sandwiches, cocoa and whipped-cream cake—and Winona played the piano.

They barn-danced. They cake-walked. They practised high kicking. Mr. and Mrs. Ray and Margaret came in before it was over, but secret affairs had all been disposed of so their presence didn't matter. They finished the whipped-cream cake, while the fun went on.

Tib stayed all night with Betsy and they talked the evening over jubilantly as they undressed and put on what Betsy, copying Julia, called their “dream robes.”

“I never had so much fun in my life,” Tib declared. “I'm so glad you thought of making up a sorority.”

“It did go over with a bang,” Betsy replied.

And it did. It was as great a success as she had hoped it would be.

“Now,” she thought with satisfaction, waiting for sleep to come, “I'm going to begin to do things.”

S
HE DID BEGIN
to do things. But they weren't, or at least the first one wasn't, the sort of things that she had in mind. The first effect of Okto Delta in Betsy's life was catastrophic.

The excitement of the girls did not exhaust itself over the weekend, which was filled with feverish telephoning and rushing from house to house to discuss
the new organization. The boys beseiged them with questions.

“What does Okto Delta stand for?”

“Don't you wish you knew!”

“Show me the grip. Come on, I won't tell.”

“Tony Markham! Don't you know that sororities are secret?”

“Aw, it's only a club!”

“It's nothing whatever like a club,” responded the indignant Okto Deltas.

The high school, when it convened on Monday, was as obtuse as Tony. It was accustomed to clubs which sprang up all the time like eager mushrooms, and it didn't know the difference that Greek letters made. It didn't realize at first how exclusive and important sororities were.

The girls enjoyed mystifying everyone.

“Sister Ray!”

“Sister Kelly!”

“Hi there, Sister in Okto Delta!”

“What is this Okto Delta?” fellow students inquired in complete good humor.

“Just wait! You'll find out!”

Betsy, in a line of marchers heading for the Latin class, passed Winona heading for the physics lab. These lines were fairly rigid. Students were not supposed to break away nor pause for conversation. But
passing Betsy, the irrepressible Winona gave the Okto Delta whistle, “Dee
Dee
Dee Dee Dee Dee Dee Dee.” She leaned out to take Betsy's hand in the Okto Delta grip. She gave the Okto Delta salute, four fingers lifted on either side of her head, and then on a sudden inspiration, crooked the fingers to make horns. Betsy burst out laughing and Miss Erickson, standing at the door of the classroom, regarded her disapprovingly.

Betsy and Tacy, who usually sat side by side, happened to be separated by a desk or two in Latin class. Bursting to tell Tacy about Winona's antics, Betsy raised her hand. Miss Erickson responded coldly, “Yes?”

“May I please speak to Tacy?”

“Certainly not,” replied Miss Erickson. “Anything you have to say to Tacy can wait until the end of the period.”

Betsy was annoyed. She was not accustomed to being snubbed in the Deep Valley High School. While Miss Erickson was explaining a difficult passage she wrote a note to Tacy.

“Erickson won't let me speak to you, the old pill. But after class I have a joke to tell you. Thy faithful Sister in Okto Delta, Betsy.”

Folding this and marking it with Tacy's name, she passed it along the row to Tacy. Miss Erickson slapped her book shut.

“Betsy Ray! You may bring that note to me.”

Betsy blushed. She remembered “the old pill” and blushed more deeply still. Of course, Miss Erickson might throw the note in the waste basket without reading it. That, thought Betsy virtuously, would be the honorable thing to do. But she might conceivably read it.

“If she does,” thought Betsy defiantly, “it's just too bad.”

She took the note, walked to the front of the room and held it out.

To her surprise Miss Erickson didn't take it. Instead she said, “We would all like to know what business you and Tacy have that is important enough to interrupt Cataline's orations. You may read the note to the class.”

“Not…aloud!” Betsy cried.

“That is what I said,” Miss Erickson answered.

“I…I'd rather not.”

“You should have thought of that before you wrote it.”

Betsy turned a still deeper crimson. After a brief, desperate hesitation, she threw off her accustomed droop, stood erect and read: “Erickson won't let me speak to you, the old pill. But after class I have a joke to tell you. Thy faithful Sister in Okto Delta, Betsy.”

There was an aghast silence in the Cicero classroom.
Joe Willard, who never reacted like other people, looked amused, but everyone else looked frightened. Tacy was so pale that her freckles stood out.

Betsy glanced furtively toward Miss Erickson. She, too, was blushing. Angry color ran from the edge of her bright yellow hair down to her stiff white collar.

“Betsy,” said Miss Erickson, “take that note to Miss Bangeter. Tell her the circumstances under which you read it to the class.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Betsy replied. She folded the note and went out.

Years seemed to fall away as she stood in the empty hall. She felt as though she were a little girl again in grade school, sent by the teacher to another room with a note. She had been proud then, but she had always felt a little frightened, too.

The hall was surrounded by classrooms from which came the murmur of monotonous voices. There was a water fountain, and she took a drink. She went to the cloakroom mirror and fluffed her hair aimlessly without really looking at her burning face.

Miss Bangeter's office was behind the assembly room. Miss Clarke, in charge of the study period there, smiled brightly as Betsy walked through. Betsy forced a sickly smile in return.

Being sent to Miss Bangeter was a strangely powerful chastisement. She was not unduly severe; she was
known to be just and even generous. But she was such an awesome personage, she lived on such Olympian heights that there was a profound humiliation merely in bringing wrongdoing into her presence.

Knocking at the door Betsy reflected that it was the first time she had been sent to the principal's office for a reprimand. She had seen it happen dozens of times to boys and girls she knew. It was always happening to Winona. But Betsy Ray was supposed to be a different kind of person. She was the kind who is elected to class office, who has conferences with the teachers on school affairs, not her own misdemeanors. This was plain in the expression which crossed Miss Bangeter's face when she saw who had entered.

“Yes, Betsy,” she said pleasantly. “What is it?”

Betsy's face was still suffused with crimson. She walked slowly and her throat was so dry that she could hardly speak.

“Miss Erickson asked me to give you this note.”

“Miss Erickson wrote me a note?” Miss Bangeter sounded puzzled. Obviously she could not understand why Betsy was so perturbed.

“She didn't write it,” Betsy said. “I did. I wrote it to Tacy or rather…” she paused. “Miss Erickson asked me to tell you the full circumstances, so I'll have to go a little farther back. I asked to speak to Tacy during
class and Miss Erickson wouldn't let me.”

“Was it about a personal matter?” Miss Bangeter asked judicially.

“Yes,” said Betsy. “I couldn't speak to Tacy so I wrote her a note, and Miss Erickson saw me passing it and asked me to bring it to the front and read it out loud. So I did.” Betsy gulped. “She told me to bring it to you.”

Miss Bangeter accepted the folded paper and laid it aside. She leaned forward, crossing her arms on the desk, looking into Betsy's face with keen, grave eyes. She spoke in a tone of dignified intimacy.

“Just what do you think of all this, Betsy?”

“I think I acted very foolishly, but I think, too—” Betsy's tone grew resentful, and she paused.

“I know,” said Miss Bangeter, “you think that Miss Erickson shouldn't have read your note. But you must take into consideration that she is a young, inexperienced teacher. She's just out of college, you know.

“Before you judge Miss Erickson, I suggest that you judge yourself. Wasn't it impudent to write a note after you had been refused permission to speak? Shouldn't you have accepted Miss Erickson's ruling not to discuss this matter with Tacy during class? Couldn't it have waited anyway? Was it really important?”

Betsy felt tears come into her eyes. She cried easily,
disgustingly so, she always thought. She was resolved not to cry now so she dared not speak. She clamped her jaws so firmly that she looked like a squirrel stuffed with nuts. Reaching out she opened the note and spread it in front of Miss Bangeter.

Miss Bangeter read it. A lightning flicker of amusement was gone so quickly that Betsy was not positive she had seen it, although she thought she had and it cheered her up a little.

“What do you think you ought to do?” Miss Bangeter asked.

“Go back and apologize, I suppose,” muttered Betsy.

“Right,” returned the principal crisply. “And I should say that it ought to be in front of the class. Don't you think so? Since the whole class heard the note?”

Betsy nodded. She got up. “Thank you, Miss Bangeter,” she said and slipped miserably out the door.

Back in the cloakroom she looked into the mirror, with purpose this time. She ran her back comb through her hair, rubbed a chamois skin over her nose. She returned to the drinking fountain and took another drink. She reached the door of Miss Erickson's room, but she stood so long without opening it that it seemed to her she had been standing there for
years and would be there forever. At last, with false briskness, she turned the knob.

Silence fell as she entered. Cicero's finest oratorical flights could not compete with this.

“Miss Erickson,” said Betsy. But she looked at Tacy who was staring down, suffering. She turned determinedly and faced Miss Erickson. “I'm very sorry that I was impudent,” she said in a firm voice.

“Did Miss Bangeter tell you to apologize to me?”

“No, ma'am,” said Betsy. “But I told her I was going to.”

“Very well,” said Miss Erickson. “Your apology is accepted. But I will not let you be tempted to write more notes. You may move down to this front seat. Hazel will change with you. She can be trusted in the back row.”

Hazel Smith was a friendly, freckle-faced girl whom Betsy liked. She looked sheepish as she carried her books back to Betsy's old seat. Betsy took her own load of books and moved to the front seat, another common indignity which she now received for the first time in her life.

It was a minor sensation around school, Betsy Ray calling Miss Erickson a pill, being sent to the principal, being moved to a front seat. Betsy acted jaunty about it, especially with the girls after school.

“After all,” she said, “I was just living up to Okto
Delta. You know that fatal D!”

She told the story at the supper table, and Mrs. Ray was indignant with Miss Erickson.

“I never heard of such a thing,” she said. “You learn in kindergarten that you don't read other people's mail.”

“It's kindergarten stuff,” said Mr. Ray, “that school isn't for writing notes, passing notes, receiving notes, reading notes, or anything else of that nature.”

“You're right,” Betsy admitted glumly. She felt extremely foolish. Okto Delta had started out wrong. It was different than she had thought it would be. It didn't seem to tie up with those plans she had made for the winter.

Those fine lofty plans came to vivid life a few days later when the family drove out to Murmuring Lake. Mr. and Mrs. Ray had been married there, at Pleasant Park across the lake from the Inn, and weather permitting they made this romantic pilgrimage every October fifteenth.

This year the day was red-gold and crisp. The Inn was festive under scarlet vines but a big stove crackled in the almost empty dining room. Mrs. Van Blarcum hurried in and out, and Mr. Van Blarcum, with plenty of time to spare as usual, chatted with them while they ate the traditionally magnificent dinner.

Afterwards, while Mr. Ray smoked his cigar, Betsy ran down to say hello to Pete. She couldn't find him, but standing on the dock she looked across the cool, twinkling water to Babcock's Bay and thought about the day she had sat in a rowboat there and mapped out her winter.

She had resolved, first of all, to try to take Julia's place. She hadn't, she admitted, done very well at that. She was almost never at home, and she remembered, with a twinge, rebuffing Margaret on the day she and Tacy and Tib planned Okto Delta.

She had resolved to excel in school, to become a leader, and instead she had had a quarrel with Miss Erickson. Joe Willard had dropped out of her plans, too, but that wasn't her fault.

“Anyhow, what's Joe Willard to me? I'm getting plenty of attention from boys this year,” Betsy said aloud. She went on in her thoughts, “The only thing I've stuck to is my music. And I don't think I have a shred of talent for it. Of course—I invented Okto Delta….”

That hadn't helped so far, though. It had even hindered.

She frowned at the distant blur of yellow cottonwood trees rimming Babcock's Bay and with intense concentration re-established in her mind the pattern she had set for her winter: thoughtfulness at home,
good work at school, piano lessons….

“And now,” she added, “making something out of Okto Delta…something good.”

She held Margaret's hand cozily during the afternoon ramble around Pleasant Park. As usual, with her father smiling in calm content and her mother vivaciously explaining, they visited the oak tree under which the two had become engaged. They stood in the bay window where the marriage had taken place, and had tea with the wife of the farmer who now owned the house.

Although they all missed Julia, they had a happy, satisfying time. And driving home Betsy told Margaret stories. At last, lulled by the beat of Old Mag's hoofs and the rhythmic creaking of the wheels, they sank into drowsy silence.

Betsy's thoughts went back to her plans for the winter. If a sorority was going to be any help, it must be a little more serious. Epsilon Iota, which Julia hoped so much to join, sounded very serious. But Okto Delta hadn't turned out that way.

“I must, I must, bring out the serious side,” thought Betsy, rolling through the dark.