Fifteen (2 page)

“Hello,” said Sandra, as if she were surprised to see Jane so soon. Cuthbert began to snore.

“Hello.” Jane eyed her charge. Sandra's thin little face did look tired—so tired that Jane felt sorry for her. Since she was willing to sit quietly looking at
Vogue
, perhaps she was one step closer to a nap. “Why don't we go to your room?” Jane suggested gently. “I'll read to you.”

When Sandra ignored her and went on reading
Vogue
, Jane sat down. To have Sandra fall asleep over
Vogue
was too much to hope for, she knew, but she did not know what to do next. Sandra put her feet on the coffee table.

“Oh, Sandra, I wouldn't put my feet on the table if I were you,” said Jane.

Sandra stared at her over the top of the magazine. “Say
table
in French,” she demanded.

“La table,”
answered Jane, giving the article as well as the noun, as she had been taught to do in her one year of high school French. Well, she thought hopefully, maybe we can work out a nice quiet game with French. I'll say something in French and then Sandra can say something in French. Maybe that will amuse her.

“Say
chair
,” ordered Sandra.

“La chaise,”
answered Jane promptly. Those A's she had earned in two semesters of French were going to come in handy after all.

“Window,”
Sandra said.

“La fenêtre.”
That was easy. Practically the first word Jane had learned in French.

“Curtains,”
demanded Sandra.

Jane paused. Curtains? Oh, yes.
“Les rideaux.”

Sandra looked impressed and Jane relaxed. This could go on for a long time, and as long as Sandra asked the French for ordinary objects in the living room she was confident that she could answer.

“Dog.”
Cuthbert's snoring called Sandra's attention to the dog.

“Le chien.”

“Book.”

“Le livre.”

Sandra put down the
Vogue
and began to wander around the room looking for new objects to name.

“Desk,”
she said.

Jane started to say
le pupitre
but remembered that was the word for a pupil's desk.
“Le bureau,”
she answered, pleased with herself for remembering the difference. However, she had begun to notice that the room was full of objects that her French vocabulary was not equal to. “Now you tell
me the word for
rug
,” she suggested, because she herself did not know the word and did not want to risk revealing her ignorance to Sandra.

“Le tapis,”
answered Sandra promptly and in an accent more authentic then Jane's.

“C'est bien!”
cried Jane, feeling that she sounded like her own French teacher, even though she had no idea whether Sandra was right or not.

“You speak French sort of funny,” observed Sandra critically, as her eyes darted around the room looking for a difficult object to name. Her eye fell on a heavy crystal ashtray on the desk.
“Ashtray,”
she said.

Ashtray? Tray of ashes?
It was not the sort of phrase one learned in first-year French. Jane gave up. “I'm sorry, Sandra. I don't know how to say
ashtray
in French.”

Sandra picked up the overflowing crystal tray. “Say it, or I'll dump it on the rug!”

Jane began to feel uneasy. Maybe she could make up something, some syllables that sounded foreign. No, Sandra would know the difference. “I'm sorry, Sandra,” she said. “I just don't know it. Put down the ashtray and let's try something else.”

Sandra looked defiantly at Jane. Slowly she tipped the ashtray so that ashes and lipstick-
stained cigarette butts cascaded onto the beige carpet.

“Sandra!” cried Jane.

Sandra set the ashtray back on the desk and snatched a bottle of ink out of a drawer. “Say
bottle of blue ink
,” she ordered, as she loosened the top of the bottle. “Say it or I'll dump it on the rug!”

That's one I know, Jane told herself, but the words would not come to her lips. She could read
Permanent Blue Black
on the label of the ink bottle. She looked in despair at the ashes and cigarette butts on the pale carpet—wall-to-wall carpet, yards and yards of it. The permanent blue-black ink would fall in a permanent blue-black puddle and seep slowly…If she made a grab for Sandra and tried to get the bottle away from her, the ink was sure to spill in the scuffle.

“Say it!” Sandra sounded ominous.

“Uh…
le
…
la
,” was all that Jane could utter. Oh, why couldn't she think!
Bottle
?
Bottle
? What
was
the word for
bottle
? “Wait a minute,” she pleaded desperately. “It's on the tip of my tongue.” It was, but she could not find it. And Sandra, she knew from her experience with the fly spray, was ruthless.

“You don't know it.” There was triumph in
Sandra's voice. “I know something you don't know! I know something you don't know!”

Jane was desperate. She could not think and she was afraid to move. Those yards and yards of beige carpet…It would be ruined and she would be responsible. Yards and yards of carpet covered with permanent blue-black stains…

At that moment Jane heard the back door open. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Norton,” a boy's cheerful voice called. Cuthbert scrambled out from under the coffee table and ran yapping joyfully into the kitchen.

Startled that someone should burst into the house without knocking, Jane was still unable to move. She could only think, The ink, Sandra, the ink. Don't spill the ink.
Please
don't spill the permanent blue-black ink.

There was the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing and a voice saying, “Hi there, Cuthbert. How's the fellow?”

Jane knew she should investigate, but she could not leave Sandra with the ink bottle in her hands. “Who is it?” she called out in a weak voice.

“The Doggie Diner,” the strange voice answered, and a boy appeared in the dining-room doorway.
“Oh, excuse me. I thought you were Mrs. Norton,” he said.

If only this intrusion would distract Sandra from the ink! “The Doggie Diner?” Jane echoed, and then felt stupid for doing so. She knew that the Doggie Diner was a small business that delivered horsemeat to the owners of dogs in Woodmont and nearby towns. It was just that she was startled to have a boy appear from nowhere. And, now that she took her eyes away from the ink bottle long enough to look at him, a very nice strange boy.

“I brought Cuthbert's meat. Mrs. Norton likes me to walk in and put it in the refrigerator for her,” he explained, looking questioningly at Jane.

“Oh. I'm—sitting with Sandra.” Jane felt that the way he looked at her required an answer.

“Yes, and she can't say
bottle of blue ink
in French, so I'm going to dump this on the rug,” said Sandra.

“Oh, Sandra,” pleaded Jane wearily, “please put the ink down.”

Sandra tipped the bottle at a dangerous angle. Now that she had an audience she was going to make the most of her scene. “Say it,” she ordered. “Say it right now.”

“Utpay atthay ownday!”
commanded the strange boy in a sharp voice.

Sandra turned from Jane to stare at him. “What did you say?” she wanted to know.

Utpay atthay ownday! Utpay
—of course! Suddenly Jane laughed. The boy was saying, “Put that down,” in pig Latin, and he had succeeded in diverting Sandra.
“Esyay, Andrasay, utpay atthay ownday,”
she said, and smiled gratefully at him over Sandra's head.

Sandra turned to Jane. “What are you saying? I can't understand you.” She looked close to tears.

“I was telling you to put the ink down,” answered Jane.

Sandra was intrigued by this language she could not understand. “Say some more. You've got to say some more.”

“You didn't put the ink down,” Jane pointed out, and looked at the strange boy again.

“Yes, put it down,” he said, and Jane felt a ripple of pleasure that this boy was standing by her when she needed him. Reluctantly Sandra walked over to the desk and set the ink down. Jane and the strange boy exchanged looks—relief and gratitude on her part, amusement on his.

“Well, so long,” said the boy, and disappeared
from the dining-room doorway.

I mustn't let him get away like this, thought Jane, and ran to the kitchen just as he was going out the back door. “Thanks a lot,” she called out to him. “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along.”

“That's okay,” he said. “I've got a kid sister and I know how it is.” And with that he was gone.

Jane looked out the kitchen window in time to see him jump into a red truck with
Doggie Diner—Fresh U.S. Government-inspected Horse-meat Delivered Weekly
painted on its side. And in a moment the truck was disappearing around a bend in the road.

Well, thought Jane. Well! I did meet a boy today! A new boy who is old enough to have a driver's license!

“Say some more,” demanded Sandra, bringing Jane's thoughts back into the kitchen.

“Come to your room and I'll say some more.” Jane spoke gently, but she had made up her mind to be firm with Sandra from now on. She had the upper hand and she was going to hang onto it as long as she could. “Come along.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Sandra followed Jane to her room and sat down on the bed, which was cov
ered by a spread woven with a design of cattle brands. The influence of the interior decorator had not reached Sandra's room. Her walls were hung with pictures of blue rabbits and pink kittens that would glow in the dark, and beside her bed was a child-sized papier-mâché figure of Bugs Bunny with a real radio set in the middle of its stomach. “Say some more,” pleaded Sandra.

“Imetay orfay ouryay apnay.”
Jane took advantage of Sandra's interest to kneel and remove the child's shoes.

“What did you say?” Sandra asked.

“I said it's time for your nap.”

Sandra scowled and looked as if she were about to say it was not time for her nap. Instead she said, “Is it a foreign language?”

Jane smiled. “Not exactly. It's more like a secret language.”

“A secret language?” Sandra asked eagerly. “Do you really know how to talk a secret language?”

“Yes,” replied Jane, thinking how tired Sandra looked. She unfolded the blanket at the foot of the bed. “Lie down and let me cover you up and I'll say some more things in the secret language.”

Wearily, Sandra flopped back with her head on the pillow. “Say my name,” she requested, as Jane
pulled the blanket over her.

“Andrasay Ortonay,”
Jane told her.

“That's pretty,” was Sandra's comment. “Say your name.”

“Anejay Urdypay.”
Was Sandra really beginning to look drowsy? Jane watched the little girl's eyelids begin to droop.
“Ogay otay eepslay,”
she said softly.

Sandra's eyes closed and then opened again as she struggled against sleep.

“Sandra,” whispered Jane, “what is the name of the boy who brought Cuthbert's meat?”

“I don't know,” said Sandra drowsily, and closed her eyes.

Jane sat watching her for a moment. Poor kid, she wasn't really a monster. She was just a tired little girl who had lived in too many places and had too many strange babysitters. Jane tucked the blanket over Sandra's arms. Well, she thought, I'm certainly bright. She had wanted to meet a new boy and when she finally did meet one she didn't even find out his name. All she knew about him was that he delivered horsemeat and had a younger sister.

Jane sat staring at the Bugs Bunny with the radio in its stomach, but she did not really see it.
Instead, she saw the boy standing in the doorway grinning at her. And when I did meet him, her thoughts ran on, I was rumpled and covered with dirt and grass stains and worried about the Nortons' rug. That was no way to make an impression on a boy. Then she smiled to herself. If any of the boys she already knew delivered horsemeat for the Doggie Diner, she would think it was a big joke. Maybe it was funny, but somehow she did not feel like laughing at this boy's job.

Why, I know lots of things about him, Jane thought suddenly. The boy was at least sixteen, because he had a driver's license. He had a nice smile and merry eyes—greenish gray eyes. He had brown hair with a dip in it. He was not really tall, but he was tall enough so a medium-sized girl could wear heels and not feel she had to scrooch down when she walked beside him. He was outdoors a lot, because he was so tanned, and he must be new in Woodmont, because she had never seen him before. He looked like a nice boy, full of fun and—best of all—when he saw she was having trouble with Sandra, he understood. One might say they spoke the same language!

But what good does it do me, Jane thought sadly. This was the kind of luck she always had. The boy
was sixteen, and nice and understanding, but she didn't even know his name or where he went to school or what town he lived in. But there must be some way she could find out. She didn't know how, but there must be a way. And she was going to find out.

Jane glanced once more at Sandra to make sure she was sleeping soundly. Then she tiptoed out of the bedroom to clean up the ashes Sandra had dumped on the carpet and to let the flies out of the snapdragons.

“Pop, have you ever thought about getting a dog?” Jane asked that evening, after babysitting with Sandra and meeting so briefly the boy who delivered horsemeat for the Doggie Diner.

“Can't say that I have,” answered Mr. Purdy from behind the evening paper. From time to time he stroked Sir Puss, the large tabby cat that was stretched out on his lap. Meticulously Sir Puss licked a paw and scrubbed it behind his ear. When Jane spoke he paused to stare at her disapprovingly for a long moment before he resumed his routine of licking and scrubbing.

That cat acts as if he understood what I said and knew what I was planning, Jane thought. “Well,
don't you think it would be a good idea to have a dog?” she asked.

“What for?” Mr. Purdy asked.

“For a watchdog,” Jane suggested.

“In Woodmont?” Mr. Purdy lowered the paper and looked at his daughter through a cloud of pipe smoke. “Nobody even bothers to lock doors in Woodmont. I don't know what we would want a watchdog for.” He raised the paper again as if that ended the discussion.

“Dogs are nice pets,” Jane persisted. “Lots of people keep dogs just because they like them.”

“We have a nice pet.” Mr. Purdy dropped one half the paper to pet Sir Puss, who rested his chin on his master's knee and closed his eyes with a look of self-satisfaction on his tiger face.

“But dogs are different,” said Jane. “They are loyal and faithful and—”

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Purdy interrupted. “I've read about what noble animals dogs are too. Man's best friend and all that. They rouse sleeping people in burning buildings. They drag little children out of fishponds. They also dig up gardens. I have enough trouble with the neighbors' dogs running through the begonias and burying bones in the chrysanthemum bed without spending perfectly
good money on a four-legged force of destruction of our own.”

“We can get a dog free at the pound,” Jane argued. “We wouldn't have to spend money on a fancy dog with a pedigree and everything. We could just drive over to the pound and pick out a nice plain dog that needs a good home.” As far as Jane was concerned, the only qualification a Purdy dog needed was a good appetite.

Mr. Purdy rubbed his cat under the chin. “Now take Sir Puss, here,” he said. “There's a pet for you. The handsomest cat and the best gopher hunter in Woodmont. And he wouldn't stand for a dog. He would run a dog off the place.”

“Some cats get along with dogs,” Jane pointed out.

“Not Sir Puss,” said Mr. Purdy. “He's too old and set in his ways.”

“And I don't like to think what life would be like if I had to let a dog in and out, in and out, all day, too. Sir Puss keeps me busy enough opening doors,” said Jane's mother. “Jane, why this sudden interest in a dog? You've never mentioned one before.”

“Oh, I don't know,” answered Jane vaguely. “I just thought a dog might be nice to have around.” Well, that took care of that. Neither her father nor
her mother would consent to a dog, so there was no chance of the Purdys' having horsemeat delivered by the Doggie Diner. And no chance of her getting to know the strange boy that way. She would have to think of some other way. And she must think of it soon. If he had recently moved to Woodmont and would be entering Woodmont High in September, it would be a good idea to get to know him before school started and all the girls saw how attractive he was. Half a dozen girls had probably seen him already and were wondering how they could meet him—girls who were smooth like Marcy. Or maybe they had met him already. And how could a girl meet a boy who delivered food for dogs if her father wouldn't keep a dog?

Sir Puss yawned and stretched luxuriously on Mr. Purdy's lap. It seemed to Jane that she had never seen a cat look so self-satisfied. She had loved him since he was a kitten and she was only four years old; she and Sir Puss had grown up together, but at the moment she felt a twinge of annoyance at him for spoiling her plan. As she sat watching the cat settle himself for a nap, she turned her problem over in her mind. The delivery of horsemeat had seemed like such a good answer until the cat spoiled it.

Jane watched Sir Puss twitch one ear in his sleep, and suddenly the sight of the well-fed cat gave her an inspiration. “Say, Pop,” she said, trying not to sound too eager, “I saw an ad in the paper that said the Doggie Diner delivered horsemeat for pets. Wouldn't it be easier to have horsemeat delivered for Sir Puss than to get lamb liver from the market? The delivery boy could walk right in and leave it in the refrigerator.”

“Goodness, Jane,” exclaimed Mrs. Purdy. “I wouldn't want to keep horsemeat in the refrigerator with our food.”

“And Sir Puss likes liver,” Mr. Purdy added. “He wouldn't eat horsemeat.”

“His food is no trouble. I always buy his liver when I get our meat.” Mrs. Purdy looked curiously at her daughter. “You've never taken an interest in the cat's diet before. What's come over you tonight?”

Another good idea that would not work. “Oh, nothing. I just saw this ad and got to thinking,” said Jane, realizing that she had better be careful what she said or her mother would start asking a lot of tiresome questions, like who was the boy's family and what did his father do and a lot of things she couldn't answer until she got to know
him. If only she knew the boy's name she could look him up in the telephone book and just happen to walk by his house, and he might just happen to be outside washing the car or mowing the lawn or something. She would glance at him with a faintly puzzled expression as if she had seen him someplace but couldn't quite remember where. And he would look up from whatever he was doing and say, “Why, hello. Aren't you the girl who was babysitting at the Nortons'?” And she would say…But she did not know his name and even if she did, he was probably so new in town that his family would not be listed in the telephone directory yet. Or he might not even live in Woodmont. He might live in some other town and when school started he would be part of the school bus crowd.

Or she could find out where the Doggie Diner was located and just happen to walk past about the time he might be through work. Jane considered this idea and discarded it as being too obvious. A business that cut up horsemeat would not be in a part of town where she could go for a walk without having people wonder what she was doing there.

Or she could happen to walk by the Nortons'
house about three o'clock on Friday afternoon when he might be delivering Cuthbert's food again. Jane thought this over and decided the plan had both advantages and disadvantages. She could easily go for a walk in the Nortons' neighborhood without looking out of place. However, the truck probably would not arrive at exactly three o'clock and she could not very well walk up and down in front of the Nortons' as if she were picketing their house. The neighbors would begin to wonder what she was doing. Nevertheless, a leisurely stroll up their street next Friday afternoon could do no harm. He might happen to drive by and see her and think, Why, there's that girl I spoke to at the Nortons'. He would stop the truck and say, “Hi there. Going to Sandra's house? If you are I'll give you a lift.” And she would say…

And then Jane had an even better idea. If she were babysitting with Sandra she would be sure to see him. She turned this over in her mind. Could she stand another afternoon of Sandra—another afternoon of trying to maneuver her into doing what she was supposed to do when Sandra was so clever at outwitting sitters? To see that boy again, yes. It would not be easy but she could do it. The boy would arrive with Cuthbert's food and say,
“Hi! I didn't expect to see you here again,” and of course he would look as if he were glad she was there again. And she would laugh and say…

Jane realized there was another reason for wanting to sit with Sandra Friday afternoons—she might keep some other babysitter from meeting the boy.

“Well, I guess I'll phone Julie,” Jane remarked casually.

“Don't talk all night,” said Mr. Purdy.

Jane kicked off her loafers and dialed Julie's number. “Hi, it's me,” she said when Julie answered. Jane could picture her friend at the other end of the line with her loafers kicked off, too, and her freckled face smiling expectantly. “Look, Julie, if Mrs. Norton wants somebody to sit with Sandra again next Friday, I've got dibs.”

“Jane!” shrieked Julie into the telephone. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I don't think so,” answered Jane. “Not yet, anyway.”

“What happened?” Julie asked. “Has Sandra reformed or something?”

“Lots of things happened.” Jane pulled her knees up under her chin and prepared to make certain no one else would sit with Sandra. “She shut up a
lot of flies in snapdragons and let Cuthbert out when he had just been washed and she dumped an ashtray on the carpet and she threatened to pour ink all over the living-room floor and—”

“That's enough,” cried Julie. “You can have her any time Mrs. Norton wants a sitter, but I still think you're crazy. Or did Mrs. Norton pay double or something?”

“No, she paid the usual,” answered Jane. “And for once she had the right change.”

There was a moment of silence at Julie's end of the line. “Then there must be a boy in it someplace,” announced Julie. “There can't be any other reason.”

“At Sandra's? How could there be?” Jane made her voice sound innocent.

“There must be,” insisted Julie. “There can't be any other reason why, of your own free will, you would offer to sit with Sandra.”

“Have you ever seen a boy there?” asked Jane.

“Jane!” Mr. Purdy's voice was warning her that she had talked long enough.

That was the trouble with this house. A girl couldn't even carry on a telephone conversation with any privacy. “Well, I have to say good-bye now,” Jane said hastily. “Pop is beginning to bellow.”

“Yes, I know how it is.” Julie's voice was sympathetic. Then she added insistently, “It must be a boy; but if he's worth an afternoon of Sandra, I wish you luck.”

“I'll call you tomorrow. Bye.” Jane was glad to hang up. She was willing to share her secret with her best friend, but she did not want to discuss the new boy in front of her mother and father, who would be sure to ask a lot of questions about him that she could not answer. And, on second thought, she did not really want to discuss him with Julie. Not yet. Not until she had a date with him. Jane sat staring at the telephone, deep in her thoughts of the strange boy, until she heard her mother speak to her father.

“I'm so glad Jane is interested in babysitting.” Mrs. Purdy spoke softly, apparently unaware that her daughter was listening.

If Mom only knew, thought Jane, with a twinge of guilt.

“So many girls her age are boy crazy,” Mrs. Purdy continued. “Like Marcy Stokes. I don't know what has come over that girl in the past year. She used to be such a good student and now all she thinks about is boys and clothes.”

Well, I know what has come over Marcy, Jane
thought. She no longer wears bands on her teeth and she has a figure and a definite personality. She's tall and slim, casual and just a touch bored, with sun-streaked hair and exactly the right clothes. The kind of girl all the boys go for. The cashmere sweater type. But this, Jane knew, was something she could never explain to her mother, who would say, “But Jane, you have a cashmere sweater.”

Mrs. Purdy went on in a voice so low that Jane had to strain to catch her words. “I'm glad our daughter is a sweet, sensible girl.”

Mom, how could you, thought Jane. Sweet and
sensible
—how perfectly awful. Nobody wanted to be sweet and sensible, at least not a girl in high school. Jane hoped her mother would not spread it around Woodmont that she thought her daughter was sweet and sensible.

The telephone at Jane's elbow rang so unexpectedly that she jumped before she was able to pick up the receiver. “Hello,” she said almost absentmindedly, because her thoughts had drifted back to the strange boy who had smiled at her across the Nortons' kitchen.

“Uh…is this Jane Purdy?” asked a voice—a boy's voice.

An electric feeling flashed through Jane clear to her fingertips. The boy! It was
his
voice! She was sitting there thinking and wishing, and suddenly there he was, on the other end of the line.
He
was calling
her
! Jane swallowed. (Careful, Jane, don't be too eager.) “Yes, it is.” Somehow she managed to keep her voice calm. To think that she and this boy she wanted so much to know were connected with each other by telephone wires strung on poles along the streets and over the trees of Woodmont! It was a miracle, a real miracle.

“Well, uh…I don't know whether you remember me or not, but I delivered some horsemeat to the Nortons' when you were sitting with Sandra. My name is Stan Crandall.”

Stan Crandall.
Stan Crandall!
“Yes?” Ah, good girl, Jane. Calm, polite, just the faintest touch of surprise in her voice. “Yes, I remember.”

“I called Mrs. Norton and asked her for the name of her sitter,” the boy explained.

Oh. Oh, dear. Hang on to yourself, Jane. Maybe his mother is looking for a sitter for his little sister. And what if his mother is looking for a sitter? I'd get to see him, wouldn't I?

“I know this is probably sort of sudden.” The boy hesitated. “But I was wondering if you would
care to go to the movies with me tomorrow night.”

He didn't want a sitter. He wanted her! Jane's thoughts spun. She had better ask her mother. No, that would lead to a lot of tiresome arguments about just who was this Stan Crandall. She couldn't keep him dangling on the telephone while she tried to explain to her mother and father. Besides, she was practically sixteen, wasn't she? She couldn't be tied to her mother's apron strings forever, could she? She had a right to accept a date with a perfectly nice boy, didn't she?