The Luckiest Girl (11 page)

“I never thought of that,” said Jeannie. “Could you really get some?”

“Sure, if Phil will help,” answered Frisbie. “We can load it into the station wagon and get it here in plenty of time. Phil and I will drive out and get the hay and pick you girls up half an hour early. That will give us time to bring the hay in before the crowd arrives.”

Mr. Lutz began to turn out the lights in the gym, and the few committee members left straggled toward the door. “Shelley, you look as if you thought something exciting was about to happen,” remarked Jeannie as she and Shelley paused in the
doorway of the gym and looked out into the rain, which was now falling steadily.

“I'm going to the dance tonight,” Shelley answered, remembering that Hartley had once made the same observation about her.

Jeannie looked curiously at her. “And you feel that a school dance is something to get excited about?” asked Jeannie.

“Of course,” said Shelley. “Aren't you excited?”

“I suppose so.” Jeannie sounded doubtful.

“But Jeannie, what is a dance for if it isn't fun and excitement?” Shelley wanted to know. To her a dance was an occasion, something to anticipate. She reminded herself that she was going with Philip and Jeannie was going with Frisbie, and that might make a difference.

Jeannie did not answer, because Philip and Frisbie joined the two girls and together they ran out through the rain to their cars.

The rain continued to fall and was still falling at seven thirty, when Philip was to call for Shelley. She had, with concealed reluctance, returned his sweater to him when he had brought her home that afternoon. Now, when Philip twirled the doorbell, she realized she had to wear some kind of wrap. “Let him in, Katie, will you?” she called
down the stairs. She always enjoyed showing Philip off to Katie, who quite plainly agreed that he was the most wonderful boy in San Sebastian.

Shelley snatched from her closet shelf a box that she had stuffed into her trunk unopened when she had packed and that had remained like that on her closet shelf since she had come to California. From the box she pulled the pink raincoat with the velveteen collar and the little hat with the black velveteen button on top. Oh, well, she thought, and slipped the raincoat on over her blouse and full cotton skirt. She put on the hat and patted the button on top while she looked at herself in the mirror. It really was a pretty raincoat.

Shelley drew the line, however, at galoshes. She had vowed she would never wear galoshes in California, and she would not. But Shelley, she could almost hear her mother say, you'll get your feet wet and you'll ruin your shoes. But Mother, she could hear herself answer, I'm in California now and I'm not going to wear galoshes. I'll run quickly through the rain, but I won't wear galoshes.

Philip was wearing jeans and a blue plaid shirt under his letterman's sweater. “Hey, look at the glamorous raincoat,” he said when he saw her.

At the foot of the stairs Shelley twirled around for his inspection before they ran out through the rain to the station wagon. They slid into the second seat in front of two bales of hay.

“Whew! It smells dusty in here,” remarked Shelley.

“What a pretty raincoat,” remarked Jeannie from the front seat beside Frisbie. “Is that what they wear up North?”

“Some people,” answered Shelley, remembering the front steps of school crowded with girls in slickers. She discovered the price tag still dangling from one sleeve. Carefully she untied it and put it in her pocket. It was an expensive raincoat, more expensive than her family could really afford. She was sorry she had behaved the way she had.

“We'd better not let the hay get wet,” said Frisbie. “Remember that hay Mr. Ericson soaked in water?”

“And we looked at a drop of the water under the microscope,” added Jeannie. “It was swimming with all sorts of squirmy little things.”

When they reached the gym they all climbed out of the station wagon. “Look!” exclaimed Jeannie, pointing. “I see a couple of stars over there. Maybe it is going to clear up after all.”

As Philip and Frisbie dragged one of the bales of hay out of the station wagon and carried it up the steps of the gym, Frisbie sang, “‘Lift that barge, tote that bale,'” in his deepest voice. He pounded on the door and the janitor, who was turning on the lights, let them in. “Where do you want the hay, Jeannie?” Frisbie asked, while the janitor, protector of the gymnasium floor, eyed their wet feet with disapproval.

“Down at the end of the gym,” directed Jeannie. “Did you bring some pliers?”

“Sure did,” said Frisbie, pulling them out of his hip pocket and snapping the wire around the hay.

Jeannie and Shelley scattered the hay across the end of the gym while the boys carried in the second bale. By the time that bale was scattered, the orchestra had assembled, unpacked their instruments, and were blowing a few experimental notes.

Frisbie grabbed Jeannie and danced her around, singing at the top of his voice, “‘I want a buddy, not a sweetheart.'” They were an odd-looking couple. Frisbie was so big and Jeannie was so small.

Philip put his arm around Shelley, still in her raincoat, and began to dance with her to the tootling of the band. Shelley laughed and thought
how different she would have felt at home. At home she would probably have slunk off to the checkroom the very first thing to get rid of the raincoat before anyone saw it. Here she did not care who saw it. That's funny, she thought. I wonder why.

The door of the gym opened and Mr. Lutz entered with a man in the uniform of the San Sebastian fire department. They stood looking around at the decorations. Then the man from the fire department saw the hay. “Has that hay been fireproofed?” he asked.

The two couples stopped dancing, “Why—no,” confessed Jeannie, because she was chairman of the decorating committee.

“Where did it come from?” asked Mr. Lutz.

“We brought it, sir,” said Philip.

“Who gave you permission?” demanded Mr. Lutz.

“Nobody,” admitted Frisbie. “We didn't know we needed permission.”

“It didn't seem like a barn dance without hay,” explained Jeannie.

“So we drove up toward the mountains and got a couple of bales,” continued Frisbie.

“Sorry,” said the man from the fire department.
“You'll have to get it out of here. It's a fire hazard.”

“But nobody smokes at a school dance,” protested Frisbie.

“That doesn't matter,” said the man from the fire department. “It's still a fire hazard. You can't leave it here.”

By this time couples were arriving and gathering around to see what the discussion was about.

“But what will we do with it?” asked Jeannie. There was a lot of hay in two bales.

“Take it out to the incinerator and burn it,” said Mr. Lutz. “Every bit of it.”

“In the rain?” asked Frisbie.

Mr. Lutz grinned. “You got it here in the rain, didn't you? And anyway, the rain has just about stopped.”

Frisbie and Jeannie groaned. The orchestra began to play and couples began to dance. “Now,” said Mr. Lutz sternly. “I thought I had managed to stay one step ahead of you kids, but you put one over on me this time.”

Shelley joined the others in gathering up armfuls of hay. “‘Lift that barge, tote that bale,'” Frisbie sang, and the other three joined in as they trooped toward the door of the gym. The rest of the crowd stopped dancing and began to clap hands to the
rhythm of the song. The orchestra stopped what they had been playing and one by one the instruments took up the tune. The two couples, with their arms full of hay, splashed through puddles under the clearing sky and, while the fire inspector watched, threw the hay into the yawning cement mouth of the incinerator. They returned to the gym for a second load and then another and another. Everyone saw Shelley in her pink raincoat and the hat with the velveteen button on top, but she did not care. She thought the whole incident was funny, just one of those wonderful crazy things.

As Shelley made her way out the door of the gym with her last armful of hay, she found herself face-to-face with Hartley, who was entering with a girl from her English class. For some reason Shelley was startled. She had not expected to see Hartley at the dance and certainly not with that girl.

“Well, hello there,” said Hartley.

“Hello,” answered Shelley uncertainly. If Hartley wanted to bring that girl from her English class to the dance, there was no reason why he shouldn't, was there? Hartley and his date went on into the gym and Shelley went on out to the incinerator, trailing wisps of hay behind her.

The fire inspector had touched a match to the hay, which was burning merrily. “Too bad we don't have some marshmallows,” said Frisbie, brushing hay from the sleeves of his sweater.

Philip stood close to Shelley and as she watched the sparks fly up and disappear into the night, she laughed from sheer happiness. Shelley felt Jeannie looking at her and knew that Jeannie was probably thinking wistfully that Shelley had fun in strange ways. Shelley did not care. Since she had come to San Sebastian everything had been fun, surprising and exciting. Even wearing the raincoat that had once caused her to stuff roses into the Disposall now seemed part of a delightful adventure. It almost seemed like magic, the way her feelings had changed.

And all at once Shelley understood why she was having such a good time in a raincoat she had once said she would never wear. When a girl comes to a school and makes a name for herself with a good idea and is interviewed for the school paper and liked by a boy all the other girls like—a boy who wanted to kiss her and who lets her wear his letterman's sweater while she decorates for a dance, it doesn't matter what kind of raincoat she wears. Any kind will do.

When Christmas vacation arrived Shelley was surprised to learn that in California spruce and pines and even hemlocks were used for Christmas trees. She had always thought Christmas trees were Douglas fir or they were not Christmas trees. She was even more surprised at the Michies' admiration for what was to her the ordinary holly wreath that her mother sent. They hung it on the front door and everyone who entered the house exclaimed, “Real English holly!” as if it were something rare and beautiful.

The days went quickly. There was shopping to do and packages to mail. Shelley helped Katie make a gathered skirt and spent hours watching
Mavis at the potter's wheel in her studio. The spinning clay beneath her fingers was like a living thing. Shelley was fascinated. She experimented with a simple bowl and made up her mind that someday she would have a potter's wheel too.

There was a wonderful Christmas box from home, full of all the things a girl would like to receive—a new sweater and a matching skirt, pretty scarf, two frilly slips, a bottle of perfume, a purse with a crisp five-dollar bill inside. Shelley could tell that her mother had found a lot of pleasure in packing that box. Christmas afternoon there was a long-distance call from home. Shelley was excited and a little sad to talk to her mother and father so far away.

And then New Year's Eve came. The Michies celebrated by inviting all the neighbors, young and old, for a buffet supper. Babies were bedded down, toddlers ran around in their sleepers, and grandparents were given the most comfortable chairs. Philip came too. He joined the crowd in making paper hats out of the crepe paper Mavis had supplied because she found paper hats for a crowd cost too much and decided it would be more fun and much less expensive if everyone made his or her own. Philip's hat looked something like a football
helmet and a little like a baby's bonnet. Shelley thought it was the nicest party she had ever attended.

There was New Year's Day to be spent picking up after the party, and then vacation was over and it was time for school again. One damp day Shelley and Jeannie were eating their lunches in the study hall. From the window Shelley could see the top of an acacia tree in full bloom, each panicle a burst of fluffy balls of pure yellow. The blossoms were the essence of yellow, and Shelley knew that whenever she thought of the color she would remember this sight—the soft blue-green foliage bending under the weight of raindrops and the sharp, clear yellow of the blossoms that somehow never looked wet no matter how hard it rained.

“Starry-eyed Shelley,” remarked Jeannie.

“Am I starry-eyed?” asked Shelley, surprised.

“All the time,” said Jeannie positively.

“If I am I guess it is because everything is so new and exciting down here,” said Shelley, “but I don't really think I am starry-eyed.”

“How you can find a dull little town like San Sebastian exciting is a mystery to me,” said Jeannie, stuffing the waxed paper wrapping from her sandwich into her brown paper bag. “I can't
wait to leave it and go out into the world and find some excitement.”

“Isn't that funny?” remarked Shelley. “I won't even let myself think about the time I have to leave it.”

“You don't know how lucky you are,” said Jeannie. “I would give anything to go to a big-city high school and live in a town when there is something to do on Saturday night besides riding up and down the main street tooting at everyone else riding up and down the main street.” She paused and wadded the brown paper bag into a tight ball. “I'm tired of living in a town where everyone knows everyone else's business, and I'm tired of living in a little house practically hidden by a clump of dusty pampas grass, and I'm tired of scorching-hot summers. Why, my family took a trip to Oregon once, and do you know what we saw? In downtown Portland on several street corners there were drinking fountains—each one was really four fountains made out of bronze or something—and the water ran
all the time
! There weren't even any handles so you could turn the water off.”

Shelley laughed. “Why, that's true. I've seen those drinking fountains hundreds of times, and I never thought a thing about them.”

“I thought they were the most wonderful sight I have ever seen,” said Jeannie. “All that lovely cold water.”

Both girls were silent. Jeannie was occupied with her own rebellious thoughts. Shelley was thinking that this was the end of the semester. Half her precious months were already gone. “Report cards today,” she remarked. “I wonder what the verdicts will be.”

Jeannie did not appear to hear her. “Anyway,” she remarked as they prepared to leave the study hall, “I'm not so sure it is San Sebastian that makes you starry-eyed.” This time it was Shelley who did not appear to hear.

After the last class the students returned to their registration rooms to receive their report cards. When Shelley's grades were handed to her in a white envelope with her name typed in one corner, she accepted them with a nice feeling of accomplishment. One semester was behind her, another was about to begin. One by one she pulled out the cards for her different courses. A in English. A in Latin. Shelley always got A's in Latin, a language that she enjoyed because it seemed to her like a complicated puzzle. B in history. She had expected this—she was good at remembering dates, but this
teacher had a way of wanting to know why historical events had taken place rather than when. Never mind, she would do better next semester. B minus in physical education. Field sports in this heat—she was lucky to get a B minus! D in biology.

Biology, D
. It couldn't be! Shelley had never received a D in her life. Of course she realized she wasn't exactly at the head of the class, but D—why, Mr. Ericson could not do that to her. She wouldn't make the honor roll. She had to have a B average to get into college. She simply could not get a D; that was all there was to it.

Shelley turned around to speak to Hartley, because she had to confide in someone and she was sure he would understand.

“Shelley, is something wrong?” he asked when he saw her face.

“Mr. Ericson gave me a D in biology,” she said. “I can't understand it. I've never had a D in my life.”

Hartley's expression showed genuine concern. “Maybe there is a mistake someplace. Why don't you go talk to him?”

Yes, there must be a mistake someplace. There had to be. “Maybe he accidentally wrote someone else's grade on my card,” Shelley said to Hartley.
“You are right. I'll go talk to him.”

“Good luck,” said Hartley.

It was nice to know a boy who understood that grades were important. As Shelley walked toward the biology laboratory she began to have some misgivings. There had been that C on her first report card, but she had not been too worried about it because it was not a semester grade. And maybe her drawings of some of the things they had examined through a microscope weren't exactly works of art, but they weren't supposed to be, were they? This was biology, not art. And there was the time she had forgotten to draw the nucleus in the pleurococcus—that was the day Philip had asked her to go to the barn dance and naturally she had a lot of distracting things to think about. But a D! Shelley Latham did not get D's.

Shelley entered the biology room, where she pretended to look at some exhibits until the room was clear of students and she could speak to Mr. Ericson alone. “Mr. Ericson,” she said tentatively as she approached his desk, where he was busy with some papers.

“Yes, Shelley,” he said, looking up from his work.

“I think there might be a mistake on my report
card,” Shelley said nervously, because she was always ill at ease with Mr. Ericson. “I—I have a D in biology.”

“There is no mistake,” answered Mr. Ericson. “You earned that D fair and square.”

Shelley felt her face turn red. “But I've never had a D in my life,” she protested.

Mr. Ericson leaned back in his chair and smiled sardonically. “You have now.”

“But Mr. Ericson,” said Shelley desperately. “I want to go to college—”

“Why?” interrupted Mr. Ericson.

Shelley paused. Why did she want to go to college? No one had ever asked her this question before and she felt confused. She could not tell this man she wanted to go to college because all the girls she knew were planning to go or because her parents had told her she should go. Those were not the real reasons. “Because I want to have a career,” she said lamely, although this was not the right answer.

“Oh, you do,” said Mr. Ericson. “What sort of career?”

“I—I don't know. I mean, I haven't made up my mind yet.” Shelley felt more and more uncomfortable with Mr. Ericson looking at her as if he
expected her to explain herself concisely in outline form on a moment's notice. She decided to try changing the subject. “To go to college I have to maintain a B average,” she said. “I just can't get D's.”

“Then I would suggest that you stop doing D work,” said Mr. Ericson.

Shelley found that there was not one thing that she could say. She was filled with anger and humiliation.

“Perhaps the seating arrangement for the semester was unfortunate,” said Mr. Ericson.

Shelley looked sharply at her biology teacher. Was he referring to Philip? The gleam of amusement in his keen blue eyes told her that he was. “The seating arrangement had nothing to do with it,” she said with all the haughtiness she could manage.

“You know, I would not be doing you a favor if I gave you a B for D work in high school,” Mr. Ericson said. “You will have to take a laboratory science in college, too, and if you do poor work, it is better to find out about it now while there is still time to do something about it than to wait until you are in college.”

Probably this was true, but the way Shelley felt
toward Mr. Ericson, she did not want to admit that anything he said was right. D—and this was only the first semester. She had months ahead of her of drawing crawly things under a microscope and dissecting the worm and the frog and the crayfish that came in the second semester. And all under the sardonic eye of Mr. Ericson, because in a school of this size there was only one biology teacher. Now she wouldn't dare even look at Philip during the whole eighty minutes of the period.

“I'll make a bargain with you,” said Mr. Ericson. “If you turn in B work the second semester, I'll give you a C for the whole year.”

“I'll do B work,” promised Shelley, and thought, If it kills me.

“Good,” said Mr. Ericson, as if the subject were closed.

“Thank you, Mr. Ericson,” Shelley said stiffly, and left the room.
Oh,
she thought as she left the building, that man! Who did he think he was, anyway? As if Philip had anything to do with this. Well, she would show him!

But gradually, as she walked down the road, Shelley's explosive mood spent itself. She felt ashamed because she had done poor work and embarrassed because Mr. Ericson had noticed her
preoccupation with Philip. New feelings began to replace her anger.

The trouble with me, Shelley thought, is that I don't really have any brains. In elementary school she had kept her handwriting neat, her papers unsmudged, and her two-finger margins straight, so her teachers approved of her and gave her good grades. In high school, too, she was neat, prompt, and conscientious and so her teachers liked her. But brains, no. Giving good grades to Shelley Latham was just a habit with her teachers at home. Probably she didn't deserve them at all. But even while she railed at herself, Shelley knew that what she was telling herself was not true. Being conscientious had helped, of course, but she had always been a good student and had enjoyed most of her studies. Even in the subjects she had not enjoyed, her pride had kept her near the top of the class. That this was her first experience with a laboratory science was no excuse. Perhaps if Philip had not sat beside her…

Shelley turned into the opening in the privet hedge. And the worst of it was, Tom or Mavis would have to sign her report card and know about the D. It seemed as if there was to be no end to her humiliation. If only she hadn't taken biology.
Maybe chemistry would have been better. But then Philip would not have been in her class and she might not have known him. Besides, chemistry smelled so awful. Now, knowing that Mr. Ericson's eagle eye was upon her, she wouldn't dare look at Philip. Old Eagle Eye Ericson. She had promised him B work and now she would have to study like a fiend at a subject she hated. She thought she hated it, but actually until today she had not thought much about the subject one way or another. She had been too busy thinking about Philip.

Shelley entered the house, tossed her books on a couch in the living room, and flopped down beside them. She sat brooding about the D. Dear Mother and Daddy, she would have to write. Today was report card day and I was unpleasantly surprised to get a D in biology. I thought I had studied….

Before Shelley could compose the letter, Katie burst through the front door. At first glance Shelley was shocked at the sight of her, and then she saw that Katie was smeared with lipstick. There were daubs of lipstick on her arms, smears of lipstick on her cheeks, and smudges of lipstick on her blouse; but her expression was radiant.

“Katie!” exclaimed Shelley. “What happened to you?”

Katie dropped into an armchair. “Well,” she began, “Pamela and I were walking home from school. We were walking along just minding our own business and not doing a
thing
when Pamela took a lipstick out of her purse to show me. It's a new shade called Lucky in Love and I think it's yummy. I don't see why Mommy won't let me wear lipstick for dress-up. She never lets me do
anything
. Anyway, Joe and Rudy came along and they asked Pamela if they could see her lipstick. Pamela gave it to them, never dreaming what they were going to do.” Katie paused for breath. “And do you know what those crazy boys did?”