The Luckiest Girl (19 page)

“Yes, and he said he liked my hair.” Katie was obviously pleased with herself. “And it was boys' choice, too. For the last dance. The last dance is important, isn't it?”

“It certainly is,” Shelley reassured her. “The most important of all.”

Katie unfolded her legs, rose from the bed, and walked across the room to the dresser, where she propped her chin on her fists and stared thoughtfully at herself in the mirror.

“You're getting prettier,” Shelley told her.

“Do you really think so?” Katie turned around. “Do you think there is hope after all?”

“I sure do,” said Shelley.

Katie sighed happily. Then she said, “Tonight is your last date with Hartley, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.” The pang came back to Shelley.

“How can you bear to say good-bye to him?” asked Katie.

“Oh, I'll manage,” Shelley said airily, but how she would manage she did not know. It hurt to think about it.

Supper was lively and that helped. Luke said he liked his carrots cut crosswise in circles instead of lengthwise in strips the way his mother cooked them. Mavis said she thought they had more flavor when they were cut lengthwise. Mrs. Stickney said she thought they looked more attractive when cut in circles. Tom said carrots were carrots no matter how you cut them. Katie said her cooking teacher, that old sourpuss, said they should be cut lengthwise but Katie did not know why.

Shelley settled the argument. She said that in biology they had looked at sections of carrot under the microscope and had seen that the cells were long and thin. If carrots were cut in circles, more cells would be cut through than if the carrots were
cut lengthwise and more flavor would run out into the cooking water. Luke and Katie were impressed by this display of knowledge. Why, I have
used
my biology, marveled Shelley.

And then the moment arrived that Shelley both anticipated and dreaded. Hartley twirled the doorbell.

It was a funny thing about that evening. Shelley had the feeling that because they would not see each other again they should say something memorable or that something momentous should happen. It was not that way at all.

“Let's take our
Argonauts
over to Vincente and write in them over a plate of doughnut holes,” Hartley suggested. It might have been any date.

“All right,” agreed Shelley. It did not really matter what they did so long as they were together. Shelley had little to say. She looked at everything they passed on the road to Vincente—the Giant Orange, the olive groves, the “Rain for Rent” sign that she had once thought so strange, the river that really had been filled with water during the winter and was now drying up once more, and thought how unreal it had all seemed that day she had stepped out of the plane.

“Hartley!” said Shelley suddenly. “Do you mind
if we don't eat doughnut holes tonight? There is something I have always wanted to do.”

“What?” asked Hartley.

“Stop at the Giant Orange,” answered Shelley. “That is one of the native customs I haven't tried.”

Hartley laughed. “Whatever you say,” he said, and turned into a driveway to back the car around and head toward San Sebastian once more. “I guess the Giant Orange is a pretty typical sight in the hotter parts of California, but I never thought of it as being unusual.” Hartley drove up beside the orange juice stand built in the shape of an orange and ordered two large glasses of orange juice from the girl inside. Shelley watched while she squeezed the oranges in an electric juicer, dipped a scoop of crushed ice into each glass, handed over a tray that fastened to the car door, and set two glasses of foaming orange juice on it. Hartley paid for the orange juice and while Shelley steadied the glasses, drove the car a few feet from the stand to leave room for the next car that stopped. They each took a glass of orange juice.

“To our futures,” said Hartley.

“To our futures,” repeated Shelley gravely. Their separate futures. The orange juice was cold and sweet. Shelley and Hartley smiled at each other
in the dim light of a bulb on the outside of the Giant Orange, but they did not talk. It was the first time they had ever been at a loss for something to say.

“Is there enough light for you to write in my
Argonaut
?” Hartley asked when they had finished their orange juice.

“Yes.” Shelley handed her yearbook to Hartley and picked up her pen. She turned the pages of his book, looking for a large empty space to write in, and when she found one she sat nibbling the end of her pen and thinking. Now that the time had come, she did not know what to write to Hartley. She could list all the good times they had had together (but not nearly enough), but why do that? She would not forget and neither would he. She could try to tell him how much he meant to her, but somehow she did not know the words to use. She could try to tell him how much she would miss him, but that would be painful to write. She glanced at Hartley, who was writing on the last page of her yearbook. He looked serious, as if what he was doing was not something to be taken lightly.

Shelley knew then the words she wanted to use. She uncapped her pen and wrote quickly. “Dear Hartley,” she began. “It took me a while to find it
out, but you are the boy I have always wanted to meet. I am sorry to say good-bye so soon. With love, Shelley.” She had not needed a large space after all. She blew gently on the words, because she did not have a blotter, and closed the book. She had written only a few words but Hartley would understand how much those words meant. That was the most wonderful thing about Hartley. He understood.

Hartley returned her book to her and when she started to open it he said brusquely, “Read it later,” and started the car. Hartley drove slowly back to San Sebastian. It seemed a strange sort of date, driving out of town for a glass of orange juice and coming right home again; but somehow there seemed nothing else to do. Hartley turned into the Michies' driveway, stopped the car, and turned off the lights. The moment Shelley had been dreading with that awful aching dread had arrived. They had to say good-bye.

Hartley got out of the car, walked around, and opened the door for her. Hand in hand they walked across the lawn to the front door. The night was rich with the fragrance of lemon blossoms and honeysuckle. “Shelley,” Hartley said softly. “Let's say good-bye quickly.”

“Yes,” whispered Shelley, clinging to her
Argonaut
as her eyes searched the darkness for his face.

Hartley brushed back her hair, put his hands on either side of her face, leaned over, and kissed her gently on the lips. “Good-bye, Shelley,” he whispered.

“Good-bye.” Shelley's voice was faint.

And then Hartley was gone. Shelley went into the dark house and closed the door quietly behind her. It was all over. She tiptoed up the creaky stairs and into her room, where she turned on the light and sat numbly down on the bed. Her
Argonaut
, she discovered, was still in her hands. She opened it slowly and with awkward fingers turned to the page that carried Hartley's words.

His handwriting was firm and sure. “Dear Shelley,” he had written. “There is so much that I could say to you. I could begin with the day you walked into that classroom looking eager and a little frightened. I could write about the wonderful way you have of looking as if you thought something exciting was about to happen—but why write these things? It all means just one thing. I love you, Shelley. I really do. And now—good-bye. Hartley.”

Shelley sat there on her bed with her yearbook on her lap, and her eyes were filled with tears. This was love, she knew. Not the love-for-keeps that would come later, but love that was real and true just the same. She heard Katie's familiar knock at her door (the last time, perhaps) and blinked her eyes to try to force back the tears.

Katie entered wearing her terry cloth bathrobe. “Shelley,” she began, and stopped. “Shelley—” Her voice was anxious. “Is something wrong?”

Shelley shook her head. She could not speak.

Understanding seemed to dawn on Katie's face. “Are you—you're not heartbroken, are you?”

Shelley shook her head again and managed a shaky laugh.

“Oh, Shelley.” Katie sat down on the bed. She looked both anxious and frightened.

“It's all right, Katie.” Shelley had to reassure her. “It was just sort of—hard to say good-bye.”

“Then I never want to say good-bye to a boy,” said Katie flatly.

“Oh, no, Katie.” Shelley was finding it easier to talk. “Please don't feel that way. You'll have to say good-bye sometime, you know. Everybody does.”

“But if it makes you unhappy—” protested Katie.

“Not really unhappy.” Shelley had to make Katie
understand. “Just sorry because I have to say good-bye. It's all right, Katie. Really it is.” She was silent a moment, thinking. “I guess that's what growing up is. Saying good-bye to a lot of things. Sometimes it is easy and sometimes it isn't. But it is all right.”

“I am glad you don't have a broken heart.” Katie looked relieved and a little puzzled. “Well, I guess I'd better go to bed or Dad will be yelling at me,” she said reluctantly.

“Good night, Katie.” Shelley was smiling. She was going to miss Katie.

When Katie had gone, Shelley sat on her bed turning over in her mind what she had just told her. Someday Katie would understand. Then, filled with restlessness, she crossed to the window and looked out into the night. She felt as if she had to do something to relieve her pent-up feelings. She slipped out of her room and down the stairs, avoiding the creakiest steps, and out of the house. She crossed the driveway, seized the rope that hung from the top of the eucalyptus tree, and climbed to the top of the child's slide. She stood poised a moment before she grasped the ring and pushed off, swinging out through the night, past the trunks of the eucalyptus trees, out over the
road with her hair blowing back from her face and her skirt flying behind her. The night air was soft on her skin and the stars seemed close enough to touch. Shelley was happy, happier than she had ever been in her life.

Above her in the eucalyptus trees the cry of the doves was sad and sweet.

Cover art by Amy Ryan

Cover design by Jennifer Heuer