The Slipper (4 page)

By the end of summer Nora had earned well over two thousand dollars, and Irving was secretly proud, secretly delighted she had foiled her mother. Sadie was appalled. Sadie was apoplectic. “I Had a Sex Change Just Like Christine.” “I Was a High School Call Girl.” “My Months in Rio as a Love Slave.” “Seduced by My Gynecologist.” “His Love Sent Me to the Public Health Clinic.” Seventeen years old, and she's writing about white slavery! A baby, and she's writing about venereal disease! What if someone found
out
? What would people
say
? Where did we go wrong, Irving? Where did we fail? Sadie had hysterics, said her life was over, said she'd never be able to step foot out of the apartment again, but when September came Nora boarded the train for Indiana, Sadie sobbing on the platform at Grand Central, begging her not to go, Irving smiling sadly and waving as the train pulled away.

Free at last. Free to be Nora, not Sadie and Irving's freak of a daughter who had an IQ of 198. Sadie hadn't exactly scrambled up onto the rooftop and yelled it through a megaphone, but there wasn't a friend or relative or neighbor who didn't know her daughter was a certified genius. Hell, there wasn't a soul in Brooklyn who wasn't familiar with the fact. Little Miss Mensa. Try and live that one down. Of course Sadie hadn't realized she was working against her own best interests, broadcasting it high and low. Nice Jewish boys weren't interested in nice Jewish girls who were brighter than they were. A girl who had read all of Proust and André Gide by the time she was sixteen? A girl who could solve any math problem in the blink of an eye? Great fun in the backseat of a car, right? Just the doll you wanted to take to the prom. Boys had always avoided her like the plague.

If she was going to be cursed, why did it have to be with a high IQ? Why couldn't she be cursed with beauty? Why couldn't she be tall and blond and have cheekbones to die for? No. Fat chance. She had to be cute. Cute as a bug. A Jewish June Allyson. Five foot two, eyes of brown. Naturally curly black hair, cut short now, though not in one of those godawful poodle cuts all the rage. She
did
have a turned-up nose. An adorable nose. It had cost Irving a fortune four years ago. Nora still remembered the pain. Cute as a bug and brilliant to boot. What chance did she have? Nora had realized a long time ago that she would have to fight every step of the way if she was going to make the world sit up and take notice, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

Claymore was the first step. She was going to learn everything she could and write a novel that would shock the pants off people and send Sadie into a swift decline. She was going to be rich and famous, have movies made from her books, maybe even write a movie herself one day. She was going to hobnob with people like Noël Coward and the Lunts, trade quips with Mary Martin, call Laurence Olivier “Larry.” Big dreams, sure, but you had to dream big if you wanted to make it big. You had to be ballsy. You had to believe. You had to be determined. Little Nora Levin was going to make it, and she wasn't going to drag her heels, either. If Françoise Sagan and Gabrielle Bernais could write best-sellers at eighteen, why couldn't she? Of course, they were both French, but an American girl could write a best-seller, too. She already had a crackerjack of an idea, so sexy it would make
Bonjour Tristesse
seem like
Elsie Dinsmore
. Fame. Fortune. So laugh. A girl should aspire to changing dirty diapers and making the perfect meat loaf? Not this kid.

Some students came spilling out of the ice cream shop, laughing together, belonging, the boys sturdily built, crew-cut, obviously athletes, the girls so pretty and flirty you could whip out a machine gun and blow 'em away. Nora had a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, felt insecure, an outsider, but she promptly banished the feeling. She was going to belong, too. She was going to be popular. Cute wasn't terrific, but it was better than being a dog. Some of the boys might actually prefer petite girls who had glossy black curls and shiny brown eyes and personality to spare. Nora intended to play down the brainy bit. She'd make good grades, sure, top the dean's list every time, but she'd keep quiet about it. No showing off in class. No waving your hand and answering all the questions and intimidating the boys. If you planned to write a sexy novel, you had to have some experience, and Nora was going to get that, too. Who'd believe she had never even been out on a real date? Cousins didn't count. She was as pure as the driven snow, but not for long, gang, not if she could help it. She'd bet her bottom dollar Gaby Bernais hadn't been a virgin when she wrote
Kisses for Breakfast
. Those French girls knew what it was all about, and Nora planned to do her homework as soon as possible.

A bell tolled somewhere on the campus, probably in the bell tower of the chapel. Four o'clock. Nora supposed she might as well get back to the dormitory. Perhaps her new roommate had arrived by this time. She hadn't shown up last time Nora checked the room, but she was bound to be here soon. Registration was first thing in the morning. Nora crossed the street and strolled over the grassy lawns toward Thurston Hall, passing the administration building, the library and the auditorium, all so mellow and serene, library windows open, long aisles of books visible. No soot and grime coating these hallowed walls, just pale blue-gray shadows from the trees. After the noise and congestion of the old neighborhood, it was like paradise.

A boy came jogging toward her in tennis shoes, blue sateen shorts and an old gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. His golden-brown hair was worn in a crew cut, of course, and he had a deep tan. Six feet tall, if he was an inch. Muscles rippling. Great legs. She paused to watch him, and he grinned at her, waving as he passed. Big track star, no doubt, clearly used to having girls stare at him. He was absolutely gorgeous, she thought, if you happened to care for virile young Greek gods. Nothing like him in Brooklyn, that's for sure. Nora passed the boys' dormitory. A group of them were sitting out on the front steps, husky lads with roguish eyes. Lord, it was like being in a candy store. Research was going to be delightful. One of the boys whistled at her. He actually whistled at her! A first. She felt a wonderful glow as she walked on. Coming to Claymore was the smartest move she'd ever made, and no Sadie to keep tabs.

Thurston Hall was toward the rear of the campus. You could see the gym and the track and the tennis courts from the back windows. Grecian columns supported the portico in front. Tall, shady elms surrounded the cream stone building. Nora climbed the steps and went inside. Dozens of girls were chattering in the large downstairs lounge off the front hall. The place sounded like an aviary with all those bright, merry voices chirping away. Nora longed to go in and join them, be a part of it, but she was much too shy. Surprise. Who would have guessed it? Beneath that cocky facade she was as shy as a doe, painfully shy, particularly in groups. She'd never had a great many friends. The girls at the fancy private schools she had attended had all been rich and snooty and the girls in Brooklyn thought she was stuck-up because she went to fancy private schools. It was a no-win situation. It was with some trepidation that Nora climbed the steps to the third floor now. What if her new roommate was like the girls at Dalton? What if she resented sharing the room with a Jewish girl? She walked down the hall to the corner room. The door stood open. Someone was moving around inside.

Nora forced a bright smile onto her lips and walked right in. The girl was taking clothes out of a suitcase. She was tall and slender and had long dark-gold hair the color of wheat and deep, pensive blue eyes. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm with cheekbones you wouldn't believe. What the hell was she doing in college? With looks like hers she should be modeling in Manhattan. She'd put Suzy Parker out of business in no time flat. Nora felt her heart sink. The smile froze on her lips. Just my luck, she thought. Of all the roommates I might have had, I have to wind up with a blond Debra Paget.

“Hi!” she said brightly.

The girl looked up. “Oh,” she said. “I—I'm Carol Martin. I just arrived a few minutes ago. You must be my roommate.”

“Nora Levin,” Nora said.

She waited. The girl showed no reaction whatsoever to the name, didn't cringe, didn't shoot out her arm and yell, “Sieg Heil!” Instead, she smiled, a beautiful smile, warm and friendly. If I were lesbian, I'd be in love already, Nora thought.

“Welcome to Claymore,” she said. “I just got here myself this morning. I've been out scouting the local terrain. Some neat shops across the street, a pizza parlor, that sort of thing. Real nifty.”

“It—it's not at all like Kansas,” Carol said.

“It's not like Brooklyn, either. Believe me.”

“It's all so different and—well, intimidating. To tell you the truth, I—I'm a little scared.”

You're
scared? With those cheekbones? You should worry, kid. “Let me help you unpack,” she suggested, moving over to the bed. “I've already hung my clothes up in the closet on the right. You can use the other one. We've each got our own chest of drawers, too. “Nifty.”

She'd never used the word “nifty” in Brooklyn. Somehow it seemed to fit here at Claymore. Carol Martin smiled again. Nora felt like a dwarf beside this lovely creature, felt gawky and tacky in her straight, mid-calf-length plaid skirt and beige sweater with short puffed sleeves. Carol wore a cool blue linen dress, simple and exquisite. She exuded style, taste, poise, all the things Nora lacked. Maybe some of it would rub off. Might as well look on the bright side.

“What gorgeous clothes,” she remarked, examining a pale pink cashmere sweater.

“I worked in a department store this summer,” Carol told her. “I was able to buy everything at a good discount.”

“The only way to buy. You were modeling?”

“Selling in Finer Dresses. It was a very good job. A—a friend helped me get it. I received a very good salary and commissions on all the dresses I sold, and—the ladies liked me. I made a lot of sales. The money is going to come in handy. I'm here on a scholarship.”

“Really? So am I! Maybe that's why they put us together.”

“I—I'm so glad they did.” Could this ethereal goddess actually be insecure? “I was afraid I'd be rooming with—with one of those rich, sophisticated girls who'd join a sorority and care for nothing but social activities and making the proper connections.”

“Sororities suck,” Nora replied. “I came here to get an education, not to wear a little gold pin and trot around carrying candles. I don't imagine I'll be rushed, but if I am I'll tell 'em to fuck off.”

“Me, too,” Carol said.

“Not in those precise words, I'll bet. The boys are going to go crazy over you,” she predicted. “You're going to have to fight them off with a big stick.”

“I'm not interested in meeting boys.”

“Please,” Nora begged, “can I have your rejects?”

Carol laughed, and Nora saw that they were going to be friends and felt a wave of relief. She couldn't believe her good luck. Her new roommate was charming, demure, natural, intelligent as well. You could forgive her those sculpted cheekbones, those dreamy blue eyes, that tall, slender form. Carol seemed totally unaware of her stunning good looks. Nora helped her hang up her clothes and put away her things, and it was almost five-thirty when they had finished. Neither of them had eaten lunch.

“Look,” Nora said, “what do you say we skip eating downstairs in the communal dining hall tonight? It's bound to be a zoo, and the food's bound to be dreadful—salmon croquettes, green beans, tapioca pudding. Why don't we try one of the joints across the street? My treat.”

“I'd love to, but it'll be my treat.”

“Mine,” Nora insisted.

“Mine,” Carol said firmly.

“Listen, sister, I'm the one who suggested—”

“Dutch?”

“You're on,” Nora said.

They had hamburgers, fries and Cokes at the Silver Bell, a quaint little restaurant mobbed with noisy, merry students who all seemed to know each other. Nora kept her eye out for the dreamy track star she'd seen earlier, but he didn't show. She and Carol talked, and she learned that Carol came from a tiny town in Kansas, had lost her parents at an early age and had lived with her aunt and uncle, who had their own ideas about what she should do with her life. She said that a family friend had helped her get away from Ellsworth, had given her the job in Wichita and helped her find a room for the summer in a cheap but respectable boardinghouse. He had also been instrumental in getting her the scholarship. There was a wistful note in Carol's voice when she spoke about this “family friend,” and Nora wondered if he might not have been something more.

Carol said that she hoped to become an actress, wasn't at all shy about confessing it, and she had come to Claymore because the drama department was recognized as one of the best in the country. Nora told her she was a cinch to succeed with her face and figure, and Carol said beauty wasn't important, look at Julie Harris, it was what was inside that counted. Nora took a deep breath and confided that
she
was going to become a famous writer, planned to write a sizzling best-seller as soon as possible. Carol didn't laugh at all. She said she thought it was wonderful to have high aspirations, you couldn't achieve if you didn't aspire, said she admired people who wanted to do great things. Nora took another deep breath and told her about the confession stories, and Carol was deeply impressed. The girls discovered that they had a great deal in common, despite their vastly different backgrounds.

Twilight was falling as they walked slowly back toward the dorm. They had talked for hours, felt they had known each other for years, and a strong feeling of kinship was already established.

“I guess you could call us a couple of Cinderellas,” Nora said. “You think we'll make it? Think we'll get the glass slipper?”