The Slipper (5 page)

“With your talent and determination, you're bound to.”

“And you're a shoo-in,” Nora told her. “We'll both get the slipper, kid, and it'll fit perfectly. Right?”

Carol nodded. “And we'll live happily ever after.”

“Believe it,” Nora said.

Freshman registration the next day was absolute chaos, with over two hundred confused, frustrated students dashing about the Student Union building, talking to faculty advisors, waving slips, standing in lines, trying desperately to get into the classes they wanted before they were filled. Nora was incensed when her faculty advisor, a smug, supercilious junior professor in the English department, informed her that she would have to complete freshman English before she could enroll in Stephen Bradley's creative writing course. Freshman English! Underline the subject once, the verb twice, pick out the adjectives and adverbs. Bullshit! She had no intention of wasting her time. You had to be ballsy, right? You had to be determined. She marched herself over to the ad building and demanded to see the dean and, surprisingly enough, was shown into his office. She told him in no uncertain terms she hadn't come to Claymore to waste a year with Mickey Mouse nonsense like freshman English. Look at her record, she demanded, look at her SAT scores, tell her she needed to rusticate with a bunch of fish who didn't know a dangling participle from a pain in the neck. Dean Hargrave assumed a very serious expression, trying his best to hide his amusement. He called for her file, consulted it, nodded gravely. He finally informed her that they would make a special dispensation in her case, permit her to skip freshman English and allow her to enroll in Dr. Bradley's class immediately.

“Thanks a bunch, Dean,” she said cockily. “I had a feeling you'd understand. You're a real peach.”

She signed up for world history, physics, girls' volleyball and music appreciation, just to have the requisite number of semester hours, and she felt as though she'd been through a battle before the day was done, the last class filled. She and Carol would have history and music appreciation together, but their other classes were separate. Carol was elated to have gotten into Julian Compton's advanced drama. He took only twenty students at a time and was highly selective. He had studied her records and asked her innumerable questions before finally signing her up. Nora was delighted with Stephen Bradley. He was wry, cynical, burly, a chain-smoker. He hadn't published a novel in a number of years, true, but his
Summer of Decision
had not only won a Pulitzer Prize but had been a blazing best-seller as well. What he didn't know about writing wasn't worth knowing. He gave her a stern look and asked if she was ready to work. Nora said she was ready to work her adorable little ass off. Bradley roared with laughter and lighted another cigarette. Both girls were pleased with their successes but worn with exhaustion as they trudged back to the dorm late that afternoon.

“We're on our way, kid,” Nora said. “You got Compton. I got Bradley. World, watch out. We're gonna knock you dead.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” Carol sighed.

“You call this confidence? This is just mouth, sweetheart. I'm scared shitless.”

“So am I.”

“Whistle a happy tune,” Nora suggested.

The next week was hectic as they attended classes, purchased books, paid lab fees, acclimatized themselves to the campus. Nora found history a bore, physics a drag, and girls' volleyball was a joke. Music appreciation was fascinating. She didn't know beans about classical music and was delighted when she was able to tell Mozart and Vivaldi apart. Bradley was everything she expected, with a no-nonsense attitude and the strong belief that you wrote to be read, not to please a bunch of pseudointellectual critics. Nora was in love. Carol said Julian Compton was the most stimulating man she'd ever met. He had directed several smash hit plays in New York before coming to Claymore and had worked with legendary names in the theater.

By the end of the second week, both Nora and Carol knew their way around campus and were beginning to settle into the routine of classes. By the end of the third week, they both felt like veterans. Carol had a French lab and didn't get back to the dorm until almost five on Friday. Nora was in their room, polishing off an essay about the Hittites on the manual typewriter Irving had shipped to her from Brooklyn. After only three weeks the room had that bright, messy clutter of personal possessions that made it a home.

“This ought to knock old Beasley right off her rocker,” Nora said, whipping the final page out of the typewriter. “Homework all finished. How was French?”

“I've been doing advanced work in the lab—Dr. Clark said I might just as well. I have to take first-year French, of course, but I'm already a year ahead of the others. I had a very good teacher in high school.”

“What's that book you have?”

“
Le Père Goriot
. I thought I might just as well read it.”

“Balzac. I'm impressed, kid.”

“You've read Proust.”

“Not in the original,” Nora said.

She got up from the desk and stretched, and then she looked around at the litter, finally gathering up a pile of books and lining them up neatly on the desk.

“Friday night,” she complained, “and neither one of us asked to go to the sock hop at the gymnasium. What a blow to my fragile ego. Don't know if I'll survive it.”

“You wouldn't go to the sock hop if they paid you, Nora.”

“You're right, sweetie—Buddy Holly songs blaring on the P. A. system, enthusiastic sophomore boys stomping with giggling freshman girls. Hawaiian punch and cookies. Thrills galore for the true sophisticate. It would've been nice to have been
asked
, though.”

“I was, actually,” Carol said.

“Confession time. Was he dreamy?”

“Sweaty palms. He reminded me of the boys in Kansas.”

“Hang in there, kid. Someday your prince will come. Listen, I don't think I can look another bowl of mashed potatoes in the face, not to mention the Jell-O. Why don't we skip mess call tonight and dash over to the Silver Bell again?”

“Sounds great,” Carol said.

“We'll make an occasion of it, dress up. Okay?”

“Fine.”

The dorm was abuzz with activity as they left an hour and a half later, dozens of girls rushing down the halls, popping in and out of rooms, hair in pink plastic curlers, bathrobes flapping. Big night. Big dates. Frenzied preparations. Nora was quiet and withdrawn as she and Carol started across the campus. She had changed into a navy blue dress with white polka dots, puffed sleeves with white cuffs and white Peter Pan collar. She wore high heels and hose, the seams carefully straightened, and she had put on red lipstick and a suggestion of dusty blue eye shadow. All dressed up and no place to go. Carol was a great friend, the best, but she wasn't male. Cute apparently wasn't good enough, Nora thought bitterly. Not a single boy had asked her out since she arrived on campus three weeks ago. Hundreds of boys, and not a one of them interested in a perky little Jewish girl with personality to spare. That boy had whistled at her the first day, sure. Probably wanted her to fetch a stick.

“Something wrong?” Carol asked.

“Not really. I'm just in the pits tonight.”

“Any particular reason?”

“It's my birthday, dammit.”

“You should have told me!” Carol protested.

“I didn't want you to make a fuss. Irving sent me a new sweater. Sadie sent a hot-water bottle and a wool muffler and cap. I got a card from my cousin, Myron Jr. He's the one with the buck teeth.”

“Dinner's on me tonight,” Carol said. “I insist.”

“All right, but if you order a cake and sing ‘Happy Birthday' I'll break your arm.”

The Silver Bell wasn't at all crowded tonight. Only a few of the tables were occupied. Carol and Nora took one near the back, and Nora stared glumly at the plastic bottles of mustard and ketchup. Carol smiled and told her to cheer up, it wasn't the end of the world.

“That's easy enough for you to say!” Nora snapped. “You look like some bloody high-fashion model. You could have any man on campus you wanted. Me, I couldn't even get arrested. Eighteen years old and never been kissed.”

“Really? Never?”

“My cousin Myron laid one on me and tried to feel me up the night of his Bar Mitzvah party, but that doesn't count. I wanted to be kissed by his good-looking friend Eugene Cohen. Eugene was too busy making eyes at Renee Kuppenheimer to know I was alive.”

“None of the boys at those schools you attended ever—”

“They were intimidated by me, called me Little Miss Mensa. I had braces on my teeth until I was fourteen,” she confessed, “and before the nose job I frightened small children on the street. It wasn't until a couple of years ago that I blossomed into the ravishing creature you see before you now.”

“You're as pretty as can be,” Carol told her.

“So's Lassie. At least she has her own TV series.”

Carol laughed, and Nora cheered up a bit as the waitress came shyly over to their table. Only a few inches taller than Nora, she had a fragile build and soft silver-brown hair worn long and enormous violet-blue eyes, light and clear. Her features were delicate and quite pretty in a childlike way, but her complexion was poor, pasty-looking, pitted with acne. Couldn't be a day over fourteen, Nora thought. Looked weak as a kitten. What kind of child labor laws did they have around here? A kid like this carrying heavy trays and lifting stacks of dishes. The girl smiled. There was something luminous and arresting about her, a curious presence despite the shy demeanor and bad complexion.

“Hello, Carol,” the child said.

“Julie! I didn't know you worked here.”

“I've been working here since the semester started. I was in the kitchen before, washing dishes. They promoted me to waitress last week. How are you doing?”

“Just fine. I didn't see you in class this afternoon.”

“I—Doug wasn't feeling well and I—I thought I'd best stay home with him. How did the reading go? Did you do Portia's speech?”

Carol nodded. “Compton didn't make any comment. Jim Burke gave a terrific rendition of Hamlet's soliloquy. I was looking forward to hearing your Ophelia.”

“It—it probably wouldn't have been very good.” The child lowered her eyes. “I would have been terrified. May I take your orders?”

“Let me introduce you to my friend Nora Levin first. Nora, this is Julie Hammond. Julie's in advanced drama with me. Nora's my roommate,” she told Julie. “Today's her birthday.”

“You bitch,” Nora said. “No one was supposed to know. Hello, Julie. I'm delighted to meet you.”

Julie smiled again, as shyly as before. Her lashes were long and curling, her brows fine, delicately arched. What was it about her? You didn't pay any attention to the wretched complexion. You just looked at those incredibly lovely violet-blue eyes that were so innocent yet full of secrets. Your heart went out to her.

“We haven't had a chance to look at the menus yet,” Carol said. “What do you recommend, Julie?”

“The shrimp basket's good. It comes with cole slaw and fries. I could bring some hot rolls, too.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Nora said.

“Two shrimp baskets, then,” Carol said.

“What will you have to drink?” Julie asked.

“A double vodka martini for me,” Nora told her. “A twist of lemon and go easy on the vermouth.”

“Two Cokes, Julie,” Carol said.

Julie took pad and pencil out of the pocket of her uniform, jotted down the order and left the table with another shy smile.

“They're taking infants at Claymore now?” Nora asked.

“She's our age,” Carol replied. “She's just taking the one course—I believe Compton made some kind of special arrangement. She's married, working to help her husband get through law school. She's a sweet girl—really talented, too.”

“Married? She looks like a child!”

“She's been married for over two years.”

“Jesus!” Nora exclaimed.

Julie brought their order a short while later, deftly balancing the heavy tray on her palm. She put the shrimp baskets and Cokes in front of them, smiled that poignant smile of hers and left. Nora watched as the girl greeted a couple who had just come in and took their orders. There was something touching about her, a vulnerable quality you couldn't quite define. She returned to the table after a few minutes with a basket of rolls and a dish of butter, apologizing for the delay. When she left Nora shook her head. Hard to believe she was their age and already married. That brought her own lack of progress with the boys to mind again, and she frowned, squeezing dollops of ketchup onto her French fries.

“Happy birthday,” Carol said, lifting her Coke in a mock toast. “How does it feel to be eighteen?”

“Shitty. I feel like a dismal failure. When Françoise Sagan was eighteen
Bonjour Tristesse
was published. Gaby Bernais had
Kisses for Breakfast
come out when
she
was eighteen. How can I ever write a sexy blockbuster if I don't meet some men, get some experience!”

“Your time will come,” Carol assured her.

“Yeah, and the way it looks right now I'll be wearing orthopedic shoes and carrying a cane when it does. I want you to be brutally honest with me, Carol. I want you to be frank—is it my breath?”

“The boys just haven't discovered you yet.”

“Maybe I should wear a sandwich board with ‘Available' printed on both sides, but that probably wouldn't cause any stampedes, either. ‘Free Tail' might be more provocative.”

“You're incorrigible, Nora.”

“No I'm not, sweetie. I'd just
like
to be.”

They had almost finished their meal and were contemplating dessert when the silver bell over the door jingled and four boys walked in. Nora glanced up casually, then gasped and grabbed Carol's arm across the table.