Jean and Johnny Page 7

  At a quarter to eight Jean walked across the room and straightened a book, just to get a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the mantel. Johnny was right. She was a cute girl. Eight o’clock came. Jean grew tense. Eight fifteen. Above the sound of the wind and the rain and the gurgling gutters Jean heard a car approach, and pass on down the street. Had Johnny forgotten? Of course not. It was needless to worry when he was only fifteen minutes late. “This is the worst storm we have had this year,” Jean observed, laying the ground for excuses in case Johnny really did not come.

  Eight thirty. Jean’s mouth was dry and her hands were cold. She longed to say brightly, as if it did not matter, Well, it looks as if Johnny isn’t coming. She could not. Not yet. Give him another five minutes. Or ten.

  Raindrops hissed into the fire. “Didn’t you say this fellow was coming at eight?” asked Mr. Jarrett.

  “Yes,” said Jean miserably, knowing that her father did not really mean to be tactless. “At least I think that was what he said. I might have misunderstood.” The pieces of orange crate burned through, broke apart, fell into coals. When ten more drops hissed into the fire Johnny would come. No, better make it twenty. One…two…

  Mrs. Jarrett looked up from the pad of paper on her knee. “Do you think it would sound all right to say a cold cream leaves your face with a gossamer glow?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mother.” Jean was not thinking about her mother’s question. Johnny had not asked for her address. Perhaps he was in a telephone booth someplace, calling all the Jarretts in the book. How many Jarretts were there, she wondered, and did she dare go look? Her mother’s words finally penetrated. “I mean, no,” she amended hastily. “Gossamer doesn’t glow. At least I don’t think it does. I think it would be all right to say gossamer soft but I don’t think you can say gossamer glow.”

  “I guess you are right,” said Mrs. Jarrett. “But I do think alliterative phrases stand a better chance of winning.” Then, as if the subject had been on her mind all the time, she said, “Don’t worry, dear. In a storm like this Johnny could easily be delayed. Perhaps his car won’t start.”

  “Maybe,” was all Jean was able to say. Any excuse was better than none. The three sat in silence, listening to the wind and the rain, the sound of burning wood crumbling into coals. Every time Jean heard tires on the street her heart felt like something trying to beat its way out of a cage.

  By ten minutes to nine the fire was reduced to hot ashes. That fire had been her father’s contribution to her evening, Jean thought sadly. Whatever would she say when Elaine telephoned in the morning? And Elaine would telephone. The very first thing. Jean pictured herself answering the telephone, chattering brightly, Elaine, it was all the most ghastly mistake. Ghastly in a hilarious sort of way, if you know what I mean. There we sat by those dying embers, listening for a car to stop, and all the time I had the wrong day. Except that she did not have the wrong day and even if she did, she would not talk to Elaine that way. That was the way Elaine talked when she was trying to turn an incident into an event.

  Mr. Jarrett yawned.

  “I—I guess he isn’t coming.” With tremendous effort Jean contrived a wry half smile. “Maybe he was just—joking or something.” Maybe that was it. Why should a boy who wore shirts that had to be dry-cleaned want to come to see a girl like her?

  Mr. Jarrett was busy poking the dead fire. Mrs. Jarrett bit her lip and looked at Jean, her eyes dark with sympathy—sympathy that Jean appreciated and at the same time resented. Part of her wanted to bury her face in her mother’s lap the way she had when she was a little girl, and another part of her wanted to hold her head high and say proudly, I’m fifteen—I can manage my own affairs.

  The telephone rang. None of the Jarretts seemed able to move. It rang a second time and a third.

  “Answer it, dear,” said Mrs. Jarrett on the fourth ring.

  Numbly Jean walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, Jean?” It was Johnny all right.

  “Oh, hi, Johnny,” Jean said in a strangled voice.

  “Look, Jean. I’m sure sorry, but I am not going to be able to make it tonight after all.” Johnny sounded genuinely contrite.

  “That’s all right, Johnny.” It wasn’t all right, but what could a girl say?

  “No, it isn’t all right,” insisted Johnny. “I feel terrible about it. Some people from out of town arrived and Dad says I have to stick around. You know how it is. Old family friends and all.”

  “Sure, Johnny.” Jean felt somewhat better. Johnny really did sound sorry, and anybody’s family could have out-of-town friends arrive. Even on a night like this. Of course they could.

  “I’ll make it up to you sometime,” said Johnny, almost tenderly. “Honest.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Jean, beginning to feel that it was all right.

  Johnny lowered his voice, as if he did not want anyone to overhear what he was saying. “Jean? Did I ever tell you what a cute little nose you have?”

  Jean smiled into the telephone in spite of herself. “No, I don’t think so.” Unconsciously she lowered her voice too, and enjoyed a delightful sense of conspiracy.

  “Remind me on Monday and I’ll tell you,” said Johnny softly.

  Jean laughed. “I’ll do that.” At least she would get to see him day after tomorrow.

  “Look, Jean,” said Johnny, his voice still low, “I’ve got to go now. I’m sure sorry and I’ll see you Monday.”

  “See you Monday,” agreed Jean. “And I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.”

  Reluctantly Jean went into the living room to repeat Johnny’s conversation, omitting the part about her cute little nose, to her mother and father.

  “What a shame,” said Mrs. Jarrett mildly.

  “It seems to me he could have phoned a little sooner,” said Mr. Jarrett.

  Jean had tried to ignore this thought.

  “We don’t know,” said Mrs. Jarrett. “Perhaps he couldn’t.”

  “It seems to me if a boy really liked a girl—” began Mr. Jarrett.

  “Now, Jim,” interrupted Mrs. Jarrett.

  “It’s all right, Daddy,” said Jean earnestly. “Really it is. He said he would make it up to me and he would see me Monday. And he sounded truly sorry.”

  Mr. Jarrett, who still did not look convinced, changed his manner abruptly. “I’ll bet I can still beat my daughter at Chinese checkers,” he said jovially.

  “No, thank you, Daddy. Not tonight. I—I don’t feel like playing.” Jean could not play checkers with her father, not after she had planned to play with Johnny. Poor Daddy, his attempt to make her feel better was so sweet and so clumsy, but she did wish he would not try to be understanding. She didn’t need to feel better, because everything was perfectly all right. There was no reason to make an issue out of Johnny’s not being able to come. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t wanted to come.

  Jean stood uncertainly in the doorway, not knowing how to use the remnant of the evening. While she stood there listening to the storm she discovered that she was tired, very tired. “I guess I might as well go to bed,” she said.

  “Good night, dear,” said Mrs. Jarrett gently.

  Now Jean had to face Sue, who looked up from her books when Jean opened the door of their room. “Too bad, Jean,” said Sue quietly.

  “Oh, it’s perfectly all right,” said Jean, trying to sound vivacious in spite of her weariness. What was wrong with her family that they could not see there was nothing to be sorry about? Why did they have to go around being so sympathetic? They were treating her as if she were an invalid or something. The way they were behaving, they would probably start tiptoeing and speaking in hushed voices—and bringing her dishes of blancmange.

  Well, they could just stop being so understanding, Jean thought crossly as she turned back her bedspread. Lots of girls would be glad to have Johnny look forward to seeing them on Monday. To have Johnny make a date was something, even if he did have to break it. Jean
walked over to the mirror and studied her nose. Johnny was right. It was a cute little nose. She wondered why she had never thought so before. And her family could just stop being so horribly understanding.

  Chapter 5

  Although Jean had made up her mind that this was one Monday when she would not wait for Johnny after school, not for more than two seconds, anyway, she was overjoyed to find that Johnny was as good as his word. He arrived at the door of the sewing room almost as soon as the bell had rung, and after looking inside this feminine precinct, he actually entered, causing all the girls who were putting away their sewing boxes or finishing seams on the sewing machines to look up. Boys did not often venture into the clothing class.

  Jean was so flustered she dropped her thimble. This would show her horribly sympathetic family, when she happened to mention it at the dinner table! “This afternoon when Johnny came into the sewing room to find me,” she would begin.

  “He’s darling,” whispered Mitsuko, as Jean bent to pick up the thimble. “You’re lucky.”

  Undisturbed by the stir he was creating, Johnny made his way to Jean’s table, where she was stuffing her tape measure and spools of thread into her sewing box with trembling hands.

  “Hi,” said Johnny, looking down at Jean.

  “Hi,” answered Jean, coloring because she felt as conspicuous as if she were on a stage. She stowed her sewing box in her drawer and shoved the drawer shut.

  “I always wondered what went on in here,” remarked Johnny.

  “And now you know,” said Jean lightly, and smiled up at him.

  Johnny put his hand on her elbow (actually put his hand on her elbow!) and walked with her out of the sewing room while the other girls watched. “Did I ever tell you you have a cute little nose?” Johnny asked softly.

  “I believe you may have mentioned it at some time or another.” Jean felt that her conversation was improving rapidly. Dear, charming Johnny. However, she was puzzled by an uneasy feeling that she had lost or forgotten something. For a moment she could not think what it was and then it came to her. She had not forgotten anything at all. Homer was missing. “Where’s your friend?” she asked.

  “He got lost,” said Johnny briefly.

  Jean did not pursue the subject, because she was not really interested in what had happened to Homer. She was so happy to have Johnny all to herself for a change and she was more interested in her nose than in Homer. Johnny not only walked out of the building with her but accompanied her to the bus stop, waited in the crowd for her bus to arrive, and then waved to her after she had climbed on the bus and paid her fare. Just wait until she told her sympathetic family! As Johnny said, when he waited for the bus with me…

  Except for Thursday, when Johnny and several other boys made the tape recording of the Hi-times program to be broadcast Saturday morning, Johnny met Jean and accompanied her to the bus stop every day that week. He was always interesting to talk to. He told Jean more about his experiences skiing and about the time he became entangled in seaweed while skin diving off Point Lobos.

  On Friday Jean waited expectantly for Johnny to say something about a date, but he did not. She realized there was no reason why she should not invite him to come to her house Saturday evening. Probably that was what she should do, since he might still be embarrassed because be had been forced to break the date with her. “Johnny,” she began as the bus pulled up to the curb, but she was caught in the crowd that surged toward the door of the bus.

  “Were you going to say something?” Johnny called.

  “No,” Jean called back, over her shoulder. “I mean—good-bye.” A girl could not very well yell an invitation to a boy from the steps of a bus. Disheartened, Jean paid her fare and was lucky enough to get a seat. Three other students not so fortunate promptly piled their books on her lap, and from beneath the books Jean reflected on her disappointment. She also reflected ruefully that she had spent more money on carfare that week than she had intended to, but when a boy walked her to her bus stop and waited for the bus with her, she could not very well tell him that she walked home whenever she could, to save carfare.

  When Jean reached her house and was changing from her school clothes, she looked gloomily at her books on the study table and wondered if she could be noble and get her homework out of the way now, or leave it until Sunday evening. This was a question she considered every Friday after school. Sue, who was always prompt and efficient, would do most of hers today, she knew, but she was not Sue. She liked to postpone her homework as long as possible, in spite of all the sensible arguments for doing it promptly.

  While Jean was debating with herself (go on, get it out of the way so you can forget it; no, I don’t feel like doing it now, because I would rather think about Johnny), Sue came home from school and walked into the bedroom with a large brown-paper bundle that she dropped on her bed.

  “What’s that?” asked Jean, pulling up the zipper on her skirt. She would have preferred a button and buttonhole on the waistband instead of hooks and eyes, but she had not come to buttonholes yet in her clothing class.

  “The Jarrett sisters seek their fortunes! We don’t need any long-lost uncle.” Sue seemed unusually gay as she pulled the string off the bundle and laid back the paper, revealing a quantity of fabric in two colors, red and turquoise blue.

  Jean leaned over and fingered the material, which she found to be a heavy rayon crepe, scarcely appropriate for dresses and certainly not suitable for drapes or bedspreads. “What in the world are you going to do with all that material in those colors?” asked Jean. “There must be enough to slipcover an elephant.”

  “That material,” said Sue, “represents our fortunes.” She sat down on the bed and held a length of red material against her cheek, as if she enjoyed the feel of it. “We are going to make stoles for the a cappella choir to wear over their dark blue robes.”

  “Us?” said Jean. “But we aren’t in the choir.”

  “We don’t have to be.” Sue went on to explain. “You see, the choir needs new stoles, and anybody in Advanced Clothing who wants to can make them. Not many of the girls in the class were interested, but I thought it would be a wonderful chance to earn some money—they will pay us a dollar and a quarter apiece—and so I brought home a pile of the material and a pattern. They aren’t hard to make. They are red, with a turquoise edging two inches wide on the inside edge. The hardest part will be getting the edging straight, but I know you can do it if you baste.”

  “Why, Sue, that’s almost too good to be true!” Jean rapidly calculated that four stoles equaled five dollars. “How many do they need?”

  “Over a hundred. Tall, medium, and short,” answered Sue. “My teacher said when I finished this material I can take home some more.”

  “And Daddy can’t possibly object,” Jean pointed out. “Come on, what are we waiting for? Let’s go to work!”

  Her homework held at bay for a while and her disappointment over Johnny temporarily out of her mind, Jean enjoyed spreading the bright material on the table, pinning on the brown wrapping-paper pattern, and cutting with long slashes of the scissors. She picked up an unsewn stole and buried her nose in it. “Mmm,” she breathed. “I just love the smell of new material.”

  “So do I,” said Sue from the closet, where she was getting out the portable sewing machine. “I wish someone would bottle it for perfume, so I could dab it behind my ears.”

  Jean pinned the shoulder seams of a stole. “What would you name the perfume?” she mused. “Silken Scent?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Sue, as if the matter was of great importance. “I think I would name it after a fabric. Crepe de Chine would make a good name. Or Peau de Soie.”

  Jean giggled. “We sound like Mother working on a contest.”

  Sue lifted the sewing machine from its case and set it on the table. “Who knows? Maybe Mother will run across a perfume-naming contest and we can offer her our prize-winning suggestions. She has thought up names for almost eve
rything else. Why not perfume?”

  The evening passed quickly for both girls, and by bedtime Jean had the satisfaction of having earned three dollars and seventy-five cents with her two hands. Sue, who was not afraid to make the old sewing machine roar down the length of a seam, had completed four stoles and cut out two more.

  On Saturday morning, after they had finished their household chores, Jean and Sue continued sewing on the stoles. They cut, pinned, basted, and stitched until their room was a tangle of color.

  “Do you think we could say the money we earn is stolen money?” asked Sue.

  “That is practically the worst pun I have ever heard,” said Jean, and laughed. Four stoles equaled five dollars or a new slip, a pretty blouse, material for a cotton dress. Eight stoles equaled a ten-dollar bill, something Jean almost never had in her possession. There were so many things a girl could do with ten dollars. With luck, and a sale, she could buy a ready-made cotton dress, a dress that was not cut out by a pattern that had to be altered for a girl who was shorter than average. Jean was rapt in the limitless possibilities of a ten-dollar bill when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, because Sue was using the sewing machine.

  When Jean opened the front door, she found Johnny standing on the porch. “Why, Johnny!” She could not keep her surprise from showing.

  Johnny grinned engagingly. “I was just cruising around and I wondered if you would like to go down to the drive-in for a Coke.”

  “Now?” Jean still could not quite believe that Johnny was really standing on her doorstep.

  “Sure,” said Johnny. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” agreed Jean, delighted. “Just a minute. I’ll get my sweater.” She was quite sure her father would not object to her going to the drive-in in the daytime.

  In the bedroom, Jean whispered, “It’s Johnny! He wants me to go to the drive-in for a Coke!” Oh, the joy of saying Johnny wanted her to do something!