Daughters of Eve (13 page)

Holly looked down at her hands, the great, ugly, beautiful hands that had been her bane and her joy since she had first realized what they were and what they could do.

"Mom, if I were a boy—and I had the talent, the musical thing that has come down through our women—if I were a boy, Mom, what then? Would you still be telling me the best thing I can do with my life is to sit here in Modesta and have babies?"

"That's a ridiculous question," Mrs. Underwood said impatiently. "It's the fact that men can't have babies that makes it necessary f of them to fill their lives with other things."

"Where are you going, chicken?"

"Out."

"That's no answer," Bart Rheardon said. "You don't just put on your coat and walk out the door without a 'hey' or a 'hi' to anybody. When I say, 'Where are you going?' I want to know"

"To meet some friends at McDonald's," Jane said.

"What friends?"

"It wouldn't mean anything if I told you. You don't know them."

"Somebody from that club, I'll bet. From Daughters of Eve, right? I'll tell you, chicken, I don't like the way these girls are taking you over. It starts out to be a once-a-week, after-school thing, and all of a sudden you're a regular groupie."

"You've got the wrong word, Dad. A 'groupie' is somebody who trails around after a rock band." Jane adjusted the collar of her jacket. "I'm going to meet my girl friends for a Coke, is that a crime? If there's something wrong with it, just tell me, and I'll reconsider. I sure wouldn't want to do anything you didn't think was right."

"Cut the sarcasm," Mr. Rheardon said sharply. This is part of what I'm objecting to. You never used to talk to us this way. It's just lately since you've started running around with this particular group of girls that you've been shooting your mouth off and acting like you've always got a chip on your shoulder. Who the hell are these lads, anyway? Do they all have parents who let them run the streets at night?"

"You know most of the parents from church," Jane said. "I can give you a list of their names if you want them."

"I never liked the sound of this group in the first place," her father said. "All this secret stuff and the crazy songs and things. I don't trust an organization where the members aren't allowed to talk about what goes on at meetings. That's how the Communists are getting a toehold in this country, by infiltrating groups like this and brainwashing impressionable youngsters. You could all be in there turning into little Commies, and the parents wouldn't know anything about it until the damage was done."

Jane finished buttoning her jacket. Then she crossed to the door to the living room.

"Mother, I'm going out for a Coke. I'll be back in about an hour."

Ellen Rheardon's eyes did not leave the television screen.

"Put something over your head," she said. "It's gotten real windy. You don't want your ear to start acting up."

"I'll wear a scarf."

For a moment Jane stood there, staring in at the woman on the sofa. The room was dark except for the flickering glow of the screen which threw light on one side only of her mother's face and left the other dark. The effect was eerie, as though the face had somehow been sliced in two and one half discarded to leave one glistening eye, a sliver of nose, and a strange, short strip of mouth.

"You want the light on?" Jane asked. "I read an article somewhere that said it's not good to watch TV in the dark."

"That's okay," her mother said. "I like it this way."

The couple on the screen were embracing in a rose garden, arms wrapped tightly around each other, lips pressed to lips. Mrs. Rheardon drew a deep breath as though she could smell the perfume of the flowers.

Jane went back out to the entrance hall, pulling a bandanna from her jacket pocket. She tied it around her head and opened the front door. The crisp, clean cold of the November night came sweeping in upon them.

Her father said, "About these friends—"

"Don't worry, Dad, we're none of us Communists," Jane said.

She went outside and closed the door behind her.

CHAPTER 10

It was a year in which there was no Indian summer. November remained November, bleak and overcast, with a cutting wind and a few surprising bursts of rain.

The maples in the schoolyard turned red and lost their leaves in such rapid succession that Tammy's mother, who had planned on taking pictures to go with an article she was writing, waited one day too long and missed her chance. The Modesta football team won their grudge game against the Morenci Bulldogs, and the boys' basketball team went into regular afternoon practice. The girls' team was allotted the use of the gym to practice on weekends, and Paula Brummell and three other girls resigned.

Some other items of interest to those concerned:

Fran Schneider's brother, Boyd, dropped out of college to "get his head together" and moved back into the family home to live until he could find a job. Said Mrs. Schneider: "At least he doesn't keep rats in his bedroom."

David Brewer and Ann Whitten announced their engagement in the Modesta Tribune. They set the wedding for June 3.

Tammy Carncross began dating a redhaired senior named Kevin Baker.

Ruth Grange went out on her first date. Paula's brother, Tom, took her to a movie at the Cedars.

Laura Snow's father and stepmother wrote asking her to spend Christmas holidays with them at their home in Rhode Island. Laura refused the invitation.

Kelly Johnson's father moved out, and her parents announced that they were getting a divorce.

The Daughters of Eve unanimously voted to sponsor Bambi Ellis as their candidate for Homecoming Queen and spent two evenings at Irene Stark's apartment making posters.

On the afternoon of November 21, Bambi was surprised to find Peter Grange waiting for her at her locker. She was surprised too to feel the sudden jump her heart gave at the sight of him, lounging there in his old position, his hands in his pockets, his shoulder braced against the locker front.

I thought it was over, she told herself silently, half angry at him for being there, half at herself for the involuntary start of pleasure it gave her to see him. For the past several weeks they had passed each other in the halls without acknowledgment, she with her friends, he with his. She had been aware though, without ever permitting herself to focus upon him, that he was never with another girl, while she, on various occasions, walked with boys.

Boys had never been as important to Bambi as they seemed to be to other girls, mainly because she had never had to concern herself about attracting them. From kindergarten on, they had been there at her bidding, waiting to sharpen her pencils, share the choice items in their lunches, or walk her back and forth to the water fountain. The only child of parents who had been in their late thirties when she was born, she had never lacked for affection and attention. She accepted these in the same way she did her exceptionally good looks, as natural and inevitable.

She had started dating early but until the spring of her sophomore year had refused to go steady. The truth was, in fact, that she actually enjoyed herself more with girl friends with whom she could relax without having to be on the defensive against being fondled and fawned over. Her attraction to Peter had taken her by surprise. She had tried unsuccessfully to analyze it, and had chalked it up finally to the fact that there were certain elements in him that duplicated those in herself. For whatever the reason, on the first date she had let him kiss her and by the third she had stopped dating other people. By the end of the school year they had been an acknowledged twosome. Their time together during the summer had been limited because of their jobs—Peter had been up at the lake most of the time and Bambi had modeled teen fashions for a department store in Adrian. When school resumed, however, they had fallen back together as automatically as though they had never been separated, and Bambi had thought, perhaps this is meant to be. Perhaps this is what being in love is all about.

Now, as she approached her locker, she was aware of straightening to walk a little taller, pushing her shoulders back as she did when she was modeling and was conscious of a roomful of eyes upon her. Except that this time there was really only one pair of eyes, familiar brown ones.

"Hi, Bam."

"Hi, Pete." She made her voice light and frosty. "Fancy meeting you here."

"How's life treating you?"

"Okay. And you?"

"Ditto." He moved aside so she could work the combination lock. "I was wondering—do you have a date to the dance Saturday?"

"To Homecoming? No, I'm going stag with Fran and Paula. That's the night we have the drawings for the athletic fund. Then the Queen presents the money to Mr. Shelby."

"You want to go with me?" he asked casually.

"I don't get it." Bambi paused with the lock in her hand. "Why would you want to waste an evening dancing with an 'ice cube'?"

"Oh, come off it, Bam," Peter said, flushing. "I was in a rotten mood the day I said that. You know I didn't mean any of that stuff."

"I don't have any reason to think you didn't," Bambi said. "You haven't called me since."

"I'm telling you now, aren't I? I needed time to cool down. You really pushed me that day."

"I'll stick by every word," Bambi told him. "I'm not going to let any guy run my life for me, no matter how much I care about him."

"So, you do care!" Peter exclaimed triumphantly. "There, you just admitted it! You're not the ice maiden you pretend to be, now, are you?"

"I never pretended to be an 'ice maiden,' whatever that is. I just want to control my own life, that's all. The old double standard doesn't make it anymore, Pete." Bambi opened the locker and dumped in her history book. "Why should I tie myself down to a date when I can go stag and have the whole football team to dance with?"

"The Queen is supposed to have an escort."

"I might not be the Queen. The votes aren't tallied yet."

"You'll get it. Who's to compete? You know you're a shoo-in. Besides, we're a team, you and I. Meat and potatoes."

She smiled despite herself. "Which one's the potatoes?"

"We take turns—you're a potato one day, I'm one the next. We're us, Pete and Bam-Bam. We're the living proof that beautiful people flock together, that love can survive a spat or so."

"You said—'love,'" Bambi said softly.

"I did?"

"You know you did. That's the word you use when you're trying to get something out of me. We've been this route before, haven't we?"

"Maybe we have," Peter said.

"So what's different about this time?"

"Maybe I am. Maybe I've changed."

Bambi turned from the open locker to stare at him. He met her gaze directly, and their eyes locked, making it impossible for her to look away. She felt a little light-headed from the nearness of him and struggled to keep her voice light.

"That's something new for you to say."

"Wasn't it what you wanted to hear?"

"It might be. I really don't know." She closed the locker and shoved the lock together so that it snapped into place with a sharp, determined click. Slowly she turned back to the boy beside her. "So, how exactly have you changed?"

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?"

"For what?"

"Stop pushing. Just answer me, Bambi. What do you want me to say?"

"I won't ask you. Just say it."

"I—care about you." His voice dropped self-consciously. "I care—a lot."

"Since when?"

"Since I haven't been spending time with you. I've been—lonesome. I've missed you. I—I really want us to get back together again."

"I've missed you too," Bambi said softly. "I've tried not to, but I have."

"So, what are we going to do about it?"

"Go to the dance, I guess."

"That will do for starters. And—then?"

"We'll see. I don't know. I meant all those things I said, Pete. I've got a modeling career ahead of me, and I'm not taking any chances with it. It's not like we were going to get married or something. I've got another year of school after this one, and you'll be going off to college. We might never even see each other again."

"If my mother doesn't come through with her share of the tuition, I'll probably be staying right here and going to State," Peter said with a touch of bitterness. "She's got that cleaning woman coming in twice a week now, and Ruthie sits around on her duff never turning a hand."

"Hey, boy, you're talking about my 'sister'!" Bambi said. She gave in to the temptation to reach out and touch him. His hand opened and closed upon hers and suddenly it did not matter any longer what they were saying, as the words were simply there, forming a background for the electrical touching of their hands.

"Irene wants me to stop by her room a minute to talk about something," Ann Whitten said. "Want to come with me, or are you meeting Kevin?"

"He's got practice," Tammy Carncross told her, "but I'd like to try to connect with Kelly. She's running so low these days over the divorce thing, I hate for her to have to walk home alone."