Fifteen (3 page)

“I would love to go,” said Jane.

“Swell.” There was relief in the boy's—in Stan's—voice. He had been afraid she might turn him down! “Would seven o'clock be all right?” he asked.

“Seven would be fine,” answered Jane.

“Swell,” he repeated. “I'll see you then.”

“All right,” agreed Jane, and hesitated. She felt she should say something more, but she could not think what. There did not seem to be anything more to add to the conversation. “Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you for calling.”

“Good-bye,” he said, “and thanks a lot.”

Once more Jane sat staring at the telephone. This time she was filled with a confidence that was new to her. Stan Crandall. Stanley Crandall. He
liked her! He has seen her once, and even though she had been rumpled and grass stained and having a terrible time with Sandra, he liked her well enough to go to the trouble of finding out her name and calling to ask her to go to the movies. Jane smiled at the telephone and gave a sigh of pure happiness.
Stan Crandall!

“Jane, what were you saying about seven o'clock?” Mrs. Purdy called from the living room.

Jane stopped smiling. Here it comes, she thought. She might as well get it over. Her mother and father would
have
to let her go. They had to. She couldn't bear it if they wouldn't. Jane walked into the living room determined to be firm with her mother and father and said, as calmly as she could, “I'm going to the movies tomorrow night at seven o'clock.”

“With some of the girls?” asked Mrs. Purdy.

“No. I'm going with a boy named Stanley Crandall.” Jane tried unsuccessfully to keep a note of defiance out of her voice.

Mr. Purdy put down the seed catalog he was studying. “And who is Stanley Crandall?” he demanded.

“Yes, Jane,” said Mrs. Purdy. “Just who is this Stanley Crandall?”

Oh, Mom, do you have to refer to him as “this Stanley Crandall”? Jane thought. It sounded so awful, as if she had picked him up on a street corner someplace. “He's a perfectly nice boy,” she said.

“Where did you meet him?” inquired Mrs. Purdy.

“At the Nortons',” replied Jane.

“Is he a friend of theirs?” persisted Mrs. Purdy.

“Not exactly. At least I don't think so.”

“Then how did you happen to meet him at the Nortons'?”

Oh, Mom, do you have to act like the FBI or something, just because I'm going to the movies tomorrow night with a perfectly nice boy, Jane thought. “He came in a delivery truck,” she said.

“From Jake's Market?”

Jane stared at the corner of the living-room ceiling. “No. Not from Jake's Market,” she said patiently.

“Jane Purdy!” said Mrs. Purdy sharply. “Will you please get that look of exaggerated patience off your face? Your father and I are not morons. We only want to know for your own good who this boy is.”

Her own good. Everything around here was
always for her own good. Well, they would have to know the truth some time. “He was delivering horsemeat for the dog from the Doggie Diner.”

Mr. Purdy gave a snort of laughter. “Aha! Horsemeat!” he exclaimed. “The plot thickens!”

Jane tried to wither her father with a glance but succeeded only in giving him a look of despair. How could he be so callous when she was in the middle of a crisis?

“Really, Jane,” said Mrs. Purdy weakly. “Horse-meat!”

“And what's the matter with horsemeat?” cried Jane. “Delivering horsemeat is a perfectly honest way for a boy to earn some money. It's no worse than babysitting. You always said honest labor was nothing to be ashamed of.” Jane stared defiantly at her mother and father. “You just don't want me to have any fun!” Jane knew when she said this that it was not true. Her mother and father were both eager for her to have a good time, but somehow this was the sort of thing she had found herself saying to them lately. She was sorry, but honestly, the way a girl's mother and father could take a beautiful feeling of happiness and practically trample it in the dust!

“We're not forbidding the banns just because
the boy delivers horsemeat,” said Mr. Purdy mildly, as he lit his pipe and flicked out the match.

“Oh, Pop,” said Jane impatiently. “I don't want to marry him. I merely want to go to the movies with him.”

“Horsemeat!” Mrs. Purdy began to laugh. “He delivers horsemeat!”

Jane turned on her mother and said almost tearfully, “It's U.S. government-inspected horsemeat!”

“I'm sorry, Jane.” Mrs. Purdy managed to stop laughing. “There is no reason for you to get so worked up. It isn't the quality of the horsemeat that we are questioning. We only want to know something about the boy. Surely that's not too much to ask.”

“Well, he's new in Woodmont,” said Jane, somewhat mollified, although still ruffled because her mother had laughed at a perfectly honest way for a boy to earn some money. “And he's an awfully nice boy.”

“But Jane, how do you know he's a nice boy?” Mrs. Purdy asked. “You never saw him before. You don't know his family or anything about him except that he delivers horsemeat. That isn't much of a recommendation.”

How could she explain to her mother that because a boy had a dip in his hair and a friendly grin and wore a clean white T-shirt she knew he was a nice boy? “He just is,” was all Jane could say miserably. “I can tell. And anyway, I'm going out with him, not his family.”

Mrs. Purdy did not look convinced, so Jane went on. “He's not the type to ride around in a hot rod and throw beer cans out along the highway. Mom, I
know
he's a nice boy. He looks clean and intelligent and—well,
nice
. And he looks like he's fun to be with, too. Not like the boys I've known all my life. Not like George, who just thinks about his old rock collection and chemistry experiments.”

“Now, Jane,” said Mrs. Purdy, “don't underestimate George. He's a nice boy with real interests. He may not seem very exciting to you now, but he's the kind of boy with a purpose, the kind of boy who will be a doctor or a scientist when he grows up.”

“But Mom, I don't want to go out with a boy I have known practically since I was in my playpen, and I don't care what George is like when he grows up. I want to go to the movies on Saturday night with a boy who is fun
now
.”

“Why, Jane,” Mrs. Purdy protested. “You've
always had a good time at the little dancing parties you have gone to.”

“Little dancing parties! Mom, those are for children.”

“And you have gone to the movies and school affairs with George,” Mrs. Purdy pointed out. “I thought you liked him.”

“I do like George,” Jane insisted. “I just don't like to go out with him. He's too short and that lock of hair always sticks up. At the spring dance at school all he talked about was his rock collection, and he's a horrible dancer. He sort of lopes around and I had to scrooch down so I wouldn't tower over him. And his mother and father came to pick us up because he isn't old enough to have a driver's license, and they came early because they wanted to
watch
the dance, and it was just too embarrassing, and then when they were leaving the gym his mother said to his father in a loud voice, ‘Wasn't it a lovely party for the children?' Everybody looked at George and me and I felt about six years old and it was simply ghastly.
That's
why I don't like to go out with George.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Purdy. “I see.”

Jane looked quickly at her father to see if he was
laughing at her, but his expression was serious.

“I suppose it was a little awkward,” said Mrs. Purdy, “but just the same, I don't want you running around with a boy we know nothing about.”

“But I'm not going to run around with him. I'm going to walk five blocks in a straight line with him to the movies. That isn't running around.”

Then Jane's father spoke up. “I think that by now Jane is old enough to recognize a nice boy when she sees one. And as she has pointed out, they are only going to the movies.”

Jane looked gratefully at her father. Good for Pop! He understood.

“But she's had so little experience,” protested Mrs. Purdy.

Experience! How was a girl going to get any experience when her mother was so old-fashioned she didn't even want her daughter to go to the movies with a boy unless she personally knew his whole family tree for a couple of generations?

“Does this boy have a car?” Mrs. Purdy asked.

“I don't know,” answered Jane truthfully, fervently hoping that he did own a car or at least have the use of one.

“It's all right if you walk to the movies,” said Mrs. Purdy, “but I don't want you riding around in a car with some strange boy.”

“Yes, Mom.” The battle was won, although somehow Jane had known from the beginning that she would win. She was actually going to the movies with Stan, the new boy, the boy with the friendly smile and the dip in his hair. In less than twenty-four hours she would be with him. The problem of the car she would meet when she came to it. If Stan did arrive in a car, she could easily suggest that since it was a nice evening (and it would be a nice evening, it had to be), they could walk to the movies. The theater was only five blocks from her house. And in the meantime her mother and father would see for themselves what a nice boy he was and maybe the next time…

There has to be a next time, thought Jane, as she curled up in a chair with a book in her hand. I couldn't bear it if there wasn't another date. And another and another. She saw herself chattering with a cluster of girls in front of the lockers at Woodmont High. “Stan and I had the most wonderful time…” “Last night Stan and I…” “And Stan said to me…” “Oh, yes, Stan gave me this…” (Gave her what? An identification
bracelet? His class ring?) “Stan dropped over last night and we…” “I thought I'd die laughing when Stan…”

“Jane, hadn't you better think about going to bed?” Mrs. Purdy asked.

Her mother's voice scarcely touched Jane's thoughts. Still standing by the lockers at Woodmont High, Jane answered, “I guess so,” and walked dreamily toward the bathroom to start putting her hair up in pin curls. “Stan and I always…” “Stan and I…”

It was not until the next morning that Jane began to have qualms about her date with Stan Crandall. First of all, she decided that her hair simply would not do, so she washed it and put it up in pin curls, each one clamped with two bobby pins.

“Why, Jane, I thought you washed your hair day before yesterday,” remarked Mrs. Purdy.

“Did I? I don't remember,” fibbed Jane, staring critically at herself in the mirror. Carefully she plucked six hairs out of her left eyebrow and five out of her right.

Then she opened her closet and studied her wardrobe to see what she owned that would be suitable to wear to walk five blocks to Woodmont's
only movie and perhaps to Nibley's afterward. One by one she examined her dresses. Her best navy blue silk printed with white daisies was too dressy. Her gray suit—well, no. That was more for wearing to the city. Her pale blue princess dress—certainly not. Not that old thing. Her yellow cotton—no. Stan had already seen it. Besides, the round collar looked so babyish. Her dirndl and peasant blouse wouldn't do either. Once more she went over her wardrobe. She did not have a thing that was exactly right to wear on her first date with Stan Crandall. Not one single thing—and neither did she have enough money from babysitting to buy a new dress.

Jane decided to approach her mother. “Mom, if I give you the six dollars and a half babysitting money that I have, could I charge a dress and pay you the rest later?” she asked.

“Why, Jane, you have a closet full of clothes. More than lots of girls in Woodmont.”

This was the sort of thing Jane might have expected from her mother. “Well, may I, Mom? I haven't a thing to wear tonight.”

“I don't think so, dear.” Mrs. Purdy was pleasant but definite. “There are lots of girls who would be glad to have your pretty clothes. Besides, you are
only going to walk five blocks to the neighborhood movie.”

That was Mom, always dragging “lots of girls” into arguments. And you'd think she could understand how important those five blocks were. “But, Mom—”

“Jane.” Mrs. Purdy sighed. “I don't know what's come over you. It wasn't so long ago that I had a terrible time getting you out of play clothes and sneakers.”

And now that I want to dress up, you won't let me charge anything, thought Jane, and it was her turn to sigh. Sometimes she, too, wondered what had come over her.

Jane spent half an hour pressing her blue princess dress and suffering qualms about herself. What would she say to Stan? She could ask him how long he had lived in Woodmont and where he had lived before. That would take up part of the time, but what could she talk about after that? The Teen Corner in the newspaper advised girls to ask questions about boys' interests, but she couldn't come right out and say, “What are you interested in?” If she said, “Are you interested in sports?” he might turn out to be a rugby fan or excited about something else she knew nothing
about. Maybe she had better start reading the sport sections after this. And if he did take her to Nibley's, would she know how to act? Going there in the evening with a boy was not the same as dropping in with Julie after school.

Cleaning her white Capezio slippers and painting her nails with Rosy Rapture polish took a good part of the afternoon. It was not until nearly three o'clock, as she wafted her damp fingertips back and forth to dry them, that Jane began to have qualms about Stan. What if he came in a T-shirt and jeans? Or one of those gaudy sport shirts with the tail hanging out? A plain sport shirt with the tail tucked in would be all right for a movie date in Woodmont, but not a T-shirt or a figured sport shirt. But he won't, he can't, she thought. He was not that kind of boy. And all at once she was no longer sure what kind of boy Stan was. Maybe he was the kind who would drive up and toot and expect her to come running out—as if her mother would let her. Or maybe he would chew gum and snap it and guffaw at the love scenes in the movie. Maybe he wouldn't know how to talk to her mother and father, or maybe he would walk on the inside of the sidewalk and let her walk beside the curb. Maybe he would turn out to be like George
and buy ice-cream cones to eat on the way home and lick his cone the way George did. Maybe he even had a rock collection like George and, like George, a scientific mind. Maybe she would have to listen to him tell about finding an unusual piece of contorted gneiss in the Sierras. George never picked up rocks that were just pretty. He always found specimens that he called by the exact scientific name.

Then Jane looked around the Purdy living room and wondered if she should try to get her mother to call in an interior decorator, now that she was going to have dates. She decided against it. The rug was worn by the door and one chair was pretty shabby where Sir Puss insisted on sharpening his claws on it, but the room was pleasant and comfortable.

Just before dinner Jane took the bobby pins out of her hair, because her father did not allow her to come to the table with her hair in pin curls. He said it spoiled his appetite to realize he had a pinhead for a daughter. It was not until she was seated at the table that Jane began to have qualms about her parents. Between bites of salad she considered them with a feeling of great detachment, as if she were seeing them for the first time. On the whole,
she found them presentable, but she did wish her mother would put on some stockings and wear a dress instead of that striped cotton skirt and red blouse. It was so undignified for a mother who was practically forty and very old-fashioned to go around with bare legs, even if they were tanned, and to wear such gay clothes. Stan might think she didn't know how to dress. And her father—if only he wouldn't try to be funny when Stan arrived! His jokes were all right for the family, but he should realize that he had been out of college sixteen years and was too old to go around trying to be funny in front of company. Stan's father probably didn't make jokes all the time and Stan might think it was undignified. Jane barely touched the casserole dish, even though it was her favorite—the one her mother called “It Smells to Heaven.” There were onions in it and Jane did not want to breathe onions on Stan at the movie.

After dinner Jane decided the blue dress would not do at all. It was terrible, and how could she ever have thought she could wear it? She hastily pressed a pink blouse to wear with her suit. As soon as she had it pressed she realized it was all wrong and of course she would have to wear the blue dress. Hurriedly she locked herself in the
bathroom, where she took a shower and washed her face carefully with a deep pore cleanser. She examined her face critically in the mirror and plucked one more hair out of her right eyebrow.

“Jane, you aren't the only member of the family who uses the bathroom,” Mrs. Purdy reminded her through the bathroom door.

“Okay, Mom.” Jane scurried into her room. She slid the blue dress over her head and slipped into her clean white shoes. It took four attempts to get a straight part in her hair. Then, with a lipstick brush that she kept hidden from her mother, who was inclined to be old-fashioned about makeup, Jane outlined her lips with Rosy Rapture, which all the girls were wearing this summer. She filled in the outline, studied the effect in the mirror, and then blotted off some of the color so she could get out of the house without her mother's saying, “Really, Jane, I do wish you wouldn't wear so much lipstick.” A light dusting of powder on her nose came next. Finally she studied herself carefully and snipped off two wisps of hair with her manicure scissors. Then she was ready.

At five minutes to seven Jane walked into the living room and looked around with a critical eye. She was pleased to see a bowl of fresh begonias,
vivid as flames, on the coffee table. Thank goodness her mother had changed to a dark linen dress and had put on stockings, and her father, who was wearing a plain tan sport shirt, had put on his horn-rimmed glasses to read the evening paper. He looked almost dignified. Even Sir Puss was stretched out on the rug, languidly patting at his rubber mouse with one paw and behaving properly for a cat. Now if they would all stay that way and not move until Stan came, everything would be all right.

“Well, how about it, Jane?” her father asked jovially. “Do we pass inspection?”

“Pop, just this once, please don't try to be funny,” implored Jane as she sat carefully on the edge of a chair so she would not wrinkle her dress. Her mouth was dry and her hands felt cold. Her thoughts were anxious. In five more minutes…he did say tonight, didn't he…tonight and not next Saturday? In three more minutes…Please, Stan, don't be late! And please, please be as nice as I think you are.

At exactly seven o'clock Jane heard someone coming up the front steps. She had not heard a car stop in front of the house, so that was one problem she would not have to meet this evening.

“Hist!” said Mr. Purdy in a stage whisper from behind his paper. “I hear footsteps approaching.”

“Pop!” begged Jane, starting from her chair even though she had anticipated the sound of the doorbell. Sir Puss jumped up and glared, annoyed at this disturbance of his peace.

Jane opened the door. “Hello, Stan,” she murmured, suddenly feeling shy. “Won't you come in?”

“Hello, Jane.” Stan stepped into the living room. He was even more attractive than Jane remembered. His greenish eyes and the dip in his hair were the same, but he was wearing gray flannel slacks, a white sport shirt, and a green sweater—not cashmere, but a good-looking wool. His manner no longer seemed easy and casual as it had yesterday when he delivered the horsemeat. Now he appeared serious, even a little nervous, as if he, too, were not quite sure how this date might turn out. He was a boy any girl would be proud to introduce to her parents.

“Uh…Mother, may I present Stan Crandall?” said Jane carefully.

“Hello, Stan,” said Mrs. Purdy warmly, and Jane was proud of her.

“How do you do, Mrs. Purdy?” Stan answered.

The anxiety that had tormented Jane all afternoon now began to fade. “And Father, this is Stan Crandall.”

Mr. Purdy rose from his chair and extended his hand. Stan stepped forward to shake hands and, as Jane watched helplessly, seeing what was about to happen, he trod squarely on Sir Puss's rubber mouse. The mouse gave out a piercing squeak. Stan jumped and turned red to the tips of his ears.

“Oh!” gasped Jane, embarrassed and ashamed that she had not foreseen this. That cat!

Gamely Stan grasped Mr. Purdy's hand and said, as if nothing had happened, “I'm pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Won't you sit down?” invited Mr. Purdy. Stan glanced uncertainly at Jane and remained standing.

In her relief that introductions were over, Jane leaned against the end of the sofa. So far so good, in spite of the rubber mouse. Now what happens, she wondered. Should they talk awhile, or should she suggest that they leave, or should she wait for him to suggest it?

Mr. Purdy sat down again, but Stan remained standing. “That's a handsome cat you have,” he remarked.

Sir Puss stared balefully at the visitor, then sat down, hoisted his hind leg, and began deliberately to wash.

Inwardly Jane squirmed with embarrassment. Leave it to Sir Puss! You'd think he was the most important member of the family, the way he acted. Why, oh, why did he have to choose this particular moment, when everyone was looking at him, to wash his bottom? And be so industrious about it. Why couldn't he wash his face prettily? And why did Stan have to stand there so awkwardly? Why didn't he sit down?

“Yes, he's a mighty fine cat,” agreed Mr. Purdy. “And he's a good hunter. Keeps the garden free of gophers.”

Jane shifted her weight from one foot to the other and wished her father would not get started on Sir Puss. If only Stan would sit down instead of standing there looking so ill at ease. Jane wished desperately she could push him into a chair. He should know better than to stand there when her father had asked him to sit down. Then she caught her mother's eye. Mrs. Purdy frowned ever so slightly and looked meaningfully at the place beside her on the sofa. Jane understood the message and, crimson with embarrassment, hastily sat
down. Of course she should have realized that a boy with such nice manners as Stan's would not be seated while she was standing. How could she ever have done such an awkward thing? Now Stan would think she didn't know any better. In spite of her humiliation, Jane was tremendously relieved when at last Stan sat down.

“Yes, he's a great cat,” Mr. Purdy went on, as if a crisis had not taken place before his eyes. “He always wants to be praised when he catches a gopher. If he can find an open window he will jump into the house with the gopher in his mouth. He weighs fourteen pounds and he lands with a thud that wakes up everyone in the house. You might say—”

Pop, implored Jane silently, not that joke. Please, not that old joke. It was all right for the family, but maybe Stan hadn't read the poem about the fog coming on little cat feet. He might not get the point.

“You might say,” Mr. Purdy went on, “that what we need around here is a cat that comes on little fog feet.”

Stan laughed—a natural, boyish laugh. In spite of her annoyance with her father, Jane smiled. So Stan had also read the poem in his English I class. That was good to know. It gave them something in
common. Now if she could just get her father to stop talking about Sir Puss and keep him from getting started on his begonias, maybe they could go on to the movies. But now that Stan was finally seated, how on earth was she going to get him up again? If she stood up he would probably get to his feet too, but that did not seem the way to do it. Sitting down and standing up had always been such a simple process until now. Suddenly life seemed unbearably complicated.

Not knowing what else to do, Jane smiled timidly across the room at Stan, who seemed to understand. “Perhaps we should go,” he said, “if we want to catch the beginning of the movie.”