“Thank you, Daddy.” It was thoughtful of her father to do this and just before payday, too. Jean took the money into the bedroom and slipped it into the pocket of her coat—really her mother’s coat, borrowed for the occasion. Maybe Homer would like to go to the drive-in after the dance, because that was where everybody went.
The doorbell rang for the second time that evening. Where had the moments flown? Jean had not had time to start being nervous about Homer’s arrival, and here he was already. She snatched up the coat, which she dropped on a chair in the living room, and hurried to open the door. “Hello, Homer,” she said. “Won’t you come in and meet my mother and father?”
Jean, who had rehearsed this introduction in her mind for several days, managed it smoothly. Reading approval on the faces of her parents, she tried to view Homer through their eyes and saw a serious-looking boy in a white shirt and gray flannel suit, with his hair mowed short. Because he was wearing a necktie he looked more grown-up than he looked at school, and he was quite at ease with her parents, which surprised Jean. Somehow, she had expected him to blush and stammer.
“Shall we go, Jean?” Homer asked, as he picked up her coat.
“Have a good time, children,” said Mrs. Jarrett, as Homer put his hand on the doorknob. Jean, who was often annoyed with her mother for what she considered the careless use of the word children, did not mind this time. It was a loving word, the way her mother spoke it, and Jean felt that now her mother was extending her warm feelings to include this boy who was happy to go to the dance with her daughter.
“Take good care of my daughter,” said Mr. Jarrett.
“Oh, Dad.” Jean laughed, embarrassed by her father’s remark.
“I will, sir,” said Homer seriously.
Jean experienced a pleasant feeling of being cherished. After she had walked successfully down the steps in her high heels, and she and Homer were seated in the car, he handed her a clear plastic florist’s box that protected one perfect white camellia. “I know this isn’t a formal dance or anything like that,” he said bashfully, “but I—uh—thought you might like a flower anyway.”
“Why, Homer—” A boy had given her a flower! “Homer, it’s lovely!” Jean would never have guessed that Homer was the kind of boy who would give a girl a flower.
“Do you really like it?” asked Homer, as he started the car. “I wasn’t sure whether it was the thing to do or not.”
“I love it,” said Jean. This waxy camellia was more than a perfect blossom to Jean. It was thoughtfulness boxed in plastic, and after Johnny, Jean found a boy’s thoughtfulness a lovely thing to hold in her two hands. She held the gift carefully all the way to the gymnasium, where she left the box (which of course she wanted to keep forever) in the car. After she had checked her coat she pinned the camellia to her dress with the stem up, took it off, and repinned it with the stem down.
When Jean joined Homer at the edge of the dance floor and handed him her coat check, she was suddenly frightened. “Homer, maybe I should tell you,” she said hesitantly, listening to the beat of the orchestra. “I’m not a very good dancer.”
“Neither am I,” Homer confessed cheerfully. “Not this kind of dancing. I’m pretty good at folk dancing.”
Nevertheless, Jean felt her palms grow cold as Homer dropped her coat check into his pocket. Her mouth felt as dry as Kleenex and she made an excuse to step over to the drinking fountain. The water seemed the most delicious she had ever tasted. She longed to postpone the moment when she had to step onto the dance floor, but they had come to dance, and dance they must. Fortunately there were not many couples on the floor yet, so there would not be many people to bump into. And Jean had the satisfaction of knowing that she was becomingly dressed. That helped a lot.
Homer put his arm around Jean, took her hand, and together they moved onto the floor. Almost immediately Jean stumbled. “Excuse me,” they both said at the same time, and laughed nervously.
They started to dance again. Homer stepped squarely on the toe of Jean’s new pumps.
“Excuse me,” repeated Homer, “but you are always supposed to start with your right foot. I start with my left.”
“Oh, excuse me,” apologized Jean, recalling that Elaine had told her this. They began actually to move along with the other couples. Homer’s hand, Jean discovered, was as cold as hers, and she took comfort in knowing that a boy could be nervous too. They stumbled once more, and both said, “Excuse me.”
“Look,” said Homer. “Let’s lay a few ground rules. No more apologies. We’ll just do the best we can.”
Jean felt a wild desire to giggle, but when they had circled the gymnasium floor once, she had a real sense of achievement. We made it, she thought triumphantly. When the music stopped she surreptitiously rubbed her cold, moist hand on her skirt. Homer, she noticed, rubbed his hand on his coat.
“Look,” said Homer once more. “Maybe I shouldn’t say it, but couldn’t you sort of relax? I am supposed to do the leading, you know.”
“I’ll try,” said Jean contritely. Dancing with a boy was a lot different from dancing with Elaine. When the music began once more, Jean tried to be limp.
“That’s better,” said Homer.
Jean was encouraged, but gradually as she danced she felt herself stiffen. Relax, she told herself sternly and managed to be less tense. Homer’s dancing, she soon discovered, was as regular as the beat of a metronome. When she could be sure he would not try any unexpected steps, she felt encouraged and even glanced at him. Why, he shaves, she thought. How silly of her! Of course he shaved. He was a senior and must be seventeen. She somehow had never thought of him as old enough to have a beard. Should they, she began to wonder, be carrying on a conversation?
“I thought there would be a larger crowd,” she said experimentally, not at all sure she could dance and talk at the same time.
“It will get larger later,” explained Homer. “It is the herd instinct in reverse. Half the crowd is afraid to come before nine for fear they might be the first ones here.”
Jean wondered how Homer knew this. Around and around the floor they circled. Jean’s feet, unaccustomed to high heels, began to hurt. She thought perhaps she should have bought a larger pair of shoes and caught herself leaning heavily on Homer’s shoulder to relieve the pressure on her toes. Quickly she straightened. Her poor, poor toes.
When the music stopped, Jean slipped off one shoe and wiggled her toes. Ahh. Bliss. Pure bliss. Now for the first time Jean was able to look around her. She noticed on the bleachers a number of pairs of girls’ shoes, and when she looked at the girls on the dance floor, she discovered many had been dancing in their stocking feet.
“That crunching sound you have been hearing,” remarked Homer, “is the sound of toes being stepped on.”
Jean could not help admiring the girls who were such good dancers they could risk their toes. When the music started, Jean managed to shove her foot into her shoe, which was a size too small. Around and around they danced, repeating the same steps over and over. Jean began to feel that she was getting to know Homer’s gray flannel shoulder very well. Around and around. There was no hope of a change of scenery, because no one traded dances as Jean had expected. Around and around. Either Jean’s feet were growing or her shoes were shrinking. The whole situation suddenly struck Jean as being hilariously funny and she wanted to laugh. Politeness, however, prevented her from showing how she felt. School dances weren’t supposed to be funny. Naturally she could not let Homer know that she thought it was ridiculous to dance around and around with one gray flannel shoulder. She began to wonder how many laps around the gymnasium made a mile.
Suddenly Jean stiffened and was aware that Homer had not only noticed her quick intake of breath but was staring in the same direction, toward the checkroom door, where Johnny was standing with Peggy Jo. Johnny was looking intently at Peggy Jo, who was almost as tall as he was. She said something, and they both laughed. Then Johnny put his arm around Peggy Jo and they
began to dance, easily and gracefully.
The pleasure was completely drained from Jean’s evening, which had begun to seem like a private joke that she had been enjoying in spite of her toes. All that was gone, now that she knew Johnny thought so little of her that he would break a date to go with another girl. Did he think she was such a—a mouse that she could not ask another boy? Or didn’t he care? And what was she supposed to do now? She could not face Johnny. That she knew.
“Did you think he wouldn’t come?” asked Homer mildly.
“I guess so,” admitted Jean, stumbling on Homer’s foot. Don’t let Johnny see me, she thought fervently. Just don’t let him see me. She danced with her eyes on Homer’s shoulder, hoping that if she could avoid seeing Johnny, that somehow he would not see her. Each step was more painful than the one before, and when the music stopped, Jean stood on her right foot and wiggled the toes of her left foot while she stared wretchedly at the basketball foul line painted on the floor.
“You don’t want to see Johnny, do you?” asked Homer bluntly.
Jean stood on her left foot and wiggled the toes of her right foot. “No,” she confessed shamefacedly.
“Why?” asked Homer. “He should be embarrassed. Not you.”
Why? How could a girl explain to a boy that it was humiliating not to be wanted, and even more humiliating that a boy did not care about her feelings. And yet she knew Homer was right. “I just feel funny about it, is all,” Jean said lamely. Thoughtful Homer, who had been kind enough to bring her a flower—Jean had to think of him, too. She could not spoil his evening, when he had been so glad to come with her.
Jean smiled shakily, and the music started once more. When Jean caught a glimpse of Johnny on the other side of the gymnasium, she found herself smothering a ridiculous feeling of wistfulness. It would be so wonderful to be dancing with a tall, good-looking boy like Johnny, a boy whose dancing was graceful and not like the beat of a metronome. If only Johnny had been some other kind of boy…
The music stopped and inevitably, when Homer dropped Jean’s hand, she found herself facing Johnny. She could not miss the surprise, followed by embarrassment, that crossed Johnny’s handsome face. So he hadn’t thought she had enough spirit to ask another boy to go to the dance. Well, she would show him! “Hello, Johnny,” she said coolly. “Hello, Peggy Jo.”
“Why—hello, Jean,” answered Johnny. There was an awkward pause. Peggy Jo smiled, apparently unaware of the situation.
“Hi, Johnny,” said Homer.
Jean felt a little wicked. “Isn’t it miraculous the things they do with wonder drugs these days?” she asked, looking directly at Johnny.
“Wonder drugs?” Johnny did not know what she was talking about.
“Yes. Your grandmother—I am so glad she is feeling better,” said Jean with a smile.
“Uh—yes,” said Johnny, and Jean was happy to see that he was embarrassed.
“Jean, would you like some punch?” asked Homer.
“Yes, thank you,” answered Jean. The uncomfortable moment was over. She had been able to face Johnny after all. Her relief was followed by an unexpected feeling of gaiety, as she accompanied Homer to the little grass shack made out of crepe paper and accepted a paper cup of pineapple punch from Homer. It was so cold and refreshing that for an instant Jean wished she could pour it over her toes.
“What was that about wonder drugs?” Homer asked.
“Oh, that—” Jean laughed. “Johnny used a sick grandmother as an excuse for breaking his date with me, and I couldn’t resist reminding him of it.”
When Homer threw back his head and laughed, Jean laughed with him. Over his shoulder Jean caught a glimpse of Johnny looking toward them, as if he was surprised to see them enjoying themselves. What did Johnny expect me to do, Jean thought in annoyance. Sob my little heart out? She smiled warmly at Homer.
Homer drained his cup of punch before he spoke. “Jean, let’s face it. We aren’t having a good time.”
“Why, Homer—” In her consternation, Jean did not know what to say. She felt as if she had failed, because everyone who came to a dance was supposed to have a good time. That was what dances were for. “Homer, I am terribly sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” Homer asked. “There’s nothing so terrible about that, is there? Maybe we just aren’t the kind of people who have a good time at a dance. I think it is pretty stupid myself, the way a lot of people come and don’t dance at all, or don’t trade dances. I belong to a folk-dance group that is lots more fun than this, because everybody mixes.”
Jean found that in her heart she agreed with Homer, but what could they do if they left the dance now? It was only nine thirty. Nobody went home at nine thirty. It even seemed too early to suggest going to the drive-in.
“Look, Jean,” said Homer eagerly. “Would you like to see my pigeons?”
“Your pigeons?” repeated Jean. What on earth was Homer talking about now?
“Yes. My homing pigeons. I have six in a cote in the backyard at home,” Homer explained.
“I didn’t know you kept pigeons.” Jean was stalling for time to think. She wanted to leave the dance, but she wondered what her mother and father would say about her going to a boy’s house. She had no idea, the problem was so unexpected.
“It would be all right for you to come,” said Homer. “Mom and Dad are home. They have some friends there.”
This settled the problem in Jean’s mind. “I would love to see your pigeons, Homer,” she said.
“Swell,” said Homer. “Let’s get your coat.”
As they left the checkroom, Johnny and Peggy Jo danced by. Johnny grinned lazily at Jean over Peggy Jo’s shoulder, and winked. Oh, stop it, Johnny, thought Jean, and repinned her camellia to her coat, stem up this time.
When they climbed into the car, Jean realized that she did not even know where Homer lived. How heavenly it was to be able to take off both her shoes! They drove through the business district and took a road that wound uphill, twisting and turning until at last Homer drove up a steep driveway. Jean had to shove to get her shoes back on again. As they got out of the car Jean paused to look at the lights of the city below and of the cities in the distance strung together by necklaces of lights on the bridges across the bay. Jean breathed deeply. It was good to be out of the gymnasium, which always smelled faintly of sneakers and sweeping compound, and into the night air, so much cooler up here in the hills and scented with eucalyptus.
“Come on in and meet Mom and Dad while I get the flashlight,” said Homer, leading Jean toward the front door.
“Well, you are home early,” remarked Mr. Darvey when Homer had taken Jean into the living room and introduced her to his parents and their guests.
“I wanted to show Jean my pigeons,” said Homer. He seemed at ease in a roomful of adults—much more at ease than he ever appeared at school.
“But the dance can’t be over this early.” Mrs. Darvey was concerned over her son’s early return. “What happened?”
“Jean and I decided we would rather look at pigeons,” said Homer easily. “Come on, Jean.” He led her into the kitchen, where he found a flashlight in a drawer. They went out the back door and walked across a lighted patio.
Jean had an impression of blooming rhododendrons and azaleas and, beneath the flowering shrubs, masses of blue and yellow violas. “What a lovely garden,” remarked Jean as she followed Homer along a path that led into the dark.
“Mom’s a spring-garden fiend,” said Homer, lighting the way for Jean. “Nothing much blooms the rest of the year, but it is sure beautiful now. Mom says the seasons are so indefinite in California that she tries to make up for it with a good rousing springtime.”
Under a cluster of eucalyptus trees they came to the pigeon cote, a neat structure stained gray to match the house. Homer opened the door and flashed the light inside. Six sleeping pigeons stirred on their perches, blinked, and flapped their wings. Homer reached inside and brought out one pigeon. “
This is Papa Pigeon,” he said. “Would you like to hold him?”
Jean took the uneasy pigeon in her arms and gently stroked the iridescent feathers.
“Papa Pigeon is the father of those two,” said Homer, pointing. “And that one is Mama Pigeon.” He lifted out another bird. “This one we call Ugh. He was the first squab I raised, and when he hatched he was the weirdest thing I had ever seen. He had a great big beak, all out of proportion to his skinny little body, and his skin was covered with yellow hair. But he grew fast and is a beauty now.”
“And do they really come home?” asked Jean.
“Always,” said Homer. “We have a lot of fun on Sundays when we go for a drive. We take them along and release them in the country, and no matter which way we take them, they always circle around for a while and then head for home in the right direction.”
One by one Homer removed the pigeons for Jean to stroke. She had not realized how soft and smooth feathers were. “Just like satin,” she murmured, running her hand down a glossy back. “Smoother than satin.” The pigeon flapped its wings and for a moment Jean was afraid it might slip out of her fingers. Homer took it from her and returned it to the perch. “And did you build the pigeon cote?” she asked.
“Last summer,” answered Homer. “I drew up the plans and Dad helped me build it.” He closed and fastened the door of the cote and led the way back toward the house.
Jean put her hand in her pocket and felt the money her father had given her to treat Homer. “Homer,” she said hesitantly, “would you like to go to the drive-in? I mean, I made the date and I—I would like to treat you.”
“Let’s not go to that crummy place,” said Homer. “Come on in the house and I’ll make you a milk shake.”
“All right.” At first Jean was a little hurt by Homer’s rejection of her invitation, but the more she thought about it, the more she began to feel that Homer was right about the drive-in. She began to feel a kind of admiration for this boy who would come right out and say he did not like the most popular meeting place of high-school students and who saw nothing wrong with leaving a dance he did not enjoy. Jean had always felt critical of herself because she was not like everyone else at school.
Jean and Johnny Page 15
