Girl with a Camera

by Carolyn Meyer

  The night of the Christmas dance I put on my dark green dress-up dress, high-top shoes, and the dreadful cotton stockings and set off with the jar of pickles.

  I put my contribution on the table decorated with jolly Santa Clauses, among an array of tiny tarts, fancy cakes, cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. Some thought the pickles were a joke; others weren’t so sure, but no one wanted to sample any of Grandmother White’s sour dills. I made a show of eating three of them myself.

  Not a single boy asked me to dance. They asked other girls—even Tubby got asked, although it was by a boy she couldn’t stand.

  I dumped the rest of the pickles behind a bush on the way home and reported to Mother that it was a very nice party. Secretly I wept.

  And I told Ruth the truth. I always told my sister the truth.

  “Pickles?” Ruth exclaimed. “You took a jar of pickles to the dance? Why on earth did you do that?”

  “I didn’t want to be like everybody else,” I mumbled.

  “Well, I guess you succeeded.” Ruth sat down beside me on my bed and put her arm around my shoulders. “Boys your age are not at their best. You’re probably smarter than all of them, so they stay away from you. That will change as you get older. One of these days—and it’s coming soon, I promise you—the boys will be standing in line for a chance to dance with you. But,” she added, “you probably didn’t help your case by taking pickles.”

  2

  Plainfield High School—1917

  RUTH WAS A JUNIOR WHEN I ENTERED PLAINFIELD High School as a freshman. She made sure I knew all about the social divisions at the school. There was the “crystal-chandelier set,” snobbish girls who shopped for stylish clothes in New York City and attended lots of parties. Then there were the “linsey-woolseys.” Linsey-woolsey was cloth woven from a mixture of linen and wool, plain and serviceable. Ruth and I were linsey-woolseys.

  Mother made all of our clothes and taught us to sew. “It will come in handy someday,” she promised. I took to it eagerly. I believed that, if I got good enough, I could eventually make myself the kind of stylish clothes I wanted. The kind I felt I deserved.

  “You are not pretty, Margaret,” my mother told me frankly—she never attempted to soften her words—“but you have an interesting face.”

  My dark, deep-set eyes were like my father’s, but my face, like his, was a little too round. I had Mother’s thick, dark hair, but my lips were a little too thin, like hers. An interesting face.

  I did not want to have an interesting face. Crystal-chandelier girls had pretty faces, not interesting ones.

  I had already made up my mind that I would be famous, and rich, too, and the crystal-chandelier girls as well as the linsey-woolseys would look back at their high-school yearbook and marvel at what had become of Peggy White. The one with the interesting face.

  Boys seemed to like me well enough. They invited me to paddle canoes on the Raritan River and to go on hikes, because I wasn’t afraid of anything, not deep water or high places. I could identify plants and birdcalls. I was fourteen years old, but none of the boys who asked me if a snake was poisonous ever asked me to dance.

  In my sophomore year—Ruth was a senior, getting ready to graduate—I heard about a writing contest. The Babcock Prize was being offered for “excellence in literary composition,” an eight-hundred-word short story to be finished by the end of the semester, in June. The prize was fifteen dollars’ worth of books to be chosen by the winner. Sophomores were eligible to enter, but no sophomore had ever won, and everyone understood that the prize would go to a junior or senior. I would not have to take the usual English exams if I entered the contest.

  I informed my English teacher, Miss Aubrey, of my plans. “I know you’ll do well, Margaret,” she said. “You’ve shown that you have talent. But remember that you must never leave a task until you’ve completed it to the best of your ability.” She sounded just like my mother.

  I put the whole thing out of my mind. There was plenty of time to think of an idea for a short story. The end of the semester was still a long way off.

  Spring came, and the weather warmed. Others in my class had to sit through dreary exams; I did not. I was writing a short story, or would be quite soon. And then, suddenly, the last day of school was the next day. The story had to be delivered to the front porch of the principal’s house by half past five, and I didn’t have even the germ of an idea.

  At lunchtime, Tubby and I sat on a mossy stone wall near the school, eating our sandwiches. “What am I going to do, Tubby?” I wailed. “If I don’t hand in a story, Miss Aubrey will fail me. I told her I was entering the contest, and I will have let her down.”

  “You’re going to write a story, of course,” Tubby said.

  “I don’t have an idea in my head,” I moaned. “I haven’t even thought about it.”

  “You’re going to start thinking right now.” She began to peel the orange in her lunchbox. “A dog story,” she said, and closed her eyes as if she were having a vision. “Everybody loves dog stories.”

  I thought about our dog, Rover. I’d been yearning for another dog ever since Rover died, but I had not persuaded my parents that we should have one.

  The bell rang. I had algebra and geography classes before dismissal. “Meet me in the library at three o’clock,” I told Tubby. “I’ll come up with an idea by then.”

  For the next hour I was not thinking about quadratic equations and coefficients. I was doodling possible dog names on my algebra worksheet. By the end of class, I had settled on Sparky, an abandoned mutt yearning for a home. While the geography teacher droned on about major river systems, I worked on a name for the boy and decided to call him Rob, an unhappy little boy yearning for a dog.

  After dismissal Tubby and I retreated to a corner of the library. “I have an idea,” I whispered to Tubby. “Here’s how we’ll do it. I’ll write a page, and while I’m working on the next part, you check my grammar and spelling and count the number of words.”

  The yellow dog was tired and hungry, I scribbled, and also very dirty. I read my first sentence. Was, I decided, was a weak verb. I scratched it out. The dog trotted wearily down the dark alley, searching for something—anything—to eat. Burrs matted his filthy yellow fur. My pencil raced across the page. I introduced Rob, whose father was a sea captain away on a voyage to Africa. Mama, stern but loving, told poor Rob that he could not have a dog.

  I handed the first page over to Tubby and tried not to look at the clock.

  “Two hundred words on page one,” she announced. “You need three more pages.”

  At four o’clock the library closed, and we moved outside to the stone wall.

  Sparky spotted a lonely-looking boy, wagged his tail, and gazed at the boy pleadingly. The boy took the pup home. But Mama said harshly, “Get that flea-ridden mutt out of here.” Rob watched tearfully as Sparky slunk away.

  But Rob continued to feed Sparky in secret.

  “Three hundred and eighty-five,” Tubby announced.

  By four-thirty I was within a hundred and twenty words of the end. The captain returned from his voyage, and Sparky greeted him so joyously that Mama declared that the dog must become a member of the family.

  Tubby didn’t believe the ending. “Why would Mama change her mind so suddenly?”

  I rewrote that part. Sparky barked his head off when the captain returned. Impressed, the captain persuaded Mama the mutt was exactly what she needed as a watchdog. Done!

  The two of us raced to the principal’s house and added my masterpiece to the pile on the front porch. I had no hope of winning, but at least I would not fail my English class and disappoint Miss Aubrey.

  A week later the winner was announced: I had won! This was even more unlikely than a happy ending for Sparky. The prize would be awarded at commencement exercises. I already knew exactly which books I wanted: The Frog Book, The Moth Book, and The Reptile Book.

  Tubby was thrilled for me; Ruth was, too. “There’s a
dance after the commencement exercises,” she reminded me. “Mother and I are making me a new dress.”

  Of course I knew about the dance! I was almost fifteen, and I had spent my entire school career as a wallflower, but I truly believed that winning the writing contest was about to change everything. Every boy at Plainfield High School would recognize this literary Cinderella and want to dance with her.

  Mother agreed that I, too, needed a new dress, and her sewing machine chattered far into the night to finish it in time.

  Commencement took place on a warm June evening in the school auditorium. I had not only a new dress—maroon with a white linen collar and cuffs—but also new shoes. At least our cotton stockings were white instead of black. The graduating class, solemn in royal blue caps and gowns, took seats in the front rows. Behind them were juniors who were receiving prizes, and one sophomore—me. The orchestra played, a local minister offered an opening prayer, followed by a piano solo, and several speeches.

  I was in a delicious froth of excitement when the principal appeared at the podium carrying a bundle of fat green books tied with white ribbons. “Miss Margaret White, please step forward to receive the Babcock Award!”

  I climbed onto the stage and waited as the principal spoke of the “fresh, young talent discovered in the person of Miss Margaret White, not yet fifteen years of age, whose short story ‘Rob and Sparky’ shows how much we have to look forward to as Miss White makes her way into the future as a writer.” He transferred the tomes to my arms, the audience politely applauded, and I returned to my seat, beaming.

  The graduating seniors filed up to the stage to receive their diplomas. The commencement exercises ended, chairs were folded and stacked, and potted palms were carried in from the hall to transform the auditorium into a ballroom.

  The Aristocrats, a five-piece band, had been hired for the evening, and as the lights were lowered, they began to play “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.” Couples drifted out to the center of the ballroom. I stood on the sidelines, clutching my bundle of books, sure that at any minute one of the boys in my class, or possibly even an upperclassman, would recognize that I was a star. I had won the Babcock Prize!

  The Aristocrats launched into “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” Even Tubby had a partner, a myopic boy with thick glasses. A stag line had formed, and a few boys stepped out boldly and cut in on the dancing couples. The new partner swept off with the girl in his arms, and her former partner joined the stag line. One of those boys might glance my way and ask me to dance, but none did.

  There was still plenty of time. The dance floor had become crowded. The violinist took up a waltz. I loved to waltz, but nobody even looked in my direction. The bundle of books in my arms grew heavier, and so did my heart.

  Out of the crowd stepped Stella, a friend of Ruth’s. Stella, five feet eleven and a half, who might have qualified as a crystal-chandelier girl if she hadn’t been quite so tall, noticed me standing there alone and walked over to me.

  “Peggy,” said Stella warmly, “congratulations on winning the Babcock! What an honor! This is something worth celebrating, isn’t it? Ruth’s already left, I believe, but she’s been telling me that you’re a swell dancer. Come on, let’s get out there and show them some of your fancy steps.”

  What utter humiliation! I tried to think of an excuse, but Stella didn’t wait for an answer. “Here, I’ll put those books somewhere,” she said. She deposited them behind a potted palm, seized my hand, and whirled me onto the dance floor. The piano thumped out “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” and I would have given anything to disappear.

  3

  A Glorious Future—1919

  AFTER THAT TORTURED EVENING, I MOPED AROUND SO much that my two friends decided to do something.

  “We have a surprise for you,” Sara Jane announced. It was the thirteenth of June, the day before I would turn fifteen. “As a birthday gift, Tubby and I are taking you to New York, to visit Miss Jessie Fowler of the American Phrenology Institute.”

  I knew about phrenology. An expert could feel the bumps on your head and analyze your personality, point out your strengths and weaknesses, and guide you in your future choices. I was skeptical, but it sounded like an adventure.

  Assuring Mother that we’d come straight home afterward, the three of us, in our hats and gloves, boarded the local train for the city. The sun baked the sidewalks as we made our way to a building on Broadway near 36th Street. We stopped to look in a show window with a display of bald china heads. A map of the organs of the mind was drawn on each head. A receptionist directed us to a parlor crowded with uncomfortable furniture. Nervous and excited, we waited.

  At last we were led to Miss Fowler’s private office. Heavy velvet draperies blocked off all natural light. The only illumination came from a small desk lamp with a green shade. The lady behind the large carved desk was dressed in a black suit and a white blouse. Her gray hair struggled to escape from the severe bun at the nape of her neck. She glanced at the three of us, and her gaze came to rest on my head. I was wearing a large blue straw hat, loaned to me by my sister.

  “Miss White, you are here for a consultation?” I nodded. “Kindly remove your hat.” She pointed to a chair beside her desk. Sara Jane and Tubby retreated to a settee against the wall.

  Eyes closed, Miss Fowler stood before me and ran practiced hands around my temples, up my forehead and across my skull, then down the sides around my ears. She did not speak. I sat perfectly still, staring at the lace jabot cascading over her ample bosom. When she had finished her examination, she settled at her desk and made notes on a large sheet of paper printed with a silhouette outline of a head marked into sections and labeled: Language, for example, was located at the eye; Memory, on the forehead, close to Agreeableness.

  “Very well, Miss White, I imagine you are quite eager to hear the results of the examination.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Fowler regarded me with pale blue eyes. “You have a most interesting cranium,” she said. “Your head measures a little above the average. It’s twenty-one and three-quarter inches in circumference, and the average is twenty-one and one-half. You show a fair balance of power between body and brain. I see that you are eager and adventuresome, prepared to travel to any destination to gather information on whatever topic interests you, regardless of the difficulties you may encounter. I believe that you would benefit greatly from world travel. I advise you to take photographs of the places you visit and the sights you see, in order to give lectures about your adventures to your friends and family when you return.”

  There was more: possible focuses for my energy and talent in the fields of music, childhood diseases, even home decoration. All this deduced from the shape of my head!

  Tubby and Sara Jane paid Miss Fowler with their pooled funds—I would have paid her double had she asked for it—and we stepped into the dazzling sunlight, talking of practically nothing else as we waited for the train back to Bound Brook. I may have been a wallflower at the commencement dance, and at every dance I’d attended before it, but now I had Miss Fowler’s assurance and my own belief that the bumps on my head indicated a glorious future in which I would truly be a star, whatever I chose to do.

  4

  Her Glorious Fancies—1919

  MY GLORIOUS FUTURE WAS A LONG WAY OFF. Meanwhile, I desperately wanted to fit in somewhere; I just didn’t know where. Finally at the start of my junior year I joined the debating society.

  One of the questions being debated that fall was, Should women be granted the right to vote? Congress had finally passed a law granting women’s suffrage, but thirty-six states had to vote in favor of making the law an amendment to the Constitution. New Jersey had not yet voted.

  “I hope you’re taking the negative side in the debate,” said Mother.

  This came as a surprise—I knew she was wholeheartedly in favor of women voting. “Surely you don’t think I’m opposed!”

  “Of course you’re not!” she sna
pped. “But for you to take the side you agree with would be a mistake. That’s the easy side! Remember, Margaret, always choose the harder path.”

  That was how I wound up in a room full of people, arguing for something I didn’t believe—that women should not be allowed to vote. “Because it’s the proper role of men to protect women,” I declared, “and because women are by their nature unable to protect themselves, men must continue to exercise this solemn duty. Since voters have the duty to serve on juries, and since jurors sometimes hear descriptions of deplorable acts, women must be kept off juries.”

  I looked out at my audience. They were hanging on every word. “Furthermore,” I argued, “allowing the weaker sex to take part in political discussions could upset the harmony of the home, and allowing women to run for public office could pit one woman against another, a situation distressing to civilized society.”

  None of these were my ideas. I found them in an anti-suffragist pamphlet and tried to translate the arrogant nonsense into something that sounded like my own words. But I argued so logically and convincingly that I won the debate. Afterward I felt guilty—what if I had actually persuaded someone to that way of thinking?

  The boy who had argued in favor of women having the right to vote invited me to go out for a soda afterward, so that he could talk some sense into my misguided head. I let him think he had persuaded me. He seemed very pleased with himself.

  In February of 1920, New Jersey became the twenty-ninth state to vote in favor of the amendment.

  That spring the drama club announced plans to put on two short plays: Rosalie, a three-character melodrama, and The Bluffers, a revue with a dozen or so characters. Both plays were set in France. Despite my complete lack of stage experience, I tried out for the title role of Rosalie, the maid, and was picked for the part. Violet-eyed Eleanor Treacy, leader of the crystal-chandelier set, was cast as Madame Bol. The role of Monsieur Bol went to Charley Drayton, the handsomest boy in our class. I liked Charley a lot, but he went out with crystal-chandelier girls and naturally was not interested in a linsey-woolsey. I didn’t know if Charley and Eleanor were going out together, but they flirted constantly.