The Lucky Ones

by Stephanie Greene

  “What’s on your mind, girl?” Sheba said, giving her a quick glance.

  “Nothing.”

  “A heavy kind of nothing.” Sheba finished that ear and put it down and picked up another one.

  “Mom brought Natalie and me new dresses for the dance tomorrow night,” Cecile said.

  “So I heard.”

  Cecile watched Sheba strip one leaf…two…. “I don’t have anything to wear with it,” she said.

  “Your mother told me you were getting new shoes.”

  “I don’t mean shoes. I mean anything to wear under it.”

  “Oh. Under it.” Sheba finished with her last ear and took Cecile’s half-shucked ear out of her hands. “What’d your mother say?” she asked, starting on that one.

  “She was late for her court time.”

  “I’m sure she would have done something if she’d had the time,” Sheba said. She put the last ear of corn on top of the pile and tied up the ends of the towel. “I have to go into town with Mr. Peabody to pick up a few things for your mother anyway,” she said as she put her hands on her knees and pushed herself up off the step with a groan. “You go on upstairs and put on some shoes. You and I can do a bit of shopping of our own.”

  “And buy what?” Cecile asked, her heart beating very fast.

  “And buy you a bra,” said Sheba. “Isn’t that what we’re not talking about?”

  The saleswoman in the lingerie department looked up. Sheba was moving majestically toward her with her leisurely stride, in her pale gray uniform, like an ocean liner coming into dock; Cecile followed gratefully in her wake. The saleswoman stood up behind the counter as they approached. Her eyes flitted expectantly between Sheba and Cecile, as if uncertain where to land.

  “What can I do for you ladies today?” she asked.

  Sheba gestured for Cecile to stand beside her. “This here is Cecile Thompson,” she said with her arm resting lightly around Cecile’s shoulders. “She’s a granddaughter of Mr. Hinton at Gull Island.”

  “Mr. Hinton. Of course.” The saleswoman directed the full force of her beam at Cecile. “How can I help you, Cecile?”

  “Cecile’s going to a dance tomorrow night at her grandfather’s club,” Sheba said. “She needs a bra and panties to wear under her new Peony.”

  Cecile looked up, astonished. Sheba stared straight ahead.

  “A new Peony! My, what a lucky girl,” the sales-woman said.

  “Two sets,” Sheba went on. “Something feminine, with a bit of lace, and another set in white for under her day clothing.”

  Day clothing? Her new Peony? The sales-woman was hanging on Sheba’s every instruction; Cecile didn’t have to say a word. It all could have been happening to someone else, she felt so unembarrassed.

  “Of course,” the saleswoman said smoothly. It was her turn to put her arm gently around Cecile’s shoulders, as if Cecile were some delicate creature who needed to be protected. “Come with me, Cecile,” the saleswoman murmured. “We’ll find you exactly what you need.”

  Sheba gave the slightest nod of her head when Cecile looked back. Like a queen, Cecile thought dazedly, as she let the saleswoman lead her away. Sheba. A queen.

  “Thank you, Sheba,” Cecile said. She clutched the shopping bag tightly to her chest as she slid onto the backseat of Mr. Peabody’s car. It was over. They had done it. And now, Cecile owned one set of beautiful pale blue underwear with lace, and a pretty white set. Panties, she thought with an inward blush. She was full to bursting; she could say no more.

  “You’re welcome,” Sheba said from the front seat. “People surely are impressed by a name, aren’t they now?” she added, shaking her head. “Mmm…mmm…mmm.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Some of the boys she’d danced with had had hot, sweaty hands, but not this one. Even so, Cecile wanted to yank her hand away from his and hide it behind her back. He was barely holding on to it, but letting it lie loosely in the palm of his hand, which was insultingly dry. His other hand felt like a clamp on Cecile’s back: huge and unmoving. His closed, aloof face said he wasn’t the least bit interested in talking.

  Cecile could have been a mannequin, for all he seemed to care. Ever since meeting her eyes for a second when the chaperone had bossily pushed them together, he’d been looking over her shoulder as if searching for something more interesting to watch. He’d stayed like that for the entire dance, without even once having to look at his feet.

  Cecile had put her hand on his shoulder, the way she was supposed to, and followed his feet, counting in her head. One, two, side-together, side, back-step. They were playing “Mack the Knife,” a foxtrot.

  So much for the advice Natalie had given to her about talking to boys when they were getting ready earlier in the evening. “Any boy can be made interesting if you ask him questions,” Natalie had instructed with her face close to the mirror and her mouth hanging open, ever so slightly, an exact replica of their mother’s as she applied her mascara. “But don’t look too interested. Boys don’t like girls who run after them.”

  “How can I ask questions without looking interested?”

  “You’ll get good at it. Just remember that there’s no such thing as a boring date. It’s up to the girl to make it exciting.”

  “I’m not going on a date,” Cecile protested. “Probably no one will even ask me to dance.”

  “They have to. One of the chaperones will make them.”

  Cecile had dressed in the bathroom, frowning as she tried to fasten the clasp of her bra. Her arms ached with the effort, she felt foolish and clumsy. Why should girls have to wear something that feels like a belt around their chests? she thought, twisting. Still, what she saw in the mirror made her hold her head up, put her shoulders back.

  She’d put on the simple sandals her mother had bought, combed her hair and tucked it behind her ears with the hopes that it would stay there, brushed her teeth, and was finished. Natalie had spent an hour in the bathroom and another half hour in front of their mirror.

  “Now, Mom’s mascara,” she said, and Cecile dashed willingly down the hall to snatch it off the dressing table and run back. Natalie didn’t even need it, her eyelashes were so long and black. Her full mouth didn’t need the pink lipstick Natalie put on, either, and her cheeks were already glowing with excitement.

  She really was very pretty, Cecile had to admit. She sneaked a quick look at her own face in the mirror and thought that Natalie’s excitement must be catching—her eyes and face looked so much more vibrant than usual. Even her hair seemed to be cooperating.

  “I still don’t see why it’s the girl’s responsibility,” Cecile said.

  “It just is.” Natalie’s eyes met Cecile’s in the mirror. “Anyway, you look good in that dress. Maybe no one will recognize you for the slob you really are.”

  “I am not a slob,” Cecile said, laughing.

  It had been impossible to be mad at each other. The new dresses and shoes, the important way their mother had let them eat in their bedroom, in their bathrobes, after they’d taken their baths. Sheba had brought up their dinner on a large tray and put it on the low table under the window. “Big night,” she said, smiling, as she turned to go.

  Lucy had begged to be allowed to stay and watch, but their mother had lured her away with the promise of a trip to pick up Granddad at the club and an ice cream from the snack bar at the pool.

  “What kinds of questions?” Cecile asked.

  “Oh, anything—what his name is, what school he goes to, what sports he plays.”

  “What if he doesn’t play sports?”

  “They all do. They wouldn’t admit it if they didn’t.” Natalie finished with the mascara and handed it to Cecile. “Run get Mom’s rouge. I’ll put a little on your cheeks to make your cheekbones stick out.”

  A lot of good it did, having her cheekbones stick out. This lunkhead wasn’t even looking at her; Cecile wasn’t about to talk to his chin. He didn’t have to act as if dancing with her was
such a misery, either, stiffly leading her around the way he was, without bothering to look at her. He was probably conceited because he had such beautiful eyes. Why should she ask him questions? Why didn’t he ask her something?

  It was starting to feel as if he was dancing with her under orders, his back was so stiff, his arms held at odd angles as if cemented into place. Was she really so horrible that all he wanted was to get through this dance so he could race over to his friends lined up along one wall and join in whatever it was that was making them laugh?

  “I don’t care what your name is,” she told him. “I’m not going to ask, so don’t expect me to.”

  She glared over his shoulder at the boy and girl dancing behind them. At least Cecile had a partner who was taller than she was; the girl behind them towered over hers—a hunched, miserable-looking boy with slicked-back hair and a blazer with sleeves that hung over his knuckles. He disappeared inside it; from the look on his face, he wouldn’t have minded disappearing altogether.

  Cecile’s partner showed no signs of having heard but soldiered gallantly on. His big, fat hand was probably leaving a mark in the middle of her new dress, too. How long would this dance go on? She should have said no when the beaming chaperone with her beaming fake face had pushed her and this stranger together, crying, “Have a lovely time, children!” Who were these women, anyway, who circled the floor, prepared to turn any dancer unlucky enough to try to escape back into the ring?

  “I don’t care what your name is, either.”

  The boy’s face was blank. Maybe she hadn’t heard what she thought she’d heard. Cecile mustered through a few more steps before saying, “And I’m not going to ask you what sports you play. You’d probably just lie.”

  He snorted. At least, it sounded like a snort. Cecile looked up at his face again and felt a smile playing around her mouth. She forced it into a disapproving thin line and stared over his shoulder. She could look as disinterested as he could.

  Order was breaking down around the room. One couple had given up trying to keep time and was marching determinedly around the room with the boy pushing the girl backward in a most ungentle-manly fashion. Several girls were dancing together, which was strictly against the rules. Over near the French doors to the terrace, the row of boys was writhing like a single organism, pinching and jostling, making jokes behind their hands about the poor losers still out on the dance floor, no doubt, while keeping one eye on the fierce-looking chaperones who moved slowly around the room.

  As Cecile watched, one of the taller boys suddenly slipped through the door to the terrace and disappeared. “No fair!” she cried.

  “What’s no fair?” Her partner looked her square in the face for the first time. He was trying hard not to smile, she realized as he shook his fair hair off his forehead. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was laughing at her.

  “Nothing,” she said, lifting her chin. She didn’t like being smiled down at like that, as if he were much older. Who did he think he was?

  “What? Did Barlow get away?” He swung her effortlessly around so he faced the door; Cecile had to clutch his shoulder to keep from tripping over her feet. “Yep, he got away,” he said admiringly. “They’re all going to duck out of here before this dog-and-pony show is over.”

  “How do you know?” Cecile said.

  “We do it every year,” he said. “Our mothers make us come, and we hate it. I told my mother this was my last year.”

  “Why do you do it at all?”

  “My mother’s one of the chaperones.”

  “Poor you.”

  He looked at her.

  “Sorry.” Cecile looked down and grinned before she looked back up. “Do girls ever duck out with them?”

  “Girls love this kind of thing.”

  “Not all girls.” Cecile wrenched her hand out of his and stepped back. “Not all girls are the same, you know,” she said.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get all worked up,” he said, pulling her roughly back into the circle of his arm. “It’ll cause a scene, and I’ll get in trouble if you bite me,” he said, picking up where they’d left off. “Have mercy.”

  “I wasn’t going to bite you.”

  “You looked mean enough to.”

  They were moving together now, not really dancing; talking was more like it. A couple stumbled past them—the boy’s shirttails were pulled out, the girl had a determined frown on her face. “You step on my foot one more time and I’m going to give you a kick you’ll never forget,” she muttered.

  “Most unladylike,” Cecile’s partner said. “Tsk, tsk.”

  Cecile laughed. “What do you do after you escape?” she asked.

  “Run around…look for golf balls on the course to sell to the pro in the morning. Fun stuff.”

  “You’re not supposed to run on the green,” said Cecile, who’d been listening to the specific rules of a golf course since she was old enough to understand. “They’d kill you if they found out.”

  “We take off our shoes. It’s the best place to play NMP.”

  “What’s NMP?”

  “Nighttime Marco Polo.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.” Cecile tossed her head, as if her not hearing about it made it less exciting. Because it was exciting; she could feel it.

  “You wouldn’t have,” the boy said. “We made it up.”

  “How do you play?”

  He halted and stared hard at her for a minute, as if sizing up her potential for initiation into a secret club. A club where the members slipped through closed doors and ran around in illegal places, at night. Cecile’s heart was racing. She hoped she looked old enough, she hoped she looked worthy, though she didn’t know what it took.

  “Why? Are you interested?” he asked her at last.

  “Maybe.” Cecile’s eyes were wide and serious.

  “Stop looking like that,” he said quickly, looking back over his shoulder. “My mother’s going to think we’re planning a bank robbery.”

  Cecile changed her expression.

  “Now you look like they caught us and you’re in jail. Let’s dance again for a second.” He grabbed her around the waist carelessly and pulled her closer than before, as if some invisible barrier between them had been breached. “Okay,” he said, having apparently decided. He looked appraisingly around the dance floor while he talked. “This dance is almost over. When the music stops, the chaperones will start serving refreshments. You walk over to the door while I go talk to my mother. When you get outside, go left and wait for me next to the pillar at the end of the porch.”

  “What will we do then?”

  “Just do it.”

  The music stopped. Couples around the dance floor quickly dropped their partner’s hands, clapped dutifully for a second, and made a mad scramble for the punch table. “Go on,” the boy said, giving her a shove.

  Cecile walked to the doors on the other side of the room as the rest of the dancers got into line in front of the large tables near the foyer. Her partner went up to the chaperone who’d given them all their instructions at the beginning of the night and grabbed her waist. She turned and put her arm around his shoulder, laughing. Cecile slipped out, onto the terrace.

  To her right, the parents who would take their children home after the dance were having dinner in the large screened dining room that overlooked the swimming pool. Cecile heard the familiar shouts of laughter and clinking of glasses as she hurried in the other direction. She stood beside the pillar closest to the path that led to the pro shop and the sixth green.

  This was so much more exciting than the dance, she thought as she slipped around to the other side to avoid being seen by two boys who walked quickly by on the path, whispering conspiratorially. Backing into someone standing behind her, she jumped.

  “Who’d you think it was, the big, bad boogeyman?” Her dance partner was crouched in the dark; his voice was low and amused. “Take off your shoes and leave them here,” he told her, “or they really will kill us tomorro
w.”

  Cecile slipped off her sandals and kicked them beside his shoes. The grass was cool and damp; she rubbed her arms. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head. “Let’s go.”

  She followed him away from the clubhouse without talking; he acted as if she weren’t there. Hushed voices called softly to one another as they approached the fairway; laughs erupted and were immediately stifled. When they reached the end of the path, Cecile saw dim figures racing about under the moon; something pale was being tossed. “Got it!” called a voice, low and close. “Trevor!”

  “Got it!” called the next catcher. “David!”

  Cecile and the boy stepped onto the course. The manicured grass under her feet felt like the bristles on a brush. Knowing she shouldn’t be on it made her shiver.

  “Here’s Whit!” called a boy.

  “It’s about time,” called another.

  Figures materialized out of the night like spirits and became boys: short boys and tall, with eager, lively faces, hair flopping on foreheads. Some were still wearing their ties, others had taken them off; their unbuttoned white shirts gleamed in the darkness, rising and falling against heaving chests. There wasn’t a blue blazer to be seen.

  “Who’s that with you?” a boy asked suspiciously.

  Whit looked at Cecile standing by his side. His eyes met hers; he offered no help.

  “Cecile,” she said defiantly, emboldened to be standing shoulder to shoulder with their leader.

  “Aw, man…a girl?” came a voice from the back of the group.

  “Who cares?” said another voice. “Let’s get going.”

  “Rules first,” Whit said.

  The group begrudgingly dismissed Cecile’s presence and turned their attention to him. “Two guys are Polo,” Whit said. “They get a ten-second start. When we call Marco, they have to call Polo. Then we wait another ten seconds before we call Marco again, right?”

  Cecile saw it in her mind’s eye: two foxes, hunters on horseback; the thrill of the chase, the chaos in the dark.