Fifteen

by Beverly Cleary

  “This isn’t your public-speaking class,” interrupted Stan.

  “No, but it’s a good place to practice,” said Buzz in his ordinary voice, before he continued eloquently, “How can we prepare ourselves for what lies ahead?”

  “Come on, Buzz,” said Julie. “We can prepare ourselves for the movie by finding seats.”

  Buzz ignored her. “Today’s generation can be the salvation of tomorrow,” he announced with a sweep of his hand.

  Darn Buzz, anyway, thought Jane. He’s doing this on purpose, because he knows Stan and I want to be alone.

  Stan glowered at Buzz. “Come on, Jane, let’s find a trash can for the remains.”

  “‘Four score and seven years ago—’” said Buzz. “What’s the matter, Stan? Don’t you like my public speaking?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Stan.

  “I’m cut to the quick,” said Buzz cheerfully. “Mr. Chairman, members of the faculty, and fellow students. I stand here before you today to ask you to consider the merits of adopting a twelve-month school year for Woodmont High School.”

  Jane gave Julie a do-something-quick look.

  Julie flashed Jane an I’ll-do-the-best-I-can look. “Come on, Buzz,” she said. “The movie is about to start. Let’s go and find good seats before they’re all taken.”

  “Let it start,” said Buzz. “I found out what it’s going to be.”

  “What?” Julie asked.

  “The John Quincy Adams Story,” said Buzz.

  Julie groaned. “Not really! Why did they have to go and choose something like that?”

  “Probably because it is pure, high-minded, and educational,” answered Buzz.

  “Come on, Jane,” whispered Stan. “Let’s ditch the movie and go for a ride.”

  “Okay.” Jane’s answer was eager. She could not bear the thought of sitting through a movie, any movie, on such a beautiful night. Not when she could be riding under the stars with Stan.

  “Good idea, Stan,” said Buzz heartily. “Julie and I have been wondering when you were going to ask us to go for a ride in that rumble seat.”

  “I didn’t,” said Stan flatly. “Come on, Jane. Let’s go.”

  Jane clambered up the bank beside Stan and dropped her paper plate into a trash can. Buzz and Julie followed close behind, and Jane hoped that she and Stan would be able to shake them. The junior class, unaware that it was about to see The John Quincy Adams Story, was assembling on the benches in front of a motion picture screen.

  Mr. Degenkalb, still looking harried, was rounding up the stray members of the class. “Well, Stan, you’re not trying to run out on us, are you?” he asked jovially.

  “Well, uh—” said Stan.

  “Come on, there are plenty of good seats left,” said Mr. Degenkalb, and herded Jane and Stan toward the benches. Out of the corner of her eye Jane noticed Buzz seize Julie by the arm and hurry her out of the park. From the sidewalk he grinned, and waved at Jane and Stan. That Buzz! thought Jane bitterly.

  “Let’s sit in the last row,” whispered Stan. “Then we can slip out as soon as they turn off the park lights and the movie starts.” They found seats on the end of a bench in the very last row, back under the redwood trees, and sat down, confident that they could get away soon. One by one, the park lights blinked out and Jane sat poised on the edge of the bench ready to flee with Stan to the privacy of his car.

  “Say, Stan,” whispered Mr. Degenkalb, “would you mind moving over?”

  Jane and Stan exchanged one stricken look. Silently they moved over, and Mr. Degenkalb sat down beside Stan. Jane leaned back on the bench. There was no chance of getting away now. They were trapped. Trapped for all six or eight or maybe even ten reels of The John Quincy Adams Story. I can’t stand it, thought Jane. I simply cannot stand it. An entire evening wasted, an evening that she wanted to spend riding through the moonlight with Stan, the evening she had waited for so long. For days she had dreamed of this date…. Well, here they were. Trapped with Mr. Degenkalb and John Quincy Adams.

  The title of the movie flashed on the screen and the junior class groaned. John Quincy Adams, secretary of state, and John Quincy Adams, sixth president of the United States, moved before Jane’s eyes, but all she noticed were the magnified shadows of moths that flew between the projection machine and the screen. The junior class applauded wildly for the moths. The bench grew harder by the minute. Even the rocks by the stream had seemed softer. Two by two, the members of the junior class slipped off the benches and, crouching low beneath the light of the projector, fled from the park.

  Jane looked wistfully after these students, these fortunate escapees, who were dispersing to Nibley’s or the Woodmont Theater, where a good movie was playing, or to their cars, and thought longingly of the front seat of Stan’s car. If they could only get away they could drive up in the hills, where the night would be aromatic with the scent of eucalyptus trees. She would feel the wind in her hair and when they came to Lookout Point…

  Jane stole a glance at Stan. He was looking straight ahead and his expression was serious, as if he were absorbed in the activities of John Quincy Adams, as secretary of state.

  And when they came to Lookout Point, Jane’s thought ran on, Stan would park the car so it faced the view of the bay and the city, and he would turn off the ignition and turn to her in the moonlight and say…

  There was no use thinking about it, Jane told herself. Not when they were practically surrounded by Mr. Degenkalb. But she did not know what else she could think about. Certainly not John Quincy Adams, not on a night like this. Everything had looked so hopeful when she and Stan were sitting on the rocks by the stream, but life never turned out the way she planned. Oh well, there would be other dates, of course, but it would have been so nice if…

  Jane felt Stan’s hand brush hers, but when she looked up at him in the flickering light he was staring straight ahead. She was surprised to feel his hand on her arm and still more surprised—almost unbelieving—to see his fingers unclasp his identification bracelet and remove it from his arm. Silently he fumbled with the bracelet and slipped it around her right wrist. With a tiny click he snapped the clasp shut. Jane gave a gasp of astonishment and turned questioningly to Stan. She was wearing his identification bracelet! The silver links on her wrist were still warm from his arm.

  Stan leaned toward Jane. “Okay?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she whispered back, and smiled radiantly at Stan, at John Quincy Adams, at the backs of the rapidly diminishing junior class. She really was wearing Stan’s bracelet on her arm, something she had scarcely allowed herself to think about—at least not often; it would be so far in the future, if it happened at all. And now it had happened, months before she had dreamed it could. Jane’s wrist felt small and feminine in the circle of heavy silver links. Tenderly she caressed the letters of Stan’s name with her fingertips. Stanley Crandall. The nicest boy in the whole world.

  After that it seemed only a few minutes until the movie ended and the lights in the park went on. “Well, Stan,” said Mr. Degenkalb, “it was a pretty good movie, wasn’t it?”

  Dreamily Jane wondered how Stan would answer. He laughed easily and said, “Especially the parts played by moths.” Then he took Jane by the hand—something he had never done before. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said, and pulled her through the crowd to his car.

  Finally after hours—no, days—of waiting, Jane was alone with Stan. She climbed up into the seat and looked at her watch by moonlight. “Stan,” she wailed when she saw the time. “It’s twenty-five minutes past ten. I have to go home.” Only five minutes left to be with Stan. This was the way things always turned out for her.

  Stan started the car and headed toward Blossom Street. “Jane,” he said urgently, above the sound of the model-A motor, “you know what it means to wear a fellow’s bracelet?”

  “Yes,” answered Jane breathlessly.

  “It means you’re going steady.”

  “I know.
” Jane touched the bracelet.

  “You really want to?”

  “Yes, Stan. I really want to.”

  Stan stopped the car in front of Jane’s house. “I wish it wasn’t so late,” he said, and ran around the car to open the door for her. He took her hand in his as they went up the walk together. Halfway to the house Stan stopped and turned to Jane. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him. “I’m glad we’re going steady,” he whispered.

  “So am I.” In spite of the reassuring weight of his bracelet on her wrist, Jane suddenly felt shy. It seemed strange to be so close to Stan, to feel his crisp clean shirt against her cheek. She could not look up at him. Gently Stan lifted her face to his. “You’re my girl,” he whispered.

  At that moment they both heard the strange, muted cry of a cat that has successfully stalked a gopher. Jane stiffened. Sir Puss appeared from the shrubbery and tossed his catch into the air so that it landed with a thud at Jane’s feet. Crying insistently, the cat hovered over his prey. He would, she knew, cry until he was praised.

  Jane felt Stan start to pull away from her. Then he hesitated and quickly bent his face to hers. Their noses bumped, but their lips met tenderly, clumsily, one side of his mouth against one side of hers. Jane had not known a boy’s lips could be so soft. Stan’s first kiss—it was a moment to cherish.

  Persistently Sir Puss cried over his gopher. A window flew open, and Jane stepped away from Stan. The beam of a flashlight played over the yard and settled on the cat and his catch. “My, that’s a big one!” said Mr. Purdy, still half asleep. The cat, satisfied that his good work had been recognized, silently picked up his gopher and disappeared into the bushes. “Why, hello there, Jane.” Mr. Purdy sounded bewildered. “You home already?”

  “Yes, Pop,” answered Jane. First the cat, now her father!

  “Well, I guess I’d better be going,” said Stan awkwardly.

  “Good night, Stan,” said Jane softly. “I had a wonderful time.”

  Stan started down the walk toward his car. “Good night, Stan,” called Mr. Purdy.

  “Good night, sir,” Stan called back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jane.”

  Smiling to herself, Jane turned and walked toward the house. She was Stan’s girl. That was all that really mattered.

  About the Author

  Beverly Cleary is one of America’s most popular authors. Born in McMinnville, Oregon, she lived on a farm in Yamhill until she was six and then moved to Portland. After college, as the children’s librarian in Yakima, Washington, she was challenged to find stories for non-readers. She wrote her first book, HENRY HUGGINS, in response to a boy’s question, “Where are the books about kids like us?”

  Mrs. Cleary’s books have earned her many prestigious awards, including the American Library Association’s Laura Ingalls Wilder Award, presented in recognition of her lasting contribution to children’s literature. Her DEAR MR. HENSHAW was awarded the 1984 John Newbery Medal, and both RAMONA QUIMBY, AGE 8 and RAMONA AND HER FATHER have been named Newbery Honor Books. In addition, her books have won more than thirty-five statewide awards based on the votes of her young readers. Her characters, including Henry Huggins, Ellen Tebbits, Otis Spofford, and Beezus and Ramona Quimby, as well as Ribsy, Socks, and Ralph S. Mouse, have delighted children for generations. Mrs. Cleary lives in coastal California.

  Visit Beverly Cleary on the World Wide Web at www.beverlycleary.com

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  Enjoy all of Beverly Cleary’s books

  FIRST LOVE:

  Fifteen

  The Luckiest Girl

  Jean and Johnny

  Sister of the Bride

  FEATURING RAMONA QUIMBY:

  Beezus and Ramona

  Ramona the Pest

  Ramona the Brave

  Ramona and Her Father

  Ramona and Her Mother

  Ramona Quimby, Age 8

  Ramona Forever

  Ramona’s World

  FEATURING HENRY HUGGINS:

  Henry Huggins

  Henry and Beezus

  Henry and Ribsy

  Henry and the Paper Route

  Henry and the Clubhouse

  Ribsy

  FEATURING RALPH MOUSE:

  The Mouse and the Motorcycle

  Runaway Ralph

  Ralph S. Mouse

  MORE GREAT FICTION BY BEVERLY CLEARY:

  Ellen Tebbits

  Otis Spofford

  Emily’s Runaway Imagination

  Mitch and Amy

  Socks

  Dear Mr. Henshaw

  Muggie Maggie

  Strider

  Two Times the Fun

  AND DON’T MISS BEVERLY CLEARY’S AUTOBIOGRAPHIES:

  A Girl from Yamhill

  My Own Two Feet

  Credits

  Cover art by Amy Ryan

  Cover design by Jennifer Heuer

  Copyright

  FIFTEEN. Copyright © 1956 by Beverly Cleary. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061972188

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