Fifteen (11 page)

At a quarter to five the telephone rang, startling Jane so that she dropped six stitches and tripped on the edge of the rug before she could answer it. “Hello?” She tried to keep eagerness out of her voice.

“I have good news for you!” exclaimed a man's voice enthusiastically.

Jane was surprised. Good news for her? Who could be calling with good news for her?

“You have been chosen to receive one of our special gift offers of one nine-by-twelve tinted photograph with any order of ten dollars or more at Sherwood's Photography Studio!” The voice bubbled with enthusiasm.

“No, thank you. I'm not interested,” said Jane dully, and hung up. He has good news for me, she thought ironically. That's what
he
thinks. The only good news she wanted was Stan's call. The minutes began to drag.

By five thirty Jane knew that Stan had finished his route long ago and was home by now. She had to face the unpleasant truth. Stan was not going to telephone. She could make excuses no longer. She felt tired, let down, worn out by anticipation.
Wearily she set the table for her mother, her thoughts still filled with Stan. The happiness she had felt earlier in the day was gone, replaced by doubt and confusion. She laid a fresh napkin at each place. She must have been mistaken about Stan's set look, the pallor beneath his tan. He had not been hurt at all. He was angry and disgusted with her for having acted like a silly, impetuous fifteen-year-old. And she did not blame him one bit. He had been so sorry about the dance and had wanted her to be the first girl to ride in his car, and then she had acted that way. How dumb can I get, she asked herself bitterly, just exactly how dumb?

Jane ate her dinner in silence. Sir Puss, who had dry adobe mud clinging to his paws, walked with a clicking sound across the bare floor between the living-room and dining-room rugs.

“That cat makes entirely too much noise pussyfooting around this house,” said Mr. Purdy.

Jane responded to her father's joke with a wan smile.

Mr. Purdy tried again. “Well, I hear the horse-meat king came to call this morning,” he said jovially.

“Pop, please!” implored Jane. “Mom, would you excuse me? I really don't care for any dessert.”

“Yes, of course, Jane,” said Mrs. Purdy.

“
Now
what's wrong with her?” Jane heard her father ask as she fled the room.

“The same old thing,” answered Mrs. Purdy. “Love.”

You'd think people who had been young once would be more understanding, Jane thought, as she sat down on her bed and picked up her knitting. Slowly she pulled out the needles and one by one began to undo the stitches she had knit that afternoon. Apathetically she wound the frayed yarn into a ball. She did not know what to do now.

Jane wondered what she would do about Stan if she were some other girl. If she were the kind of girl who went to school with her hair in pin curls, she would probably telephone the disc jockey at Station KWOO and ask him to play
Love Me on Monday
to Stan from Jane. If she were intellectual like Liz, she would probably say that dancing and riding around in a model-A Ford were boring or middlebrow or something, and spend the evening writing haikus for Manuscript. Or if she were the earnest type, she would write a letter to Teen Corner in the newspaper. The letter would begin, “Dear Ann Benedict, I wonder if you could help me solve a problem. Recently I met a boy…” If
she were the cashmere sweater type, like Marcy, she would date several other boys and forget Stan.

But Jane was not any of these girls. She was Jane Purdy, an ordinary girl who was no type at all. She was neither earnest nor intellectual, and she certainly wasn't the kind of girl the boys flocked around. She was just a girl who liked to have a good time, who made reasonably good grades at school, and who still liked a boy who had once liked her. There was nothing wrong with that.

All right, then why didn't she act that way, Jane asked herself, instead of trying to toss her hair around like Marcy the minute she got to ride in a boy's car with the top down. If she had not been trying to act like Marcy, she would never have closed her eyes and lifted her lips for Buzz to kiss.

Jane sat toying with the ball of yarn and thinking about Marcy. Why, she did not even like the girl. Not really. She did not like girls who acted bored and who made other girls feel uncomfortable. She liked girls who were friendly and interested in others. Then why, Jane asked herself, did she try to act like someone she did not like? Maybe she didn't have a lot of sun streaks in her hair or a drawer full of cashmere sweaters, but a nice boy like Stan had liked her once and Buzz
had wanted to kiss her, so she was certainly as attractive as most girls at school. All she lacked was confidence. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before.

From now on, Jane resolved, she would be Jane Purdy and nobody else. She would stop feeling like Miss Muffet around Marcy and she would no longer feel fluffy and not very bright when she talked to Liz. From now on she would be confident. When she saw Stan she would act glad to see him, because no matter what had happened that was the way Jane Purdy felt. After all, Stan had liked her when she was babysitting with Sandra and when she walked through Chinatown with him, and she had been herself both those times. Maybe if she continued to be herself, Stan would like her again. And if he didn't there was nothing she could do about it. Jane was filled with a wonderful feeling of relief at having made this decision. That was that. Period.

Jane tossed the ball of yarn onto her bed and, humming the Woodmont High victory song, went into the living room, where she dropped into the nearest chair. “Hi,” she said amiably to her father and mother.

“Welcome,” said Mr. Purdy over his evening
paper. “Have you decided to join the family once more?”

“Oh, Pop, don't be silly,” said Jane.

“I thought you were going out with the horse-meat king.”

“Not tonight,” said Jane casually, and picked up a magazine. “I guess the horsemeat king is doing something else.” The telephone rang, but she made no move to answer it. She was not expecting any calls, and she found it restful after the day she had spent.

“You get it, Jane,” asked Mrs. Purdy.

“Okay,” answered Jane, and walked leisurely into the hall to pick up the receiver.

“Hello, Jane?” Julie's excited voice sounded muffled and far away.

“Julie, where are you?” Jane asked. “You sound as if you were at the bottom of a well, or something.”

“In the hall closet at Greg's.”

“In the hall closet? What on earth for?” Jane demanded. “And what are you doing at Greg's in the first place?”

“Buzz brought me over, and we're listening to records with a bunch of kids. Their telephone has a long cord, and I just had to talk to you where
nobody could hear me, so I took it into the hall closet,” Julie explained. Then she said something Jane could not understand.

“Julie, I can't hear you,” complained Jane.

“It's dark in here and a coat or something fell down on me,” Julie told her.

Jane had something she was anxious to get off her mind. “Julie, I am terribly sorry about—what I did this morning. You know what. I can't talk much now,” she said, aware of her parents in the next room.

“That's strange,” Jane heard her father say, “usually she is good for a couple of hours.”

“It's all right, Jane,” said Julie. “I mean, after all, Buzz asked me for a date tonight, and that's what counts. But that isn't what I called about. Jane, did anybody tell you about Stan?” Julie sounded eager and excited, as if she had important news.

Stan! What could have happened to Stan? “No. Nobody called. Is something wrong?” Jane asked anxiously.

“Late this afternoon he was rushed to the hospital and had his appendix out!” Obviously Julie relished breaking this news.

“In the hospital?” Jane was stunned. Stan in the hospital? He couldn't be. Not Stan. But he must be,
if Julie said so. “Is he all right?” she asked at last.

“Yes. Buzz talked to his mother a little while ago, and she said everything was fine,” answered Julie.

“Oh. That's good!” Jane's mind was not really on what she was saying. She was seeing everything in a new light. This was the reason Stan had not called! An appendix of all things! He must have been pale under his tan that morning, not because he was angry, not because he was hurt, but because he had a pain in his appendix!

“Look, I've got to go now,” said Julie. “It's hot in here and the others might miss me.”

“Thanks for calling,” said Jane absently. “Have fun.” She sat staring at the cover of the telephone book. Stan in the hospital. Stan, pale and still in a narrow white bed, stuff dripping out of a bottle into a vein in his arm, nurses hovering over him, taking his temperature, feeling his pulse…

And how, Jane asked herself, does Jane Purdy, the confident Jane Purdy, behave when the boy she likes, who is angry with her (she
thought
—now she wasn't sure), is in the hospital with his appendix out?

For the next three days Jane wondered what she should do about Stan. She looked over the get-well cards in Woodmont's stationery store, but neither the sentimental cards adorned with roses and violets nor the cards printed with elephants or kittens and silly verses seemed exactly right for a special boy. She considered sending Stan a note and even wrote on her best letter paper, “Dear Stan, I am sorry to hear about your operation. I hope you get well soon.” Then she sat nibbling the end of her fountain pen. She could not think of another thing to say.

Jane reread what she had written. It would be the right message, she decided, to put on a card
enclosed with a gift. But what gift could a girl send to a boy who had had his appendix out? A book, perhaps, but she did not know what Stan liked to read. She did not want to send something he would not enjoy and then have him feel he had to read it just to be polite. Besides, she did not know how to get a book to a boy in a hospital. She did not want to visit him, because he would probably be surrounded by his mother and father and sisters and a few aunts and uncles and cousins, and he would have to introduce her to everyone and that would be embarrasing, especially if he was angry with her.

Flowers? Jane chewed the end of her pen and considered this idea. She could go to the flower shop, select some flowers, write a few words on a card, and ask the florist to deliver her gift for her. Stan would know she was sorry about his bad luck and they would not have to meet in case he didn't want to see her. But flowers to a boy? Well, why not? Anyone in a hospital ought to enjoy receiving flowers. The more Jane considered sending flowers—masculine flowers, of course—to Stan, the better she liked the idea. It would be a friendly but not overeager thing to do. And she had resolved to act like Jane Purdy and nobody else, hadn't she? No
matter how Stan felt toward her, she was truly sorry to hear that he was in the hospital and she really did hope he would get well soon. Well, all right then. She would send Stan some flowers.

But a hint of doubt still lingered in Jane's mind, because she had never known a girl who liked a boy who had his appendix out, and so she had no precedent to follow. Jane did not like to ask her mother's advice about anything, because she almost never liked the advice her mother gave, but this time she felt she had to consult someone.

Jane found her mother reading a magazine in a deck chair in the backyard. Sir Puss, who always sought the most fragrant spot, was sunning himself in the middle of the herb garden. “Mom,” she said, eyeing with disapproval her mother's bare legs, “do you think it would be all right if I sent Stan some flowers at the hospital?”

Mrs. Purdy looked up from her magazine. “Why, I think it would be a very nice thing to do. The begonias are about gone, but there are some pretty chrysanthemums on the other side of the garage.”

“I'll go look at them,” said Jane noncommittally.

“If you want to pick some I could drive you over to the hospital,” suggested Mrs. Purdy, “It's too late for visiting hours, but you could leave them at the
desk and a nurse would take them to Stan.”

“Not right now,” murmured Jane vaguely, as she walked around the garage on the pretense of examining her father's chrysanthemums. Imagine her mother thinking she could just go out in the yard and pick a bunch of flowers and take them to Stan at the hospital! If that wasn't just like Mom. She probably expected her to wrap the homegrown flowers in a newspaper or in a piece of waxed paper from the roll in the kitchen and then walk into the lobby of Cronk Memorial Hospital with a bouquet that looked too loving-hands-at-home for words. The nurses would probably laugh at her. And what did Mom expect her to use for a card? A piece of notepaper? That was the trouble with Mom. She meant well, but she just didn't understand.

Jane lifted the head of one of her father's chrysanthemums, a great spidery blossom in a delicate shade of pink. It was fragile and lovely, but honestly, what was Mom thinking of? Pink flowers for Stan! A boy should have masculine flowers, like geraniums or something. No, not geraniums. They were too common. But some kind of masculine flower.

The conversation with her mother had cleared
up one point for Jane, however. It was perfectly proper for a girl to send flowers to a boy who was in the hospital. Tomorrow, after school, she would walk confidently into De Luca's Flower Shop next door to Nibley's, select some masculine flowers, write her message on a proper florist's card, and have Mr. De Luca deliver the bouquet to the Cronk Memorial Hospital. What could be simpler?

Twenty-four hours later Jane, who had never before sent flowers to anyone, paused in front of De Luca's Flower Shop. One window displayed a bouquet of white stock and chrysanthemums suitable for a wedding. The other was filled with philodendron, its split leaves the size of dinner plates, climbing a moss-covered stick. Confidently Jane opened the door and stepped into the cool shop.

“May I help you?” asked Mr. De Luca, who was wearing a green smock.

“Yes, please.” Jane glanced around at the displays of vases, figurines, and potted plants. “I want to send some flowers to someone in the hospital.”

“We have some nice yellow roses,” said the florist, reaching into the refrigerator at the back of the shop and producing a container of roses. “We can give you a nice arrangement of a dozen and a
half roses tied with yellow satin ribbon and set in a round glass bowl for five dollars.”

Dubiously Jane looked at the roses. They were too pretty. It was difficult to believe that such perfect blooms had once been attached to bushes with roots growing in soil and manure. No, hothouse roses with a satin ribbon were not right for Stan, Jane decided. “I don't think that is exactly what I had in mind,” she told the florist.

“We have some nice chrysanthemums today,” suggested Mr. De Luca, pointing to a container of tousle-headed blooms, the kind Jane hoped to wear to a football game someday when she was in college.

“No, I don't think so,” said Jane.

“Or how about these?” asked the florist, pointing to some spidery pink chrysanthemums.

Jane felt that these blooms were not nearly as pretty as those in her own backyard. “Well…no, I guess not.” She was beginning to be embarrassed. By now Mr. De Luca must be impatient with her.

“Are the flowers for a new mother?” asked the florist. “Perhaps if I had some idea…”

“Oh, no,” said Jane hastily. “They are for a—a man.”

“I see.” Mr. De Luca's voice was grave, as if he
realized the importance of the occasion. “A young man?”

“Sort of. I wanted something more…well, something more masculine.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Mr. De Luca. “Let me see,” he muttered to himself, “masculine flowers.”

Jane began to feel uncomfortable. She had not realized it would be so difficult to select flowers.

“Would a nice dish garden do?” the florist asked helpfully. “We have some made up with ivy, variegated peperomia, and white-veined fittonia.”

Jane, used to the lovely flowers her father grew in their yard, decided that plants without blossoms did not appeal to her. “No, I want to send flowers,” she insisted, wishing she was not so much trouble to wait on.

“I have it!” exclaimed the florist. “How about glads?” He reached into the refrigerator and brought out a couple of stalks of pink gladiolas and held them up for Jane's inspection. “Nothing sissy about glads, is there?”

Jane scrutinized the blossoms on the long straight stems. They were pink, but not a delicate, feminine pink. They were more of a flaming sunset pink. Yes, Jane decided, gladiolas could probably be called masculine flowers.

“With a few delphiniums and some ferns they make a nice arrangement,” said Mr. De Luca hopefully. “I can give you a dozen glads, half a dozen delphiniums, and throw in some ferns for three dollars and a half.”

“All right. I'll take them,” agreed Jane, glad to have made a decision at last. She dug into her coin purse for some of her babysitting money, which she handed across the counter. “And would you please send them to the Cronk Memorial Hospital?”

“I'm sorry, miss,” said the florist. “We don't deliver under five dollars.”

“Oh.” Jane was taken aback by this news. Still, it was only about four blocks to the hospital, and she could easily walk over with the flowers and leave them at the information desk to be sent up to Stan's room, the way her mother had suggested. The flowers would be wrapped in proper green florist's paper and would not have the loving-hands-at-home look of flowers picked in the garden and wrapped in waxed paper, so she would have no reason to feel ashamed of them. “I'll take them anyway,” said Jane. “I can carry them over to the hospital.”

“You can be writing a card if you like,” suggested
Mr. De Luca. “I'll have the flowers ready for you in a few minutes.”

Jane sat down at the desk in the corner of the shop and chose a plain white card. She wrote, “Dear Stan, I am sorry to hear about your operation. I hope you get well soon. Jane.” Then she carefully wrote
Stanley Crandall
on an envelope and was about to put the card inside when she realized her message was all wrong. It was too stiff and prim, too Miss Muffetish. She tore the card into bits and dropped them into the wastebasket. On a second card she wrote, “Sorry to hear about your bad luck. Hope you get well soon. Jane.” That was better. It was friendly and casual and not so prim.

“Here we are,” announced Mr. De Luca.

Jane turned from the desk to look and it occurred to her that it was a good thing she was sitting down. Otherwise, the shock of seeing her flowers might have been too much for her. They were not discreetly wrapped in green paper, as she had anticipated. The flaming sunset gladiolas, the intense blue delphiniums, and the ferns were arranged in a foil-covered container ornamented with a blue ribbon. The stalks of flowers stuck out like the spikes on the crown of the Statue of
Liberty, and the spaces between were filled with asparagus fern. The whole lurid thing was at least three feet across.

“Made up real nice, didn't it?” Mr. De Luca adjusted a fern and stood back to admire his work.

“Uh…yes,” answered Jane. Now what was she going to do? She couldn't tell the florist she had changed her mind after she had paid him and he had gone to all that work and looked so pleased with what he had done. For a frantic moment Jane considered rushing out of the shop, never to return. She couldn't do that either, and she did not know what she could do except deliver the monstrous bouquet. Good old Jane Purdy, she thought grimly. She means well, but she always manages to do the wrong thing. She has a talent for it.

Since she had made up her mind to be herself and since she was the kind of person who always did the wrong thing, Jane decided she might as well make the best of it and start out by delivering the flowers to Stan. That was exactly what she would do. She would see this thing through if it was the last thing she did. Jane felt a kind of triumph at this decision. What if she did run into someone who knew her? What if the kids from school did tease her? She would find an answer for
them. A little confidence was all she needed.

“Is something wrong?” asked Mr. De Luca. “You don't like it?”

“It's very pretty,” answered Jane faintly. And it
was
pretty in a gaudy way. The blossoms were fresh, the blue bow was jaunty, the colors harmonized. It was just that it was so big. Jane told herself she might as well get started. She couldn't just sit there all day. In spite of her decision she rose reluctantly and lifted her flowers from the counter. “Thank you for—for arranging the flowers,” she said as she peered through the foliage at Mr. De Luca.

“Here, let me open the door for you,” said the florist. The bouquet was too wide for the door, so Jane walked sideways out of the shop.

Jane had to pass Nibley's on her way to Cronk Memorial Hospital and, as she had expected, a gang from Woodmont High was congregated in front of the entrance. A gang of boys, she gathered from their voices. And this time she was not going to let anybody tease her, she told herself severely. She would show them. She would remember she was Jane Purdy and no one else. Maybe she was doing the wrong thing, but that was the way she was.

“Hey, look what's coming!” she heard a boy's voice exclaim, and there was a hoot of laughter from the crowd.

“What is it?” asked another boy.

“It has a skirt and legs and feet. It must be half human,” said another boy.

“Yes, and the legs aren't bad.” Jane recognized Buzz's voice. She had tried to avoid Buzz since he had kissed her, but this time she didn't care if he did see her. Ha, she'd show him. That wolf, junior grade.

Jane lowered her bouquet and peeped over the blossoms. “Hi,” she said.

Buzz grinned at her, that annoying grin he had flashed at her since the morning he had kissed her. Jane felt her face flush in spite of herself. “What do you think you're doing, hiding behind that?” Buzz asked.

“I'm taking this to Stan, at the hospital,” Jane said coolly. “Is that all right with you?”

“You call that thing a bouquet?” asked Buzz.

“No, I don't call it a bouquet,” Jane answered pertly. “I call it a camouflage.”

This time everyone laughed at Buzz. Score one for me, thought Jane. The door of Nibley's opened and Marcy, followed by Greg, walked out.

Jane did not wait for Marcy to make her feel like Miss Muffet. “Hi, Marcy,” she said. “Look at the flowers I'm taking to Stan. Did you ever see anything so enormous in all your life?”

“Wow!” exclaimed Greg with a friendly laugh. “I'll bet he'll be surprised.”

Jane giggled. “Not half as much as I was when I saw it.”

“You mean you're taking Stan flowers after he took someone else to the dance?” asked Marcy.