Chapters 1 to 5

Indianapolis, May 1958.



Chapter One


    “I got a girl named Daisy—she almost drive me crazy…”

“That record is driving me crazy, Ramona,” I complained. My darling sister dear couldn’t hear me, being completely caught up in Little Richard’s spell. I frowned again at Chapter 4 of Adventures in American Literature, on which I had to give an oral report in two days, but how could Edward Everett Hale compete with rockin’ Richard? Or wait, wasn’t I still on Sir Walter Scott?

I tried reading aloud. “Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, ‘Tutti frutti, oh rootie’— Ramona!!”

    “Whomp bomp a lu bop a wham bam boom!”

Little Richard, with Ramona on backup vocals, screamed to a stop. I saw my sister’s arm snaking out to return the needle to the beginning.

“Don’t you dare,” I snarled.

Ramona sullenly replaced “Tutti Frutti” in her blue plastic record holder and extracted another disc.

“And no Ricky Nelson, thank you,” I said.

Even more sullenly, she slid Ricky back into the case. “I wish I had my own room,” she said, flopping over the end of her bed with enough force to move the whole thing sideways, scrunching the edge of the bedroom rug.

“So do I,” I said. “Soundproof. Or in somebody else’s house.”

“Regina, you know what?” Ramona rolled over, pulled open the top drawer of the bureau between our beds, and began to search through it. “Connie says Little Richard is funny.”

“Connie Peabody said something that smart?” I answered. “She must’ve copied off somebody again.”

Ramona continued to clink around in the bureau drawer until she located a bottle of “Misty Pink” fingernail polish. She kicked off her flip-flops, twisted off the bottle ltd, and painstakingly began to paint a toenail. “Listen, Miss Brain, Connie’s smart. She reads all the time.”

“Meg Morgan. Student Stewardess doesn’t count. Besides, you didn’t like her until she made Devilettes.” I knew Ramona hoped that Connie could use her influence on the teacher’s committee which would select the new Devilettes In the fall. My sister wanted more than anything to be part of Shortridge High’s crack baton-twirling team. The Devilettes got to wear blue and white costumes, with white fringed boots, and they performed synchronized baton routines at pep rallies.

“You just don’t like her ’cause she’s popular,” observed my sister.  “Anyway, she didn’t mean Little Richard was funny ha-ha. She meant funny, you know, like .  .  . Llberace.”

I closed my textbook and considered. “Well, he does wear eye makeup. And he’s got an awful high voice. I dunno, though. I never saw one.”

“Connie says Billy Craig’s one,” said Ramona.

“He is not!” I liked Billy Craig, even if he did carry his books like a girl. In grade school, I had overheard a boy on the school bus say that fairies peed together at the same time. By now, I knew a little better—it had something to do with liking other boys Instead of girls. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good, and I was sure that Billy Craig didn’t have anything to do with it.

Ramona extended her right leg, and surveyed her paint job. Evidently the color wasn’t right, because she poked around In her cosmetics drawer and extracted polish remover and some cotton balls. She certainly spent a lot of time painting and powdering herself and renovating her hairstyle. Every cent of her allowance went for fingernail polish (pink) and sweaters (tight).

My own taste was more sensible, running toward white cotton blouses and dark A-llne skirts. I didn’t see the use of spending all my time on my clothes and hair — I had my future to think of. I was planning a little farther ahead than next fall’s Devilettes tryouts.

At seventeen, I was two years older than Ramona, and I could certainly see the difference two years could wake in a person’s maturity. She never gave a thought to what she was going to do after she got out of school–if she ever got out of school. Her grades were terrible. But I had my life all planned out. From the day I won the P.S. #2 Science Fair in fifth grade, I knew that someday I would be a famous lady scientist. My secret plan was to discover a new element, which might as well be called Reginium as anything else. Not only would I be extremely famous, but I’d decided to secretly build a factory which made science charts for school. After I’d discovered a new element and named it, I would make a fortune, since I’d have the jump on all the other chart factories.

Of course, now that I was almost grown-up, I’d given up this childish fantasy, although the recent discovery of nobelium by somebody else had pained me a little. Now I hoped to help build a rocket which would send a man to the moon before the Russians got there. Sputnik had been launched back in October, and I was appalled that the Russians had beaten America in the space race. Not only that, but they’d sent up another Sputnik that weighed four tons and had a dog in it. Dad said the Russians were going to send up an A bomb and kill us all. I’d tried to explain to him that it would be a long time before that was technologically possible, but Dad had made up his mind. Any day now, Washington would be blown off I he map by a Commie spaceship.

I wasn’t as worried about the Russians as Dad or our next-door neighbor (Mr. Evans told me he was keeping his World War Two blackout curtains handy just in case), but it didn’t look good for America lo come in second in a contest watched by the whole world.

Well, I wasn’t going to take it lying down. Weren’t we The Greatest Country in the World? Talk had it that the government was going to form something called The National Aeronautics and Space Administration in the next few months and I was going to work there. I would help design the rocket which would allow an American to stand on the moon and laugh at the Russians.

Ramona was applying a second coat of “Dusty Melon” and I was picturing myself on the cover of Time when Mom called us down to dinner.

“Meat loaf, I bet,” speculated Ramona. “With half a box of Quaker Oats in it.”

“Dis-gusting,”I said. “Hope we’ve got enough ketchup.”

When we got to the table, my father was already at his place and my mother was pouring milk into glasses.

“So I said, ‘Okay, smart guy. Hope you’re smart enough to get another job. Punch out and go home.”‘ Dad waved his fork for emphasis. Ramona and I sat down across from each other and waited for him to stop talking.

“Mom, can you come get me from school tomorrow night?” Ramona asked, when Dad was finished with his story–long past the meat loaf and well into dessert.

“You got detention again?” asked Mom. “If you and that Peabody girl waited to do your gossiping until after class—”

“No, I didn’t get detention again,” protested my sister. “Honestly, a person has to stay after school one time—”

“This month,” I supplied helpfully.

“Regina, you shut up,” said Ramona without looking at me.

“Girls, that’s about enough of that,” Dad announced.

“Well, she started it,” said Ramona, and continued before I could defend myself. “I have to stay after school for a meeting, me and Connie are trying out for Vaudeville.”

The Shortridge High School Vaudeville was a variety show put on every spring by the student body to raise money for band uniforms and field trips. Ramona thought it was a big deal, but it was mostly a bunch of drips who got up and did impersonations and sang music from Broadway shows. Probably lots of Ed Sullivans and “Carousel” this year.

“Regina, maybe you ought to try out,” Dad suggested. “You ought to do more of those—what do you call ’em, Betty?”


“Extracurricular activities,” answered Mom. “Dad’s right, honey. You don’t get out enough and mingle with the other kids.”

“The Great Brain is too smart for everybody.” Ramona Interjected, getting even for the detention remark.

“Shut up, Ramona,” I said.

“Girls!’ said Mom and Dad at the same time.

“Hey, I do stuff,” I argued. “I was president of Science Club last year, and I’ve been on the debate team since I was a sophomore.”

“I meant more like dances and things,” explained Mom. “You know. Kids are supposed to have fun.”

“Well, I like to debate,” I said reasonably.

“Does she ever,” commented my sister. “Instead of The Brain, we ought to call her The Mouth.”

“Shut up, Ramona,” I said.

“Girls!” said my father.



Chapter Two


The next day started out badly. Mom had to call me four times before I woke up from a nightmare. I dreamed that I didn’t get to graduate from high school because I showed up at the commencement ceremony, which was taking place in a department store for some reason, in my slip.

When I finally woke up, Ramona was already dressed and downstairs. I tried to hurry, but then my eye was caught by an old issue of Scientific American on the floor next to my bed.

I sat down for just a minute to flnish the article I’d been reading before I fell asleep. According to Scientific American, great strides were being made In developing synthetic fabrics, which were both strong and lightweight.

Before I knew it, Mom was yelling from downstairs. I jumped up and started getting dressed, only to find that Ramona had taken off with the blouse I’d laid out to wear.

I missed the bus, of course, and Dad had to take me to school on his way to work.

The bell for homeroom rang just as I got in the front door, and I had to slink into the Dean of Girls’ office to get a pink slip. Miss Freeman gave me a big lecture along with the late slip, and the whole homeroom looked at me when I finally arrived sixteen minutes late.

Everything went downhill from there. My first class was math, and I didn’t have my homework done. By running out of homeroom as soon as the bell rang, I got to math class early, so I could do at least some of the problems before Mr. Templar came to the front of the class and said, “Eyes up front, please.”

I had started Problem #2 when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said “Hey.” I looked up to see Ginger Biggers and two of her friends.

Ginger Biggers had two-tone hair.  It was brown from the roots to her ears, then peroxide blond the rest of the way down. Her long pointy fingernails were covered with chipped magenta polish, and she wore her boyfriend’s ring on a chain around her neck.

The year before, somebody told her that I was the one who reported her for smoking in the bathroom, and Ginger had had it out for me ever since. I hadn’t ratted her out, but it had done me no good to tell her so. In Ginger’s mind, anyone who wore glasses was a Brain, a Goody Two Shoes, and a creep.

So I was a little startled to look up and see her stannding there. “Hi,” said Ginger, sailing so plomantly that I knew she must be up to something.  “Listen, you know how to write good, don’t you?”

“I guess so,” I said nervously.

“Well, see, I wrote this story, and I wondered If you’d look at it. I got to turn it in this afternoon, and I don’t know if it’s, like, spelled right and stuff.” She handed me several sheets of notebook paper covered with flowery handwriting. I noted immediately that she dotted her i’s with little circles.

I began reading the story, as Ginger and her friends stood around, watching me. The story concerned  a date Ginger had gone on with her boyfriend Mike. She and Mike arrived at the drive-in, which of course was so crowded that they had to park in the back row. The story started getting a little steamy, so I skipped ahead to the fourth page. A phrase near the top of the page caught my eye. “I unzipped his fly and pulled out — ” I jerked my eyes from the story, and I could feel my face growing hot.

Handing the pages back to Ginger, who was grinning, I stammered, “Uh, it’s, uh, fine. No mistakes.”

“Did you like it?” asked Ginger, and her friends chortled.   

I wished I were dead.  No, I wished they were dead.

“It was okay.” I tried to force my complexion In return to its regular shade. “Listen, I hafta get this homework done before the bell rings.”

“Sure thing,” smirked Ginger. “Like, thanks for helping me out.” She and her henchwomen moved off, whispering and laughing.

I tried to concentrate on Problem #2. Three goes into eighty-one how many times? Let’s see…three goes into eight three tlmes, no, two times…I gave up.

In my next class, the Social Studies teacher asked me about the relationship of urban planning to something or other, and my answer was so off the mark that the boy behind me fell out of his chair laughing.

In Home Ec, I scorched the cream sauce, so my partner and I got a “C” on our cooking project. It was all my fault, as my project partner let me know in no uncertain terms. I hadn’t cut the toast points into perfect triangles.

Lunch consisted of gluey macaroni and cheese, mushy peas, and jello with small unidentifiable chunks of matter in it. I had to eat it, since that mornlng I’d had to rush out the door and I’d neglected to grab my lunch sack froa the refrigerator. As I put the plastic lunch tray on the conveyer belt, I realized that I’d also forgotten my gym shoes, so I’d have to play in my sock feet and get five points taken off my grade.

I considered going to the school nurse and feigning the symptoms of malaria.  I decided against it, like the trooper I was, and reported to the gymnasium.

Mrs. Knuckles made us choose up sides for the dreaded Indian pin game. Each team stood in front of a row of Indian pins, and defended them while trying to knock down the other team’s pins. I moved to the back row of my team, out of danger, but Mrs. Knuckles said, “Regina, you come up here in front.” Reluctantly, I made my way to the front line.

Brenda “Bruiser” Hueser hurled a hard red rubber ball at my face. I leaped aside and allowed the ball to knock down the pin I was theoretically defending. The players on either side of me turned and glared in stereo at me, but I didn’t care. Better the pin than my face, was how I looked at it.

All Shortridge High students were required to take a year of physical education, and aost chose to take it their first year and get it over with. I’d put it off until my senior year, and maintained a steady “F” average, being more of a ducker and a flincher than a team player. To pass the course, a girl had to be able to do ten pull-ups. I could do three-quarters of one, if I really worked at it.

After I failed the first semester, the Dean of Girls conferred with Mrs. Knuckles, no doubt asking her how she’d like to have me back next year, and an agreement had been reached. Now I spent my study hall writing extra-credit papers on the history of tennis, which took the place of the pull-ups. However, I was not excused from class, and so I spent an hour three times a week being victimized by natural athletes with biceps of iron.

The only reason I was surviving gym at all was my best  friend Ernestine. Ernestine Neuenschwander and I had met back in September, on the first day of gym.   Mrs. Knuckles stood at a table and called off names, and each of us went up and got a hideous blue cotton gym suit with an elasticized waist and snaps down the front.

“Neuenschwander , Ernestine!” called Mrs. Knuckles, and Ernestine dutifully picked up her suit and came over to the bleachers. I was already there, having picked up my suit between Hamilton, Jennifer and Julovlch,  Anne.  I slid down two bleacher levels to sit next to her.

Ernestine was plump, with straight, strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. I noticed that her red fuzzy knee socks exactly matched her red fuzzy sweater. I said the first thing that came to mind:  “ls your name really Ernestine Neuenschwander?”

“What can I say? My father’s name is–”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Ernest Neuenschwander?”

“Bingo.” Ernestine examined the white fabric oval sewed onto the left breast of the gym suit. On this oval, we’d been informed, we were to embroider our last names.

“If I put Neuenschwander on here, they’ll have lo read it with a microscope.”

I laughed, and we’d become fast friends. No natter how horrible gym class was going, I could look over at Ernestine, who would wiggle her eyebrows or imitate Mrs. Knuckles’ facial expression till I laughed. Now I wished that she was on my side of this Indlan-pin game, defending me from the missiles thrown by Bruiser Hueser.

Bruiser was taking aim at my nose for the ninth time (she’d found my team’s weak spot) when I was saved by the bell. Ernestine, who’d been successfully hiding In the back row of the other team, walked me back to the locker room. We pushed past the swinging door of the girls’ locker room and Ernestine said, “Are you going to try out for Vaudeville?”

“Hell, no.” I opened my locker, and began struggling out of my gym clothes. Even if adult life offered nothing else worth looking forward to, at least you wouldn’t have to wear a gym suit.

“I’m going to try out,” said my friend.

I dropped a sneaker in surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re going to put on a flowered dress and a straw hat and sing ‘June Is Bustin’ Out All Over.'”

Ernestine scowled at me. “Give me a break. I’m going to do a dance routine with Marcia.”

“First prize is only twenty-five bucks,” I said. “You’d tap dance in front of the entire student body for twenty-five bucks? Money is money, Ernestine, but–“

“That’s not why I’m doing it,” she said, banging her locker door closed. “Look, I want to go to a good college. That means I have to get a scholarship. And the selection committees pay attention to stuff like your extracurricular activities. They’re looking for well-rounded people.”

“You could wear a padded bra,” I said.

“I’m serious, Regina,” said Ernestine. “For the Catherine Earle Abney Award, I have to get interviewed by these three older ladles. I have to tell them about what I do besides study. ‘Fighting with my mother’ isn’t what they want to hear.”

“I never thought of that,” I said, stuffing my gym suit into the little square overhead locker.

“But I can’t try out for Vaudeville –I can’t do anything.”

“You sing, and you play the saxophone in the Marching Blue Devils,” said Ernestine.

“That’s with the whole band.  I’m not standing out there by myself in front of all those people,” I said firmly. The warning bell rang–we snapped shut our gym locks and ran.




Chapter Three



“You could play your saxophone,” suggested Ramona, leaning on her rake.

“Stand up there by myself and play the saxophone? I’d rather die.” I glanced sideways, delivering a look of scorn  at my sister dear without breaking my rhythm. On Sunday afternoons, it was our job to rake the lawn, which Dad had mowed the day before. As usual, we had spent more of the early afternoon talking and going inside for drinks of water than raking. Now we were rushing to get finished, so we could take our baths before Ed Sullivan.

“Me and Connie are going to sing,” said Ramona. “She’s gonna play her guitar and I’m gonna play the piano. You could sing with us.” Ramona looked pleased with the generosity of her offer.

“I dunno,” I said. “What’re you going to sing?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” said Ramona, raking grass into a little round pile.

I dragged up the bushel basket, and began loading grass clippings into it. “I’d want to sing something good. Not ‘Who’s Sorry Now,’ or any of that junk.”

“Definitely no Connie Francis,” agreed Ramona. “Can you think of anything?”

“How about that Teddy Bears song?” I said, putting the last armful of grass into the basket.

“Yuk, ” said Ramona, wrinkling her nose. “To know, know, know him is to puke, puke, puke. I want to do something cooler, like a Little Richard song. ‘Tutti Frutti?”‘

“I don’t have the sheet music for that kind of music,” I said.  “All’s we have is like, ‘Back Home in Indiana’ and ‘Blue Tango.'”

“I could make you a fake book,” said Ramona, using her fingers to claw a mat of leaves out of her rake tines. “You know, like real musicians have for weddings and stuff.  The main notes of the song.”

I started to say “Nah,” and give up on the whole idea, but I remembered what Ernestine had about being well-rounded and all that. I didn’t want to hurt my chances for a scholarship.

“Well, we can decide what to sing later.” I didn’t really like rock and roll much anyway and I was not going to get up in front of the whole school and scream ‘Tutti Frutti.” Maybe I’d be able to think up something a little more low-key.

I raked up the last little bits of grass and dumped them into the basket. “Get the other side, Ramona.”

We grabbed our rakes, and with our free hands dragged the full basket up the driveway, to where Dad were working on the car. Daddy was putting in points and plugs, and Mom was handing him things.

“Guess what, Mom?” said Ramona. “Regina’s going to sing with me ‘n’ Connie at Vaudeville.”

“Well, I think that’s very nice,” said Mom. Dad mumbled something from the depths of the Chevy, handed him a wrench. “You girls were good singers. You must have inherited it from Dad’s side of the family. Nobody on my side can sing a note.”

Dad’s voice came up hollowly from under the the car. “What are you going to call yourselves?”

“Me and Connie thought some names up,” said Ramona. “We thought of the Kitchenettes–“

“Connie must have thought of that one,” I said.

“–but we decided on the Formals,” said Ramona.

Dad’s head appeared from under the hood of the car. “Listen, I don’t have to buy you both–“

“No, Daddy,” Ramona assured him. “That’s just the name. We’re going to wear pink sweaters and our blue jeans.”

“We are?” I asked. “You didn’t tell me about that part.”

“It won’t kill you to wear something pretty for once, Regina,” said my sister. “You can wear one of mine.”

“I don’t have to tease my hair, do I?”

“Listen to her, Mom,” said Ramona. “She makes

it sound like a fate worse  than death.”

“Leave your sister alone, Ramona,” said Mom. “She’s a very pretty girl just the way she is.”

Dad dropped his wrench Into the bowels of the car, then scratched his arm trying to retrieve it. He started swearing, so we left. We put the rakes back In the garage, then went inside to take our baths.

“Dibs on the tub!” shouted Ramona as she raced upstairs.

“Well, there goes all the hot water,” I said to myself as I trudged up after her.

Later, we settled our fed, clean selves on our stomachs in front of the television set. My parents sat on the sofa. The set was still a novelty. Dad had refused to buy one until the year before, sure that it was a short-lived fad. Ramona and I would watch anything, even Ed Sullivan.

“Ohhh, sooo-lo-mee-ohhhh,”‘ I sang, and Ramona giggled. I got a large charge out of iitating the lady opera singers.

“You girls hush up,” said Mom, “so Dad and I can hear.”

“You ought to be back here on the couch, anyway,” said Dad. “You’ll ruin your eyes, right up close to the set like that.”

 “Oh, Dad,” we said in unison, rolling our eyes. The phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” volunteered Ramona, dashing for the kitchen.

“Probably some boy,” complained Dad. His attention was drawn back to the television screen, where the Flying Zacchini Brothers, attired in gold trunks, were building a human pyramid.

Ramona returned as Eddie was giving Topo Gigio a leetle kiss.

“That creep,” she snarled, and flung herself disgustedly into a living room chair.

“Who?” I asked.  “Topo Gigio?  You’re mad at a puppet?”

“Connie. She’s not going to sing with us. Jimmy Goldberg asked her to a dance in Speedway the same night as the tryouts.” She slumped farther into the chair, and sighed. Her expelled breath ruffled her bangs. “We’ve been saying we were gonna do this for months, then that fathead Jimmy Goldberg–“

“Goldberg?” Dad asked. “They let Jews in your school now?”

“Geez, Dad, you make it sound like they’ve all got the plague or something,” I said.

“You think it’s funny now, Regina, but you’ll see,” said Dad. “First Jews, then the colored right behind ’em. You want to eat lunch with colored people?”

I gave up on him, but Ramona rose to the bait. “Don’t say colored, Dad. It’s–“

“Oh, pardon me—Negro,” said my father, getting red in the face. “Whatever you call ’em, they—”

“Honey, now don’t get all worked up.” Mom got up and turned off the t.v. on her way to the kitchen. “Don’t you girls have any homework to do? If you don’t, I could use some help with the dishes.”

We shot out of the room and up the stairs. Once in the bedroom, we got out enough books and papers to look busy, then sprawled on the rug side by side.

“The Connie thing is no big deal, Ramona,” I said. “We’ll just do it without her. Tryouts aren’t for two weeks.”

“Some friend,” Ramona continued to fume. “I’ve known, her since fourth grade.  She doesn’t even know Jimmy Goldberg, hardly.”

“Her little sister is the same way,” I said. “She’s in Home Ec with me.  The other sister I don’t know, she was like in senior year when I was sophomore. Okay, forget Connie Peabody. What’re we gonna sing?”

“How about ‘Be Bop A Lula?”‘ Ramona suggested.

“Be bop a Lula, he’s my baby? A boy named Lula?” I said. “Use your head.”

“Well, what then, Miss Brain?”

“Quit calling me that,” I said.

Well, it didn’t look as though I was going to be able to talk her out of this rock and roll stuff. Not only was I going to have to wear a pink sweater, I was going to be jumping up and down and shrieking idiot lyrics in front of the whole school. But the formerly-bouncy Ramona Hammersmith was looking so dejected that I resigned myself to my fate. “The Laughing-Stock of Indianapolis, Indiana” it would say under my yearbook picture.

“What about ‘Only You?”‘ I asked.

“You gonna sing the high part, ‘gina?” said my sister.

“Well, you got a point there,” I said. “‘Bye Bye Love?”‘

“We can’t,” said Ramona. “Kevin Michaels and those guys are doing it.”

“Kevin Michaels is going to sing?” I was astonished. “He can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I used to sit next to him in Music—he used to throw me off all the time.”

“I know,” said Ramona. “But his brother Buddy got a drum set for Christmas, so he and Kevin decided to have a band. Kevin’s singing, and that Jeff guy that lives next to the Evans’s house Is playing the guitar.”

“I hope we go on right after then,” I said gleefully. “We’ll sound great, compared to them.”

“First we have to figure out what we’re going to sing.” Ramona got up and got her record case. We started looking through the singles.

Ramona’s face lighted up, and she waved a record In my face. “‘Ready Teddy!”‘


I groaned. “Little Richard? Ramona, I don’t think I—”

“Come on, Regina, this is it! I know the piano part and everything! We can play it over and over until you get the sax part — it’s not too hard. This’ll be great!”

“Hey!” I protested. “I never said anything about playing the saxophone!”

“But now you have to, Regina!” said Ramona. “We won’t have Connie’s guitar, and piano’s not enough. Puh-leeze?”

I was still dubious. “Maybe we ought to do something else. That one’s pretty wild—we better do a girl song. They might laugh at us.”

“Not if we’re good,” said Ramona. “We can change the words a little. Look at it this way—we’ve got to sound better than Kevin Michaels, right?”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “But if I get laughed out of school…”

“You worry too much, ‘glna,” Ramona assured me. She opened her notebook and got out several smeared pages of crossing-outs and erasures. Math was not one of her stronger subjects. “Regina, help me. I have to turn this in tomorrow.”

I looked at the disaster area of her math worksheet. “Maybe you better tell the teacher you lost it on the bus, Ramona.”

“I already did. This was due last Thursday. Now, okay, if x is 34 and b is …let’s see…27, then what’s a?”

“27?” I said, studying the sheet. “How did you get 27? Ramona, If x is less than b …”

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 


Fortunately, the ax was burled between Ramona and Connie after a day or two. Not that I cared If I ever saw Connie Peabody again, but we needed somewhere to practice. After one rehearsal at home, Dad decreed that no rock and roll music, especially that of Little Richard, was to be played while he was at home.


Connie’s parents probably didn’t like rock and roll either, but Mr. and Mrs. Peabody were hardly ever at home. My mother occasionally had a few pointed comments to make about people who went off to big city nightclubs leaving their children to run wild. And about middle-aged women who ran around in low-cut dresses, and their husbands who drank highballs right out on the front porch for passing schoolchildren to see.


On the other hand, Ramona and I thought that Mr, and Mrs. Peabody were highly sophisticated. Actually, I hardly ever saw Mr. Peabody, but I was very impressed with his wife, who didn’t seem like a mother at all. She and Mr. Peabody had a real den in their house, which was lined with books. Not just Reader’s Digest condensed ones, either.


When we asked Mrs. Peabody If we could practice at their house In the evenings, she not only agreed, but suggested that we could invite over some of our friends and have parties.


We lost no time in accepting her offer, and we decided to have a combination rehearsal and slumber party the next Friday night. I invited Ernestine and Marcia, and Ramona invited several girls from her classes. Connie’s little sister Betsy might be around, and she was kind of a pill but what could we do?  Connie’s older sister Nancy, whom I’d never met, would be home from college that weekend, and Connie said she’d ask Nancy if she wanted to come.


On Friday Ramona and I rushed through dinner, despite repeated warnings from Mom, and raced upstairs to get our stuff. We each had a brown grocery sack stuffed with pajamas, a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Ramona had an overnight bag and a cosmetics case as well–Dad asked her how long she was planning to stay, anyway. Besides all that, we had my saxophone case and Ramona’s records. The back seat of the car was completely stuffed with us and our stuff, so when we stopped to pick up Ernestine, she had to sit in front with Dad.


Dad emptied the car of giggling girls, records, and cosmetics, and drove off hurriedly, shaking his head. Ramona, Ernestine, and I hustled our stuff inside (Ernestine had as much as Ramona and I put together) to the living room, where Connie was setting out bowls full of potato chips and pretzels. Mrs. Peabody came downstairs to supervise, and I noted that she was wearing a fancy black dress and what looked like real pearls.


“Betsy is over at her grandmother’s for the night,” said Mrs. Peabody. “The fridge is full of Cokes, and there are some warm ones out in the garage, if you start to run low.”


The elusive Mr. Peabody came down the stairs, looking very natty. He was balder than my father, but he had a dapper air about him that my own father lacked. Looking at Mr. Peabody, I could tell that he. would never come to a P.T.A. meeting and mortify his daughter by wearing white socks and work shoes with a brown suit.


“Pat, we’d better get a move on if we want to get there by seven,” said Mr. Peabody to his wife. Then he turned to us. “You girls will be all right here, won’t you? Nancy’s at a friend’s, but she ought to be along soon, and we left the number of the place we’ll be on the telephone table.”


“We’ll be fine, Daddy,” answered Connie.
“We’re not babies, you know.”


“Your father Is Just concerned about you, Connie,” said Mrs. Peabody. “There’s no need to use that tone. Well, I guess we’d better be off. You girls have a nice tine. Don’t stay up too late, now.”


“We won’t,” we all chorused, lying through our teeth Two of Ramona’s friends appeared at the front door as the Peabodys’ car pulled out of the driveway, and she rushed to greet then. “Gawd, Melody, your hair looks so cute!'” I heard her say.


Ernestine and I went out to the kitchen to get Cokes. As we were searching for a bottle opener, Ramona stuck her head Into the kitchen and announced, “Marcia’s here.” I went and fetched Marcia, and the three of us leaned against the kitchen counters to talk.


“Lots of sophomores here,” consented Marcia.


“Ramona’s friends,” I said scornfully. “They all chew gun and giggle too much, if you ask me.”


“You know what?” Ernestine asked In a conspiratorial whisper. “I saw Betsy Bridgewater in the hall today, and she said she saw Mr. Foster from school at–”
There was a rattle at the kitchen door, and Ernestine broke off and went to see who It was.  She opened the door, and a young woman said “Hi,” and stepped In.


She was the most wonderful-looking person I’d ever seen in my life. Her hair was dark-blond and stylishly permed, and her eyebrows had a naturally high arch. But It was her expression that mesmerized me. She looked smart, but she also looked like she laughed a lot.


“Hello, Connie’s friends,” this young woman said, and her voice turned out to be as wonderful as her face. She crossed the kitchen, and then she was gone.
“Who was that?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Connie’s sister,” said Ernestine disinterestedly. “Let’s go out to the living room, you guys.”


“Hey, Regina,” said Connie as the three of us came in. “Are you and Ramona ready to play?”


“Um, I’d rather wait a little bit, Connie.” I looked around the living room, but I didn’t see Nancy. She’d gone upstairs, I assumed, feeling a little disappointed.


“Nervous?” asked Connie.


“A little,” I admitted.


“I can fix that,” she grinned. “Go out to the kitchen and get a glass.”


“A glass?” I asked, confused.


“My dad’s got a full bar,” said Connie casually. “Go get a glass.”


“Well, I don’t know …”


‘You’ve had booze before, haven’t you?” said Connie. “Go on–we all are.”


“Your parents—” I protested.


“My folks don’t care,” said Connie. “Don’t worry, silly.”


I turned to Ernestine. “You going to?”


“Natch,” said Ernestine. “Don’t be such a worrywort, ’gina.”


I looked around, and almost all the other girls were holding glasses. Ramona had one, and I noted that her face was getting flushed.


“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “Where are they?”


“In the cabinet next to the fridge,” Connie answered.


Ernestine and I went and got glasses for ourselves, and one for Marcia. We poured our Cokes into them, and then Connie added a potent-smelling liquid from a tall bottle.


“Whiskey?” I asked, and sniffed at my glass doubtfully. Ernestine took a sip and said, “it’s okay. You can’t even taste it.”


I took a tiny cautious sip, and almost gagged. I could definitely taste it, but nobody else seemed to mind it, so I took another sip.


Ernestine gestured toward the couch. “Let’s go sit down, you guys.” Marcia and I followed her over to where a group of girls sat talking and laughing.


Ramona was engaged in a silly argument with a girl I didn’t know. She looked up and said,”Regina, Wendy says Randy White is cute. Gawd! He’s not cute, is he?” My sister’s speech was a little slurred.  I felt that, as the older sister, I ought to interfere.  But Ramona was not somebody who put up with being told what to do.  And she didn’t seem to be actually drinking that much.  She seemed to get goofier just from the influence of the people around her.


“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered vaguely. I’d never even heard of Randy White. Sipping a little more of the whiskey-and-Coke, I tried not to look bored. I wasn’t so hot at small talk. Ramona, though, was a fun person—she always knew just what to say.


I sat and watched the other guests eating and talking and drinking.  I mostly held my full glass but only sipped now and then. Somehow I got involved in a discussion with Ernestlne and Marcia of the exasperating nature of parents everywhere, especially mothers.


Connie put on some records, and several girls got up to practice their dance steps. Some of them were already pretty drunk, and tended to crash into the living room furniture and then laugh hysterically.

 


Before long my glass was empty again, and I went to the kitchen to get rid of it.  I’d had plenty. Connie was in the kitchen, and she asked when Ramona and I were going to play. I put my empty glass down and went to find my sibling.

 


I found Ramona explaining to a cluster of her friends how she almost got caught cheating in Mrs. Denver’s chemistry class.


“You ready to start playing?” I asked.

Ramona jumped up and announced loudly, “Okay, everybody shut up now! Me ‘n’ Regina are going to play!”


She capered across the living room and sat down at the piano in the corner. The Peabodys had a very nice piano, although no one in their family could play it, as far as I knew.


I walked a little unsteadily to my saxophone case, opened it and took out my instrument. Music was still playing, and Ramona said,”Hey, turn off the record player!”

 

Someone made a clumsy attempt at lifting the needle from the record, then dropped the tone arm. There was a ghastly screeching noise, and then a less-drunk person succeeded In turning off the music.


“Okay, you guys,” Ramona said loudly, “Now we Just started practicing the other day, so none of you guys laugh, okay?” She seemed nervous, but I felt fine. Drinking liquor made things seem less scary, I noted to myself.  I didn’t understand why most of Indianapolis thought it was such a bad thing to do.


Ramona counted four, and we launched into “Tuttl Frutti.” And as I blew into my saxophone, I knew for the first time why Little Richard was so popular. “Tuttl Frutti” was a wonderful song!


The party guests were singing along and clapping.  I looked over the roomful of laughing, dancing girls and compared them to the kind of people I generally hung around with. My friends were dull. They’d be disdainful of everyone here, and of me for attending this party, and why? Because they never had any fun, that’s why, and they didn’t like anyone who did.


Just because I liked science and wanted to know how things worked didn’t mean I had to be a drip, did it? And why should I avoid anyone who might be my intellectual inferior? Ramona’s friends twittered too much, for sure, but at least they didn’t look down their noses at everything and everybody.


It was fun to play the saxophone, and it was fun to be appreciated by an audience. If I’d ever bothered to look up from my slide rule, I would have seen a long time before that singing and dancing were worthwhile activities.


We zoomed Into the second chorus, and everyone shouted out the lyrics, coming down heavily on the last two beats of each line.


    Tutti Frutti, oh rootie!
    Tutti Frutti, oh rootie!
    Tutti Frutti, oh rootie!
    Whomp bomp a lu bop
    A-WHAM BAM BOOM!

 


The whiskey had stripped away my inhibitions, but the change In me came from more than the whiskey. I was tired of dull people, and I was tired of being a dull person. Yes sir, the world was going to see a new Regina Hammersmith.


Ramona’s playing sounded good, and mine was just as good. I no longer was worried about whether I looked silly, or whether I would make a mistake. All I cared about was reaching that next thrilling phrase.


Then I saw her. Nancy was sitting on the stairs, and she was looking right at me. She was wearing a little tailored blouse, and the blue stripes In It made her skin look very pink.


My swinging solo faltered, and I wavered to a stop. Ramona raised her eyebrows, but kept the piano going. After a moment, her fingers froze on the keys, and she gave me another inquisitive look. I put the mouthpiece to my lips again, but I couldn’t continue.

 


I tried not to look at Nancy. Why did her presence fill me with sudden terror?  I didn’t know her, of course, but I didn’t know half the people we were playing for. My stomach began to feel unsettled, and I needed to go out for air. Right that minute.


“Go on, Regina! Yeah! You’re doing fine!” The party guests evidently thought I’d lost my place, or suffered fro® stage fright.


“Need to go outside for a minute,” I said, lowering my saxophone onto the carpet and heading for the front door. “Be back in a sec.”


It was nice and cool outside, and I took several gulps of fresh air, concentrating on not throwing up. After a couple of minutes, the nausea subsided and I sat down on the edge of the porch.


I heard the girls talking inside, then, the record player started up again. I continued to sit there, enjoying the dark and the quiet.


The screen door opened, and then closed with a small click. Nancy settled herself next to me.


She crossed her legs Indlan-fashlon, and extracted a slightly-bent pack of Kools from her blouse pocket.  She tapped the pack expertly, and a single cigarette popped out. Nancy extended the pack to me, and I removed the protruding cigarette. I was flattered that she considered me worldly enough to smoke. I dragged as she held a match for me, choking back a cough.


“Feel better?” Nancy asked.


I nodded.


“Never hit the booze before?”


I hesitated, then shook my head. Nancy stood and fished some keys from the back pocket of her white pants. “I’m going down to the Tastee-Quick for a shake. Want to go?”


“Sure,” I managed to say, and stood up. Nancy neatly flicked her cigarette butt into the street as she walked to the door of a very old, very rusty station wagon. I tried to flip my own cigarette end, but my amateurish flip propelled it all of eight or nine Inches. I stepped forward, quickly ground the butt into the lawn with the toe of my sneaker, and went around to the car’s passenger door.


I climbed in, and Nancy said, “You have to pull up on the door handle when you slam it—otherwise it won’t shut right.”


I pulled up, then slammed. Nancy started the car, but the engine died immediately. She turned the key again but nothing happened. “Shit,” she said mildly, and opened the door. “Come out here for a minute, would you?”


I Joined her at the front end of the station wagon as she raised the hood. “See those?” she asked, indicating some black snakelike cables. “Wiggle these a little, back and forth like this, then stand back where I can see you, and I’ll try to start it.”


“Okay,” I said.


She got back into the driver’s seat. I moved the cables back and forth, then stepped away.


Nancy turned the key, and the engine turned over twice and quit. We tried again, and this time the car started right up. I got back in, Nancy turned on the lights, and we backed out and headed for Indianapolis’s best drive-in restaurant.


“You’re a senior?” Nancy asked.


“Yeah. I think you probably graduated when I was finishing sophomore year.”


“Going to IU?” she asked as she piloted the station wagon into a praklng space at the Tastee-Quik.


“Yep. Chemistry major.” I wanted so badly to make a good impression, but my tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth. Ask her something about herself, I thought.


“Where’d you get this car?” God, what a dumb thing to say. I bet she thinks I’m real swift.


“Hunk of junk, isn’t it?” Nancy laughed. “Well, It was dirt cheap and it runs okay, once you get it started.”


“I think it’s nice.” I did, too. If it belonged to Nancy, It was nice.


“Know what you want?” she asked, cranking down the window.

 

I checked with my stomach, found that I could eat after all and told Nancy what I wanted.  She leaned out, pressed the black button on the Intercom and said Into It, “Two cheeseburgers—one with onion, one without, one order of fries, an order of onion rings, and two chocolate shakes.”


She pulled her head back into the car, and fished out her cigarettes. She offered me one, but I declined. My lungs still kind of hurt from the first one.


“I’ve missed this Joint,” Nancy said, looking around. “I haven’t been back for a while.”


“Do you stay at school on the weekends to study?” I said.


“No, I had been going to my roommate’s house with her, but …now I don’t.”


“How come?” I asked.


“Well, we had a little, um, argument, so …” Her words trailed off, and I wished I hadn’t said anything. Whatever it was, she seemed to be kind of upset about it.


A red-uniformed waitress appeared at Nancy’s door, hooking a metal tray full of food onto the window. Nancy gave her some money—I reached into my Jeans pocket, but Nancy shook her head at me—and the waitress clicked out some change from the metal dispenser on her belt, then hurried back into the restaurant.


Nancy handed me my order, which I set on the open glove compartment door. We ate in silence, passing paper napkins and little packets of ketchup back and forth.


The liquor was wearing off, and I was beginning to feel a little strange. I wished I could stop glancing sideways at Nancy, thinking about how pretty she was. It didn’t feel right to be admiring another girl that way. I tried to keep my eyes focused toward the windshield. ! didn’t want her to think I was some kind of…some kind of what?


As I bit Into an onion ring, the word crept up on me. Queer. That’s what you were when you liked other girls too much. But I was normal — I’d never wanted to be a boy or anything.


Nancy finished her sandwich, crumpled up the wax paper and napkins and put them on the tray.


“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked abruptly.
I shook my head. “I don’t like…I mean…I Just don’t–” I broke off.


She smiled a little, turning her head away for a moment. “I was going to go for a little drive.
Do you want to go, or do you want to go back to the party?”


“I’ll go with you,” I answered without conslderIng.
Nancy started the car, easily this time, and we drove down Old Henderson Road.


Nancy drove for an hour, only occasionally making a comment. I didn’t say much either. It didn’t seem to matter. She turned down dark, tree-lined roads I’d never been down in all my years in Galesburg. Now    and then, I turned my head to watch her drive. She    was  so… pleasant-looking. She didn’t go In for all that gloppy makeup stuff her goony sister used.


It was nice to be with Nancy, out in the dark quiet night. I wished we could Just drive all night, but finally she turned back onto Old Henderson, and a few minutes later we pulled up Into her driveway. Nancy turned off the engine, and we sat quietly, looking out the windshield at the dark house.


“Guess they all fell asleep, finally,” said Nancy. She opened her door and got out, and I followed suit.
Nancy unlocked the front door and we entered the house, stepping over and around sleeping forms bundled in sleeping bags. “Think you can wedge yourself in here somewhere?” asked Nancy In a whisper.

 

“I think so,” I whispered back. Nancy started up the stairs after slipping off her shoes. I began to unfold blankets, fumbling a little in the dark.


“Night,” whispered Nancy from the stair landing.
“G’night,” I whispered back.


I slept badly, turning over and over on the hard floor. I dreamed I was trapped in a big building, like a school or a church, and every door I came to was locked. Finally, I came to a big door with a window In It. The window was opaque, and light showed through its frosted surface. I knew It was the way out, but I Just stood there.

 


Chapter Five

 


I shifted my saxophone case to my left hand, and opened one of the double doors leading to the backstage area of the Shortridge High School auditorium. I threaded my way between partially-finished backdrops for the upcoming production of “My Fair Lady” until I reached the spot where Ernestine and my sister stood making jittery small talk.

 

Ernestine’s dance partner Marcia was in a back corner by herself, tapping away and muttering, “Step, ball change, step, ball change.”

 


Ernestine smiled at me self-consciously as I approached. She was wearing a black leotard and tights with a peppermint striped blazer, and she carried a cane and straw hat.


“Nervous?” I asked.


“Yep. You?”


“In a big way,” I answered. “Let me put this down.” I set the saxophone case against the wall, then stood on shaky legs, trying to quell the beginning tremors of stage fright.


“Did you bring my music?” asked Ramona, although she’d seen me put it in the case when we were getting ready for school that morning.


“Yeah,” I said again. I turned to Ernestine. “When does this thing start?” I asked again, although I’d Just looked over the mimeographed information sheet folded up inside my purse.


“Four-thirty,” said Ernestine. She looked at her watch and said, “We’ve got twenty minutes.”


A girl I didn’t know but recognized from English class came in with a clipboard. “You three part of the same act?”

 


“No,” said Ramona. “I and her, um, she and [“–indicating me-“are  the  Formals.”


The girl wrote on her clipboard, then looked at Ernestine. Ernestine pointed at Marcia, who was still step-ball-changing in the corner. “That’s Marcia Ebersol, and she’s dancing with me. I’m Ernestine Neuenschwander.”


The girl said, “How do you spell that?” Ernestine rattled it off for her, then the girl said, “Okay, first there’s a comedian, then you”– nodding to Ernestine—then there’s Kevin and the Kings, then–” she looked at me– “you two. Okay?”


We nodded, and the clipboard girl left.


Ramona walked over to the split in the curtains, peeked through, and came back.


“Who’s out there?” I asked.


“Just Mrs. Fisher and Mr. Melrose, and a few kids,” said Ramona. Mrs. Fisher, a home economics teacher, was the Judge and Mr. Melrose, who taught shop, was assisting her.


Ernestine went over to rehearse with Marcia, and Ramona and I scurried back to the dressing room to change into our pink sweaters. The one Ramona lent me was itchy and a little big, but I chose not to complaln.

 

When we returned to the backstage area, a boy on the other side of the curtain was saying  “… a really big shew for you tonight …” and there was lukewarm laughter from the audience.


At last he finished, and the clipboard girl called out, “Ernestine and Marcia?” Marcia, in tap shoes, clattered past me and through the break In the curtains, and Ernestine followed, adjusting her straw hat.


The PA system gave a few squawks and squeaks, and then came a tinny recording of “Tiger Rag” and the clicking of two pairs of tap shoes. It sounded pretty good for about a minute and a half, then I heard Ernestine say “Shit!” as a familiar-looking bulge appeared in the curtain. The other pair of taps stopped, and Ramona said, “Did she fall down?”

I peeked through the curtains. “Yep.”


The music continued, and the horn section was playing “Hold that ti-ger, hold that tl-ger” when the tap shoes half-heartedly resumed.

 

“Tiger Rag” came to a rousing close, and Mrs. Fisher said, “Thank you, girls” in a tone that caused Ramona to look at me and shake her head.


Ernestine came clattering back through the curtains, said “How humiliating” in an admirably stoic tone, and made for the dressing room. Marcia followed on Ernestine’s heels, her red face streaked with a mixture of mascara and tears.


“Kevin and the Kings!” called the clipboard girl, and the Michaels brothers and friend, in matching red blazers, began to haul equipment onto the stage. As they unwound cords and adjusted mikes, I went back to the dressing room to see how Ernestine was.


Ernestine was stowing away her tap gear in a “Smart Gal” shopping bag. She wiggled her eyebrows comically and said, “They don’t call me Twinkletoes for nothing.”


I didn’t know what to say, so I looked off to the right. A Mistake. Marcia was sobbing on a folding chair, still in her leotard.


“Is she going to be all right?” I whispered.


“No sweat,” Ernestine assured we quietly.

 

“She cries if she gets a run In her hose. Definitely not a trooper.”


The sounds of an off-key rendition of “Bye Bye Love” started filtering through the wall.

 

“Ramona and I are on next,” I said. “I better get back there.”


“Good luck,” said Ernestine. “Don’t fall down. They take points off for that.”


I zipped back to where Ramona was pacing, wincing at the Kings’ mistakes, which were neither few nor far between. The drummer seemed to be keeping time to a cross between a waltz and a foxtrot, and Kevin’s attempt to sound like one of the Everly Brothers (I couldn’t tell if it was Phil or Don) was unsuccessful.


Ramona stopped wincing when she saw me and grinned, lifting her right hand in a “V” for “Victory.”

 

“We’re a shoe-ln,” she gloated, sotto voce.


I opened my instrument case, handing my sister her music and lifting out my sax. I inserted the reed, then wiggled my fingers experimentally on the keys.


“Bye Bye Love” lumbered to a halt, and I said, “Bye bye, boys” under my breath. Ramona stifled a giggle. We heard Mrs. Fisher dismiss Kevin and his Kings.  The royal ones, looking pleased with themselves, started hustling their equipment backstage.


The clipboard girl called, “The Formals!” and we popped out. My self-confidence deserted me instantly. At least fifty pairs of eyes were focused on me. Teachers and students were gathered in the front three rows of the auditorium, waiting for me to do something. My legs began to tremble, and under my bangs, my forehead was sweaty.


A large sophomore with a dark-brown crewcut rolled a piano on casters over to stage left, and Ramona gave him a weak, terror-stricken smile. He went back and got her a stool, and a second boy jumped onto the stage and adjusted a microphone In front of me. I cleared my throat, and the sound bounced all over the room.


I squinted at Ramona. Her face was a blur (I’d removed my glasses at her insistence) but I saw her nod. I counted four, and together we shakily shouted


    Ready, set, go, go man go!
    I got a boy that I love so!


and Ramona began pounding out the melody.


Mr. Melrose, who had been leaning on the arm of his seat, sat up. Mrs. Fisher, who’d been chatting with the clipboard girl, turned to face the stage.

 

Ramona lost her nervousness, that piano started to rock, and I  began to jump to the beat. Our voices rushed out, blending perfectly.


    I’m ready, ready, ready Teddy!
    I’m ready, ready, ready Teddy!
    I’m ready, ready, ready Teddy!
    I’m ready, ready, ready to rock ‘n’ roll!


As I took off on the sax, I saw that several kids had Jumped up and  were dancing in the auditorium aisles. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ramona kick away the piano stool—she was hopping and bopping and grinning like a fool.


We screamed out two more verses, and now almost all the kids were up and dancing. Even Mr. Melrose was nodding his head and jigging one of his knees up and down to the beat. Only Mrs. Fisher remained stationary.


    Gonna kick off my shoes, roll up my faded Jeans, gotta rock and roll, baby, our on the steam!


    I shuffle to the left, I shuffle to the right
    Gonna rock and roll ’til the early, early light!


I shuffled to the left, then I shuffled to the right, swinging my sax and shouting out the words. My hair was soaked with sweat, and tendrils stuck to my forehead. We wound up to a dramatic finish:


    I’m ready, ready, ready Teddy!
    I’m ready, ready, ready to rock and roll!


The piano went WHOMP BOMP and the song was over.

 

The kids started shouting and applauding. Mr. Melrose was standing up and clapping. Ramona and I smiled at each other, took several exaggerated bows, and bopped backstage, where we were mobbed by beaming fellow contestants, who hugged us and shook us until our teeth rattled. Ernestine was hopping up and down and yelling In my ear, “You did it! You did it!”


Ramona and I finally disengaged ourselves and walked back to the dressing room to change. I was ready In five minutes; Ramona had to be pulled away from the makeup mirror.

 

When we emerged, we could hear another comedian on the other side of the curtain saying, “… a really big shew for you tonight… “

 

We hurried out the backstage door and down the hall to the auditorium door. Easing Inside, we found seats next to Ernestine and Marcia.


Several more acts auditioned, then Mrs. Fisher stood up and said, “Thank you all for coming. The list of selected acts will be posted on the bulletin board in the main lobby tomorrow morning.”


Ramona and I said goodbye to Ernestine Twinkletoes Neuenschwander and the still-droopy Marcia, then went outside to where Mom was waiting In the car. The two of us piled In, talking at the same time.


“We did It!” I said.

“They liked us, Mon!” said Ramona.


“Well, good,” said Mom, as she started the car. “You girls worked hard. Maybe we can talk Dad Into going out to eat as celebration.”

Ready to go on to Chpater 6?  Click or tap here.