Schapters 6 to 10

 

Chapter Six

 


The next morning, Ramona jumped off the school bus and made for the Shortridge High lobby, with me right behind her. We rushed to the bulletin board, where a crowd of kids hovered, anxiously studying the list thumbtacked to the cork.


Ramona got there before me and started reading off names. “Robert MacAdams, Janet Kessler, Kevin and the Kings—Can you believe It?—Debbie Schuler, David Flnchum …where are we? Regina, we’re not on here!”


“What?” I shoved my way through the throng, and scanned the list. Our names weren’t on it.


Neither of us could speak. Ernestine zoomed through the school’s front door, ready to congratulate us, but stopped short when she saw our stricken faces. She pushed her way up to the board and examined the list, then came back to us looking shocked.


“Look, you guys, It must be a mistake,” she said. “Maybe you ought to go to the office and—”


“Mrs. Fisher,” I said suddenly. “Ernestine and Ramona turned to look at me. “Didn’t you notice? She was the only one who didn’t clap. She did this to us.”


“She wouldn’t dare—” began Ramona, while at the same time Ernestine was protesting, “Everybody loved—”


“She’s got the final say,” I Insisted. “She picked the Kings Instead of us.”


“But why?” Ramona wondered.


Somehow we staggered off to class, and I got right to work flunking a Spanish test.

    “Translate the following: 1. Por favor excusa mis enlodados manos. Acabo de lavar mi cara.”

 

The first question, and I was in trouble already. “Por favor” I understood, and “enlodabos” meant “soiled.” But what was “acabo?” A verb? An adjective? I consulted the homemade vocabulary list I had cleverly hidden beneath my test sheet. “Acabo” wasn’t on there.  Let’s see. . .”Aca” meant ‘here,” so maybe the “bo” was short for some word. . . Bobada, which was like “goofball”?  So maybe I should go with “Come here, you muddy goofball”?”

 

But wait, “manos” was “hands.”  So “Come here, you muddy goofball, I will throttle you?”  Unlikely.  Rats. I was a science-lover, not a languages person.

 

Beside me, Becky O’Connell was whipping right through the questions, which wasn’t surprising. She was a grind, and no doubt she actually did the vocabulary drills at the end of each chapter instead of looking up the words in the glossary.


There was a knock at the classroom door which rattled the opaque glass panel in it, and we all looked up.  A red-haired girl in a plaid jumper entered and handed a note to Mrs. Gale. Everyone looked up to see who the victim was.

 

“Regina?”


Startled, I Jumped up and knocked both my test paper and my crib sheet to the floor. I retrieved them quickly, crumpling the cheat sheet and dropping it casually into the teacher’s wastebasket on my way to her desk.


“You’re wanted in the assistant principal’s office, Regina,” whispered Mrs. Gale. Clearly, she considered this only a step above being wanted in six states.


When I arrived at his office, Assistant Principal Chess was seated in his desk chair, talking to someone I couldn’t see. He broke off and motioned me in. Mrs. Fisher was perched on the edge of a visitors’ chair.


“Sit down, Regina,” Mrs. Fisher said graciously, bypassing Mr. Chess as though he was a visitor to her office. “I imagine you’re wondering why you and your sister were not chosen as performers for the Vaudeville.”


“Well, yes,” I said demurely, settling myself into the other visitor’s chair, I crossed ay legs at the ankle and folded my hands in ay lap. I could be as gracious as the next person.

 


“I’ve Just had a chat with Mr. Chess about your. .  act,” continued Mrs. Fisher. “Of course, you were both very good, but you must understand that I, as Judge, must take into account factors other than talent.”


She paused here, evidently expecting me to reply. I didn’t know what she was leading up to, so I Just raised my eyebrows noncommittally.


“Ah, Mrs. Fisher feels, Regina, that, ah–” Mr. Chess fumbled, and passed the conversational ball back to his colleague.


Mrs. Fisher smiled, and I knew she was closing in for the kill. “We feel that public performances given at the school should reflect the values that we, as teachers and administrators, work so hard to Instill In our students. As I said, you and your sister are very talented young ladies, but your choice of material…”

 

She inclined her head a little, and made a gesture with her hand to show that all of us understood the problem. I, for one, did not understand the problem at all.


Politely I said, “Mrs. Fisher, Ramona and I chose a song which we feel is in good taste.” (What was the deal here?  We hadn’t sung about desecrating the flag or anything.) “It doesn’t contain any references to drinking or …um… iewdness.”


“Regina, surely you agree that rock-and-roll music in general has a rather unsavory reputation,” Mr. Chess answered firmly. I looked at his desk, and sure enough I spotted a New Testament, bound in red leatherette.


“But Kevin and the Kings–“


My protest was cut short by Mrs. Fisher, who delicately explained, “They are young men, Regina. They don’t have reputations to protect.”


Just as delicately, despite my desire to laugh, I replied, “I don’t think, Mrs. Fisher, that any of our fellow students consider saxophone playing a sign of moral looseness.”


Mr. Chess frowned. “We have parents and teachers to think about as well as students, Regina. We can’t afford to take risks with Shortridge High’s reputation.”


I was angry enough by now to say any number of rude things, but I kept my cool and innocently replied, “Well, I certainly won’t argue with you, Mr. Chess. I feel that arguing is unseemly, especially for a young woman.”


Both Mr. Chess and Mrs. Fisher looked relieved. They sat back a little and smiled. They’d let their guards down a little too soon.


“In fact,” I continued, “I’ve been giving this matter some thought lately. Debating Is a form of arguing, Isn’t it? Well, as much as I enjoy participating on the debate team, I can’t endanger my femininity.  I’m afraid I’ll have to announce my resignation at Thursday’s practice.”   

 

Ha! I wasn’t nicknamed “The Brain” for nothing.


Mr. Chess managed to retain a calm expression, but I saw a muscle pulsing in his right temple. He was clenching his teeth, as well he ought.


Shortridge High’s 1958 varsity football’s hopes for the season had begun and ended with a loss to New Albany.  The Blue Devils’ basketball team was not much more inspiring. But the Shortridge debate team had won the Indiana State Championship last year, and I was the reason why. Without me, Shortridge would be lucky to finish fifth.


“Now, Regina, don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” asked Mrs. Fisher.


“I don’t think so, Mrs. Fisher, although of course I won’t argue with you,” I said. “Arguing isn’t —”


“Feminine,” supplied Mr. Chess unhappily. “Regina, could you step into the hall for a moment? Mrs. Fisher and I need to confer for Just a few minutes.”


I graciously stepped out to sit on the bench in the hallway. To pass the time I watched several boys, all greasily ducktailed, who were sitting outside the principal’s office, awaiting punishment. The principal had murdered two boys several years before, buried their bodies in the woods behind the school, and told their parents that the boys had never reported to school. Or so incoming freshmen were annually informed.

 

Mr. Chess opened his office door and ushered me back in. Mrs. Fisher attempted to conceal her anger as she said, “After some consideration, Mr. Chess and I have decided, uh, realized that the inclusion of the Kings on the list was a typographical error, and that the Formals should have been listed instead. An announcement will be made over the public address system during lunch hour.”

 


“I knew there must have been some sort of mix-up,” I answered cooperatively.


“Well, these things happen,” Mr. Chase said, then asked hopefully, “How do you think the debate team will do this year, Regina?”


“I think we have a good chance to bring home the trophy again, Mr. Chase,” I said. “We’ve got a good line-up.”


“Well, I can’t argue with that,” said Mrs. Fisher, getting into the spirit of the thing.


“Oh, you wouldn’t want to do that, Mrs. Fisher,” I answered sweetly. “It isn’t ladylike.” I smiled and departed.

 

 


Chapter Seven


And so the Formals made an appearance at the 1958 Shortridge High Vaudeville, where we were the hit of the evening, if I do say so myself. Regina and I made the front page of The Daily Echo, and even got a mention In the Indianapolis Star. Not only that —we received an Invitation to appear on “The Bud Baxter Show.”


Mom watched Bud Baxter every weekday morning on Channel 3 from Terre Haute.  Everybody‘s mother watched Bud Baxter, although for the life of me I couldn’t understand why. Ramona and I considered him a geek among geeks. He wore stripey bow ties, his eyebrows grew together in a straight line across the bridge of his nose. He told a lot of Jokes, all of them corny.

 

Once I’d gotten a chest cold, and had to spend a week at hone. By the third day, I was bored enough to come down and watch Bud’s show with Mom. His guests that day were a Rotary Club official, the president of Indiana Women for Safe Driving Habits, and a boy from Normal who could play “Sally Goodin” on a banjo held upside-down and backwards.


But appearing on T.V., even on the Bud Baxter Show, was an exciting prospect. The little tastes of stardom at Connie’s party and the Vaudeville had whetted my appetite for applause. I’d been applauded before, at spelling bees and debate meets, but none of those people had screamed or Jumped up and down. Confidence In my musical ability had dissolved the shyness that was once my trademark.


Ramona and I practiced “Ready Teddy” until it was perfect, then worked up a rendition of “Maybe Baby,” by Buddy Holly. We argued over what to wear. Ramona Insisted on the pink sweaters we’d worn for the Vaudeville, though I pointed out that they’d come out gray on the black-and-white television screen.


On the big day, Dad took the morning off work, and the whole family had breakfast together for a change. That is, Mom and Dad had breakfast—Ramona and I were too nervous to eat. Mom insisted on a slice of toast and a glass of juice for each of us, but I saw my sister stash her toast In her lap when Mom wasn’t looking.

 

As we were finishing, I looked up to see Ernestine’s plump form silhouetted through the screen in the kitchen door.  She’d talked her mother Into letting her skip school so she could come with us to the television studio.


We plied into the Chevy for the hour-and-a-half minute drive to Terre Haute. Ernestine, Ramona, my sax case, and I were wedged tightly into a talkative mass In the back seat. Every five miles, my father requested that we hold It down to a dull roar, but we were too excited to pay any attention to him.


At last we came into Terre Haute, and Mom searched the road map on her lap to find the television station.   With her help, Dad pulled the Chevy into the parking lot of a small concrete block building which looked too small and dull to be a television station. But the glass double doors had the call letters of the station painted on them, and inside was a lobby hung with large photographs of Bud Baxter, Sailor Sam (a kiddie-show host) and other WTHI-TV stars.


A receptionist In cat’s eye glasses showed us into a room marked “Studio B.” What showed up as Bud’s cozy den on our set at home turned out to be a backdrop like the ones used in high school drama productions. Rows of huge lamps hung from the ceiling and the floor was strewn with cables and wires. A small stage was set up to the right of Bud’s fake den.


In front of the set were four rows of metal folding chairs, most of them unoccupied. On either side of these were two large cameras with “WTHI-TV” stenciled on their sides.


Bud stood near one of the camera, chatting with a mother and two little girls wearing identical blue dresses. “We might as well sit down,” said Dad, and the five of us filed into the last row of seats.


Bud finished chatting with the mother and came over to talk to us. “You must be the Hammersmith family,” he said.


“Yes,” answered Dad. “This is my wife, Betty, this is Regina, then Ramona, and the girl at the end is a friend of Regina’s.”


“They’re all Just lovely, Mr. Hammersmith,” said Bud. “How do you keep all those women In llne?”


“They’re a handful,” grinned Dad. Ramona rolled, her eyes at me.


“How old are the girls, Betty?” asked Bud.


Mom was nervous, and couldn’t quite look Bud In the eye. “Regina Is seventeen,” she said, “and Ramona Is fifteen, Mr. Baxter.”


I considered asking Bud how old he was, but decided against It.


“Are you girls In school?” asked Bud.


“We go to Shortridge High School in Indianapolis,” answered Ramona.


“Well, that’s fine, fine.” Bud looked around until he caught the eye of a woman wearing a brown sweater. She appeared at his elbow. “Miss Hurtz, would you show the girls backstage and help them get ready?”


“Certainly,” said Miss Hurtz. “Come with me, girls.”


We followed her Into a small room containing a table and some scattered chairs. Stacked against the walls were assorted cardboard cartons, pieces of electrical equipment, and piles of junk. Miss Hurtz left us to change, and returned in a few minutes to apply layers of make-up to both of our faces. I found this distasteful.  When she finished with me, my face was so stiff I could barely move it. But I supposed It was a small price to pay for stardom.


Miss Hurtz left us again, taking my saxophone with her. A crew person would hand It to me when we came onstage, she said. When we were announced, we were to come out and do “Maybe Baby,” then we would join Bud on the set. There was a television set up In the corner of the dressing room, and she adjusted It for us so we could watch what was going on.


After a commercial for laundry detergent, there was a pause, then a picture of smiling Bud appeared on the screen. A deep, resonant male voice announced, “And now It’s time for …The Bud Baxter Show!  Bud’s guests this morning include Myra Renfield of the Indiana Food and Beverage Commission, the Henderson Sisters, and from Indianapolis, the Formals!”

 

“Thanks, Jim,” said Bud, as the camera zoomed in on his face. “We have something of an all-girl show today. Myra Renfield will give us some tips for safe home canning and the Henderson Sisters — two of the cutest six-year-olds I’ve ever seen—will treat us to some excellent piano duets. Also with us are two teens from Shortridge High School over in Indianapolis, who will play us some rock-and-roll music. Or squawk-and-squall music, as I like to call It.” Bud laughed. It was obvious that he was a fellow who could appreciate a Joke–especially his own. “Just kidding, girls. We’ll be back with Myra Renfield after this message from one of our fine sponsors.”


“That Bud—is he a card, or is he a card?” I asked.

 

“What a geek,” was Ramona’s assessment.


We endured three more commercials (Indiana State Bank, Trusty Auto Insurance, and something for better soybean yields), then a less-than-fascinatlng discussion of proper home canning methods. The deep-voiced man announced that Bud would be right back, and yet another advertisement flashed on.


Miss Hurtz came back and ushered us out to the stage area, where an assistant handed me my saxophone, and Ramona sat down at the piano. Miss Hurtz told us that she would stand back by the camera by the director, who would point at me when we were to start. The stage lights were so bright that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to see her, but I tried not to worry.


A short balding man stood by the cameraman and Miss Hurtz. He didn’t look like a director, but I assumed that he was. In a high reedy voice he said, “3, 2, 1—we’re on!” He pointed to me and I began the sax Intro to “Maybe Baby.” Ramona jumped right in on the piano. The camera swiveled to focus on my face.  I tried to ignore it as I opened my mouth to sing.  Miraculously, the lyrics came out, and on key.


    Maybe, baby, I’ll have you

    Maybe, baby, you’ll be true …


The piano was still there, but I was singing alone. I shifted my eyes right to see a terrified Ramona staring at me. Her fingers were moving on the keyboard but the rest of her was frozen.

 

My own voice faltered for a moment, but I recovered and continued to sing loud enough for both of us.


    It’s funny, honey, you don’t care
    You never listen to my prayer…


My own prayer at the moment was that Ramona would not topple over a television program broadcast across the entire state. But my sister remained upright, and she kept playing. I sang the final chorus and onstage, applauding and smiling.


He came over to the piano and gave Ramona a friendly pat on the shoulder. She said “Ack” and her fingers came down on the keys, producing an un-melodic crash.


Bud kept a straight face as he looked into the camera and announced that we would be right back.


A cameraman came and took the saxophone from my sweaty hand, and Bud steered the two of us to his miniature den.


We were seated on a plaid couch next to Bud’s desk. The bald, high-voiced director came up and conferred with Bud for a moment, then went back to stand by the camera. He counted down and pointed. Bud said, “If some of our viewers have just tuned in, these two charming young ladies, Regina and Ramona Hammersmith, have been giving us a taste of their musical talent. In Just a moment, they’re going to do another number for us, but first I’d like to chat with them a little, find out a little more about then.” He looked at me and asked, “Ramona, you and your sister are from Indianapolis?”


“Urn, I’m Regina, Mr. Baxter,” I said. The studio audience chuckled, although Bud did not. “Yes, we live there and–uh, go to school.”


“And you’re a senior?” he said, tapping the top of his desk with a pencil.


“Yes, I’ll graduate In June,” I said.


“Well, I wish you the best for the future,” said Bud, turning to look at my sister. “Ramona, how long have you two been playing together?”


Ramona opened her mouth and a small squeak came out. She swallowed and mumbled, “Um, we’ve been playing our instruments since fourth grade, but–ah–we Just started the band this spring.”


“Well, you sound like you’ve been working together for years,” said Bud. “Would you girls do another number for us?”


Ramona shook her head “no,” but I quickly said, “We’d love to,” and gently shoved her toward the stage.

 

We got through “Ready Teddy” without difficulty, and retreated to the dressing room. Mom, Dad, and Ernestine were waiting for us there. We gathered our things and made for the exit. But in the lobby, we were stopped by a large red-faced man whose facial expression made him look like he was about to serve my father with papers.


But his outfit didn’t match his serious expression.  The big man wore a white cowboy hat, and his shirt collar was fastened with a string tie which had a horse-head fastener. “You folks the Hammersmiths?” he asked.


“Yes,” said Dad cautiously. “Do I know you?”


“No, sir,” said the man, “I don’t b’lleve so.” He smiled, reached into his back pocket to take out his wallet.  He extracted, then extended a business card. “I’m Smiley Westbrook, of Ranch House Records.”


I wondered how he’d gotten his nickname.  His face was a bit on the grim side, with deep lines on each side of his mouth pulling his lips closed.

 


Dad looked at the card, then said, “What can we do for you, Mr. Westbrook?”


“I was in the audience, watching your daughters,” said Smiley, “and I think they have a great deal of musical ability. Our label Is always on the lookout for new talent—I’d like to offer them an opportunity to audition for Ranch House.”


“Wow,” said Ernestine under her breath.


“We don’t play Country-and-Western, Mr. Westbrook,” explained Ramona.


“Call me Smiley, young lady,” he said. “Up until recently, Ranch House has primarily been a country-oriented company. But we’re looking to broaden our scope, so to speak. Do you folks have time to Join me for a cup of coffee, so we can talk over this matter?”

 


“I don’t think we’re Interested, Mr. Westbrook,” answered Dad, handing Smiley’s card back to him. “My daughters are still In school. They’re not professional musicians. Ramona has already been accepted to the university for the fall.”


“Oh, I realize that they’re not professionals, Mr. Hammersmith,” said Smiley, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head.  (So does everyone else who watched the show, I thought.) “I’m not necessarily looking for professionals. Talent is the main thing, and your girls have it.”


“As I said, Mr. Westbrook,” Dad said, “the girls are still In school, and playing this rock-and-roll Is just a hobby. But thank you for your time.” He picked up my sax case and opened the front door.


Smiley opened the other double door or us and said, “Well, I’m not going to give you a hard sell, sir. But I wish you’d take my card, Just in case you change your mind.” He extended the card again, and Dad took It reluctantly. We left Smiley in the lobby, and piled back Into the car.


“Dad—” began Ramona.


“Now, Ramona, don’t start,” said Dad. “It’s one thing to do this once in a while, but playing that silly music Isn’t a fit career for anyone, especially a young girl.”


“But he didn’t say anything about a career, Dad,” I argued. “It was Just an audition. It wouldn’t hurt anything to Just–“


“I’ve said my piece, and I don’t want to hear any more about it,” said Dad firmly.


“Don’t argue with your father, girls,” said Mom. She tried to tell us that we’d done very well on the show, but we were sullen and silent until we got to Ernestine’s house.


“See you guys tomorrow,” Ernestine said as she climbed out. We told her goodbye, then resumed our silence until the car pulled into the driveway of our own house.


Ramona and I stomped upstairs to our room, slammed the door, and flung ourselves onto our respective beds. “Man, oh, man,” moaned my sister. “We get our big chance, and he won’t let us go.”


“The lord and master is afraid we’re going to turn into beatniks if we play that devil music,” I said.


Ramona did her impersonation of our father:  “Girls, I’ve got to look out for you until you’re old enough to look out for yourselves. A girl that will smoke, will drink. And a girl who will drink—”


“—will turn into a hop-head and get engaged to a Negro.” We both laughed, although sourly, and Ramona asked, “What’s a hop-head?”

 


“Someone who takes drugs, like …benzedrine or something,” I answered.  “I think.”


“Girls! Lunch!” Mom called from downstairs.
We continued to lie around complaining until we heard her call again, in an I-mean-it tone. We emerged from our room, but took our time slouching down the stairs.


I took my place, giving my father as surly a look as I dared. Ramona sat down across from me and groaned, “Grilled cheese and tomato soup. I should have known. Why don’t we ever have anything else?
I swear, it’s enough to make a person—”


“That will be enough, young lady,” said Dad.

 

“Can’t a person even talk in her own house?” said Ramona. “I swear, I —”


“Ramona, be quiet!”


“The lion hath roared,” I observed.


“I said that will be enough!” Dad’s palm came down on the table, and the knife and spoon next to my plate rattled together. I cringed, but Ramona didn’t bat an eye. “May I be excused?” she asked politely.


“You haven’t touched your lunch,” Mom said.


“I’m not hungry,” said Ramona.


“Me either,” I said. Ramona and I scraped our chairs back and stood up.


“You are not excused!” said Dad, glaring at each of us in turn. “Sit back down!”


I sat back down hurriedly, but Ramona bravely Ignored him and clumped upstairs. The bedroom door slammed, and lunch continued in complete silence.


I choked down as much as I could, then asked Mom if I could go. She nodded, and I Joined Ramona upstairs.


She was lying on her bed, and her face was tear-streaked. “I hate him,” she said, and threw a pink stuffed pig against the closet door.


“Me too,” I said, flopping onto my own bed. I took a science-fiction anthology off the bedside table and halfheartedly started a story about life in New York City after a nuclear holocaust.


Despite cajoling from Mom and mild threats from Dad, neither of us would come down for either dinner or “Ozzie and Harriet.”


I was setting my hair, and Ramona was straightening out her lingerie drawer when Dad knocked at the bedroom door. Ramona ignored him, but I got up and let him in.


“We’ve got to have a little peace and quiet around here,” he began.


“We’re being very quiet,” said Ramona without turning around. Dad got red in the face, and I got ready to cringe, but he Just cleared his throat and started again. “You know what I mean. I called Mr. What’s-His-Name In the Gene Autry outfit.” Ramona turned around, still clutching a fistful of knee socks.


“You have an appointment to see him three weeks from tomorrow, at four-thirty. Mom will take you over in the car.”


“Thanks, Dad,” I said, feeling embarrassed over acting like a baby.


“Yeah,” said Ramona, looking at the floor.


“School comes first, you understand?” said Dad. “Your grades go down, or you give your mother any trouble, and I’ll nip this right in the bud. Got It?” We both nodded. “Your mom saved your lunch plates. You go on down and eat, and quit worrying her to death.”


The following Monday afternoon, I found a note tucked In the door of my school locker. “Meet me and Connie after studdy hall at my lokker, OK?” It said in my sister’s extremely cursive handwriting. “We need to ask you somthing.”


During “studdy” hall I wondered what that note was about.  To pass the time, Ernestine and I played a rousing game of “Hangman.” I had Just racked up my third win when the bell rang.

 

I hurried down the hall toward Ramona’s locker. Connie and Ramona were flirting with a tall, long-faced boy in a letter sweater. It was Team Pride Day, and Connie was wearing her Devilettes costume.  Mr. Letter Sweater tugged Connie’s ponytail, said “See ya, girls,” and split, sending them both into an Intensive giggling fit.


They eventually recovered, and I said, “What do you guys want? I only have a minute, because if I’m late to math again, I’ll get a demerit.”


“Listen, Regina,” said Connie eagerly, “Urn, me ‘n’ Ramona were talking, like, and we were, like, wondering If I should, you know, sing with you guys when you audition.”


I said, “What’s the matter, Connie?  Jimmy Goldberg quit asking you out?”


“She couldn’t help it, ‘gina,” said Ramona, rallying to Connie’s defense. “She wanted to come to Vaudeville tryouts with me, but Jimmy had already asked her out, see, and she forgot about it.”


“What?” I said. “You got a hot date with a cool guy like Jimmy Goldberg and then forgot about It? That doesn’t sound like you, Connie.”


Connie shot me a hostile look, but I didn’t care. Incurring the wrath of Peabraln Peabody wasn’t going to keep me awake at night. I had no Interest In becoming a Devilette.


But I figured I’d better at least be civil. Connie’s wrath wasn’t worth worrying about, but my sister’s anger was another matter. She seemed, inexplicably, to genuinely like Connie and value her friendship. I came up with a tactful answer.


“Connie,” I said, trying to look friendly, “Ramona and I will talk it over tonight, and we’ll let you know tomorrow, all right? I have to go—dammit, there’s the bell.”

 

*****

 


When I got on the school bus at 3:40, Ramona was already in a front seat. She moved her books from the place she’d saved for me, and started talking before I even sat down. “Regina, why can’t she sing with us? She was part of the group before you were.”


“Before she stood you up, you mean,” I answered. “I know she’s your friend, but she’s dumb as a doorknocker and twice as boring. I don’t want to be around her any more than I have to. If you want to sing with her, go ahead, but I’m not going to. You want to tahe a chance on standing up there by yourself if she gets asked out again?”


“Regina, she is not dumb,” said Ramona. “Besides, she’s going to get me on Devilettes.”

 

“Unless, of course, you do anything between now and next fall to piss her off. She’s going to hold that over your head the rest of the year, you know it? You really want to be a Devilette that bad?”

 


“She wouldn’t do that,” Ramona declared.


“She already Is,” I said. “Was It your Idea for her to audition with us?”


Ramona looked out the window for a few moments, then said, “She’s going to be mad.”


“Let her be mad,” I said. “She’s got Jimmy Goldberg to console her. “

 


Chapter Eight

 


I got on a dark green blouse and a mint-green cardigan, and checked out the effect In the full- length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Too green. I took off the green sweater and put on a red one. The combination of green and red made me look like a Christmas tree. A tall, spindly Christmas tree.

 

I pulled off both sweater and blouse and rummaged through my dresser drawers. A navy blue V-neck with a white dickey underneath? Ah, much better. I took the rollers out of my hair, and searched for a hairbrush in the Jumble on the dresser top.


Today was “Get Acquainted Day” at the Indiana University. High school seniors who would be entering IU in the fall, along with their parents, were Invited to visit the campus.


Dad had to work overtime, so only Mom and I were going.


Mom came upstairs to see how I was coming along. “You look very nice,” she said. “All grown up. Here, let me see that hairbrush for a minute.”

 

I allowed her to fuss with my hair. “There, that’s better,” Mom announced. “A little eyebrow pencil, maybe?”

 

I shook my head firmly. No gook on my face, thank you.

 


“I don’t understand you girls,” said Mom. “Ramona couldn’t wait to start acting like a grown-up. She would get Into my makeup even when she was real little.”


“Mom, makeup is supposed to make you look young and healthy,” 1 said. “I already am young and healthy.”


“Now, honey,” said Mom, “it doesn’t hurt anything to highlight your best features with a 1lttle–well, never mind. You don’t have to If you don’t want to.” She turned around for me. “Do I look all right?”


“You look fine, except your slip’s hanging a little,” I said. “No, on the other side.
There—you got It.”

 

She did look very nice. Everybody told Ramona and me how pretty our Mom was. She didn’t look much different from her wedding picture, except that she’d put on a few pounds and she now had deep frown lines running across her forehead.


All the way to the university, we talked in the car about dumb things Ramona and I — mostly I — had done when we were little. Like the time I read about how Indians wrote on tree bark instead of paper. I tried it myself, stripping the bark from one of the front-yard trees, which had to be cut down when it died mysteriously. Or the time Ramona responded to an ad in the back of a comic book which offered “Exotic Stamps —10 cents!” The company sent her “approval sets” for months, and she painstakingly affixed each exotic stamp in her album. Until the day Dad pounded up the stairs, angrily brandishing a bill for $43.44, Ramona naively assumed that she’d gotten all those stamps for a dime.

We made it to the IU campus on time, despite Mon’s slow driving. Mom was not one (or making snap decisions. She’d hover uncertainly at every inter­section and turn-off point. “Is this Maple, do you think?” she’d ask, peering out the windshield. “Is this the exit we want, or is the next one?” Meanwhile, horns honked and irritated motorists shouted, “Make up your mind, lady!” as they swerved around us.


But we found Reed Hall, where we were to register. Mom and I got out of the car, smoothing the backs of our skirts, and entered the front door, over which hung a banner reading, “WELCOME CLASS OF ’62!”


A woman with brown hair teased to a dizzying height gave us name badges and maps. We were to meet at eleven-thirty in the main cafeteria for an informal luncheon, then a guided tour of the campus would begin at twelve-thirty. We were free until lunch to look around on our own.


Mom and I pinned on our badges, consulted our maps, and set off. We decided to look at the dormitories first, and strolled down a pleasant elm-lined street. We’d passed and admired two large brick buildings when Mom’s eye was caught by a small neon sign on the other side of the street. “Kampus Korner Do-Nuts” said the sign, glowing faintly red in the morning sunlight.


“We hardly ate any breakfast,” rationalized Mom, “and lunch isn’t for an hour.”


She didn’t need to explain anything to me—I was already at the curb, waiting for traffic to clear. We crossed and slipped inside the dim interior of the shop. Mom ordered a danlsh and coffee, and I got a big greasy thing with jelly in the middle, and a glass of milk.


We were deciding whether or not to take a seat by the window when a familiar voice said, “Well, hi.”


Nancy was sitting at a large corner table covered with books and sheets of graph paper. She began to clear these away as she said, “Would you like to join me? I was about finished with this stuff anyway.”


“Are you sure?” asked Mom. “We wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.”


“No problem,” answered Nancy, smiling. “I’d always rather talk than study. My grades show it, too.”


I bet she’s being modest, I thought as Mom and I sat down. Probably she’s like me and thinks a “B” is the end of the world.


“Are you here for the campus tour?” Nancy asked.


“Yes,” replied Mom. “Regina’s father and I decided we ought to look the place over before we sent her off. She’s never been away from home before.”


She was making me sound like Rebecca from Sunnybrook Farm. I couldn’t bear to look at Nancy, so I concentrated on my doughnut. I took tiny bites, wishing I’d gotten one with no Jelly to squirt out.

 


“The girls in my dormitory are getting together for a little party tonight,” Nancy said. “Maybe Regina would like to come. She could stay overnight with me, and I could bring her back tomorrow. I’m going back to visit the folks anyway. Assuming of course that she wants to come.” Nancy smiled at me.


I dabbed Jelly from the corner of my mouth and tried to swallow a piece of doughnut while saying, “I’d love to.” The result was a coughing fit.


Mom pounded me on the back as I swallowed hard. I wiped tears from my eyes and repeated, “I’d love to” in a strangled voice.


“That’s a nice Idea,” said Mom. “It will give Regina a chance to meet some of the girls.”

 

Nancy wrote her room number on a torn-off strip of graph paper, and showed me where her dormitory was on the campus map. I said I’d be there about dinnertime, then Mom and I gathered our things and hurried of! to the luncheon. Both the luncheon and the tour were dull. Mom asked lots of questions about laundry facilities and bus routes, but I was thinking about Nancy.

 


She seemed to like me despite my goofy behavior. Why was it that when I got around someone that I wanted to make a good Impression on, I tripped over my own feet and said dumb things?

 

I decided I’d better relax and try to act halfway normal when I saw her that night. I didn’t want to embarrass myself any farther.
After the tour, Mom double-checked to make sure I had a warm Jacket and some money in my purse, took me to the campus drugstore so I could buy a toothbrush, told me not to talk to strange men, kissed me, and at last left.


I walked around campus by myself for a while, looking at the students and buildings. I stopped at a music store and browsed around in the bins.  Mostly there were 78s, mostly marked “Foxtrot,” and there was a display of the top hits on 45 singles.  In the back corner, there was a cardboard box with some long-playing records in it.  The musicians on the record jackets all had black faces, and the letters “RR” were messily penned on an end flap of the box.  I figured out after a minute that “RR” meant “Race Records.”  There were lots of people I never heard of — Muddy Waters? that couldn’t be a real name, could it? — but there was also The Very Best of Little Richard, and a Chuck Berry record with “Nadine” listed on the back.  I got that one for Ramona, because the record player was in the room we shared so I got her a present I could stand to listen to over and over.

I stopped on the street and combed my hair while looking at my reflection in a store window, then made my way to Nancy’s dormitory. The elevator wasn’t working, so I had to trudge up six flights of stairs.    

 

At the top landing I stopped to catch my breath and compose myself. I opened the stairway door, checking the black-stenciled “7” on it against the directions Nancy had written,and emerged in a carpeted hallway.

 

702 was the fourth door on the left.  I looked at the name slot, which said “N. Peabody.” Another name had been written below it, but someone had crossed it out with black ink.


I knocked feebly, got no answer, and knocked again a little harder. This time the door opened, and Nancy ushered me in, saying the usual polite things about excusing the mess and so on.


Of course, there was no mess. The room was neat as a pin. Twin beds made up with matching bedspreads stood against opposite walls. Books were lined up evenly on the shelf over the built-in desk. There were some art prints tacked to the walls; I was taken with one of them, a portrait of a man in black hat and cape. In white letters across the bottom, it said “Toulouse-Lautrec,” which I took to be a city in France. Maybe Nancy had been to Europe!


“Do you want some coffee?” Nancy asked, gesturing toward a hot plate on which a teakettle was hissing. “It’ll have to be instant, I’m afraid. They’ll let us have a hot plate in the rooms, but not a percolator. Isn’t that stupid?”


I agreed that it was, and accepted the offer of coffee, not mentioning that I’d never drunk any before. Only adults drank coffee In our house; Mom thought it would stunt our growth. Now that I thought about it, that explanation didn’t make any sense, as I was already five-foot-eleven in my stocking feet.


We sat for a while and made small talk over our coffee. She mentioned various friends of hers from Indianapolis. Some of them I knew, some of them I didn’t. After a while, she looked at her watch and said that dinner had started. We went downstairs, then out the front door and across a little courtyard to a building which looked just like Nancy’s. It was the boys’ dorm, she explained, and the cafeteria was In the basement of it.

Just inside the cafeteria door was a small table where Nancy presented a meal card which was stamped by the attendant, and I bought a blue guest ticket. We picked up tan plastic trays and Inched our way down the food line, choosing between several varieties of gray meat, overcooked vegetables, little round dishes full of canned fruit in syrup, and gooey desserts. I assumed that Nancy would want us to Join a group of her friends, but Instead she chose a two-person table tucked into a corner. We sat down, unloaded our trays, and began our first real conversation.


I asked her what she was majoring in.


“Classical Studies,” she answered, sawing away at a piece of unidentifiable meat.


“Latin and Greek?” I said.


“Yes, both the languages and the cultural history,” said Nancy.


“Isn’t it kind of dull, though?” I asked. “I mean, dead languages and all?”


Nancy grinned and recited, “They say Latin is a dead language, and really it’s plain to see. First it killed the Romans, and now it’s killing me.”


I laughed. “What do you take it for, though? Can you get a job with a degree in Latin?”


“That’s what my mom wants to know,” said Nancy. “I keep telling her that I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.” She smiled at her own joke. “Actually, it was Dad’s idea for me to take Latin and Greek. You need them to go into pharmacy, which is what I was originally going into. That was his idea, too.”


“So now you’re not going to?” I asked, relieved. Nancy didn’t look like a pharmacist. Couldn’t Mr. Peabody see that his daughter was meant to be a poet, or an artist? Or something.  Almost anything but a pharmacist.


“No,” said Nancy. “My father’s annoyed, but you can’t live your life without making somebody mad. I’m glad that he pushed me toward Latin, though, because once I got into it I really liked it. People think it’s hard but actually It’s less of a pain than French. Hardly any irregular verbs.”


“I don’t think French has any regular verbs,”
I said. “I took French for a year, but I switched to Spanish. Now, there’s a nice sensible language.”


Nancy loaded a tray with her dirty dishes and took the tray to a conveyer belt along the far wall. I gathered up my dishes and Imitated her.

“Ready to go?” said Nancy, and I followed her out the cafeteria door and down the hall to a another door. Nancy pulled the heavy door open and we moved out into the stairwell.

To my surprise, Instead of going upstairs or down, Nancy sat down on a step and motioned me to sit next to her.


“What’re we doing?” I said.


Nancy took a pack of cigarettes from her purse, and offered me one, which I accepted. (I’d been secretly practicing at home with Lucky Strikes purloined from Dad, and now felt confident with a cigarette between my fingers.)

“Well, there’s this party at the dorm which we could go to,” said Nancy, lighting her cigarette and shaking out the match before tossing it over the stair railing, “or there’s a Bergman film showing at the art theater. ’Wild Strawberries.’ Have you seen it?”


I’d never heard of it, but I knew it must be some kind of foreign film. Had she forgotten that I still lived in Indianapolis? There was only one theater in town, which was currently running a double feature—”The Incredible Shrinking Man” back-to-back with “The Revenge of Frankenstein.”


“No, 1 haven’t seen it. I’ve wanted to,” I said blithely.


“Good—we’ll go then,” said Nancy. “The first show’s at seven and it’ll take a few minutes to get there, so I guess we’d better go.” Nancy put out her cigarette, hid the evidence in her sweater pocket, and stood up. I followed her outside the building, and we began walking into town.We got to the theater Just as the previews started. I liked the previews better than the movie, which was strange. The dialogue was in Swedish or Danish or something, and the translation appeared at the bottom of the screen in white letters. Half the time, the letters were in front of a white tablecloth or wall, so you could only read the first or last words.

 


Even if I could have figured out what the people were saying, I don’t think it would have helped. The movie started out with this old guy taking a walk, or maybe he Just thinks he’s taking a walk. Anyway, he looks up at a big clock outside a watch repair shop, but the clock doesn’t have any hands. Then he pulls out his pocket watch–and it doesn’t have any hands, either. The whole movie was like that. I guess it was a profound statement, although I wasn’t sure what it was a statement about.


As Nancy and I left the theater, I heard the people around us discussing the film. Evidently, they got the idea, because I heard them using words like “powerful” and “enigmatic.” I was relieved when Nancy said, “That was odd, wasn’t it?” on the way to the sidewalk.


We got back to the dormitory, and Nancy unlocked the door of her room. I half-expected to see her roommate, but no one was there.


“Did your roommate go home for the weekend?” I asked, as we took off our Jackets.


“No, she moved out,” Nancy answered. “She moved into a single room on the third floor. We weren’t…getting along.”


“I’m sorry,” I said, sensing that something difficult had happened.


She settled herself on the floor next to me.


I moved over a little to make room for her, knocking over the ashtray. “Sorry,” I said, picking, the butts up and putting them back into the ashtray.


“It’s all right,” Nancy assured me. “You nervous about starting school, or what?”


“I guess so,” I said.


Nancy leaned back, extending her legs in front of her, and the ashtray fell over again. “If we keep this up, they’re going to cancel our fire insurance,” she said deadpan. I started to help her gather the butts, but our hands touched and I drew back automat lea ny.
We discussed the rise and fall of Rome (well, she discussed and I listened), favorite movies, and the worst things we’d done to ourselves as children (Nancy had fallen off a Jungle gym when she was six, breaking both her nose and her left arm).


Every time she would catch my eye, shyness would flood over me and I would drop my eyes.  I found myself looking at the floor as though I were suddenly very sad.  I would quickly raise my eyes to her face, until she looked at me. Then I’d examine the floor again.  I kept this up until the ping-pong effect started making me dizzy.  I focused my gaze on the opposite wall and kept it there.


“It’s getting late,” Nancy observed. “I guess we ought to go to bed.”


“Good idea,” I said, and knocked over the ashtray and a bottle of Coke. “Oh my God,” I squeaked, and we both Jumped away from the spreading puddle of Coke.

“Have you got a towel or something?” I said. “I’m sorry–I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”


“I do,” said Nancy simply, and embraced me.
And then we started kissing, and didn’t stop. As we toppled clumsily onto her bed, I kept thinking,
“This Is a strange thing to do.” But It didn’t feel strange at all.

 


Chapter Nine

 


The sun woke me. It took a minute for me to remember where I was. Nancy was still asleep. I eased my arm out from under her, and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, remembering to pull on some clothes first.


When I got back, Nancy was sitting up in bed, ashtray balanced on the sheet covering her. “Look, I’m sorry,” she said, concentrating on the ashtray. “I got a little out of hand. I hope you don’t–“


“Move the ashtray,” I said. Nancy looked up at me, raising her eyebrows.


“Put the ashtray on the floor,” I said sternly.
She complied, then sat back. I ran across the floor, skirting the pile of clothes next to the bed, and jumped on top of her. I kissed her face, her hair, every part of her not covered by the sheet.


“As you can see, I’m struggling psychologically.” I bit her ear, then reached under the sheet and tickled her. We wrestled briefly—I let her pin me to the bed.


“I’ve been watching All-Star Championship Wrestling and I am the current women’s title champeen,” I announced. She smiled and as soon as she let down her guard, I poked her in the side. We fell off the bed onto the floor and stayed there for a long time.


But later, when we were dressed, I started worrying a little. I was scared that somehow other people would know what Nancy and I did. We ate breakfast in the dormitory cafeteria, and I felt like some of the girls were looking at us. When they were talking together at the tables, I wondered if they were talking about ftiancy and me.


I finally decided that my Imagination was running away with me. By the time I got into the passenger seat of Nancy’s car, I was feeling pretty good again.  A big distraction was the old wiggling-the-wires ritual to get Nancy’s car started.

Neither of us said much on the trip back to Indianapolis. We listened to the radio and grinned at each other occasionally.

After a commercial for RC Cola, Sam Cooke began to sing “You Send Me.”  Nancy and I turned our heads at the same moment and we both smiled.

“Our song?” said Nancy.

“Yes,” I said.

 

The afternoon rays of the sun were just brushing the tops of the tallest trees when  Nancy pulled into the driveway of my family’s house, and she put the car in neutral. She cleared her throat, then said quietly, “Urn, I don’t think we’ll want to mention this to anyone.”


“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I don’t have any desire to be ridden out of town on a rail.”


The station wagon backed out and disappeared up the street. My parents’ car was gone, so I hunted for my key, found it, and let myself in. Little Richard was blaring from the open door of our bedroom.


“Ramona, I’m back!” I yelled, but she didn’t hear me. I climbed the stairs and stuck my head around the door frame and said “Boo.” Ramona, who was lying on her bed and reading an issue of  True Romance with Anita Ekberg on the cover, Jumped.


“Oh, it’s you,” she observed astutely. “You guys have a good time?”


“It was okay–we went to the movies and stuff,” I said. As I took off my jacket, a half-full pack of Kools fell out of the pocket.
“I’d hide those If I were you,” advised my sister. “Mom’ll skin you alive If she finds out you’ve been smoking.”
Back to harsh reality, I thought. There’s no place like home.
Chapter Ten
As soon as I got home from school the next day, I went straight upstairs to hurry through my homework. I was going bowling with Ernestine and Marcia later, and Mom made me promise to get my math homework finished first.

I would have done it anyway-~school was about to let out, and final tests started the following week. I was carrying an A- in Advanced Algebra, which I couldn’t afford to let slip down to a B. Who would hire a scientist who was weak in the math department?
I went back down to the kitchen and made a peanut butter-and-banana sandwich to fortify myself. As I was carrying ay sandwich and a glass of milk upstairs, Ramona raced past me, dumped her school things on her bed, and raced back down.


“Mom, I’m going over to Kathy’s! I’ll be back before supper!” shouted my sister on her way out the door. The yell brought Mom out of the living room, where she’d been ironing in front of the television set, but Ramona was already gone.


“What did she say?” Mom asked.


“Said she was going to Kathy’s and she’d be back for supper,” I said thickly around a bite of peanut butter-and-banana.


“She ought to be doing her English and her Social Studies,” said Mom. “I don’t want to see another report card like that last one she brought home.”


Virtuously, I went up and got out my own homework. Twelve sets of simultaneous equations to be solved before dinner. Rats. I was going to need a lot of scratch paper. My notebook was almost empty, so I went over to Ramona’s bed and sifted through the heap of books and papers, to see if she had any scrap paper. I opened her ring binder, and a folded sheet of paper fell out. I picked it up and started to slide it back Into her binder, but curiosity got the best of me and I unfolded it.

At the top, the page said “Olé Baby” in large letters, and below that, “by R. Hammersmith” in smaller writing. Then there were several verses, one of them marked “Corus.”


1st v. Well, I took a trip down to sunny, sunny Mexico/They got a swingin little dance hall there they call the Sombrero/They’ll put you In a trance With the way they do that hat dance/Down in sunny, swingin Mexico!

Corus Olé baby
Why doncha take me to a bullfight Olé baby
Let’s go where kids dance all night
Olé baby and go, nan, go
Take me on down to sunny Mexico!
2nd v. South of the border, I wanna nake that scene/Gonna Jump all around like a nexlcan jumping bean/I wanna take a trip there/ Cause the kids sure are hip there/Down in sunny swingin Mexico!
Corus twice, then fade


I liked it. It was kind of dumb, bu.t it was catchy. I wondered if there was any music for it. If there was, maybe we could do it for our audition at the recording studio. I’d ask Ramona about it after supper. I folded up the song and put it back where I found it, then sat back down at the desk and got to work on those simultaneous equations.


After dinner, which was pot roast (and leftover pot roast at that), I talked Dad out of the car keys, then Ramona and I went down to the Tastee-Qulck. I eased the family car into a parking space, rolled too far, and let the Chevy’s left front tire bounce off the concrete bar at the end of the parking place.  Ramona shot me a look.  “Got it,” I said. “We’re fine. Don’t tell Dad.”


I’d come into the space a little crooked, so when I opened my window, I had to lean out a little to get my mouth close enough to the metal speaker. “One chocolate shake, one cherry coke,” I said into the round metal grid in the metal speaker box. I rolled up the window a little, so when the waitress got to our car, she could hook the tray on, then I said, “Ramona, listen. I was looking for scratch paper for my homework today, and that song you wrote fell out of your notebook, so I looked at it.”


“What were you doing messing around with my stuff?” asked my sister indignantly.


“Like I said, I was looking for scratch paper–I wasn’t snooping,” I said. “Anyway, the song fell out so I looked at it.”

The waitress came out to the car with our order.  She hooked the metal clips on the glass rim of our window.  There were two frosty glasses sitting on the red rubber mat covering the tray. I paid the waitress, and handed Ramona her cherry coke.

“So,” I said, tapping my straw so it would break through the paper wrapper at the top, “is there any music to go with it?”


“What do you want to know for?” asked Ramona.


“Because it’s good,” I said, pushing the striped paper straw into my shake. “The words are real good. I thought maybe If you had a melody for it, we could do it at our audition.”


“Well, yeah, there’s music for it,” said Ramona. “I didn’t write the notes out because I don’t know how, but I know how it goes.  But they won’t let us do it at the audition.”


“Who wouldn’t let us?” I said. “It’s our audition, isn’t it? We’ll never get anywhere doing somebody else’s stuff. We need our own material.”


“It might not be good enough,” said Ramona doubtfully. “I’m not exactly a famous songwriter or anything.”


“I’m telling you, Ramona, it’s good,” I Insisted.    “It’s every bit as good as the stuff on the radio. Take “Teen    Angel”—look at the words to that. ‘Just sweet sixteen and now you’re gone, they’ve taken you away. I’ll never kiss your lips again, they burled you today.’ Now, honestly. Don’t you think your song is better than that?”

Ramona sucked up the last of her coke and considered. “Really, you think it’s okay?”


“No lie,” I said, putting my empty cup on the window tray. “That song’s gonna make us rich and famous, kid, rich and famous.” The waitress came out and took the tray from my window. I started the car and put it in reverse, grinding the gears only a little.


“Look, don’t call me kid,” said Ramona as we drove away. “Just because you’re two years older…”

 

*****

 

In the middle of the night, I woke up and wondered if God might be mad at me.  The scientific community had its doubts about the existence of God, and so did I.  Our family belonged to a church, but we didn’t really go, and it had been a long time since I’d thought about whether there was a higher being, and if so, what that Being thought about my actions and choices. I remembered from Sunday School the phrase “omnipotent, omnipresent, and. . .”  Something.  Well, whatever it was, if God had made everything and was totally in charge of everything and was everywhere, then presumably God had the situation is hand and I could stop worrying about it.  I turned over, adjusted my pillow, and went back to sleep.


* * * * *


Finally, the day of our audition had arrived. Smiley Westbrook met Ramona, Mom, and me at the door of his studio. A huge white Stetson sat on his head, and his sizable body was stuffed into a black denim suit. The suit jacket was covered with white embroidery in a musical note motif.


“Well, come in, come in!” roared Smiley. “It’s not often that three lovely young ladies come by to see me. Let me get your coats for you, and I’ll show you around the place.”


I was not impressed with what I’d seen of Ranch House Records so far. The studio was just a cement block addition built onto Smiley’s modest home. The whole thing consisted of one big gray-carpeted room, with a little booth built into a corner of it. The booth had a big plate glass window, through which I could see sound equipment and a black-haired man. The man was sitting on a stool with his feet propped up on a table, reading a newspaper.


The studio outside the booth was equally uninterestlng-looklng. The walls were covered with tan tile, and on them hung horseshoes, a pair of steer antlers, and a few framed documents. There were also some pictures of a younger, equally-serious Smiley shaking hands with people who were apparently famous. The only ones I recognized were Les Paul and Mary Ford. A few metal chairs and microphone stands stood on the drab carpet, which was spotted here and there and badly needed vacuuming.


“It don’t look like much, I know,” said Smiley, “but we’ve had some fine, fine artists record here. I’ve worked with Kitty Belmont, for instance. Tex Heywood and His Mountain Yodelers do all their recordin’ here.”
I’d never heard of Kitty or Tex, or the Mountain Yodelers for that matter, but I sensed that it would be impolite to say so.
“Mrs. Hammersmith, why don’t you have a seat, and the girls and I will get down to business,”
Smiley suggested. Mom seated herself, smoothing her skirt and tucking her purse under her chair. She opened a romance novel called The Mistress of Crestonhurst. or something like that. On the cover, a woman in dressed like Vivien Leigh in “Gone With the Wind” stood looking out over a misty moor. Even mothers had to dream. I guessed.


“Let me take you girls back to meet Cecil,” said Smiley. “Cecil’s our engineer–been with me twenty-two years. He’s also one of our studio musicians, and he takes care of the bookkeeping.”


I wondered if Cecil also took out the garbage, but I didn’t ask.


Smiley led us to the door of the little booth. Cecil put down his newspaper and stood up. He was fairly pleasant-looking, although his sallow complexion told me that he never went outside if he could help it.  Maybe his color would have been better if he wasn’t wearing a plaid shirt in the came colors as the Betty Crocker cookbook.

Smiley introduced us, and we shook hands all around.
Ramona looked over the booth equipment. “Where do the records come out?” she asked.


Smiley looked at Ramona. “The records themselves get made at a factory, hon. Here at the studio we make what we call a master. The master goes to the factory, and the folks there make copies of it.”


Smiley indicated some chairs around a table near the booth. “Let’s all sit down and we’ll get started.” We sat.

“Now, I want you girls to know that Cecil here and I consider this audition to be Just a formality, so to speak,” said Smiley. When I saw you girls perform, I knew that you had the kind of talent we’re looking for. I’m sure you’ll be a fine addition to the Ranch House label.” Smiley paused and smiled. Ramona smiled nervously but I didn’t bother.

Smiley continued. “Cecil and I have been talking over names for you girls, and we came up with two or three ideas. The one I like best is…The Twin Tones. What do you think?”

Smiley sat back, ready for congratulations.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, Mr. Westbrook, we’re not twins. We’re two years apart.”


“Well, that’s Just a little of what we call poetic license,” said Smiley. “But if you don’t like that one, how about the Sis-teens? Cecil thought that one up. See, it’s short for ‘the sister teens,’ and we think it sounds kind of artistic, like the Sistene Chapel.”


“We’ve already got a name,” Ramona protested. “We call ourselves The Formals.”


“Honey, if y’all are gonna make it in the business, you’re gonna need a catchy name, one with a little zip to it,” said Smiley, leaning back and adjusting his cowboy hat. He looked even more serious than usual, which was already a lot.  “See, I been in this business goin’ on thirty years. I know what’ll sell.”


Then why do you work with people like Tex Heywood and his Mountain Yodelers? I thought.


Smiley lit a cigarette and said expansively, “Well, we can work out the details later. Now,

Cecil and I were thinking about a song for you girls, and we came up with ‘Love Letters in the Sand.’ That was a real big hit for Pat Boone last year, and I think you girls could do real well with that one.”
“Actually, we have a song picked out we want to do,” I said. “It’s one Ramona wrote, called—”


Smiley cut me off.  “Honey, I’m sure it’s a good
one, a real good one.  But like I say, I’ve got thirty years invested in this business, and I can tell you that the best way to start out is with a song the public already knows and loves. When you’re dealing with an unknown artist…  Can I be frank with you?”


Ramona and I nodded.


“To put it on the line, so to speak, no disk jockey worth his salt is gonna pay much attention to a song written by two young girls,” said Smiley. “Even two girls as nice and pretty as you two are. Trust me on this–lead off with an established hit, then when your name is a little more familiar, maybe you can start talkin’ original material.”


I was beginning to get mad. Old Smiley was acting as though we were Babes in Toyland or something. We were two young women, no doubt about it, but we were as smart and talented as anybody.


“See, ‘Love Letters in the Sand,’ that’s got what we call in the music business the instant-recognition factor,” said Smiley, who obviously believed that silence implied consent. “It’s a song a heck of a lot of people like–“


“Not me,” said Ramona abruptly. “I hate it. ‘How you laughed when I cried, each time I saw the tide take our love letters…’ I mean, really. In the high school business, that’s what we call the instant-puke factor.”


“Cool it, Ramona,” I said sharply.


“Besides,” my sister continued, “It’s got a long whistling part in it, and neither one of us can whistle.”


My sister’s rudeness wasn’t dampening Smiley’s enthusiasm. “Hon, that’s why we have studio musicians,” said Smiley, lighting another cigarette. “Cecil here will Just improvise a little on the piano, so we won’t have to mess with the whistling. All you girls will have to do Is stand up there and concentrate on your singing.”


“But we play instruments,” I said, confused. “Ramona plays piano and I play sax. You saw us on the show. We’ll need a drummer, I guess, and maybe a rhythm guitarist, but —”


“You’re both very competent musicians, hon, no doubt about it,” Smiley answered soothingly. “But the usual practice with young ladies is to have the studio band handle the music, so you can just relax and put everything into your singing.”


“That’s it,” announced Ramona as she stood up. “You can Just forget it. You don’t want a musician, you want a…a hood ornament on a car or something. Just something stuck up there to look pretty. I don’t want to stand around and be cute–I want to play rock and roll!”


“My sentiments exactly,” I said. I stood up and pushed my chair in. “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Westbrook, but I don’t think we’re Interested. Let’s get Mom and go, Ramona.”


We walked back to Mom. She looked up from her book. “Is it time to go already? You haven’t played for Mr. Westbrook yet.”


“We’re not going to,” Ramona answered. “I don’t think we’re what Mr. Westbrook is looking for.”


“Now, aren’t you girls making a mistake?” protested Smiley. “You’re passing up quite an opportunity here. I’m sure we could work out something.”


“Don’t worry, Mr. Westbrook,” said Ramona. “I’m sure you’ll find someone else. There are a lot of pretty girls who want to be singers real bad. I guess we Just don’t want it that bad. Let’s go, Mom.”

Link to Chapter Eleven