Girls In 3-B, The by Valerie Taylor

shortcomings -- she had a run in her stocking, or her hands were smudged by carbon, or something. The sight of him was enough to strike her wordless, even though she had made up a dazzling conversation the night before.
    Now she liked to go to bed while her mind was still alert and think up endless dazzling dreams of he-said-tome and I-said-to-him. So far she had never reached the final intimacy; maybe that was the voice of conscience preserving her from sin. Although goodness knows her thoughts after a date with Johnny Cutler would have disturbed her mother, not to mention the parish priest. So far all of her imaginary encounters with Blake Thomson began with his arrival at the office in the morning and ended with the scene where he leaned over her and said, "Darling Pat, did you think I thought of you only as a typist? I've been watching you for a long, long time."
    So far she hadn't been able to picture him anywhere except in the office.
    Wonder what kind of shave stuff he uses. Mixed with tobacco--I love to see a man smoke a pipe and that indefinable male smell. He's older than I thought. She had sneaked his dossier out of the file one day when everyone else was at lunch and had devoured all its details. A Dartmouth man. Never been married. Yet. Darling Pat, you are the first girl I ever really loved .
    She fell happily asleep, her face shining with cold cream.
    Annice felt too brisk for bed. Damn the silly college, she thought, double-damn whoever swiped my stuff. But she hummed, rinsing out her nylon pants and her best bra -- padded, but not too much. There was something about having a man in your life, almost any kind of a man, even if you weren't going to get serious about him. So far she had never really loved anybody, and it bothered her -- because how can you be a great poet until you know the splendor and tragedy of a great love ?
    She rubbed and wrung as her mother would have done, inspecting each item sharply before she hung it over the shower rod.
    Barby was having trouble falling asleep. She turned and twisted, wide-eyed in the dark. Everything was closing in on her. She was trapped. There was no place where you could hide and be safe. At the store this afternoon one of the salesmen had asked for a date, and the awful thing was that even though she was in a turmoil about Rocco she halfway wanted to say yes. At the same time the thought of being near a man -- any man -- filled her with horror. There was this feeling that she was powerless. She wasn't sure what she had said to young Mr. Cohen. For a moment, looking at his pleasant young face, she had seen Rocco's dark features and powerful arms -- and behind him, the clear profile and burning eyes of her father.
    She wanted to get out of bed and run -- but not past those stairs, knowing what peril lurked beyond their turning. She wanted desperately to run to someone who would open comforting arms and take her in and shelter her. But there was no one.
    She stared at the oblong of light moving across the wall as a car passed down the street.
    Annice was walking around in the bathroom, singing, hanging a week's accumulation of laundry over the tub to drip. Barby could hear drawers being pulled out and slammed shut, and the click of the medicine-chest door. Every sound was magnified in her ears. She sat up. "For Christ sake, what are you doing in there? Why don't you do your washing in the daytime?"
    Annice looked around the door, her face blank with surprise. "I'm sorry. Am I keeping you kids awake ? "
    Barby glared at her. Then she rolled over and hid her face in the pillow, too miserable to cry.
    Poor kid, Annice thought, she's working too hard. Or maybe it's the old curse. She pulled the bathroom door shut and ran clear water into the basin, too intent on her own affairs to be in any way concerned.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Professor King's party was really getting under way. All of the chairs were occupied, some by more than one person, and four boys sat wedged together