evening intensified when I went in. What most unnerved me were the urinals. With their exposed position, unprotected by so much as a door-less stall; with their long, jutting necks and their intense smell—of ammonia, strong detergent, and something else—is it any wonder I slunk past with a shudder?
I chose a stall at the end of the long room. As I sat resting my feet and watching the rows and columns of blue tiles dance a quadrille before my eyes, I heard the door swing open. I froze—boys?! No, thank God—girls. Just girls. Prep-school girls, judging by their accents. Perhaps girls from Miss Wharton’s?
I decided to wait them out.
There seemed to be four or five of them. Some made for the toilet stalls while their friends stood by the sinks. A couple of them compared and exchanged lipsticks; another requested a comb. (“Promise you don’t have nits?”—“Will you get over that? Fourth grade was six years ago!”)
They praised each other’s shoes and disparaged various boys, mostly unknown to me, although I did hear the name of Chris Stevens. “Unthinkable creep, keep him away from me!” commented one girl with a melodious voice that seemed to curl musically around my ears.
“Oh, I don’t know, he has a sort of viscous charm,” disagreed another.
“I guess , if you like a guy to ooze at you,” answered her friend.
Their conversation went on for so long that the toilet seat began to dig uncomfortably into the upper half of my lower limbs. I was considering making a break for it when I heard another familiar name.
“Anyone at all? My choice, the whole school? Okay, give me Parr,” said the curly-voiced anti-oozer.
“Grandison Parr? The junior—the fencer?”
“That’s the one. Mmmm! Rich, firm goodness.”
“Really? You’ve experienced this firsthand?”
“Oh, don’t I wish! I’m not that lucky.”
“Parr? Isn’t he taken?” objected one of the urinators from her stall. “He seems to have a date, anyway. That tall—”
An ill-timed flush, echoing in the tiled, high-ceilinged room, cut off the rest of the sentence. Considering all the ill-timed flushing I’d been doing myself that evening, I reflected—flushing of the skin, not of the toilet—(the water gurgled to a stop before I could finish the thought; I turned my attention back to the deeply interesting conversation—)
“—and the little one in red? Where did they come from? Where did they get those dresses ?”
“I think the tall one’s his sister. She kind of looks like him. She was dancing more with that dorky guy, the one in the three-piece suit.”
“No, but would you let your sister dance with the dorky guy in the three-piece suit?”
“Would you let your girlfriend?”
“Well, they were all in the same set, anyway, early on. Did you see the little red one bouncing away? No way she learned that from the quadrille sergeant!”
“The guy in the funny suit is Parr’s roommate. I still think the girlfriend is the tall one. She—”
As if to mock me, the last urinator finished her business and drowned out the end of another interesting sentence. By the time her toilet ceased its gurgling, the girls had clattered out of bathroom, leaving me alone to stare dizzily at the blue tiles.
When I rejoined my party, Ned and Ashleigh were dancing vigorously to the last few bars of “Take It Back”—the Wet Blankets version, not Ned’s waltz—while Parr looked on with an amused smile.
“There you are,” he said. “I was afraid I’d lost you again.”
“It took me a while to find the ladies’ room. They hid it behind a sort of greenhouse thing and a room full of silver cups in glass cases.”
“Oh, you found the trophy room? Good place to take a nap when you’re supposed to be in study hall. There’s a big, puffy sofa behind the cabinets, and nobody ever goes in there.”
The song ended, and the trumpeter blew a fanfare. I saw that the band had reassembled in the musicians’ gallery. The room fell
I chose a stall at the end of the long room. As I sat resting my feet and watching the rows and columns of blue tiles dance a quadrille before my eyes, I heard the door swing open. I froze—boys?! No, thank God—girls. Just girls. Prep-school girls, judging by their accents. Perhaps girls from Miss Wharton’s?
I decided to wait them out.
There seemed to be four or five of them. Some made for the toilet stalls while their friends stood by the sinks. A couple of them compared and exchanged lipsticks; another requested a comb. (“Promise you don’t have nits?”—“Will you get over that? Fourth grade was six years ago!”)
They praised each other’s shoes and disparaged various boys, mostly unknown to me, although I did hear the name of Chris Stevens. “Unthinkable creep, keep him away from me!” commented one girl with a melodious voice that seemed to curl musically around my ears.
“Oh, I don’t know, he has a sort of viscous charm,” disagreed another.
“I guess , if you like a guy to ooze at you,” answered her friend.
Their conversation went on for so long that the toilet seat began to dig uncomfortably into the upper half of my lower limbs. I was considering making a break for it when I heard another familiar name.
“Anyone at all? My choice, the whole school? Okay, give me Parr,” said the curly-voiced anti-oozer.
“Grandison Parr? The junior—the fencer?”
“That’s the one. Mmmm! Rich, firm goodness.”
“Really? You’ve experienced this firsthand?”
“Oh, don’t I wish! I’m not that lucky.”
“Parr? Isn’t he taken?” objected one of the urinators from her stall. “He seems to have a date, anyway. That tall—”
An ill-timed flush, echoing in the tiled, high-ceilinged room, cut off the rest of the sentence. Considering all the ill-timed flushing I’d been doing myself that evening, I reflected—flushing of the skin, not of the toilet—(the water gurgled to a stop before I could finish the thought; I turned my attention back to the deeply interesting conversation—)
“—and the little one in red? Where did they come from? Where did they get those dresses ?”
“I think the tall one’s his sister. She kind of looks like him. She was dancing more with that dorky guy, the one in the three-piece suit.”
“No, but would you let your sister dance with the dorky guy in the three-piece suit?”
“Would you let your girlfriend?”
“Well, they were all in the same set, anyway, early on. Did you see the little red one bouncing away? No way she learned that from the quadrille sergeant!”
“The guy in the funny suit is Parr’s roommate. I still think the girlfriend is the tall one. She—”
As if to mock me, the last urinator finished her business and drowned out the end of another interesting sentence. By the time her toilet ceased its gurgling, the girls had clattered out of bathroom, leaving me alone to stare dizzily at the blue tiles.
When I rejoined my party, Ned and Ashleigh were dancing vigorously to the last few bars of “Take It Back”—the Wet Blankets version, not Ned’s waltz—while Parr looked on with an amused smile.
“There you are,” he said. “I was afraid I’d lost you again.”
“It took me a while to find the ladies’ room. They hid it behind a sort of greenhouse thing and a room full of silver cups in glass cases.”
“Oh, you found the trophy room? Good place to take a nap when you’re supposed to be in study hall. There’s a big, puffy sofa behind the cabinets, and nobody ever goes in there.”
The song ended, and the trumpeter blew a fanfare. I saw that the band had reassembled in the musicians’ gallery. The room fell
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