The War Against Miss Winter by Kathryn Miller Haines Page A

today and I fell head over heels trying to get them to cast me. Something’s got to come out of that.”
    Belle nodded and didn’t say anything else, which put me on my guard. By this point in the conversation we were usually parrying our razor-sharp wit.
    “How’s your new year going?” I asked her.
    “Fair. The new ration books are out. Mind the expiration dates.” Rationing rules were more complicated than chess. Just when I thought I’d figured the darn things out, they changed them on me. “Sign in, will you.” Belle passed me a packet of coupons and the house registrar, then receded back into silence. As I scribbled the R in Winter, I glommed the reason for her behavior: she pitied me. I’d become like every other girl who was bumped out of the house and never heard from again. I’d entered the path of theatrical failure.
    I wasn’t going down without a fight.
    “Are these new rules?” I asked. Underneath the registrar was a list labeled George Bernard Shaw House Rules, Revised. Twenty-six numbered laws were crammed onto the page.
    Belle nodded and continued her pledge to be kind to the dying.
    “You misspelled a word in rule three.”
    That did it. “It never ceases to amaze me how you girls can’t remember the rules but you can remember which word I misspelled while typing them.”
    “You can’t blame us, Belle. If you want us to remember something like this, you should consider livening it up with a few pictures and more white space.” My bag shifted violently from right to left. I dropped it to the ground.
    Belle stabbed the paper with her pudgy index finger. “If you can memorize scripts, you can memorize rules. If you’d read the last set, my revision wouldn’t have been necessary.”
    I put both hands over my heart and feigned shock. “I brought this on us?”
    “I’m not a fool, Rosie. I do pay attention to what goes on around here.”
    “Searched my room, did ya?” A yowl of discontent emerged from the floor.
    Belle lowered her glasses. “Is your bag meowing?”
    “No, but my dogs are barking. I’ve been hoofing it all over town.” I gave my bag a gentle kick. It hissed in return.
    Belle produced a second copy of the rules. “Shall I read them to you?”
    “What? And spoil the surprise?” I took the list and tucked it into my coat pocket. “I get the gist—no hot plates, no smoking, no alcohol, gentlemen callers are to be received in the lobby, and take to the cellar in the event of an air raid drill. And a happy new year to you, too.”
    My mewling bag and I ankled upstairs, where Jayne was stationed before her bureau marcelling her blond locks. The stench of roasting hair filled the tiny space. I greeted her by propping open the window.
    “Sorry,” she said.
    “It’s not you; it’s this place. If the air circulated once in a while you wouldn’t even notice the smell.” I dropped the bag on the floor and attempted to fan fresh air into the room.
    “Did you hear we sank nine Japanese ships?” Since Jack had shipped out, Jayne had fallen into the habit of announcing war victories as though by doing so she could reassure me that Jack was not only safe but had done the right thing by enlisting.
    “And how many of ours did we sink in the process?” I asked.
    “None that I know of.” She read my mood and left the war behind. “How was the audition?”
    “The only way it could’ve gone worse is if I’d accidentally killed somebody.”
    “Did you meet Peter Sherwood?”
    “He either wasn’t there or was too embarrassed to admit he’d invited me.” The window banged shut, narrowly missing my hand. “In other news, I’m now a detective.”
    She set the iron in its cradle and gave me her undivided attention.“Do I need a drink for this story?”
    “I can’t speak for you, but I could certainly use one.”
    Jayne tipped us martinis while I told her about my day. As I finished, she shook her head and tsk-tsked the contents of her glass.
    “You’re not