Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/82

 voices crowded his away. Gaylord silently sank into the dark background and she stood before herself a grown woman. He called to her from beyond, but she was too busy dancing with others; too happy with other arms around her small waist to answer his call. She was too busy dancing … dancing with a boy she had just met. A boy named Robert Blake.

She turned away from it and brushed her hand across her eyes, smearing the tears that were slowly beginning to drip down her velvet-like cheeks. In the mirror she noticed their roundness, the slight lift of the cheekbones, the clear complexion. She raised her eyebrows slightly and watched the tiny lines form in her smooth forehead. She wasn't sure she liked her brownish blond hair in a page boy. She wasn't sure it was just right for her. Blake had said he liked it. Gaylord had never said a word about it. Still she hadn't really been around him. But after all, she sat right behind him in their home room. He should have noticed. Everyone else did … darn him … she thought with dismay. Darn him … he must be blind.

Joy mulled wretchedly over her problems, but no solution came to her. She looked at her red finger nails. They're too bright, she thought. And began to peel off the polish.

She wished she had never seen Gaylord. If it hadn't been for Thelma White … I just wonder, she pondered, has he been out with her. He said he thought she was pretty. He's never even told me I was … I don't think he's even noticed my figure. Damn it … well, Bob thinks I'm pretty …

She looked in her mirror, noticing her breasts, small, pointed. She raised her skirt above her shapely legs. Not bad, she thought. She turned and thought the curve of her back good … her hips were about right. She looked at her flat stomach. Her hands came up to each side of her neck.

"I'm pretty," she said. "Lots prettier than Thelma … damn him … I'm a good-looking woman and he's still a baby … let Thelma have him … I don't care … I've got Bob."

Turning again to the moon, she could not shake off the feeling of melancholy. She had never been this way and she found little pleasure in brooding over herself. This was the first time she had ever told herself she was pretty. She had always considered herself just another 72