Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY)

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Denis Novick Nancy Green Janet Moniot

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Deborah and I talked, she telling me to call and apologize for calling on a school night and I re- fusing out of fear of a repetition of my anguish. The subiect was dropped and our friendship re- sumed to normal, except that I had special hours in which I was allowed to call, and that when Deborah came over she would tell her mother she was going to a school committee meeting. My parents sighed but in spite of it all, welcomed Deborah in our house. Once in a while, I could go to Deborah's house, when she was sure her mother wouldn't be home for a while. We en- dured, however, and these problems were in- significant to us, non-existent almost. We were known throughout the school by teachers and students alike. The former would tsk at us sadly because we never applied ourselves in our school- work, but deep inside they smiled down on us. The kids, well, they saw us as two laughing, friendly faces and thought of nothing more. A summer passed, and so did letters be- tween us, and school resumed. Deborah and I changed little, and we still were two crazy, irresponsible kids. Never home on time, she and I would stop at the old Carvel stand, covered up with stickers, and others above those indicating the age of the bottom ones by a price change. We would buy frozen brown bonnets, a tangy milky vanilla custard cone, covered and inter- mingled with a sweet sticky dark chocolate. Fro- zen, yes, and difficult to bite, and later we hoped it would melt and soften. But it didn't have to for Deborah and me, for we digested it quite well in its original state. I guess it was toward the winter, when the Carvel stand closed and the wind becomes biting, that my parents announced that they had found the house into which we were moving. Although it wasn't that far from my present neighborhood, it was a much newer, more expensive neighbor- hood with long, modern schools and neat, orderly lawns. I guess it was Deborah who faced it first when she asked me if it was an all white neighbor- hood. I swallowed my overdone gaiety and ex- citement abruptly, and nodded quietly, and Deborah nodded back quickly in recognition. Time and events went on quickly from then, my marks getting a little better, I guess hers too. The spring shot up around us, and the days until school would close became less and less. Finally, the last day came, my last day in Winthrop, in this neighborhood, and my last day with Deborah. It was a dry, sticky, sunny day, the excitement of summer bubbled within the hearts of everyone, everyone but Deborah and me. By the time we trudged quietly down the monotonous stairs, the yard was empty of scream- ing, shouting, running kids, who made it their business to get away from the stately old build- ing. Deborah and I were two small figures, heads down, casting long willowy shadows in the vacant, sticky yard, which seemed as large somehow as it did on my first day there. We passed the Carvel stand, and approached the bus stop where Deb- orah got her bus. We stood mumbling words, dumb, silly words that weren't really what we wanted to say. Only seconds passed when the bus appeared before us, sneezing loudly and opening its doors. Deborah and I smiled sheep- ishly at each other, and said, Well, goodbye, and keep in touch , and stuff like that, when suddenly I flung my arms around the girl I had leaned on for two years, the one whose nervy courage offered me protection from the tough kids in the school, and whose adventurous spirit had become a part of me. Tears flooded her eyes and mine, and Deborah stepped on the bus, her shining eyes looking into mine, both our cheeks stained with salty tears. The bus pulled away, and Deborah waved violently, smiling and weep- ing. I stood frozen, sobbing out loud, and through my tears I saw the uncrossable bridge between her parents and mine, the one we ourselves walked cautiously to the middle of, where we exchanged packages of friendship in a fleeting minute. Hurry, hurry before the bridge parts and lets society pass between! At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough to be scarred by it .... ELLEN PEARLSTEIN G

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modeling Susan Pillsbury Lynette Brown Susan Lane