Lincoln High School - Quill Yearbook (Jersey City, NJ)

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i tingly thrust his foot into the delicate, cobfweb skirt, leaving a ten-inch rent. Oh! Her beautiful dress! He had been penitential, and miserable, and, of course, she had cried. How little he had changed from those farfdistant days, she reflected. Strange thatshe had not noticed the fact until now. Why only yesterday he had stumbled on the carpet in the hall, and, in falling, had clutched at the taffeta drapes, pulling them off the rod. He would never be a suave, polished gentleman-always the clumsy, backward boy. Hmm . . . was that why she had Hrst loved him? She couldn't remember. At any rate, they had returned that night, all dreams of a conquest at the dance banished from her mind. Dad had been home alone, and he had -sympathized who-lefheartedly with their glumness. Thinking of some plan to compensate for the loss of their first prom, he had suggested taking them to a New York show that very evening. How they had perked up! What a wonderful time they had had! How she had boasted for days to her girlffriends of being in the thick of Broadway nightflife after midnight! The aspect of her first prom had sud' denly changed from drab gray to the pink of her gown. Sitting there on the bed, she fingered the chiffon idly, for the moment lost in the happy thoughts connected with her girlhood. With a painful sigh she came back to the present. Turning the pages of her scrapfbook again, she found many more sou' venirs-leaves reminiscent of a hike, the program of the first opera she had attended, favors from several parties, a Hsweetfsixteenn birthday card with Rusty's boyish scrawl, and scores of others. Tucked in between a photograph and a school pennant was a little, worn, white kid glove, above which was written, Flora's Wedding. She laughed aloudia delightfully unconstrained laugh that filled the room. When fifteen, she had been chosen as one of the bridesmaids for her cousin, Flora-an honor second in importance, at the time, to that of being elected President of the United States. At the party after the ceremony she had noticed how handsome and sophisticatedflooking-sophisticated had been quite a favorite word of hers-the best man, Eric, was. Her romantic mind had watched him jealously, till Rusty had become quite disgusted with her mooning. Then, sometime between eleven and midnight, she discovered that one of her gloves was missing. What a thrill she had received when she saw the fingertips of it protruding from the coatfpocket of handsome Eric! She had hovered eagerly around him for about twenty minutes. When at length he'd become aware of her persistent presence, he had turned to her, saying, Say, infant, will you see if you can find out who belongs to this glove? That's a good girl. And he had flicked it carelessly to her, leaving her staring widefeyed and horrorfstricken at his receding back. Infant! Oh!

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Scraps of Life p She decided that she could not stand it any longer. It was too much to ask of any wife. She had told Rusty before that she would leave him, but this time she meant it. Her mind was quite made up. She would pack her trunks now and leave as soon after that as possible. Upstairs in her room, she feverishly threw clothes into two large suit' cases, afraid to allow her mind to dwell for even a moment on the drastic step she was contemplating. Her love for Rusty she relegated to the back of her mind: she was modern-her love for her husband did not necessarily compel her to live with him, when he was causing her so much unhappiness. No, she would be calm about it all. If he had ceased to have a regard for her, if-but no, she would be calm and poised. Clothes all packed, she must now get together her personal things: books, letters, diary, scrapfbooks. How many of the scrapfbooks had accumf ulated! Her mind clung desperately to these trivial things in an effort to alleviate the alarming pain in her heart. Idly she turned pages, scarcely noting what she saw. An old, old book whose original color must have been reddbut which was now a faded brownishfpink-caught her attention. Frowningly she picked it up, wondering what it contained. Across the front page was written in a delicate girlish penmanship, My Souvenirs-Evelyn Celia Petrie. Age 16. Puzzled, she turned the next page. Pasted on it was a fragile piece of pink chiffon, with the neat heading above it: 'LReminder of My First Prom. The frown disappeared from her brow as she gave an odd choked little laugh. What a memory that brought! She smiled to think that, paradoxical as it might sound, she had not attended her First Prom. Rusty had called for her that night, uncomfortably conscious that this was the Hrst time he was taking Evelyn out. His speechless and dumb adoration, when he had beheld her dressed in a cloud of pink chiffon with tiny forgetfmefnots nestling at her waist, had made her feel flatteringly grownfup and sophisticated. QLittle chance she had for feeling flattered now, she reflected bitterly. His neglect and indifference, indeed, was the cause of all her unhappiness., Gazing once more at the little scrap of chiffon, she let her thoughts go back to that night. Rather primly they had walked to the bus, feeling strangely distant for two who had grown up together. As they rode to the school, her fancies had taken flight into the beautiful realm of make' believe, while she pictured gallant princes kissing her hand and vowing that she was the fairest flower God had made. Suddenly, she had been rudely thrust from her imagined throne by an all too real happening. Rusty, in getting up to ring the bell, had unwit-

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She had then fled for refuge to a little room off the parlor. There she found Rusty, who had escaped from the gaiety of the party. With a sob she had poured out all her woes on the undemonstrative boy, while he fiercely vowed to sock that guy on the nose! She laughed now to recall how many times he had said those words before her tears were finally stopped. What a baby he was! No, Rusty hadn't changed since those days. It was she who had changed. She had grown to demand praise and affection, when she knew well that Rusty's nature was quite incapable of playing the flatterer. Rusty not love her? Why of course he did! The fact that he showed no outward signs was not an indication of lack of regard. Had he ever really showered her with affection and compliments? No! Yet she had known then that he loved her. Whatever had made her think otherwise now? Her scrapfbook incidents showed clearly that his character and personality had been the same long ago that they were today. Rusty had not changed-why-of course-he still loved her. A sudden surge of joy in her heart lighted up her face. At her feet lay the forgotten suitfcases. They would never be used on such a trip as she had intended. She closed the book. It had done its job well. Doloyes Wash' A Headache Where could I escape to? Never before had I suffered so from a headf ache! Every sound was a swordfthrust. The fall of a book was as a ham- mer crushing my brain, the rattle of dishes, cymbals crashing about my ears. I stole into my room, but into its quiet penetrated a murmuring of voices, the raucous shrill of a tinny phonograph, a static radio, from which issued a high falsetto voice, proclaiming the merits of some brand of baking powder. Where could I escape to? I threw open a window for a bit of air, but all that greeted me was the annoying honkfhonk of automobiles, the grind' ing of gears, and the ceaseless roar of motors. I closed the window. My head pounding, I ran toward the living room, only to hear a low buzz, which increased in volume as I drew nearer. Those voices were ominously familiar. With a start I recalled-today was mother's turn at entertaining the bridge club. Hour upon hour, those eight women would sit in that room, endlessly talking, talking, talking. To escape them was impossible, to endure them, impossible. It was no use. Hopelessly I retraced my steps, and sank into a chair by the window. I closed my eyes and held my hands over my ears, striving to deafen myself to the torment of noise and confusion. Stabs of fire pierced my eyeballs. Little imps with huge pitchforks danced before my eyes, whisf