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

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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

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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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l pered to me, touched me with their pointed prongs, chuckled slyly at my writhings. I forced my eyes open. Tears came, hot, scalding tears of resentment. I pictured green pastures, cool and quiet, the calm depths of a still lake, overshadowed by faintly sighing willows. Across my mind flashed the remembrance of the strange and mystic hush before a summer's storm, when all of nature holds its breath and waits for the promised rain. The wail of a neighbor's colicky baby aroused me to the agony of my splitting head. Wild schemes of knives and murdered children rushed through my mind, darkly fiendish tortures, worthy of the Inquisition, came to life and were nurtured tenderly. The little red devils returned to laugh ghoulishly and incite me to deeds of horror. Uvercome by pain and anger, I sprang to my feet and tramped danger' ously about the room. If only I dared scream at the top of my lungs, rave and rant until my pentfup feelings were relieved! My heart leaped at the thought of causing a scandal by rushing into that group of bridgefmad, gossiping women, and demanding peace at any price. I grinned maliciously as I imagined their astounded looks and gaping mouths, and smiled inwardly as I prophesied an I'll see you later, Miss look on my mother's humiliated face. Yet I did not dare! A coward, I slunk back into my chair, and stayed huddled there, counting the minutes as they slowly dragged on and on. Never had the bedtime seemed so far away. I gritted my teeth, resolving grimly to keep a stiff upper lip. Eventually I heard my mother's friends go home. One by one the neighborhood radios were hushedg the automobiles were silent. The time when nothing stirs had arrived. Now at last would my aching temples stop their constant throbbing. Anxiously, eagerly, I waited for the pain to disappear. I undressed and clambered into bed. As I slipped into a troubled slumber, one thought stood out in my incredulous brain: I still had my headache' Rita Weiss. 1 V v ' '5' I .I . 'GiQ,-1117211 . ZEZEE L ' Messgsyf S'