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

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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'

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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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