McKinley Junior High School - McKinleyan Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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I decided that I would introduce Cindie to my father before she and my mother had become too involved in conversation and my mother might make a foolish remark. But when I saw my father, I was ready to scream aloud. He was seated in the living room, reading the newspaper, not wearing his tie or his jacket. How could he do that, when he knew I had a guest, a very special guest! Cindie's father never would. But I controlled my frustration, sat down, and began to talk about the cam- paign. Even that, however, couldn't ease the tension inside of me. After an agonizingly long time, dinner was ready, and we assembled at the table. The food was delicious, as Cindie kept reminding us. Mother had probably worked all day long in the kitchen, but the effort could not overshadow the cracks in our good china and the odd plates that had to be used to replace those that had been broken over the years. After dinner we sat around the living room and talked awhile, and then Cindie left. Yes, she left, probably never to return to my house again. I remained in my room for hours, flung across my bed, just thinking. The tears could not even fall. They seemed frozen inside of me. When the phone rang, it jarred me out of my misery. Who would be calling at this time of night? I answered hesitantly, my voice unsteady. It was Cindie's mother. Before I could say a word, she began to talk, very softly, her voice breaking at times. It seemed that Cindie had never gone home that night. Instead, she was found unconscious from an overdose in a loft somewhere in the East Village. Next to her body they had found a note: Thank her and tell her that she is the luckiest person in the world. Her mother knew she had to mean me. Jill Schreiber 9H1 The greatest job of this generation is to raise a better generation. Let not the mistakes of yesterday nor the fears of tomorrow spoil today.

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THE VISIT The scenery outside the taxi window seemed to change from good to bad to worse. Never before had I any doubts about bringing my friends home because of the neigh- borhood. As we turned down my blockthere seemed to be dozens of children running in and out of the street looking for some kind of amusement on this hot summer's day. Cindie talked on and on. I directed the driver to the house in the middle of the block with the red steps. How I disliked those red steps! They had been painted that way so that I could distinguish my ,house when I was very young. After all, the bitter thought ran through my mind, all these brownstones looked alike, one after the other, for block upon. block. The taxi stopped with a jerk, and, as I reached into my pocketbook for the fare, it slipped, scattering all my belongings about our feet. Why should I be so nervous, I thought to myself. After all, Cindie andI had gone through so much together. When we had first met, she had been sitting on the floor at campaign headquarters, licking envelopes and making faces to let everyone know how awful they tasted! Her clothes were almost identical to mine, from the frayed dungarees and the blue T-shirt to the sneakers with the holes in the same places. I had seated myself beside her and had offered to help. From the moment I had seen her warm, friendly smile, Ihad known we would be friends. Each day Cindie had brought a little bit of magic from her world into mine. It was funny how we had never really talked about clothes, or homelife, with one another. In fact, I had mentioned the subject only once and dropped it quickly because I had noticed a lack of interest, even a trace of anger in Cindie's voice. We usually talked about the campaign, his chances of winning, and what effect it would have on our generation if he were elected. I remember the fits of laughter we went into when we were giving out pamphlets and a passerby would make some silly comment. Now, all that seemed to vanish. All I could feel was the shame of my plastic pocketbook next to Cindie's real crushed leather one, the embarrassment of having a patched-up run in my stocking, and a hand-me-down dress with a huge hem on it. I snapped shut my pocketbook and stepped into the street. Cindie's expensive shoes clicked smartly as they came in contact with the pavement, and all I wanted to do was to turn and run away. Instead I went quickly, ahead of Cindie, so that I could walk on the right side of the steps. Perhaps Iwquld be able to hide the cracks in the cement. I rang the doorbell and mother answered almost immediately. She had probably been at the window, watching as we had approached. I noticed that she had really tried to fix herself up for my guest. How could she ever compare to Cindie's stylish mother whose pictures in the society pages each year seemed to look younger and younger? Her crisply starched white apron, that she wore only for special company, had yellowed with age and looked quite old-fashioned, like Something Cindie's great-grandmother might have worn. How I wanted to rip off that apron, but then her dress would show even more, and that would be worse. It was much too long, and the color of her shoes clashed with it. Qcontfdj

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Miss McBarron has enthusiastically organized Graduation rehearsals and arranged for jewelry and other graduation necessities for our McKinley students for over 15 years. Oar sincere thanks to her for making all these arrangements for as. GRADUATES N JQWX 4 E J 't l s . 'fiwfl ' . 5 .E+-' f ' 1 i : t i Q03 Y This is my quest To follow that star No matter how hopeless No matter how far ..... 47