Hunched down in the front seat of the car on the way to dancing school, Alice kept scratching away at her rayon-covered legs. “I’m itching like a dog with fleas,” she complained, but her mother kept her eyes on the road. “Shoot. I’ll be scratching like this through the whole dancing lesson.”
Mother, as usual, remained patiently silent. There was nothing they could do about it; rayon was rayon.
Alice thought Frobel Hall was an attractive building, with the windows all around it and box hedges in front. The toughest boys didn’t object to going to dancing school, even if they’d have to scrub with soap, plaster their hair down, and struggle into a suit and polished shoes. The boys from Moses Brown loved dancing, and they’d been scrubbing without complaining since before the war—all except Jimmy Brownell.
When Alice had asked him why he never went to dancing school, he had said, laughing, “What, and wear a monkey suit? Are you kidding?” Jimmy was different. That’s what she liked about him.
Inside, Alice took a seat and smiled at her teacher, a slim blonde lady with a silky hairdo and an enviable long dress that rustled when she walked. Alice’s stringy brown hair was brushed back and caught tightly in a boring-looking barrette. In her straight dress and these darn stockings, she felt really ugly.
On account of the war, the girls were coming in late because many of them had to share rides, and the boys’ suits were mussed up from riding their bicycles. They all scrambled in and filled the empty chairs.
Alice stared at each pair of girl’s legs. About half of them had decent stockings on, and the other half looked as miserable as she was. Their rayons reflected an ugly shine in the overhead lighting, as if they’d been made of kitchenware. Alice reminded herself of her pilot’s silky parachute.
The teacher glided to the middle of the floor and stood for a moment with one hand raised to shush the talking. (She wore Pink Lightning nail polish by Revlon, Alice noticed.) Then she lowered her arm as a signal for the boys to make their choice of partners. Alice felt sorry for Betty Nielson sitting beside her, who was taller than most boys. They were terrified they’d be stuck with her, not being able to see over her shoulder, so they kept their distance. Poor Betty. Teacher would have to assign her a partner, and the boys would snicker behind his back.
For once, Alice was so-o-o glad she wasn’t tall. She was just feeling sorry for Betty when she changed her mind in a flash. Were those silk stockings on Betty’s scrawny legs? Furious, Alice leaned over. “I suppose you’ve never heard of parachutes,” she spat out.
Betty was mystified. “What?”
Alice immediately regretted her temper. “Never mind,” she said.
The pianist banged out the old marching song “Over There!” Disobeying the shrieks from the teacher’s whistle, the boys raced across the dance floor as if it were a football field to choose their partners.
Alice could imagine how it would be if Jimmy were there. He certainly wouldn’t come charging over like a herd of buffalo. He’d be whistling along, taking his time, or maybe even stop to say hi to the teacher or try out a note or two on the piano. Then he’d sidle by the girls, looking them over like doughnuts in a bakery to see which he’d choose. Or he might even turn back to the teacher and say, “Let’s go, Miss, you’re the prettiest of the lot.” Alice laughed out loud. And then, when the teacher would back away embarrassed, he’d come over and choose her. That’d be Jimmy at dancing school!
Alice eyed the stampede. There went Pimple Chin Peter, B.O. Severnson and Lame Larry Baxter heading across the room towards the Hershey twins and Cathy Beaumont. And here they come, Gorgeous George Hickock, Danny from Warwick, and a bunch of his friends. They skidded up to Alice and bowed, one arm in front and the other in back, in the proper fashion. This was always a thrilling moment for Alice, who quickly picked a dark boy with amazingly long eyelashes. He bowed again, glanced at the others with a grin, and took her arm. Alice didn’t quite understand why she was popular, because she wasn’t pretty like Cynthia Beaumont with curly blonde hair. She decided it was because she said what she thought, like a boy, and that made them feel comfortable.
“Just don’t look down at my legs,” she told her long-lashed partner. He immediately did so, and she landed him an “accidental” kick in the shins.
“Oh, sorry,” said Alice, smiling.
The pianist had chosen an easy fox-trot for the first number. They all danced without incident through the first few bars of “When the Lights Come on Again All Over the World.” The teacher had allowed them to chat a little or look around to find their friends from last year before beginning the lesson. But Alice had heard a plane and immediately raced to the window. Taking a quick look and seeing nothing, she ran back and took up her position with her astonished partner.
Suddenly all the eyes on the dance floor were facing the same direction. Something was happening in a corner of the room, and everyone was whispering and chitter-chattering. Alice began pushing her partner forward to see what it was all about and let out a little gasp. There was Sally Nicolosi, red-faced and eyes lowered in embarrassment, dancing with a new boy. This new boy was taller and slimmer than anyone in the room. He had on a handsome suit, not a cheap one like the other boys. He was clenching Sally around her waist grown-up style. Everybody knew the dancing school position was five inches between partners, but this was zero inches in between!
Their cheeks were almost touching, and his left hand was curled around Sally’s and placed on his chest—near his heart of all things! Alice watched as they twirled over the dance floor. The new boy was leading her firmly, but he was staring at a nonexistent horizon with a bored expression! He’s decidedly stuck up, thought Alice, but how impressive! Sally, on her part, was obviously eager for the dance to be over. Her underarms were stained with sweat, Alice noticed, and she never once looked up.
The next dance was ladies’ choice, but not one girl went up to ask the new boy to dance. Alice decided she would. She’d teach that Little Lord Fauntleroy.
She curtseyed in front of him, and he took her arm. But once on the dance floor, he became a waltzing zombie. She tried him out with, “Would you rather be in the army, the navy, or the air force?” But he just turned his head and stared at himself in the mirror as they danced by.
“Well, I guess it’s probably hard to make up your mind, if you can’t talk.”
He ignored her.
“Do you know what I’d like to be? If I was in the air force, I’d be a gunner and shoot down Messerschmitts. Bang, bang, bang—like this!” Alice poked him in the ribs hard three times. Taken by surprise, he doubled over.
“Teacher,” Alice called loudly over the music, “I think my partner’s sick. Would somebody carry him to a chair?”
Some of the dancers turned around, but he’d recovered and straightened up. He gave Alice a very snooty look on his way back to his seat. Alice could smell the snootiness.
Alice found out that his name was Harold Johnson, and his father owned enough restaurants and hotels to pay for a dozen new suits. She noticed her teacher never once commented on his dancing position to the class or, as far as anyone could tell, to him personally. That meant anybody could copy him if they wanted to, but even the boldest of the boys never tried. This infuriated Alice.
“Haven’t you learned anything?” she asked Gerry Romaine, as she grasped his arm and tucked it firmly around her waist. “You’re supposed to hold me like this.” But he moved back from her, embarrassed, and checked the room to see if anyone had noticed.
“You’re all such cowards,” she said to him as they danced off.