Why Aren't You Sweet Like Me??: A Novel

By Carrie Nyman

A pair of newlyweds are separated by war in this emotional, evocative novel inspired by a true WWII love story.
 
Camille “Honey” Shaughnessy and Don Shepard fall in love and marry on the eve of World War II. As America enters the war, and Don is pressured into the service by his father, the two newlyweds struggle to maintain contact. Thousands of miles away, Don becomes a hero, saving the lives of his comrades—but, Honey worries, will he make it back to her alive?
 
Moving and memorable, Why Aren’t You Sweet Like Me?? is a novel based on the actual love letters exchanged between the author’s grandparents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781620060155

Book preview

WHY

AREN'T YOU SWEET

LIKE ME ??

Carrie Nyman

Why Aren't You Sweet Like Me?

Copyright © 2012, by Carrie Nyman.

Cover Copyright © 2012 by Sunbury Press, Inc.

NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 50-A W. Main St., Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 USA or [e-mail].

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at [phone] or [e-mail].

To request one of our authors for speaking engagements or book signings, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Publicity Dept. at [e-mail].

FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

Printed in the United States of America

January 2012

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-014-8

Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-015-5

ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-016-2

Published by:

Sunbury Press

Mechanicsburg, PA

www.sunburypress.com

Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania   USA

For Honey, Uncle Buddy, and Aunt Charline

For Don and Dona

For my husband Dan and our children Briley and Adeline

www.carrienyman.com

Acknowledgments

Thank you Honey for telling me about your amazing life, for letting me read the letters, for being such a wonderful person to talk to and write about. Thank you for doing all that you could for your family. Thank you Uncle Buddy and Aunt Charline for helping me see Honey as you do; you have been invaluable.

Thank you to my husband Dan for supporting me in everything I’ve wanted to do and be. I wrote this book because of you and all your kindnesses. You taught me how to consider others before myself, and I owe all that I am to you and our children: my hope in the face of reason.

Thank you to my family, without whom, I would not have been able to write this novel. I love and honor you. Thank you Mom, Leigh, W. Chris, Jay, January, Bob, Peggy, Mandy, Gabe, Mary Ann, Allan, Cathy, Suzie, Miles, Cindy, Terry, Diane, Chris, Benji, Jeff, Nancy, Jarrod, and Alissa.

Thank you to my friends (who are simply an extension of my family) for supporting this crazy idea: Lauren, Dana, Kerry, Heather, Aly, Dave the Priest, John, Ashe, Mollie, Trevor, Jayme, Debbie, Kristen, Kate, Bronwen, Obrien, Daren, Timmy, Katie, Lexi, Nobuko, Daniel, Scottie, James, Suzanne and Scooter. Thank you also to the girls of ADX.

To my friend and editor Mark: you have been amazing and encouraging. Whenever I went off course, you helped me to remember my goals. I know this book is a labor of yours as well and I look forward to our many meetings at Le Central.

I want to thank my late father, David, who was always first to celebrate my success, even before it was completed. His life and death decided who I wanted (and didn’t want) to be.

Professor Stevenson, thank you for seeing more in a silly English major writing about Wuthering Heights. You taught me more about this craft than any other teacher.

A resounding thank you to the Sunbury Press, especially Lawrence, Tammi, and Erica.

Thank you to Angels & Airwaves, Brand New, Everclear, Weezer, Lady Gaga, Paramore, Iron and Wine, Josiah Leming, and Staind for the music that assisted in my writing process.

Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.

Virginia Woolf

I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion – I have shudder’d at it. I shudder no more. I could be martyr’d for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that.  I could die for you.

John Keats

September 2, 1944

I suppose that I always knew, and that’s why there was no surprise. No, I think I acknowledged it in the past, never understanding what it would mean. It starts in my chest.

Why are they being so nice?

On the drive home from Memphis, everything was fine. Suddenly, they’re delicate with me, noticeably so.

Yes, I’m different now, but I’m still me.

And it cracks. A rift opens over my heart, spreading over my stomach, into my shoulders. Walking up the stairs as the sky darkens, carrying shopping bags, I tilt my head and I know.

This isn’t how I thought it would be.

I pictured falling, impassioned: dissolving. But everything is muted. I feel light as I walk into my room, placing the bags at the foot of the bed. Calm, I turn.

Give it to me. Give me the letter.

I had imagined snatching the paper, almost shredding it. Instead, my muscles constrict: the cracks increasing.

Perhaps it was folly to think I could keep them both.

They utter something but I don’t hear. I can’t even see the telegram as I finger for the envelope’s opening.

1

Drive Me To Distraction

[Honey]

There is a story Mother tells to boys when they call on me:

When Camille was six and Buddy was five, they were playin’ in the garden with their li’l toy cars. Camille had built a tunnel for her car in the dirt there. Buddy came over and smashed it, and so she picked up a hoe and cracked him in the back of his head. We had to rush all the way to Gosnell; there was no hors’pital in Bell or Ville then. Buddy wasn’t hurt too bad, but he got several stitches, and I won’t never let her forget how close she came to hurtin’ someone so close to her. Now, my Honey is the sweetest girl in town, but at the same time, you should also know that if you hurt her feelin’s, she will make you pay for it.

I hated that talk. I was embarrassed by her need for warning. Indeed, I mourned what my childhood self had done to my brother, my best friend in this world. Buddy always tried to downplay the story by reassuring me that it didn’t hurt that bad, that he didn’t need as many stitches as he received, insisting that the injury wasn’t as grotesque as Mother would say (despite her overzealous gesticulating). I don’t remember actually hitting him; I have a vision of it, but only in the way that one remembers being a young child and that’s usually through the eyes of the adult telling the story. I do remember there being blood though…

In the autumn of 1939, Mother and I drove to St. Louis for my first semester at the university there. She had either reminded me of this story, or perhaps it was so hot in the car that I was starting to hallucinate, but at that moment, I promised myself that the volatile person that Mother was trying to caution boys about would not creep up. I would keep her hidden away: locked underground.

The sun was low and golden in the western sky; water glittered in the irrigation ditches as we rode past on the precarious dirt highway. The extended drive from Bell, Arkansas to St. Louis was spent staring out the window and thinking about how I got there. Without a radio to distract us, Mother tried to make conversation now and again but her efforts were half-hearted; it was exhausting to talk and watch the road in that condition. I had offered to drive but she declined. Instead, I looked out at the pre-harvest cotton that stretched forever and merged with the horizon: tall, spindly plants overflowing with snowy tufts, interrupted only by the occasional cypress tree or farmhouse. Glancing over to Mother, the intensity of the heat was palpable: sweat pooled in her slight wrinkles. It was the middle of September and hotter than forty hells in that black Buick.

Camille, dear, hand me that ‘kerchief outta my purse, please.

I obliged. She dabbed at her temples.

No one called me Camille except Mother. Since I was young, everyone’s called me Honey. My cousins teased me about my blonde hair – a gift from my father’s side – calling me a Honeychild, since all the other children in my family have dark hair (though my youngest sister now has blonde curls). We lived in a small town where there were fewer than 170 families near the Arkansas/Tennessee border, and we owned and managed a cotton farm – well Mother did, Buddy helped. But because I was raised to be ladylike and study in my own time, I’d never taken care of the farm, or myself, or had much occasion to take any responsibility as my only job was to prepare for the life in front of me, you see. At the University in Fayetteville, I lived in a sorority house and there were people to do my laundry and prepare my meals, Mother to pay my bills. I had rules and a curfew to keep me out of what little trouble I could muster. At home, Mother or Stella, the Negro housemaid, tended to what I needed and I did what I pleased for the most part, which included reading and teaching Charlotte Ivy (Little C) to play piano. The idea that I would be self-sufficient, accountable and all alone in St. Louis was daunting; I couldn’t lie. Mother never told me what to do or who to be, other than polite. There were certain expectations of who I would become, however.

Mother began to lecture again. She had given a similar warning when I was newly eighteen and on my way to college for the first time. She told me that school was a privilege and not simply a social endeavor; I took this to mean that when I wrote to her that I should not mention boys. She said that with a good name and a good education, I could make it on my own; she would pay for everything I needed to get my Medical Technician degree, but after that, I was alone. The possibilities were endless and she ensured that I would have every advantage.

Before leaving that morning, I went into the beauty shop in Ville (a short drive from Bell) to get my hair done. My hair had darkened a bit since childhood, but I told the girl that I wanted platinum curls, just like Jean Harlow. Taking out a compact from my handbag to admire my hair and catch the reflection of my eyes with the afternoon sun shining in them, Mother read my thoughts and cleared her throat curtly. Her sunglasses obscured her eyes, but I knew what they would say. We have the same ice blue eyes. Little C says we have ghost eyes: knowing, secretive. And I had secrets, of course, as every smart girl does. I did not wish to be transparent for fear that my perceptions would keep others away. I had plans for my life: plans that did not include matching dish towels and neatly ruffled aprons and biweekly bridge clubs. And a woman with a plot is not readily trusted; therefore, I kept my ambitions to myself.

The air in the South at that time of year permeates everything. It has its own consciousness, pressing into your collarbones when you are weak or when you’re least thinking about the risk of heatstroke. I unrolled my silk stockings to my ankles (and Mother's eternal chagrin) but she kept silent, probably wishing she could do the same though her adherence to decorum superseded her want to be comfortable. That day, I had a black gingham dress on that my aunt gave me for my birthday in August, all the while wishing that I forgot to wear a lace-up girdle that was starting to dig under my ribs. I suppose it was fashionable to be uncomfortable for the sake of looking one’s best – something I put too much stock in for most of my young life. I smoothed my dress repeatedly during the trip to make sure it was not wrinkled for when I met (what I hoped would be) my new friends, though I really didn’t have a problem in the friends category.

I began to daydream about St. Louis. I wondered about my roommate, my classes, what clothes the other girls would wear, and if it would be odd being that it was a Catholic school. I was raised in the Methodist church and everyone I knew was either Methodist or Baptist and I didn’t know how their beliefs differed; all I was sure of was that I could not receive communion at mass and that Catholics confessed their sins to a priest, which seemed like a cruel punishment to me. How was one to declare their darkest deeds? And what if you weren’t sorry? Wouldn’t that forfeit any mystery one had? Even if the only true surprises I held was that I may sneak off to smoke, or skip school, or that I resented my Mother for insisting that I take my two killjoy sisters with me everywhere I went?

I held my head in my hand, and leaned against the window, wondering what the fellas would be like, knowing that my mother would not be sitting down with any of them with my brother looking surly in the kitchen (Buddy always thought I was too young to be going out on dates). I could tell him anything, not that I did. In high school, he took to trying to protect me from potential suitors and frightening them away; at first, I found it endearing. Perhaps, he felt like he had to step forward as my protector and provider since Daddy was gone, though I do believe that Mother had her hand in that as well. Buddy wasn’t going to college, as he was busy helping on the farm; he was not given the same choices accorded to me.

This single act of leaving Bell and going on to make something of myself separated me from all of my friends and siblings. Many girls held that a marriage to a good-looking and respectable man with a reasonable income was their life’s goal. I had other ideas. I promised not to land in a situation that I had to pull myself out of like Mother. She found herself in a hopeless situation and still managed to raise five children, pay off the house, the farm, and ensured I always had nice things, and not just for Sundays, neither. It was even more amazing considering that she did this at the start of the Depression. Often, I forgot what an amazing person she was, that I was not appreciative. She’d done it all alone.

You see, one night when I was 10, my daddy, who lived his life as a farmer and a Freemason, got an upset stomach. He took an antacid, which only made things worse. Mother and Stella took him to the hospital where he died of a ruptured appendix. Mother was eight months pregnant with Little C. And I, being the silly and changeable child that I was, blamed my baby sister for what happened; I took exception to her, for Mother’s attentions to her. I hid up in my room, mad and missing the way things used to be. Mother took over Daddy’s responsibilities with the farm and found Mr. Daniels to run the gin. Stella already lived with us, so Mother had help with chores and cooking. And I did nothing. I regret that I was not more supportive, that I detested my youngest sister (who is probably the most adorable and selfless person I have ever known), that my self-centeredness was unwavering. In fact, I believe that’s why God punished me the next year.

My teacher was about to start a spelling test when my stomachache blossomed into a sharp pain in the right side of my abdomen. I immediately stood up, shoving the chair backwards and sending it crashing to the wood floor. Everyone glared at me.

Miss Gilroy?! I’m ill! I have t’ go home! I screamed as I clutched my side.

Oh, no you don’ Miss Camille. You sit righ’ down in yo’r seat this instant! You jus’ don’ wanna take the spellin’ test.

I’d get an A on that test and you know it! I have appendicitis like Daddy did and I have t’ go! I yelled. She cowered, knowing that my father had died recently. Even then, I was not to be trifled with.

Well then, you best get walkin’. She kept on with class as I took my books and started to walk home.

The pain got worse. I upchucked in the Downs’ front yard and I’m not exactly sure what happened after that; I think I passed out in the grass. Aunt Ginnie found me and I had emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix and ended up being hospitalized for close to three months. No one ever doubted what I had to say after that and I always meant what I said.

Relaxing into the leather seat, I reminisced about my childhood home and the previous year, my eyes unfocused. I already missed my dearest friend, Nancy Taylor, the daughter to a wealthy businessman. They owned a farm in Ville and Nancy was spoiled – even more so than me. As an only child, and one who’s mother died when she was a baby, Nancy’s daddy was forever trying to make it up to her that she had to be so lonely; however, most of the time, I felt quite envious of her situation. She was always cheerful, and though we bickered often, she was quite a kick in the pants. I would miss her bubbly laugh, her clothes that I borrowed whenever I wanted, and the gossip that she eagerly supplied.

Nancy often spoke of finding the perfect gentleman and creating a contented life, while I imagined graduating from school and perhaps finding a nice house, a sweet dog, maybe even moving to California or Ireland or somewhere else. I shook off the thoughts of my future, resigning to be happy with the moment as I turned my attentions back to the road immediately in front of me. Life was never more full of possibility than on that day, driving to St. Louis in that black baking Buick.  

2

You Set This On Fire

[Honey]

Mother and I arrived after sunset that Friday. The mall at the university was lined with sugar maples and yellow gladiolas and the sycamores by my dorm were large and silvered over. And of course the grass was lush and surprisingly thick. It was a golden season: deep and dim and better than my daydreams. Perhaps I imagined these things; perhaps the years had made my early memories more vivid, but as we exited the car to get my luggage, a young man appeared and helped me open my door. Tall, slight, and honey blonde, he introduced himself as Jackson.

Jackson? I repeated, regretting my etiquette immediately. I curtsied.

Jackson Gunnelfinger. Please, call me Jack. I live in the boys’ dorm north of here. He turned to my mother. May I be of help with your bags?

Well, yes, that would be lovely. I’m Honey by the way.

Mother gave me a nasty glance. I blushed. It was always hard for me to feel I’d made a good impression with Mother hovering nearby. Jackson grabbed my trunk, and walked up the steps to the dormitory. He kept the door open while we collected my things.

Where to?  His dark eyes gave no hint of surprise at my being there, though the female population at the university was quite small.

I have absolutely no idea…

The entryway was cream-colored and soft in its facets; as we entered, an older woman greeted us and gave me a key to room 203 and asked if she could escort us to the room, which Mother politely denied, seeing her desk was overflowing with papers. Smiling, Jackson politely waited for us to climb the stairs first. The chandelier on the second level gave the hall a buttery hue.

Where ya’ll from? Jackson asked.

Bell, Arkansas, I replied – a little faster than I intended.

I can tell. My aunt lives in Borough.

That’s quite close to Bell! Again, I reproached myself for my enthusiasm.

Yes, I know.

I smiled too much. Turning to the right, I put my things down and knocked on the door in hopes that my roommate would answer, though I was somewhat sorry when she did.

Hello, she said in a flat tone.

Hello! I am Camille Shaughnessy, but please, call me ‘Honey.’ This is my mother, Ms. Shaughnessy. We are very pleased to meet you. I touched Mother’s shoulder as I said her name, but my roommate was clearly uninterested. I hoped visitors would perk her up.

Isabelle Neeswich. How do you do? It was a statement, and not a question. Excuse me.

She turned, went into what I later discovered to be a common room that we shared with two suitemates. At that moment however, it appeared as though she had just disappeared, shutting the door behind her. Jackson, Mother and I walked in together, looking the room over.

Again, everything was yellow. There were two windows, two beds, two desks, but it was evident that Isabelle had been there for a while. Mother remarked about what a lovely room it was, how fortunate I was – not that I was paying attention, as I was acutely aware of Jackson’s presence.

Will you need anything else, ladies? His smile was slightly to the side.

No, I don’t believe so, I answered, grinning like an idiot.

Well, then I shall leave you to unpack your luggage. I was hoping that it would be all right if I call on you tomorrow after lunch…to make sure you’re settled.

I was surprised that he was asking me and not my mother (normally, all invitations went through her). I looked over and she nodded gracefully.

Yes, that would be nice, Jackson.

Jack. Tomorrow, then.

I always did have a tendency to call people what I wanted instead of what they preferred, but I was moderately satisfied with our meeting and did not wish to tarnish it by scolding myself for ignoring his request. He shut the door behind him as he left. I rolled my eyes at my nervousness. Mother sighed. She never stopped worrying about me.

Mother was arranging my clothes in the closet when it occurred to me that she could make even the most menial tasks seem glamorous. She was still beautiful. I don’t mean to say still as though she was older and wasted away (she was rather young for a mother of five children) but her beauty was still striking and I sometimes forgot her charms were not limited to her good nature. Her short brown curls fell just below her ears, and she wore a black frock (that was a bit conservative for my taste) with a turquoise silk scarf and low heels. After helping a while, Mother said she would be going to see a friend of hers which would allow me to get my things in some kind of workable order. Afterwards, I went to ask Isabelle if she had supper yet. She sat at a desk in front of the large window.

Hello Isabelle, have you had supper yet? I saw on the map that there’s a cafeteria nearby—

It’s the building to the west.

She pointed towards the door, never looking up from her book. She understood that I was inviting her, but chose not to accompany me nor acknowledge my intended kindness.

I ate supper by my lonesome. It was later in the evening; I had anticipated finding other students sneaking in a meal before going out with their friends, but I was disappointed. It felt strange to dine alone. Surprised at the time, I walked around campus until after the sun had settled into the horizon, light leaking over the large, stately buildings. Upon returning, I continued to unpack my things.

In the lounge, there were two armchairs, a chaise, and a sofa. The small crystal chandelier was ghastly, and not the best to study by. I read my new chemistry book that evening, hoping to find some kind of diversion. Isabelle kept to herself and the words she spoke in my direction were usually monosyllabic; her warmth only surpassed her graciousness. I tried to read but my nerves were like guitar strings that Isabelle plucked with every unintentional glance and clearing of her throat. No one else had rejected me in that record time before and not knowing why irritated me more. Having just closed my book, two young women entered the room from the other door.

Why hello there! You must be our new suitemate! I’m Ellison Madison. ‘Ellie’ fo’ short. This is Molly.

I stood, elated, and pranced over to greet them. Isabelle immediately stomped out of the room, whispering hicks as she slammed the door.

I introduced myself and Ellie grabbed my hands to sit me down on one of the large armchairs. The girls seemed fashionable, giggling and lively. They were relieved that I had a Southern accent. Ellison was from Georgia, and her daddy did something in business though she wasn’t terribly sure what it was. She was funny, brunette, and an English major. They were both sophomores, and had arrived back at school on Wednesday and were all a twitter for classes to begin.

Molly Burns was from New Orleans: her drawl, unmistakable, though she tried to cover it up. She would have resembled Rita Hayworth if she knew how to do make-up (something I would make a project of later in our friendship).

So what brings you up to St. Louis, Miss Honey? she asked.

Well, I was at university in Arkansas, but they didn’t have the program that I wanted. I was majoring in Chemistry, and I liked it fine, but it wasn’t for me; it may be good if you want to be a nurse and enjoy paperwork and gore and want to live a miserable frustrating life, so I decided I needed a change…what are you in school for Molly?

I’m goin’ to be a nurse…

Ah, well what made you want to be one? I had considered it, I said, trying to gloss over my faux pas.

Note: do not insult professions before finding out the intended occupations of those present…

Well, my mother reckons college’ll help me find a fella. All I want is to be a mother, really.

And though she was like many of my acquaintances from home, whom I sometimes internally derided for their lack of ambition, I liked her. She was cheerful yet understated.

Do you mind if I ask what is wrong with Isabelle? Is she always so…unpleasant? I asked.

That mean ole Yank? You’re bette’ off ignorin’ her. Ellison furrowed her brow. She talked with her hands, like Mother. "Is’belle turns her nose up at us because her daddy has some money and lives in Mass’chusetts. But he went to this school so his little princess has to do the same. I overheard them arguing when ‘e dropped her."

She can’t stand me, I said, looking down.

"Honey, if you put up with her nastiness all hours of the day, you are goin’ to drive yourself into madness. Her problem is that she is a scag and you are not. The girl has no friends and can’t stand her own company, which is why she buries he’self in work. Most likely she’s jealous. But if you were plain and from Nantucket or someplace, she’d be your best friend," Ellie explained.

I had wished that Isabelle Neeswich had another room, but I couldn’t let her sour my time. I was far too keyed up to let that happen. Ellie and Molly kept me up late, drinking tea and chatting. I kept remembering my date with Jack the next day, letting the anticipation fill me up. I went to bed that evening reluctantly, as electricity ran through my legs. I tried not to wake Isabelle, for fear of what further agitation might do to her already gruff demeanor. Nevertheless, I grinned happily, pulling the sheet to below my nose, all my muscles firing.

The following day, Jackson came calling. He gave me pink dahlias. I wore a rich green crepe dress that tied in the back, and I again wore the lace-up girdle so that my waist would be an almost negligible measurement, just like they say in the ladies’ fashion magazines. Isabelle looked up from her book to roll her eyes when he knocked at the door, but I still said goodbye to her. He wore tan slacks with a white button-up collar shirt; cordial and gentlemanly, Jackson opened doors for me and held out his hand while helping me step down stairs. He took me on a tour of the campus, asking me the usual first date questions – so much so that it was more like an interview. As we walked, he mentioned that he played football (which explained the tan), but we didn’t really seem to match, he and I, though I entertained the thought that we were more complimentary. I spent the rest of that week getting to know Jack (as I had to force myself to call him to his face), Ellie, and Molly, and trying not to annoy Isabelle, though I think even innocuous breathing provoked her.

September was a mixture of stress and excitement. I had my first few weeks of classes, Jack had asked if we could go steady together, and I exhausted the rest of my free time studying.

That October, on a Friday, Jackson was in Rolla visiting family. He’d been hard to get a hold of the past few days, but I didn’t miss him much. I went to supper with Ellie and Molly. Because it was a Catholic school and suppertime on a Friday, the cafeteria had tuna fish for the students (no meat on Fridays – though I did think it was odd that fish was not considered meat). Ellie then asked me a question that would breathe fire, heartache, and love into the rest of my life.

So what’re you doing tonight?

Jokingly I said: Most likely…studying in the vicinity of Isabelle. Tryin’ to be invisible.

Come out with us tonight! The boys want to meet you after all I've been tellin’ ‘em ‘bout you, Ellie pleaded. I was taken aback.

"What did you say?" I demanded.

"That you are the most homely, rude, and pedantic annoyance that I have eve’ met…" she retorted, smiling. Ellie always did enjoy razzing me.

You know I don’t know what that word means, Ellie. I playfully stabbed my tuna.

It means that you’re showy about being smart, Honey.

Well I am that… I chided.

I was pretendin’ you were Isabelle fo’ a moment. Come out with us tonight! We’re goin’ to see ‘The Wizard of Oz’ at the Ambassador Theatre! Bobby is my date, not the most graceful or talkative man, but he’s very sweet. And he’s handsome too. Don will be your date; he’s all right, I suppose, but they’re both tall, and graduated last June, so they are a bit older than us.

I have a boyfriend, remember?

"Ah, you have a boyfriend now," Ellie encouraged.

But goin’ on a blind date? That can’t be tolerated, surely.

It’s not a sin to go out to the movies with friends. We just happened to be paired and you haven’t met the friends yet!

What about Molly? I looked to my silent friend for some sort of rescue.

She’s got her own date…or so I hear.

Jus’ a boy I know from lab, Molly said, focusing on her meal, nonchalantly looking around the room as though she was a child in class afraid of being called upon. She wasn’t usually very shy, as she was a curious girl in close company; her reticence was intriguing.

"Her lab partner, she means. She’s had a crush on the boy since last spring…and he went out of his way to be with her!"

No, he did not.

Molly, don’t be so cantankerous. The boy has been makin’ eyes for the last year; he changed partners three times! You reject him over and over – though I can’t imagine why – and yet, when he asks you to go dancin’ this time, you finally said ‘yes.’ Tell me that he’s not head over coffee table for you and I’ll leave you alone!

First off, don’t use five dollar words every time the mood strikes you, and second…it’s none of your business, Molly shut down, focusing her eyes on some facet of the room to look uninterested in Ellie’s conversation.

"None of my business? I’m your roommate and the