Free The Body in the Ivy by Katherine Hall Page

Maggie said.
    She was wearing a Villager shirtwaist with tiny flowers, almost a twin of the one her mother had on. Her circle pin was on the appropriate side of her collar. There were a bunch more shirtwaists hanging in the closet, along with a John Meyer suit for church, John Meyer skirts, several round-collared oxford-cloth blouses—the female equivalent of Ivy League button-down shirts, and, in the chest of drawers, matching sweaters. It had strained their budget, but Mrs. Howard had pored over The American Girl and Seventeen to get it all just right. Never mind that “big-boned” Maggie—a sharp contrast to her whippet-thin, petite mother—looked far better in slacks and other casual clothes than in these that emphasized her thick waist, muscular calves, and broad shoulders.
    At last Mrs. Howard stood up. “Wear the new madras Bermudas with your yellow blouse—and tie the blue Pelham sweatshirt around your neck. I’ll see you downstairs; I want to have a last word with your housemother.”
    Maggie started to protest. Her mother had already had many words with Mrs. MacIntyre, the housemother. But it wouldn’t do any good; if Maggie had learned one thing, it was to keep her mouth shut and let her mother do what she intended.
    She’ll be gone soon. She’ll be gone soon. Maggie had been repeating the words as a mantra to keep herself calm for the last hour.
    â€œSure, that will be fine,” she said.
    Maybe she could run back upstairs and change into jeans after her mother left and before the picnic. No, she thought ruefully, she’d be streaming out the door with the rest of the freshmen and their Big Sisters from the junior class, with Mrs. Howard waving a cheery good-bye to them all. The picture of devotion. Devotion to herself. Maggie had never been fooled into thinking that her achievements had anything to do with her. It was all for the glory of the Howard name, the Florence Howard name.
    â€œYou know the ‘Mrs.’ is not a courtesy title, like British cooks. Pelham housemothers have to have been married—and widowed, not divorced,” Mrs. Howard said, nodding in satisfaction. She expected no less of Pelham.
    Maggie didn’t bother to reply. She’d heard it all before, and besides, her mother wasn’t listening. She was rehearsing what she planned to say to the housemother. Maggie knew what that was, too. No, Mrs. Howard would not give her daughter blanket permission —Pelham’s term for the permission slip that had to be signed if a freshman was to be allowed to stay overnight anywhere but at the house of a Pelham student, alum, ordesignated relative. Even with the signed form, students had to notify the housemother forty-eight hours in advance. Mrs. Howard thought all freshmen should be restricted, and that the form—just look at the name the students had coined—was an open invitation to licentiousness.
    The door closed. Maggie stood in the center of the room. It was good-sized, much larger than the one she had at home. One bed was near the window, the other by the door. There were two plain oak chests of drawers, similar desks, bookcases, and desk chairs. Un-bleached muslin curtains hung at the diamond-paned window. The dorm, Felton, was one of the original ones, and the bricks were covered with enough ivy to please even Mrs. Howard. Maggie closed her eyes and spun around, her arms outstretched. When her roommate, Roberta Dolan, walked in seconds later, she was speechless for a moment, then the two girls started to giggle and fell on the beds laughing. It was going to be a wonderful four years.
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    Would she ever get used to the sound of so many female voices? Rachel Gold wondered. Her head was pounding after the picnic and soon she had to go to a meeting in the housemother’s living room—a discussion of the Bluebook, Pelham’s rulebook. There would be another one tomorrow night. What rules could possibly