Free Nothing That Meets the Eye by Patricia Highsmith Page B

around, reversed and went around again, broke into squares. Each green romper skipped diagonally to her partner’s corner.
    Miss Juste pounded the beat grimly into her palm. “Lift . . . your feet! . . . Show . . . some . . . life!”
    Miss Pendergast halted obediently at the voice, realized suddenly that she was not to have halted, and pounced onto the music again.
    There was chaos among the dancers.
    Miss Juste was furious. If the class had not been there, she might have vented herself upon Miss Pendergast.
    Miss Pendergast’s colorless lips formed an apologetic “Oh.”
    Again from the beginning. “Lift . . . your . . . feet! . . . All . . . of . . . you . . . look dead!” Miss Juste drummed with the beat.
    The two hundred pairs of feet, heavy with fatigue and boredom, lifted themselves an inch higher.
    â€œLighter! Lighter! You sound like a troop of horses!”
    The enormous bell over the door broke into the music and the tread of feet with brazen clangs. Gratefully, the green rompers stopped and drew breath. The bell went on for thirty deafening seconds.
    The hour was over. Miss Juste expressed complete disgust with the class’s performance, and made dire threats lest there be no improvement on Monday when the visitors came. There was not a word of encouragement.
    â€œAnd I repeat . . . Any girl who does not have her rompers washed and ironed and her sneakers cleaned on Monday just needn’t come at all. . . . And she’ll get a D for the term!” Miss Juste concluded with her last ounce of vituperation.
    The class was dismissed.
    â€œAnd Miss Pendergast, you will practice some over the weekend, won’t you?”
    â€œOh, yes! . . . Yes, indeed!” Miss Pendergast nodded as she closed the padlock.
    When Monday came, the attendance was unusually good. Furthermore, the sneakers and rompers were universally spotless. The class filed in two by two to Miss Pendergast’s finest march. A pungent odor of oil and resin came from the shining floor. The familiar stack of dirty canvas mats had been removed from the corner.
    The visitors sat at the rear of the gymnasium, against the wall beneath the high windows. They were two large ladies in furs and one large gentleman in a black overcoat with his hat off. The three sat, very attentively, with Mr. Fay, the principal, on small straight chairs. The ­visitors and the principal himself were so large the chairs could not be seen at all, and they seemed to be suspended in the air.
    The visitors were objects of great interest to the little girls, and several couples failed to halt when the march stopped. There was a bumping in the lines like a row of dominoes.
    It was a very cold day, but the long windows behind the wire protectors had been flung wide open to show the visitors the fine health habits of the school. The little girls shivered and stood rigidly in their places. Miss Juste pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her big black coat sweater. And the visitors themselves pulled their furs and coat collars closer about them.
    To add to the uniqueness of the occasion, Miss Juste was smiling! Actually smiling, in spite of the cold. And she was wearing a bright red tie with her middy blouse, and black-and-red golf hose pulled up to her dappled knees.
    When the entire class was in couples all around the gym, Miss Juste, still smiling, blew her whistle, at which signal the couples broke up and took their places in the lines for the attendance.
    There were two gaps in the ranks where Grace O’Rourk, who was still without a romper belt, and Concetta Rosasco were to have stood. Concetta’s partner for the dance, Lucia DeStephano, darted suddenly out of line and escaped through the door. Miss Juste saw her. Half the class saw her and knew Miss Juste saw her. But Miss Juste continued to smile as she scanned the attendance cards. The class watched her with fascination. Her face looked different. She was like a