Free Hilda and Pearl by Alice Mattison Page A

Mike was taking down what she said in shorthand, writing rapidly in a notebook. He said he needed all the practice he could get because he was hoping to qualify for a job as a shorthand reporter for the Manhattan district attorney’s office. At present he worked in a music store when he wasn’t here and wasn’t taking college courses at night.
    â€œWhat made you take up shorthand?” Pearl asked.
    â€œI can’t make a living playing the saxophone, can I?” said Mike. The band was now playing for room and board. They were students at City College, glad to be out of the city for the summer. Mike’s father was dead and he lived with his mother, and Pearl thought maybe he didn’t get along with her.
    â€œYou’re good at shorthand,” she said, looking at his notes, which were unintelligible to her but looked impressive.
    â€œNo, I’m not good yet.”
    The small lobby with its knotty pine walls was hot, and Pearl went out from behind the desk to open the door. She propped it open with a rock that was kept just outside for this purpose. She could smell the pine trees when the door was open.
    â€œYou dropped something,” said Mike.
    Pearl felt herself blush and looked where he pointed. Of course it was a hairpin. She bent down for it, wiped it on a scrap of paper, and stuck it back into her hair. The trouble was that fifteen hairpins weren’t enough to hold the weight of the braid, and as it pulled away from her head, it loosened them.
    â€œThey must not pay you much,” said Mike, “if you have to scrape those things off the floor.”
    â€œThey don’t pay me much,” said Pearl. She thought that was rude of him, although she didn’t mind. But of course she could afford hairpins. “There’s no place to buy them,” she said.
    â€œI thought girls were born with a lifetime supply.”
    â€œAt home I have an oak chest with forty thousand,” said Pearl, “but I forgot it. I could buy some, but I never get to town.”
    â€œI go to town,” said Mike. “Come with me. When’s your day off?”
    â€œTomorrow,” said Pearl. She thought she’d like to go to town with Mike. He was good-looking—young, slouchy, always with a cigarette in his fingers or something else: his pencil for taking down shorthand, a leaf, a twig. His hair fell into his eyes and he had a habit of blowing hard upward, as if he thought that would be the same as combing it. She’d been aware of him. He looked like the least friendly of the band members, but he was the only one who talked to her. He was abrupt, that was all. The other two stood if she entered a room—Mike didn’t—but they had nothing to say. “I didn’t know you had a car,” she said.
    â€œI don’t. We’ll hitchhike.” She was a little alarmed but tried to act nonchalant, and then one of the guests came in wanting the canoe paddles, which were kept behind the desk. Mike stood to the side while she handed them over, and she found herself glancing to see if he noticed when she ran her hand over her hair, checking, after she bent down. He was looking at her, not smiling, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
    The next afternoon Mike said it would be easier to get a ride if the drivers didn’t know he was there. “A girl alone,” he said. He waited behind a bush, and with some embarrassment she stuck her thumb out. The first car slowed for her, and Mike jumped out from behind the bush and got into the back seat. “Well, I didn’t see you , young man,” said the driver, an older man, but Pearl thought he’d probably have stopped no matter who was waiting. He talked all the way into town. He was the owner of a dry goods store in Glens Falls. “Now, that’s a nice piece of goods, that skirt you’re wearing,” he said to Pearl. “I can see quality.” It was a narrow gored