I stopped going to George C. Gills after I skipped the first time. I never called, or came by to return my books…I just stopped going.
It’s not like I wanted to be a secretary or anything anyways. I didn’t want to be like the girls that sat in the front row with their ratted hair, snapping their gum and flirting with the teacher.
I was going to be an actress.
I begged and begged to go to the actors workshop downtown. I had been in all of my school plays for as far as I could remember, I was drawn to the stage, to the theatre. But everyone said it was indecent, and downtown was for dime-a-dance girls and alcoholics.
But I used to sneak away some days. And it was exciting. I would sit and drink coffee in the cafes, and I would overhear conversations, and drink it all in…I knew that somehow, I’d make it there. I’d break away from the social restrictions.
But now there weren’t any.
I woke up that following Sunday, later than usual. I always went to the cemetary on Sundays, but I decided not to this time. I shuffled around my room, and sat in front of my vanity, and looked at myself in the mirror.
I rummaged through the drawers for my brush, and by chance, I happened upon the matchbook I had found on the previous Sunday. I had completely forgotten, in all my new emotional discoveries, about the mysterious young man, and the flowers and the note…
I was going downtown, seeing as I could without questioning. I ran to my closet, looking for something, anything that would be mysterious and…perfect for searching out mysterious men in lounges. Was I crazy? Perhaps.
And, nothing seemed right. All my clothes seemed almost silly…and girlish. I hadn’t gone shopping in ages. I went to my parent’s room. I hadn’t been in there since their death, but, my mother’s closet was calling to me.
And there it was, a black dress, it was fitted, and seductive almost…