Mon 21 Feb 66
Life’s just a dance when you’re sixteen! Everything seems just about to happen. I’m a hopeless romantic who loves steak & mushrooms, trees & fields & ocean & stars! I’m in love with life itself. Beales says I’m “in love with love” he’s so ignorant. It’s just his constant effort to feel superior with nothing whatever to back it up. I don’t even fret about loosening up his guard anymore. If he doesn’t send me a KOB at night, I’ll ignore it. I’ll just do what I want and express myself as usual. If he wants to spend his senior year miserable it’s his own business. I’m happy and I don’t care who knows it (even if – like Beales – they think it makes me “less than.”) There’s such a glow over the world I don’t even care that someday I’ll be old. There’s so much to read strapped to a chair I’d be having fun. Currently reading Pushkin’s fabulous Queen of Spades – I love the Russians. It’s a book of short stories and when I finish one and see there’s more I squeeze my eyes tight shut in rapture. This is the first book of my life, I feel. I am going to read all the Russians – I only hope they’re all like him. Frames a beautiful silhouette I bought in Chester yesterday. It’s a picture of a girl turning the pages of a book, which Aynsley says is a Bible and I say is a diary. I only hope I have enough time to unravel the mystery of being alive. Wed Feb 23 – 66 12:50 AM Krissy and I have moved our room around. We are barely speaking so this is a lot more comfortable. Krissy always objects to me lying naked on my covers right under the window but I adore fresh air. We have our bookcases arranged to block our beds and give us privacy. She can have the radiator, I don’t want it (she is a cold blooded reptile). It hisses all night like a dragon and burns you when you touch it. (It calms down – like a horse – if you drape it with a blanket.) Oh, for a room of my own! Going out with Ted Jones. He is something of a status symbol because he is a leader but I can’t get over that he’s shorter than I am! Balding, too. When we dance he BURIES HIS FACE IN MY NECK! It makes me want to lead. When we went sledding I had to ride on the bottom! Now really! I don’t know how much of this my pride will allow. It just doesn’t turn me on which Beales would think is a good thing (or pretends to.) Of course you should date people you couldn’t stand to touch! (See Splendor in the Grass. I rest my case.) He out of sheer inertia is going out with That Barlow Woman so I guess Kris Cairns’ mysterious depths will remain unplumbed. Beales very scornful of my obsession with Pushkin but he’s doing his senior thesis on Hawthorne who I think people read because hair shirts went out of style! Time to haul my pillow in and go to sleep. I like hanging it out the window till it gets good and cold and makes my hair crackle! Miss Wormrest is afraid it’s a secret message to the biker gangs. Sun. Mar 13, 66 I’ve been crying all night. So shocked I can’t believe it. Miss Severstein showed me the file they keep on me in the teachers’ room. It was all bad! Teachers I’ve never had anything to do with wrote bad things about me – Miss Cluny (whose table I’ve never sat at) said I had “poor eating habits”! ) I got the highest grade in her class, the creep! Miss Wienand says I “organize slumber parties for the purpose of disruption!” Miss Lissome was actually surprised I was so devastated “I thought you didn’t care what anyone thinks!” Yeah but these people grade me! Miss Severstein showed me the report she is sending home to my parents –the worst thing it says is that I “am a wild spirit that needs taming.” But why? She can’t say anything really evil because my grades are so good. But why try when that’s not what really interest s them? They want to turn me in Thekla Norvis! If I was my dad, I’d sue! Beales “piled on” by telling me I “flout the rules too obviously.” It’s civil disobedience, that’s what it is! Supposed to be these people’s specialty. Their progressive school is fake. Then he took me into his arms and comforted me. Luckily we were in the biggest wing chair in the East Room or some teacher would have had a heart attack! New motto over my desk: “Do not be anxious for tomorrow. Tomorrow will be anxious for itself.” Fleur and I are going down to the Crypt where we get milk & crackers and read our mail to watch Prisoner of Zenda on TV. May be an old movie but it was one of my favorite books when I was a kid.
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Tues Dec 21, 65
Beales says I’m oversexed and I say he’s right. My father’s oversexed so it’s genetic. (He wouldn’t allow Mom to “fix” the cats because he said, “What would they have to live for?” She fixed them and swore us to secrecy.) But he’s undersexed (so much for a Big You Know What) and it’s a damn good thing because I’m only a sophomore. I long to be swept away like Siegfried and Sieglinde or How Green Was My Valley. On to more practical things. Beales told me he wasn’t giving me anything for Christmas but I found him the most perfect god and onyx tie tack (only $5). I wanted to give it to him where he could thank me properly but he’s afraid to go into classrooms with me any more so I had to give it to him I the Blue Room with all the other couples looking on (blast and retch.) Pity he has the mental and the physical so tangled up. By the time he gets over it some other girl will be reaping the benefits. He was so angry at me for giving him a Christmas present! The creep! I said; “It’s the size of a PIN. Relax already! Take a Miltown!” I’m on the way home and I miss him already. He’s my chew toy and now I have nothing to chew on. My jaws are empty. Sat. Jan 29, 66 A sad ending to what was once so beautiful. I broke up with Beales. I had to or no one else would ever have asked me out. Now I hear my reputation as a Heartbreaking Tease is getting a workout on Boys’ End. It’s so unfair. Girls never get to tell their side of the story. Every time I lock eyes with Beales he looks at me all grim and bitter. So far only one Completely Unacceptable boy has asked me out. (I said I wanted to be friends.) But hope dies hard. Feb 1 – 66 Krissy and I are feuding. There should be a Roommate Keep the Peace Corps. It’s my fault because my jaws are empty and aching longing for a new chew toy. Even her hopeless boyfriend Crow (he wrestles Unlimited!) sent her camellias! And I was jealous. Here are the disadvantages of boarding school: no snow day. We are probably the only school in operation. Wore my new Courrèges dress, go-go boots and slicker hat to chapel – the effect being ruined by having the wade through thigh-high snow. Snuggled up in bed with a cup of Royal Gunpowder – the snow outside sounding like a woman in silk trying to force her way in. (I have the radiator!) Krissy is cutting Romance pictures out of the NY Times but I am feeling very jaded. Try to imagine Phil in a lace shirt bending over me on a boat in Central Park. Impossible. I’d have to do the rowing! Feb 14 – Valentine’s Day – 66 In room 200, personality rot has set in. Krissy is a parasite and I’m a freep (I don’t know what it is either but that’s what she calls me all the time.) We treat each other with the utmost coldness, except when she leans over me to get my pink turtleneck out of the drawer so she can wear it to bed. Why don’t I tell her to stop? Because I want her to stop by herself, that’s why! That way I would be contributing to her moral growth. Beales utterly floored me by asking me out to the Valentine’s Day Dance! He has been dating seniors exclusively since we broke up. He says it could be a “one time thing – as friends.” But wasn’t that our whole problem? On the other hand where will I get to wear my pink velvet dress? I have been blacklisted on Boys’ End as a Boy Torturer. It has been very embarrassing since there are many occasions when he had a date and I did not. (Just my faithful 200 lb protector-companion Fleur. The boys bark when she’s around, and she wouldn’t look out of place with a brandy keg around her neck. But she’s funny and a good soul. I do wish she would stop giving me lollipops. I have a drawer full of lollipops with little sayings on them. Disgusto.) I had to turn him down. I mean, what would be the point? He refuses to dance to perfectly good romantic mood music like She Cried and The Lonely Sea. If I encourage Ted enough I know he’ll ask me. But since I’m definitely only toying with him if won’t do a thing for my reputation. Damn, damn, damn. We’re all trapped in a summer stock version of Gone With the Wind. Wed Feb 16, 66 Beales’ interest in women certainly has flowered lately! I’ve been keeping track of it. Over lunch alone he spoke to That Barlow Woman 100 times, Kris Cairns 50 times, Sofy Perkins (NO ONE could be interested in HER!) 25 times. That Barlow Woman is the one who worries me – he dated her before we were an Us. (He used to make fun of her Bulletproof Bra. She still wears it.) I can’t decide whether she constitutes a threat or not. He did slow dance with her at the dance. (Our eyes met – easily – since I’m a head taller than Ted!) He definitely dates girls for their brains. Flattering? Unflattering? Fri. Feb 18 – 66 Beales waiting tables today with his hand wrapped in bandages. Very sexy! Makes him look like Dr. No or Capt. Hook or someone. I was too proud to ask DIRECTLY what had happened but I grabbed the scrapple dish off our table saying, “I’ll scrounge seconds.” Lame excuse since: 1) It was full 2) Everyone hates scrapple. Bur it gave me an excuse to bump shoulders with Beales. How’s your hand? I ask. He gives me a bitter, war weary wounded hero look. “How’s yours?” I make a paralytic claw and study it. “The usual.” That was our whole exchange. I figured I’d have to find out on the grapevine. I suspect if it wasn’t humiliating he would have told me. Probably caught it in the dish hatch. As I was leaving lunch he caught up with me and walked me down the hall. Told me it got stepped on during wrestling! His face looked so sad I bust into tears and said, “I miss our walks!” He said, “You know you’ve broken up with me three times?” I contested that. Fighting and not speaking are not technical “break ups.” He invited me to his wrestling match. I refused – I can’t stand the stench and Shawn’s pimply back blooding up his shirt is too, too disgusting. Beales said, “It’s a problem that you hate sports.” I told him I love soccer, don’t mind tennis and can tolerate discus but the real problem is he’s unromantic any self-respecting girl must scorn him. He says he ha to go to Tim’s for the weekend but he will write me. He gave me his handkerchief and I took it upstairs and built it a little shrine. I am hopeless. Sun. Feb 20 – 66 Beales is as impossible as he ever was! God! How do I get myself into these things!!! Letter delivered as promised after chapel by Tim’s sister (the horsey one. Th horse should ride her.) It was in Beales’ incredible small handwriting all over a valentine. If the valentine hadn’t been so nice I would have hurled the whole thing (plus all my furniture) out of the window. Here is the whole thing, for the delectation of posterity: “I must admit you rather shocked me Fri. After vast experience in this particular line I thought I would know what to expect and when. I wasn’t much surprised by your breaking up, because I understand how it feels to be taken possession of and because of our longstanding argument about Scotland.” (PS – Scotland had NOTHING to do with it! He wants me to go to the U of Edinburgh with him and I said I couldn’t live anywhere without trees. He is a complete idiot. But back to his note – “The whole business didn’t (and doesn’t) bother me much because there was (and is) a whole list of girls I wanted to ask out. I’d always wanted to ask Kris Cairns out to find out what she was like and I did and we did and I still don’t know. What was disconcerting was I didn’t know whether you had commenced to hate my guts or not and it was somewhat of a weight on my pride whether you did or didn’t. Now that particular anxiety has been alleviated and I am able to feel smug and satisfied with myself again I can see that a lot of the reason I wanted you around was to mend a badly shattered pride. The other part is I wanted someone I could really communicate with and you’re the only one I’ve had any success in that dept with – the only one in this entire establishment. Next year is so filled with uncertainties I feel inclined to cling to anyone and anything affording the least bit of security. I’m sure it’s psychologically healthy to date around but I’m not convinced it’s good to know next to nothing about a large group of people when you can know a lot about one. I trust I make myself sufficiently obscure.” You sure do! I guess this is what being married is like. Someone is totally maddening and you spend a lot of time wishing they would fall off a high building and yet their very maddeningness makes them interesting if you know what I mean. Such a strain making conversation with Ed Morehouse and Ted Jones and all the other freeps that ask me out. Oh to have someone you don’t HAVE to MAKE conversation with, even if it’s the devil you know (to quote Shakespeare). Beales should thank his lucky stars I understand him better than he does himself. Monday, June 7, 1965
I was in the Tower (toilet) studying and I overheard quite an episode. Miss Lissome was talking to this girl who apparently slashed herself with a razor over another girl. Miss Lissome was very understanding – a little too understanding, if you ask me. This is probably why Beales’ parents think the school is too liberal, because they hide stuff like this. I kept completely quiet and they didn’t know I was there. Apparently they don’t think she needed stitches, but I never got to see her because she went home next day. That’s one way to get out of exams. So far I got a 95 in Bible, (I’m an expert on the Zealots if I do say so myself) a 98 in English (Steinbeck, Steinbeck, Steinbeck - the only A in the class) and I’m fourth from the bottom in Math (sigh). Krissy and I were in Girls’ Doubles and I came in second! Right now “Baby the Rain must Fall” is playing on the radio and I’m getting ready for the freshman-sophomore class party. Gotta go! Plumly School - Mon. Nov 1 – 65 Xaipe is the Greek for “be happy!” So onward and upward with the Adventures of Me! So with mighty thoughts I begin a New Journal. I love looking at all this white paper, aching for words! Am I a crab, a genius, a spastic or a mental case? Here’s a chance for a fresh start! I love tossing an Old Diary over my shoulder and vowing, “I’ll never be such a clod again!” One should never be limited by the past. Lying on the bed during evening study hall. My best friend Krissy is writing KOBS to all the boys in her classes so she gets AT LEAST SOME back. Percy Faith is tinkling out Themes for Young Lovers. It’s putting us in the mood for growing up! Here’s a thought for the day, “You can’t be happy if you’re never sad.” It’s wonderful having a diary to talk to. MUCH better than writing KOBS to God knows who. Here’s my pledge: 1) NEVER fool myself (it’s all right to fool other people) 2) Write in my diary A LOT 3) Make up my own clichés! Tues. Nov 2 - 65 It can’t be healthy for a fifteen-year-old girl to fall this much in love! And I don’t think it’s good for men to give us this much control! But Beales is as close to perfection as a man can possibly come! He’s a senior so the relationship Nazis dishing out social warnings pretty much leave us alone. The only thing wrong with him is his name, which is so awful I have to call him by his parents’ moniker. Aallyn is not the greatest name in the world (everyone spells it wrong) but its way ahead of Leslie! I keep telling him he needs a new name like Caspian, Blue or Swift Hunter. Something with class! When I’m with Beales the simplest things are fraught with satisfaction. I love just touching his face to see if its still there! When he strokes my fingers I get so worked up I’d be lost if we weren’t Prisoners of the Tower watched by jealous sex-starved guards! One thing irks me about Beales. He will never say he loves me! He says he’s “saving” that word! I don’t care for savers – I’m a spender myself. But I’m not going to say it if he’s not! Sometimes I think he’s just on the verge…he wrote Te Amo on a KOB! That doesn’t count! No English no laundry, buster! I suppose the odds of us marrying are a billion to one. I suppose it’s better if we DON’T say we love each other! Then we’d have to be afraid of “fallout” (falling out of love hehehe. Fri Nov 12 - 1965 Am I stupid? The worst of being stupid is you wouldn’t know you are. I know I am on the honor roll but THAT sort of intelligence doesn’t count. (A determined monkey could do it – with the proper rewards.) Beales tells me I am dumb all the time. He says it teasingly but it’s starting to bother me. Then he says, “Actually you’re very clever” but the seed has been planted. It’s awfully wearing to be in love. In fact its getting worse and worse. I only go to meals so I can get a glimpse of the back of his head. He’s got SUCH a sexy neck! He’s going to college next year and he’ll find a new girl to torture (and if she’s smart she’ll torture him back.) Then he’ll work in a bank like his father for a few years and then he’ll get married. It’ll be all moonlight and roses for HIM. He won’t lie awake at night worrying that he ruined my reputation and my academic record! So maybe it’s fortunate that he’s got brakes enough for two. I can just hang on him and drip dry. He won’t French and he won’t kiss me very long (Mark Jonas used to kiss me so long I thought I’d die from lack of air. The least sinus condition and I would have been a goner.) It’s hard to respect someone who won’t French. It’s like they’re worried you’re diseased. Going down now to Gifsto just hoping I’ll catch sight of him (sometimes he fills in there.) I just adore the way he walks – he’s got a real “athlete’s roll.” When he catches sight of me he pulls my hair. Tenderly. He can pull it out so far as I’m concerned. Ah me. Sat. Nov 13 – 65 Are there deeper layers to love? Yes there are and I’m going down for the third time! The main thing I have always loved about Beales is his savoir-faire – but now that I’ve seen him play soccer – Ooooo! Those black smudges beneath his eyes! Wonder if I could get him to wear them to the Christmas Dance…ahem. Unstick my thighs. Probably not; and it’s better that way. Otherwise I might take his precious virginity and crack it in half. Mon. Nov 22, 65 Woman does not live by coffee alone. So I have taken two aspirins and lie down in a blue & white soccer shirt (Beales’) and a pair of pettipants. All that’s wrong with me is too little sleep, love & coffee (illegal for all but seniors so of course we drink it like mad.) Sat night was “unscheduled” so we could do anything we want. (Usually we have “mandatory entertainment” Last week some guy released his damn bird to fly all over the audience. You figure it out.) I was hoping Beales would kiss me and eventually he did, saying, Funny how important kisses are to a girl!” So I slapped him. (Wasn’t a very hard slap.) We went to sit coldly on opposite sides of the room. Finally he said, “Did you ever wonder if we were just specks on a giant’s drinking glass and when he puts us in the dishwasher we’ll be done?” “And I said, “Ever read that Dr. Seuss story about the men in the dust?” So we went to sit closer and he told me all about his Problems with the school newspaper the Blue & White (of which he is editor: “All the news that fits we print”.) Boo hoo. It seems people are always trying to publish exposés about the stupid soccer coach who only cares about winning and is constantly risking the players’ lives and the faculty won’t let them. Thought of a relevant Beach Boys song but didn’t sing it to him since he thinks the Beach Boys are degenerate. Poor Beales is tasteless – didn’t I mention? And only likes classical music. Just pitiable, like being colorblind. Classical music is all right if you need to get to sleep but there are times for hotting up, if you get my meaning. Poor Beales acts like he wants his entire life to be a tranquilizer. I faithfully transcribe his entire KOB: “Please don’t try to understand what I almost or didn’t quite get across tonight; it doesn’t concern you.” (Flattering.) “What I meant to say, or observe, is that I don’t think there is anything very sacred about kissing a girl” (poor wretch) because, after all, one’s fancy and oneself are bound to change sooner or later with time and I guess I just laugh to assert the fact to myself or anyone who happens to be listening” (the girl, perhaps?) and I detest any relationship which devolves to the point where a date can only be rated successful if you kiss so one feels obliged to do so.” (Is he depressing or what?) But this doesn’t concern you, really, because with you I don’t have to or want to change myself. You probably don’t understand this.” Or like it! No – his problem with kissing couldn’t have anything to do with me! Pure Beales - especially the semicolons. (As you have no doubt noticed I am more of a dash myself.) In my return KOB I quoted the Song of Solomon; “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” (Bible.) That shut him up! I am reduced to fantasizing about Phil last year – he was good at finding private spots (the trunk room! The observatory!) where he once tore my pantyhose he became so excited. What a pity people have to graduate. Or change. Or be so TOTALLY unpresentable in public. Thursday, May 13, 1965
Class pictures. I call mine Lady Horseface (horseface with a flip) but Beales liked it so much he bought a frame for it. On the other hand Beales’ picture makes him look like a character in Wind and the Willows. I guess it’s all that hair. At 7:15 while I was under the hairdryer I got a call from my parents. I was accepted into theatre camp! I cried and told everyone. Even Krissy said she was happy for me – probably because I gave up Rich “The Impossible Dream”. I’ve been happy ever since - hard to contemplate a summer in Brockton. When I’m this happy it’s hard to write – I feel like an overgrown exclamation point. That’s probably why all great writers were miserable human beings. Sunday, May 16, 1965 I’ve got my lamp on even though it’s lights out so I’ll probably get caught but I’m too excited to mess around with that cheap plastic flashlight. Besides, Krissy is up and messing around with her scrapbook — she flew home this weekend for her home Junior Senior. My parents would NEVER do that. Fortunately the Rez sounds like the German army whenever she makes a move - we’ll probably hear her coming. Krissy bought me an ice cream cone so I carried her luggage down to the racing shed which is where you catch the van. She said the school doesn’t look so bad when you’re leaving it. She sounded positively nostalgic. I think it looks like a Victorian insane asylum at the best of times. You can almost see the place where the Home for Incurables sign used to be. I was afraid all this nostalgia meant she was bound to be killed in a plane crash, but no such luck. I still have to share a room. When Heidi Weiss’ roommate was in a car accident they let her use the infirmary bathroom which is the only place where you can take baths. I heard she was furious when her roommate came home and now they’re not speaking. Saturday night was Camp Suppers. As usual the freshman girls were in every room but their own trying to find out what everyone else was going to wear. “I’m wearing white jeans and a red shell.” “I’m wearing my new green shorts.” “I’d wear shorts except they’re madras and they’re ripped.” It’s the little things like this that make us different from the animals. Fortunately for me (if not for Beales) I don’t care whether I’m in style or not. I’m a trendsetter, rather than a follower. I wore my sweatshirt inside out because it has a really interesting pattern on the other side. “Camp Suppers” is basically a cookout down at the lake. I had three hamburgers and a hotdog but it’s not as much as it sounds like. They stamp on the meat to get it as flat as possible and then they cut it with cookie cutters. Really! I’ve seen it! Then there was oatmeal with raisin cookies and brownies and in and out canoe races. Once you’re out of a canoe it’s really hard to get back in. Beales was angry at me because I was laughing so hard we didn’t win. He says we didn’t win because I couldn’t get into the canoe because I was laughing and I think we didn’t win because he couldn’t get into the canoe because he was angry. This is why when summer comes I will just drift elegantly away. Men! Beales is too much work – dating him is like taking an extra class. Even Kip is starting to look good. Beales thinks he’s got me figured out (he’s a straight A student so he thinks he’s smart) but that’s my protection - like an armadillo shell or porcupine quills - I make myself deceptively simple. I got even with Beales by challenging him to a tree-climbing contest. Trees love me. I couldn’t fall from a tree if I tried. Beales was afraid and he didn’t want me to know he was afraid. Tree-climbing is just not his sport (I’ve seen him throw discus with those huge hairy arms.) But when we got to the top I made it worth his while - we made out. I have a psychic sense of when someone is going to kiss me. Beales turns out to be a shy but impassioned kisser – he kisses all over my face. You don’t have to worry how far a boy is going to go if you’re in a tree, so I could really give myself to the experience. We didn’t go in till a quarter after ten and I spent the rest of the night in deep thought. Maybe Beales is bearable after all. Friday, May 28 1965 I’m in a paper-wasting mood. I feel like joining some of the great paper-wasters of all time, such as the authors of The Spy, The Deerslayer and the Old Curiosity Shop got nothing on me as I natter on endlessly and speculate about my life. That’s all this school really teaches you - the Art of Hedging. Teachers love it. When what you really want to do is just give way to violent gusts of passionate hatred. My goal as a writer is to slowly seduce my readers into a hypnotic state from which they only gradually awaken wondering what time it is with numbed sensibilities and no memory of what has transpired. Heh heh. Saturday, May 29, 1965 Diagnosis: summer sickness. The patient must get up, put on a gypsy dress, minimum of makeup and sit calmly in a bus for one hour. Then the patient boards a plane, cracks a book and rides to her destination, which is ANYWHERE NOT HERE. That’s if the patient is not too sick to make it through finals. If only I hadn’t used up my meal pers I could go into King of Prussia and make whoopee. But sometimes its fun to do something illegal. I could get someone to check me off at lunch. Of course I’m already in trouble for shiking into other people’s rooms at night. And then there’s the Hitchhiking Episode –which apparently I’m never going to be able to forget. The only people, apparently, who stop for hitchhikers are: • Maniacs • Little old ladies who want to give you a lecture and then drive recklessly • Perverts - who travel in packs • Escaped convicts who just stole this car and can’t figure out how to work the damned thing. All the escaped convicts I’ve ever known were deeply courteous people, but I guess I just have the inner light a little more than SOME people I could mention. Friday, June 4, 1965 Beales invited me to Casper the Grasper’s (his real name is Bad Karl) for tea. He’s the elderly pornographer who has apparently fastened on our school for some reason it wouldn’t take a fortuneteller to figure out and either throws or goes to all the parties. When I was in the Shakespeare play I was standing right on the edge of the stage, emoting away, and then I saw him in the front row staring at me through binoculars. I mean, the man was looking down my pores. I forgot every line in that one moment. Debacle. However he has a fabulous house and apparently it’s a great honor to be invited there. So of course I’m curious. For a person who wants to be an actress and a writer I’m not very observant. I’m always in such a fog I’m the last person in the world to know what’s going on. Guess who turned out to be also going - sans date, of course. Rich! And I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he still has feelings for me. Can a girl and a boy just be friends? Now I’ve got Beales and Krissy’s got Crow and Rich’s got nobody, which is no one’s fault but his own. Many lonely midnight violin solos at Boy’s End. So I have to admit – I hate to admit – I tortured him a bit. Beales was not pleased. But the sense of power does go to your head. Actually I’m tempted to break up with Beales just because of this awful book he gave me. He said it was the best book he ever read, and it turned out to be a real stinker – the meaning of which, apparently, is that nothing has any meaning. The girl treats the guy horribly and he gets back at her through some sci fi device that freezes her. I’m sorry I now know anything about the inside of Beales’ head. It’s a horrible place. I’ll just stick with his lips, thank you. So I should probably write about Casper’s. Casper has a wife but they have separate rooms. (I know because I snooped.) So do Beales’ parents, I was shocked to discover. Maybe this is more common than I knew. (His parents worry Plumly is too liberal. If they only knew. What they really mean is its co-ed, which is undeniable, and there’s dating, which is a fact, and that whenever we get the chance we all pounce on each other like randy bunnies. Which does happen occasionally. But the teachers and the kitchen staff are the dangerous ones if you stay away from them you’re Ok. ) Beales says “everyone knows” the way to kill sex is to get married. (This from a guy who was carded when he tried to order a crème de menthe parfait.) I’m not taking sex advice from a virgin who is afraid of trees and an incredibly bad canoeist. My father embarrassed his children horribly all across Europe by refusing to take single bedded rooms for him and Mom. If they didn’t have a double, no matter if it was almost midnight, we had to look for another place. But you see I’m having trouble describing Bad Karl’s place. What kind of a writer always talks about herself? Ok. It smells bad. That’s number one. You can’t put your finger on it. Whenever my mom smells something like that she says its drains, so that might be it. Casper can’t see and his wife can’t hear and they probably can’t smell, either. When one sense goes, the others can’t be far behind. The house is full of dusty books and bizarre engravings. Bad Karl’s favorite kind of books are called Belles Lettres - the only category I’ve never heard of. I’m sure the wall of books swivels around revealing a dank staircase going down down down if you press on it just right but the smell was too bad to remain in the house long. We spent most of our time in the rose-garden – they have beautiful roses – apparently Mrs. Grasper is a rosarian, which I thought, was either a religion or a men’s club. It may be that what’s bad news for drains is good news for roses. The food was fabulous – Napoleons have always been my favorite – and although they had boring tea they had flavored coffees too. Conversation was a bit difficult – Beales mentioned his paper on euthanasia and we got a 20-minute discourse on their trip to China in the 1920’s so I think Mrs. Grasper thought he said Youth in Asia. If it hadn’t been a blazingly hot, sunny afternoon they would have forced us to watch a slideshow. I got to listen to a description of Bad Casper’s alopecia, which – trust me – is not a plant. Then at the end each girl (there were three of us there and five guys) got to cut a rose. Of course we didn’t know that Casper was going to pin it on us. Here he comes at me, quivering hands holding a large pin and his eyes fixed on my bosom and Beales doing not one thing to protect me. Even Rich got into the act trying to hold my dress away from my skin so I wouldn’t get “pricked”. I’m telling you it was dangerous. And of course I chose a hugely overblown flower on its last gasp that was dead by nightfall. Like my respect for Beales, who tries to claim that Casper, who holds “sexuality seminars” at his house for senior boys is anything other than a dirty old man. And I mean dirty in all senses of the word. He’s given up ever changing his pants, for example. Prof. Grasper’s favorite word is “juice”. You wouldn’t want to catch whatever he’s got. It’s a good thing I’m going to camp. Preston has written me a letter wanting me to go to Valley Forge with him. Looks like I’ll have to discipline him somehow – if possible. Plumly School - THURSDAY, APRIL 8, 1965
Back at school - good to be back. Sunday in Washington we went to the Smithsonian and saw the Air Force and Space exhibits. They had Lindbergh’s and Wright’s first planes. Hard to believe anyone ever had the nerve to jump off a cliff in one of these plywood gliders. We also saw a spaceship and the Foucault pendulum. It always goes in a straight line but the earth is turning under it. Cool. Lots of people say the concept of space makes them feel small - it doesn’t have that effect on me. It makes me feel big to be a member of such an important species, even when I’m practically failing math. Attempting to explain this idea to Genevieve got me nicknamed “The Wonder Girl”. She is too sarcastic. We saw the First Ladies’ inaugural dresses – the one I wanted was Abigail Van Buren’s. Daddy didn’t like the exhibit. He kept saying, “Boy, she was one big babe!” We all agreed Bess Truman’s was the absolute worst. Genevieve called a friend from Plumly and we went on a double date (he isn’t really her boyfriend.) We got to drive around Washington in a convertible, and went to see The World of Henry Orient, which we thought, was supposed to be funny but was actually sad. Genevieve had to leave because she was bawling uncontrollably but apparently Jim didn’t mind because he wanted to be alone with her anyway. I didn’t mind my date, Dick. He was all right. When we got back to the car we discovered someone had blocked us in and we had to drive several hundred yards on the sidewalk. Fortunately there were no cops around. It was really late at that point and we had to get back to the Fairfax so we could wake up early and go to Plumly next morning. Plumly! How I’ve missed you! THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 1965 You probably thought I was dead it’s been so long since I’ve written. No such luck. Still imprisoned in this mortal coil. Phil broke up with me for no reason at all, and the boys who have asked me out since then are hardly a promising lot. Barry I turned down on principle (I don’t want to be seen with him) and Jed worries me. He’s just weird and I don’t think it’s a good weird. He’s like those guys who get arrested for shooting a lot of strangers. He’s obsessed with the military, which does not bode well. I can’t figure out why Phil broke up with me, although he said it wasn’t me. At least I don’t have to worry about his hair any more. He used to style it into a kind of dog-doo pile on his head and I just couldn’t get him to stop. It’s a shame when a girl has so little effect on a guy. Krissy and I aren’t speaking because we both want the same boy and at the Stone House pep rally last night it looked like I had him (we were having a balloon fight.) Richard Johnson is English, he’s very good looking (an especially good body, very manly) and he keeps coming to talk to me at my workjob, but he doesn’t ask me out so I think I’m going to have to sacrifice him to keep the peace on the home front. He’s making me do too much work. Some guys at Boys End don’t believe in dating – mostly the intellectuals – that makes it very hard. They want us to just sort of come together by suction, like amoebas. Thank God for the jocks. They like to know what the game is and the rules are – if it wasn’t for them we would fall into chaos. He also doesn’t send KOBS and my parents have been making noises like I’m too young to go to the Junior/Senior. So it’s probably hopeless anyway. I’ll have to do what all the other lovestruck idiots do - concentrate on English Lit. MONDAY APRIL 19, 1965 Up to the minute report: I got a 91 in English History, which was a great relief. I don’t mean to sound conceited, but I’m the smartest one in that class (and I’m including the English teacher.) I got 100 in English grammar, which is truly amazing because I usually don’t do well in courses I have a serious philosophical beef with. (Much of English grammar is just plain ridiculous.) I know you want to know how the Rich race is going. Well, it’s a disaster. The more distant I get with Rich the more interested he gets. Not enough to ask me out, just incessant hanging around. Krissy was asked to the Junior/Senior by Crow the sumo wrestler and she’s going with him because he’s a date. He pays her a lot of attention, sending her balloons, flowers, cards and good FOOD with which you could buy anything – I mean literally anything – at this school. It’s a tragic commentary on life in this mausoleum that a steady supply of English toffee ice cream could enslave the hardiest. Still, Krissy refuses to give up on Rich but she doesn’t have a chance – I can see that now that I know him. She dimples up, talks baby talk and teases him in a too-obvious way. He’s very polite but there’s a distinct danger that she’ll get thrown up on if she keeps this up. I’ve discovered that Rich loves sailing. Obviously I have an edge in this department. Poor Krissy doesn’t know a stanchion from a stallion. We were both talking to him after dinner last night and I discovered she’s been sending him KOBs with bubble gum in them – was I surprised! I think she’s making herself cheap and I’ve half a mind to tell her so. I must say I was looking goddess like in white Levis and a red shell on my way to checkout. Krissy, alas, looked like the fifth Beatle. This Carnaby Street thing is not working for her. This afternoon he was hanging around the pay phones when I went to call Mom and Dad. He always acts like he was waiting for me, but I’m starting to think it could just be an act. He was holding his violin because he was supposed to be having a lesson but for some reason it didn’t happen. He played for me. I asked him why he doesn’t join orchestra but he said they were too brassy. He told me about how he’s been suspended from two schools (he never told Krissy this but I’m not surprised – Plumly is Last Chance Gulch for far too many persons of the male persuasion. He also told me he has a crush on his Big Sister (it’s Sydney Close) so not too surprising but still tactless of him to discuss it in front of me - another strike against him. As we were separating he took the red light bulb out of the exit sign and gave it to me as a kind of memento. I thought it was sort of cute but I guess I can see why he keeps getting suspended from places. WEDNESDAY, MAY 12, 1965 Krissy’s on a meal per and I’m skipping checkout which makes a deten but I’ve really let my work pile up so I’m just going to work through and catch up. Starting any minute now – soon as I finish this. My pictures came today – I can’t help wishing I didn’t look like that. One of my eyes is bigger than the other, my nose is crooked and I have a lopsided smile like an alligator. Still I was able to send one to Preston Pugh, he’s been begging me. I have to admit I am encouraging him because there’s a lot of status in getting mail and I was also worried I wouldn’t have a date to the Tennis Court dance and I would have to import him. (I would die rather than make the first move with that sly sunuva Rich.) Fortunately neither of these horrible eventualities came to pass – the junior class has just discovered I’m alive and four boys have been asking me out steadily. Still the most promising candidate is Beales – he’s going to be class president next year – senior class – so that’s cool. He’s clever and funny but somewhat lacking in the height department. Little does he know I ‘m attracted to big blonds with hairless chests (sigh.) Beales is very hairy – he’s a tennis player and all this black hair is sprouting every which way out from under his whites. When I told Rich I was going to the tennis court dance with Beales I was hoping for a little jealousy but instead he told me Beales has the biggest you know what on campus. I thought that was an odd remark and it makes me wonder a lot more about Rich than about Beales. (Krissy can have him. She may discover she’s bitten off a mouthful of cotton candy – precisely nothing.) Still, judging from slow dances with Beales, I think he may be right. I really like Beales and he seems to be totally smitten with me (he always calls me “The Lady Alysse”) but I can’t wear really high heels with him. Tonight was a Turnabout dance - late dating at the Cabin. Beales seemed to think I should ask him – so I did – and now we’re a Couple and nobody will ask em anywhere unless we have a Public Break Up. Oh well. Fun so far. I am writing a book report on The Way to the Lantern for French History – it is about an actor who said he takes comfort from history, that people were born, made love and died. I wish he hadn’t put the dying part immediately after the making love part – this is the kind of thing that worries us virgins. For fun I am reading a life of Fanny Kemble. She is a very interesting person although I find her comments on theatre and acting pretty hard to take. For a Victorian she was pretty wild – always knee deep in rushing brooks, climbing lofty crags and throwing herself full length on the hearthrug. Very reminiscent of You Know Who. When she was an old lady toting up the experiences of wonder and joy that had been hers I got depressed trying to add up mine. Sadly few. Then I remembered I’m only fifteen, not eighty and I cheered right up. Some time left. Must remember to live abundantly with a fiery heart so that I have some youthful glory too to warm me in my old age. |
Alysse Aallyn
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