Thursday, April 20th, 1939
8:15 p.m.
Yet again, Carol felt as though she had embarrassed herself by crying so much in front of Harrie. Was she always this sentimental when she went to the movies? She couldn't recall having seen such a back-to-back string of pictures where she left the theater in tears. At least this week she had remembered to bring along her handkerchief, and one extra to spare. Harrie might have been chuckling a bit to herself watching Carol cry again, but she meant no harm by it.
"And how does Wuthering Heights the movie compare to Wuthering Heights the book?" Harrie asked as they picked up their jackets and bags from the seats next to them. She had waited until Carol could compose herself before moving from her seat.
Carol raised an eyebrow. "It leaves a lot to be desired. It's terribly romantic and all, but… "
"But?"
Pulling her bag up onto her shoulder, Carol adjusted the strap and searched for the words she wanted to say. "Sometimes I find the movie version cuts out key components to the development and understanding of the characters."
Harrie stood with her head tilted to one side, watching Carol struggle with her bag again. "I'm kind of hungry. Would you like to go to the diner around the corner? You can explain more about this book versus movie thing to me."
"Lead the way."
Harrie fiddled with the straw from her milkshake, blending the ice cream and whipped cream together into an even frothier concoction. "Okay, since about half the book and a few main characters seem to have been chucked into the bin, what did you actually like about it then? Laurence Olivier?" Lifting her head, Harrie wagged her eyebrows and stuck out her tongue.
"He was so filthy for most of the movie." Carol replied. "He did clean up real good though in the end."
"That he did."
Carol could certainly play along like all the other times she went to the movies and talked with her friends after the show. Just play along that the male leads were nothing but dreamy and gorgeous. They certainly were; however, they were never the ones who first caught Carol's attention when the curtains went up.
Frankly, she hadn't been honest with anyone, let alone herself, since she arrived on campus in September. But their opinions did matter and they did shape how she presented herself every day: Clean moccassins, neatly folded white socks, plaid skirt, form-hugging sweater. Just a mirror image of all the other girls who paraded in and out of the classrooms.
That ridiculous pearl necklace her aunt gave her for her sixteenth birthday that she felt compelled to wear all the time. It made her feel like a stuffy old housewife before she had ever even kissed another boy. It wasn't as though anyone would check on her for wearing the necklace, it became a de facto part of getting dressed every morning. She put it on around her neck the same way all the other girls did.
The debutante ball at the Ritz-Carlton in December hadn't helped either. She had never felt so on display in her whole life, so vulnerable and so present solely for the consumption of others. She was nothing more than an eighteen year-old pretty face. A prized trophy for some eligible young man.
No one cared that she was interested in her studies. That she had made High Honors her first term, despite that horrible Algebra class. Or that she skipped two years of college French, better than some of the other girls who were actually majoring in the subject.
Most noticeably, Harrie didn't give the impression that she needed or wanted to hear a response like all those other girls, so why keep lying about it? Harrie didn't want to hear what she had probably already heard hundreds of times before. Be honest, she told herself, you're an adult, you can express your opinion just as much as anyone else.
"But - " Carol reached for her drink, buying herself an extra moment of courage. Her breath hitched before she continued speaking. " - it was really Merle Oberon who caught my attention."
There. She said it.
"Oh?"
Carol could easily tell that Harrie was surprised by the frankness of her reply, leaning forward with an elbow on the table top and resting her head on her chin. "She was especially lovely, particularly in those scenes where she wasn't all dressed up in those awful haughty dresses."
"So you like the natural, wild, wind-swept, running-along-the-moors look then?"
Carol sat back with her drink in hand and reflected. She couldn't exactly tell how Harrie knew what to ask, like she knew what buttons to push to get the appropriate response from her. "Yes, more natural. No pretensions whatsoever about her. She seemed happier then too."
An in-depth description of the actress' beauty could have gone on and on, however Carol wasn't quite ready to bore her new friend with her thoughts, and wasn't sure if Harrie even wanted her to talk about that. Perhaps a change of subject and a deflection of the conversation onto her would be better. "How about you? What did you think, Harriet?"
Harrie smiled and picked up her sandwich, taking a bite as she thought about what she wanted to say. She wasn't sure if she was smiling at the question or the fact that Carol was ultimately so stubborn as to not call her by her nickname like everyone else.
"You'll laugh," she began, covering her mouth with her hand then swallowing, "really, you will. I couldn't get into it because no one had a Yorkshire accent, and little Heathcliff didn't sound as though he was yanked from the streets of Liverpool."
"I am laughing." Carol agreed. "It's funny to me that you picked up on that."
"See? Told you."
"How do you know about the accents?"
"My nan lives in Harrogate, up in North Yorkshire."
"You've been there then?"
"Several times, especially when I was little. You?"
"No, I've never been to Europe. Not sure when I will make it at this rate."
Harrie sighed, then took another bite of her sandwich. "I bet you were banking on your junior year over there."
Carol nodded. "I really was. I guess that's why I chose to major in Art instead of a language, and I don't speak Spanish so going to Mexico is not in the cards either." Carol looked back down at her plate, morose at the fact that her plans had changed. She shouldn't have let what was happening there dictate her academic future, but if she couldn't go to Paris or Florence to study, what was the point in majoring in a language without the practical experience?
In the brief moment she felt sorry for herself, there was a tap on her shoes. Harrie was tapping the toe of her saddle shoes against Carol's moccasins to get her attention. Carol raised her head to see Harrie's bright smiling face looking right back at her.
"It's alright, Carol. Someday, you know?" Harrie always seemed to have a smile whenever Carol needed it.
"Someday."
After nearly five minutes of arguing who would pay the bill, Harrie finally won out, mentioning she had lost the bet the previous week and did, in fact, owe Carol at least dinner. They could have just as easily split it, but Harrie outright insisted, pulling out some quarters from the change purse in her jacket pocket.
There wasn't anyone else in the diner as they packed up to leave, or outside, unusually quiet for a pleasant spring evening. The sidewalks of town were again quiet for them to head back toward campus.
"I got something to ask you, Carol." Harrie mentioned once they were outside.
"Of course."
"So the thing is, I still need to pass the French reading test for graduation." Harrie embarrassingly admitted as she reached up to scratch at her neck. "I was wondering, since you're already taking a Junior French lit class and good at that sort of thing, do you think you could help me study for it? I've failed twice already."
"We'll see that you pass then, yes?" Carol smiled. "You can clue me in then on what it's like."
"Thanks, you're a peach. All my friends are science types who took German or Latin - except for me."
"Don't mention it. Thank you for trusting me." Carol quietly confessed as they made their way along the lamplit path.
There were still fifteen minutes before they needed to be in their rooms and studying for the night. Despite the urgency to get back, neither one rushed too much and decidedly took their time as they walked. "I like talking to you, Harriet."
"Likewise," remarked Harrie. "That and you're not all caught up with your big debut and what dress you'll wear and how many suitors you'll have lined up around the block."
Carol stopped walking, thinking about the phony young men, the overeager and overbearing mothers, most specifically how she felt being paraded around for the amusement of others. Harrie noticed the moment Carol was no longer at her side and turned back. She stood directly under a lamp, a hand at her throat, fingering the pearls her wore.
"I'm not caught up in it because I already went through all of that nonsense back in December."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Sometimes I really say the wrong thing and I should probably just keep my damn mouth shut - "
"No, it's fine. You're fine. Don't curb yourself." Carol pleaded as she brushed her hand against Harrie's. "You couldn't have known. Besides, that kind of thing isn't important to me."
"I didn't know you were a - you know - New York City debutante and all."
Carol laughed. "Not a very successful one, mind you. Remember, I cry at children's cartoons and weepy romances. Speaking of which… " Carol slid her bag in front of her, opening it to pull out a hardbound book. When she opened it, there was Harrie's monogrammed handkerchief from the week before, freshly laundered and pressed between the pages of Carol's History of Art book. "... I believe this is yours?"
"It is."
Taking the handkerchief between her fingers, Carol held it out for Harrie to grasp. She took it and held it in her hand, admiring the care Carol had taken in just a simple cotton square of fabric. "I'll see you Sunday at one. And bring your conjugation book."
Harrie still saw the grin on Carol's face the moment before she turned to walk away, and as soon as her back was turned, raised the handkerchief to her nose to inhale Carol's perfume before tucking it into her pocket.
