The week passed torturously for Alison, resulting in her being in a very irritable mood when Friday rolled around. She moodily played with her limp hair (she hadn't had the urge to curl it properly) while Miss Thompson droned on and on about some stupid topic. She didn't really care. Ever since she'd heard the news that Jimmy was missing in action, nothing had seemed to matter much anymore. She knew Jimmy wouldn't have wanted her to throw her life away over him—but she couldn't help it. He was the one person in the world she loved more than anyone else. If her brother died…who else would she have?
"Alison, are you listening?"
Her head shot up to see Cheryl, Denise, and Eliza staring at her. "What?" she asked wearily.
"Miss Thompson told us to gather into groups of three or four and come up with as many reasons as possible for how the invention of the national railway system changed America," said Eliza.
"Okay," Alison said tiredly. She sat there and the girls sat there, staring at her, waiting, and it occurred to Alison that they were waiting for her to take the lead as usual, because she was the smartest and most studious out of all of them. They were used to her taking charge and saying, "Alright, so this is what we'll say…"
"Sorry, I'm really tired," she said. "I was up all night taking notes for my project. Can someone else take lead on this? I can hardly think right now."
"Why are you hurrying so much on the project?" Denise asked in surprise. "It's not due for another three weeks. My partner and I haven't even met." She giggled.
"I'm meeting my partner today to get it done," Alison said. She immediately wished she hadn't because the girls looked slightly shocked and Denise said, "But…you're going to do schoolwork…on a Friday evening…with Steve Rogers? But—but why?!"
"Because," Alison snapped, "he's the most annoying person I've ever met and I'd like to not meet him any longer than I have to. So I'm getting the damned thing done today whether it kills me or not!" Her shoulders and neck and ears felt very hot and she was aware that Steve was sitting a few desks behind her in the back. She partly hoped he wasn't paying attention to what she said. It would just give him more reason to think she was thoughtless.
The girls looked slightly shocked at her language and a strange, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile lit Cheryl's face and she sweetly asked, "Alison, are you feeling well? You've been looking a little…peaky lately." The word "peaky" dripped off her tongue with girlish disdain.
Cheryl's words were kind but Alison knew enough about females to know the intention wasn't nice at all. "I'm fine, thanks," she said shortly, hoping Cheryl would know better than to push it.
She evidently didn't.
"Are you sure?" Cheryl pressed. "You look very pale, and…are those shadows under your eyes?" She leaned forward and then, to Alison's immense shock, she tugged on one of Alison's golden locks and said, "Even your hair is looking less shiny and you haven't curled it!"
Alison's blood ran cold. She knew exactly what was going on. This was the world of women, where one week it was, "Are you feeling well? You're looking…peaky," and the next week it was whispers and scornfully pitying looks and the week after, you were sitting alone at lunch wondering what had happened to you while another girl took your place. Cheryl was second in command and she had always vied for Alison's position, the position that Alison's looks automatically gave her. And Cheryl was now challenging Alison's authority.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Alison asked coldly, leaning forward and invading Cheryl's personal space. "You've been going out quite a lot lately and it's taking a toll on you. Look at your skin and hair—so pale and dry! All that alcohol is sucking up any moisture in your body. You're also not doing so well in school, right? That's no good, Cheryl. Perhaps if you focused a little less on socializing with boys young enough to be your little brother and focused more on your studies and moisturizing your skin, you'd feel better about your life and stop focusing on mine! How about that?" She beamed at Cheryl while keeping her gaze icy cold. Cheryl's face had gone white with shock and she looked at Denise and Eliza for help—but they both examined their hands as if their nails were of the greatest interest to them. Alison could see Cheryl weighing the options in her mind: she could try telling Alison off…but nothing she saw now could be more insulting than what Alison had said—and then she would also be out of the group.
Or she could swallow the insults like the good beta she was and keep her place in the group of some of the most popular girls in the school.
"Thanks for the concern," Cheryl said with a faux-smile, her mouth trembling slightly. "So glad to have you girls as my friends! If you'll excuse me, I need to use the washroom…" And she rushed from the room just as Miss Thompson called all the groups of students back to regroup as one class and share their work. Alison knew Cheryl would now be crying in the washroom. She didn't care. Could, for once in her life, people leave her alone about her looks and face? Could people stop trying to control her and undermine her authority and status?
When Miss Thompson called on their group, Alison rattled off the perfect answers despite the group not having discussed anything of the sort—she'd done reading on the very subject earlier this week—and when Miss Thompson had moved on, she felt a burning spot between her shoulder blades. The feeling of being watched. She turned to see Steve staring at her. His expression told her that he'd heard the entire exchange between Cheryl. His expression looked disappointed.
Nosy busybody, she thought angrily to herself, turning around. Why can't anyone leave me alone?! Why is everyone always watching my every move?!
As soon as class ended (it was the last class of the day), Alison stormed to Steve's desk and said, "Meet me in the park as soon as you gather your things. We're going to exchange information and finish this stupid project once and for all."
"Bucky and I had plans—"
"I don't care what Bucky and you were going to do!" Alison barked. "I need to finish this project! Meet me. In. The. Park." She turned on her heel and stormed away, grabbing her books and coat and stomping all the way to the neighborhood park a few blocks away, slamming her bag down onto a picnic table and waiting for Steve while glaring at every stupid smiling child and parent who passed her. She knew she had been unnecessarily rude to Steve and that she was making herself seem meaner and meaner with every word—but she didn't know how to stop. She felt trapped, like every word she spoke simply dug herself into a deeper hole. And if she was already this deep, what was the point in even trying to climb her way out? She wouldn't be able to and no one would help her even if she tried.
Steve approached the picnic table and set his bags down silently. Alison busied herself with pulling her books out so she wouldn't have to look at his face. She already felt ashamed at herself for treating him so badly but she didn't know how to apologize without embarrassing herself so she just didn't.
"Okay, so here are the notes I compiled from the books I read," she said, pulling out a composition book and opening them to several pages filled with detailed notes in very beautiful handwriting. "I didn't really read every book—I skimmed some of them—but I'm sure I found the important information. I focused on—"
"Why are you so mean?" Steve asked suddenly, flatly.
Alison's mouth fell open and she stared at Steve. "I—I beg your pardon?" she gasped, unable to believe he had actually openly asked that. Was he brave or just very stupid?
"Why are you so mean?" he repeated. "Normally I would never ask a lady a question like that—but I saw how you treated Cheryl. All she was doing was asking you how you were—"
Alison covered her face with her hands and took a few deep breaths and then snorted with semi-hysterical laughter. Poor, stupid, dense lad—he was a boy, of course he thought Cheryl was "just being nice." She didn't have the time to explain the intricacies of silent female warfare to the likes of Steve Rogers so she took a deep breath and said, "I'm not mean for no reason but since no one is ever going to understand anything about me or what I go through, let's just accept the fact that I'm mean and move on? No one is ever going to think otherwise so I suppose I'll own the label and wear it with pride. I'm mean. Satisfied? Now, can we get back to the project?"
"No," Steve said, leaning back and looking at her with such an intense expression that she felt uncomfortable. "What do you mean you're not mean for no reason? What good reason could have for being mean?"
Alison sighed. "Look, you're not going to understand either way—so I'd rather not waste my time trying to explain."
"Try me," Steve challenged.
Alison stared at him, her chest tight. Words threatened to rush up her throat and overflow out of her mouth and she tightened her lips.
"Come on," said Steve. "Explain it to me, if there's a reason—which I highly doubt—"
"THERE IS!" The words burst from Alison's mouth with such fury that she almost surprised herself—and then she was off and away, speaking so quickly that she was startled at her own ferocity. "You don't understand, alright? You're talented, or you must be, anyway, at something but either way, you're a man so it's alright for you not to be talented! All you have to do is get a job and earn some money and your life will be set! It's not the same for me! I'm a girl and I need to make a decent match to live my life! And I have nothing! I'm not talented in any way." Bitterness twisted her mouth as she remembered every failed attempt at starting a new hobby or finding a talent. "I can't draw, I can't sing to save my life, I'm useless at athletics, I'm not very smart in my studies, I can hardly cook or bake or even sew—I can't do anything. Mother won't let me go to college, unless it's to take finishing courses of some kind, and I'm never going to get any scholarships for art or music or dancing—" Her words choked off here as panic over her future threatened to overpower her ability to speak. Or breathe.
She took a shuddering, deep breath and continued. "I can't do anything. The only thing that's good or useful about me is my face and my looks—but a pretty face is nothing with a commanding presence, Mother says, and this is why I need to be mean to people, to stay in charge at school. To stay popular, so I can get invited to parties and so finally, one day, some handsome, rich sap will fall for me and won't even mind that my family doesn't have any money or that I'm not a rich, educated debutante—and maybe he'll marry me and maybe I'll have a chance at a good future. And the only way to stay popular is to rule the school and that requires being mean at times. Cheryl wasn't being nice to me earlier, she was insulting me with a smile on her face and I only served back what she gave to me because—I need to make a name for myself, alright? Mother says no one will notice me if I'm a wallflower! But I'm so—s-so—" And here she burst into tears. "I'm so t-tired of Mother harping me about my looks and my body and my clothes and what I wear and who I talk to. I'm so tired of people watching my every move and judging me. No one knows how hard I work to stay perfect. I have to study twice as long and hard as most people to get the same marks as everyone else and no one knows how hard I work to make sure my clothes are fashionable and my face always looks perfect—" She angrily rubbed her tears away and said, "And then I get judged from every corner! Mother, for not looking, walking, talking, being perfect. My friends—if you could even call them that—for looking less than perfect. From you, because all you see is some shallow, mean, ugly-hearted girl when in fact—in fact—the only person who really knows me is my brother and he's probably dead in some ditch in Europe because I just got word that he's missing in action!" And then she burst into tears again, unable to control herself this time at the thought of Jimmy never coming home.
She cried silently for a few minutes while Steve sat silently, not saying a word, and then suddenly he was offering her a hanky and saying, "You're wrong, you know."
She accepted his hanky, not even caring that it was probably covered with his germs from his constant illnesses, and patted her eyes. "About what?" she asked thickly, keeping her face turned away from him. Her whole face felt hot. She already half regretted telling him all this—he would probably tell all of this to Bucky Barnes, who would laugh and then tell his friends and then the whole community would know all of Alison Lynden's insecurities—but a part of her really didn't care if people found out. She was so tired of walking around with all of her fears and insecurities and heartache held tight against her chest and it felt—it felt so good to just let it out.
Even if she had let it out to Steve Rogers, of all people.
"I think you are smart," he said mildly. "You said you weren't smart in school. I think you're wrong. You always get some of the highest scores in class and you always know the answer when the teachers call on you."
"That's not because I'm smart," Alison said, blowing her nose into the hanky. "That's because I work hard. I study constantly at home. That's not the same thing as being smart."
"Says who?" Steve demanded. "Who said being smart meant automatically knowing everything? You know your strengths and weaknesses and you prepare for them by studying in advance. Seems awfully smart to me—but then again, what do I know? I'm just poor, sick Steve Rogers, right?" His words were bitter but his lighthearted tone told her he was joking and she let out a startled laugh.
"I suppose," she said. "I never really…thought of it that way."
"Well, now you have a new perspective," Steve said. "That's what art is all about. Seeing things from a new perspective. You should try doing that more, because I think—I think you can always find good in a bad situation if you do that." He looked thoughtful as he said this and Alison wondered if looking at things with a new perspective had saved him from drowning in bad feelings. From the little she knew about him, his life didn't seem easy: his mother was dead, he was constantly sick, he was constantly picked on, and girls didn't give him the time of the day because he wasn't tall and strong. "And I think you should stop caring so much what your mother thinks," he added. "Not to be rude, but she sounds like she doesn't appreciate you at all. Her advice sounds really stupid."
"I'll try doing that," she said. She looked down at the sodden hanky and said, "I'll wash this and give it back to you." He nodded. "I must look an awful fright," she muttered to herself, patting around in her bag for her compact mirror. She couldn't find it. She must have left it at home.
"I think you look pretty," Steve said. Alison looked up at him in surprise and he blushed a little. For some reason, she blushed too—even though boys giving her compliments was nothing new—and then, to regain her composure, huffed, "If you tell anyone what I told you today, I'll skin you and make boots out of your hide."
Steve's eyebrows rose, making him look almost comical. He didn't have a bad face, Alison noted suddenly. Features were a little large for his face but he didn't have a bad face…in fact, he could easily be seen as decent… "Very violent threat," he said. "That sounds more like the Alison I know."
The Alison I know. The connotation that there was an Alison he knew at all—it made Alison shift uncomfortably, as if some invisible line had been crossed, and she quickly said, "Alright, let's get back to the project. The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can be out of each others' lives."
She could have sworn Steve looked almost dejected for a moment but then his expression cleared and they got to work.
Despite sharing notes and compiling them into one big mass of information to be presented to the class, they only finished half of their work. Alison hadn't realized how much information both of them had compiled and it was difficult as well, because they'd both focused on different things during their reading and therefore had to pull their books back out and skim them, trying to find more information that matched up with each others' works.
"We planned this poorly," Alison sighed, listlessly flipping through a book.
"We still have time to get it done," Steve assured her. They flipped in silence for a few minutes while the sky steadily darkened and a slightly chilly breeze blew past them. Alison shivered and Steve must have noticed because he said, "Do you want my jacket?"
"What? No," she said, startled and a little embarrassed. What was wrong with him? Didn't only men who were pursuing a girl offer them their coats?
"But you look cold," Steve said, looking concerned. "It's only the right thing to do—"
"But then you'll be cold," she pointed out. "And you seem to get ill quite often. I don't need my partner dying on me before we complete the project. I'm fine."
"Alright," Steve said, though he looked unsure.
"Thank you for offering, though," Alison added, since she now felt a little bad that she had refused his kind gesture—for that was what it was, she now realized. Steve Rogers was strange and a loner, but he was also a gentleman. He had offered her his hanky (which was odd in itself, since many men didn't even carry those anymore) and now his jacket. He was just being chivalrous, which Alison found disconcerting, because most men were chivalrous only for personal gain (such as getting to put their hands on the woman) or insisted on their chivalry being accepted. Steve, however, had maintained a respectful distance from her and had also accepted her refusal with good grace. Clearly he had good manners, something which brought him up a notch in her opinion.
"What you said earlier…" he said slowly, twirling his pencil. His handwriting was awful but Alison noticed he had slender fingers—artist's fingers.
"I thought we agreed not to speak about that again," she said, flushing.
"No, I meant about your brother…did he really die in the war?" Steve asked. "I'm—sorry if this is a touchy subject, but I just—if he did, I wanted to offer my…I wanted to say sorry. Any man who lays his life down in the line for his country deserves complete respect."
"He's not…I don't know if he's dead," Alison said. "But we got a letter telling us he's missing in action." Her mouth pinched together. "And that likely means he's dead—or will die soon."
"Not really," Steve said urgently. "He could still be alive!"
"I hope so," Alison sighed. "He's my best friend. I can't imagine what I'd do if—I don't want to talk about it," she said abruptly. Talking about Jimmy was too painful.
"Okay," Steve said. "But if he does die…at least you know he died an honorable death, a hero's death. There's no better way to go."
"There's no good way to go at all!" Alison snapped, stung. "Death is death!"
"I don't think so," Steve said firmly. "A man can die doing anything—but if he dies fighting for his country…that's something different. Death is death but when soldiers die, they've died doing something great. They've made the ultimate sacrifice. And they ought to be commemorated for that."
"You sure feel strongly about this," she remarked. "Do you have someone in the army?"
"No one, but my best friend will be going soon," he said.
"Bucky Barnes?" Alison asked, curious now. "Isn't he too young?"
"No, he just turned of age," Steve said. "He's one year older than most of the seniors. He started school late in primary school because of the whooping cough. He's so lucky," he added bitterly. Alison was shocked. This was the first time she'd seen the slightest hint of anger or bitterness on Steve's face.
"Lucky for what?" she asked acidly. "Lucky that he gets the chance to die?"
"Lucky that he gets a chance to do what every man ought to!" Steve said, flaring up. "I wish I could. I've already tried enlisting a bunch—they reject me every time, tell me I'm too young or I'm too sick." The anger in his tone was evident. "It's so stupid. My life is worth no more than other men's—worth less, even. Who cares if I'm small or sick? I should be fighting for my country like every other man."
"But you would surely—" Alison froze.
Steve gave a crooked smile. "Surely what? Surely die? I know. I'm the kind of sucker who doesn't come home to glory and medals. But I don't care. Like I said, dying in war is a great sacrifice—one that I'm willing to make.
Honestly, why were men so stupid? Why did they think that fighting, wars, death, getting the chance to get themselves killed made them lucky? Was there something in men that made them inherently want to do reckless things and call it "heroism"? Alison thought being a hero meant taking the high road and refusing to engage in brutish behavior such as war. But she had a feeling she should keep such thoughts to herself around Steve.
"Well, maybe they'll let you enlist in a little bit," she said. "Who knows how long the war's going to go on? They'll need more men eventually and they'll have to stop being picky."
"I hope so," Steve muttered and that was that.
Soon it got too dark for them to work on the project anymore and they stood up to pack their bags. Alison knew they had wasted more time than they should have, talking about personal matters, but strangely enough, she felt at peace, even though she now had more work to do for the project. Unburdening herself had felt amazingly cathartic. And, despite herself, she found herself curious about Steve Rogers and his odd life and circumstances. What a strange boy. She could make neither head nor tail of him. He was weak, quiet, and fragile—and yet was also an artist who longed to fight and go to war. Somehow it didn't add up in Alison's mind. There was definitely more to him than met the eye.
Before parting ways, Steve said, "We should exchange addresses."
"Why?" Alison blurted too quickly. A second later she regretted her panicked tone because it could clearly be seen as offensive—but the truth was, she didn't want Steve to come over to her house. Not really because she saw him as embarrassing (which he very well could be seen as) but because she knew her mother could easily make some sort of snide, condescending, and hurtful remark towards him and that would be too much. He would think, So this is where Alison gets her hideous personality from and Alison couldn't bear to be thought of badly anymore—at least not by him. The rest of the world could think of her as a mean, horrible person but now that Steve knew the truth about her, she didn't want him to start thinking of her as a bad person all over again.
He gave her a strange look. "So we can eventually meet to create the diagram or whatever? We won't be able to do that in public. We'll probably make a mess."
"Can we meet at your place?" she asked. "My mother—my mother hates messes."
He shrugged and then pulled out a piece of paper and scrawled his address down, handing it to her and asking, "Can you read it?"
She squinted through the violet evening light and said, "Barely."
She saw a faint hint of a smile on his face as they said goodbye and turned away from each other, heading in opposite directions.
