Betsey came home from the party so forlorn that Pat and Hilary exchanged worried glances. Had—had something happened? Had people been mean to her? "I don't want to talk about it," Betsey said hollowly, and climbed the stairs to her room. She hung her pretty dress up in the closet and spent a long time removing all the traces of makeup from her face. With her lashes pale and her cheeks white, she looked much more like the girl she remembered.
"Hello," she said, to her reflection.
She could not sleep. She tossed and turned. In the morning she left New Betsey in the closet and put on her old, babyish white dress. At the last moment she grabbed a bright scarf and tied it around her waist, but it was her only nod to the girl she had been—last night.
Last night—when Everett Miles had kissed her. In front of everyone. Her very first kiss. Oh, what would Judy say if she knew? Surely she would understand if Betsey explained things.
But what Betsey couldn't explain was the secret thrill that had zoomed from her head to her heart to her toes the moment his lips met hers.
She was wretched. She picked at breakfast and was glad when Dad left for work. Mother hovered around, worriedly, until Betsey finally exploded.
"I know you have a Ladies' Aid meeting today! Just—go—and stop suffocating me!"
Pat went, but with a considerable amount of concern. Betsey had never snapped at her before.
Betsey cleaned up the breakfast dishes and tried to read a bit of Jane Eyre. But she could not help thinking that Jane would have disapproved of her. Oh, Jane had loved Mr. Rochester, and Mr. Rochester had been married, but she did not know. And Mrs. Rochester had not been Jane's sister—twin sister!
Suddenly Betsey felt cold. It could be that Judy already knew what had happened. She could not explain it but strange things had happened between them before. The time that Judy fell and broke her leg, and Betsey had experienced the exact same pain in the exact same place at the exact same time. From miles away! And Judy always seemed to know by instinct what Betsey was thinking. What if, at the moment their lips had met, Judy had felt it and knew? What if Judy could hear her thoughts now?
There was a knock on the door. Betsey cast her book aside and went to answer it.
"Hello," said Everett Miles. Was it her imagination or did he sound contrite? And—did he look differently than usual? His hair was slicked back a bit and he had left his leather jacket off. Betsey could not stand the sight of him—could not stand the way her heart beat a crazy mambo of delight at his appearance.
"Go away," she told him. "I don't care what you have to say. I won't forgive you."
"But," he said.
"No!" Betsey exploded. "It was terribly wrong of you to do what you did! You are my sister's fiancé. You shouldn't have kissed me!"
She tried to close the door on him but he wedged his foot in and stopped her.
"Wait a minute," he said, "You kissed me."
"Well, you shouldn't have let me! You shouldn't have kissed back!"
He grinned. "I did kiss back, didn't I? Bet you weren't expecting that."
"You are a horrid boy. You will break Judy's heart."
"Betsey!" he cried, "Judy dumped me in her last letter!"
Cautiously, Betsey opened the door a crack wider.
"Really?" she asked suspiciously.
He rummaged in his pocket and handed her the evidence. A crumpled letter—stained with something. Smelling faintly of tobacco. But Judy's handwriting—unmistakably Judy's. And—what he said was true. She wrote very clearly that she wanted their 'engagement'—the quotations were Judy's—to end. She did not love him anymore.
"Then why are you here to apologize?" Betsey wondered. "If it's just as you say, you have nothing to be apologizing for."
"Betsey," said Everett, with exaggerated slowness. "I'm not here to apologize."
"Then why are you here."
"To ask you on a date," he said.
xxxxxxxxxx
Judy was standing in front of her closet, staring into the depths, when Aunt Winnie passed by, her arms full of towels. She watched the girl frown and sigh. She had been grumpy for days and now Winnie Russell felt that something must be said. She stepped into the room and ventured, cautiously,
"Is anything wrong, dear?"
Judy only sighed again. "I have nothing to wear," she confessed. "I hate all my clothes."
Winnie had to bite her lips to keep from smiling. If there was one thing Judith Gordon did not lack, it was clothes. Three suitcases' worth—there had hardly been room for them in Little Mary's and the twins' room. They overflowed into the spare bedroom wardrobe and even into the boys' empty bureau drawers.
"You have so many lovely things," Aunt Winnie began, though she really did think that some of Pat's daughter's things were rather—garish.
"They are too—too much," Judy said, as though she'd realized what Aunt Win was thinking. "I wish I had some—some sensible clothes, Aunty. I'm going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe. But I don't think I have the pocket money for more than a few pieces."
Aunt Winnie came and stood by Judith with a critical eye. "I don't think you have to buy all new things," she said, musingly. "Maybe just a piece here and there. Most of your clothes can be made a little more—ordinary—with slight alterations." To show Judy, Winnie removed a spangled skirt from its hanger.
"If we pluck all of the rhinestones off of this—and the plastic flowers—it is really just a sensible white skirt—can be worn with anything." Winnie removed a few sequins, to show Judy how easy it was. "And the neckline on this shirt is awfully low—but I have a little lace in my sewing box. It would be just the thing." Now Winnie was getting into the spirit of things. "These shoes have an awfully high heel—but it can be removed, and sanded down into a pair of adorable flats."
Judy held the shoe and turned it this way and that, considering.
"Do you know what I'd really like?" she asked, a little shyly. "I'd like a few circle skirts—like the kind the twins wear—all of my skirts are minis, and I—it isn't exactly what I want to convey."
Aunt Winnie considered. "You have the legs to pull them off. But I understand—it would be nice to have a few different things for a change. Well, I have some fabric in my sewing room—a nice, bright cotton—that would be all right for skirts. And they are quite easy to make, really. I could teach you, Judy."
"I'd like that," Judy said, smiling for the first time that day.
She spent the morning going over her outfits and making adjustments. Everytime she removed a spangle or a sequin or a ribbon or covered up a low neckline, she felt it a bit in the core of her heart. But she also thought of Hugh Lilly's face—and felt a lightening, a lifting.
She came down to lunch in a knee length navy skirt and a plain white blouse. Her hair was scraped back into a ponytail and she wore a pair of flat white shoes on her feet. Win and Rachel exchanged glances and looked back at her balefully.
"What's wrong?" Judy cried.
"No-thing," said Rachel, after a pause. "It's just that—you don't look like you, Judy."
Judy caught sight of herself in the mirror over the sideboard. She had thought she looked like Betsey, but now she saw that really she looked as drab and plain as a postulate nun!
"Hold that thought," she said to the twins, and ran upstairs again.
She put on a very little makeup. Just a swipe of mascara and a soft pink on her lips. She shook her hair out so that it was wild and free about her face—and then she clipped a bright red plastic flower by her face. Usually she would have worn the flower with her mini-skirt—her platform sandals—and a whole lot of bracelets and necklaces. It would have gotten quite lost in all that. Now it added just a splash of color to her outfit, and brought out the red tints in her hair.
"That is better, I think," said Judy, grinning at her reflection.
"Loads better," said Rachel, relieved.
"Moderation in all things," cautioned Win.