When my skin was so raw and red I couldn't stand it any longer I got out and dried myself quickly, slipped into my robe and hurried back to my room. Trisha was already dressed and was just finishing her hair. I shut the door behind me and lay back against it, closing my eyes.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "You look upset."
I quickly told her that Arthur Garwood had walked in on me.
"It brought back bad memories," I muttered when I'd finished and sat on the bed,
"Really?" Trisha started to sit beside me. Then she looked at her watch. "Oh, I've got to go down and help Mrs. Liddy. We'll talk later tonight. We'll go to bed early and put out the lights and talk until we both fall into a drop dead sleep, okay?"
I nodded. I couldn't help it. Part of me wanted to keep all my twisted secrets locked in my heart, but another part of me longed more than anything for someone to confide in. If only I had a normal mother like other girls did—a mother you could laugh with and bring your problems to, who would hold you and stroke your hair when you were hurting. My mother was a frail, fragile flower to whom nothing sad could ever be spoken.
All the people I really loved were gone from my life, and all the people who were in my life now were people I could never love: suspicious, cruel Grandmother Cutler; Randolph, my detached, distant always too busy father; my pale, frantic mother; Clara Sue, my vicious sister; and Philip, who wanted to love me in only the ways a brother should never love a sister. I needed a friend like Trisha desperately, perhaps too desperately. I hoped and prayed she wouldn't be like so many others and eventually betray me. But sometimes, we have no choice but to trust someone, I thought.
After Trisha left, I got dressed, brushed out my hair and went down to my first dinner at the student house.
If Arthur Garwood had been too shy to look at me before, he was terrified of our even crossing glances now. His cheeks still looked rosy with embarrassment and he only looked up from his plate when he absolutely had to.
The dinner was wonderful: pot roast and potatoes with a delicious gravy. Mrs. Liddy did something wonderful with the vegetables, too. I had never tasted spinach and carrots quite like this. For dessert we had sponge cake soaked in wine and covered with macaroons, almonds and whipped cream. Mrs. Liddy told me it was called a trifle.
After Trisha had helped serve the food, she sat down beside me, but we didn't have much chance to talk. Agnes Morris dominated the conversation at the table with her stories about different actors and actresses she had worked with and known, plays she had performed in, and where she had gotten her training. She appeared to have an opinion or a story about everything, even the spinach when I squeezed in a compliment about it.
"Oh, that reminds me of a funny story," Agnes said. I looked at Arthur. He had been stealing glances at me all night, but whenever I caught him doing so, his blush returned and he looked back down at his plate. "About a horrible young actress I knew, whose name will remain anonymous because she has become quite the rage in Hollywood these days. She was about as conceited a person as you could find," she said, looking at me pointedly. "Why, she couldn't pass even a store window without stopping to gaze at herself.
"Anyway, this young lady pursued a young man, a rather handsome, debonair young man, until she persuaded him to take her to dinner and then a ride through Central Park, which she hoped would be very romantic. It wasn't and in fact, when he brought her home at the end of the evening, he simply shook her hand and said good night. Not even a quick, good night kiss," Agnes emphasized.
"Well, my conceited friend was quite upset, as you might imagine. She hurried up to her room to cry into her pillow, but when she stopped to look at herself in the mirror in the hallway, as she always did, what do you think she saw? A piece of spinach stuck right between her two front teeth!" Agnes clapped her hands together and laughed. Trisha looked at me and raised her eyes. I turned toward Arthur who nearly smiled. His lips trembled and he shook his head.
I offered to help Trisha clear the table, but Agnes repeated how we each had to take our own turn. She practically ordered me to follow her into the sitting room so she could show me her scrapbook.
"Of course, Arthur can come along, too, if he likes," she said and Arthur uttered his first words of the evening.
"Thank you, but I have to finish my math homework so I can practice," he said, twisting his mouth on the word, "practice," as if it were a profanity. Arthur stole a last glance at me, and shot off. He couldn't be more shy if he were a turtle, I thought.
It turned out that Agnes didn't have only one scrapbook; she had five and all full to the last page. She had saved every single word ever written about her, even reports and notes written by her grade school teachers. Sentences were underlined, especially ones like "Agnes shows a dramatic tendency."
"Here's a picture of me at the age of two dancing on the veranda."
The picture was so old and faded, it was impossible to make out her little face, but I smiled and said it was remarkable. Agnes had things to say about each and every scrap in the scrapbooks. We had only gone through a book and a half when Trisha returned from her kitchen chores to rescue me.
"It's time for me to do my English homework," Trisha announced from the doorway. "I thought I would show Dawn what we have done so far so it will be easier for her to catch up."
"Oh, of course," Agnes said.
"Thank you," I said, getting up. I shot a look of gratitude toward Trisha and backed away from the sofa.
When Trisha and I reached the stairs, we rushed up, both of us swallowing our giggles until we closed our bedroom door.
"I know what that's like," Trisha said. "She tortured me with it the first few nights I arrived. Of course, I was trapped," she added. "I had no one to save me like I saved you.
"I wonder what's caused this new insanity about signing in and out?" Trisha said. "Agnes was never like that with us before."
"It's all my fault," I said.
"Your fault? You mean because you weren't here to be introduced to Arthur. No, I think . . ."
"It's because my grandmother wrote a letter about me to Agnes and told her some horrible things. Agnes told me I'm already on probation."
"Probation? Agnes said that? How odd. She rarely enforces any of the rules or cares. Most of the time, she can't recall them herself. But why did your own grandmother do such a thing?" Trisha asked.