A few weeks later, Jimmy wrote to tell me about Daddy Longchamp's marriage. He said he had expected it so he was more prepared for it than he imagined I was. He had met Edwina Freemont and said she was a very nice woman, but he admitted it still hurt him inside to know that his daddy had a new wife. He swore he would never get used to Momma being gone.
And neither would I, I wrote back, no matter how much time passed or how many new families I had.
For a while afterward, I felt there was a constant dark cloud hovering over me. The only things that made me happy were my vocal and piano lessons, receiving letters from Jimmy, and listening to Trisha go on and on about other girls. When I didn't have any lessons after school, I often stopped by to watch her at dance practice. I thought she was very good.
Trisha's seventeenth birthday was in early April. Her parents came to take her out to dinner and a Broadway show and invited me to join them. Her mother was a very pretty woman with big, green eyes and her father was a handsome, tall man who did dote on Trisha and lavished gift after gift on her, including a promise that as soon as she graduated from Bernhardt, he would buy her a little sports car.
Her parents asked me questions about my family. They had heard of the Cutler Cove Hotel and had even thought about staying there for a week one summer. Trisha threw me a glance or two when I replied to the questions, not revealing how unhappy I had been at the hotel. We went to see Pajama Game and after the show we went for coffee and cheesecake at Lindy's. It was a completely glamorous evening in every way and although I knew I was lucky to have been invited along, in my deepest secret heart I was jealous of Trisha. My mother had barely acknowledged mine with a short phone call and a check stuck in a card in the mail, instructing me to buy myself what I wanted.
As April drew to a close, the excitement about Performance Weekend grew. Trisha and I often remained after school to watch the seniors rehearse.
Arthur Garwood became even more withdrawn as Performance Weekend drew closer and closer. It got so he wouldn't even come out to talk with me. I stopped by and knocked on his door a few times to try to reassure him that all would go well, but each time he didn't acknowledge my knock. Once, he even turned off his lights.
I was worried about him and told Agnes, but she said it was just performance jitters.
"We all get it," she explained. "Even the greatest performers still have butterflies in their stomachs just before they go on, even though they have performed and performed hundreds of times. In fact, they say if you are not nervous, you won't do well. Overconfidence is a liability in the theater," she declared.
"It's more than just performance jitters with Arthur," I said, but Agnes wouldn't listen.
Then, the morning before Performance Weekend, we all came down to breakfast and noticed immediately that Arthur was unusually late. Agnes became concerned and went up to his room to see if he was sick. She returned quickly and announced in a panic that Arthur was not there; that he hadn't slept in his bed.
"Does anyone know anything?" she asked frantically.
"Maybe he lost more weight and disappeared," Donald Rossi quipped.
"That's not funny," I snapped.
"No, it isn't," Agnes said. "It's so unlike Arthur. He keeps to himself and he is quiet, but he is not irresponsible. Oh, dear, and with his solo coming up tomorrow night," she cried and ran off to phone his parents.
Neither I nor Trisha saw Arthur anywhere in the school all day. Toward the end of the day, I deliberately walked by one of his classes to look in to see if he was there. He wasn't. When Trisha and I returned to the apartment house after school, we found Arthur's parents with Agnes in the sitting room.
"Oh girls, thank goodness you're here," Agnes declared. She was wringing her hands. "There hasn't been a hint as to what happened to Arthur. We were hoping he might have said something to one of you," Agnes said, looking particularly at me. Trisha shook her head.
"Dawn?"
I looked at Mr. and Mrs. Garwood. They didn't look worried as much as they looked angry and that got me angry.
"He was very nervous about his performance," I said. "He was afraid he would make a fool of himself and embarrass everyone. He's probably off hiding somewhere."
"Oh, that's ridiculous," Mr. Garwood said. "He would never do such a thing."
"Yes he would," I insisted and so vehemently, everyone turned sharply to me. "He was desperate," I said, "desperate because you wouldn't listen to his pleas."
&n
bsp; "Dawn!" Agnes cried and looked quickly at the Garwoods. "She doesn't mean to sound insolent," Agnes started to explain.
Anger blazed through me. "Don't tell them what I mean, Agnes. Arthur has told me often how he has pleaded with you to understand. He knows he doesn't have the musical talent that both of you have, the abilities that you expect and demand in him."
"That's absolutely untrue," Mrs. Garwood snapped. "Arthur is quite talented. He . . ."
"You're more right than you know! He's enormously talented but not the way you think."
"How dare you say such a thing?" Mr. Garwood's eyes grew small and took me in slowly from head to toe in a way that frightened me but I hoped and hoped I wouldn't back down. "Who does this child think she is?" he asked.
"I'm not a child," I snapped. "Arthur is very unhappy and he is desperate. You should listen to him. He doesn't want to disappoint you, but that's why he doesn't want to continue with the oboe."
"That's enough!" Mr. Garwood cried, rising to his feet. "If you know where Arthur is, you had better tell us, young lady."