1
August 1949
Books and Beanies and Montgomery Clift
Holy cow! I said when Sophie Bowman
told me shed be joining
me at All Saints School for Girls this
year. Why now, in the eighth grade?
Because I got thrown out of public
school. Sophie and I were in
the room I shared with my sister,
Dolores. Dolores was on a date with her
steady, Wally, so Sophie lay on Dolores
bed, her legs in the air, twirling the
navy blue beanie from my school uniform
on her foot. It was either Catholic
school or boarding school. No one else
would have me, but Sister Basil
thought my soul could still be saved.
From what I can tell, shes nuts about
saving souls.
I sat up cross-legged on my bed. Why?
I asked her.
Thats what she learned in nun
school, I suppose.
No, I said. Why did you get kicked
out of school?
Oh, that. For writing There is no
free speech here on the gym
floor. In paint. Red paint.
She grinned at me as though that was
the most wonderful thing in
the world. I didnt grin back. Why on
earth would you do that?
Because the principal banned radios
in the lunchroom.
Radios? You ruined the gym floor
because of radios?
She waved her beanied foot about. Not
just radios, dopey. It was
a matter of free speech. Standing up for
what you believe in. And fighting
fascism.
Fascism? Wasnt that about Adolf
Hitler? Did she mean Nazis
kept her from playing the radio in the
lunchroom?
Harry says that he may agree with the
sentiment, but the
expression left a lot to be desired,
she continued, stretching her long,
summer-brown legs. I sighed and looked
at my legs. They were pink and
freckled like the rest of me.
Whos Harry? I asked her.
My father. My mother went to Catholic
school and he thinks she
was nearly perfect, so off I go. I knew
from Hettie Morris across the street,
who knew Laurel Greenson, whose aunt was
Mrs. OBrien, who lived next
door to the Bowmans, that Sophies
mother had died when she was
born. He wants me to be more like her
and learn to express myself with
patience, self-control, and moderation.
Sophie would be going to the right
place. At All Saints we had
patience, self-control, and moderation
to spare and not a drop of free speech.
I myself was so patient, moderate, and
self-controlled that sometimes I felt
invisible, and I liked it that way. Let
others get noticed and into trouble. Let
Sophie get into trouble. It seemed a
sure bet that she would.
Sophie and I werent friends or
anything, although she lived only a
block down from me on Palm View Drive,
in a pink stucco bungalow a lot like
the one I lived in. We had nodded to
each other over the years, and even
played Red Light, Green Light together
with the other neighborhood kids on
hot summer nights. Now she had come over
after dinner to learn more about
All Saints, recognizing from my uniform
that I was a student there. I couldnt
imagine Sophie at All Saints, couldnt
see her standing patiently in line in a
plaid skirtnot the long-legged Sophie
Bowman of the thick blond hair,
outspoken opinions, and that lovely
name, Sophie Bowman. Long mournful O
sounds, so moody and romantic. Me?
Francine Green, with Es like eeek and
screech and beanie. Holy cow.
I seriously hate beanies, Sophie
said. They make you look so
drippy. Why do we have to wear uniforms
like were in jail?
Its not the same at all, I said.
Jails have much better uniforms.
Black and white stripes, you know, are
very fashionable this year.
They are?
I was kidding, Sophie.
Oh. Sophie wagged her beanied foot at
me. Maybe, she
said, we should find some way to
express our individuality even if were
condemned to uniforms.
You mean like wearing red shoes? I asked.
Yes! she said, raising her arm with
her fist clenched.
And plastic jewelry and white blouses
with cleavage?
It would be spectacular. Lets do it,
she said.
I pretended interest in my bedspread.
Bunny ballerinas. Ye
gods. No, I couldnt, I said finally.
Wed get in trouble. And I have no red
shoes or anything with cleavage. Or any
cleavage.
We looked down at our chests and
sighed. Oh nausea, Sophie
said.
My bedroom windows rattled, and I could
hear palm fronds
scraping along the street. Los Angeles
and I were enduring a period of Santa
Anas, the hot winds from the east that
made tempers and temperatures rise
and your skin itch.
I got up to open the window in hopes of
some cooler night
air. Look, I said, searchlights.
Theres a movie premiere somewhere.
Sophie got up and stood next to me at
the window.
Dont you love living so near
Hollywood? I asked her. I mean,
movie stars are right there, at the
bottom of that light. Gary Cooper, maybe.
Or Clark Gable. Or Montgomery Clift.
Imagine, right there. Montgomery Clift.
Montgummy who? Sophie asked.
Are you kidding me? Montgomery Clift.
Hes only the dreamiest
dreamboat in the whole world, with the
saddest brown eyes. I sighed and
looked again at the searchlight
connecting me to Montgomery Clift. Hes my
absolute favorite. Whos yours?
I dont know much about movie stars,
Sophie said.
But Hettie Morris said your father
writes for the movies.
He writes them, he doesnt go see
them. He wants us to read
books to improve our minds. Good books.
Serious books. Boring books.
He sounds a bit like Sister Basil.
Shes always assigning holy,
dull-as-dishwater books. Dont you get
tired of improving your mind? I asked
her. I would.
Sure, sometimes. But you cant improve
the world until you
improve your mind, I always say. She
smiled. Actually I dont always say
that. I just made it up. Pretty good,
dont you think?
I nodded. But jeepers, you could take
a day off now and then.
Just read a novel or a comic book or
something.
Okay, like what?
Well, I said to her, you have come
to the right place. There is
nothing here that will improve your
mind. I walked over to my dresser and
examined the clutter on top. Dolores had
a pink-skirted dressing table in our
room, so there was no space for me to
have a desk. I thought that said
something about what was important in
the Green household. Lets see.
Archie comic? Donald Duck? The only
book I owned was Stuart Little, which
my aunt Martha and uncle George had sent
me for Christmas last year. I
held it up. How about this, I asked
her, about a family with a son whos a
mouse?
Sophie frowned.
Okay, youre a little old for that. I
tossed her a copy of Modern
Screen magazine. Take this. It has a
story about Montgomery Clift. You can
borrow him until you get a favorite of
your own.
Dont you think movie stars and fan
magazines are a bit frivolous
and juvenile? She took the magazine
anyway and hopped back to Dolores
bed. The magazine fell right open to a
picture of Monty. Sophie took out the
dried banana peel I had used as a place
marker and studied the
photo. Jeepers, she said, he is
good-looking. Kind of shy and haunted, like
hes been persecuted and misunderstood.
The telephone in the hall rang. I could
hear my little brother, Artie,
answer it, Duffys Tavern, Archie the
Manager speaking, just like the guy on
the radio show. Artie liked Duffys
Tavern. He said he would own a tavern just
like Duffys when he grew up if he
wasnt going to be a cowboy. Artie says
things like that. Hes five.
Is it for me? I called to him.
Its for Dolores, like it always is,
he said, sticking his head in.
His yellow cowlick was standing straight
up from the back of his head, and
his glasses hung from the very tip of
his nose. Where is she?
Out, I told him, like she always
is. Artie left. I flopped back onto
my bed. Its so depressing being the
sister of Miss Popularity. Im surprised
I dont have a complex.
Do you get along with her?
Are you kidding? Dolores hates me. If
she could, I think she
shed return me, like underwear that
doesnt fit.
Sophie looked puzzled. I dont think
you can return under
Never mind. It was just a joke. I
meant that shed like to get rid of
me. I wish she was someone elses sister.
Still, shes your family. I think
youd be awfully lonely being an
only child.
Are you? I asked her.
No, she said, but I think you would be.
I leaped up and began jumping furiously
on my bed. Were
acrobats on the trampoline, I shouted
as I bounced onto Dolores bed, and
were gorgeous and popular and everybody
loves us and were never lonely
and
Dolores blew in like the Santa Ana
wind. Stop it! she shouted. I
stopped. Get off my bed. And get her off!
I jumped down. This is Sophie. Shes a
friend of mine from
school. Or she will be when
I dont care. Get her off my bed. And
get out of here. Both of you.
Its my room, too.
Who cares?
Sophie got off the bed. Dolores flopped
onto it and kicked her
shoes across the room.
Sophie walked regally to the door,
stopped, and looked back over
her shoulder. Gee, Francine, she said,
shes not nearly as pretty as you
said.
Dolores stuck her tongue out, and
Sophie stuck hers right back.
Wow, Sophie, I said once we were
safely out the door. That was
great. We slapped hands.
In the hall we bumped into Artie and
his stuffed bear, Chester.
Rice Krispies spilled from Arties
pockets and snap-krackle-popped as we
walked over them. Sophie looked at me
quizzically. He carries them in his
pockets in case of sudden starvation, I
told her.
Little kids are such a mess, she
said, scraping Rice Krispies off
her shoe. I cant stand them.
Arties okay. Hes sweet. Unlike
Dolores.
Sophie shrugged and left.
I pushed Arties glasses back up his
nose. Almost time for
Dragnet, I said, taking his hand.
Dun da dun dun, he sang, like the
Dragnet theme song. Dragnet
was one radio show Artie and I wouldnt
miss for anything. We sat on the
floor in the living room, our backs
against the big radio. When we heard Jack
Webb say, This is the city. Los
Angeles, California, we whooped and
clapped. Los Angeles was our city.
After that day Sophie and I were
friends. Good friends. On the way
to being best friends. Its funny how
that happens, so suddenly, first just
neighbors and then best friends.
Copyright © 2006 by Karen Cushman.