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“Why don’t you ever come home, Papa?” she asked.
Abel poured himself another cup of tea, a little spilling into the saucer. “I’ve wanted to come home many times and I hated missing Saint Joan, but your mother and I are going to be divorced.”
“Oh, no, it can’t be true. Papa—”
“It’s my fault, little one. I have not been a good husband and—”
Florentyna threw her arms around her father. “Does that mean I will never see you again?”
“No. I have made an agreement with your mother that you shall remain in Chicago while you are at school, but you will spend the holidays with me in New York. Of course you can always talk to me on the telephone whenever you want to.”
Florentyna remained silent as Abel gently stroked her hair.
Some time passed before there was a gentle knock on the door and Miss Tredgold entered, her long dress swishing as she came quickly to Florentyna’s side.
“Can you take her home please, Miss Tredgold?”
“Of course, Mr. Rosnovski.” Florentyna was still tearful. “Come with me, child,” she said and bent down and whispered, “try not to show your feelings.”
The twelve-year-old girl kissed her father on the forehead, took Miss Tredgold’s hand and left.
When the door closed, Abel, not having been brought up by Miss Tredgold, sat alone and wept.
Chapter
Seven
It was at the beginning of her second year in Upper School that Florentyna first became aware of Pete Welling. He was sitting in a corner of the music room, playing the latest hit, “Almost Like Being in Love,” on the piano. He was slightly out of tune, but Florentyna assumed it must be the piano. Pete didn’t seem to notice her as she passed him, so she turned around and walked back again, but to no avail. He put a hand nonchalantly through his fair, wavy hair and continued playing the piano, so she marched off pretending she hadn’t seen him. By lunchtime the next day she knew that he was one grade above her, where he lived, that he was cocaptain of the football team, president of his class and nearly seventeen. Her friend Susie Jacobson warned her that others had trod the same path without a great deal of success.
“But I assure you,” replied Florentyna, “I have something to offer that will prove irresistible.”
That afternoon she sat down and composed what she imagined to be her first love letter. After much deliberation she chose purple ink and wrote in a bold, slanting hand:
My dear Pete,
I knew you were something special the first time I saw you. I think you play the piano beautifully. Would you like to come and listen to some records at my place?
Very sincerely,
Florentyna (Rosnovski)
Florentyna waited for the break before she crept down the corridor, imagining every eye to be on her as she searched for Pete Welling’s hall locker. When she found it, she checked his name against the number on the top of the locker. Forty-two—she felt that was a good omen, and opened his locker door, left her letter on top of a math book, where he couldn’t miss it, and returned to her classroom, palms sweating. She checked her own locker, on the hour every hour, expecting his reply, but none was forthcoming. After a week passed, she began to despair until she saw Pete sitting on the steps of the chapel combing his hair. How daring to break two school rules at once, she thought. Florentyna decided this was her chance to find out if he had ever received her invitation.
She walked boldly toward him, but with only a yard to go she wished he would disappear in a cloud of dust because she couldn’t think of anything to say. She stood still like a lamb in the stare of a python, but he saved her by saying, “Hi.”
“Hi,” she managed. “Did you ever find my letter?”
“Your letter?”
“Yes, I wrote to you last Monday about coming over to play some records at my place. I’ve got ‘Silent Night,’ and most of Bing Crosby’s latest hits. Have you heard him singing ‘White Christmas’?” she asked, playing her trump card.
“Oh, it was you who wrote that letter,” he said.
“Yes, I saw you play against Parker last week. You were fantastic. Who are you playing next?”
“It’s in the school calendar,” he said, putting his comb into an inside pocket and looking over her shoulder.
“I’ll be in the stands.”
“I’m sure you will,” he said as a tall blonde from the senior class wearing little white socks that Florentyna felt sure were not official school uniform ran over to Pete and asked if he had been waiting long.
“No, only a couple of minutes,” said Pete, and put his arm around her waist before turning back to Florentyna. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get in line,” he said, laughing, “but perhaps your time will come. Anyway, I think Crosby’s square. I’m into Bix Beiderbecke.”
As they walked away, Florentyna could hear him telling the blonde, “That was the girl who sent me the note.” The blonde looked back over her shoulder and started laughing. “She’s probably still a virgin,” Pete added.
Florentyna went to the girls’ locker room and hid until everyone else had gone home, dreading that they would all laugh at her once the story had gone the rounds. She didn’t sleep that night, and the next morning she studied the other girls’ faces but couldn’t see any signs of sniggers or stares and decided to confide in Susie Jacobson to discover if the story had gotten around. When Florentyna had finished her story, S
usie burst out laughing.
“Not you as well,” Susie said.
Florentyna felt a lot better after Susie told her how far down the line she actually was. It gave her the courage to ask Susie if she knew what a virgin was.
“I’m not certain,” said Susie. “Why?”
“Because Pete said I probably was one.”
“Then I think I must be one as well. I once overheard Mary Alice Beckman saying it was when a boy made love to you and nine months later you had a baby. Like Miss Horton told us about elephants, but they take two years.”
“I wonder what it feels like.”
“According to all the magazines Mary Alice keeps in her locker, it’s dreamy.”
“Do you know anyone who’s tried?”
“Margie McCormick claims she has.”
“She would claim anything, and if she has, why hasn’t she had a baby?”
“She said she took ‘precautions,’ whatever they are.”
“If it’s anything like having a period, I can’t believe it’s worth all the trouble,” said Florentyna.
“Agreed,” said Susie. “I got mine yesterday. Do you think men have the same problem?”
“Not a chance,” said Florentyna. “They always end up with the best of every deal. Obviously we get the periods and the babies and they get shaving and the draft, but I shall have to ask Miss Tredgold about that.”
“I’m not sure she’ll know,” said Susie.
“Miss Tredgold,” said Florentyna with confidence, “knows everything.”
That evening when Miss Tredgold was approached by a puzzled Florentyna, she did not hesitate to sit the child down and explain the birth process to her in the fullest detail, warning her of the consequences of a rash desire to experiment. Florentyna sat and listened to Miss Tredgold in silence. When she had finished, Florentyna asked, “Then why is so much fuss made about the whole thing?”
“Modern society and loose morals make a lot of demands on girls, but always remember that each of us makes our own decision as to what others think of us and, more importantly, what we think of ourselves.”
