“Where’s Ginny?” Bertha Trumbull asked.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“We thought she’d be with you.”
“Yes, I imagined you were both at Enfield House,” Carolyn said. “Weren’t they having a raffle for a turkey or a ham or some other funny thing there this evening?” She was sitting on a couch and leafing through a magazine. She didn’t raise her eyes to look at me when she spoke and turned to Mary Ann, showing her a picture of a dress.
My merriment drained away with the tick of the stately grandfather clock in a corner of the room. Ginny hadn’t said anything about going out that evening. I was certain that if she’d beeninvited to a party, she would have asked me to tag along with her. The library would be closing soon. Could she be there, working on a paper? Or else might she be at another dorm studying with a friend? Though, to be frank, she seemed rather friendless lately, and I couldn’t picture her engaging in an impromptu end-of-year celebration.
When the clock struck the hour, we went upstairs before the house mother chased us out of the parlor, settling in Carolyn’s room. Carolyn and Elizabeth Gardner sat on her bed and continued flipping through magazines. Bertha had commandeered the couch and Mary Ann and I were left standing.
“Do you think she’s with Edgar?” Bertha asked. “Maybe they went for a ride and his car broke down.”
“I bet you if she’s out with anyone, it’s with Santiago,” Mary Ann said, smiling slyly, pleased with herself.
“No!” squealed Elizabeth.
“Yes! I saw him a few days ago, outside the dorm. He looked like he was waiting for someone, and when he saw me he turned red as a tomato. It’s not the first time he’s been around. I saw him on Monday, hugging a girl who must have been Ginny.”
“Must have been? Monday we walked back and forth together from Joyce House to our classrooms and then had dinner together. She was here all evening long,” I said.
“It was late, and I couldn’t quite see her face, but she was wearing a gray coat like the one Ginny has with the upturned collar. Who else would it be?”
“That’s a fairly common coat. Carolyn has one with the collar upturned,” I said. “I’m sure other people do, too. Elizabeth has a gray coat.”
“I hope you don’t think Elizabeth or I would be downstairs with that Portuguese boy,” Carolyn said disdainfully.
“He did stare at her quite a bit when he was working on the repairs in the kitchen,” Bertha mused. “Wouldn’t it be crazy if she’d rather pick a nobody than Edgar Yates?”
They laughed. I felt irritated by their baseless accusations.
“You shouldn’t be starting silly rumors,” I said, and my voicewas rather sharp and curt. “What if she was in an accident? What if something bad has happened to her? You’re cruel to be speaking like that about a friend.”
The girls stared at me, their laughter and smiles dying on their lips. Carolyn raised an arched eyebrow at me and tossed her magazine aside. “Don’t be silly. We’re having a little fun.”
“It’s not fun to me!”
“You’re not angry, are you?”
I was too upset to reply and my hands were shaking. Carolyn stood up and took me aside, worry now replacing blitheness.
“She’ll be here any second now. She must be at Enfield House and walking back. Maybe she even won the raffle. Gosh, we’re only teasing, Betty. If we thought anything could happen to her—”
“What if something did happen? We wouldn’t know, would we? She could be bleeding out in the snow.”
Carolyn opened her eyes wide, startled by my words. “My, that’s ghoulish! Betty, if you’re really worried we can talk to the house mother. Let’s give it a few more minutes, shall we? It’s not that late yet.”
I nodded and spent the next few minutes chewing my fingernails. It wasn’t long before Lily Gardner came running into the room, eyes bright and mischievous. “Ginny is back! I heard the house mother giving her a talking-to.”
“I wonder what her excuse’ll be,” Mary Ann said.
I rushed to my room and let out a sigh of relief. Ginny was standing by the window. She’d taken off her coat and her knit hat and she was peeling off her gloves. The snow that had flaked off her shoulders was melting and creating a puddle by the radiator.
“Thank heavens,” I said. “We were worried. What happened?”
“I told Miss Price I was at a party.”
“Were you?” I asked, because both her face and the wording of the sentence gave me pause. She looked pale, bloodless. Neither the flush of alcohol nor romance colored her cheeks. I was certain she had not been at a party, nor had she entertained a lover, whether that be Edgar or Santiago.
