Before Daddy let me register he had warned me that the First Law of the Jungle for a professor’s child was not to be a pipeline to the faculty. “But, Daddy, you’re a professor.”
“Student stuff, eh? Better sweat it out alone. Good luck.”
I did not tell Mother either, because with Mother free speech is not just a theory. I did nothing but worry. Poor Gabrielle! She took her “note” down next morning, looking pleased—and I wanted to cry. Then I saw the smirk on Georgia Lammers’ face and I felt like murder and mayhem. There was another “note” Friday and I wanted to shout to her not to touch it. I didn’t dare. It was like a time bomb, watching Gabrielle’s pitiful makebelieve and knowing that Georgia meant to wreck it as soon as she thought up something nasty enough.
I was in the Registrar’s office Monday, not to see Georgia, though I couldn’t avoid her, but because I am a freshman reporter for the Campus Crier. One of my chores is getting up the “Happy Birthday” column. I thumbed through the files, noting dates from the coming Friday through the following Thursday. Gabrielle’s name turned up for Friday and I decided to send her a birthday card, via the bulletin board, so for once she would have real mail. Next I listed Bun Peterson’s name; her birthday was the same as Gabrielle’s. Bun is president of the Student Council and head cheerleader and honorary football captain; it seemed a shame she had to have Gabrielle’s birthday as well. I decided to get Gabrielle a really nice card, with a hanky.
As I finished Georgia picked up my list and said, 'Who’s getting senile?
I said, “You are,” and took it back.
She said, “Don’t get too big for your beanie, freshman.” She went on, “Going to the party for Bun Peterson?”—then added, “Oh, I forgot—it’s upper classmen only.”
I looked her in the eye. “A double choc malt against a used candy bar you aren’t either!”
She didn’t answer and I swaggered out.
It was a busy week. Junior sprained his arm, Mother was away two days and I kept house, the cat had to be wormed, and I typed a term paper for Cliff. I didn’t think about Gabrielle until late Friday when I stopped by the board on the chance that there might be a note from Cliff. There wasn’t, but there was another of Gabnelle’s notes, in an envelope with her name typed. I realized with a shock that I had forgotten her birthday card.
I was wondering whether to get one and let her find it Monday, when I heard a pssst! It was Georgia Lammers, motioning me to come to the office. Curiosity got me; I went. She pulled me inside; there was no one else in the outer office. “Keep back,”—she whispered. “If she sees anyone, she may not stop. She’s due now—it’s after five.”
I shook her off. “Who?”
“Gabrielle, of course. Shut up!”
“Huh?” I said. “She’s already been there. Her ‘note’ for Monday is up.”
“A lot you know! Hush!” She crowded me into the corner, then peeked out.
“Quit shoving!” I said and looked out.
Gabrielle was pinning something up, her back to us. She saw the envelope with her name, took it down, and hurried away.
I turned to Georgia. “If you’ve monkeyed with one of her notes, I will go to the Dean.”
“Go ahead—see how far it gets you.”
“Did you touch that note?”
“Sure I did—I wrote it. What’s wrong with that?” She had me; anybody can send anyone a note. “Well, what did you say?”
“What business is it of yours? Still,” she went on, “I’ll tell you. It’s too good to keep.” She dug a paper out of her purse. It was a typewritten rough draft, full of x-outs and inserts; it read:
Dear Gabrielle,
Today is Bun Peterson’s birthday and we are giving her the finest surprise party this school has ever seen. We would like to invite everybody, but we can’t and you have been picked as one of the girls to represent the freshman class. We are gathering in groups and will descend on her in a body. Your group will meet at seven o’clock in the Snack Shoppe. Put on your best bib and tucker-and don’t breathe a word to anyone!
The Committee
“It’s a shabby trick,” I said, “to invite her to another girl’s party on her own birthday. You knew it was her birthday.”
“What of it?”
“It’s mean—but just like you. How did you get them to invite her? You aren’t on the committee—are you?”
She stared, then laughed. “She’s not invited to anything.”
“Huh? You mean there’s no party? But there is…”
“Oh, sure, there’s a party for Bun Peterson. But that little snip won’t be there. That’s the joke.”
It finally sank in. Gabrielle would go to the Snack Shoppe and wait—and wait—and wait—while the party she thought she had been invited to went on without her. “That strikes you as funny?” I said.
“That’s just the beginning,” this Lammers person answered. “About eight-thirty, when she is beginning to wonder ‘Wha Hoppen?’ a messenger will bring another note. It will be blank paper, just like those she sends to herself—then she’ll know.” She giggled and wet her lips. “The little fake will have her comeuppance.”
I started after her and she ducked back of the counter. “You’re not allowed back here!” she yelped.
I stopped. “You’ll have to come out some time. Then we’ll find Gabrielle and you will tell her the truth—all of it!”
“Tell her yourselfl” she snapped. Two boys drifted in and the Registrar came out of the inner office and Georgia became briskly official. I left.
Cliff was waiting at “H-to-L”; I was never so glad to see him.
“Well,” Cliff said a bit later, “phone her. Tell her she’s been had and not to go to the Snack Shoppe.”
“But, Cliff, I can’t! That would be almost as cruel as the way Georgia planned it. Look—can’t you get somebody to take her to Bun’s party?” Cliff wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t see how.” “Cliff, you’ve got to!”
“Puddin’, today is Gabnelte’s birthday, too. Right?”
“Yes, yes—that’s what makes it so mean.”
“You don’t want to send her to Bun’s party. What we do is give her a surprise party of her own. Simple.”
I stared with open-mouthed adoration. “Cliff—you’re a genius.”
“No,” he said modestly, “just highly intelligent and with a heart of gold. Let’s get busy, chica.”
First I phoned Mother. She said, “Tonight, Maureen? I like to entertain your friends but—” I cut in with a quick up-to-date. Presently she said, “I’ll check the deep freeze. Sommers Market may still be open. How about turkey legs and creamed mushrooms on toast?”
“And ice cream,” I added. “Birthday parties need ice cream.”
“But the cake? I’m short on time.”
“Uh, we’ll get the cake.”
As I hung up Cliff came out of the other booth. “I got the Downbeat Campus Combo,” he announced.
“Oh, Cliff—an orchestra!”
“If you can call those refugees from a juke box that.”
“But how will we pay for it?”
“Don’t ask—it was a promotion. They bid on Bun’s party and got left, so they listened to reason. But I’m not doing well on guests, baby.”
“You called your house?”
“Yes. A lot of the boys have other plans.”
'You call again and tell those free loaders that they will never eat another Dagwood in my house if they are not there, on time, and each with a present. No excuses. This is total war.”
“Aye aye, sir—”
We went to Helen Hunt’s Tasty Pastry Shoppe. Mr. Helen Hunt was just closing but he let us in. No birthday cake… not a baker in the place until four the next morning—sorry. I spotted a three-tier wedding cake. “Is that a
