“What is a USO dance, anyway?”
Mary’s jaw falls open again, and her hands still in my hair. “How can you not know what a USO dance is? Did you hit your head out there in the woods?”
“Well, I mean, I know it’s a dance for the troops.”
She nods, obviously in some kind of daze.
“What does USO stand for?”
“United Service Organization. How can you not know this, Lydia?”
I shrug again.
Mary sighs and puts one hand on her hip. “The USO entertains the troops in all sorts of ways. They put on dances, and they get big stars to travel all over to sing and tell jokes. Rita Hayworth goes to all the training camps and the soldiers just love her.” She grabs a brush off the vanity and starts to run it through my hair. “I volunteer at the USO center in town at least once a week. We serve donuts and play music and sometimes just talk with the soldiers for hours. They get bored and homesick, and it’s our job to keep them entertained.”
Mary puts down the brush and picks up a few long metal hairpins and a pink plastic comb. “Maybe you can come help me next time I go to the USO center. It’s easy. You just smile and flirt and dance with anyone who asks.”
“Sounds like fun.” I look at Mary in the mirror, but she pushes my head back down.
“You simply cannot move, Lydia! Or I will poke your eye out with this comb. You know, you should consider cutting your bangs shorter. It would soften your face. Like mine.” She fluffs the curls on her forehead, then runs her fingers through a small section of my hair. I haven’t had anyone play with my hair since I was a little girl. It feels nice. “What was your high school like?”
“It was pretty normal. I spent a lot of time with Hannah, my best friend.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s really blunt and funny. Stubborn. She can be kind of intense.”
Mary squeezes my shoulder. “Do you miss her terribly? She can always come visit, if you want.”
“It would be hard for her to visit, trust me.” I smile at the thought of Mary and Hannah meeting. The girly-girl and the cynic. Though there is something similar about them: they’re both honest and confident in their own ways.
“So, did you have a special someone?” Mary grins at me in the mirror.
I shake my head.
“Oh well, I bet you were real popular. I bet you’re a gadabout girl and everything.”
“Gadabout?”
“You know, someone who gads about town.” Mary swishes her hips from side to side and purses her lips. “So what do you think of Lucas?” She leans down and lowers her voice. “Isn’t he so drooly?”
“What?”
“Don’t move, I said! Drooly, dreamy. You know, handsome.”
Lucas is definitely cute, but when I think handsome, I think of someone untouchable—the kind of guy you never meet in real life.
“There. You’re all done.” Mary’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I stare at myself in the mirror. She has twisted my hair up into two swirls on either side of my head. The rest falls gently down around my shoulders. I look older, a different version of myself.
“It’d be better if we could curl it.” Mary reaches up to touch the ends, which fall to the middle of my back. “And it’s so long. Tonight I’ll put it in pins. Or maybe rag rollers, since you just washed it.”
I catch her eye in the mirror. “Thank you, Mary.”
She bends down and presses her cheek next to mine. “Oh Lydia, you don’t need to thank me. I can tell we’re going to be great friends.”
Mary and I sit on opposite sides of the dining room table. Heavy white china and thick cotton napkins rest next to each plate. It’s so formal and different from my family’s meals together. I think of all of us sitting around our kitchen table on breakfast-Saturdays, the loud conversation, the teasing, and a small ache settles into my chest.
“There’s been a rumor that some of the wounded soldiers over in Europe might be sent to Hero,” Dr. Bentley tells us. “If that happens we’ll need more volunteers.” He looks at me pointedly.
“I don’t really know much about nursing.” I push a piece of Spam casserole around my plate.
Mrs. Bentley smiles. “There are lots of ways to help out that don’t involve nursing.”
“Ma volunteers with the Red Cross too.” Mary is wolfing down the food on her plate. “She makes food for the barracks, or organizes clothing drives. Stuff like that.”
“There’s a fundraiser at the church tomorrow. My women’s group is hosting a clothing drive in support of the Red Cross,” Mrs. Bentley says. “We’ll send boxes of clothes and towels and things to victims of war all across Europe. Why don’t you girls come by and help us sort?”
“Sure,” I say. Mrs. Bentley offers me more food and I hold out my plate.
“See, there are lots of ways to help.” She ladles out the casserole. “But if you want any medical training, my church group also meets with Red Cross nurses once a week. We learn simple procedures so we can help if there’s an emergency.”
“Like, when the wounded soldiers come home?”
“Or if there’s an attack on our shores.”
“But there aren’t …” I trail off, remembering myself.
“Billy McDonald told me his dad saw a submarine in the bay last winter. He’s a member of the Home Guard. They walk the beaches looking for enemy
