The Boston Girl

“Free. Willing to go along and let loose. We were special together, Addie. Didn’t you feel it? I could have gone on dancing all night with you.”

He sounded so much like a character in a magazine story that I giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I guess I’m not used to compliments.”

“You should be.” He put his arm around my waist, I leaned my head on his shoulder, and imagined how romantic we must look.

Then he turned my face up to his and kissed me on the mouth.

“Your first time?” he said.

“Oh, no. I’m not a baby, you know.”

“Of, course not,” he said. “I wouldn’t do this to a baby.” He kissed me again. He was as good a kisser as he was a dancer, and I followed him like I did with the fox-trot—without thinking.

It was very exciting and, well, let’s just say that I didn’t realize how far along things had gotten until I heard the church bell.

That’s when I sat up and said I should go inside.

Harold had his arm around my waist and said we should go out to the hammock in the orchard where we could look at the stars. “It’s so beautiful, Addie,” he whispered.

I said no and that I had to go inside. When he didn’t let go of me, I said it again.

A window upstairs opened and somebody coughed.

Harold let go of me. “I shouldn’t have come.” He sounded mad.

I said, “Don’t be mad.”

“Come with me and I won’t be.”

But I didn’t move and the coughing got louder.

Harold stood up, lit a cigarette, and walked away. No goodbye. Nothing. It was awful.

Filomena pretended she was asleep when I got in bed, which was okay with me. I didn’t want to talk about what had happened or how I was feeling and, boy oh boy, was I feeling things. I didn’t know if that meant I was a floozy or if I was in love. And what was Harold Weeks feeling? Maybe he was a wolf after all or maybe I had done something wrong.

The last thing I wanted to hear from Filomena was “I told you so.” Especially since I would have done anything to see him again and I was miserable because I knew that was never going to happen.

We got a suffragette in the family.

Starting in September, Levine wouldn’t stop talking about Thanksgiving. “The Americans say a prayer before they start eating,” he said. “What do think, Mr. Baum?”

“By us it’s not a holiday,” Papa said.

“Why not? We live in America so we should celebrate like Americans. This week I filled out citizenship papers for Celia and me. My boys were born here so they don’t have to worry. Not Addie, either. But the rest of us, we have to apply.”

“For what?” P

apa said. “So they can find us easier to throw us out? Or put boys into the army?”

“For voting,” said Levine.

Betty sniffed. “So why should I bother if they don’t let me?”

Levine clapped his hands. “We got a suffragette in the family. What do you think, Celia? Is Betty right? Should women vote like men? Celia?”