Machine Dreams

Danner’s mother dampened clothes before she ironed them on the ironing board. Afternoons they washed their hair under the one outdoor shower, suds streaming down their legs, then sat on their towels to open overnight cases. They took out curlers and pins. The round plastic rollers were bright pink or purple, fastened with long rubber-tipped bobby pins. Some girls didn’t need a mirror and were very fast, sectioning off each little strand of hair with the sharp end of a rat-tail comb. The curlers were arranged in patterns and perfectly placed, as though they were a hairstyle in themselves. Heads bristling with cylinders, the girls lay on their stomachs with their faces to the side, tanning while their curls dried. Later, hoping, they went inside to the dank dressing rooms to comb out and put on lipstick. The ones who were going steady could leave their curlers in all day; they talked to their boyfriends like confident wives, leaning against the fence and rerolling a curler that had come loose. Their simple gestures looked intimate. They touched their heads as they talked, flashing their certainties and their alliances in public. Some of them went all the way. The younger girls wondered which ones and played games of Crazy Eights, keeping score on gum wrappers; they swam all day and did underwater somersaults in the deep end.
    Danner wished she’d called her friends on the phone to be sure some were coming to the dance. A few were on vacation already with their families; others would be too shy.
    “Billy,” Jean said, “I’m going to give Danner the spending money, and anytime you want something, just ask her for whatever you need.”
    Billy groaned. “Why don’t you give me my own money?”
    “Because I want you to get it from Danner, that’s why.”
    “She wants you two to keep in touch,” Gladys said liltingly.
    Billy grimaced and looked out the window. Danner touched him across the seat, signaling with a glance that she’d give him his entire share as soon as they got inside.
    Jean pulled into the gravel driveway of the poolhouse. The alleyway was full of parked automobiles; lanky teenage boys stood in clusters among them, smoking cigarettes. “Have a good time,” Jean said. “I’ll be here to pick you up right at ten.”
    “Okay,” Billy said, resigned. He got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the entrance.
    “Look at him,” Gladys said softly. “Walks just like his father, little as he is.”
    Danner got out of the Mercury and hitched the beach bag to her shoulder. As she stood by the driver’s side, Jean beckoned her closer, and she pressed three dollar bills into Danner’s hand. “Keep an eye on your brother.”
    “Mom, Billy will be fine.”
    Jean smiled and shook her head. “You look so lovely, it makes me sad.”
    Gladys spoke from inside the car. “Jeannie, let the kid go to the dance. I promise, she’ll come home to you.”
    “Yeah,” Danner agreed, “I will.”
    “Have to,” Jean said. “Can’t get far on three dollars, can you.” She sat still, looking, blocking Gladys’ view of Danner’s face.
    “Not too far.” Danner said.
    She walked through the narrow concrete corridor of the pool-house that was the girls’ side, and stepped out onto the back porch. Dawn Marie Kasten and Bonnie Martin stood quite near her, leaning on the shelf of the snack bar. Danner smiled tentatively; just as she was about to lower her gaze, Dawn Marie spoke to her.
    “Aren’t you a little old to wear your hair in pigtails?” she asked flatly.
    For a moment Danner didn’t answer. Her face was burning, but she wouldn’t let herself walk away. “These are French braids,” she said.
    The older girls exchanged glances, and Bonnie Martin smiled. “I think your braids are rather pretty.”
    Dawn Marie looked off coolly. “Prettier than pedal pushers and a rhinestone tiara, certainly.”
    “She’s talking about our queen,” Bonnie Martin said to Danner, raising her eyebrows and nodding toward the lawn.
    It was just twilight and growing darker quickly. The queen this year was a co-ed at the local college who’d graduated from Bellington High two years before, and she was walking with Steve Rafferty past the pool. She was a tall girl who’d been head majorette; her white pedal pushers were tight, and the tiara sat securely in her bouffant hairdo. Farther on, lights strung in the tree above the dance floor looked bright against dark leaves. Light bulbs strung on wire