The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

opposite sex be alone together in a bedroom.
    As I stepped on the top landing, Sylvia came out of a room at the front of the house. She was dressed in pedal pushers and an old white shirt, not tucked in, that was too big for her. It was the first time I had seen her not wearing a skirt or dress. Her eyes were red, and her short hair was not brushed.
    We said tentative hi’s, and she nodded over her shoulder toward the room behind her. I followed her inside, and she shut the door.
    “Sorry it’s such a mess,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”
    My first impulse was to tell her that this was nothing compared to my room, but I was actually a fairly neat person and had been even neater since I had been a guest. There were a few clothes and books scattered around, but at least her bed was made. There was a picture of her and a boy in a cardboard frame on the dresser. A book was open, upside down, on the bed. Several stuffed animals inhabited a corner. I smiled and shrugged.
    “Sit here,” she said, scooping some undergarments off a wooden rocking chair and stuffing them into a dresser drawer in such a way that I didn’t get a good look at them.
    I sat down in the chair. Sylvia more or less fell onto the bed and bounced.
    She said, “I saw you cross the street.”
    Her window faced the street and was low enough so that she could see across it while sitting on the bed. White lace curtains prevented outsiders from looking in.
    “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
    “At first, I didn’t want to see you. I hoped you’d go. Then, when you didn’t ring the bell right away, I was afraid that you would go. I’m glad you’re here.”
    “Thanks.” There was an awkward pause. “So, are you okay?”
    “Better than Dad. He’s taking it hard. It’s a good thing I was home today to be with him. Mother’s a nurse, and she just started a new job today.”
    “Are you going back to school tomorrow?”
    Sylvia looked out the window for a few seconds. “My mother needs a car for work, so I have to start taking the bus again. And do you know what’s funny? I can’t picture myself getting on the bus. I’m one of the last ones—it’s standing room only when I get on. All those kids will be staring at me—and talking. They are talking about me, aren’t they?”
    I wasn’t going to lie to her. I said, “They’re fools—scared fools.”
    “But they’re my friends. And have been—in some cases for twelve years.”
    “That doesn’t give them the right to talk about you behind your back.”
    “That’s what people do, Gary. That’s human nature.”
    “That doesn’t make it right. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pick you up and drive you to school. You’re on my way, anyway.”
    “You can’t do that. Think about your reputation if you’re seen with the daughter of a communist.”
    “My reputation?” I laughed. “Let me tell you about my reputation. Let me tell you the reason I got kicked out of Atherton.”
    “You got kicked out?” Sylvia was wide-eyed. “I thought…”
    “Yes. I’m tired of keeping it a secret. I was editor of the Atherton school paper last year and this year. It’s a good job, and I enjoyed it. I like to write. But I wanted to do something more—I wanted to leave high school with a bang. So I wrote a high school version of Confidential Magazine .”
    “That’s the magazine that tells all the dirt about actors and actresses—like who’s sleeping with whom.”
    “Right. I had access to the duplicating equipment at the school. So I typed it up on stencils, ran off copies, and distributed them throughout the school early in the morning, before the teachers got there.”
    Sylvia gasped. “What happened?”
    “All hell broke loose. All the copies were confiscated. A boy who was caught with a copy later received thirty days’ detention.”
    “My God.”
    “Although I didn’t put my name on the paper, there was never any doubt about who did it. When the principal saw me in the hall, he almost casually told me to drop by his office at my convenience. When I went to his office, he wasn’t so calm, and he still had a copy. For example, he pointed to a place where I referred to sports fans as ‘athletic supporters,’ and he said, his voice shaking, ‘Do you know what that means?’”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “Uh uh. And he didn’t like a piece I wrote making fun of some of the school rules, which he took as criticism of himself. For my