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Show 140 One of the scripts of the female Walter Mitty would surely have been a Cinderella theme about how Little Wall Flower grew into the belle of the ball. Heartrending as are the cruelties of little girls to each other at the age of thirteen, they are not to be compared to the cruelty of being a wall flower at a dance, of sitting on the sidelines watching everybody have fun but oneself. A boy might start in the general direction and the heart begins to pound, but slows to a dull thud when he veers to somebody less sunburned, in a prettier dress. Oh, the agony of being the only girl left on a long bench, while all about there is laughter and gaiety, the swirl of colors and the love-sobbing of the saxophones! There goes life, passing by with never a glance your way. I had a beau in the third grade: Happy Wells, a freckle-faced embryo Spencer Tracy. I was brought to his attention by a melodrama, brought about by my inability to run fast. Hap, who sat behind me and sent tingles over my scalp by toying with my braids, chose me at Follow the Leader. Flattery at being called dissolved into chagrin when I found the reason he chose me was because he thought he could lose me quickly and retain his title of "It. " This goaded me into ticking into my memory bank every move he made, although he was three laps around the room ahead of me. We ran and ran. And ran. Finally, Miss Lubeck stopped the punishment and told Happy it was obvious he couldn't lose me, no matter how fast he ran. I stood up to call on my successor and passed out. Anyone who could do that was a heroine without further ado. Mama was much excited when she heard about it, said I had missed being a "blue |
