One
D eanne paused by the doorway. She heard her mother say her name.
No
, Deanne thought curiously.
She didn’t call me. But she did say my name.
Cautiously, Deanne peeked into the big sunny kitchen. She could see her mother, Sylvia, standing near her writing desk. She was talking on the phone.
“Oh, Joan,” her mother said with a laugh in her voice. “I think that’s so kind of you. Of course, Deanne will be thrilled to go with Judson. I can’t wait to tell her!”
Deanne felt her stomach lurch and her mouth go dry.
Oh no! What was her mother promising now?
she wondered to herself.
And with Judson Cortland III?
Deanne knew that the person on the other end of the phone must be Joan Cortland, Judson’s mother.
Deanne felt waves of resentment wash over her. Her mother was at it again. Sylvia Vandervoort was trying to arrange Deanne’s life for her once more.
Why can’t she just leave me alone?
Deanne thought bitterly.
Why can’t she see I’ll never be the Star of the Social Register like she is?
Deanne wanted to run away and hide before her mother saw her standing there. Quickly, Deanne turned back down the hallway, raced through the marbled foyer and up the winding spiral staircase toward her room. She shut her bedroom door with a bang and threw herself across the yellow canopied bed. Hot tears burned in her eyes.
Things always ended this way with Mrs. Vandervoort meddling in her life . . . fixing her up with all the right people . . . making sure she went to all the right places. Why can’t she see that I hate and despise all the things the Vandervoort name stands for? Deanne said to herself. That I hate the country club scene Mom loves so dearly? And I can’t stand all the meaningless cotillions and parties I’m forced to attend?
Summer was just two months away. Already, Deanne was dreading it. At fourteen, Deanne would be expected to lie around the pool at the country club all summer, while her mother idled away her days playing bridge and golf and discussing Deanne’s social future with all the other mothers.
In four more years Deanne would have to face her own coming out party and turn into a
debutante
. It was expected of a Vandervoort.
Why can’t my parents be poor?
she wondered.
Why does Dad have to come from such a long line of Pennsylvania aristocrats?
“Deanne!” Her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “Deanne, honey! Come down into the kitchen! I have the most wonderful news for you!”
Deanne wiped her eyes quickly. “C-coming,” she called. She didn’t want her mother to know she had overheard any of the phone conversation. Deanne looked in the mirror on her vanity.
How plain and pale and fat I look!
she thought.
She tugged her heavy, silver-plated hairbrush through her long, fine, blond hair. On her mother, the same color and texture of hair looked elegant. On Deanne, it looked limp and lifeless. Her pale eyelashes seemed to disappear in her heart-shaped face. And the wool skirt she wore strained at its button around her middle.
“Great!” she said aloud. “Instead of losing weight on this stupid diet, I’ve gained it.”
All in all, Deanne felt she must be a big disappointment to her mother. Here she was, Deanne Vandervoort, the only child of Dr. Hans and Sylvia Vandervoort, a direct descendant of some of the first Dutch settlers in America, a member of the prestigious Social Register, and she hated everything her heritage stood for.
She almost felt sorry for her mother. What bad luck to be stuck with an ugly daughter. Where her mother was tall and slim and pretty, she was short and overweight and not pretty at all. Where her mother was outgoing, witty, and well-liked, she was quiet, introspective, and not popular at all. Life just wasn’t fair!
“Are you coming?” Sylvia called again.
“Yes!” Deanne answered as she hurried downstairs.
* * * * *
Deanne slouched at the round oak table in the breakfast nook. Her mother beamed at her with
D eanne paused by the doorway. She heard her mother say her name.
No
, Deanne thought curiously.
She didn’t call me. But she did say my name.
Cautiously, Deanne peeked into the big sunny kitchen. She could see her mother, Sylvia, standing near her writing desk. She was talking on the phone.
“Oh, Joan,” her mother said with a laugh in her voice. “I think that’s so kind of you. Of course, Deanne will be thrilled to go with Judson. I can’t wait to tell her!”
Deanne felt her stomach lurch and her mouth go dry.
Oh no! What was her mother promising now?
she wondered to herself.
And with Judson Cortland III?
Deanne knew that the person on the other end of the phone must be Joan Cortland, Judson’s mother.
Deanne felt waves of resentment wash over her. Her mother was at it again. Sylvia Vandervoort was trying to arrange Deanne’s life for her once more.
Why can’t she just leave me alone?
Deanne thought bitterly.
Why can’t she see I’ll never be the Star of the Social Register like she is?
Deanne wanted to run away and hide before her mother saw her standing there. Quickly, Deanne turned back down the hallway, raced through the marbled foyer and up the winding spiral staircase toward her room. She shut her bedroom door with a bang and threw herself across the yellow canopied bed. Hot tears burned in her eyes.
Things always ended this way with Mrs. Vandervoort meddling in her life . . . fixing her up with all the right people . . . making sure she went to all the right places. Why can’t she see that I hate and despise all the things the Vandervoort name stands for? Deanne said to herself. That I hate the country club scene Mom loves so dearly? And I can’t stand all the meaningless cotillions and parties I’m forced to attend?
Summer was just two months away. Already, Deanne was dreading it. At fourteen, Deanne would be expected to lie around the pool at the country club all summer, while her mother idled away her days playing bridge and golf and discussing Deanne’s social future with all the other mothers.
In four more years Deanne would have to face her own coming out party and turn into a
debutante
. It was expected of a Vandervoort.
Why can’t my parents be poor?
she wondered.
Why does Dad have to come from such a long line of Pennsylvania aristocrats?
“Deanne!” Her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “Deanne, honey! Come down into the kitchen! I have the most wonderful news for you!”
Deanne wiped her eyes quickly. “C-coming,” she called. She didn’t want her mother to know she had overheard any of the phone conversation. Deanne looked in the mirror on her vanity.
How plain and pale and fat I look!
she thought.
She tugged her heavy, silver-plated hairbrush through her long, fine, blond hair. On her mother, the same color and texture of hair looked elegant. On Deanne, it looked limp and lifeless. Her pale eyelashes seemed to disappear in her heart-shaped face. And the wool skirt she wore strained at its button around her middle.
“Great!” she said aloud. “Instead of losing weight on this stupid diet, I’ve gained it.”
All in all, Deanne felt she must be a big disappointment to her mother. Here she was, Deanne Vandervoort, the only child of Dr. Hans and Sylvia Vandervoort, a direct descendant of some of the first Dutch settlers in America, a member of the prestigious Social Register, and she hated everything her heritage stood for.
She almost felt sorry for her mother. What bad luck to be stuck with an ugly daughter. Where her mother was tall and slim and pretty, she was short and overweight and not pretty at all. Where her mother was outgoing, witty, and well-liked, she was quiet, introspective, and not popular at all. Life just wasn’t fair!
“Are you coming?” Sylvia called again.
“Yes!” Deanne answered as she hurried downstairs.
* * * * *
Deanne slouched at the round oak table in the breakfast nook. Her mother beamed at her with
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