Searching for Silverheels by Jeannie Mobley Page B

said.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, Phoebe,” Mother said from the kitchen doorway. I didn’t know when she had arrived, but she had heard enough of the exchange to know what was going on. “A wiener roast would be a fine addition to the picnic.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Mrs. Crawford said, her voice so cold that the temperature in the café seemed to drop a few degrees.
    Mrs. Schmidt stood. Her face, which had been so white a few minutes before, now flushed with color. “Never mind, Maggie, it’s all right,” she said. She fumbled in her pocketbook for a few pennies to pay for her coffee and set them quietly on the table. Then she whispered, “Excuse me,” and taking her little boys by their hands, hurried out the door, her head down. The brief silence that followed was broken by Mrs. Crawford.
    â€œWell, there’s one in every crowd, I suppose,” she said in a superior tone.
    â€œThere certainly is,” Mother said, and she disappearedback into the kitchen. Mrs. Crawford shuffled her papers, ignoring Mother, but George stared after her disapprovingly. My cheeks were burning. Why couldn’t Mother have just stayed quiet, like everyone else in the café? I hoped George wasn’t regretting having asked me to the picnic.
    â€œNow, where were we. Ah yes, entertainment,” Mrs. Crawford said.
    The meeting continued, but subdued now, the excitement and fun gone. Mrs. Crawford told people what they would do and they quietly agreed. No one dared not to.
    When the meeting finally broke up a few minutes later, the café emptied quickly. George didn’t look my way as he accompanied his mother out the door.
    Imogene volunteered to help me gather up dishes—her excuse for staying behind until everyone left so she could hear when and how George had asked me to the picnic.
    â€œYou’ll be the envy of every girl there, showing up on George’s arm,” she said. “Every girl except me, that is. George is very good looking, but I prefer an older man. Speaking of which, where is Willie? I sat through this whole boring meeting because I thought he’d be here. He’s only got two weeks left to ask me, you know.”
    My mood darkened another shade or two. “He and Frank went camping. They won’t be back until tomorrow.”
    â€œWell, at least he’s gotten Frank out of town.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œHonestly, Pearl, use your head. It was okay making Georgejealous to get him to ask you to the picnic, but now that you’ve got him, you want to hold on tight to George.”
    She flounced out of the café, knowing she was right. It was bad enough that my mother had just insulted his mother in front of half the town. I didn’t need anything else to which George might object.
    I began washing the dirty dishes and daydreaming about showing up at the picnic on George Crawford’s arm. I would bring the most delicious picnic in the world for him, and after lunch . . .
    My fancy, which had been taking flight, came crashing back to earth. After lunch, I’d work the kissing booth. My first kiss would be to whoever paid a nickel for the privilege—not exactly the way the daydream was supposed to go. Unless, of course, George stole a kiss before the kissing booth, and that wasn’t likely with the whole town in Larsen’s Meadow. No, my fist kiss wasn’t going to be sweet or romantic. It was going to be my patriotic duty for the war effort. Real romance, it seemed, had left Park County, right along with Silverheels.

CHAPTER 12
    B y the time I had the café tidied up from the meeting, there was no chance for me to get away. The lunch train was due at the station in only half an hour, and my mother was scrambling to get ready. I sliced bread and made sandwiches until I heard the approaching whistle. Then Mother sent me out front with silverware and napkins to get the