The Sweetest Thing by Elizabeth Musser Page B

Georgia Tech. He was holding a huge bouquet of flowers, which he presented to Mamma, and said, “We have been so distressed about your tragedy, Mrs. Singleton.”
    â€œThank you, Spalding. These are lovely. Your mother’s been an angel, helping organize meals and making phone calls. Come on in. I’ll call Perri.”
    I came down the stairs slowly after checking my reflection in the long mirror in my room. I wanted to look just right for Spalding Smith. Just about every girl at Washington Seminary had a crush on him. He had black hair cut short and parted on the side, thick black eyebrows, charcoal eyes, and a smile that could knock you over. He played quarterback for Tech, one of the stars on the football team, and he was twenty-one! I had met him at the Chandlers’ Valentine’s Dance, and we had talked a little, but I never expected him to come for a visit. I felt light-headed to have him sitting on my porch.
    He stood. “Hello, Perri.”
    â€œHi, Spalding. How nice of you to come by.” I sat down on the little wrought-iron bench covered with a beautiful yellow-and-red cushion, something Mamma had bought on one of her trips to Provence. I ran my hands along my legs, straightening my skirt.
    Spalding sat in one of the Westport chairs. “I wanted to express our condolences in person. I hope you received my card.”
    We had, in fact, received almost four hundred sympathy cards, and I had not yet read them all. “Yes, thank you,” I said. Nothing else came out of my parched mouth.
    Thank goodness Mamma came onto the porch and offered us iced tea, which we accepted, and I gulped down several swallows.
    After pleasantries, Spalding asked, “Perri, would you consider being my date for the SAE formal on April 15?”
    I was speechless. Every girl at Washington Seminary had heard about the formal—it was a special dance given by the Sigma Alpha Epsilons, one of the best fraternities at Georgia Tech—but none of us expected to attend.
    I sat up a little straighter, cleared my throat, and tried to sound very sophisticated. “Why, thank you, Spalding. I think that would be delightful.”
    I could hardly wait to tell Dobbs. I called the Chandlers’ residence, hoping to heavens not to wake Mr. Chandler from a nap. “Hello, this is Anne Perrin Singleton,” I squeaked out when he answered the phone. “I’m so sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon. I was wondering if I may speak to Mary Dobbs.”
    Mr. Chandler mumbled something, probably to his wife, and she came on the phone. “Perri? Yes. Hello, dear. Could you please hold a moment? I believe Mary Dobbs is in her room. I’ll let her get the telephone upstairs.”
    I waited, impatiently tapping my foot and gnawing on a fingernail. Finally Dobbs came to the phone. “Perri, is it you? Are you okay?”
    â€œHey, there! I’m swell. Just swell! I hope I didn’t interrupt you. Are you busy with pop-calling?”
    â€œWith what?”
    â€œWith boys at your house?”
    â€œBoys? The only boys around here are Uncle Robert, Hosea, and Cornelius, and I have no idea what you mean about ‘pop-calling.’ ”
    In the midst of the shattering events, I had forgotten to educate Dobbs on this very important part of Washington Seminary protocol. “It’s just how things work around here.” And I explained the process to Dobbs. “. . . And in fine weather, you sit out on the porch and drink lemonade or iced tea or even coffee, if you’re allowed. I’ll bet Mrs. Chandler would allow it. I serve tea cakes and cookies and all kinds of delicious things that Dellareen bakes for us. We girls like to kid each other and say that the house with the best food gets the most boys.”
    â€œWell, there’s no one around here, and I can’t imagine a boy showing up unannounced at this house. And anyway, I’m not interested in