Front Lines. Майкл Грант
Doon laughs. “I’d say I’m smarter now, but look at me.” He waves his hands elegantly to indicate his uniform. “How smart am I?”
RIO RICHLIN—GEDWELL FALLS, CALIFORNIA
Rio Richlin sits far more stiffly than she intends, in the sixth row, center left at the Jubilee Movie House with a small bag of popcorn on her lap, a soda on the floor by her feet, and sweat on the palms of her hands.
There is something strangely rushed about this date. One minute she’d been idly glancing at Strand—a boy she’d more or less known all of her life, or at least known to nod politely to—and now they are at a movie together. A romantic movie at that.
Rio has heard people talking about how the war seems to accelerate the pace of daily life, how it seems to bring sudden change. As sudden as losing Rachel.
She is acutely conscious of Strand, which is strange in itself. Strand has always been there, a year ahead in one class or another, school or Sunday school, a presence, a boy among many possible boys she might see at a baseball game or wait behind in line at the grocery store. It would be wrong to compare him to a familiar lamppost or stop sign, but in some ways that’s what he’s been: a part of the landscape.
And suddenly, just a few days ago, she began to actually see him. And then to see him in detail. And then to see him to the exclusion of other boys.
He’s touching me!
His arm and hers share an armrest. There are four layers of fabric between them—her blouse, her sweater, Strand’s shirt, and Strand’s sports coat—and yet they are touching. It feels very awkward to Rio, but she definitely does not want to break off contact. She wonders what he is feeling—does he particularly enjoy the contact between their respective sleeves? Is he as aware, as she certainly is, of the body heat that crosses those fabric barriers? Is he feeling the muscle in her arm as she is his, and if so, is he thinking that she’s too muscular?
She does a lot of physical work, and she likes it mostly. Maybe it’s not how she would choose to spend her whole life, hauling hay bales and milking cows and stacking bags of fertilizer at her father’s store, but she has never disliked hard labor.
Well, if Strand thinks she’s unfeminine, well . . . Well, then that’s that. Maybe she isn’t Jenou, maybe she’s not the most girly girl, maybe her skin is too tan, but she is . . . well, again, she is what she is. Who she is.
Whatever that is.
Neither of them has spoken in a while, and Rio wonders if he feels as awkward as she does.
“That’s a great dress,” Strand says. He sounds as if he’s spent quite some time preparing the compliment.
“Thank you, Strand.”
“I . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s starting,” he says with obvious relief.
The house lights go down, and the audience waits for the newsreel. First, though, comes the sales pitch for war bonds, followed by Daffy Duck taking on Adolf Hitler.
Rio wonders whether—or maybe when—Strand will try to take her hand. Assuming he’s not actually disgusted by her and regretting this date. And she wonders how many sets of prying eyes will mark the event. Then again, what if he never does take her hand? Those same ever-observant eyes will note that fact as well. The news bulletin around the school will be, “Strand and Rio!” Or, alternately, whispered reports, accompanied by head-shaking, that Strand is not really interested in Rio. Poor Rio.
They’ll say it’s a pity date because of Rachel.
“How strange,” Rio whispers, not really intending to be overheard.
“What’s strange?”
“Oh, nothing. Just . . . Just that life goes on, doesn’t it? Even with a war on.”
As if reading her mind, Strand nods in the direction of Jasmine Burling, a high school junior who could have a great future in journalism, if her love of the very latest gossip is any indicator. Jasmine is three rows down and off to the right, whispering to her irritating milquetoast boyfriend while quite clearly looking at Rio and her definitely-not-boyfriend Strand. Jasmine’s boyfriend turns and looks; his face such a mask of boredom and despair that Rio laughs.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” Rio says, then amends, “People. Sometimes people are funny.”
The newsreel starts in with the usual dramatic music followed by a stentorian voice narrating the footage. In this case it shows Marines on some blasted, godforsaken island fighting the Japanese. The narrator uses terms like “hard-fought,” “slogging,” “slug match,” and “desperate.”
“That was depressing,” Strand whispers.
“It said we were on the march,” Rio counters. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
The newsreel moves on to a story about a movie star, then a story about a very fast horse, concluding with a silly piece about two babies switched at the hospital even though one is white and one colored.
Rio looks carefully at the little black baby. She’s never seen a black person in Gedwell Falls, only in movies—maids or butlers or comical tap dancers. It looks almost exactly like the white baby except for being darker.
A second cartoon starts and lightens the mood enough that Strand feels free to dip into Rio’s popcorn, and she retaliates by stealing a chocolate-covered almond from him.
She steals a glance at him. He is quite handsome in profile. He has a good, strong chin, a straight nose, and the sort of lips Jenou describes as “kissable,” which for Jenou covers a lot of ground.
They settle in finally for the main feature, announced with a blare of trumpets and pounding drums. It’s a love story with Tyrone Power and Joan Fontaine, a love story but a war story as well. It’s hard to get away from the war.
No wonder I feel swept up.
Just around the part where Tyrone regains his sight, Strand takes Rio’s hand.
He’s holding my hand!
He looks at her as if to ask permission, and Rio, with her heart pounding so hard she is surprised anyone can hear the last scene of the movie, smiles queasily and squeezes his strong fingers and wonders whether he can feel her callouses and whether he is shocked and whether his heart is pounding too.
He walks her home after the movie. They take their time, not wanting the night to end. Rio learns that Strand enjoys taking photographs. He learns that she likes riding horses. He has his pilot’s license and wants to grow up to fly, maybe for the post office carrying air mail, after the war. She admits she hasn’t really thought much about her future.
No vows are spoken. No promises are made. He does not kiss her, but had he tried she’d have let him. And that fact, too, joins so many other facts in making her wonder whether something very profound has changed in the world around her.
He walks her home, and they hold hands as they walk and talk and Rio’s feet never touch the ground.
“So?” her mother asks as Rio literally twirls in through the front door. “I suppose you had a good time?”
“I suppose I did,” Rio says, smiling and making no effort to hide her very, very good mood. She glances at the phone on the little table at the bottom of the stairs and considers calling Jenou. But of course Jenou will demand details—every last detail—and there is no privacy to be had talking in the hallway. Jenou can wait. Besides, Rio wants to make sense of her feelings on her own for now.
She