Her intentions, up to six o’clock, had certainly been honorable. She had worked in the rehearsal room on the second floor of Ardaecker Hall until almost five-thirty, immune to the bright May sunshine that lazily sifted through the open windows, sitting at the piano and striking chord after chord, translating each note to the manuscript paper that rested on the piano rack, clamping the pencil between her teeth as she struck yet another chord, fascinated by the task she’d set herself. She was working with a blue-moon tune, a typical I–VI–II–V front phrase arranged in the key of C, strings carrying the first four bars, with flutes picking up the countermelody on the second four. She struck a C-major seventh, and then an A-minor ninth, and a D-minor ninth, and a G-dominant with a flatted ninth thrown into the chord, a bit too dramatic, perhaps, but that was the influence of Gillian Burke. She worked hard, and her intentions, up to six o’clock, had certainly been honorable.
“Make it big!” Gillian had said. “Arrange it as if you were Scriabin!” waving her arms, aware of the mirror behind her. Her knowledge of classical music never failed to surprise Amanda. Gillian seemed to be a hopeless “Nutcracker Suite” addict, and yet she was able to identify obscure symphonies after hearing only the first few bars, a terrifying feat of memory, which even Amanda could not duplicate. Her musical sense, too, was uncanny. It had seemed outrageous to Amanda even to attempt so pretentious an arrangement for a popular ballad like “’Til Then,” and yet she began to recognize the showmanship inherent in such an approach, and eventually admitted that it would be effective, and never once forgot that it was Gillian who had said, “Make it big!”
At five-thirty she had gone back to the dorm, and immediately into the shower down the hall. She had just turned on the water when Gillian burst into the room, threw off her robe, and took the stall alongside hers. In a matter of three minutes, as the steam rose from each booth to provide a background for their conversation, they were both shouting at each other heatedly over the drumming noise of the water, and Amanda had begun to regret leaving Ardaecker, begun to wonder why on earth she had gone back to the dorm at five-thirty.
“I told Morton I was staying home to study tonight!” she shouted.
“Are you married to Morton?” Gillian shouted back.
“Of course not!”
“Are you engaged? Are you pinned?”
“No, but—”
“Do you even have an understanding?”
“No, Gillian, but—”
“Hurry up. It’s getting late.”
“I just wouldn’t want him to think I lied to him.”
“You didn’t lie. Call him up and tell him you’re going out, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“Well, that isn’t what’s bothering me, exactly.”
“Then, what is, exactly?” Gillian turned off the water and came out of the stall. Her hair was soaking wet, plastered to her skull, her lashes hung with glistening drops of water. She picked up her towel from the washbasin and began rubbing herself briskly.
“I don’t even know this fellow,” Amanda said from the stall.
“So what difference does that make? Will you please get out of that shower?”
Amanda turned off the water, pulled off her shower cap, and said loftily, “It makes a difference to me.”
“Here’s your robe.”
“I haven’t dried myself yet.”
“Dry yourself in the room. They’ll be here at eight.”
“I don’t care what time they’ll be here because I’m not... Gilly, I’m wet! I can’t put a robe on when I’m...” but Gillian had thrown the robe over her shoulders and was pulling her toward the door. “Gilly!” she protested, but somehow they were in the corridor, Amanda clutching the robe around her, Gillian sweeping her along toward their room. Amanda walked directly to her own bed, sat heavily in the center of it, crossed her arms over the front of the robe, and said, “Now stop it, Gillian. I know what I want to do.”
“And what’s that? You’re getting your bed all wet.”
“I don’t care about the bed. I want to stay home tonight.”
“Why?”
“I have work to do.”
“What work?”
“On the arrangement. It’s already a week over—”
“It’ll wait another week. Besides, you can knock it off in ten minutes, and you know it.”
“I can’t! I haven’t even begun any of the intricate scoring, and I couldn’t hope to—”
“You can do it tomorrow. This is Saturday night, Amanda. Date night. All across America, in cities, in towns, in hamlets, in shanties, for God’s sake, it’s date night! Since time immemorial—”
“Don’t get dramatic, Gillian. I can’t stand it when you start emoting.”
Gillian threw a towel at her and said, “Dry yourself. We haven’t got much time.”
“I’m not going.”
“You have to go. I promised Brian you would.”
“Brian is an ape.”
“He’s very sweet-oh. Besides, you’re going with his friend, not him.”
“His friend is probably an ape, too.”
“His friend is a lawyer.”
“Good for him.”
“And besides, he isn’t even Brian’s friend. He’s his brother’s friend.”
“Whose brother?”
“Brian’s.”
“Then how does Brian know him?”
“He doesn’t. They’re in the army together, this fellow and Brian’s brother, and Brian’s brother asked this fellow to stop off in Talmadge to say hello on his way to New Haven, and this fellow was good enough to do that, and Brian thought he should try to get him a date for tonight. So the least you can do—”
“I don’t owe Brian anything. He’s your boy friend.”
“He’s not my boy friend. He’s just someone I see every now and then.”
“All the more reason why I shouldn’t—”
“My God, Amanda, you’d think we were leading you to the electric chair!”
“I just don’t like the idea of you and Brian making dates for me. Or... of fixing me up with... with soldiers. What does Brian think he is? A... a... a marriage broker?”
“Who’s asking you to marry this fellow, huh? Is anybody asking you to marry him?”
“No, but...”
“All I’m asking you to do is to help out your roommate when a soldier — a soldier, Amanda, a member of the armed forces—”
“Here we go again.”
“—fighting a war to preserve our freedom, took the trouble to come all the way from—”
“He was on his way to New Haven, anyway.”
“—from Arizona to deliver a message from Brian’s brother. The least we can do, Amanda—”
“What was the message?”
“How do I know what the message was? He’s very handsome, Brian said.”
“Who is?”
“This fellow. Matthew Anson Bridges. Isn’t that a marr-velous name?”
“No. I detest people with three names.”
“Get dressed, Amanda.”
“No. I’m staying here.”
“Here’s your underwear, Amanda.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“Amanda, there is such a thing as a blind date, which is a common American custom and not at all degrading or shameful. Will you please put on your bloomers and stop wasting time?”
“I loathe the word bloomers.”
“Amanda, it’s almost six-thirty.”
“I’m in no hurry, Gillian.” She paused. “What’s he like?”
“I haven’t met him. Would you like Brian’s description of him?”
“For whatever it’s worth, yes.”