Pollony Undiverted, Sydney J. Van Scyoc [best books to read fiction .txt] 📗

She unwrapped her purchases, smirking at Ferren. "You'd be surprised the number of hats a girl needs." She stayed half an hour.

Another young man came for her mother. Two salesman, a traveling circular and a friend came. Then Brendel was on the grid.

"Who these lugs for?"

"Uncle Ferren," she said shortly.

He lifted a lip at them, then bounced inside. "Forget your bill, Ferry? Hey, kid, punch drinks."

"I refused to honor it," Ferren said.

Brendel was already fishing in his pocket. "Drinks, kid."

She went to punch. She hated his trying to give money to everyone who came along.

"No, no, it is a matter of principle," Ferren insisted. But the money changed hands. "And there were certain other obligations."

"How much you need?" Brendel fished into his pocket again, grinning.

The bell rang. It was Lukia. "All these ravenous people waiting on me?" She had changed into a fire-red daysuit. "Dobble, you should have fed the beasts." She snapped her fingers. "Up, beasts. I'll help you punch, dob."

Glowering, Pollony moved toward the cook. Brendel followed, chattering and arguing with Lukia.

Pollony was beginning to think again of a swiftly accelerating car, of her body encased beside that of Latsker Smith and hurtled through dusty streets.

Brendel said, "How many for opera?"

She whirled and glared.

"Pollony's a bug on opera. Tell them how you like opera, kid."

She glared. The last time Lukia and Ferren had been here he had done this, and the time before. Didn't he have any imagination?

"Tell them, kid."

Fool! Didn't he know they were laughing at him?

She wanted to tear loose from her whole life. It was trivial. It was everyday. It was gossip and collections and stupid people. She had to tear loose or she would go on and on, all her life, being nothing but—herself.

She was too good for that.

She was too good for Brendel. He had tricked her and turned into a fattening fool. It was stupid to stay with him.

"Aw, come on, kid."

She drew herself up very straight and imagined she must look imposing. "I'll ask you all to leave," she said calmly.

Gone were the smiles.

"I'm closing my grid to public access. I'll ask you to leave immediately." The words came out stiffly and precisely. She imagined she must already be more than just herself.

"What the hell!"

"Brendel, you may come back when I am gone. I shall not return." She smiled, remotely. "I'm tired of punching your food and going collecting and quarreling and being hit around."

"I never hit you hard!" he said indignantly.

Lukia stared at him. "Dobble!"

"Well, she made me do it. What'm I supposed to do?"

"Dobble, you're perfectly justified!" But Lukia's eyes remained on Brendel, bright and greedy.

Pollony glared. She would not stay and fight Lukia for Brendel.

She flung the door open. The two collectors snapped alert. "I want to be alone," she intoned.

Brendel eyed her balefully. But he had already noticed Lukia's interest. "Where we gonna go?"

"We can go to my live," Lukia said. "I think Dobble deserves her little whim."

Brendel could not believe she was not going to fight. "You, kid! You're acting like a kid."

Ferren took Brendel's arm. "Don't stoop to conventional pettiness, Brendel."

Brendel flushed. "I'm coming back. You're not rooking me out of my collections." He turned abruptly and stepped on the grid. Giving a three-passenger order, he disappeared. Lukia followed. Ferren stepped on, tossed bills to the collectors, and disappeared.

Pollony closed the door. She leaned against it, breathing the silence.

Then she hurried through the live, setting it in order. She straightened the books Ferren had been examining and found two missing.

Even as Lukia was punching dinner and saying all the things designed to make Brendel want Pollony back only briefly, as a point of pride, Pollony was whisking into a brisk trousersuit and wondering how much had piled up in the account where she kept her parents' gifts.

Even as Brendel was feeling Lukia's face with his eyes, letting her excitement speak to his own, Pollony was at the bank having her balance marked into her deposit clip.

Even as Ferren was smiling and wondering how much the two books would bring, Pollony was rapping at the door of the apartment house in centercity and being told that, yes, Mr. Smith still lived there.

Presently Latsker Smith roared around the corner and braked his car. He unfolded from the cockpit. He nodded.

"Have you got money to go to Boston yet?" She held herself very straight.

He shook his head.

"I have money," she said.

The pale eyes clung to her.

"My parents give me an allowance, and I could get jobs wherever we were. I just want to ride with you. I wouldn't even talk unless you wanted me to." She had to be with him. She had to sit and stand beside him, as relaxed and withdrawn as he was. She had to freeze people with her words and with her unrespondingness. She had to make an end of stupidness.

He took a deposit clip from a pocket. He pointed to a figure. "Match that?"

She withdrew her own clip and showed him a figure that exceeded his.

"How much allowance?"

She told him.

He nodded to the car. "Wait there. Take me five minutes to pack."

Dreadingly, joyously, she folded into the car. She watched as he lanked up the steps. She settled back, holding her shoulders rigid and her head straight. She would sit and stand by him. She would chill people with her reserve. She would be very solid and very adult.

But minutes later she looked at her wrist and saw that he had been more than five minutes. She wished he wouldn't take so long.

When he came down the steps two at a time, she tried not to remember that she hated people who came down steps two at a time. She didn't like the way his hair flopped against his forehead either. And she almost got out of the car when she saw his trousersuit was much too short. It made him look off-balance.

He got into the car. "Don't touch this." He pointed to the starter button. He scowled. "Or this or this or this." He pointed to the pedals, to the gearshift lever. He reached out and heaved his suitcase into her lap. He said brusquely, "Don't let it bump the door panel." A corner dug into her stomach.

And then he turned his head and ignored her. Completely. And she forgot the steps, the hair and the trousersuit and knew she would not get out of the car so long as he was in it.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pollony Undiverted, by Sydney Van Scyoc