She found a beauty. White, with puffed sleeves and a skirt that billowed when she spun around. There was only one thing wrong: she looked like a bowling pin in it.
She consulted Calpurnia, who said nobody could do anything about her shape, that’s just the way she was, which was the way all girls more or less were when they were fourteen.
“But I look so peculiar,” she said, tugging at the neckline.
“You look that way all the time,” said Calpurnia. “I mean you’re the same in every dress you have. That’un’s no different.”
Jean Louise worried for three days. On the afternoon of the dance she returned to Ginsberg’s and selected a pair of false bosoms, went home, and tried them on.
“Look now, Cal,” she said.
Calpurnia said, “You’re the right shape all right, but hadn’t you better break ’em in by degrees?”
“What do you mean?”
Calpurnia muttered, “You should’a been wearing ’em for a while to get used to ’em—it’s too late now.”
“Oh Cal, don’t be silly.”
“Well, give ’em here. I’m gonna sew ’em together.”
As Jean Louise handed them over, a sudden thought rooted her to the spot. “Oh golly,” she whispered.
“What’s the matter now?” said Calpurnia. “You’ve been fixin’ for this thing a slap week. What did you forget?”
“Cal, I don’t think I know how to dance.”
Calpurnia put her hands on her hips. “Fine time to think of that,” she said, looking at the kitchen clock. “Three forty-five.”
Jean Louise ran to the telephone. “Six five, please,” she said, and when her father answered she wailed into the mouthpiece.
“Keep calm and consult Jack,” he said. “Jack was good in his day.”
“He must have cut a mean minuet,” she said, but called her uncle, who responded with alacrity.
Dr. Finch coached his niece to the tune of Jem’s record player: “Nothing to it … like chess … just concentrate … no,no,no, tuck in your butt … you’re not playing tackle … loathe ballroom dancing … too much like work … don’t try to lead me … when he steps on your foot it’s your own fault for not moving it … don’t look down … don’t,don’t,don’t … now you’ve got it … basic, so don’t try anything fancy.”
After one hour’s intense concentration Jean Louise mastered a simple box step. She counted vigorously to herself, and admired her uncle’s ability to talk and dance simultaneously.
“Relax and you’ll do all right,” he said.
His exertions were repaid by Calpurnia with the offer of coffee and an invitation to supper, both of which he accepted. Dr. Finch spent a solitary hour in the livingroom until Atticus and Jem arrived; his niece locked herself in the bathroom and remained there scrubbing herself and dancing. She emerged radiant, ate supper in her bathrobe, and vanished into her bedroom unconscious of her family’s amusement.
While she was dressing she heard Henry’s step on the front porch and thought him calling for her too early, but he walked down the hall toward Jem’s room. She applied Tangee Orange to her lips, combed her hair, and stuck down her cowlick with some of Jem’s Vitalis. Her father and Dr. Finch rose to their feet when she entered the livingroom.
“You look like a picture,” said Atticus. He kissed her on the forehead.
“Be careful,” she said. “You’ll muss up my hair.”
Dr. Finch said, “Shall we take a final practice turn?”
Henry found them dancing in the livingroom. He blinked when he saw Jean Louise’s new figure, and he tapped Dr. Finch on the shoulder. “May I cut in, sir?
“You look plain pretty, Scout,” Henry said. “I’ve got something for you.”
“You look nice too, Hank,” said Jean Louise. Henry’s blue serge Sunday pants were creased to painful sharpness, his tan jacket smelled of cleaning fluid; Jean Louise recognized Jem’s light-blue necktie.
“You dance well,” said Henry, and Jean Louise stumbled.
“Don’t look down, Scout!” snapped Dr. Finch. “I told you it’s like carrying a cup of coffee. If you look at it you spill it.”
Atticus opened his watch. “Jem better get a move on if he wants to get Irene. That trap of his won’t do better than thirty.”
When Jem appeared Atticus sent him back to change his tie. When he reappeared, Atticus gave him the keys to the family car, some money, and a lecture on not doing over fifty.
“Say,” said Jem, after duly admiring Jean Louise, “you all can go in the Ford, and you won’t have to go all that way to Abbottsville with me.”
Dr. Finch was fidgeting with his coat pockets. “It is immaterial to me how you go,” he said. “Just go. You’re making me nervous standing around in all your finery. Jean Louise is beginning to sweat. Come in, Cal.”
Calpurnia was standing shyly in the hall, giving her grudging approval to the scene. She adjusted Henry’s tie, picked invisible lint from Jem’s coat, and desired the presence of Jean Louise in the kitchen.
“I think I ought to sew ’em in,” she said doubtfully.
Henry shouted come on or Dr. Finch would have a stroke.
“I’ll be okay, Cal.”
Returning to the livingroom, Jean Louise found her uncle in a suppressed whirlwind of impatience, in vivid contrast to her father, who was standing casually with his hands in his pockets. “You’d better get going,” said Atticus. “Alexandra’ll be here in another minute—then you will be late.”
They were on the front porch when Henry halted. “I forgot!” he yelped, and ran to Jem’s room. He returned carrying a box, presenting it to Jean Louise with a low bow: “For you, Miss Finch,” he said. Inside the box were two pink camellias.
“Ha-ank,” said Jean Louise. “They’re bought!”
“Sent all the way to Mobile for ’em,” said Henry. “They came up on the six o’clock bus.”
“Where’ll I put ’em?”
“Heavenly Fathers, put ’em where they belong!” exploded Dr. Finch. “Come here!”
He snatched the camellias from Jean Louise and pinned them to her shoulder, glaring sternly at her false front. “Will you now do me the favor of leaving the premises?”