Oh Joy

The two girls, one pretty, one not so, were sitting in the formers room. It was a delicately decorated homage to all that was a certain kind of feminine. The bed was skirted in a pastel pink with matching pillows. Clothes and pens and books were colorordinated, shoes were neatly aligned at the door and collages held together by tape, not messy glue, had been carefully placed on a corkboard above the desk. She decorated her walls with pictures of cities she had not yet been to, children she imagined were her own and the famous she would never meet. Do you think Peterll come to my party, Sarah? Joy flipped a page of her magazine. He RSVPd, didnt he? That was probably his mom. Dont be bad news, Joy. Im sure hes coming. Sarah stared at Joy who carried on the conversation while raptly studying the magazine on her lap. If he came to my party, I think Id just die of joy. Did you just think of that, Joy? It's very witty. Sarah knew that Joy was not a very witty person. I think its something I've always said. But it wasnt. Joy liked her reflection, the blonde curls, the freckles that were raised against her fair skin, the lines of her face that angled downwards. She was so lovely. Well, it's very witty.

That's besides the point. Joy sucked in her cheeks and pouted her rosy lips. Besides what point? Do you really think he'll come? Her reflection smiled. Its going to be a blast of a party. And havent you seen the way he looks at you? Joy felt the color of her lips bleed onto her cheeks. Sarah had always wanted the hair and the freckles and the rosiness. They had been friends since childhood, before Sarahs adorableness subsided into averageness, before Joy perfected her smile and her mannerisms. But Joy was a very loyal person and she was loyal to Sarah. To Sarah and her sallow skin, to Sarah and her untailored clothes, to Sarah and her brown hair that was perpetually unmade. Sarah felt sure she was engulfed by the very ordinariness of her appearance but at least she had Joy Margaret as a friend. That counted for something and both girls knew that. I think I'd just die if Peter showed up. It's very witty, Joy, yes, but also very melodramatic. Joy watched the color of her cheeks return to her lips. She knew that Peter had to come to the party because what boy wouldnt want to dance with the loveliest girl in the school? But she also knew it wasnt appropriate tell Sarah that. Her mother and father loved her dearly, Joy Margaret. Her name created a sweetly lit aura that enveloped the girl: it perfectly fit her entire existence. Her father called her, in an affected contralto, the light of his lifea term of endearment he had read in a book once. Her mother still brushed her hair every morning; delicately pinning the curls back while Joy admired herself in one of the mirrors on her desk. While they both admired Joy in the mirror, the women talked about the boys Joy

was seeing, her life in between classes but Joy liked it best when her mother talked about her childhood. If anyone had bothered to count, Joy Margaret Gates had sixteen mirrors in her house. Eight of them were in her bedroom (a full length, a half-length, a handheld, a mirror with a stand that sat on her underused bedside table, a compact, one for makeup, one low on the ground so she could see her shoes, and one above her light pink chest of drawers). In the mornings, she consulted at least five of her mirrors as she got ready. With friends, family, even alone, her mannerisms and movements were deliberate: too gentle to pull a knot through hair (she never got them, anyway) but just forceful enough to tie a ribbon or click shut a compact. When she was turning sixteen, her parents wanted to give her the things that they had never had. Or at the very least, the things they never remembered having (although both found it very difficult to remember a time before Joy had been in their lives). Her party was a seasonally apt theme, a winter wonderland with no touch of irony on the hostesss part. The room was filled with hand-cut snowflakes her mother had spent all week making. Fake snow lined the mantelpieces and the snack-refreshment tables with adorned with powder blue ribbons her mother had curled so diligently that she had nicked the tips of six fingers. When Peter arrived at her party that night, her heartbeat seemed to ruffle the pleats of her dress. The bowls of homemade punch, red and blue and pink, glistened. He smiled and she liked his smile. She felt the periwinkle bow in her hair loosen. She shivered and was glad he had shown up late. This way, she had greeted all her other guests. When they danced, too slowly, his cold hands did not fit the crevices between her

fingers; his palm did not align with the dimple in her hip. His chin bumped her forehead. I think youre so pretty, Joy, and Joy felt the air in the room turn uncharacteristically February. Id just die of joy if you kissed me now, Peter. Joy was not impetuous. Even in her moments of apparent spontaneity came from careful planning. And even there, with Peter, she had picked this moment carefully. And he smiled, just like she had imagined, and kissed her, just like she imagined. She shivered and was convinced this was it. She hoped the room would disappear and that she would no longer care about how their hands couldnt align. Later on, when his hands ruffled the pleats of her dress, she felt the air of the room again. He radiated heat but Joy felt cold and she wondered if she had forgotten to close the window. He kissed better than she had thought he would. They were on top of her pink duvet, his shoes still on, hers, out of habit, at the door. Her fingers fit so poorly between his that it almost hurt. Joy looked around and suddenly felt blinded by the colors in her room, the stacks of magazines, the pastel sheets, the pastel wallpaper, the neutral carpeted floor. She could see nothing but a whirlpool of pink. Her skin was hot and she shivered violently. Her dress felt uncomfortable and absurd and Joy felt sweat was gathering underneath the chiffon fabric. She pushed Peter away. She stood up to look in the mirror but her makeup was pristine, her dress unwrinkled and not a strand of hair was out of place. The colors of the room calmed. He reached for her hand and she knew that she looked pleased but she was still thinking of earlier, when his hands hadnt fit at all. He left with the other guests. As Sarah brushed her teeth in the other room, Joy ran her hands along the comforter, smoothing out the wrinkles of his presence. Once she

fluffed the pillows, it was like he had never been there at all. So, how was it? Sarah was looking up at Joy from the beige floor. Joy was sitting at the vanity next to her desk, pulling pins out of her hair. Everything I imagined, and Joy was not lying.

Joy Margaret Gates was polite and charismatic but she did not need to be. She was pretty enough to be liked by most students. But her appearance was only amplified by her charm. Joy spoke softly (not because a lady never raises her voiceJoy was not so old hatbut because she had grown used to everyone quieting around her when she spoke). Her enunciation was almost perfect: crisp tees and jays, sibilant esses. Her laugh was her greatest asset: it began in the back of her throat, filling in her cheeks and slipping into the air through her teeth it was lilting and rolling. People found it just as infectious and charming now as when she was a child. If I could just have a one day extension on the paper, Mister Walter, I would really appreciate it. The paper, assigned two weeks ago, was due the following class. I dont think that would be possible, Joy. I just have really enjoyed the process of research, and well, Joy had learned that any unpleasantness, any formality, could be softened by her smile. Even when she was not smiling, the tips of her rosy mouth curled upwards pleasantly. I got a little carried away in my research. Im having a hard time narrowing down my topic. Joy had not begun the project that was due the following morning but a boy she had gone out with two days ago talked incessantly about the Civil War. She repeated his energized words, with more deliberateness, to Mister Walter.

I just feel that traditional historical roles monopolize textbooks. Wars are not won by one man, this was something the boy had said multiple times, I want to get a better understanding of the historical wonks you always emphasize instead of just the big names. Joy did not even know the big names. Alright, Miss Gates, turn it in on Monday instead. Thank you, Mister Walter. I could just die of joy. And he found the play-onwords uncharacteristically witty. The paper she would turn in earned the same grade as most of her others, a perfectly adequate B-. It was difficult to say no to Joy Margaret. She was not only seemingly earnest, but she always seemed to be on your side. She embodied an effortlessness that was only perfectible after from many hours of agonizing patience and self-observation. She was organized, in the way girls who only used pink pens were. Her handwriting was neat but sometimes she dotted letters with hearts or daisies. Her education called for a casual nightly glance at a textbook or sometimes two glances if she was quite bored and had read all her magazines. She divided her time not so equally between the frivolity of her book studies and the formal importance of her studies in appearance. To Joy, it was just as important to look dignified and serious when taking notes, as the notes were themselves.

She had missed the sign-up sheet deadline; distracted by the many people she had promised to have lunch or a pop with. I would really like to participate in the planning of the committee for the spring dance, Miss Williams, and she dragged the zed of womans last name until her dimples showed.

Our first meeting was two weeks ago, Joy. Sarah, the rule-following cynic, had told her the same thing. But Joy Margaret had ignored Sarah and before Miss Williams could even suggest Joy should leave and try volunteering for the book-sale in two weeks, she had been dragged by a gaggle to a table cluttered with scissors, ribbons and glitter. Everyone wanted to know her opinion on the theme, on the decorations and, of course, everyone wanted to know which boy had asked Joy Margaret to the dance. Joy asked as many questions as she answered. She resembled a great listener; looking straight into the eyes of every person who spoke to her but never intently or seriously, always warm, always almost smiling. She only broke eye contact when she was going to respond. She had practiced how best to look thoughtfully away and when it was more appropriate to look upwards or downwards while she pretended she hadnt already formed a response in her mind. Joy knew how much these girls looked up to her but it was her job to pretend that she did not know.

How did you get an A on that essay, Joy? I know you didnt read the whole story. The spine of Joys book, an anthology of short stories, was unbroken, the pages unmarked. She had clipped a rose pen to its cover, partly concealing the title. Sarah had probably read the story five times before beginning her paper and Joy knew this. Oh, I dont know. I just really wanted to impress Mr. Farlow and I did read the story, most of it, anyway. She had titled her paper A Joy That Kills because it was the last line in the story and because Joy thought Mr. Farlow would like a joke like that (he did). She had underlined the title, carefully, with a ruler, in colorful pens.

You didnt read the whole story? It was pretty short. Joy hadnt because she didnt like the middles of stories, just the beginnings and endings. Sarah thought it was really quite silly of Joy. A boy waiting at Joys locker deflected Sarahs question. Sarah didnt like him but Joy did. He was easy to read but not completely predictable, he used words that matched his slicked back hair, like daddy-o or antsville. He had nice eyes and Peter was old news now. Besides, Joy would forget almost all of them after graduation.

Her high school graduation robes went nicely with her hair and Joy Margaret felt lucky they had changed the color of the gowns this year from red (which was not her color) to blue. Aunts and uncles flitted in and out at her graduation party, stroking her manicured pink cheeks and told her how proud they were. They talked about how soon Joy would be getting married, then making her grandmothers pot roast for her husband and that before she knew it she would have a baby. Joy had always wanted these things. They were on her checklist, especially baby. While other girls had played dress-up or house, Joy had been using her dolls to carefully plan her future. Sarah would continue her education but college was not for a girl like Joy Margaret. Sarah would write letters to Joy and Joy would like that all right. But Joy could never seem to finish the postcards she started and never seemed to find the time to buy the stamps she needed. Sarahs postcards grew longer and with more and more words that Joy did not know. She didnt mind enough to look them up. Joy did not want to experience a summer of good-byes, by July she had moved to Boston. For what felt like years, Joy Margaret had longed for the reddened brownstones

and the icy river. She loved the town she had never been to. She wrote its name in her notebooks, enveloping it with hearts. Boys, like Peter, James, Robert, Billy, or David, came and went but Boston was constant. She decorated her room with the prints of the city, imagining not-yet-made memories: the outfits she would wear, the stores she would explore and the people she would meet. The city felt safe and according to Mademoiselle, Gilchrist's department store, at the intersection of Washington and Winter, was the only place where a modern girl should shop. Harpers Bazaar called Boston the old, the new and the future. New York was too busy for her and even in the most beautiful pictures Joy imagined the streets covered in grime. And California was too far from everyone and everything she knew. The day she arrived in Boston, it was pleasantly cool and she felt an expected giddiness as she approached her new apartment. She lived in the east of the city, far from the elegant brownstones. The small bubble of excitement was soon lost when she realized she had forgotten her favorite hairpins five hours away at her home. Her father had found her a one-bedroom apartment (he insisted she was not allowed her to live with strangers) and paid through the first three months of rent. In her purse there was a folder filled with the carefully folded images from her walls at home. She had brought one large trunk with her, filled with her favorite dresses and skirts and shoes and a book her father had given her. The local bookkeeper had recommended it to her father and her father had said that she might like it since it took place in Boston. Joy thought the title, The Scarlet Letter, sounded nice. Her mother had told her they would mail the rest of her things.

There was a bedroom, a kitchen-living room with linoleum floors and not much else but it was homey. Joys apartment building was grey or blue in every season and leaned against the cool river although none of her windows faced it. She slept well the first night except for a brief fever that she quelled by pressing her cheeks to her cool reflection on the bedroom window. In her free time, Joy had always read magazines. She liked Mademoiselle best because it was chic (although it was bit more daring than she ever thought she could be). She would flip through the pages of Life too, not for the words but for the beautiful, effortless women, that graced the cover and inner pages. If she felt indulgent, shed buy a magazine about brides or pregnancy. While she may have liked to spend her days examining each issue of her magazines carefully, she was now in the city she had dreamed of and she knew that she should get a job. It was appropriate next step. She didnt want to work in a place where shed like to spend leisure time and she didnt like to paint her nails (not after having read in a magazine once that it was really quite gaudy), so Joy Margaret Gates thought that the work of a receptionist would suit her the best. She picked her office, heel-walkable blocks from her apartment, because the carpeting reminded her of her home almost three hundred miles away. It was the only place she had submitted her resume. It had taken two hours to type on her brand new Royal, despite only being threefourths of a page long. She had no other work experiences and although she could not type more than thirty-five words per minute, the office hired Joy and her high school diploma. The two men wanted her face to be the first thing that clients saw when they

walked in the door and Joy Margaret knew this but it didnt bother her because it was the truth and there wasnt much else to it.