Defiance A Short Story by Shirley Mills "Men interest me, Shanna, but not all the men." Dressa watched Shanna's face carefully, scarcely aware of what the girl was saying. She didn't often listen to Shanna's trite, meaningless chatter; it was always the same. But there was some strange fascination about her face, the features were delicate, and the expressions that played across them, almost angelic. Then her chattering ceased, the olive skin about her cheeks tinted light pink, and she turned from the open window. "Bob Ryan inspires me," she said airily," sitting down on a chair near Dressa's desk. An antagonized lump came into her throat, and Dressa felt herself getting warm about the face. "Don't tell me he looked at you?" she accused sarcastically. It seemed strange that from seventy-five attractive cadets Shanna should choose Bob as the focus of her captivating eye. "I saw him drilling, and he waved to me," she smiled boastfully, and crossed a well-formed leg gracefully over the other. "I hear you know him quite well." She arched her left eyebrow and peered at Dressa curiously, but Dressa did not blush a second time. "You know darned well he comes up here on Thursday afternoons to bring me literary stuff for the magazine," she answered impatiently. "You mean it's nothing more Oh, Dressa, you're simply impossible." She threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. Dressa eyed her skeptically. "Men interest me, Shanna, but not all the men." She clipped the last word short and emphasized the "all" to give the desired effect, but it did not affect Shanna. "Well, as long as other girls I'd like you to help me meet him, Dressa," she appealed sweetly. Dressa looked down at the ring sparkling on her friend's left hand. Shanna laughed self-consciously. "Dressa, you do so know how to put a girl in a spot. You make me feel absolutely untrue." She twisted the ring. "I haven't gone out more than two or three times since Del left. A girl like me can't take that very long." She pursed her lips and let her eyelids droop in an "only child" fashion. "Yes, considering that he's been gone for almost a month, that's darned white of you, Shan." Dressa grinned her wide-open grin, while underneath she thought, "I could never treat a man I loved like that." "Dressa, you're making terrific fun of me," Shanna whined. "Don't you think the most important thing in the world is to be happy. Well, I just wouldn't be happy sitting around the house knitting while Del's out there doing God knows what." Dressa stared at her. "Why, in heaven's name, did you accept his ring?" "All the girls have them, Dressa, all of them. It's smart. But then you wouldn't understand." Shanna stormed out of the room. Dressa tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She brushed her hand across a moistened, fleshy cheek. What if she had never gone out with anyone but Jeff, the deaf and blind boy whom she had taught in a Sunday school class at the institution a few blocks from her home. Jeff seemed to like her, but then, he was blind. She put down the story she had been editing and walked over to the window where Shanna had been viewing the cadets. They were just marching behind one of the red-brick houses on College Street, and she could see Bob's curly head towering conspicuously above the others. She hoped he wouldn't have to fly this afternoon. Perhaps, he might have a new article or story to bring her, and she would sit there pretending to read it while he would tell her his philosophy of life. Each Thursday he would speak of a new one, which frequently conflicted with the others; but she liked to sit and listen to him talk. He was the first really good-looking man that had treated her with anything but contempt and aversion. It was almost as though she were not homely at all. She would probably be introducing him to Shanna soon, and then his visits to her staff room would be made to ask her questions about Shanna; and he would philosophize about nothing except, perhaps, love, and a kind of uncertain bewilderment would replace the calmness in his eyes. Shanna affected men like that. At six Dressa decided that Bob would not come and left to go to dinner. In the main hall of the first floor she met Shanna who greeted her with a quilty hello. "Gee, Dressa, I'm sorry," she apologized. "I was carried away, I guess." Dressa told her it was all right and that it wasn't a matter of life and death. "Oh, but it is. I'm so dreadfully sorry, Dressa." Her expression revealed a sincerity that Dressa might have believed had it not been for the tone of deceit that crept unconsciously into her voice. "Why don't you come to dinner with me, Shanna?" Dressa really didn't want her to come, but it seemed the only way to prove that she had accepted her apology. "Are you going right now?" "Yes." "I'm sorry but I promised a cadet I'd meet him here in about ten minutes. Thanks though." Dressa gave Shanna credit for being a more efficient huntress than she had imagined, if the cadet were Bob Ryan. And from the triumphant emphasis Shanna had given "Cadet," Dressa was quite sure it must have been. She wanted to warn her that Bob was a philosopher and not attracted to pretty faces, but she disliked telling half-truths even to Shanna. The sun outside warmed her, and she smiled cheerful hellos to the frowning, sometimes expressionless, faces that she passed. A white strapless evening gown caught her eye in the window of College Shop and she stopped to look at it. Though she tried to see only the formal, her gaze was concentrated on her own image outlined plainly in the window-glass and emphasized by the glare of the sun. What had Shanna said, "You wouldn't understand." Shanna, carrying with her a satisfying memory of her own attractiveness, must have experienced a wonderful feeling of smugness when she had compared that memory with Dressa's face. There were the fleshy cheeks; the far-apart, gray eyes fringed with short, uncurled lashes; the hair parted in the middle and pinned closely to the head half an inch from the part; the square chin, the shapeless mouth. She was like a mongrel dog, with a lot of uncomplimentary features thrown together to give the appearance of a distracted whole. But that was what came of being born in America. When she left the shop window she didn't feel like smiling anymore, and she was glad that she had to walk on the outside of the cement walk so that she could escape any further sight of herself. How could she ever have been fool enough to believe that Bob might someday want her. The sun was just going down when Dressa left the restaurant. And when she reached the third floor of the Publications building, she found it difficult to locate the light switch. Even with the light, the ancient stairway leading to the staff room gave Dressa a feeling of uneasiness. She was glad that the magazine required night work only once a quarter when a deadline was to be met. Outside the staff room she smelled the familiar odor of cigarette smoke, and when she opened the door someone said, "Hello, Dressa." She recognized Bob's low, soothing voice and was surprised to find herself tingling inside, tingling in the same ridiculous way Shanna had described. She looked toward the small, red glow near the window and addressed it questioningly. "What are you doing in the dark?" The red glow flicked out the open window. "Just looking at the stars and thinking. Do you mind?" "No, but-" Dressa started to turn the switch. "Don't do that," Bob ordered quietly. "You'll spoil a good mood. Light makes everything too real. Don't you ever sit in the dark and daydream?" "Yes, I do, Sir Galahad, but I've a deadline to meet and I have no time to worry about moods." "Don't turn it on." He stood up and found his way over to her. Then he led her to the chair by the desk and seated himself by the window again. "You put too much value on material things, the things that count today, the things you can see." He was off again. "What good is a deadline met going to do you when you die?" he challenged. "I can die a happy woman with no unfinished business," she laughed. "No, you won't, because in the back of your mind you will always remember that you kept a solitary man from thinking in the dark." She smiled. "The good looking man always wins. Well, if you're muffing my deadline, I'm not letting you think in peace, sir. I want to talk," she accused mischeviously. If she were ever to make him like her she must talk. That seemed to be the only advantage she held over Shanna. "Talk away." "You hit upon something tonight that I've thought about a lot. I think it's true, what you said about people. I've always believed it. It's sort of my philosophy of life. Sometimes it makes me pretty miserable." He turned toward her. "What do you mean, Dressa?" He was the first person who had ever seemed concerned about her. She tried to imagine the way his face would look when he was concerned. "Maybe it's silly," she flushed. "You're the philosopher." "No, I only pretend to philosophize. You need religion to analyze life, and I'm afraid I'm a trifle weak on that subject. Tell me, Dressa, who do you mean?" "Oh, the material things in life like looks, money, clothes; they all count. I like to call it the outer coat of paint. It's what people see and judge by, but it isn't what holds the house up. Do I sound rattled to you?" "No. I believe I know what you mean. It's a common trait of us mortals to preach that 'all that glitters is not gold,' and go around picking up the rotten pieces just the same." "Then Cadet Ryan kissed her. Dressa wanted to melt in his arms."