“Oh, don’t feel bad about being dumb,” Jean said in mock tones of comfort. “If I were as pretty and talented as you are, I wouldn’t need brains, either!” With a hoot of laughter, she rolled quickly aside on the couch to avoid the pillow that Peggy threw at her.
A short, breathless pillow fight followed, leaving the girls limp with laughter and with Jean having to retie her towel turban. From her new position, flat on the floor, Peggy looked up at her friend with a rueful smile.
“You know, I sometimes think that we haven’t grown up at all!” she said. “I can hardly blame my parents for thinking twice—and a lot more—before treating me like an adult.”
“Nonsense!” Jean replied firmly. “Your parents know a lot better than to confuse being stuffy with being grown-up and responsible. And, besides, I know that they’re not the least bit worried about your being able to take care of yourself. I heard them talking with my folks last night, and they haven’t got a doubt in the world about you. But they know how hard it can be to get a start as an actress, and they want to be sure that you have a profession in case you don’t get a break in show business.”
“I know,” Peggy answered. “We had a long talk about it this evening after dinner.” Then she told her friend about the conversation and her proposed “bargain” with her parents.
“They both seemed to think it was fair,” she concluded, “and when I went out, they were talking it over. They promised me an answer by bedtime, and I’m over here waiting until the jury comes in with its decision. You know,” she said suddenly, sitting up on the floor and crossing her legs under her, “I bet they wouldn’t hesitate a minute if you would only change your mind and decide to come with me and try it too!”
After a moment’s thoughtful silence, Jean answered slowly, “No, Peg. I’ve thought this all out before, and I know it would be as wrong for me as it is right for you. I know we had a lot of fun in the dramatic groups, and I guess I was pretty good as a comedienne in a couple of the plays, but I know I haven’t got the real professional thing—and I know that you have. In fact, the only professional talent I think I do have for the theater is the ability to recognize talent when I see it—and to recognize that it’s not there when it isn’t!”
“But, Jean,” Peggy protested, “you can handle comedy and character lines as well as anyone I know!”
Jean nodded, accepting the compliment and seeming at the same time to brush it off. “That doesn’t matter. You know even better than I that there’s a lot more to being an actress—a successful one—than reading lines well. There’s the ability to make the audience sit up and notice you the minute you walk on, whether you have lines or not. And that’s something you can’t learn; you either have it, or you don’t. It’s like being double-jointed. I can make an audience laugh when I have good lines, but you can make them look at you and respond to you and be with you all the way, even with bad lines. That’s why you’re going to go to New York and be an actress. And that’s why I’m not.”
“But, Jean—” Peggy began.