The house on Cherry Alley had welcomed a number of families. Laura wondered who would follow them. Not that the Mitchells wouldn’t live here a good long while. A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. The future was rich with promise. The war would soon be over, and she would become Mrs. Joseph Menotti, wife of a noted surgeon. Her smile disappeared. But she wanted to become known for herself, too, not only as a doctor’s wife. Maybe she would become a doctor herself… or a lawyer… or even go back to her original dream of being an architect.

As she dried the last dish and gazed out the bay window at their snow-covered small lawn, the graceful trees with their snow-laden branches, and the white picket fence, a wave of sad nostalgia swept over her. It was such a pretty picture, and she, herself, was growing pretty, too. She wished her father could be there to see how well they were all doing.

She loved Washington and their home, but it was so ironic to live in the capital of the world’s greatest democracy and yet have women denied the right to vote, especially when at least sixteen states had granted women the ballot. The facts in the pamphlet had made more of an impression than she had thought. She frowned grimly as she folded her apron and put it into the drawer. How could any congressman dare to look a woman in the eye? But now was no time to reflect on the stodginess of Washington, D.C. She hurried to the hall and flung her cape around her shoulders. She had more important things on her mind — like Mr. Blair.

In a flurry and a swirl of her cape she locked the front door and ran down the curving stairs of the front stoop to the brick sidewalk. The iceman waved to her from his horse-drawn car, which trundled down the narrow street, dripping water over the cobblestones. He, too, was helping the war by conserving gas.

Breathless, she raced into school and down the corridor to history class, where Mr. Blair had already closed the door. She could hear the Pledge of Allegiance being recited. Her pulse picked up a beat when she opened the door and walked as unobtrusively as she could to her desk. Remaining standing, she held out her hand to the forty-eight-star flag and finished the last line, "with liberty and justice for all."

"Be seated," ordered Mr. Blair.

As she slid into the seat and lifted her desktop to take out her notebook and U.S. history text, she noticed Mr. Blair’s dark suit with a miniature American flag in his lapel. The memory of the broken little flags left fluttering on the ground after the women had been arrested caused her to flinch. Unconsciously the desktop slipped from her fingers and banged down noisily. Silently she groaned. If Mr. Blair wasn’t going to mention her lateness before, he would now.

Her heart sank when he said disdainfully, "You disrupt the class, Laura, by coming late! You must leave yourself extra time in the morning." His sharp face, with its constant frown, looked even more fierce. His quick blue eyes became pale ice.

"Yes, Mr. Blair," she answered, as a matter of course. Cassandra turned her head, winked, and smiled; Laura smiled back with her eyes. Then she looked again into Mr. Blair’s eyes, bracing herself for a tongue-lashing.

For once, however, Mr. Blair ignored her. He had more important things on his mind than tormenting Laura Mitchell. He launched into an explanation of the theme that would be due next week.

Laura mulled over the topic, "What Democracy Means to Me," and a germ of an idea began to take shape. The pamphlets she had read last night had given a new direction to her thoughts. The subject of her paper might annoy Mr. Blair, but the contents would be so good he’d have to give her an A. She would be certain that her writing would be so forceful that he wouldn’t forget the suffragists and their struggle. She intended to write about the arrest of the women who were carrying placards and emphasize their innocence. Was this a democratic country that advocated free speech, or wasn’t it? At any rate, she knew Mr. Blair would be purple when he finished reading her paper, but it would be so well written that he couldn’t give her a bad grade.

Later that evening at the local movie house, the theme and Mr. Blair were forgotten as Laura watched the new Charlie Chaplin film. He was such a funny man, yet she wasn’t terribly absorbed in the short comedian’s antics because she was too aware of Joe sitting next to her. He was so relaxed. She loved to hear his low chuckle, but she wished he’d forget Charlie Chaplin long enough to reach over and take her hand. The scent of soap and lemon lotion made her aware of his every move. Had he noticed the jasmine perfume she had dabbed behind her ears? She leaned closer to him, but he was too absorbed in the movie to pay any attention to her.

Afterwards they stopped for a soda.

"Well," Joe said, leaning his tall frame back against the booth and surveying her. "Only one semester and Laura Mitchell finishes her junior year. My little friend is growing up!" He flashed a grin, and his dark, handsome face lit up from an inner glow. His thick, straight, shiny black hair was complemented by his ebony-coal eyes with their ever-present twinkle. "What are you going to do this summer ?"

"Do? You should know my summer is packed with plans. I’ve got the Women’s Motor Corps, the vegetable garden, and I’m volunteering for Red Cross work two days a week." She stopped for breath. "And if that isn’t enough for you, I’ll find a job!"

"Whoa! Enough already!" Joe threw back his head and laughed, showing straight white teeth. "How are you doing at the motorcade?"

"Top-notch," she answered without any false modesty, for she knew Michael had been a good teacher. "I can drive better than most of the women there. I wish I could show you on your Tin Lizzie, but mother insists we take public transportation for the duration of the war."

"Could it be because she’s a conductor on the trolley line?"

"Could be," responded Laura, laughing, "but it isn’t. Mom is just doing her bit for the war."

"I guess you’re right, Laura." Joe paused, gazing at her from beneath thick, heavy brows. "Speaking of cars, has your instructor at the Motorcade Corps discovered your real age?"

"No, she still thinks I’m eighteen. That’s the only way I could inveigle my way in. In case you haven’t noticed, Joe Menotti, I’m going to be sixteen March tenth, and I look older than I am." She gave him a demure smile and lowered her long lashes.

There was a moment of silence.

Joe cleared his throat. "You have grown up, Laura," he said slowly. He studied her as a slow smile spread across his face. "Yes, you’ve become quite a young lady."

Her eyes widened. Had he at last noticed that she was no longer a child? Her heart beat rapidly, and she sipped her soda to hide her nervousness.

Joe said, half-mockingly, "Where’s that baby face and those plump cheeks?" His tone was light and teasing, but his eyes, dark inkwells, never left her eyes.

Not daring to break his attention, for once focused on her, she replied pertly, "My plump cheeks are gone forever. And most of my freckles." She held her breath at the look in his eyes and then furiously drew up her soda through the straw. She was basking in his admiring look, trying to keep his concentration from straying. She wanted to show him that she was a sixteen-year-old woman — well, almost sixteen — and that he’d be a fool to let her slip away.

Joe gave that low, delightful chuckle and reached over, pinching her cheek. "Laura, don’t lose all your freckles. They remind me of an energetic little imp who trustingly took my hand when we crossed Connecticut Avenue to go to the zoo. Remember?"

Laura giggled, relaxing with Joe again. She was too much at home with him to be nervous or demure or to try to captivate him. "Oh, I remember, all right. How patient you were with a little girl who ran ahead of you and hid behind the lion cage."

He shook his head, still smiling. "You were a pretty good kid, though. You obeyed me then, but look at you now. You’re a young woman with a mind of her own. What makes you so independent, Laura? Is it your Irish blood?"

She lifted her shoulder. "I don’t know, Joe. I think it’s a combination of my mother’s strength and my father’s compassion. I know that lately I’ve been feeling deeply about injustice, and I’ve been reading about the injustices women suffer every day."

"I agree with you," Joe said, nodding. "Look at Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I see her come into the store with a baby in her arms and three-year-old Erin tugging at her skirts. Her husband drinks, while she works in the laundry, keeping the family together." Joe snorted in disgust. "And she can’t vote but Tom can! Laura, there are many men who see the injustices done to women."

She smiled. "I only wish you were in the legislature." She shook a finger under his nose. "But our day is coming, Joe. You just wait and see."

He extended his hand, and his long fingers touched her beneath the chin. Her throat went dry at his touch, which was as gentle and soft as a feather. "With such strength of purpose as I see in you, Laura, the women won’t have long to wait." He withdrew his hand.

"I know our day is just around the corner." Her smile disappeared as she stared into his soft eyes. "I just don’t want your day to come," she told him. "The day when you’ll be called into the army." She twisted the straw, not daring to look at him anymore. If she did, he would see how much she cared. "If you do go," she said softly, "I’ll write, bake cookies, knit sweaters for you." She hesitated. Their eyes locked. "If you like," she added lamely.

"That would be wonderful." He patted her hand and flashed a grin once more, severing the magic moment. "But don’t ship me overseas yet. The army has deferred me until next November, so that I’ll have another semester of medical school under my belt. The recruitment officer said I’d be a bigger help to them that way, even if I don’t have my medical degree, for I’d be eligible for the Medic Corps."

"You’ll be a doctor soon." She lifted her eyes and stared at him with affection. Surely he must see the love shining in her eyes. She pushed her empty glass to one side and said, "I’m scared. Scared for you, Joe."

He laughed. "Now, Laura, don’t worry about me. Next fall is a long way off. And as for my becoming a doctor, you’ll remember I’ve had only two years of medical school. It’s difficult attending school part-time and working." He shrugged. "But Dad needs me to help in the store. He and Mom work too hard, anyway. I’d like to see them quit and take life easy in their old age."

"And they will, Joe. You’ve been a wonderful son to them." Her eyes sparkled. "They dote on you." She shook her head. "I don’t know why," she teased, "but they’re so proud of you that they could shout it from the rooftops."

He didn’t respond to her banter but said soberly, "I’m plenty proud of them, too."

No wonder she loved him and, when he was near, felt such a warm glow. At a time when foreigners were suspect, and anyone with an accent was often made fun of, Joe wasn’t ashamed of his Italian parents. She’d heard of factory workers with an accent who had been forced to crawl across the floor and kiss the American flag. Things could have been much worse for the Menottis if Italy had honored the Triple Alliance they had signed with Germany. Instead, at the last minute, Italy had sided with the Allies.

Joe paid the check. "Finished?" he asked.

"Hmm," she answered as he held her cape and wrapped it around her shoulders. She longed to lean back into his arms, but instead she lifted her hair so it would fall outside her cape, and walked into the brisk night through the door he held open.

Walking along Wisconsin Avenue, not speaking much, they passed rows of shuttered houses. A snowflake or two elicited a brief comment from Joe, but on the whole, they walked in companionable silence. Laura felt a tingle in the air, sort of like electricity. Joe kept glancing her way, as if she had changed into a wonderful woman before his very eyes. His admiration made her step lighter and hold her head higher and her spine straighter. He made her feel beautiful and desirable. She knew her long hair, curling softly about her face, fell gently over her shoulders like a mantle. She was glad she had traced her lips with lip rouge and that the frosty air had brought color to her cheeks. She felt lovely every time Joe’s eyes swept over her.