Evie raised an eyebrow. “Your mother thinks I’m the Devil.”
“She doesn’t! Much. Oh, forget about my mother. We could dance to Paul Whiteman records, play Pegity, and eat coffee cake till our stomachs hurt.”
“Sorry, Pie Face, but I can’t. There’s a party at the Whoopee Club. I promised to pop out of the cake at midnight.”
“Oh. I see,” Mabel said, deflated. There was always a party these days.
“Really. I am sorry.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“El-o-cution les-sons,” Evie said, drawing out the words in exaggerated fashion. “And Radio Star is coming to WGI to take my picture. Well, everybody’s picture, but I’m in it, too.”
“Sounds… glamorous.” Mabel hoped she didn’t sound as pathetic and envious as she felt. “I wish I were more glamorous instead of… me.”
Evie put her fist on the table. “Nonsense! I won’t hear a bad word spoken about Miss Mabel Rose. She’s a fine girl. The finest.”
Mabel rolled her eyes. “Hip, hip, hooray!”
“You are special. You are the only Mabel Rose in existence,” Evie insisted.
“I suppose that’s why men fall at my feet daily. It’s my fine qualities that draw them in,” Mabel lamented. “If I weren’t so ordinary, maybe Operation Jericho wouldn’t seem hopeless.”
Evie stirred her cocoa intently and hoped that Mabel couldn’t see the blush blooming in her cheeks. “Maybe Jericho was carrying a torch for another girl,” she said carefully. “Some old flame. And he had to be rid of the ghost of her before he could start courting you.”
Mabel perked up. “Do you really think so?”
Evie managed a smile. “I’d bet my new stockings that’s it. Do you know what? I don’t think you should wait around for Jericho. You should be bold! Show up at the museum and offer assistance. Tell him you’ve had a message from the spirit world that the two of you are supposed to catalog ghosty things and then go dancing.”
“Evie!” Mabel giggled.
“Or you could make him jealous.” Evie waggled her eyebrows. “What about that other fellow who gave you his card… Arthur Somebody-or-Other?”
“Arthur Brown,” Mabel confirmed. “I haven’t seen him since October. Besides, my parents don’t like him.”
“Why not? Did he vote for Coolidge or something?”
Mabel giggled. “No! Arthur’s too radical for them.”
Evie put a hand to her forehead. “Stop the presses! Someone is too radical for your parents?”
“They say he’s not a union organizer; he’s an anarchist. Apparently, he got into some trouble at a rally for the appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti, where those explosions took place? My father said Arthur had to leave town ahead of the feds.”
“Golly! A real, live anarchist on one hand, and a boy who spends all his time inside a ghost museum on the other. You sure know how to pick ’em, Mabesie.”
The girls broke into fresh laughter. Mabel wiped her eyes. Inside, she felt warm and right with the world. Courageous. It was funny how one afternoon with a best friend could set a girl right. “Gee, I’ve missed you, Evie. Please, let’s do this again soon?”
“Will do, Pie Face,” Evie said, giving Mabel’s fingers a squeeze before getting up. “I hate to break up a party, but I’d better get a wiggle on. I’ve got a date with a cake. But before I go, you must model your new dress for me!”
“Now?”
“No. Next Fourth of July. Of course right now! I insist!”
“All right. Let’s go upstairs.”
Evie shook her head. “Nothing doing. I want the full treatment-ski. Go upstairs and put the glad rags on. Then”—Evie lowered her voice to a husky purr—“I want you to emerge from the elevator and drape yourself against the wall like Clara Bow!”
Mabel could feel her ordinariness creeping back. “I am not Clara Bow,” she said.