"He's just saying that for the press, Jackie, that could be anyone, for heaven's sake. That could be me!"
"Oh yeah? When were the last time you were adventurous? When you whirled that Yankee off for a dry clean and a neck in the launderette?" the brunette teased, reapplying her cherry-red lipstick where it had began to fade, "Word was, his mates found him sleeping on a bench the next day — he couldn't find his way back to the MCG. Lew said they thought you'd screwed and chucked him."
The MCG was the Melbourne Cricket grounds. It was temporary home for First Division of the U.S. Marine Corps, the heroes of the Guadalcanal campaign, and was where they retreated to sleep after long evenings of dancing and drinking in the Dug-Out and other clubs around Melbourne. Word was, drills and ceremonies were preformed in the main grounds, and they slept on beds that had been wheeled in by volunteers and arranged in rows across the bleachers.
"I what?" She could feel her face reddening horribly, and as Jackie's smirk grew wider, she knew she was doing nothing more than digging a hole for herself. "If anyone believes I'd touch that Yank with anything less than a ten-foot pole, they are sadly mistaken. Jackie, you should have seen the state of his clothes. I could have thrown up my tea."
"Goodness gracious, Ginny, what do you have against boys?" The brunette giggled endearingly. "Boys are human nature!"
"Mm. So are headaches."
"Speak of the devil," said Jackie, a smile dancing on her reddened mouth as she peered over her friend's shoulder. Knowing exactly what was occurring behind her, Ginny tried to rid her cheeks of the terrible blush before the band of Marines swarmed them, hot whips of panic spurring through her whole body. Jackie was right: you never know who you'll see — and that was exactly the danger of sitting outside. You were exposed to passers-by.
The lanky man with the dark hair that Jackie had been dancing with just the other night rushed to the side of their table and knelt in the silt at their feet, wobbling like a drunk, "Come on a date with me, Jackie. Just one, please," instead of donning a smile as broad of the horizon as he had the previous time they had seen him, he seemed pained, almost, and his lower lip was quivering. Like a drunk? Ginny rolled her eyes, he was drunk, alright. He looked completely sotted.
Though she was dreading it, when the man's other Marine friends joined him, they looked different from the riff-raff she'd encountered the other night, and part of her was relieved — they were far cleaner, with cream shirts and ties and hickory brown jackets with a blue diamond striped with red on the bicep. Dress greens, she thought, and spiffed up for what?
"Take a seat for a moment, Lew, before the booze bus gets ya'," Jackie told the man laughingly, her voice dreamlike and sleazy. She shuffled over and patted the spot she'd made beside her on the bench for him, "I think you should introduce your mates to Ginny . . . don't you?"
"Oh, right, OK," the man sat down and positioned himself to gesture up towards his lingering comrades, "Leckie," was a curly-haired man, taller than the rest, with a smile that when used seemed to have a challenging quality to it, as if to say of really? "Hoosier," yes, she knew the one, "Sid," a docile blond with harmless, soft features and a small mouth, "And Runner, there ya' go," Runner, she remembered introducing himself as Wilbur to her the other evening. When he flashed his smile again, it was even brighter than she remembered it.
Ginny looked at all of them deadpan. What a ridiculous bunch of nicknames, she thought to herself as said, "How-do-ya-do." And retrieved the carton of cigarettes from the pocket of her woolen cardigan that had been slinked over the back of her chair. It was a large packet in her spindly fingers, and she slid it open delicately.
Chapter Three: A GIRL THEY'LL PAINT ON PLANES
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