She spent three hours with him and he left her at five to eleven when only the movie house was still open at the plaza.
They rode off with the girl's father, sleepy and pleased, and Connie couldn't help but look back at the darkened shopping plaza with its big empty parking lot and its ghostly signs and at the drive-in restaurant where cars were still circling tirelessly.
Oh her. That dope.
What's this about the Pettinger girl?
The next morning, Connie's sister, June, inquired about her date.
Connie spent time around the house—it was summer vacation—getting in her mother’s way and thinking, dreaming about the boys she met. But all the boys fell back and dissolved into a single face that was not even a face but an idea, a feeling, mixed up with the urgent insistent pounding of the music and the humid night air of July.
Connie's mother kept dragging her back to the daylight by finding things for her to do or asking her about other girls. She always drew thick clear lines between herself and such girls, and her mother was simple enough to believe it.
Her mother scuffled around the house in old slippers and complained on the telephone to one sister about the other, then the other called up and the two of them complained about the third one. If June's name was mentioned her mother's tone was approving, and if Connie's name was mentioned it was disapproving. This did not mean she disliked Connie. Actually, Connie thought that her mother preferred her to June because she was prettier.