The Most Popular Girl

Flapper: A Madcap Story of Sex, Style, Celebrity, and the Women Who Made America Modern
by Joshua Zeitz

Blithely flinging aside the Victorian manners that kept her disapproving mother corseted, the New Woman of the 1920s puffed cigarettes, snuck gin, hiked her hemlines, danced the Charleston, and necked in roadsters. More important, she earned her own keep, controlled her own destiny, and secured liberties that modern women take for granted. Her newfound freedom heralded a radical change in American culture.

Whisking us from the Alabama country club where Zelda Sayre first caught the eye of F. Scott Fitzgerald to Muncie, Indiana, where would-be flappers begged their mothers for silk stockings, to the Manhattan speakeasies where patrons partied till daybreak, historian Joshua Zeitz brings the era to exhilarating life. This is the story of America's first sexual revolution, its first merchants of cool, its first celebrities, and its most sparkling advertisement for the right to pursue happiness.

The men and women who made the flapper were a diverse lot.

There was Coco Chanel, the French orphan who redefined the feminine form and silhouette, helping to free women from the torturous corsets and crinolines that had served as tools of social control.

Three thousand miles away, Lois Long, the daughter of a Connecticut clergyman, christened herself "Lipstick" and gave New Yorker readers a thrilling entrée into Manhattan's extravagant Jazz Age nightlife.

In California, where orange groves gave way to studio lots and fairytale mansions, three of America's first celebrities - Clara Bow, Colleen Moore, and Louise Brooks, Hollywood's great flapper triumvirate - fired the imaginations of millions of filmgoers.

Dallas-born fashion artist Gordon Conway and Utah-born cartoonist John Held crafted magazine covers that captured the electricity of the social revolution sweeping the United States.

Bruce Barton and Edward Bernays, pioneers of advertising and public relations, taught big business how to harness the dreams and anxieties of a newly industrial America - and a nation of consumers was born.

Towering above all were Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, whose swift ascent and spectacular fall embodied the glamour and excess of the era that would come to an abrupt end on Black Tuesday, when the stock market collapsed and rendered the age of abundance and frivolity instantly obsolete.

With its heady cocktail of storytelling and big ideas, Flapper is a dazzling look at the women who launched the first truly modern decade.

Chapter 1

For all intents and purposes, and purely by virtue of chance, America's Jazz Age began in July 1918 on a warm and sultry evening in Montgomery, Alabama. There, at the Montgomery Country Club - "a rambling brown-shingled building," as one contemporary later remembered it, "discreetly screened from the public eye by an impenetrable hedge of mock oranges" - a strikingly beautiful woman named Zelda Sayre sauntered onto the clubhouse veranda and caught the eye of First Lieutenant Francis Scott Fitzgerald.

At seventeen, Zelda was "sophisticated for her age," recalled one of her friends, but "she still had the charm of an uninhibited, imaginative child."

As she stood outside the clubhouse amid the dull murmur of the brass dance music emanating from within, bathed by the Alabama moonlight, her "summer tan gave her skin the color of a rose petal dripped in cream. Her hair had the sheen of spun gold. Wide and dark-lashed, her eyes seemed to change color with her prismatic moods; though in reality they were deep blue, at times they appeared to be green or even a dark Confederate gray." Just one month out of high school, Zelda was "slender and well-proportioned," "lithe," and "extraordinarily graceful."

Among the younger set, Zelda Sayre was commonly acknowledged as something of a wild child. She particularly delighted in scandalizing her father, Judge Anthony Sayre, a staid Victorian who, in his capacity as an associate justice of the Alabama Supreme Court, was one of Montgomery's leading citizens.

Given her family's standing in the community, Zelda's frequent exploits were sure fodder for gossip. There was the day she climbed to the roof of her house, kicked away the ladder, and compelled the fire company to rescue her from certain injury and disgrace. Or the time she borrowed her friend's snappy little Stutz Bearcat to drive down to Boodler's Bend, a local lover's lane concealed by a thick orchard of pecan trees, and shone a spotlight on those of her schoolmates who were necking in the backseats of parked cars. Or those other occasions when she repeated the same trick, but at the front entrance to Madam Helen St. Clair's notorious city brothel.

Most disturbing to Judge Sayre was Zelda's well-earned reputation for violating the time-honored codes of sexual propriety that seemed everywhere under attack by the time the opening shots were fired in World War I. Already a veritable legend among hundreds of well-heeled fraternity brothers as far and wide as the University of Alabama, Auburn University, and Georgia Tech, Zelda was "the most popular girl at every dance," as a would-be suitor remembered years later.

Part of Zelda's renown surely was owed to her habit of sneaking out of country club dances - and sometimes her bedroom window - to join Montgomery's most eligible bachelors for a few hours of necking, petting, and drinking in secluded backseat venues. On more than a few occasions, the inviting aroma of pear trees, the dim glow of a half-moon, and the tentative sound of a boyfriend's car horn were all the inspiration Zelda needed to walk quietly across her plain whitewashed room, draw open the curtains, and creep down to the tin roof that protected the Sayre family's front porch.

After that, she was gone into the night.

During her four years at Sidney Lanier High School, Zelda was an average student, but she was well ahead of the learning curve in most other matters. She habitually rouged her cheeks and stenciled her eyes with mascara, giving her friends' parents great cause for concern.

A regular at the local soda fountain, she alternated between double banana splits (innocuous) and a "dopes" (not so innocuous), a combination of Coca-Cola and aromatic spirits.

When the entire senior class cut school on April 1, it was Zelda who pooled everyone's money and flirted with the nice agent at the Empire Theatre, who happily granted the students admission at a cut rate. And it was Zelda who triumphantly organized a group photo in front of the ticket box.

When her English teacher assigned a poetry-writing exercise for homework, Zelda immediately volunteered to read her original composition - scratched out the next morning in homeroom - aloud.

I do love my Charlie so.
It nearly drives me wild.
I'm so glad that he's my beau
And I'm his baby child!

It was a big hit with her classmates, but not exactly what the teacher was looking for.

For all of Zelda's purported daring, Sara Mayfield, her loyal childhood friend, averred that she was no better or worse than most young women of her time. "Zelda would have been the last to deny that she danced cheek to cheek and did the Shimmy, the Charleston, and the Black Bottom," Mayfield admitted. But "if she gave a demonstration of the Hula at a midterm dance at the University of Alabama, had not Alice Roosevelt, the President's daughter, been similarly criticized for doing the same thing ... ?"

Copyright © 2006 by Joshua Zeitz

About the Author

Joshua Zeitz is a lecturer on American history and fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Cambridge and is a contributing editor at American Heritage. His writing has appeared in the New York Times, Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, New Republic, and Forward. He lives in New York and Cambridge, England.