I’d like to reveal that I felt compassion for Nancy’s position as underdog, that I could sense her loneliness, but such was not the case. It would be a long time before I could see into people and grasp their misery. In those days I saw no further than my nose.
Part II: Fitting In
Chapter 7: Taking On High School
It was a short walk from the house on Groveland Terrace, past the stone wall of the John Rood property and down the steep grade to Northrop Collegiate School at the foot of Lowry Hill. I entered the doors fresh and neat in my new school uniform, little dreaming what was in store.
I stood in the dark entrance hall that loomed like a cathedral above me, imposing and untouchable, gazing at the square-patterned chestnut paneling and the green and mahogany marble fireplace that was circled by a low three-sided, spindle railing. Against one wall a polished bronze circular stairway rounded up to the second floor. There didn’t seem to be a smooth wall or unadorned corner anywhere. The entire school, from the ivy-covered red brick exterior to the heavy wooded interior, exuded tradition and regulation.
I felt raw. Here I was, entering my sophomore year tested, uniformed, and totally out of my element. The tenth and eleventh graders gathered for homeroom on the second floor, and I soon found myself seated alphabetically at my desk, flanked in front and back by Nellie Atwater and Sue Brockman, listening to Miss Grey at the front desk deliver a formal orientation.
It took me awhile to figure out the shape of the Northrop class structure. My classmates were located in three main neighborhoods. One set lived, like me, in Minneapolis, in the Kenwood area that included the chain of city lakes. A second group was sprawled through Hopkins and Edina and carpooled to school together. A larger group traveled to school from Lake Minnetonka, driven down Highway 12 by fathers on their way to work downtown. These families were part of the Minnetonka social scene; they belonged to the Wayzata Country Club, the Minnetonka Arts Center, and various bridge clubs and included among their ranks prominent names like Whitney, Pillsbury, and MacMillan. The girls in these groups led a contained social life outside school. During the week they congregated in the halls and over lunch, swapping anecdotes about weekend parties, overnights, vacations, and ski trips.
The number of years you attended Northrop mattered; your degree of Northrop-ness and the depth of your background was judged accordingly. Most of the girls had been at Northrop since grade school and moved in a close-knit clique that was sufficient unto itself. I watched my classmates cluster around the desks of the Lake Minnetonka crowd. These confident, laughing, breezy girls lived in lakeside mansions, got high marks, were groomed impeccably, had postures like flag poles, and behaved with intimidating composure. I sometimes wondered what it must be like to be so self-possessed. I held back from stepping into their space, unable to summon any language that could introduce me.
As a newcomer with a rural-like Meadowbrook background, I occupied the bottom rung. I had no confidence and no talent and fancied that I personified all the reasons the levels of superiority had evolved in the first place. Plus I was quiet and passive. I wasn’t pretty and was accident prone. I had nothing to recommend me. I legitimized all apprehensions.
It was not long before things began to happen. One day I swept into Miss Pease’s class and plunked myself at a desk, flustered at being late. Miss Pease was explaining an equation up at the black board. As I attempted to bring her writing into focus, Miss Pease stopped talking. She looked at me in her direct way.
“Judy,” she began. “Do you know what class you’re in?” My eyes froze. A long silence. “This is math. You aren’t in here until next period.” No one said anything as I gathered my books and slunk red-faced past the class and past Miss Pease, who looked after me, a slight smile on her face. Burning with shame I longed to hide somewhere in the depths of the school and never emerge.
I wondered what was being said about me behind closed doors. After a series of goofs, I made up my mind I would stay out of the way and become as unnoticeable as possible, preferably invisible.
One afternoon the tenth graders were seated at long lunch tables on the third floor, waiting for the servers to bring dishes such as spaghetti and garlic bread, Sheppard’s Pie, or a noodle hot dish, along with vegetables or salad. Each table was headed by one of the instructors, and it was the task of the student seated to her right to draw out her chair. I happened to occupy that privileged seat and my eyes were fixed on the dishes being set on the table that sent tempting odors my way. When Miss Pease appeared she stopped by her chair and stood quietly waiting for me to catch on. Finally the girl across from me shot me a look and whispered, “Pull out her chair!” I hastily jumped up and did so, bumping the chair into Miss Pease’s knees in the process. Miss Pease sat and spread her napkin serenely on her lap. Luckily I remembered to pass the serving bowl first to Miss Pease. From then on I watched my every move. No relaxing here!
Just when I thought I had uncovered every taboo and there was nothing left I could do wrong, some new challenge came along. One day during dessert I was sucking on a spoonful of ice cream and slipped it leisurely in and out of my mouth, savoring each taste.
“Ugh. That’s disgusting,” exclaimed the girl sitting across from me. “You don’t put the spoon in your mouth and take it out with ice cream still on the spoon.” All eyes were turned in my direction. “We don’t want to have to look at something that’s been in your mouth!”
A few heads nodded in agreement. I lowered my spoon to the dish, abashed. It didn’t occur to me to speak up with, “That’s ridiculous. It’s more fun to eat this way. It lasts longer.” or “Whoever told you that? You lick ice cream cones, don’t you?” Stealing a glance around I saw amused smiles around the table and tucked in my wings for the rest of the meal.
Something had to be done. I couldn’t be a quivering mouse any longer. Most of the girls were fun-loving, joked, told funny stories, and played tricks on each other—like writing bogus notes from Patty’s boyfriend and slipping it in her Latin book. I had to come up with a trick of my own. Finally a brainstorm—it came to me in a flash.
One noon hour when everyone was at lunch, I snuck back early to study hall and placed the lid of my wooden desk in the upright position. On it I taped a piece of yellow paper with capital letters written in black marker that read:
WHO WOULD LIKE A DATE WITH FRANK SINATRA?
YOU WILL GO DANCING AND A LIMO WILL PICK YOU UP.
SIGN YOUR NAME BELOW AND YOU WILL BE GUARANTEED THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE.
P.S. FRANK IS BETWEEN GIRLFRIENDS; YOU HAVE A CHANCE.
I left an Eversharp pen clipped to the desktop and slipped out to the back of the school to wait in the woods. The class would soon be returning from lunch and hanging out in the study hall until the bell. They couldn’t miss the sign if they tried. This would be a hoot.
Twenty minutes later I reentered homeroom and swept my eyes across the desks. Most of the students were piling books in their arms and heading for the door to class. My desk top was still open, displaying the red sign with blaring black letters, but it had not been touched. There was no sign of recognition on anyone’s face. I left the sign up for the rest of the day until everyone had left, then I took it down and dropped it into the waste basket.
After that I noticed a few sideways glances in my direction, which were quickly diverted. They must have thought the sign was so stupid they had no words. What was there to say? She had best be left to herself, this weird new girl. How did she ever get into Northrop? What is the world coming to?
It didn’t help that I was something of a slob. I was oblivious to personal decor. To me dressing up meant putting on lipstick and combing my hair, which stayed put for ten minutes. Why bother? My looks were nondescript, and except for comments about my blue eyes I was undistinguished. Now that I was attending Northrop, my mother was anxious for me to shape up, to move past scruff
y adolescence and into young lady attire.
She enlisted my classmate and best friend, Margo Holt, to get me to wear my creamy new saddle shoes, to make me understand that I must make a good impression. Margo tried: “Those loafers should be burned.” But I stuck to the well-worn penny loafers that could be kicked off under the desk. After commenting that my shoes were falling apart and my lime-green socks had seen better days ten years ago, Margo gave up.
But Mother didn’t.
To this impeccable beauty, who stepped out of her bedroom each morning ready for an appointment with the queen, I was a disaster. Her daughter needed shaping up, academically, physically and culturally. This included manners, wardrobe, and bearing. The challenge was daunting. I was sent to Estelle Stevens Modeling School, where I was categorized as a combined Country (outdoorsy) and Patrician (reserved) type and was taught how to apply the numerous tricks of makeup, how to choose clothing styles suited to my type, and how to walk and pivot on a runway. This, along with the Arthur Murray ballroom lessons, where I learned to fox trot, waltz, and lindy, was supposed to displace some of the freewheeling outdoor flavor I presented. I learned to wear gloves, a cloche or brimmed hat, and carry a purse, all color coordinated with matching heels.
Right after Christmas, Mother and I went shopping big-time. Mother wore the Christmas present Dad gave her: a full length mink coat in deep hues of chestnut, charcoal, and russet brown, with cuffed sleeves and a matching collar—a royal jewel, the crème de la crème. She slipped on the mink and we piled in her Camaro and headed downtown.
The Minnesota sky was icy blue and the air crackled, enlivening our steps as we walked along Nicollet Avenue past Power’s, Donaldson’s, Dayton’s, The Tea Shop, and Young Quinlan’s. The two of us weaved through pedestrians in felt and fedora hats, fur-lined boots and overcoats. Behind the Foshay Tower we spied a corner of the Roanoke building two blocks away where Dad was laboring in his office at that very moment.
As we stepped out of the elevator at Harold’s, a tall sales clerk wearing an armful of gold bracelets approached. “Good day, ladies.”
“We’re looking for some clothes for my daughter,” Mother told her. “Could you help us?”
Seating herself in a corner chair in the fitting room, Mother watched me try on soft British wools, cashmeres, shimmering taffeta, rich plaids, and Norwegian sweaters. The clerk reappeared from time to time with fresh items. “That’s nice,” Mother ventured when one caught her fancy. She favored a full black-and-white-striped skirt, topped by an oyster angora sweater with a rolled collar that covered my neck bones. “Do stand up straight,” she urged. “You look so much prettier.” She fingered strands of hair along my forehead. “A good combing would help.” I automatically reached up to smooth the errant strands. She couldn’t understand why, with regular permanents and setting my hair with bobby pins every night, my hair looked continually messy.
I eyed my slim figure in the mirror, searching for clothing that would smooth me out or prop me up, willing to go along with anything that might improve my standing in the world.
“We’ll take the gold tweed with pearl buttons as well,” Mother told the sales clerk, handing her a dress to add to the pieces we’d already selected. “Now we need some matching jewelry. What would you recommend?” We followed the clerk to the display case and peered through at the rows of gold bracelets and necklaces.
“This two-strand will go nicely with the round collar,” suggested the clerk, drawing out a gold beaded necklace with a high price tag.
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Mother. “Let’s see it.” I tried it on. “What do you think?” inquired Mother of the clerk.
The clerk was all enthusiasm. “Oh, it looks marvelous on her. A perfect match.”
I became irate. Mother always threw herself on the opinion of the sales clerk, letting herself be talked into the most expensive items. The way she leaned on their judgment was pathetic.
“I prefer the herringbone,” I said flatly. Our selections included a wool pleated skirt with two matching sweater sets in red and navy, a wool checkered suit, a black-and-white Liz Claiborne suit, and two belted dresses. My favorite was a flared black skirt and white crepe blouse, which I stored carefully in a plastic dress bag to save for just the right party with just the right boy. It hung in the closet waiting for the perfect event that never happened.
* * *
Classes at school presented another challenge. Latin was a drag. After learning how Caesar invaded Gaul and divided it into three parts, I lost track. And the teacher’s assurance that knowledge of the Latin vocabulary vastly improved our English didn’t help. I guess it was less boring than endlessly conjugating French verbs, with the teacher at the board and the students repeating the imperfect endings. In Miss Chambers’s history class at least we discussed the material, which was more interesting. Miss Chambers gave us tips on memorizing dates, like how to recall when Columbus discovered America. “In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” This was not to be confused, she joked, with “In 1493, Columbus sailed the deep blue sea.” After that I could never remember which one was the correct verse.
Because the classes were small—ten to fifteen students—the teachers knew our learning habits inside and out. It was difficult to get through a semester, no matter how dry, without learning something. There were no boys to crowd us out with strong voices or virulent antics. Many of the girls developed strong voices of their own. We could be ourselves without worrying about impressing a pair of bright male eyes.
It was clear the academic emphasis at Northrop called for a revolutionary approach. One had to study. Each night after dinner, I sat at my desk with a goose-neck lamp until my homework for the next day was completed—no variations. There were long chapters on history to digest and French verbs to memorize between bouts of blurring out the page, heaving sighs, and staring at the iron-clamped door. I dallied and doodled my way through a few months of homework, wrestling with each page, until a shock one day at school got the message through to me.
The assignment for English, my favorite class, was to pick an author and write a paper on his or her work. I perked up. This I could do. I chose Charlotte Bronte, whom I had already read, and reread Jane Eyre and The Professor. I took a book out of the library about Charlotte Bronte and read that. I even enjoyed doing it, except that it took ridiculously long. But I persevered. At least there was one subject I could do well, never mind Latin and math. But when I picked up my paper from the front desk, Miss Grey had marked it D. What? How could that be? What is going on here?
I marched to Miss Grey’s office.
“What’s wrong with this?” I wanted to know.
“Too superficial. You need to spend more time on it. Dig deeper.”
It took most of the school year before I was able to catch on to studying and writing papers. There was no way but to buckle down and spend hours in my room in total quiet, reading and underlining. Studying for final exams took longer to master: rereading all the chapter underlines I had made over the semester, reviewing classroom notes, copying both into a single outline, and then going over the outline far into the night until I had it memorized. In the morning before the exam I did a final review, crossing out the correctly answered questions and repeating the process until there were none left. This required concentration and a stick-to-itiveness that had rarely been part of my fly-by-night, meandering existence.
By twelfth grade I was studying like a dog. My friend Margo would stop by the house early before an exam so we could quiz each other for a last review, and we continued to cram as we tramped down the hill to school. Margo confessed that she hadn’t studied as intended and would have to wing it. I had suspicions that my notes benefited her more than they did me. To my annoyance she invariably received an A or B to my C, which bothered me no end, until I just had to admit that she was smarter. Some people have all the luck.
; * * *
The high standards of the school included personal integrity. Ours was fundamentally a prudish class—the term goody-goody might apply—although we liked to think of ourselves as daring. We chose as our senior class motto SAFETY FIRST, an effort to coat our staid lives with a splash of notoriety. Despite the wild antics in the halls, our moral standards were tight. The Northrop honor code bound us all in a pledge of honesty, and we were encouraged to take this pledge seriously. So our shock was great when Anne Clayburn, one of our less academic classmates, was caught cheating on a Latin final. Our class president called us to a private meeting, secluded from the teaching staff. What to do? Anne needed to be confronted and made to understand that her cheating brought all of us down, as well as compromised her own prospects. When confronted with the evidence and encouraged to grasp the seriousness of her action, Anne burst into tears. After two hours of persuasion by class members and soul searching and promises on the side of Anne, we agreed not to turn her in.
Some months later Anne crossed another boundary that was equally reprehensible: word got around that she was sleeping with boys. We couldn’t have been more horrified. The grapevine fluttered with whispers. Everyone knew. It was rumored that boys were falling over each other to take her out, expecting to get what was denied everywhere else. The fact that Anne was one of the beauties of the class, with dark hair curling loosely around her head and china blue eyes, made it all the more difficult to understand why she would sacrifice her reputation. Eventually she started going steady with a popular Blake boy and the rumors ceased.
A Penny a Kiss Page 12
