Cutler 2 - Secrets of the Morning

by V. C. Andrews

  Agnes told me the bed on the right and the accompanying dresser were mine. Trisha had a picture of an attractive couple who I guessed were her parents on her dresser and a picture of a handsome boy who could be her brother or her boyfriend beside it. On her desk were textbooks and notebooks neatly piled be-side each other.

  "Well, I'll leave you to get yourself settled in," Agnes said. "Trisha should be coming home from school in an hour or so. Remember, you are a guest in my home," she said and started out. At the door she spun around and added, "Act One," and left.

  I put my suitcases down and gazed around the room again. This was to be my new home for a long time. It was cozy and warm, but I was sharing it with another girl and that was something that both frightened and excited me, especially after the warnings Agnes had given me. What if we didn't get along? What if we were so different that we ended up hardly speaking to each other? What would happen to my dream of becoming a singer?

  I began to unpack, hanging up my clothes and putting my underthings and my socks into the dresser drawers. I had just placed my suitcases at the rear of the closet when the door was suddenly opened and Trisha Kramer burst into our room. She was an inch or so taller than I was and wore her dark brown hair drawn back from her face and pinned up in a chignon that I thought very sophisticated. Over black leotards she wore a floating chiffon black dress, and on her feet were silver dancing shoes.

  Trisha had the brightest green eyes I had ever seen with eyebrows trimmed just the way fashion models wear theirs. Although she had a perfect little nose, her mouth was a little too thin and too long. But her soft, wonderful peaches and cream complexion and sleek figure went far to compensate for any imperfections.

  "Hi," she exclaimed. "I'm Trisha. Sorry I wasn't here to greet you, but I had dance class," she added and did a pirouette. My smile widened into a laugh. "That, I want you to know, took me nearly a month to perfect."

  "It was good," I said, quickly nodding. She bowed.

  "Thank you, thank you. Don't do another thing," she said before I could utter a word or move. "Just sit down and tell me everything about yourself. I've been starved . . . starved!" she emphasized with big eyes, "for female companionship. The only other person living here now is Bones and you've already met Agnes," she said, swinging her eyes toward the door and back.

  "Bones?"

  "Arthur Garwood. But let's not talk about him just yet. Come," she said, taking my hand and pulling me to sit on my bed. "Talk, talk, talk. Where did you go to school before? How many boyfriends have you had? Do you have one now? Do your parents really own a famous resort in Virginia?"

  I just sat there smiling.

  "Maybe tomorrow we'll go to see a movie. Would you like that?" she asked, grimacing in anticipation of a yes.

  "I've never been to a movie," I confessed. "What?" She sat back and stared at me, her smile frozen. Then she leaned forward.

  "Don't they have electricity in Virginia?" she asked. For a moment we stared at each other, and then I started to cry.

  Perhaps it was all of it finally coming to a climax: discovering the parents I had known and loved for more than fourteen years were not really my parents, being dragged off to live with a family that didn't really want me back, discovering that the boy I thought might be my first boyfriend was really ray brother and the boy I thought was my brother was the boy I really liked the way a girl should like a boy; having to have a vicious, jealous sister, Clara Sue, and a mother who doted only on herself. And now, being shipped off as part of a bargain with a grandmother who despised my very existence for reasons I still didn't quite understand—all of it came raining down upon me.

  As I looked at Trisha with her vibrant eyes and bubbly personality, her excitement over things like rock and roll and boys and movies, I suddenly realized how different I was. I had never really had the chance to be a young girl and a teenager. I had been forced because of Momma Longchamp's illnesses to be the mother. Flow I had longed to be like Trisha Kramer and others like her. Could I be? Was it too late?

  I couldn't stop the tears from flowing.

  "What is it?" Trisha asked. "Did I say something?"

  "Oh, Trisha, I'm sorry," I said. "No, you're perfect. Agnes had me thinking you'd be horrible."

  "Oh Agnes," she said, waving the air, "you can't pay attention to anything she says. Did she show you her room?"

  "Yes," I said, nodding and wiping away my tears, "with the curtain."

  "Isn't it a gas? She thinks she lives on the stage. Wait until you see the rest of it. Did you get your class program card yet?"

  "Yes." I dug it out of my purse and showed it to her.

  "Great! We have English together and vocal music. I’ll take you over to the school now and give you a grand tour. But first, let's change into sweatshirts and jeans and sneakers, and go get ice cream sodas and talk and talk and talk until both our throats get dry."

  "My mother bought me only fancy things for school. I don't have a sweatshirt," I moaned.

  "Oh yes you do," she said, jumping up and going to the closet. She pulled out one of her own, a bright, blue cotton one, and tossed it at me.

  I hurried to change as Trisha and I talked a mile a minute, giggling almost after everything we said. When we finally started out, Trisha stopped me at the door.

  "Please, my dear," she said, assuming Agnes Morris's demeanor. "Whenever you enter or leave a room, always hold your head high and your shoulders back. Otherwise, you won't be noticed."

  Our laughter trailed after us as we bounced down the stairs.

  I wasn't in New York more than a few hours. And already I had a friend!

  2

  EXPLORING THE BERNHARDT SCHOOL

  Even though Trisha took me to a luncheonette only two blocks away from our student house, I couldn't help being afraid of getting lost. The streets were so long and I found I had to walk very quickly to keep up with her. My eyes darted all about as I took in the traffic, the people, the stores and other apartment houses, but Trisha kept her gaze down and talked as she hurried up the sidewalk to a corner and then turned to lead me down another street and up another. It was as if she sensed traffic and people or had eyes in the top of her head and didn't have to worry about bumping into someone or being hit by a car.

  "Quickly," she cried when I hesitated behind her, "before the light changes on us." She grabbed my hand and tugged me off the sidewalk. Drivers honked their horns at us because the light did change when we were only three quarters of the way. I was terrified, but Trisha thought it was funny.

  The cashier at the luncheonette, the bald-headed, stout elderly man behind the counter and even some of the waitresses knew Trisha and waved and said hello when we entered. She slid into the first empty booth and I followed, happy to be safe and have a place to rest.

  "I've never been to Virginia," Trisha began. "My family's from upstate New York. How come you don't have a thick, southern accent?" she asked quickly, just realizing it.

  "I didn't grow up in Virginia," I said. "My family traveled around a great deal and we didn't always live in the south."

  The waitress came to our table.

  "Want a black and white?" Trisha asked me. I didn't know what it was, but I was afraid to show just how stupid I was.

  "Fine," I said.

  "All the kids from the school come here," she said. "They have a juke box. Want to hear some music?"

  "Sure," I said. She jumped up and went to the juke box.

  "Isn't that great?" she said, returning. "Now hold it a sec," she said without pausing for a breath. "What do you mean, your family traveled around a lot? Agnes told me your family owns a famous hotel and has for a long time. From the way Agnes described it, it's practically a historic site."

  "It is."

  She shook her head. "I don't understand."

  "It's complicated," I said, hoping to leave it at that. I was sure that once I told her my story, she would regret having me as her roommate.

  "Oh, I'm sorry if I soun
d like I'm prying. Mr. Van Dan, our English teacher, says I should be writing the gossip column for a newspaper."

  "It's a little hard for me to talk about it all right now," I said, but I could see that only interested her more.

  "I'll wait. We've got plenty of time to poke into each other's business," she added. I had to laugh.

  "Is that a picture of your brother or your boyfriend next to your parents' picture?" I asked. "Since we're being snoops, that is."

  "My boyfriend back home," she said, nodding. Then she held her arms out and cried, "I'm an only child. And I'm very spoiled," she added. "Look what my father sent me last week." She extended her wrist to show me the beautiful gold watch with two diamonds in it, one for twelve and one for six.

  "It's very beautiful." My compliment was sincere, but I couldn't help the tears that began to fill the furrows at the bottom of my eyes. Would I ever know who my real father was, much less meet him and have him love me the way a father should love a daughter? According to Grandmother Cutler, he couldn't have cared much less about my birth and was happy to get away without any responsibility. But deep down I harbored the hope that Grandmother Cutler was lying about this, just the way she had lied about other things concerning me. In my secret, putaway heart, I dreamt that because I was in New York, the capital of entertainment, I would somehow find my real father. And when I found him, he would be overjoyed to see me.

  "He's always sending me presents," Trisha continued. "I suppose I'm a Daddy's girl. What's your father like? Do you have any brothers or sisters? I can ask that right now, can't I?"

  "Yes. I have a brother and a sister. My brother Philip is older, and my sister Clara Sue is a year younger." I thought about Jimmy and Fern and how hard it still was not to call them my brother and sister. "My father is . . . a very busy man," I added dryly, thinking about Randolph and the way he had always managed to be doing something whenever I needed him.

  "Say no more," Trisha said and leaned over the table. "So what do you do?"

  "Do?"

  "Your talent, silly. I'm going to be a dancer. But you already know that. So?"

  "I sing, but . . ."

  "Oh great, another singer," she said, sighing. Then she flashed a smile and her face brightened, her eyes like Christmas tree lights. "No, I'm just kidding. I can't wait to hear you sing."

  "I'm not really that good."

  "You made it into Bernhardt, didn't you? You passed their gruesome audition. Didn't you just hate the way they looked you over? But someone important thinks you've got talent," she said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here,"

  What was I to say? If I told her Grandmother Cutler pulled strings to get me in, Trisha might resent me for it. I would have to explain how it was all part of an arrangement and then I would have to tell her everything.

  "Anyway, before long, Agnes will have you singing at one of her gatherings."

  "Was she really an actress?"

  "Oh yes, and she still is. I don't mean on the stage or screen, but in real life. And she has all these old actor friends who come over for tea on Sundays. It's fun to listen to them reminisce. Did you meet Mrs. Liddy?"

  "Yes. She's very nice."

  "She and Agnes have been together for ages and ages. Sometimes, she's the only one Agnes will listen to, but don't worry, you'll love it here. You'll see. Just don't let Bones get you down."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "He's always so glum. I swear if he smiled, he'd crack his face," she said as the waitress brought our ice cream sodas.

  "Why do you call him Bones?"

  "When you see him, you'll know. Yummy," Trisha said and started sipping on her straw. Her personality was like a warm summer day. I had never seen such a happy, exuberant girl. "Better get to your soda," she said. "We have a lot to do and I have to get back to help with dinner. It's my week."

  "Oh. Right."

  Trisha insisted on paying. When she put down a tip for the waitress, I told her what had happened with the taxi driver.

  "He had the nerve to ask?" She shook her head. "What am I saying? Of course, he had the nerve; he's a New York cabby. Come on," she said, taking my hand. Oh no, I thought, not another race down the sidewalk.

  We hurried out of the luncheonette and turned left.

  "How do you know which way to go? It all looks so confusing," I said. I had already forgotten from which direction we had come. The streets looked so similar.

  "It's easier than you think. It won't take you long to find your way around. The school's only a block up and a block over," she added as we walked on.

  "My boyfriend's name is Victor, but no one calls him anything but Vic," she said. "He writes a couple of times a week and calls once a week. And he's visited me twice already this summer."

  "That's very nice. You're lucky to have someone who cares so much about you."

  "But I've got to tell you a secret," she said, stopping and pulling me closer as if all the strangers passing by us on the sidewalk would be interested in our conversation.

  "What is it?"

  "There's a boy I like at the school—Graham Hill. He's s-o-o-o handsome. He's a senior, studying acting." Suddenly, the corners of her mouth drooped sadly. "But he doesn't even know I exist," she said. She looked down at the sidewalk and then snapped her head up. "Let's hurry," she said, charging off again and tugging me behind her. "They'll still be in rehearsal and we can get a look at him."

  Hurry? I thought. What were we doing before?

  When we came around the corner, I saw the Bernhardt School across the street. There was a very tall, iron bar fence around the grounds with vines threaded through most of it. The entrance opened on a driveway that snaked up and over a small knoll before reaching the gray stone building that reminded me of a castle because it was tall and round, but what looked like a more recent addition with a flat room ran off to the right. In that section the windows were larger. Off to the left, I saw two tennis courts, both presently in use. On one court two couples were playing doubles. Even with the sounds of the traffic, the horns honking, we could hear their occasional laughter.

  The sky above had become a darker blue with a puffy, cotton ball cloud here and there. The breeze that lifted the strands of my hair and made them dance over my forehead was warm and salty. Beyond the school I could see the water that had been visible from the front steps of our apartment building.

  "Come on," Trisha commanded as soon as the light turned green.

  The grounds of the school surprised me. I hadn't thought I would find green grass, or flower beds, or the water fountains with benches and slate rock pathways in the middle of New York City. And there were great maple and oak trees with long thick branches casting cool shadows in which some students now sat or reclined, some reading, some talking softly, dozens of white and gray pigeons strutting bravely about them. It looked more like a beautiful park than school grounds.

  "It's very pretty here," I said.

  "It was once owned by a multimillionaire who loved Sarah Bernhardt, the famous actress, and decided to create this school in her name after she died. The school has been in existence since 1923, but everything's up-to-date. Ten years ago they added the new buildings. There's a plaque right there," Trisha said pointing to the fence. When we crossed the street, I stopped to read it.

  TO THE MEMORY OF SARAH BERNHARDT

  WHOSE BRIGHT LIGHT LIT UP THE STAGE

  AS IT HAD NEVER BEEN LIT BEFORE

  "Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever read?" Trisha said, sighing. "I hope someday someone very rich falls in love with me and has my name engraved in marble."

  "Someone will," I said and she smiled.

  "Thank you. It's very nice of you to say that. I'm so glad you're here." She threaded her arm through mine to walk me through the entrance.

  I looked up at the circular entrance to the school. This close, it looked even more intimidating than I had imagined. In those hallowed halls, really gifted people practiced and developed their talents. Many
of its graduates were famous. These teachers saw the best and finest. Surely someone like me would stand out like an unripe tomato in a basket of ripe ones. I had only just learned how to play the piano and I had never had formal voice lessons. And after all, Grandmother Cutler had gotten me in without an audition. No one had said I had enough talent to enroll. My head bowed with the panic I felt.

  "What's the matter?" Trisha asked. "Are you tired?"

  "No. I . . . maybe we should wait until tomorrow," I said, pausing in the driveway.

  "You're not afraid of this place, are you?" she asked quickly. By the way she asked, I suspected she had had similar feelings on first arriving. "Come on," she added, urging me forward. "Everyone is very friendly here and everyone understands what it means to be a performer. Stop worrying."

  Once again, she was pulling me along. I was beginning to feel like a puppy on a leash. We hurried up the driveway to the front entrance. A tall, slim man in a light blue sports jacket and matching slacks was just coming out. He had silvery gray hair and a silvery gray mustache which contrasted sharply with his cerulean eyes and rust complexion.

  "Trisha?" he said as if he couldn't believe it was she.

  "Hello, Mr. Van Dan. This is Dawn Cutler, a new student who just arrived. I'm showing her around."

  "Oh, yes," he said, gazing at me from head to foot.

  "You're going to be in my class."

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  "Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow." He turned toward Trisha, his eyes twinkling. "Subtract fifty percent from whatever Trisha tells you, Dawn. She has a propensity for hyperbole," he added and continued on.