He sat forward, folded his fingers between each other, clasped his hands behind his head, and then sat back,
"Great. Every time I call you or talk to you, everyone will think we're lovers.'
"Not if I can help it." I shot back at him, and he laughed. ''Do you have a name or should I just call you Nervy?" I demanded, my hands on my hips.
"Very funny, Honey. I have a rather ordinary name. I'm afraid: Steven. I'm named after my greatgrandfather. Steven Jesse, credited with inventing, patenting, and producing a better candy-vending machine. It was the better mousetrap of its day, and as a result, my family became filthy rich.
"What's your specialty?" he asked before I could say a word or ask him another question. "Specialty?"
"We're all specialists here. Honey. I'm into piano. Back home. I'm known as the boy with the Mozart ear."
He ran his fingers over an imaginary keyboard and then hummed the notes to what I thought sounded like Mozart and said so. He held his hands in midair and smiled.
"What number?"
"I'm not sure... '"?"
"23, but that's very good. Are you here as an instrumentalist?"
"Violin." I said, nodding at my violin case on the floor beside him.
"Oh, right. I thought it might be a small machine gun," he joked and jumped up so fast. I stepped back.
He performed a stage bow.
"Proper introductions, then. I am. as I have said. Steven Randolph Jesse, child prodigy, musical genius-- in short, a mystery to my parents, who demonstrate no musical abilities. My mother is literally tone-deaf. My father's favorite song is Row, Row, Row Your Boat. I have a younger brother, who is currently the star halfback at our high school and listens to Ricky Maitin, N Sync, hip-hop, whatever, and thinks piano keys unlock the piano.
"However, he's Mr. Popularity, class president, and consistently voted most likely to become state senator. which I imagine he will, if my father has any say in it.
"How many brothers or sisters do you have?"
"None," I said.
"Lucky you, all Mommy and Daddy's attention comes your way. Were they happy you were chosen by the queen to be here?"
"Yes, they were. Of course, they were. I wouldn't be here if they weren't."
He ignored me, knelt to open my violin case, peered at it and whistled.
"Stradivari, impressive."
"My uncle bought it for me."
He rose like a jack-in-the-box. Watching him move about was like watching someone flip channels on a television set.
"Ironically, my mother bought a piano to dress up the Grand living room and never expected her toddler would wander up to it one day and actually begin tapping out sensible sounds. At first, everyone thought it was a novelty, and then my daycare teacher decided I might be a genius, because all I had to do was hear a melody to reproduce it. At the age of five!" he emphasized, throwing his hands in the air. "Thus, the boy with the Mozart ear! Get it?
"Where are you from?" he asked. New thoughts just popped out of his mind and mouth at random, it seemed.
"Ohio. We just drove into the city."
"I'm from Syracuse." He marched toward the door, paused, and walked back.
"You meet any of the others vet?"
"No, I was literally just brought up here by Miss Fairchild."
"Ms. Fairchild," he corrected. "Please, get that right. She corrected me with an electric cattle prod when I made the mistake. Your parents drove you all the way here?"
"Yes."
"Mine just put me on a hopper flight. My mother wanted to come, but my father said. 'The boy's a genius, isn't he? He can take care of himself."
A sudden burst of loud laughter flowed down the hallway to my door.
Steven spun around abruptly.
"That's this weird girl Cinnamon Carlson and Howard Rockwell the Third or Fourth. I can't remember what he said. Howard's from Boston, one of those families that goes back to the Boston Tea Party or something. Don't worry, he'll make sure you know. Cinnamon is from just north of the city, some small out-of-the-way town close to Yonkers."
"Why is she weird?"
"She looks like a relative of the Munsters or the Addams Family-- remember them?"
Who was he to make fun of the way someone else looked? I thought.
"She's an actress," he said, as if actress meant someone strange anyway. "And Howard is an actor, or should I say thespian. That's what he calls himself. There are two other is here. but I haven't met them yet."
Again we heard laughter.
"Let s see what they're up to. Ms. Fairchild made the mistake of telling them where the costumes are stored, and the next thing I knew, they went up to the third floor and carried on like a couple of kids in a candy store. C'mon."
"I've got to unpack still."
"You've got time. This isn't exactly a military camp, you la-low. No one's coming around to inspect your room, despite what Ms. Fairchild says. CI-non," he insisted. "You've got to meet them sometime."
He reached for my hand and practically tugged me out the door.
We crossed the hall to the doorway of another room and looked in. Cinnamon Carlson, her coalblack hair down to her shoulders, where it lay over the metal breastplate she had fastened on, stood with a sword in her right hand. Kneeling at her feet was Howard Rockwell, who was also wearing a breastplate and holding a helmet in his hands. He had his back to us. so I couldn't see what he looked like. but Cinnamon was wearing a translucent white lipstick and had her nails painted black. She had a very light complexion, almost pale, which made her heavy eyeshadow and eyebrow makeup look that much more stark in contrast.
She glanced at us, but didn't stop her speech, which pronounced Howard a knight as she touched the sword to his shoulder. She called herself Jeanne d'Arc, Joan of Arc.
" 'I shall place my very life at your disposal,' " Howard declared and rose slowly. He put on the helmet, and then turned to look at us.
"And who be this strange new woman you dare to bring to our court?" he cried at Steven.
I thought Howard was the handsomest boy I had ever seen. He had eyelashes I knew some girlfriends of mine would sell their souls to have, and Paul-Newman-blue eyes, eyes that you just knew would make him as cinematic as could be. He had a perfect Roman nose and a strong, firm mouth, with high male-model cheekbones, all his features perfectly symmetrical. I judged him to be at least six feet one or two inches tall, with a trim figure. The helmet didn't quite hide his rich apricot-brown hair.
"She happens to be my honey," Steven said.
"Already? Swift work, knave. Enter," he cried at me, "and pay homage to our blessed Joan."
"Approach, dear maiden." Cinnamon declared.
"Actors," Steven said disdainfully.
"Why don't you two go up and choose some costumes? You won't believe how much there is," Howard suggested. "Go ahead. Steven, show her."
"I've got to get back to unpacking." I said. "I just arrived."
"She's worried about Lady Fairchild inspecting and then being locked up in the tower for failure to fold socks or something."
"Ridiculous," Howard declared. "Don't you realize who we are. sweet child? We," he cried, his arms out, "are the creme de la creme."
"The prime of Miss Jean Brodie!" Cinnamon cried. "I love that play."
"I had the lead role in our high school production," Howard told her.
He turned back to me. "What's your name really?"
"My name really is." I began looking at the smirking Steven Jesse. "Honey Forman."
"Well, Miss Forman, are you a thespian. too?"
"I'm a violinist." I said.
"Pity. I thought we could do a scene from Jean Brodie. I would direct, of course."
"Of course," Cinnamon sneered. "He's already telling me the things I do wrong."
"I keep telling her, first you establish a sense of place. Where you are. You must know, before you say a single line. Would you say the same words the same way on a boat as you would in the middle
of a city street?"
He looked at me.
"Understand?"
"I guess. It makes sense." I said, and he broadened his smile, "You sure you've never done any acting?"
"No," I said. "I better finish my unpacking," I added.
Cinnamon unbuckled her metal plate and brushed her hair back. I thought she was unusuallooking, but not weird, as Steven had suggested. In fact, she was very pretty, with a very nice figure. She looked at me for a moment and then turned to Howard.
"Would you be so gallant as to put all this back for me?" she asked him.
He looked shocked. "Me?"
"A minute ago you were pledging your life to her," Steven remarked.
"That was on stage. Now we're mere mortals, Mozart."
"You. Howard Rockwell the Third or Fourth, a mere mortal? Hard to believe," Steven said.
Howard grimaced.
"Usually. I have some stage assistant do that sort of thing. But," he added, reaching for her sword and breastplate as if it took an enormous effort. "under the circumstances," he told Cinnamon. "I will do you this favor this one time. Naturally. I'll expect something in return."
"Naturally you can expect whatever you want. What you'll get is another thing."
Steven laughed, but Howard just continued to smirk.
"Come on. Honey," she said to me. "I'll help you finish up."
"The owl has cried." Howard screamed so loudly I thought he would surely bring everyone in the grand house to the door. "Minutes to go before we face Madame Senetsky and the possibility of being beheaded on the spot. Come on. Mozart. Help me with this stuff while the womenfolk do what womenfolk do."
Humming Beethoven's Fifth. Steven helped gather up the costuming.
Cinnamon laughed.
"He's good," she said. "but he's obnoxious."
My heart was pounding. Who were these other students? Was this how geniuses behaved?
Was I crazy to come here, or was this going to be more fun than I could have ever imagined?
Something told me it wouldn't be much longer before I knew the answer.
2 Madame Senetsky
"I didn't start out thinking I was going to become an actress,'" Cinnamon said as we walked across the hallway to my room. "Acting was just something that came naturally to me. I guess. My mother and I did a lot of pretending in the attic of our house, where we found things that went back to the original owner and his family. He was a famous Civil War general, and we used to do a great deal of roleplaying, imagining ourselves back then. It was fun. but I never thought of it as training for a career. My drama teacher at school kept after me, and finally. I took a part in the school production, a big part.
"What about you and the violin?"
"My uncle Peter, my father's younger brother, told me I was drawn to the violin like a fish to water. He used to say it plays me rather than I play it."
"What do you mean, used to say?" she asked as we entered my room.
"He was killed in a plane crash. He was a crop duster back in Ohio, where my family has a corn farm."
'Oh,'" she said. She looked like gloomy, dreadful news was not shocking or upsetting to her. It was almost as if she had expected to hear something like that.
"Anyway, he bought me my violin and paid for my early lessons,"
I started to finish my unpacking. She looked at the picture of Chandler I had brought.
"Who's this?"
"My boyfriend," I said, holding the picture and smiling. "He goes to Boston University. Just starting. I miss him already. He plays piano and we took duet lessons together. That's how we met. I mean. I knew him in school, but before that we didn't so much as say hello."
"He looks... smart," she said. "and he's goodlooking, too," she added. 'I don't have anyone special," she continued before I could ask her. "I don't think I want to get involved with anyone until I'm forty. Not seriously, that is."
"Then you don't want a husband and a family?"
"No," she said quickly. "I won't torture them. You know how hard it is for someone to be in the theater and have any sort of normal life. Once we start this, really start it, we've got to become dedicated, like nuns married to the Church or something. That's what Howard says. I suppose he's very good. He doesn't lack for ego, that's for sure. Hell be the first to tell you how good he is. He claims you have to have that sort of confidence to do what we do. He won some sort of national drama award, like the Academy Award of high school theater or something."
"I want a family," I said. "Maybe even more than I want a career."
She shrugged and started hanging up my blouses for me.
"I don't think I can give anyone as much love as he needs right now and be true to myself.
"But that's just me," she said quickly. "Maybe it will be different for you."
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked.
For a moment she looked like she wasn't going to answer. She kept hanging up my clothes. My words seemed to linger in the air. frozen.
"I almost had a sister. My mother miscarried."
"I'm sorry."
"It was very bad. I mean, she took it very badly. She actually had a sort of mental breakdown.
"She's all right now," she added quickly. "That's good."
"Hi," we heard someone say, and turned to see a very attractive girl with strawberry blonde hair and very bright green eyes. She had the demeanor of a fashion model, with a natural air of confidence. "I'm Rose Wallace," she said. entering.
"Cinnamon Carlson. This is Honey Forman," Cinnamon replied.
The three of us stood there a moment, contemplating each other like three gunfighters unsure of what one or all of us would do next. Were we going to be great friends or ruthless competitors?
Rose glanced around my room.
"Aren't these rooms nice?" she asked. "The whole place is so incredible, For New York City, that is." She gazed out my windows. "I'm right next door. See, we both look out over the gardens. I thought you were next to me on the other side," she told
Cinnamon, "but someone else is in there. She's had her door closed since she arrived. Ms. Fairchild told me her name is Ice. Either of y'all know her or meet her?"
"I just arrived." I said.
"No. I haven't met her either," Cinnamon said. "Why is she locking herself up in her room?"
"I didn't say she was locking herself up. She just hasn't come out yet."
"If she's shy, she's in the wrong place. That's for sure." Cinnamon said.
"I don't know what's the right place for shy people anymore, except maybe on the Internet. You can talk to people without facing them," Rose said. When I raised my eyebrows, she added. 'Not that I do that. My half-brother Evan does, but he's disabled, in a wheelchair, and stays at home. Lately. I've gotten him to go out more.
"Actually, he and I never met until this year." She stopped and looked from Cinnamon to me. "Why do I feel like I'm babbling at y'all?"
"Maybe you're as nervous as we are. Where are you from?" Cinnamon asked her, "Somewhere in the South. I can hear."
"Georgia: and you?"
"Yonkers."
"I'm from Ohio," I said.
"What about Ice?" Cinnamon asked. Rose shrugged. "I don't know any more about her than her name."
"Maybe she's frozen in there," Cinnamon told her, and we all laughed, "Are you an actress, too?"
"I'm a dancer, but you know here we're supposed to work on the whole creative person." Rose said, repeating what we were told about the schooling.
"I play the violin." I said. "I don't think I could act and I'm not much of a dancer. I like hiding behind my music."
Cinnamon stared at me a moment. She had a way of making her eyes so small, her gaze so intense, that you couldn't look away or ignore her. The rest of her face seemed to freeze and become a mask.
"We're all hiding behind something." she said. "When you act, you're someone else. You're escaping yourself."
"Maybe that's what really brought us all here,"
Rose blurted. "I mean, not that we're criminals or anything. We're just not comfortable without our dramatic personas."
The air was heavy with that thought for a moment.
"I don't know what I'm even saving to y'all," Rose declared. and Cinnamon laughed.
"I haven't met her yet, aside from seeing her briefly at my audition. but I'm sure Madame Senetsky certainly wouldn't like that idea to be our prime motive for dramatic and artistic training."
"Hardly," Rose agreed, "Although sometimes I've thought actors are lucky. They can spend a good part of their lives being someone they'd like to be."
"What if they have to play evil people?" I asked. Cinnamon turned to me sharply.
"Who says we don't want to be evil
sometimes?" she fired, almost in anger. "Haven't you fantasized yourself doing something forbidden?"
I blushed and started to shake my head.
"And what's going on in here, pray tell?" Howard Rockwell asked, leaning against the doorjamb. He turned his collar up and put an unlit cigarette into the corner of his lips. "You dolls are up to something. see? I can tell, see? Don't try to put anything over on Rocco, see?"
"Edward G. Robinson," Cinnamon declared.
He smiled and took the cigarette out of his mouth.
"Correct. And who have we here?" he asked, stepping up to Rose. "What's your name. sweetheart?"
"I'm Rose Wallace, Edward."
"I'm not Edward,' Howard said. laughing. "I was just doing an imitation of Edward G. Robinson."
"A mediocre one. I might add," Cinnamon said.
He gave her a sharp, angry look and then smiled again when he turned back to Rose.
"My name is Howard Rockwell, Howard Rockwell. Jr., actually. but I'm dropping the Jr. for now. You sound like you're from... Georgia," he declared.
"How did you know that?" Cinnamon asked suspiciously. I'm sure she thought he had been standing just outside my door, listening in on our conversation.
"Accents are my forte. You have to be able to master that skill if you want a wide range of performances," he declared, as if it was so obvious even an uneducated person would know,
"You're pretty good at it," Rose said.
"I know." Howard replied.
Falling Stars Page 3
