by Jen Calonita
I know she would. All week long Mom, Dad, Nadine, Laney, and Liz grilled me on my knowledge of Great Britain, my family history, and why my parents moved to the States. (We're saying my dad is a visiting professor at UCLA. So I'm strapped for cash.) Everyone was supportive except Matt, who still thought I was insane. "Maybe they'll want to keep a Burke on FA after your career tanks," he said one night as I was practicing my accent. "Then they can just hire me instead."
"Come in, Rachel," a cheery voice calls as I open Principal Pearson's door. "I've been expecting you." A short, heavy-set woman with graying black hair lumbers towards me. She's wearing a red polka-dot dress that is too snug around the waist, reminding me of Mrs. Claus.
"Come in! Come in!" She pushes a weathered brown leather chair out so I can sit. "Mara, hold my calls," she yells to her secretary. She slams the door, rattling the framed merits hanging on the wall behind her, and takes a seat behind a cluttered mahogany desk. For a minute, all she does is stare.
"Kaitlin? Is that really you?" Principal Pearson finally asks.
"Actually, it's Rachel," I reply in a perfect British accent. "Cheerio."
Principal Pearson laughs and claps her hands wildly. "Wow! I never would have guessed."Thank goodness. One person down. Nine hundred and sixty-four to go.
"Sam! In the principal's office!" Principal Pearson continues. "That would never happen on Family Affair." She chuckles loudly.
"No, I guess not," I agree. "Listen, thanks so much for letting me enroll, Principal Pearson."
Principal Pearson doesn't answer. She's staring again.
"Wait a minute! Sam did go to the principal's office once," she exclaims, her gray eyes open wide. "She went with Paige and Dennis to talk about Sara breaking into the guy's locker room." She claps her hands again and laughs.
Wow, this woman is a Family Fanatic. (That's what we call our Über fans.)
"Um, is there anything I should know before I start classes today?" I try to steer us back on course.
"You need your class schedule," she remembers. She rummages through the papers on her desk and then holds one out to me. "Here it is. Your first class is beginner French with Mrs. Desmond." I take the schedule from her as a bell rings in the hallway.
"That's the warning bell for first period," Principal Pearson tells me. "We should get you out of here." She stands.
I smile weakly and grab my black messenger bag. I don't want to be late for my first class. "Thank you, Principal Pearson --," I begin, but she cuts me off.
"But before you go, I just want to say, I'm so glad you chose Clark Hall for this experience. I can't tell you what it means to me to have Sam walking our hallowed hallways, even if you don't look anything like her. And of course, I hope you will feel comfortable coming to me if you have any problems." I nod. Another bell rings, but Principal Pearson ignores it. "I told Laney that my lips are sealed, of course. I'm such a big fan of the show."
I smile and try to squeeze past her to the door. I assume that was the final bell and I don't even know where I'm going yet. "Well, I'm glad you're a fan." I try to smile sweetly. "Was that the final bell? I don't want to be late."
She nods, but doesn't move out of the doorway. I'm not used to walking away from a fan without Rodney here to guide me, so I'm unsure how to excuse myself.
"Do you think -- Rachel -- from time to time I could ask you about the show?" Principal Pearson suggests, blinking nervously. "I'm such a big fan and I'm so excited about the finale. I can't wait for Krystal's wedding! I could swear she's pregnant and I just need to know."
"Um, yeah, I'll be happy to fill you in, Principal Pearson, but maybe later?" I try to sound gentle. "After class?"
"Oh, no one will mind that you're late on the first day," she assures me. "I just have to ask you about last week's episode." She stares at me expectantly.
I lower my heavy messenger bag onto the hardwood floor. This could take a while.
"What is the deal with Penelope?" Principal Pearson asks breathlessly. "Is she really Paige's long-lost twin? In season three, Penelope died in a helicopter crash. There was no body, but I assumed it had been incinerated."
I quickly spill HOLLYWOOD SECRET NUMBER NINE: In the soap world, anything that happens can be reversed. Characters can come back from the dead, find out they have long-lost children or meet an evil twin. No plot twist is too far-fetched if it will help boost ratings. Since the actress playing Penelope decided to come back to the show, FA resurrected her character. After another ten minutes of intense discussion about Paige's birth mother, I look at my watch. It's 8:45. I'm already a half hour late.
"I should really be going, Principal Pearson," I murmur.
"Oh right. Okay, yes, dear, move along." She sounds disappointed. I get the feeling she could chat about FA all day if I let her. "Mrs. Desmond's room is in South Hall."
I grab the weathered brass doorknob and race out of the office. It's not until I reach the outdoor corridor, which is pretty much deserted, that I remember: I have no clue how to get to South Hall. I quickly scan the lush green lawn and spot that gardener again.
"Sorry to bother you, but where is South Hall?" I ask breathlessly with my British accent. He points. "Thanks, sir!" I yell, and run through two stone archways. Room 114 is at the opposite end of the building.
I throw open the door and dash inside, knocking into the teacher. Yikes.
Two dozen students take their eyes off the projector screen they're watching and look at me curiously. They're seated at rows of long puke-green-plastic-topped tables taking notes, some students using laptops. The scene is quite different from FA, where Sam and Sara sit on plush suede couches for class and have lively discussions with their jeans-clad teachers. Come to think of it, I don't think we even take notes.
"You must be Rachel," Mrs. Desmond says, arranging her disheveled red curls.
I pause. Think, Kaitlin. "Um, yeah." I look around the room nervously and adjust my glasses. Please don't let anyone realize it's me.
"Charming entrance," she remarks sharply, fixing her crisp white linen shirt and denim skirt. "Let's start over. Principal Pearson said you're a first-year French student, oui?" She blocks my path to the nearest table as she towers over me in her black pumps. I can't help but notice this young teacher is wearing too much of my favorite Chanel perfume.
"Yes. I mean, oui," I stutter. "Sorry. I'm just out of breath. This place is mammoth. How do you get around without a map?" A guy laughs in the back.
"Well, Rachel, I don't stand for tardiness in my class." She ignores my question and walks towards the far side of the room, which is decorated with a poster of the Eiffel Tower and French word charts. "Especially on someone's first day. So before you take a seat, why don't you tell us a little about yourself? In French, of course."
Oh God. I try to stare at the picture of the Notre Dame Cathedral on the back wall to calm my nerves, but I notice some students in the back row instead. A matchstick-thin brunette smirks at me and whispers something to the tall platinum blonde next to her. They both giggle. The cute sandy-haired guy next to her, who's wearing a Clark Hall lacrosse jersey, rolls his eyes.
"Jolly good." I try not to be discouraged. I quickly smooth out my itchy vest, then begin. "Uh, Je m'appelle Rachel."
"Bonjour, Rachel," Mrs. Desmond says encouragingly. "ça va?
That means "How are you?" Uh ... "ça va bien," I answer. I can feel the sweat beginning to form on my forehead. The longer I stand here, the greater the chance someone will figure out who I am.
"Bien," Mrs. Desmond continues. "D'oÙ venez-vous?"
I think she just asked where I'm from. Mrs. Desmond taps her high-heeled foot impatiently.
"Oh, sorry." I blush. "I'm a little out of it. I'm still on London time," I explain nervously. "Um, Je viensde Grande-Bretagne."
"Grande-Bretagne!" Mrs. Desmond exclaims. "Class, that means 'Great Britain.'"
"As if we couldn't have figured that out by her accent," the lacrosse guy calls out. Every
one around him laughs, including that leggy blonde, who lets out a fake-sounding shrill. "Austin, you're so funny," I hear her say.
Mrs. Desmond frowns at him. "Rachel, avec qui êtes-vous?"
Geez, Monique and I are still doing vocabulary words and verb conjugation! I haven't had to really hold a conversation yet. I'm good at accents, not languages. I look at Mrs. Desmond helplessly.
"Rachel?" she repeats. "Avec qui êtes-vous?"
Hmm ... Monique always asks me about the weather after I tell her where I'm from. This must be a weather question. I'll just say it's a nice day. I know how to say that. "Il fait beau," I respond.
The class laughs. Are all these kids geniuses? What did Mrs. Desmond ask me?
"Rachel, I asked whom you were visiting the U.S. with," Mrs. Desmond explains patiently.
"Oh, my parents," I say quickly.
"In French!" Mrs. Desmond scolds.
"Wait. Can I start over? Ask me how to get the library," I blurt in a panic. "I know the answer to that question really well!" The lacrosse guy laughs again. He's getting on my nerves.
Mrs. Desmond glances at the clock. "Oh, never mind. We don't have the time. You may take a seat."
I can feel my face burning as I walk towards the nearest desk. I plop down wearily. Auditioning for Steven Spielberg would have been easier than that.
"Did you see her vest?" I hear someone whisper. I wish Liz and I had all the same classes. I need some backup here.
"I guess the British aren't known for their taste in clothes," Someone else hisses. Ouch. How rude.
"Cut it out, Lori," a guy's voice says.
"Austin? Is there something you want to share with the rest of us?" Mrs. Desmond demands, turning around from her blackboard.
"No, Mrs. D," he answers. I don't turn around.
The rest of the class blurs by. My Sidekick vibrates several times, but I ignore it. Mrs. Desmond talks so fast I can barely keep up writing notes. When the bell finally rings at the end of class, I'm the first one out of my seat. I've got to find Principal P. Maybe she'll let "Sam" drop French....
"Hey, you dropped your la book," a deep voice calls after me.
I turn around. A pair of gorgeous wide turquoise eyes meet mine. I jump back. Oh. It's that rude lacrosse guy.
"You mean 'mon livre,'" I say grumpily, and snatch it from his hand. It's a dumb joke that could be kind of cute if it weren't coming from him.
"Whatever you say." He grins. "So you're from London, huh?"
"Hey, Austin," someone in the hallway calls. Another guy punches his shoulder as he passes by. "Great game yesterday, man."
"Listen; don't sweat Mrs. D, okay?" Austin tells me. "She's harmless. I was the new kid last year and she put me on la stage my first day too." I just nod and try to shoot daggers at him with my green -- oops, brown -- eyes. Why's he pretending to be nice? He just made fun of me in class!
"I have to go," I grunt. I attempt to maneuver around him, trying not to touch his muscular arm, and I bump into someone else.
"There you are, A. I've been waiting," the girl whines in a nasal voice. I recognize her as the blond sitting next to Austin in French class. The girl's platinum hair is blown out pin straight and she's wearing a brown-and-pink-tweed Chanel jumper, which I know is from last season's collection because I have the very same one.
"We're going to be late to the next class," she says, looming over me and tapping the toe of her knee-high black leather boot. I notice she's practically the same height as Austin in those stiletto heels. Is this school populated by giants or something?
"This is my girlfriend, Lori," Austin says. "Lori, did you meet, um ..." His face goes blank. He runs his fingers through his sandy blond mop top. I notice his arm hair is bleached blond, probably from the sun. Not that I care or anything. "Sorry, what was your name again?"
"A, did you hear me?" Lori whines, not even acknowledging me. "We're late. Swing by my Beamer and grab my cheer-leading uniform. I need it for practice."
Eww. I so don't like either of them. "Nice meeting you guys," I state flatly, and walk away.
"Catch you later," Austin yells. I ignore him and rush down the hall. Great, now I'm late for second period. Why didn't Liz tell me to steer clear of the jocks at this school?
Thankfully Mr. Hanson doesn't give me a hard time in trigonometry: I'm a whiz at math. I make it to third period on time, but cause a scene when I leave my desk during class. Who knew you had to ask for permission to go to the bathroom? My history teacher, Mr. Klein, seems to think this is a universal law and I get a lecture on how the hall pass works.
Liz never told me how many notes you have to take. My tutor, Monique, usually just hands me printouts in my dressing room. She doesn't stand in front of a blackboard and make me write down inverse trigonometric functions, the evolution of apes, or French verb conjugations. I hear my Sidekick go off yet again and pull it out when Mr. Klein isn't looking.
POWERGRL82: Where have U been? Meet me @ the caf in 10.
PRINCESSLEIA25: Where is the caf????
Liz doesn't answer. When the bell rings, I wander into the hall and look around. The greasy smell of french fries hits me so I move in that direction.
The cafeteria is in North Hall. Right away I notice it resembles a mall food court we shot at once for FA. There are stir fry, pasta, deli, and tossed salad stations. Large refrigerators house drinks. There's a frozen yogurt bar, too. It's huge.
"Hey." Liz grabs me by the arm as I stand there in disbelief. She's wearing an acid green-and-yellow head scarf, a cute black tank that says DIVA in crystals, and a beige peasant skirt. On someone else it might look like a ridiculous hodgepodge, but on Liz it's perfect. "Rachel, right?" Liz grins mischievously. We've had our "first" meeting planned all week.
"I'm sorry, I forgot your name ... Rebecca?" I ask.
"Liz." She turns to a short African American girl and a lanky brunette wearing jeans and a CABO RULES tee. "Guys, this is the girl from London I told you about," Liz says. "I ran into her at the main office this morning." They both smile at me. It's a relief to finally see some friendly faces. "This is Beth." Liz points to the short girl. "And Allison." She motions to the brunette.
"London, huh?" Allison chimes in. "Have you ever met Prince William?"
"Um, no," I answer, clearing my throat, "but he is a cute bloke."
"Bloke," Allison repeats, elbowing Beth so hard that she drops the black wire-rim glasses she's cleaning. "I love it!"
"You should sit with us for lunch," Beth suggests, picking up her tortoise-shell frames. She cleans the glasses with the edge of the simple cream-colored V-neck sweater she's wearing with wine-colored corduroy pants. I think Nadine bought me the same pair at the Limited. "Allison and I will grab a table on the patio and Liz can show you around the caf," she adds. "Lizzie, grab us some roast beef sandwiches and two Cokes." Liz nods.
As soon as Beth and Allison walk away, I spill the details about my morning to Liz. "Mrs. Pearson is like this freaky FA fan, and you didn't warn me that I need a hall pass to go to the bathroom," I whisper as Liz hands me a lunch tray and we get in line at the deli counter. "I messed up my French verbs in Mrs. Desmond's class, and she made me get up and introduce myself in French. In French! People laughed at me."
"Don't worry about it," Liz whispers back as the line moves forward. "Tuna salad, chicken, roast beef, or peanut butter and jelly?"
"You don't have cracked peppermill Boar's Head turkey?" I ask, surveying the deli meats. "Cal always stocked that for me."
"Sorry, your highness. We don't have a craft services guy here. Why don't I order you a chicken sandwich and you can grab me a sparkling water from the refrigerator."
I take my empty tray and walk over to the drinks. There's tons of soda, but no Fiji water. I reach for the lone Poland Spring sparkling water with lime, but someone else grabs it first.
"Sorry," a girl in a short red-and-white cheerleading uniform spits before walking away. I'm tempted to snatch it right out of h
er hand, but I resist.
"Got everything?" Liz comes over to me.
I reach inside my black mesh messenger bag for my wallet and then remember: I didn't bring one. Rodney or Nadine always grabs lunch for me, so I'm not used to carrying my own cash. "I forgot my wallet," I admit sheepishly.
Liz shakes her head. "I'll pay," she tells me. "Let's move. We only have forty-five minutes." We grab our trays and head out to the sun-soaked deck. Liz maneuvers past several tables, saying hi to people along the way.
"You know everybody, huh?" I comment as we set our trays down next to Beth and Allison. They've found us a shady table near the edge of the concrete patio.
"On the patio she does," Beth answers. "Not everyone sits outside."
I'm confused. "What do you mean? You have assigned seating?" The whole Clark cafeteria scene is foreign to me. On FA, Sam and Sara always lunch off-campus at Becca's Bistro.
"No," Allison clarifies before taking a bite of her roast beef sandwich. "But it's hard to come by a table out here unless you have some pull."
"Ah, you mean popular people." A light bulb goes on in my head.
"Usually the athletes hang out here," Liz explains. "Especially the lacrosse and football players. They get priority seating because Clark wins so many state championships ..."
"... which makes the alumni eager to keep giving Clark money ..." adds Allison.
"... and allows more of us to come here on full scholarships," Beth finishes, nodding towards Allison and herself.
"So who sits inside then?" I ask, thinking of how things work at FA's Summerville High, "blokes who want to study and club kids who hate the sun?"
"Pretty much," Liz agrees. "You forgot the Anime Club. We have one of those too."
Beth motions to a table behind us crowded with kids who are all wearing way too much cheap makeup and greasy hair products. "That's the drama students," she explains. "They're guaranteed a table because everyone loved their version of Hairspray. Then there's the class reps." She motions to a group of people bent over books in the corner. "They run the student government, belong to the debate team, write for the school newspaper ..."
