The Basic Eight

by Daniel Handler

  She started to hang up. “Wait! When?”

  “Whenever we get there, dearest. While on the Continent, did you forget how we operate? Did you forget us entirely? Nobody got even a postcard.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Leave the machine on in case he calls. And I’ll want to hear all about it. The more you talk with machines and the more they talk with you, the more acclimated you’ll get to American civilization. Ciao.” The phone clattered as she hung up.

  Only Natasha can make me move as fast as I did. I left the machine on, ran out the door, turned back, got my coat, ran out the door, turned back, got change for the bus and ran out the door. I forgot that San Francisco September can be chilly and that my July bus pass wasn’t going to work two months later. Once on the bus I adopted the Blank Face Public Transportation Dress Code but by the time I got off I couldn’t help beaming. I was happy to see Natasha again. It’s often difficult to keep up with her Bette Davis-meets-Dorothy Parker act but underneath that she’d do anything for me.

  Well-Kept Grounds is tucked into a neighborhood full of hippie preteens and bookstores dedicated to the legalization of marijuana, but the surroundings are a small price to pay for the cafe’s collection of fabulous fifties furniture and for not charging extra if you want almond extract in your latte, which I always do. Natasha was there already. I saw her lipstick first, though her forest green rayon dress was a strong second. “Flan!” she called, sounding like she was ordering dessert. Men in their midtwenties looked up from their used paperbacks and alternative newspapers and followed her with their eyes as she cantered across the Grounds. She gave me a hug and for a second I was embraced by a body that makes me want to go home and never eat again. Natasha is one of those high school students who looks less like a high school student and more like an actress playing a high school student on TV.

  “Hi,” I said sheepishly, wishing I had worn something more glamorous. Suddenly a summer of not seeing each other seemed like a long time. She stood in front of me and looked me over. She swallowed. We both waited.

  “I’ll go get a drink,” I said.

  Natasha looked relieved. “Do that.”

  The men in their midtwenties slowly returned to their used paperbacks and alternative newspapers. What I would give to have someone in college look me over. I got my drink and went and sat down across from Natasha, who put down her book and looked at me. I looked at the spine of the book.

  “Erotica by Anaïs Nin? Does your mother know?”

  “Mother lent it to me,” Natasha said, rolling her eyes. She always calls her mom “Mother” as if she’s some society matron when in fact she teaches anthropology at City College. I thumbed through the book as Natasha took a sip of some bright green fizzy drink. I can see you biting and scratching. She learned to tease him, too. The moans were rhythmic, then at times like the cooing of doves. When people thumb through this book, those italics will catch their eyes and they’ll spot a pornographic sentence before the page flaps by. A writer’s got to sell herself.

  “Why no latte?” I asked, gesturing to the green potion. “I thought it was mother’s milk to you.”

  “After this summer it’s begun to taste like some other bodily fluid,” Natasha said, looking at me significantly. Her eyes were very carefully done; they always are.

  “Do tell,” I said, happy to have arrived at a topic that didn’t involve my confession of love, written in a hurried, Chianti-laced scrawl, on a postcard. Just thinking about it made me want to hide under the table, which was painted an unfortunate fiesta-ware pink.

  “All right, I’ll talk about my love life, but then we’ll talk about yours. But first, this Italian soda needs a little zip.” Natasha found a flask in some secret pocket and added a clear liquid to the soda, watching me out of the corner of her eye. She’s always taking out that flask and adding it to things. I often suspect that it’s just water but I’m afraid to call her bluff. She went on to describe some guy she met at the Harvard Summer Program in Comparative Religion. Natasha’s always had a fascination with what people worship. Kate says Natasha’s actually fascinated that people aren’t worshiping her instead. In any case, each summer Anthropologist Mom plunks down her hard-earned money for Natasha to fly across the country and make out with gorgeous men, all for the cause of higher learning. According to Natasha, this one was five years older than us and attended a prestigious liberal arts school, the name of which I’m not sure I can mention here lest its reputation become tainted due to its association, however brief, with the notorious Basic Eight.

  “He was said to be brilliant,” Natasha said, “but to be honest we didn’t have too many conversations. It was mostly sex. It will be a while before I order any drink with steamed milk again.” She drained the rest of her soda in an extravagant gesture and I watched her throat as she swallowed, taking mental notes.

  I sighed. (How perfect my recall of these small details. I sighed, reader; I remember it as if it were yesterday.) “You go to the puritanical city of Boston and hook up with a genius who also happens to be an excellent lover–”

  Natasha used a blood-red nail to poke a hole in my sentence. “More accurately, he was an excellent lover who also happened to be a genius.”

  “–and I go to Italy, the most romantic country in the world, and the only man who makes my heart beat faster is carved out of marble.” I briefly described my experience with Michelangelo’s David. She broke character for a full minute as she listened to me, shaking her head slightly. Her silver earrings waved and blinked. I was a little proud to have hushed her; even my best poems haven’t done that. When I was done she remembered who she was.

  “So this is the guy you’re waiting to hear from?” she asked. “Can I give you a piece of advice? Statues never call. You have to make the effort.”

  “You have experience in this realm?” I said. “And here I thought you only slept with anything that moved.” Natasha threw back her head and cackled. U.p. and a.n. went down again; the men all sat and wished they were the ones making her laugh like that. I jumped in while she was laughing.

  “It’s Adam State. I’m waiting for Adam State to call.” Once I finally told someone it seemed much smaller, a problem made not of earth-shattering natural forces but of proper nouns: first name Adam, last name State.

  Her cackling stopped like somebody pulled the plug. “Adam State?” she screeched. “How can you have a crush on anyone who has a name like a famous economist?”

  “It’s not because of his name. It’s because of–”

  “That sine qua non,” Natasha finished, batting her eyelashes. She stopped when she saw my face. “Don’t get angry. You know how I am. Underneath all my Bette Davis-meets-Dorothy Parker act I try to be good, really. There’s no accounting for taste. Do you think it will work out?”

  I bit my lip. “Honestly?”

  Natasha looked at me as if I suggested she keep her hair natural. “Of course not. Honestly. The very idea.”

  “In that case, yes. It will definitely work out. I’m just worried about how ‘Flannery State’ will look on my stationery.”

  “You could do that hyphenated thing. Culp-State, say.”

  “Sounds like a university. Where criminals go after high school.”

  I finished my latte and paid careful attention to the taste of the milk. I didn’t notice any real similarity, but my palate isn’t as experienced. “This is a secret, Natasha.”

  “Mum’s the word,” she said. Her hair looked gorgeous.

  “Don’t say the word to me. My parents have vanished as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You have to stop traveling with them,” she said, smiling slightly as her eyes met one of her admirers. “Get them to send you to summer school. You’d learn things.”

  “Thanks, but there’s enough steamed milk in my life.”

  “Come on, you need to buy notebooks so you can write his name on them in flowery letters.”

  I rolled my eyes and foll
owed her across the street to a stationery store. We opened our purses and bought things: notebooks, pencils, paper with narrow, straight lines. Our school colors weren’t available, which is a good thing: Roewer’s colors are red and purple.

  She drove me home, which made me worry a little bit about the flask. I leaned back in the passenger seat and everything felt like a transatlantic flight again. I hoped I had enough interesting books, but for now I felt at ease, pampered even. It was almost dusk. I rolled down the window and felt air rush into my mouth. I stole a look at Natasha as she stole a look at me. Friends, we smiled and I closed my eyes again and let the sublime noise surround me.

  “The music is great. Who is this?”

  Natasha turned it up. “Darling Mud. They’re all the rage in England.”

  It sounded great. It was all thundering percussion and snarling guitars, and the chorus told us over and over that one thing led to another. “On and on and on and on,” the singer wailed, on and on and on and on.

  As I opened the door to get out, Natasha touched my hand. “Listen, if you want Adam, you’re going to have to move. I talked to Kate just the other day, and she had talked to Adam just the other day. He’s apparently been getting crazy love letters from someone all summer. He wouldn’t tell her who.” Natasha’s voice sounded too careless for these remarks to be well placed. I could have told her then that it was me, but I didn’t. I could have told her I was in love, and didn’t just have a crush, but I didn’t. Maybe I would have saved us all the trouble in the next few months, but I didn’t tell her. School starts tomorrow and with it the chattering network of friends telling friends telling friends secrets. On a postcard; I’m so stupid. I got out of the car and Natasha drove off. All I heard as she left was one thing leading to another.

  Tuesday September 7th

  So let it be noted that the school year began with the difference between authority and authoritarianism, and I have a feeling that the rest of it will be just as clear. My homeroom teacher is Mr. Dodd. It has always been Mr. Dodd. I cannot remember a time when my homeroom teacher wasn’t Mr. Dodd, and my homeroom teacher will always be Mr. Dodd, forever and ever, world without end. While the rest of us took unknowing summer sips of coffee (and “steamed milk,” in Natasha’s case), Mr. Dodd was apparently at some Assertiveness Training program. He droned on and on about it after stalking into the room and writing “MR. DODD” in all caps on the blackboard, even though homeroom has been the same kids, with the same teacher, year in and year out, world without end. The gist of his speech was that thanks to Assertiveness Training we couldn’t chew gum anymore. He told us of his vision of a new homeroom, “one with authority but not authoritarianism.” I would have let it go, but he insisted we all look it up. He waited while we fumbled with our Websters. We knew he was waiting because he kept calling out, “I’m waiting!” Finally Natasha stood up, brushed her hair from her eyes and read out loud: “‘Authoritarianism: a doctrine favoring or marked by absolute and unquestioning obedience to authority. Authority: the power to command, determine, or judge.”’ Then she looked at Mr. Dodd and sat down. No one ever stands up in class and recites like that, of course, but I suppose if I looked like Natasha I’d stand up too. All the boys, Mr. Dodd included, gaped at Natasha for a minute before the latest graduate of Assertiveness Training for Homeroom and Geography Teachers said, “Does everyone understand what I mean?” Everybody thought, No (except for a sizable handful of homeroom kids who will never think anything, world without end), but only Natasha said it. I looked back and saw her take out an emery board that had a carved claw at either end. She didn’t look at Mr. Dodd as she began to do her nails. Ever since Natasha and I read Cyrano de Bergerac in Hattie Lewis’s freshman English class she’s done everything with panache. Later this emery board will be very important in our story, so I introduce it now.

  Mr. Dodd cleared his throat. Nobody at Assertiveness Training had prepared him for Natasha Hyatt. Nobody ever would be prepared for her. He opened his mouth to say something and the bell rang and we all left. I caught up with Natasha and hugged her.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without me, either,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “That’ll teach him to fool around with the dictionary. Tune in tomorrow for the difference between disciple and disciplinarian. Come on, it’s time for Chemistry.”

  “I’m not doing Chem,” I said. “I’ve got Biology.”

  “With who?”

  “Carr.”

  “Carr? That dreamboat? ‘Not doing Chem,’ she says.” Natasha looked around the crowded hallway, narrating. Few kids looked up; everyone was used to Natasha going on about something, and we were all zombies this early in the morning, anyway. “‘Not doing Chem,’ when all the time she gets Biology with Carr. That’s more Chem than I’ll ever have. I’ve got that four-eyed man with the toupee. So when will I see you?”

  I started to pull out my schedule to compare, but Natasha was suddenly swept away by a thick-necked rush of football players who apparently let nothing stand in their path on their quest for punctuality. For a minute it felt like a Hollywood prison camp movie where the husband and wife are dragged off to different trains, though I must admit Natasha didn’t look too dismayed at being caught in the stampede. “Easy, boys!” I heard her call, and I looked down at my computerized card to see where to go next:

  HOMEROOM: DUD

  FIRST PERIOD: CALCULATED BAKING

  SECOND PERIOD: POETIC HATS

  THIRD PERIOD: ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM

  FOURTH PERIOD: FREE LUNCH

  FIFTH PERIOD: APPLIED CERVIX

  SIXTH PERIOD: ADVANCE TO RIO BY CAR

  SEVENTH PERIOD: THE FRENCH SEVERED MILTON

  Funny how one’s eyes are bleary in the mornings:

  HOMEROOM: LAWRENCE DODD

  FIRST PERIOD: CALCULUS: MICHAEL BAKER

  SECOND PERIOD: AMERICAN POETRY: HATTIE LEWIS

  THIRD PERIOD: CHOIR: JOHN HAND

  FOURTH PERIOD: LUNCH

  FIFTH PERIOD: APPLIED CIVICS: GLADYS TALL

  SIXTH PERIOD: ADVANCED BIO: JAMES CARR

  SEVENTH PERIOD: FRENCH SEVEN: JOANNE MILTON

  Doesn’t look much more believable, does it? Perhaps it has been edited for your amusement and to protect the innocent, if any. This is the first year they’ve included first names on our schedules, and we will never let Lawrence forget it.

  It looks like I’m alone in Math. None of my friends. Mr. Baker seems fine. We have to cover our books. Even Hattie Lewis had very little to say about American Poetry except that we have to cover our books which contain it. Hattie Lewis, who opened my eyes to books and the world, to whom I owe the very act of writing in a journal, had little to say except that we have to cover our books. It says something about school that the first thing our mentors tell us is to cover up tomes of knowledge with recycled paper bags. Or maybe it doesn’t. I only had time for half a cup of coffee this morning, and the coffee available here where I am editing this is extremely bitter, like the author/editor herself.

  At least in English I have friends–Kate Gordon, the Queen Bee, was in there, and so is Jennifer Rose Milton whose name is so beautiful I must always write it out, completely: Jennifer Rose Milton. Her mother is Joanne Milton, the beautiful French teacher who has written a cookbook of all the recipes contained in Proust. To give you an idea of how beautiful Jennifer Rose Milton is, she can call her mother Maman and no one minds. Gabriel was there, too, although he might have to transfer out to make his schedule work. Gabriel Gallon is the kindest boy in the world, and somehow the San Francisco Unified School District Computer System has figured that out and likes to torture him. Today he will attend three English classes and four gym classes, even though he’s a senior and isn’t supposed to have gym at all. Jennifer Rose Milton came in late and sat far away from me, but Kate sat right next to me and we exchanged heaven-help-us glances about book covering for a full forty minutes. As the bell rang we
compared schedules and learned that we have only English together. Jennifer Rose Milton glided toward us and hugged us all, Gabriel first, then Kate, then me. “I wish I could talk,” she said, “but I must run. Maman says the first meeting of the Grand Opera Breakfast Club is tomorrow, so see you then if not before.” She flew out, followed by Gabriel, who was hoping to catch our guidance counselor, an enormous Cuban woman who lives in an office with three electric fans and no overhead lighting. There are always suspicious-looking students glowering around her like bodyguards; going in to have forms signed is a little like discussing détente with a banana republic’s dictator. “Viva la Revolution!” I shouted to him as he left, and half a dozen students looked at me quizzically. Kate threw her head back and laughed, though there’s no way she could have gotten the joke; she has the other senior guidance counselor, a warm, friendly woman sans fans. Kate, though, will never admit to not getting the joke. It’s as if we would depose her. We clasped hands–“Be strong!” she mock-whispered–and she had to go off. I wanted to hear firsthand about her conversation with Adam re those letters he had received from some breathless woman, but there wasn’t time. Perhaps at Grand Opera Breakfast tomorrow.

  What you’d like to hear about, of course, is the first face-to-face meeting with Adam. But as with the difference between authority and authoritarianism, it’s hard to talk about something that barely exists. As my bleary-eyed first take at my schedule indicated, I knew I’d see him in choir–he’s the student conductor, which isn’t just something to write down on his college applications. It’s that Johnny Hand is a dim lush who wanders in and out of choir rehearsals and occasionally performs meandering show tunes from his either long-dead or entirely fictitious nightclub act. Adam handles all the music and teaches it to us. So the first meeting of choir consisted of the one hundred or so members (ninety of whom are female) milling around the rehearsal hall while Adam sat in a folding chair, in conference with the other choir officers, trying to figure out what the hell to do. Johnny Hand was nowhere to be seen–he probably needed jump-starting somewhere. Adam saw me as I came in and gave me a half wave and rolled his eyes. I sat down and wondered whether the eye rolling meant he wished he could talk to me instead of talking to the chirpy president, vice president, secretary and treasurer, or that he can’t believe I had the courage to catch his eye.