Enthusiasm

by Polly Shulman

  “No, but we do know our quadrilles. Which one is this? The Coquette? The Polo? The Basket Dance? Well, we can wing it—I mean, we will endeavor to improvise. Come on, the rest of the couples are starting to dance!” said Ashleigh, stuffing her purse and wrap behind the nearest suit of armor. Parr let her pull him into position at the bottom of the room.

  “Are you ready?” said Ned, turning to me. “I’m glad you showed up—for once I get someone good to dance with.”

  I tucked my things in beside Ashleigh’s, took the arm he offered, and followed him off to join our friends.

  The Founder’s Quadrille couldn’t be more unlike twenty-first century dancing. Today, a couple or small group stands together, rhythmically contorting their arms, shoulders, torso, hips, and lower limbs. The point is to wiggle in harmony with one’s companions while distinguishing oneself from the crowd by imaginatively displaying one’s attractive parts, all the while avoiding—as far as possible—looking like a dork.

  Not so the Founder’s Quadrille. Looking like a dork seems to be required. Another difference is the miles that the quadrille dancers cover. They step forward and back, spin, approach the opposite corners, return to the first spot. Often throughout the dance, Ned took my hand, walked me and turned me, bowed to me and acknowledged my curtsy. But often, too, I found myself face-to-face with some other gentleman, or arm-in-arm with a lady. With all this to-ing and fro-ing, it was hard to carry on a conversation.

  I fell to musing about the voice of my Mysterious Stranger, Charles Grandison Parr. In the six times I’d seen him before, I had never once heard him speak. Even at the Sports Barn, he had merely bowed in silence. His voice, now that I heard it, was nothing like what I had imagined: not a rumbling bass, but a strong, smooth tenor, full of caressing vowels that seemed to reach to my very toes and fingertips. It vibrated through me as he talked disjointedly with Ashleigh, leading her through the steps of the dance.

  “You never answered Grandison, you know,” said Ned, giving me his hand. “Why did you crash the dance?” Funny, he had the rattling bass voice I had imagined for Parr. Hearing it now, it seemed unsubtle. Why did I imagine Parr would sound like that?

  The quadrille separated us for a minute, leaving me time to think. I decided to tell the truth—or part of it, at least.

  “It was Ashleigh,” I said as Ned and I slid to the right, then left. We were well matched as dancers—the same height, so that our eyes were exactly level. “Ash gets these ideas in her head. Last year it was marine biology, the year before it was candy making. There’s no way to stop her, short of locking all the doors and windows from the outside.”

  The dance carried Ned to Ashleigh’s corner, where he turned her by the arm; for a breathless moment I felt Parr’s hand on my own arm and looked up into his eyes. Then Ned was back. “Ashleigh’s amazing,” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone dance the Founder’s Quadrille with actual enthusiasm! Not that I’ve seen all that many people dance it,” he added after a foray into opposite corners, during which I gave my hand not to my hero but to a middle-aged gentleman with a potbelly, from the next set of couples, “mostly just the older teachers and the girls from Miss Wharton’s. And us, of course, when we can’t avoid it.”

  “Sorry to put you through this,” I said, feeling a little hurt.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that,” said Ned. “This is surprisingly fun.” He grinned at me. “You’re not so bad, for a girl.”

  The music drew to a close, and we made our bows and curtsies. As the four of us stood in an awkward square, wondering what to do next, the band struck up again. Hidden within what sounded like a waltz by Strauss was the tune to “Take It Back,” by the Wet Blankets—a favorite of Ashleigh’s for most of the summer, and not yet fully abandoned despite her new interests.

  “Hey, Noodles, they’re playing your tune!” said Parr.

  “Oh, are you a Wet Blankets fan?” asked Ashleigh eagerly.

  “Yeah, I pretty much like them a lot,” Ned said.

  “Don’t be so modest,” said Parr. “He wrote this arrangement. Ned’s our school composer.”

  “Really? I love this song,” cried Ashleigh.

  “In that case, would you like to dance?” Ned asked her.

  This time it was Parr’s turn to ask me, “Shall we?” and offer his hand.

  Once the two of us were alone together—that is, as alone as a pair can be in a room full of dancing couples—my hero seemed to lose his suave. As for me, I had been tongue-tied from the start. Standing beside the Magnet of My Yearning—touching his hand—frantically sending signals to my toes to keep them from tangling with his: none of this was likely to make me articulate. I worried that my nervousness had infected my partner.

  The silence stretched out. Clearly one of us had to say something.

  Parr began.

  “Haven’t I seen you around town before?”

  “I think so—at least, I know I’ve noticed you.”

  “The Sports Barn, was it? Or the candy store?

  Didn’t I see you with Samantha Liu?”

  “That’s right. She says you know her brother, Zach.

  Are you another black belt in Nintendo?”

  “I only wish! I’m blue, three down from black—

  that is, assuming you refer to kendo.”

  “Kendo! Right! Kendo! Well, I’m clearly not

  a black belt in talking. At least, not tonight.”

  “Hey, don’t you think it’s getting kind of hot?

  After this dance, you want to grab a bite?

  They’ve got a bar set up by the parterre.

  Just chips and soda, but it’s cooler there.”

  I nodded my agreement and fell silent again, internally kicking myself for my comments. Would Parr realize I had stored up every sighting like a treasure in my heart? Uncool, uncool. And that Nintendo gaffe—what sort of marshmallow head would he take me for? Yet how handsome he looked as he was laughing at me! His smile crinkled his turquoise eyes and stamped a single dimple in his left cheek. And it was kind of him to change the subject and suggest going for food, as if he had sensed my discomfort. Or was he merely looking for an excuse to ditch me?

  With these thoughts, I waltzed myself dizzy in his arms.

  The dance ended, the couples pattered their applause, I retrieved my things from behind the armor, and Parr and I stepped out into the welcome coolness of the October night.

  Chapter 6

  More adders ~ Ginger ale ~ untimely Flushing ~ we dance the Sir Roger de Coverly.

  Are you imagining a romantic scene of distant music, softly scented breezes, and twinkly lanterns, with moonlight falling over everything? Do you picture me beginning to shiver, while Parr wraps me tenderly in my shawl? In your vision, does he leave his arms casually around me as we lean against the balustrade, gazing at the stars?

  Happy dream!

  It was crowded on the long brick terrace overlooking the parterre. (A parterre, in case you were wondering—I was—turns out to be a chessboard arrangement of flower beds.) Now past the season of prime bloom, the Forefield parterre minced down to a long lawn, which swooped down to the river. Staircases and gravel paths threaded the flower beds, punctuated by large stone urns spilling over with late grasses and vines.

  On the terrace where we stood, boys in blazers, now and then with a date in a pale dress, jostled one another to get at the food and drinks. Spilled pretzels crunched underfoot. From time to time clumps of muttering youths burst into wild chortles, as if to celebrate some successful act of wickedness. Released from his guard table, Turkeyface stalked along the edge of the terrace, sniffing the air for illicit smoke.

  Grandison Parr led me to a sheltered spot by a pair of planters. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “Hmm—ginger ale?” I hoped the choice wouldn’t sound too babyish.

  “Right. Be right back.” He pushed his way into the crowd.

  At first I kept his golden head in sight, but after he
turned around and glanced at me twice, I looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. When I looked again, he was gone.

  A long time went by.

  I played with the fringes of my wrap, braiding and unbraiding them.

  I wondered whether Ashleigh was still dancing. I considered going to find her, but decided to stay put, in case Parr came back.

  Three or four gangly boys nearby nudged and punched one another. They ejected one and gave him a little push in my direction. He approached hesitantly.

  “So, um, you wanna dance?” he muttered, addressing an area a little below my collarbones. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

  “Sorry, I can’t—I’m waiting for my . . . escort . . . to come back with a drink,” I answered.

  With a little gulping noise, the boy skittered back to the safety of his companions.

  A girl in green leaned against my planter, glancing sideways at me. I considered speaking, but decided against it. The girl’s escort soon appeared and carried her away to the ballroom.

  A handsome guy with the look of a large and powerful cat—a junior, I thought, or possibly even a senior—presently took her place. He plucked a pair of cigarettes from his blazer pocket and held them out. “Trade you a smoke for a light,” he offered.

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t have any matches.”

  He tucked the cigarettes away and leaned against my planter, his arm touching mine. I edged away, but he relaxed closer to me, keeping his arm in contact with mine.

  “Sounds like they’re finally done with the ancient music,” he said after a minute. “Let’s go dance.”

  “I can’t. I’m waiting for someone.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been waiting a long time. Are you sure he’s coming back?”

  I hesitated, considering what to say. I was beginning to have doubts.

  The cat-guy pressed his advantage. “You seem pretty bored. If you don’t want to dance, I’m sure we can find other things to do.” He raised the eyebrow even higher. A hundred years ago, I thought, would he have twirled a moustache instead? I gripped the planter behind me, wondering how to get rid of him.

  To my relief, rescue came running up, in the form of the person ultimately responsible for my trouble: Ashleigh.

  “There you are,” she cried. She turned her head and called behind her, “See, I told you she’d still be here!”

  Parr and Ned followed more slowly, their hands full of drinks they were trying not to spill.

  “Sorry that took so long,” said Parr. “They didn’t have ginger ale at the bar. I had to try three different vending machines.” With a flourish, he presented me with a cold can. Glad to have something to do with my hands, I busied myself with it, snapping it open and sipping; the bubbles got up my nose.

  The feline guy gave me what I imagined he must consider an intimate look, then turned to the newcomers. “Hey, Parr, your girlfriend here was about to give up on you,” he said. “What?” he added, “no drink for me?”

  “Hello, Chris,” said Parr coldly. “I hear Wattles is looking for you. Oh, look—there he is now.”

  Indeed, Turkeyface appeared to be heading toward us.

  The cat-guy brushed my arm with his hand. “Catch you later,” he said, and melted away in the opposite direction.

  “Ig, who was that?” said Ashleigh.

  “I don’t know, W-, maybe?” I suggested, naming a seductive creep in a Jane Austen novel.

  “You don’t know Chris? Chris Stevens?” said Parr. “He looked as though he knew you pretty well—or wanted to, anyway.” Parr paused, as if deciding whether to say more, then added, “I hope he wasn’t bothering you. I really am sorry I was gone so long.”

  “Grand Parr is a stubborn old thing,” rumbled Ned. “Ashleigh told him you’d be just as happy with Sprite or Coke, but he wouldn’t believe it. He had to drag us all the way out to the new science library.”

  “I said I’d bring ginger ale,” said Parr. “A promise is a promise. If I had known Chris would come sniffing around—Was he being obnoxious?”

  “Nothing terrible, just asking me to dance,” I said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Ned. “The waltzes are finally over. I mean, you waltz beautifully,” he added hastily, addressing Ashleigh, “but now we won’t be the only ones dancing . . . kids, I mean, not teachers . . .” He trailed off.

  “I’m up for it,” I said, eager to leave my planter. Gulping down ginger ale, I followed my companions back into the ballroom.

  On the dance floor, both the music and the crowd had increased in volume. A DJ had taken over from the band.

  At first I felt more self-conscious than ever, dancing without the prescribed steps of the quadrille or waltz. There’s something especially awkward about free-form wiggling in a ball gown, and to make matters worse, the Guy of My Dreams was watching. But the rhythm of the music quickly took over, and with it the release that comes from vigorous physical activity.

  Dancing in a group of four was a far cry from quadrilling or waltzing in couples. For one thing, Parr no longer touched me (except the occasional accidental, electrical brush). It was too loud to talk, beyond a shouted word or two. Soon several friends of Parr and Ned’s caught sight of Ashleigh and me and joined us.

  After a number of songs I found myself at the center of a circle of guys, detached from my friend and our rescuers. The ginger ale began to make its presence known. I excused myself—hoping that the boys would have the guts to go on dancing without the presence of a girl to give them an excuse—and went off to find a ladies’ room.

  Ladies’ rooms, it turns out, don’t flourish in boys’ schools. Each likely-looking door seemed to taunt me. I discovered a coat closet, a broom closet, a conservatory dripping with greenery, and wood-paneled, book-lined chambers of various shapes and sizes—but no restroom. At last I found a chaperone to ask. She directed me to a boys’ bathroom, temporarily reassigned to meet the needs of female guests. “Boys: STOP! Girls: GO!” read a laser-printed sign taped to the door—not, I thought, the most tactful way to put it.

  The uneasy sense of trespass that I’d felt all evening intensified when I went in. What most unnerved me were the urinals. With their exposed position, unprotected by so much as a door-less stall; with their long, jutting necks and their intense smell—of ammonia, strong detergent, and something else—is it any wonder I slunk past with a shudder?

  I chose a stall at the end of the long room. As I sat resting my feet and watching the rows and columns of blue tiles dance a quadrille before my eyes, I heard the door swing open. I froze—boys?! No, thank God—girls. Just girls. Prep-school girls, judging by their accents. Perhaps girls from Miss Wharton’s?

  I decided to wait them out.

  There seemed to be four or five of them. Some made for the toilet stalls while their friends stood by the sinks. A couple of them compared and exchanged lipsticks; another requested a comb. (“Promise you don’t have nits?”—“Will you get over that? Fourth grade was six years ago!”)

  They praised each other’s shoes and disparaged various boys, mostly unknown to me, although I did hear the name of Chris Stevens. “Unthinkable creep, keep him away from me!” commented one girl with a melodious voice that seemed to curl musically around my ears.

  “Oh, I don’t know, he has a sort of viscous charm,” disagreed another.

  “I guess, if you like a guy to ooze at you,” answered her friend.

  Their conversation went on for so long that the toilet seat began to dig uncomfortably into the upper half of my lower limbs. I was considering making a break for it when I heard another familiar name.

  “Anyone at all? My choice, the whole school? Okay, give me Parr,” said the curly-voiced anti-oozer.

  “Grandison Parr? The junior—the fencer?”

  “That’s the one. Mmmm! Rich, firm goodness.”

  “Really? You’ve experienced this firsthand?”

  “Oh, don’t I wish! I’m not that lucky.”


  “Parr? Isn’t he taken?” objected one of the urinators from her stall. “He seems to have a date, anyway. That tall—”

  An ill-timed flush, echoing in the tiled, high-ceilinged room, cut off the rest of the sentence. Considering all the ill-timed flushing I’d been doing myself that evening, I reflected—flushing of the skin, not of the toilet—(the water gurgled to a stop before I could finish the thought; I turned my attention back to the deeply interesting conversation—)

  “—and the little one in red? Where did they come from? Where did they get those dresses?”

  “I think the tall one’s his sister. She kind of looks like him. She was dancing more with that dorky guy, the one in the three-piece suit.”

  “No, but would you let your sister dance with the dorky guy in the three-piece suit?”

  “Would you let your girlfriend?”

  “Well, they were all in the same set, anyway, early on. Did you see the little red one bouncing away? No way she learned that from the quadrille sergeant!”

  “The guy in the funny suit is Parr’s roommate. I still think the girlfriend is the tall one. She—”

  As if to mock me, the last urinator finished her business and drowned out the end of another interesting sentence. By the time her toilet ceased its gurgling, the girls had clattered out of bathroom, leaving me alone to stare dizzily at the blue tiles.

  When I rejoined my party, Ned and Ashleigh were dancing vigorously to the last few bars of “Take It Back”—the Wet Blankets version, not Ned’s waltz—while Parr looked on with an amused smile.

  “There you are,” he said. “I was afraid I’d lost you again.”

  “It took me a while to find the ladies’ room. They hid it behind a sort of greenhouse thing and a room full of silver cups in glass cases.”