Enthusiasm

by Polly Shulman

  As he levered the protractor, the case begin to tilt. I scrambled up on the sofa to pull him away before everything fell. Our joint weight made the sofa tip, and we both lost our footing on the slippery leather, landing in a tangle on the seat. Fortunately, the trophy case stayed where it was.

  “Julie, are you okay?”

  “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, was that your leg? Why’d you do that, anyway? I almost had it!”

  He tried to get up, but I grabbed him around the neck and shoulders and hung on tight. “Stop, Ned! Think of your scholarship.”

  “But it would be so perfect,” he said, squirming.

  Just then the door opened and Ashleigh and Erin burst in.

  “Oh! Jul—Ned—forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude,” said Ashleigh, backing out and pulling Erin with her.

  “Ash, wait!” I yelled, but by the time I had untangled myself from Ned and talked him into leaving the loving cups in their cases, she was long gone.

  The scene in the trophy room dashed my hopes of convincing Ashleigh that my feelings toward Ned were nothing more than friendship. “I was just trying to stop him from stealing a loving cup to use as a prop,” I protested, but it was no use. Even I could hear how lame it sounded. “You can ask Parr, he told me to go,” I added feebly.

  “Did he? Did he indeed aid Ned in planning an assignation? Clearly Parr’s friend confides in him far more trustingly than mine does in me,” said Ashleigh, working up to full-blown Austenese. “No, no! Say no more! Far be it from me to pry from you a confidence that you do not willingly surrender! But if it were me, you know I’d tell you.”

  “Ash, I swear, there’s nothing to tell.”

  “Because we interrupted you.”

  “No, because we weren’t doing anything. But what were you doing there, anyway?”

  “Erin was looking for Chris, and Kevin said you’d gone to the trophy room. I thought you might need protecting. Little did I imagine what scenes we would interrupt! Next time, tell me and I’ll guard the door for you.”

  Chapter 12

  I keep up my grades ~ My father grouses ~ A Turkey again ~ Rehearsals.

  Have you ever noticed how once teachers get an idea into their heads, it’s easier to interrupt a bus of kids singing “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” than to change their minds? This is why, if you have limited time for study, it’s best to apply it at the beginning of the semester. If you do, most teachers will dismiss you early on as a good student and not look too hard for mistakes.

  What with Insomnia and Sailing to B., my hours available for homework plummeted. My grades, however, rose. My B-pluses puffed up to A-minuses, my A-minuses to full-out A’s. One would think such a state of affairs would please my father. But no: he considered two time-consuming extracurriculars one too many. “You want to appear well rounded, not dilettantish,” he said. “If you had more time to study, you could push those minus marks up to straight A’s.”

  Dropping Sailing was tempting, but it seemed unwise. By putting me in the good graces of the Nettle, my work on the magazine probably saved me hours that I would otherwise have had to spend preparing for class by second-guessing her opinions. And although I half longed to give up Insomnia, I felt I couldn’t let down the other actors. I explained to Dad that I had plenty of time, really, now that the fall foliage-viewing rush was over at Helen’s Treasures.

  Amy rolled her eyes slightly at the mention of my mother’s business, but she took my side. “Julie’s learning follow-through, Steve. Colleges value that,” she told my father. She even volunteered to drive me to and from rehearsals when they met on Tuesdays.

  One Tuesday, then, in the middle of November, she dropped me off half an hour early on her way to meet a client. It was unseasonably warm. I unbuttoned my coat and sat on the steps of the Robbins Center to wait for Benjo or Mr. Barnaby, who both had keys.

  The first person to arrive at the center that afternoon, however, was not the director or faculty adviser, but Turkeyface from the Columbus Cotillion. When he saw me, his face turned red—or rather, redder.

  “What are you doing here, young woman?” he spat. “Don’t you know this is a boys’ school?”

  “I’m just waiting for Benjo Seward,” I said. “He’s—”

  He cut me off. “Don’t go trying to implicate Benjamin Seward. He would never sneak a girl onto campus. He’s a responsible young man. He knows the rules.”

  As Turkeyface lectured me, Grandison Parr appeared over his shoulder. “Hello, Julia,” he said.

  Turkeyface spun around. “I knew it!” he gloated. “Not only is your girlfriend here on campus illegally, but she was trying to blame Seward!”

  “But Julia’s—” began Parr.

  “Not a word! One word buys you three demerits. You’re both coming with me to see the dean.”

  He took us each by a shoulder and marched us to the administration building.

  Dean Hanson’s door was ajar. “What’s up, Matthew?” asked the dean, looking up from his computer. “Oh, hello, Julie—Grandison. What can I do for you? I have been practicing—I promise—listen:

  If you force me to be harsh, I’ll

  Try my best to be impartial,

  But a carrot’s always better than the most effective stick.

  I sang back the next verse:

  My dear dean, you’re much too soft—when

  I remember just how often

  Your supposed angels misbehave, I swear, it makes me sick!

  “Cool beans, Julie! Sounding good!” said the dean.

  “You know this girl?” sputtered Turkeyface.

  “Of course I do—she’s Headmistress Lytle.”

  “Headmistress? Headmistress?”

  “Yes, and an excellent one too. Way better than my dean. Of course, she rehearses way more. You look puzzled, Matthew. Midwinter Insomnia. The musical, man, the musical! What’s up—is there a problem?”

  “Well! No, not if you know this girl. I expect you know your own business. Forgive me. I would never interfere.” Turkeyface made his exit.

  The three of us waited until the door clicked shut before laughing. “Matthew obviously agrees with Miss Lytle that I’m much too soft,” said Dean Hanson. “But actually, you’re the ones who are too soft on me. Barnaby’s right, I should make it to more rehearsals. Come on, let’s get down to the theater.”

  “Are girls really not allowed on campus?” I asked as we walked back along the gravel to the Robbins Center.

  “No way—did Matthew tell you that? I guess, technically, nonstudents aren’t allowed except under special circumstances—which covers things like playing the headmistress in the school play, so you’re okay there. And, of course, girls tend to be nonstudents at a boys’ school. But there’s nothing in the charter forbidding girls per se. Matthew gets a little carried away with rules. He’s a—well, a—hmm . . .” Dean Hanson trailed off, evidently remembering his position as a member of the administration speaking about a member of the faculty to students (or, in this case, a student and a nonstudent). He collected himself and began again: “So, Grandison, what do you think of the Saberteeth’s chances against Groton this season?”

  “I’m a little worried, actually. The Teeth are facing some serious competition. Groton’s got Dashwood now, so of course that gives them an edge over last year. I can’t really blame him for transferring—coed’s a temptation,” said Parr, glancing at me. “But I wish he’d waited another year. Bloom and Coe are going to be killer once they get their footing, but they’re not there yet.”

  The Saberteeth’s prospects took us the rest of the way to the Robbins Center, where the cast was waiting for us somewhat impatiently. Ned was delighted to see the dean, whose presence kept me busy, for once; the two of us worked hard on our duet all through the rehearsal. “Nice, Julie—you’re sounding very disapproving,” said Ned. “You could even pump up the resentment, if you want. Go ahead and squeak on that high G. Mr. Hanson, you’re doing well with the sheepish e
xpression, but if you could find the time to rehearse more, you might remember more of the lyrics.”

  Some of the others came over to watch the dean and me while they waited for Ned to listen to their songs. “Oh, well done, well done, my dearest Julia,” cried Ashleigh. “And you too, Dean—well done! Julia, you are indeed fortunate that the dean himself, at heart, shares those qualities which make his character so infuriating to the headmistress. It must greatly ease your task of acting stern. For my part, I find it difficult to maintain the necessary anger at Xander’s coldness, since Ravi himself is the soul of kindliness.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but ouch!” said Ravi. “You certainly slapped me like somebody angry.”

  “That’s just Ashleigh’s natural enthusiasm,” said Ned. “She gets carried away.”

  “It was my duty as an actress—it was the least I could do,” said Ash. “If it’s any comfort to you, I slapped Chris harder. Speaking of which, some charitable soul ought to go rescue Yolanda. I saw Chris follow her into the lighting booth.”

  “Not me,” I said. “You’d just have to send someone else to rescue me next.”

  “I’ll go,” said Parr quickly. “Yolanda and I should be practicing anyway.”

  Amy’s meeting ran late, making me the last of the girls left at Forefield after rehearsal. Parr and Ned sat with me on the Robbins Center steps to wait for her. The dregs of pink drained from the sky and a cold wind started up; Parr moved down a step to put his body between me and the wind.

  “Why are you at Forefield if you’d rather go to a coed school?” I asked him.

  “It’s a family tradition. My father and his father and his father and his father and the rest of their fathers went to Forefield, back to when it was just five pupils and a scandalous headmaster. Did you know the first head got thrown out of England for killing a horse in a duel? The man he was fighting survived, but the horse died. Apparently it was a very important horse.”

  “Parr’s great-great-great-great-grandpa, I mean great-great-great-great-grand-Parr, is one of the boys in the frieze carved over the fireplace in the Great Hall. He’s the one on the far left, with the funny ears. Hard to get a hat over them,” said Ned.

  “Hey, Noodles, quit putting hats on my ancestors—I mean it,” said Parr, cuffing Ned gently.

  “I never put a hat on your ancestor,” said Ned. “Like I just said, his ears stick out too much.”

  “Anyway, though, Dad would be heartbroken if I didn’t go to Forefield,” continued Parr. “We don’t exactly see eye to eye on everything, so I assume I’m going to be disappointing him enough later on—I might as well let him win what he can now, before the real battle starts.” He paused, then added, “The boy-girl ratio isn’t so bad at Forefield this year, though, with the play.”

  “What about you, Ned—do you mind the all-boys thing?” I asked.

  “Oh, well, I wouldn’t say I like it, but I can’t really complain. They’re giving me a scholarship. Apparently Grandison’s great-great-grandpa—or somebody’s great-great-grandpa, anyway— thought the gramophone was destroying society by letting people play records instead of musical instruments. He endowed a scholarship for musicians. The only catch is that I’m not allowed to make any records while I’m at Forefield, or even listen to them.”

  “No records?” I exclaimed. “Does that mean no CDs? How can you stand it?”

  “Fortunately, the trustees interpret that to mean ancient stuff like wax tubes and 78s—the kind of records that were around when the scholarship was started. They said it’s fine for me to listen to anything digital.”

  “That wasn’t my ancestor,” said Parr. “Can you imagine anyone related to my father endowing a scholarship for music? Tin-ear Charlie himself? Although it would be almost like my grandfather to make sure a musician wasn’t allowed to listen to music. He has strong ideas about what’s worth spending time on. My father too, but he’s not as mean about it.”

  “My father’s kind of like that too,” I said. “He’s always bugging me to do more extracurriculars so I can get into college, and then telling me that my extracurriculars are bringing my grades down.”

  “Is he why you tried out for Insomnia?” asked Parr.

  “Yes—sort of, pretty much,” I said.

  “Thank God for our fathers, then,” said Parr. “Otherwise—”

  Amy drove up just then and honked, so I didn’t get to hear why Parr was grateful for our fathers. He opened the car door for me, extracting a sour smile of approval from Amy, who sets great store by courtesy. As we drove off, I wondered what he had been about to say.

  Chapter 13

  My mother gives up ~ Thanksgiving ~ yet another Turkey ~ an Identity Crisis ~ a Comeuppance.

  When I got home from school the next day, my mother was packing away the Halloween merchandise and bringing out the Christmas things.

  “Don’t we usually do that after Thanksgiving?” I said.

  Mom finished unwrapping a tin Santa and sat back on her heels. She looked up at me seriously. “Hi, honey. I thought we’d better try to catch whatever traffic there is from the Thanksgiving weekenders while we still can. I didn’t get that job I was hoping for, so I’m going to work for the Nick-Nack Barn. They may not pay much, but it’s steady and I get health insurance. They want me to start right after Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, God, Mom, I’m sorry,” I said. The Nick-Nack Barn, a heartless, tasteless chain two towns south, was my mother’s ugliest rival.

  “I’m not,” said my mother. “Don’t look so gloomy. It’s just until I find something better. It won’t be so bad—the manager’s a nice woman, she’s letting me do the window displays, and I can open Helen’s Treasures on weekends. Want to give me a hand with these things?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I just have to send some e-mail first. I promised Eleanor—she’s our editor at Sailing—that I’d let her and Seth know what I think about a couple of poems we’re considering.”

  Mom and I didn’t have long to set up and sell the Christmas stock before Thanksgiving was upon us.

  I won’t dwell on this bitter holiday, which I spent with my stepmother and her family. I would naturally have preferred my mother’s company, but I wasn’t given a choice: it was Dad and Amy’s turn to have me. I biked over, envying the wild turkeys that vanished into the trees in a pale whir of feathers as I passed. If they had been shot, plucked, roasted with rosemary and lemons, and set on the table to be torn to pieces by Amy’s critical mother, her prune-faced brother, his cowed wife, and their four boisterous, self-satisfied little boys, would the turkeys have had a worse time than I had?

  I will admit that the food was good. Of course it was: Amy made it. No soggy Brussels sprouts and cardboard stuffing for her. We had vegetables that snapped gently when you bit them, squash roasted to melting depth, fresh citrus-cranberry sauce, and turkey whose tenderness remained uncompromised by the crispness of its skin.

  “Amy, when are you and Steve going to give me a grand-daughter?” asked my stepgrandmother, helping herself to the last slice of white meat. “It looks like I’m getting nothing but boys out of Mark and Susie.”

  Amy went pale. Taking pity on her, I spilled some lemon-rosemary gravy on her mother’s blouse.

  The distraction worked. Beneath Amy’s scolding, I detected a wisp of gratitude. But my act of generosity put me in disgrace with the family for the rest of the weekend, so I was doubly glad to get home that Sunday, especially after a weekend in my new, dark basement room.

  I found my mother on Ashleigh’s roof with my friend and her father, helping install their annual Christmas display. This invariably involved Santa and his sleigh, but the Rossis relied on my mother to give each year’s display a distinctive character. During Ashleigh’s King Arthur phase, for example, Mom had made Santa into a knight and the reindeer into unicorns. Last year she had made Santa fly over the Manhattan skyline, which she outlined in Christmas lights. When I arrived, Joe Rossi was urging Mom to make the rein
deer’s antlers into menorahs, in honor of our family’s heritage. She thanked him, but declined.

  This year Santa was much slenderer than usual. He was wearing a top hat and a tall collar.

  “Looks crisp!” I called up to them.

  “Oh, honey, you’re back! You look so short down there,” my mother called down.

  “The door’s open—come on up,” shouted Joe.

  “No, that’s okay, I’m done up here,” said Mom. “Hang on, I’ll be right down. Oh, Ashleigh, are you coming too?” The two of them vanished through the roof’s trapdoor (I could have told her, but didn’t, that the tree made a quicker and easier route), and emerged at the front door. Joe waved at us from the roof, where he stayed to admire their handiwork.

  “How do you like Mr. Darcy as Santa?” said Ash as the three of us went into Helen’s Treasures. “Ned suggested putting bonnets on the reindeer, but when your mother tried it, they wouldn’t go over the antlers.”

  “Oh, that’s Darcy? Do you think playing Santa is really in character for him? Seems more like something Mr. Bingley would do,” I said.

  “Very well, Mr. Bingley, if you prefer,” said Ash. “Most people seem to think it’s someone from A Christmas Carol, anyway. Philistines! So how was your Thanksgiving? Were your step-cousins there? Was it utterly unsupportable?”

  “Yes, did you have a nice time, honey? Aunt Ruth sends her love,” said Mom. “She gave me a new coat that Molly’s grown out of already. It should fit you. That girl’s growing even faster than you are. Oh! and one of your friends came by the shop on Wednesday and left something for you. Wait a sec, I think I put it in the desk.” She rummaged around for a while and came out with a small package.

  “Who was it?” I said. “One of the Gerard twins?”

  “No, a boy. Nice-looking young man. He introduced himself, but I’m sorry to say I was a little distracted and I don’t remember his name. It was busy here Wednesday. I sold all the reindeer soap.”