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When Audrey Met Alice

Page 7

by Rebecca Behrens


  “Oh. You’re probably right.” We walked up the steps to Friendship Hall, which used to be a colonial church but now serves as the school’s main auditorium. The first floor is filled with refurbished pews and up some stairs is a balcony that stretches along three sides of the large, one-room building. The back walls of the balcony level are broken up by the original stained-glass church windows, and on sunny days the seats up there are treated to a dazzling colored-light show. Quint and I hurried up the steps two at a time, seeing that the hall was already pretty full.

  Seeing me plus Hendrix heading toward a front-row balcony pew, the kids already sitting in it scooted their butts away, repelled like a drop of oil hitting water. Even though a lot of kids are still super fake-nice around me, not a lot of people want to sit next to a Secret Service agent at a boring assembly. It makes goofing off hard. Quint didn’t seem to care, though. We settled into our pew, Hendrix taking a chair against the back wall behind us. A few minutes later the headmaster, Dr. Holmes, walked out to the pulpit-made-lectern. The crowd hushed.

  “Good afternoon, students and Friends.” He never resists that pun, and I could barely stifle a groan. Next to me, Quint rolled his eyes and pretended to gag. The way he was sitting, with his left leg crossed and resting on top of his right knee, I could see that he’d used a Sharpie to write “Here comes Treble” on the edge of his shoe. I found that unbearably adorkable.

  “I’m very pleased to announce that the faculty council has decided on the destination for this year’s class trip.” I wished that I had the certainty of attending that everyone else had. Maybe, if it’s on the East Coast, I can go. The room hushed as everyone waited for Dr. Holmes to announce the destination.

  “This year’s Friends Academy class trip will be to…” Dr. Holmes paused. For once he had the attention of every student during an assembly, and he milked it for all it was worth. “New York City!” The audience went crazy, cheers erupting and kids jumping up and down in the pews. “Careful, careful.” Some of the teachers frantically ran around reminding people that they were in a historic place and needed to be mindful of that. Quint danced around in his seat, and I also found that adorkable.

  His happiness was contagious, and I started to dance too. Sure, I’d been to New York a handful of times and seen the ballet and Broadway shows before. But I’d never been to 62nd and Madison and seen Bye’s house. I wanted to see everyplace Alice had lived. I felt myself getting wrapped up in the excitement about the trip—until I remembered that I had roughly a snowball’s chance in Hades of going. Last year, they decided it was too much of a security risk for me to travel with a school group. I didn’t know how it would be any different this year, and New York is a big place. I slunk back down into my pew.

  Quint turned to me, brown eyes shining. “Audrey, isn’t that awesome? Maybe we’ll get to see a performance of the Blue Man Group!” He started drumming on the seat of our pew with one hand and tapping the balcony ledge with the other.

  I smiled halfheartedly. “Why haven’t you seen it before? You go to New York with your parents a lot, right?” His dad is always at the UN, and his mom goes to all sorts of conferences and guest lectures.

  “They’re usually too busy for stuff like that. And if we go to a concert or a show, they only like serious stuff.”

  “I can relate—” I was interrupted by Dr. Holmes speaking again.

  “I’m glad to see such enthusiasm for our selection. The itinerary is still being finalized, but we do intend to offer chances to see live theater, tour the museums, and perhaps even pay a visit to Lady Liberty.” He explained that we’d all receive an informational packet at home to share with our parents. A limited number of scholarships would be available for students in need of financial assistance to attend. Friends Academy did have a few students in each grade enrolled through merit scholarships, and to the school’s credit, every effort is made to allow them to have the same experience at school as their privileged counterparts.

  When the assembly wrapped up, everyone spilled out of the hall into the commons, splintering into cliques to collectively freak out about how cool the trip was this year. A few of Quint’s friends wandered over, and pretty soon all of the eighth-graders crowded together, talking about the trip. Madeline sauntered over to where Quint and I stood. She and Quint had band in common—Madeline played clarinet. I cursed myself for never picking up an instrument. Ignoring me, Madeline asked him, “Do you think we’ll get to go to Carnegie Hall? Or hear the Philharmonic?”

  “That would be so cool. I wanna go check the concert schedule…” Quint trailed off. Madeline and some other band members closed in a circle around him, and I stood off to the outside. I slouched there, imagining what traipsing around New York with Quint would be like. I could picture us strolling through Central Park together, or maybe taking one of those rowboats for a spin. I imagined us sharing an armrest as we watched ballet at Lincoln Center. I saw us taking pictures of each other with the Statue of Liberty or Times Square in the background. Then I looked back at him talking to Madeline and reimagined all those scenes with Madeline replacing me. And I wanted to puke. I have to go on the New York trip. Seriously. I started to brainstorm reasons why I should go, making a list of talking points for my mom. What did Alice call her little trip to christen the yacht in New York? A boon to the presidency? I could tell my mom that me going to New York would help her too. I just wasn’t sure how, other than promising to be well-behaved.

  When I got home from school, I made a beeline for my mom’s office. “Denise, I need to talk to my mom,” I begged. Denise was the gatekeeper to my mom’s office—even when it was me trying to get in.

  “Your mother is preparing for an important call,” Denise answered, barely looking up from a handful of memos.

  “This is an emergency!” I am the Girl Who Cried Emergency, but only out of necessity. That’s the only way to get through Denise.

  Denise sighed. “Okay, you can go in for a minute.” She pressed the intercom on the secretary’s desk. “Madam President, your daughter would like a word.”

  I burst in and ran up to my mother’s desk. “Mom, I have to go to New York.”

  “Huh? Right now?” My mom pulled off her reading glasses, confused.

  “No, this spring. The school trip. They announced it today. We’ll get an info packet soon.” I bit my lip. “Please just say I can go. I think it would be a good publicity thing for you. If I…” I thought for a second. “Went to the Statue of Liberty! Ellis Island! Think of the photo ops. It could make up for Bikinigate.”

  “Honey,” my mother started. “Obviously I’ll look at the information. But the concerns that kept you from going to Chicago last spring haven’t gone away.” She frowned sympathetically. “I have to be honest—it’s very unlikely. Your dad and I simply aren’t comfortable with you going on a school trip, even with your security. But we could plan a trip for you and I to take together. I have some fund-raisers to do—”

  “You don’t understand!” My voice cracked. “It’s not the place. It’s getting to go with everyone from school.” Visions of Quint and Madeline and everyone else having a ball, without me, danced through my head. I wanted a chance to be a normal kid on a school trip so badly. Those kinds of trips are when everybody bonds and inside jokes are born. I needed to be a part of that. “I have to go. Please,” I pleaded.

  “I do understand. But we’re all making sacrifices here, honey.” But you chose to make them, I wanted to scream. I was never free to do that!

  “Ugh!” I stomped my foot. “You don’t get anything.”

  “Audrey, that’s not fair.”

  “Neither is ninety-five percent of my current life.” I turned on my heel and headed out of the room.

  “Audrey,” my mom called after me, but I ignored her. I pushed past Denise, who was waiting on the other side of the door.

  I ran upstairs and slammed my door. F
irst thing, I turned on some music to relax. Classical, while I stretched—but no special-announcement Bach because that would only upset me more. Then I turned on the playlist my dance teacher gave me before I moved, and I danced around my room for as long as it took to feel calm. It didn’t last, though, because when I flopped on the floor, sweaty and exhausted, I couldn’t stop thinking about a trip I wouldn’t take and the friendships I wouldn’t make. Nobody gets what I have to go through as a First Kid. Nobody. Well, except Alice. I reached over and slid the diary out of my desk drawer. It felt weird to be hiding someone else’s diary. But if I showed it to my parents, they’d probably find a way to ruin it too. No way would I let that happen. I thumbed through the musty pages to the one I’d left off at, when Alice was flush from her yacht christening in New York Harbor. Lucky girl.

  February 28, 1902

  Diary—

  First, if any of my maids are reading this entry, I swear on my mother’s grave that I will seek revenge on you! I caught a maid peeking in this very journal the other day. I was flabbergasted. I may scoff at my stepmother’s obsession with privacy, but when it comes to my diary, I believe in it too! I refuse to censor myself, but perhaps I will have to devise ways to protect my most private confessions from prying eyes. Maybe you’ve noticed already (you’d have to be blind not to have), but I’m trying to use Bye’s peculiar style of handwriting here. She slants her letters to an almost unreadable degree. It’s an awful lot of effort, though, and so far I’m imitating her style with a singular lack of success.

  I am so very glum today. Despite my fantastic job at foreign relations with our German friends, Father is not allowing me to attend Edward VII’s coronation. When we received the invitation, I jumped and ran the long hallway upstairs and did somersaults, terrifying some of our menagerie (as evidenced by Eli’s squawks) as I cartwheeled into the Conservatory. That giddiness was short-lived. As soon as the papers caught wind, the White House was besieged with mail, from constituents who found it “inappropriate” for me to be lumped in with royalty. My father was sorry for me, but he explained that although some (mainly those already in favor of his administration) would not care if I went, many (mainly the fools in opposition to him) would be very, very upset. I don’t like feeling like a pawn in the chess game that is his administration. This is precisely why politics frustrate me—they have a nasty way of getting in the way of living. Sure, I want to be a boon to my father’s presidency, but I bristle at his presidency hindering my life. He tried to tell me that I was a great help with the Kaiser’s yacht, and I can help again by not going to the coronation. But! Going to the coronation is the stuff of my wildest dreams. If I had the ability and the power to choose in this situation, I would choose for myself and go.

  To Thine Own Self be True,

  Alice

  March 2, 1902

  Diary—

  My ashen spirits are rising like a phoenix. I may not be able to go to England for Edward VII’s coronation, but I am about to embark on a “consolation trip” to Cuba! I’ll spend a month on the island doing all sorts of diplomatic chores for Father. I leave in only a few days. I have trunks upon trunks to pack, and Stepmother is constantly fussing over me, making sure that I bring everything I ought to and also giving me little subtle suggestions of how I should comport myself when I am there. I will not give her the satisfaction of making this pledge aloud, but I do intend to make my family proud, so long as Roosevelt pride and great experiences are not in opposition to each other.

  Once my ship has set sail, I will have more time to write. But for now, I must pack and prepare. And teach Ethel how to feed Emily Spinach bits of fish and earthworms from the South Lawn.

  Be True, and Bon voyage!

  Alice

  March 12, 1902

  Diary—

  I haven’t had a dull moment since we chugged out of New York Harbor. Do you know how absolutely invigorating it is to stand upon the deck of a great ship and watch your country fade behind you? To let your arms trail in the briny breeze and feel the salty spray cover your face? To know that you are setting out to see the world and soak up all the liveliness and love it has to offer? It feels like freedom incarnate. Even after the harbor’s crowds faded and the rest of the delegation settled into their compartments belowdecks, I stood out near the rails and watched the sea sputter and churn. This is what I have needed for so long—a chance to get away from all the rules of my household and the tiny sphere of Washington and eat up more of the world. A great, big, heaping helping of life.

  Forgive me for babbling; I am simply mad for travel. As I write, I am already on the island of Cuba. It is a lush, steamy, and wild place. Not that my escapades here are wild—they are mostly diplomatic and I am behaving myself. My chaperone is one of the governesses from the White House, Annabelle Alsop. While she’s not the most fuss-box chaperone I’ve encountered, she keeps too close of an eye on me for my taste.

  My days are full of little State-business adventures, like visiting a school for poor little orphans. My heart ached for all those little motherless rascals, perhaps because I halfway share their losses. But I’ve also attended charity receptions, teas, and parties. The army gave a cavalry review in my honor, which made me blush terribly, but I managed to stammer out some words to the handsome soldiers.

  Speaking of handsome—I hesitate to tell you, for fear of more snooping from my maids back in Washington—but I must or my heart will burst. I have a beau. Edward Carpenter, one of the aides to Major General Wood. I fell in love at first sight with his uniform, and it did not take long at all for his sense of humor to win me over too. His blond hair is cut in the typical military fashion, he has an almost perfectly straight nose, he has wonderfully broad shoulders, he is taller than I am, and he has beautiful sparkling blue eyes. One side of his mouth, the right, curls up noticeably more than the left when he smiles. It makes his smile even more dashing. He is so proper that he calls me only “Miss Roosevelt.” I break with tradition and call him “Carpenter.” When he says “Roosevelt,” it sounds like an incantation—or at least it has put me in a trance. He slipped me a note at dinner the other night. Trembling, I unfolded it. What sweet nothings might it contain? It read: “As I have nothing to do, I’ll write. As I have nothing to say, I’ll close.” I burst out laughing amidst the stares of our dinner companions. I love Carpenter’s wit; Diary, I do think I may love him. I will keep you closely posted on my interactions with my dear Edward.

  Other than swooning over my darling, I have taken a great interest in the game of jai alai. It is the sport here in Cuba—players hurl balls between each other, catching them in these odd little baskets called cestas. The game itself is not as interesting as baseball, but gambling on games makes jai alai bully fun. I do adore placing bets on the matches, and I am doing quite well for myself.

  To Thine Own Self Be True,

  Alice

  March 20, 1902

  Diary—

  I have a moment free to write because my chaperone Annabelle has taken ill after we ate too much spicy Cuban food. Poor woman, she hasn’t got a cast-iron stomach like I do. I can’t help it—I insist that we indulge in the local delicacies at every meal. My favorite thing to eat is “Congri,” a mixture of red beans and rice. Father ate it when he was here with the Rough Riders and told me to try it. You eat it with ripe and sweet plantains. The best sauce I’ve tried is Mojo, which combines lime, garlic, onions, and oregano in oil. It’s delicious. Oh, and I’ve stuffed myself with more tamales than I can possibly count. As much as I love consommé and soufflé, this Cuban chuck might be better.

  If I were a good daughter of the president, I would be filling you with tales of schools visited, sugar plantations toured, and yellow-fever mosquitoes swatted. Alas, I am a somewhat naughty daughter of the president and all I can think to tell you about is my dear Carpenter. What a hold he has over me. Heaven is watching him break into his lopsided smile for me, a
s a shock of his blond hair falls into his blue eyes and he brushes it away. I spend every possible moment with him, although Annabelle is constantly present. (I know the rules that must be obeyed for a girl of my class and political situation—one mustn’t even emerge from a dance hall with her hair disheveled or a button innocently askew lest the rumors fly. Nevermind that with the elaborate hairstyles du jour, it’s frightfully tricky to keep up appearances even in the most mundane and innocent circumstances.)

  I worry, though, that Carpenter will grow tired of me or that he will discover how contrary and difficult a person I am (just ask my stepmother for confirmation). When will he abandon me, as everyone in my life eventually does? He accuses me of having a temper, which is true, and then I grovel, grovel, beg, and plead, so terrified am I that I have driven him away. When I’m with him, and not distracted by his handsome shoulders or good-fitting uniform, all I can think about is this desperate need to make sure he finds me beautiful and charming. Doubt gnaws at me—what if he thinks that a courtship with me will lead to great things for his career? What if that’s the real reason he’s interested in a plain girl with a gargantuan forehead and formerly crippled legs? And then there is the constant threat posed by one of my traveling companions, the lovely (wretched!) Janet Lee, whom I can tell Edward fancies by how he looks at her porcelain face. Being the president’s daughter can’t get a girl Janet Lee’s beauty. I can never truly tell whether anyone fancies me because of who I am or because my father is Father. Deep down, I fear I am not quite pretty enough, or witty enough, on my own to garner much attention. And so I cling to the crumbs that fall my way.

 

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