"And," she added, turning back to me, this time with her eyes so intense she scared me, "with my help, you will get everything, too."
Peter was sitting quietly in the dining room, waiting for us. The moment we came through the door, he rose, his face lighting up with happiness.
"You can do wonders, Pamela," he declared. "Look at her. She really is a younger version of you."
Pamela's look of satisfaction grew icy instantly. "Not so much younger, Peter," she admonished.
"No, no, of course not. It's just that she came into the house a little girl, and you've turned her into a young lady in a matter of hours," he quickly explained. He hurried to pull the chair out for her, and she sat. Then he did the same for me. I sat across from Pamela on Peter's left, and she sat on his right. There was still so much table left, I felt silly.
"I have a lot to teach her," Pamela explained.
"I told her so, and I told her there was no better woman for the job, didn't I?" he asked me. I nodded.
Pamela seemed placated. She relaxed and smiled. Seemingly out of the walls, music flowed, soft, pleasant sounds. Sacket came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and set it down beside Peter.
"Have you ever had champagne before, Brooke?" Peter asked me.
"No," I said. "I had a sip of beer once."
He laughed.
Pamela made a small smile with her lips. She looked as if she could orchestrate every tiny movement in her face, every feature to move independently of the others.
Peter nodded at Sacket, and he poured just as much in my glass as he did in Peter's and Pamela's. Then he placed it back in the bucket and left. Peter raised his glass slowly.
"Shall we make a toast, Pamela?"
"Yes," she said.
"To our new daughter, our new family, and the beautiful women in my life," he added.
We all touched our glasses. I had seen this only in the movies, so I was very excited. I sipped my champagne a little too fast and started to cough.
"You took in too much," Pamela said. "Just let your lips touch the liquid, and permit only the tiniest amounts into your mouth. Everything you do from now on must be feminine, and to be feminine you need to be dainty, graceful."
I crunched the napkin in my hand and wiped my mouth.
"No, no, no," she cried. "You dab your mouth, Brooke. This isn't a hot dog stand, and even if it was, you wouldn't do that. It looks too manly, gross." She shook her head to rid herself of the feeling. "Go on," she insisted. "I want to see you do it right. That's it," she said when I dabbed my lips so gently I hardly touched the napkin. "Perfect. See?" She looked at Peter.
"Yes," he said. "She's going to do just fine. How do you like your champagne?" he asked me.
I shrugged. "I thought it would be sweeter."
"It's not a Coke," Pamela said. "Besides, sugar is terrible for your complexion. You'll see that we have no candy in our house and that our desserts are all gourmet when we have them. We're both very conscious of calories normally, but tonight, being it's so special, we're indulging ourselves," Pamela explained.
Jolene came in with our salad. I watched Pamela to see which fork to use because there were three. Peter saw how I was studying their every move and smiled.
"Every moment of your life in this house will be a learning experience," he promised. "Just follow Pamela's instructions, and you'll do fine."
Our saladas followed by a lobster dinner. Sacket brought out wine, and I was permitted some of that as well. Everything was delicious. The dessert was something called creme brillee. I hadn't even heard of it, much less ever tasted it, but it was wonderful. Everything was.
Afterward, we went into the family room to talk, but Pamela seemed very fidgety. She excused herself and went upstairs. I wondered what was wrong, and when Peter was called to the phone, I decided to look in on her. I hurried up the stairs and knocked on her door. She didn't answer, but I heard what sounded like someone vomiting. I opened the door and looked in.
"Pamela?" I called. "Are you all right?"
The sounds of regurgitating grew louder and then stopped abruptly. I heard water running, and a moment later, she stepped out of the bathroom. Her face was crimson.
"Are you all right?"
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I thought I heard you being sick."
"I'm fine," she said. "Did Peter send you up?" "No."
"I'm fine," she insisted. "Just go back downstairs and continue to enjoy your evening. be right there. Go on," she ordered.
I left, closing the door quietly behind me.
If she was sick, why was she so ashamed? I wondered.
Minutes later, she rejoined Peter and me, and she looked as perfect as she had when she had come downstairs for dinner. She was certainly not sick, I thought, not the way I knew sick people to be. Peter didn't notice anything wrong, either.
He asked me lots of questions about my life at the orphanage. Pamela was more interested in what I remembered about my mother.
"Nothing, really," I said. "All I have is a faded pink ribbon that I was told was in my hair when she left me."
"You still have it? Where? I didn't see it when you came here," Pamela said quickly. She looked at Peter fearfully.
"It was in the pocket of my jeans," I said. "I put it in my dresser drawer."
"Why would you want to keep something like that?" "I don't know," I said, near tears.
"It's nothing, Pamela. A memory," Peter said, shrugging. She looked unhappy about it and settled back in her chair slowly.
"There are all these horror stories about families who have taken in a child, and years later, the biological mother, a woman who had nothing to do with raising the child, comes around and demands her rights," Pamela muttered.
"That can't happen here," Peter assured her. "She doesn't even remember her face. Do you, Brooke?"
I shook my head. "No."
"You shouldn't hold onto anything, not even a ribbon," Pamela said angrily. "The woman got rid of you like . . like some unwanted puppy,"
"You're upsetting her, Pamela," Peter said gently.
She looked at me and relaxed again. "I'm just concerned about you. I want you to be happy with us," she explained.
I tried to smile This whole day was so overwhelming, so full of surprises and excitement, I couldn't keep my eyes open. Peter laughed and suggested I get a good night's rest.
"It's all just starting for you now, Brooke. This has only been a taste of what's to come," he promised.
"I'll come up with you and show you the proper way to take off your makeup," Pamela said, "and then give you something to put on your face."
"Put on? But I'm going to sleep," I said, confused.
"That's when your body is best able to replenish itself," she explained. "You want to wake up looking beautiful, don't you?"
Peter laughed. "Just listen to Pamela," he said. "You can see she knows what she's talking about."
Put on makeup every day, wash with special soaps, filter your air, eat a special diet, avoid being upset, chant, meditate, put something special on while you slept. It seemed like so much effort. If this is what I had to do to be beautiful, I thought, I think I'd rather be plain old me.
But I would never say so, not if I wanted Pamela to love me like a daughter or even a sister.
I knew that much, but what I didn't know was that what I knew was not enough, not hardly enough.
4 Secrets
For the next few days, Pamela took over my life as if I had nothing more to say about it. She set schedules for almost every waking moment and left nothing to chance. The Olin was to enroll me in the Agnes Fodor School for Girls, a private school designed only for those born with silver spoons in their mouths. However, before I could be brought to the school for registration, Pamela wanted me to learn enough about poise, etiquette, and style to "fool any of the blue bloods?'
"Blue bloods," she explained, "are those who are born into wealth and position, whose family l
ineage goes back to the most respectable and important people in our social and political history. They are taught from day one how to behave and conduct themselves, and that is how I want you to appear, as well."
"But I'm not a blue blood," I pointed out. "You are now?' she said. "Peter and I come from the best stock, and you will carry our name. Most important, when someone looks at you, they'll be looking at me. Understand?"
I nodded, but I didn't like it. I didn't like becoming an instant blue blood. I needed more time to get used to having servants at my beck and call and more time to learn my way about a house that resembled a palace. I didn't like Joline drawing my bath every night and laying out my nightgown and slippers. I felt like an invalid. Pamela decided what colors I would wear and how I should brush my hair. When I said I had never worn nail polish, she looked at me as if I was some sort of alien creature.
"Never? I just can't believe that," she said.
When I laughed at the idea of polishing my toenails, she grew angry. "It's not funny. It's as serious as any other part of your body," she insisted.
"But who will see them?" I asked.
"It's not important who else sees them. You must understand. We're beautiful first for ourselves, to make ourselves feel special, and then, when we feel special, others will see it and think of us as special, too."
"I don't understand why we would be so special," I muttered.
"Your clothes, your coiffure, your makeup, your walk, and your smile, everything about you must coordinate, must work together. Women like us," she taught me, "are truly works of art, Brooke. That's what makes us special. Now do you understand?" she asked.
I didn't, but I saw that if I didn't look as if I did, she would grow angry.
The one time she did get very angry with me occurred three days after I had arrived, when I asked if I could call someone at the orphanage. I wanted to talk to Brenda Francis, my one close friend. I knew she missed me. I was practically the only one she spoke to, and I wanted to see how she was doing. I had left so quickly, we never really had time to say goodbye.
"Absolutely not!" Pamela said forbiddingly. "You must drive that place and everyone in it out of your memory forever.
"Very soon," she continued, "you will completely forget that you were ever an orphan." She clenched her teeth and grimaced as if pronouncing the word orphan filled her mouth with castor oil.
Deep inside my heart, I worried that if my new mother found orphans so distasteful, how could she ever come to love me? Maybe she was worried about that, too, and that was why she was so intent on my becoming a new person as soon as possible. For both our sakes, I thought I would try.
The first thing we did after Pamela instructed me on my morning makeup was go to the shopping mall to buy more clothes for me. In the lingerie department, she chose a padded bra. I felt foolish trying it on and even more silly when I gazed at my exaggerated figure in the mirror. I looked years older just with that cosmetic change and complained that I didn't look like the real me.
"That's exactly what I want for you," she insisted. "I know these contest judges. When you're in a Miss Teen this or that contest and you look older, they're impressed, especially the men."
I was still so surprised that she really believed I could be in any such contest. What did she see in my face that I couldn't see, that no one else saw? I thought I was plain-looking, even with the appearance of bigger breasts. Moving with the bra on reminded me of wearing a baseball catcher's chest protector. I felt bulky and thought everyone was looking at me because my bosom didn't fit the rest of me.
Before we left the store, she bought me a half dozen more skirt-and-blouse outfits, three more pairs of shoes to complete the outfits, a necklace, three pairs of earrings, and a beautiful pinky ring--a gold band with a variety of baguettes. She then made an appointment for me to have my hair trimmed and styled by her beautician the day before she would enroll me at Agnes Fodor.
When we returned home, my charm lessons began, although she told me that every moment I spent with her would be like being in charm school. She was right.
As we rode in the limousine, she instructed me on how I was to sit. She demonstrated her posture, the way she held her head, and how she kept her legs either pressed tightly together or crossed properly.
"We're going to meet many different people over the next few days, Brooke. Whenever I introduce you to someone, don't say 'Hi.' I know young people today always use that, but you want to sound cultured.
Always respond with 'Hello. I'm glad to meet you: And always look at the person, have direct eye contact so the person feels you are paying attention to him or her and not looking over their shoulder at some gorgeous man. You can shake hands. It's proper, but you will be introduced to some of our European acquaintances as well, and they have the habit of kissing cheeks. For now, follow my lead. If I do it, you'll do it. First, put your right cheek to the right cheek of the person you're greeting, and then pull back slightly and do it again with your left cheek. Most of them like to do what is called air kissing."
"Air kissing?"
"Yes, you really don't press your lips to someone's face. You kiss the air, smacking your lips loudly enough to sound like a kiss. You'll get the hang of it," she promised with a smile.
It all sounded so silly to me. Actually, it reminded me of some of the rules Billy Tompson had come up with when I was ten and we were forming our secret club at the orphanage. He had a specially designed handshake that started with the pressing of thumbs, and he also had secret passwords. Maybe cultured, sophisticated people simply had their own club.
"I hate 'okays,' too, another big teenage word these days. When someone says, 'How are you?' you reply, 'Very well, thank you,' or 'Fine, thank you.'
"All this," she explained, "is really going to be important when the judges do their little interviews. They'll be judging you on poise and charm."
"What judges?"
"The contest judges. Aren't you listening?" she asked with irritation in her voice.
"I'm listening, but when will I be in a contest?"
"Well, of course, I don't want to enter you in anything before you're ready, but I think in about six months," she replied.
"Six months! What contest is that?"
"It's not one of the most prestigious, but it's a good one to cut your teeth on," she said. "It's the Miss New York Teenage Tourist Pageant held in Albany. The winner gets awarded scholarship money, not that you need that, and represents the state in a number of advertising promotions, print displays, and even a video. I'd like you to win," she said firmly.
Win? I wouldn't have the nerve to set foot in the door, much less go up on a stage, but Pamela had that determined look on her face that I had already come to recognize, and when that look came over her, it was better not to contradict her.
My education in what I now thought of as Proper Behavior for Blue Bloods continued as soon as we arrived home each day. The first afternoon was set aside for table etiquette. Suddenly, the dining room became a classroom.
"Sit straight," she instructed, and demonstrated. "You can lean slightly against the back of the chair. Keep your hands in your lap when you're not actually eating so you don't fidget with silverware. I hate that, especially when people tap forks on plates or the table. Rude, rude, rude. You may, as I'm doing now, rest your hand or your wrist on the table, but not your whole forearm. Don't, absolutely don't, put your hands through your hair. Hairs often float off and settle on dishes and food.
"If you have to lean forward to hear someone's conversation, you can put your elbows on the table. In fact, as you see when I do it, it looks more graceful than just leaning over stupidly. See?"
"Yes," I said, and then she made me do everything she had instructed.
"Teenagers," she said, again pronouncing the word as if we were primitive animals, "often tip their chairs back. Never do that. Of course, you know to put your napkin on your lap, but you should, out of courtesy, wait for the hostess to put hers
there first. Since I'm the hostess of this house, at any of our dinners, wait for me. Understood?"
I nodded.
"Don't flap it out, either. I hate that. Some of Peter's friends wave their napkins so hard over their plates that they blow out the candle flames. They're so crude.
"Just like with the napkin," she said when Joline began serving our food, "you don't begin eating until the hostess begins.
"The first day you were here, you didn't know which piece of silverware to use first. Always start with the implement of each type that is farthest from the plate.
"Now, watch how I cut my meat, how I use my fork, and how I chew my food. Don't cut too big a piece. Chew with your mouth closed, and never talk with food in your mouth. If someone asks you a question while you're chewing, finish chewing and then reply. If your dinner partner is sophisticated, they will know to wait.
"At Agnes Fodor, you will see that the girls follow these rules of etiquette, Brooke. I don't want you to feel inferior in the school dining room. If you make a mistake, don't dwell on it, understand?"
"Yes," I said. I was never so nervous eating. In fact, my nerves were so frazzled, the food bubbled in my stomach, and I didn't remember tasting anything.
At dinner, I was to perform for Peter's benefit. I shifted my eyes to Pamela after every move, almost after every bite, to see whether she was pleased or not. Usually, she nodded slightly or raised her eyebrows if something wasn't right.
"You're doing wonders with her," Peter declared. "I told you that you were in the hands of an expert when it comes to style and beauty, didn't I, Brooke?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"I almost didn't recognize this girl," he told Pamela. "Is this the same poor waif we brought home to be our new daughter?" he joked. "Pamela, you're a master at this."
Pamela gloated in the light of Peter's
Brooke Page 4
