by Cara Chow
I can see Mom’s point about not going out with boys. They are distracting. I can see how they could threaten one’s chances of acing courses and getting into a top college.
I return to Princeton Review the following afternoon with a typed, mistake-free copy of my notes in my hand. I scan the room for Collins and find him sitting in the same spot. The moment he sees me, his face lights up with a warm smile. On cue, my heart starts hammering. I walk towards him, my fingers trembling as they clutch the paper. Quietly, I lay the notes on his desk and assume my seat. He peruses them and smiles again.
The three troublemakers walk into the classroom. Great. I look at Collins. He cringes. But this time, Mr. Engelman clears his throat, gives the boys an authoritative look, and points to the side of the room opposite Collins and me. We exchange looks of relief.
During class, we keep our eyes on the board while my thoughts focus on his presence. I fight to divert my attention back to the teacher. I panic about my lack of self-control. My mother has paid hundreds of dollars for this class and I am throwing it away by not paying attention. As I think this, I wonder if this is how he feels too.
After class, I eagerly await his first move. Will he talk to me? Will he escort me to the bus stop?
Instead, he gathers his things and quickly exits the room, leaving me alone in the dust.
Did I just imagine the friendship between us? Did I make a fool of myself?
I suppress the pain in my chest. I tell myself that this is a lesson about losing control of my emotions. It’s better to be hurt now than later, when it’s too late. I vow to myself that this will be the last time I think of him. In fact, next time, I won’t even sit near him. I’ll pick a seat as far away from him as possible.
In speech class, we move on to thematic interpretation, and original prose and poetry. We listen to famous speeches, like Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech, analyzing why they are effective.
The bell rings in Ms. Taylor’s class. As we gather our things, Ms. Taylor calls my name. Startled, Theresa and I turn around. Ms. Taylor is motioning for me to approach her. Theresa and I look at each other as if to say, Why?
“I’ll wait for you outside,” Theresa says.
I nod and slowly approach Ms. Taylor’s desk. My armpits and hands are clammy. Have I done something wrong? I review the last couple of weeks and can’t remember having caused any problems.
For almost a minute, Ms. Taylor is reading. I sneak a peek and realize that she is reading my original oratory speech.
My speech must be horrible. She must be calling me up to tell me that I got a D, or that I should do it over, or worse yet, that I am flunking out of the class. I thought I was doing well, but maybe I was wrong. I brace myself for the humiliation.
Finally, she looks up at me. Her face glows brightly, her eyes glistening with tears. “This is one of the most beautiful speeches I’ve ever read,” she says.
Her words have penetrated my ears, but not the rest of me. I replay them in my mind, to make sure that I heard them correctly.
“The sign-up sheet for speech team has been up for almost a month. Why haven’t you signed up?” she asks.
Usually, questions asked by adults are accusations disguised as questions, such as “Why are you so lazy and forgetful?” or “Do you realize how much trouble you are?” Or the adult already knows the answer to the question and is drilling me for the right response. In contrast, Ms. Taylor is posing a question because she doesn’t know the answer and wants to find out.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“This speech has a lot of potential,” Ms. Taylor says. “It would be a waste of talent if you didn’t compete. I really think you can win.”
I tense up at the word waste. When my mom uses it, it means I’ve done something bad and I’d better do things the opposite way. “Um, okay,” I say.
“Great!” says Ms. Taylor. “I’ll add your name to the list.”
By “okay,” I meant “Okay, I agree that it’s a waste,” not “Okay, I’ll join.” But I am paralyzed, unable to protest.
“The first tournament is coming up in a couple of weeks,” says Ms. Taylor. “I’m anxious to start practice. Can you start today after school?”
I’m supposed to be at Princeton Review this afternoon.
“Could we do it tomorrow morning, before school?” I ask meekly.
“To be honest, I’m not much of a morning person,” Ms. Taylor says. “The only reason I make it to first-period class is because I drink two strong cups of coffee before coming in to work. I feel I can give you my best later in the day. Will that work for you?”
Ms. Taylor is already going out of her way for me. How can I inconvenience her further? “Okay,” I say.
“You sure?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
“Fantastic!” she says. “I’ve taken enough of your time. You’d better get some lunch before your next class. I’ll see you at three.”
I exit Ms. Taylor’s classroom. Theresa is waiting for me outside.
“Well?” she says. She’s shifting her weight back and forth, like she’s about to pee in her pants.
Over lunch, I tell her what happened.
“Holy Moses!” says Theresa. “I really want you to do this speech thing, but ditching Princeton Review, that’s a really expensive course. Your mom worked really hard to pay for it.”
“But it’s only one day!” I say. “Besides, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
Theresa nods solemnly. She is now deep in thought, so much so that she has stopped chewing. Finally, she says, “Maybe you should just compete. In the big picture, you’re still trying to get into Berkeley, only you’re plotting a different route. Besides, you have your collateral.” She is referring to my promise to Popo to write my speech about my mother. “When you go to your tournaments, you can tell your mom that you’re studying with me, and I’ll cover for you,” Theresa says. “And you won’t really be lying, because you will be studying with me. I’ve taken the Princeton Review. I can help you study for the SAT. That way, when”—she stops to correct herself—“if Auntie Gracie finds out, you can show her that you’re really obeying her, just differently than she expected.”
“Really?” I am stunned by Theresa’s cleverness. I am also nervous about her selflessness. “No, I can’t. That’s too much work for you.”
“No it’s not,” Theresa says. “The SAT is easy for me. Those tests aren’t really about what you know or how smart you are. They’re really about how well you can second-guess the test.”
I am envious of Theresa’s talents and irritated that she takes them for granted. The SAT makes my brain tired. I’ve done poorly on fill-in-the-bubble tests since grade school.
“You have a special talent, Frances,” Theresa says. “It’s not right to waste it.”
I blush with pride. “That’s what Ms. Taylor said too,” I say.
Theresa’s crescent-moon eyes are sparkling. “You know what?” she says. “I used to be envious of your talent, because I thought that it made you more important than me. But now I realize that my approach was wrong. I show my importance not by competing against your talent but by supporting it.”
Once again, Theresa outshines me without trying. But this time, I bask in her light, just as she does in mine. Theresa is a true kindred spirit.
I imagine Collins waiting for me in class this afternoon, missing me, wondering where I am. I imagine him at home, copying his notes for me. He worries that I am avoiding him. A warm, sweet feeling pools in my chest.
Then I flash back to reality. I remind myself that he walked out of the classroom just yesterday without thanking me for the notes. This isn’t someone who’s going to notice that I’m missing. And it is probably for the best. I don’t need this kind of distraction.
Chapter Four
Ms. Taylor’s room, which is always warm in the afternoon sun, is made warmer by my nervousness. Ms. Taylor has drawn the old, mismatched curtains, ru
st colored on one side and olive green on the other, to keep the room cooler. My face and trunk flush hot, while my hands and feet feel cold, clammy, and purple, as if my trunk and extremities belong to two separate people.
Ms. Taylor is sitting near the back of the small classroom. She is wearing her usual black platform boots and matching pants and an emerald green velvet top. The shimmery top makes her eyes look bright green. With those emerald eyes and black rhinestone-studded cat-eye glasses, she looks like a cat or a sorceress.
I squint at Ms. Taylor’s eyes. When she wears her blue blouse, her eyes look like sapphires. When she wears her purple blouse, they look like amethysts. No matter what color shirt I wear, my eyes are always dark brown. If Ms. Taylor’s eyes keep changing with her outfit, then what is her true eye color?
Ms. Taylor nods at me and smiles. It is time for me to begin.
I have rehearsed this speech so many times that the words pour out of my mouth automatically. I am proud that my recitation is flawless, and I imagine that Ms. Taylor is too as I await her feedback.
“Frances, your writing is very eloquent and your argument is compelling,” Ms. Taylor says. “However, I feel that you’re going through the motions of reading your speech instead of being in the moment and meaning it. You know what I mean?”
I nod eagerly, hiding my confusion and disappointment.
“Okay. This time, slow down. Pause after each sentence and think about what it means.”
I start over again, making a conscious effort to speak slowly.
“My mother’s perseverance and hard work … are an example and inspiration to me.”
As I recite my speech, I become aware that my sentences are excruciatingly long.
“After I graduate from high school, I hope to attend UC Berkeley.… Afterwards, I plan to attend medical school and become a doctor.… My medical knowledge will improve her health.… My future income will support her, so that she won’t have to work and suffer anymore.”
I’m not getting enough air into my lungs.
“When I feel tired or daunted by my quantity of schoolwork … I remember that my hardship can’t be half as hard as my mother’s and that someday … when my hard work pays off, so will hers.”
I gulp for air after each sentence.
“Frances, are you okay?” Ms. Taylor is staring at me, her cat eyes wide with alarm.
My chest is heaving. Ms. Taylor’s image becomes blurry, so I blink. To my surprise, tears run down my cheeks. My face turns hot from humiliation, as if I have just thrown up in public. I turn my face away to hide my alarming behavior.
“I’ll get you some water,” Ms. Taylor says. She leaves the room.
I sit down in one of the desks. Every limb is trembling violently. I recited my speech just fine at home. Why can’t I do it here? The image of Popo’s photo comes to mind. Maybe she has cursed me.
I need to withdraw from this competition. I have to sneak out and go to Princeton Review.
But I promised Ms. Taylor that I would rehearse today. And she’s getting water for me. It would be rude of me to let her go to all that trouble only to come back and find me gone. Then I would never be able to face her again.
Ms. Taylor returns with a paper cup. The water is shockingly cold. As I swallow, it forms an icy stream down my throat and pools in my stomach.
“Good work today,” Ms. Taylor says.
I cringe at her praise. She’s just trying to be nice to me when all I’ve done is mess up.
“Let’s call it a day,” she says. “Need a ride home?”
Suddenly, I go from deflated to uplifted. Ms. Taylor wants me to ride in her car! I’m probably the only student at St. Elizabeth’s who has received such an offer.
Ms. Taylor’s car is a sky blue Beetle. Bugs are my favorite cars. They’re round and cute looking, like ladybugs. Most cars today look like boxes on wheels. Too bad no one makes Beetles anymore. As I get inside, I notice that the seat sinks down pretty far under the pressure of my weight. If this car gets any older, we may sink right through the seats until our bottoms brush the ground. The interior has that old-car smell. I also notice the smell of Ms. Taylor’s perfume and the odor of cigarettes.
On the dashboard is an open ashtray with two cigarette butts inside. Ms. Taylor smokes! How scandalous! I guess I’ve smelled it all along, but the scent didn’t register. I imagine Ms. Taylor and me driving along the Great Highway next to Ocean Beach, each of us with a cigarette in hand, talking and laughing like old friends. Or better yet, Ms. Taylor and me sitting in a café, each with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, talking and laughing.
Ms. Taylor quickly closes the ashtray. “I’m setting a bad example,” she says. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“No.” For the first time, I wish I did.
“Good. Don’t start. I hate to be a hypocrite, but it’s an impossible habit to break.”
“Yeah. I know.” Actually, I don’t, but that sounded cool.
As Ms. Taylor drives down Turk Street past the University of San Francisco, I notice the rumbling and bouncing of the seat, the jerky back-and-forth motion of the car as Ms. Taylor shifts gears.
“Don’t worry about the stage fright,” Ms. Taylor says. “You’ll always get the jitters, but you’ll manage it better with practice.”
Stage fright. She talks about it like it’s something every public speaker has. Even if that’s true, I doubt that every speaker has a mother breathing down her neck. Fortunately, we perfect and perform the same speech throughout the school year. If I had to reinvent my speech for each competition and overcome stage fright all year long, I would probably have a nervous breakdown.
As if reading my mind, Ms. Taylor asks, “Has your mother read your speech?”
“No.”
“You really should share it with her. I bet she’d be proud. Parents aren’t allowed to attend competitions in the state circuit, but maybe we can find another tournament for her to attend.”
I force a pleasant smile.
“May I ask you a personal question?” Ms. Taylor says.
I tense at the request. “Sure.”
“Is it ever too much pressure for you, living up to your mother’s expectations?”
“No. I mean, I never thought about it before.”
“Really? I mean, your decision to become a doctor, did your mom say, ‘Frances, I want you to become a doctor,’ or did you decide that on your own?”
“She feels that it would be the best thing for me,” I say.
“Have you ever not wanted to become a doctor?” Ms. Taylor asks. “Or have you ever secretly wanted to do something else?”
“I never really thought about it,” I say.
Ms. Taylor shrugs. “Okay. When I suggested volunteering at a hospital on the first day of class, I really meant it. Just getting into med school requires tons of premed prerequisites during undergrad. Then it’s another four to five years of med school, followed by another few years of residency. Volunteering in a hospital or working part-time in a doctor’s office will either steer you elsewhere, or it will strengthen your resolve and help you through the hard times.”
Ms. Costello has gone over this with me already. But hearing it from Ms. Taylor feels like a sinking stone in my chest. By the time I become a doctor, I’ll be … thirty? I’ll be over the hill by then. The thought of having to work as hard as I do now, or even harder, for the next thirteen years of my life makes me not want to go to college at all.
“So, are you applying to other colleges besides Berkeley?” Ms. Taylor asks.
“San Francisco State, just in case I don’t get into Berkeley,” I reply.
“You ought to apply to all the UCs, just to expand your options,” Ms. Taylor says. “They’re all on one application, so all you have to do is check off the other schools.”
Only Berkeley is prestigious enough for Mom. It is also the only UC within commuter distance. I smile and nod, hoping that Ms. Taylor will change the subje
ct.
“Have you ever thought about Scripps College?” Ms. Taylor says.
Because St. Elizabeth’s is a private all-girls high school, it invites recruiters from various private women’s colleges to speak to us about their schools. Scripps is definitely a St. Elizabeth’s favorite, along with Mills, Smith, and Wellesley. “We can’t afford to go to Scripps,” I say.
“You could apply for scholarships and take out student loans. I did.”
“It’s too far away.”
“Far away is a great opportunity to develop your sense of identity and independence.”
A cold wave creeps through me. I sit on my hands to still their shaking.
“At first, I was really afraid to go away to college too, but I made new friends and started making my own decisions,” says Ms. Taylor. “Trust me, a women’s college is a very nurturing and empowering learning environment for a young woman. Actually, it was my experience at Scripps that inspired me to teach at an all-girls high school.”
Could college actually be fun, unlike grade school and high school?
“What was it like there?” I ask.
“Well, it’s a lot smaller than a UC or State, so it was more intimate,” says Ms. Taylor. “I felt like a person, not a number. I really got to know the professors, and a couple of them became my mentors. They were the ones who got me fired up about literature and language and teaching. Also, I met my closest friends there. Before college, I had friends to hang out with but no one I could call a kindred spirit. It wasn’t until college that I met people my age who got me. By the time I graduated, I had this big feeling inside, like I had accomplished so much and could accomplish so much more.”
Wow. Currently, I have “friends” at school, people with whom I’m friendly, but I’ve never felt completely comfortable with them. Theresa is the only friend whose company I enjoy. Until now, I’ve perceived college as an extension of high school, only worse, with more students, more faculty, and more pressure. I imagine being at a college like Scripps, living among a community of Theresas, being taught by a whole faculty of Ms. Taylors. No one there would criticize me for my looks or for liking one thing and not another. I could pursue whatever inspired me. If such a college existed, I would go, not with head down, but with my arms wide open.
