Tooth and Nail: A Novel Approach to the SAT (A Harvest Test Preparation Book)

by Charles Harrington Elster

  Students and professors bustled under the tall, pointed arch leading into the vast building while a band of Renaissance musicians, a juggler, and a pantomimist, all dressed in archaic costumes, entertained the passersby. Two large signs framed the library entrance: “Welcome, Shakespearean Scholars,” read one; the other, “Opening Soon: The Prospero Memorial Library of Rare Books and Manuscripts.”

  Caitlin crossed the street. She picked up a copy of the Holyfield Herald from a newspaper stand on the corner. Tucking it under her arm, she continued toward West Quad. The theater should be coming up next, she thought.

  The Edwin Mountford Fincke Theater, Caitlin had learned in the afternoon she’d spent researching Holyfield in New York’s 42nd Street Library, had received its unfortunate name from an otherwise distinguished Holyfield alumnus who became a wealthy industrialist and patron of the arts in the late 1800s. Except in formal contexts, however, no one used the theater’s real name. Years ago the students had affectionately dubbed it “the Stink,” and that’s what everyone had called it for as long as anyone could remember.

  The Stink was a formidable red brick building with a graceful rose window adorning the center of the steep triangle created by its gable roof. A wide flight of steps led up to three sets of broad double doors. Above these stretched a long banner announcing a production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. The first performance was that night.

  The banner reminded Caitlin of her father. He had taken her to many plays on and off Broadway and to the renowned Shakespeare series every summer in Central Park. Although her primary interest was writing, in high school Caitlin had participated in a few productions as stage manager or assistant director, and one time she had played Hippolyta, a small role in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. Theater at Holyfield might be worth checking out as an extracurricular activity, she thought, and decided to attend the opening to find out more about it. Maybe she could persuade her roommates to come along.

  Caitlin shifted both her bags to one hand and opened the newspaper with the other. She began reading as she walked. Under the banner headline “Welcome, Freshmen!” were two articles surrounding a photo of a young woman in Shakespearean garb. Caitlin looked at the piece on the left: “Freshmen and Elizabethans arrive on campus,” by Bill Berkowitz, Herald editor.

  “Holyfield College,” read the lead, “opens its venerable doors to yet another crop of promising freshmen today, as it has done for more than 120 years. That, in itself, is noteworthy. This fall, however, something special will make their arrival even more memorable.” The article went on:

  To honor the most famous writer in the English language and celebrate the upcoming dedication of the Prospero Memorial Library, the college is sponsoring an academic conference called “Shakespeare: 400 Years of Scholarship,” in conjunction with an Elizabethan Festival that will include plays, concerts, exhibits, and other forms of edifying entertainment.

  Scholars and experts from all over the nation, including some from abroad, have traveled to Holyfield to participate in an ambitious two-week program of lectures and symposia.

  The fortnight of festivities—as the Bard might have put it—officially began last night at Guild Hall with a reception for visiting dignitaries hosted by President Harriet O’Donnell and Dean Arthur Calvin Herbert.

  So that explains all this Shakespearean stuff I’ve been seeing, Caitlin thought. She stopped walking. The hand holding both bags was screaming for a rest. She looked around. Several dozen students sprawled on a wide lawn, reading and talking and soaking up the afternoon sun. She hauled her bags to a nearby tree and set them down. Then she sat, leaning against the trunk, and continued reading.

  The article in the right-hand column, also written by Bill Berkowitz, was titled “Prospero library wing to open soon; executors named to manage rare collection.” It said:

  When Edward Anthony Prospero, class of ’22 and Harcourt Professor of English emeritus, died last month at 93, he left his large and valuable collection of rare books and manuscripts to Holyfield College. In preparation for this bequest, two years ago Prospero donated $3.5 million to expand Tillinghast Library. The nearly completed wing, bearing his name, will house the collection.

  “This priceless gift will be a perpetual asset to the college,” said Professor Harold Hargrave, library curator, adding that no one knows precisely what the collection contains. “I suspect we may find some extremely unusual items of profound importance to scholars worldwide,” he said.

  In his will, the late Professor Prospero designated five literary executors to oversee the collection: Professor Hargrave, who will lead the group; Professor Bartholomew Martext, artistic director of the Fincke Theater; Professor Theophilus Bibb of the Renaissance Studies Department, an expert on rare books; Associate Professor Carmen Torres of the English Department; and Leo Kabnis, a senior honors student who worked for Prospero as a research assistant.

  The executors will meet tomorrow to discuss how to manage the voluminous collection. Although the arduous task of cataloguing the material is expected to continue into next year, the Prospero Memorial Library will be officially dedicated in two weeks, at the close of the Shakespeare Symposium and Elizabethan Festival.

  Caitlin folded the paper and leaned her head against the tree. A rich old professor donates his collection of rare books and manuscripts to the college and nobody knows precisely what it contains? There must be a newsworthy secret or two hidden in there, she thought. Writing an article about this Professor Prospero and the new library would be a good way to start with the Herald. She resolved to track down Bill Berkowitz and propose the idea to him as soon as she got settled.

  The decision renewed Caitlin’s strength. She picked up her bags and within a few minutes reached LaSalle Hall. After checking in and receiving her key and registration packet, she found her room on the fourth floor.

  This is it, she thought. College really starts now. She took a deep breath and put her key in the lock.

  “Hi, there! You must be Caitlin, right?” said a voice behind her.

  Chapter 3

  Go Fish

  The door to Ericson 5-M, in East Quad, was wide open. Phil stood on the threshold inspecting his new home.

  He could see immediately that the woman at the folding table who had given him his room assignment and key had not been joking when she told him his roommates had already moved in.

  “Jessica,” the Allman Brothers’ endless anthem, thundered from the colossal sound system set up on the left side of the living room. Three cases of CDs and a crate of old LPs were stacked beside the stereo. Someone must be a classic rock buff, Phil thought. He looked to the right. Between two windows, a large flag with bright horizontal bands of blue, black, and white was tacked to the wall. Other decorative objects—a poster of Michael Jordan flying toward the hoop, a mobile of miniature military aircraft, a throw rug depicting five dogs around a poker table—lay on the floor, awaiting their appointed places.

  Phil set down his suitcases and camera bag and closed the door. Then he made his way around several partially unpacked boxes to the open door on the opposite side of the room. Poking his head in, he saw a tall, barefoot guy in shorts and a Pittsburgh Pirates T-shirt leap from a desk and—fiercely strumming a tennis racket to the final, drawn-out chord changes of the song—land squarely on an unmade bed. As the coda ended, he jumped down from the mattress.

  “Hiya. I’m Chris. Chris Bednarski. You must be Phil McKnight. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  The roommates shook hands.

  “Hey, let me go turn down the stereo. Hang on a second, okay?”

  Phil looked around the room, which was not much larger than the one he had had to himself back in San Diego. Apparently, unpacking hadn’t been limited to the living room. Besides the three sets of beds, bureaus, desks, and chairs issued by the college, several clumps of unorganized belongings were strewn around half the room. It was going to be a tough fit.


  Chris returned from the living room. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I had to get my equipment set up and put some music on before I could do anything.” He shrugged and smiled at Phil. “What can I say? It’s a priority.”

  “No problem. I know what you mean,” Phil said. He looked around the room. “Where should I dump my stuff?”

  “All my junk’s on that side,” Chris said, motioning to an amorphous heap on an unmade bed and piles of books and supplies on a nearby bureau and desk.

  “And that’s Jimmy’s.” Chris pointed to another unmade bed on which lay a green daypack and leather briefcase. A blue blazer hung from the chair of the adjacent desk.

  Phil retrieved his bags from the living room and set them down on the mattress Chris had just jumped on.

  “Jimmy and I got here yesterday,” Chris said. “Have you met him yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He should be back soon. Went out to get the paper. He’s from Charleston, South Carolina.”

  “Is that his flag on the wall in the other room?”

  “No, it’s mine. You like it?”

  “Sure. What country is it from?”

  “Estonia. It’s a former republic of the old Soviet Union.”

  “Yeah, I know. On the Baltic Sea in Eastern Europe, right?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Did your parents come from there?”

  “My grandparents on my mother’s side came over during World War II. I’m from Pittsburgh. See?” Chris pointed to his Pirates T-shirt. “And you?”

  “San Diego.”

  “No kidding. Do you surf?”

  “I try, but I’m not very good. My main sport is soccer. I was cocaptain of my school team.”

  Chris jumped up on his bed and pretended to surf on the mattress. “Man, I’d love to learn how to ride a wave!”

  Phil laughed. “I don’t think they surf much here in Iowa—unless it’s on snowdrifts.”

  “Yeah, seriously,” Chris said. He jumped down from the bed, walked to the window, and looked out. “In a few months there’s going to be so much snow out there we’ll have to wear snowshoes to get to class.”

  “Actually, that sounds like fun,” Phil said. He zipped open one of his suitcases and began to unpack. “You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve seen snow only twice in my life.”

  “Get out of here!” Chris snorted.

  “No kidding. It never snows in Southern California, except in the mountains. I’m looking forward to the change in climate.”

  On one of the bureaus rested a small fishbowl, in which a single guppy swam. As he unpacked, Phil watched the guppy swim frantically round and round the bowl. He wondered how long it could keep up such a manic pace.

  “I don’t think your fish likes its new home.”

  “It’s not mine. It’s Jimmy’s.”

  “That’s right, it’s mine,” said a voice with a Southern accent behind them. Phil turned and saw a short guy with blond hair standing in the doorway, a newspaper folded under his arm. He was dressed in a button-down pinstripe shirt, khaki chinos, and penny loafers.

  “His name’s Siggy, short for Sigmund—as in Freud. I’m Jimmy Thomas, short for Jimmy Thomas. And you must be Phil.”

  “Hi. Nice to meet you, Jimmy,” Phil said.

  Jimmy walked across the room and held out his hand. His affable face seemed on the verge of a sly smile or wink, suggesting that the present circumstances, whatever they were, were hilarious, and that if one only knew how to look under the surface and see things for what they were, one would barely be able to suppress laughter. Phil felt as if the hand extended to him was offering not only the promise of friendship but also membership in a club whose skeptical and discerning members saw the world in a special way. They shook.

  “What’s this about old Siggy?” Jimmy asked Phil.

  “Does he always swim around like that?”

  “I don’t know. I picked him up at a pet store on Chickasaw Street this morning, so we’re just barely getting acquainted.”

  The two studied the poor fish, who continued to swim in a frantic circle. The water looked cloudy and Siggy’s eyes seemed to bulge with a fishy kind of desperation.

  “Poor Siggy,” Jimmy said. “He does look a bit overwrought, doesn’t he? What’s your diagnosis, doc? You don’t think it’s a terminal case, do you?”

  “Maybe he needs some other fish to keep him company,” Phil suggested. “Or at least some pink and blue pebbles in his bowl. Every fishbowl needs pebbles.”

  “They were extra. Besides, you don’t want to give these creatures everything all at once. It spoils them.”

  “You have a point.”

  As they discussed Siggy’s prognosis and the merits of different treatments, the guppy’s erratic circumnavigations increased to the point where water began to splash up from the surface.

  “Maybe he’s hungry again,” Chris said, picking up a small box of fish food next to the bowl.

  “What do you mean, ‘again’?” Jimmy asked. He took the box from Chris and looked inside. “No wonder he’s going bonkers. You gave him enough food to feed a whale! Haven’t you ever heard the word moderation?”

  “I’m sorry. He seemed hungry. He was hardly moving.”

  “Well, he’s moving now,” Jimmy said. He picked up the fishbowl and ran out of the room as fast as he could without spilling the water. Phil and Chris followed him down the hall to the communal bathroom.

  “Get the door!” Jimmy cried.

  Phil pushed it open and a cloud of steam billowed out.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Sig,” Jimmy muttered to his ailing fish as they rushed inside.

  They crowded around the nearest of the several sinks that lined one wall. Through the mist Phil saw another student standing in front of a sink at the end of the row. He was tall, black, and trim, and he looked older, probably a senior. With his strong jawline and close-cropped hair, Phil thought he resembled Denzel Washington in Spike Lee’s movie Malcolm X, only without Malcolm’s distinctive glasses. Even wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, he seemed serious, almost formal, as he meticulously shaved the last few whiskers from his chin and washed the stray bits of lather off his face.

  He glanced over at the commotion the three new roommates were making. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked in a deep, authoritative voice.

  As Phil explained the situation, Jimmy began to pour the water from the bowl, painstakingly using his fingers to keep Siggy from going down the drain.

  “Stop! You’re going to lose him!” Chris warned.

  The older student put down his razor and came over to assess the situation. “Don’t panic,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  His self-assured tone soothed them, loosening the knot they had tied themselves into around the sink. They looked up and saw themselves in the mirror—three guys standing in a bathroom getting all worked up over a guppy in a bowl. They laughed at the absurdity of the image.

  “I guess we look pretty silly,” Phil said.

  “I don’t know if the word silly is strong enough,” Chris countered. “How about inane?”

  “No, that still strikes me as a euphemism,” Jimmy said. “I’d say ludicrous sums up the situation pretty well.”

  The door swung open and the older student stepped in.

  “See if this helps,” he said, handing Jimmy a tennis racket. “It should keep the fish in while you change the water.”

  “How pragmatic of you,” Jimmy said. “Thanks.”

  “Gee, I should’ve thought of that,” Chris mumbled.

  Phil poked Chris in the ribs. “What, and get your air guitar all wet?”

  “By the way,” said the older student, “I’m Leo Kabnis. You guys are in 5-M, right?”

  The three freshmen nodded.

  “Then I’m your freshman counselor,” Leo said.

  As they made their introductions, the door to the bathroom opened and a scruffy-faced young man in
a rumpled bathrobe entered. His long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. “Hey, Leo, how ya doing?” he grunted as he passed the group.

  “Max, my man, what’s up?” Leo said.

  “Not much. Just getting cleaned up for dinner.”

  “How’s Irwin?”

  “He’s taking an after-dinner nap.” Max hung his bathrobe on a hook and stepped into the shower stall.

  “I won’t ask what he ate,” Leo said with a laugh.

  “Who’s Irwin?” Chris asked.

  “Max’s pet.”

  “What kind of pet?” Phil asked.

  Leo flashed an evasive grin. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What does this mysterious pet eat?” Jimmy pressed.

  “Let’s just say you’d be wise to keep your little fish away from Max’s room,” Leo answered enigmatically. He retrieved his shaving kit from the end of the row of sinks. “I’d like to talk to you guys some more, get to know you better. How about if we all have dinner together tonight?”

  The three freshmen said they’d like that.

  “Then let’s meet in my room in half an hour,” Leo said, opening the bathroom door. “I’m in 5-A, right by the stairway.”

  The freshmen returned to their room and busied themselves without feeling the need to talk. Jimmy put bowl and Siggy, now quiescent, on the window sill, no doubt for its excellent view, and with nothing to unpack—his luggage having taken a wrong turn at the airport in Charleston—he settled down with the Holyfield Herald. Chris, wearing a pair of headphones attached to a tape player on his belt, hummed to himself as he worked doggedly but, it seemed to Phil, unproductively through his disorganized belongings. Phil quickly found places for the contents of his suitcases. The rest of his things, his parents had assured him, would arrive by freight in a few days.

  Phil lay on his bed daydreaming for a while, then got up and looked out the open window. Stately trees graced the courtyard and shaded the flagstone pathways that cut across a wide ribbon of green lawn to the limestone dorms and classroom buildings lining all sides of the quad. To his left, Phil could just make out Prospero Gate. To his right was the campus art gallery, beyond which rose the bell tower. Across the quad he saw the main dining hall, Steinbach Commons, and behind that, just across College Street, loomed the grandest building on campus.