I hesitated, and she grabbed my hand and put the ring on me. It fit well.
"Tomorrow, we conquer new worlds," she declared, hugged and kissed me, and went into her bedroom.
I remember thinking I must be more like Wade. Almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was asleep. I did wake up in the middle of the night, but I thought I was still asleep and dream.ing. I heard what sounded again like Ami's muffled sobbing. I listened, and then it stopped. I was just too tired to get up and see if anyone was out there. In seconds I was back to sleep and didn't wake until my phone rang and I heard Wade say, "I knew she would oversleep and not call you. It's time to get up and dressed. I'll be taking you to school and enrolling you," he added.
"Thank you," I said.
I lay there for a moment or two, trying to make sense out of the night, the dreams, and then got up.
When I opened my bedroom door to go downstairs to breakfast, I found a small head of garlic tied to the handle.
This time, I left it there.
.
"She will be full of apologies later," Wade told me after we got into his car and started for the Dickinson School. "Of course, she'll also tell you it wasn't that serious to miss your first day. You could have enrolled just as well later in the day or the next day. Schedules, rules, appointments, were never that important to Ami. I'm afraid her parents were what are euphemistically called permissive parents these days. She was practically on her own from the day she could walk and talk.
"She doesn't mean to be hurtful, however. And I am trying to change her, get her to be more responsible. I wouldn't admit it to her," he added, smiling at me, "but I actually enjoy the way she handles some of my and my father's more conceited acquaintances. She has a lot more courage than I do when it comes to things like that.
"Anyway, I'm sure you'll like the teachers at this school. A student like you will be a breath of fresh air to them, believe me. Just don't pick up any of the bad habits littering the hallways, lockers, and girls' bathrooms. Everyone has bad habits. Rich kids simply have more money to spend on them."
"Did you attend a private school?" I asked him, assuming he was giving me the benefit of his own experiences.
"Me?" He laughed. "No, my father believed a school was a school was a school. What difference did it make where you attended? 'One and one is two in any school in the country, Wade,' he was fond of saying. My family could easily have afforded to send me to a private school," he added with some bitterness running through his voice. "I was always a good student, so he thought it didn't matter, but the truth is, I would have gotten a better education. My teachers were too occupied with discipline problems. The one good thing about private school is they can throw you out more easily. Whenever there is money involved, even permissive parents suddenly take more interest.
"I was accepted to Harvard Business, but my father made me attend a far less expensive institution in Albany. 'You're going to end up working for me anyway,' he would tell me. 'What difference does it make what's written on your diploma?' My mother was on my side, but by then she was sickly, and I didn't want to cause any more havoc around her."
He looked at me and smiled.
"I know. Here I am describing how difficult my life was, and there you are probably wishing you had my opportunities."
I didn't want to say, No, never--I don't envy you at all. I thought it would hurt his feelings if I said such a thing, so I simply smiled back.
"So you do remember a lot of your early life, living on that farm?"
"Remarkably, yes," I said.
"One of these days I'd like to hear about it. I read stuff, of course, and to be honest, I thought you would be quite different from the way you are, having been brought up in a world full of mysticism and superstition. To her credit, I suppose, Ami never had any reservations about you. From what I see so far, she might be smarter than I am."
"Thank you," I said. I hesitated, but since he had made reference to mysticism and superstition, I asked about Mrs. Cukor.
"Other people might not keep her on so long with her so-called peculiarities," I commented.
"Probably not, but she's very protective of the Emersons. She was truly a second mother to me at times, and Dad believes she brings him good luck. Keeps the evil stuff away," he added. "He's more into that sort of thing than you'd think, and Mrs. Cukor has ways of convincing him she's protecting us all."
"I know exactly what you mean."
"Yes. Ami told me what she put under your pillow."
"Today I found a piece of garlic on my door handle," I said. I didn't tell him I had left it there after I had found it.
"I'll talk to her, but she'll do things like that from time to time. Just ignore it if you can, unless she starts putting garlic in your makeup," he added, and we both laughed. "There it is," he said, nodding.
The Dickinson School was directly ahead on the right. The tan brick one-story building was sprawled over acres of beautiful land, with a large, beautiful fountain in front. The three steps that led up to the en-trance were long and coffee-tinted, with wide pilasters on both sides. There was a flagpole with a flag snap-ping in the breeze. To the right was a parking lot with dozens of late-model cars. Some had just pulled into parking spaces, and students emerged, many moving in slow, reluctant steps toward the side entrance.
"There are only a hundred or so students here, if that many," Wade said. "It's just a high school, grades nine through twelve."
"Really? My class at my public school had nearly eighty students alone."
"Well, this is special. I think the teacher-student ratio is something like nine to one. My father never understood how that sort of situation allows for more personal attention. I suppose it has its pros and cons. If you burp, the whole student body hears about it," he added, laughing.
We pulled into an empty parking space and stepped out.
"Despite its size, or because of it, this really is an impressive school. They don't have much of a basketball team, and they're too small for football, but they do have winning golf and tennis teams."
"I never played either," I said.
"Oh? Well, we have our own tennis court, so I'll break you into the game, not that I'm much of an athlete. My father is actually quite the tennis player, even now. He loves playing against me to prove he hasn't lost his youthful vigor," Wade said as we walked up to the front steps. "I attended a play here once, so I know they have a good drama club. The daughter of a friend was the lead. That was two years ago. She's graduated and attends Vassar. They usually get their graduates into top schools," he said.
He opened the front door. I took a deep breath and stepped into the small but plush school lobby. The gold-tiled floors glimmered as did the three black marble columns. There were dark wood and glass display cases filled with trophies, and paintings of beautiful rustic scenes on all the walls. Etched on the far wall was THE DICKINSON SCHOOL. Underneath that was a bust on a black marble pedestal. Wade quickly pointed out that the bust was of Zachary Dickinson, the founder of the school and its original benefactor. He told me Zachary Dickinson was a businessman who had made a fortune in the furniture industry. When we drew closer and I could look at the bust better, I thought he looked like Bob Hope.
There were two hallways, one on the far left and one on the far right. The one on the left had a plaque indicating that the administrative offices were there. I was quite struck by the silence in the building. Unlike any school I had attended, this seemed deserted. Even when classes were in session at my former high school, there were students moving about, making noises, shouting to each other, going to bathrooms, or simply wandering without permission.
At the beginning of the hallway was a door on the left; a gold plaque beside it read "Central Office." I gazed down the remainder of the hallway. All the classroom doors and other office doors were closed. There was no one in the hallway, and it was just as quiet as it was in the lobby. The walls were clean, without any posters or signs, and the hallway looked as if it had just been washed and polished. A series of tubular neon bulbs down the center of the hallway ceil-ing cast a yellowish white light over the walls and floor.
Before Wade reached for the office doorknob, we heard another door open and some voices echoing up from the rear of the building. Two boys walked in from the parking lot. I could see that one had hair close in color to mine, though in the yellowish light it looked somewhat redder. In fact, for a moment it looked to me like his head was on fire. The other boy had dark hair and was a few inches shorter. They laughed at something, paused to look our way, and then entered a room.
I entered the office after Wade opened the door. Unlike the offices at my old school, this was like stepping into a library. The two women working at their desks behind the counter were speaking softly to each other. Everything was neat and orderly; even the bulletin board on the immediate left had
announcements perfectly pinned in straight, even columns. There was none of the turmoil and frantic activity I was used to seeing in a central school office.
One of the women appeared about sixty, the other more like thirty. They both looked at us, and then the older woman , stayed at her desk while the younger woman approached the counter.
"May I help you?" she asked, and smiled at me.
"I'm Wade Emerson. My wife and I spoke with Mrs. Brentwood about Celeste's enrollment this morning," he said.
It didn't occur to me until then that Ami would have wanted to tell them I was her cousin. After all, she and I had gone through the fabrication of my history just the evening before. But wouldn't the office personnel know the truth anyway? I wondered.
"Oh. Just one moment," the woman said, and returned to her desk to use the phone. She spoke as softly into it as she had been speaking with her associate.
Almost immediately, the principal's office door opened, and Mrs. Brentwood appeared. Dressed in a charcoal skirt suit and white blouse, she looked as elegant and as pretty as she had when I saw her in the restaurant.
"Mr. Emerson, how nice to see you. Please, come in," she said, stepping back.
"Thank you," Wade said. He waited for me to go first.
"Hi," Mrs. Brentwood said, smiling. "You must be Celeste." She offered me her hand.
"Hi," I said, shaking it, and we walked into her office.
If she had seen Ami, me, and Wade at the restaurant the night before, she didn't care to mention it.
"I was under the impression your wife was bringing her around," she told Wade when she noticed Ami wasn't behind us.
"So was I," he said drily. "Actually, this works out well for me. It's on the way to work."
She raised her eyebrows, softened her smile even more, and went behind her desk.
"Please," she said, indicating the chairs in front of her desk.
I sat, and Wade did the same.
"First, let me welcome you officially and informally, Celeste," she said to me. "I'm impressed with your school record. It's nice to have a straight-A student come here, and I see you won an essay contest at your school last year as well."
"You have all that already?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. Mrs. Emerson arranged for that last week."
"Last week? But how--" I clamped my lips shut and glanced at Wade, who swung his eyes toward me and then turned back to Mrs. Brentwood.
"I just hope you're not so far ahead of the other students in your classes that you get bored and impatient. All of your teachers know about your arrival, by the way. They are all anxious to meet you. Here is your schedule," she said, handing me a card. "I'll take you around and familiarize you with the building. You'll find we can do that in minutes," she added, her eyes twinkling. "We're probably a third of the size of your former school, but we like being cozy."
"You have all the phone numbers, all the information you might need, then?" Wade asked her.
"Yes, we do." She looked down at an open folder. "Including dates of her inoculations. Very complete. It's all here," she emphasized. "This is a booklet about the Dickinson School, Celeste," she continued, handing a blue-and-gold-bound pamphlet to me. "Those are the school colors, by the way," she added. "The booklet will tell you our history, explain our policies, our rules. There is also a list of all the electives available for our seniors. And that is really the only decision left for you to make concerning your official schedule. You have period five free, and you can choose art history, drama-speech, or creative writing and journalism. That class does the school paper. Any of that catch your interest?"
"I think creative writing and journalism," I said.
"Yes, that's right. You won that essay contest. Wonderful. Mr. Feldman will be so pleased. He needs more soldiers in his troop. Well, then," she continued, and reached for another pamphlet on her desk. "This is for our parents, Mr. Emerson. It lists the school activities, open houses, events that we hope our parents will attend. We're rather proud of the support our parents give the school."
Wade took it, glanced at it, and nodded.
"Of course. We'll do what we can."
"Good." She glanced at her watch. "Well, we have about ten minutes before classes begin. All the students are in homeroom at the moment. Yours is room twelve, the senior homeroom. We'll get started immediately. I'll show you around. Care to join us, Mr. Emerson?"
"I think I have to get on to work. Seems like I'm leaving her in good hands," Wade said, rising quickly.
"You are," Mrs. Brentwood said. "Please don't hesitate to call me if you or Mrs. Emerson have any questions."
"Will do," Wade said. He turned, paused, and then turned back to me. "Good luck, Celeste. Something tells me you won't need it, however," he added, and left.
For a moment I felt abandoned. It was only a pass-ing feeling, but it shot through me like a sharp knife cutting through a marshmallow. I was dangling. Not just a fish out of water, but a fish with no sense of where she belonged in the first place. Who were these people? What kind of a world had I entered? How could I possibly fit in and be comfortable?
"Now then, Celeste," Mrs. Brentwood said. Her voice was suddenly sterner, harder. I turned with some surprise. "Let's you and I have what I call my Come to Jesus meeting. We have plenty of time. Sit again," she ordered, her eyes no longer soft blue, but a cold gray.
I sat and waited while she went to the window, closed the shade, and then turned back to me.
"I am pleased to see you have achieved such good grades at your public school," she began, pronouncing the word
public
as though it soiled her tongue to do so. "But I am also aware of how good grades are some-times given out charitably or simply to take the easier route. I know how burdened and stressed out the teachers are in our public schools and how they avoid any conflict they can."
"I earned my grades with hard work. No one has ever given me a pass unless I deserved it," I countered. "For almost all of my life, I had no one to defend me or stand up for me if I was treated unfairly, Mrs. Brentwood. My teachers had no fear of any conflicts."
Her eyes sharpened, narrowed, but her lips remained taut.
"Yes, that might be true, but I am also aware of how children without proper parents and home lives can contaminate those that have them," she said.
To me it felt as if she had reached across the desk and slapped me across the face. I winced and pulled myself back in the seat.