Family Storms (22 page)

“You mean because I seem to be as smart as you are? That's easy. You're not mentally seventeen.”

“Keep it up, but remember this. Don't break any of my rules, or you'll be sorrier than you are.”

She left, and I stood there for a few moments looking at the closed door. Alena couldn't have been happy to have her as an older sister, I thought. I went into my sitting room to watch television and get my mind off Kiera and the next day. I did go to bed early, but I didn't fall asleep for a long time. Would I be able to pull off the story Mr. and Mrs. March had created about me? That, plus wondering whether or not Mrs. Kepler was right about my readiness, was enough to keep me tossing and turning. Finally, I fell asleep, but I slept so deeply that if it weren't for Mrs. March shaking me in the morning, I wouldn't have gotten up in time. She looked more excited than I was.

“Although you're much older than Alena was when she first went to school, I feel as if it's the same sort of morning. She was such an independent little girl. She didn't want me to come along. ‘I'll be just fine, Mother,' she told me. ‘It isn't necessary for you to be there.' Can you imagine a five-year-old saying that? she never knew, but I was there watching her from a little distance to be sure she was all right.

“Well, don't worry,” she continued, bringing my uniform
in from the closet. “I won't be following you. I'm absolutely positive you'll be fine. Come right down to breakfast as soon as you're dressed. Now, I've got to see if Kiera is up. Just because her father has permitted her to drive, she'll wait until the last minute for everything. I'll be waiting for you in the breakfast dining area,” she said, and left.

I washed and dressed and fixed my hair quickly and then hurried down to breakfast.

“Was Kiera up?” I asked, taking my seat and seeing that she wasn't there.

For a moment, I thought Mrs. March hadn't heard me, she was that deep in thought. But she had.

“Surprise of surprises. She wasn't only up and ready, but she was on her way out. Seems she and a few of her friends decided to have breakfast on the way to school.”

Mrs. Duval came in with orange juice, Mrs. Caro's home-baked rolls, and a tray of jams.

“Mrs. Caro's preparing your scrambled eggs just the way you like them,” she told me. I had mentioned once that I liked them with cheese, and she often made them for me that way. “Mrs. Caro says a good breakfast is the best way to start at a new school,” Mrs. Duval added.

“I agree. I'm sure Kiera and her friends won't have half as good a breakfast as you will,” Mrs. March said.

I started to drink my juice. “Is Mr. March back?”

“No,” she said. “He had to stay over an extra day.”

I thought she was angry about it, but then she smiled. “That's okay,” she said. “I'm busy today with charity committee meetings, a lunch at the golf club, and then some quick shopping at Saks in Beverly Hills before I rush home
to hear about your first day. Here,” she said, reaching down to take something out of her purse. It was a cell phone. “This is yours. My number is right here already,” she explained, showing me. “You simply press one, and it calls me. So, if you need anything, don't hesitate.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking it.

“That's a very sophisticated cell phone. It takes pictures, but I'm sure you know all about those things.”

“No. We never had one,” I said, looking at it.

“Oh. Here's the booklet for it,” she said, and gave it to me. “But for now, all you need to know is how to call me if you need me.”

“This is the surprise you promised?”

“No. That's waiting in the limousine,” she said.

Now I was really curious.

Mrs. Duval brought in my scrambled eggs and stood back to watch me gobble them up. My nervousness made me hungry. Afterward, when I went out to get into the limousine, I saw that Mrs. Duval and Mrs. Caro had joined Mrs. March to watch me go. Grover opened the door for me, and I looked back at them.

“Good luck, dearie,” Mrs. Caro called.

“Yes, good luck,” Mrs. Duval said.

Mrs. March stood, smiling but looking like someone who was smiling through tears.

I got into the limousine. All alone in the big automobile, I felt even smaller and more helpless than ever. Grover got in, looked back at me, winked, and then drove us away.

Then I turned and saw the gift on the seat. Slowly, I unwrapped it.

Mrs. March had bought me a leather book bag, which she had filled with pens and pencils, pads, paper clips, almost anything any student would need. On the outside of the bag, embossed in gold, she had my name, but because of the fictional biography, it read “Sasha March.”

She had managed to justify changing my last name. Now I wondered if she would find a way to change my first name.

17
School

N
o one seemed to pay any particular attention to me when I stepped out of the limousine, even with a uniformed driver holding my door. Perhaps to the students at that school, it was nothing out of the ordinary to see one of them dropped off in a limousine. From the looks on their faces as they hurried into the building, shouted to each other, embraced, shook hands, and even kissed, I could see that most of the students knew one another. Except for the ones coming into seventh grade from elementary school, I wondered how many new students like me there were.

Since they didn't take much notice of my limousine, I wondered if they would take much notice of my limp. Even though it had been a while, I was still quite conscious of it. I walked as if the bottom of my right foot was stepping on hot coals.

When I entered, I saw the sign on the marble wall pointing to the principal's office. Everything looked immaculate, from the polished tile floors to the gleaming windows
and the glittering desktops I could see through open classroom doors. It wasn't a very big school lobby, so the chatter reverberated all around me. A small blond boy, probably a seventh-grader, bumped into me and then turned to flash an excited smile, apologizing. Before I could respond, he was gone. I walked slowly to the principal's office.

The front desk was already crowded with other students who had questions and problems and two young women, dressed almost as stylishly as Mrs. March, were answering questions and passing out papers. I stepped up behind the last student in line.

The lady on the right saw me and whispered something to the other woman. Then she went around to the counter gate and beckoned. I wasn't sure she was beckoning to me, but she kept doing it until I pointed to myself and she nodded. All of the students waiting suddenly paused to look at me as I went up to the gate.

“You're Sasha March, right?”

“Yes.” I imagined she had been told that I was someone with Asian features.

“I'm Mrs. Knox. Dr. Steiner wanted me to bring you to her as soon as you arrived. Come through,” she said, stepping back.

I followed her to the principal's office door. She smiled at me and knocked.

“Yes,” we heard.

She opened it enough to peer in and told Dr. Steiner I was here.

“Send her right in, Louise,” I heard her say. Mrs. Knox stepped back and held the door open for me.

Dr. Steiner was a stout woman with a heavy bosom. She wore a dark brown skirt suit with a frilly-collared blouse. She had curly, gray-stained dark brown hair and looked about five foot two at the most. Except for lipstick, she wore no makeup, not even to cover what looked like tiny freckles or age spots on the crests of her cheeks. She was standing behind her desk when I entered and for a few moments simply stared at me the way someone would study a stranger to see if he or she was what was expected.

“Welcome to Pacifica High School, Sasha,” she said, and nodded at the chair in front of her desk. “I'm Dr. Steiner.”

I sat. I didn't realize it, but I was clutching my new book bag against my stomach as if I was afraid someone would steal it. It reminded me of the way Mama had worn her purse in front to avoid it being stolen when she walked through the streets. Dr. Steiner looked at the way I was holding my book bag, smiled, and sat. I relaxed my grip.

“I imagine you're a little frightened about entering a new school, but I want you to know you needn't be. I have a wonderful, bright, and caring staff working here. You'll discover we're like one big family,” she said.

When she spoke, she sounded a little nasal, like someone with a bad cold. Her grayish blue eyes widened at the ends of her sentences. She had her left hand palm down on the desk, but she held her right hand up with her index finger out and pumped it up and down to emphasize what she was saying. When I didn't say anything, she continued.

“I've spoken with your tutor, Mrs. Kepler, and she is confident that you are ready for the ninth-grade work ahead of you. I have a high regard for her opinion, so I'm sure
she's correct. This is your class schedule,” she said, lifting a card no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. “Your classes and your teachers' names are on it. On the back is our motto.” She turned it over and read, “Pacifica High School, where everyone strives to be all he or she can be.”

She leaned forward.

“Despite your recent history, Sasha, there is no reason for you not to be all you can be. I want you to know that I personally will do all that I can to help you achieve that, and I feel confident that your teachers here will do so, as well. They're a dedicated bunch.

“Now, then,” she continued, sitting back. “I promised Mrs. March that I would personally see if you had any problems and personally escort you to your homeroom. There is a very nice young lady classmate of yours, Lisa Dirk, who has volunteered to be your big sister for today. She has the same schedule you have and will show you around, okay?”

I could see that it was bothering her that I hadn't spoken.

“Is there anything you'd like to ask me before we go to your homeroom and meet Mr. Hoffman?”

“No,” I said.

“No? Well, I'm sure there will be things as you get started, and if you can't get the answers from your teachers or other students, you come knocking on my door, okay?”

I nodded.

“I have been told you are artistic. I know that Mr. Longo, our art teacher for the senior high, will be excited about that.”

“I don't know if I'm artistic.”

“Sasha,” she said, leaning toward me and smiling, revealing tiny teeth. “You will quickly discover that at this school, modesty is a disadvantage. Take pride in what you can do. Of course,” she added, “many of our students take pride even though they can't do. I don't know all that much about you, of course, but I'm willing to bet that self-confidence doesn't come easy to you right now. I hope that will change.” Her eyes narrowed. She sounded and looked as if it had better change. “Okay, then, come along,” she said, rising. “Let's get you started on a wonderful school year. I'll take you right to your locker first and give you the combination.”

She reached out for me as she came around her desk and surprised me by putting her arm around my shoulders. When she opened the door, I saw that the students who had been in the outer office were gone. Mrs. Knox and her associate both turned and looked at us with a surprised smile. Dr. Steiner still had her arm around me.

“Mrs. Knox. Mrs. Frazer, this is Sasha March, our newest student. Please make her feel at home. We're going to her locker and then to Mr. Hoffman's homeroom,” she told them. “Man the fort.”

They both nodded and looked at me as if I, not Kiera March, were the rich man's daughter. Was Dr. Steiner giving me this special treatment because of Mrs. March or because of what Mrs. March had told her about me? Whichever reason it was, I didn't feel good about it. I hoped this would be the first and last time I'd be singled out for any privileged treatment. It wasn't that long ago since I was last in school, and I remembered all too well how students would resent others whom their teachers favored.