Lessons I Never Learned at Meadowbrook Academy (3 page)

Both my dad and my mom just barely finished high school. Although my mother swears she has a beautician's license, I've never seen it and she's never worked as a beautician, so the whole thing is rather suspect. My dad likes to say we're “salt of the earth” kind of people. I hate it when he says this because it makes me feel like we sprouted straight from dirt.

I walked toward the double glass doors. Kids were swarming all around; heavy chatter filled the air. I made sure not to look at anyone and decided to occupy myself by looking at people's shoes as they scurried by.

I think it's true that you can learn a lot about someone by the type of shoes they wear. I personally was sporting a highly nondescript pair of brown (fake) leather lace-ups, also compliments of Kmart. I spotted a pair of trendy snakeskin ankle boots, or at least they looked like snakeskin. They were brown and white with just a hint of green running between the scales. I wondered what the snake was like who died to make those shoes and if, in the snake community, it was considered an honor to be transformed into a lavish pair of footwear.

Another pair of feet quickly ran past, and I noticed the black leather penny loafers attached to them. I loathed penny loafers. My mother bought me a pair of loafers last year. She shoved a quarter in them, instead of a penny, because she thought that would make them look more expensive. I used one as a pen holder, filled the other with rocks and used it as a doorstop, and took the two quarters to buy a candy bar.

A very sophisticated pair of navy blue, high-heeled pumps strutted by.
Perhaps looking at people's shoes wasn't the best idea. It was making me very anxious. My palms and armpits started to sweat. My family genetics yielded a plethora of physical undesirables, two of them being an unreasonable amount of facial hair and sweat glands that behave like an unpredictable sprinkler system.

I wiped my hands across my pants to dry them off. I glanced down at my light brown cords, now covered with two moist handprints. Humiliating. Everything about me was humiliating.

“The bell rang. You don't want to get a detention on the first day, do you?”

I turned to see a petite, thin woman with thin brown hair tightly pulled back into a bun. Her pale blue eyes were covered with a pair of square, silver, wire-framed glasses. Her skin was so white I could see the veins in her face. She had on a light grey suit with a cream silk shirt and black flats. And she smelled like mothballs.

I had been so absorbed staring at footwear that I hadn't even heard the bell ring.

“Last name?” She held onto a small wooden clipboard.

“Romano.”

She flipped through some pages and pursed her lips. “Sophomore…Romano. Go into the auditorium and find a seat in the third or fourth rows. Morning meeting is about to start and if you are late, you will get a detention. I am in charge of all disciplinary action at the academy, and I abhor tardiness.” She lifted her finger, which was so thin it looked like a twig, and pointed to the left. “Chop, chop, a Meadowbrook girl is always on time.”

I took a few steps to my left. I really could've just made a run for it. You know, hide out in Christine's basement for a couple of years until this whole thing blew over. I looked back and Twiggy Finger was still pointing the way. Nothing short of me vanishing into thin air would get me out of this situation now. I guess I had just become a Meadowbrook girl.

Two large potted trees—not plants, but actual big huge trees—were on either side of the auditorium door. It blew me away that rich people had trees indoors. I had seen an episode of MTV
Cribs
where this famous rock singer had a house in Italy, and since it was located on top of a mountain, there weren't any trees around. The rock singer said something like, “Well, when you have more money than God, you can just buy nature.” So he had trees imported and grew them inside his house. It was very bizarre and I remember feeling that there was something entirely wrong about the whole thing. That somehow nature just shouldn't be for sale.

An older Asian boy wearing a pastel pink Polo shirt pushed past me. Now clearly, I don't claim to be any kind of fashion expert, but a pastel pink shirt with a stupid emblem of a stupid polo player on a stupid horse is just stupid. My mother always said that horses were for the royal family and everyone else had dogs. I used this plea for my birthday once, but I got a banged-up hamster instead of the yellow lab puppy I was begging for.

The pink Polo shirt boy let the auditorium door shut in my face. I rolled my eyes. Looks like I was invisible again. I put my hand on the wooden door and pushed, but it was surprisingly heavy, so I used both my hands.

As I inched the door open, a wave of hushed voices hit me in the face. I stepped inside and felt…terrified. I saw the Polo shirt idiot obnoxiously push his way through the back row to an open seat that was being saved for him by two other Polo-shirt-wearing idiots. They all high-fived each other and made grunting noises.

The aisle in front of me was covered in red carpet. I darted my eyes over the entire auditorium to take it all in. There were polished dark wooden seats upholstered in deep burgundy red velvet, graceful figures of angels holding outstretched scrolls etched into the cream ceiling, and a black glossy stage that looked like it belonged on Broadway.

The auditorium reminded me of the very posh Paper Mill Playhouse in Milburn, New Jersey. I know about the Paper Mill Playhouse because when my dad receives a “hefty” Christmas bonus, he takes me there to see
The Nutcracker
. He calls it our special day, just for the two of us. My favorite part is when Clara meets the Sugar Plum Fairy for the first time and then they do a whole bunch of fancy dances. My dad's favorite part is when Clara takes off her slipper and bonks the Mouse King in the head, knocking him out cold. He always leans over to me during this part and says, “Now that's what you do if you're ever in trouble.” And I always nod, armed with the knowledge of how to protect myself.

A young female teacher sitting on an aisle seat touched my arm, reminding me where I was.

“Go sit down, please,” she said.

I nodded and realized I was pretty much the only person not sitting. I quickly headed down the aisle, which began to feel intolerably long. There was a wooden podium set up on the corner of the stage and a majestic-looking red velvet curtain hung down behind it. In a gigantic orange circle on the front of the podium were three black symbols inside a triangle. The symbols were a candle, a harp, and an opened book. Beneath the triangle in purple lettering, it read:
Into the light brings learning and might.
Meadowbrook Academy Established 1904.

I could still hear muffled chatter going on, but apart from that, everyone was behaving. I couldn't believe it. At West Orange during homeroom, we'd be throwing stuff, yelling at each other, and no doubt someone would be making inappropriate fart sounds with their armpit or their butt, but all of these kids were just being…good. It was odd. And highly uncomfortable.

I had almost reached the rows assigned for sophomores when a burst of cool air from a vent in the ceiling hit my face. It made me feel better for about one second until I heard some girl say, “Nice shirt,” and start to giggle. My cheeks grew warm and I was sure I had turned bright red. I became hyperaware of my man's Kmart shirt scratching against my thighs. If I had more of my senses about me, I probably would have turned around and called that girl a
bitch
, but I was just so desperate to sit down. Besides, she was right; I did look stupid.

I found myself imagining Christine showing up today at West Orange. She told me she was going to wear her white skinny jeans and a tight, fluorescent pink tank top that made her boobs look big. She had also just gotten her nose pierced (she and her mom did it together) and was planning on putting in a black crystal stud.

My parents have hated Christine since the day I met her. They blamed her for my “bad attitude.” My mother insisted I stop hanging out with her after I got suspended, but I blatantly didn't listen.

“I don't care that Christine's mother doesn't care about what her daughter does with her life. She's not my daughter, you are. And I'll tell you something: you're too young for boys,” my mother said, “and you're gonna get in trouble and find yourself pregnant, and I will be the last person on earth to raise that baby.”

That's how my summer vacation started. My parents sat me down and told me that they had sent in an admittance application to Meadowbrook because apparently, in their opinion, I was headed toward self-destruction of inconceivable proportion. After the initial application was accepted, I had to take a series of tests at a local testing center to secure a spot in the sophomore class. My mother forced me to go or she swore I would be grounded for six months. It's true that I had stopped caring about my grades at West Orange, but I'll admit my ego did want to prove something. So I aced every test and then, at the bottom of each page, signed my name as “Donald Duck.”

Later that night, my dad returned home from a three-day route up to some pharmaceutical company in Canada. He had on grey overalls with his name embroidered in red on the left pocket. Sitting on the edge of my bed, he crossed his legs and just looked at me. His eyes reminded me of the chocolate chips in a chocolate chip cookie. They were always so warm and inviting. His dark brown hair was slicked back, and his face had some smudges of dirt on it.

“What?” I said.

“I was just wondering how Huey, Dewey, and Louie were doing?”

I pulled the covers over my head. My dad told me that he and my mother warned the Head of Admissions I might try something shifty. I knew my gig was up. He also told me that I had received the highest scores on those tests, compared to everyone else in the incoming sophomore class. From under the covers I mumbled, “Like I care.” But in all honesty, I did.

Another burst of cool air hit me in the face. I had managed to make it to the front of the auditorium without tumbling, or falling, or cracking my head wide open.

I quickly scanned the first two rows, taking in all the unsuspecting freshman. The panic written across so many of their faces. I remember feeling this way last year. A surge of rage filled my chest. I was a sophomore now. It wasn't fair that I had to feel this way all over again.

I turned and saw that there was only one empty seat, directly in the middle of the third row. Now I had to squeeze my way through people's legs and book bags. This just sucked.

I started to excuse and pardon my way across the aisle to the open seat. I was skillfully trying not to make eye contact with anyone when the most horrible thing that could happen in this moment…happened to me. I twisted my body around, aiming to sit down gracefully, but somehow I lost my balance and fell. I didn't fall on the floor or my seat. I fell on a person. Head first, directly onto the lap of a sophomore boy. Instantly I heard a ripple of laughter from the kids sitting in the row behind me.

Wedged between the floor and this kid's knees, I resolved that my young life was over. The headlines would read, “First Girl Ever to Die of Humiliation,” and I was really okay with that. There'd be no need for an elaborate funeral, just something small and functional.

“Are you okay?” I heard the boy say. “Here, let me help you.”

I felt a hand on my back. I grabbed my purple canvas book bag, which had somehow gotten pushed under his seat, as he put his hand under my right shoulder and helped me to stand. I quickly sat down and stared at the floor. I felt the blood pumping in my face, and I heard my pulse pounding in my ears. The jerks sitting directly behind me were laughing.

Jerk-ass boy number one said, “Wow, you give some good head.” This comment, of course, sent his other jerk-ass friend into complete hysterics.

I was trapped in the middle of the third row, with nowhere to run and absolutely nowhere to hide. I wondered for a split second if incredibly important people, like the President of the United States, ever had to put up with crap like this.

The boy sitting next to me turned around toward the jerk-asses. “Don't be such douchebags. Will you?”

“Ohhhh, sorry, dude. Didn't mean to ruin your blow job,” Jerk-Ass One said.

“Whatever, dude.” The boy sitting next to me turned back around and leaned toward me. “Don't let them bother you. The only blow jobs they know are the ones they give each other.”

I could feel his smile. I felt myself start to smile, too. I mean, his comeback was good, something I might have even said.

I looked up and for the first time, I saw him. There he was, the boy that picked me up off the dirty ground and defended my noble honor. There he was, the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my entire life. He wasn't physically perfect like one of those male models from J.Crew or Abercrombie & Fitch, but there was just something real about his face. He reminded me of the guy that fed the sea lions at the Turtle Back Zoo, whom I'd had a crush on since I was five.

This boy had dirty blond hair that was messy and sort of flopped over his dark green eyes. His face was really angular, like a piece of art, and he had a big nose, just sort of pointing the way. His lips were full, like two little peachy pillows, but best of all, he was wearing a white, long-sleeved button-down, just like me.

“I'm Thaddeus, or Thad,” he said.

“Roberta. I mean, I'm Roberta…”

Thaddeus tucked his dirty blond hair behind his ear and I was lost. Lost for words, lost for proper sentence structure, and lost for the moisture in my mouth, which seemed to have mysteriously disappeared.

I forced myself to stop staring at him and looked at the stage instead. My heart was racing and thoughts were pinging in my head like a pinball machine. Nobody, absolutely nobody, in this school knew me before.

Maybe this was my chance to start all over.

Maybe this was my chance to be somebody different other than boring, unpopular, disliked…me.

I shifted my backpack on my lap.

Perhaps I had gotten it all wrong.

Perhaps this was the best day of my life.