Authors: Emily Franklin
I managed to wrangle a straight boy (the very cute and way too preppy Haveford Pomroy — perhaps I’ll have-er-ford him…heh) to help with the yearbook candid spread. He’s got an eye for details (just call me details). His sister, Chilton, will be a new sophomore next year — one to watch, I’m sure. Chili (that’s not beans n’ slop, but Chilton’s nickname, for those in the know) visited last weekend and we had a BLAST. She’s slumming on the Vineyard this summer — maybe you’ll see her there??? Ah, summer sounds so good right now.
Alas, college crap awaits, and my straight-for-now buddy, Haverford, is due to arrive any sec. You know the only reason I wanted to be photo editor of the yearbook is so I can demand all the candid shots be of us or ones that make LP look like the reigning queen of Bitch or Blemish. Oops — maybe I’m competing with her in that category! I must stop the gossip train.
Am meeting your lovely Aunt Mable for a burger the day after tomorrow if she’s up for it — don’t you miss Bartley’s? I’ll order extra onions on your behalf.
Xxs Awlays,
Chris
Valentine’s had passed without much aplomb. Arabella got a bouquet of day lilies from Sir Toby, and I was stuck in my former dorm hell, and I can’t say I missed the frenzy of flowers or forgotten romantic gestures. Chris’s email leaves me with enough gossip that I’m full for a good couple of days, but I make a note to write back and demand he tell me more about Chilton David. Chili. Or Chilly. It’d be nice to have friend on the Vineyard, even if she’s a sophomore. And I wish I either didn’t know about Jacob’s novella, or, now that I do, that I could get a glimpse of what’s in there, even if it means doing some Hadley espionage. Cordelia drinking — looking back, I guess I could see it coming, but it’s sad anyway. Maybe she’ll be like Drew Barrymore and emerge a different person, with her life better for her past troubles. Or, more likely, she’ll brag about rehab and just use it to gain as a form of ill-gotten attention.
Maybe I should write a novella for extra credit. Or do trig. Or perform a one-girl show with kittens and an emu. Or maybe I should forget all that and just deal with my day to day here — which sounds like a better plan. I have next year to revert to the Hadley code of conduct and slumming around for activities in the college application add-on route.
After rehearsal ends (during which I must confess I found myself mouthing along to the songs — Arabella nearly chants the music day and night, shower included), we head out to meet Fizzy and Keena at Pizza Express. Rather than do as the name suggests, however, we settle in for a wine, dough, and salad evening. It’s become our customary mid-week thing; to meet here and give ourselves the luxury of two hours spent hanging and heckling each other. Of course, now that Keena has the recently gained knowledge that is my boyfriend, she’ll have to keep mum (nod to the Queen) about it. Plus, she never spilled the beans (baked or otherwise) about her big hush-hush thing, so maybe we’re even.
“Well, first thing’s first,” I say. “I talked to him again today, and Mable’s doing fine — no post-operative infections or anything. And — big breath — it seems as though my dad has met someone.”
Keena slings her postal bag filled with books and papers down on the ground underneath the table and sits in one of the café chairs. “God, don’t you hate that phrase? It’s such a pathetic attempt at masking the reality — um, hallo, I’m shagging someone.”
I make a face and flick her shoulder. “Gross, please keep from mentioning my father and the idea of shagging in the same sentence. The same universe, even.”
“Could be worse,” Fizzy says, “He could be like my dad and have a different woman each time I go home for holidays. It’s got so bad I now just call them all Sheila.” Then Lizzie lights a Silk Cut cigarette that clouds the table so much Arabella shoos her outside to finish.
“I’ll be right back — I told Tobias I’d give a quick ring,” Arabella says.
“You can do it from here, I don’t mind,” I say.
Arabella shakes her head. “No, that’s okay — you two order me a Margharita and a side salad and I won’t be a sec.” Translation: see you when the food gets here.
Before Fizzy flits back, I lean in and say, “All right, Keena, enough’s enough.”
“What?” she asks but knows exactly what I’m after.
“You can’t just leave me hanging.”
“Fine. I have some shagging news myself,” she says and — despite being Ms. Calm Cool Collected — actually blushes a deep maroon.
“Don’t tell me it’s that guy who puked in your sink?” Keena rolls her eyes. “Well, it’s not totally out of order; I mean he was good looking. Disgustingly drunk and puking, but cute.”
“No,” she says, suddenly quiet and serious. “It’s more than just a quick thing, anyway. It’s…real.”
I’m still playing up the joke, trying to think whom she might have bedded down with when Keena raises her chin to show me Fizzy’s on her way back.
“Come on!” I say.
“Someone French,” she says and looks me right in the eyes to check if I’ll flinch. I don’t. She raises one eyebrow to make her point, but I don’t get it. “French. Galen French.”
“My vocal coach? But he’s a faculty member!” No shit. I try to move on from the obvious. “How long?” I ask and right away wish I’d clarified I meant the duration of the affair.
“Two months,” she says and smiles. “More on that subject later, but please — whatever you do — don’t tell my mother.”
“I’m not, though it might come as a surprise, in the habit of discussing your romantic entanglements with PMT — your mother, I mean.”
“Good,” she says.
“What romantic entanglements?” Fizzy asks and plops down in the chair. Keena gives me a look that pleads
find something to avert the confidentiality crisis
. “Don’t let me fill up on garlic bread.” Crisis averted.
When Arabella comes back, looking cheerful and chipper after her TB (touch base) phone call with Toby, I again feel that sinking weight of being dishonest with her. Note to self: think of how to break the news to her or at least hint at it so it doesn’t explode later.
Sometime in between salad and slices (which aren’t really slices but personal ovals of thin-crusted pizza), Keena complains about her all-knowing, campus-powerful mother.
“I hear you,” I say. “I got busted last year at Hadley and my own father suspended me for two days.”
“Christ, that’s bad,” Keena says. “Mine just checks each grade, each paper, with a fucking monocle. She’s determined to see me rise to the top of the Cambridge elite.”
“At least your mum cares,” Fizzy says. “Mine’s too busy dealing with my step-siblings to even notice if I fail. She’s like supermom to them — music classes, baby yoga, everything — and still manages to work at night.”
Arabella cuts off a piece of cheesy dough and eats it then adds, “I don’t mind it, really. Monti and Angus are sort in and out — you know, partially invested because they love me and everything, and part just really into their own lives, you know? Sometimes I think maybe parents don’t have enough going on so they have to pick through their kids’ crap to feel alive.”
“Well, not everyone’s parents are busy entertaining Sting and Trudy,” I say and smile.
Arabella nods, “True. I just think having something else…not just living for your children — helps.” She sips her glass of water, then wipes her mouth on the waxy napkin. “Kind of like Mable.” She explains to Fizzy and Keena, in case they don’t know. “Love’s aunt is, like, really the perfect mix of involved and not. She’s got her café…”
“…and her cancer,” I add, knowing that if Mable were here, she’d appreciate my attempt at humor. “But you’re right. She is good about that — she’ll always talk and ask me about things, but doesn’t have that pressured way of making you feel like there’s always a correct response, or that she’s waiting for me to mess up so she can redirect me.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty much the best,” Arabella adds. She chews her lip which she only does when she’s about to push a subject. Fizzy takes another garlic bread stick and gnaws on it. “Love…”
Keena looks at Arabella, acknowledging some unspoken connection between them. Keena clears her throat. Arabella goes on. “Love? Has it ever…have you ever thought that…?”
Oh my god. She knows. Keena told her. Bitch. Hear comes the Asher tirade. “Have you ever thought that Mable could possibly be…your mother?”
What? What? “What?” it comes out louder than I expected, but I am blown away. Speechless. I sit there in the bizarre fallout and wait for someone to talk.
Finally, Keena does. “We were talking and it’s only that…”
“You guys talk about me?”
“Come on, Love,” Fizzy says. “Everyone talks about everyone.”
“I know that,” I say, defensive as hell. “But not about this — you’re supposed to talk about someone’s sluttiness…” we all look at Fizzy “…or how they’re always convinced they’re right…” switch focus to Keena “or how their lame boyfriends don’t appreciate them…” hello, Arabella. “I mean, this is your theory? Not, gee, is Love happy, or did you notice how her boobs stick out of that shirt, or what a bitch she was the other day…but is my aunt actually my mother?”
As I say it, the possibilities and ramifications make me feel sick. Then, in the quiet that follows, I realize it’s silly. Ridiculous. And I start cracking up. To my relief, so does Arabella, which sets the others off. “You guys have been watching too many Australian soaps,” I say and laugh so hard I snort.
“Nice snort,” Arabella says. “You didn’t have to lose the plot about it — it was only an idea.”
“Well, enough of your conspiracy theories and crazies,” I say.
“And I’m not that big a slut,” Fizzy adds as if that’s been the focus.
“Yeah, right,” Keena says. “But we love you anyway.”
In my voice lesson, my mouth is saying la la la, but my mind is going tsk tsk tsk. I consider myself fairly open minded, but the idea of getting it on with a faculty member has never appealed. Plus, when I think of the various issues of power and possible expelling, firing and so on, it doesn’t seem worth it.
But looking at Galen French, his scruffy, slightly crumpled green and white checked shirt, his dark jeans, those Brit-boy shoes, he’s undoubtedly sexy. Why is it that once someone points out someone’s sex appeal, you see it in a new light, as if suddenly those sensors have come and that person is a whole different level of present.
He’s only a year or so out of university — and college here is only three years, so…so, he’s still supposed to be off-limits. “Love? Are you still with me? Can you hit the ‘c’?”
“Oh, um, right. I can try, I’m not sure.” Galen plays a chord and I try to mimic it with my voice. “I’m making progress, right?”
“Oh, without a doubt.”
He scratches the stubble on his chin and runs a hand through his hair. He’s probably only mid-twenties, maybe right out of university, but still. I tilt my head and try to imagine meeting him somewhere else, like on a beach holiday, like if I agreed to go to Nevis with Arabella and met Galen and he weren’t my teacher, if that would seem so bad. Kind of. Maybe not. I don’t know. “It’s not my problem.” Oops. I said that part out loud. “I mean, is it a problem that…” I’ve got nothing. I can’t even fake a point.
“…that you’ll need to demonstrate a clear desire to progress in order to make it into the finals?”
“Is it?”
“No — it shouldn’t be a problem for you. Unless you completely slack off, which you Americans seem unlikely to do.”
“Good, then. Great.”
I can’t shake the image of him with Keena — and it makes sense. He’s all about powerful women, likes us to have these strong voices, stand tall, all that. He closes the piano and gets his room keys out. Usually, he’s one for after-class chatter, but today he’s clearly rushing.
“In a hurry?” I ask and lead the way out the door.
“Ah, I’m I’m…I’ve got…” He stutters, hems, haws and blushes beneath his tawny cool five o’clock shadow. I want to fill in the blank with
young little illegal hottie
but I don’t. I watch his face to find the right thing to say. “I have an important meeting. A tutorial.”
Oh, a tutorial. I can only imagine what kind of lesson that will be. I can’t help but smirk but my voice remains calm. “Well, have a fantastic meeting!”
He starts off one way, and I go the other way, out towards the back stairwell, but then he comes back. “Did I mention the good news?” He asks.
“No,” I say. Maybe he’ll come clean about Keena, risking his job for the sake of his love, setting an example I can cite when I — if I — I come clean to Arabella.
“Sublime Records — ring a bell?”
“No, not really,” I say. Then I think about it. “Are they the ones with a sort-of swervy loop as their logo?” I demonstrate the swervy part by making my pointer finger dance.
“Yes. Rather like a fleur de lis upside down.”
“Right — that’s a better way of describing it.” From all the way down the hall, I can see the bright red tow of Keena’s cowboy boots. She pokes her head out from behind a wall, checking on what’s taking her loovahhh so long, and our eyes meet. It’s all I can do to keep from busting up laughing.
“As you know, we do try to further careers here and through some sort of connection or other, it seems we’ve got two record execs from Sublime coming to watch the upcoming Choir performance — the one in Covent Garden.”
“At the Transport Museum, you mean?”
“That’s the one,” he nods. “Just thought I’d warn you. Might be a real leg up in the industry. In our faculty notes we were told Sublime might be scouting for NRT.”
NRT=new raw talent. New =singers no one has seen or heard before who are hot, Raw=singers untouched by over-done demo reels or too much preparation who are hot, Talent=singers who are naturally gifted enough not to need a shitload of work so they can rise immediately to smash single success, that is, if they are hot.
“Wow. Thanks for telling me — no added pressure or anything.”
“There’s always someone watching, may as well gain exposure to the industry.”
“Point taken,” I say. Then I see Keena doing a can-can kick from behind the wall and have to turn on my heel quickly so I don’t crack up. “Sublime Records. Sounds…potentially sublime.”