Brooke (7 page)

“Do you see how often Peter gives me a compliment?” she asked. I nodded, because I did, and I wondered if all husbands were like that. “Well, it doesn't happen by accident. If you let a man know that you expect him to show his appreciation, he will fall all over himself doing just that. I'm a professional woman,” she explained. “I've made femininity my profession, and I don't mean I'm one of those women's liberation creatures you see in magazines and on television news complaining. They think they'll get what they want by demanding and protesting.

“There's only one sure way to get what you want from a man,” she declared. “Make him think that you believe he is someone special and that you'll always treat him that way if he treats you as someone special. Make him believe he is your protector. Be fragile, dainty. You need his strength. He'll go mad trying to protect you, to keep you happy, and
voilà,”
she said with a wide gesture, “you'll always get what you want.

“It's easier than protesting, and you enjoy yourself at the same time. Who wants to be marching with placards in the hot sun, screaming and burning bras? And who wants to look like that? Some of them wouldn't be caught dead wearing lipstick, even though they look so pale you'd think they were dead.

“I hope you understand what I'm saying, Brooke. It's very important.”

I did and I didn't. Men and boys were still a big mystery to me. I felt more comfortable and secure standing up to them, since I was as strong as they were, as fast on the ball field, and never acted as if I were a weak sister. I knew they respected me, because they often chose me to be on their teams before they chose some of their male friends, but I realized this was not something Pamela would want to hear.

“Did you see the way I batted my eyelashes at Peter? Did you hear me laugh, and did you catch the movement of my eyes and shoulders? Observe me at all times,” she instructed.

I was really shocked. Did Pamela actually plan every gesture, every turn of her shoulders, every movement of her eyes and mouth? And if she did, was that right? It seemed to me that she was conniving against Peter, fooling and manipulating him, and I wondered if that was something you did with someone you loved. I had to ask.

“But wouldn't Peter do anything for you, anyway, because he loves you?”

She laughed. “How do you think you get someone to love you, Brooke? You think it's like the movies or in those romance novels? You think someone looks at you like in that old song, across a crowded room, and thunderbolts strike? It's work getting someone to love you. And anyway, men don't know what they want half the time. You have to show them what they want.

“Most men think a beautiful woman is someone with big breasts whose hips swing like the pendulum in a grandfather's clock, but a beautiful woman is far more than that, Brooke. You have to nurture and develop your beauty, just as I'm showing you. And then,” she said, pulling her shoulders back, “you will know, and all the men who look at you will know, you are special.

“When you're special,” she concluded, “they all fall in love with you, and you have your pick of the crowd. That,” she said, “is what happened to me and what will happen to you if you do what I say.”

Was winning a man the only reason for our existence and our only purpose for being? I wanted to ask, but like so many thoughts and questions tickling the tip of my tongue, I swallowed them back and stored them for some other time rather than risk her anger and disapproval.

Despite the way she talked and thought, I wanted her to love me as a mother. I wanted Peter to be my father. I wanted us to be a family. I wanted to laugh and have fun, to do things I saw other girls my age do with their families. It's only natural for Pamela to want me to be like her, I thought. That way, she would feel she really had a daughter.

What did surprise and even frighten me a bit, however, were her instructions to me on our way to enroll me at the Agnes Fodor school. She wanted to me to start my new life with a big lie.

“Except for Mrs. Harper, the principal, Brooke, I don't want anyone else to know you came from an orphanage.”

“What? What do you mean?” I asked.

“Mrs. Harper understands why I would like it that way. Believe me,” she said, “you will feel more comfortable, especially in the company of the other girls, if that little detail was forgotten.”

Forgotten? Little detail? All my life, I'd been an orphan. I had no other experiences. How could I pretend to be someone else?

“But what will I say?” I asked. “What will I tell people about myself?”

“Tell them you're our daughter. Tell them we decided to send you to Agnes Fodor because your public school has degenerated. A new group of lower-class students has gradually become the majority at the public school, and there was a lot of trouble. Your parents became concerned about your safety as well as your education. Most of the girls will understand, because most of them have had that experience. Their parents enrolled them in Agnes Fodor to get them away from inferior public education and bad influences.

“If you behave as I've been teaching you how to behave, everyone will believe you are who you say you are. At least, you won't be ashamed to invite them to your home, will you?” she asked. “I really don't think you'll have any problems,” she added with a smile of confidence. “When in doubt, just keep silent until you confer with me.

“Or you can talk about me,” she continued. “Tell them about my modeling, my titles. Most of their mothers are nowhere near as attractive, and they'll be jealous of you immediately.”

She smiled. “I'm so excited for you. I remember when I first enrolled in charm school. I'm sure Peter and I will be very proud of you very soon,” she added.

I looked out the car window. When I lived in the orphanage and I had nothing of any real value, not even a name, I didn't have to lie. Now that I was rich, now that I lived in a palace and had more clothes in my closet than ten girls all together had at the orphanage, now that I had servants and rode in a limousine, I had to pretend I was someone else.

The road to happiness was long and winding, full of traps and illusions. When I said good-bye to the girl I was when I lived at the orphanage, I never dreamed I would want her back, but for a moment, on our way to this wonderful new school for the rich and privileged, I longed to return to who I was, who I had been, just as you sometimes wish you could put on clothes that were comfortable, broken in, part of your personality, even if they were out of style and too old.

“There it is,” Pamela declared. “Agnes Fodor. It doesn't even look like a school, does it?”

I gazed at the large cobblestone building set in a small valley and surrounded by greenery, beautiful trees, and a small pond in the rear. Everything was clean and perfect. And so quiet. She was right. It didn't look like a school. It looked like an old-age home.

I took a deep breath. What Pamela really should have taught me was acting. I was very uneasy. I
didn't wear lies well. Surely, anyone who spoke to me would see right through my stories and answers, and then, then, it would be even worse. With a pounding heart and feet that felt as if they were plodding through mud, I entered the new school to become a new person.

W
ith suspicious, cold gray eyes, Mrs. Harper stared across her desk at me. I was quite overwhelmed by the school. The lobby had a mural that reached from the floor to the ceiling. It was a painting of cherubs looking up devoutly at a burning lamp. The marble floors glistened around the sofas, chairs, and tables. A girl of about fifteen greeted us as soon as we entered. She introduced herself as Hiliary Lindsey and told us she was on duty as school receptionist. She carried herself, spoke, and offered her hand to me just the way Pamela had described and instructed me to greet people. As Hiliary led us down the corridor to Mrs. Harper's office, Pamela shifted her eyes to me and gave me a nod and smile as if to say, “That's how you are to behave, see?”

I was even more nervous. The outer office was as neat and spotless as the lobby. Mrs. Harper's
secretary, Miss Randall, was a short, buxom, red-haired woman with strains of gray invading the hair at her temples and the hair at the top of her wide forehead, which formed rows of thick folds when she saw us enter.

Hiliary introduced us to her and then glanced at me to give me a small smile before she left us. Moments later, the inner office door opened, and Mrs. Harper asked us to come in. She was tall with very narrow hips and a small bosom barely visible under her loose, dark blue, ankle-length dress. I couldn't guess her age. Her hair was dark brown, her eyes hazel. She had a very pointed nose and a small mouth. Her cheeks were flat, which made her face seem more narrow, but she had the kind of skin and complexion I knew Pamela admired, not a wrinkle, not even a crease in her forehead.

Everything on her desk was organized, the dark mahagony looking as polished and clean as everything else I had seen so far. Before her on the desk was a folder with my name on it.

“Agnes Fodor,” she began, with her eyes still fixed on me, “is a highly regarded, prestigious, and exceptional institution. My girls all have the highest-quality behavior. You will immediately notice vast differences between Agnes Fodor and your average public school,” she said. Nothing in her face moved but her small, thin lips.

“For one thing, our classes are very small. We believe in giving the students personalized instruction,” she added, turning to Pamela. “For another, our students are all on what we call the honor
system. We don't expect our teachers to be concerned with behavioral problems. Everyone knows the rules we live under and respects them. If a girl violates a rule, she confesses her violation. Not that any do,” she added quickly. “It is not unusual for a teacher to leave his or her classroom during the administration of an exam. Our girls don't cheat. You will notice that our lockers don't have locks on them. Our girls don't steal. You will notice that our bathrooms are spotless. There are no disgusting cigarette butts in the toilets and sinks. Our girls don't smoke in school, and most don't out of school, either.”

“Smoking is the worst thing for your complexion,” Pamela said.

Mrs. Harper looked at her almost as hard as she was looking at me for a moment and then turned back to me with a little bounce of her head on her neck. It bobbed like a puppet's head.

“You will notice that there are no pieces of paper, no refuse of any kind on the floors in our classrooms or in our hallways. Our girls don't litter. You will never find gum stuck under chairs. We don't permit the chewing of gum.

“After lunch in our cafeteria, there is very little for the custodian to do. Our girls clean up after themselves, and that even means wiping up the tables if need be.

“During the passing between classes, no one raises her voice. Our girls don't shout to each other. Never, never in the history of Agnes Fodor, has there been any sort of violent behavior. If two girls
have a disagreement, they are encouraged to bring it to the judicial committee, which is made up of girls who are elected to the position. We have a very productive and active student government organization, and we have great faith in it. The girls police themselves. If anyone should violate one of our rules, she is brought before a committee of her peers and judged and punished accordingly.”

“But I thought no one violated the rules,” I said. I really just said it because I was a little confused, but Mrs. Harper's stone eyes suddenly became hot coals. Her face actually blanched, and the veins in her neck stretched until they were embossed under her skin.

“I meant they rarely violate the rules, so rarely that last year, the judicial committee met only twice,” she said. “All year long.

“It is,” she continued, turning to Pamela, “very unusual for Agnes Fodor to admit a student who hasn't had a history of proper breeding, but given your and your husband's position in the community, we have confidence Brooke will quickly adapt to our high standards.”

It started sounding like a compliment and ended up sounding like a threat, I thought. Pamela smiled.

“Oh we're sure of that,” she replied.

“Very good,” Mrs. Harper said, and opened my folder. She gazed at it a moment and then looked up at me again. “You haven't been exactly what we would call a good student. However, we usually find that our students experience an immediate
improvement on their work here. We will expect no less from you, despite your unfortunate background.

“As your mother has requested,” she continued, nodding at Pamela, “nothing about your past will leave this office. This folder remains in my files for my eyes only.”

“Thank you,” Pamela said.

“However,” Mrs. Harper continued as if Pamela had not spoken, “you know that I know, and you know what I expect of you. Do you have any questions?”