by Mary Pagones
“Charlotte wishes to take advantage of the fact she has so many Princeton legacies in her family and make a clear statement that Princeton is her first-choice school,” says Ms. Desborough, sweetly finessing over the difference between our situations.
My father and I drove in separate cars. We don’t speak to one another on the long walk down the driveway, just sort of nod and murmur goodbye. I know we’ll pretend the conversation about my mother never took place. But I’m disappointed in him, just like I know he’s been disappointed in me quite a bit, recently.
I walk dogs at the shelter late at night, long after adoption hours have ended. Calvin smokes and simultaneously plays Frisbee with some of the bigger dogs. He manages not to set anything on fire, including himself.
Wentworth seems completely intimidated by all of the barking around him—like he’s done something wrong, but can’t figure out what. Even though he can’t walk fast, I’ve been trying to get him out as much as possible, get him seen by potential adopters strolling around the grounds.
Wentworth is a genuine orphan. Abandoned. He has a sad story, not me.
The vet confirmed Wentworth’s age as around ten. He’s already neutered, so thank goodness he doesn’t need an operation. They’ll clean his teeth and do his extractions before he’s formally available for adoption. The vet said sometimes when people are moving to a place that doesn’t take dogs or an old person gets put away in a nursing home, people just don’t know what to do. Or his owner didn’t want to pay for the dental work the dog desperately needed.
How can people be so thoughtless?
“I’ve decided to quit ballet and just continue with the dance classes I’m actually decent in,” I say to Hugh the following evening. “So I’ll have more free time. I hope you’re not upset.”
I’m lying on Hugh’s bed. His arms are around me; my head is nestled in his sharp collar bone. We’re dressed but it’s a little bit weird. Catherine’s upstairs, making her dinner. Or rather, juicing her dinner. She’s away quite a bit at her boyfriend’s, which has been convenient, but she still has the unpardonable audacity to come home every now and then.
I’m still figuring out the relationship between Catherine and the rest of her family. She’s relegated Hugh to a tiny, cell-like room in the basement. He wouldn’t get the joke, but it’s almost like he’s Mr. Rochester’s mad wife Bertha Mason, locked away. Catherine and her brother, Hugh’s father, aren’t on friendly terms. Hugh’s got vintage posters of Goodfellas, Pulp Fiction, and Star Wars on the walls to make it homey, but there’s no windows. There isn’t much room for anything but a single bed, a tiny desk for his laptop, and a freestanding closet.
Hugh’s jeans, t-shirts, flannels, and hoodies are stuffed into the drawers of the desk. In his tiny closet-within-a-closet there’s a tangle of wires, cameras, camera lenses, and everything else he uses to shoot his films, all in a pile on the floor. No shelves, just a single hanger on which he keeps the one article of clothing he seems to value, his black leather jacket.
When Hugh gave me a description of what all the camera stuff does, he suddenly became very animated and proud. It looked impressive. Professional.
It’s so cool to have a boyfriend who understands the arts and makes his own films.
“Why are you telling me that you want to quit ballet like I’m going to be mad? You know I hate dance and don’t care,” he says.
“I care,” I say. Yes, I knew that the end of my ballet career was coming, that I wasn’t going to pursue dance professionally. But I didn’t expect it would hurt so much to let it go. It’s a weighty realization: I’ve devoted so much time to something I wasn’t gifted in, to an endeavor that was doomed for failure. I guess I enjoyed and learned from it? I tell myself ballet has helped me excel in other forms of dance and in the little choreography I’ve done. If I thought ballet was silly, like Hugh, perhaps I could laugh it off. I find ballet beautiful when it’s done well. Ballet’s not beautiful when it’s performed by me.
I try to express this to Hugh, but he doesn’t understand. “Trust me: for many years, the family’s been wishing Aunt Catherine would get a real job,” he says. “We get tired of hearing her go on and on about how the studio is losing money. Jeez, you bunheads.” We kiss. He puts his hand down my Keep Calm and Read Jane Austen shirt, we take off our shirts, and he lies on top of me.
We make out for a long time. Then I talk about how I’m stressing about my personal statement for college and affording college. Hugh says, “That’s all taken care of for me. Not the getting-in part, but my grandfather left money specifically for his two grandchildren’s college expenses. My half-sister Felicity from my father’s first marriage has already graduated from Columbia with a degree in art history. She’s pretty set working for Sotheby’s. I’m all that’s left.”
“That is…fortunate.” What I want to say is, You’re actually living my dream.
“Yeah, it’s very hard starting out in the movie industry, you know.”
“I understand about the arts being difficult, since I want to be a writer.”
“I’m talking about the performing arts,” he says.
“The arts are the arts.”
“I need something better than that subway film to submit, though, as part of my college application.”
“Oh?”
“Something more interesting. Something with dialogue.”
“Gasp. You mean, you actually need someone to help you write something? Storyboarding isn’t going to be adequate?”
“Could you write a script for me, Liss?”
“I have plenty of ideas!”
“No lacey, bonnet-y, girly shit, though.”
“That might take me longer. I’ll get started after I finish studying for history. I’m pulling an A– in that class, but barely.”
“So am I,” says Hugh.
I admit I do a double-take. “I thought you hated reading and writing.”
He grins. “Liss, you do know how easy it is to cheat on multiple-choice stuff.”
“Oh. Oh,” I say.
“Now you look even more taken aback. You mean you had no idea this stuff goes on?”
Actually, I did. I know plenty of cheating goes on at Rosewood South— especially by the most ambitious members of the student body. I don’t count myself as one of that ruthless number. I’ve only been given one opportunity to cheat and I refused, even though I wasn’t doing that well in chemistry. I scraped by with a B– on my own. At the time, I told myself that it would be pretty obvious if I skyrocketed from a low C (which is what I was pulling) to an A. It would kill my father if I got caught. Plus, I have this stubborn sense of honor. I just don’t see myself as a student who cheats, just like I do see myself as a writer—despite what everyone else says I am and should be.
With history, it’s a no-brainer. “I’m doing fine in the class, Hugh. I don’t need that kind of help.”
“Yeah, but it’s a way to save time on studying. Even some of the kids who can do the work are buying the answers.”
“History is one of my favorite subjects, though the teacher this year is pretty boring. It feels more like endless preparation for the AP test than a real class. Still, I’m not spending money on something I can do myself. Or taking that kind of risk.”
“You’re not mad at me for doing what I need to get by?”
“I think it’s stupid. Is someone hacking into the teacher’s computer?”
“No one has gotten caught cheating, have they?”
“Not in all the years I’ve been at South. I still wish you wouldn’t, though.”
“There’s no way I’ll pass, otherwise.”
I put on my shirt. “See you in school. I’ll let myself out,” I say. I’m annoyed.
“You’re not going to tell anyone?”
“Of course not, but I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
“What’s your deal, Liss?”
“I’m upset because this makes me think less of you. I don’t
like that,” I say.
Catherine’s at the kitchen table, slurping something green in a large glass. “Hello,” I say. I smile and try to seem friendly since I still need to tolerate her a few days a week.
She nods. I rather enjoyed the routine in my modern dance class earlier, a sequence inspired by Martha Graham. My hips are achy from it (not just from Hugh’s weight). I’m sore in a good way. But I haven’t forgiven Catherine for depriving me of the opportunity to be a mouse. It’s super-awkward.
I have to give Catherine credit for being a skillful teacher. She does care about dancing as an art. How can someone with such an expert eye for the human body in motion be so hateful in social situations? It makes me think of the Bingley sisters bringing forth soul-stirring tunes from the piano and then being total mean girls to Elizabeth’s face. Why does Catherine have to make her students pay for her instruction by being a bitch? I know she’s lost students as a result in the past. Who knows, maybe when she was dancing professionally, directors thought if they had the choice of two dancers with equal talent, they’d rather work with one who wasn’t so smug and insolent.
It’s like Caroline Bingley, Elizabeth’s main rival for Darcy’s hand, who is always bringing up Wickham all the time to spite Elizabeth, though Caroline can see it freaks out Darcy. For some people, the pleasures of being horrible outweigh their own self-interest. I will say, Hugh knows when to turn on the charm. Even when I’m aware I’m being manipulated, I’m powerless to resist.
Chapter 10
The More I See Of The World, The More I Am Dissatisfied With It
There’s a new poster up in Mr. Clarke’s room. It’s supposed to be one of Chaucer’s pilgrims, the Oxford student. And Gladly Wolde He Lerne, And Gladly Teche, it reads.
I kind of wonder if the new poster is a preemptive defense. At the end of class, Mr. Clarke passes back our first assignments. We don’t get much time between periods but when I see my grade, I can’t move from my seat.
“Mr. Clarke?” My eyes are watery. I know I should wait until I’m more composed. I can’t. “Mr. Clarke, there must be some mistake. I’ve never gotten a grade like this on an English essay before.”
There’s a long silence.
“Ms. Tennant, did you read my comments?”
“I did.” Well, sort of skimmed them in thirty seconds after I saw the B–. “I don’t understand.”
“Maybe you should take a moment and wait until you…” I can hear him think, are less emotional, even though he’s astute enough not to say those words to someone female.
I interrupt him before he can find a euphemism. “I’ve never gotten a B– in any English class, ever. I liked Chaucer. The Wife of Bath was my favorite character.”
“It’s not enough to merely like a character on a personal level. I understand you think that she’s a feminist because of the tale she tells. You need historical evidence to back up your claim. To structure to your argument.”
My stupid lip is wobbling. “I quoted.”
“You didn’t include any analysis of gender roles in Chaucer’s era. As stated in the requirements, be careful about projecting twenty-first-century ideas onto a poem written during the Middle Ages.” He picks up the original handout he passed out. I see a little illustration of the Wife sitting on her white horse in the corner of the paper. She has a prominent gap between her front teeth. Mr. Clarke said that was supposed to be evidence of a lusty nature, back when Chaucer wrote.
“Ms. Tennant, this is an Advanced Placement-level class. For potential college credit. It requires college-level work. I’m trying to teach you how to write so you can have a scholarly, academic conversation with other serious readers of literature. I know you love books. So do I. I’m holding you to a high standard.”
It was one thing when I was told I didn’t have the right body for dance all these years, and to have had the part of a stupid mouse taken away from me. It’s another thing to be told that I can’t write. Writing is the one thing I can do.
I feel a tear run down my cheek. God, this is humiliating.
“I don’t believe in grade inflation,” he says, clearly uncomfortable with my tears. His voice takes on a gentler tone. “I understand students today have come to take Bs for granted. But a B is technically above average.”
Well, that’s just awesome you think a B– is an acceptable grade, because pretty much everyone else considers a C to be practically failing. How nice you can just shut out the real world like that. How nice that you don’t care whether or not I get into Pennington College.
I can see him smiling at me through the tears leaking down my face, onto my lips. Water we’re both trying to politely ignore.
“You don’t believe in grade inflation like I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny?” I ask, my voice cracking. “I’m not sure what not believing in grade inflation even means.”
“I don’t believe grade inflation supports student learning. That’s a more precise way of phrasing it.”
“Do I get an extra point for correcting you?”
He chuckles, which is the most irritating way a human being can laugh. “I use all the letters of the alphabet at my disposal. Letters C, D, and F aren’t merely there for decorative purposes.”
Well then. “I’m sure they’re very grateful you’re putting them to such frequent use,” I manage to croak.
“I know I’m part of a obstinate minority of teachers resisting a trend. But, ‘my courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me’ regarding my grading standards. You do have an engaging prose style, Ms. Tennant.”
Oh my God. He’s quoting Elizabeth Bennet at me.
I want to snap back, with Miss Bingley-like viciousness, that he’s no Mr. Darcy. My short, paunchy high school English teacher isn’t exactly smoldering with dashing, brooding handsomeness. I think today’s jacket actually might require dry-cleaning and isn’t wash-and-wear. He’s fixed himself up a bit too eagerly to hand back a bunch of near-failing grades.
Normally, I wouldn’t think such spiteful thoughts about a teacher’s appearance. I like myself a little bit less for being so mean, even if only in my interior monologue. But after putting so much thought and love into British literature for the whole of my life, I’m angry. He’s just one man, hardly a man without a flaw. I feel judged for my Americanness, my youth, and judged harshly.
Mr. Clarke’s unblinking blue eyes are bearing into me through the shiny steel wire of his glasses. His accent’s grating on me today in a way that I didn’t know a British accent could.
It kills me because I actually enjoyed Chaucer, unlike everyone else who whined about the fact that The Canterbury Tales didn’t even sound like it was in English.
I will not ugly-cry. I will not sob. God, Mr. Clarke’s not even sweating. Nope, he’s not suffering at all. “The first graded assignment is always a shock for my students, Ms. Tennant. Focus on the learning process rather than the grade.”
Not that I look particularly fetching today. No makeup, which is rare for me. I’m planning on dodging into the bathroom to throw on some eyeliner and lipstick before Hugh can snag a close look. Between homework and working on my college personal statement, I got zero sleep last night. Plus, my dad woke me up extra-early because the shower was clogged and he wanted my help snaking the drain.
At least that effort was successful.
That’s all I’m useful for, I think. Maybe I should become a plumber. They make a decent salary, I’m told.
I crawl out of the room, still clutching my paper. I hear, “I do admire your enthusiasm for literature, Ms. Tennant. You simply need to channel it.”
Like we’ve been having this witty exchange and he’s gotten the better of me, but we’ve enjoyed our banter.
I’m very late to pre-calculus but I don’t understand what’s going on in the class at any rate. It’s kind of a number salad to me, so I’m not particularly worried I’m damaging my already-mediocre grade. The teacher barely even registers I’m there. I carefully li
ne up my corrected paper with my math textbook. I read Mr. Clarke’s comments. He has very neat handwriting, as precise as typing. My other English teachers all wrote in scrawling cursive. Although I got all As from them, I could never fully make out what they wrote on my assignments, other than the expected As.
Charlotte Holland is freaking out at lunch. “A C! Impossible, that’s an impossible grade for me,” she says. “I know English isn’t my best subject, but I’m not a C student. In anything.”
“I got a C as well,” whispers Jacqui. She’s so upset she can barely speak. Calvin hasn’t joined us today. He’s limbering up his voice in the sound-protected band room for the afterschool Camelot audition. Plus, he won’t want to eat any grease or sugar (which might coat his throat) until it’s all over. Grease and sugar are pretty much all that’s sold in our cafeteria. He might even hold off on smoking. I know he wants the part of Lancelot very much, even though he covers up his desire by making jokes about how dire some of the guys likely to get cast will look in tights.
Charlotte brought a bagel with her today. It’s piled with grilled chicken, avocado, and big tomato slices. She takes a dainty bite, but a little bit of avocado and tomato juice still leak out onto the white wax paper. “My tutor and I went over my paper line by line. I slaved over every word. She said it was excellent.”
I’m looking at the bagel. It’s a nice bagel, from a real bagel store, not a Nerf-hockey-puck-school-cafeteria bagel. We were out of bagels at home, so I’m eating a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich today on cinnamon raisin bread. It’s tasty, but it’s no bagel. “You were right about Clarke being a tough grader,” I say. “I talked to him after class. I may have shed a few tears.”
“Did he change your grade when you cried?” asks Jacqui.
“Nope. Completely unmoved. The crying was unintentional, incidentally.” At least I can laugh at my first period, weeping self.
“If Liss got a B–, we’re all doomed,” says Jacqui to Charlotte.