Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  "Uh, what do you mean, school?"

  "I'm not referring to those public school mandarins in their brick and mortar pagodas. I'm talking about an education for yourself-—knowledge for the sake of knowledge. You're too intelligent to allow your mind to languish."

  "But I learn stuff here. Every day. And Mr. Gil gives me all those books to read—Catcher in the Rye and Vanity Fair and Dickinson's stories about other runaway kids."

  "It's Dickens. Charles Dickens. Emily Dickinson is a poet who Mother frequently quotes."

  "So you want me to go back there?" I can't believe what I'm hearing. "Besides, everyone thinks I'm a criminal now. I don't even have any friends left."

  "No, of course that's not what I meant. It's just that I've been thinking..."

  Tears well in the corners of my eyes. I was having such a good time gardening and painting and learning to cook and being around the Stocktons and Mr. Gil. And I was getting some education—okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly what they taught at Patrick Henry High School.

  "You need an English and a social studies credit to get a high school diploma, right?" he asks.

  "I suppose so, if they bend the rules a bit. Why?"

  "Well, what if Mother were to apply for permission to tutor you here at the house and then you would sit for their exams at the end of the school year?"

  "They'll never go for it," I say. "The last thing they want is for me to graduate."

  "Ah, for someone who is a skillful poker player you disappoint me."

  "Huh?"

  "What's the first rule you explained when showing me how to play five-card-draw poker?"

  "Never throw away a king? Don't bend the cards?" But I'm no longer in the mood for games. "I don't remember."

  "Play the person, not the cards," Mr. Bernard reminds me.

  "Play Mr. Collier, you mean?" I try to consider it in terms of a card game. Just Call Me Dick looks bad because I'm not in school. But if there were a way for me to graduate the school wouldn't have to record a dropout. In fact, if I were on the books as being home-schooled they could probably even still collect their precious dollars in state funds.

  But would the school allow it? I know my parents would be nothing less than thrilled, even though they've written me off for good now that they think I've gone to the dark side by stealing from local charities.

  Wow. Eric and I would graduate on the same day. Too bad his first name starts with an E. I'd give anything to graduate before him. And then it strikes me that Mr. Bernard appears extremely confident about this "new" scheme, as if he's already put a lot of thought into it. And perhaps a few phone calls as well. I give him a horse trader's glance and see a smile of satisfaction on his face as he deftly kneads the dough that will become the cobbler crust.

  I want to be mad. But I can't. After two months of mowing and turning flower beds and scraping paint, I've realized that although this manual labor routine may be good for the body, and possibly even nourishing to the spirit, it would not be so good to have to do it for the next forty years in order to earn a living. Not that I don't have complete confidence in my gambling abilities, but all those dilapidated horse players down at OTB must have at one time felt they possessed the Magic Touch. And so it might not be a bad idea to be qualified for a desk job in case I ever have to ride out another losing streak. However, I rather question Ms. Olivia's ability to teach anything that is a part of the public school curriculum.

  "You've already worked this whole thing out, haven't you? You've talked to the school and my parents and even signed up Ms. Olivia?"

  "I hope you're not cross. Normally I don't believe in meddling in people's lives."

  "I'm not mad. But can I at least think about it?"

  "Certainly. The school has even offered to pay Mother a small stipend for tutoring."

  "No kidding?"

  "Yes, they're required to, actually. And they have to list you as being out on some kind of psychiatric disorder. If you're only disordered, and not a dropout, then the school district is responsible for supplying a tutor."

  "Mr. Collier will never go for Ms. Olivia. I wish they would just fire him," I say.

  "There you go again. That's the second rule of gambling you taught me: When you find yourself wishing or praying for a certain permutation to occur, it usually means you're in trouble."

  "But I am in trouble." You know your life is bad when you get thrown out of your weekly poker game and even your pastor is looking down at his shoes when you pass each other on the street.

  "Forget about Mr. Collier being dismissed. He's protected under the Americans with No Abilities Act. And it just so happens that Mr. Collier is thrilled at the prospect of marking you present and accounted for by way of home schooling and will be delighted to have this entire mess off his aluminum desk."

  "What type of psychiatric disorder do I need to have?"

  "It doesn't matter. You could be agoraphobic—afraid to leave the house. Or pogonophobic, possessing an abnormal fear of worms."

  "But I leave the house every day. And I work outside. I work with worms."

  "Good point. Just say you saw God in the shed or that the lawn mower is telling you to bake poppy seed muffins in order to prepare for the end of the world."

  "Oh, I like that last one."

  "Yes, it has a nice Rod Serling feel to it."

  "And what happens if I don't do it and they call in the police?" I ask.

  "Two words: Oliver Twist."

  I take it that he means reform school or the workhouse. "Well, when you put it that way ... okay."

  Chapter 2 6

  Table Stakes ♦

  By the time Mr. Bernard and I finish preparing dinner, word has somehow traveled through the house that a plot is being hatched. As we all gather at the dinner table, Ms. Olivia immediately throws in her two cents.

  "I was dead set against it," she firmly states. "I just want that to be perfectly clear. I'd rather have been on Nixon's cabinet back in the seventies than participate in engineering someone else's destiny."

  "So you don't want to do it, then?" I ask her.

  "Oh, I think it's a wonderful solution, if it's what you're after. I just object to Bertie running around pushing buttons behind the scenes here like Big Brother. Though he probably envisions himself more as Audrey Hepburn playing a nun or an angel. No matter, if you don't want a high school diploma, then you shouldn't get one."

  But the more Ms. Olivia rails against it, the more I decide that I really do want a high school diploma. And as much as I hate to admit it, with this missing-money accusation hanging over my head, it's actually a relief to have some grown-ups taking charge of my situation. Because whenever I allow my attention to turn inward for even a second the world suddenly flip-flops and the Stocktons seem only a dream, everything else seems real, and the tears will not stay back. Especially when I try to sleep at night. Sleep has become the enemy. But here, sitting with them around this table, I'm secure against the outside world.

  "I'd like to give it a try, if that's okay with you," I say.

  Mr. Bernard smiles down at his perfectly browned Tuscan pork chops.

  Without even glancing at her son, Ms. Olivia admonishes him. "Don't look smug, Bertie. It's unbecoming. And besides, if it's meant to be then it's meant to be, and there's nothing you could have done to stop or start the process."

  However, it's obvious that Mr. Bernard doesn't buy this fatalistic approach. "Yes, of course you're right, Mother. Que sera, sera. Why don't you two do lessons in the afternoon while Father is resting? It will be just like the Roosevelt children's tutorial schedule—lots of exposure to the natural world in the morning and then inside to feed the mind. And on weekends you can perform your trust-busting, battle police corruption, and go on safari."

  "Hallie and I won't be going big-game hunting anytime soon," har-rumphs Ms. Olivia.

  "Mother, you're aware that you have to meet with her teachers and get the curriculum. So please try to be normal."

&n
bsp; "I hardly think I need someone to tell me what makes for a suitable English and history plan of study for a young lady."

  "Oh dear, I was afraid of this. Mother, the objective is for Hallie to pass their tests at the end of the year. You must teach her what's going to be on the final examinations," states Mr. Bernard.

  Ms. Olivia runs a butter knife across her roll and serenely declares, "Tests are ridiculous. They have nothing to do with learning."

  But Mr. Bernard apparently decides he's made enough progress for one day. He turns to Mr. Gil. "Tell us how the play is coming along."

  "The gentleman caller is a mailman named Josh, and though his résumé says he's thirty-five I think he's more like fifty-three. He's going to need lots of makeup."

  "It's a small role," says Mr. Bernard.

  "Yes, but extremely important. In fact, I could use some help if you feel like looking at the set one evening this week."

  "Of course, I was planning on it. I'll bring some period pieces from the shop, and I'm sure there's something in the garage—" But a look of dread crosses Mr. Bernard's face the second he utters the g word.

  "I don't believe we're that desperate yet," Mr. Gil rescues him. "And Mom, perhaps you can rehearse lines. Amanda needs to sound more like Joanne Woodward and less like Woody Woodpecker."

  It's the first time I've ever heard Mr. Gil refer to Ms. Olivia as Mom, which is kind of weird. Although if they were married she would be his mother-in-law. And Ms. Olivia doesn't seem to mind, or even notice, for that matter. But then, a lot of odd things happen around the Stocktons, like the constant stream of pill poppers showing up at the back door during the night. And last Saturday Mr. Bernard woke Mr. Gil and me up at two o'clock in the morning to go and "borrow" a stargazer lily bulb from Mrs. Graham's garden since she wouldn't sell him any or trade for one of his rare Casablanca lilies.

  "Hallie, perhaps you can bring that toolbox and paintbrush of yours and tart up the scenery?" suggests Mr. Gil.

  I'm flattered that he invites me to help with the play. Though I can't decide whether he really needs my assistance or just doesn't want me to feel left out. "Sure. But I've never worked on anything like that before."

  "Don't worry, you'll be in good hands with Joey, the set designer. He's the best chicken coop builder this side of the Mississippi. And we're in desperate circumstances for warm bodies who know what a lug wrench is."

  It's nice the way they all help one another. The household swirls and tilts around the Judge as if he's a dead leaf in the middle of a whirlpool. Ms. Olivia does the computer correspondence for Mr. Bernard's business and pays all the bills. Mr. Gil assists with caring for the Judge on weekends if Ms. Olivia gets the urge to protest inhumane animal slaughter or acid rain while Mr. Bernard is off giving someone an estimate on their antiques. Mr. Bernard cooks for everyone. And I'm the yard person and chef's helper, which suits me just fine.

  "Speaking of projects, how is the collage coming along?" Mr. Gil inquires. "I saw an outline of what looks like some stick figures on the garage door and a lot of sawed-up spools. What's the theme? Eating disorders?"

  "Anorexia!" Ms. Olivia cries out enthusiastically. "How engaging— women's self-image destroyed by the media. That's magnificent!"

  "Actually, it's not about eating disorders. It's a surprise."

  "How about we guess and you only tell us if we're right?" Mr. Gil suggests.

  "Adam and Eve get chased out of the garden?" Ms. Olivia asks.

  "A tribute to Modigliani?" Mr. Bernard asks.

  "Who?"

  "An Italian painter and sculptor. He specialized in thin, elongated figures," Mr. Bernard explains.

  "He crafted Walking Man," adds Ms. Olivia. "Don't worry, we'll do an art history section in our tutorial."

  Mr. Bernard shakes his head as if it's just dawned on him that the home schooling idea might not proceed exactly as he had envisioned it.

  "Is it a ballet?" asks Mr. Gil. "Giselle or Don Quixote?"

  "Nope."

  "Stop annoying the artiste," says Ms. Olivia. "How would you like it if I stood over you in the kitchen and peppered you with questions the entire time you were cooking?"

  "Don't be ridiculous, Mother, by the time you finally found the kitchen, dinner would already be finished."

  "Gil?" Ms. Olivia turns to him for an ally.

  "You're a poet, Olivia," Mr. Gil replies diplomatically. "A devoted sonneteer cannot be bothered with such mundane tasks."

  "Indeed," adds Mr. Bernard. "Mother is single-handedly trying to put whorl, frond, and limn—the three favorite words of the nature poets—back into popular usage."

  After dinner, when they're upstairs checking on the Judge and bringing him a dish of ice cream, I'll go and look up the word mundane. And also the ones Ms. Olivia is supposedly attempting to reissue, if I can spell them.

  "Speaking of your writing, Livvy, why don't you share with us something that you're working on?" Mr. Gil suggests. Though I wonder if he means poetry or pornography. And I can't decide which I'd rather hear, either. Sometimes I see people kiss and feel a pang in my chest and wish that I could get up the courage to call Craig.

  "All right. But it's still in the embryonic stage," Ms. Olivia replies. She takes a sip of tea and then recites from memory:

  How would I know thee

  in a rail station dense with

  bustling crowd?

  Wouldst thou don a red boutonniere,

  a silken ascot plumed

  or a boldly checked bow tie?

  How would I know thee

  in a foreign land

  under cover of the night?

  Wouldst thou imitate the mockingbird,

  whisper my name in an exotic tongue

  or limn the sky with flares?

  I'm surprised when Mr. Bernard quickly retorts:

  Thou will know me right away, dear one

  By the devotion of my son

  Who will be standing right in front of me

  And pointing a loaded gun.

  Gil and I both burst into laughter.

  "Very funny," Ms. Olivia says sarcastically. But I can tell by the way she's suppressing an encroaching smile that Ms. Olivia secI£tly appreciates his clever response. "At least I don't go dashing around the house shouting 'WWMD,' " she retorts.

  Mr. Gil lurches forward with laughter so that his nose almost lands in the leftover pool of gravy in the center of his plate.

  But Mr. Bernard looks serious and says, "That's enough, thank you, Mother."

  Meantime I have no idea what's going on, as usual. "WWMD?" I ask. "What's a WWMD?"

  "Nothing!" Mr. Bernard says hastily, and I see that his cheeks are starting to resemble a raspberry patch.

  Only by now Mr. Gil is thumping the tabletop because he's laughing so hard. "Oh my, Livvy, I'd forgotten about that. The day the fruitcakes exploded just as all the guests were ringing the front doorbell!" Mr. Gil has to catch his breath before continuing. "And Bertie standing in the hallway yelling, 'What would Martha do?'"

  Chapter 27

  On the Make ♣

  It's Halloween, and so after I finish working in the yard Mr. Bernard invites me to stay for dinner and help pass out his homemade toffee to all the trick-or-treaters. However, I politely decline since I'm off to Gwen's party. Gwen was at least honest enough to tell me that her parents thought I should be uninvited, due to the missing money. But Gwen believes that I didn't take it. Or at least she says she believes me, even if she doesn't call to go out anymore. And she insists I'll look even guiltier if I skip the party.

  Meantime Mr. Bernard becomes excited about the prospect of a costume party and asks if I want to go through Mr. Gil's theatrical wardrobe rack. It's not that kind of a party, I explain, just a bunch of teenagers hanging out and listening to music.

  Gwen lives outside of town on what local Realtors refer to as a "farmette." Even though they don't have more than two acres of land, they're zoned to keep farm animals. Gwen has a horse named Mayday and
her little brother has a Shetland pony named Peanuts. Mayday is a tall, beautiful, and high-spirited horse of Spanish lineage and Gwen lets me ride him. Peanuts, on the other hand, looks incredibly cute with her chocolate-brown eyes and velvety tan coat with white socks, but she's a mean cuss, always trying to bite and kick everybody. Most people think ponies are adorable and that big horses are scary, but anyone who knows anything about horses will tell you it's usually just the opposite.

  There's a big barn with a hayloft and an attached indoor riding ring, and that's where the party is held. Gwen's parents are that rare breed who actually want to be around teenagers. So unlike most of our parties, we can't get drunk and smoke pot and then pair off and make out for the entire night. No siree. Mr. Thompson is right there with the grill sizzling, his tall white chef's hat cocked to the side, turning out hot dogs and cheeseburgers while Gwen's mom oversees the make-your-own-sundae bar on top of some haystacks and her little brother runs to and fro in his cowboy outfit. As if that's not supervision enough, Mr. Thompson invites his sister and her husband over and they string a net between the wooden posts and organize games like volleyball and badminton and, later on, capture the flag. And whenever a kid walks past with a couple of hot dogs the husband shouts, "Squeeze your buns tight!" and then chuckles like crazy.

  Of course, we all make fun of the arrangements because we're between fifteen and eighteen and it's like a party for five-year-olds. I mean, last time they put a bull's-eye on Mayday's side and made us play pin-the-tail-on-the-horsey. But the funny thing is, once we start playing games and doing the hokey pokey it turns out to be tons of fun. No one wants to admit it, but the parties where you just sit around and talk about school and drink beer get really boring after about an hour, and if you don't have anyone to suck face with you just end up watching MTV and gnawing on pizza crusts and pretzels all night long.