Falling Stars

by V. C. Andrews

  for me, along with my wonderful future? Or was that

  one of the fantasies Madame Senetsky would

  eventually end?

  The sound of Howard's laughter coming from

  below surprised all of us. We paused when we turned

  the corner of the stairway and saw him emerge from

  the parlor beside a tall man with dark, wavy brown

  hair and a smart mustache that curled gently toward

  the corners of his mouth. He wore an earthy brown

  corduroy jacket and a red ascot. I thought he was a

  very handsome man, with a dark complexion and soft

  blue eyes. He smiled at the sight of us.

  "These are the others," Howard told him.

  making 'others' sound a bit inferior. I thought. "Oh, how do you all do? I'm Brock Marlowe,

  your drama coach," the man said, nodding toward us.

  No one spoke. Finally. Cinnamon stepped forward. "Since you've already managed to meet Mr.

  Marlowe. Howard, why don't you introduce

  everyone? Properly," she added, sending an impish

  glance back at me.

  "Right. This is Cinnamon... Carlson, is it?" "So short a memory. Howard? How do you

  manage to memorize your lines?" she shot back. Howard sucked in his breath and forced a small

  smile, turning to the rest of us.

  "Honey Forman. Rose Wallace. And Ice-- I'm

  sorry. I really didn't get your last name," Howard said. "Goodman." she said quickly.

  "Ice Goodman. And that's Steven Jesse trying

  to hide behind them."

  "Ah yes, the man with the Mozart ear.

  Howard's been telling me. Pleased to meet all of you"

  Brock Marlowe said.

  "What else has our Howard been telling you.

  Mr. Marlowe?" Cinnamon asked with feigned

  sweetness.

  "I don't know that much about any of you to tell

  any stories," Howard said quickly.

  "So, he talked mostly about himself. How

  surprising." Cinnamon said.

  Ice actually laughed aloud. I could see she liked

  Cinnamon, and looked forward to everything she did

  or said.

  "No. I did not talk about myself. We talked

  about the theater." Howard said out of the side of his

  mouth. 'Mr. Marlowe happens to be a hero of mine.

  He directed the revival of Ibsen's A Doll's House in

  the West End in London last season, a smash hit. He

  also single-handedly created the Player's Theater in

  Chicago,"

  "Howard has done his research," Brock

  Marlowe said. "but I'm not quite the only one

  responsible for the Player's Theater. Many good

  minds went into that."

  He smiled at us.

  "So, who are the prospective actors here?" "I guess I am," Cinnamon said. "I am surprised

  Howard didn't mention it, yet mentioned Steven's

  piano talents," she added. sending Howard a hard,

  cold look that made him shift his eyes guiltily away. "We're all supposed to develop dramatic

  talents," Rose remarked.

  "And so you will. Rose. I am looking forward

  to working with you all," Mr. Marlowe said. "So are we," Howard quickly followed. Laura Fairchild came walking quickly down the

  corridor from the rear of the house, her tall, thin heels

  pinging like steel raindrops over the floor.

  "Oh, Mr. Marlowe." she said. "Madame

  Senetsky was asking after you. The rest of the staff

  has been meeting with her in her office. She sent me

  for you. Girls, boys," she continued turning toward us.

  "'follow me into the dining room for your seating." "See you in a while then," Mr. Marlowe said,

  and hurried down the corridor toward Madame

  Senetsky's office.

  "She won't spank him for being late, will she?"

  Steven quipped. Ms. Fairchild ignored him and led us

  into the dining room.

  "You'll sit across from your teachers." she

  began. "Ice here." she said, holding the back of the

  chair at the near end of the long table. "Steven. Rose.

  Honey. Howard. and Cinnamon," she continued down

  the table.

  She nodded at the empty chairs.

  "These will be your permanent seats at this

  table.."

  "Permanent seats? What is this, grade school?"

  Steven asked.

  "Maybe that is how our teachers will recognize

  us," Cinnamon wondered aloud.

  "No." Ms. Fairchild said. "You'll be properly

  introduced when they arrive. Please be seated. Do any

  of you have any questions about dinner table

  etiquette? Which fork to use when. anything?" She

  looked pointedly at Steven. "Madame Senetsky

  prefers no one be embarrassed or embarrass the

  school."

  "Does that mean we can't eat with our hands?"

  Steven asked.

  "Not yours. They're insured for millions,

  remember?"

  Cinnamon said. "Oh. right."

  "If there are no intelligent questions, then

  please be seated. When your teachers enter, please

  stand and wait for them to take their seats before

  sitting again. When Madame Senetsky arrives, we all

  stand."

  "And wait for her to take her seat before sitting

  again?" Steven queried with a sly smile.

  "Of course,' Ms. Fairchild replied. "Dinner will

  begin in a moment."

  She left the dining room. Everyone gazed at the

  elaborate table with its heavy silverware, its crystal

  goblets, and beautiful china. There were three candles

  in gold candleholders, waiting to be lit. Platters of

  bread were already on the table, but covered with

  what looked like silk.

  "What if she never sits down?" Steven asked.

  "Would we all eat standing?"

  "Your wisecracks are going to get you in

  trouble quickly here," Howard warned him.

  "That can't happen. Howard. I would just

  switch from piano to stand-up comic and continue." We all sat and for a long moment just

  contemplated the room. One of the maids came in and

  put dishes of butter out. She didn't really look at any

  of us.

  "I'm as nervous as I was at my audition," I

  admitted,

  "Me. too," Ice said.

  "I didn't have an audition," Rose revealed.

  Everyone turned to her.

  "What?"

  "Well, not a formal one like y'all had. I mean." "How did you get into this school then?" Howard demanded, as if it was an affront to him and

  his talent.

  "My dance teacher at school was friendly with

  Madame Senetsky's son. Edmond."

  "So?" Howard pursued.

  "He attended my performance and she brought

  him backstage. He told me his mother permitted him

  to select one student a year, and he decided to select

  me,' Rose explained.

  "That's not fair. I had to prepare and travel here

  and wait to find out if I had been accepted or not. I

  turned down the

  3: Girl Ta/k Page 100

  University of Southern California before

  knowing," Howard moaned. "He must have had a

  thing for you," he quickly decided.

  "What?"

  "How can you say that? You don't know how

  talented she might be," Ice piped up with such

  vehemence, it not only
took Howard by surprise, it

  made us all widen our eyes.

  "Maybe he's right," Rose thought aloud. "I

  never considered that."

  Howard looked smug.

  "Don't pay attention to him. Rose," I said.

  "Howard, you're making her feel bad."

  "I'm just suggesting a possibility," he insisted. "It' s not even a possibility," Cinnamon

  snapped at him.

  "Oh? Why not, pray tell?"

  "First, if Edmond sent someone here who didn't

  meet his mother's standards, she would know

  instantly, wouldn't she?" Cinnamon asked. "And what

  do you think she would say or do to Edmond?

  Remember what Madame Senetsky told us? We, of all

  people, can't hide our imperfections, our failures.

  There's no way to fake it. You either belong here or

  don't," she told Rose.

  "Howard." she said, sending daggers his way

  with her small eyes. "should know that better than any

  of us, and does know that. He's just a little jealous. "Beware the green-eyed monster. Howard, it

  mocks the meat it feeds upon."

  "Ha! I guess she told you. Howard Rockwell

  the Sixth," Steven cried and reached for a piece of

  bread.

  "Don't!" Cinnamon barked,

  He pulled his hand back as if he had burned his

  fingers. "What?"

  "You can't do that until everyone is here. It's

  not good etiquette."

  "She's right," Howard muttered. I'm surprised

  you didn't know that!"

  Steven grimaced and folded his hands under his

  arms.

  "I don't know why all this is so important. It has

  nothing to do with the way I play piano," he

  complained.

  "If that's all you want, get a job in some smoke

  filled dive," Howard told him.

  Steven glared at him. What a time to begin

  bickering amongst ourselves, I thought, with our

  teachers about to meet us. Why was it my

  expectations rose and fell with roller coaster

  emotions? One moment I was feeling optimistic about

  us all enjoying this experience, and the next I was

  dreading another moment in this house. I gazed about

  the table, searching everyone's face to see if anyone

  else seemed to have similar feelings. They all looked

  lost in their own thoughts.

  A grandfather clock ticked the hour.

  And, on cue, our teachers began to enter the

  room. With Howard practically leaping to his feet

  first, we all stood.

  A short, bald man with dull brown watery eyes and a complexion as pale as tissue paper took the seat directly across from me. He didn't smile so much as he turned his lips into each other and pulled back the corners of his mouth. He was plump, a little barrelchested, with a necklace of fat hanging at the sides of his throat. His ears were far too large for his head. They looked tacked on at the last minute, mistakenly

  taken from someone else's assigned features. Right behind him came a far younger-looking,

  tall, slender man with hair as black as Ice's, styled

  with a soft wave from his forehead back. He had

  bright hazel eyes with specks of green and a thin,

  straight nose above very soft-looking lips. Unlike the

  bald man, he wore a pleasant smile. He nodded at us

  and gave Rose, in particular, an additional and wider

  smile.

  A very fat, robust man with thinning dark gray

  hair but heavy sideburns and a bulbous nose with a

  patch of redness over each nostril marched in firmly,

  nearly knocking into his chair with his stomach. He

  had very thick lips and large, dark brown eyes. Brock

  Marlowe came in after him, moving far more

  gracefully, and he was followed by a rather sternlooking man, about six feet tall with long, thick

  pecan-brown hair. He kept his lips tight, drawing a

  slash across his angular face.

  Our teachers gazed at us and we gazed back at

  them. For a moment I wondered what would happen

  next. Then Ms. Fairchild appeared at the foot of the

  table.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, "let me

  introduce you to your instructors.

  "Mr. Angus Masters, your speech instructor,"

  she began, and the bald man across from me nodded

  at us. "Mr. Cameron Demetrius, your dance

  instructor." she continued. The trim- figured, gentlefaced man smiled wider and turned his shoulders as if

  he was scratching his back against a wall. "Mr. Alfred

  Littleton, your vocal instructor," she said. The heavy

  man opened and closed his thick lips without

  speaking. "You already know Mr. Marlowe, your

  drama coach, and this is Mr. Leonard Bergman, our

  instrumental and piano teacher." Mr. Berman's eyes

  brightened a bit, but he didn't change expression and

  barely nodded.

  She then recited our names and, after our

  instructors sat, we sat.

  "Everyone settle in okay?" Cameron Demetrius

  asked immediately, to break the silence.

  We all answered at once, and that lightened the

  heavy air with some laughter.

  Howard then started a long story about his trip,

  speaking as if he was doing a scene on the stage, his

  hands moving like two birds circling each other. A moment later. Edmond Senetsky entered with

  Madame Senetsky on his arm and everyone rose. She

  took her seat at the head of the table. Edmond sat at

  the far end, and our first formal dinner at the Senetsky

  School began.

  We learned that Alfred Littleton, our vocal

  teacher, was a former light opera star, and the

  instrumental teacher. Leonard Bergman, was an

  internationally famous conductor. The more we

  learned about each and every one of them and their

  accomplishments, the more nervous and insecure I

  felt. Surely, they would take one good look at me and

  see what an imposter I was. How could a farm girl

  from Ohio be considered someone so talented she

  could compete for a place in the world's greatest

  orchestras?

  Mr. Masters would find my speaking ability

  and speech patterns so flawed, he would throw up his

  hands in frustration. I knew I didn't have the kind of

  grace or muscle coordination to please a professional

  dance instructor, and I couldn't carry a vocal note. There would be no point to any singing instructions for me. Once all this was learned. I was sure I, would be called to Madame Senetsky's office, where she would quickly inform me a great error had been made and there was someone far more qualified waiting in

  the wings. I would almost be relieved. I thought, I was so frightened. I competed with Ice for the

  position of the most silent person at dinner. I could

  see how Mr. Masters was keenly listening to

  everyone's speech patterns. It made me very selfconscious. As I expected. Howard Rockwell led us

  with his questions, his eagerness to show just how

  much he knew about each of our teachers. When

  Brock Marlowe asked him about parts he had played.

  Howard rattled off a very impressive range of roles. I

  was terrified Mr. Bergman would follow by asking me

  how many times I had performed in public, what

  orchestra I had been a member of, or what
my training

  had been up until now. I would surely look like a

  musical pauper.

  I continually glanced at Madame Senetsky to

  see her reaction to everything said and asked. She

  maintained a stoic expression, her eves barely

  confessing an emotion or a thought. I had the distinct

  feeling that she wanted her staff to make its own judgments about us and would do nothing to influence

  that evaluation.

  As the evening wore on, most of us did relax.

  Despite the formal, stiff beginning to the dinner, each

  of our teachers spoke about himself and his

  professional experiences, and before long we were all

  witnessing a fascinating conversation about

  international theatrical events with names of famous

  people woven in so casually and so quickly, we didn't

  have a chance to react. Every so often. I looked at

  Cinnamon and Rose, who wore soft smiles of

  appreciation on their faces. Steven looked bored and

  from time to time fidgeted with his silverware. Ice

  looked like someone visiting another country, her

  eyes small but full of curiosity. Only Howard sat with

  a demeanor of confidence, as though he was a regular

  participant at such dinners.

  Edmond Senetsky apparently knew something

  about everyone anyone mentioned and had stories of

  his own, name-dropping his clients at every

  opportunity. Since Howard had made his accusation

  earlier. I couldn't help but watch the way Edmond

  glanced at Rose from time to time. It was probably my

  imagination. but I did think he was trying to catch her

  eye more than he was trying to catch anyone else's attention. Howard looked directly at me when Edmond described Rose's dance performance for Mr. Demetrius, using superlative after superlative. Then Howard looked at Cinnamon, who was glaring not daggers but spikes back at him. He quickly turned

  away.

  The dinner itself was as elegant and rich as any

  I had ever seen or read about, much less experienced.

  We did have the roast duck we saw Mrs. Churchwell

  preparing earlier, but it was nothing like any duck

  Mommy had made back on the farm; it had an orange

  flavor. We were served wine, which started a

  discussion about the quality of California wines

  compared with French and Italian. From the

  comments Mr. Littleton made, it appeared he had

  tasted wine all over the world. I had no idea if what I

  was drinking was good; great, or otherwise. Wine was

  still just wine to me. I was familiar only with

  Mommy's elderberry.