Struggling, I maneuvered the clunky wheelchair across the brick patio. Forget it was the twenty-first century and there were electric wheelchairs that could practically cook dinner. Miss de France didn’t want an electric wheelchair. She was afraid of them. They might catch on fire. Besides, she liked watching me and James kill ourselves pushing her around.
We sat under the now blooming red poinciana tree, me frantically texting Tamara. Where R U? U R supposed to B here. I’m getting a hernia pushing her wheelchair!!!
Within minutes she answered with Sorry, have a track meet & if i don’t go, my coach will be livid. T
Furious, my fingers raced over the little keyboard. If u don’t start helping me with Miss D, I’ll B livid!!! Your former BFF
I snapped my cell shut. It was good I wasn’t a track star, too, because I would have raced over to Tamara’s little key lime pie colored house and poured rocks in her running shoes.
March moved on, determined to become April. And when I wasn’t at school or working at Surf’s Up, I was at Miss de France’s. Not that it was all awful. Sometimes we played Hearts or Authors. She even tried to teach me bridge. And if we weren’t in the mood for card games, James would fire up the prehistoric projector and the three of us would watch old movies until I knew the faces of Cary Grant, Fred Astaire and Humphrey Bogart as well as I knew the faces of the Jonas Brothers. And then, when it was finally over, I’d go home and crash.
But my new life was taking a toll. Lavender half moons rimmed my eyes. I was even falling asleep in class. Midterms had come and gone and the prospect of a less than stellar report card became a real possibility.
I was lying on my unmade bed, attempting to finish my French homework, when my mother knocked, then pushed open my bedroom door.
“Brooke, are you up?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t want to wake you if you were sleeping.”
She walked over and sat on the edge of my tsunami ravaged bed.
“So, how are things going?”
“Well, Miss de France is actually feeling pretty good now.”
“I’m talking about you, honey. You look awfully tired. Your father and I don’t think you should be going to her house every day.”
I looked into my mother’s face, wishing I were her. Wishing I was anyone but myself.
“She expects me every day. If I don’t go, she’ll get sick again.” My voice rose, each word higher, like a note on a musical scale.
“Brooke, you’re not responsible for this lady’s health.” My mother reached for my hand. “Miss de France had a life before she met you.”
I pulled back. “No, she didn’t. She didn’t have anyone in the whole world except her butler and a niece who died in a car crash. Mom, she needs me. She really needs me!” With a sob I collapsed into a heap on my pillow.
“Brooke, it’s all right.” Her voice cracked, my hysteria having oozed into my mother’s calm.
“You don’t understand. I have to be there for her,” I sobbed. “I have to!”
My mother brushed my tear dampened hair from my face. “I understand. Now don’t cry. Just get some sleep and things will look better in the morning.”
Things will never get better, I thought, closing my eyes. I was responsible for Miss de France getting sick and now she owned me.
Chapter Twelve
It was a Thursday afternoon and officially spring, and to prove it the magnolia tree in the front yard of my new BFF’s Victorian was in full bloom. Its flowers were beautiful and innocent, unlike me who was loaded down with bad karma like the guy in the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, the poem we’d read in school about the sailor who’d killed the bird and had to wear it around his neck.
James was in the side driveway polishing a beautiful, old yellow car with a hood ornament of a silver lady with wings. He looked up when I pulled up. For once he wasn’t dressed in a tux, but a pair of shorts and an old Rays T-shirt.
“Pretty car,” I said when I’d turned off the engine. “Is it yours?”
He shook his head. “It’s Madame’s. It’s a 1955 Silver Cloud S-Series. At 60 mph the loudest noise you can hear inside the cabin is the ticking of the clock. She bought it from Gloria Swanson.”
“Oh, does she live around here?”
“Who?”
“Gloria Swanson.”
James laughed. “I certainly hope not. By the way, I hope you’re wearing suitable shoes.”
“Suitable for what?”
“Dancing. Today you begin your ballroom lessons.”
Ohmigod! What was Miss de France forcing me to do now? Wasn’t it enough that she was making me read A Passage to India?
I pushed the French doors open to the drawing room. Miss de France, looking very much the spring flower, sat in her usual red chair. Leaning against the fireplace mantle was a good looking dark haired guy, dressed in a black dress shirt and slacks, a smirk on his face. I stared, my normally quick brain attempting to comprehend I was actually facing Maria’s ex-boyfriend, Anthony. An image of a hysterical, rain-soaked Maria running across the parking lot of the Don Carlos Hotel flashed through my mind.
I glared at him across the room. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m an instructor at Dance With Me, remember? Miss de France hired me to give you private lessons.”
The urge to turn on my ungraceful feet and run from this slimeball squared off with my moral obligation to stay.
“Isn’t it absolutely fabulous?” Miss de France said, casting Anthony an adoring glance. “He comes very highly recommended.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“I’ve decided if you are to be a capable actress, you must learn to dance as well as act.”
A sick feeling washed over me. “Who ever said anything about me wanting to dance?”
Miss de France was unruffled. “Me. Some things are inevitable, darling, so don’t fight fate.”
I thought of my sole attempt at ballet at the age of six, when, as Little Red Riding Hood, I’d refused to appear on the stage at Coral Cove Elementary.
Miss de France was still unmoved, her steely gaze as unrelenting as a judge on Dancing With the Stars. “Anthony said he’d begin with the fox trot. Such a wonderfully sophisticated step if done correctly.”
“But, Miss de France, I don’t really want to—”
“Nonsense. Everyone loves to fox trot. Now, James has rolled up the rug so you’ll be dancing on tile, just like Valentino. Tile makes a superior dance floor, don’t you agree?”
No, I don’t agree. And I don’t know who Valentino is, and I don’t want to learn to fox trot, especially from the slimy guy who practically raped my friend.
Sure, Maria had agreed to meet Anthony at the Don Carlos, but she’d been pressured knowing the Army was shipping him to God only knew where. Besides, she’d been in love. For a minute it was November again and I was in Tamara’s dad’s 1987 Chevy with Sudsy and Tamara, comforting a rain-soaked, traumatized Maria.
Miss de France picked up a Frisbee-sized vinyl record and handed it to Anthony. Soon the faint scratchy sound of an orchestra filled the room, while some guy sang about finding someone just in time.
“Now, shall we begin?”
“I can’t. I’m wearing flip-flops.”
“Then go barefoot, darling. I always did my best dancing in bare feet.”
Anthony moved closer, the musky scent of cologne attacking me before he did.
“Now, just watch my feet,” he said. “The American fox trot is basically just long forward and backward steps plus short side steps. Being the guy, I step forward with my left foot. You, being the woman, step back with your right. Now I’ll pretend I’m you. Just watch.”
He moved quickly across the floor.
“Now, you try it.”
Angrily, I imitated him.
“Slow, quick, quick. Slow, quick, quick.” I closed my eyes, my bare feet shuffling across the tile.
Placing my left hand on his shoulder, An
thony put his hand on my back and we began to dance. Miss de France had inched to the gold chaise from where she sipped tea like Alice in Wonderland at the March Hare’s tea party, while a smirking Cheshire Cat of an Anthony and a defiant me, whirled about the drawing room.
My dancing lessons continued. Every Thursday afternoon Anthony would appear at Miss de France’s door at promptly three o’clock, then spend the next hour trotting me around like a trick pony.
“Oww!” It was my fourth lesson and I’d just purposely stepped on Anthony’s foot for the umpteenth time. His jaw clenched. “Just relax and follow me.”
“Sorry!” I mewed.
Miss de France gave a gleeful laugh. “I’m afraid that you’re dealing with a thoroughly modern woman, Anthony, darling. Women like Brooke and me do not follow. We lead.”
Anthony removed his loafer to massage his injured foot. “I noticed.” He put the loafer back on, grabbed my waist, and steered me across the room.
The ring of my cell beckoned from my Dooney & Bourke Dreamsicle purse precariously perched on the loveseat. Instinctively, I pulled away from my tutor’s grasp, like Pavlov’s dog.
“Never mind, I’ll get it.” Miss de France reached into my bag, coming up with the pulsing cell.
“Hellooo!” she caroled. “I’m sorry, but Brooke’s in the midst of a dance lesson. May I take a message? Oh, yes, Maria, darling. I’ll tell her you called. Ciao for now.”
It was my turn to clench my jaw. Now I couldn’t even answer my cell phone or talk to my friends?
Struggling on, Anthony and I made it through the rest of the hour, he limping and me fuming about my denied call. Miss de France watched as we disentangled our limbs and retreated to opposite corners.
“Darling, overall, other than stepping on your toes, how would you say our pupil is doing?” Miss de France gazed up into Anthony’s empty, handsome face.
I sat on the piano bench waiting for his answer. Not that I cared. I was still too damn mad about the missed phone call.
“Well,” he began slowly, probably not wanting to kill his thirty-five-dollar-an-hour cash cow. “She’s not exactly a natural, but she’s not that bad, either. There’s hope.”
She nodded. “Well, ‘Hope springs eternal,’ the poet said. And, as hard as it may be to believe, I wasn’t Ginger Rogers when I started dancing either.”
We watched Anthony put on his shoes, waiting for another pearl from the master’s lips.
“Then you think it’s worthwhile for her to continue?” Miss de Frances’s words hung in the air like so many leaping grasshoppers.
“I’d say so.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” He didn’t look amused.
“She’s deliriously happy, that’s all,” Miss de France said.
I laughed again. I didn’t even have to talk. Now Miss de France was doing that for me, too.
I drove home in a funk. Mad about Maria and madder at Miss de France. Didn’t she ever stop to wonder what I wanted? That maybe I didn’t want to dance? She was out of control. Or, maybe she was just too much in control. Control of me and my life.
A funny feeling settled in my chest, I felt like I was smothering. Or maybe, I was having a heart attack! Now relax, Brooke. Some day this will all be over.
She’s old. Maybe she’ll just die in her sleep. The thought shot through my mind making me hate myself the second I’d thought it. Ohmigod, I didn’t mean it! Miss de France was so sweet and good to me. I really didn’t want anything to happen to her. I just wanted my life back.
Darn that Tamara! It was all her fault. If she hadn’t upset Miss de France, she wouldn’t have had a heart attack and I’d still have a life.
If only I hadn’t taken Tamara to Miss de France’s Valentine party, or we hadn’t gone to the party at all. Or the Green Lady hadn’t broken down in front of her house in a rain storm. But it was too late. All the if only’s in the world weren’t going to change the fact I was responsible for what happened to her.
Chapter Thirteen
According to Cosmo Girl, to keep your boyfriend happy, you have to take care of his needs. And since I wasn’t taking care of any of Tyler’s needs, it probably explained why we weren’t getting along.
Of course, the subject of sex kept coming up. It was a Saturday night and Tyler and I had gone to Muvico, then parked at Spring Bayou. But my heart wasn’t in it. Neither was anything else.
“What’s wrong?” Tyler asked.
I’d just pulled away for the third time and was brushing my hair in the visor mirror. “Nothing. I don’t really feel like making out.”
“I noticed.”
“Sorry, but I’m just so tired. Besides, I can see Miss de France’s house from here. For all I know, she’s watching us through her opera glasses.”
“Well, we can always drive down to the Cove.”
“Are you crazy? The cops check the place every hour. They know that’s where everybody gets it on.”
“Everybody except us.” Tyler sounded really sad.
I leaned over and gave him a soft kiss. “Tyler, even though sometimes I really feel like I’d like to do it, I just can’t. It would create too many problems, and I have enough already.”
My unfulfilled boyfriend crossed his arms across his chest. “I bet I’m the only guy in the entire Junior Class who’s never had sex.”
“Oh, you are not.”
“Well, okay. Me and Chad Roshbaum.”
I laughed at the thought of Tyler and Chad comparing notes.
“Well, I’m sure that some very nice girl would be ecstatic to have sex with you.”
Through the dark I could see him scowl. “Thanks a lot.”
“I was just kidding. Obviously, I don’t want you doing it with another girl because I love you very much.”
Tyler grabbed me. “Okay, then if you really love me, prove it.”
“Tyler, please don’t give me that. It’s the lamest line in the universe. Besides, I don’t feel very well. My allergies are killing me and I’m getting a headache.”
He put the key into the ignition and started the car. “Well, you’re not the only one who feels crummy.”
In a milliminute we were in front of his funky Key West house. Tyler leaped out of the Green Lady, not even bothering to open the car door. Of course, the top was down.
“Don’t be such a baby,” I called after him, watching him take the flight of stairs two at a time.
“You’re the baby,” he yelled back. “Maybe I should go out and find someone who’s a grown woman instead of a little girl.”
“On your bicycle? You must be kidding!”
I guess a guy can only take so much abuse, because the next thing I knew, something came flying down from the porch, hitting me on the head. It was the friendship ring I’d given Tyler.
“Fine! If that’s the way you want it,” I said, yanking his friendship ring from the chain around my neck. “See this,” I screamed, holding the ring in the air. “Lots of luck finding it!” And with my best Tampa Bay Rays windup, pitched it into the soggy bayou behind his house.
There ought to be a law DO NOT CRY AND DRIVE, because on the way home from Tyler’s I was definitely a traffic hazard.
Maybe Tyler would find some other girl. Someone who would be more than happy to have sex with him. A real woman, not a little girl like me. The words had a familiar ring. That’s what Anthony had told Maria when she’d run away from him that night at the Don Carlos Hotel. I guess it’s the only thing guys can think of to say when their girlfriends won’t put out.
Oh, go ahead, Tyler! If that’s all you really want. Maybe you and Anthony can team up. But in my heart I knew I didn’t want Tyler to run around with that slimeball Anthony, or any other slimeball for that matter. I loved Tyler and now I’d lost him.
Chapter Fourteen
Maybe if I’d realized how lonesome I’d be without Tyler, I wouldn’t have tossed his ring to the gators and would have tried to make up instead. But I wa
s too proud to beg him. So instead I spent my time crying on everyone’s shoulder, even Miss de France’s.
I guess that having no one to love me is why I became so obsessed with the presents she gave me. At first they were just unexpected surprises that pleased me, but as my emptiness deepened, so did my need for more things.
The yellow cashmere set was the gift I adored most. I hadn’t even known what cashmere was. I mean, when you exist in an average temperature of eighty degrees your entire life, you’re not thinking about sweaters. When I appeared at Miss de France’s one Saturday after work, a big white box with a silver bow was waiting for me.
I’d walked around the side of the house, following the red brick pavers to the back where she sat in her wheelchair. “I’m in the garden, darling,” she called. “I have something to cheer you up.”
I smiled for the first time that day when I saw the white box. “You shouldn’t have,” I protested, while inside I was yelling yay!
“Oh, don’t be silly. Buying things for you from my catalogues makes me happy. Besides, you look fabulous in everything. When I put something on, I look like an old hobby horse.”
“Oh, you do not.”
I grabbed the box from her hands and tore open the ribbon. There nestled among sheets of white tissue paper were two gorgeous yellow sweaters.
“They’re beautiful,” I said, holding one of them against me, “but why are there two just the same?”
“They’re a cardigan set. When I was young I had them in every color of the rainbow, just like Lana Turner, the original Hollywood Sweater Girl. Remember, the actress we watched last week in The Postman Always Rings Twice? Actually, I think you have a lot of Lana in you. Poor thing.”
I bent over and kissed Miss de France on the cheek. “Do you really think so?” I asked, wondering if the poor thing comment was directed to me or Lana Turner.
To test the Lana Turner Sweater Girl theory, I wore my new sweater set to school the next day, even though it was ninety degrees. Sticking out my 34B chest as far as it would go, I was sashaying down the hall in a movie star slink when I ran into Tamara, Sudsy and Maria in front of the trophy case.
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