Enthusiasm

by Polly Shulman

  “Julie, it’s time for you to start thinking seriously about college,” said my father one Tuesday evening. “Your grades are good, but that’s not enough. Admissions officers are going to want to see strong extracurriculars too. I know you like to write. Have you thought about joining the school newspaper? Or what about the literary magazine?”

  I groaned silently. The editors of the Byzantine Bugle publish enthusiastic little stories about pep rallies and food drives. Everything has to pass the scrutiny of the administration; the result is loudly dull. The literary magazine, Sailing to Byzantium, isn’t so bad—at least, it wasn’t so bad last year, when Ms. Muchnick was the adviser. With the Much on maternity leave, though, Ms. Nettleton had taken over. Three periods a week of her was quite enough for me.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “I’m pretty busy with school, plus there’s my job at Conehead’s.” (I decided not to tell him that, due to a weather-linked decrease in the demand for frozen treats, Conehead’s had let me go for the winter.) “Anyway, I’m just not into the whole newspaper/magazine thing so much.”

  “You know I wish you’d give up that job,” said Dad. “Cone-head’s isn’t exactly the most impressive credential to have on your record. What about student government or science club? That might be even better than the newspaper. The admissions officers like to see well-rounded students.”

  Well rounded! I glanced ruefully at my bony knees. Which, I wondered, would be worse: to tell my father that a midlevel nobody like me had no chance whatsoever of winning a school government election—essentially a popularity contest—or to express distaste for science, his favorite subject and the basis of his career? For the thousandth time, I envied girls whose fathers had a clue about their interests and personalities. Banking two imaginary dollars in the Familial Restraint Fund, I told Dad I would think about it.

  And I did. What I thought was this: If there were justice in the world, the hours I spent with Ashleigh would count as an extracurricular activity. Science Club, History Club, and Future Candy Makers of America, all smushed together and laid out to dry like a Fruit Roll-Up.

  Autumn blew in cold and clear the next week. As the days grew shorter and their hours grew longer, we settled down in earnest to tenth grade.

  In Mrs. Marlin’s class, Charlemagne advanced across Europe (or do I mean retreated?), followed (or perhaps preceded) by his ancestors, descendants, henchmen, or enemies, Clovis, Childeric, and Pepin the Short. (History was never my thing. Unlike English, where you can make things up, or math, where you can figure things out, history depends on happening to know what happens to have happened. Where’s the sense in that?)

  In English, the only class I had with Ashleigh, the vicious children of Summer Reading—I refer to the characters in Lord of the Flies, not my classmates—made way for Shakespeare’s unfortunate lovers.

  “How do we know that Romeo and Juliet are in love?” asked Ms. Nettleton one rainy third period. “Yes, Julie?”

  “Shakespeare tells us in the prologue. He calls them ‘A pair of star-cross’d lovers’ and talks about ’The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,’ ” I said.

  You’d think any teacher would be thrilled to have evidence that a student had read and understood the homework. Not Ms. Nettleton. When she asks a question, she doesn’t want just any answer; she’s interested only in the one she’d give.

  “Yes, but what clues does Shakespeare give in the dialogue itself? Anyone? Not you, Seth, I know you know. Peter?”

  “When Juliet goes, ‘Romeo, Romeo, oh, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’ ” said Peter the Short.

  Ms. Nettleton squinted at him mistrustfully. That line doesn’t appear until the next week’s reading, and Peter is not the type to read ahead. She clearly suspected him of winging it. “Before that. At the dance—the Capulet party, where Romeo and Juliet meet. Did anyone notice anything special about the first words they say to each other?”

  “They’re kind of flirting,” said Yolanda. “They’re kissing each other’s hands and things.”

  “Yes, but what about the form of the lines? Did anything look familiar from our unit last year on poetry? Anyone? All right, Seth, tell the class.”

  “They speak in rhyme and meter,” said Seth Young. “In fact, the first part of their conversation takes the form of a sonnet.”

  “Thank you, Seth,” said Ms. Nettleton. She wrote sonnet on the blackboard and started explaining in words as dull as they were informative. From rhyme schemes she proceeded to iambic pentameter, fourteen lines, final couplets. The bell rang before we got back to Romeo’s feelings for Juliet, or vice versa.

  “Who cares if it’s a sonnet?” said Yolanda as we made our way to the cafeteria. “That whole love-at-first-sight thing is a pile of crock, anyway. Okay, it’s better than Lord of the Flies, but not much. Romeo’s already in love before he meets Juliet—with that Rosalind person, who’s her cousin, mega-ig. Then he sees Juliet and he’s all ‘Let me kiss your hand, I really mean it this time, you know I do ’cause I’m telling you in a sonnet.’ And Juliet’s not even fourteen yet. He’s going to kill himself over an eighth grader? Yeah, right.”

  Ashleigh disagreed. While not every pair of lovers understood the true nature of their attachment at the moment of their first meeting, she maintained, some did. She gave as an example of the former type, Elizabeth Bennet and her Mr. Darcy; of the latter type, Elizabeth’s sister Jane and her Mr. Bingley. Finding that Yolanda had not yet read Pride and Prejudice, she jumped at the chance to describe it.

  In the meantime I chewed my egg salad in silence, thinking about the nature of love.

  Two people could know each other for years, I reflected, and promise to love each other forever, yet find their hearts and interests at odds. That was certainly the case with my parents. However, the example of the Drs. Liu suggested that lasting love did sometimes blossom from the first encounter. Samantha’s parents met in a singing group—Haichang has a baritone voice, Lily a sweet mezzo-soprano—and they still put their cheeks together and croon in harmony whenever they think nobody’s around.

  What, I wondered, would be my fate in love?

  If Ashleigh was right, I would find out soon enough. Only a week remained until the Forefield Columbus Cotillion. We had rehearsed our dance steps until we could confidently hop through three flavors of quadrille, a minuet, and the Sir Roger de Coverly, as well as the fox trot, the waltz, and some simple swing. We had even practiced wiggling freestyle. I felt we were as ready as we ever would be.

  First, however, we had an obstacle to overcome: how to get there. Ash and I hesitated to ask our parents to drive us to the dance—we were afraid they might somehow figure out that we hadn’t, in fact, been invited. In the end, we decided it would be best not to tell them about it at all. We would let them think we had gone to the movies with Sam. (“Wearing ballgowns?” objected Ashleigh.—“You’ve dragged me to the movies wearing far worse,” I answered.) That left a choice of walking the three miles to Forefield or riding our bicycles up the long hill, catching our hems in the gears and arriving in a sweat. Our return seemed even more problematic.

  Once again, Sam came to our aid—or, more precisely, her brother, Zach, home from college for the Columbus Day weekend. When I went to the Lius’ house to borrow a pair of evening purses from Sam’s large collection, she offered us Zach’s services as a chauffeur. “I told him if he didn’t drive you, you’d get tangled in your bike pedals and wind up in a ditch with a broken neck. Then your father would die of a broken heart and Dad would have to find a new partner. Zach said you were idiots, but he’d do it for the family honor. He likes an excuse to drive that car of his.”

  “Thanks—I guess. You sure you don’t want to come?”

  Samantha laughed. “Can you see me chasing boys at the Forehead Academy? The guys I already know are quite enough for me, thanks. Have a good time, and don’t let Ashleigh do anything too embarrassing.”

  Chapter 5

  A ride thr
ough the Dark ~ A menacing adder ~ A gallant rescue ~ A Quadrille ~ A Waltz ~ A second Sonnet.

  Zach picked us up at Ashleigh’s house. “Ready for the costume party, kids?” he said.

  “It’s not a costume party, it’s the Columbus Cotillion,” said Ash, getting in the front. “And we’re hardly kids.”

  Zach headed uphill along the river. “Hmm,” he said, looking her over critically. “You’re right, you don’t look so kidlike in that dress. Those boys at the Foreplay Academy better watch out.”

  Ashleigh slapped at his shoulder. He grabbed her wrist with three fingers and started to twist. “Hey! Guys! Keep your eyes on the road,” I said.

  My stomach fluttered as we turned off the river road and drove up the twisting approach toward the Forefield gate. In my long friendship with Ashleigh, I had become accustomed to a certain level of public attention. When your best friend goes around town dressed in armor constructed from cookware, eyes naturally turn your way. But getting thrown out of the Candy Barn for sniffing too many jellybeans is one thing; marching boldly into a nest of reputed snobs while dressed in ancient frocks that smell faintly of mothballs kicks up the potential for embarrassment to a whole new level.

  “Let us off here, Zach,” I said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way. It’ll be easier to get in if we kind of edge along behind some other people.” Zach got out to open the rear door, which sticks from the inside.

  “Okay, kids—ladies. Call me when you’ve had enough. And tell me if any of those Foureyes kids get fresh—I’ll kick their asses.” He demonstrated with a carefully placed karate kick that fortunately left no mark on the back of my silver dress, then drove off into the night.

  Ashleigh and I gathered up our skirts and edged through the gate to the Forefield Academy, our heels sinking into the grass by the side of the drive. The air was sharp; I pulled my wrap around my shoulders. Carved lions observed us from either side of the gate, their tails curled catlike around their flanks, their noses lifted in stony disdain, as if we weren’t worth the effort of a pounce. Two or three cars whished slowly by, fluttering my hair and Ashleigh’s sash.

  We reached the top of the hill and began to pass the school buildings, each more imposing than the last. After a minute or two we drew near enough to hear fragments of music trickling across the lawns from the old Forefield mansion, the heart of the academy. As soon as I saw it, I recognized it as the palace visible from my attic. From close up it looked at once more real and more enchanted. Light spilled out through tall windows and laughter mingled with the music. It sounded elegant and merry, utterly unlike the noisy chaos that passed for dances in the Byz High gym.

  Ashleigh was all for charging up the broad marble steps to the door, but I held her back. We waited until a group of partygoers came up behind us, then hurried through the door at their heels, hoping any observers would think we were with them.

  No such luck. At the entrance a red-faced man, gaunt yet jowly, sat behind a table taking tickets. “Excuse me! Excuse me, girls! Tickets?” he honked at us as we tried to sneak past.

  Ashleigh opened the black beaded evening bag Sam had lent her, peered in, mimed astonishment, and patted the sides of her frock as if it had pockets. “I must have left them in my other cloak,” she announced with her best innocent look.

  I made my usual embarrassed attempt to hide behind her, but it never works—Ashleigh is six inches shorter than me.

  Turkeyface frowned. “Where are your escorts?” he asked.

  “Oh, they’re around somewhere. They told us to meet them here,” Ashleigh tried.

  Our challenger grew sterner. “This event is for the Forefield community and their guests only,” he said icily. “I’m afraid I can’t admit you without a ticket or, at the very least, an escort.”

  Our wisest choice, I thought, would be to leave by the door and sneak back in through a window, crossing our fingers that the watchdog would keep his eye on the entrance rather than the room behind him. Well—our very wisest choice would be to go home, but I knew the Enthusiast would never agree to that.

  “Can’t we just—” she began.

  “I’m afraid the rules on this point are very—” Turkeyface countered, speaking over her words.

  I felt the blushing faintness so familiar from years of hanging out with Ashleigh. But as I tried to distract myself by wondering whether I had turned as red as Turkeyface, my ears caught a sound as welcome as a fire drill during finals week. It was a voice behind me speaking miraculous words: “It’s all right, Mr. Waters. They’re my guests.”

  Turning, I recognized the speaker as my Mysterious Stranger.

  Turkeyface looked as astonished as I felt. “Really, Parr?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Both of them? Two dates, all for you? My, my, you’re quite the lothario.”

  Did my hero turn faintly pink himself, or was that an effect of the lighting? “No, just one—the other is Ned’s guest—right, Ned?” He grabbed a square-set guy by the shoulder. “Got your tickets, Ned? Here, hand them over.”

  The boy called Ned fumbled in a vest pocket—he wore a vest!—and pulled out a clump of paper, a pack of cinnamon gum, a pencil stub, a tuning fork, and, finally, a pair of tickets. They appeared to be printed on smooth, thin cardboard like theater tickets, not Xeroxed onto colored paper like school notices. My hero contributed a pair of his own.

  Turkeyface pushed his glasses down his nose to inspect the tickets. He made no further objections, however, waving us into the room and turning back to menace new arrivals.

  Once we were out of his range, Ashleigh reached up and hugged the arm of the Mysterious Stranger called Parr. “Our hero,” she cried. “You saved our lives! Without your aid, we would have been forced to climb in a window, endangering our Necks and Frocks. How can we ever thank you?”

  “Hey, no problem,” he answered. “Always glad to do what we can to foil old Wattles. Right, Ned?”

  “The supreme joy of our young lives, foiling Wattles,” agreed the one called Ned.

  “Supreme though the joy of foiling Wattles may be, it can never compare in value to the service that you have rendered us tonight,” argued Ash. “How will we ever repay you?”

  “Honestly, we were happy to. But if you really want to thank us, some dances should do it,” said Parr.

  “With pleasure,” cried Ashleigh. I inclined my head.

  “And will you tell us the names of our dancing partners?” asked the handsome hero, turning to me.

  I felt my blush intensify. With all the blood rushing to my cheeks, I worried that none would remain to carry oxygen to my vital organs. “I’m Julie—Julia Lefkowitz,” I said, “and this is Ashleigh Rossi.”

  To my horror, Ashleigh curtsied. “And you, sir?” she asked.

  “Charles Grandison Parr, at your service, madam,” he said, sweeping an imaginary hat off his head and executing a bow worthy of Dodworth. “Allow me to introduce my companion, Edgar Downing, aka Ned the Noodle.”

  “Don’t listen to old Granddad. Nobody calls me that,” put in Ned, kicking at his friend.

  “He’s a dreamer, old Noodles. A fine intelligence, but a dreamer,” countered Parr, dodging neatly.

  “But what, pray, did Mr. Turkeyface have against us?” asked Ashleigh. “Did he think we were going to steal the ancestors off the wall?”

  The suggestion seemed almost reasonable. The walls of the room in which we were standing—a sort of medieval hall, complete with suits of armor, presumably empty, guarding the doors at each end—were covered from ear-height to the rafters with paintings of sour-looking men in dark suits.

  “Oh, I doubt it—that’s just old Wattles acting wattly,” said Parr. “Of course, there was the time the Emerson House seniors sneaked in the night before Founder’s Day and turned all the pictures upside down. But I can’t imagine he would blame you for that.”

  “Oh, yes he would, Gramps. He’d blame them for anything that crossed his mind. They’re girls, aren’t they? He’s a dirty-minded old
Puritan. He probably thinks dancing is the devil’s work,” said Ned.

  “But nobody’s actually dancing,” Ashleigh pointed out.

  Indeed, the room was full of people milling around in knots like ours. Although a small chamber orchestra stationed overhead on a minstrels’ balcony was pouring forth music, not a single couple was dancing to it. The young musicians were even pretty good too, if you like Mozart and can ignore acne.

  “Everyone’s waiting for the headmaster and his wife to open the dance. It’s a Forefield tradition,” said Parr. “But,” he continued after a pause, “how did you wind up here without tickets? Did you lose them? Or do you actually have escorts who stood you up?”

  When we hesitated, wondering how to answer, Ned added, “Don’t tell me you really crashed! Somebody dared you, right? You can’t have come of your own free will.”

  Ashleigh and I looked at each other, but before she could open her mouth, a fanfare sounded from the musicians’ gallery. A hush fell across the grand hall. A tuxedoed teenage trumpeter put down his instrument and announced in a voice as brassy as the horn: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your places for the Founder’s Quadrille!”

  In the bustle that followed, a silver-haired gentleman emerged from the crowd and led a stout but handsome lady to the far end of the room, by the empty knights. Couples, mostly older, arranged themselves geometrically down the grand hall. Music struck up, and the lead couple began the elegant ritual of walk, slide, and balancé as the others looked on.

  Ashleigh took Parr by the arm. “Well, sir? Didn’t you want to dance?” she cried.

  “Yes, but we have a while. They always play one or two really weird antique dances before the waltzes. It takes at least an hour after that before they get to the normal stuff. We have a long wait ahead.”

  “But why wait—don’t you know the quadrille?” persisted Ash.

  “Well, we do—they teach us in phys. ed. when we’re first formers—but I can’t imagine you do. Unless—you’re not from Miss Wharton’s, are you?” Parr gave us a doubtful look.