Brooke

by V. C. Andrews

  "She won't tell you," Rosemary Gillian said. "And if she knew you had even said such a thing, she'd throw you out herself."

  Heather seemed to wither in her chair. "I'm just kidding. Everyone's just trying to impress you, Brooke," she accused, her eyes hot. "That's what they always do when a new girl comes. So what do you think of the place?" she followed, back to her crossexaminer's attitude.

  "It's beautiful," I said. "I mean, I can't believe it's a school."

  The others smiled.

  "Neither can we," Heather said dryly.

  "I'm glad you like it here," Eva said with warm eyes. "We can always use new friends."

  "What do you mean, new friends?" Heather quipped. "You mean any friends, don't you?"

  The others laughed. Eva looked as if she would cry.

  "I need friends, yes. You can never have enough friends," I said, and looked at Heather. "Real friends, that is."

  No one spoke a moment, and then Heather laughed. "Touche" she said. "You know what that means?"

  I wasn't sure, but I nodded. The bell rang, and we all rose. I saw how each girl made sure her place at the table was clean. I did the same and followed them out to our next class.

  Heather came up beside me. "You don't seem like you come from a rich family," she said.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "You're too grateful," she replied, and smiled at what she thought was her own cleverness.

  Everyone laughed, even Eva. They looked at me, and I thought, why not get right aboard their silly little ship? I laughed, too, and that made everyone, even Heather, feel better about me. Maybe I could do this, I thought. Maybe I could be someone I'm not.

  Physical education class was the last class of the day for us. Our class was combined with four others that included ninth, tenth, and even eleventh graders. Altogether, we had enough for two softball teams. Our teacher, Mrs. Grossbard, was a former Olympic runner who had been on the team that won a bronze medal. She looked at me with interest when I came out in our school physical education uniform, a white blouse with the Agnes Fodor logo on the left breast and a pair of dark blue shorts. The school also provided us with sneakers and socks.

  "You play this at your last school?" Mrs. Grossbard asked me.

  "Yes, ma'am," I said.

  "Call me coach," she said. "I have the wonderful distinction of being the school's softball coach, swimming coach, relay coach, and basketball coach. I also have the distinction of never having a winning season in any of these sports, but," she said with a sigh, "I try. I do the best I can with girls who are afraid to break a fingernail." She looked at me. "Take shortstop on the blue team and bat fifth," she ordered.

  I took the field with my team. Eva played first base, probably because of her height and reach. Heather was in the outfield, sitting on the grass immediately. The other girls were on the white team.

  It felt so good being outdoors, stretching my limbs and using my muscles. We had a beautiful day for a softball game. The sky was a light blue with milk- white clouds splattered here and there. The light breeze on my face was refreshing. The sun was far enough behind the trees not to get in our eyes, and the scent of freshly cut grass was intoxicating.

  Unfortunately, our pitcher had trouble reaching the plate. Her first three tosses bounced in front of the batter. Mrs. Grossbard told the pitcher to move closer, and she did so. Her next pitch was too high for anyone to reach, and the one after that nearly hit the batter.

  "Wait a minute," Mrs. Grossbard said. She put her hands over her eyes as if she didn't want to look at her class for a moment or as if she were speaking to herself and then took the ball and threw it at me. I caught it easily. "Throw it back," she ordered. I did. "Change places with Louise."

  "Why?" Louise, our pitcher, whined.

  "Oh, I don't know. I thought we'd try to get in more than one inning today," Mrs. Grossbard replied sarcastically.

  Louise glared angrily at me as we passed each other.

  "Warm up," Mrs. Grossbard ordered, and I threw in a half dozen pitches, all pretty much over the plate. "Play ball," she cried, her eyes brighter.

  The first batter returned to the plate and swung at my first pitch. It was a blooper only about three feet in front of her. I rushed toward her and caught the ball at my waist. My team cheered. Mrs. Grossbard, who was leaning against the backstop, stood up.

  The next batter took her place at the plate and struck out on three pitches. The third batter hit a dribbler down to third, and my third baseman, an eleventh grader named Stacey, made a fine pickup, which was followed by a throw good enough to beat the runner out at first base.

  We went in to bat.

  "You've pitched before?" Mrs. Grossbard asked me.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Why didn't you tell me that was your usual position?"

  "I don't know," I replied.

  "Usually, my girls don't hesitate to tell me what they think they're good at," she remarked. "Modesty here is as rare as poverty?'

  I wasn't sure what she meant, but I smiled and nodded and took my seat on the bench.

  Our first batter hit a weak fly ball that fell just behind the shortstop, who happened to be Lisa Donald. She fell reaching for the ball, and we had a runner on base. Our second batter struck out, but our third batter hit a hard drive between first and second. We had girls on first and third when our cleanup hitter, a chunky girl named Cora Munsen, swung and hit a hard line drive right into the hands of the second baseman, who dropped it. We had the bases loaded, and I came to bat for the first time in my new school.

  All eyes were on me, some hoping I would look foolish, most just curious. I saw Mrs. Grossbard's nod of approval at the way I held the bat and took my stance. My heart was pounding. I had to step out of the box for a moment to catch my breath, collect myself, and step back.

  The first pitch was too low and the second too wide, but the third was slow and down the middle, my favorite pitch. I timed it just right and hit the ball hard. It rose and rose and went over the center fielder's head. The school's baseball field was bordered in the b ck by a small hill. The ball hit the crest of the hill and began to roll down, but it was so far away from the center fielder, she could never get a throw back to relay another before I had rounded the bases.

  My first time up, I had hit a grand-slam home run.

  And Mrs. Grossbard cheered as hard as anyone I had ever had cheer for me at my public school.

  Afterward, everyone was talking about my hit. Girls were coming over to introduce themselves in the locker room, and by the time we all left the gym area to board our small, plush school buses, there was hardly a student at Agnes Fodor who hadn't heard about the longest home-run ball ever hit at the field. By the end of the day, talk about my hit was so exaggerated that the story going around school was that my home run had cleared the hill.

  Mrs. Grossbard came out to speak to me before I boarded the bus.

  "Tomorrow," she said, "you sign up for the softball team, okay?"

  "Sure," I said.

  "Heck," she said, "we might even win a game." Bursting with excitement, I hurried onto the bus, eager to brag to my new parents about my first day.

  6 I Need to Be Me

  Still filled with excitement, I charged up to the front door of my new house and entered, hardly able to contain myself. I was about to run up the stairs to my room to change my clothes, when Pamela stepped out of the living room.

  "Good. You're home on time. Come right in here," she said, indicating the living room.

  "I was just going to put my books away and change," I said. "I wanted to tell you all about. ."

  "Just step right in here now," she said with a firmer voice. "You can do that later. There is someone here I want you to meet immediately?'

  Obediently, I walked down the hall and entered the living room. A short, bald man with a face as round as a penny stood there gaping at me with big, watery gray eyes. He had a dark brown blotch on his otherwise shiny skull. It looked as if some
one had splattered beef gravy on him because it spread in thin lines toward the back of his head and his temples.

  "This is Professor Wertzman, Brooke. I've hired him to start you on piano lessons. Contestants need to show some talent, and the professor will teach you how to play well enough so you could perform something," she declared. It sounded more as if she had ordained it and it would be.

  "But I don't have any musical talent. I never even tried to play the piano," I said weakly.

  "That's because you never had one to play. What lessons were you ever offered at the

  orphanage?" she asked with a cold smile. "Now you have all the finer things in life at your beck and call. Professor Wertz-man is a highly regarded piano instructor. It took a great deal to get him to free up some time for you, but he knows how important this is to me," she added, eyeing him with her icy glare.

  When he smiled, his chin quivered and his nostrils went in and out like a rabbit's.

  "It's an honor for me to be able to do you and Mr. Thompson a favor," he said.

  "See? Everyone's trying to help you, Brooke. Beginning today, you'll have a lesson every day after school, so come right home," she commanded.

  "But . ."

  "But what?" She looked at the professor, who widened his smile, and then they both looked at me.

  "The coach, Mrs. Grossbard, asked me to join the school's softball team. I hit a home run in class today, a grand-slam home run my first time up at bat! I have to stay after school for practice every day."

  For a moment, Pamela simply stared at me and blinked her eyes. The professor was uncomfortable standing in the long moment of silence. He cleared his throat and rocked on his heels with his hands behind his back.

  "Have you any idea of the cost and the effort it took to get Professor Wertzman here?" she began softly. "Do you know that the professor tutors most of the pianists from finer families in our community? He has assured me he can get you ready to perform a piece in six months. No one else can make such a promise. You are a very lucky young lady." The way she said lucky made me think I was anything but.

  "I don't care," I snapped. "I don't want to learn piano. I was never interested in piano. I hit a home run," I repeated, backing away. "I'm good at softball. I want to be on the team!'

  "Brooke!"

  "No! You don't care about me at all, you just want to turn me into you!" I cried, and turned toward the stairway.

  "You get right back here this instant. Brooke!"

  I ran up the stairway and into my room, the tears flying from my cheeks. Then I sprawled on my bed and buried my face in my pillow.

  She didn't have a right to do this, to make plans like this without asking me first. I don't care what she does, I thought. I don't care if she sends me back. I stopped sobbing, wiped my face, and sat hugging my knees, waiting for her to come angrily after me. I listened hard in anticipation of her footsteps in the hallway, but I heard nothing. Finally, I changed into what Pamela called a more casual outfit, a pair of slacks and a blouse that didn't make me feel any more comfortable than the clothes I wore to school. How I missed my jeans, T-shirts, and sweatshirts, I thought.

  I was still afraid to go downstairs, so I opened my books and started my homework. It was nearly an hour and a half later when I heard a knock on my door. I hadn't heard any footsteps, and I never expected Pamela would knock. She always just walked right in.

  "Yes?"

  The door opened. It was Peter. He was wearing one of his expensive-looking blue suits and looked as fresh and alert as he would if he had just begun his day.

  "Mind if I come in?" he asked. "No," I said.

  He smiled and closed the door softly behind him. "So," he began, "it looks like we're having our first family crisis."

  "I don't have any musical talent," I moaned. "How do you know that?"

  "I don't, but I don't want to play piano," I insisted.

  "Well," he said calmly before sitting on the edge of my bed, "you're too young to really know what you want and don't want. It's like someone who's never tasted caviar saying, 'I don't want to eat caviar. I don't like it.' Right?" he asked in a soft, soothing voice.

  "I suppose." I sniffled I didn't want to start crying again, but I could feel hot tears building behind my eyes.

  "Well, you don't know if you want to play piano until you try. You might find the experience wonderful, and you might make such progress so quickly, you'll get excited about it yourself," he reasoned. "You're a very intelligent young lady, Brooke. I'm sure you can understand my point."

  I was silent a moment, and then I caught my breath and turned to him, the tears still burning beneath my eyelids.

  "I hit a home run in gym class today," I said. "It was a grand slam."

  "Really?" he said, his eyes widening. "A grand slammer?"

  "Uh-huh. And it was my first time at bat ever at the new school. The coach asked me to be on the team. She needs a pitcher, and I always used to be the pitcher at my old school," I told him.

  "Is that right?"

  "The team practices every day after school. The next game is only a week away. Every practice is important for me."

  "I see. And you told Pamela this?" he asked, his eyebrows lifting as his eyes filled with concern. "Yes."

  "Now I understand," he said, nodding. He rose and walked to the window, paused there for a moment, and then turned and walked toward the door. "What if I could arrange for your piano lessons early in the evening after dinner' Do you think you could manage all that and your homework, too?"

  "Yes," I said quickly, even though I had no idea if I could.

  "It would only have to be this way until softball season ends," he explained, and I could tell he was still figuring out how to make it sound good to Pamela.

  "But I thought the professor was doing us a favor and was only available after school," I said.

  Peter winked. "We'll negotiate," he answered. "It's what I do for a living. The secret is never to panic but to step back, take a breath, and look for new doors through which you can enter the same house. This way, you get to be on the team, Pamela is satisfied that she is doing the best for you, and the professor is happier, too. I'll make sure of that. Sound good?"

  I nodded. "Great. Then don't worry about it. Most of the time, we make our problems seem bigger than they are. When we look at them calmly, we realize that most of our dragons are created in our own imaginations. I want to hear more about that home run later," he said at the door. He gave me a big smile again and left.

  I sighed with relief. I was lucky having someone like him for a father, I thought. No wonder he is so successful. He thinks of solutions and ideas so fast. He could probably even be president of the United States.

  At dinnertime, however, I was still very nervous. Pamela sat with her lips firm, her back straight and stiff. I took my seat quietly, afraid to look at her, because when I did, she shot angry glances at me.

  "Everything's arranged with Professor Wertzman," Peter said happily.

  "I'm still owed an apology for poor behavior," Pamela muttered, her eyes lifting to focus on me. "Especially poor behavior in front of someone like Professor Wertzman. He goes from one important family home to another, and I wouldn't want him speaking poorly of us."

  "He knows better than to do that, Pamela," Peter said.

  "That's not the point."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I was just upset. It came as such a surprise."

  "Here I am trying to do the best things for you," she whined, "and you make me look like a fool."

  "I'm sorry," I said again.

  "Everything's fine now," Peter said. "Let's just enjoy a great dinner and hear about Brooke's first day at Agnes Fodor."

  "She could have had her first lesson today," Pamela said in a lower voice, retreating like a car engine puttering to a stop.

  "She'll make up for it, I'm sure," Peter said. "Tell us about the school, Brooke."

  I described my classes, teachers, and some of the students. Pamela was m
ost interested in whom I was making friends with. She wanted to know about their families, but I didn't know much about anyone else's family, and I couldn't give her the information she wanted.

  "You should ask more questions," she told me.

  "Show that you're interested in them. Even if you don't really listen," she added.

  Peter laughed. "Pamela is an expert when it comes to small talk. Everyone wants to talk to her, but at the end of the evening, she can't tell me half of what they said. No one ever seems to catch on, though, so I suppose they don't mind," he concluded with a laugh.

  Why wouldn't anyone mind if you didn't really listen? What kind of people were at these grand, important parties?

  "Now, tell us about your home run," he finally said. Pamela smirked and started eating while I described the teams and my hit and the aftermath.

  "Girls' sports are a much bigger thing than when you were her age, Pamela," Peter explained. Somehow, I think that just made her angry again.

  "When they add tennis, golf, baseball, or basketball to the Miss America contest, tell me," she quipped. Peter laughed, but he stopped talking about it.

  The days that followed were harder than I ever imagined. There was so much schoolwork to catch up on besides the day-to-day work I had to do. Softball practice was the only thing I really looked forward to, and my enthusiasm put happy smiles on Coach Grossbard's face. However, it was physically demanding. Very quickly, Coach Grossbard determined that I would be the starting pitcher and bat cleanup. The only girl who seemed dissatisfied about it was Cora Munsen, who had been the team's cleanup hitter.

  "You just had one lucky hit," she told me in the locker room. "You're not any better than I am at bat."

  I didn't want her to hate me, so I agreed. "I'll do whatever the coach wants," I said. "It's the team that's important."

  "Sure," she said. "Like you really care. You're just like the others. You want all the glory."

  "That's not true, Cora."

  She shook her head and walked away.