Brooke

by V. C. Andrews

  The truth was, the only time I felt honest was when I was playing softball or some sport. The real me couldn't be hidden.

  Harrison would be disappointed. I wouldn't even come close to striking out.

  8 Bases Loaded

  We lost our next game, but not because I struck out or the other team got so many hits off me. Our team made too many errors, the big one being Cora Munsen's dropping of a fly ball with two on base. The way she looked at me afterward gave me the feeling she had done it on purpose just so I wouldn't look good. Coach Grossbard might have thought so, too. Afterward, in the locker room, she kept asking Corn why she dropped it.

  "The sun wasn't in your eyes. You were in good position. What happened, Cora?"

  "I don't know," Cora said, eyes down.

  "Well, I don't understand. Anyone could have caught that ball," the coach insisted.

  Cora was silent.

  "Maybe she was too anxious," I said. "That's happened to me. I think about throwing the ball before catch it,"

  It really didn't happen to me, but I'd seen it happen enough times to other girls. Cora looked up quickly.

  "Yes," she said, grateful for the suggestion. "I think that was it:'

  The coach still looked suspicious. "Let's be sure it doesn't happen against Westgate next Saturday. We've never come close to beating them, and they shut us out the last three times," Coach Grossbard said.

  "It won't," Cora promised.

  The coach put up posters with the words "Get Westgate" on the locker-room walls during the week. I soon realized there was a real rivalry between the two schools, and pressure began to mount toward Saturday. It was hard for me to keep my mind on my piano lessons and modeling lessons while doing my homework and attending practices.

  During Wednesday's piano lesson, Professor Wertzman had a tantrum.

  "You seem to have forgotten everything. Such mistakes are not made by someone who is supposedly practicing!" he accused.

  He jumped up and paced at the piano, shaking his head and looking at me furiously.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm trying."

  "No, you're not trying. I know when a student is trying. I made your mother promises, and you're making it impossible to keep them," he declared.

  Tears clouded my eyes. I lowered my head and waited for his fury to die down.

  "I'll be a laughingstock," he muttered. "I have a reputation to protect. My reputation is my livelihood!"

  "I'm trying," I moaned. "I'll try harder. I promise."

  He stared at me with a look that made me feel as if I wasn't fit even to be in his presence. My lips began to tremble. Just then, Pamela entered. Right after dinner, her beautician had come over to do a treatment on her hair that she said would make it look fuller and richer. It didn't look any different to me.

  "What's going on in here?" she asked, her hands on her hips.

  The professor looked at me and shook his head. "I must have the full cooperation and attention of my student if I am to succeed," he said, shifting his eyes toward me.

  "Brooke, aren't you trying?"

  "Yes," I said. "I am. I'm not as good as everyone thinks, that's all."

  "Who thinks that?" the professor muttered. "You can't be any good if you don't practice and pay attention. You are not practicing enough," he insisted.

  "I do practice. I do," I said.

  "Are you saying she needs more practice?" Pamela asked.

  "At the rate she is going, more practice is definitely needed. I would like to see her add at least another four hours a week," he prescribed.

  It hit me like a tablespoon of castor oil or a whip across my back. "Four more hours! When could I do that?"

  Pamela stared coldly at me. "I think," she began slowly, "considering the sacrifices and the expense Peter and I are undertaking for your benefit, you could at least find the time. She'll practice an additional four hours every Saturday from now on;' she declared firmly.

  The professor looked satisfied.

  "I can't practice any more on Saturday, especially not this coming Saturday. It's the biggest game of the year!"

  "Game?" the professor asked, looking at Pamela.

  "Don't listen to anything she says, Professor Wertzman. Please, give her instructions on what you want her to practice and what you expect her to accomplish this coming Saturday?'

  She turned back to me, her eyes like cold stones. "I'm filling out the application for the pageant's first audition tonight, Brooke. You have to be ready for every event. No," she said as I went to speak. "I don't want to say another word about it."

  "But Saturday is very important. Everyone's depending on me," I blurted despite her order.

  She stared and then looked up at the ceiling as if she were in great emotional pain. Without looking at me, she continued, "If there is any further problem or if the professor complains to me again, I will call Mrs. Harper and tell her you are forbidden from being on any team, baseball, checkers, anything?' she threatened, her eyes still on the ceiling. Then she pivoted on her high heels and went clip-clopping down the hallway.

  The professor turned to me. "Thin the page," he ordered, "and begin again."

  The tears in my eyes made the notes hazy. I sucked in my breath and tried to swallow down the lump that was stuck in my throat, but it clung like a wad of chewing gum. I could hardly breathe. Still, I did what the professor asked. It was more like torture now, his breath on my face, his groans and slaps on the piano, but I endured every moment, terrified that he would complain to Pamela again.

  As soon as the lesson ended, I rose and ran from the room. I charged up the stairs, my feet pounding the steps so hard the beautiful stairway actually shook, When I got to my room, I slammed the door behind me and sat at my desk fuming. I was too angry to do any homework.

  Minutes later, there was a knock.

  "Come in," I called, and Peter opened the door.

  "I saw you fly by the den and heard the house coming down over my head What's today's crisis?"

  "The professor thinks I'm doing terrible and wants me to add at least four more hours of practice. Pamela said I have to do it on Saturday, too, and I have the biggest game of the year on Saturday. She said if I made any more trouble, she would tell Mrs. Harper to keep me off all the teams. It's not fair!" I cried.

  "That does sound severe," he agreed. Then he looked at me with his eyes brightening. "What about getting up earlier and practicing before you go to school?"

  "Practicing isn't going to help me. I'm no good at piano," I moaned.

  "If you do it, I'll make sure Pamela doesn't call Mrs. Harper," he said.

  Another negotiation, I thought, another deal arranged by my lawyer foster father. I was getting up earlier now to do my makeup because Pamela wanted me to look beautiful. I might as well not go to sleep, I thought. But what choice did I have? A foster child who was soon to be legally adopted was like someone without any rights or even feelings. If I wanted parents and a home and a name, I had to be obedient. Pamela talked about my auditioning for the pageant, but what I was really doing was auditioning to be her daughter.

  "Okay," I said. "I'll practice in the morning before breakfast, too."

  "Great. Another crisis solved," he announced with a snap of his fingers, and went downstairs to tell Pamela how it would be.

  Despite my enthusiasm and determination, my new busy schedule took its toll on me. It was most difficult during my morning classes. I felt as if I was dragging myself through the halls and plopping into my classroom seat like some old mop. Twice in English class, I actually dozed off for a few minutes, and Mr. Rudley had to step up to me and shake my shoulder after asking me a question. My eyes were open, but I hadn't heard him. I apologized, of course.

  Somehow, I came to life at softball practice. Maybe it was being back in the fresh air. It was the third week in May now. The foliage was full, lush, and richly green. Two nights of rain during the week brought out the mayflies, however, and most of the girls were complaining. The
ground was soft, even damp in spots. We all looked grimy by the end of a practice, mud splattered on our uniforms, faces, and hands, our hair sweaty, bug bites on our arms and necks.

  None of it mattered to me. I felt I was at home, but my teammates wanted Coach Grossbard to have the field sprayed and dried. Everywhere these rich, pampered girls went in life, they expected someone would change things cosmetically to please them or make things easier.

  However, when I returned home that afternoon and Pamela saw the little red blotches on the back of my neck, she went into a hysterical fit. At first, she thought it was caused by something I might have been eating. She accused me of sneaking candy bars at school. Then she thought I might be having an allergic reaction to something and started for the telephone to call her dermatologist. When I told her it was just a few mayflies, she stopped and stared at me as if I was crazy.

  "Mayflies? Mayflies. Bug bites! That's disgusting. Get upstairs and into the tub immediately. Don't you realize how this could play havoc with your complexion, and you with a pageant audition only weeks away?"

  "The bites don't last long. Next time I'll wear some bug repellent," I said calmly. That only made her more furious.

  "You don't just spray chemicals on your skin like that. Do you see me doing such a thing? I thought I told you to study me, be like me. Upstairs," she ordered, and followed me. She surprised me by directing me to her bathroom instead of mine. There, she made me strip and go into her steam room. She flicked a switch, and the steam began to pour out until I could no longer even see the door. I felt as if I was being cooked and screamed that I had had enough, but the steam kept corning. I found the doorknob and discovered I couldn't open it.

  "Pamela?" I called. "It's too hot!"

  The steam continued. I lay down on the floor, because that was the coolest place, and waited. Nearly ten minutes later, I heard the steam stop, and the door was opened.

  "Out!" she cried.

  I was dizzy and thought I might be sick, but still I stood there while she inspected my body.

  "Good," she said.

  "It was too hot in there."

  "It has to be that way to get out the poisons. Now you need your bath."

  Joline had been called to prepare it. After I got into the tub, Pamela began to scrub my skin with a stiff brush, making it redder in spots than the bug bites, I thought. She poured all sorts of different oils into the water and shampooed my hair with such vigor I thought my scalp would bleed.

  I stepped out, exhausted, when she told me to, and I barely had the strength to wipe myself down. I was taking too long, and she yelled at me to hurry up.

  "Blow-dry your hair," she ordered. Before she wrapped the towel around me, she suddenly stared at my body with more interest than ever.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "It's still happening. In fact, it's getting worse. You look too . . masculine. You don't have any soft places. Even your breasts are like little puffs of muscle." She grimaced, twisting her mouth, her eyes filling with concern. "I want you to see my doctor."

  "Doctor? Why?"

  "I don't think you're developing right," she declared. "I'll make an appointment."

  "I feel fine," I said.

  "You don't look right to me. Maybe you need some feminine hormones. I don't know. Let the doctor decide," she said, and left me.

  I was almost too weak to hold the hair dryer. When I'd dressed, I headed downstairs for dinner. The only way I could be more listless was to be asleep. Peter was away on another trip, and there was even a possibility he would not be back in time for the big game on Saturday. Pamela sat at the table and lectured me about the importance of protecting my skin.

  "There is just so much makeup can do," she declared, "and some of these pageant judges get so close, they can see the smallest imperfections. Don't think that doesn't play a role in their decisions. It does. They see an ugly blemish on your neck, they'll drop you a place no matter how well you do in the other categories, especially the male judges." She stopped to take a breath and then continued with her criticism. "Why aren't you eating?"

  "I lost my appetite because I was in the steam room too long," I said.

  That threw her into a new tirade. "It's not the steam room. Removing poisons should make your body more efficient. It's that stupid softball, standing out there in the hot, destructive sunlight, letting yourself be feasted upon by bugs, filling your pores with dirt. And you're not using the hand cream enough," she added.

  She stared at me, her fingers thumping the table as Joline moved as quietly and as quickly as she could around us, removing plates, straightening silverware, filling the water glass. I stared back at her. Not a hair was out of place. Her makeup was perfect. She looked ready for a professional photo shoot. It occurred to me that she made a bigger effort to look pretty than the effort most people made to do their jobs well.

  Afterward, my piano lesson was grueling. Professor Wertzman seemed to sense my exhaustion as soon as I began. Instead of taking it easier on me, he made me do all my exercises repeatedly, finding fault with everything as usual. At one point, he became so annoyed, he actually slapped my left hand. He didn't hurt me, but it was so surprising and sharp, I felt an electric jolt in my heart and lost my breath for a moment.

  "No, no, no," he said. "No, no, no. Again. Again!"

  As usual, I was nearly in tears by the time the lesson ended. When I went up to my room, I just sat dazed and looked at my remaining homework. I didn't have the energy to open the book, much less begin the written work. I fell asleep at the desk and woke with a start when I heard my door open.

  "What are you doing?" Pamela demanded.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked at my open textbook. "Just finishing some math," I said.

  "I want to check your skin," she said, and inspected my neck. "I'm calling Mrs. Harper in the morning and making a formal complaint about all this. They shouldn't be permitting you girls out there until those bugs are gone."

  "No, please don't do that, Pamela. I'll keep my neck covered. I promise. There won't be any bites on me tomorrow. Please," I pleaded.

  "Ridiculous," she said. "All of it. Beautiful girls exposing themselves to such damage. Sports are for boys. Their skin is tougher than ours. Their muscles are bigger."

  "Lisa Donald and I beat her cousin Harrison and his friend at tennis the other day," I pointed out.

  She stared at me again with that strange look in her eyes, a mixture of concern and bewilderment. "I have heard where some girls because of hormone deficiencies actually think like boys. I'm beginning to wonder if you have this medical condition. Instead of taking pride in beating them at tennis, you should be taking pride in the way they look at you, at how you attract and capture their attention," she lectured. "Your doctor's appointment is next Tuesday, after school, so make sure you come right home."

  "I don't need to see a doctor," I complained.

  "I'm your mother now, and I'm telling you I want you to be checked by a doctor." She smiled cruelly. "I know you're not used to having someone care this much for you, Brooke, but that's what it means to have parents. You should be grateful and not rebellious. I'd like to hear a thank you once in a while instead of this constant stream of complaint. It's all because of your stupid involvement with that softball team."

  "I'm grateful. I just don't understand why I have to see a doctor. I'm not sick or anything."

  "Sometimes we go to see the doctor to prevent sickness. Don't you understand that? Well?"

  "Yes," I said, taking a breath and looking at my textbook.

  "Well, then?"

  "Thank you, Pamela."

  "That's better," she said. "Oh," she said at the door. "Peter called. He won't be home in time to attend the mosquito feasting this Saturday. You'll have to arrange for transportation. I'm going to my dermatologist for a special Saturday appointment. He has something brand-new, a breakthrough

  rejuvenating skin treatment he wants to show me. Good night," she ad
ded, and left.

  I felt more dazed than tired now. My mind was reeling, all her statements, declarations, and ideas bouncing around like loose tennis balls. I knew I had done a poor job on my homework, and when it was returned to me a day later, I was given a failing grade.

  "If you don't pull your grade average up on the next unit test," Mr. Sternberg told me in front of the rest of the class, "you might not be able to participate in extracurricular activities next year."

  I knew that meant all sports.

  My heart felt like a deflated balloon. I looked at some of the girls. All but Heather looked concerned for me. She was smiling, her green eyes of envy brightening like the tips of two candle flames. Even Cora Munsen felt sorry for me. After class, as we all left the room, she caught up with me in the hallway and whispered, "If you need any answers next Monday, just look at my paper."

  She sped away as Rosemary Gillian stepped behind me to whisper, "If you need your social studies homework, you can copy mine during lunch."

  I laughed to myself, remembering Mrs. Harper's introductory remarks.

  Girls at Agnes Fodor don't cheat. They were the special girls, the cream of the crop, the sophisticated, privileged, and cultured girls from the best families.

  Sorry, Mrs. Harper, I thought. The only thing really special about Agnes Fodor's School for Girls were the lies woven into the fabric of the school's emblem.

  9 Smile!

  We had our biggest crowd attend the Saturday game. It couldn't have been a better day for a softball game. The sky was ice blue with an occasional cloud that looked like a puff of smoke. There was just enough of a cool breeze to keep everyone comfortable in the stands.

  Because I had no ride, Rosemary had her brother David come by with her to pick me up. David did not attend a private school. I thought that was odd until he explained he had made friends with kids who attended public school and didn't want to leave them.

  "I've got some friends over at Westgate, too," he told me soon after I got into the car. "They said there's more excitement about this game than some of the boys' games. For the first time in years, there might be a real contest."