Seventh Grade in the Life of Me, Penelope

by Alison Pollet

  C.

  Not only a C.

  C-.

  Mr. Bobkin used the remaining class time to go over the quiz. Why had X times that equaled that, and next time everybody should make sure to remember the tricks with the zeroes, and don’t forget about negative numbers and … if they didn’t understand fractions, they better come to see him and … Penelope felt the daze overcome her, and she just couldn’t listen any longer.

  She studied the graffiti on the desk. There were some new additions: M.W. = 2cool4skool. P.H. rules JV field hockey. Then, written in blue ballpoint ink on the bottom right-hand corner was a list:

  Penelope looked each way, like a stray cat before making a mad dash under a car. Bobkin and his large belly were facing the blackboard. No one was looking at her. In a blur of movement, yet with a steady hand, as if this were something she’d done a million times before, Penelope wrote: #4 Annabella Blumberg. And then: #5 Pia Smith.

  If five seconds later someone had asked Penelope who’d written those names on the desk, she would have said she had no idea. And she wouldn’t have been lying. Because as soon as she did it, she promptly forgot.

  When the bell rang and Mr. Bobkin growled, “Dismissed,” Penelope crumpled up the quiz and crammed it into her backpack, unintentionally puncturing it with the pointy end of her protractor. She’d ignore its existence until, weeks later, shredded, the quiz crept its way in between the pages of her Earth Science textbook.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ben. “I messed up, too.” He held up his quiz for Penelope to see. Inside the circle at the top of the page it said: B-. “Maybe we could study together sometime. Where do you live?”

  “Ninetieth and West End,” Penelope told him.

  “Cool! My old school is on the West Side. Do you ever play video games at Baronet? I miss that. Shoot, I miss the whole West Side. My old school, too. You know, it’s not so easy being a new kid here.”

  A curl inched down his forehead. It reminded Penelope of a caterpillar.

  “That sucks,” replied Penelope, though when she thought about it later — and she did, a lot — she knew there were a lot better things she could have said. Like: “It’s not so easy being an old kid here, either.”

  But she was never going to say that. Or anything to Ben. At least not anytime in the near future. Because after gym, Stacy and Penelope signed The Pledge. Penelope signed her name in scratchy, minuscule letters that were difficult to decipher — as if somehow a secret part of her knew she didn’t really want to do it.

  After all, if it wasn’t really her signature, it wasn’t really her, right?

  If Mrs. Schwartzbaum was tired on a regular day, she was even more tired when Mr. Schwartzbaum was away traveling on business. In fact, she got so tired, she replaced “I’m so tired” with “I’m wiped out.” Or “I’m a wreck.” Or “I’m beyond exhausted. How can one person work an eighty-hour week and run a household?”

  But something strange happened the week Penelope’s father went to Belgium. Mrs. Schwartzbaum stopped saying she was tired. She even stopped looking tired. It was kind of like … she woke up.

  It was positively odd. Mrs. Schwartzbaum never came home before dinner. But, three days into Mr. Schwartzbaum’s trip, she got home at 5 P.M. — just as Penelope and Nathaniel were fighting over what to watch on the kitchen television, One Day at a Time or The Flintstones.

  Mrs. Schwartzbaum arrived home with flushed cheeks, a smile on her face, and a silk scarf tied around her head to protect her new hairstyle from the wind. Carlos trailed behind her, a bouquet of brown and purple shopping bags in each hand. “Remember, Carlos, you promised! No telling Herbert I bought the entirety of Bloomie’s and Bergdorf Goodman?” giggled Mrs. Schwartzbaum, slipping a ten-dollar bill into Carlos’s hand.

  It turned out she had popped in only for an hour. She had a dinner meeting at a fancy French restaurant called Lutèce and she needed to freshen up. “I’m going to have to be careful with all this wining and dining.” She sighed, removing a new red Calvin Klein pencil skirt from its lavender tissue-paper wrapping. “I don’t want to turn into a tons-o’-fun.”

  Penelope perched herself on the edge of the bathtub and watched her mother do her hair and makeup. “I saw a new guy at La Coupe today. I think he worked wonders, don’t you?”

  “It’s redder,” answered Penelope as her mother fluffed her hair for the mirror.

  “Yes, well, why not?” Mrs. Schwartzbaum laughed. “A little touch-up never hurt anybody. I needed some luster.” She spritzed her head with a new hairspray she’d bought at the salon. It made the bathroom smell like the inside of a swimming pool.

  She brushed a coral shadow onto her eyelids and told Penelope about the client she’d be having dinner with. He was an art buyer for one of New York City’s largest auction houses; at a mere twenty-nine, he was considered a whiz kid. His name was Fred Sunderstein, but Mrs. Schwartzbaum said it so fast, it sounded like Fred Something. “He’s an inspiration. The energy he has, I tell you, he’s indefatigable.”

  “What does indefatigable mean?” asked Penelope.

  “Not able to get tired,” answered Penelope’s mother. She applied a dab of peach gloss to her lips, then pursed them into a kiss. “I don’t know what his secret is, but he’s got the energy of ten men. Maybe it’s that he’s twenty-nine. Or that he doesn’t have any obligations.”

  “What do you mean, obligations?”

  “I mean,” replied Mrs. Schwartzbaum, taking one last look in the mirror, “a wife. A family. Kids.”

  She made the kiss lips again and blotted them with a white tissue.

  Then she was gone.

  Penelope, Nathaniel, and Jenny ate hamburgers on English muffins for dinner. As was typical, Nathaniel babbled and sang throughout the meal, and Penelope slammed her food down her throat so fast, she could barely taste it. On Nathaniel’s request, they had Purple Cows for dessert. Purple Cows were vanilla ice cream mixed with grape soda. They’d been a favorite of Ivy’s.

  It was becoming a tradition that Jenny played music while they had dessert. Penelope suspected it was because she couldn’t bear hearing Nathaniel sing. They were records by people Penelope had never heard of, and usually they were from England. Jenny’s favorite was a guy with a weird name, Elvis Costello, who looked an awful lot like Penelope’s Earth Science teacher. Jenny said her roommate at college was friends with Elvis’s manager’s little sister, which meant she got tapes of albums before they even came out. “He’s totally original, don’t you think?” Jenny asked Penelope. Penelope didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t understand a word the guy sang, and even when she could decipher the words, she didn’t know what they meant: “I’m giving you a longing look! Every day I write the book! Captured here in my quotation marks!” Nathaniel couldn’t figure it out, either, but that didn’t stop him from humming along and bopping up and down as Purple Cow dribbled from his chin. “Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal!” sang the record. “Every day I write the book!”

  Mrs. Schwartzbaum got home just before eleven. There were the familiar sounds: the clicking of heels, the clump of her pocketbook dropping to the floor, the swish of a trench coat being tossed off. But they were followed by an unfamiliarly giddy “Jenny, let me tell you, it was fab-u-lous.”

  Penelope entered the kitchen to find her mother and Jenny sitting across from each other at the table. Jenny was sipping from a mug of tea, and Mrs. Schwartzbaum, from a tiny crystal glass, the kind they used for holidays or when Penelope’s grandparents came from Florida to visit. Inside the glass was a dark rust-colored liquid that shimmered golden under the kitchen’s overhead halogen lamp.

  “Hi, darling,” called Mrs. Schwartzbaum with a grin. Penelope asked what she was drinking, and Mrs. Schwartzbaum explained it was a scotch Penelope’s father had brought from Scotland.

  “Are you going to get drunk?” Penelope knew it was probably a dumb question to ask, but she didn’t know very much about alcohol. The Schwartzbaums
weren’t big drinkers. In fact, any fancy bottles of alcohol brought back by Mr. Schwartzbaum were usually reserved as Christmas gifts for Carlos.

  “Of course not, silly!” Mrs. Schwartzbaum laughed. “I just need a little nightcap. Something to get me to sleep.”

  But this was the woman who claimed she could fall asleep standing up! Maybe her mother was drunk! Maybe she just didn’t realize it!

  The only drunk person Penelope had ever seen was Mr. Pearl, from Apartment 15J, who’d once fallen asleep on the lobby sofa with a Happy New Year party hat over his nose and a purple streamer tied around his head. He’d looked like a giant blob of Silly Putty, and Penelope had found it unspeakably funny. In fact, for weeks after, she and Stacy had stumbled around, giggling uproariously and slurring, “I’m drunk. I’m drunk.”

  Well, Mrs. Schwartzbaum wasn’t acting like that, so she probably wasn’t drunk. But something was off. Penelope listened as her mother listed the menu at Lutèce. Her eyes practically glittered at the recollection of the filet mignon and duck confit, not to mention the lobster Provençal. And Fred Something was such good company! He knew just about everybody in the restaurant! An architect had sent over complimentary flutes of champagne; the famous art collector Bea Levin had come over to say hello; and several of Fred Something’s classmates from Harvard were at the next table. They were all investment bankers, which meant they were terrifically wealthy but not half as interesting as Fred.

  “I gotta say, there are a lot of benefits to going to Harvard,” mused Mrs. Schwartzbaum. “Just look at the connections. All those guys will buy art from Fred. And they’ll tell their friends and —” Mrs. Schwartzbaum interrupted herself, as if she’d just remembered who she was talking to. “You know, Penelope, you could have those opportunities, too. Elston Prep is your ticket into a school like Harvard. Keep your grades up and I can’t imagine you’ll have a problem. And I’m sure Fred would write you a recommendation.

  “Oh, and bad news. I can’t go shopping with you over the weekend. I know this is the third time I’ve canceled. I know you’re disappointed, but I just have too much work. I do have a gift for you. It’s —” Mrs. Schwartzbaum interrupted herself again to take a sip of her drink. She shot Penelope a mysterious look. “Hand me my pocketbook, will you?”

  Inside Mrs. Schwartzbaum’s pocketbook were two charge cards — one for Bloomingdale’s and one for Bergdorf Goodman — in the name of Penelope B. Schwartzbaum. “Now, I’m trusting you to show restraint,” her mother warned. “You know, some parents might not approve of a girl your age getting her own credit cards. But I see it as a gift for both of us.”

  Penelope traced her fingertip along the raised letters spelling out her name.

  “You get the gift of shopping for yourself. And I get the gift of time.” She swallowed the remainder of her drink and let out a contented sigh. “Clothes and time. Two things a girl can’t have enough of.”

  Before going to bed, Penelope showered, changed into the sweatpants and T-shirt she wore as pajamas, then returned to her homework. She still had Social Studies to do, but she sat at her desk staring at her new credit cards. On the backs were clean white bands where she was supposed to sign her name. She thought about The Pledge, and how — on these — she’d have to put her real signature. But what was her real signature? Would she use the puffy P? The script S? Or a print S that looped at the bottom to connect to the C?

  A soft knock on the door disrupted her thoughts. “Come in,” she called, and there was Jenny standing in the doorway with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a pocket full of elastic bands. “Hey, Pen, want me to crimp your hair for you?”

  Penelope had planned on not liking Jenny — she really had! — but that night, as gentle fingers wove into her wet hair, she forgot that Jenny wasn’t Ivy, that she was too old for a mother’s helper, and finished her Social Studies homework.

  “You have excellent handwriting,” whispered Jenny, the last clump of Penelope’s hair twisted between her fingers. The wet braids lay heavily on Penelope’s head.

  Stacy was wrong. Some people were too difficult not to like — no matter how hard you tried.

  September turned to October to November, and seventh graders traded their polo shirts for sweaters in cotton, cashmere, and angora; their walking shorts for khakis; their tube socks for argyles. Penelope and Stacy had gotten used to the new campus, and during their free periods they gravitated toward the benches outside the cafeteria foyer. There, No Newkers formed a line of down vests and Fair Isle sweaters and discussed the latest gossip, which these days was more than likely about Tillie Warner and how her parents were getting divorced.

  Parents getting divorced wouldn’t be a big deal, usually, but Bill and Cherry Warner were going through what promised to be — in Mrs. Schwartzbaum’s words — a horrific divorce, the kind that made the New York papers because it involved a lot of money and General Hospital–style twists and turns.

  With every day came another dreadful detail: Tillie’s dad had an affair! He owned a chalet in Aspen that Tillie’s mom didn’t know about! He paid for his mistress’s apartment in the Village! Cherry Warner was going to take him for everything he’s worth — and more!

  If the latest tidbit didn’t come from the papers, it came from the Chapstick-smeared mouth of Vicki Feld, who took to her role as Tillie’s best friend with aplomb. Either she was harassing kids for gossiping about Tillie behind her back, or chastising them for getting the details wrong. No, the woman wasn’t his secretary! Yes, he’s moving out. No, he’s not taking Tillie with him!

  It was almost Thanksgiving break, the pressure of seventh grade was mounting, and Dr. Alvin was delivering her version of a pep talk. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’re having a rough time. You’re feeling overwhelmed. All I can say is: Get used to it.”

  Tillie sat directly in front of Penelope. The teacher paced the length of the room, Penelope stared at the back of Tillie’s head. Tillie’s habit of picking at her split ends had evolved into outright hair pulling. Strands fell out in clumps.

  “If there’s any consolation, it’s that it’s not going to get harder. We make seventh grade as difficult as possible so that we can identify which of you are not going to make it. There’s no delicate way to put it: This year we’re going to try to weed you out.”

  There was a television show Penelope used to watch when she was little, The Magic Garden, where the hosts Paula and Carole had to walk through a cartoon flower patch. All the flowers had smiley faces.

  Penelope imagined her homeroom class as the flower patch: Tillie, Richie Chernovsky, Lillian Lang, their faces in the middle of floppy yellow-and-white petals on top of green stem bodies. And there her face was, in the middle of one of those hairy weeds — what do you call them? tumbleweeds? — getting ripped out of the soil. She could see bare hands pulling her up, knuckles red and knobby, fingernails digging into her droopy brown stalk. Whose hands were they? Dr. Alvin’s?

  “If the work’s too hard, if you really can’t cut it here, well, better you find out now. We’ll be doing you a favor.”

  Penelope watched a clump of Tillie’s wispy red hair waft to the floor.

  “Oh, the poor thing,” Mrs. Schwartzbaum remarked when, that evening, Penelope told her about Tillie’s hair-tugging problems. “That makes me sad.”

  Here was something Penelope noticed: Like Vicki, no matter how much Mrs. Schwartzbaum talked about “feeling sad for Tillie and the Warners,” she didn’t look it. Not that her mother was pleased to hear about Tillie’s parents’ misfortunes; it was just that hearing about them didn’t make a dent in her happy mood. It seemed that just about nothing could.

  Penelope still wasn’t used to seeing her mother so chipper. It was a phenomenon. Mr. Schwartzbaum had gone away on business, returned, then gone away again, and Mrs. Schwartzbaum was still as happy as ever. She seemed lively, perky even, she was full of stories — most of them about Fred Something:

  “Fred Something has exquisite
taste.”

  “Not only that, he’s a trained chef!”

  “He’s got a Calder mobile. Do you know what that’s worth?”

  “He makes his own pasta and his own bread!”

  There was so much Fred Something talk in the house, even Penelope had him on the brain. And she hadn’t even met the guy! But she dreamed about him. Four nights in a row, in fact. She didn’t know what the dream was about, only that Fred Something had been in it and he’d looked exactly like Rick from General Hospital.

  It took Carlos arriving at the door with a package for Mrs. Schwartzbaum to make Penelope remember any of the dream’s details.

  It was a large box, wrapped in brown paper, and delivered directly from the Museum of Modern Art. Mrs. Schwartzbaum giddily tore open the package to discover that inside there was another box, this one covered in silver paper. And inside that box was one of the weirdest objects Penelope had ever seen: a bright orange circle with lots of little legs.

  Apparently, it was a clock.

  A clock! Penelope thought she might be remembering her dream. Something about Fred Something … and … Monica Quartermaine???

  The clock was a gift from Fred Something, a very expensive gift, according to Penelope’s mother, with the artist’s signature on the back. “It’s too much,” Mrs. Schwartzbaum gushed. “It’s too much!”

  Penelope remembered something in the dream about a digital watch. Or was it a pocket watch?

  “Oh, I think we studied that clock in our modern design seminar,” said Jenny when she emerged from the kitchen.

  And they were wearing doctor’s clothes!

  “Yes, I believe I saw one of those at an exhibit,” added Carlos, who’d stuck around to fix a loose wire in the intercom.

  And they were in the operating room!

  Nathaniel slid down the hall on his belly, making vroom vroom sounds as he wheeled a miniature Pontiac Firebird across the wood floor. “What kind of clock is that?” he asked.