Cassidy's Guide to Everyday Etiquette (and Obfuscation)

by Sue Stauffacher

  I raised my hand. “In WWE, it’s called the neutral stance, but your knees should be bent in case of a surprise attack.”

  Rubbing her brow, Miss Melton-Mowry asked, “WWE?”

  “World Wrestling Entertainment, Miss Melton-Mowry,” Delton said. “Cassidy’s a big fan.”

  “Well, in this class, we will be introducing, not wrestling, so while that information might be useful in other contexts, let’s try to focus on introducing ourselves this morning.” Miss Melton-Mowry straightened up—again—practically locking her knees; I could have knocked her over with a feather.

  “To continue…when greeting one another, extend your right hand, look the person you are about to meet in the eye and say your name. ‘I’m Miss Melton-Mowry,’ followed by ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’ Your grip should not be limp or tight, but firm.”

  It took a bit of work to get Miss Information’s arm in the right position, during which time I noticed Miss Melton-Mowry lost her perfect smile.

  I wondered if we were going to cover any of the handshake variations, like the missing-hand handshake, the funny freeze, the tickling finger, the knuckle-knocker or the one I used on Principal Janescko, the surprise-in-the-palm.

  But I guess polite people don’t have a sense of humor. They just grab hands and let go. Why we had to spend time practicing this basic move was beyond me.

  “I’m Calamity Cassidy,” I said to the girl next to me. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And I’m Miss Parker,” she said without blinking. “It’s very nice to meet you, too.”

  Wow. That was dull.

  “Very nice, Miss Parker. Now, everyone, turn to the student on your other side.”

  Delton got what he deserved—the tickler. That’s where you rub your finger up and down the other person’s palm. It makes them either laugh or yank their hand away because it’s so creepy.

  “Look me in the eye,” I reminded Delton as he tried to yank his hand out of mine. “It’s so nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bean.”

  Delton bit his lip. “It’s…so…hard to meet you, Miss Corcoran.”

  I leaned in so only Delton could hear. “You think that’s hard? I’m not letting go.” We stood there, smiles tattooed on our faces.

  I was having my first etiquette showdown.

  “I think this is the perfect segue to polite conversation time,” Miss Melton-Mopey said, staring straight at me. And when we’re finished, we’ll have Miss Corcoran and Miss Information exchange seats.

  “What?” I squinted at our teacher until I could see her double—a little trick I can accomplish without crossing my eyes.

  “Would someone with superior hearing like to repeat what I just said?”

  Twelve hands went up, including Delton’s.

  After that, we got a long boring lecture about the things polite people did and did not say. Basically, you can talk about the weather; the décor, whatever that is; the traffic this morning; and how nice everyone looks. You can’t talk about anything that causes an argument, or anything that makes the other person feel bad, uncomfortable, stupid or snort with laughter.

  “How are you enjoying the class so far, Miss Corcoran?” Delton asked me when we’d been given the go-ahead to actually talk.

  I figured there was plenty of time to be polite after I interrogated him. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  Delton’s eyes darted over to Miss Melton-Mowry. I pictured his big brain working overtime trying to decide whether to play by my rules and answer the question or to keep talking polite nonsense.

  “I am so enjoying etiquette class,” he said. “When our mothers chatted about it at the fifth-grade graduation ceremony, mine thought it was a perfect chance for me to practice learning the social graces.”

  I had to give it to Delton. He was answering my question in high-society code. I could play at that, too. “That is sparkling, Delton, but your manners are so good already. Wouldn’t you rather be at airplane camp?”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Miss Corcoran. However, to quote my mother, Mrs. Bean, ‘To be in Cassidy’s company will give you some backbone, Delton. Not all learning takes place in a book. Cassidy has the kind of derring-do necessary to succeed in today’s workplace.’ ”

  Miss Melton-Mowry came over to me and Delton. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she said, putting her hand on Delton’s shoulder.

  I didn’t. “Well, give my regards to your mother, Mr. Bean. She is a very intelligent woman. Next time we meet, I’ll tell her about my other class. It’s on public speaking. At the community college. The auditorium there holds five hundred seats.”

  I smiled like a beauty queen in the May Day parade as Delton’s fingers started working away at his collarbone. It is a well-known fact that Delton has a serious case of performance anxiety. He practically needs to be medicated to give an oral report. He can talk just fine from his seat, but make him stand up and have everyone be quiet—it’s like he’s been set in front of a firing squad.

  He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out.

  “Mr. Bean. Are you all right, Mr. Bean?” Miss Melton-Mowry asked.

  Delton nodded, still in shock.

  “You do have a way of surprising people, Miss Corcoran,” Miss Melton-Mowry said to me. “I look forward to chatting with you further.”

  The further the better!

  If you ever get a bad case of insomnia, the cure is to take an etiquette class in a room with no air-conditioning. Just when I thought I couldn’t keep my eyes open for another long lecture about how to sit, stand and stick your arm out, our teacher decided we’d had enough for one day.

  Hallelujah!

  Just my luck. By the time we got out, it was raining, which meant that Jack and I had to hunker down in my bedroom to figure out what to do.

  “Let’s go outside anyway,” I said, knee-bouncing on my bed to keep Mom from delivering a bottom-of-the-stairs lecture about the ceiling caving in again. “I’m like a puppy. I need exercise every day or I start chewing slippers.”

  “You were out all day yesterday! We practically wore out our bicycle pedals.”

  “Still…” I grabbed my stuffed bunny and tied his ears in a knot. “Maybe we should play Pound the Bunny.”

  My uncle Oscar, who has zero kids, so he doesn’t know any better, gave me a giant stuffed version of Pat the Bunny for my eighth birthday. At first, I thought it was the worst present ever, until Jack showed me what a great standin the bunny could be for a WWE opponent.

  “Bad idea. Remember what your mom said she’d do if she had to resort to using the air horn again to bust us up?”

  “True.” I did not want to be a volunteer pooper-scooper at Riverside Park. Bouncing just high enough to land on my feet, I hopped over to the dresser and set the bobblehead dolls on the edge. “Let’s play Bobblehead Suicide Leap.” This involved doing carefully timed jumping jacks to make the dresser vibrate until at least six bobblehead Tigers lost their lives in a three-drawer fall.

  “We should play a prank on Magda.”

  Jack and I are legendary for our pranks at Stocking Elementary…to anyone who knows us, really. We’re very particular about them and very strict about the rules. One, they have to be funny. Two, they have to involve danger. Three, you can’t leave behind any evidence. Four, no permanent damage. Five, no hurting anybody. Six, when confronted, become iridium. Seven, if—heaven forbid—you’re caught red-handed, confess and take your punishment like a man (woman).

  “Magda’s so boring. All she’ll do is tell Mom— I know! We can play a prank on Sabrina Benson.”

  “Bree? We just met her.”

  “So? That’s even better.” I threw myself back on the bed, crossing my arms and legs. “This could be good…something with her makeup.”

  Jack did not join me on the bed the way he was supposed to. I pushed myself up on my elbows. “What’s wrong?”

  Unknotting Pat the Bunny’s ears, Jack tossed him to me. “I’d rathe
r wrestle. I can’t pull a prank on…my employer!”

  “Why not? We did that one on Percy. Remember when we tied his favorite squeaky toy to a bungee cord and hung it just out of reach?”

  “That was different.”

  “No it wasn’t. You shoveled their walk when Mr. Fenster threw his back out.”

  “I just…think Magda’s a better target.”

  “Skip the pranks,” I said. “I say we go outside.”

  “It’s still raining.”

  “So?”

  “I know,” Jack said. “Let’s see how many push-ups we can do.”

  “Boring.” We both knew Jack had passed me on push-ups last year; the gap was growing.

  “Okay. I’ll balance you on my feet.”

  “Deal, but if I fall on you and perform a cobra clutch, don’t scream out loud, okay?”

  Why does time speed up when you’re riding bikes, playing Frisbee or fishing, and slow down when you’re in etiquette class? I tried to focus as Miss Melton-Mowry taught the lesson on how to sit at the table, something I’d been doing since I was, oh, two and a half.

  “For example, at the moment, Miss Information’s posture is not one we like to see in a dining situation. Does anyone know what is objectionable here?”

  Looking her over, I noted that Miss Information seemed as bored as I was, but she wasn’t breaking any laws. The girl next to me in the headband knew better. She raised her hand.

  “Miss Parker?”

  “She’s got her elbows on the table.”

  “Precisely.”

  “My dad always says, ‘Donna, Donna, sweet and able, get your elbows off the table. This is not a horse’s stable.’ ”

  “Is that how horses eat?” I asked. “I didn’t even know they had elbows.”

  “How quaint, Miss Parker. Miss Corcoran, in polite society young people refrain from speaking unless spoken to.”

  I gave Miss Melton-Mopey my zombie stare and pushed up on my tiptoes, tilting back in my chair. I’d like to visit this polite society sometime and show them a few tricks.

  “What we say here, Miss Parker, is…never.” Miss Melton-Mowry touched Miss Information’s illegal elbows before lifting the dummy’s arms until they were about an inch over the table. “Sometimes.” With some trouble, she bent Miss Information’s arms so they fit under the table. “Always.”

  I thought about raising my hand and informing Miss Melton-Mowry that a lot of funny business could happen under the table, but I changed my mind. Let her find that out for herself.

  “Note her excellent posture. She does not lean back; she does not make any quick side-to-side moves that might interfere with the dinner service. Miss Corcoran, are you taking note of this?”

  I sat up straight as a general, smacking my feet flat on the floor before raising my hand. “Does her stomach growl? All this getting ready is making me hungry.”

  “It states very clearly in your brochure that we will not eat until our final reception with the parents.”

  “But that’s four weeks from now!” I looked down the line of kids, hoping to get a little mutiny going. “No food for four weeks is torture according to the international human rights convention.”

  “I’m sure they’d be happy to expedite your case in the World Court, Miss Corcoran; but until then I’m going to have to request—or rather, insist—that you refrain from speaking until this lesson is over. We are on a very tight schedule.”

  “I’ll say it’s tight,” I mumbled. “Not even a graham cracker? Delton, you got any mints? Gum?”

  Delton looked at me wide-eyed. His back was straight, his hands were at “always” and he wasn’t going to say a word, not even if I offered him a ten-spot.

  Our teacher took her seat next to Miss Information. “At an elegant lunch or dinner, we can always infer what will be served by the dishes and cutlery before us. For example, we know by the size of the napkin that this table is set for lunch. A dinner napkin is much larger. The very first dish in front of us is a soup bowl; beneath that we have a service plate. The purpose of the service plate will be to catch any drips from the soup; it will be cleared after the course is finished, leaving a clean space for the next dish to be served. Moving on to the cutlery, the smaller fork on our outside left is the salad fork; next to that we have our luncheon fork and our dessert fork. These will be easy to remember because you use them in order from the outside in.”

  I kept a yawn from escaping my mouth by pressing my lips together. All those forks made me think of Mrs. Benson and her Buckingham Palace story. They must have giant dishwashers in that place. Probably everybody got patted down on the way in, so a would-be assassin would have to use something on the table here. Where were the sharp knives, I wondered. Didn’t they use sharp knives to carve up the wild boar or the roast pig or whatever these fancy-schmancy people ate?

  I figured a trained assassin could accomplish the job with one of these salad forks. With everybody’s hands under the table, I’d have to keep a sharp eye out to see if he slipped any forks up his sleeve. Then I’d shadow him as he snuck up behind the prince of High Falutinbury and readied his fork to strike. My first move would be to blind him with my dinner napkin. Then we’d have a good old-fashioned rumble with me throwing in a few WWE holds—maybe a bulldog or a Harlem hangover—to make it a good show. The queen’s china would have to be sacrificed for the greater good of the country as I knocked out the evil assassin with the first thing that came to hand…a big soup bowl or possibly a platter of cold cuts.

  “To review, Miss Corcoran, can you tell me what the letters b and d stand for?” Our teacher was holding up her hands, each one forming a letter with her fingers. I felt like it was first grade again!

  I gave the answer under my breath. “Boring and dull?”

  “Never mumble, Miss Corcoran. If you don’t know the answer, either say so or remain silent and shake your head no.”

  Miss Melton-Mowry proceeded to shake her head no. What a fountain of information she was.

  I shook my head no.

  “Mr. Bean?”

  “The b,” Delton said, putting his left hand an inch from the table, “stands for bread plate, and the d stands for drinking glass. He put his right arm out to reach for the glass in front of him. “It helps you to remember which dish or glass is meant for you. The bread plate is always to the left of your plate and your water glass is always to your right.”

  “Oh, oh!” I stretched my arm high. “Penalty! Delton’s sleeve touched the table.”

  “My, but you are entertaining, Miss Corcoran. I hope to hear more of your etiquette insights during the review sessions I hold after class when we don’t have time to get through our scheduled material. Have you noticed we don’t have air-conditioning? By noon, it gets quite stuffy in here. I’m used to it, having spent many a summer in desert countries, but you might not enjoy it quite as much. No matter. As soon as your parents find out my private hourly rate, I’m sure they will see the advantage in helping you to remember the points of order regarding the question-and-answer format.”

  She pressed her palms together and said to her table partner, “I do wonder how teachers manage these days, Miss Information.”

  “Mrs. Parsons said she’d be only too happy to see the back of Cassidy…er, Miss Corcoran,” Delton said.

  I smiled at Delton in the politest way possible. Him and his snitch karma!

  “What? It’s hardly a secret. She said it in front of the whole class.”

  “The difference between school and etiquette class is that all of you—including Miss Corcoran—choose to be here. Your interest in improving yourselves during your summer break will pay off when you can navigate any formal lunch or dinner with ease.”

  “I just want to navigate the pond on the ninth tee at Frisbee golf,” I said into my napkin. If this lesson didn’t wrap up soon, I was in danger of having one of those seizures I’m so famous for at the all-school no-smoking assembly.

  “Mr. Bean, Miss Pa
rker, please help me stack the dishes and silver while the rest of you create your own place settings to review.”

  “Even Miss Information?” I asked.

  “How thoughtful of you to see that Miss Information needs assistance, Miss Corcoran. Why don’t you set hers as well?”

  I gave myself a knuckle-knocker handshake under the table. Why don’t you shut your mouth, Miss Corcoran?

  Looking over the jumble of forks, knives and spoons, I asked myself who could be bothered to remember all this stuff. Wasn’t it enough to know what was used for what? If only Miss Melton-Mowry would let me pace the halls the way Mrs. Parsons did so I could calm down and concentrate. There weren’t even any halls in this joint!

  “Cassidy,” Delton whispered. “Your forks are in the wrong place.”

  “No they’re not. They’re pointing up. And the business ends of my knives point toward the plate.” (I may be watching out for assassins someday; I paid attention when Miss Melton-Mowry talked about the knives.)

  Pinching the fork on the far side of my plate, Delton said, “But that’s your dessert fork.”

  “She said we put our forks in the order they are used, Mr. Bean. It just so happens that I eat dessert first.”

  After Miss Information got corrected about the difference between a water glass and a wineglass—hello, hobos drink from the bottle!—and how her butter knife was supposed to be on the bread plate and not next to its mother by the lunch plate, and about a million other things I was sure to forget as soon as the blinding sun knocked them out of my brain, class was over.

  Like a dog who has to pee something fierce, I was the first at the door. I managed to leave a nose print before Miss Melton-Mowry called me back. “I only release students to their parents, Miss Corcoran. Unless your mother comes in here, you’ll have to wait.”

  Of course, it makes sense that my rotten outlaw karma would kick in and my mother would be late.

  Plenty of mothers came and went, but mine was AWOL. Miss M&M sat across from me with her arms folded. “Since we have a moment, tell me, why are you in this class, Miss Corcoran?”