Mom leaned over to Dad and whispered, “Let’s go to the Tortilla Factory.”
It doesn’t always help to have razor-sharp hearing. I would have pout-slouched, but I figured that was something that earned you the cattle prod in etiquette class. So, after we’d said our good-byes, I trooped to the back of the room and pulled out my chair with as much scraping as possible on a carpet.
There I was, sitting at a table with Miss Glennon, Delton, Officer Weston and Miss Melton-Mowry, so far away from where an aspiring hobo ought to be that I considered asking Delton to pinch me. Earlier in the week, Mom said we could go to Lake Michigan with a picnic after class; now she was at the Tortilla Factory and I was here!
Delton didn’t seem disappointed to miss his picnic with his mom. He pointed to all the stuff on the table like it was the guts of a 1944 Cessna Bobcat, touching the tip of his finger with his thumb as he counted off each item: grapefruit spoon, salad fork, bread dish.
“Mr. Bean,” I said, “you sure know how to make the best of a bad situation.”
Miss Melton-Mowry stood watching us, waiting for silence, I guess, and the whole “all eyes on me” thing teachers are so crazy about. “Your waitstaff will serve from the left and clear from the right.” Her hands hovered over the table like it was a Ouija board. “Now, since it is summertime, there may be a fruit cup.”
“This?” I asked, pointing to what looked like a wineglass for Vikings. “Are we supposed to drink from it?”
“No. Look at the stem. Technically, it’s a footed dish. I pulled it out of storage. I don’t want anything to seem unfamiliar to you.”
“Another clue,” Miss Glennon added. “It’s at twelve o’clock.”
“Is it twelve o’clock already?” I strained to see the clock on the wall.
“They use that in the military,” Delton said. “It indicates positioning. Everyone can picture where twelve o’clock is.”
“Can you picture me cleaning your clock, I wonder.”
“You don’t have to get all worked up, Cassidy. I was just trying to help.”
“There is far too much talking going on. Mr. Bean. Miss Corcoran. Posture.”
Miss Glennon put her hand on my arm. “I like to think of myself as a dancer getting ready to go out onstage.” She demonstrated, straightening her shoulders.
“I like that.” I jerked myself up; my shoulders straight, I let my arms dangle. “I’ll pretend I’m one of those puppets on a string.”
“Miss Corcoran, you will stop talking this instant.” Miss Melton-Mowry’s eyebrows tried to link up, like two cable cars. “The truth of the matter is,” she continued, smoothing the tablecloth, “we are going to sit at this table on this gorgeous sunny summer day until the lesson has been learned to my satisfaction. Do you think your parents will enjoy waiting outside—in their hot cars—for us to conclude?”
I shook my head. I did not.
“You may find your motivation there, Miss Corcoran.”
“I’d like to get some sleep before I have to go on duty,” Officer Weston said.
I wondered if arresting me for disturbing the peace would be considered going on duty. But I didn’t say anything, because I did want to go home! Other than Magda’s compost pile, this was the last place on earth I wanted to be. It was so unfair. Magda was probably sitting at the Bensons’ kitchen table right now, eating sugar cookies and talking about her latest discoveries in putrefaction.
“Shall we continue?”
I straightened my shoulders—again—and reached across the table, my pinky as straight as if it was in a splint. “It’s a perfect day for a cup of fruit.” I took hold of the glass. “Should we pretend to eat now?”
And I swear I would have made a great show of pretending to eat in the politest way possible. Not because Miss Melton-Mowry wanted me to, but because it was the only way out of the situation. But! As I pulled the cup to my mouth, I saw what was in it—something squirmy and alive, with about a thousand legs. And, at the moment, it was panicked and imprisoned in my fruit cup!
“Ick!” I screamed, and threw the glass back to twelve o’clock.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“There’s a disgusting bug in there!”
“No there’s not. It’s right here.” Officer Weston used his butter knife to bring the terrified little guy to eye level; but in a frantic attempt at escape, it flipped off the blade and—of course!—came scurrying toward me on its four thousand legs.
I jerked back from the table, my chair saved from toppling only by my kneecaps smacking the underside. “Arrrgh! Get it away from me or I’ll do a runner.”
“Oh, Cassidy,” Miss Glennon said. “It’s just a harmless millipede. It can’t hurt you.”
“Try telling that to my nervous system.”
“Her flight response is on autopilot,” Delton said. “She has an irrational fear of bugs.”
“There.” Officer Weston managed to slide his knife under the millipede again and flick it off the table. “Gone.”
I smacked back down to the floor but kept my knees up, hugging them to protect my core. “It’s not all bugs.” I panted, waiting for my breath to stop running even though I was sitting still. “Just ones with a lot of legs.”
“And worms,” Delton added.
“Only if they’re squirming. If they’re dead, like in puddles, I’m fine.”
“Is there something wrong, Miss Melton-Mowry?” Delton asked.
Rising from her chair, our teacher proceeded to speak: “To. Illuminate. Each. And. Every. Transgression. Here. Would be…” She reached over and set my cup upright. “For the record, Officer Weston, our cutlery is to be used for the purposes of eating and not…insect transportation. Miss Glennon, will you assist me in clearing the fruit cups so that we can fill them in the back?”
“So,” Officer Weston said after they’d disappeared into the little kitchen. “Is this the part where we eat?”
“No.” I took another slow breath. My heart rate was almost back to normal. “And in our experience, we’re not going to.”
“What is that noise?” Delton asked.
“My stomach. I get real hungry after I see a bug. My nervous system burns up energy like crazy.”
Officer Weston rested his chin in his hand. “And I thought there were a lot of rules in the police academy.”
“You’ll be arrested by the etiquette police if they find you with your elbow on the table,” I said, poking him. “We learned that day one.”
“At least elbows don’t leave a print.” He straightened up. “Hey, Delton, you’re not going to snitch on me, are you?”
Delton started in on how he’d been unfairly labeled, but he was interrupted by Miss Melton-Mackerel coming back into the room with her fancy glasses on a tray. I perked up. There looked to be some real food in them.
After she and Miss Glennon sat down, she said, “Well, then. Now that we’re in a calm, quiet state, let’s practice passing our fruit cups. We pass with the right hand and receive with the left. Place the glass at twelve o’clock, approximately eight inches from the edge of the table. No, Miss Corcoran, it’s not a beer stein. Hold the stem between your thumb and forefinger, using your middle finger for ballast, if need be.”
I didn’t understand half the stuff she said, but I watched her and made it better by using my pinky as a rudder—straight as a board—like you see in all the Charlie Chaplin movies.
“Now, I would like you each in turn, beginning with Officer Weston, to take two bites of fruit.”
Officer Weston stared into his glass. “I can’t eat the pineapple,” he said. “I’m allergic. It makes my throat close. Does that ever happen to you?” He looked at me as he speared a piece of pineapple with his fork. Holding it out, he asked, “Cassi—Miss Corcoran, would you like my pineapple?”
I stared at the little piece of pineapple, dripping with juice. Then I stole a look at Miss Melton-Mowry, who was pinching the skin on her forehead the way ladie
s on commercials do when they have a tension headache. “Sure.”
After Officer Weston scraped off his pineapple bit using the edge of my glass, he cleared his throat. “Now, you said two bites, right? I want to get an A on this part.”
“Two bites,” Miss Glennon said.
Watermelon. Strawberry. Grape. It was impressive what Officer Weston could load onto his fork. He finished the whole dish in two bites.
I clapped. “Nice spearing technique. My turn?”
All eyes went to Miss Melton-Mowry, who was pressing her napkin to her mouth as if she’d just eaten a forkload of fruit. She gave a little flutter with her hand that I took to mean yes.
I was close to Officer Weston’s performance except for needing fingers to steady the grape before I skewered it. I even remembered to chew with my mouth closed after skimming it off my fork.
Officer Weston gave me a thumbs-up.
Miss Melton-Mowry was fanning herself with a School of Poise and Purpose flyer. “Mr. Bean,” she said.
Delton straightened his shoulders, picked up his spoon and skimmed it over the top of the dish, starting on the side closest to him and finishing on the side furthest away, where he tapped his spoon against the side of the glass before putting one measly piece of melon into his mouth.
Miss Melton-Mowry and Miss Glennon looked at each other, wide-eyed. Delton was going to need special tutoring.
“Mr. Bean?”
“I watched your YouTube video on eating soup and applied transfer of knowledge to the fruit cup.” He patted his mouth with his napkin and set it on the table.
Elbowing Officer Weston, I whispered, “I told you he was a suck-up.”
“That was brilliant. Soup and fruit cup in one fell swoop,” he whispered back.
I raised my hand. “I need to see the grade sheet,” I said. “I thought the point of this was to eat.”
“To eat politely.”
“I chewed with my mouth closed. You chewed with your mouth closed, didn’t you, Officer Weston?”
“You both drew attention to yourselves by trying to load an entire cup of fruit onto one forkful and making unpleasant noises as you ate. I think we should watch Mr. Bean demonstrate one more time. I’ll have to go find another can of fruit.”
Officer Weston was still stuck on the whole fruit/soup thing. “But you eat soup with a spoon and fruit with a fork.”
“It depends on how the fruit is delivered to you. What Mr. Bean has mastered is the ability to discern what method is most appropriate for eating and then proceeding without drawing attention to himself. But that does bring up a good point. We’re just as likely to be served gazpacho for our first course as we are—”
I sighed. Big-time. “How can I master gazpacho when I don’t even know what it is?”
“It’s a raw soup with a base of tomatoes and finely chopped vegetables,” Delton informed us.
“That’s not soup…that’s salsa! Don’t you eat that with tortilla chips?”
Officer Weston was still stuck on the spoon-for-the-fruit thing. “But he pushed the spoon away from him. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yes, it does. When one is eating soup, this gives it time to cool. And with a fruit cup, skimming the spoon over the far edge of the dish helps you catch any drips.”
“It doesn’t matter that it looks goofy?” I wanted to know. “It’s like…rowing backward.”
“I agree with Cassidy,” Officer Weston said. “Even polite people must know that the way to get to your mouth is to go toward it.”
“Miss Corcoran, you mean,” Miss Glennon corrected.
It made me glad to have Officer Weston along. At least with two people pointing out how crazy the rules were, manners class was more of a fair fight.
Miss Melton–Marching Orders ignored us both. “You might also have noticed Mr. Bean’s posture. He sat up straight and brought the spoon to his mouth rather than the other way around. And there was a peaceful silence as the food traveled to his mouth.”
As our teacher congratulated Delton, I whispered to Officer Weston, “I thought you were supposed to eat the stuff, not take it on a trip.”
“In fact, why don’t you take another bite while Officer Weston and Miss Corcoran observe closely and then try to follow your example. Miss Glennon, shall we go find two more fruit cups? I need to confer with you in the kitchen.”
After they left, Officer Weston poked at the tablecloth with his fork. “I guess it doesn’t have to make sense if the future in-laws approve.”
But I was still stuck on old Delton. He was supposed to be in trouble—like me!—and on day one of detention, here he was, the teacher’s pet.
As soon as the door to the little kitchen had closed, I asked him, “What I want to know is who in their right mind would think of going on YouTube for etiquette lessons during summer vacation?”
“My mother.” Delton set down his spoon and swallowed again, even though the fruit was history. “That’s what she does. She searches out people on the Internet. Companies hire her to improve their online business. She did a whole inventory of Miss Melton-Mowry’s Web presence.”
“Well, then, why do you look so sour?” Officer Weston asked Delton. “You’re at the head of the class.”
“When Miss Melton-Mowry tells my mother how good I am, she won’t be happy at all. She thinks I’m a congenital pleaser. Congenital pleasers don’t make great men. She wants me to have more backbone.”
Officer Weston took advantage of our teacher’s absence to crack his knuckles. “Shouldn’t she have sent you to rugby camp or something?”
“Oh, no. She doesn’t believe in aggression. Besides, whenever she sets up playdates with boys who have original minds, they usually beat me up.”
“But I want to beat you up!”
“Yes, but you don’t.”
“What’s the point? It wouldn’t be a fair fight. I don’t like to see weaklings hurt. You know what you need, Delton? You need to watch our YouTube video on a good prank.”
“Our…do you mean you and Jack? You make YouTube videos?”
“Of course we don’t. But if we did…” I lowered my voice and gave old Delton the rules of the prank.
“So, the purpose of a prank is to annoy people—” Delton repeated, making notes on his phone.
“Right,” I said; Officer Weston nodded.
“—but not hurt them.”
“Sure. Gotta remember your karma.”
“And cover up your tracks so no one suspects you,” Officer Weston added.
Delton and I looked at him. For a member of the police force, Officer Weston seemed awfully familiar with the concepts.
“What? I was a boy once, too. There’s a difference between a harmless prank and criminal activity.”
“When they work right,” I told Delton, “you can barely keep from laughing; you hold it in so hard, you get a stomach ache.”
“So…Miss Information? That was a prank, right?” Delton could not let something alone until he understood it well enough to get an A on the test.
“It was supposed to be. If Miss Melton-Mopey had come out and seen a whole head of hair in the soup bowl…now that would have been the perfect etiquette ‘don’t.’ ”
“But how can you be sure your prank doesn’t go wrong? I mean, look how miserable you are, Cassidy.”
I sighed. “That’s the trouble with pranks, Delton. They take on a life of their own.”
Officer Weston nodded in agreement.
“Can you start small? Could I practice with a little prank?”
“I don’t see why not,” Officer Weston said. “When I was your age…”
But that was as far as he got because Miss Glennon and Miss Melton-Military were back with a basket of something covered in a napkin. I would say bread, but bread was something I liked. Surely, it could not be something I liked. Or she’d find a new way to torture us by instructing us to eat it crumb by crumb.
“Our second lesson today will be abo
ut bread,” Miss Melton-Mowry announced as the two ladies took their seats. “Return to your dining posture, everyone.”
We all sat up at attention, but somehow I knew we wouldn’t just pass the basket around. Miss M&M would have to jaw about it first. I rubbed my grumbling stomach and waited.
“The basket is most likely to be in the center of the table. If you cannot reach it, you stand up, lean over with your left hand lightly pressed against your dress or jacket or tie so that it doesn’t touch any of the items on the table and take hold of the basket with your right hand. Returning to your seat, you lift one corner of the napkin and take a roll between your thumb and forefinger, like so.”
I wanted to say “Like a knuckleball?” because I knew it would make Officer Weston laugh. And in fact, come to think of it, a joke is a little bit like a small prank. But no matter how I “dithered,” as old Mrs. Parsons called it, we still got to go to lunch at Stocking Elementary. Since eating here wasn’t guaranteed, I chose to keep quiet.
“If there is an assortment—”
“Praise be,” Officer Weston whispered.
Miss M&M raised her eyebrow, but she didn’t stop talking. “At breakfast, for example, you might have a poppy-seed muffin, a scone, some banana bread. You must choose with your eyes. The first thing you touch is your choice.”
I raised my hand. “But what if your favorite is at the bottom and you have to move something else around to get to it?”
“You mean like a cinnamon roll?” Officer Weston asked me. “Can you use a spoon, Miss Melton-Mowry?”
Miss Melton-Mowry set down the basket and replaced the cover. “We are not diving for buried treasure. You may have to forgo your first choice in favor of a more convenient option.”
“You could say dibs on the cinnamon roll and pass it around until it’s uncovered.”
“You will say no such thing, Miss Corcoran. You will receive the basket with your left hand and you will pass it with your right. Fortunately, you will be spared the agony of such a choice today because all the rolls here are the same.”
I put a lid on it. I was starting to salivate.
Miss Glennon took the basket and passed it to Officer Weston. “I’m gluten-sensitive,” she explained.
Cassidy's Guide to Everyday Etiquette (and Obfuscation) Page 9