“Looks to me like she’s got a crick in her neck.”
Miss Melton-Mowry tapped her wineglass with her fork. “Today, we’re going to take a break from our table manners to discuss in more detail what makes a lasting impression. As we have seen, formal social situations are a bit like a dance, where we learn how to move through space, how to keep the correct distance between ourselves and our speaking partner and how to introduce ourselves.
“Now I want to show you a little technique that will keep the conversation going smoothly. When the conversation flows easily, dining guests are more relaxed and they will associate you with a feeling of ease. So…” Miss Melton-Mowry turned in her seat to face Delton. “Let’s say I have just met Mr. Bean and asked him how long he has lived in Grand River. He might say something like ‘eight years,’ at which point the conversation would come to an end. But, if he gives his partner a little information about himself and follows that up with an inquiry, he can keep the conversation going.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about private stuff,” I said.
“Nothing too racy, Miss Corcoran.” There was that smile again! “I will demonstrate. Mr. Bean, please ask me how long I’ve lived in Grand River.”
Delton sat up in his chair and gestured to our teacher. “Tell me, Miss Melton-Mowry, how long have you lived in Grand River?”
“Most of my life, Mr. Bean. I think one of my favorite things about Grand River is our art museum. And how long have you lived here?”
“I was born in Grand River and have lived here all my life.” Delton paused, his giant brain recalculating like a GPS to figure out how to turn the conversation around. “I think my favorite spot in our city is Rosa Parks Circle. My mother and I often walk there after visiting the museum. Do you enjoy Rosa Parks Circle, too?”
Officer Weston pinched me and whispered, “This is like watching golf on TV. Or cricket.”
“What’s cricket?”
Officer Weston mouthed his answer. “Bo-ring.”
“You must be discussing your favorite place, Miss Corcoran. Would you care to share it with us?”
“The oak tree in Riverside Park, of course. The one by the sign that says DON’T FEED THE DUCKS, with a view of the first tee in Frisbee golf. It got struck by lightning so there’s a big burn mark— What?”
By the way everyone was looking at me, I’d clearly messed up. “There’s a lot of oak trees. I want to make sure you get the right one.”
More blank stares. “Oh, right. I forgot. It’s like we’re playing talking hot-potato.” Standing up, I hopped from one foot to the other, juggling my imaginary potato between my hands. “Riverside Park where the ducks live,” I said, underhanding my invisible spud to Officer Weston. “And you?”
“What if mine is Riverside Park, too?” Officer Weston asked Miss Melton-Mowry. “Is that like wanting the same roll in the bread basket?”
We all waited for Miss Melton-Mowry to answer. She was looking at me, probably trying to decide if she needed to remind me that hopping from one foot to another was not the sort of thing polite society ladies did.
“No, of course not,” she said after a minute. “You have now found a mutual point of reference, which makes the conversation even easier. That very thing happened to Miss Corcoran and me before class.”
“Really?” Delton was so surprised he talked out of turn.
“But I already knew it was her favorite,” Officer Weston persisted. “We covered Riverside Park day one.”
Miss Melton-Mowry flipped forward a page in her instruction book. “Well, then. As long as we all remember the rule of three. One, answer the question; two, tell a little—emphasis on the little, Miss Corcoran—about yourself; and three, turn it back to your companion with a question. Shall we practice?”
Of course, I got Delton.
“So, how long have you been imprisoned in etiquette class, Mr. Bean?” I said, sticking out my lower jaw like a gorilla to make him laugh and earn himself a demerit.
“What a delightful choice of verb, Miss Corcoran. I’ve only had the pleasure of this class for a little over two weeks, but I’ve already learned the proper setting of a table as well as how to politely introduce myself. And what have you learned?”
“I’ve learned that it would be mighty easy to assassinate a queen with some of this tableware…but my favorite part has been helping you grow your backbone.”
“What a coincidence. I have something here to grow yours.” Delton slipped a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “Here’s the script I was telling you about. I recommend thirty minutes of practice a day for optimal results.”
I took the paper and shoved it in my back pocket. “On top of this nonsense? You gotta be kidding me.”
“Please excuse the interruption,” Miss Melton-Mowry said.
We froze—but not before I made my face look like I’d just seen a corpse rise out of the grave.
Miss Melton-Mowry waited for my face to return to normal-boring.
“I’ve just demonstrated the next part of our lesson. Inevitably, you will need to break into a conversation. You do that by saying ‘excuse me,’ and then waiting for the intended party to finish and give you his or her attention.”
“What if they never give you their attention?” I asked. “I’ve known my sister Magda to talk through about a hundred ‘excuse me’s.’ ” I turned to Officer Weston. “Especially if she’s talking about something geeky like how mold blooms.”
“On the Senate floor, they call that filibustering,” he said. “It’s like a talking marathon.”
“Excuse me, Officer Weston.” Miss Melton-Mowry stood as still as Miss Information, waiting for our attention.
When we gave it to her, she continued, “You see, in polite society, people do yield the floor. In fact, ‘excuse me’ is a very useful term. It also signals when you must leave the table. Or when you need to ask someone’s pardon if you must step into their personal space, or to beg their pardon for coughing, sneezing—”
“Burping, farting…,” I added. “What? I was just trying to be helpful.”
“Even polite people fart,” Officer Weston said when he saw Miss Melton-Mowry shaking her head no. Miss Melton-Mowry put her fist over her mouth and coughed, the sort of move you made when you were trying to cover up…a laugh.
“Thank you for that insightful bit of information, Officer Weston. To continue, ‘excuse me’ is a useful phrase, but it should not be confused with ‘I’m sorry.’ With the exception of sneezing and coughing and…other things, ‘excuse me’ comes before the action. ‘I’m sorry’ comes after it. Let’s say you would like to move past someone and this requires stepping into their personal space. You would say, ‘Excuse me,’ or even ‘Pardon me,’ before you move. However, if you inadvertently bump into someone, spill something on them or step on their foot, then a sincere apology is what is called for. Sincerity is most important when apologizing. Let’s practice, shall we, Miss Corcoran?”
“By all means, Miss Melton-Mowry. I have a great deal of experience in this area. You want me to demonstrate how to say you’re sorry like you really mean it, right?”
She nodded, but narrowed her eyes a little, wondering if I was up to something. I stood up and shook out my arms and legs.
“We learned in drama class how to get into character,” I explained. “I’ll pretend that you’re my art teacher and my paintbrush just dripped on your new white shoes.”
Once I’d wrung myself out, I stood completely still until I was an art student who’d just made a terrible mistake. Dropping to my knees, I pressed my cheek to her shoe and cried out, “Forgive me, master. I’m so sorry.”
“Miss Corcoran, what do you think you’re doing?”
After I’d hugged her shoe, I threw myself down flat on the floor. “Prostrating myself. I saw it on a BBC mystery series once. It’s as sorry as you get.”
“Good heavens. Get off the floor and straighten your blouse.”
Now
it was Delton and Officer Weston’s turn to “cough.”
I’ve still got the touch.
Standing up, I pushed the hair out of my face. As it turns out, a sincere apology, according to Miss Melton-Mowry, is looking someone in the eye and saying you’re sorry—and meaning it. After Delton and Officer Weston and I practiced bumping into each other a few times and saying we were sorry, we passed the test and were ready to move on.
“Now we come to one of the least talked-about and yet most critical aspects of making a good impression. Body odor.”
I pushed past Delton to get closer to Miss Melton-Mowry. Finally, something I wanted to hear. As a future hobo, I have more than a passing interest in body odor. When I’m on the road, I’ll go days without so much as seeing a bar of soap; it makes sense to practice. Last summer, I managed four days without a bath by running the water in the tub, sitting on the toilet seat and singing at the top of my lungs. I guess a kid can’t generate all that much stink, because I got away with it until Mom found the twigs in my hair.
As I stood next to Delton, I thought back to my last bath. I knew there were at least two trips to the park with Jack, four rides on my bike, some ground rolling and a sprinkle of Grand River water.
I’d slide by.
Miss Melton-Mowry asked Officer Weston to stand up. She walked all the way around him. If I was the teacher, I would have given her a personal-space violation. But in case you haven’t gone to school for a very long time, teachers get to play by a different set of rules. She stopped when her shoulder was almost touching his shoulder and sniffed.
“Smoke,” she said. “French fries. Fried eggs.”
“You smoke?” I asked Officer Weston.
“No, he does not. If he did, the odor would be much stronger. But his collar”—she sniffed again, detecting—“bears the scent of others’ smoking.”
“I had a few with the guys down at Wet Your Whistle the other night. We shot some pool. Jerry smokes in his car. It makes us all stink. Elizabeth won’t come near me after I’ve been out with Jerry.”
Even I thought smoking was disgusting, but what possibilities this opened up for driving my parents crazy! I pondered how to get Officer Weston to take one of my shirts along the next time he went to the Wet Your Whistle.
“And they’re home fries, by the way,” he added. “I had breakfast at Lennie’s before class.”
“Grease does not discriminate between home fries and French fries, Officer Weston, and there’s a fleck of yolk on the corner of your mouth. Let’s just say that Elizabeth’s relatives will form opinions about who you are based on how you smell.”
“But how is that a bad thing, Miss Melton-Mowry?” I wanted to know. “There’s always a line out the door at the Wet Your Whistle. Doesn’t that mean he’s popular?”
“Yes, Miss Corcoran, to some people—and I think we can include you in that group—Officer Weston is a wonderful man who likes to shoot pool and spend time in diners. But Elizabeth’s relatives might not be so inclined to see those as positive attributes.”
“But what do you think, Miss Melton-Mowry?” I said, knowing I was putting our teacher on the spot.
“You’re asking for my personal opinion?”
“Sure.”
“I like Officer Weston very much. He’s genuine, and…that’s a rare quality these days. However, he is not paying me to accept him the way he is, Miss Corcoran. Just as your great-grandmother did not pay for these lessons so that you could remain…in your present condition. My job is to help you navigate any fine-dining or polite-society situation. Needless to say, we’re not there yet.”
Officer Weston didn’t take it personally. “I like you, too, Miss Melton-Mowry. At least I don’t have that kind of BO,” he added. “I showered this morning.”
I kept my arms straight down by my sides, military-style, just in case I had a little of that kind of BO.
“The point is to not draw attention to yourself by the way you smell. Cooking odors and smoke can be very distracting. It’s best to smell…clean…refreshing. Maybe a slight scent…” By this time, Miss Melton-Mowry was standing in front of me and Delton. “No strong odors from the shampoo, no cloying aftershave. I have no idea what you had for breakfast, Mr. Bean. Well done.”
“I always brush my teeth after I eat.”
Officer Weston and I exchanged our “what a suck-up Delton is” look.
“But I was at Lennie’s,” Officer Weston said in his own defense.
“I have a travel toothbrush for when I eat out. It folds in half. My mother keeps it in the glove compartment.”
I would have responded to that, but Miss Melton-Mowry was headed my way. I didn’t know how much odor a banana slathered in peanut butter and a half a bag of gummy worms would give off, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I held my breath.
Miss Melton-Mowry didn’t come into my personal space, just looked back and forth between me and Delton. “Your issues are somewhat different from Officer Weston’s since you’re not old enough to frequent bars and drive around with friends who smoke. Still…”
She paused.
What happened next was very un-Miss-Melton-Mowry-like. She looked like she didn’t know what to say.
Clearing her throat, she began, “You are getting older and…I can’t stress enough the importance of personal hygiene.”
Officer Weston leaned in my direction and took a sniff. “Not sure Elizabeth would sit next to you, either, Cassidy. Er…Miss Corcoran.” He got even closer and whispered in my ear, “You kinda stink.”
I quick-sniffed under my armpit. The fact that I did—not just kinda—stink came as a real surprise to me.
“Can you smell the peanut butter and bananas?” I whispered back.
“Not over that.”
As soon as I jumped out of the car after manners class, I heard Jack’s whistle signaling me to come over. He’d been waiting to show me the harness he’d built with his dad—the one that allowed him to scale walls without killing himself.
I’d hoped to at least swipe a washcloth under my armpits before anyone else got in my personal space, but he didn’t give me the chance! As we headed into his dad’s workshop, I pressed my arms to my sides and told him about Delton’s prank.
“Mrs. Delaney’s nightgown? Off her clothesline? That is sweet. But so is this…take a look.” Jack held up a rope that looked like a lot of his other ropes…maybe a little thinner.
“Wow.” I tried to match his excitement.
Holding it out for me to touch, he said, “Feel how soft it is…really going to cut down on the sliding burns. Plus, it’s thin enough for me to clamp it with my toes.”
“Impressive.” I handed the rope back and, very nonchalant, asked, “Say, Jack, do you ever notice…my BO?”
“Sure. It smells like chicken soup.”
“That’s not so bad.”
Jack tossed his new rope up and over the beam that crossed the length of the workshop. “Unless you’ve been riding your bike or fishing…or wrestling. Then it smells more like…let me see…the duck pond.”
“Ugh. That stinks.”
“I didn’t used to notice it. My sniffer must be getting more sensitive.” He tacked one end of the rope to the cleat on the wall and got the harness off his dad’s workbench. “See, it’s got padding here and here.” He pointed to the chest part of the harness, followed by the leg holes. “And the outer part is nylon so it doesn’t cause friction. You want to put it on?”
“Nah.”
Of course I want to put it on! But that would mean Jack had to hook me in, which involved him getting close to me while I smelled like the duck pond. When the pond started to dry up in the summer, all you could smell was the green scum and the duck doo-doo left behind. For the first time in recorded history, I almost left off hanging out with Jack to go home and take a shower.
What is the world coming to?
Now he was giving me a funny look because he knew I’d want to try it on and swing from the b
eam in the ceiling. “Suit yourself.”
Pretending not to care, I watched as he stepped into the leg holes and buckled the chest. Then he jumped up and fastened himself to the swinging rope with one of those clips that mountain climbers use.
Soon he was swinging around the workshop like Peter Pan while I pretended it was no big deal.
“Delton’s prank is impressive, Cassidy. He might give us some competition next year.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Name one of our pranks that beats Mrs. Delaney’s nightgown,” he said, passing overhead.
I shrugged. Jack had a point.
“C’mon. You’ll have to remember for the history books.”
“Maybe the time we tied Miss Hennessy’s helium birthday balloons to her attendance clipboard?”
“That was pretty good.” Jack made a grab for me on his next pass. “Stick your foot up in the air. I want to see if I can grab one of your socks.”
I did what I was told. What difference does it make if I lie on the floor and get sawdust in my hair? I already have BO to beat the band.
“Maybe the time we put cat kibble in Mr. Fenster’s trail mix? Hey! You’re tickling me!”
“Hold still! The kibble was amateur. I say it was the time we gave Mr. Janescko a new title.”
“That was epic.”
What we did to our principal’s door didn’t just make us legends at Stocking Elementary; it resulted in the name of our global organization. It was the summer between third and fourth grade when Jack and I realized the funny thing that happens when you put our names together. You can bet we were going to use that. So on the very first day, during the all-school assembly, we found a “Jack” in the first grade and a “Cassidy” in third and we snitched their name tags. A little clever cutting later, we marched past the office to our fourth-grade classroom and stuck the stolen name tags on the office door, right below MR. JANESCKO, PRINCIPAL.
In class, Jack kept looking over his shoulder at me so I could practice my “I’m sorry, can you explain that one more time?” look. The look that says, in one expression, “So you think that I—and Jack—put those name tags together under Principal Janescko’s name? But why would we do that? And look, my name tag is right here.”
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