Cassidy's Guide to Everyday Etiquette (and Obfuscation)

by Sue Stauffacher

  As I left the bathroom, I got my first look at the etiquette judge. Miss Glennon wheeled her past the fountain in the lobby to the spot where Officer Weston and Miss Melton-Mowry were standing. Officer Weston was all dressed up in a suit and tie, looking handsome and probably smelling like, well, nothing, since that was what Miss Melton-Mowry preferred. Delton was pressed up against a potted palm. You’d think Mrs. Glennon was a saber-toothed tiger and not an old lady in a hat.

  “It’s showtime, Miss Corcoran,” I said, pinching myself for good luck. Spine straight as a broom handle, I walked up to the old bat, stuck out my hand and said, “Charming lobby we’re having. I love this décor, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Glennon’s eyes got wide. For a second, I thought she was pulling my trick and looking at me cross-eyed. I stuck my hand out further, in case she was nearsighted, taking care not to touch the oxygen tube leading to her nose. “Miss Corcoran, at your service.”

  Then the old lady started sneezing to beat the band. She sneezed so hard her nose plug ended up in her lap.

  “It’s all right. No harm done.” Miss Glennon grabbed my hand as she kneeled down and stuck the plug back in her grandmother’s nose. “Grandmother is allergic to perfume. Do you mind washing it off?”

  “Some fresh air will do us a world of good,” Miss Melton-Mowry said. “Why don’t we go out to the terrace and you can join us there, Miss Corcoran.”

  That’s how I landed back in the bathroom, scrubbing my hands and thinking about what a phony Miss Melton-Mowry was. Fresh air, my eye. I could practically see her digging through her purse for my report card and failing me on first impressions.

  What did I do wrong? I felt this overpowering anger at Mrs. Benson. For every Charles Joughin, there were at least a hundred people at the bottom of the ocean who thought Titanic karma was the worst possible kind to have.

  There was a knock on the door. “Are there any ladies inside? Because there’s been a report of a foul-smelling gas coming out of the ladies’ room and we’re here to investigate.”

  “Jack? What are you doing here? Where did you get that jacket?”

  “This?” Jack tugged on his lapel. “I wore it to Bobby’s wedding. Remember? I was an usher.”

  “You were in fourth grade. It looks ridiculous now.”

  “I couldn’t zip the pants, so I just wore my shorts. Anyway, thought I’d come over and keep you company. This place really is swank. The men’s room has mouthwash.” Jack huffed big minty breaths at me before picking up the bottle of perfume.

  “Don’t touch that stuff! It’s poison.” I filled Jack in on my progress so far. “Jack, I don’t know what to do! I’m hopeless at this stuff.”

  “Look at you, Cass. You’re more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

  “Excuse me? Is that another Bree-ism?”

  Jack scratched his palm, like he was trying to remember. “Maybe. What I mean to say is you’re taking this too serious. It’s just a game, Cass. Like Frisbee golf.”

  “We make up our own rules for Frisbee golf.”

  “True. But there are rules. Most kids follow them.” By this time, Jack had discovered the mirror. He studied himself, using his fingers to comb his hair.

  I whirled him around and grabbed his lapels. “Jack, I’m serious. I gotta do this right…not just to get out of class, but…I need to be a suck-up teacher’s pet for one hour, so Miss Melton-Mowry can get the cush job!”

  “You’re gonna be fine, Cassidy. Remember that time we hid in the janitor’s closet during lunch and recess? You were still for, like, forty minutes. And I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve got your back.”

  Slipping behind me, Jack put his hands on my shoulders and pointed me in the direction of the patio. “Don’t worry, Cassidy. We’ll come out on top like we always do.”

  I started the long walk back to the table, going over the rules of fine dining in my head. My stomach felt so squeezy I couldn’t even remember what b and d stood for. Hopefully, not Big Disaster!

  It was just like Miss Melton-Mowry predicted. They wheeled Mrs. Glennon over to the table under the tree and gave her the view of the golf course. Miss Glennon sat on one side and Miss Melton-Mowry on the other. Officer Weston was next to Miss Glennon and Delton was next to Miss Melton-Mowry. As I came up to the table, Officer Weston jumped up to pull out my chair. Delton stood, pressing his blazer so it didn’t touch the little bowl of red stuff that appeared to be our first course.

  “I love gazpacho,” Miss Glennon said with the kind of enthusiasm I reserved for a cheeseburger and fries.

  “It looks like Andalusian gazpacho,” Miss Melton-Smarty informed us.

  “Looks to me like somebody got his guts blown out in the kitchen,” I whispered to Delton.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Corcoran.” Mrs. Glennon was giving me the evil eye. “I’m a bit hard of hearing.”

  “The thing I love about gazpacho,” I replied, turning it up a notch, “is that you don’t have to worry about it getting cold.”

  She looked at me like I was up to something, but all she said was, “That is true.”

  I picked up my spoon and skimmed it over the top of my dish, netting mostly air.

  Using the line I came up with in polite conversation in our practice session, Officer Weston began, “This heat is really getting to my roses.”

  Normally, his stealing my line would make me sore, but the poor guy looked worse than I did. There was a red ring around his neck where his collar dug in; a drop of sweat ran down his temple. You would have thought Honeybun was standing over his shoulder. He took a swipe of his soup, and a tiny drop of tomato juice ended up on his chin. Rough luck.

  I watched Miss Melton-Mowry try to signal him by patting her napkin on her face. Delton was patting, too.

  Old Mrs. Glennon seemed fixated on it.

  I considered some Jim Leyland moves, but I knew that would get me a demerit; it was every man for himself out here. “This is so refreshing,” I said. “I love a fresh-squeezed tomato, don’t you?” I skimmed and sipped without making a sound—which wasn’t hard, seeing as I wasn’t really eating anything.

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Which way to the pool? I need to refresh myself.” Delton nearly fell out of his chair when Jack appeared at his shoulder.

  “You can’t be thinking of swimming like that,” Officer Weston said, taking in Jack’s too-short suit jacket and shorts.

  “Of course not. I sink like a stone. This is my suit for dangling my legs in the water.” Jack hiked up his knee, so we could see even more of his hairy legs.

  I stared at him cross-eyed, which was strictly necessary or else I would possibly have a giggling fit that could not be concealed by my wrist.

  “Well, if you need any help, just holler,” Officer Weston replied. “I’m fully versed in all emergency procedures, including rescu—”

  “Young man…” Miss Melton-Mowry stood up.

  “Yes, well…thank you,” Jack said, giving me a thumbs-up before he made his getaway.

  “You know him, don’t you?” Officer Weston asked me under his breath. “This has to be an inside job.”

  Miss Glennon took advantage of the strange appearance of Jack to reach over and press her napkin into Officer Weston’s hand. She touched her chin and hiked up her eyebrows. Even I couldn’t mistake those signals. Both Delton and I sighed with relief as Officer Weston swiped his chin with her napkin before handing it back to her.

  It was the last deep breath I would have for a while because as soon as I turned back to my plate, one of those creepy tree caterpillars dropped down from above and hung there, wriggling, right in front of my face.

  It reminded me of the Houdini movie I watched where they had him underwater in a straitjacket! I bit my tongue and crossed my eyes. Again! Anything to keep the squirming green vision from being implanted in my brain and sliding into the home plate of my fear center.

  “Miss Corcoran,” Delton said. “Can you smell the rose
s at the edge of the patio? Taking a deep breath through your nose and inflating your diaphragm is the best way to enjoy the heady scent of roses, don’t you think, Officer Weston?”

  “Cassidy, are you okay?”

  I tried to check in with my kneecaps, my ankles, my elbows, but they were all saying “Run away as fast as you can.” I leaned as far back as the chair would allow.

  Where is Jack when I need him?

  Somewhere in the back of my head, I heard music, like drips of water from a fountain. I counted the drips. Jack is dangling his toes in the pool, I told myself. Count the drips. He’ll be back in a minute, but first…I suggest you breathe.

  I stopped the lean. It was a good thing, too, because one more inch and I’d be introducing the back of my head to the patio cement. I kept counting drips and took another deep breath, diving down with Houdini into the bottom of my belly and unlocking his handcuffs. Officer Weston’s hand held the back of my chair while I took another deep breath.

  Time to surface.

  If I didn’t rescue this worm from death-by-drowning in gazpacho, all hopes for passing the etiquette course and moving on with my life would go with it. I couldn’t look it straight in its little wormy eye and I wasn’t about to look at it double, so I squinted and pinched the thread it hung by.

  “Is there something in your eye, Miss Corcoran?” Mrs. Glennon asked.

  “No, I…” It was impossible to talk and save the worm at the same time. I turned in my chair and flung the little bugger into the rose bushes. “I…I was just admiring the landscaping, Mrs. Glennon. What charming roses we’re having.”

  “And here’s our next course,” Miss Melton-Mowry announced, patting her forehead with her napkin. “Ah, look at this lovely salad.”

  I checked in with my body parts. Everything was still attached; after a few more deep breaths, my pulse returned to the normal range.

  Straightening my shoulders, I returned to dining posture and considered the pile of green stuff in front of me. When you think about it, salad is easy to eat like a proper lady. Cherry tomatoes have the potential to explode, so I detoured around them and focused on sawing the slices of cucumber and leaves of lettuce into tiny pieces while Delton went on and on about the subjects he liked to study in school.

  His description of his final project for fifth grade—a working model of a Boeing P-26 “Peashooter” that he donated afterward to the Third Coast Transportation Museum’s traveling exhibition—took up most of the course. Miss Melton-Mowry had to give him a “My, that is detailed,” and a “Thank you for sharing,” and even a “Who knew there were so many parts to single-seat fighter planes,” before I finally kicked him under the table; my jaws were seizing up from all the polite chewing.

  I figured my turn was next, so I mentally prepared for the polite version of how hobos go days without bathing, sleep in haystacks and eat rail-kill stew out of rusty cans, when the waiter’s arm reached in for my salad.

  Now what? He left me holding my salad fork! This was so un-American. I didn’t put my utensils at ten and four! Shouldn’t he get a demerit for that?

  What to do? I thought about quick sticking it on Delton’s plate, but I might draw attention to myself.

  I decided to float my hand under the table and set my fork on the chair. It was then I realized I was scooching over so I didn’t get oil on my new dress.

  What was happening to me?

  Would a Knight of the Road worry about a little salad dressing? I looked around at my dining companions as a stinky piece of fish was placed in front of us. Of course, we had been instructed in the polite way to eat fish, but who wants to eat it? I was more interested in the polite way to push it around on my plate and then gorge on Tater Tots when I got home.

  “And what about you, Miss Corcoran? What are your favorite subjects in school?”

  “Why, thank you for asking, Mrs. Glennon. I would say it’s a toss-up between recess and gym. We young people need to stay active. However, if you’re more interested in my intellectual studies, I would say history. I find American history just after the Civil War to be my favorite.”

  “You mean the Reconstruction era and the rise of industrialization?” Delton Smarty-Pants cut in.

  I turned the intensity of my gaze on him. He’d already had his turn. “Yes, Mr. Bean. In particular the Knights of the Open Road, otherwise known as hobos. Give me an adventure under the stars, a daring leap from a train trestle, and SSR just flies by.”

  “What is SSR?” Mrs. Glennon wanted to know.

  “Sustained silent reading,” I informed her, patting my lips with my napkin to get a break from pretending to eat fish.

  “There are so many possibilities for a history major,” Miss Glennon said. “Would you like to be a teacher? Maybe even a college professor?”

  “You could work in a museum.” Officer Weston was staring at his piece of fish like it was a puzzle. It had bones, of course, the kind that normal people would just use their fingers to pull out. But people like us—polite and destined to starve to death—had to pick out the bones with our knife and fork and the skills of a surgeon.

  “Working in a museum would be satisfactory,” I said. “Maybe Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

  I kept sneaking looks at Miss Melton-Mowry, trying to follow her lead. She would take a piece of fish the size of a peanut, put it in her mouth and chew it while smiling. It is difficult to chew and smile at the same time. I have tried this in front of the mirror. It doesn’t even look good. It looks a little like you’re in pain.

  That’s when I realized it. Sitting there with all my weight on one hip, trying to avoid a collision between my salad fork and my new dress and not breathe in the smell of poached fish, I realized that Miss Melton-Mowry was in pain. In fact, she hated this. And I didn’t need a degree from the Cassidy Corcoran School of Espionage to tell.

  At the same time, I noticed Officer Weston giving up on the polite way to dissect his fish; slipping his plate under the table, he yanked what was left of the skeleton right out and dropped it in his napkin. Miss Melton-Mowry was watching, too. In fact, she was watching so closely that she forgot the careful cuts and brought a big piece of fish with a glistening bone attached up to her mouth and stuck it all in.

  Officer Weston seemed pleased with himself. He returned his plate to the table and set to work with his fork. “Delicious,” he said. “For my part, I’ve always wanted to be a coach. If I weren’t a community police officer, that is.”

  “What sport would you coach, Officer Weston?” Miss Glennon asked.

  “Baseball. Hands down. I’ve been a Tigers fan since I was a little cub.”

  “Really? I’m a Tigers fan myself.” After that, Officer Weston and Miss Glennon were off to the races. The big question for the Tigers, it seemed, at least according to Glennon and Weston, was how to make up for the loss of Prince Fielder? Was the new manager making a big mistake batting Martinez fourth instead of Cabrera?

  I kept my eyes on Miss Melton-Mowry, wondering how she was going to eject the fish bone from her mouth, a subject that must not be covered until etiquette graduate school. But she didn’t eject it. Her funny chewing smile ended. She even looked a little panicked—just for a moment—before she brought her napkin to her mouth.

  Spit it out, lady!

  Miss Melton-Mowry turned the intensity of her gaze on me and shook her head no. What was that supposed to mean? We didn’t cover choking! Remembering our little talk, I sat back and tried to pretend that everything was fine as she pressed her napkin to her mouth again. This is the moment she coughs it out. But she didn’t cough into her napkin. She made a soft wheezy noise instead.

  I focused on my fish, sneaking looks around the table to see if anyone else had figured out what was what. Could it be that Miss Melton-Mowry would rather choke to death than break her own rules? Was it their shared fascination with the Tigers that kept anyone else from picking up on this?

  “The thing with the Tigers is, you can go yea
rs with a drought. I mean, look at 2001 to 2004, and then they bust out with a streak of amazing hitters. Who do you think is better, Delton, Al Kaline or Miguel Cabrera?”

  “My father would argue that if the older players had the same access to technological advances in training and pharmaceuticals, that would make the comparison more…”

  Blah, blah, blah, Delton!

  When Miss Melton-Mowry put her elbows on the table to steady herself, I knew we had escalated to Code Red.

  Why didn’t anyone else notice her elbows were on the table—the very first dining “never” she’d ever taught us? I tried to get Officer Weston’s attention using my body language, gently inclining my head in her direction and opening my eyes a little wider.

  “If you were a die-hard fan, you would know that Al Kaline has gone on record saying…”

  My eyebrows could not get higher on my forehead unless I used a trampoline. My head couldn’t bend any further. Not only did Miss Melton-Mowry have her elbows on the table; she was turning blue!

  “Forgive me for interrupting, Officer Weston, but I must request that you stop nattering on about the Tigers and GIVE MISS MELTON-MOWRY THE HEIMLICH MANEUVER.”

  To emphasize my point, I lifted my end of the table, overturning all the water glasses and dousing my dining companions (something I later attributed to my hair-trigger adrenaline).

  Officer Weston jumped up just as Miss Melton-Mowry went down. If only etiquette class went as fast as ejecting a fish bone. I tried to nab it—figuring there’d be a million ways I could hold Magda hostage with the promise of what digestive enzymes can do to fish-bone decomposition—but Officer Weston said they’d probably need it at the emergency room.

  Of course, with my karma, we never made it to the one course even polite people have not been able to mess up—dessert!

  It might not be a big deal to anyone else, but after all I’d been through with bugs, I thought it was a step forward that I could sit under our elderberry bush in complete darkness to listen in on what Jack was saying to Bree.