Going Solo

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Wait a minute. What are you saying?” Tiffany could scarcely believe her ears. “You expect me to go away this summer? To pick up and leave behind all my friends and— and Evan and the country club so I can go off to some hick town to play the cello all day?”

  “If that’s how you want to look at it, yes,” Mr. Forrester said calmly. “And to tell you the truth, I think it’ll be the best thing for you.’’

  It was at that point that Tiffany exploded.

  ‘‘Well, I’m not going!’’ she cried, standing up and waving her clenched fists in the air. “You can do anything you want to me, Daddy. You can take away my car or cut off my allowance or cancel our membership at the country club. But no matter what you do, I’m not spending the summer at some stupid music camp!”

  “This is hardly a camp, Tiffany. In fact, it’s a great honor to be a part of this....”

  “You can’t make me go there!” she insisted. “There’s no way you can force me to leave my friends for the summer, especially to throw me in with a bunch of—of nerds, boring kids who spend their whole lives doing nothing but practicing some stupid musical instrument!”

  “Actually,” her father said, clearing his throat, “the high school students who are handpicked to participate in the American Philharmonic’s summer program are generally quite pleasant, well-rounded individuals. At least according to Allen Harper, who runs the program.’’

  “I bet they are,” Tiffany said scornfully. “If these kids are so wonderful, Daddy, then how did you ever get me into this program? It sounds like it’s the thrill of a lifetime for these creepy kids. I would think you’d have to audition to get in, or at least know somebody.’’

  Mr. Forrester smiled. “You’re right. Ordinarily, students do have to audition. And admissions are competitive. Extremely competitive. But you have to be one of the lucky ones, Tiffany, because it just so happens that your father does ‘know somebody.’ ”

  “Oh, really? And who, may I ask, do you know? Or did you just contribute a billion dollars to the orchestra so they’d do anything you please?”

  “Allen Harper and I are old friends from college days. We’ve kept in touch, on and off, over the years. I knew he was involved with the orchestra’s summer program. And so a couple of weeks ago, when I first heard about your latest escapade, I got him on the phone.”

  “I suppose by my ‘escapade,’ you mean Evan.”

  “If Evan is the name of the boy I just found in your bedroom, with you wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, then I suppose the answer is yes.”

  “Oh, Daddy!” Tiffany rolled her eyes upward. “That whole thing was completely innocent. You’d like Evan, if only you took the time to know him. He goes to Brown University, for heaven’s sake. What could possibly be more respectable than that?’’

  “No matter where this young man goes to college—that is, when he’s going to college—the fact remains that he’s much too old for you. Now listen here, Tiffany. You’re going to the music program, and that’s final.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not.” This time, Tiffany’s tone was light, almost gleeful. “There’s still one thing you haven’t thought of, Daddy, dear.”

  “Oh, really? What’s that?”

  “Why, Mother, of course.” She smiled smugly. “You seem to have forgotten that she’s the one who’s had custody of me ever since you two got divorced. And Mother never makes me do anything I don’t want to do.”

  “So I’ve gathered,” muttered Mr. Forrester. In a louder voice, he said, “Well, my dear, I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but this happens to be one of those rare occasions on which your mother and I agree. I convinced her that this wild crowd you’ve been hanging around with— especially this Evan, or whatever his name is—is nothing but bad news. She’s with me on this all the way. Yes, we’ve both decided that some time away is exactly what you need. Maybe it will help knock some sense into that selfish little head of yours!”

  Having realized that this was a battle she was on the verge of losing, Tiffany immediately burst into tears.

  “Oh, Daddy, please don’t do this to me!” she begged. “I’ll stop seeing Evan, if that’s what you want. Honest! And I’ll be home by ten o’clock every night. Nine o’clock, even. I’ll get a summer job or ... or give up the keys to my car.... Anything! Please, just don’t send me away!”

  Mr. Forrester sighed. “Oh, Tiffany.”

  She went over to him then and threw her arms around his neck. As she leaned her head against his shoulder, she said in a soft, pleading voice, “I’ll die if I have to leave my friends. And I’ll be so homesick. I’ll miss Mother, and you, of course....”

  “Tiffany, my darling daughter, I’m not exactly sending you off to Siberia, you know. And the program is only for six weeks. I just want you to get a different perspective on things, that’s all. I’d like you to spend some time in a different environment, with some kids who are concerned with more than just whose jeans cost the most money or who’s going out with whom.”

  “Oh, Daddy. You’re so mean! I wish you’d just go back upstate to Rochester.”

  She peered at him, looking for some reaction. But there was none. None of her old standby approaches were working this time, and she was more frustrated than ever. She moved away, plopping back down in her chair.

  She was silent for a minute, thinking this whole thing over. “Well, maybe you can send me to that awful place,” she finally admitted, her tone still angry even though she had given up on the dramatics. “But I won’t like it, that’s for sure. All I’ll do the whole time is sit in my room and wait for it to be over.’’

  “I hope that’s not how it turns out, for your sake.” Mr. Forrester sounded tired. “But then again, it’s all up to you. I’m giving you an opportunity, Tiffany, not torturing you. It’s a chance to learn, to meet new people, to experience a whole new side of life. As for what you do with it... well, as I’ve already said, that’s completely up to you. Now I’m going into the kitchen to make myself some coffee.”

  After he had left the room, Tiffany remained sitting in the chair for a long time, her arms folded across her chest. This time the pout on her lips was real.

  “I’ll show them, Mother and Daddy both,’’ she said aloud, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I’ll have such a horrible time that they’ll actually feel sorry for me. They’ll hate themselves for what they’ve done to me. Just wait; I’ll show them both.”

  But somehow, the vow she made to herself didn’t help her feel the least bit better.

  Chapter Four

  “But daddy, you just don’t understand,” Tiffany wailed.

  She was still trying to negotiate with her father two months later, on the day he was driving her up to Wildwood for the summer. His sleek black Mercedes sports car had just pulled up in front of Ellis Hall, one of the modern dormitories on the Clayton College campus. It was also the building that was going to be her home away from home for the next six weeks—something she was prepared to fight up until the bitter end.

  “Making me go to this ... this stupid music camp, or whatever it is, is like sending me to reform school,’’ she went on. “It’s worse than that. It’s like sending me to jail.”

  “Tiffany, my dear, look at this place.” Arthur Forrester rolled down the window of the car and took a good look all around him. “It looks like a country club, not a jail. It’s a beautiful college campus, for goodness’ sake, and it’s all here for you to use. There’s a library, a swimming pool, complete gym facilities...”

  “And a bunch of children.” She spat out the words, folding her arms defiantly across her chest.

  “Oh, really? So far I’ve only seen one person here who’s acting like a child.” He leaned across the front seat and opened the car door on her side. “Now get out. I’ll walk you in.”

  Tiffany hesitated for a moment, then turned to face her father. “All right, Daddy. You win. I’ll go to this stupid music camp. I’ll waste six whole weeks of my life her
e in this jail. I’ll let myself be miserable for the rest of the summer, if that’s what makes you happy.”

  Her blue eyes were flashing as she added, “But just don’t expect me to talk to you ever again for the rest of my life!”

  “Come on, Tiff. Let me help you with your suitcase.”

  “That’s okay. I can manage.” Angrily she dragged her suitcase and her cello out of the backseat of the car. With mock sweetness, she said, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to walk me in to make sure I don’t run away to Mexico or something while you’re parking the car. After all, this happens to be the middle of no place.’’

  Mr. Forrester was already out of the car. “Tiffany, let me help you with that. You can’t possibly manage....”

  “I can manage fine, Daddy. Just fine.’’ With that she headed up the front walk, struggling with her suitcase and her cello, all the while balancing a shoulder bag. She walked with furious, jerky movements, pausing every once in a while to toss her head.

  “Well, okay,” her father said doubtfully. “If you’re sure that’s really what you want.”

  But Tiffany didn’t even hear him.

  By the time she reached the front door of Ellis Hall, her face was covered with perspiration. She was positive that her mascara was smudged from both the intense heat of the July day and the effort of carrying her heavy suitcase and her heavy cello all by herself. But she was in too mean a mood to care.

  “Hey, can I give you a hand?”

  A boy with reddish brown hair and an easy smile was standing in the lobby, playing an oboe. He was alone, the only sign of life around. Tiffany just glared at him.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I happen to have the use of all my limbs, and I can take care of myself.”

  “I see that. And you’re doing a crackerjack job, too.”

  “Look,” she said impatiently, “is there anybody around here who’s in charge?”

  “You must mean the Connors’. That’s Bill and Jennifer Connors. They’re our baby-sitters for the summer, more or less.”

  “Great. Where can I find them?”

  “Well, their room is all the way down that hall.”

  Tiffany glanced at the long hallway off to the left of the lobby, the one the boy had just pointed to. With a loud sigh, she grasped her suitcase and her cello more tightly and began dragging them down the corridor. It was a walk that, under the circumstances, seemed to be taking forever.

  She had just about reached the end when she heard the boy say, “Of course, I wouldn’t expect the Connors’ to be in their room now. I’d say they’re probably in their office.”

  “Oh, really? And where is that?” Tiffany called back.

  The boy flashed his grin. “All the way at the end of the other hall.”

  Tiffany cast him an angry look as she passed him, after having lugged her suitcase and cello all the way back up the left-hand hallway, crossing through the square lobby, and starting toward the other hall, off to the right.

  “Sure you don’t need any help?” the boy asked once again, his tone mocking.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do right now?’’ Tiffany retorted sharply. “Something like stuffing cement up that clarinet of yours?’’

  The boy just laughed. “Oh, boy. I think this is going to be a long, hot summer. I’m not even sure if I should bother to mention that this isn’t a clarinet, it’s an oboe. I guess you cellists don’t get around very much.”

  The Connors’, at least, seemed pleasant enough, once Tiffany found them in their office. They chatted with her for a few minutes, giving her her room assignment, a key, and the names of the two girls who would be her roommates. They briefed her on the schedule and mentioned some of the dorm rules. Then Bill Connors offered to help Tiffany carry her things to her room.

  “Don’t bother, really,” Tiffany replied. “I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I? I think I can manage the rest on my own.” At this point, she had no intention of abandoning her resolution not to get involved in any way with a single person here.

  As she passed through the lobby again, heading toward the staircase that would take her to Room 311, up on the third floor, she saw that the same boy was still there, improvising what sounded to her like jazz on his oboe. This time she just ignored him, refusing to make eye contact with him at all. She looked around, hoping to spot an elevator. Unfortunately, the only way of getting up to her room appeared to be the old-fashioned way: one step at a time.

  “Oh, darn,’’ she muttered. She began dragging her suitcase and her cello up the stairs. Not surprisingly, she was finding every single step an ordeal. “Didn’t these people ever hear of elevators? What, are they still living in the Dark Ages?”

  She had managed to get her heavy suitcase and her cello halfway up the stairs when she paused to catch her breath. She could feel the perspiration running down her face. Strands of hair were already coming loose from the single, perfect French braid she had carefully woven her long golden hair into that morning, and her beige linen miniskirt was a mass of wrinkles.

  I’ll fix myself up as soon as I get these stupid things up to my room, she thought, feeling slightly heartened by the idea of a shower and a change of clothes.

  With that thought, she started up the stairs again. But all of a sudden her cello began teetering. As she reached to grab it with both hands, her suitcase went tumbling down the steps. In addition to the awful thumping noise it made as it went careening down, out of her control, there was suddenly a loud snapping noise.

  “What on earth! ...”

  It only took her a fraction of a second to realize what had happened. She let out a little yelp as she watched the suitcase fly open and its entire contents go tumbling down the steps. Within moments all her clothes were strewn across the staircase, some in little heaps and some, like her lacy lavender nightgown, stretched out like banners. Makeup went dancing down the stairs in every possible direction, and her collection of earrings, bracelets, and necklaces rolled all over. Her hair dryer went banging down loudly past everything else. Before she had a chance to do a single thing about it, everything she had brought to Wildwood was spread out before her like goods on sale at a bazaar.

  Tiffany stood frozen to the spot for what seemed a very long time, just looking over the scene with horror.

  And then she heard someone say, “Gee. I guess maybe you could have used some help after all.”

  She whirled around and saw the oboe player, the boy she had just snubbed in the lobby. He had witnessed the entire scene—and now he was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a huge grin.

  “Oh, why don’t you just go and ... and blow an oboe or something?”

  “You remembered,” he returned, looking pleased. “And I didn’t even think you cared.”

  Her response was a cold glare. With an arrogant toss of her head, Tiffany leaned over and began picking up her things, one at a time, tossing them back into the open suitcase lying at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Hey, look at all those clothes,” the boy observed, letting out a low whistle. “Does your family own a department store or something?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Tiffany said through clenched teeth, “but it just so happens that my father is Arthur Forrester.”

  “Arthur Forrester, huh? Am I supposed to be impressed or something?”

  “Oh, sure. Now you’re going to tell me you never heard of Arthur Forrester, the new executive vice-president of Elm Industries? The man who revolutionized the company’s method for developing new products? The man who was written up two months ago in the Wall Street Journal?’’

  The boy leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with my nose stuck behind a music stand, practicing my scales.”

  Tiffany sniffed. “My father happens to be an extremely important man. A rich important man.”

  “I guess he must be,” the boy said, still wa
tching her coolly, “to be able to buy his daughter fancy underwear like that. Is that from Paris or something?”

  Tiffany could feel herself turning beet red as she glanced down at the pair of lacy pink panties she was holding in her hands. She threw it into the suitcase, then scooped up the rest of her belongings and hurled them in after it.

  Without looking up at the boy, not wanting to see him laughing at her, she cried, “I guess there really is such a thing as hate at first sight!”

  As she tried to walk away with some dignity—not an easy thing, considering the fact that she was back to lugging all her belongings up the staircase once again—she could hear the boy chuckling.

  I despise this place, she was thinking. Her eyes were filled with tears. They were tears of anger, tears of humiliation ... tears of misery. I despise everybody here. Why, oh, why is Daddy making me come to this stupid, horrible, positively hateful place?

  At that moment, Tiffany had no doubt that this was going to be the very worst summer of her entire life.

  * * * *

  What Tiffany wanted most in the world right now was to be left alone. Having herself a good cry sounded like a very attractive way to spend the rest of the afternoon. So she was dismayed when she pushed open the door to Room 311 and found two girls sitting there.

  One of them, the one with dark unruly hair that surrounded her head like a halo, stopped talking midsentence. She looked over from the window seat on which she was sitting and smiled.

  “Hi!” she said brightly. “I’m Allegra, and this is Megan. You must be Tiffany.”

  “No, I’m the Queen of England,” Tiffany snapped. “Don’t tell me this isn’t Buckingham Palace.”

  Allegra and Megan exchanged puzzled looks.

  “We went ahead and chose the beds and dressers we want,” said Megan, the one that Tiffany had already labeled as mousy. “I hope you don’t mind.” A bit timidly, she added, “I took the bed by the window.”

  “I really couldn’t care less,” Tiffany said in a lofty voice. “Just tell me which bed you two have decided that I should have.”