My dad stretches in his chair like a cat and I can see the top letters of his ancient Rolling Stones tour T-shirt peep out of his even older gray fisherman’s cardigan. The shirt reminds me that he was once young, despite the lines on his face that I swear weren’t there a week ago, and the increasing gray in his hair.
“And Cassie has obviously thrown herself with gusto at Longbourne society, at least that strata that sports jock straps,” Dad continues. He’s in a rare chatty mood. Maybe he’s trying to avoid grading more papers. “And Leigh seems to have found a happy little band of apostles to pal around with.”
“She’s blowing everyone away in the school musical,” I tell him. “She has a great voice.”
“Yes,” Dad agrees, but he sounds far away. Conversations with Dad are always sort of ponderous, often multilayered, but I was finding this one particularly alienating. “Now your mother, she loves it here. A town like Longbourne is exactly where she has always wanted to be. She grew up in a town like this, you know.”
“I know.” Of course I knew. I’d been going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Cheshire, Connecticut, since I was born. Usually we had to travel much further to get there, but now that we were closer I had seen them and Mom’s childhood home more frequently. Tori and I used to sleep in her bedroom when we’d fly in for a few days. Grandma had preserved Mom’s doll collection and most of her old clothes—prom gowns and formal dresses and dance costumes from years of ballet and jazz. We used to try them on and parade around in them, but that seems like such a long time ago. A jurastically long time.
Dad looks at me suddenly, as if remembering something.
“But are you finding your way, George?” he asks me.
“Sure,” I say, because I don’t know what else to tell him and I know that this is what he wants to hear. “I’m really liking the alternative paper, and the people who write for it.”
“That’s great,” he says, satisfied, and turns back to his work. So I go back to mine. But I can’t help wondering what he would think if he actually knew what was going on with us, if he knew that I had gotten drunk and sloppy and fooled around with a dubious boy and that that same boy had, weeks later, messed with Cassie and dumped her, and that because of this the kids at school were making Cassie pretty miserable. Or if he knew that my suspicious nature and so-called sense of humor, as caustic as his own, has caused me nothing but trouble in this town—and turned off a potentially pretty great guy in the process.
I go out to the kitchen to look for something to eat and find Leigh and Alistair at the little table eating soup out of big striped bowls.
“Hello, Georgia, please join us,” Alistair says, patting the chair next to him, and Leigh gapes at him, clearly surprised by this. “Your mom’s chicken noodle soup is delicious.”
“She won’t eat it,” Leigh tells him as she bites into an apple with a snap-crunch. “She doesn’t eat meat.”
“Really?” he asks, but conversationally. He doesn’t sound alarmed, the way most people do. “Seventh Day Adventists don’t eat meat either,” he tells Leigh, then turns back to me. “Are you a vegetarian for health or ethical and spiritual reasons?”
I look at his little owl face skeptically, wondering why he is so interested in this, and in me.
“All of the above,” I answer.
“That’s excellent,” Alistair enthuses. “You know, some people believe that Jesus was a vegetarian.”
“What about the loaves and fishes stuff?” I ask, and he seems pleased enough by my interest to launch into a lengthy explanation of various readings of Genesis I and II, and if man truly has dominion over all the beasts and plants, whether that really means you can just kill them and eat them.
“Wasn’t Hitler a vegetarian?” Leigh interrupts, looking at me.
I shrug and open the refrigerator to look for something edible and portable to take somewhere else. “I know he had a dog,” I say. I find a carton of raspberry soy yogurt and grab a spoon. Then I pause and look at Alistair, who seems to be watching me like a puppy who suspects he’s going to be taken for a walk.
“Is that stuff good?” Alistair asks.
“You get used to it,” I admit. “You know, I write about vegetarian and vegan issues for the alternative paper at school. Maybe an article about the spiritual or religious views on diet would be kinda chill.”
Leigh’s mouth drops open and Alistair’s whole face brightens, making him look much less pasty for once.
“I would be honored to help. I could supply relevant passages from Scripture for you …”
“I might take you up on that.”
He beams and Leigh looks at him as if he has just signed on with the devil. I can’t figure out why he’s paying so much attention to me either, unless he is planning on saving me and bringing me into the fold. But surely Leigh has told him what a hopeless cause that would be.
“Well, see ya, Georgia,” Leigh says pointedly, and I wave slightly.
“I’ll leave my email and you can write if you need anything,” Alistair calls after me, and I actually feel a little flattered. But halfway up the stairs it occurs to me that he might be angling for a Barrett girl who hasn’t taken a vow to save herself for marriage. And then I am thoroughly creeped out.
Still, when I’m in my room later, I consider the vegetarianism and spirituality idea and start writing down some ideas for an article. I’ve made no headway convincing the school administration to offer more vegetarian-friendly choices at lunch—they told me there is always a salad bar (at which the iceberg lettuce is always brown and the tomatoes are soupy). Maybe putting vegetarianism in a spiritual and historical context would make sense, so I look up some stuff online and jot down titles of books I should check out.
It’s just possible that telling everyone they’re misguided and unethical dupes of the meat industrial complex is not as effective as showing them that they are. And I’ll get the chance to feed people, too, in a few days, at the Pigs show, which might be the best plan after all. Maybe the best way to a person’s heart—and conscience—is through their stomachs.
I shut down my laptop, a little excited about my debut as a professional baker and secure in the fact that at least a punk rock show is the last place I’m likely to have another mortifying encounter with Michael Endicott.
But before the show that weekend, just to make my vacation truly unbearable, Mom announces one night at dinner that I’ll get to come with her on the Longbourne Jaycees’ Tour of Historic Homes tomorrow.
O, joy unspeakable.
“Your father won’t go, and you and I never do anything together anymore,” she insists, adding guilt to the invitation to make it nearly impossible to refuse it. At his end of the table, Dad doesn’t seem to hear her, and Leigh does not seem at all hurt that she was not invited. In fact, she’s smiling. Mom starts enumerating all the fabulous houses that will be on the tour and what they’ll be like, but I am too panicked to hear anything else she says because the Endicotts’ place is bound to be on the tour. The idea of running into Michael in his own tour-worthy home is even more horrifying than seeing him at an all-ages Pigs show.
Until I remember that Michael is in Aruba with Trey and Tori.
And suddenly the idea of getting to see his house seems absolutely necessary to me. Would his room be on the tour? Doubtful. But suddenly I really want to see it, so I can finally figure out once and for all who he is. What hangs on his wall? Is he as neat at home as his car would indicate he is, or is he a “secret slob,” as Holden Caulfield would say, with piles of clothes, dirty and clean, on his floor? Are there lots of books on his shelves? If so, what kind of books? Are there sports trophies on shelves on the walls? What kind?
When I say, “Okay,” Mom only looks shocked for a split second before beaming at me.
The tour is held on a Thursday, as the types of people who go on such tours, apparently, are not the kind of people who work from nine to five. They are nosy retirees and homemakers and women from Mo
m’s club who want to compare their homes to those of the most illustrious citizens in town, which is shabby, but I’ll put up with it because it’s worth it to do a little detective work.
Michael’s house is last on our itinerary, and the guide there is an elderly man named Jake Whittaker, president of the Longbourne Historical Society, who has more hair coming out of his ears than on top of his head. But his enthusiasm for all things ancient and architectural is pretty contagious, especially for Mom, whose general interest in old homes reaches a fever pitch when she’s actually met the inhabitants. She’s as excited as she’d be to tour Buckingham Palace if she had met Prince William and Kate. I’m a little breathless myself.
Jake leads us through the maple leaf-red front doors of Michael’s house and explains that we would only see the original part of the house today, which dates back to 1768, as the rest had been added to it over time, “modernized but in harmony with the original design.” Mom nods appreciatively. There’s a whitewashed entryway and a large dining room that used to be the kitchen, Jake explains, and Mom ducks her head into the massive stone fireplace where an old blackened kettle still hung. I swear she would go through the Endicotts’ medicine cabinet if she could. All of the antiques are original to the home, or at least to the Endicott family, Jake tells us proudly, and Mom ooohs and aaahs as he explains the entrepreneurial history of the Endicotts, from their building of the town’s first grist mill to their later days as owners of several paper mills in Netherfield, and he notes in conclusion that they “remain one of the region’s most prominent families.” He explains that Dr. Endicott is not only a favorite local physician but also a volunteer with the international group Doctors Without Borders, and that his wife has had some of her paintings shown in galleries in Boston and Philadelphia and Europe.
I feel hopelessly outclassed by now and so pathetic for being here that I just back out of the room and flee to the entryway, my heartbeat hammering in my ears. I would love to escape the house entirely, but Mom isn’t going to be pulled away from a collection of eighteenth-century toothbrushes any time soon.
Since I am stuck there for the foreseeable future, I examine the series of paintings and photographs on the walls of the gleaming whitewashed entryway. There are early folk art portraits, the kind where the children look and are dressed just like shrunken adults and the proportions of everything else are equally messed up. There are old sepia photos of groups of people, families or school classes or church groups or friends. Each dark-haired, sharp-eyed boy reminds me of Michael, whether the subject is in short pants or has long curls or stands by a velocipede or whatever they call those ancient bikes with the huge wheels.
Suddenly a force greater than my common sense—which, I’ll admit, has been pretty faulty lately, propels me—and I find myself creeping up the long staircase to the forbidden second floor.
I need to see Michael’s room.
I need to find out if he is a secret slob, or if there’s even more interesting evidence of whom he is up there. I’m not expecting to find anything big, like a literal skeleton in his closet. But I am going to find it, whatever it is. And I will know once and for all who he is.
I make it to the landing when I hear a burst of barking below me and I freeze.
Someone has let a dog in.
Which means that some member of the Endicott family is actually in the house.
Which means that one of Michael’s parents is about to catch me snooping.
I start barreling down the stairs, sliding down the last few of them, imagining security guards, angry Endicott elders, or the entire Longbourne police force armed and ready to shoot because someone has violated this historic and private sanctum. I land on my butt with a thump, only to have a large dog pounce on my form lying most indecorously at the bottom of the steps. For a split second, I think I’m being attacked by a guard dog, but then I realize that this dog is licking me, and quite happily. I must be hysterical with fear and embarrassment because this makes me start to giggle. A lot. Until I hear his voice and I freeze again.
“Harry!” Michael admonishes, firmly but calmly. “Harry! Get off her!”
“It’s okay. I’m used to cats. I forget dog tongues are soft and not scratchy,” I say, which is just about the dumbest thing anyone has ever said. But at least I have Harry’s floppy ears to ruffle as I stand up and avoid looking at Michael.
“What are you doing here?” he demands. It is a perfectly reasonable question and judging by the heat that is rushing to my face, I must be turning the color of a fire hydrant now.
“Oh, my mom is on the Historic Homes Tour,” I say, gripping the banister so my knees don’t quit on me entirely. “She insisted I come along.”
Michael’s eyes narrow slightly, and Harry whines a little and come to rest at Michael’s feet. “No, I mean why are you on our staircase? That’s not part of the tour.”
“I … got lost?”
We just blink at each other for a few seconds and then Harry lets out a short, crisp bark and turns in a circle to show Michael that he wants to go somewhere else.
Me, too. Like the bottom of a pit of vipers or the slippery bloody floor of a slaughterhouse or the cage of an angry bear that’s been locked up too long and blames me for his incarceration.
Thank God I didn’t make it into Michael’s room. As I follow Michael and his dog into his kitchen, because I honestly don’t know what else to do, the very thought of him finding me in his room makes blush even more furiously.
Why can’t a person spontaneously combust on command if they really need to?
As he takes a silver metal dog dish over to the big double sink, I say, “I’m surprised you have a mutt,” and he glances at me.
“Because you assumed I would have some kind of pedigreed show dog? One with a really long and pretentious name to advertise his breeding?”
“Hey, I didn’t even assume you had a dog.”
“You shouldn’t assume anything,” he snaps as he sets the bowl down for Harry. Then he clears his throat and says a little defensively, “I like mutts. They’re smart and have more personality than purebreds.”
“I agree. But these Westies who live down the street from me are adorable.” After an awkward silence, I say, “I thought you were in Aruba with Trey.”
“No. I didn’t want to tag along with him and Tori. I’d just be in their way.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” I say, and he has no response to this.
We listen to Harry lap up his water for a long moment before I can summon the courage to speak again.
“So … my mom is a real nut for historic homes. She dragged me along today. I, uh … couldn’t get out of it.”
His smiles crookedly. I don’t blame him for enjoying my painful embarrassment.
“There’s some great architecture in town,” he says blandly.
“And we’ve seen a lot of it today … So what have you been doing over break instead of going to Aruba?”
“Nothing much. My kids at the Y are getting ready to show their parents what they’ve learned in my class.”
“Do you swim on the team for school?”
“No. I did at Pemberley, though.”
“Oh … well … I should go find my mom and drag her out of here. One more authentic chamber pot and she’ll need to be sedated.”
He smirks and as I’m on my way out of the kitchen when my eye catches sight of something that my brain registers as familiar. It’s one of my doodles, a scrap from my bio notebook that I had made of a frog armed with his own scalpel, saying COME AT ME. SEE WHAT HAPPENS, daring somebody to try to open him up to examine his innards. And now it’s sticking out of a library book sitting right on top of the massive wooden island right in the middle of the Endicotts’ kitchen.
“Hey, that’s—” I start to say as I place a hand on it but Michael snaps, “You can have it back if you want it. I just found it and wrote a note about the homework on the back of it.”
“No, you can
keep it,” I say. “It’s the perfect bookmark for what you’re reading.” He’s looking at the floor and I am dying to know if he really is reading this book, all on his own, but I decide that this mutually inflicted torture needs to end now and say, “I’m, uh, gonna go find the rest of the group.”
He says, “See ya,” and turns away as I run until I find my mother absorbed in one of Jake’s elegies on the wonders of the Endicott wainscoting.
When we’re finally in her car, she says, “I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry,” as she buckles herself into the seatbelt much too slowly.
“Michael is there, and I just feel really weird touring the house of one of my classmates like it’s a museum.”
I slump into the seat, though it’s much too late to hide now, and Mom reaches over and pats my hand, like she understands. I want to cry because she doesn’t understand. How could she understand how shocked and humiliated—and freakishly elated—I feel when I don’t understand it myself? At last we drive away.
“The Endicott house is spectacular,” she enthuses. “It’s my favorite on the whole tour. What did you think?”
“It’s great.”
“Those stained glass windows at the house on Oak Street are beautiful, though. Original Tiffany design, I heard. Must have cost a fortune, even then.”
“Mmmmhmmm.”
“The Palladian window in the house on Summer Street reminded me of the one at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Do you remember it?” She rubs her nose with one gloved hand and takes a very hard right. She is fueled by plans. “We have got to get our windows replaced. You can feel the wind come straight through the windows in the dining room, and Leigh’s room. She’s a case of pneumonia waiting to happen. And the woodwork needs repainted …”
But I’m not listening.
I’m too busy wondering why Michael took a copy of Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals out of the library. And why it’s in his kitchen, half-read. And why he is using my doodle as a bookmark for it.
I’m telling you, finding a Wonderbra in his size would not have been more surprising to me.
Pride and Prep School Page 5