“Mom?”
Her mother shook her head and sighed, waving away either her own emotion or Natalya’s concern. “You’re going so far away.”
“It’s just the Upper East Side.” Natalya laughed a little: it wasn’t like she was going away to college or anything.
“Well…” Her mom paused, then tapped her daughter lightly on the nose. “Just don’t be surprised if it’s further than you think.”
Natalya was about to ask what she meant, but right then the cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimed the half hour.
“Oh, I’ve gotta go!” Natalya grabbed her backpack, momentarily panicking. “Bye, Mama. Love you!”
As she sped out the front door, Natalya’s mom called, “Tu, tu, tu, I spit on you.” And even though, objectively, the idea was gross, Natalya couldn’t help laughing.
Her trip was a long one, and Natalya had plenty of opportunity for people-watching, which she loved. First were the Brighton Beach commuters: women with bright pink lipstick and enormous hair, men reading their Russian-language papers. Then came the Park Slope crowd: women in plain, pale, summer separates, parents holding hands with little kids carrying enormous backpacks. Almost everyone wearing a suit stepped off the crowded car at Wall Street, and Natalya studied the remaining passengers, wondering where they were headed. When she transferred to the 6, she thought she saw a Gainsford uniform, but it turned out to just be a girl in a similar skirt and a white shirt. She looked down at her new black Keds with the white piping and wondered if she’d been right to go without socks.
Stepping off the train at Seventy-seventh Street, Natalya felt the coming heat of the day lurking behind the early morning cool. The butterflies in her stomach had evolved into pterodactyls, and she grabbed her phone and sent Jane a text. Now I m freaking out. A minute later, her phone buzzed a reply. u have 2 do what ur scared 2 do, darling. Well, she was definitely scared to go to school. And it wasn’t as if she could just not go. Natalya smiled at the double meaning in Jane’s text.
As she approached the stately limestone mansion that housed The Gainsford Academy (formerly The Gainsford Academy for Young Women), Natalya was relieved to see that almost none of the other girls were wearing socks. Her first call, and she’d gotten it right! Once again she felt like part of a team—Team Gainsford.
Still, even if they were all part of the same team, as she climbed the steps, Natalya felt hyperconscious of being the newest member. Every girl she walked by seemed to be hugging at least one person, and often as many as two or three. Gainsford started in preschool, so most of the other freshman had been here since they were three years old. When Natalya had gotten the news that she was the only student from One Room who’d been accepted to Gainsford, she’d been so proud. Now she wouldn’t have minded seeing a familiar face.
Pulling her backpack close to her side, she pushed open one of the heavy wooden doors and entered the lobby. Crossing the threshold brought all of Natalya’s excitement rushing back. From the second she’d walked into the building for her interview last January, she’d dreamed of this moment. Gainsford was the most elegant, beautiful building she’d ever been in—a holy space dedicated to higher learning. The walls of the entryway were dark wood paneling; the ceilings, which seemed to hover hundreds of feet above the marble floor, were decorated with intricate plasterwork. Natalya felt her new shoes sink slightly into the thick Persian rug as she made her way to the office.
The main office at her old school had felt almost like an extension of the classrooms—there was always a huge pile of kids’ backpacks and instruments in the corners, and the walls were covered in student artwork. The Gainsford office was nothing like that. There were real oil paintings in heavy frames, with lamps focused on them, and the desks were huge and old-looking and made of dark, shiny wood. At One Room, the assistants who worked in the office usually wore jeans and T-shirts. But here, the older woman who sat behind her fancy desk was wearing a suit, and she looked serious.
“Hi, I’m Natalya. I got a letter saying I should come to the office before my first class.”
The woman smiled and shook Natalya’s hand. “Hello, Natalya. I’m Mrs. Bradley. I’ll get your schedule.” Her voice was crisp, and there was something a little scary about her professional smile and handshake. Nervously, Natalya touched the small pearl at her throat, feeling better as she thought of Jane and Victoria wearing their necklaces in their distant corners of Manhattan.
Natalya’s first-period class was Intro to Greek. Ever since she’d told her dad that Intro to Greek was a mandatory class for freshman, he’d been going around saying, “It’s all Greek to me.” As she slipped into an empty desk and looked around the room of unfamiliar faces, Natalya wouldn’t have minded even a corny joke from her dad right about now.
Mr. Schweitzer barreled into the room, coffee dripping onto his hand from a paper cup as his bag swung wildly on the crook of his elbow. “Hello, hello!” he barked. “Let’s see who’s here and who’s not.”
As the girls in the room studied their teacher, Natalya took the opportunity to study them. For the first time she saw the downside of uniforms: it was pretty much impossible to figure people out when they were all dressed identically. Were these girls jocks? Nerds? Even stuff like shoes and jewelry didn’t provide clues—Natalya was wearing Keds because she couldn’t wear flip-flops (no open-toed shoes). Was that why the girl next to her was wearing simple black ballet flats? Or did she really love black ballet flats?
Mr. Schweitzer clearly saw taking attendance as a total waste of time, and called the roll way too fast for Natalya to catch most of her classmates’ names. Then he dimmed the lights and flashed a map on the whiteboard at the front of the room.
“Welcome,” he announced, pausing dramatically and shining a red light at a spot on the map, “to ancient Troy!”
Natalya leaned forward slightly in her seat. In third grade, her class had spent almost the whole year studying Greek mythology. Was that why she’d always thought of Troy as a mythological place, like Atlantis or Narnia? Had her third-grade teacher even told them Troy was real?
Out of the darkness behind her, a disembodied voice called, “My family went to Troy last summer. We chartered a boat and went to a bunch of Greek islands.”
Natalya whipped her head around, but before she could identify the speaker, a girl across the room announced, “We did that for my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. It was a total bummer. They have this really cheesy fake Trojan horse.” In the dim light, Natalya could just discern the outline of a small girl wearing glasses.
“I thought it was cool,” the girl sitting next to the girl with the glasses corrected. “All that history. You could totally feel it.”
In less time than it took Natalya to remember her trips on a plane—two, both to Florida—half the students had shared their opinions on Troy. Then someone said she’d liked seeing the sphinx and the pyramids more than Troy. By the time they’d compared Cairo to Istanbul, Istanbul to Jerusalem, and Jerusalem to Beijing, Natalya was positive she was the only girl who hadn’t uttered a word.
Natalya wanted to say something. She always participated in class discussions. But it wasn’t like Mr. Schweitzer was asking questions about something they’d studied for homework.
When the bell rang, she realized she hadn’t spoken a word except to say thank you when Mr. Schweitzer handed her a textbook.
The hallways were packed with girls, all of whom seemed to have about a thousand friends. Natalya tried not to feel weird for having no one to walk with, and focused instead on finding her next class. She was sure English would be an improvement over Greek. After all, it wasn’t like people had to go on vacation to exotic locations to speak English. People spoke plenty of English right there in New York City.
Instead of having individual desks, her English classroom had an enormous round wooden table. Ms. MacFadden, who didn’t look much older than her students, took attendance more slowly than Mr. Schweitzer, and Natalya was abl
e to get most of her classmates’ names—she’d never met a girl named Jordan or Parker; the Parker in her class at One Room had been a boy—before Ms. MacFadden tucked away the list and said, “I’m going to hand out Othello today, so—”
Before she could finish, a beautiful, dark-haired girl named Katrina, who was sitting two seats away from Natalya, said, “I totally saw that in the Park this summer.”
“Oh, did you?” asked Ms. MacFadden eagerly. “What’d you think of the production?”
Katrina stretched her lightly tanned arms lazily out in front of her. A slim silver bracelet slid from her wrist almost to her elbow. “It was okay. Morgan’s mom’s on the board, so we had really good seats.” At the word Morgan, Katrina gestured slightly at the girl sitting between her and Natalya. Morgan had been digging around in an enormous leather bag, but at the sound of her name, she looked up. Her blue eyes sparkled between thick lashes straight out of a Maybelline commercial.
Across the table, a girl named Amy leaned forward eagerly. “I saw you guys there. After. At the cocktail party.” Amy turned to Ms. MacFadden. “There’s a patron’s cocktail party opening night. I was there.”
Neither Katrina nor Morgan acknowledged Amy’s comment or said anything to Amy about having seen her at the party. It was as though she hadn’t even spoken.
“That must have been just wonderful,” said Ms. MacFadden, and Natalya could tell their teacher was impressed that three of her students had gone to a show and then had drinks with the actors. Ms. MacFadden smiled at Morgan, who gave the tiniest shrug in response, as if having cocktails with famous actors was so not a big deal that she couldn’t see why Ms. MacFadden even cared.
“Well…” began Ms. MacFadden. “I guess it’s time to hand out the play.” She stood up and walked to the bookcase at the back of the room, then returned to the table.
Morgan pushed her bag to the floor between her chair and Natalya’s, and Natalya checked the label, betting that it would say Coach or Marc Jacobs, which were the bags all the richest girls at One Room had.
But the label read Juniper Bush in blocky print letters.
The words meant nothing to her. As Ms. MacFadden handed each girl a copy of the play, Natalya found herself thinking of her dad again.
So far, it was all Greek to her, too.
IN HER HOT pink sundress and green sandals, Jane had been sure she’d stand out at The Academy for the Performing Arts, but apparently everyone else in the freshman class had also dressed to be noticed. Even the bright red toenail polish she’d gotten at her mother-daughter pedicure on Friday wasn’t particularly eye-catching. She practically needed sunglasses just to look around her math class, where boys in shrieking-neon jams were sitting next to girls in bright floral patterns who sported shimmery necklaces and bangles that clanked together every time they raised their hands. As much as she would have liked to be unique, Jane got a contact high from the palpable energy in the hallways and classrooms, the sense that people in the building were channeling their artistic energy into their clothes until next week, when auditions for the school’s dozens of productions would start.
After class, as Jane shoved her new math textbook into her bag, she felt a hand touch her lightly on the shoulder. “I love your dress.”
Jane looked up. Sitting at the desk next to hers, a girl in canary yellow baggy overalls was staring at Jane.
“Thanks,” said Jane.
As the girl nodded eagerly, her enormous glasses slid slightly down her nose. “It’s so pretty. I love pink.” She pushed her glasses more firmly against her face. “It’s kind of the perfect color, don’t you think? And it looks so good on you.”
“Thanks,” Jane repeated. It wasn’t that getting a compliment was bad, but the girl’s enthusiasm felt a little over the top. Jane stood up and slung her already heavy bag over her shoulder.
“I’m Laurie,” said the girl, standing up also. “Isn’t this so exciting?” She looked around the emptying room and shivered with pleasure. “I totally can’t believe it. When I got my acceptance letter, I was like”—and she sang—“Oh my god!” Turning back to Jane, she explained in a normal voice, “I’m a singer. I mean, I’ve always sung with a chorus, but I never thought I’d be accepted here.” She giggled excitedly. “Do you sing?”
Jane shook her head. “I’m an actress.”
“Oh my god, that is so amazing!” Laurie literally jumped up and down twice, following Jane out the door of the classroom and into the crowded hallway. “What did you audition with? I was like, freaking out about my audition. After it was over I went home and cried. Do you want to have lunch together?”
Listening to Laurie talk was like drinking a third orange soda. Jane’s teeth hurt.
“Actually, I was going to find out about this improv group I saw a sign for.” Jane hadn’t exactly planned to look into the improv group her first day, but she figured she might as well. She had time now, and she didn’t think she could sit through an entire lunch with Laurie.
Laurie’s eyes grew huge. “Oh. Wow. That is really cool. Only, can I tell you one thing?” She made her voice so low, Jane could barely hear what she said next. “Just so you know, this guy Mark told me that group totally sucks.”
It took Jane a second to piece together what Laurie had whispered, but once the sentence registered, she was curious. “How does Mark know?” She stopped walking, and Laurie stopped too.
Laurie shook her head, her eyes still wide with amazement. Or maybe it was just the glasses. “I don’t know, actually. But he’s in my history class, and this morning we walked by one of those posters they have up, and he told me they’re”—she paused to indicate she was quoting Mark—“‘totally talentless.’”
Totally talentless. Could people at the Academy be totally talentless? Wasn’t the whole point of the school that no one was totally talentless?
Who, exactly, was this Mark person?
Jane looked around: they were just a few steps from the open doors of the enormous, slightly run-down cafeteria.
Laurie glanced toward the doors and shuddered. “It’s kind of freakazoid not to know anyone.”
Jane looked across the room. Somewhere in the crowd she was facing were the people she’d have to beat out for lead roles, boys she’d be playing opposite for four years’ worth of plays, girls who would be her fellow cast members and understudies. Without being conscious of doing it, she toyed with the slim chain of her necklace.
Did this Mark, another freshman, really already know about the Academy’s talent pool? Jane was intrigued.
“Let’s find Mark,” she said.
Laurie’s eyes opened even wider. “Oh my god. I mean, I think—he seemed like he knew a bunch of people already. He’s probably sitting with them.”
Jane nodded. Laurie’s words were all the more reason to find him.
They’d barely made it halfway around the chaotic lunchroom when Laurie spotted Mark. He was sitting with two other guys, neither of whom Jane recognized from her classes. After pointing him out, Laurie hesitated to approach the table, but Jane made her way right over to it. Do what you’re afraid to do.
“Mind if we join you?” she asked.
Laurie materialized at her shoulder. “Hey, Mark.” She waved.
“Oh, hey,” said one of the guys. His black hair was gathered in a low ponytail, and he wore a T-shirt that said mean people suck. One of the boys sitting opposite him also had long hair, and the other had a mop of curls that hid his face except for his nose.
Jane pulled out a chair across from Mark. “I’m Jane.” She liked the way he looked—scruffy but not too scruffy.
“Hey,” the guys said.
Laurie sat down but didn’t introduce herself.
“We want the scoop,” Jane announced, looking at Mark. The words were uttered almost as a challenge.
Mark stared at her for a moment, then grinned a slow, knowing grin. “Oh, you do, do you?”
Jane met his stare, flirtatiously raising an eyeb
row. “I do.”
Looking around, Mark said, “All right, ladies, you’ve requested a tour of the significant players at The Academy for the Performing Arts. My name is Mark and I’ll be your guide.”
The curly-headed guy stood up. “Much as I’d love to stay and enjoy the sights, I gotta find Moshinksy and drop Lighting,” he announced.
“I thought we couldn’t drop classes until next week,” said the other guy.
Curly shook his head. “Nah, he said if I find him today he’ll deal.”
Other Guy stood up. “Wait, I’m going with you.” He waved at the table. “See you.”
“Later,” said Mark.
Mark was cute. Mark was funny. Mark hung out with guys who knew how to get special dispensation to drop classes.
Jane had hit the mother lode.
Still searching the room, Mark said, “Let’s see. What have I got, what have I got?” He stroked his chin, then nodded and gestured to his right. “Our resident model, Michael Thomas.”
“Model?” Laurie gasped. She and Jane looked in the direction Mark was pointing. The African American boy they found themselves staring at was wearing a tight white T-shirt that showed off his well-defined pectoral muscles. His face was nice, but it was nowhere near as perfect as his body, and Jane wondered what he modeled.
“Underwear,” Mark answered her unasked question. “When he’s not attending classes here at the Academy, Michael Thomas can be found wearing Calvin Klein underwear in a magazine near you.”
“Wow.” Laurie’s voice was a near whisper.
Jane pushed her hair away from her face and stared at Mark. “That’s what you’ve got for me? An underwear model?”
“Hey, give me a break here. I’m doing my best.” Mark threw out his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then announced, “There! Julia Rappaport. She’s Meryl Streep’s cousin. By marriage.” He pointed directly behind Jane, but she didn’t bother to turn around. “What, you’re not even going to look?”
The Darlings Are Forever Page 2