High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  I looked over at Ian. He wore a blue shirt that matched the shade of the sky, bringing out the brilliance of his eyes. A recent haircut uncovered his small, almost delicate ears. He preferred to keep them hidden, but I thought they were adorable.

  He caught me staring. “What?”

  I gave him a smile. “Nothing.” I looked back out toward the walkway, feeling reenergized. No more homework meant lots more time together. More spontaneous adventures. But there was one small catch. “It’s such a pain they close the dorms for the summer. But at least Melissa found us a small apartment in time.”

  “Look. I don’t want you to think I’m moving too fast or anything.” He looked into my eyes, and I had the sense that he’d been thinking about saying this for some time. Maybe he had even been rehearsing.

  “Yes?”

  He looked away, as if he’d suddenly gone shy. “You can use my family’s condo in the city. We have a place near Central Park. And then, well ... I could visit you a lot.”

  I felt a tiny flutter in my chest at the thought of Ian visiting—a lot. “But wouldn’t your mom be over all the time? I’m not sure she would like me staying there.”

  “She won’t mind. She’s hardly around this time of year. She spends every summer in Europe, either St. Tropez or Lake Cuomo.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  I looked back across the lawn. The thought of the condo was appealing because it could become our own special place. No more dancing around roommates or trying to be super-quiet tiptoeing in at 2 a.m. And no Beverly checking up on us.

  Beverly. Her words from our lunch kept ringing through my head. I needed to prove to her I wasn’t a gold-digging social climber, that I could fit into her son’s world. But how? She mentioned going to etiquette school could make a real difference. Maybe that might show her that I was trying. That way at least she wouldn’t be so embarrassed in public with me. It bothered me to even think that way, but I knew I needed to stop feeling bad about myself for not knowing her way of life; I just needed to learn it. I could become just like one of her Thanksgiving guests, with their perfect manners, fancy clothes, and elegant jewelry. Maybe I should take at least one piece of Beverly’s advice—for Ian, and for myself.

  I looked at our hands intertwined on the bench. I leaned toward Ian, lying my head on his shoulder. The summer sun seemed to envelop me, comforting and encouraging. Yes, I could try. For Ian’s sake. He made it worth it.

  I took his hand as I imagined letting Melissa down softly about the sublease. “Yes,” I told him. “Okay, let’s do that.”

  * * *

  Ian and I stood in the parking lot of a recently repainted Victorian mansion. Above the front door, a skilled artist had painted a fancy plate setting and a triangle napkin. In calligraphy, the sign read, Manners, Please!

  “Are you sure?” Ian asked. “You really want to do this?”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot. I want to show your mom I’m good enough for you.”

  He crossed his arms and gave me a stubborn glance. “You’re too good for me. And I told you before, I don’t care what she thinks.”

  I felt bad, but I felt even worse he couldn’t see what I did. Or maybe he just pretended not to see the gap in our “life experiences.”

  “I’m doing it for me, too,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  Ian looked skeptical. “Only if you really want to do this.”

  I wanted to put on a brave face for Ian, but the truth was I was nervous. Unconsciously, I began to quietly sing my dad’s song of encouragement: ‘Just what makes that little old ant/Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant/Anyone knows an ant, can’t/Move a rubber tree plant/He’s got high hopes/He’s got high hopes...’

  Ian heard me and started laughing. “There you go again with that song about the ant!”

  Embarrassed, I playfully shoved him away. “Go before I show up late for my first class!”

  He shook his head, then kissed me. I snuggled against him for a second, then stepped away. “Really, I can’t be late.”

  “Okay, I’m going.”

  As I walked up the porch steps, I reminded myself this would be like any other class. Unfamiliar at first, perhaps a little scary, and then comfortable as I settled in.

  I opened the door and approached the front desk. An older, heavy-set woman sat there, with wrinkles only slightly covered by caked-on makeup. I already felt like she was evaluating me.

  “Hi,” I said softly, stepping forward to the counter. “I’m Kelly Hopkins. I’m here for etiquette school. Beverly Anderson said she took care of my registration?”

  “Yes, Ms. Hopkins, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  It occurred to me this might be some kind of test so I gave her my sweetest smile. She stared at me for another couple seconds, then her face softened. I seemed to have passed. Or, I just wasn’t worth worrying about.

  “Here is your schedule.” She handed me a piece of paper with instructions in a loopy font. Classes ran from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m., with only a small break for lunch. I sighed. I could survive. It was only for a few days this summer.

  “Thank you.” I readjusted the shoulder strap of my small purse.

  “They’re right in there.” The woman waved toward a doorway down the hall.

  Stepping inside was like entering a wholly different building. A huge, dark, highly polished dining table filled a good part of the room. Mounted on the wall was a giant flat-screen TV monitor. Across a light pink screen blazed the words: “Welcome to Etiquette School!” The hardwood table was surrounded by a dozen chairs, each upholstered with some kind of sparkly fabric. The place settings looked like they did at Beverly’s, although the forks were larger and the wine goblets taller.

  Ten or so men and women were already seated, quietly chatting. They were all dressed in what I understood as “business casual,” whereas I wore a T-shirt with jeans. Was there a dress code that I wasn’t aware of? I looked around, trying to figure out the safest spot to sit.

  “Ms. Hopkins?”

  Mrs. Williams stared right at me. She wore glasses and an elegant business suit, and her hair was in a lacquered upsweep, reminding of a wave cresting on the shore. She stood next to a lectern with an agenda in hand.

  I feigned excitement, though I felt my heart sinking lower. No wonder Beverly had suggested this school. Mrs. Williams, the lady whose bag I ruined during Thanksgiving dinner, was teaching the class. “Hello, Mrs. Williams. What a surprise.”

  “You’re here for etiquette instruction? Seems appropriate.”

  Ouch.

  “Sit right here, please.” She pointed to a seat at the front beside a brunette in a black pantsuit with a single strand of pearls around her throat.

  As I walked toward my place, I realized everyone had gone silent. I tried to avoid their eyes, especially Mrs. Williams’. Not knowing where to put my small, grey, zip-up purse, I hastily stowed it under my seat. I scooted in my chair. Feeling self-conscious of my hands, I decided to place them in my lap.

  Mrs. Williams gave me a curt nod, then addressed the room. “Hello, everyone. We are happy to have you and look forward to contributing to your success as a professional and as a member of society. We will be covering various topics over our seven days together, including first impressions, how to dress, formal dining, afternoon tea etiquette, and posture. Today, I will give you a brief overview of each topic. Let’s begin with first impressions.”

  She walked around my side of the table, stopping beside me. Uh-oh. “Ms. Hopkins, in your opinion, what should everyone keep in mind when attempting to make a good first impression? And, as you do so, make your own first impression to the class.”

  I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I did not want to do this. Maybe Ian was still in the parking lot. Maybe if I hurried outside I could...

  “Ms. Hopkins?” Mrs. Williams cleared her throat. “We’re waiting.”

  I swallowed and tried to sit up straighter. “Hi, everyone, I’m Kelly. For a first im
pression, I think you should, um, be yourself. And, you know, ask the other person a lot of questions so you don’t just sit there and talk about yourself.”

  Mrs. Williams tilted her head, smiling. “And how important are first impressions, Kelly? If you make a mistake, what might that lead to?”

  I turned in my seat and looked up at her. I couldn’t believe her.

  “It might give you a bad reputation,” I said quietly.

  “Their perception of you may last for a long, long time.” Mrs. Williams returned to her lectern with a cheery smile. “That is why we will begin our course by learning how to give the very best first impression.”

  I looked around the room. I was definitely the youngest person here. Everyone else probably had successful jobs and were only here for personal development. Yet here I was, the 20 year-old who couldn’t even say a sentence without an “um” or a “yeah.”

  “Ms. Hopkins, would you please be so kind as to be my demonstrator?”

  No no no no.

  I carefully tilted in my seat so my knees were out from the table and my feet were firmly planted on the carpet. I stood, tucking in my T-shirt, then went to stand beside Mrs. Williams.

  “When it comes to first impressions, body language is important. Let’s look at how Ms. Hopkins is standing right now. Now, don’t move.”

  Out of all the things there were to do in the world, at that exact moment, all I wanted to do was move.

  But Mrs. Williams gripped my upper arm a little tighter than comfortable and repeated, “Don’t move.”

  I clenched my jaw. I was painfully aware of everyone analyzing me.

  “Ms. Hopkins is holding her hands clasped in front of her. Her shoulders are raised high, and her feet are close together. What does this communicate?”

  An older man with glasses the shape of checker pieces raised his hand. “She seems closed off. Nervous.”

  You think?

  “Very good,” Mrs. Williams said.

  My jaw clenched even tighter, and I could hardly keep from saying out loud, Well, why don’t you come up here, then?

  “When you’re making a first impression, you want to seem open, not closed off. So, Kelly, relax your arms, relax your shoulders, lean forward slightly, open up your feet, raise your chin up, and smile.”

  She gave her instructions so rapidly I couldn’t keep up. I tried to do as instructed, but felt like a marionette whose strings had gotten tangled. I stood there awkwardly with my feet apart and my hands by my sides.

  “Better. Now you’re not undermining your credibility. One more thing,” Mrs. Williams looked around, inviting the others to chime in. “Let’s take a look at her wardrobe. We have a T-shirt, black jeans, and blue flats. What do we think about that?”

  I wished I could tell her what I thought about her bleach-blonde hair and heavy strokes of MAC blush, but I just stood there with all those eyes on me.

  The woman I had been sitting next to raised her hand. “Depending on where she’s going, she’ll want to change her outfit. Black is good, but if we see pockets, that means they’re jeans material. The T-shirt is too casual. She should only wear T-shirts when she is at home. Maybe she could wear a nice blouse and some earrings and liven up her hair. That would show she cared a bit more.”

  “Excellent!” Mrs. Williams said. “But how about what you don’t see? Women should wear a full bodysuit in place of individual undergarments to keep everything nicely packed in. Even though Ms. Hopkins may not think she needs it, all women can use a little help.” She took out her agenda. “Good start, class, let’s move along. Ms. Hopkins, you can sit down.”

  I returned to my seat, scooting in my chair. It creaked against the floor. If only I’d known Mrs. Williams taught this class, I would never have agreed to come. Full bodysuit? This was so degrading.

  For the next hour, Mrs. Williams went through every utensil at our mock dining table, passing out diagrams for us to take home and study. We practiced eating toast with our hands in the cleanest way possible, as well as soup, salad, and a small piece of steak. It was like assembling a bomb; if you moved any piece incorrectly, it was likely to explode. At least, it seemed to make Mrs. Williams explode.

  I was just finding success with the angle of the knife against the medium-rare piece of meat when she snuck up behind me and tapped me with her knuckles, hard on the shoulder. I frowned up at her. “Excuse me?” I asked, though my first impulse was to say something less polite.

  “Posture!” she barked. “Sit up when you are eating or talking. And do not cross your legs at the knee. It should always be at the ankles.”

  She went around the room to deliver the same message, but everyone else took that thump on my shoulder as their warning and sat up firmly in their chairs before she could get to them. I straightened my back, trying to position my arms in the right way to cut the slab of non-seasoned meat.

  At a signal from Mrs. Williams, several female staff members cleared their table. They kept their faces expressionless, but I couldn’t help but think they were also judging me.

  Once the food was cleared, Mrs. Williams taught us how to fold our napkins and place them gently on the table.

  “Like this.” She showed us. “Ms. Hopkins, this should be easy for you. I assume you did a lot of origami back home?”

  Astonished, I just stared at her. The woman next to me broke her strictly straight posture to lean toward me. “Oh, I love origami. It’s so beautiful!”

  I refrained my correcting either of them that origami originated in Japan, not Korea.

  Once again, Mrs. Williams stood by me to deliver her next announcement. “Everyone, once you’re finished, please turn to your neighbor. We are going to practice eye contact and active listening during our small-talk exercises. This is an imperative part of making your first impression.”

  I turned to the woman next to me. I hoped she wouldn’t use this exercise to comment on my clothes again. Up close, her eyes creased when she smiled, and I could see her perfectly drawn-on eyeliner. She was pretty and classy, someone Beverly would probably like.

  “The person nearest to the television, you are the listener. The other person, begin a conversation about your last job.”

  The room buzzed with chatter. My neighbor smiled eagerly. “Hi, I’m Selina Carter, and I—”

  “Ms. Hopkins.” Mrs. Williams leaned between our chairs. “I know, especially with etiquette, there are usually some cultural differences. Usually, I let people converse and I walk around the room, then we talk about what to improve based on what I’m hearing. But, Ms. Carter,” she smiled sweetly toward Selina, “if you notice any oddities, please stop the conversation and let Ms. Hopkins know. I just want everyone to be on the same page.”

  Selina reached out and touched Mrs. William’s arm. “Of course.”

  “Thank you so much, dear.”

  Selina turned back in me. “So, in America—”

  I slapped the palm of my hand down on the table. Selina’s face went slack with surprise.

  “Will you excuse me?” I reached down for my bag. “I’m going to use the restroom.”

  “‘I need to use the restroom, please,’” Mrs. Williams corrected.

  “Whatever.” I stumbled away from the table. If I stayed in that room a second longer, I knew I would pass out from lack of oxygen. I burst into the lobby, not even glancing at the cold-eyed receptionist.

  The bathroom here was not as fancy as the one at Beverly’s mansion, but I found myself doing the same exact thing: sitting on the closed toilet lid, desperately trying to keep the tears from streaming out of my eyes. At last, I stepped out of the stall and went to the sink. I pressed my hands against the granite countertop. No way would I return to that classroom, I decided. This certainty gave my body the freedom to cry itself out, and I stood there shaking.

  I looked into the mirror. Streaks of eyeliner racooned my eyes. My mascara was smeared. Mrs. Williams would be wondering what happened to me. I didn’t care anymore. I
was going to leave this bathroom, walk past the receptionist, and phone Ian. Usually, I hated quitting, but I could not live with regrets, and I knew I would regret it if I walked back in that classroom.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Apron. Keys. Notepad. Extra ponytail holder. I patted my black jeans and black Poseidon shirt again, thinking I had everything. I unzipped my purse: wallet, cell phone, Tylenol, Mace spray. Backup can of Mace spray. Okay, I was good to go. I looked up at the clock above the TV in the living room. 11:15 am. Perfect. That would give me 10 extra minutes to review tonight’s Happy Hour specials. I slipped on my black tennis shoes, hopping on one foot across the condo’s slippery wood flooring, and then opened the front door.

  “Ah!” I took a step back, hand on my chest, catching my breath. Beverly stood right in front of me. She had been looking for her keys in her bag when I opened the door.

  “You beat me to it,” Beverly said.

  I stared at her. With her sunglasses on top of her head, an off-the-shoulder top with linen pants, she looked like she had just gotten back from a beach resort.

  “Beverly. I thought ... you were going to Europe?” I hadn’t come down from my shock enough to hide my disappointment.

  “Decided not to. I didn’t feel like spending nine hours cooped up in a plane, and St. Tropez is getting so passé.”

  She pushed past me, dragging her beach bag along like she owned the place. Which, she did. She removed her espadrille platform sandals, setting them in the three-tiered silver shoe cabinet by the door. She stood in the entrance gazing around the condo. I followed her eyes.