Brooke (9 page)

S
till filled with excitement, I charged up to the front door of my new house and entered, hardly able to contain myself. I was about to run up the stairs to my room to change my clothes, when Pamela stepped out of the living room.

“Good. You're home on time. Come right in here,” she said, indicating the living room.

“I was just going to put my books away and change,” I said. “I wanted to tell you all about . . .”

“Just step right in here now,” she said with a firmer voice. “You can do that later. There is someone here I want you to meet immediately.”

Obediently, I walked down the hall and entered the living room. A short, bald man with a face as round as a penny stood there gaping at me with big, watery gray eyes. He had a dark brown blotch on his otherwise shiny skull. It looked as if someone had splattered beef gravy on him because it spread
in thin lines toward the back of his head and his temples.

“This is Professor Wertzman, Brooke. I've hired him to start you on piano lessons. Contestants need to show some talent, and the professor will teach you how to play well enough so you could perform something,” she declared. It sounded more as if she had ordained it and it would be.

“But I don't have any musical talent. I never even tried to play the piano,” I said weakly.

“That's because you never had one to play. What lessons were you ever offered at the orphanage?” she asked with a cold smile. “Now you have all the finer things in life at your beck and call. Professor Wertzman is a highly regarded piano instructor. It took a great deal to get him to free up some time for you, but he knows how important this is to me,” she added, eyeing him with her icy glare.

When he smiled, his chin quivered and his nostrils went in and out like a rabbit's.

“It's an honor for me to be able to do you and Mr. Thompson a favor,” he said.

“See? Everyone's trying to help you, Brooke. Beginning today, you'll have a lesson every day after school, so come right home,” she commanded.

“But . . .”

“But what?” She looked at the professor, who widened his smile, and then they both looked at me.

“The coach, Mrs. Grossbard, asked me to join the school's softball team. I hit a home run in class
today, a grand-slam home run my first time up at bat! I have to stay after school for practice every day.”

For a moment, Pamela simply stared at me and blinked her eyes. The professor was uncomfortable standing in the long moment of silence. He cleared his throat and rocked on his heels with his hands behind his back.

“Have you any idea of the cost and the effort it took to get Professor Wertzman here?” she began softly. “Do you know that the professor tutors most of the pianists from finer families in our community? He has assured me he can get you ready to perform a piece in six months. No one else can make such a promise. You are a very lucky young lady.” The way she said lucky made me think I was anything but.

“I don't care,” I snapped. “I don't want to learn piano. I was never interested in piano. I hit a home run,” I repeated, backing away. “I'm good at softball. I want to be on the team.”

“Brooke!”

“No! You don't care about me at all, you just want to turn me into you!” I cried, and turned toward the stairway.

“You get right back here this instant. Brooke!”

I ran up the stairway and into my room, the tears flying from my cheeks. Then I sprawled on my bed and buried my face in my pillow.

She didn't have a right to do this, to make plans like this without asking me first. I don't care what
she does, I thought. I don't care if she sends me back. I stopped sobbing, wiped my face, and sat hugging my knees, waiting for her to come angrily after me. I listened hard in anticipation of her footsteps in the hallway, but I heard nothing. Finally, I changed into what Pamela called a more casual outfit, a pair of slacks and a blouse that didn't make me feel any more comfortable than the clothes I wore to school. How I missed my jeans, T-shirts, and sweatshirts, I thought.

I was still afraid to go downstairs, so I opened my books and started my homework. It was nearly an hour and a half later when I heard a knock on my door. I hadn't heard any footsteps, and I never expected Pamela would knock. She always just walked right in.

“Yes?”

The door opened. It was Peter. He was wearing one of his expensive-looking blue suits and looked as fresh and alert as he would if he had just begun his day.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

He smiled and closed the door softly behind him. “So,” he began, “it looks like we're having our first family crisis.”

“I don't have any musical talent,” I moaned.

“How do you know that?”

“I don't, but I don't want to play piano,” I insisted.

“Well,” he said calmly before sitting on the edge
of my bed, “you're too young to really know what you want and don't want. It's like someone who's never tasted caviar saying, 'I don't want to eat caviar. I don't like it.' Right?” he asked in a soft, soothing voice.

“I suppose.” I sniffled. I didn't want to start crying again, but I could feel hot tears building behind my eyes.

“Well, you don't know if you want to play piano until you try. You might find the experience wonderful, and you might make such progress so quickly, you'll get excited about it yourself,” he reasoned. “You're a very intelligent young lady, Brooke. I'm sure you can understand my point.”

I was silent a moment, and then I caught my breath and turned to him, the tears still burning beneath my eyelids.

“I hit a home run in gym class today,” I said. “It was a grand slam.”

“Really?” he said, his eyes widening. “A grand slammer?”

“Uh-huh. And it was my first time at bat ever at the new school. The coach asked me to be on the team. She needs a pitcher, and I always used to be the pitcher at my old school,” I told him.

“Is that right?”

“The team practices every day after school. The next game is only a week away. Every practice is important for me.”

“I see. And you told Pamela this?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting as his eyes filled with concern.

“Yes.”

“Now I understand,” he said, nodding. He rose and walked to the window, paused there for a moment, and then turned and walked toward the door. “What if I could arrange for your piano lessons early in the evening after dinner? Do you think you could manage all that and your homework, too?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, even though I had no idea if I could.

“It would only have to be this way until softball season ends,” he explained, and I could tell he was still figuring out how to make it sound good to Pamela.

“But I thought the professor was doing us a favor and was only available after school,” I said.

Peter winked. “We'll negotiate,” he answered. “It's what I do for a living. The secret is never to panic but to step back, take a breath, and look for new doors through which you can enter the same house. This way, you get to be on the team, Pamela is satisfied that she is doing the best for you, and the professor is happier, too. I'll make sure of that. Sound good?”

I nodded. “Great. Then don't worry about it. Most of the time, we make our problems seem bigger than they are. When we look at them calmly, we realize that most of our dragons are created in our own imaginations. I want to hear more about that home run later,” he said at the door. He gave me a big smile again and left.

I sighed with relief. I was lucky having someone like him for a father, I thought. No wonder he is so successful. He thinks of solutions and ideas so fast. He could probably even be president of the United States.

At dinnertime, however, I was still very nervous. Pamela sat with her lips firm, her back straight and stiff. I took my seat quietly, afraid to look at her, because when I did, she shot angry glances at me.

“Everything's arranged with Professor Wertz-man,” Peter said happily.

“I'm still owed an apology for poor behavior,” Pamela muttered, her eyes lifting to focus on me. “Especially poor behavior in front of someone like Professor Wertzman. He goes from one important family home to another, and I wouldn't want him speaking poorly of us.”

“He knows better than to do that, Pamela,” Peter said.

“That's not the point.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I was just upset. It came as such a surprise.”

“Here I am trying to do the best things for you,” she whined, “and you make me look like a fool.”

“I'm sorry,” I said again.

“Everything's fine now,” Peter said. “Let's just enjoy a great dinner and hear about Brooke's first day at Agnes Fodor.”

“She could have had her first lesson today,” Pamela said in a lower voice, retreating like a car engine puttering to a stop.

“She'll make up for it, I'm sure,” Peter said. “Tell us about the school, Brooke.”

I described my classes, teachers, and some of the students. Pamela was most interested in whom I was making friends with. She wanted to know about their families, but I didn't know much about anyone else's family, and I couldn't give her the information she wanted.

“You should ask more questions,” she told me. “Show that you're interested in them. Even if you don't really listen,” she added.

Peter laughed. “Pamela is an expert when it comes to small talk. Everyone wants to talk to her, but at the end of the evening, she can't tell me half of what they said. No one ever seems to catch on, though, so I suppose they don't mind,” he concluded with a laugh.

Why wouldn't anyone mind if you didn't really listen? What kind of people were at these grand, important parties?

“Now, tell us about your home run,” he finally said. Pamela smirked and started eating while I described the teams and my hit and the aftermath.

“Girls' sports are a much bigger thing than when you were her age, Pamela,” Peter explained. Somehow, I think that just made her angry again.

“When they add tennis, golf, baseball, or basketball to the Miss America contest, tell me,” she quipped. Peter laughed, but he stopped talking about it.

The days that followed were harder than I ever
imagined. There was so much schoolwork to catch up on besides the day-to-day work I had to do. Softball practice was the only thing I really looked forward to, and my enthusiasm put happy smiles on Coach Grossbard's face. However, it was physically demanding. Very quickly, Coach Grossbard determined that I would be the starting pitcher and bat cleanup. The only girl who seemed dissatisfied about it was Cora Munsen, who had been the team's cleanup hitter.

“You just had one lucky hit,” she told me in the locker room. “You're not any better than I am at bat.”

I didn't want her to hate me, so I agreed. “I'll do whatever the coach wants,” I said. “It's the team that's important.”

“Sure,” she said. “Like you really care. You're just like the others. You want all the glory.”

“That's not true, Cora.”

She shook her head and walked away.

Most of the girls made fun of her because she was so big, but none of them ever said anything to her face. She looked as if she could sweep them off their feet with one swing of her heavy arms. I learned they had nicknamed her Cora Munching because she ate so much. She even sneaked food between classes. I thought that if she lost weight, she could be very pretty, but I was afraid to tell her.

After my softball practice, I had to hurry home to get ready for dinner and try to get in some homework. Occasionally, I didn't have time to
shower before I sat for my piano lesson. Professor Wertzman didn't seem to care. He had a strange odor himself, an odor that nearly turned my stomach because he sat so close to me on the piano bench. I tried to turn away or hold my breath, but it was difficult not to inhale that stale, clammy, sour smell. I noticed he wore the same shirt all week, and by Friday, the collar would be yellowish brown where it touched his neck.

When he gave me instructions, he had a way of closing his eyes so that they became slits. Sometimes, when he got very excited about a mistake I had made, he would spray the piano with spit and then wipe it off with the sleeve of his left arm quickly. Often, Pamela came in to watch, and when she was in the room, his expression suddenly took on softness, his gentle, considerate teacher's voice returning. When we were alone, he spoke abruptly, had little patience, and complained continually about the difficulty he had turning a pebble into a pearl. It was always on the tip of my tongue to tell him I never asked him to perform any miracles, but I swallowed back my pride and let him lash me with ridicule and criticism.

One night, when Peter was sitting alone in the living room and reading, I stopped in to talk to him.

“I tasted caviar,” I said, “and I hate it.”

“What?” He looked at me, and then he smiled. “Oh. Right.” He nodded.

“I'm never going to be good on the piano,” I
said. “Even the professor says my fingers aren't right. He says I'm too forceful and that I'd be better at drums or carpentry work.”

“Is that what he said?” Peter laughed. “Well, just put up with it awhile longer until I get Pamela to think of something better.”

“I don't want to be in beauty contests,” I added.

“It can't hurt you to do it once or twice,” he told me. “Look at it as a new experience.”

“No one else at the school is going to be in any beauty contests, and there are girls in school who are really a lot prettier than I am. They're going to laugh at me and make fun of me,” I warned him.

“Maybe you'll win. Then they won't laugh.” The way he said it made me believe I really had a chance. Maybe Pamela was right about me.