Brooke (8 page)

I shook my head.

She stared, her eyes sweeping over me like tiny spotlights searching for an imperfection. I squirmed in my chair under such intense observation. Finally, she closed my folder and stood up.

“Come with me,” she ordered.

I rose and followed.

Pamela stepped up to touch my arm when I reached the door.

“Good luck,” she said, smiling. I nodded and continued to follow Mrs. Harper. At the entrance to the principal's office, Mrs. Harper turned to Pamela.

“We'll be right back, Mrs. Thompson,” she said, gazing at me and motioning for me to continue along with her.

She walked quickly, taking surprisingly long strides. I actually had to skip a step or two to catch up with her.

“This is Mr. Rudley's class, English. He'll be
your homeroom teacher as well, so he has your schedule card,” she explained as she opened the door.

Mr. Rudley, a tall man of about fifty with hair a shade darker than ash, looked up from the textbook in his hands. He was sitting on the edge of the front of his desk and jumped into a standing position as soon as he saw Mrs. Harper. The class, consisting of six girls, all turned and immediately stood. They gazed at me with interest.

“This is the new student I told you would be arriving today, Mr. Rudley,” Mrs. Harper said. “Her name is Brooke Thompson.”

“Very good, Mrs. Harper. Welcome, Brooke. You can sit right here,” he said, nodding at an empty desk to his right.

I quickly crossed the room and waited to take my seat. Mrs. Harper remained in the doorway.

“I would take it as a personal favor if you girls would help Brooke feel at home at our school. She has transferred in from a public school,” she added, turning down the corners of her mouth in obvious disapproval.

The girls looked at me. One of them, a thin blonde with blue eyes and freckles sprinkled over her cheekbones, stared at me the most intently. I couldn't quite tell if it was a look of welcome or of warning.

“You'll see to it that she receives her schedule card, Mr. Rudley,” Mrs. Harper said before stepping out and closing the door.

There was a moment of silence. Mr. Rudley
nodded, and we all sat down. Then he went to his desk and found my card.

“Let's introduce ourselves, girls,” he said to the class. “Margaret?”

“I'm Margaret Wilson. Pleased to meet you.”

Before I could respond, the shorter, dark-haired girl behind her continued. “I'm Heather Harper, Mrs. Harper's niece,” she added somewhat smugly.

“I'm Lisa Donald,” said a girl with hair the color of rust and the greenest eyes I had ever seen. She looked older than everyone else because she had a bosom even fuller-looking than my fake one, as well as a more knowing, more sophisticated glint in her eyes.

“I'm Eva Jensen,” a Scandinavian-looking blond girl said. Her face had hard, sharp features, and she was very thin.

“My name is Rosemary Gillian,” said a girl with brown hair. She had a dimple in her cheek and a slightly cleft chin under thick, full lips. I thought she had an impish gleam in her eyes, especially the way she smiled at the other girls after she spoke.

“Helen Baldwin,” said the girl who had first looked at me with great interest.

“Okay, that's it,” Mr. Rudley said. He handed me a textbook. “I don't know what you did at your other school, but we're just starting
Romeo
and
Juliet.
Everyone reads a part. Some are reading two or three because there are only seven of us.”

“Eight now,” Rosemary pointed out.

“Exactly,” Mr. Rudley said. “So, why don't you pick up the part of . . .”

“She can be Romeo,” Heather Harper said. “I'm not comfortable being a man.”

“He's just a boy, remember?” Lisa Donald corrected. “Mr. Rudley told us.”

“That's correct. Romeo and Juliet are meant to be not much older than you people,” he said.

“And anyway, Mr. Rudley told us a boy played Juliet in Shakespeare's days,” Lisa continued, “so who reads what part isn't important.”

“I think it is,” Heather insisted. “I'd rather read Juliet. Why don't you read Romeo, then? Why should you be the one reading Juliet?”

“Mr. Rudley told me to read it,” Lisa countered.

“All right, girls. Brooke?”

“I don't mind reading Romeo,” I said. I looked at the others. Heather had a smirk on her face.

“Fine. Then let's get back to the play,” Mr. Rudley said.

When the bell rang, Eva Jensen and Helen Baldwin came over to me first and offered to show me around. I half expected we would have more students with us at my next class, but our group of seven stayed together for the remainder of the day. The passing between classes was just as Mrs. Harper had described: orderly and subdued. Other students were introduced to me, but there was little time until lunch for me to have any real conversations. Naturally, everyone wanted to know where I had gone to school and what it was like. Only Heather Harper looked as if she didn't think much of my answers.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are your parents very rich?” she followed. The other girls seemed to step back to let her take over the conversation.

“Yes,” I said. “My father is a very important lawyer.”

“So's mine,” Heather said. “How rich are you?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I mean, I don't know how much money we have, exactly.”

“I do,” she bragged, “but I don't tell people.”

“So why did you ask her to tell you?” Eva Jensen said.

“Just to see if she would,” Heather said. Then she laughed. “Anyway, I could find out if I wanted to. My aunt knows just how much money everyone has. Our parents had to fill out a financial statement to qualify for the school.”

“She won't tell you,” Rosemary Gillian said. “And if she knew you had even said such a thing, she'd throw you out herself.”

Heather seemed to wither in her chair. “I'm just kidding. Everyone's just trying to impress you, Brooke,” she accused, her eyes hot. “That's what they always do when a new girl comes. So what do you think of the place?” she followed, back to her cross-examiner's attitude.

“It's beautiful,” I said. “I mean, I can't believe it's a school.”

The others smiled.

“Neither can we,” Heather said dryly.

“I'm glad you like it here,” Eva said with warm eyes. “We can always use new friends.”

“What do you mean, new friends?” Heather quipped. “You mean any friends, don't you?”

The others laughed. Eva looked as if she would cry.

“I need friends, yes. You can never have enough friends,” I said, and looked at Heather. “Real friends, that is.”

No one spoke a moment, and then Heather laughed.
“Touchè,”
she said. “You know what that means?”

I wasn't sure, but I nodded. The bell rang, and we all rose. I saw how each girl made sure her place at the table was clean. I did the same and followed them out to our next class.

Heather came up beside me. “You don't seem like you come from a rich family,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“You're too grateful,” she replied, and smiled at what she thought was her own cleverness.

Everyone laughed, even Eva. They looked at me, and I thought, why not get right aboard their silly little ship? I laughed, too, and that made everyone, even Heather, feel better about me. Maybe I could do this, I thought. Maybe I could be someone I'm not.

Physical education class was the last class of the day for us. Our class was combined with four others that included ninth, tenth, and even eleventh graders. Altogether, we had enough for two softball teams. Our teacher, Mrs. Grossbard, was a former Olympic runner who had been on the team
that won a bronze medal. She looked at me with interest when I came out in our school physical education uniform, a white blouse with the Agnes Fodor logo on the left breast and a pair of dark blue shorts. The school also provided us with sneakers and socks.

“You play this at your last school?” Mrs. Gross-bard asked me.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“Call me coach,” she said. “I have the wonderful distinction of being the school's softball coach, swimming coach, relay coach, and basketball coach. I also have the distinction of never having a winning season in any of these sports, but,” she said with a sigh, “I try. I do the best I can with girls who are afraid to break a fingernail.” She looked at me. “Take shortstop on the blue team and bat fifth,” she ordered.

I took the field with my team. Eva played first base, probably because of her height and reach. Heather was in the outfield, sitting on the grass immediately. The other girls were on the white team.

It felt so good being outdoors, stretching my limbs and using my muscles. We had a beautiful day for a softball game. The sky was a light blue with milk-white clouds splattered here and there. The light breeze on my face was refreshing. The sun was far enough behind the trees not to get in our eyes, and the scent of freshly cut grass was intoxicating.

Unfortunately, our pitcher had trouble reaching the plate. Her first three tosses bounced in front of
the batter. Mrs. Grossbard told the pitcher to move closer, and she did so. Her next pitch was too high for anyone to reach, and the one after that nearly hit the batter.

“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Grossbard said. She put her hands over her eyes as if she didn't want to look at her class for a moment or as if she were speaking to herself and then took the ball and threw it at me. I caught it easily. “Throw it back,” she ordered. I did. “Change places with Louise.”

“Why?” Louise, our pitcher, whined.

“Oh, I don't know. I thought we'd try to get in more than one inning today,” Mrs. Grossbard replied sarcastically.

Louise glared angrily at me as we passed each other.

“Warm up,” Mrs. Grossbard ordered, and I threw in a half dozen pitches, all pretty much over the plate. “Play ball,” she cried, her eyes brighter.

The first batter returned to the plate and swung at my first pitch. It was a blooper only about three feet in front of her. I rushed toward her and caught the ball at my waist. My team cheered. Mrs. Grossbard, who was leaning against the backstop, stood up.

The next batter took her place at the plate and struck out on three pitches. The third batter hit a dribbler down to third, and my third baseman, an eleventh grader named Stacey, made a fine pickup, which was followed by a throw good enough to beat the runner out at first base.

We went in to bat.

“You've pitched before?” Mrs. Grossbard asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“Why didn't you tell me that was your usual position?”

“I don't know,” I replied.

“Usually, my girls don't hesitate to tell me what they
think
they're good at,” she remarked. “Modesty here is as rare as poverty.”

I wasn't sure what she meant, but I smiled and nodded and took my seat on the bench.

Our first batter hit a weak fly ball that fell just behind the shortstop, who happened to be Lisa Donald. She fell reaching for the ball, and we had a runner on base. Our second batter struck out, but our third batter hit a hard drive between first and second. We had girls on first and third when our cleanup hitter, a chunky girl named Cora Munsen, swung and hit a hard line drive right into the hands of the second baseman, who dropped it. We had the bases loaded, and I came to bat for the first time in my new school.

All eyes were on me, some hoping I would look foolish, most just curious. I saw Mrs. Grossbard's nod of approval at the way I held the bat and took my stance. My heart was pounding. I had to step out of the box for a moment to catch my breath, collect myself, and step back.

The first pitch was too low and the second too wide, but the third was slow and down the middle, my favorite pitch. I timed it just right and hit the ball hard. It rose and rose and went over the center
fielder's head. The school's baseball field was bordered in the back by a small hill. The ball hit the crest of the hill and began to roll down, but it was so far away from the center fielder, she could never get a throw back to relay another before I had rounded the bases.

My first time up, I had hit a grand-slam home run.

And Mrs. Grossbard cheered as hard as anyone I had ever had cheer for me at my public school.

Afterward, everyone was talking about my hit. Girls were coming over to introduce themselves in the locker room, and by the time we all left the gym area to board our small, plush school buses, there was hardly a student at Agnes Fodor who hadn't heard about the longest home-run ball ever hit at the field. By the end of the day, talk about my hit was so exaggerated that the story going around school was that my home run had cleared the hill.

Mrs. Grossbard came out to speak to me before I boarded the bus.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “you sign up for the softball team, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Heck,” she said, “we might even win a game.”

Bursting with excitement, I hurried onto the bus, eager to brag to my new parents about my first day.