My favorite section was "Where Have All the Gallwanians Gone?" which featured a proud blurb written by the Headmaster, Bill Havermeyer (a big old Robert Mitchum type), then went on to summarize the unparalleled achievements of Gallwanian alumni. Rather than the typical boasts of most puffed-up private schools—stratospheric SAT scores, the vast number of seniors who vaulted into the Ivy League—St. Gallway touted other, more extraordinary achievements: "We have the highest number of graduates in the country who go on to be revolutionary performance artists;. . . 7.27 percent of all Gallway graduates in the last fifty years have registered with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office; one out of every ten Gallway students becomes an inventor; . . .24.3 percent of all Gallwanians become published poets; 10 percent will study stage-makeup design; 1.2 percent puppetry;. . . 17.2 percent will reside in Florence at some point; 1.8 percent in Moscow; 0.2 percent in Taipei." "One out of every 2,031 Gallwanians gets into
The Guinness Book of World Records.
Wan Young, Class of 1982, holds the record for Longest Operatic Note Held . . ."
As Dad and I sped down the school's main road for the first time (the aptly named Horatio Way, a narrow drive that teased you through a forest of pin-thin pines before abandoning you at the center of campus), I found myself holding my breath, inexplicably awed. To our immediate left tumbled a lawn of Renoir green, which pitched and swelled so excitedly, it appeared as if it might float away had it not been for the oak trees nailing it to the ground ("The Commons," sang the catalogue, "a lawn expertly cultivated by our ingenious caretaker, Quasimodo, who some say is the original Gallwanian . .."). To our right, chunky and impassive, was Hanover Hall, poised to cross the Delaware under icy conditions. Beyond a square stone courtyard ringed with birch trees, sat an elegant auditorium of glass and steel, colossal yet chic: Love Auditorium.
Our intentions were strictly business. Dad and I had come, not only to take a campus tour with Admissions guru Mirtha Grazeley (an elderly woman in fuchsia silk who led us like an old moth in dazed zigzags across the grounds: "Eh, we haven't seen the art gallery have we? Oh dear, the cafeteria slipped my mind. And that horse weathervane on top of Elton, not sure if you remember, it appeared in
Southern Architecture Monthly
last year.") but also to ingratiate ourselves with the administrator in charge of translating the credits from my last school into the St. Gallway Grading System and hence, determining my class rank. Dad approached this task with the seriousness of Reagan approaching Gorbachev with the Nuclear Forces Treaty.
"Let me do the talking. You sit and look erudite."
Our target, Ms. Lacey Ronin-Smith, was tucked away in the Rapunzellike clock tower of Hanover. She was sinewy, salt voiced, and unequivocally dreary haired. Now in her late sixties, she'd served as St. Gallway Academic Chancellor for the past thirty-one years, and, according to the photographs on display around her desk, was keen on quilting, nature hikes with her lady friends and a lapdog sporting more greasy black hair than an aged rock star.
"What you have in your hands is an official copy of Blue's high school transcript," Dad was saying.
"Yes," said Ms. Ronin-Smith. Her thin lips, which even in repose tended to look as if she were sucking on a lime, trembled slightly at the corners, hinting at vague dismay.
"The school Blue is coming from —Lamego High in Lamego, Ohio—is one of the most dynamic schools in the country. I want to make sure her work is adequately recognized here."
"Of course you do," said Ronin-Smith.
"Naturally, students will be threatened by her, especially those who anticipate they'll be first or second in the class. We don't wish to upset anyone. However, it's only fair that she is placed in close proximity to where she was when my work forced us to relocate. She was number
one—"
Lacey gave Dad the Bureaucratic Stare—regret, with a hint of triumph. "I hate to discourage you, Mr. Van Meer, but I must inform you, Gallway policy is very clear in these matters. An incoming student, no matter how outstanding his or her marks, can not be placed higher than — "
"Good God," Dad said abruptly. Eyebrows raised, mouth an enraptured smile, he was leaning forward in his seat the precise angle of the Tower of Pisa. I realized, in horror, he was pulling his Yes-Virginia-There-Is-a-Santa-Claus face. I wanted to hide under my chair. "That is a very impressive diploma you have there. May I ask what it is?"
"Eh—what?" squeaked Ronin-Smith (as if Dad had just pointed out a centipede inching along the wall behind her), and she swiveled around to survey the giant, gold-sealed, cream, calligraffitied diploma mounted next to a photo of the Môtley Crue dog in a bowtie and top hat. "Oh. That's my N.C. certificate for Distinguished Academic Counseling and Arbitration."
Dad gasped a little. "Sounds like they could use you at the U.N."
"Oh, please," said Ms. Ronin-Smith, shaking her head, reluctantly breaking into a small yellowed smile of rickrack teeth. A flush was starting to seep into her neck. "Hdrdly."
Thirty minutes later, after Dad had sufficiently wooed her (he worked like a ferocious evangelist; one had no choice but to be saved), we descended the corkscrew stairs leading from her office.
"Only one twerp ahead of you now," he whispered with unmitigated glee. "Some little tarantula named Radley Clifton. We've seen the type before. I surmise three weeks into Fall Term, you'll turn in one of your research papers on relativism and he'll go 'splat.' "
The following morning at 7:45, when Dad dropped me off in front of Hanover, I felt absurdly nervous. I had no idea why. I was as familiar with First Days of School as Jane Goodall her Tanzanian chimps after five years in the jungle. And yet, my linen blouse felt two sizes too big (the short sleeves creased off my shoulders like stiffly ironed dinner napkins), my red-and-white checkered skirt felt sticky and my hair (usually the one feature I could count on not to disgrace me) had opted to try a dried-dandelion frizz: I was a table in a bistro serving Bar-B-Q.
" 'She walks in beauty, like the night,' " Dad shouted through the unrolled window as I climbed from the car. " 'Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes'! Knock them dead, kiddo! Teach them what
educated
means."
I nodded weakly and slammed the door (ignoring the Fanta-haired woman who'd stopped on the steps and turned around for Dad-Dr. King's drop-off sermon). A campus-wide Morning Announcements was scheduled for 8:45, so after I found my locker on the third floor of Hanover, collected my books (throwing a friendly smile to the teacher frantically running in and out of her classroom with photocopies—the soldier who'd woken up to realize she had not sufficiently planned the day's offensive), I made my way outside along the sidewalk to Love Auditorium. I was still nerdily early, and the theater was empty apart from one diminutive kid in front trying to look absorbed in what was clearly a blank spiral notebook.
The section for seniors was in the back. I sat down in my assigned seat, given to me by Ronin-Smith, and counted the minutes until the deafening student stampede, all the "What ups" and "How wuz your summers," the smell of shampoo, toothpaste and new leather shoes, and that scary kinetic energy kids emitted whenever they were in large numbers so floors throbbed, walls buzzed and you thought if only you could figure out how to harness it, get it through a few parallel circuits and straight through a power station, you could safely and economically light up the East Coast.
I'm obliged to reveal an old trick: implacable self-possession can be attained by all, not by pretending to look absorbed in what's clearly a blank spiral notebook; not by trying to convince yourself you're an undiscovered rock star, movie star, top model, tycoon, Bond, Bond Girl, Queen Elizabeth, Elizabeth Bennett or Eliza Doolittle at the Ambassador's Ball; not by imagining you're a long-lost member of the Vanderbilt family, nor by tilting up your chin fifteen to forty-five degrees and pretending to be Grace Kelly in her prime. These methods work in theory, but in practice they slip away, so one is left hideously naked with nothing but the stained sheet of self-confidence around one's feet.
Instead, stately dignity can be possessed by all, in two ways:
Diverting the mind with a book or play
Reciting Keats
I discovered this technique early in life, in second grade at Sparta Elementary. When I couldn't help but overhear details of Eleanor Slagg and Her Recent Exclusive Sleepover, I pulled a book out of my bag,
Mein Kampf
(Hitler, 1925), which I'd randomly stolen from Dad's library. I tucked my head between the hardback covers and, with the severity of the German Chancellor himself, made myself read and read until the words on the page invaded Eleanor's words and Eleanor's words surrendered.
"Welcome," said Headmaster Havermeyer into the microphone. Bill was built like a Saguaro cactus that had ultimately had gone too long without water, and his clothes—the navy jacket, blue shirt, the leather belt with a giant silver buckle portraying either the Siege of the Alamo or the Battle of Little Bighorn—looked as dried out, faded and dusty as his face did. He paced the stage, slowly, as if reveling in the imaginary clinks of his spurs; he held the cordless microphone lovingly: it was his high-crowned Stetson.
"Here we go," whispered the hyperactive Mozart next to me who wouldn't stop tapping out
The Marriage of Figaro
(1786) in the space of seat between his legs. I was next to Amadeus and some sad kid who was the spitting image of Sal Mineo (see
Rebel Without a Cause).
"For those of you who've never heard Dixon's Words of Wisdom," Bill went on, "those of you who're new, well, you're lucky 'cause you get to hear it for the first time. Dixon was my grandfather, Pa Havermeyer, and he liked young people who listened, who learned from their elders. When I was growing up he'd pull me aside and he'd say, 'Son, don't be afraid to change.' Well, I can't say it any better. Don't be afraid to change. That's right."
He certainly wasn't the first headmaster to suffer from the Ol'-Blue-Eyesat-The-Sands Effect. Countless headmasters, particularly male, confused the slick floors of a dimly lit cafeteria or the muddled acoustics of a high school auditorium for the ruby-walled Copa Room, mistook students for a doting public who'd made their reservations months in advance and shelled out $100 a pop. Tragically, he believed he could sing "Strangers in the Night" off-key, croon "The Best Is Yet to Come," lose a strand of the lyrics and never mar his reputation as Chairman of the Board, The Voice, Swoonatra.
In truth, of course, he was being ridiculed, mocked and mimicked.
"Hey, what're you reading?" a boy asked behind me.
I did not think the words were directed at me until they were repeated very close to my right shoulder. I stared down at the worn-out play in my hand, p. 18.
Do ya make Brick happy?
"Hello, miss? Ma'am?" He leaned even closer, leaving breath-hotness on my neck. "You speak English?"
A girl next to him giggled.
"Parlay vu fronsai? Sprekenzee doyche?"
According to Dad, in every circumstance when it was difficult to flee, there was what he called The Oscar Shapeley, a man of great repugnance who'd mysteriously come to the conclusion that what he had to offer in the way of conversation was intensely fascinating and what he had to offer in the way of sex was wholly irresistible.
"Parlate Italiano? Hello?"
The dialogue in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
(Williams, 1955) trembled before my eyes. "One of those no-neck monsters hit me with some ice cream. Their fat little heads sit on their fat little necks without a bit of connection . . ." Maggie the Cat wouldn't withstand such harassment. She'd cross her legs in her flimsy slip and say something passionate and shrill and everyone in the room, including Big Daddy, would choke on the ice they were chewing from their mint juleps.
"What's a guy gotta do to get a little attention around here?"
I had no choice but to turn around.
"What?"
He was smiling at me. I expected him to be a no-neck monster, but to my shock, he was a
Goodnight Moon
(Brown, 1947). Goodnight Moons had duvet eyes, shadowy eyelids, a smile like a hammock and a silvered, sleepy countenance that most people wore only during the few minutes prior to sleep, but which the Goodnight Moon sported all day and well into the evening. Goodnight Moons could be male or female and were universally adored. Even teachers worshiped them. They looked to Goodnight Moons whenever they asked a question and even though they answered with a drowsy, wholly incorrect answer, the teacher would say, "Oh, wonderful," and twist the words around like a thin piece of wire until they resembled something glorious.
"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to disturb you."
He had blond hair, but he wasn't the sort of washed-out Scandinavian blond person who desperately looked as if he needed to be dyed, tinted, hand dipped in something. He wore a crisp white shirt, a navy blazer. His red-andblue striped tie was loose and slightly askew.
"So what are you, a famous actress? Headed to Broadway?"
"Oh, no—"
"I'm Charles Loren," he said, as if revealing a secret.
Dad was a devotee of Sturdy Eye Contact, but what Dad never addressed was that staring directly into a person's eyes was nearly impossible at close range. You had to
choose
an eye, right or left, or veer back and forth between the two, or simply settle for the spot
between
the eyes. But I'd always thought that was a sad, vulnerable spot, unkempt of eyebrow and strange of tilt, where David had aimed his stone at Goliath and killed him.