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"I was almost raped when I took a shower," I said, deciding to make something up. "By a hotel handyman."
"Oh, that's awful. What did you do?"
"I fought him off and he ran away. The police are still looking for him." I turned away so Trisha couldn't see the lie in my eyes. All of a sudden, chills went up and down my spine and I was almost dizzy with fear over how she would react to my story. What had I done? New York was my one and only chance for a new life where no one knew about the strangeness of my past. Why had I confided these things that should be buried ten feet underground and never seen again? With my heart going as fast as a speeding train, I looked at Trisha, terrified that I might see loathing in her eyes.
"You're so lucky!" she suddenly exclaimed.
"What?" Had I heard right? "Lucky?"
"You've had such an exciting life and nothing ever happens to me," she moaned. "I went to just one plain old public school in a small town, had only one real boyfriend, and hardly ever went anywhere. Oh, we've been to Palm Beach in Florida dozens of times, but that's no fun for me. I'm always trapped in some stuffy hotel and forced to dress and behave perfectly because so many rich and important people are always staring at each other and especially each other's children. If I have a hair out of place, my mother gets hysterical. We get our manners out of Emily Post. I can't even put an elbow on the table!"
She jumped over to my bed and sprawled out beside me on her stomach.
"But when I become a famous dancer, I'm going to be outrageous," she declared firmly. "I'm going to dress wildly, have dozens and dozens of glamorous boyfriends, all with shady reputations, smoke cigarettes in long pearl cigarette holders and be seen in elegant places. Wherever I go there will be reporters snapping pictures. And I won't get married until I'm . . . I'm almost thirty! And it will be someone so rich, his name will open doors and make people scurry about like wild rabbits. Doesn't that sound exciting?" she asked me.
"Yes," I said not to hurt her feelings, but deep inside I was torn apart by my desires. I wanted to become a great singer, and I wanted to taste fame and experience the world—there was so much out there that I'd never seen or done. But, if I opened my secret heart and looked inside I knew I'd see my strongest hope. I wanted to have a family and love and cherish my children so they would never feel the way I did now. I couldn't wish that on anyone.
Trisha turned over on her back. "Does Agnes know all this stuff that happened to you?"
"She doesn't know anything but whatever lies Grandmother Cutler wrote her in that letter. I don't even know what the letter said—I'd love to get my hands on it."
"We will," Trisha vowed.
"How?"
"When we know Agnes is out for a while and Mrs. Liddy is busy, we'll sneak into her room and search for it."
"Oh, I don't know if I could ever do that," I said. Just the thought of it made my heart thump.
"Leave it up to me," Trisha said. "O-o-o-o," she squealed, "this is the most excitement I've had in ages."
"I'd rather not have any of it," I muttered, but she didn't hear me or care to.
She made me go back and describe in more detail what it was like to move from one town to another, one school to another. We talked until we both confessed to being tired and finally put the lights out.
I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from my trip and all that I had done since I had arrived; but sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of rainfall: my first summer storm in New York City. The staccato beats on the roof overhead were military drums to take me into memories I had hoped to ignore, memories of my first night at Cutler's Cove when I found myself in a strange new world with my strange new family. How I had missed Momma and Daddy Longchamp, Fern and Jimmy.
I got out of bed. Trisha was fast asleep, her breathing deep and regular. I moved carefully so as not to wake her, and I went out to go to the bathroom. On my way back to the room, I heard an odd sound. I listened and realized it was the sound of someone sobbing and it was coming from Arthur Garwood's room. I drew closer to his door and lis
tened.
"Arthur?" I called. "Are you all right?" I waited. The crying stopped, but he didn't reply. I listened a bit longer and then returned to my room to wonder about this dark, brooding boy who shut himself up in his own body.
3
THE LETTER
Summer that used to move like a caterpillar flew by and before I knew it, I was opening my eyes to greet a late August morning. My stay in New York and attendance at the Bernhardt School of Performing Arts had taken me on a roller coaster of emotions. The panic I had felt the first day of class didn't diminish immediately, even though Trisha had been right: everyone was friendly and encouraging, especially our teachers who were less formal than my public school teachers. In all my classes except math and science, we sat in a half circle facing the teacher who usually spoke to us in a conversational tone. My speech instructor even told his students to call him by his first name!
And most of the students were different too. The chatter in the cafeteria or in the lounges was always about theater or movies or recitals. We didn't have a basketball or football team. Everything was centered around the arts. Usually, I sat and listened when the others talked about their favorite performers and productions. I was ashamed to admit that I had yet to go to a real play, especially to a play on Broadway. Of course, I told Trisha, who immediately arranged for us to go see a matinee.
Nearly every day at school, some new announcement was posted on the general bulletin boards advertising auditions and opportunities, mainly for the seniors. I couldn't imagine myself asking someone to pay me for performing, not for a long time. Trisha felt the same way about herself, but we always stopped to read the bulletins, pretending we were planning on attending the auditions.
I received many compliments and a great deal of support from my vocal teacher and fellow music students, but if anyone kept me from losing my head, it was my piano teacher, Madame Steichen. She had been a concert pianist in Austria and was famous. It was considered a great honor to be in her class, although for me it was quite frightening at first. I could see from the way my fellow students acted when they entered her classes that she would be quite different from our other teachers. She ran a general class in music and gave individualized lessons.
Madame Steichen always dressed formally for class, dressed as if she were performing for an audience herself. She usually entered just before the beginning of the class and never tolerated anyone coming late. We were all seated and waiting and we could hear her shoes clicking down the corridor as she approached. When she entered, no one made a sound. Rarely did she smile.
She was tall and thin, with long, graceful fingers that seemed to have minds of their own when she brought them to the piano keys. Never had I seen such intensity in anyone's eyes as I saw in her dark gray eyes when she demonstrated. I was very impressed and very excited about being one of her students.
