Page 8

I began to unpack, hanging up my clothes and putting my underthings and my socks into the dresser drawers. I had just placed my suitcases at the rear of the closet when the door was suddenly opened and Trisha Kramer burst into our room. She was an inch or so taller than I was and wore her dark brown hair drawn back from her face and pinned up in a chignon that I thought very sophisticated. Over black leotards she wore a floating chiffon black dress, and on her feet were silver dancing shoes.

Trisha had the brightest green eyes I had ever seen with eyebrows trimmed just the way fashion models wear theirs. Although she had a perfect little nose, her mouth was a little too thin and too long. But her soft, wonderful peaches and cream complexion and sleek figure went far to compensate for any imperfections.

"Hi," she exclaimed. "I'm Trisha. Sorry I wasn't here to greet you, but I had dance class," she added and did a pirouette. My smile widened into a laugh. "That, I want you to know, took me nearly a month to perfect."

"It was good," I said, quickly nodding. She bowed.

"Thank you, thank you. Don't do another thing," she said before I could utter a word or move. "Just sit down and tell me everything about yourself. I've been starved . . . starved!" she emphasized with big eyes, "for female companionship. The only other person living here now is Bones and you've already met Agnes," she said, swinging her eyes toward the door and back.

"Bones?"

"Arthur Garwood. But let's not talk about him just yet. Come," she said, taking my hand and pulling me to sit on my bed. "Talk, talk, talk. Where did you go to school before? How many boyfriends have you had? Do you have one now? Do your parents really own a famous resort in Virginia?"

I just sat there smiling.

"Maybe tomorrow we'll go to see a movie. Would you like that?" she asked, grimacing in anticipation of a yes.

"I've never been to a movie," I confessed. "What?" She sat back and stared at me, her smile frozen. Then she leaned forward.

"Don't they have electricity in Virginia?" she asked. For a moment we stared at each other, and then I started to cry.

Perhaps it was all of it finally coming to a climax: discovering the parents I had known and loved for more than fourteen years were not really my parents, being dragged off to live with a family that didn't really want me back, discovering that the boy I thought might be my first boyfriend was really ray brother and the boy I thought was my brother was the boy I really liked the way a girl should like a boy; having to have a vicious, jealous sister, Clara Sue, and a mother who doted only on herself. And now, being shipped off as part of a bargain with a grandmother who despised my very existence for reasons I still didn't quite understand—all of it came raining down upon me.

As I looked at Trisha with her vibrant eyes and bubbly personality, her excitement over things like rock and roll and boys and movies, I suddenly realized how different I was. I had never really had the chance to be a young girl and a teenager. I had been forced because of Momma Longchamp's illnesses to be the mother. Flow I had longed to be like Trisha Kramer and others like her. Could I be? Was it too late?

I couldn't stop the tears from flowing.

"What is it?" Trisha asked. "Did I say something?"

"Oh, Trisha, I'm sorry," I said. "No, you're perfect. Agnes had me thinking you'd be horrible."

"Oh Agnes," she said, waving the air, "you can't pay attention to anything she says. Did she show you her room?"

"Yes," I said, nodding and wiping away my tears, "with the curtain."

"Isn't it a gas? She thinks she lives on the stage. Wait until you see the rest of it. Did you get your class program card yet?"

"Yes." I dug it out of my purse and showed it to her.

"Great! We have English together and vocal music. I’ll take you over to the school now and give you a grand tour. But first, let's change into sweatshirts and jeans and sneakers, and go get ice cream sodas and talk and talk and talk until both our throats get dry."

"My mother bought me only fancy things for school. I don't have a sweatshirt," I moaned.

"Oh yes you do," she said, jumping up and going to the closet. She pulled out one of her own, a bright, blue cotton one, and tossed it at me.

I hurried to change as Trisha and I talked a mile a minute, giggling almost after everything we said. When we finally started out, Trisha stopped me at the door.

"Please, my dear," she said, assuming Agnes Morris's demeanor. "Whenever you enter or leave a room, always hold your head high and your shoulders back. Otherwise, you won't be noticed."

Our laughter trailed after us as we bounced down the stairs.

I wasn't in New York more than a few hours. And already I had a friend!

2

EXPLORING THE BERNHARDT SCHOOL

Even though Trisha took me to a luncheonette only two blocks away from our student house, I couldn't help being afraid of getting lost. The streets were so long and I found I had to walk very quickly to keep up with her. My eyes darted all about as I took in the traffic, the people, the stores and other apartment houses, but Trisha kept her gaze down and talked as she hurried up the sidewalk to a corner and then turned to lead me down another street and up another. It was as if she sensed traffic and people or had eyes in the top of her head and didn't have to worry about bumping into someone or being hit by a car.