The Basic Eight (3 page)

“Mum’s the word,” she said. Her hair looked gorgeous. “Don’t say the word to me. My parents have vanished as far

as I’m concerned.”

“You have to stop traveling with them,” she said, smiling slightly as her eyes met one of her admirers. “Get them to send
you
to summer school. You’d learn things.”

“Thanks, but there’s enough steamed milk in my life.” “Come on, you need to buy notebooks so you can write his

name on them in flowery letters.”

I rolled my eyes and followed her across the street to a station- ery store. We opened our purses and bought things: notebooks, pencils, paper with narrow, straight lines. Our school colors weren’t available, which is a good thing: Roewer’s colors are red and purple.

She drove me home, which made me worry a little bit about the flask. I leaned back in the passenger seat and everything felt like a transatlantic flight again. I hoped I had enough interesting books, but for now I felt at ease, pampered even. It was almost dusk. I rolled down the window and felt air rush into my mouth. I stole a look at Natasha as she stole a look at me. Friends, we smiled and I closed my eyes again and let the sublime noise sur- round me.

“The music is great. Who is this?”

Natasha turned it up. “Darling Mud. They’re all the rage in England.”

It sounded great. It was all thundering percussion and snarling guitars, and the chorus told us over and over that one thing led to another. “On and on and on and on,” the singer wailed, on and on and on and on.

As I opened the door to get out, Natasha touched my hand. “Listen, if you want Adam, you’re going to have to
move
. I talked to Kate just the other day, and she had talked to Adam just the other day. He’s apparently been getting crazy love letters from someone all summer. He wouldn’t tell her who.” Natasha’s voice sounded too careless for these remarks to be well placed. I could have told her then that it was me, but I didn’t. I could have told her I was in love, and didn’t just have a crush, but I didn’t. Maybe I would have saved us all the trouble in the next few months, but I didn’t tell her. School starts tomorrow and with it the chattering network of friends telling friends telling friends secrets. On a
postcard
; I’m

so stupid. I got out of the car and Natasha drove off. All I heard as she left was one thing leading to another.

Tuesday September 7th

So let it be noted that the school year began with the difference between authority and authoritarianism, and I have a feeling that the rest of it will be just as clear. My homeroom teacher is Mr. Dodd. It has always been Mr. Dodd. I cannot remember a time when my homeroom teacher wasn’t Mr. Dodd, and my homeroom teacher will always be Mr. Dodd, forever and ever, world without end. While the rest of us took unknowing summer sips of coffee (and “steamed milk,” in Natasha’s case), Mr. Dodd was appar- ently at some Assertiveness Training program. He droned on and on about it after stalking into the room and writing “MR. DODD” in all caps on the blackboard, even though homeroom has been the same kids, with the same teacher, year in and year out, world without end. The gist of his speech was that thanks to Assertive- ness Training we couldn’t chew gum anymore. He told us of his vision of a new homeroom, “one with authority but not authorit- arianism.” I would have let it go, but he insisted we all look it up. He waited while we fumbled with our Websters. We knew he was waiting because he kept calling out, “I’m waiting!” Finally Natasha stood up, brushed her hair from her eyes and read out loud: “‘Authoritarianism: a doctrine favoring or marked by abso- lute and unquestioning obedience to authority. Authority: the power to command, determine, or judge.”’ Then she looked at Mr. Dodd and sat down. No one ever stands up in class and re- cites like that, of course, but I suppose if I looked like Natasha I’d stand up too. All the boys, Mr. Dodd included, gaped at Natasha for a minute

before the latest graduate of Assertiveness Training for Home- room and Geography Teachers said, “Does everyone understand what I mean?” Everybody thought,
No
(except for a sizable handful of homeroom kids who will never think anything, world without end), but only Natasha said it. I looked back and saw her take out an emery board that had a carved claw at either end. She didn’t look at Mr. Dodd as she began to do her nails. Ever since Natasha and I read
Cyrano de Bergerac
in Hattie Lewis’s freshman English class she’s done everything with
panache
. Later this emery board will be very important in our story, so I intro- duce it now.

Mr. Dodd cleared his throat. Nobody at Assertiveness Training had prepared him for Natasha Hyatt. Nobody ever would be prepared for her. He opened his mouth to say something and the bell rang and we all left. I caught up with Natasha and hugged her.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without me, either,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “That’ll teach him to fool around with the diction- ary. Tune in tomorrow for the difference between
disciple
and
disciplinarian
. Come on, it’s time for Chemistry.”

“I’m not doing Chem,” I said. “I’ve got Biology.” “With who?”

“Carr.”

“Carr? That dreamboat? ‘
Not doing Chem
,’ she says.” Natasha looked around the crowded hallway, narrating. Few kids looked up; everyone was used to Natasha going on about something, and we were all zombies this early in the morning, anyway. “‘
Not doing Chem
,’ when all the time she gets Biology with Carr. That’s more Chem than I’ll ever have. I’ve got that four-eyed man with the toupee. So when will I see you?”

I started to pull out my schedule to compare, but Natasha was suddenly swept away by a thick-necked rush of football players who apparently let nothing stand in their path on their quest for punctuality. For a minute it felt like a Hollywood prison camp movie where the husband and wife are dragged off to different trains, though I must admit Natasha didn’t look too dismayed at being caught in the stampede. “Easy, boys!” I heard her call, and I looked down at my computerized card to see where to go next:

HOMEROOM: DUD

FIRST PERIOD: CALCULATED BAKING SECOND PERIOD: POETIC HATS

THIRD PERIOD: ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM FOURTH PERIOD: FREE LUNCH

FIFTH PERIOD: APPLIED CERVIX

SIXTH PERIOD: ADVANCE TO RIO BY CAR SEVENTH PERIOD: THE FRENCH SEVERED MILTON

Funny how one’s eyes are bleary in the mornings: HOMEROOM: LAWRENCE DODD

FIRST PERIOD: CALCULUS: MICHAEL BAKER

SECOND PERIOD: AMERICAN POETRY: HATTIE LEWIS THIRD PERIOD: CHOIR: JOHN HAND

FOURTH PERIOD: LUNCH

FIFTH PERIOD: APPLIED CIVICS: GLADYS TALL SIXTH PERIOD: ADVANCED BIO: JAMES CARR

SEVENTH PERIOD: FRENCH SEVEN: JOANNE MILTON

Doesn’t look much more believable, does it? Perhaps it has been edited for your amusement and to protect the innocent, if any. This is the first year they’ve included

first names on our schedules, and we will never let Lawrence forget it.

It looks like I’m alone in Math. None of my friends. Mr. Baker seems fine. We have to cover our books. Even Hattie Lewis had very little to say about American Poetry except that we have to cover our books which contain it. Hattie Lewis, who opened my eyes to books and the world, to whom I owe the very act of writing in a journal, had little to say except that we have to cover our books. It says something about school that the first thing our mentors tell us is to cover up tomes of knowledge with recycled paper bags. Or maybe it doesn’t. I only had time for half a cup of coffee this morning, and the coffee available here where I am editing this is extremely bitter, like the author/editor herself.

At least in English I have friends–Kate Gordon, the Queen Bee, was in there, and so is Jennifer Rose Milton whose name is so beautiful I must always write it out, completely: Jennifer Rose Milton. Her mother is Joanne Milton, the beautiful French teacher who has written a cookbook of all the recipes contained in Proust. To give you an idea of how beautiful Jennifer Rose Milton is, she can call her mother
Maman
and no one minds. Gabriel was there, too, although he might have to transfer out to make his schedule work. Gabriel Gallon is the kindest boy in the world, and some- how the San Francisco Unified School District Computer System has figured that out and likes to torture him. Today he will attend three English classes and four gym classes, even though he’s a senior and isn’t supposed to have gym at all. Jennifer Rose Milton came in late and sat far away from me, but Kate sat right next to me and we exchanged heaven-help-us glances about book cover- ing for a full forty minutes. As the bell rang we compared schedules and learned that we

have only English together. Jennifer Rose Milton glided toward us and hugged us all, Gabriel first, then Kate, then me. “I wish I could talk,” she said, “but I must run.
Maman
says the first meeting of the Grand Opera Breakfast Club is tomorrow, so see you then if not before.” She flew out, followed by Gabriel, who was hoping to catch our guidance counselor, an enormous Cuban woman who lives in an office with three electric fans and no overhead lighting. There are always suspicious-looking students glowering around her like bodyguards; going in to have forms signed is a little like discussing détente with a banana republic’s dictator. “Viva la Revolution!” I shouted to him as he left, and half a dozen students looked at me quizzically. Kate threw her head back and laughed, though there’s no way she could have gotten the joke; she has the other senior guidance counselor, a warm, friendly woman
sans
fans. Kate, though, will never admit to not getting the joke. It’s as if we would depose her. We clasped hands–“Be strong!” she mock-whispered–and she had to go off. I wanted to hear firsthand about her conversation with Adam re those letters he had received from some breathless woman, but there wasn’t time. Perhaps at Grand Opera Breakfast tomorrow. What you’d like to hear about, of course, is the first face-to-face meeting with Adam. But as with the difference between authority and authoritarianism, it’s hard to talk about something that barely exists. As my bleary-eyed first take at my schedule indicated, I knew I’d see him in choir–he’s the student conductor, which isn’t just something to write down on his college applications. It’s that Johnny Hand is a dim lush who wanders in and out of choir re- hearsals and occasionally performs meandering show tunes from his either long-dead or entirely fictitious nightclub act. Adam

handles all the

music and teaches it to us. So the first meeting of choir consisted of the one hundred or so members (ninety of whom are female) milling around the rehearsal hall while Adam sat in a folding chair, in conference with the other choir officers, trying to figure out what the hell to do. Johnny Hand was nowhere to be seen–he probably needed jump-starting somewhere. Adam saw me as I came in and gave me a half wave and rolled his eyes. I sat down and wondered whether the eye rolling meant he wished he could talk to me instead of talking to the chirpy president, vice presid- ent, secretary and treasurer, or that he can’t believe I had the courage to catch his eye.

On the way out of choir, I passed the room where the band and orchestra rehearse. Rolling their eyes, Douglas Wilde, my ex, and his girlfriend Lily Chandly, strolled out carrying their instrument cases. He is a violinist, she a cellist so there’s no bitterness here because she’s much better for Douglas; I’m practically tone-deaf and anyway, I broke up with
him
. Douglas, as usual, was dressed to the hilt in an off-white linen suit, complete with pressed handkerchief and pocket watch. Dating him was a bit like being in an old movie. I hugged them both, each in turn. Douglas, the dear, didn’t mind–it was, as they say in tabloids, an amicable parting–but Lily emitted such a glare that I was thankful that those were true instrument cases and not Mafioso euphemisms. Had I written to these people during the summer I wouldn’t have to re-establish anything. Douglas had to rush off (after disen- tangling himself from Lily’s smugly possessive good-bye kiss), but I stayed with her as she went to her locker. She handed over her computerized schedule card and I discovered that we were about to have lunch together.

“I think it’s great that you two are still together,” I said as we sat down at one of the appropriate benches in

the courtyard. Like homing pigeons, all the right people were in all the right places after summer break.

“Yes, me too,” Lily said, relaxing a little bit. I could see her re- membering that she was my friend and not my rival. I spied Natasha and waved for her to come over; she saw me and walked across the courtyard, accompanied by–I swear I could hear it–the clatter of male jaws dropping to asphalt. She had taken off her black leather jacket as the day got hotter and was wearing a translucent tank top that made the following fashion statement:
Here are my nipples
. That may sound bitterly envious, but that’s only because I am.

“Same shit, different year,” she said by way of greeting. She grasped Lily’s well-combed head and kissed both cheeks. “To- night I get to make flash cards of the periodic chart. How’s the scrumptious Jim Carr?”

“I haven’t had him yet.”

“Well, give yourself time,” she said, taking out a blood-red metallic lunch box decorated with lacquered photographs of her idol, Marlene Dietrich. Where does she find these things? “It’s only the first day. Oh, how was
choir
?”

Lily looked up from her apple. “What’s in choir?” “Flan’s current flame,” Natasha whispered.

Lily looked relieved and I was thankful that Natasha let her know that I wasn’t after Douglas. “Who? Have you been dating someone this summer?”

“She spent all summer in Europe,” Natasha said, opening her lunch box. Inside it were twelve large shrimp in a bag filled with ice, and a small container of cocktail sauce. “Not that anybody received as much as a postcard.” Natasha and Lily turned to me and tuttutted in unison. Why hadn’t I sent postcards to them in- stead?

Lily took another bite of apple. “So if Flannery isn’t seeing someone, how can she have a current flame?” Only Lily would want to get the terminology straight before finding out who the mystery man was. Is.