Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion (15 page)

“What’s a sou?” Bud said, tucking the money away in her plastic-coated Curious George coin purse.

“Foreign money. It’s always in novels—it’s a device to indicate the dire straits of the protagonist. We’ll look it up in the
OED
when we get home. Quick!”

As they paid Nelda for the
OED
and thirty-two paperbacks, Jacinda’s alarm went off. “Mijas, you must go. Hurry!” Jacinda helped them load the car and Bud hugged Nelda, who told her to be a good girl and grow up smart. “You could be the next Nancy Pelosi,” Nelda said.

When they got in the car, Bud asked, “Who’s Nancy Pelosi?”

“She was the Speaker of the House. I think you might already be smarter, but God forbid if you grow up to be a politician.”

“I’d get more funding for libraries and put a stop forever to the banning of books.”

“I love you,” Chase said.

“Did you like my crocodile tears?”

Chase was pulling out of the church parking lot. “You didn’t.”

“You wanted them, didn’t you?” Bud pulled up the GPS for the academy as they had always gone to the school from the East Mountains not from the South Valley.

“We’re probably both going to go to hell for this,” Chase said, turning on Atrisco and heading for Central.

“We need to go the other way. The school is on the north end of Tramway. Think of the view of the Sandia Mountains I’ll have as I toil in the pursuit of knowledge.”

Chase pulled into the parking lot of the latest used car lot and flipped around. “I can’t believe you played Nelda like that.”

“It was necessary. I had to have the
OED
. It’s for my education,” Bud said, stroking the volume she’d plucked off the top of the stack. “Look at it. It’s so beautiful.”

“How much of this playacting stuff do you do?” Chase inquired, suddenly aware that Nelda might not have been the first person to have been treated to Bud’s Machiavellian behavior.

“Only when I have to.” Bud had the volume opened and was reading the definitions with evident glee.

“Which is?”

“Whenever I want something.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Relax. Gitana has radar for it. You’re the only one I can sucker punch.”

“Great.” Chase made a mental note to ask Gitana about the radar thing.

In everything one must consider the end.—La Fontaine

Chase and Bud sat in front of the academy with dolorous faces. They were waiting for Donna, who had yet to appear. They had three minutes until the interview with Principal Melinda Marshall. Chase stared up at the great stone archway that housed massive wooden doors with a heraldic shield on them that had something to do with the original founders of the school. She’d read an account in the brochure but could not remember it. Normally, she would have memorized the entire brochure cover to cover, however, much to her shame, she had been remiss because of all her other obligations.

She had become a distracted parent and in Chase’s overachieving obsessive-compulsive world this was unacceptable. Making a mental list of why she’d not memorized the school brochure, she came up with the writing of two novels at the same time and dealing with the dissension and almost all-out warfare between her two muses, the Sacred Muse of the Divine Vulva and the Muse of Commercial Endeavor, each claiming proprietary rights to her imagination, Commercial Endeavor for the sake of monetary gain and Vulva for the salvation of her lesbian soul. Chase had thought this a bit over the top, but Vulva did have a point. Chase had not been particularly lesbian lately, as had been indicated on more than one occasion. What if she really
was
losing her lezzie?

Then there was the SUP group and her retraining in the art of social skills, which had suffered another defeat. Lily, the group coordinator, had been sorely disappointed when the group had been put to the test at a PTO meeting where once again Steinbeck’s
The Grapes of Wrath
was about to be banned from the school library along with
Heather Has Two Mommies.
Lily had thought this particular meeting would be a perfect testing ground since it related to Isabel, a librarian who was adamant about censorship, and because Chase and Delia were writers. It was Delia’s fault the whole fight started. She said she thought it would be more interesting if they banned Radcliff Hall’s
The Well of Loneliness.
Marsha defended her because she’d obviously taken a shine to Delia, and Isabel, getting caught up in the fray, started listing all the books that had ever been banned. She insisted on knowing how the board members felt about these books, noting the reasons why in the past they had been banned and demanding to know did the board agree with those rationales? Chase had done her best to stay out of it until one of the board members, a prissy woman with a pinched expression, got into the demonic nature of homosexuality and how all children with gay parents should be taken away and doled out to proper families. Many unpleasant things were said on both sides and the debacle ended with security being called and the SUP group being escorted off the school premises.

And then there was… Chase would have gone on if Bud hadn’t yanked her back from her neurosis. “We have to go,” Bud said.

Chase leaned back in her seat and sighed. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“We don’t have any choice.”

At that particular moment, a troop of children a little older than Bud came tromping behind a teacher in single file—their stance almost alike as they trundled past. In their uniforms they looked like Mussolini’s Blackshirts and Chase’s stomach dropped. “We could homeschool you. I’ll hire tutors.”

“Then I’ll end up being as socially inept as you,” Bud said, opening the car door.

“What’s wrong with that?” Chase called after her. She still hadn’t removed herself from the driver’s seat. Bud came around to her side.

“It’s a cop-out. I can be a good little soldier and still keep my sense of individualism. That’s your problem—you think that if you even so much as dunk a toe in the raging river of homogeneity that you will lose your sense of self. It’s not like that. The raging river is the challenge, it’s the quest, it’s the odyssey.”

Chase couldn’t remember the grammatical term for three beautifully linked clauses, but Bud had it down. “If I let you go to school will you at least try to win a Pulitzer?”

Bud pulled her from the car. “I will give it my best effort.”

“I don’t want it to be one of those mean autobiographies that slam the parents.”

“Then I suggest you watch your back,” Bud said.

“Bud!”

Bud squared back her shoulders, studied the Latin inscription above the massive wood doors, sighed heavily and then marched forward.

Chase scrambled behind her. “Please God, let this go well.” They both crossed themselves.

Principal Marshall’s office was prominently marked with a gold placard. They walked into the reception area. Chase felt a certain trepidation, which she associated with being called into the principal’s office for some offense in her youth. She made her best attempt at looking confident. Bud sat down and looked Pre-Raphaelite angelic.

“Hello, we have an appointment with Principal Marshall.” Chase didn’t know what else to call her as she didn’t know if she was a Doctor, a Mrs. or a Ms. type of woman and she didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.

The receptionist was a kindly looking woman of fifty-something and her gray hair and round glasses gave her the air of someone who would be gentle with small children. Chase hoped this was not a masquerade just to suck people into turning their children over to the educational equivalent of the Gestapo.

“Oh, yes, Ms. Banter, I believe. Melinda is expecting you.”

Chase glanced up at the clock hanging behind the receptionist’s desk. They weren’t technically late—they were essentially right on time.

“Oh, don’t worry. You’re not tardy. Melinda is just really looking forward to meeting you…and Angelica, of course. Right this way, please.”

Chase glanced at Bud for some sign of her take on the situation. Bud furrowed her brow and shrugged.

Before they’d gotten to the office, which was down the hall a short way, the door to the office flew open and an attractive, yet competent-looking woman in her late forties, dressed stylishly in what Chase knew to be an Ann Taylor business suit—blazer and matching trouser set—stepped out. Her hair was dark and cut in the latest above-the-shoulder-but-below-the-chin ragged cut that Chase always found odd because to her this expensive hairdo looked like it was done with the edge of a meat cleaver rather than styling shears, but Lacey claimed it was the height of fashion nonetheless. Lacey had transcended this look and grown her hair out. She now tied it back in a ponytail because she felt this was her true lesbian hairdo—although it was not one of the seven lesbian hairstyles that Lacey had been told about during her initiation into the subculture of true lesbianism. Chase understood none of this—perhaps another sign of “losing her lezziness.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you,” said Melinda, who insisted that Chase use her first name as she pumped Chase’s hand and gave Bud a cursory, however, not unkind look and bade them sit.

“Now, I think you should tell us a little about yourself, Chase, may I call you Chase?” Melinda asked.

Chase wanted to be amiable. “Of course. What would you like to know?” she replied, trying to think of parental litanies. All she could come up with was, “I feel that being a parent is one of the most important episodes of my life and I want my child to have a good, I mean, an outstanding education.”

Bud visibly blanched. “Banal.”

“Good word, Angelica.”

“You can call me Bud.”

“Ah, you have a moniker. We are very respectful of the student’s right to call him or herself by a chosen name. If you prefer Bud then Bud it shall be.” Melinda marked this down on her record file. Both Bud and Chase glanced at it.

“No, what I meant, Chase, was how do you think the creative process affects you as a parent?”

Chase was silent.

“She means your writing,” Bud said, pointing to Chase’s stack of lesbian novels topped off by her two mystery novels that sat on the corner of Melinda’s desk.

“Oh.”

“I am a big fan. Now, Bud, this does not mean that you have no standing on your own. I can already tell that you are well above average and we will leave it at that because brilliance is best encouraged by civility and structure.”

“What are you basing that on?” Bud asked.

Chase thought Bud was holding her own.

“Chase’s personal assistant, Donna, has minutely documented a CV for you that lists your achievements as well as your Mensa score.”

“You took the Mensa test? When did you do that?”

“Addison thought it would be interesting so we did it online. She actually scored higher, but she said that’s because I am four. My years of study have not exceeded hers so I don’t feel too bad. I don’t know what my list of achievements are.”

“Your grandmother supplied your reading list.”

“Your reading list?” Chase’s voice had gotten high and a little squeaky. Bud pinched her and gave her the don’t-fuck-this-up-or-we’re-dead look.

“I think it’s quite diverse and I am aware that some of these books were read to you but that still qualifies.”

“Oh, I see, well, that’s great,” Chase said.

“Now, back to you, Chase. How did you come to be a writer?”

Chase scrambled as the spotlight was now on her. Bud smiled encouragingly. “Well, I used to have these running daydreams as a child and then I just started writing them down and then rewriting them and then…” God, she hoped she didn’t sound completely unhinged.

“I remember that you told me once that coming up with stories was like playing a chess game that you were totally in charge of, and so plot was like figuring out the moves and the chess players all had histories and motives and that’s what made the story—a combination of strategy and language as well as a good dose of managerial finesse,” Bud said.

“Exactly!” Chase said.

“How interesting.” Melinda seemed satisfied with the answer and Bud and Chase let out a collective sigh.

“Would you like me to sign your books?” Chase asked. Bud smiled encouragingly. She dug a pen out of her backpack and quickly handed it to Chase.

“I would recommend using the Chancery Cursive script for this particular signing, considering the prestige and posterity of this fine institution,” Bud said.

“Good idea,” Chase said.

“Oh, I’d be delighted.” Melinda scooted the books over. “Here, sit at my desk and I’ll give Bud a quick tour of the school.”

“I’d love to see the library,” Bud said.

They left and Chase got down to business. At Donna’s suggestion, she had taught herself calligraphy—so that each reader could choose how he or she wanted the book signed and each one would feel special. This, Donna told her, would give Chase something to concentrate on that was productive instead of focusing on how miserable she was. So far the idea had worked, but they’d only done it for virtual signings that Chase had done online. Readers printed off the inscription and then pasted it in the front of the book. This had been hugely popular and it was all thanks to Donna’s amazing, imaginative approach to marketing. Myra could go fuck herself, Chase thought as she carefully inscribed Melinda’s books.

When Bud and Melinda returned, they were holding hands and talking amicably.

“All done,” Chase said, meaning the book inscriptions and hopefully the interview.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Melinda said, looking at the title page of the first book.

“So?” Chase asked.

“It’s all settled. Bud is a shoo-in, but let’s keep the Mensa score to ourselves. This does not mean you’ll get to slack, young lady. Your teachers will be notified of your abilities and you will be given honors classes as you progress.”

Bud groaned.

“What did you expect?” Chase said, frowning at her.

“An outstanding education,” Bud said weakly.

“Now, I suggest you have one last joyous summer before the work of your life begins.” Melinda shook Bud’s hand and then Chase’s. “So when does your new book come out?”

“In May. I’ll be sure to send you a copy.”

“That would be splendid.” Melinda beamed.