Enthusiasm (2 page)

“Miss Lefkowitz! Miss Lefkowitz! My dear Miss Lefkowitz,” she called.

I hauled the window open wide. “What’s all the ‘Miss’ stuff?” I said. “You’re not starting on an etiquette craze, are you?”

Ashleigh shot me her second-favorite expression, Reproach Tinged with Disgust. (Her favorite is the Mad Gleam.) “Etiquette?” she cried. “I hope I always conduct myself as befits a young lady. But my dear Miss Lefkowitz, why did you wait so long before introducing me to the joys of Miss Austen’s work? Elizabeth Bennet! Jane Bennet! The incomparable Mr. Darcy!” She waved my copy of
Pride and Prejudice
at me, dislodging baby acorns and a leaf or two.

My heart sank. How many weeks of antiquated grammar were we in for now? And it was my own fault too. While Ashleigh bounced around the room, knocking things over with her skirts and raving about Austen’s heroines and the gentlemen they loved, I considered my situation. Always before, Ashleigh had started a craze, and I had followed. Now, for the first time, I had taken the lead, introducing her to an interest of my own. But how long would it be before her passion overshadowed mine? Would she take over my favorite books, leaving nothing for me? I was convinced that I felt as strongly about Jane Austen’s books as Ashleigh had ever felt about any of her crazes, but my love was deep and silent—and therefore easily overshadowed. I would never, for example, speak Jane Austen’s language. That would be undignified and unworthy of the writer I adored.

Rescuing my clock radio, which had tumbled off my night-stand and was hanging by its cord, I told myself sternly not to be so ungenerous. Ashleigh never hesitated to share
her
interests with
me
. If only! No, she always insisted on dragging me in, however boring or unpleasant I might find them. (Military strategy? Ballet? Ig, no thanks!—Although I did rather enjoy candy making and reptiles.) The only time Ash let me wiggle out of a craze was when she knew I couldn’t afford it—and when that happened, she gave it up herself, generous girl that she was. She squelched a growing passion for horses, for example, because my mother couldn’t pay for riding lessons after my parents’ divorce. And Ashleigh’s generosity didn’t stop there. Whenever her crazes got me in trouble—like the time I ruined my father’s barbecue tools digging military trenches in the lawn—she devoted her savings and countless Saturdays to repairing the damage.

As I contemplated my pettiness, Ashleigh startled me with an emphatic bounce. (She’s always bouncing with excitement, and when she bounces, she
bounces
—particularly in the past year or so. For my part, I barely jiggle, no matter how vigorously I move.)

“And I believe I know where to find them!” she cried.

“Where to find what?” I asked.

Ashleigh gave me her you’re-not-listening look, a variant on the ever popular Disgusted Reproach.

“Not what—who. Our heroes. What good is a heroine without a hero? From what I remember of freshman year, we will be hard-pressed to find even a single gallant at Byzantium High. I despair of finding a pair of them there! But fortunately, I have discovered the answer.”

Clearly Ashleigh had finished the research portion of her fad and moved on to the active stage. Now that she had decided to enact a 200-year-old love story with us as the heroines, I was afraid the results would be mortifying.

Without much hope, I tried to head her off. “I thought you despised boy-crazy girls like Michelle Jeffries and those people. You always said crushes were for noodleheads.”

Ashleigh drew herself up to her full height, which I couldn’t have done in her position—standing on my bed—since my head would have hit the sloping roof; her figure may be more mature than mine, but she’s six inches shorter.

“I speak not of crushes, Miss Lefkowitz,” she replied, “but of True Love.”

True Love! What girl hasn’t dreamed of
that
? Even the shyest among us longs for a soul mate—someone who will understand our hopes and fears, laugh at our jokes, offer us his coat when the afternoon turns cold, charm our parents, and admire us, flaws and all (such as a sharp chin, perhaps, and a marked lack of jiggle).

Although I had never discussed it with anyone, not even Ashleigh, I shared that dream. My ideal hero borrowed his appearance from a guy I thought of as the Mysterious Stranger. I had seen him just five times. The first was by the swimming hole on a windy Saturday in late spring. A woman’s hat blew off her head and flew straight for the water, when the stranger snatched a fallen branch from the ground and, with a daring leap, caught it. I had seen him twice since then in the state park, on foot and on horseback. Once I glimpsed him through the window of the Java Jail drinking what looked like a Magna Mocharetto with a bevy of guys. And once we crossed paths as he left the public library, trailing a cloud of air-conditioned calm. I was on my way in; he held the door for me.

The man I might someday come to admire would, I hoped, share this stranger’s poise, his grace, and his deep vertical dimple.

With such secret thoughts, I shouldn’t be surprised to hear my friend talk of Heroes. Yet if Ashleigh cherished a similar dream, I feared for her peace of mind. For is True Love likely to come to a high school sophomore who dresses in a chorus robe and ballet slippers?

“Okay, but listen, Ash,” I said. “You’re not planning to go to school wearing that, are you? No guy will even
look
at you.” Me neither if they see me with you, I added inwardly. “Couldn’t you please, please, please wear jeans?”

As always, my plea fell on deaf ears. “I see not the necessity of discussing with
you
, Miss Lefkowitz, the propriety of a young lady wearing Trousers. As you know, modesty forbids us to reveal the shape of the Lower Limbs.”

If you do get a boyfriend, he’s going to want to see a lot more than just the shape of your Lower Limbs, I argued silently. Fortunately, I reflected, the school year wouldn’t start for another week—enough time, I hoped, to make her see reason.

“And don’t you think you could call me Julie?” I continued. “We’ve known each other long enough, surely.”

“My dearest Julia, you are right, indeed you are right. After all, in
Pride and Prejudice
Miss Elizabeth Bennet addresses her bosom friend, Miss Lucas, by the name of Charlotte, and they are no more affectionately attached than the two of us. But please, my dear friend, allow me to continue. As I said, I believe I have the solution to our puzzle of where to find our heroes.”

“
Our
puzzle? It’s not
my
puzzle,” I put in.

Ashleigh shook me by the arm, letting her language slip a bit in her impatience. “Will you listen already? In
Pride and Prejudice
, where do the younger Bennet girls turn for lively masculine company? Why, to the regiment of soldiers quartered near their home. Were we to follow their lead, where better to seek suitors than among our neighboring young men in uniform?”

Could she be referring to the West Point cadets? The U.S. Military Academy at West Point sits high on a cliff overlooking the Hudson, hidden from Byzantium by the curve of the river. There brave and disciplined students train to lead our country’s great army. Last year the center of the Byzantium Bullfrogs turned down Harvard to become a West Point cadet.

“Oh, Ashleigh, you’ve got to be kidding! You want us to go chasing after West Pointers? They’re way too old! They’ve got crew cuts! You’ll get us court-martialed!”

My friend held up her hand. “Hear me out, Julia,” she said. “Hear me out. As you so rightly observe, the officers in training are not perfectly suited to ladies of our tender years. I propose instead another population of gentlemen in uniform—gentlemen younger than the cadets—I speak, in short, of the students at the Forefield Academy.”

This suggestion was better, but only slightly. Forefield, an exclusive boys’ prep school, rises above the town of Byzantium both geographically and socially. Its main building, once the mansion of the Forefield family, can be seen from most of the town, including my attic window. As a little girl I thought it was an enchanted castle, the home of a witch or a princess. I now considered it the home of gawky boys with crests embroidered on their blazer pockets—that is, of snobs, dorks, adders, or (most likely) snobbish, dorky adders.

“Forefield, huh? What’s your plan? Are we going to dress up as boys and sneak in? Watch out—they’ll see our lower limbs.”

Flashing me a look of reproach and triumph, Ashleigh reached into her robe pocket and produced a piece of paper, which she silently handed to me. It appeared to be a page Xeroxed from a newspaper.

“ ‘Library Renovations,’ ” I read. “ ‘An extensive overhaul of Forefield’s Robert Rive Science Library and Media Resource Center is on schedule for completion in time for the—’ ”

“No, not that. Underneath.”

“What, this announcement? ‘Forefield Fall Formal. The president and faculty of the Forefield Academy look forward to welcoming students, alumni, and their guests to the 97th annual Columbus Cotillion, at 8:00 P.M., Saturday, October 12. Formal attire.’ Well, what good is that? We’re not Forefield students, we’re not alumni, and we’re not their guests. We’re not invited.”

“Oh, that won’t matter.” Catching herself slipping into ordinary speech, Ashleigh began again. “I mean, That will be of no importance. With the crush of guests, two more will surely pass unnoticed.”

“You want to crash the Snoot School Dork Dance? Are you out of your candy wrapper? What could that possibly have to do with Jane Austen?”

“Surely, Miss Lefkowitz, you can see that a gathering of young gentlemen dressed in formal attire, well practiced in time-honored dance steps, and unaccustomed to the company of young ladies—and therefore bound to treat us with modesty and respect—is the ideal place to meet our matches. Can you be blind to the perfection of the plan?”

Perfection! If the plan had any, I certainly was blind to it. In my experience, at least, boys who hadn’t spent a lot of time around girls were less likely, not more, to behave themselves.

The sound of a maternal voice came faintly up the stairs.

“Is that Mrs. Lefkowitz calling?” said Ashleigh.

“Look—whatever you call me, you’re
not
calling my mother Mrs. Lefkowitz. She didn’t like it even when she was married to my father. If Helen isn’t formal enough for you, call her Ms. Gould.”

“I shall call her Madam.”

Before I could make any further objections, the person in question knocked on the door.

“Come in,” I called.

“Honey, I—oh, hi there, Ashleigh, you’re here too. I was wondering. I thought I heard bouncing, but I didn’t see you come in.”

It astonishes Ashleigh and me that our parents have failed for so many years to notice how we use our tree.

“Good afternoon, Madam,” answered Ashleigh.

“Excuseth me, Sir Ashleigh. I bid thee, too, the fairest of afternoons. Evenings, actually. Killed any dragons today?”

Ashleigh appeared too pained to reply. I took up her cause. “Mom, you’re years out of date.”

“Oho, years out of date, ameth I?” she said agreeably. “How canst thou tell—the grammar? I pray thee, forgive thine old, antiquated mommeth. Keeping up with the latest in teendom beeth too difficult for me. Dinnertime, honey. Ashleigh, you’re welcome to join us.”

“I thank you, Madam, but I knew not how far the day had advanced. My parents await me. Farewell.” Curtsying to my mother, the Enthusiast tripped lightly down the stairs and took her leave.

Chapter 2

I seek Counsel
~
a Domestic scene
~
Dancing Lessons.

T
he next day was Tuesday, known in the Lefkowitz and Gould households as the Day of the Dad. I was glad. Not from any eagerness to spend time with my father, of course; relations between us have been strained ever since he left my mother and me for the Irresistible Accountant (or “Amy,” as he prefers me to call her). Rather, I needed the advice of his next-door neighbor, the savviest person I know: Samantha Liu.

A visit to Dad and “Amy” often includes Samantha. Our fathers, both pediatricians, share a practice and a backyard hedge; Samantha’s mother, an allergist, also shares the hedge, of course, but she has a separate medical practice. The long bicycle ride over gave me plenty of time to consider Ashleigh’s wild plan. Though my father and stepmother didn’t expect me until dinnertime, I started early, hoping to find Samantha free for a chat. Some subjects are best discussed in person—particularly those subjects that live a mere tree’s breadth away from me. From time to time, Ashleigh and I overhear each other’s phone conversations.

I was in luck: Samantha was home. Once we had installed ourselves comfortably in the Lius’ hammock with a pair of ginger ales, I opened my heart.

“Okay, Sam, warm up the advice generator,” I entreated.

“What’s up? Stepmother trouble again?”

“No—at least, not yet. I haven’t seen ‘Amy’ for a week. Right now it’s Ashleigh.”

At that name, Samantha gave an affectionate, twinkly grimace. It always surprises me that the two of them like each other as much as they do. Samantha is more than a year older and at least a millennium more mature. Ashleigh’s reputation for eccentricity prevents her from rising to the upper circles of our high school world, even if she wanted to. Samantha, on the other hand, enjoys the status of a gymnast, a beauty, last year’s president of the sophomore class, and the sister of the famously hot Zach Liu, still an object of near-universal fantasy even though he graduated last year. In fact, it’s a measure of Samantha’s social standing that she can afford to be gracious to someone as odd as Ashleigh (or, I often think, me). Yet Sam is loyal and, though skilled at manipulation, essentially kind.

“What is it this time?” she asked. “Let me guess: Ashleigh’s taken over your bathtub for her starfish collection? She’s excavating an emerald mine under your basement and you’re afraid your house will collapse? No, wait, I know—she’s decided to go to school every day dressed as Martha Washington.”