Enthusiasm (6 page)

First, however, we had an obstacle to overcome: how to get there. Ash and I hesitated to ask our parents to drive us to the dance—we were afraid they might somehow figure out that we hadn’t, in fact, been invited. In the end, we decided it would be best not to tell them about it at all. We would let them think we had gone to the movies with Sam. (“Wearing ballgowns?” objected Ashleigh.—“You’ve dragged me to the movies wearing far worse,” I answered.) That left a choice of walking the three miles to Forefield or riding our bicycles up the long hill, catching our hems in the gears and arriving in a sweat. Our return seemed even more problematic.

Once again, Sam came to our aid—or, more precisely, her brother, Zach, home from college for the Columbus Day weekend. When I went to the Lius’ house to borrow a pair of evening purses from Sam’s large collection, she offered us Zach’s services as a chauffeur. “I told him if he didn’t drive you, you’d get tangled in your bike pedals and wind up in a ditch with a broken neck. Then your father would die of a broken heart and Dad would have to find a new partner. Zach said you were idiots, but he’d do it for the family honor. He likes an excuse to drive that car of his.”

“Thanks—I guess. You sure you don’t want to come?”

Samantha laughed. “Can you see me chasing boys at the Forehead Academy? The guys I already know are quite enough for me, thanks. Have a good time, and don’t let Ashleigh do anything too embarrassing.”

Chapter 5

A ride through the Dark
~
A menacing adder
~
A gallant rescue
~
A Quadrille
~
A Waltz
~
A second Sonnet.

Z
ach picked us up at Ashleigh’s house. “Ready for the costume party, kids?” he said.

“It’s not a costume party, it’s the Columbus Cotillion,” said Ash, getting in the front. “And we’re hardly kids.”

Zach headed uphill along the river. “Hmm,” he said, looking her over critically. “You’re right, you don’t look so kidlike in that dress. Those boys at the Foreplay Academy better watch out.”

Ashleigh slapped at his shoulder. He grabbed her wrist with three fingers and started to twist. “Hey! Guys! Keep your eyes on the road,” I said.

My stomach fluttered as we turned off the river road and drove up the twisting approach toward the Forefield gate. In my long friendship with Ashleigh, I had become accustomed to a certain level of public attention. When your best friend goes around town dressed in armor constructed from cookware, eyes naturally turn your way. But getting thrown out of the Candy Barn for sniffing too many jellybeans is one thing; marching boldly into a nest of reputed snobs while dressed in ancient frocks that smell faintly of mothballs kicks up the potential for embarrassment to a whole new level.

“Let us off here, Zach,” I said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way. It’ll be easier to get in if we kind of edge along behind some other people.” Zach got out to open the rear door, which sticks from the inside.

“Okay, kids—ladies. Call me when you’ve had enough. And tell me if any of those Foureyes kids get fresh—I’ll kick their asses.” He demonstrated with a carefully placed karate kick that fortunately left no mark on the back of my silver dress, then drove off into the night.

Ashleigh and I gathered up our skirts and edged through the gate to the Forefield Academy, our heels sinking into the grass by the side of the drive. The air was sharp; I pulled my wrap around my shoulders. Carved lions observed us from either side of the gate, their tails curled catlike around their flanks, their noses lifted in stony disdain, as if we weren’t worth the effort of a pounce. Two or three cars whished slowly by, fluttering my hair and Ashleigh’s sash.

We reached the top of the hill and began to pass the school buildings, each more imposing than the last. After a minute or two we drew near enough to hear fragments of music trickling across the lawns from the old Forefield mansion, the heart of the academy. As soon as I saw it, I recognized it as the palace visible from my attic. From close up it looked at once more real and more enchanted. Light spilled out through tall windows and laughter mingled with the music. It sounded elegant and merry, utterly unlike the noisy chaos that passed for dances in the Byz High gym.

Ashleigh was all for charging up the broad marble steps to the door, but I held her back. We waited until a group of partygoers came up behind us, then hurried through the door at their heels, hoping any observers would think we were with them.

No such luck. At the entrance a red-faced man, gaunt yet jowly, sat behind a table taking tickets. “Excuse me! Excuse me, girls! Tickets?” he honked at us as we tried to sneak past.

Ashleigh opened the black beaded evening bag Sam had lent her, peered in, mimed astonishment, and patted the sides of her frock as if it had pockets. “I must have left them in my other cloak,” she announced with her best innocent look.

I made my usual embarrassed attempt to hide behind her, but it never works—Ashleigh is six inches shorter than me.

Turkeyface frowned. “Where are your escorts?” he asked.

“Oh, they’re around somewhere. They told us to meet them here,” Ashleigh tried.

Our challenger grew sterner. “This event is for the Forefield community and their guests only,” he said icily. “I’m afraid I can’t admit you without a ticket or, at the very least, an escort.”

Our wisest choice, I thought, would be to leave by the door and sneak back in through a window, crossing our fingers that the watchdog would keep his eye on the entrance rather than the room behind him. Well—our very wisest choice would be to go home, but I knew the Enthusiast would never agree to
that
.

“Can’t we just—” she began.

“I’m afraid the rules on this point are very—” Turkeyface countered, speaking over her words.

I felt the blushing faintness so familiar from years of hanging out with Ashleigh. But as I tried to distract myself by wondering whether I had turned as red as Turkeyface, my ears caught a sound as welcome as a fire drill during finals week. It was a voice behind me speaking miraculous words: “It’s all right, Mr. Waters. They’re my guests.”

Turning, I recognized the speaker as my Mysterious Stranger.

Turkeyface looked as astonished as I felt. “Really, Parr?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Both of them? Two dates, all for you? My, my, you’re quite the lothario.”

Did my hero turn faintly pink himself, or was that an effect of the lighting? “No, just one—the other is Ned’s guest—right, Ned?” He grabbed a square-set guy by the shoulder. “Got your tickets, Ned? Here, hand them over.”

The boy called Ned fumbled in a vest pocket—he wore a vest!—and pulled out a clump of paper, a pack of cinnamon gum, a pencil stub, a tuning fork, and, finally, a pair of tickets. They appeared to be printed on smooth, thin cardboard like theater tickets, not Xeroxed onto colored paper like school notices. My hero contributed a pair of his own.

Turkeyface pushed his glasses down his nose to inspect the tickets. He made no further objections, however, waving us into the room and turning back to menace new arrivals.

Once we were out of his range, Ashleigh reached up and hugged the arm of the Mysterious Stranger called Parr. “Our hero,” she cried. “You saved our lives! Without your aid, we would have been forced to climb in a window, endangering our Necks and Frocks. How can we ever thank you?”

“Hey, no problem,” he answered. “Always glad to do what we can to foil old Wattles. Right, Ned?”

“The supreme joy of our young lives, foiling Wattles,” agreed the one called Ned.

“Supreme though the joy of foiling Wattles may be, it can never compare in value to the service that you have rendered us tonight,” argued Ash. “How will we ever repay you?”

“Honestly, we were happy to. But if you really want to thank us, some dances should do it,” said Parr.

“With pleasure,” cried Ashleigh. I inclined my head.

“And will you tell us the names of our dancing partners?” asked the handsome hero, turning to me.

I felt my blush intensify. With all the blood rushing to my cheeks, I worried that none would remain to carry oxygen to my vital organs. “I’m Julie—Julia Lefkowitz,” I said, “and this is Ashleigh Rossi.”

To my horror, Ashleigh curtsied. “And you, sir?” she asked.

“Charles Grandison Parr, at your service, madam,” he said, sweeping an imaginary hat off his head and executing a bow worthy of Dodworth. “Allow me to introduce my companion, Edgar Downing, aka Ned the Noodle.”

“Don’t listen to old Granddad. Nobody calls me that,” put in Ned, kicking at his friend.

“He’s a dreamer, old Noodles. A fine intelligence, but a dreamer,” countered Parr, dodging neatly.

“But what, pray, did Mr. Turkeyface have against us?” asked Ashleigh. “Did he think we were going to steal the ancestors off the wall?”

The suggestion seemed almost reasonable. The walls of the room in which we were standing—a sort of medieval hall, complete with suits of armor, presumably empty, guarding the doors at each end—were covered from ear-height to the rafters with paintings of sour-looking men in dark suits.

“Oh, I doubt it—that’s just old Wattles acting wattly,” said Parr. “Of course, there
was
the time the Emerson House seniors sneaked in the night before Founder’s Day and turned all the pictures upside down. But I can’t imagine he would blame
you
for that.”

“Oh, yes he would, Gramps. He’d blame them for anything that crossed his mind. They’re girls, aren’t they? He’s a dirty-minded old Puritan. He probably thinks dancing is the devil’s work,” said Ned.

“But nobody’s actually dancing,” Ashleigh pointed out.

Indeed, the room was full of people milling around in knots like ours. Although a small chamber orchestra stationed overhead on a minstrels’ balcony was pouring forth music, not a single couple was dancing to it. The young musicians were even pretty good too, if you like Mozart and can ignore acne.

“Everyone’s waiting for the headmaster and his wife to open the dance. It’s a Forefield tradition,” said Parr. “But,” he continued after a pause, “how did you wind up here without tickets? Did you lose them? Or do you actually have escorts who stood you up?”

When we hesitated, wondering how to answer, Ned added, “Don’t tell me you really crashed! Somebody dared you, right? You can’t have come of your own free will.”

Ashleigh and I looked at each other, but before she could open her mouth, a fanfare sounded from the musicians’ gallery. A hush fell across the grand hall. A tuxedoed teenage trumpeter put down his instrument and announced in a voice as brassy as the horn: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your places for the Founder’s Quadrille!”

In the bustle that followed, a silver-haired gentleman emerged from the crowd and led a stout but handsome lady to the far end of the room, by the empty knights. Couples, mostly older, arranged themselves geometrically down the grand hall. Music struck up, and the lead couple began the elegant ritual of walk, slide, and balancé as the others looked on.

Ashleigh took Parr by the arm. “Well, sir? Didn’t you want to dance?” she cried.

“Yes, but we have a while. They always play one or two really weird antique dances before the waltzes. It takes at least an hour after that before they get to the normal stuff. We have a long wait ahead.”

“But why wait—don’t you know the quadrille?” persisted Ash.

“Well,
we
do—they teach us in phys. ed. when we’re first formers—but I can’t imagine
you
do. Unless—you’re not from Miss Wharton’s, are you?” Parr gave us a doubtful look.

“No, but we do know our quadrilles. Which one is this? The Coquette? The Polo? The Basket Dance? Well, we can wing it—I mean, we will endeavor to improvise. Come on, the rest of the couples are starting to dance!” said Ashleigh, stuffing her purse and wrap behind the nearest suit of armor. Parr let her pull him into position at the bottom of the room.

“Are you ready?” said Ned, turning to me. “I’m glad you showed up—for once I get someone good to dance with.”

I tucked my things in beside Ashleigh’s, took the arm he offered, and followed him off to join our friends.

The Founder’s Quadrille couldn’t be more unlike twenty-first century dancing. Today, a couple or small group stands together, rhythmically contorting their arms, shoulders, torso, hips, and lower limbs. The point is to wiggle in harmony with one’s companions while distinguishing oneself from the crowd by imaginatively displaying one’s attractive parts, all the while avoiding—as far as possible—looking like a dork.

Not so the Founder’s Quadrille. Looking like a dork seems to be required. Another difference is the miles that the quadrille dancers cover. They step forward and back, spin, approach the opposite corners, return to the first spot. Often throughout the dance, Ned took my hand, walked me and turned me, bowed to me and acknowledged my curtsy. But often, too, I found myself face-to-face with some other gentleman, or arm-in-arm with a lady. With all this to-ing and fro-ing, it was hard to carry on a conversation.