Pride and Prep School (6 page)

When I say, “Okay,” Mom only looks shocked for a split second before beaming at me.

The tour is held on a Thursday, as the types of people who go on such tours, apparently, are not the kind of people who work from nine to five. They are nosy retirees and homemakers and women from Mom’s club who want to compare their homes to those of the most illustrious citizens in town, which is shabby, but I’ll put up with it because it’s worth it to do a little detective work.

Michael’s house is last on our itinerary, and the guide there is an elderly man named Jake Whittaker, president of the Longbourne Historical Society, who has more hair coming out of his ears than on top of his head. But his enthusiasm for all things ancient and architectural is pretty contagious, especially for Mom, whose general interest in old homes reaches a fever pitch when she’s actually met the inhabitants. She’s as excited as she’d be to tour Buckingham Palace if she had met Prince William and Kate. I’m a little breathless myself.

Jake leads us through the maple leaf-red front doors of Michael’s house and explains that we would only see the original part of the house today, which dates back to 1768, as the rest had been added to it over time, “modernized but in harmony with the original design.” Mom nods appreciatively. There’s a whitewashed entryway and a large dining room that used to be the kitchen, Jake explains, and Mom ducks her head into the massive stone fireplace where an old blackened kettle still hung. I swear she would go through the Endicotts’ medicine cabinet if she could. All of the antiques are original to the home, or at least to the Endicott family, Jake tells us proudly, and Mom ooohs and aaahs as he explains the entrepreneurial history of the Endicotts, from their building of the town’s first grist mill to their later days as owners of several paper mills in Netherfield, and he notes in conclusion that they “remain one of the region’s most prominent families.” He explains that Dr. Endicott is not only a favorite local physician but also a volunteer with the international group Doctors Without Borders, and that his wife has had some of her paintings shown in galleries in Boston and Philadelphia and Europe.

I feel hopelessly outclassed by now and so pathetic for being here that I just back out of the room and flee to the entryway, my heartbeat hammering in my ears. I would love to escape the house entirely, but Mom isn’t going to be pulled away from a collection of eighteenth-century toothbrushes any time soon.

Since I am stuck there for the foreseeable future, I examine the series of paintings and photographs on the walls of the gleaming whitewashed entryway. There are early folk art portraits, the kind where the children look and are dressed just like shrunken adults and the proportions of everything else are equally messed up. There are old sepia photos of groups of people, families or school classes or church groups or friends. Each dark-haired, sharp-eyed boy reminds me of Michael, whether the subject is in short pants or has long curls or stands by a velocipede or whatever they call those ancient bikes with the huge wheels.

Suddenly a force greater than my common sense—which, I’ll admit, has been pretty faulty lately, propels me—and I find myself creeping up the long staircase to the forbidden second floor.

I need to see Michael’s room.

I need to find out if he
is
a secret slob, or if there’s even more interesting evidence of whom he is up there. I’m not expecting to find anything big, like a literal skeleton in his closet. But I am going to find it, whatever it is. And I will know once and for all who he is.

I make it to the landing when I hear a burst of barking below me and I freeze.

Someone has let a dog in.

Which means that some member of the Endicott family is actually in the house.

Which means that one of Michael’s parents is about to catch me snooping.

I start barreling down the stairs, sliding down the last few of them, imagining security guards, angry Endicott elders, or the entire Longbourne police force armed and ready to shoot because someone has violated this historic and private sanctum. I land on my butt with a thump, only to have a large dog pounce on my form lying most indecorously at the bottom of the steps. For a split second, I think I’m being attacked by a guard dog, but then I realize that this dog is licking me, and quite happily. I must be hysterical with fear and embarrassment because this makes me start to giggle. A lot. Until I hear his voice and I freeze again.

“Harry!” Michael admonishes, firmly but calmly. “Harry! Get
off her
!”

“It’s okay. I’m used to cats. I forget dog tongues are soft and not scratchy,” I say, which is just about the dumbest thing anyone has ever said. But at least I have Harry’s floppy ears to ruffle as I stand up and avoid looking at Michael.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. It is a perfectly reasonable question and judging by the heat that is rushing to my face, I must be turning the color of a fire hydrant now.

“Oh, my mom is on the Historic Homes Tour,” I say, gripping the banister so my knees don’t quit on me entirely. “She insisted I come along.”

Michael’s eyes narrow slightly, and Harry whines a little and come to rest at Michael’s feet. “No, I mean why are you on our staircase? That’s not part of the tour.”

“I … got lost?”

We just blink at each other for a few seconds and then Harry lets out a short, crisp bark and turns in a circle to show Michael that he wants to go somewhere else.

Me, too. Like the bottom of a pit of vipers or the slippery bloody floor of a slaughterhouse or the cage of an angry bear that’s been locked up too long and blames me for his incarceration.

Thank God I didn’t make it into Michael’s room. As I follow Michael and his dog into his kitchen, because I honestly don’t know what else to do, the very thought of him finding me in his room makes blush even more furiously.

Why can’t a person spontaneously combust on command if they really need to?

As he takes a silver metal dog dish over to the big double sink, I say, “I’m surprised you have a mutt,” and he glances at me.

“Because you assumed I would have some kind of pedigreed show
dog
? One with a really long and pretentious name to advertise his breeding?”

“Hey, I didn’t even assume you
had
a dog.”

“You shouldn’t assume
an
ything,” he snaps as he sets the bowl down for Harry. Then he clears his throat and says a little defensively, “I like mutts. They’re smart and have more personality than purebreds.”

“I agree. But these Westies who live down the street from me are adorable.” After an awkward silence, I say, “I thought you were in Aruba with Trey.”

“No. I didn’t want to tag along with him and Tori. I’d just be in their way.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” I say, and he has no response to this.

We listen to Harry lap up his water for a long moment before I can summon the courage to speak again.

“So … my mom is a real nut for historic homes. She dragged me along today. I, uh … couldn’t get out of it.”

His smiles crookedly. I don’t blame him for enjoying my painful embarrassment.

“There’s some great architecture in town,” he says blandly.

“And we’ve seen a lot of it today … So what have you been doing over break instead of going to Aruba?”

“Nothing much. My kids at the Y are getting ready to show their parents what they’ve learned in my class.”

“Do you swim on the team for school?”

“No. I did at Pemberley, though.”

“Oh … well … I should go find my mom and drag her out of here. One more authentic chamber pot and she’ll need to be sedated.”

He smirks and as I’m on my way out of the kitchen when my eye catches sight of something that my brain registers as familiar. It’s one of my doodles, a scrap from my bio notebook that I had made of a frog armed with his own scalpel, saying COME AT ME. SEE WHAT HAPPENS, daring somebody to try to open him up to examine his innards. And now it’s sticking out of a library book sitting right on top of the massive wooden island right in the middle of the Endicotts’ kitchen.

“Hey, that’s—” I start to say as I place a hand on it but Michael snaps, “You can have it back if you want it. I just found it and wrote a note about the homework on the back of it.”

“No, you can keep it,” I say. “It’s the perfect bookmark for what you’re reading.” He’s looking at the floor and I am dying to know if he really is reading this book, all on his own, but I decide that this mutually inflicted torture needs to end now and say, “I’m, uh, gonna go find the rest of the group.”

He says, “See ya,” and turns away as I run until I find my mother absorbed in one of Jake’s elegies on the wonders of the Endicott wainscoting.

When we’re finally in her car, she says, “I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry,” as she buckles herself into the seatbelt much too slowly.

“Michael is there, and I just feel really weird touring the house of one of my classmates like it’s a museum.”

I slump into the seat, though it’s much too late to hide now, and Mom reaches over and pats my hand, like she understands. I want to cry because she doesn’t understand. How could she understand how shocked and humiliated—and freakishly elated—I feel when I don’t understand it myself? At last we drive away.

“The Endicott house is spect
ac
ular,” she enthuses. “It’s my favorite on the whole tour. What did you think?”

“It’s great.”

“Those stained glass windows at the house on Oak Street are beautiful, though. Original Tiffany design, I heard. Must have cost a fortune, even then.”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

“The Palladian window in the house on Summer Street reminded me of the one at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Do you remember it?” She rubs her nose with one gloved hand and takes a very hard right. She is fueled by plans. “We have
got
to get our windows replaced. You can feel the wind come straight through the windows in the dining room, and Leigh’s room. She’s a case of pneumonia waiting to happen. And the woodwork needs repainted …”

But I’m not listening.

I’m too busy wondering why Michael took a copy of Jonathan Safran Foer’s
Eating Animals
out of the library. And why it’s in his kitchen, half-read. And why he is using my doodle as a bookmark for it.

I’m telling you, finding a Wonderbra in his size would not have been more surprising to me.

I went to his house to solve a mystery and left with a deeper one. But it’s one that makes me feel hopeful for the first time since he’d stormed out of my kitchen.

Two days after the house tour, on the last Saturday of Winter Break, I begin my career as a vegan baker to the punk under-twenty-one set by loading up the wagon of Mom’s old Volvo with brownies and cookies and cupcakes that I had spent two whole days baking and forced into any sanitary container I could find. I pick up Shondra, who is clearly one of the best people ever to walk the face of the earth for having offered to help me, and we drive to a little gray building with peeling siding and an American flag on a pole that’s as big as the building itself. Dave’s van is already parked there, and soon he and Gary and Gary’s girlfriend, Megan, are helping me unload and set up my wares at the small bar, which, as Gary promised, is stocked only with Coke, Diet Coke, and Red Bull.

“These look
awesome
!” Megan enthuses as she unwraps a tray of brownies. She has brown hair hacked off at her shoulders with a purple streak on one side and is wearing ripped up fishnet stockings and a striped dress; both create the effect of a sausage attempting to flee its casing. While the band sets up, Shondra and I debate how much to charge for each item as Megan whips out a truly impressive collection of pens in colors that I didn’t even know existed in Sharpie form. She makes elaborate little cardboard signs for each of my offerings, announcing them as ANTI-CORPORATE CUPCAKES and ANTI-DEATH DOUGHNUTS. The cookies she labels JUST FUCKING AWESOME.

In half an hour kids start spilling in and, despite their definitely un-preppie appearance, I wonder if Shondra feels weird since it seems like she’s the only person of color in the place. I guess she’s used to it, because she is just sipping a Diet Coke and sitting on a stool, bobbing her head to the Dead Kennedys playing on the PA system, surveying the growing crowd.

“These kids aren’t gonna stomp each other, or mosh pit, or whatever?” she asks me with a grin.

“I have no idea. Some of them look like they could inflict some damage if they wanted to.”

“They’re at least
trying
to look that way,” she agrees.

“They just better not smash up my cupcakes. I like to bake, but I don’t know if I would ever spend two whole days doing it again.”

Shondra nods, and says as she runs a long finger along the rim of her soda can, “Hey, my friend Los is down from Pemberley this weekend. He couldn’t make it tonight, but could you meet us at the Blue Rooster tomorrow afternoon? He really wants to meet you.”

“Yeah, okay …” I say as I hand over a peanut butter chocolate cupcake to a skinny kid with a green Mohawk that keeps drooping in his eyes. My first sale! And the show hasn’t even started yet.

A loud yell almost lifts the roof off as the Cryptic Pigs from Hell take the little platform that passes for a stage. They’re loud, they’re fierce, and they’re not half bad. Kids jump and shout and slam into each other as the band rips through songs by the Clash, the Jam, the Ramones, the bands Gary’s mix CDs have prepared me for. Most of the kids are from East Longbourne, but I recognize a couple people from school. Tony Mondetto, rumored to be the son of the head of the Netherfield Mafia, buys all my chocolate chip cookies. And Caroline Cranos from my history class is there. At least I think it’s her; she doesn’t usually wear a safety pin in her nose. She keeps hurling herself at the stage along with her friend Katie, whose glasses get knocked off and almost moshed to bits at one point. I also notice Cassie’s ex, the Brick, bobbing his head to the music and raising his fingers in the heavy metal “rock on” salute. He comes by for a Red Bull and a cupcake, whooping as he approaches the bar.

“Hey, Georgia! These guys fuckin’
rock
!” he yells at me over “I Wanna Be Sedated”.

“I know!” I yell back. “How are you?”

He keeps nodding and puts a hand over one ear, shouting, “I’m good, I’m
good
! Good to see you!”

“I had no idea he was a closet punk,” Shondra laughs when he bounces back to the crowd. “You’re almost sold out, George. Maybe you’ve recruited some new vegan warriors.”

We watch Megan body surfing toward the stage as Gary does his best to look like a badass as he thrashes his guitar. Dave has his glasses off so he has to squint when he looks at the crowd and when he sees us, he points and we cheer. When we’re sold out of baked goods, Shondra and I join the crowd, bobbing and stomping as the music thrashes around us. It’s fun to be there amid all the noise and the happy chaos. I feel better than I have in days, like I’ve been untethered and let loose into a limitless space. It’s a great feeling and a great night. And I sold
a lot
of cupcakes and brownies and cookies.

Shondra squeals a little when I hand her a roll of bills that we earned. I’m more than happy to share. I just want to cover the loan on the ingredients from Mom. As we leave I promise Caroline that next time I will add a selection of gluten free items, as well, because apparently celiac disease is just as cruel as meat.

I wish I’d saved a brownie or something for Michael. If he’s reading what amounts to the vegan bible, he ought to taste the sacrament, right?

I’m pondering this the next day when I am sitting on a lumpy, mangy old couch in the Blue Rooster, inhaling the smell of ground coffee, which I love, even though I don’t like the
taste
of it. I’m eager to meet Los, whoever he turns out to be, because after finding out that he’s read Foer’s book, I feel like the mystery of Michael Endicott is starting to unravel at last. I know that Sondra’s friend will probably have the key to unlocking the mystery of Michael’s expulsion since he was there at Pemberley when it happened.

When Shondra comes in, her half braids-half twists bobbing, she’s all smiles, and behind her is a squat but attractive guy with very cropped black hair and large, arresting hazel eyes with long brown lashes. He shakes my hand with enthusiasm.

“Hi, I’m Los. And you’re Georgia, right? I hear you’re a fierce baker.”

“Yeah,” I say as I try not to stare at the sinister-looking tattoo wrapped around his neck. It’s like an iguana’s tail with swirls instead of spikes, or a bird’s wing with cactus needles instead of feathers, beautiful and formidable at once.

“Shondi tells me you’re friends with Michael Endicott,” he says.

I smile at the sound of “Shondi.”

“I don’t know if we’re exactly
friends
…” I try to explain without explaining and Shondra looks at me with raised eyebrows.

Los seems to deflate for a moment underneath his very baggy Army jacket.

“Could you call him for us?” Shondra asks.

“I don’t know his phone number, and, um … I’m not sure he would want to talk to me.”

Los sighs impatiently and, extracting a cell phone from his kangaroo pouch of a pants pocket, turns from us and calls information.

“What happened with you and Michael?” Shondra asks as she takes a seat next to me and we watch Los pace and talk on the phone.

“I told you. He half asked me out, half completely insulted me and my entire family. I let him know I wasn’t flattered and he might hate me now.”

“Hmmmm,” is all Shondra says until Los returns, saying, “He’ll be home in ten minutes, according to his mom. Can you at least drive me to his house, Georgia?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. I have my dad’s car and I have to pick him up at Meryton at four, but I can do that.” The last place I want to go is back to Michael’s ancestral estate, the scene of my almost-crime of trespass, but there is no way I am going to let Shondra and her friend down.

Los smiles and pulls one of Shondra’s braids very gently.

“Thanks,” he says. “I need to see him in person to tell him something, and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“You knew him at Pemberley, right?” I ask Los as we’re all driving to Longbourne along the serpentine edge of Sylvan Park.

“Yeah. I need to thank him,” Los says. He’s looking out the window at the houses and trees. You can tell when we reach the Longbourne town line because all of a sudden the sidewalks are very smooth and even and not erupting with tree roots from below like they are on the Netherfield side of the park.

When we get to Michael’s house, I throw on the brakes for a second, almost sending Los through the windshield, because Michael is right there, dressed in long gray shorts and white running shoes, stretching out his calf muscles on his front steps. He looks up and watches the car approach and a grin breaks out across his face as Los practically bursts from the car before I come to a full stop.

“Figuerroa!” Michael calls and Los lopes over to him and envelopes him in a hug.

“Endicott!”

Shondra and I get out of the car more slowly and hang there, watching, not sure what to do, but she’s smiling.

“Hi, Shondra, Georgia,” Michael says.

“You been running, man?” Los asks him, then turns to us. “Endicott was always running somewhere back at Pemberley. He could run from here to New York and not break a sweat.”

Michael shrugs.

“I run cross country,” he says to us. “And track.”

Los clamps a hand on Michael’s shoulder and addresses Shondra and me.

“Will you ladies excuse us? I need to talk to my man Endicott here.”

“Sure,” Shondra agrees readily.

“We’ll go out back? If that’s okay,” I suggest. “It’s a nice day for once.”

Michael nods and he and Los disappear into the house, which Shondra stares at with some discomfort. I know how she feels.

“Can you believe this place?” I ask.

“It’s amazing,” she says quietly. “I can’t imagine actually living in a museum like this.”

“You should see the inside,” I tell her as we walk past the porch toward the general direction of the backyard cut out from the woods. “My mom dragged me here on a Historic Homes Tour. It was so embarrassing, especially when Michael came back and found me there.” I don’t mention that I was en route to his off-the-tour bedroom, though.

“Ow,” Shondra laughs sympathetically.

We both stop and take in the view. In a sunken part of the backyard, surrounded by boulders and smaller rocks and plants just waiting to come awake again, lies a pool carved out of the rock and ground, looking for all the world like a lagoon just naturally occurred in the middle of Longbourne. It’s obviously old and really very beautiful, even in the winter.

“Michael teaches swimming at the Y in Netherfield,” I say. “I guess this is where he learned to swim.” I wonder what he looked like then, a skinny little boy with such dark eyes.

Shondra nods and takes a seat on a stone bench overlooking the little lagoon grotto area. She leans forward a little, shoulders hunched, even though it’s not cold for once.

“This place is something else,” she says.

“I think ‘daunting’ is the word,” I say as I sit next to her. “So what does Los want to thank Michael for?”

“You don’t know?” Her eyes and mouth are almost comically round now.

“No.”

She presses her lips together for a moment. I can tell she must be weighing whether she can answer my question or not. She gives a little shrug to herself and says, “It’s about how Michael got kicked out of Pemberley. I mean, you heard about
that
, right?”

“I’ve heard lots of stories. Cheating on a history test, selling prescription drugs, what else… ?” Shondra smirks at this. “I know, that one seemed pretty unlikely,” I agree.

“Last year he and Los were in a history class together, and Los was not doing well. He’s at Pemberley on a soccer scholarship and it was taking up a lot of his time, plus he just really
sucks
at studying. So he was going to lose his scholarship if he didn’t get his grades up, and Michael knew that. So when Los was busting on the midterm, Michael let him see some of the answers and they got caught.”

“But why did Michael get kicked out and not Los, too?”

“They were both
supposed
to be. But Michael took the fall for him. Los said he was all panicky, waiting in his room, packing up his stuff, waiting for his appointment with the headmaster about violating the honor code, ready to face his disappointed family who were all so proud of him, and the next thing he knows, there’s no meeting and Michael is just
gone
.”

I look up to the sky and watch a red-tailed hawk circling lazily overhead as I try to digest this information. It’s a little like trying to take in an atom bomb.