The Chocolate Money (15 page)

Strangely, I feel a bit let down that Miss McSoren doesn’t punish me. She would’ve punished Meredith, who would have complained about it but bragged too. Meredith is too much a part of Cardiss, and not punishing her would undermine the whole structure. But me, I have just washed up here and inevitably will wash back out. My studentness somehow counts less than others’.

But I haven’t been at Cardiss long enough to understand the magnanimity of Miss McSoren’s gift. Only later will I find out that smoking in a house is a pretty serious offense. It’s a huge fire hazard, and the school could lose its insurance. Anyone caught doing it is put on probation. Just a tiny step below being kicked out.

But now, I pretend to be grateful and say, “Thank you, Miss McSoren.”

She flashes me the hint of an angry look. She doesn’t want to be thanked. That would imply that I owe her something, and she does not want the responsibility.

I
MEET UP WITH THE
Bright girls at Oakley, the dining hall on our side of campus. It’s mostly empty by now. Meredith and Jess linger over coffee in Styrofoam cups while Holly looks on. I wonder if they’re waiting for me or just engrossed in conversation.

The dining hall is divided into two identical halves. I later find out that you always sit on the same side of the dining hall. Seats are not assigned but taken out of habit. Each half contains a hot-food line and its own salad bar. There are floor-to-ceiling windows and you can see students walking on the path outside. There are wooden circular tables as well as long rectangular ones.

I’m not really hungry, so I make myself two pieces of toast with butter and grab a cup of coffee. It looks so weak, you would probably have to drink seven or so cups of it to achieve the buzz of one espresso. I walk over to Meredith, Holly, and Jess and take the empty seat at their table. Meredith says:

“Bettina, you just missed Cape!”

“He’s really cute,” Holly adds.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be at breakfast,” Jess says.

As if I came to the dining hall not to eat but to examine Meredith’s beau. I’m curious, of course, but not obsessing over it. Babs would say,
Moving on—next?,
as she always does when she’s bored with a conversation. I hope one day soon the Bright girls and I can play boy-spotting with a guy I like, who whimpers over blowjobs and writes poetry.
Sure, that will happen
hits me inside my head, right behind my eyes.
Fuck off, Babs,
I want to say, but part of me believes this.

Later that night, we gather in the living room for our house meeting with Deeds. On a side table, there is a bizarre assortment of snacks: Three bananas. A handful of baby carrots. A white paper plate with five chocolate chip cookies. Root beer. Even though we’re not inclined to eat the cookies, it seems strange that there’s not a whole batch. Did Miss McSoren bake only five? Or did she get them from a nearby dorm that had oodles of them? One more indication that she has no maternal instincts.

Deeds stands in front of us, wearing the same outfit I first saw her in and once more holding a clipboard. Is she going to take attendance even though there are only four of us in the house?

Meredith and Jess once again sit on the floor, and Holly and I are cross-legged on the sofa. We don’t yet know that we will spend almost no time in this room. It is only for receiving visitors and the occasional phone call. No one at Cardiss watches TV. There is just too much work.

Deeds begins.

“First of all, I want to welcome Holly and Bettina to Bright. You can come to me with any questions, or just ask Meredith or Jessica. Since we are such a small house, we don’t have proctors. You have to see me each night to check in, and check-in is at eight.

“I want you each to read the C-book, but I will go over the big rules. No smoking or drinking on campus. No boys in your room unless it’s during visitation. Then you have to have lights on, door open, and three feet on the floor.”

I wonder about this. What does
three feet on the floor
mean? Where does the fourth foot go? Will Deeds walk by and check that we are complying with this? If we aren’t, what will the punishment be? It doesn’t really matter because I know nothing can be worse than a Babs deluxe room thrash. Do you have to leave if your roommate has a visitor? Where do you go? The living room? What would Deeds do if she caught Meredith fucking Cape in the shower? Would that be worse than my cigarette?

She continues. “You can study at the library until ten if you get permission beforehand.”

Will she check the library? She seems thorough enough to do so, although I bet she wants to be on deck at the dorm.

“Any questions?”

Holly raises her hand.

“Are we allowed to take baths?”

I don’t understand why anyone would want to. Does she think this is a hotel?

“Yes, of course, but not in the morning when everyone showers.”

I want to look like I am participating. Redeem myself for the smoking incident.

“Do we have to go to bed at a certain hour?”

Jess and Meredith giggle.

Meredith says, “You wish. Sometimes you’ll have so much homework, you’ll stay up all night.”

Miss McSoren doesn’t expect feedback from us. “No. If you are old enough to be away from home, you can regulate your own sleeping habits.” At least Deeds won’t be waking me up in the middle of the night. I sense from her rigidity that she gets her eight hours.

She waits for more questions, but we have none.

“That’s it,” she says. “I’ll leave you to get to know one another.” Holly takes a cookie, gets crumbs on her T-shirt. I want one too, but Miss McSoren’s offerings are too pathetic. Meredith declines. Seems to be watching me.

I
WAKE UP EARLY THE
next morning, around six, due to the jet lag. The starchy sheets and itchy blanket make me wonder at first if I am in some kind of hospital. Then I look over at the bed next to me and see Holly sleeping soundly. I badly need a cigarette. Smoking is now like breathing to me. It steadies me, helps me clear my head and get my balance. After my run-in with Miss McSoren, I don’t dare risk doing it in the bathroom. I decide instead to take a walk. Yesterday evening, I read in the C-book that students are allowed outside after five
A.M.
, so I figure I’ll find a nice bench somewhere on campus and have a cigarette. I slip on my pleated skirt and a yellow button-down and go outside.

The New Hampshire morning air is crisp but not quite cold, like a lake in summer. No one else is up that I can see. I walk for a bit, not really knowing where I am going, since I missed the campus tour the first day. I see identical red-brick dorms and concrete paths cutting through the grass. The library is in the center, a huge red building with round windows. One of the things that drew me to Cardiss, besides the fact that Mack and my grandfather went here, was this library. It’s bigger than any other prep school’s; has the most books. Behind the dorm farthest from Bright is an expanse of playing fields. These seem too open to risk a smoke on, and it would be almost sacrilegious to put out a butt on the grass. I keep walking until I get to a river lined with green benches. Just like a regular park.

I find a suitable bench. Take a seat and light up. I feel lonely sitting on this bench. It reminds me of the one in the aparthouse. But I am no longer a ten-year-old, bored in the playroom. New problems. I inhale sharply, think about Meredith and her stupid relationship with Cape. Even Holly has a better chance with someone like him than I do, even if she’s from Iowa. I am not sweet, or even hard in the right way. I’m cynical, but not dark, funny. I’m there on the bench for about an hour before I head to breakfast. I scan the dining room and spot Meredith, Jess, and Holly sitting at a different table from the night before, a long one filled with other students. I help myself to coffee and Raisin Bran with skim milk and join them.

“Hey, Bettina! Where were you?” Holly asks.

“I couldn’t sleep and took a walk,” I say, not wanting her to know I was suffering from jet lag.

“I can barely get out of bed at seven,” Meredith says. “You’re an inspiration.”

“Hardly,” I say, looking around at the others at the table, wanting to ask,
Who are these people?
There must be about fifteen students sitting there, boys and girls. I have never eaten breakfast with boys. Almost all of the students have wet hair. The boys wear blazers and ties, the girls skirts and slim-fitting T-shirts or oxfords. They are the best-looking bunch of teenagers I have ever seen. They seem to have some kind of hall pass from acne, and their bodies don’t pull at their clothes. There are too many of them to make introductions, so I just sit there. No one seems too interested in my arrival. I wonder if Cape is among them. Judging from the way that Meredith calmly spreads cream cheese on her bagel, I think not. How could you not perk up if a boy you gave a blowjob to was eating at the same table, even if you claimed to be on the verge of breaking up with him?

But I’m wrong. Another boy arrives at the table and says, “Hey, Cape! Summer?”

“Good; you?” He’s just three seats down the table from me. Has brown hair that falls in his eyes, which are an intense blue. White oxford with a navy tie that has lobsters on it. Thin wrists and long fingers. Totally put together, except his fingernails. The nails, and the skin around them, are savagely bitten. I realize that while you can be fluid during the summer, admit attraction and even love, at Cardiss, you hold such things in check. You have to live with these people, after all, and you have to tuck the vulnerable parts of yourself away. All the drama is secondhand, recounted and then rehashed during intense conversations in the dorms. I wonder what Cape’s thinking. Does he try to make eye contact with Meredith, or is even that small gesture too much of a risk? I turn and begin asking Holly what classes she will be taking, not wanting anyone to think I’m checking out Cape.

When the bell rings, we exit the dining hall and walk quickly to class. I haven’t had time to buy my books, so I just carry an empty straw bag that I picked up at the stalls in Paris. I worry Holly will think I can’t afford them and try to lend me money. I have a little schedule of all my classes that reads like some kind of treasure map. First is English 212 with Mr. Donaldson, room 42, Fielding Hall. I hope he’s more inspiring than Miss McSoren.

The classrooms at Cardiss are all alike, except for the science ones. Each contains a large oval wooden table that we sit around, like kids at a dinner party. We are supposed to throw out ideas, parse our thoughts while the teacher looks on like some kind of benevolent but detached host. When I walk in, I am almost the last one there. Two seats available. One next to a girl with purple hair, and one next to a cute blond boy. I pick the one by the boy.

Mr. Donaldson is standing by the door, waiting, I suppose, for the last student to arrive. He’s looks exactly like you’d expect a boarding-school teacher to look. Gray beard trimmed closely, glasses, tweed jacket, sharp green eyes. The bell rings again; no one else comes. He shuts the door.

“’Morning, everyone. I recognize some of you, but for those who are new, welcome. If you are not here for English 212, now is the time to make a graceful exit.”

I’m sure he has said this to classes a dozen times, but people still laugh. No one gets up.

“This semester, we’ll be reading from the twentieth-century British and American canon, and you’ll be writing three expository papers on whatever books you choose. You’ll also pick your own topics. I can provide some if you’re stuck, but I really want you to pursue something that interests you.

“The other thing we’ll do is creative nonfiction. You’ll be expected to compose three stories based on real episodes from your life. This’ll probably be challenging, since I want you to write about the real stuff. Events that have changed you, made you see things in a new light. Or, as they say, the precise moment after which everything was different. You’ll be reading these out loud in class, so we’ll work to establish a deep trust. And the less you hold back, the bigger the payoff.”

Some of my classmates are writing this carefully in notebooks, which makes me suspect they won’t have anything interesting to say, that they just want to follow directions. I take it all in. Start to worry. My stories are all about Babs. Just transcribing verbatim what she has said to me over the years, with no embellishment, would be taking a risk. And my life has yet to have a moment after which everything was different. So far, it’s been just Babs, Babs, and more Babs.

I look at the boy to my left. He’s not writing anything down, but his carefully combed hair and Cardiss tie seem to indicate a buttoned-up, sheltered existence. I doubt he’s ever seen his mother’s pubic hair.

Donaldson continues. “Today, a small exercise to practice.”

He grabs a pack of index cards from his desk and drops them in the middle of the table. “I want you to pinpoint a moment this summer when you felt embarrassed and describe it in three sentences or fewer. Write your name and your hometown in the top corner.” There is a small murmuring around the table, which dies down as students grab cards and take up their pens.

After five minutes of deliberation, I write:

Bettina Ballentyne
Chicago, Illinois

I was sitting on the beach in Cap d’Antibes when my bikini top came unhooked. I couldn’t get it back on quickly, and everyone around me was watching.

This of course is a lie, since I and everyone I know always goes topless in France, but I wasn’t going to write about the really horrifying things: Babs calling at three in the morning to see if I had gotten my period yet. Leaving Nair on my bikini area too long and getting a rash that lasted a couple of weeks. Borrowing a dress from Cécile and having it rip when I sat down at the dinner table because it was two sizes too small.

When all of us are done writing, Donaldson says, “Okay, now hand your card to your neighbor.”