The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place (4 page)

I was curious about Berkeley, the other new girl. Having grown up with two parents who worked at a university, I knew that Berkeley in California was the home of a campus of the University of California, famous for sit-ins and very liberal political views. My father did not approve of sit-ins or liberal political views. My father did not approve of California, except for the fact that it had given us Ronald Reagan, who
was the president of the United States at the time. My father loved President Reagan.

“Is Berkeley where you were born?” I asked.

“Where I was conceived,” she answered.

Which stopped conversation until Heather Featherstone (whose name was also a little strange) smiled slyly and explained that while we were in camp, real names did not matter because the Alums called each other by their nicknames.

“What shall I call you?” I asked.

“I can't tell you,” Heather replied. “Our nicknames are secret. We can't tell you until you have one of your own.”

“I don't have a nickname,” I replied. “Everyone calls me Margaret or Margaret Rose. Rose is my middle name.”

Heather looked to her left at Ashley Schwartz and to her right at Kaitlin Lorenzo before saying, “Well, you don't give yourself a nickname. We give you one.” The three of them nodded.

“How can you do that?” I asked. “A name is something your parents give you—just like your parents gave you Heather.”

Ashley Schwartz joined in. “We're talking about a nickname—not something you put on a report card. After we give you a nickname, we tell you ours.”

Kaitlin said, “Everyone has to have a nickname.”

And I thought to myself: I don't.

After breakfast, we were divided into three groups in a mix-and-match arrangement of ages and cabins. We were to do a round-robin of lessons from each of three instructors who had gone to clown school. I was separated from the other Meadowlarks.

When I returned to the cabin during the break between makeup and juggling, I found that my bed-clothes were all rumpled even though I had made my bed before leaving. I climbed up to my bunk. My covers had been pulled back, and a big wet spot filled the center of the mattress. I smelled urine.

Furious, I climbed down and waited for the other Meadowlarks to appear. I was determined to find out who had done this and confront her. I waited, and no one came. I didn't know where they were or what they were doing, but I knew that wherever and whatever, they were together, and it had all been worked out beforehand.

—
and the friendly guidance of experienced counselors

I
set out to look for my counselor and found her in the mess hall talking to the other counselors. I approached and asked if I could have a word with her in private. Gloria looked concerned as we walked to a far corner of the room where no one could hear us. I described what I had found in the cabin.

Gloria put a hand on my shoulder and said, “It's all right, Margaret. A lot of girls have accidents. After all, it's a strange bed. These are unfamiliar surroundings.”

I protested, “But
I
didn't wet my bed. Someone else did.”

“Sure. Sure. I understand.” Gloria all but winked when she said that she would let the wet bed be a secret between us. “I'll just tell Jake to take the old mattress away and bring in a new one.”

“But I didn't do it.”

“We know, we know,” Gloria replied. “Don't worry about it. It will be taken care of.”

I persisted. “You saw that my bed was made this morning before I left the cabin. Didn't you?”

Gloria replied, “That's probably why the spot didn't dry out.”

“My bed was not wet when I made it this morning. I did not wet it. Someone else did.”

Gloria said, “That will be awful hard to prove.”

I realized that, yes, it would be. The evidence was stacked against me. I started to walk away.

Gloria called me back. Bending close to my ear so that no one else could hear, she said, “I'll have Jake change the mattress before lunch. We'll not say anything to anyone about this. I won't even do the paperwork on it.”

—warm companionship

The Alums were not as subtle as they thought they were. At dinner Ashley said that she had requested a room deodorant because she had detected a strange odor when she came into the cabin after clown class. Then, after a sliding glance at me, Kaitlin volunteered that her mother had sent her an extra set of sheets in case anyone in Meadowlark needed them. Alicia said that she had a friend whose little brother was a habitual bed wetter, and he had a rubber sheet on his bed “for precautionary reasons.” Stacey said, “I hope no one in Meadowlark has to. I heard that they make your bed real hot.”

In the evening the Alums whispered their secret nicknames to each other. By careful listening, I learned that Stacey Mouganis was named
Dolly
because she had one of the expensive handmade, not manufactured, Cabbage Patch dolls that she had brought with her to camp and, apparently, everywhere else. Heather Featherstone was
Fringie
because that was what she called the worn, cotton security blanket she could not sleep without. Ashley Schwartz was
Tattoo
because she had one. She was proud of her tattoo and often let it show while she was getting dressed or undressed. I heard her tell Berkeley that her parents had never seen it. I couldn't decide if she was bragging about how
modest she was or how little her parents saw of her. Kaitlin Lorenzo was
B-Cup,
because that was her size, of which she was very proud. And even though I, too, would have been proud to be a B-cup, I would never call them by name. I would just let them B.

By the evening of the second day, they had given Berkeley her nickname. I had had no trouble finding out what it was. They had chosen
Metalmouth
for her. She wore braces. Although I could tell that the Alums were proud of their choice, I thought it was unimaginative. I knew they wanted me to hear so that I wouldn't want to be the only one left out of their secret nickname society.

On the evening of the third day, Ashley Schwartz approached. She asked me to please step down from my bunk so that they could initiate me. The Meadowlarks had thought of a wonderful nickname for me.

I didn't want one.

I liked my real name.

Names were important. Uncle Alex had told me about how language was God's gift to man, how God had asked Adam to name the animals, so He brought every beast of the field and every fowl of the air to Adam and let Adam name them. Naming was so important that it was the second thing God asked Adam to do.

I was Margaret. Margaret Rose. Margaret Rose
Kane. I had been named for my mother's mother, Margaret Rose Landau, who had died the summer before I was born. Rose had been her maiden name; she was the Uncles' sister. Uncle Morris had once told me, “Rose is your middle name, and don't you forget it. That Rose in the middle holds
Margaret
and
Kane
together, and it will stop bullets if you let it.”

So far it had taken me twelve years to become Margaret Rose, and in the company of the Meadowlarks, I was finding it harder and harder to be her—or the Margaret Rose I thought I was.

Without coming down from my bunk, I said to the girls who had gathered around that I would like to know what name they had chosen for me.

“Come on down and find out,” Alicia said.

Blair Patayani said that they couldn't possibly reveal my name in advance.

“Then I can't accept it,” I said.

Heather thought I was teasing and said, “Aw, c'mon down.”

I simply could not allow seven girls who hardly knew me to boil me down to a single word of their choosing.

Beckoning with her fingers, Ashley said, “Come on down now.”

And I said, “I prefer not to.”

That evening, by unanimous vote—Metalmouth's included—the Meadowlarks changed their choice of nicknames for me. I never found out what their first choice had been, for the one they whispered and that I was definitely meant to hear was
Diapers.
It was supposed to humiliate me, but instead it made me understand what Uncle Morris had meant about my real name stopping bullets.

T
he highway had broadened to six lanes when Tartufo nudged his face forward onto the seat cushion and whimpered an invitation to be petted. “Tartufo,” I said. I waited for him to look at me and tilt his head, his sweet gesture that showed that he was ready to listen. “Tartufo,” I repeated. “Do you like your name?” I held his face in my hands and brought my face close to his. “It's a good name, isn't it. I like it a lot, and I think you do, too.”

The day I chose not to go on the nature walk, Gloria told me that Mrs. Kaplan wanted to see me.

I stood at her desk and waited as she read from my folder.

Finally, she looked up and smiled.

“We are told, Margaret, that today you were assigned to partner Berkeley Sims for our nature walk. Berkeley reported that you told her to tell Gloria that you preferred not to go.” Mrs. Kaplan continued to smile, waiting for me to respond. No question had been asked, and
she had not said anything that needed correcting, so I said nothing. At last, she asked an actual question. “Is this true, Margaret?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Kaplan closed the folder and pulled one of the camp brochures from the holder that was on the corner of her desk. She studied the picture on the front and asked, “Tell us, Margaret, did you and your parents read the camp brochures we sent?”

“Yes.”

“Did you watch the video?”

“Yes.”

“After reading the brochures and seeing the video, did you not choose Camp Talequa over all the others for the very reason that you
preferred
the activities at our camp?”

“Yes.”

“So, Margaret, tell us why you refuse to participate.” I answered, “I prefer not to.”

“Do you prefer not to tell us, or do you prefer not to participate?”

“Both.”

Mrs. Kaplan's smile froze. She started to say my name but got only as far as the first syllable. Her upper lip would not move. Her teeth were parched. She ran her tongue over her teeth and said, “Now, Margaret, we
want you to do something for us. We want you to get into the spirit of Camp Talequa.” She trained her eyes on me before allowing another smile to visit her face. Her head bobbed forward and back, forward and back, forward and back in a rhythm that was either a lot of yesses or an essential tremor, which is an idiopathic something that happens to seniors. She was either emphasizing something or showing her age. I watched and waited. She waited too. I think she was waiting for me to cry. I didn't.

At last she said, “Margaret, there are girls who come to this camp year after year after year. For some of them it is not just the best part of the summer, it is the best part of their whole year.” Dry-eyed and silent, I watched her head bob—yes yes yes yes—like a toy dog on the back ledge of a pickup truck. To keep up the eye contact, my head oscillated, keeping time with her. Mrs. Kaplan thought I was not resonating but agreeing, so she said, “We want you to get to know those girls, Margaret. There are six of them right in your cabin.” She looked down at my folder. “Meadowlark,” she said. And the bobbing—yes yes yes yes—started again.

“It
is
Meadowlark, is it not, Margaret?” Of course it was Meadowlark. How else would she know that there were
six of them
in my cabin? To avoid a recurrence of the bobbing syndrome, and possible hypnosis, I avoided
making eye contact and nodded, just once, a substantial yes. “Speak up,” she insisted. “It is Meadowlark, is it not, Margaret?”

“Yes. I am in Meadowlark.”

“Well, Margaret, there are in Meadowlark cabin six young ladies who have been to Camp Talequa every summer since they were ten years old.”

“The Alums,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Yes. There are six in your cabin. Let us give you their names—”

“I know who they are, Mrs. Kaplan.”

Despite what I said, she continued to call roll: a beat, a name, a nod. “—Alicia Silver, Blair Patayani, Ashley—”

“—Schwartz, Kaitlin Lorenzo, Stacey Mouganis, and Heather Featherstone,” I concluded.

The nodding stopped. I guessed that since she could start and stop it at will, it was not an essential tremor due to advanced age. Mrs. Kaplan said, “So you know who they are.”

“Everybody does.”

“Those girls are on the right track, Margaret. It would behoove you to get to know them. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I know what
behoove
means.”

“It means we want you to become friends with those girls, Margaret. They will show you how to
become a true participant in Camp Talequa.” She put the brochure back in the holder, made sure the edges were even, and then asked, “Now, can you tell us what you do prefer?” She began oscillating yes yes yes yes again.

I watched, hypnotized.

“Can you tell us what you do want?”

When I answered, she sent me to the camp nurse for an evaluation.

I spent the entire nature walk afternoon in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I practiced facial expressions, putting on makeup, and doing things with my hair.

I decided that hair is destiny.

The other new girl, Berkeley Sims, had hair that was eager to please. She could blow it straight or let it dry curly. It even had two popular colors: brown streaked with blond. But given a choice, I would choose hair like Blair Patayani's. She had quiet but determined hair: long, straight, thick, and very black. My own hair was noisy. It was dark and thick, took hours to dry, and refused to be tied up, pinned down, braided, or twisted into a bun. It was always difficult to manage.

When my cabin mates returned from their nature walk, they rushed in to take showers. They went in two at a time, leaving Ashley for last. I heard her run her shower. I heard it shut off. And then I saw Ashley come
running out. “The water is up to my ankles in there. It won't drain. Something's wrong.”