Brooke (6 page)

“I don't know,” I said, near tears.

“It's nothing, Pamela. A memory,” Peter said, shrugging. She looked unhappy about it and settled back in her chair slowly.

“There are all these horror stories about families who have taken in a child, and years later, the biological mother, a woman who had nothing to do with raising the child, comes around and demands her rights,” Pamela muttered.

“That can't happen here,” Peter assured her. “She doesn't even remember her face. Do you, Brooke?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“You shouldn't hold onto anything, not even a ribbon,” Pamela said angrily. “The woman got rid of you like . . . like some unwanted puppy.”

“You're upsetting her, Pamela,” Peter said gently.

She looked at me and relaxed again. “I'm just
concerned about you. I want you to be happy with us,” she explained.

I tried to smile. This whole day was so overwhelming, so full of surprises and excitement, I couldn't keep my eyes open. Peter laughed and suggested I get a good night's rest.

“It's all just starting for you now, Brooke. This has only been a taste of what's to come,” he promised.

“I'll come up with you and show you the proper way to take off your makeup,” Pamela said, “and then give you something to put on your face.”

“Put on? But I'm going to sleep,” I said, confused.

“That's when your body is best able to replenish itself,” she explained. “You want to wake up looking beautiful, don't you?”

Peter laughed. “Just listen to Pamela,” he said. “You can see she knows what she's talking about.”

Put on makeup every day, wash with special soaps, filter your air, eat a special diet, avoid being upset, chant, meditate, put something special on while you slept. It seemed like so much effort. If this is what I had to do to be beautiful, I thought, I think I'd rather be plain old me.

But I would never say so, not if I wanted Pamela to love me like a daughter or even a sister.

I knew that much, but what I didn't know was that what I knew was not enough, not hardly enough.

F
or the next few days, Pamela took over my life as if I had nothing more to say about it. She set schedules for almost every waking moment and left nothing to chance. The plan was to enroll me in the Agnes Fodor School for Girls, a private school designed only for those born with silver spoons in their mouths. However, before I could be brought to the school for registration, Pamela wanted me to learn enough about poise, etiquette, and style to “fool any of the blue bloods.”

“Blue bloods,” she explained, “are those who are born into wealth and position, whose family lineage goes back to the most respectable and important people in our social and political history. They are taught from day one how to behave and conduct themselves, and that is how I want you to appear, as well.”

“But I'm not a blue blood,” I pointed out.

“You are now,” she said. “Peter and I come from the best stock, and you will carry our name. Most important, when someone looks at you, they'll be looking at me. Understand?”

I nodded, but I didn't like it. I didn't like becoming an instant blue blood. I needed more time to get used to having servants at my beck and call and more time to learn my way about a house that resembled a palace. I didn't like Joline drawing my bath every night and laying out my nightgown and slippers. I felt like an invalid. Pamela decided what colors I would wear and how I should brush my hair. When I said I had never worn nail polish, she looked at me as if I was some sort of alien creature.

“Never? I just can't believe that,” she said.

When I laughed at the idea of polishing my toenails, she grew angry. “It's not funny. It's as serious as any other part of your body,” she insisted.

“But who will see them?” I asked.

“It's not important who else sees them. You must understand. We're beautiful first for ourselves, to make ourselves feel special, and then, when we feel special, others will see it and think of us as special, too.”

“I don't understand why we would be so special,” I muttered.

“Your clothes, your coiffure, your makeup, your walk, and your smile, everything about you must coordinate, must work together. Women like us,” she taught me, “are truly works of art, Brooke.
That's what makes us special. Now do you understand?” she asked.

I didn't, but I saw that if I didn't look as if I did, she would grow angry.

The one time she did get very angry with me occurred three days after I had arrived, when I asked if I could call someone at the orphanage. I wanted to talk to Brenda Francis, my one close friend. I knew she missed me. I was practically the only one she spoke to, and I wanted to see how she was doing. I had left so quickly, we never really had time to say good-bye.

“Absolutely not!” Pamela said forbiddingly. “You must drive that place and everyone in it out of your memory forever.

“Very soon,” she continued, “you will completely forget that you were ever an orphan.” She clenched her teeth and grimaced as if pronouncing the word
orphan
filled her mouth with castor oil.

Deep inside my heart, I worried that if my new mother found orphans so distasteful, how could she ever come to love me? Maybe she was worried about that, too, and that was why she was so intent on my becoming a new person as soon as possible. For both our sakes, I thought I would try.

The first thing we did after Pamela instructed me on my morning makeup was go to the shopping mall to buy more clothes for me. In the lingerie department, she chose a padded bra. I felt foolish trying it on and even more silly when I gazed at my exaggerated figure in the mirror. I looked years
older just with that cosmetic change and complained that I didn't look like the real me.

“That's exactly what I want for you,” she insisted. “I know these contest judges. When you're in a Miss Teen this or that contest and you look older, they're impressed, especially the men.”

I was still so surprised that she really believed I could be in any such contest. What did she see in my face that I couldn't see, that no one else saw? I thought I was plain-looking, even with the appearance of bigger breasts. Moving with the bra on reminded me of wearing a baseball catcher's chest protector. I felt bulky and thought everyone was looking at me because my bosom didn't fit the rest of me.

Before we left the store, she bought me a half dozen more skirt-and-blouse outfits, three more pairs of shoes to complete the outfits, a necklace, three pairs of earrings, and a beautiful pinky ring– a gold band with a variety of baguettes. She then made an appointment for me to have my hair trimmed and styled by her beautician the day before she would enroll me at Agnes Fodor.

When we returned home, my charm lessons began, although she told me that every moment I spent with her would be like being in charm school. She was right.

As we rode in the limousine, she instructed me on how I was to sit. She demonstrated her posture, the way she held her head, and how she kept her legs either pressed tightly together or crossed properly.

“We're going to meet many different people over the next few days, Brooke. Whenever I introduce you to someone, don't say 'Hi.' I know young people today always use that, but you want to sound cultured. Always respond with 'Hello. I'm glad to meet you.' And always look at the person, have direct eye contact so the person feels you are paying attention to him or her and not looking over their shoulder at some gorgeous man. You can shake hands. It's proper, but you will be introduced to some of our European acquaintances as well, and they have the habit of kissing cheeks. For now, follow my lead. If I do it, you'll do it. First, put your right cheek to the right cheek of the person you're greeting, and then pull back slightly and do it again with your left cheek. Most of them like to do what is called air kissing.”

“Air kissing?”

“Yes, you really don't press your lips to someone's face. You kiss the air, smacking your lips loudly enough to sound like a kiss. You'll get the hang of it,” she promised with a smile.

It all sounded so silly to me. Actually, it reminded me of some of the rules Billy Tompson had come up with when I was ten and we were forming our secret club at the orphanage. He had a specially designed handshake that started with the pressing of thumbs, and he also had secret passwords. Maybe cultured, sophisticated people simply had their own club.

“I hate 'okays,' too, another big teenage word these days. When someone says, 'How are you?'
you reply, 'Very well, thank you,' or 'Fine, thank you.'

“All this,” she explained, “is really going to be important when the judges do their little interviews. They'll be judging you on poise and charm.”

“What judges?”

“The contest judges. Aren't you listening?” she asked with irritation in her voice.

“I'm listening, but when will I be in a contest?”

“Well, of course, I don't want to enter you in anything before you're ready, but I think in about six months,” she replied.

“Six months! What contest is that?”

“It's not one of the most prestigious, but it's a good one to cut your teeth on,” she said. “It's the Miss New York Teenage Tourist Pageant held in Albany. The winner gets awarded scholarship money, not that you need that, and represents the state in a number of advertising promotions, print displays, and even a video. I'd like you to win,” she said firmly.

Win? I wouldn't have the nerve to set foot in the door, much less go up on a stage, but Pamela had that determined look on her face that I had already come to recognize, and when that look came over her, it was better not to contradict her.

My education in what I now thought of as Proper Behavior for Blue Bloods continued as soon as we arrived home each day. The first afternoon was set aside for table etiquette. Suddenly, the dining room became a classroom.

“Sit straight,” she instructed, and demonstrated.
“You can lean slightly against the back of the chair. Keep your hands in your lap when you're not actually eating so you don't fidget with silverware. I hate that, especially when people tap forks on plates or the table. Rude, rude, rude. You may, as I'm doing now, rest your hand or your wrist on the table, but not your whole forearm. Don't, absolutely don't, put your hands through your hair. Hairs often float off and settle on dishes and food.

“If you have to lean forward to hear someone's conversation, you can put your elbows on the table. In fact, as you see when I do it, it looks more graceful than just leaning over stupidly. See?”

“Yes,” I said, and then she made me do everything she had instructed.

“Teenagers,” she said, again pronouncing the word as if we were primitive animals, “often tip their chairs back. Never do that. Of course, you know to put your napkin on your lap, but you should, out of courtesy, wait for the hostess to put hers there first. Since I'm the hostess of this house, at any of our dinners, wait for me. Understood?”

I nodded.

“Don't flap it out, either. I hate that. Some of Peter's friends wave their napkins so hard over their plates that they blow out the candle flames. They're so crude.

“Just like with the napkin,” she said when Joline began serving our food, “you don't begin eating until the hostess begins.

“The first day you were here, you didn't know which piece of silverware to use first. Always start
with the implement of each type that is farthest from the plate.

“Now, watch how I cut my meat, how I use my fork, and how I chew my food. Don't cut too big a piece. Chew with your mouth closed, and never talk with food in your mouth. If someone asks you a question while you're chewing, finish chewing and then reply. If your dinner partner is sophisticated, they will know to wait.

“At Agnes Fodor, you will see that the girls follow these rules of etiquette, Brooke. I don't want you to feel inferior in the school dining room. If you make a mistake, don't dwell on it, understand?”

“Yes,” I said. I was never so nervous eating. In fact, my nerves were so frazzled, the food bubbled in my stomach, and I didn't remember tasting anything.

At dinner, I was to perform for Peter's benefit. I shifted my eyes to Pamela after every move, almost after every bite, to see whether she was pleased or not. Usually, she nodded slightly or raised her eyebrows if something wasn't right.

“You're doing wonders with her,” Peter declared. “I told you that you were in the hands of an expert when it comes to style and beauty, didn't I, Brooke?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I almost didn't recognize this girl,” he told Pamela. “Is this the same poor waif we brought home to be our new daughter?” he joked. “Pamela, you're a master at this.”

Pamela gloated in the light of Peter's compliments. Afterward, when she and I were alone, she began what she considered the second stage of my development: how to handle men.