Read Online Chanel Bonfire by Wendy Lawless - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendy Lawless
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in New York was bling: music and art classes, sports teams, a state-of-the-art gymnasium, a theater with a thrust stage, and tons of money for field trips.
In my English class, we were reading Macbeth, so our teacher, Mr. Jesse, took us to see the play at the Royal Shakespeare Company, with Nicol Williamson and Helen Mirren starring. It was my first exposure to Shakespeare since watching my dad onstage at the Guthrie. This made me instantly adore Mr. Jesse, who was unlike any other teacher I had ever had. He was in his forties, short and compact, always clad in jeans and turtlenecks. He changed the way he looked every few weeks by growing a beard, shaving his head, or sporting a Fu Manchu mustache or a goatee. Always in motion, he feverishly spouted poetry like a crazed beat poet, pacing inside the circle our desks made.
“‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ ” Mr. Jesse boomed.
He’d throw the dictionary at you if you didn’t know a word, shouting, “Look it up!” He told us he divorced his wife because she used too many three-letter words.
One day after class he called me over. “This story you wrote, Wendy, is really very good.” He handed the pages back to me.
“Thank you, Mr. Jesse,” I said shyly.
“I showed it to a friend of mine, an actor, who thought it was wonderful. You should keep writing, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.” It meant the world to me that he liked my story.
“Life is short, and one musn’t squander one’s talents, don’t you agree?” He arched his eyebrows and scratched the muttonchop sideburns that he had recently grown.
“No, sir, I won’t.” I was too afraid to tell him I didn’t know what squander meant.
I continued to struggle in math and flunked algebra. Twice. Math made me cry, but I adored history, French, and Mr. Jesse.
My sister’s attitude toward school was similar to the one she had toward her appearance—she didn’t care. Or at least she didn’t care about what other people—her teachers and Mother—thought she should care about. Where my years of being a goody-goody made me the perfect student capable of delivering exactly what was asked for, Robbie had evolved into a more out-of-the-box thinker, preferring her own ideas to those of others. I kind of admired her for it, but was also afraid. We were teenagers now, and Robbie was stepping out more. I couldn’t shield her from poor grades or from Mother’s reaction to them. Report cards were the one thing Mother noticed during this time, and they sparked a long-simmering battle between her and my sister.
“Are you telling me that this is the best you can do?” Mother shook Robbie’s B’s and C’s report card at her angrily.
“Yes, Mother!” she said tearily.
“Do you know what would have happened to me if I had brought home a report card like this? I was a straight-A student!”
“I’m sorry, I’ll try harder next time.” Robbie ran to her room, crying, and closed the door.
“I’ll help her study, Mother,” I pleaded on my sister’s behalf. Mother stalked off in a huff, late for her ladies’ brunch, slamming the door behind her.
These occasional outbursts over my sister’s grades at school and others about the tidiness of our bedrooms were short-lived and for the first time we were able to let our guard down a bit. Compared with the past, these were honeymoon years for Robbie and me. The usual tension and fear of Mother’s disapproval began to ease, as Mother became even less interested in her role as a mother and reworked herself as a jet-setter.
Mother’s best friend and main guide through swinging London was Mary Broomfield, who was an upscale concierge at the London Hilton, helping the crème de la crème solve their high-class problems. Mary had found us our first strategically placed, trendy flat in London. She was a statuesque Brit with a helmet hairdo who looked a bit like Agnes Moorehead but with larger teeth. Mary came
In my English class, we were reading Macbeth, so our teacher, Mr. Jesse, took us to see the play at the Royal Shakespeare Company, with Nicol Williamson and Helen Mirren starring. It was my first exposure to Shakespeare since watching my dad onstage at the Guthrie. This made me instantly adore Mr. Jesse, who was unlike any other teacher I had ever had. He was in his forties, short and compact, always clad in jeans and turtlenecks. He changed the way he looked every few weeks by growing a beard, shaving his head, or sporting a Fu Manchu mustache or a goatee. Always in motion, he feverishly spouted poetry like a crazed beat poet, pacing inside the circle our desks made.
“‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ ” Mr. Jesse boomed.
He’d throw the dictionary at you if you didn’t know a word, shouting, “Look it up!” He told us he divorced his wife because she used too many three-letter words.
One day after class he called me over. “This story you wrote, Wendy, is really very good.” He handed the pages back to me.
“Thank you, Mr. Jesse,” I said shyly.
“I showed it to a friend of mine, an actor, who thought it was wonderful. You should keep writing, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.” It meant the world to me that he liked my story.
“Life is short, and one musn’t squander one’s talents, don’t you agree?” He arched his eyebrows and scratched the muttonchop sideburns that he had recently grown.
“No, sir, I won’t.” I was too afraid to tell him I didn’t know what squander meant.
I continued to struggle in math and flunked algebra. Twice. Math made me cry, but I adored history, French, and Mr. Jesse.
My sister’s attitude toward school was similar to the one she had toward her appearance—she didn’t care. Or at least she didn’t care about what other people—her teachers and Mother—thought she should care about. Where my years of being a goody-goody made me the perfect student capable of delivering exactly what was asked for, Robbie had evolved into a more out-of-the-box thinker, preferring her own ideas to those of others. I kind of admired her for it, but was also afraid. We were teenagers now, and Robbie was stepping out more. I couldn’t shield her from poor grades or from Mother’s reaction to them. Report cards were the one thing Mother noticed during this time, and they sparked a long-simmering battle between her and my sister.
“Are you telling me that this is the best you can do?” Mother shook Robbie’s B’s and C’s report card at her angrily.
“Yes, Mother!” she said tearily.
“Do you know what would have happened to me if I had brought home a report card like this? I was a straight-A student!”
“I’m sorry, I’ll try harder next time.” Robbie ran to her room, crying, and closed the door.
“I’ll help her study, Mother,” I pleaded on my sister’s behalf. Mother stalked off in a huff, late for her ladies’ brunch, slamming the door behind her.
These occasional outbursts over my sister’s grades at school and others about the tidiness of our bedrooms were short-lived and for the first time we were able to let our guard down a bit. Compared with the past, these were honeymoon years for Robbie and me. The usual tension and fear of Mother’s disapproval began to ease, as Mother became even less interested in her role as a mother and reworked herself as a jet-setter.
Mother’s best friend and main guide through swinging London was Mary Broomfield, who was an upscale concierge at the London Hilton, helping the crème de la crème solve their high-class problems. Mary had found us our first strategically placed, trendy flat in London. She was a statuesque Brit with a helmet hairdo who looked a bit like Agnes Moorehead but with larger teeth. Mary came
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