Read Online Chez Cordelia by Kitty Burns Florey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kitty Burns Florey
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out what I was supposed to do with it. Every time I went near that paperback book, with Lady Macbeth looking gory and sinister on the cover, little teeth of pain began to nibble at the insides of my head.
I tried to get through the final exam, which featured large helpings of Macbeth , on the strength of the class discussions, but my mind had closed up on those, too, and I couldnât even get the plot right. I could hardly tell Macbeth from Macduff, and I was never sure who killed the king, Mr. or Mrs. I wrote one sentence (which I would reproduce here to illustrate my helplessness had it not passed mercifully from my memory) and went home.
âOf course, we canât pass this,â Sister Charles said to my parents. There was a special conference the afternoon of reportcard day. I wasnât present, but I can imagine their reactions. By the time they got home, they were pretty well under control, but my fatherâs eyes were more dolefully Tennysonian than ever, and there were new pouches under my motherâs eyes, perhaps from crying. Iâd hoped they could talk Sister Charles into passing me. I was revolted at the idea of repeating a course that had been agony the first time around. Besides, I wanted to get out into the real world. Iâd been half promised a job at the animal shelter in Madison, and I had dreams of my own little studio apartment full of cute things I liked. I had my eye on a huge cookie jar at Bradleeâs that looked just like Bounceâtake off his hound-dog head and inside find a million Oreos.
âYouâll have to repeat twelfth grade,â my father said, more in sorrow than in anger. Horatio was a professor at Harvard, Miranda had started up her little press, Juliet was working on her Ph.D. in Greek literature, and I had flunked twelfth grade because I couldnât get through Macbeth .
It takes a lot to get me down. It took that , my first tragedy, my first setback. I saw myself as a practical and determined person set firmly upon a certain kind of course in life (still blurry as to details but with powerfully distinct general outlines), and here I was brought up short by Literature, downed by the enemy, as much a victim of the Macbeths as old Duncan.
My parents were very kind. Neither of them read a book or wrote a line that day. We sat in the kitchen eating macadamia nuts and drinking sherry (mine cut drastically with orange juice) while they listened to me talk about myself. I canât recall this ever happening before, but it did that day. They listened with something like respect. It was, in a way, a feat to have flunked English. For the first time they woke up to the extent of my difference from them, and they listened with the flattering attention they might pay to a European visitor talking of life in a remote Alpine village.
My first, practical reaction was that I should take the course over again in summer school. But my parents didnât think I should simply repeat senior English. It wasnât only my failing grade on the final exam in English that got to them. I had a 75 in religion, 78 in trigonometry, and 89 in typing (my best subject), but I had barely scraped through history (66) and biology (67). Better to repeat the whole mess, they felt, hoping (though they wouldnât say so) Iâd raise my grades high enough to get into college.
âWhy didnât you take courses that wereâwellâeasier?â my father asked.
âMore suited to your talents?â my mother reworded it.
âThere are no easy courses at St. Agathaâs,â I told them. I worked up resentment, and wailed, âWhy couldnât I have gone to public school? At Shoreline High I could have taken art and shop and business mathââ I saw my parents shudder delicately, or maybe I only imagined it. They were trying to be open-minded. âI donât see that I got anything much out of twelve years at St. Agathaâs that I
I tried to get through the final exam, which featured large helpings of Macbeth , on the strength of the class discussions, but my mind had closed up on those, too, and I couldnât even get the plot right. I could hardly tell Macbeth from Macduff, and I was never sure who killed the king, Mr. or Mrs. I wrote one sentence (which I would reproduce here to illustrate my helplessness had it not passed mercifully from my memory) and went home.
âOf course, we canât pass this,â Sister Charles said to my parents. There was a special conference the afternoon of reportcard day. I wasnât present, but I can imagine their reactions. By the time they got home, they were pretty well under control, but my fatherâs eyes were more dolefully Tennysonian than ever, and there were new pouches under my motherâs eyes, perhaps from crying. Iâd hoped they could talk Sister Charles into passing me. I was revolted at the idea of repeating a course that had been agony the first time around. Besides, I wanted to get out into the real world. Iâd been half promised a job at the animal shelter in Madison, and I had dreams of my own little studio apartment full of cute things I liked. I had my eye on a huge cookie jar at Bradleeâs that looked just like Bounceâtake off his hound-dog head and inside find a million Oreos.
âYouâll have to repeat twelfth grade,â my father said, more in sorrow than in anger. Horatio was a professor at Harvard, Miranda had started up her little press, Juliet was working on her Ph.D. in Greek literature, and I had flunked twelfth grade because I couldnât get through Macbeth .
It takes a lot to get me down. It took that , my first tragedy, my first setback. I saw myself as a practical and determined person set firmly upon a certain kind of course in life (still blurry as to details but with powerfully distinct general outlines), and here I was brought up short by Literature, downed by the enemy, as much a victim of the Macbeths as old Duncan.
My parents were very kind. Neither of them read a book or wrote a line that day. We sat in the kitchen eating macadamia nuts and drinking sherry (mine cut drastically with orange juice) while they listened to me talk about myself. I canât recall this ever happening before, but it did that day. They listened with something like respect. It was, in a way, a feat to have flunked English. For the first time they woke up to the extent of my difference from them, and they listened with the flattering attention they might pay to a European visitor talking of life in a remote Alpine village.
My first, practical reaction was that I should take the course over again in summer school. But my parents didnât think I should simply repeat senior English. It wasnât only my failing grade on the final exam in English that got to them. I had a 75 in religion, 78 in trigonometry, and 89 in typing (my best subject), but I had barely scraped through history (66) and biology (67). Better to repeat the whole mess, they felt, hoping (though they wouldnât say so) Iâd raise my grades high enough to get into college.
âWhy didnât you take courses that wereâwellâeasier?â my father asked.
âMore suited to your talents?â my mother reworded it.
âThere are no easy courses at St. Agathaâs,â I told them. I worked up resentment, and wailed, âWhy couldnât I have gone to public school? At Shoreline High I could have taken art and shop and business mathââ I saw my parents shudder delicately, or maybe I only imagined it. They were trying to be open-minded. âI donât see that I got anything much out of twelve years at St. Agathaâs that I
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