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.
"Do you see how often Peter gives me a compliment?" she asked. I nodded, because I did, and I wondered if all husbands were like that. "Well, it doesn't happen by accident. If you let a man know that you expect him to show his appreciation, he will fall all over himself doing just that. I'm a professional woman," she explained. "I've made femininity my profession, and I don't mean I'm one of those women's liberation creatures you see in magazines and on television news complaining. They think they'll get what they want by demanding and protesting.
"There's only one sure way to get what you want from a man," she declared. "Make him think that you believe he is someone special and that you'll always treat him that way if he treats you as someone special. Make him believe he is your protector. Be fragile, dainty. You need his strength. He'll go mad trying to protect you, to keep you happy, and voila," she said with a wide gesture, "you'll always get what you want.
"It's easier than protesting, and you enjoy yourself at the same time. Who wants to be marching with placards in the hot sun, screaming and burning bras? And who wants to look like that? Some of them wouldn't be caught dead wearing lipstick, even though they look so pale you'd think they were dead.
"I hope you understand what I'm saying, Brooke. It's very important."
I did and I didn't. Men and boys were still a big mystery to me. I felt more comfortable and secure standing up to them, since I was as strong as they were, as fast on the ball field, and never acted as if I were a weak sister. I knew they respected me, because they often chose me to be on their teams before they chose some of their male friends, but I realized this was not something Pamela would want to hear.
"Did you see the way I batted my eyelashes at Peter? Did you hear me laugh, and did you catch the movement of my eyes and shoulders? Observe me at all times," she instructed.
I was really shocked. Did Pamela actually plan every gesture, every turn of her shoulders, every movement of her eyes and mouth? And if she did, was that right? It seemed to me that she was conniving against Peter, fooling and manipulating him, and I wondered if that was something you did with someone you loved. I had to ask.
"But wouldn't Peter do anything for you, anyway, because he loves you?"
She laughed. "How do you think you get someone to love you, Brooke? You think it's like the movies or in those romance novels? You think someone looks at you like in that old song, across a crowded room, and thunderbolts strike? It's work getting someone to love you. And anyway, men don't know what they want half the time. You have to show them what they want.
"Most men think a beautiful woman is someone with big breasts whose hips swing like the pendulum in a grandfather's clock, but a beautiful woman is far more than that, Brooke. You have to nurture and develop your beauty, just as I'm showing you. And then," she said, pulling her shoulders back, "you will know, and all the men who look at you will know, you are special.
"When you're special," she concluded, "they all fall in love with you, and you have your pick of the crowd. That?' she said, "is what happened to me and what will happen to you if you do what I say."
Was winning a man the only reason for our existence and our only purpose for being? I wanted to ask, but like so many thoughts and questions tickling the tip of my tongue, I swallowed them back and stored them for some other time rather than risk her anger and disapproval.
Despite the way she talked and thought, I wanted her to love me as a mother. I wanted Peter to be my father. I wanted us to be a family. I wanted to laugh and have fun, to do things I saw other girls my age do with their families. It's only natural for Pamela to want me to be like her, I thought. That way, she would feel she really had a daughter.
What did surprise and even frighten me a bit, however, were her instructions to me on our way to enroll me at the Agnes Fodor school. She wanted me to start my new life with a big lie.
"Except for Mrs. Harper, the principal, Brooke, I don't want anyone else to know you came from an orphanage?'
"What? What do you mean?" I asked.
"Mrs. Harper understands why I would like it that way. Believe me?' she said, "you will feel more comfortable, especially in the company of the other girls, if that little detail was forgotten."
Forgotten? Little detail? All my life, I'd been an orphan. I had no other experiences. How could I pretend to be someone else?
"But what will I say?" I asked. "What will I tell people about myself?"
"Tell them you're our daughter. Tell them we decided to send you to Agnes Fodor because your public school has degenerated. A new group of lowerclass students has gradually become the majority at the public school, and there was a lot of trouble. Your parents became concerned about your safety as well as your education. Most of the girls will understand, because most of them have had that experience. Their parents enrolled them in Agnes Fodor to get them away from inferior public education and bad influences.
"If you behave as I've been teaching you how to behave, everyone will believe you are who you say you are. At least, you won't be ashamed to invite them to your home, will you?" she asked. "I really don't think you'll have any problems," she added with a smile of confidence. "When in doubt, just keep silent until you confer with me.
"Or you can talk about me," she continued. "Tell them about my modeling, my titles. Most of their mothers are nowhere near as attractive, and they'll be jealous of you immediately."
She smiled. "I'm so excited for you. I remember when I first enrolled in charm school. I'm sure Peter and I will be very proud of you very soon," she added. I looked out the car window. When I lived in the orphanage and I had nothing of any real value, not even a name, I didn't have to lie. Now that I was rich, now that I lived in a palace and had more clothes in my closet than ten girls all together had at the orphanage, now that I had servants and rode in a limousine, I had to pretend I was someone else.
The road to happiness was long and winding, full of traps and illusions. When I said good-bye to the girl I was when I lived at the orphanage, I never dreamed I would want her back, but for a moment, on our way to this wonderful new school for the rich and privileged, I longed to return to who I was, who I had been, just as you sometimes wish you could put on clothes that were comfortable, broken in, part of your personality, even if they were out of style and too old.