"Just step right in here now," she said with a firmer voice. "You can do that later. There is someone here I want you to meet immediately?'
Obediently, I walked down the hall and entered the living room. A short, bald man with a face as round as a penny stood there gaping at me with big, watery gray eyes. He had a dark brown blotch on his otherwise shiny skull. It looked as if some
one had splattered beef gravy on him because it spread in thin lines toward the back of his head and his temples.
"This is Professor Wertzman, Brooke. I've hired him to start you on piano lessons. Contestants need to show some talent, and the professor will teach you how to play well enough so you could perform something," she declared. It sounded more as if she had ordained it and it would be.
"But I don't have any musical talent. I never even tried to play the piano," I said weakly.
"That's because you never had one to play. What lessons were you ever offered at the
orphanage?" she asked with a cold smile. "Now you have all the finer things in life at your beck and call. Professor Wertz-man is a highly regarded piano instructor. It took a great deal to get him to free up some time for you, but he knows how important this is to me," she added, eyeing him with her icy glare.
When he smiled, his chin quivered and his nostrils went in and out like a rabbit's.
"It's an honor for me to be able to do you and Mr. Thompson a favor," he said.
"See? Everyone's trying to help you, Brooke. Beginning today, you'll have a lesson every day after school, so come right home," she commanded.
"But . ."
"But what?" She looked at the professor, who widened his smile, and then they both looked at me.
"The coach, Mrs. Grossbard, asked me to join the school's softball team. I hit a home run in class today, a grand-slam home run my first time up at bat! I have to stay after school for practice every day."
For a moment, Pamela simply stared at me and blinked her eyes. The professor was uncomfortable standing in the long moment of silence. He cleared his throat and rocked on his heels with his hands behind his back.
"Have you any idea of the cost and the effort it took to get Professor Wertzman here?" she began softly. "Do you know that the professor tutors most of the pianists from finer families in our community? He has assured me he can get you ready to perform a piece in six months. No one else can make such a promise. You are a very lucky young lady." The way she said lucky made me think I was anything but.
"I don't care," I snapped. "I don't want to learn piano. I was never interested in piano. I hit a home run," I repeated, backing away. "I'm good at softball. I want to be on the team!'
"Brooke!"
"No! You don't care about me at all, you just want to turn me into you!" I cried, and turned toward the stairway.
"You get right back here this instant. Brooke!"
I ran up the stairway and into my room, the tears flying from my cheeks. Then I sprawled on my bed and buried my face in my pillow.
She didn't have a right to do this, to make plans like this without asking me first. I don't care what she does, I thought. I don't care if she sends me back. I stopped sobbing, wiped my face, and sat hugging my knees, waiting for her to come angrily after me. I listened hard in anticipation of her footsteps in the hallway, but I heard nothing. Finally, I changed into what Pamela called a more casual outfit, a pair of slacks and a blouse that didn't make me feel any more comfortable than the clothes I wore to school. How I missed my jeans, T-shirts, and sweatshirts, I thought.
I was still afraid to go downstairs, so I opened my books and started my homework. It was nearly an hour and a half later when I heard a knock on my door. I hadn't heard any footsteps, and I never expected Pamela would knock. She always just walked right in.
"Yes?"
The door opened. It was Peter. He was wearing one of his expensive-looking blue suits and looked as fresh and alert as he would if he had just begun his day.
"Mind if I come in?" he asked. "No," I said.
He smiled and closed the door softly behind him. "So," he began, "it looks like we're having our first family crisis."
"I don't have any musical talent," I moaned. "How do you know that?"
"I don't, but I don't want to play piano," I insisted.
"Well," he said calmly before sitting on the edge of my bed, "you're too young to really know what you want and don't want. It's like someone who's never tasted caviar saying, 'I don't want to eat caviar. I don't like it.' Right?" he asked in a soft, soothing voice.
"I suppose." I sniffled I didn't want to start crying again, but I could feel hot tears building behind my eyes.