Peter laughed. "Pamela is an expert when it comes to small talk. Everyone wants to talk to her, but at the end of the evening, she can't tell me half of what they said. No one ever seems to catch on, though, so I suppose they don't mind," he concluded with a laugh.
Why wouldn't anyone mind if you didn't really listen? What kind of people were at these grand, important parties?
"Now, tell us about your home run," he finally said. Pamela smirked and started eating while I described the teams and my hit and the aftermath.
"Girls' sports are a much bigger thing than when you were her age, Pamela," Peter explained. Somehow, I think that just made her angry again.
"When they add tennis, golf, baseball, or basketball to the Miss America contest, tell me," she quipped. Peter laughed, but he stopped talking about it.
The days that followed were harder than I ever imagined. There was so much schoolwork to catch up on besides the day-to-day work I had to do. Softball practice was the only thing I really looked forward to, and my enthusiasm put happy smiles on Coach Grossbard's face. However, it was physically demanding. Very quickly, Coach Grossbard determined that I would be the starting pitcher and bat cleanup. The only girl who seemed dissatisfied about it was Cora Munsen, who had been the team's cleanup hitter.
"You just had one lucky hit," she told me in the locker room. "You're not any better than I am at bat."
I didn't want her to hate me, so I agreed. "I'll do whatever the coach wants," I said. "It's the team that's important."
"Sure," she said. "Like you really care. You're just like the others. You want all the glory."
"That's not true, Cora."
She shook her head and walked away.
Most of the girls made fun of her because she was so big, but none of them ever said anything to her face. She looked as if she could sweep them off their feet with one swing of her heavy arms. I learned they had nicknamed her Cora Munching because she ate so much. She even sneaked food between classes. I thought that if she lost weight, she could be very pretty, but I was afraid to tell her.
After my softball practice, I had to hurry home to get ready for dinner and try to get in some homework, Occasionally, I didn't have time to shower before I sat for my piano lesson. Professor Wertzman didn't seem to care. He had a strange odor himself, an odor that nearly turned my stomach because he sat so close to me on the piano bench. I tried to turn away or hold my breath, but it was difficult not to inhale that stale, clammy, sour smell. I noticed he wore the same shirt all week, and by Friday, the collar would be yellowish brown where it touched his neck.
When he gave me instructions, he had a way of closing his eyes so that they became slits. Sometimes, when he got very excited about a mistake I had made, he would spray the piano with spit and then wipe it off with the sleeve of his left arm quickly. Often, Pamela came in to watch, and when she was in the room, his expression suddenly took on softness, his gentle, considerate teacher's voice returning. When we were alone, he spoke abruptly, had little patience, and complained continually about the difficulty he had turning a pebble into a pearl. It was always on the tip of my tongue to tell him I never asked him to perform any miracles, but I swallowed back my pride and let him lash me with ridicule and criticism.
One night, when Peter was sitting alone in the living room and reading, I stopped in to talk to him.
"I tasted caviar," I said, "and I hate it."
"What?" He looked at me, and then he smiled. "Oh. Right." He nodded.
"I'm never going to be good on the piano:' I said. "Even the professor says my fingers aren't right. He says I'm too forceful and that I'd be better at drums or carpentry work."
"Is that what he said?" Peter laughed. "Well, just put up with it awhile longer until I get Pamela to think of something better."
"I don't want to be in beauty contests," I added. "It can't hurt you to do it once or twice," he told me. "Look at it as a new experience."
"No one else at the school is going to be in any beauty contests, and there are girls in school who are really a lot prettier than I am. They're going to laugh at me and make fun of me," I warned him.
"Maybe you'll win. Then they won't laugh:' The way he said it made me believe I really had a chance. Maybe Pamela was right about me.
"Will you and Pamela come to the home game this Saturday?" I asked. I had been mentioning it all week, but Pamela pretended she didn't hear me.
"Sure," he said. He thought a moment. "I ought to get myself a video camera, too." He looked at me. "Don't expect me to become one of those crazy Little League parents, though."
I laughed.
When he brought up the game himself at dinner that evening, Pamela refused to go.
"Do you know what damage is done to your skin sitting out there under that horrible sunlight and letting all that dust come settling on you? When you come home," she said, turning to me, "you make sure you go right into a bathtub and clean all the pollution out of your pores and wash your hair."
She thought intently for a moment and then suddenly rose and came around the table.
"Let me see your hands," she ordered. I raised my palms, and she grabbed them and ran her fingers over them.
"Just as I thought," she said to Peter. "Her skin is getting rough. Soon she'll have calluses!"