"Why should he like me?" I asked.
"He likes anyone new for a day or so," she replied. "But once he sees you swing your bat, he'll fall head over heels in love," she added.
"Yeah, and with all that makeup you're wearing, you'll be an easy target," Heather sniped at me.
The girls cackled, Heather the loudest.
"She's joking," Lisa said, "but he does like girls who are into sports. I know. He told me." They grew quiet. "That's why you want to learn tennis quickly," she said. "I imagine it won't take you long."
"It seems very strange that your father would never teach you?' Heather insisted. "Don't you get along with him?"
"Mind your own business," Helen said.
"Of course we get along," I said. "He's just very busy." I was glad to turn the conversation away from the awful makeup Pamela had made me wear that morning.
Heather smirked. "That's exactly what my father says every time I ask him to do something with me?' she remarked.
"The only difference is that Brooke's father's not lying," Eva said, and the girls laughed hard again. I had to smile. Heather gazed at me. If her eyes could throw darts, I'd have been full of holes.
The rest of the week went smoothly. Everyone was more excited than ever at softball practice. I did well on two tests, and my teachers gave me
compliments on my efforts. Mrs. Harper actually stopped me in the hall to tell me I was making a very good transition.
"Just stay on course," she told me. Her eyes were so fierce, it sounded like a warning. I thanked her and quickly moved on.
At home, I performed my piano lessons with an attitude of resignation. I had come to the conclusion it was something I had to do, like going to the bathroom. Professor Wertzman didn't think any better of my playing, but he didn't criticize and complain as much as he usually did.
Peter was away most of the week on a big case that took him to New York City. The conversations about school and other interesting things that were happening in the world disappeared from dinner. Pamela continued to use the meal as a classroom, developing my education in proper mealtime manners. She was impressed that I had been invited to Lisa Donald's house for lunch and tennis. On her own, she had found out that Lisa's father was one of the Donalds who owned the local department store.
"I just knew you would make friends with people of quality," she said.
What did that mean, people of quality? What gave one person higher quality than another? Was it just money? I hadn't found the girls at Agnes Fodor to be any nicer than the girls I knew at my public school. They had the same hangups, problems, worries, and complaints.
Despite Mrs. Harper's resounding flattery and compliments, I discovered that her girls, her perfect girls, were not so perfect after all. They were just more subtle, more sneaky about the things they did. When the teacher left the room, they cheated. They passed notes, and they smoked in the girls' room, but they did it by the window so they could blow the smoke outside. Afterward, they always flushed the butts down the toilet. As far as graffiti went, someone wrote "Brooke wears a jock strap" on my gym locker, and Coach Grossbard had to get the janitor to find some strong detergent to wash it off. No one told Mrs. Harper. It was As if she had to be protected from any news of wrongdoing so she could continue to believe her girls were perfect.
Peter returned from New York on Friday night, and Pamela had me do the runway walk for him. She made him sit in the high-back antique chair in the hallway and watch like a judge at a beauty contest. I half expected him to burst out laughing when I began, but the look that came over him was different--I'd never seen him look at me so intently before.
"Well?" Pamela asked as soon as I made my last turn.
"Amazing. You've done amazing work, Pamela. She looks . . . older."
"Of course she does. She's more mature, more sophisticated and confident. She's been invited to the Donalds' for lunch tomorrow," she told him
I didn't think it was a very big deal, but she made me describe the invitation, Lisa's offer to teach me tennis, and the rich boys who were joining us for lunch and tennis. Peter wore this serious look on his face, but he gazed at me with amusement in his eyes.
"You don't have a game this Saturday?" he asked.
"It wouldn't matter if she did. She would still go to the Donalds'," Pamela interjected.
Of course I wouldn't, but I let her believe what she wanted.
"No. Our next game is at home the following Saturday," I told him "Will you come?"
"I'll try," he said, withholding a promise. "The way this Jacobi matter is playing out, I don't know when I'll have free time this month. We thought they'd settle, but they've decided to play their hand, it seems."
Pamela didn't ask him to explain more. I realized that all the time I had been living with them, she never asked him about his work or showed any interest in any of his cases unless there was a client who interested her, and then she was more curious about the person than the case, anyway.
"What's the matter with Jacobi?" I asked.