Brooke (Orphans 3)

Cora was silent.

"Maybe she was too anxious," I said. "That's happened to me. I think about throwing the ball before catch it,"

It really didn't happen to me, but I'd seen it happen enough times to other girls. Cora looked up quickly.

"Yes," she said, grateful for the suggestion. "I think that was it:'

The coach still looked suspicious. "Let's be sure it doesn't happen against Westgate next Saturday. We've never come close to beating them, and they shut us out the last three times," Coach Grossbard said.

"It won't," Cora promised.

The coach put up posters with the words "Get Westgate" on the locker-room walls during the week. I soon realized there was a real rivalry between the two schools, and pressure began to mount toward Saturday. It was hard for me to keep my mind on my piano lessons and modeling lessons while doing my homework and attending practices.

During Wednesday's piano lesson, Professor Wertzman had a tantrum.

"You seem to have forgotten everything. Such mistakes are not made by someone who is supposedly practicing!" he accused.

He jumped up and paced at the piano, shaking his head and looking at me furiously.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm trying."

"No, you're not trying. I know when a student is trying. I made your mother promises, and you're making it impossible to keep them," he declared.

Tears clouded my eyes. I lowered my head and waited for his fury to die down.

"I'll be a laughingstock," he muttered. "I have a reputation to protect. My reputation is my livelihood!"

"I'm trying," I moaned. "I'll try harder. I promise."

He stared at me with a look that made me feel as if I wasn't fit even to be in his presence. My lips began to tremble. Just then, Pamela entered. Right after dinner, her beautician had come over to do a treatment on her hair that she said would make it look fuller and richer. It didn't look any different to me.

"What's going on in here?" she asked, her hands on her hips.

The professor looked at me and shook his head. "I must have the full cooperation and attention of my student if I am to succeed," he said, shifting his eyes toward me.

"Brooke, aren't you trying?"

"Yes," I said. "I am. I'm not as good as everyone thinks, that's all."

"Who thinks that?" the professor muttered. "You can't be any good if you don't practice and pay attention. You are not practicing enough," he insisted.

"I do practice. I do," I said.

"Are you saying she needs more practice?" Pamela asked.

"At the rate she is going, more practice is definitely needed. I would like to see her add at least another four hours a week," he prescribed.

It hit me like a tablespoon of castor oil or a whip across my back. "Four more hours! When could I do that?"

Pamela stared coldly at me. "I think," she began slowly, "considering the sacrifices and the expense Peter and I are undertaking for your benefit, you could at least find the time. She'll practice an additional four hours every Saturday from now on;' she declared firmly.

The professor looked satisfied.

"I can't practice any more on Saturday, especially not this coming Saturday. It's the biggest game of the year!"

"Game?" the professor asked, looking at Pamela.

"Don't listen to anything she says, Professor Wertzman. Please, give her instructions on what you want her to practice and what you expect her to accomplish this coming Saturday?'