program from a complex of buildings just outside the city of Williamsburg. The school itself was named after Peter Pelham, who came to America in 1726 and spent a number of years in Boston, where he studied music and became the organist at Trinity Church. The orientation brochure for the school told us that Pelham moved to Williamsburg around 1750. He was the organist at Bruton Parish Church, taught young women at the time to play the harpsichord and spinet, and was the musical director when The Beggar's Opera was first performed in the city.
Although our teachers and counselors tried to keep a sense of decorum and history about us while we attended the Pelham School, the dormitory quickly revealed that a little over four dozen modem teenagers had become the residents. Rock and movie posters, as well as some humorous posters, were instantly slapped aver the austere walls. Despite our study of classical music, the sounds of rock, country and pop came flowing out of windows and doors.
Everywhere else on the campus, things were prim and proper. We had a dress code at class. Boys had to wear slacks and white shirts with ties: girls wore black ankle-length skirts and white blouses, but no pants outfits and certainly no shorts. Once we ended the formal class day about five P.M., we could put on casual clothing: however, there was still a standard enforced in the cafeteria. After dinner, everyone could be as sloppy as he or she wished and it was not unusual to see us in old sweatshirts and jeans walking barefoot through the hallways.
We had a strict curfew of ten p.m. on weekdays and eleven p.m. on weekends. At those hours all radios. CD players and television sets had to be turned off. You could keep the lights on in your room as long as you wanted, but early to bed was strongly advised since breakfast began at six-thirty and ended at seventhirty with the first class starting at eight.
On weekends, the pool was open, but bikinis and thong suits were absolutely forbidden. Our counselors and administrators referred to their own liability whenever anyone offered the slightest challenge or complaint.
"While you are here in our house," Doctor Richard Greenleaf began his opening talk to all the arriving students at orientation. .'you have to obey our rules. We have made a pact with your families to become your surrogate parents while you are here under our wing. We have to have an absolutely notolerance policy when it concerns our safety codes. To illustrate how serious this is. I will read from the orientation document you were all given when you arrived-- just to be sure there are no
misunderstandings."
He adjusted his glasses and then lowered his voice to sound even more austere.
"There will be absolutely no smoking in the dormitory at any time. Just like on an airplane, anyone who tampers with one of our smoke detectors will be immediately dismissed and prosecuted. No alcoholic beverages of any sort can be on this campus. No illegal drugs can even be mentioned, much less brought onto this campus. It goes without saying that an incidence of vandalism or disrespect toward our property will be considered a very serious affront to the school. Anyone who violates a curfew or fails to have proper permission slips completed before leaving the campus will be asked to leave the campus permanently. Proper classroom decorum is
paramount.
"We are all here for one main purpose, and that's to further our development and pro Tess with our musical talents and education. Everything else is secondary. You are here because your families were willing to finance this pursuit. They have faith and expectations and we intend to do the best we can to justify that faith and succeed with those expectations.
"You have one of the most qualified and talented faculties in the country, state-
of-the-art studios and five-star facilities. Enjoy yourselves, but work hard, very hard and help make this the most successful summer of music yet."
There was light applause, most of it coming from the parents and relatives who had accompanied the students to the school. Afterward, a lunch was held and we were all introduced to members of the faculty. My piano teacher. Professor Littleton, had returned, which made me happy. He was a very pleasant man with light gray hair, bushy eyebrows and rosy cheeks. He had the warmest eves and great patience with students, always making us believe we could do better. He made us believe it was in us to reach a little further.
For a while I thought I wasn't going to have a roommate. A girl named Sarah Burnside from Richmond. Kentucky, was assigned to be my roommate, but somehow she had missed the opening program and lunch. While I was unpacking and organizing my things hours later. I heard a loud bang just outside my door and froze for a moment. I was alone. Mommy and Daddy were long gone so they could be home by dinner. Mommy hated prolonged goodbyes anyway, and Daddy thought it was best to just do what had to be done and go before a single tear could escape a single eye. He nearly succeeded. but Mommy was flicking them off her face like flies at our parting.
The door jerked open and a short-- maybe four foot ten-- girl with light brown curly hair nearly fell into the room over her large suitcase and her trombone case. She wore a bright, flower print onepiece dress that looked like it could double for a tent, a pair of blue sandals and no socks, along with a turquoise shell necklace that nearly reached her waist and one matching shell earring on her right ear. She wore white lipstick that looked like candle wax, and she had a splatter of freckles running down from each temple. Otherwise, her face was sweet and soft with very small, dainty features in perfect proportion, and her very prettily shaped brown eyes were the color of fresh walnut shells.
"Sorry," she said. She paused and looked around the room. "Good, it's big."
I thought anything would be a big room to her, even a walk-in closet.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Summer Clarke."
"I know. You know I'm Sarah Burnside. right?"
"I do now," I said smiling. "Why are you so late? You missed orientation."
"My mother," she said with a grimace, "can never get her act together. When you look up disorganized in the dictionary, her face is next to the definition. If she didn't have my great-aunt Margaret taking care of her business books, she would be closed ages ago."
"What does your mother do?"
"She has the Full-Moon Cafe, a very popular place in Richmond. Kentucky."
"Is she here?" I asked looking past her into the hallway and wondering why no one had helped Sarah with her things.
"No. She had to start for the airport because she's almost late for her flight home as it is."
Sarah lifted her suitcase with two hands. It was almost as big as she was. I jumped to help her and we put it on her bed. Then she brought in her trombone and closed the door.
"What's yours?" she asked.
"Mine?"
"Instrument?"