The school was owned and managed by an internationally famous former stage actress, singer, and dancer. Madame Edith Senetsky. Her son. Edmond, was a theatrical agent, and often sent prospective candidates he had discovered during his various travels around the country to audition for her performing arts institution. It had a worldwide reputation for developing talent and creating stars of the stage and screen. Its list of celebrated graduates was impressive.
I had no idea yet just how small the school's population was and how personal the attention to each student would be. In my mind, when I thought of a school. I conjured up images
of students in
classrooms, bells ringing, schedules to follow, rules to obey and homework to do.
However. Madame Senetsky was very critical and selective. Candidates who would be well sought after and accepted at other, more traditional schools of performing arts were quickly rejected. Mr. Wengrow, my violin instructor, constantly impressed upon me how significant it was that I had been chosen. To him, it was explicit proof that I would become a major success. It was almost as if my career would be guaranteed as long as I followed Madame Senetsky's orders and guidance.
Even my boyfriend. Chandler Maxwell, a talented pianist who had taken duet lessons with me, was convinced of this, of my success beyond his own. It all made me very nervous. The level of expectations was high. To fail after being given such an
opportunity was almost, to use Grandad Forman's terms, a cardinal sin.
And then there was my Feat desire to fulfill all the promises I had made to my Uncle Peter, my daddy's younger brother, before he had died tragically in a plane crash. He was a wonderful, handsome man, whose joy and happiness and carefree ways flew in the face of Grandad's stern warnings. Uncle Peter was the one who had bought me my wonderful violin and started to pay for my lessons. He had great faith in me, more than anyone.
"You've got to do this for him then," Chandler once said. when I told him more about Uncle Peter, my first pretend boyfriend. "Almost as much as you have to do it for yourself. I wish I had someone like that to please," he added with some bitterness. His family, especially his father, wasn't very excited about his interest in music. Chandler had been accepted to Boston University. and I would be in New York, but we promised each other we would remain in close contact, and he vowed he would visit me as soon as there was an opportunity to do so.
"I'll come to New York as often as I can," he pledged.
Now I was actually leaving. The day had come. Daddy had put my suitcases in the trunk. He and Mommy sat up front and I sat in the rear, clutching the bouquet of red, white, and pink roses Uncle Simon had just cut from his bushes and given to me as a bon voyage gift.
"They'll keep all the way to New York." he promised. "Put the stems in water at the motel you stay at tonight."
I thanked him, and he promised to send me fresh flowers now and then.
"I don't imagine you'll see much greenery, living in New York." he muttered. "Cities are full of concrete and steel," he added distastefully.
I kept the door open and he lingered there, kicking a small stone with his big foot. Sometimes. when I thought of him. I thought of Paul Bunyan.
"It's not that bad there. They've got parks, Simon, with ponds and ducks and everything," Mommy told him.
He nodded, but he didn't think much of that. I could see it in his eyes. and I could see the loneliness he was anticipating the moment we drove off.
"I'll write you and I'll call you often. Uncle Simon," I promised.
"I'm not much with letters," he replied.
"You don't have to write me back. Just send your flowers when you want."
He smiled, nodded, lifted his big hand to say goodbye, and walked toward the greenhouse.
A fugitive tear charged out of the corner of my eye and fled down my cheek to my chin. I closed my eyes to stop the flood that threatened to follow. Uncle Simon had always been there, watching over me, doing my chores for me so I would have more time to spend on my violin, calling me one of his precious flowers, taking pleasure in my blossoming. Although my leaving was inevitable, he, even more than my parents, hated to see me go. It made me think of how hard it was for him to give up his flowers to buyers. Mommy convinced him he was sharing his love of their beauty with other people, and that was only right and good.
She told him my talent was so rare and beautiful. I had an obligation to share it, too, with others. I know that was meant to help me feel better about going, as much as it was meant to help Uncle Simon.
Still, it was hard for him to say good-bye. It was so hard for me. too.
"Here we go. Fasten your seatbelts," Daddy declared with a dramatic flare and started the car.
Moments later we were on the highway, cruising toward the interstate and on our way to New York City. The scenery flew by, all of it quickly becoming a blur through my tear-fogged eyes.
Wasn't all this a terrible mistake? Even with the great vote of confidence I had received by being chosen. was I seeking to do something I could never do? Could I live so far away from home and be on my own, I wondered. As we drove on. I realized that I had never spent a single night out of my home. I had never slept in a bed other than my own-- no pajama parties with girlfriends, no family trips to stay at hotels, no relatives for me to visit. And yet, here I was, going off to live in a strange place and go to school with strangers.
A part of me wanted to shout. "Stop driving. Daddy. Turn back. I can't do this. I won't do this."
My tongue actually tried to form the words. Why? Where were my feelings of joy and excitement? I had treat reasons to feel that way. The faces of all those envious of me flashed across my eyes. Their covetous words echoed in my ears.
"You're going to school in New York City! Wow!"