She raised her eyebrows, softened her smile even more, and went behind her desk.
"Please," she said, indicating the chairs in front of her desk.
I sat, and Wade did the same.
"First, let me welcome you officially and informally, Celeste," she said to me. "I'm impressed with your school record. It's nice to have a straight-A student come here, and I see you won an essay contest at your school last year as well."
"You have all that already?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. Mrs. Emerson arranged for that last week."
"Last week? But how--" I clamped my lips shut and glanced at Wade, who swung his eyes toward me and then turned back to Mrs. Brentwood.
"I just hope you're not so far ahead of the other students in your classes that you get bored and impatient. All of your teachers know about your arrival, by the way. They are all anxious to meet you. Here is your schedule," she said, handing me a card. "I'll take you around and familiarize you with the building. You'll find we can do that in minutes," she added, her eyes twinkling. "We're probably a third of the size of your former school, but we like being cozy."
"You have all the phone numbers, all the information you might need, then?" Wade asked her.
"Yes, we do." She looked down at an open folder. "Including dates of her inoculations. Very complete. It's all here," she emphasized. "This is a booklet about the Dickinson School, Celeste," she continued, handing a blue-and-gold-bound pamphlet to me. "Those are the school colors, by the way," she added. "The booklet will tell you our history, explain our policies, our rules. There is also a list of all the electives available for our seniors. And that is really the only decision left for you to make concerning your official schedule. You have period five free, and you can choose art history, drama-speech, or creative writing and journalism. That class does the school paper. Any of that catch your interest?"
"I think creative writing and journalism," I said.
"Yes, that's right. You won that essay contest. Wonderful. Mr. Feldman will be so pleased. He needs more soldiers in his troop. Well, then," she continued, and reached for another pamphlet on her desk. "This is for our parents, Mr. Emerson. It lists the school activities, open houses, events that we hope our parents will attend. We're rather proud of the support our parents give the school."
Wade took it, glanced at it, and nodded.
"Of course. We'll do what we can."
"Good." She glanced at her watch. "Well, we have about ten minutes before classes begin. All the students are in homeroom at the moment. Yours is room twelve, the senior homeroom. We'll get started immediately. I'll show you around. Care to join us, Mr. Emerson?"
"I think I have to get on to work. Seems like I'm leaving her in good hands," Wade said, rising quickly.
"You are," Mrs. Brentwood said. "Please don't hesitate to call me if you or Mrs. Emerson have any questions."
"Will do," Wade said. He turned, paused, and then turned back to me. "Good luck, Celeste. Something tells me you won't need it, however," he added, and left.
For a moment I felt abandoned. It was only a pass-ing feeling, but it shot through me like a sharp knife cutting through a marshmallow. I was dangling. Not just a fish out of water, but a fish with no sense of where she belonged in the first place. Who were these people? What kind of a world had I entered? How could I possibly fit in and be comfortable?
"Now then, Celeste," Mrs. Brentwood said. Her voice was suddenly sterner, harder. I turned with some surprise. "Let's you and I have what I call my Come to Jesus meeting. We have plenty of time. Sit again," she ordered, her eyes no longer soft blue, but a cold gray.
I sat and waited while she went to the window, closed the shade, and then turned back to me.
"I am pleased to see you have achieved such good grades at your public school," she began, pronouncing the word public as though it soiled her tongue to do so. "But I am also aware of how good grades are some-times given out charitably or simply to take the easier route. I know how burdened and stressed out the teachers are in our public schools and how they avoid any conflict they can."
"I earned my grades with hard work. No one has ever given me a pass unless I deserved it," I countered. "For almost all of my life, I had no one to defend me or stand up for me if I was treated unfairly, Mrs. Brentwood. My teachers had no fear of any conflicts."
Her eyes sharpened, narrowed, but her lips remained taut.
"Yes, that might be true, but I am also aware of how children without proper parents and home lives can contaminate those that have them," she said.
To me it felt as if she had reached across the desk and slapped me across the face. I winced and pulled myself back in the seat.
"I've been called all sorts of things, Mrs. Brentwood, but never a disease."
"I'm not accusing you of anything or saying anything like that- about you in particular. I don't judge people on what they look like. I wait for them to show me who and what they are through their behavior. I simply want to make you aware of my full responsibilities here. The welfare of the student body as a whole is paramount. I have promised that to the parents who have entrusted me with the welfare of their children and who pay a great deal of money to have this extra TLC."
From the way she spoke, I couldn't imagine that care to be tender or loving.
"Never will any individual take on more importance than that, no matter how wealthy his or her benefactor might be," she emphasized.