Falling Stars Read online

  it?"

  "You've got only ten minutes." Cinnamon sadly

  pointed out, nodding at the clock.

  "What will I do?"

  "Just throw something on quickly," Rose

  advised.

  I flew out of the bed and threw open my closet.

  Everyone did something to help... Rose finding my

  shoes. Ice going for the hair brush and brushing mine

  into some semblance of order. while I slipped into my

  dress and tried to adjust it. Cinnamon dampened a

  washcloth and told me to just scrub the sleep out of

  my face. I did that and then put on the little lipstick

  we were permitted. only I didn't realize some of it had

  smeared at the side of my mouth. The others were so

  worried about being late that they rushed out the door

  ahead of me.

  Less than ten minutes later, still groggy. I

  followed them to the dining room. where Madame

  Senetsky was speaking to the French chef who would

  be lecturing us. She turned when we entered. The

  boys were already seated. As if she had some sort of

  built-in radar, she focused on me alone, her eyes

  rowing small with displeasure. I knew my hair.

  despite Ice's attempts, was nowhere near as neat as it

  could be or should be. And I suddenly noticed that

  one of the buttons on my dress was unbuttoned. I

  made a quick attempt to fix it. but I didn't want to

  attract too much attention.

  "I'd like to introduce Christian Rambaud, the

  chef at ChampsElystes, a world-famous restaurant in

  New York. Tonight he will discuss wine as well as

  food. Please pay attention to everything. My graduates

  attend worldwide functions, galas, charity events, and

  award ceremonies in the most sophisticated cities.

  Actors especially, of course," she continued, centering

  on Cinnamon and Howard. "should do everything

  possible to expand their educations.

  "Monsieur Rambaud." she said with a slight

  nod at the tall, dark. and what I thought was a rather

  lean man, for a chef. He smiled and stepped to the.

  head of the table.

  "Good evening," he sang, and began his lecture.

  "Let me begin with my favorite topic... wine." He smiled and held up a glass of white wine. "Give me a bowl of wine. In this I'll bury all

  unkindness.'' he quoted. "Shakespeare's..."

  "Richard the Third," Howard finished. "Tres bien." Monsieur Rambaud said.

  impressed. "You are, of course, correct."

  Madame Senetsky looked pleased and Howard

  beamed. shot a quick glance at the rest of us. and sat

  back.

  "Winemaking in France dates back to preRoman times, but it was the Romans who

  disseminated the culture of wine and the practice of

  winemaking throughout the country," Monsieur

  Rambaud lectured.

  "Wine is the product of the juice of freshly

  picked grapes, after natural or cultured yeasts have

  converted the Grape sugars into alcohol during the

  fermentation process. The yeasts are normally filtered

  out before bottling. The range, quality, and reputation

  of the fine wines of Bordeaux. Burgundy, the Rhone,

  and Champagne in particular have made them role

  models the world over."

  I could see Steven was getting bored. Howard

  continued to look like an attentive student, and the

  girls were all looking at each other, me, and sneaking

  a glance or two at Madame Senetsky, who sat and

  stared at us with a grouchy face. I couldn't look

  directly at her. Whenever I did so, her eyes seemed to

  burn into my heart. Cinnamon brushed the side of her

  mouth with her hand and made faces at me. but I

  didn't understand what she was trying to convey, and

  with a glance at Madame Senetsky,

  "France's everyday wines can be highly

  enjoyable, too, with plenty of good value wines now

  emerging from the southern regions. Each of ten

  principal wine-producing regions has its own identity,

  based on Grape varieties and terroir. Appellation

  control laws guarantee a wine's origins and style,"

  Monsieur Rambaud continued, and then captured our

  attention. especially Steven's, by pouring from

  different bottles and passing the glasses along for us

  to taste.

  "Wine-tasting is an art in itself," he instructed,

  "There are three things to consider: Color, nose, and

  taste."

  "Nose?" Steven asked. grimacing. "Smell,' Monsieur Rambaud replied. "Real hard to figure that out." Howard muttered

  under his breath.

  "I'm not as sophisticated as you, sue me,"

  Steven retorted.

  "I wish I could."

  Madame Senetsky tapped her cane and they

  both came to stiff attention.

  "The appearance of the wine gives you an idea

  of the type of grape, the age, and whether it is good or

  bad. Hold the first glass up to the light," he instructed,

  and we all did so. "This is a buttery-yellow white

  wine. Obviously either a Chardonnay or a French

  Burgundy. The intensity of the wine, whether it is

  opaque or closer to transparent, tells us about its age.

  Older wines tend to be brownish at the edge. If it's

  cloudy, it's probably spoiled.

  "Now let us nose... smell it," he said. "Swirl it

  in your glass as so, and then take a whiff."

  "It smells like apples," I said.

  "Ah. yes. It is a Chardonnay. Finally, let us

  taste the wine. Take a small sip and suck the air

  between your teeth. Hold the wine at the center of

  your tongue for a few seconds longer to allow the

  character of the wine to be apparent. Let's try this

  Merlot." he said, switching to another glass he had poured for us all. Everyone took his or hers. "We are checking for acidity, tannin-- which will tell us if it's bitter or easy to drink-- body or weight, oakiness and

  finish, the after taste.

  "Now,," he said. "let us continue. First, we'll

  finish with the whites..."

  There were no less than ten bottles of white and

  ten of red. We were supposed to only take a sip from

  each and not swallow, but Steven took some good

  gulps. By the time he reached the fifteenth glass, his

  face was tomato red and his eyes were glassy. He was

  making one silly remark after another. and Howard

  was countering. I could see Madame Senetsky losing

  her patience with them.

  Finally it ended and we went on to the food. By

  the end of the evening, I felt stuffed. I saw Steven had

  gown sleepy. His eyelids were practically shut. We

  finished the meal with a dessert called Chocolate

  Mousse Le Pain Perdu, which was a bread pudding

  topped with a caramel sauce. It was all delicious and I

  ate far too much. I was actually somewhat nauseous at

  the end of the meal. I wanted to get up to my room as

  soon as possible, but when we were excused. Madame

  Senetsky asked me to stay.

  Because of the tone of Madame Senetsky's voice, the girls looked at me with pity as they filed out. Madame Senetsky thanked Monsieur Rai-ribald

  and then, after he left, she turn
ed to me.

  "How dare you come down to one of my formal

  dinners looking so unkempt? Did I not impress upon

  you how important presentation is in our world?" "I--"

  "Did I not stress that when you are a Senetsky

  student, you are my representative, and what you do

  reflects directly back on me?"

  "I'm sorry," I began. "I was tired and I--" "Wipe off that lipstick," she ordered, but before

  I could, she stepped forward and did it herself with a

  silk napkin. Roughly, too,

  "There are no excuses for failure in our world."

  she snapped before I could offer any explanation.

  "One either is successful or not. Excuses, mitigating

  circumstances, accidents, fate, whatever you reach for

  to save you will not change one moment of a poor

  performance. Audiences are unforgiving and the

  critics couldn't care one iota about our personal issues.

  Once we're on stage, our lives, our real lives, are

  forgotten. We can't use them to help us or protect us

  or excuse us. The curtain rises, and when it does, we

  must be ready to give the public what it has paid for and what it has a right to expect. After the curtain

  falls, it is over, ended, a fait accompli.

  "I told you, all of you, every moment you're in

  this house, studying with these fine teachers, you are

  on stage. Is there any part of this you still don't

  understand? Well?" she asked, pounding her cane. "No, Madame Senetsky." I looked down at the

  table. I'm disappointed. If I had to choose one of you

  who would fail me first. I would never have chosen

  you. I thought I had made the reason clear to you the

  other day," she added. referring, I'm sure, to her

  telling me about her daughter.

  I looked up at her, my eves so glazed with tears.

  I felt as if I was looking at her through a veil. I started to say I was sorry again, but quickly

  choked back the words.

  "I do not permit many mistakes. Honey. Be

  warned," she concluded, smacking her cane to the

  floor again and standing. I stood quickly, too, my eyes

  down again.

  "You're excused," she said. and I hurried out of

  the dining room.

  I felt the tears break over the dam of my lids as

  I pounded up the stairway. How disappointed

  Mommy and Daddy would be if I were sent home in disgrace. How would I ever face Uncle Peter's

  gravestone again?

  The girls and Howard were standing in the

  hallway, waiting for me. From the sounds I heard

  coming out of Steven's room. I knew he was

  vomiting.

  "The idiot is paying the price for drinking

  instead of tasting the wines," Howard commented

  after a particularly loud, ugly noise. "What did she

  want from you?"

  I looked at the girls and then just hurried into

  my room before I burst into hysterical sobs. I felt like

  I was going to vomit any moment, too, and had to get

  some cold water on my face. All the girls followed

  me.

  "Are you all right?" Rose asked, coming to my

  side. I shook my head.

  "She was so angry I thought she was going to

  ask me to leave right then and there. I had this

  buttoned wrong." I said, turning to show them. "And

  my lipstick was smeared. She wiped it off herself,

  practically taking some of my skin and part of my lip

  with it."

  "I tried to warn you," Cinnamon said. "She called me disheveled, a great

  disappointment. She said I was the last one she

  expected to disappoint her."

  I looked in the mirror. My hair was every which

  way. "I'm sorry. I tried to get it neat for you," Ice said. "It's no one's fault but my own," I wailed. "I

  feel sick to my stomach."

  "That dinner was too rich," Cinnamon said.

  "We had too much to taste."

  I nodded and went to my bed. where I just

  flopped on my back.

  "At least none of us are as bad as Steven," Rose

  said.

  "He is going. to feel it more in the morning,"

  Ice said. "I remember how my mother was sometimes,

  many times. She would go drinking with her

  girlfriends and suffer the next day, but it didn't stop

  her," she pointed out.

  "Your father let her?" Rose asked.

  "He worked as a security guard, often at night,

  and she just was frustrated. She's a beautiful woman,

  and thinks she messed up her life by marrying and

  having me."

  "My mother went through something like that.

  too." Rose said. "She wanted to regain her youth, but

  she was being influenced, poisoned by someone else." She looked at us when we gave her expressions of

  confusion.

  "Who poisoned her?" Cinnamon asked. "The sister of the woman with whom my father

  had his affair and other child. Her name is Charlotte

  Alden Curtis. She's rich and has a house nearly as big

  as this."

  "Why did she do that to your mother?" Ice

  asked.

  "Her sister died in a terrible car accident on the

  way to meet with my father. and Charlotte blamed

  him and wanted to unload his sins on us. She trapped

  us by inviting us to come live with her and help her

  care for my half-brother Evan because he was

  disabled and in a wheelchair. My mother was an easy

  target- gullible. We didn't have any money. My father

  barely left us enough to eat. We had no home. My

  mother didn't have good job skills." Rose turned to

  Ice. "She, too, was full of frustrations. That made her

  an easy target. I suppose. She finally realized what

  was happening, but it was almost too late."

  Everyone was quiet.

  "I wonder if that will be my destiny, too." she

  added. "I'll end up one day so frustrated and

  disappointed in my life. I mean."

  "It won't happen to any of us. Not if we stick

  with our career goals and be what we need and want

  to be." Cinnamon insisted. "Whether we like it or not.

  Madame Senetsky can help us let there. We'll have to

  put up with everything,"

  "Even a sick Peeping Tom?" Ice asked. No one spoke for a moment, and then

  Cinnamon firmly said. "No. We'll put an end to that if

  it happens again. Everyone still up for the plan?" "I might get sick." I warned.

  "So? Better you do it with one or more of us

  around to help you. Let's all get into our nightgowns

  and robes and meet in Rose's room in ten minutes. It's

  about that time."

  "What do I do?" Rose asked.

  "Nothing different. This is a trap we're setting.

  We don't want to give him any warnings. Okay?

  Everyone agreed? Well?" she pounded.

  "Okay," I said. Ice nodded.

  I took a deep breath, fought back my nausea,

  and prepared to join them in Rose's room, half hoping

  g it would be a waste of time.

  It wasn't.

  I had never had or participated in a pajama party. Ice and Cinnamon said they had never, either. but Rose told us she had when she was fourteen.

  "I had made some friends and thought I was finally going to have a life. Shortly afterward, my father came hom
e and told my mother and me we were moving again. I remember I cried a lot this time, just rained a storm of tears down my cheeks until the well of sorrow inside me dried up and left my heart aching."

  "I bet you were afraid to make friends after that," Cinnamon said.

  "Exactly. I was terrified of becoming too close to anyone or too involved in any activity. Good-byes were like tiny pins jabbed into my heart,"

  She stared at the sad memories flashing over her eyes.

  We were all sitting on the floor, each of us wrapped in the blanket we had brought along. We were situated so that we were just below the window. Rose, at Cinnamon's suggestion, left the bathroom lights on, making it look as if she was still in there, perhaps taking a shower or a bath.

  "It doesn't seem like all that much of a big deal now when I think back," she continued. "but I do remember how much fun it was sharing secrets with your girlfriends. Everyone just seemed to be more honest, frank, and unafraid of revealing what a girlfriend of mine called heart thoughts."

  "Heart thoughts?" I asked, I looked at Cinnamon and Ice, who both shook their heads.

  "She had this theory that some thoughts don't come from our brains. They come directly from our hearts, traveling up to our brains, and finally, when we're being honest or care to be revealing, out through our lips."'

  "That's silly," Cinnamon said, "Your heart doesn't have the neurological cells to form thoughts." Rose shrugged.

  "She just meant that some feelings originated there and got translated into thoughts. I guess. Of course, she was mainly referring to our crushes on boys and our..."

  "What?" Ice asked.

  "Our sexual fantasies. I guess."

  "Like what?" Cinnamon asked, Just asking brought a crimson glow into Rose's cheeks.

  "One girl described closing her eyes while she was taking a bath and imagining a boy she liked a lot kneeling beside the tub and washing her body with a soft sponge."

  We were all suddenly very quiet. Rose traced her finger along the carpet.

  "When I was twelve," she continued, "I was at a friend's house. She had a swimming pool and some boys were there. We were all flirting and splashing each other. One boy, Neil Rosen, kept going under water and grabbing at our legs. He popped up in front of me and I fell backwards, As I fell, he reached out and grabbed the top of my bathing suit, allegedly to stop me from falling. It came off. and I screamed. I was so embarrassed I wished my head would sink into my neck. I felt like drowning myself afterward.

  "Anyway. I told the girls the story, but I made it seem like a fantasy and not a true story. I felt guilty about it because I was letting them tell their true life secrets and I was hiding mine."

  She looked ashamed.

  "You shouldn't have worried about it. Half the things people write as fiction come from real events in their lives," Cinnamon said. "I was an expert liar, creative liar. I called it. but I based my tall tales on some thread of truth. We all do it."