Falling Stars Read online

  "For one thing, clean off this table, so don't make any more mess than necessary, and then I have to set the table for dinner. Lunch is more or less staggered, depending on our personal schedules, so we're all individually responsible for that. and I'm to look after the parlor and be the last one up at night to be sure none of us has left it untidy. Next thing you know, I'll be running a vacuum cleaner."

  "What of it? I have," Ice said.

  "So have I," I said.

  "Guilty." Cinnamon added, raising her hand.

  "You're all used to that sort of menial labor. I'm not!"

  "Why don't you put an ad in the newspaper and see if you can hire a part-time worker?" Steven asked facetiously.

  Howard considered the suggestion. "You think they would let me do that?"

  "Of course not." Cinnamon said. "You heard Lady Fairchild expound on Madame Senetsky's opinions of ostentatious wealth yesterday, didn't you?"

  Howard stared quietly a moment and then nodded.

  "Don't take any more dishes than you absolutely need," he advised Steven. Then he went to get himself breakfast, pausing at the door. "How did you all get down here before me anyway?" he asked, suddenly realizing.

  "We spent less time in front of our vanity mirrors," Cinnamon said.

  Howard smirked and went into the kitchen. He returned with a cup of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. Grumbling to himself, he sat.

  "How did y'all sleep?" Rose asked. The way she asked caught my attention. She was asking as if she was fishing for something.

  "I was out before my head hit the pillow." Steven said.

  "Okay," Ice said. Cinnamon said the same. Howard only grunted, so Rose waited for me.

  "I suppose it was only my imagination," I began, "but I kept seeing a shadow on the fire escape, and for a while that kept me awake."

  "A shadow?" Howard asked. "So? What are you, afraid of a shadow?"

  "It seemed to be a shadow cast by someone there," I added. His sarcasm brought tears to my eyes.

  Steven buttered a piece of toast vigorously, ignoring me, but the girls all stared. Rose the most intensely. After a beat she said, "Me, too."

  "Me, too? What me too?" Howard crossexamined.

  "A shadow, something, on my fire escape."

  "Your room is on the same side as Honey's," Howard said. "Whatever cast her shadow might have cast yours. Big deal. Moonlight, clouds. What's the mystery?"

  Neither Rose nor I replied. Then Cinnamon, who had continued staring my way, said. "There was no moonlight last night"

  "Yes, there was." I said quickly. Cinnamon shook her head.

  "If you don't believe me, check the newspaper."

  "But I saw light, a glow..."

  "So you saw starlight." Howard said. "Or the light from other rooms or the lights from the grounds below. I repeat, what's the big deal here?"

  "Starlight, casting shadows?" Rose asked.

  "It happens. What else is it, the ghost of Mr. Senetsky? I was just kidding about that. Save your imaginations for the stage," he advised. "Listen, it's getting late." He looked at Rose. "Can't you clean up after yourselves, please?"

  "All right." Rose said. "'here's a proposal. Forget Ms. Fairchild's work roster. One for all and all for one. We all do the work duty all the time."

  "Great," Howard said quickly.

  "But that means all of us. Howard," Cinnamon emphasized. "When your duty is over, you don't disappear or leave it for anyone else. All!" she emphasized.

  "Okay. okay. It's a good idea. Teamwork." She gazed at him skeptically.

  "The moment one of us fails to do his or her share, we go back to the roster." Cinnamon

  threatened, "Agreed?"

  "Fine with me," Steven said. "However. I've got to protect my fingers, remember? I can't develop any calluses."

  "Then stop licking the cream cheese off them," Ice snapped at him sharply.

  All of us laughed.

  We finished our breakfast and cleaned up. Then we left, breaking into our specialty classes. On the way out. Rose stepped up beside me.

  "I didn't want to say anything about last night" she whispered. "but when you did..."

  "What did you actually see?" I asked.

  "Nothing more than you said," she replied. "I feel silly now. I'm not afraid of any shadows and I certainly don't believe in ghosts."

  She continued walking quickly to catch up with Cinnamon and Howard, heading to their first drama session with Brock Marlowe, I stood there watching. Ice, who had overheard, looked at me, her eves full of confusion. Steven poked me.

  "I don't think we can be a second late for Mr. Bergman. He doesn't look like the tolerant type."

  I caught up with him quickly, glancing back at Ice, who turned and headed for her vocal lesson. Rose was already at the dance studio door.

  I wasn't afraid of any shadow and I didn't believe in ghosts or spirits either, but there was something else here, something that was not described in our orientation booklets, something in the heart of this old house, like a secret of the heart long forgotten, trying to be remembered, calling to anyone who would listen.

  Maybe I was the first who would,

  Mr. Bergman began with a thorough evaluation of our musical abilities and knowledge. He had Steven play some pieces and then he had me play my violin. He listened and watched us and then gave us other pieces to try. Before our session ended, he had us play a duet.

  When I first had my duet lessons with Chandler Maxwell at Mr. Wengrow"s, I thought Chandler was the most brilliant pianist I had ever heard, but I had to admit. Steven was truly exceptionally gifted. His fingers floated over the keys as if they each had a mind of their own, and when he played, all the impishness in his face, all of his lackadaisical expression disappeared. It was truly a wonder to watch his body metamorphose into someone so different from the carefree boy I was getting to know away from the piano. The instrument, the notes he played invaded his body and even his soul. When my Uncle. Peter had said the violin played me and not vice versa, he was really talking about someone like Steven. I thought.

  Since he went ahead of me. I was sure Mr. Bergman would see how special he was and how ordinary I was, but he didn't react that way. He didn't change expression or make any negative comments, nor did his voice take on any displeasure when I played.

  He kept us at it for nearly three hours, and when our session ended, he sat silently for a long moment. I glanced at Steven, who raised his eyebrows in a question mark. Was Mr. Bergman about to tell us we weren't good enough?

  "There is a great deal you both have to learn about technique," he began, "There's a tendency to rush, which is usual for people your age with your limited experiences. In my estimation. I would say neither of you have reached even fifty percent of your capabilities. In short, we have a great deal of work to do here. Much of that will seem elementary to you at first. but I want you to trust me. I want to work with you separately for a while. Who likes getting up earlier?"

  "Not me." Steven replied quickly.

  "I spent most of my life getting up very early to do my farm chores before I went off to school. Mr. Bergman. I don't mind it.

  He smiled. Finally there was a friendly, warm expression on that critical face.

  "Good," he said. "You and I will meet from eight to ten the first few weeks and Steven. I'll see you promptly at ten every morning.

  "Very good." he concluded, then without further comment rose and left the room.

  "Does that mean we're excellent candidates or not?" Steven wondered aloud.

  "It does to me."

  I was happy. In my mind I had met the first test. My instructor wanted to continue with me.

  "Elementary," Steven muttered. "He's just making work for himself, if you ask me."

  As if to prove his point, he sat at the piano again and began to play an entire concerto from memory, which I recognized as Beethoven's Piano Concerto 14 in C Sharp Minor. It was one of Chandler's favorites. but I never saw him do it withou
t sheet music. Steven's eyes were closed as he played. I stood there listening and watching him and then. when I turned to leave. I saw Madame Senetsky standing in the doorway.

  "How was your first lesson?" she asked me.

  "Fine. I think. It was mostly evaluation." She nodded.

  Steven continued playing, oblivious to her presence. She and I looked back at him. listening.

  "Extraordinary." she said.

  "He's wonderful," I agreed.

  "In a pure sense of raw talent, yes, but so many who have that fail because they don't realize it's only a part of who and what they are. It's very draining to give so much of yourself all the time. It's why the training is so important. You understand?"

  "Yes, Madame." She nodded,

  "You have a certain je ne sais quoi," she said with her softest smile yet, "what in French is a certain quality not easily described, perhaps. In your case. I believe it comes from your innocence. Honey. You remind me a great deal of my daughter, whom I unfortunately lost at a very young age. However, just in observing you a short time, practically no time. I sense it, sense the way you have such trust in the music you play, your instrument, the mystery of all that. If you don't lose that quality , become jaded or cynical, you will be just as extraordinary a talent as Steven. I would like to see that same trust given to me, to my school," she said.

  No one had mentioned her losing a daughter. I thought. I felt honored she had compared me with her.

  She continued to smile.

  "You look like you don't really understand, but you will. some day. I'm sure. Is everything else all right? Your room, the facilities..."

  "Oh, yes," I said quickly.

  "Good.' Her smile lifted and was quickly replaced with that schoolmarm look. "When someone speaks to you, try not to look down so much. You need to look into the eyes of people to see how sincere they really are, what they're really up to. Most people can't hide their true thoughts, prevent them from peeking out at you through their eyes. When you avoid them, you give up an important defensive tool.'

  "Defensive?"

  "You must always be on the defensive," she said sharply. "There are people who will lie to you to get you to do what they want, people who will lie to you to make you trust them. People like us are easily exploited. Honey. We yearn so much for applause, appreciation. opportunity. There are those, parasites, who sense it and take advantage of us. That is why our lives must be driven by a constant search for truth," she said. "And also why we must exude confidence. Pull your shoulders back. Stand firmly, otherwise you telegraph your insecurity and encourage the vultures."

  When she spoke, she did seem to be on a stage delivering an important soliloquy, posturing, delivering her words with such authority.

  She stared into my face so hard. I had great difficulty doing what she wanted: keeping my eyes on her.

  "You're a virgin," she suddenly said. It was so unexpected I couldn't help but blush. "I'm right about that. am I not?"

  I barely nodded.

  "I'm glad, Don't lose your virginity for a long while yet. You're not aware of it, but it gives you a certain edge, a way of looking at everything that will change radically once you do lose it.

  "I'm speaking from experience," she added. She smiled again. "Don't look so worried, my dear. You will succeed. I insist upon that."

  She said it as if she could command the sky to clear, the rain to fall or not fall, the night to wait longer before pushing out the day.

  "I must go look in on the others. Have a good first day, my dear," she said, patted my arm, and walked off.

  Steven, who had stopped playing once he had realized Madame Senetsky was right there in the doorway speaking with me, jumped up from his piano bench and hurried over before I could release the hot breath in my lungs.

  "What did she say to you? Did she say anything about me?" "She thought you were extraordinary."

  "She did?"

  "But nowhere near what you can be."

  "Why does everyone say that?"

  "Maybe because it's true," I said, starting away.

  "Wait a minute. She said something else. Something that made you turn red in the face. I saw that."

  I didn't answer and he kept after me.

  "Don't deny it. You were speaking with her quite a while. I pretended not to notice. but I did. Well? What did she say? C'mon. It's not right to keep secrets that involve all of us. One for all and all for one. remember?"

  "It doesn't involve all of us. It was something very private," I finally turned and blurted at him.

  "Oh." He thought a moment and then seemed to quickly lose interest. He shrugged. "I'm hungry. Let's see what's for lunch."

  He marched ahead of me. but I was still trembling from the intimacy of my conversation with Madame Senetsky. How could anyone look at me and know if I was a virgin or not? Was it because of how I reminded her of her daughter? Was her daughter my age when she passed away?

  I couldn't look at Rose and know positively that she wasn't a virgin, or even be that sure about Cinnamon, despite her sharp, knowing ways.

  Was Madame Senetsky right? Virgins had a different way of looking at things, feeling things, knowing things? She was certainly true to her promise. I thought. She was involving herself in our lives far more than other teachers would. Even my own mother hadn't had such a conversation with me, warning me that once I gave up my virginity, my way of viewing the world would change and that would change how I approached my music. For now there was something important in me that Madame Senetsky did not want me to lose along with my innocence-- not that I had plans to do so in the immediate future.

  But was that something you actually planned? Everything I had read or seen in movies made it seem like something that had to be spontaneous. If it wasn't. it lost its essence, its loving purpose. It became something almost scientific, an experiment. I had overheard many girls at school talk about it that way. Some made love specifically to see what it was all about and couldn't care less with whom they had experienced it. What sort of a memory was that to carry into adulthood? Was I old- fashioned to think like this? Would the others eventually ridicule me? Where did I belong? Maybe I should have been the one to live in Cinnamon's home and be pretending I was a young girl during the Civil War, and not her.

  Then a little voice inside me asked. "What makes you think girls were really all that different then?"

  All these questions buzzed about my head like a maddened hive of bees, and just when I had so much more upon which my concentration had to be fully directed. I felt like I was standing on a top, spinning and desperately trying not to fall off.

  We had an hour or so after lunch before our next session began. This one was with Mr. Masters, our speech instructor. After that we were all to report to Mr. Littleton to get vocal instruction. Ms. Fairchild continued to emphasize that it was Madame Senetsky's philosophy that, even though we all weren't talented in these various areas, exposure to them would make us far more rounded and help us in our own fields.

  After lunch. Rose. Cinnamon. Ice, and I went for a walk to see the grounds. Steven had gone up to his room and Howard was looking over the little theater like an athlete checking out the playing field. All of us agreed he was the most obsessive and intense about his career.

  It was a nearly perfect day, with just a dab of a cloud here and there against the light turquoise sky. Although it was in the low eighties, a breeze stirred the air around us. The lawns had just been cut that morning, so the redolent scent of fresh grass was all about us. That, along with the distinct aroma of freshly turned earth, made me somewhat homesick. I planned on writing a letter to Uncle Simon this evening, and thought I would describe the grounds with the sprawling old maples and hickory trees, the rock gardens, and fountains. I'd catalogue all the flowers that had been planted here. He would be so surprised to read that I was living and going to school in such a beautiful place.

  "Did Madame Senetsky stop by to see all of you?" I asked the others.

&n
bsp; Cinnamon said she had paused to listen to Howard and her read some lines from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, but didn't stay around to speak to them afterward. Ice said she had come by and listened to her doing scales with Mr. Littleton.

  "The way she was looking at me. I thought she was handing me a bus ticket home, but she nodded and spoke to Mr. Littleton, telling him she thought he had a rich field to mine. He agreed. I don't like it when people talk about you right in front of you as if you're not there," she added with a touch of fury in her beautiful ebony eyes.

  "She did the same to me, talking to Mr. Demeterius, praising my graceful moves aloud," Rose said.

  "Why did you ask?" Cinnamon asked me with those narrow suspicious eyes of hers fixing on my face. 'Did she say something to you directly?"

  "Yes,"

  "So? What? You look like you swallowed a mouse or something."

  I didn't want to tell Cinnamon what Madame Senetsky had said about virginity. I wasn't sure how she would take it in light of what she had openly confessed the night before.

  We paused at one of the stone benches and I sat. The others gathered around me. waiting.

  "This must be something good or bad!" Rose declared. "She didn't tell you to leave, did she?"

  I shook my head.

  "What do we have to do to get it out of you?" Cinnamon asked. "Sacrifice a virgin?"

  I looked up so sharply, she stepped back her eyes full of confusion.

  "What made you say that?"

  "It's just an expression. You know, primitive tribes... sacrifices and virgins... why?"

  "She said she knew I was a virgin. She could look at me andknow."

  "What?"

  "That's amazing," Ice said. "Most boys look at me and think otherwise,"

  "What made her say such a thing?" Cinnamon followed. I shook my head.

  "She must have had some reason."

  "She said I reminded her of her daughter."

  "Daughter?" Rose asked.

  "Yes, a daughter who died very young."

  "Before she could lose her virginity. then," Cinnamon concluded.