Falling Stars Read online

"I don't know. She just said I should..."

  "What?" Rose blurted. impatient.

  "Stay a virgin for as long as I could."

  I shot a quick glance at Rose and Cinnamon. They were both quiet, both looking at me with wonder and confusion. "Why?" Cinnamon finally asked.

  I shrugged.

  "She said it gave me a certain... she spoke French..."

  "Savoir faire?" Rose asked.

  "No." Cinnamon said for me. "I'd think it would be just the opposite." She thought a moment. "Je ne sais quoi?"

  "Yes, that's it."

  "A certain something, indescribable, but there." Cinnamon said. She became very thoughtful a moment. She looked at Rose. "I guess you and I are damaged goods, and in her eves don't have that special something."

  "She didn't say that," I quickly reported. "Whatever it is might not be important for what you do. In her way of thinking, at least. I still don't understand it."

  "What's she going to do, check you out every week to see if you're still pure?" Cinnamon asked bitterly.

  "That woman scares me." Ice said. "How could she look at her and say that?"

  Cinnamon smirked.

  "Our Honey here doesn't exactly radiate sexual sophistication."

  She stared at me a moment and then asked. "What are you going to do if your boyfriend wants to make love-- tell him it's bad for your career?'

  "I don't know. I'm confused."

  "Talk about invading someone's space. Maybe she's just weird. Maybe she's lost it since her daughter's death or something. Maybe we're coming to this school too late." Cinnamon rattled off.

  Everyone was lost in her own thoughts for a while.

  Then Ice turned her head to the side and said. "Well, look atthat."

  "What?" Cinnamon said, her voice testy. I really regretted revealing what Madame Senetsky, had said to me now.

  Ice nodded at the rear of the mansion. From where we sat, we could see it well.

  "What?" Rose asked. squinting. The sunlight was reflecting off windows and the walls.

  "That door. It's all barred up. It looks like a prison door or something," Ice said.

  "Yes, it does," Cinnamon agreed. "Let's take a closer look."

  She started across the grass. Rose and Ice following. I got up and joined them. As we drew closer, it was clear it was a heavily barred door. The windows in the rear looked barred as well.

  "Some security," Rose said.

  "Why?" Cinnamon turned around. "Look at this place, with its high gate, its video security and alarms. It's not exactly a burglar's dream.'

  "This would take us through the rear of the building," Ice remarked.

  "I guess Ms. Fairchild wasn't exaggerating when she emphasized how we should keep from entering this portion of the mansion," Rose said.

  "What did she think we would do, take a saw to these iron bars?" Cinnamon asked.

  "Can I help you?" we heard, and turned to see a short, stout groundsman with heavily curled dark brown hair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up over his bulging forearms and he held a pair of clipping shears pointed at us. His face was dark, and made darker by his unshaven cheeks and chin. Instinctively. I crossed my arms over my chest and stepped back. Ice and Rose did the same. but Cinnamon held her ground, even taking a step toward him.

  "We were just admiring the beautiful bars on this door," Cinnamon replied. "We're students here.'

  "You can't go in that way,' he said.

  "We know." Rose said. "We weren't going to do that."

  "You couldn't if you wanted," he continued, coming closer. "Those bars aren't the only thing. That there door is welded shut."

  "Why would anyone do that?" Rose asked him. "Isn't that against some fire code or something?"

  He shook his head.

  "I don't ask questions. I do what I'm asked to do."

  "How long has it been this way?" Cinnamon asked him in the tone of a detective.

  "A little more than two years, I think," he replied. He looked like he didn't enjoy being crossexamined, but Cinnamon had a firm, demanding way about her.

  "It was done to keep anyone from going into the private residence." I said, stating what I thought was the obvious and hoping to end this.

  "Hey!" we heard, and saw Steven walking across the lawn. "Ms. Fairchild is looking for you all. She has information about this weekend's events. She sent me out to find you."

  "Be careful." Cinnamon said, turning from the door to me. "She's liable to want to put a chastity belt on you. From the looks of this," she added, nodding at the barred door, "it seems like something she might do."

  The groundsman squinted with confusion and then shook his head and walked off.

  Rose and Ice gazed at me, and then we all went to join Steven.

  Only I looked back at the door, wondering what it was that made this part of the house so inviolate.

  Our lesson with Mr. Masters wasn't as unpleasant as I had anticipated. He was a very jailman, actually, and had fun pointing out our little speech idiosyncrasies. He did it in a friendly, light manner so that no one felt singled out or mocked.

  What he emphasized, more than anything, was how much more effective we all could be if we spoke more slowly and didn't slur our words. There were plans to record each of us individually and work with each of us on a one-to-one basis by next week.

  Our vocal lesson followed a similar procedure. Mr. Littleton's main objective was to get us to understand how the voice was an instrument in and of itself. Projection, breathing combined with

  enunciation, and some dramatic awareness would all blend together and make us more effective in so many ways. It made sense and was truly an effort to give us a well-rounded artistic education.

  Dance class served as our physical exercise class as well as an effort to help each of us develop poise, grace, and coordination. Since this first class was simply an orientation, we didn't do very much, but for the next class, we were to all dress in appropriate clothing. It was Ms. Fairchild's job to provide us with it. including dance shots. All of us. including Steven, laughed at the image of him in a pair of tights, especially with his toothpick legs.

  We all thought we would have some time to ourselves after our dance class, but Ms. Fairchild informed us that our culinary education would begin with the evening's meal. Accordingly, she wanted us to dinner a half hour earlier. It seemed Madame Senetsky, from time to time, brought in a culinary critic or a well-known New York City chef to lecture to us about different cuisines, from Cordon Bleu to Szechuan to Greek. It was here that I would taste entrees like chicken Kiev, paella. beef Wellington, and so many other things that I had only read about, and many more I had never even heard of.

  This first evening we were treated to a lecture on Spanish food. Madame Senetsky began by explaining that our food lectures would be like travel guides. The speakers wouldn't just talk about food, but the cultures as well.

  She introduced Senor de Marco, a teacher from a New York City culinary institute. We sat with glasses of sangria and listened to him describe how the Spanish people gathered in bars, which he described as being closer to meeting halls than a gin mill.

  "In small towns in Spain, the only place to have coffee is at a bar. In others, the only place that sells ice cream cones is the bar in the central square.'

  He then went on to describe tapas and the variety of dishes we were about to enjoy, including paella with fish. Russian salad, chicken wings, gizzards, or hearts in sauce, and tortilla Espanola, all with sangria.

  The more Steven drank, the funnier he became.

  Before the evening ended, he cried out, almost in desperation, "Is everything we do here part of our education? Maybe well even get instruction on how to take a shower!"

  "Maybe you'll get instruction on how to hold your liquor. Steven." Cinnamon countered, and everyone laughed.

  Later that evening. I sat and wrote my first letter to Uncle Simon. I thought he would appreciate my description of the flora and the grounds, but I made it
clear how much it all reminded me of him and how I missed him, as well as Mommy and Daddy.

  Mommy called that night as well.

  "I wanted to call before this," she explained. "but your father thought I shouldn't. Is everything all right?"

  "Yes," I said and described all that I had done, our meals, and the other students. We spoke for nearly a half hour. "This phone call is costing so much," I realized.

  "I don't care," Mommy said. "You don't hesitate to call me and reverse the charges. Honey. Promise you will whenever you feel you need to or need to tell me something. okay?"

  "Okay, Mommy," I said.

  Finally, she put Daddy on.

  "How's life in the big farmhouse?" he joked.

  I almost told him about the strangely barred rear doors and windows, but didn't. I wanted to be sure I didn't sound any sort of negative note and plant the seed of worry in him or Mommy. Besides, what was there to worry about? I was sure there was some logical explanation.

  Instead. I asked him questions about the farm. He was comfortable talking about the corn crops, the market, and his new machinery.

  "Finally replaced that old grain combine of Grandad's," he told me. "I did a trade on a new one. His bones are probably rattling."

  I laughed at the thought.

  "You just have a good time. Honey, and make us proud. I love You," he said.

  It brought tears to my eyes. I told him I loved him, too, and then we ended the conversation. Maybe he was right keeping Mommy from calling me. I thought. Hearing their voices stirred up the anthill of homesickness inside me. I had been doing all I could to keep from thinking about home. and Chandler. too. He hadn't called me yet, nor had he written.

  When I turned on my computer, however. I was pleasantly surprised by a "you have mail" greeting, and there was an Email from him, describing his arrival at Boston University, his roommate, his classes, his piano teacher and the band instructor, and then, finally, in the last paragraph, how much he missed me and looked forward to his first opportunity to visit me in New York.

  I wrote back, doing some of what he had done, describing the school and the other students, but my letter talked more about how much I missed him and our times together, especially at the lake on my farm.

  My heart felt like a Ping-Pong table upon which all my emotions had been bantered back and forth. I had cried, laughed, sulked, and smiled within an hour's time. Exhausted. I prepared for bed, When I came out of the bathroom after I had changed into my nightgown. however. I was shocked to see Cinnamon just inside the doorway. She was wearing a robe and slippers and looked troubled.

  "What is it?" I asked after a short gasp of surprise. You frightened me."

  "Sorry, but I came to get you and had to do it as quietly as I could."

  "Why?"

  "We've got to go to Rose's room. Now," she emphasized. "Put on your robe quickly."

  I hurried to my closet, took it off the hook, and slipped into it. "What's wrong?"

  "There was another shadow at her window," she replied.

  "Oh."

  "Only this time, it left something behind on the fire escape."

  "What?"

  "C'mon. Ice is already there," she said, and opened my door.

  It was very still in the house. The lights had been dimmed. Steven and Howard's doors were shut and no one else but us was about.

  When we entered Rose's room. Cinnamon shut the door behind us quickly. Rose was on her bed. Ice beside her, embracing her. It was obvious Rose had been crying.

  "What's wrong?" I asked. We drew closer to the bed. "Where is it?" Cinnamon demanded.

  Ice nodded at a chair on the right, near the window opening to the fire escape. I looked and saw what appeared to be a scarf.

  Cinnamon held it up and nodded. "Recognize it?" she asked me.

  Rose and Ice fixed their gazes on me to see my reaction and hear my reply. It was familiar.

  "It's someone's scarf, isn't it?"

  "It's an ascot," Cinnamon explained.

  "Ascot?"

  "What Edmond Senetsky wears instead of a tie," she said. "After Rose sensed someone at her window, she got up enough nerve to go to it and spotted this out there. She came for me. and I went out and brought it back inside."

  A small ball of ice rolled down my spine. I jerked my head toward Rose, who started to cry again.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means," Ice said slowly. "that Mr. Senetsky was on that fire escape, peeping in Rose's window tonight while she was getting undressed and everything."

  I shook my head.

  "Can't be," I said. "He would really do that?"

  "I feel so violated," Rose cried. "About a year ago," she said, after sucking back a sob. "I was in a beauty contest. My father got his boss to sponsor me. I was brought to the dealership to meet Mr. Kruegar, a balding forty-year-old man who had inherited the business from his father. It was the first time I was paraded in front of someone who looked at me like a product-- maybe in his case like a brand-new car. He even said I had nice bumpers," she said, a bit of fury replacing the fear in her face.

  "After that. I could feel his eyes on me all the time I was in the contest. He even tried to get me to come work for him and wear a bathing suit. Men who do that to you make you feel... molested with their eyes," she said. "That's how I feel right now. I want to go under a hot shower for hours."

  "She's right about that," Ice agreed.

  I was glad I had never told them how my Uncle Simon used to sit and watch me through my bedroom window, especially when I practiced the violin. They would surely make something nasty out of it when there wasn't.

  But I understood what Rose was feeling. No one liked to be spied upon, especially like this and by someone we thought was so sophisticated and important.

  "Howard must be right," Rose said. "He has some other sort of sick and perverted interest in me."

  "Maybe we're jumping to conclusions too quickly," I said. "It could have blown out of another window or something."

  Rose looked up quickly, her eyes filling with some hope. She turned to Cinnamon, who held the scarf and then brought it to her nose.

  "I recognize the scent of the nauseatingly sweet cologne he wears." she said. "It's his for sure."

  She offered it to me and I smelled it. It did have the same aroma.

  "I'm not saying it's not his. It might be, of course. I'm saving there might be another explanation as to why it was out there. He doesn't live here. It seems so weird that he would come back to the house to do this."

  "That's true," Cinnamon said cautiously.

  "Well, what should we do about it?" Ice asked. "Should we go tell Madame Senetsky?"

  No one replied for a long moment.

  "If we're wrong about this or if there is another explanation, she's not going to like us making such accusations," I suggested.

  "And Edmond Senetsky will certainly not like it."

  "Honey's right," Cinnamon said. "We should be absolutely sure about it first,"

  "Should we tell the boys?" Rose asked.

  "No," Cinnamon said quickly. "First, they would probably think we made all this up somehow. Howard would be against telling Madame Senetsky no matter what, and I don't think they'd be too sympathetic about it."

  "Maybe one of them is doing it." I thought aloud.

  "That doesn't explain the scarf," Rose said sadly. "I almost wish itwas Steven or Howard."

  Again we were all quiet. thinking,

  "All right," Cinnamon declared, moving closer with the scarf in hand. We gathered about the bed. "If we don't mention it or in any way act different because of it, he might very well come back."

  "I don't want him to come back!" Rose wailed.

  "Just a minute, will you? I have an idea. Tomorrow night, about the time we all retire to our rooms, the three of us will sneak into yours and camp out under this window. If someone appears on that fire escape we'll be ready for him, and then there'll be no doubts about it."
<
br />   "What if he doesn't show up until after she goes to sleep?" Ice asked.

  "Chances are he is more interested in seeing her undress than under the covers, Ice." Cinnamon replied dryly.

  "Just asking," she said.

  "Let's just try it and see what happens." Cinnamon said. "Okay?"

  No one spoke.

  "Okay?" she asked forcefully.

  "All right." Ice said.

  I nodded.

  It's not just you, remember." Cinnamon told Rose. "He was at Honey's window."

  "Is that what you think?" I asked.

  "Boy, you are innocent," Cinnamon replied. "If you saw something on your landing and it's the same as Rose's landing. why not?"

  "How come you didn't suggest such a possibility when I mentioned it at dinner?" I asked, a bit stung by her words concerning my naivete. "I thought... it might be spirits," she admitted, "So did I." Ice said.

  They stared at each other a moment, and then simultaneously broke into a laugh.

  "Some spirit," Cinnamon said. "Wearing a scented ascot"

  "What are we going to do with it?" Rose asked.

  "Keep it as evidence, what do you think?"

  "I don't want it in my room," Rose said, leaning away from it as if it was contaminated.

  Cinnamon gazed at it and shrugged.

  "No problem. I'll keep it in mine. Unless one of you insists on keeping it," she said to me and Ice. Neither of us offered any opposition. "Thought not," she said and folded it. "Let's go back to sleep."

  "What if he returns tonight, looking for the scarf?" Rose asked, the thought searing across her forehead, forming one deep line of worry and anxiety.

  "If you hear anyone out there. Rose, come and get me," Cinnamon said.

  "Come get us all," Ice added.

  I looked toward the window. Something from above dropped a sheet of dim light over the darkness, enough light to silhouette someone standing on the fire escape if someone was actually there. I thought.

  "No one will be out there anymore tonight." I said in nearly a whisper. It was really more of a prayer.

  Ice walked to the window and stood there a moment.

  "What makes it glow out here?" she asked. Cinnamon stepped up beside her.

  "Light from a window above. I imagine."

  And then, almost as if every word we spoke could be heard, the light went off.