surreptitiously slipped the grade book underneath the latest Paul Prudhomme. It was, after all, hot.
“Watch your step,” the woman warned as I accidentally backed into a pile of cookbooks.
“Not to worry,” I assured her. I scooted off the platform in front of the window, where several street-side onlookers stood salivating over the photo display, thanked the cookbook person, and ran up the stairs to the third floor. The store staff was already setting up chairs, and Audrey had made the coffee and concocted the apple juice from concentrate. Her face was set in a studied frown.
“Carl bothering you again?” I ventured. “No,” she said after a moment. “It’s Heather. She’s having some problems with her classmates. Now she wants me to drive her home after this. And she said Carl called, just had to talk to me about some new crisis.”
What else was new, I wanted to ask her. I refrained. However, after spending a few silent minutes stacking plastic cups in the tiny kitchenette, Audrey faced me gloomily. “Heather’s classmates told her they wanted her to figure the class rank because she’s so marvelous with numbers. They were going to supply her with their midterm grades, which supposedly came out Tuesday. But she’s tried for the past three days and she can’t get some of the top people, like Brad Marensky or Greer Dawson, to give her their grades in French. Now, I know they both have team practices, but why not answer Heather’s messages? I mean, they all said they wanted her to do this.”
“I certainly don’t know, Audrey. If you send Heather to Bennington, she won’t have any grades.”
Audrey tsked and shouldered a fruit and cheese tray. In the outer room, Miss Kaplan’s microphone-enhanced voice introduced the evening’s speaker, a Mr. Rathgore. I carried out the first tray of cups, returned to pick up the wine and apple juice, and scuttled back in time to see the troubled Heather deep in intense conversation with her mother, whose eyebrows were raised in perplexity.
Julian sat between Egon Schlichtmaier and Macguire Perkins. The three were chuckling over some private joke as Mr. Rathgore, a bald fellow in a shiny rayon suit, launched into his opening.
“We all hate to be tested,” he said. A chorus of groans greeted this.
I stole a glance at the headmaster, who was nodding absentmindedly. Perkins appeared even more exhausted than he had that morning. The Marenskys and Dawsons had prudently decided to sit on opposite sides of the room. Brad Marensky wore a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt; Greer Dawson was again swathed in forest-green watered silk. A steely-eyed staring contest seemed to be taking place between the Dawsons and Audrey, who was seated in a couch to the side of the speaker. But after a moment Heather touched her mother’s arm and Audrey looked away from the Dawsons.
“Worse, we can get caught up in the nerve-racking process of identifying with our children as they are tested,” continued Mr. Rathgore. “Old patterns recapitulate. Parents take their children’s poor performance much more seriously than the children themselves do… .”
No kidding. People began to shift uncomfortably in their seats, which I put down to the speech hitting a little too close to home. As I was setting out the paper cups one by one, I could see out of the corner of my eye that a few folks were standing up, stretching, milling about. Maybe they just couldn’t take any more reminders of their last chance at success. I turned an attentive face to Mr. Rathgore, but instead met with the gray visage of Headmaster Perkins, who had crossed the room to me.
“Goldy,” he stage-whispered, “I’m more exhausted than Perry when he finished traversing Antarctica.” He favored me with a chilly half-grin. Apparently he’d forgiven me for bringing up the mess with Pamela Samuelson and her grading. “Please tell me this isn’t decaf.”
“It isn’t,” I assured him as I poured the dark liquid into the first cup. “Unadulterated caffeine, I promise. And have a Valentine’s Day cookie, they’re called Sweetheart Sandwiches.”
His expressive brow furrowed. “Valentine’s Day cookies? We haven’t even endured Thanksgiving! Somewhat too early, wouldn’t you say?”
Before I could answer, Tom Schulz appeared on the other side of the table and greeted me with a huge smile. “Got some of those for me?”
“Finally,” I said with a smile I couldn’t suppress. “You’re back.” And I handed him a steaming cup of fragrant black stuff and a plate of Sweetheart Sandwiches. The headmaster attempted a jovial greeting for Schulz, but it caught in his throat. He reddened.
“You have something else for me?” Schulz whispered in my direction, ignoring Perkins’ discomfort. Mr. Rathgore paused in his talk to furrow his brow at the coffee-serving table. Several parents turned to see what was distracting the speaker’s attention, and I drew back in embarrassment. Headmaster Perkins’ too-bright smile froze on his face.
Alfred Perkins took a bite of his Valentine’s Day cookie that was too early. There were too many snoopy folks around to give Schulz the grade book now, I decided.
“Have some cookies first, they’re ? ” But before I could hand him the platter, another parental squabble erupted in the audience. This time it was between Caroline Dawson and Audrey Coopersmith.
“What is the matter with you?” Caroline shrieked. She jumped to her feet and glowered down at Audrey Coopersmith. Audrey closed her eyes and raised her pointy chin in defiance. Caroline was as scarlet as her suit. “Do you think Heather is the only one with talent? Do you think she’s the only one who can do math? Do you have any idea how tired we all get of your boasting?”
That shattered Audrey’s calm. She blazed, “Oh, excuse me, but it was Hank and Stan who started this ? “
Mr. Rathgore turned puzzled eyes to Miss Kaplan, who seemed at a loss for dealing with a civil disturbance during an author presentation.
“We did not!” Hank Dawson, irate, protested with his meaty hands. “Stan just said Heather wanted grades from Brad, but he’s been busy all week, and Greer couldn’t get her number in either, and all I said was that with the time it was taking, maybe the government should hire Heather to compute the deficit… really, let’s just all calm down!”
“I will not calm down!” Audrey fumed. Now she rose to her feet and yanked at the strings of her apron. After she had flung it off, she wagged a finger at the Dawsons. “Hank, you don’t know anything! How dare you make fun of Heather? To compute the deficit! Since when are you the economics expert? I’m so tired of you! You act like a know-it-all, and you know nothing! You ? you think you buy a government bond to get out of jail!”
Not this routine again. Parents murmured and I coughed; Schulz gave me one raised eyebrow. The Marenskys spoke to each other excitedly. They were probably bond investors.
“I’d like to know what business Hank Dawson has making snide remarks about computing the deficit,” Aujdrey’s shrill voice demanded of the stunned audience. “He thinks the Federal Reserve is where all the Indians live!”
Audrey did not wait for a response. True to form, she stomped out. Heather slithered out after her. So much for my post-catering cleaning help.
Miss Kaplan tried to restore order. “Why don’t we all just… have some refreshments, and if you have questions for Mr. Rathgore …” Her voice trailed off amid the noise of people scooping up their coats and scrunching shopping bags. A couple of parents lined up to buy Mr. Rathgore’s book: The True Test.
“Don’t worry.” Julian appeared at my side, holding a tray of biscotti. “I’ll give you a hand. You know, Heather’s mom is always stressed. Stressed major.”
Schulz helped himself to two biscotti. “As you were saying, Miss G., about my having cookies ? “
But before I could try any thoughts out on him, there was a distant explosion of crashing glass.
Macguire, who’d been leaning against a bookcase, was so startled he almost fell down. Julian’s tray dropped with a bang. Headmaster Perkins looked appalled.
“Don’t move, anyone!” cried Tom Schulz. He loped out the nearby exit to the adjoining garage. Bewildered’ parents turned to one another; an anxious buzz filled the air. The unfortunate Mr. Rathgore turned to the trade buyer.. He had forgotten he was wearing a microphone.
“What the hell is going on?” his voice boomed out. Miss Kaplan steepled her hands and pressed them to her lips. First a parental argument, then a glass-breaking disruption. Unlikely Mr. Rathgore would agree to another signing anytime soon.
Schulz returned. “It’s your van,” he announced laconically.
“Whose?” the ill-fated Mr. Rathgore screeched into his microphone.
Julian cried, “Somebody’s broken the windshield! Just like…” But he didn’t have to say just like which windshield.
