Family Storms by V. C. Andrews
“Thank you,” I said, taking it.
“That’s a very sophisticated cell phone. It takes pictures, but I’m sure you know all about those things.”
“No. We never had one,” I said, looking at it.
“Oh. Here’s the booklet for it,” she said, and gave it to me. “But for now, all you need to know is how to call me if you need me.”
“This is the surprise you promised?”
“No. That’s waiting in the limousine,” she said.
Now I was really curious.
Mrs. Duval brought in my scrambled eggs and stood back to watch me gobble them up. My nervousness made me hungry. Afterward, when I went out to get into the limousine, I saw that Mrs. Duval and Mrs. Caro had joined Mrs. March to watch me go. Grover opened the door for me, and I looked back at them.
“Good luck, dearie,” Mrs. Caro called.
“Yes, good luck,” Mrs. Duval said.
Mrs. March stood, smiling but looking like someone who was smiling through tears.
I got into the limousine. All alone in the big automobile, I felt even smaller and more helpless than ever. Grover got in, looked back at me, winked, and then drove us away.
Then I turned and saw the gift on the seat. Slowly, I unwrapped it.
Mrs. March had bought me a leather book bag, which she had filled with pens and pencils, pads, paper clips, almost anything any student would need. On the outside of the bag, embossed in gold, she had my name, but because of the fictional biography, it read “Sasha March.”
She had managed to justify changing my last name. Now I wondered if she would find a way to change my first name.
17
School
No one seemed to pay any particular attention to me when I stepped out of the limousine, even with a uniformed driver holding my door. Perhaps to the students at that school, it was nothing out of the ordinary to see one of them dropped off in a limousine. From the looks on their faces as they hurried into the building, shouted to each other, embraced, shook hands, and even kissed, I could see that most of the students knew one another. Except for the ones coming into seventh grade from elementary school, I wondered how many new students like me there were.
Since they didn’t take much notice of my limousine, I wondered if they would take much notice of my limp. Even though it had been a while, I was still quite conscious of it. I walked as if the bottom of my right foot was stepping on hot coals.
When I entered, I saw the sign on the marble wall pointing to the principal’s office. Everything looked immaculate, from the polished tile floors to the gleaming windows and the glittering desktops I could see through open classroom doors. It wasn’t a very big school lobby, so the chatter reverberated all around me. A small blond boy, probably a seventh-grader, bumped into me and then turned to flash an excited smile, apologizing. Before I could respond, he was gone. I walked slowly to the principal’s office.
The front desk was already crowded with other students who had questions and problems and two young women, dressed almost as stylishly as Mrs. March, were answering questions and passing out papers. I stepped up behind the last student in line.
The lady on the right saw me and whispered something to the other woman. Then she went around to the counter gate and beckoned. I wasn’t sure she was beckoning to me, but she kept doing it until I pointed to myself and she nodded. All of the students waiting suddenly paused to look at me as I went up to the gate.
“You’re Sasha March, right?”
“Yes.” I imagined she had been told that I was someone with Asian features.
“I’m Mrs. Knox. Dr. Steiner wanted me to bring you to her as soon as you arrived. Come through,” she said, stepping back.
I followed her to the principal’s office door. She smiled at me and knocked.
“Yes,” we heard.
She opened it enough to peer in and told Dr. Steiner I was here.
“Send her right in, Louise,” I heard her say. Mrs. Knox stepped back and held the door open for me.
Dr. Steiner was a stout woman with a heavy bosom. She wore a dark brown skirt suit with a frilly-collared blouse. She had curly, gray-stained dark brown hair and looked about five foot two at the most. Except for lipstick, she wore no makeup, not even to cover what looked like tiny freckles or age spots on the crests of her cheeks. She was standing behind her desk when I entered and for a few moments simply stared at me the way someone would study a stranger to see if he or she was what was expected.
“Welcome to Pacifica High School, Sasha,” she said, and nodded at the chair in front of her desk. “I’m Dr. Steiner.”
I sat. I didn’t realize it, but I was clutching my new book bag against my stomach as if I was afraid someone would steal it. It reminded me of the way Mama had worn her purse in front to avoid it being stolen when she walked through the streets. Dr. Steiner looked at the way I was holding my book bag, smiled, and sat. I relaxed my grip.
“I imagine you’re a little frightened about entering a new school, but I want you to know you needn’t be. I have a wonderful, bright, and caring staff working here. You’ll discover we’re like one big family,” she said.
When she spoke, she sounded a little nasal, like someone with a bad cold. Her grayish blue eyes widened at the ends of her sentences. She had her left hand palm down on the desk, but she held her right hand up with her index finger out and pumped it up and down to emphasize what she was saying. When I didn’t say anything, she continued.
“I’ve spoken with your tutor, Mrs. Kepler, and she is confident that you are ready for the ninth-grade work ahead of you. I have a high regard for her opinion, so I’m sure she’s correct. This is your class schedule,” she said, lifting a card no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. “Your classes and your teachers’ names are on it. On the back is our motto.” She turned it over and read, “Pacifica High School, where everyone strives to be all he or she can be.”
She leaned forward.
“Despite your recent history, Sasha, there is no reason for you not to be all you can be. I want you to know that I personally will do all that I can to help you achieve that, and I feel confident that your teachers here will do so, as well. They’re a dedicated bunch.
“Now, then,” she continued, sitting back. “I promised Mrs. March that I would personally see if you had any problems and personally escort you to your homeroom. There is a very nice young lady classmate of yours, Lisa Dirk, who has volunteered to be your big sister for today. She has the same schedule you have and will show you around, okay?”
I could see that it was bothering her that I hadn’t spoken.
“Is there anything you’d like to ask me before we go to your homeroom and meet Mr. Hoffman?”
“No,” I said.
“No? Well, I’m sure there will be things as you get started, and if you can’t get the answers from your teachers or other students, you come knocking on my door, okay?”
I nodded.
“I have been told you are artistic. I know that Mr. Longo, our art teacher for the senior high, will be excited about that.”
“I don’t know if I’m artistic.”
“Sasha,” she said, leaning toward me and smiling, revealing tiny teeth. “You will quickly discover that at this school, modesty is a disadvantage. Take pride in what you can do. Of course,” she added, “many of our students take pride even though they can’t do. I don’t know all that much about you, of course, but I’m willing to bet that self-confidence doesn’t come easy to you right now. I hope that will change.” Her eyes narrowed. She sounded and looked as if it had better change. “Okay, then, come along,” she said, rising. “Let’s get you started on a wonderful school year. I’ll take you right to your locker first and give you the combination.”
She reached out for me as she came around her desk and surprised me by putting her arm around my shoulders. When she opened the door, I saw that the students who had been in the outer office were gone. Mrs. Knox and her associate both
“Mrs. Knox. Mrs. Frazer, this is Sasha March, our newest student. Please make her feel at home. We’re going to her locker and then to Mr. Hoffman’s homeroom,” she told them. “Man the fort.”
They both nodded and looked at me as if I, not Kiera March, were the rich man’s daughter. Was Dr. Steiner giving me this special treatment because of Mrs. March or because of what Mrs. March had told her about me? Whichever reason it was, I didn’t feel good about it. I hoped this would be the first and last time I’d be singled out for any privileged treatment. It wasn’t that long ago since I was last in school, and I remembered all too well how students would resent others whom their teachers favored.
When we stepped into the lobby, it was empty and very quiet. So was the hallway we entered. Where had everyone gone so quickly? Dr. Steiner saw the confused look on my face.
“The bell for beginning of homeroom has rung, but the bells don’t ring in my office,” she said. “I have enough outside noise as it is. Loitering in the hallways after the bell rings will get you into detention as quickly as anything else.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if Kiera had made it to school on time. After Dr. Steiner showed me my locker and gave me the combination, we continued down the long corridor. We walked to the last room on that wing of the building. When we entered, the dozen or so students all turned to look. Mr. Hoffman, a man Mama would have called as slim as a butter knife, stopped what he was reading and looked at us.
“Mr. Hoffman, here is your new student, Sasha March. Miss Dirk is to be her big sister today.”
A chubby, dark-haired, light-skinned African American girl stood. She looked to Mr. Hoffman, who nodded, and then she came around the end of her row to us. She wasn’t much taller than I was, and if it were not for her full, round, bloated face, she could be very pretty, I thought. She had unique-colored eyes that were like a very dark blue. Every-one else continued to watch us as if we were about to begin some traditional ritual of greeting.
“Hi. I’m Lisa,” she said, extending her hand. I took it and nodded. “You’re sitting right behind me,” she added loudly, and the boy who was sitting there stood up and moved to the back of the row.
Dr. Steiner watched it all unfold and smiled with satisfaction.
“You’re in good hands now, Sasha. Everyone be sure to make Sasha feel at home,” she said, her voice, though still with that nasal quality, sounding very authoritative. She nodded again at Mr. Hoffman, handed me my class-schedule card, and left.
I followed Lisa to my seat.
“Welcome, Sasha. I was just explaining that this home-room period will be extended so we can go through some of the rule changes at the school,” Mr. Hoffman told me, and then said, “Number three.”
The only rule change that made the students around me groan was the prohibition against cell phones being on during classes. Texting during class would result in suspension.
The redheaded boy across from me leaned over to whisper. “That’s because Jean Trombly was caught cheating. Someone was texting her the answers on the test.”
I just widened my eyes. And then I realized that the phone Mrs. March had give me was on. I quickly dug into my book bag, took it out, and shut it off. The phone made a musical sound as it went off, and everyone looked at me, most smiling and laughing. Mr. Hoffman didn’t crack a smile. I shoved the phone back into my book bag quickly.
“Number four,” he said sharply, and they all turned back to look at him. He went through five more rule changes before finishing.
When the bell to end homeroom finally rang, Lisa spun around quickly.
“Let me see your class schedule,” she said. I handed it to her. “Oh, good, you’re in instrumental music next. I was afraid you weren’t.”
“Instrumental music?” I hadn’t looked at the card. She handed it back to show me.
“Room fourteen,” she said. “It’s a bit of a walk. What instrument do you play?”
“I don’t,” I said.
She tilted her head and pressed her lips deeper into their corners. “Weren’t you playing an instrument in the school you attended before you came here?”
“No. We didn’t have a school band.”
“We have an orchestra. Not a band,” she corrected, and I followed her out. “We have three full minutes between classes, so being late is considered serious. Two times late for classes will result in one day’s detention. And you don’t want to be in detention here. Mr. McWaine runs it, and he doesn’t let students do anything for the whole hour. No reading, no homework, nothing but sitting up straight with your hands clasped. Not that I’ve ever been in detention,” she added. “Have you?”
“No.”
“You might get away with it because of your limp.”
“I don’t want to get away with anything because of my limp,” I said sharply, but she didn’t notice my annoyance, or if she did, she ignored it.
“That’s the way to the cafeteria,” she said, nodding to our left. “On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, they have pizza. It’s thick and full of cheese, and you can ask for pepperoni to be put on it if you like. I love pepperoni. The juniors and seniors have their classes mostly down on this end,” she continued. Then she leaned in to say, “Everyone’s going to be asking me all sorts of questions about you. For starters, who was Chinese, your father or your mother?”
“My mother.”
“Did you eat with chopsticks? I hate it. It takes too long to eat. My fingers are too fat and clumsy, anyway.”
“We didn’t eat with chopsticks at home,” I said. “But always in an Asian restaurant. You shouldn’t eat fast, anyway. It’s not good for you.”
“Oh, are you one of those health nuts?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just nuts.”
She looked at me and laughed. “You lived in Santa Barbara?”
I nodded.
“I’ve been there, of course. It’s very nice. Do you miss it?”
“I miss a lot,” I said sharply. I did, of course, only it had mostly to do with Mama.
She saw the tears in my eyes. “Oh, let’s hurry. We’ve only got another thirty seconds.” she began to walk faster. Keeping up with her made me limp more dramatically, and for some reason, I felt pain in my hip.
Just before we turned into the music room, she paused and said, “The music teacher’s name is Denacio. Everyone loves him, but they still call him Mussolini. You know who that was?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know not to fool around in here,” she said, and we entered.
Nothing could have made me more curious. Why was I assigned to instrumental music? Didn’t I have a choice?
Room fourteen was a bigger classroom, but the class was half the size of my homeroom. Mr. Denacio was tall and lean, with coal-black hair and a coal-black thick mustache. He had piercing ebony eyes as well. He had his jacket off and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows.
“Let’s not waste time,” he said when the bell rang. “I want to see how many of you really practiced over the summer, and don’t think any of you can fool me about that.”
The students around me went to their instruments. I stood there, feeling foolish.
“Okay,” he said, nodding at me. “Sasha March?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mr. Denacio. I understand you’re here to learn how to play the clarinet.”
I stared dumbly. Before I could say anything, he reached back and picked up an instrument case.
“It’s a pretty good piece,” he said. “Just take your seat over there.” He nodded at an empty desk on my right. “I’ll get to you in a little while.”
“I never played the clarinet,” I said.
“No kidding. That’s why you’re here to learn, Miss March. Look around you. None of these geniuses knew anything much about the instruments they play now when they began here. This is why we call it an educational ins
No one laughed, but everyone smiled. He handed me the instrument case, and I went over to my desk. Lisa was at the rear of the classroom, taking out a flute. I opened the case and saw the inscription on the inside cover.
Alena March.
Under that was her address, and at the very bottom was a tiny goldplated plaque that read, We love you. Dad and Mom.
I closed the case. Why hadn’t Mrs. March told me she already had this for me? I had never said I wanted to play the clarinet. Would it be ungrateful of me to refuse?
I watched Mr. Denacio test every student. He complimented only two and told the others they had to make up for ignoring their instruments. Everyone was given something to do, and then he turned to me.
“Now, then,” he began, “it just so happens I can use another clarinet in the senior orchestra. Hey, stop looking so worried. You’re making me nervous.” He finally smiled.
“I’m not nervous. I’m just surprised,” I said.
“Surprised? Why?”
“I didn’t know this was here waiting for me.”
“Oh. Your aunt brought it in last week. She didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head
“Well, I guess it is a surprise, then, but a nice surprise, right?”
I looked at the case and shrugged.
“Enthusiastic, I see. Okay, you’re what I call a challenge, and why shouldn’t I have one the first day of school? Why should anything come easier to me?”
He opened the case and began to show me how to put the clarinet together, set up the reed, and hold the mouthpiece correctly. He told me to hold it between my teeth, pretend to say “doo,” and blow.
“That’s it,” he said. “Blowing long tones will get your abdominal muscles used to the pressure.”
I did it again and again, and he smiled.
“That’s a pretty good sound. Something tells me I have my new clarinet player,” he said. He said it as if he had been waiting for me for a long time.
It gave me chills, because sometimes that was just the way Mrs. March made me feel.
I looked back at Lisa, who lowered her flute and smiled. Maybe it was my imagination, but it looked as if everyone was looking at me and smiling.