Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

the nerve to ask?" She shook her head. "What am I saying? Of course, he had the nerve; he's a New York cabby. Come on," she said, taking my hand. Oh no, I thought, not another race down the sidewalk.
    We hurried out of the luncheonette and turned left.
    "How do you know which way to go? It all looks so confusing," I said. I had already forgotten from which direction we had come. The streets looked so similar.
    "It's easier than you think. It won't take you long to find your way around. The school's only a block up and a block over," she added as we walked on.
    "My boyfriend's name is Victor, but no one calls him anything but Vic," she said. "He writes a couple of times a week and calls once a week. And he's visited me twice already this summer."
    "That's very nice. You're lucky to have someone who cares so much about you."
    "But I've got to tell you a secret," she said, stopping and pulling me closer as if all the strangers passing by us on the sidewalk would be interested in our conversation.
    "What is it?"
    "There's a boy I like at the school—Graham Hill. He's s-o-o-o handsome. He's a senior, studying acting." Suddenly, the corners of her mouth drooped sadly. "But he doesn't even know I exist," she said. She looked down at the sidewalk and then snapped her head up. "Let's hurry," she said, charging off again and tugging me behind her. "They'll still be in rehearsal and we can get a look at him."
    Hurry? I thought. What were we doing before?
    When we came around the corner, I saw the Bernhardt School across the street. There was a very tall, iron bar fence around the grounds with vines threaded through most of it. The entrance opened on a driveway that snaked up and over a small knoll before reaching the gray stone building that reminded me of a castle because it was tall and round, but what looked like a more recent addition with a flat room ran off to the right. In that section the windows were larger. Off to the left, I saw two tennis courts, both presently in use. On one court two couples were playing doubles. Even with the sounds of the traffic, the horns honking, we could hear their occasional laughter.
    The sky above had become a darker blue with a puffy, cotton ball cloud here and there. The breeze that lifted the strands of my hair and made them dance over my forehead was warm and salty. Beyond the school I could see the water that had been visible from the front steps of our apartment building.
    "Come on," Trisha commanded as soon as the light turned green.
    The grounds of the school surprised me. I hadn't thought I would find green grass, or flower beds, or the water fountains with benches and slate rock pathways in the middle of New York City. And there were great maple and oak trees with long thick branches casting cool shadows in which some students now sat or reclined, some reading, some talking softly, dozens of white and gray pigeons strutting bravely about them. It looked more like a beautiful park than school grounds.
    "It's very pretty here," I said.
    "It was once owned by a multimillionaire who loved Sarah Bernhardt, the famous actress, and decided to create this school in her name after she died. The school has been in existence since 1923, but everything's up-to-date. Ten years ago they added the new buildings. There's a plaque right there," Trisha said pointing to the fence. When we crossed the street, I stopped to read it.
     
    TO THE MEMORY OF SARAH BERNHARDT
    WHOSE BRIGHT LIGHT LIT UP THE STAGE
    AS IT HAD NEVER BEEN LIT BEFORE
     
    "Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever read?" Trisha said, sighing. "I hope someday someone very rich falls in love with me and has my name engraved in marble."
    "Someone will," I said and she smiled.
    "Thank you. It's very nice of you to say that. I'm so glad you're here." She threaded her arm through mine to walk me through the entrance.
    I looked up at the circular entrance to the school. This close, it looked even more intimidating than I had imagined. In those hallowed halls, really gifted people practiced and developed their talents. Many of its graduates were famous. These teachers saw the best and finest. Surely someone like me would stand out like an unripe tomato in a basket of ripe ones. I had only just learned how to play the piano and I had never had formal voice lessons. And after all, Grandmother Cutler had gotten me in without an audition. No one had said I had enough talent to enroll. My head bowed with the panic I felt.
    "What's the