Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

to being tired and finally put the lights out.
    I fell asleep quickly, exhausted from my trip and all that I had done since I had arrived; but sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of rainfall: my first summer storm in New York City. The staccato beats on the roof overhead were military drums to take me into memories I had hoped to ignore, memories of my first night at Cutler's Cove when I found myself in a strange new world with my strange new family. How I had missed Momma and Daddy Longchamp, Fern and Jimmy.
    I got out of bed. Trisha was fast asleep, her breathing deep and regular. I moved carefully so as not to wake her, and I went out to go to the bathroom. On my way back to the room, I heard an odd sound. I listened and realized it was the sound of someone sobbing and it was coming from Arthur Garwood's room. I drew closer to his door and listened.
    "Arthur?" I called. "Are you all right?" I waited. The crying stopped, but he didn't reply. I listened a bit longer and then returned to my room to wonder about this dark, brooding boy who shut himself up in his own body.

 
    3
THE LETTER
     
    Summer that used to move like a caterpillar flew by and before I knew it, I was opening my eyes to greet a late August morning. My stay in New York and attendance at the Bernhardt School of Performing Arts had taken me on a roller coaster of emotions. The panic I had felt the first day of class didn't diminish immediately, even though Trisha had been right: everyone was friendly and encouraging, especially our teachers who were less formal than my public school teachers. In all my classes except math and science, we sat in a half circle facing the teacher who usually spoke to us in a conversational tone. My speech instructor even told his students to call him by his first name!
    And most of the students were different too. The chatter in the cafeteria or in the lounges was always about theater or movies or recitals. We didn't have a basketball or football team. Everything was centered around the arts. Usually, I sat and listened when the others talked about their favorite performers and productions. I was ashamed to admit that I had yet to go to a real play, especially to a play on Broadway. Of course, I told Trisha, who immediately arranged for us to go see a matinee.
    Nearly every day at school, some new announcement was posted on the general bulletin boards advertising auditions and opportunities, mainly for the seniors. I couldn't imagine myself asking someone to pay me for performing, not for a long time. Trisha felt the same way about herself, but we always stopped to read the bulletins, pretending we were planning on attending the auditions.
    I received many compliments and a great deal of support from my vocal teacher and fellow music students, but if anyone kept me from losing my head, it was my piano teacher, Madame Steichen. She had been a concert pianist in Austria and was famous. It was considered a great honor to be in her class, although for me it was quite frightening at first. I could see from the way my fellow students acted when they entered her classes that she would be quite different from our other teachers. She ran a general class in music and gave individualized lessons.
    Madame Steichen always dressed formally for class, dressed as if she were performing for an audience herself. She usually entered just before the beginning of the class and never tolerated anyone coming late. We were all seated and waiting and we could hear her shoes clicking down the corridor as she approached. When she entered, no one made a sound. Rarely did she smile.
    She was tall and thin, with long, graceful fingers that seemed to have minds of their own when she brought them to the piano keys. Never had I seen such intensity in anyone's eyes as I saw in her dark gray eyes when she demonstrated. I was very impressed and very excited about being one of her students.
    She always wore her hair pinned firmly back in a bun. She wore no makeup, not even a touch of lipstick to brighten her pale red lips. Sitting beside her on the piano stool, I saw the little brown age spots on her wrists and on her temples. Her skin was so thin, the tiny veins that ran over her eyelids were quite visible.
    Yet her frail body was deceptive. She was firm and strong in class and never hesitated to sting her pupils with caustic criticism whenever she thought it necessary. At least twice, she nearly had me in tears.
    "Why did you tell