Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

and try to become a writer. Maybe, if I succeed, my parents will forgive me. I hope you were being honest when you told me you would always cherish the poem I wrote about you. Maybe someday we will meet again. Thank you for caring.
    Love,
    Arthur
     
    Trisha thought I should give the letter to Agnes. "But then they might hunt him down and drag him back and he will hate me for it," I said.
    "There's no return address on it," Trisha pointed out. "All they know is it was mailed in New York City. This way," Trisha continued, "Agnes will know it's not your fault and Arthur's parents won't be able to blame anything on you."
    "Poor Arthur," I said. Trisha shrugged.
    "Maybe he's going to be happier now. He might even gain some weight," she added. I smiled, folded the letter back into the envelope and did what she had advised: brought it to Agnes, who sighed and sighed over it and thanked me.
    We heard no more about it. Like so many unpleasant things that happened at Agnes Morris's resident hall, the events were never again mentioned, or if they were, they were indistinguishable from real events and fictional ones occurring in dramas. But I didn't have time to worry too much about it.
    Madame Steichen began to include me in her monthly Saturday recitals showcasing her students. I sang with the chorus in two school musicals. The competition for solo parts was fierce and the seniors usually won them, even though other students often told me that I should have been chosen.
    Toward the end of the school year, Madame Steichen informed me that she had selected me to be her featured student during next year's Performance Weekend. We would dedicate our summer classes to it. Everyone congratulated me on the honor and I was very proud. Even so, I promised Trisha I would find time to visit with her and her parents.
    On the last day of the regular school year, Trisha met me outside the music suite, her face so red with excitement she looked like she would explode.
    "Guess who's coming here next fall to teach vocal music," she cried, hugging her books to her bosom and spinning. "I just heard. Just guess!"
    "Who?" I asked, shaking my head and smiling at her exuberance.
    "Michael Sutton, the opera star!"
    Michael Sutton was the rage of the opera scene in Europe; he had been a star in America the year before his European tour and had been and still was featured in magazine after magazine. He was young and handsome and as talented as anyone could be.
    "He's going to hold auditions the week before school starts to choose his students," Trisha declared. "And even though I can't hold a note, I'm coming back early to try out. Of course, you'll have a wonderful chance, you lucky thing. You're a senior now!"
    My heart began to pound in anticipation. I shook my head. Events in my short life had taught me never to count on anything, especially not a rainbow after the rain.
    Still, why not hope, I thought. After all, Michael Sutton!

 
    6
GETTING TO KNOW MICHAEL
     
    Trisha and I were very excited the day of the audition for Michael Sutton's vocal class. We rose a half hour earlier than usual and tried on a dozen different skirt and blouse combinations before we both settled on our baby-pink blouses and pleated ivory skirts. We had bought them together during one of what Trisha called "Our weekend shopping safaris in the city." We would spend hours and hours going from one department store to another trying on different clothes, some dresses so expensive or outrageous we knew we could never buy them. But it was fun pretending even though salesladies with disapproving eyes glared down over their pinched noses at us.
    Wearing identical outfits to the audition was Trisha's idea.
    "Because we look like twins, we'll catch his attention," she said.
    We washed and conditioned our hair and then brushed it until it seemed to glow, finishing with pink silk ribbons. Then we put on just a touch of lipstick. Neither of us needed any more color in our faces; we had both been tanned by the summer sun. We decided to wear white sneakers and Bobby socks, too. Giggling more out of nervousness than anything else now, we bounced down the stairs to breakfast and listened attentively as Agnes strutted up and down the dining room giving us advice for auditioning while we ate.
    "Look confident; be businesslike, and whatever you do, don't be first," she warned.
    We didn't need the warning. By the time we arrived, the music suite was so crowded that the candidates were told to