the joy of seduction
nancy wakeman
I run up the stairs and barge into my best friend’s room.
“Well,” Penny says, staring at herself in the mirror and poking at a pimple, “how did it go?”
I’m so embarrassed,” I say, pushing my face into a pillow and rocking back and forth. I have a crush on the music director of St. Mary’s-in-the-Mountains, alias St. Mag’s-in-the-Crags, an Episcopalian boarding school for girls in northern New Hampshire. Everyone has to be in the glee club, but this is the first year I auditioned. Last year I snuck into the alto section and sat there, singing when I thought I could hit the notes, lip-synching when the other altos stared and poked me. This year I risked embarrassment because of Mr. Schneider. Dark, brooding, handsome ' he looks like he stepped out of one of the novels I read when I’m supposed to be studying. He’s from New York City, the artistic and intellectual center of the world. To me and his other admirers he is the ultimate in hippness and sophistication. I want him to notice me and walk to class with me.
“Nancy, I’m dying from suspense. Tell me. Oh, these stupid pimples.”
“I couldn’t hit the notes and then he started playing the “Appassionata Sonata” and I didn’t know that it was Beethoven. I mean I knew. But I couldn’t say anything.”
“You were in the music room a long time, Nance. He must like you if he starts playing. When I auditioned it was zip, zip, in and out. No piano playing for me. And when Gina asked him to play Mozart instead of Bach before the church service last Sunday he totally ignored her. You were there. Don’t you remember?”
Penny always pronounces Bach like batch. “Bach,” I correct her, growling the name. No I don’t remember because I wasn’t there. Penny has a beautiful soprano voice and sings in the choir during Sunday services, so she wouldn’t miss me. I don’t tell anyone I skip church because I don’t want to get caught. Attendance is mandatory. If anyone found out I had been skipping church, I would be way up the creek ' way, way up the creek.
For the past month I have been hiding in my room on Sunday morning reading THE BREATH OF ZEN, one of the books Mr. Schneider talks about, and meditating. I want to ask Mr. Schneider how to meditate without my feet falling asleep. He always talks about Zen and Henry Miller during Music Appreciation class. He’s always saying: “think for yourself,” and “I want to teach you more than how to tell the difference between Haydn and Beethoven. I want to open up the world to you.”
I have been thinking for myself so much that I’ve decided I can no longer be an Episcopalian. I hate God for making me attend morning and evening prayers every day. I hate kneeling, praying, and Holy Communion. In thinking for myself I have come to the conclusion that I am an Atheist.
“Listen Nance,” Penny interrupts my brooding and puts her arm around me, “if you want Bill to notice you ... what’s sticking me? Nancy what do you carry in your pockets? THE BREATH OF ZEN Really, Nance! What happened to PEYTON PLACE?”
“He talks about Zen all the time in class,” I mumble.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean you have to read the stupid book.” Penny starts to toss it across the room. I grab it and hug it to my chest.
“But I want to,” I say. How can I explain to Penny that I want to read all the books Mr. Schneider talks about and listen to every piece of music he plays. I want to read BLACK SPRING by Henry Miller but that’s been banned in Boston and the whole United States. It must be sexier than Peyton Place.
If only I could go to Paris and read Henry Miller’s books and sip an espresso with Henry and Bill in one of those little cafes. If only I could go to New York with Bill and listen to the music of Duke Ellington and Thelonious Monk. My mother would die! She thinks only drug addicts listen to jazz. Bill Schneider says that jazz is the American Classical Music. He puts it right up there with Bach, Beethoven and Brahms.
“Well,” Penny shrugs, returning to her mirror and her zits, “chacun a son goute.” But if I were you, Nance, I’d wear something sexier. Why do you think he walks to class with Hawkins? Because she wears those tight skirts.”
I listen to Penny because she is so experienced with men. She has dozens of boy friends and is very outgoing. At fourteen I’m fat, shy, wear a size eighteen dress and weigh one-hundred and seventy-five pounds.
Penny dumps a pile of clothes on the bed. “What am I going to do,” she squeals, “Steven is coming for the dance this weekend and I have these gross zits. Hear, wear this.” She pulls out a straight skirt, a batik print in dark greens and browns. I struggle into it. It strains across my stomach and I look pregnant.
“That’s all right,” Penny says, “wear your girdle and it will fit fine. But for God’s sake, Nancy,” she points at my hairy calves, “shave your legs.”
Penny always gives me such good advice. “Have you studied for the geometry test tomorrow?” I ask.
“Be serious! I haven’t touched the damned book. What am I going to do?”
I haven’t studied either. My head is so full of dreams about Henry, Duke, Thelonious and Bill that it doesn’t have room for any more information.
“Pop the zits by putting a hot washcloth on them,” I say and go to my room to cram for the geometry test.
The next day, after breakfast and morning prayers, I hear a voice behind me.
“Are you going to class?” Bill Schneider says, falling into step beside me as I walk down the glass corridor that leads to the classrooms. I’m wearing my girdle under Penny’s skirt and it feels like I’m wearing a suit of armor. I can hardly breathe. The skirt is so tight I have to concentrate on taking little steps. But my stomach is flat. Here is my chance to talk to Bill about Zen and Henry Miller. The girdle squeezes all the air out of my belly and all the thoughts out of my brain.
“Well,” he says after a long silence, “looks like there’s snow on top of Mount Washington.” We can see down the valley, painted in autumn colors of orange, gold, and red, to the white peak of Mount Washington in the distance.
“Yes,” I whisper. I can hardly talk or breathe. My heart gallops inside my chest. My armpits are wet.
Another long silence. “I guess that means no more bare legs,” he says, “that’s too bad isn’t it?” When there is snow on top of Mt. Washington we have to wear stockings.
“Yes,” I whisper, looking down at my bare, freshly shaved legs, dotted with little band-aids. I drop a book and try to bend down. I grunt loudly, but can’t move. Mr. Schneider bends, graceful as a ballet dancer, and sweeps it up.
“Zen poetry!” he says with a smile.
“Yes,” I gasp. The girdle is squeezing my stomach tighter and tighter. I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I feel like I’m going to faint.
We arrive at the geometry classroom. The door is open and everybody is watching us. I want to die.
“Well,” he says as he strides down the corridor, “I’ll see you in class this afternoon.”
I mumble an apology to the geometry teacher and wiggle into a seat. Penny leans over and pokes me. “Nancy, what did he say?” she whispers.
Penny is right about tight skirts and smooth legs; men like to see smooth shapes. Will I have to spend the rest of my life torturing myself with girdles and razors to get a man to notice me? A tight skirt alone isn’t enough. Mr. Schneider wouldn’t hang around to listen to my silences.
THE BREATH OF ZEN slides to the floor. I stare at the triangles and trapezoids on the blackboard. If I could discover a connection between geometry, jazz, and zen poetry' that would be something to share with Henry Miller and Bill Schneider.
