that a “real singer” might finally help her to understand what made her so different, and the temptation to find out was more than she could resist.
She went to school the next day accompanied by dreams of triumph, but as the minutes ticked by, she began to wonder if perhaps she wasn’t so musical after all, since with the unhappy exception of Sister Mary Michael’s seventh-grade class, she had never sung for anyone outside her family. It took every ounce of willpower just to walk,one painful step at a time, to the chorus room, where she could not even bring herself to look at Kathy. The bell rang to signal the start of class, and as Kathy stepped onto a small platform with an upright piano to take attendance, Maria felt the dread of impending execution as she listened to the names being called. When hers arrived, it was all she could do to raise her hand six inches off the desk and respond, “Yeah.”
As Maria spoke, one of the junior varsity football players elbowed his friend and muttered, “Morticia has big ones,” which caused some snickering among his jockstrap friends, who had signed up thanks to a general consensus that Ms. Warren was the hottest teacher in the history of Castle Shannon High.
Kathy stepped out from behind the piano to address directly the offending parties. “I don’t know what you jag-offs are laughing at,” she said, employing her native Pittsburgh vernacular to full effect, “but before we go any further, let me be clear: I expect my chorus at all times to maintain an atmosphere of respect; that means no whispering or laughing at anyone, unless you want your balls handed to you on a platter.”
Because Kathy—in another bold move to demonstrate her access to the highest echelons of power—had already been seen eating lunch with the varsity football coach, she quickly obtained the necessary murmurs of assent. She returned to the piano and sang a Joni Mitchell song that made every heart in the room skip a beat when she cooed the line “Marcie buys a bag of peaches.” Without exception they sensed in Ms. Warren a hip older sibling with great reserves of knowledge about life—and most important, sex—who commanded their respect and provided fodder for their own unceasing fantasies. Even more than the base physicality—fascinating as that could be—Kathy’s singing represented a broader awakening for Maria and the other students, who were confronted by the idea that someone in their immediate proximity—as opposed to a movie or a rockconcert—could exude such a nonpornographic sensuality, as though they had been dropped into a forest in springtime. Maria found herself staring at one of the jocks, less with anger over his comment than with curiosity as she imagined him with his clothes off and a lock of his long, feathery hair wrapped around her finger.
12
Kritik der reinen Vernunft
PARIS, 1852. Now fifteen and close to a head taller than Codruta, Lucien stooped to kiss each of her cheeks before stepping back to allow the waiting domestics to guide her into a chair. Over the past year, she had invited him to sing several times at her salon and also to afternoon tea, during which they discussed many things, including music—they shared a passion for Beethoven and Donizetti—the swaths of construction in Paris, and Lucien’s continuing ambivalence toward school. Once situated, the princess beckoned to a seat opposite her own. “Please,” she commanded as a second pair of servants entered the room carrying large silver trays laden with a tea service and an assortment of fruit and pastries. As these were arranged on the table, she tilted her head and scrutinized him. “So tell me—how did your final assignment go?”
Lucien regretted having mentioned it at all, but it had been weighing on him at their last meeting, a few weeks earlier. “Well, it’s done,” he answered evasively. “I finished the year.”
The late-afternoon sun angled down through the west-facing
She went to school the next day accompanied by dreams of triumph, but as the minutes ticked by, she began to wonder if perhaps she wasn’t so musical after all, since with the unhappy exception of Sister Mary Michael’s seventh-grade class, she had never sung for anyone outside her family. It took every ounce of willpower just to walk,one painful step at a time, to the chorus room, where she could not even bring herself to look at Kathy. The bell rang to signal the start of class, and as Kathy stepped onto a small platform with an upright piano to take attendance, Maria felt the dread of impending execution as she listened to the names being called. When hers arrived, it was all she could do to raise her hand six inches off the desk and respond, “Yeah.”
As Maria spoke, one of the junior varsity football players elbowed his friend and muttered, “Morticia has big ones,” which caused some snickering among his jockstrap friends, who had signed up thanks to a general consensus that Ms. Warren was the hottest teacher in the history of Castle Shannon High.
Kathy stepped out from behind the piano to address directly the offending parties. “I don’t know what you jag-offs are laughing at,” she said, employing her native Pittsburgh vernacular to full effect, “but before we go any further, let me be clear: I expect my chorus at all times to maintain an atmosphere of respect; that means no whispering or laughing at anyone, unless you want your balls handed to you on a platter.”
Because Kathy—in another bold move to demonstrate her access to the highest echelons of power—had already been seen eating lunch with the varsity football coach, she quickly obtained the necessary murmurs of assent. She returned to the piano and sang a Joni Mitchell song that made every heart in the room skip a beat when she cooed the line “Marcie buys a bag of peaches.” Without exception they sensed in Ms. Warren a hip older sibling with great reserves of knowledge about life—and most important, sex—who commanded their respect and provided fodder for their own unceasing fantasies. Even more than the base physicality—fascinating as that could be—Kathy’s singing represented a broader awakening for Maria and the other students, who were confronted by the idea that someone in their immediate proximity—as opposed to a movie or a rockconcert—could exude such a nonpornographic sensuality, as though they had been dropped into a forest in springtime. Maria found herself staring at one of the jocks, less with anger over his comment than with curiosity as she imagined him with his clothes off and a lock of his long, feathery hair wrapped around her finger.
12
Kritik der reinen Vernunft
PARIS, 1852. Now fifteen and close to a head taller than Codruta, Lucien stooped to kiss each of her cheeks before stepping back to allow the waiting domestics to guide her into a chair. Over the past year, she had invited him to sing several times at her salon and also to afternoon tea, during which they discussed many things, including music—they shared a passion for Beethoven and Donizetti—the swaths of construction in Paris, and Lucien’s continuing ambivalence toward school. Once situated, the princess beckoned to a seat opposite her own. “Please,” she commanded as a second pair of servants entered the room carrying large silver trays laden with a tea service and an assortment of fruit and pastries. As these were arranged on the table, she tilted her head and scrutinized him. “So tell me—how did your final assignment go?”
Lucien regretted having mentioned it at all, but it had been weighing on him at their last meeting, a few weeks earlier. “Well, it’s done,” he answered evasively. “I finished the year.”
The late-afternoon sun angled down through the west-facing
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