school?”
“Miss Fayne said we shouldn’t kiss on the first date,” another girl broke in.
“But kissing is the point of a date!” said Bobby, astounded at such advice. When she saw the girls exchanging surprised, pleased glances, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. “Probably Miss Fayne was worried that kissing would lead to heavy petting, intercourse, and then pregnancy,” she offered, not wanting to contradict her predecessor. The little stir of excitement told her she’d blundered, yet again, onto a forbidden topic.
“I heard you can’t get pregnant the first time,” said Gwen eagerly.
Bobby’s indignation overcame her caution. “Girls who believe that find themselves on a plane to Mexico!” she scolded. “Now, we’ll talk about all this more thoroughly next semester in hygiene. Get along and change before you’re late for lunch!”
She watched the sophomores—that is, fourth formers—head to the locker room, an indulgent smile on her lips. These kids kept her on her toes, no question! She didn’t always know if she was saying the right thing, but she enjoyed the give-and-take. She had discovered how to manage the freshman—that is, the third form—problems in her dorm. Maybe her methods weren’t by the book, but they worked!
Take the other evening, when she’d poked her head into the Cornwall common room. A group of third formers had ganged up on Debby Geissler, and were teasing her about her sleepwalking.
“Girls who sleepwalk aren’t right in the head,” one girl had declared.
“That’s not true!” cried Debby, a plump girl with rosy cheeks. “My doctor said it’s just a phase—a hormonal imbalance I’ll grow out of—”
“Her hormones are out of joint!”
“Where do you go, Debby?”
“What do you do? I bet you do things you wouldn’t do when you’re awake!”
Debby was on the brink of tears when Bobby came to her rescue. “Let me tell you something about Debby’s sleepwalking,” she addressed the gang of girls. “Even asleep, Debby’s a model of perfect posture! She’s a sleepwalking illustration of all five points!”
The jeering stopped and the third formers looked at Debby respectfully.
“Now, poor posture,” Bobby continued. “That’s a sign of deep-seated problems. Who wants to play a little game?”
“We do, we do!” Even Sandy Milston, Debby’s roommate, looked up from the corner of the couch where she was deep in a book.
“Tell me the first point of perfect posture,” Bobby asked her rapt audience.
“Firm feet!” the girls chorused with flattering alacrity.
“Patty, why don’t you demonstrate.”
Patty Suarez obeyed, and Bobby gave her a gentle shove. The girl swayed, but did not topple. “Excellent! You all see how well balanced she is?”
Soon all the girls were testing their balance and attempting to push each other over. Sandy had put her book aside and joined the fun. Teasing Debby was forgotten as the girls giggled and grunted, grappling with each other like wrestlers while Bobby watched with a satisfied smile. The best way to keep the third formers happy was to make sure they had a physical outlet for their youthful energy!
Yes, Bobby thought now, as she picked up her satchel, Miss Watkins had been right about this: Bobby basked in the swarms of young girls surrounding her, at least outside of class. She enjoyed their lively chatter, their eager curiosity, their funny notions. She was more intrigued than annoyed by bookworm Sandy Milston, who was forever acquiring and hiding copies of the books on the forbidden literature list—everything from Forever Amber to obscure anthropological texts. Ferreting them out was fun, and the confiscated books had certainly provided Bobby with some interesting bedtime reading!
Bobby headed to Dorset and lunch, taking her usual shortcut through the locker room and out the side entrance, which led to the path that climbed the hill to the quadrangle. “Don’t be late for lunch, now,” she called to Gwen Norton and Joyce Vandemar, who were still frolicking in the showers.
Life at Metamora agreed with her. Bobby enjoyed the familiar school routine, rising early, going for a run around the athletic field, greeting Bryce and Ole as they strolled to breakfast from the old Amundsen homestead in the woods, Bryce’s flowered tie always coordinated with the seasons. She relished the tasty meals Mona and the cook concocted, the eggs Benedict, the Salisbury steak, the macaroni and cheese, the boiled cabbage. Her mouth watered as she anticipated today’s lunch menu—liver and onions, mmm!
Bobby joined the growing throng of scarlet-trimmed gray uniforms streaming toward Dorset. A girl in front of her shifted her books, and a folded piece of paper fell to the ground. “Wait—you dropped something.” Bobby stopped her. Out of habit she opened the note and read:
I think you’re divine. I watch you in Art Class all the time. If I could paint anyone’s picture, it would be yours, but I could never do you justice. Do you think you could ever like me?
“Here now, what’s the matter with you?” Bobby scolded the blushing girl. “You forgot to sign it! How’s your friend going to answer you if you don’t sign it?”
Brushing aside the teenager’s thanks, Bobby continued up the path, musing on life at Metamora. That was another thing she liked—the atmosphere of warmth and affection that permeated the place. This girl’s note was just one example. Half the student body had fervent “pashes,” as they called them, on the other half. The faculty, too, fostered close friendships; Bryce and Ole were devoted to each other, as were Alice Bjorklund and Serena Rapp. Elaine had been dead wrong with that caviar on toast business.
If only she didn’t feel so overmatched, intellectually speaking, in this new milieu. Bobby passed the sundial, automatically speeding up a little. She might be able to beat Serena at tennis, but she certainly couldn’t keep up with her or Hoppy Fiske when they got into one of their arguments about classical versus progressive education.
Noticing Gussie Gunderson standing at the foot of the step up to Dorset, Bobby hurried forward to take her arm and escort her into the dining hall.
murmured the Ancient Greek Mistress as Bobby pulled out a chair for her at the table where the senior faculty sat. Gussie often communicated in unintelligible fragments of Greek, but somehow this didn’t bother Bobby. None of the other teachers understood her either.
Except Enid Butler, Bobby thought wryly as she took her seat at a half-filled table. “Good afternoon, Miss Blanchard!” chorused the students, turning beaming faces in her direction.
It was usual at Metamora for the junior faculty to mix with the students for meals. Bobby was pleasantly aware of how the seats at whatever table she chose would fill up as quickly as the seats in a game of musical chairs when the music stops. Today was no exception, and she had to settle a dispute over the last chair, promising to save the disappointed loser a seat at her table at dinner.
All was orderly at the neighboring table, where Enid sat—Enid, who seemed mistress of so much more than mathematics. She debated nuclear disarmament with Hoppy, and even Hoppy had to back down on points of fission she didn’t understand. She spoke French with Madame Melville, Greek with Gussie Gunderson, and had even gotten Miss Rasphigi to support her in proposing a physics seminar for Metamora’s advanced science and math students. At any rate, Miss Rasphigi’s indifferent “Why not?” at that particular staff meeting was as enthusiastic as the solitary Chemistry Mistress had gotten about anything thus far.
But it was on educational issues that Bobby felt truly inferior to the attractive young Math Mistress, who had held forth last night about experiential-based learning and modules versus units until Bobby felt like her brain was being pelted by badminton birdies. That night, for the first