I usually just wore my Holy Trinity uniform everywhere, but I didn’t think that would be appropriate for an interview at another school. I decided to wear the suit I had worn to Mickey and Sophia’s wedding.
So, Leary. It was kind of artsy, if you know what I mean. No one wore uniforms. A lot of the classrooms didn’t have desks; kids sat in circles on the floor. Many of the male teachers had beards. One female teacher I saw wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was a distinct aroma to the place—clay? herbs? Obviously, it wasn’t what I was used to but I told myself that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Mr. Kipling gave my name at the front desk and then we were pointed in the direction of a cluster of beanbag chairs. “Interesting place,” Mr. Kipling said to me while we waited. He lowered his voice. “Do you think you could see yourself making a go of it here, Anya?”
What other choice did I have? There were public schools, but any good one had a long waiting list and many of my credits might not even count. I could end up in high school until I was twenty.
After about a half hour, the headmaster, a curly-haired man in a brown corduroy suit, emerged from his office. “Come in, Anya. Stuart.” I bristled at hearing Mr. Kipling referred to by his first name. “Sorry to keep you folks waiting. I got a late start to my afternoon meditation. I’m the headmaster here, Sylvio Freeman. Everyone calls me Syl.”
We went into his office, where there was a thick kilim rug in reds and oranges, and no furniture. “Have a seat.” Headmaster Syl indicated the rug.
Syl poured us cups of licorice rooibos tea. “I’ve read all about you, Anya. Your academic record is perfectly drizzly though you should know we don’t give letter grades here.” He paused. “Forensic science. That’s your thing, right?”
I nodded.
“We don’t offer that subject, but there’s always independent study. In any case, I’d love to take you on.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mr. Kipling said.
“I ran the idea by my Board of Overseers,” Headmaster Syl continued. “The chocolate-daughter thing wasn’t a problem for them. We have kids from many different backgrounds. Unfortunately, well … See, we’re all about peace here. And the gun possession. Well, that’s a bit of a deal breaker. My board doesn’t want that kind of thing at Leary.”
“We had to come down to hear this?” Mr. Kipling asked.
“I wanted to meet Anya myself. And it’s not without hope, Stu. The folks on my board agreed that next year, when more time has passed, they’d be happy to reconsider her application.” Syl smiled at us. “Take a year off, Anya. Volunteer somewhere. Maybe take some classes in forensics at the university. Then come back to us.”
A year was an eternity. All my friends would have graduated, even Gable Arsley. I stood and thanked Headmaster Syl for his time. Mr. Kipling was still struggling to get up from the floor, so I offered him my hand.
On my way out the door, Headmaster Syl grabbed my arm. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m involved with the pro-cacao movement. Maybe you’d like to speak at one of our rallies. I’m sure you’d have some superdeep insights.”
At last, the real theme of this meeting. The real reason Mr. Kipling and I had been forced to drag ourselves downtown just for me to be rejected. This man was no better than my old history teacher Mr. Beery.
“I’m trying to avoid making a public spectacle of myself these days, Mister … Uh, Syl,” I said.
“Understood,” he said. “Though I wonder …” Syl furrowed his brow. “You are known, for better or for worse, and that’s power, my friend. If you’ve got a chess set, why play checkers?” Syl offered me his hand, and I shook it. “Perhaps I’ll be seeing you again someday, Anya Balanchine.”
I doubted that very much.
“I didn’t think that place was right for you anyway,” Mr. Kipling said as we walked back to his office. There was a light rain, and Mr. Kipling’s bald head was shiny with mist. “No letter grades. And that weird smell. And what kind of headmaster doesn’t have any furniture?” We stopped to wait for a walk signal. “Don’t worry, Anya. We’ll find a school for you. A far better one than that.”
“Honestly, Mr. Kipling, if Leary Alternative doesn’t want me, what school will? There isn’t a school in the city that has a reputation for being more liberal than Leary, and even they think I’m damaged goods. And they’re probably right.” I was standing on a street corner at one thirty in the afternoon on a Monday, and I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be at Trinity. I wanted to be pretending to fence or complaining about tofu lasagna. I hadn’t realized how much of my identity was wrapped up in that uniform, in that school. I felt as if I belonged nowhere. Despite my resolution to count my blessings, I was starting to feel very sorry for myself.
“Oh, Annie. I wish I could make this easier for you.” Mr. Kipling took my hands in his. The rain had picked up, and the traffic light had turned, but neither of us moved. “All I can say is that this, too, shall pass.”
I looked at my longtime adviser. If he had a weakness, perhaps it was that he loved me too well and expected the rest of the world to conform to his opinion. I kissed him on his bald head. “Thank you, Mr. Kipling.”
Mr. Kipling blushed a deep scarlet. “For what, Annie?”
“You always believe in me. I’m old enough to appreciate that now.”
Back at Mr. Kipling’s office, we were joined by Simon Green, and the three of us went over my options. “As I see it,” Simon Green said, “there are still a handful of other schools in Manhattan we could try—”
I interrupted him. “But don’t you think the others are even more likely to have the objections that Leary Alternative had about me?”
Simon Green took a moment to consider this. “I’m not a mind reader, and of course, I’m not saying I agree with them, but yes, I do.”
“Maybe that hippie headmaster was right,” Mr. Kipling said. “You could take a year off—”
“But I don’t want to take the year off!” I protested. I’d be practically nineteen when I graduated and that was dangerously close to twenty, i.e., ancient. “I want to graduate with everyone else.”
“So, we look at schools outside New York,” Simon Green suggested. “People won’t know who you are there. Finishing schools in Europe, college-prep programs, even military schools.”
“A military school! I …” I couldn’t even complete the thought.
“Simon, Anya is not going to a military school,” Mr. Kipling said softly.
“I was only brainstorming,” Simon Green apologized. “I thought that a military school might be liberal about admittance after the semester had started. Even considering Anya’s … history.”
My history. Naïvely perhaps, I had thought the worst of this would be over once I had served my time at Liberty, but that wasn’t turning out to be the case. I walked over to the window. Kipling & Sons had a view of Madison Square Park. After dark, all the chocolate dealers hung out there. I’d gone with Daddy when I was a little kid. You could get just about any kind of chocolate there—Belgian, bittersweet, baking, and of course, Balanchine. That was when chocolate had been my favorite flavor in the world and before it had taken away almost everyone I loved, and ruined my life. I rested my temple on the glass. “I hate chocolate,” I whispered.
Simon Green put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t say that, Anya,” he said gently.
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s brown, ugly, altogether aesthetically unappealing. It’s unhealthy, addictive, illegal. It’s bitter when it’s good and too sweet when it’s cheap. I can’t honestly understand why anyone bothers with the stuff. If I woke up tomorrow and the world had no chocolate in it, I would be a happier person.”
Mr. Kipling put his hand on my other shoulder. “You can hate chocolate today if you want. But I wouldn’t make a policy of it. Your grandfather was chocolate. Your father was chocolate. And you, my girl, are chocolate.”
I turned around to face my lawyers. “Look into al
l the options for schools, bearing in mind that I really can’t leave Natty. If we don’t find anything, maybe I’ll get a job.”
“A job?” Simon Green asked. “What skills do you have?”
“I have no idea.” I told them we’d talk later in the week and then I headed out the door.
I was still waiting at the bus stop when Simon Green caught up with me. “Mr. Kipling says I’m to accompany you home.”
I told him I would rather be alone.
“Mr. Kipling is very worried about you, Anya,” Simon Green continued.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll get in trouble if I don’t come with you.”
The bus arrived. On the side was a screen advertising: CHARLES DELACROIX (D) FOR DISTRICT ATTORNEY. His aging-superhero face dissolved into his campaign slogan: Great cities require great leaders. The whole thing made me sick. I would have waited for another bus but the schedules were erratic. The Charles Delacroix Express was what it would have to be.
Simon Green sat next to me on a seat toward the back of the bus. “Do you think Delacroix will win?” Simon Green asked me.
“Haven’t honestly put much thought into it,” I said.
“But I thought you and he were such great friends,” Simon Green joked.
I could not bring myself to laugh.
“I think it’s been a harder campaign than he thought it would be. But I tell you, I don’t think he’s awful,” Simon Green said after a pause. “I mean, I think his heart is in the right place.”
“Heart?” I scoffed. “That man has no heart.”
“The truth is, Anya, I think he could be very good for us. He’s talking a lot about how a safe city needs to have laws that make sense.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should, though,” he remonstrated me. “I’m sorry you lost your boyfriend in all this, but there are greater matters at hand here. Charlie Delacroix is more than just Win Delacroix’s father, and assuming he prevails here, no one thinks district attorney is the last stop for him. He could be mayor, governor, president even.”
“How wonderful.”
“Someday, I might like to get into politics myself,” Simon Green said.
I rolled my eyes. “You really think the best way to go about that is acting as legal counsel to the first daughter of organized crime?”
“Yes,” Simon Green said. “I do.”
“You’ll have to explain that to me sometime.”
Simon Green’s laughter was drowned out by a sickening scream followed by an ominous thud. My head was thrust forward into the seat in front of me. There were more screams, and then the bus came to a stop. Simon Green grabbed my arm. “Anya, are you all right?”
Gabrielle Zevin, All These Things I've Done
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