I lie down, then turn my head to look at the grass. I used to do this and pretend I was in the jungle, the grass so high it towered over me. I could hear the drums of the natives passing on some dark, urgent message, and the wild rhythm made my blood jump. Now it doesn’t work anymore. I am in Missouri, and the grass only looks tall because I am lying down.
But. Look here. On a blade of grass right in front of me is an ant. Carrying something on his back that looks way too big for him. But there he goes, doing his job without wasting any time. Every day he does this, whether anyone is watching him or not. Every day he makes a Herculean effort and offers not one word of complaint.
I stand up and whistle for the dogs. Too soft. I try whistling with my fingers in my mouth, something I’ve been trying to do for years. Lo and behold, it works. The dogs run to me. My wish is their command. I am Captain Katie, in charge of my own life.
WHEN I GET HOME, I see Leigh’s car in the driveway, her mother sitting in the front seat, waiting for her. And then the front door opens, and Leigh comes out, spots me coming down the road. She holds up her hand to wave, says something to her mom as she passes the car, then comes out into the street to meet me.
“Hi!” she says, all like a cheerleader. She flashes her gorgeous smile.
“Hi.”
“Are these your dogs?”
“Yeah.” I pull back on the leashes; they’d like very much to sniff Leigh to death.
She reaches down to pet Bones. “I just met your stepmother.”
I look up to the house to see if Ginger is looking out. No sign of her.
“She’s so adorable. And so’s your little house.”
I start to say thanks, then don’t.
Leigh looks at her watch. “I have to go. But I brought you something, Katie. I’m going to be running for class president and I want to get going on posters so they’ll all be done when school starts. I brought you a sample and some supplies—just make them like the sample.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I have time.”
Leigh stands there, blinks once. Twice. Then she says, “Well, we’re all doing them.”
“That’s good. Probably then you’ll have enough help without me.”
She smiles, confused. And behind her confusion is her anger.
“And now I have to go,” I say.
“Well, if you’re not going to help, I’m going to take the poster board back,” Leigh says.
“Okay.”
She sighs. “Are you sure you can’t do some?”
I know exactly what she’s asking. “Yeah, I’m sure,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow, then spins around and walks ahead of me toward the house to get her things. I slow down so she’ll be out by the time I go in.
AFTER DINNER I LIE ON my bed holding a pillow to my chest. I am thinking about Father Compton saying, “Cynthia is not just Cynthia,” and I think I know now what he means. She stands for something. For many things.
I look at my watch. Seven o’clock. She’ll be just starting the Girl Scout meeting. She’ll be sitting there wearing her uniform, and her mother will be all excited and acting like a jerk. Cynthia will go along with whatever they’re doing. I’ve heard Girl Scouts make planters from tin cans, purses from the plastic boxes strawberries come in. Oh, Cynthia, I think, and feel so bad for her.
I go over to my desk, pull out the letter from Cherylanne I got yesterday, reread the last page.
One thing that I am thinking so much about lately is how fast something big in your life can happen. How you don’t even know sometimes that you’re making a choice when you are. Now I am going to be a mother when I thought I would be who knows what after senior year. I want my baby and I know I will be a good mother, but it is something strange that so many other options are no longer available to me. Not to be like a movie star, but they are gone with the wind. I think about you a lot Katie, and only last night I was on the back steps thinking of how we used to drink pickle juice, which I don’t care I still say is a good treat on a hot summer day and also scientific because it gives you back salt. I guess we never will do that again. Sometimes I think of how at the very instant you think now it is over. I mean that moment. I guess all you can do is look forward or you’ll drive yourself crazy.
Another girl name I am thinking of is Katherine. Which guess why, as if you didn’t know. The names are up to me because I asked Darren again what if it’s a girl and he said “I have no idea,” all flat and staring out the windshield straight ahead. “I have no idea” is also his brilliant suggestion if it’s a boy.
I am glad we write to each other. It is like a hand to hold and don’t think I don’t know how important that is. Especially when my other friends like CAROLYN DELANEY and SHERRY DUTTON and EVERYONE ELSE have shown their true colors. Of black. Their hands are nowhere to be found except covering their mouths as they talk about me, their favorite hobby. One thing to say about you, Katie, is that you are true. You should be proud of it, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.
I fold the letter up, put it back in the drawer. She is wrong. I am not true. I only used to be. I sigh. There is Cherylanne, in Texas. Here am I, in Missouri. And Cynthia is in a Girl Scout meeting a few blocks away, yet she is farther from me than Cherylanne. I wonder if she misses me at all.
I go to my closet to get out my robe. I’m just going to get in my pajamas and read myself to sleep, I don’t care how early it is. On the floor of the closet, I see the Girl Scout manual Cynthia’s mother gave me. I take it over to my desk, open to the first page. In the introduction, they ask if you know about Anna Shaw, the American pioneer girl who became a preacher and a doctor. And do you know about Marie Curie and Florence Nightingale. They tell you about Phyllis Wheatley, the first Negro poet in America, whose poetry was praised by George Washington. I never even heard of Phyllis Wheatley or Anna Shaw. It makes you feel odd to know you can learn something from something you made fun of.
I look through the rest of the manual. Here is something about Sacajawea, who was an Indian guide and interpreter for the Lewis and Clark expedition. She could read the sun, the stars and the trees. And here is Louisa Alcott, whose writing helped provide for her family. Amelia Earhart was a gardener and liked dress designing; she made her own clothes. Knowing that seems to make her more 3-D.
There is stuff in the manual about how to eat, how to have good hygiene, how to nurse someone who is ill, how to silk-screen and tie-dye, how to row a boat or pitch a tent or determine map distances. There is information about turtles and tadpoles, something that says that if your pet understands and responds to ten words, he is very smart. You can tell birds by their nests. The General Assembly of the United Nations has five parts to it. Three dots is S in Morse Code. All snakes have teeth. And here is something astounding: The needle on a compass does not point to the North Pole. Instead, it points to the magnetic deposit known as the magnetic North Pole, fifteen hundred miles away from the true North Pole. If you live in Portland, Oregon, the needle points 22 degrees east of north. In Portland, Maine, it points 15 degrees west. So you have to factor in the variation if you want to find the true direction. This is one of those scientific facts that you run through your brain and you feel awe, but then you run it through your heart and it’s like music. Because it is about everything.
In the back are all the badges you can earn: Salt Water Life, Folk Dancer, Wood, Glass, Pottery. Handywoman, First Aid, and Adventurer. Garden Flower, Wild Plant, and, I swear, Cat and Dog. One badge shows the most beautiful insect, with butterflylike wings and a beautiful, segmented, arching-up tail. “Swimmer” has a curled wave and two seagulls, and “Dancer” has a foot with a ballet slipper and a wing at its heel. There are badges for Reader and Puppeteer, Aviation and Traveler. For Farmer and Homemaker and Cook and Adventurer and First Aid to Animals. And here is one with a picture of a scroll, with words written on it. It is the badge for Writer, and to earn it one of the things to do is to write a poem.
I
think of how once I was standing in a church on Christmas Eve. There was a spicy scent of pine in the air, candles glowed, and there was baby Jesus in a crèche on the altar. There was a sermon about love and joy, about redemption. And then everyone began to sing “O Holy Night.” Next to me was a woman who could not carry a tune. At first I was so annoyed, listening to her. I wondered, Why does she sing so loud when she doesn’t even know how? Then I looked at her and she was so pure, staring straight ahead, her face lit from within. Something moved into my heart at that moment that I did not really understand, but I understand it now: It is never about how good your voice is; it is only about feeling the urge to sing, and then having the courage to do it with the voice you are given. It is about what people try to share with each other, even if so many of us are so off-key when we do it. It is about saying we are somewhere, when what we mean is we are as close as we are able to get.
I go back to my closet, find the uniform Mrs. O’Connell gave me, and put it on. It’s not so bad.
THIS IS WHAT I THOUGHT would happen: I thought I would knock on the door and Cynthia would answer. Behind her, her mother would be standing with her arms crossed, unsure as to my intentions. Cynthia would hesitate, but then she would stand aside and I would step in. Without a word, Cynthia and I would walk down the hall and into her room. She would close the door and sit on the bed expectantly and not say a word, which would be her right. I would stand before her. I would start with a little joke about the uniform, like, “So what do you think, is it me?” She would smile and look down in her lap. I would be looking around the room a little, so grateful to be back. Then I would sit down beside her and say, “Cynthia, I want to tell you again how very sorry I am for what I said. I made a bad mistake. I was trying to get in with those girls and it was at your expense. I know it may take some time, but I hope you can forgive me, because I really care about you and now I see who my true friends are, and also I see what really matters to me.” She would start crying a little and so would I.I would give her the earrings, and we would hug, and just then her mother would knock on the door and say, “Time for the meeting, girls.” And Cynthia would put on the earrings and we would go out to the living room. And it would still be dumb, but this time I would be able to see the good mixed in.
Here is what did happen: On the way over, a car full of guys passed me. They slowed down and started hooting and laughing. I think it was the beret. I ignored them and finally they peeled out and left. When I got to Cynthia’s, she answered the door, just like I thought she would. But she did not let me in. She just looked a little irritated and said, “Katie, I said no,” and shut the door. I couldn’t believe it. She didn’t say anything about the uniform. I stood there for a while, and then the door opened again. It was Mrs. O’Connell saying, “I’m sorry, Katie, I guess you’re going to have to leave.” I nodded okay, and started walking home. I wished so much for darkness. My whole face ached from wanting to cry.
When I walked in, my father lowered the newspaper to look at me, and Ginger said, “Is the meeting over already?” I nodded and went straight back to my room and took off the uniform and put on my pajamas. I went to my desk and took out some paper and a pen and started a letter to Cynthia. Here is how far I got: “Dear Cynthia.” There was nothing more to say. I have said all I could, the ball is in her court, as they say, and she does not want to play.
Then I tried to write a poem and I could not write anything. I sat for so long, holding my pen, and then finally I put it down.
Now I lean back in my chair and think about how high above us are so many millions of stars. And how the moon is always changing phases. And how, when you lie outside on your back and give yourself over to the heavens, you wonder why people aren’t wiser than they are. But then you get up and come in the house and just keep making mistakes like everybody else.
I pick up the present I was going to give to Cynthia and start to open it, then don’t. Instead, I put it in my closet, way in the back.
IAM THE REPORTER AND MARK is the vampire. Henry is the corpse, lying outside under a tree with two fang marks made with Mrs. Wexler’s laundry marker. It is such a hot day I can hardly move, and I wish I could play the corpse, it would be easy as pie. David is the good guy who is not in the movie yet; he is sitting off to the side wetting himself down with a squirt gun.
I am examining Henry and writing things in a notebook, and Mark is somewhere behind me, getting ready to pounce. Then I am supposed to look up at him and scream, then faint. At which point David will spring out and wrestle with the vampire. We don’t know yet who will win.
I write in my notebook as I think a real reporter would: “Corpse is a young male, about seven years of age. Parallel holes at side of neck suggest vampire activity.” I feel a hand on my shoulder and I turn around, prepared to scream. But it is not Mark with his black cape safety pinned to his T-shirt. It is Cynthia.
“Oh,” I say, like a dope.
“Hi,” she says.
“Want to play?” Henry asks. “Hey, do you want to play?”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
“You’re dead, Henry!” Mark says, coming out from behind the bushes. “Shut up!”
“Yeah, but can she play?” Henry asks.
Mark stands sullenly, scratching his arm. He has Franco-American spaghetti stains at the sides of his mouth, and at the back of his head is a little dent from where Mrs. Wexler had to cut gum out of his hair. “Fine” he says. “But now we’ll have to go all the way back to the beginning.”
“Who do you want to be?” I ask Cynthia, holding back a feeling like tears and laughter mixed.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Myself?”
“That would be good,” I say. “Maybe I’ll be that, too.”
She nods, just a little at first, and then harder, smiling.
A big breeze rises up and shakes the branches of the trees. The leaves rustle violently, then settle back down into calm greenness, as though nothing has happened. I think when I get home, I’ll sit at my desk and find a way to make something of that.
True to Form
Elizabeth Berg
A Readers Club Guide
About This Guide
The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for discussion for Elizabeth Berg’s TRUE TO FORM. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
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Reading Group Questions and Topics for Discussion
1. The narrator’s voice is youthfully conversational and casual, yet refreshingly honest. Did you feel that you could relate to this voice? In what ways does the first-person, ultra-intimate voice of Katie shape and actually guide the story? How would this novel differ were it told by Katie’s father or by her stepmother? How do you think this would change your reading experience? Did Katie’s perspective, which straddles the adult world and the world of adolescence, give you a fresh view of the characters and situations in this story, or of society in general? Were you ever surprised by her apparent powers of observation at such a young age?
2. The roles that different characters inhabit fluctuate throughout this novel. We can see clearly, thorugh the Randolphs, for example, that relationships are constantly shifting and changing form. Katie herself alternates between being a childlike figure—one who must follow her father’s will without question—and being a nurturing, mothering figure, as demonstrated in the scene with Mr. Wexler. Focusing on scenes like this one, discuss the ways that the author might be commenting on the fluid nature of interpersonal dynamics.
3. This novel tackles some huge, complicated issues—loss, adolescence, growing up. But what do you consider the main focus to be? Is there one theme in particular that stood out for you?
4. In what ways does Katie’s desire to be a poet have larg
er significance in the context of this story? Aside from the normal feelings of apprehension that one might feel when presenting creative work to someone else, why do you think Katie is so terrified to share her poetry with others? What do you make of the fact that she eventually shares her poetry with Ginger and gets such positive feedback? Do you consider this to be a good omen for Katie’s future (both as an artist and in terms of her relationship with her stepmother)?
5. As confident as Katie seems, she often berates herself and her close friends, claiming that they are “losers.” Does this surprise you in light of the maturity and confidence that Katie exudes at other moments in the novel? Can her self-deprecation be chalked up to normal, adolescent insecurity, or do you think there are deeper forces at work? Why, when she feels so similar to Cynthia in many ways, does she ultimately betray her?
6. Were you surprised that Katie seemingly gains the forgiveness that she seeks in the final scene of the story? If you were Cynthia, would you have forgiven your friend? Did Cynthia’s strength and resolve surprise you, as it did Katie?
7. Talk about setting as presented in this novel. How do the social mores and etiquette of the early 1960s affect the story? On page 130, Katie states, “This is why I’m crying, the distance from what you feel to what you say, how it will always be like that.” Do you consider the feeling Katie has, that one can never truly say what one means, to be a product of the time in which this novel is set, or is this a societal rule that transcends time and place? In your opinion, is there a discrepancy between what people feel and what they will say in present-day America? How much has changed since the time in which this story takes place?