Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

7 | I Came For The Math

|photo by Djurdjica Boskovi from Unsplash|

The office decor is a good distraction to my burgeoning panic. It carries on the theatre theme—except it's more like a reception room: ostentatious wall sconces, polished marble floors and period furniture upholstered in designer fabrics in various shades of green. I don't really get interior design but I can talk the talk because my aunt is one of the design goddesses of the Upper East Side.

"I'm Thea Allen," I say approaching the man behind the counter. He has the bushiest eyebrows I've ever seen and a healthy-looking patch of golden orange hair on his upper lip, but nothing on top of his head. Which has a dull sheen that makes me think of the wax finish on our hardwood floors back home.

He points wordlessly at a small elegant couch my aunt would covet. None of that gilded French crap for her. Emily likes clean lines, warm wood. I'm not sure she would like this fabric though, emerald green velvet, embroidered all over with pale green stars.

I've only just perched there when a voice, thick with attitude, says, "Miss Allen?"

I don't know who I was expecting—Professor McGonagall from Hogwarts, maybe—but not the remarkably tall fashionista glaring down at me.

"Will Ms. McMillan be joining us this morning?" she asks, large manicured hands resting on rounded hips that seem out of place on her thin frame. Thin but not slight. Headmistress Ambroise has a shoulder span as wide as Glenn's.

"My aunt is unavailable," I say.

This is clearly the answer she was expecting. Her eyes shift to Mr. Facial Hair. She gives him a communicative sigh and then pivots on very high heels and walks with the exaggerated gait of a runway model into her office.

I look to Mr. Facial Hair for guidance and he mouths, "Follow her."

The headmistress' desk is small and feminine. Behind it, she looks unnaturally large and kind of scary. I remember suddenly that Conner told me not to look in her eyes but I can't help myself. My parents have trained me well. I'm stunned momentarily by the color. So instead of apologizing for being late, or for the absence of my aunt, I'm trying to put a name to it. I decide on jade.

"Do you know why you're here, Miss Allen?"

Conner also said I should tell her what she wants to hear but I have no idea what that might be. I'm not even sure I understand the question.

"Let's start with what I know," she says. "You have a high grade point average from a substandard school and your application for this one is incomplete. Where is your essay?"

Essay, right. There should be one of those.

As an entrance requirement.

Written by me.

"Five hundred words detailing your interest in this institution?" she asks when I don't respond.

"My aunt..." Who I'd like to choke right now. "...filled out the application. She didn't tell me about..."

The headmistress narrows her eyes. This is not what she wants to hear.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"As am I," she agrees. "As far as I can tell, Miss Allen, you're not qualified to attend Zachary—ahead, I might add, of the hundred or so applicants who are currently on my waiting list." She opens the folder on her desk, frowns and looks at me. "Dorothea?" She doesn't even try to disguise her contempt.

"Oh, um. I prefer Thea?"

She nods and it's a little bit like approval. I think.

"Has anyone—your parents, your aunt—given you so much as a hint of the reason you're being permitted to attend my school without my approval?"

You haven't met her but you're dressed like a student.

There's no straw in Conner's brain. I drop my eyes to the carpet. The delicate grass green pattern blurs. "I'm sorry," I say again. "I had no idea."

"La voix de l'innocence," she murmurs.

I've had five years of French so I know she said, "The voice of innocence." But I'm not sure why she said it.

She rises from her chair, walks over to a cabinet and pours two glasses of water. Her movements are so intentional, or dramatic maybe.

Theatrical. That's what it is. Headmistress Ambroise has stage presence.

"Please tell me you at least want to be here," she says as she hands me a glass.

Tell her what she wants to hear.

"No," she says, passing her empty hand through the air in front of her face. "Tell me the truth. Do you want to be here?"

"I didn't at first but..." The truth makes me sound like a geek. If Megan were here she would assure me that I am. "I came for the math, Headmistress."

She smiles for the first time and in the lines around her eyes I see that what I thought was flawless skin, is really a thick layer of foundation. "And what, dear child, will math do for you?"

"I want to work for NASA," I say, confident because I can talk about my future all day long. I've had it planned since I was ten.

She reaches for my glass. I take a quick sip before I surrender it. "Sit behind my desk," she says, turning back to the cabinet. She deposits both glasses and opens a file cabinet, flipping through the folders with long red fingernails.

Her chair looks like a tiny green throne. I expect it to be uncomfortable, but it's not. Headmistress Ambroise lays a test booklet and two sharpened pencils in front of me. "Do well, Miss Allen, and I will give you math."

* * *

Math unhinges some people but for me, it's like meditation. So I'm feeling pretty relaxed when the the headmistress opens the door. "You have ten minutes, Miss Allen."

"I'm finished," I say, standing.

Her perfectly arched eyebrows rise and I nod to the unspoken question. Yes, already. I scored 800 on the math section of the SAT. This test was easy by comparison.

She sits at her desk and flips through the booklet, making little marks next to my answers with a pencil. Then she looks at me and we have this geek moment: she's impressed because my score is perfect. I'm impressed that she knows this without a teacher cheat sheet.

Headmistress Ambroise puts the test in my folder—with my inadequate application—and turns to her computer. Her fingers click over the keyboard, the printer hums and she hands me a sheet of paper, my schedule. I'll be taking college level algebra and trigonometry.

"Mr. Cummings will assign you a locker," she says, all business now. "And a student to give you a tour." Her eyes drop to my uniform and she sighs, pulls a small booklet out of her desk drawer and hands it to me. It's the school handbook. "Have your guardian sign the last page and return it to Mr. Cummings tomorrow. Pay special attention to the dress code, Miss Allen. We may not have religious affiliation here at Zachary but we do have morals."

Ouch.

"You're dismissed."