Trisha commanded as soon as the light turned green.
The grounds of the school surprised me. I hadn't thought I would find green grass, or flower beds, or the water fountains with benches and slate rock pathways in the middle of New York City. And there were great maple and oak trees with long thick branches casting cool shadows in which some students now sat or reclined, some reading, some talking softly, dozens of white and gray pigeons strutting bravely about them. It looked more like a beautiful park than school grounds.
"It's very pretty here," I said.
"It was once owned by a multimillionaire who loved Sarah Bernhardt, the famous actress, and decided to create this school in her name after she died. The school has been in existence since 1923, but everything's up-to-date. Ten years ago they added the new buildings. There's a plaque right there," Trisha said pointing to the fence. When we crossed the street, I stopped to read it.
TO THE MEMORY OF SARAH BERNHARDT
WHOSE BRIGHT LIGHT LIT UP THE STAGE
AS IT HAD NEVER BEEN LIT BEFORE
"Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever read?" Trisha said, sighing. "I hope someday someone very rich falls in love with me and has my name engraved in marble."
"Someone will," I said and she smiled.
"Thank you. It's very nice of you to say that. I'm so glad you're here." She threaded her arm through mine to walk me through the entrance.
I looked up at the circular entrance to the school. This close, it looked even more intimidating than I had imagined. In those hallowed halls, really gifted people practiced and developed their talents. Many of its graduates were famous. These teachers saw the best and finest. Surely someone like me would stand out like an unripe tomato in a basket of ripe ones. I had only just learned how to play the piano and I had never had formal voice lessons. And after all, Grandmother Cutler had gotten me in without an audition. No one had said I had enough talent to enroll. My head bowed with the panic I felt.
"What's the matter?" Trisha asked. "Are you tired?"
"No. I . . . maybe we should wait until tomorrow," I said, pausing in the driveway.
"You're not afraid of this place, are you?" she asked quickly. By the way she asked, I suspected she had had similar feelings on first arriving. "Come on," she added, urging me forward. "Everyone is very friendly here and everyone understands what it means to be a performer. Stop worrying."
Once again, she was pulling me along. I was beginning to feel like a puppy on a leash. We hurried up the driveway to the front entrance. A tall, slim man in a light blue sports jacket and matching slacks was just coming out. He had silvery gray hair and a silvery gray mustache which contrasted sharply with his cerulean eyes and rust complexion.
"Trisha?" he said as if he couldn't believe it was she.
"Hello, Mr. Van Dan. This is Dawn Cutler, a new student who just arrived. I'm showing her around."
"Oh, yes," he said, gazing at me from head to foot.
"You're going to be in my class."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow." He turned toward Trisha, his eyes twinkling. "Subtract fifty percent from whatever Trisha tells you, Dawn. She has a propensity for hyperbole," he added and continued on.
"What did he say?" I asked, grimacing.
"I tend to exaggerate," she said and giggled. "He's very nice and very funny in class. See," she said, "I told you people are friendly here."
When we entered the school, we were greeted by an enormous mural in the lobby. It ran up the wall almost from the floor to the ceiling. It was a portrait of Sarah Bernhardt with her left hand up as if she were reaching for something and her eyes tilted toward the heavens.
"This way," Trisha said and we went off to the right over the light brown marble floors. Late afternoon sunlight was filtered through the high, stained-glass windows, painting a rainbow of colors over the walls. Trisha led me down a long corridor. We
The grounds of the school surprised me. I hadn't thought I would find green grass, or flower beds, or the water fountains with benches and slate rock pathways in the middle of New York City. And there were great maple and oak trees with long thick branches casting cool shadows in which some students now sat or reclined, some reading, some talking softly, dozens of white and gray pigeons strutting bravely about them. It looked more like a beautiful park than school grounds.
"It's very pretty here," I said.
"It was once owned by a multimillionaire who loved Sarah Bernhardt, the famous actress, and decided to create this school in her name after she died. The school has been in existence since 1923, but everything's up-to-date. Ten years ago they added the new buildings. There's a plaque right there," Trisha said pointing to the fence. When we crossed the street, I stopped to read it.
TO THE MEMORY OF SARAH BERNHARDT
WHOSE BRIGHT LIGHT LIT UP THE STAGE
AS IT HAD NEVER BEEN LIT BEFORE
"Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever read?" Trisha said, sighing. "I hope someday someone very rich falls in love with me and has my name engraved in marble."
"Someone will," I said and she smiled.
"Thank you. It's very nice of you to say that. I'm so glad you're here." She threaded her arm through mine to walk me through the entrance.
I looked up at the circular entrance to the school. This close, it looked even more intimidating than I had imagined. In those hallowed halls, really gifted people practiced and developed their talents. Many of its graduates were famous. These teachers saw the best and finest. Surely someone like me would stand out like an unripe tomato in a basket of ripe ones. I had only just learned how to play the piano and I had never had formal voice lessons. And after all, Grandmother Cutler had gotten me in without an audition. No one had said I had enough talent to enroll. My head bowed with the panic I felt.
"What's the matter?" Trisha asked. "Are you tired?"
"No. I . . . maybe we should wait until tomorrow," I said, pausing in the driveway.
"You're not afraid of this place, are you?" she asked quickly. By the way she asked, I suspected she had had similar feelings on first arriving. "Come on," she added, urging me forward. "Everyone is very friendly here and everyone understands what it means to be a performer. Stop worrying."
Once again, she was pulling me along. I was beginning to feel like a puppy on a leash. We hurried up the driveway to the front entrance. A tall, slim man in a light blue sports jacket and matching slacks was just coming out. He had silvery gray hair and a silvery gray mustache which contrasted sharply with his cerulean eyes and rust complexion.
"Trisha?" he said as if he couldn't believe it was she.
"Hello, Mr. Van Dan. This is Dawn Cutler, a new student who just arrived. I'm showing her around."
"Oh, yes," he said, gazing at me from head to foot.
"You're going to be in my class."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow." He turned toward Trisha, his eyes twinkling. "Subtract fifty percent from whatever Trisha tells you, Dawn. She has a propensity for hyperbole," he added and continued on.
"What did he say?" I asked, grimacing.
"I tend to exaggerate," she said and giggled. "He's very nice and very funny in class. See," she said, "I told you people are friendly here."
When we entered the school, we were greeted by an enormous mural in the lobby. It ran up the wall almost from the floor to the ceiling. It was a portrait of Sarah Bernhardt with her left hand up as if she were reaching for something and her eyes tilted toward the heavens.
"This way," Trisha said and we went off to the right over the light brown marble floors. Late afternoon sunlight was filtered through the high, stained-glass windows, painting a rainbow of colors over the walls. Trisha led me down a long corridor. We
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