Chapter 6
Following the tense conversation with his father, Jerome took it upon himself to bring up the suggestion of something that had been scraping around at the back of his mind since Esmé and Carmelita had come to live with him.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said one night at dinner, “that it would be a good idea for Carmelita to return to school.”
A look of dismay came over Carmelita’s face, and she turned to Esmé for assistance.
“What school was it that you attended before?” Jerome asked. “Prufrock Preparatory School?”
Carmelita lowered her head and concentrated on the pork chop, green beans and baked potato there. “Yes,” she answered softly. She really had no desire to return to a classroom and listen to her teacher tell one boring, pointless story after another while he gobbled down banana after banana. She would rather spend her days with Esmé and explore the rest of the penthouse apartment.
Despite the despondent state she had found herself in lately, Esmé made an effort to step in and offer a helping hand to her adopted daughter. “Actually, Jerome, I was thinking that perhaps we could get a tutor for Carmelita instead. It’s been almost a year since she’s been in a classroom and I’m afraid it would be a bit overwhelming for her.”
“Well, I don’t want to argue with you,” Jerome said, and immediately found himself sinking back into the very behavior that Maxwell Squalor had always been so critical of. “But don’t you think it would be in Carmelita’s best interests for her to be around people her own age?”
“But Prufrock Prep is a
boarding school,” Esmé pointed out. “Not only that, but it’s more than an hour’s drive from the city. She would only be able to come home during weekends.”
That’s when a thought struck Carmelita, and she found it necessary to speak up. “But Prufrock Prep doesn’t
have weekends,” she explained. “Vice Principal Nero had them banned because they were interfering with his concerts.”
“Well,” Jerome said, “that’s a rather silly reason not to give students the free time they’ve earned by attending classes five days a week. Perhaps I should telephone Nero and have a talk with him.”
“You’ve obviously never met Vice Principal Nero,” said Carmelita. “Anyway, I’m finished.” She started to get up when Jerome reached for her wrist and pulled her back down.
“But you haven’t even touched your dinner,” he said.
“Well, I don’t like pork chops.”
“What about potatoes and green beans?”
Carmelita shook her head.
“That’s too bad,” Jerome replied, “because I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave the table until you’ve eaten at least
some of what’s on your plate.”
Carmelita felt herself beginning to obtain a serious dislike for the man whose main obligation seemed to run along the lines of forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do. “But I’m not hungry!” she said, and with surprising force managed to yank her wrist out of Jerome’s grip.
The situation may have remained somewhat under control had Carmelita not taken her glass of parsley soda and thrown it at Jerome, splattering his shirt and tie with the sticky substance.
And this was when Esmé knew that the calm before the storm had ended, and a hurricane had officially begun.
Much to her surprise, her husband’s voice raised unexpectedly. “Carmelita!” Jerome cried in horror, rising from his chair and dabbing at his shirt with a napkin. “Why did you do that? I must insist that you apologize immediately.”
Carmelita folded her arms across her chest and stared at Jerome in defiance, while Esmé simply sat there, too shocked by Jerome’s sudden burst of stamina to say a word.
“No,” Carmelita answered firmly.
“Then I order you go to your room and stay there until you are
ready to apologize,” Jerome said.
“No.”
“Fine— if that’s the way you want it, then I’ll just have to carry you there myself.” He then scooped the disobedient child up into his arms and threw her over his shoulder, ignoring her cries as she beat her fists against his backside and kicked her legs out in protest.
As Jerome left the kitchen carrying the hysterical Carmelita, Esmé stayed behind and wondered what it could be that had managed to change her husband from a modest coward into someone who took charge the moment the need arose.
Later that night, Esmé was sitting on her bed sorting through some of her old clothing and figuring out what items would still fit her in a few months and what she could forget about wearing until after the baby was born. It was a depressing task, especially for her, being the kind of person who had always thought very highly of looks and style, but a task that would have to be done eventually, and so she might as well get it over with. Perhaps she could even put some of her things aside for Carmelita— after all, she had to grow out of that tomboy stage eventually, didn’t she? That was Olaf’s doing, as far as Esmé was concerned.
She stopped what she was doing and seemed to stare into space. Why did everything she do somehow remind her of that man?
Esmé wondered if the baby would resemble its father and, if it did, in what ways? She wouldn’t be surprised if the doctor handed her newborn child to her and the first thing she saw was Olaf’s single eyebrow. Esmé still hadn’t decided if she was going to keep the baby or not. Her uncertainty wasn’t due to the possibility that Carmelita would feel as though she was being replaced, but that Esmé felt that she wouldn’t exactly make the best mother.
For one thing, she hated children… or at least she did until Carmelita had come along. What was it about that rude, violent, filthy little girl that appealed to Esmé? It must have been more than the fact that they were so much alike— or at least they had been, before Olaf had abandoned them. Since then, all Esmé and Carmelita had been able to count on was one another. Esmé knew that she hadn’t been the best influence on Carmelita, and Olaf had been an even worse one, insisting that she use her harpoon to shoot defenseless crows. Jerome was a much better influence to have around, and he seemed to be warming up to his new role as a parent fairly quickly, from what Esmé had witnessed before in the kitchen.
She continued to sort through the clothing until she came across an article that struck a familiar cord in her: It was a slightly faded dress the color of lavender, with a low cut collar and spaghetti straps. As she held up the dress, she thought back to the day it had been given to her, and began to cry.
It had been nearly an hour since Jerome had locked Carmelita in her room, telling her that he would let her out
only when she was ready to apologize, to which she had responded by sticking her tongue out at him. He’d hated to discipline her, but it was necessary if she was going to grow up into a soft-spoken, respectable young lady. He couldn’t help but suspect that Esmé had assisted in Carmelita’s spoiled behavior, but wasn’t about to confront his wife with this matter.
Now, as Carmelita sat in a wooden chair facing the wall, kicking at it roughly and ignoring the scuff marks left behind by her black buckle shoes, she thought about what she had done at dinner and suddenly felt something she had never felt before.
Sorry.
She glanced over her shoulder at the door and slowly slid out of the chair. Then she approached the door and knocked softly. “Mr. Squalor?” she asked.
No answer. He was probably in another part of the penthouse and couldn’t hear her.
“Mr. Squalor?” Carmelita said again, raising her voice a little this time. “I’m ready to come out and apologize to you now.”
She was about to head back over to her chair when she heard the sound of the door being unlocked from the other side. She stood back, watching the door as it opened and revealed Esmé standing there.
Her face was red and puffy, as were her eyes and nose. In one hand she grasped a cluster of tissues while she wrapped the fingers of her other hand around the doorknob. She looked as though she had been crying, and as far as Carmelita could tell it had been going on for quite some time, judging by the redness of her face.
“Jerome had to go into town on some business,” Esmé said in a hoarse voice. “But he’ll be back shortly.”
“Is something wrong, Esmé?” Carmelita asked. “You look upset.”
Esmé shook her head, and Carmelita could see fresh tears appear at the corners of her eyes. “I’m fine,” Esmé insisted. “It’s just a touch of something, but I’ll be alright.”
Carmelita nodded, though she sensed the doubt in her adoptive mother’s voice as she spoke. Esmé was hiding something, but what, and for what reason, Carmelita had no idea.
She was just about to ask Esmé for the hundredth time where Olaf was and when they would be seeing him again, when the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hallways of the penthouse apartment interrupted Carmelita’s thoughts.
“That must be Jerome,” Esmé said, relief lingering in her voice. “Well, I’ll just go back to my room and give you two some time to straighten things out.”
Carmelita would have preferred Esmé to stick around, but wasn’t going to push the issue. It was obvious that she was upset about something. What it was, Carmelita couldn’t be sure, but she knew that whatever it was, it was slowly but surely tearing the stylish woman apart mentally, limb from limb.
Jerome headed straight for Carmelita’s bedroom the moment he arrived back at the penthouse apartment— it took him nearly ten minutes to get from the front door to
her door, and by the time she heard him knock, she was lying on her bed, hands behind her head, staring up at the ceiling.
“Come in,” Carmelita responded.
A moment later, the door creaked open and Jerome stuck his head through. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
Jerome sauntered into the room and sat down on the bed beside Carmelita, who sat up and scooted over in an attempt to give him more space. “So,” he said, “I take it from the amount of time you’ve spent in here by yourself that you’ve had time to think about what you did?”
She knew he wasn’t going to leave her alone until after she’d apologized, and in a way maybe she should. It wasn’t as though Jerome had
deserved to have parsley soda splattered all over him at dinner. From what Carmelita had seen so far, he certainly treated her better than Olaf ever had. Jerome was soft-spoken, kind and patient, while Olaf had been… well, Olaf.
“Yes,” Carmelita said.
“And is there anything you’d like to say to me?” Jerome asked.
“Yes, Mr. Squalor. I’m sorry.”
Jerome nodded, satisfied. “Sometimes apologizing is difficult, but I’m proud of you for stepping up and going ahead with it.” He smiled. “Now that this is settled, we should establish some ground rules.”
Carmelita raised an eyebrow. “Ground rules?” she said.
“Yes,” Jerome replied. “The first rule is that I simply cannot allow you to call me ‘Mr. Squalor’. You already call Esmé by her first name, and so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to call me by
my first name, either.”
“Okay. What’s the other rule?”
“That you return to school first thing Monday morning.” Jerome said this with some pride in his voice, as if he had been the creator of the education system.
Carmelita looked uneasy.
“It’s very important for a young person to have the best education available,” Jerome went on. “And I feel the best way to achieve this is in a classroom with other people your age. I understand that you’re nervous about returning to Prufrock Prep after such a long absence, but it really is the best thing for you. Since you’ve missed so much school already, you’ll be repeating the sixth grade this year, but I was thinking that— and this is completely up to you, of course —that you could take some summer classes and be able to go on to the eighth grade next year. I’m sure it won’t be long before you get right back into your old routine, and I’m sure your friends will be thrilled to see you, too.”
“Yes…” Carmelita shifted her eyes away from Jerome’s and fixed them on the chair she had been sitting in earlier. If anything, the people she had once thought of as her friends had been happy to see her go— she had certainly tortured them long enough. And now that she was going to be stuck in the sixth grade for another year, they were sure to turn their backs on her.
Esmé’s life wasn’t the only life that was on the verge of changing, and as far as Carmelita could tell, her return to Prufrock Preparatory School wasn’t going to make
her life any easier.
Reason for Editing: Had to add HTML