"Of course now. What kind of a teenage girl doesn't drive? Go on," she urged, practically pushing me out of the car. "I'll take your books into the house for you and put them in your room. Go on. Don't keep him waiting. He gets paid by the hour, and you know how Wade is about money."
Clothes, jewelry, hairdos and makeup, a private school, and now driving lessons, and all this in a matter of days, I thought. I am truly finally lucky.
My first driving lesson went well. The instructor was nice but almost robotic, repeating instructions, driving regulations, and criticisms frequently in a dry monotone. I thought he had concluded I was simply spastic, but when we returned to the house, he told me I had done exceedingly well for someone who had no previous experience.
"And unlike my other teenage students, you listened and didn't treat the car like a new toy."
I thanked him and went into the house through the garage, since the door was still open. Mrs. McAlister was working at a frantic pace in the kitchen, preparing the evening's meal. She barely glanced at me as I passed by. I didn't see Mrs. Cukor about, but I wasn't disappointed. I hurried upstairs, intending to get right into my homework. I wasn't in a panic, but I did realize that in every class, I was behind. In the back of my mind was Mrs. Brentwood's face and her words concerning my good grades at the public school. If I did poorly here, she would certainly feel justified, and I would see it in her face every time I looked her way.
When I reached my bedroom, I noticed immediately that the garlic was gone from the door handle. Perhaps Wade had spoken to Mrs. Cukor after all, I thought, and went into my room, changed my clothes, and started my homework. I hadn't been at it ten minutes before I heard a knock on my door, and Ami appeared.
"I'm sorry. I was on the phone. How was your first driving lesson?"
"I think it went well. He seemed pleased."
"Good." She hesitated and then said, "You had a phone call. I heard your phone ringing and ringing, so I answered it for you."
"A phone call."
"Trevor Foley." Her face turned a bit sour. "You gave your number out rather quickly, didn't you? I advised you to be very selective about that. I mean, you hardly know the boy, and that number is unlisted so that you won't be bothered by every Tom, Dick, and Trevor."
"Oh." I said. I hadn't thought about it being so precious and restricted. The truth was, I had never had a phone I could call my own, and it was quite exciting to be able to give someone the number.
"I don't mean to be so critical of you so quickly, Celeste, but I do want to look after your welfare and give you the benefit of my years and years of experience, especially when it comes to men. Boys," she added.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"What happens is, you give it to one boy and then he gives it to another and another, and before you know it, they're all calling and saying stupid things to you to try to get you into bed with them. You have to understand from the start that their reason for calling you, for talking to you, for being friendly, is purely to get you to sleep with them. It's their nature. They can't help it."
She continued into the room and sat on my bed.
"Maybe I should give you a first lesson about boys. I know how isolated from the real world you've been. Those nuns wrapped the Bible around you, built walls between you and boys."
"Well, not entirely," I began. "The wall wasn't that high."
"It was high enough," she said sharply. "As soon as a boy's hormones develop, they take over completely. You can see it in the way they look at you, if you're observant. They're looking right through your clothes, imagining your breasts, your stomach, between your legs, everything. They make love to you in their minds over and over until their tongues hang out."
I caught the note of bitterness in her voice, and she saw that I had. She smiled.
"I don't mean to make them sound so horrible. I just want you to be aware. My mother was always quoting, 'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' And for good reason. So many girls younger than you ruin their lives for a few moments of physical pleasure. They lose their reputations and then finally their self-respect. They become cynical and depressed and end up hating either themselves or everyone around them. Many become mentally ill. Yes, they do, Celeste, and you have had a very difficult childhood to overcome. Look how far you've come, too. I would just hate myself if I put you in harm's way. You can appreciate and understand that, can't you?"
"Yes, of course," I said.
"Good." She looked down at her hands and then up at me, her eyes glowing with tears held firmly back. "I just hate having to sound like I'm chastising you. I always hated it when my mother did that, or especially when my father did. I know it makes you feel small and empty inside."
She smiled.
"Just like me, you feel certain you can take care of yourself. I know. It's the arrogance of youth," she added, holding her head high. She laughed. "You feel nothing bad can happen. It makes you reckless. I can tell you I was, but I was lucky to have such strong parents."
I listened, but I couldn't help raising and bringing my eyebrows together. Wade had told me her parents were too permissive, and careless about their obligations. Why did he believe one thing and she another so dramatically different?
"Come here a moment," she asked, smiling. She reached out for me. I rose and took her hand. She patted beside her on the bed for me to sit. She still held onto my hand.
"You don't realize how beautiful you are yet, Celeste. Where you lived and how you lived made that difficult for you to appreciate, I know. They probably told you it's a sin to think of yourself as beautiful, to concentrate on your looks, right?"
"Sort of," I admitted.
"Of course they did. That's what they do because they're so unhappy about their own