The Warning Whistle

Chapter One

The ball was still airborne when the buzzer sounded. The swish of a well-deserved winning basket came two seconds later. By then I was already walking off the court. I knew I’d made the winning shot. I didn’t need to see it go in. I heard the sweet noise of leather rushing through the nylon netting when I was still setting up the shot. I was used to hearing the sound of victory. St. Waldorf’s Blue Eagles senior girls basketball team ended their season undefeated.

This was the moment to savor for all parties involved in such a resounding victory. Not just my teammates but the student body and the spectators in the stands dutifully taping the game.

There would be no playoffs. Not because there were only six teams in our league but because of time constraints. Private schools in upstate New York followed the same academic-year conventions as the public institutions with some minor modifications. The school year at St. Waldorf’s began the last week in August and ended in May. There was no March spring break. There was no need for it. In March, boats and racing yachts would still be berthed at their sailing clubs. Preparations for the various races and regattas usually started mid-May. And since, in some cases, these involved sailing the craft halfway around the globe, students had to be ready to accompany their parents, stepparents or a combination of both according to the calendar of such great events.

That was an awesome shot, cozy girl. Congrats. I heard Bethany’s voice and inwardly cringed. Her congrats was always accompanied by a slap on my back. Our team jerseys were pure Egyptian cotton; Bethany’s congratulatory slap tended to make the sweaty jersey stick to my back like glue.

Thanks, Beth, I said, turning my back to her. Now, peel it off me, will you?

It’s a victory slap. You should wear it a while, she said.

Eight seconds, I said. That’s what we had left on the clock to make that last play to win. I caressed the slightly scuffed hardwood floor with my eyes. Tonight, the caretakers would polish the image of the blue eagle in the center of the court, and it would sit there in dignified silence, waiting for me to test its durability again with a bouncing ball come August. I would be a freshman since I was on the threshold of making the great transition to high school. I would have to try out for a junior team that traditionally reserved only four spots for freshmen. The mere thought of it was brutal. But I was confident that I would make it. Six years ago, Coach Jensen had told me that I was the most talented player in the ten-and-under category that he had ever coached. And he kept reaffirming that statement year after year. Considering all my hard work over the years on that shiny floor with an emblem of an eagle that made it look like the Oval Office, I knew there was nothing to stop me from realizing my cherished dream. I would make it.

Cozy-girl, stop kissing the freakin’ court with your eyes and look up. Your mother expects it, so smile and wave, Beth said and slapped my back again.

I quickly obeyed because back-slapping was Beth’s favorite sport. My mother was in the stands as usual – by proxy, of course. All parents were always present in the stands by proxy. Mother’s private secretary, Calpurnia, stood in the third row, moving the camera all over the place. She always had a problem focusing the recording tool. That’s why Ronald, our upstate chauffeur, also taped my great athletic achievements as an emergency backup. Down in Manhattan, Mother would get an excellent spliced version of my game. She’d watch it, too. Her sense of maternal duty was superb. Now and then, she’d drop the name of a teammate, embroidered on the back of the jersey. This wasn’t as much to dazzle me with her attention to detail as it was to validate her motherly responsibilities.

I waved at Calpurnia and Ronald and then spoke over my shoulder to Bethany. I’m going to find Coach Jensen before I hit the showers. Are you spending the night at my place? We still have two days of duty in the classroom before the graduation ceremonies.

Yeah. Sure, thanks. I’ll go tell Ronald. And I’ll clear it with Freddie Krueger, Bethany said and waved me off.

I chuckled. It didn’t matter which of our five senior teaching staff members were on security detail and clearance duty, to Beth he or she would always be a Freddie Krueger. Her requests for off-campus excursions or overnight stays were seldom refused. However, with Bethany, it took only one refusal to earn the moniker of Freddie Krueger forever.

I expected Coach Jensen to be in the atrium where he normally waited for us to emerge from the change room wearing fresh and clean victory smiles, but the great center stage of the main school building was empty. Fear squeezed my throat; I always saw him after a game for a few words of pep talk. The school year had ended. The yacht racing summer season was upon us. I would not see him again until August. I turned a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees and felt as if I were riding on a carousel of medieval architecture. The great building had risen, at the crack of the 18th century, as a Byzantine church, just inside the northern boundary of the village of Granford Hill. I stood dead-center of what used to be its domed basilica. As time marched on, so did architectural styles. The local craftsmen’s interpretation of new trends was wildly imaginative. After all, nothing else could explain why a Byzantine-style church in upstate New York incorporated Romanesque and Gothic elements such as columns and rounded arches right next to pointed arches and flying buttresses. This last feature made the building look like a prehistoric bird turned to stone as it was getting ready to take off.

I was about to run back down to the change room when I remembered that the playing season was over. We’d played our last game as middle school seniors and won. Coach Jensen had no reason to stay behind. The new season would see us…in high school. Still, I had to say goodbye to him.

The shortest way to the front parking lot was up the staircase ahead and through the tall, arched portal. I walked out and saw that Coach Jensen had already made it down the great, sweeping staircase and headed for the staff’s parking area. I called out after him. He turned and waited for me.

Good game, Daria. I couldn’t think of a better way to end the season, he said, smiling as I approached. A lump formed in my throat. For some reason, every step I took felt like I was walking toward my doom.

Thank you, sir, I said. My stomach started to hurt, but I wasn’t dehydrated from the game. I told myself that the nausea and my parched throat had to be the residue of the medieval atmosphere that I had left behind. Deep down, I knew it was the way I wanted it to be, not the way it was. My fear had to be on account of some threat coming my way. I was always sensitive that way. For once, it wasn’t a good thing because Coach Jensen must have seen my discomfort and the hesitation in my step.

You’ve heard, then, he said, his voice thick with speculation.

I gave him a shallow nod. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to admit ignorance, either.

Come next season, I’ll track your progress on the court through someone’s camera, he said. I heard the forced joviality in his voice.

From where, sir? A fist drove into my belly. It took all of my composure not to bend over and hurl the purple, salt-laced mess that swirled in my stomach at his feet.

He ran his crooked index finger along the side of his nose. It was his thinking gesture when he contemplated difficult situations: leave me in for the rest of the last five minutes or rotate me out to give my backup point guard a chance to shine for her family camera.

I’ll keep in touch, I promise, he said and knew that I knew that would never happen.

You’ve coached me since I was eight years old, I said, swallowing hard to moisten my throat.

It’s been a very long six years, he said.

Long…?

Oh, Daria, I didn’t mean it that way. Long as in I overstayed at St. Waldorf’s. I should have left two years ago.

But you didn’t because your wife had a baby and because you had to refinance your mortgage…. I trailed off before my bitterness drowned my last conversation with my beloved coach.

I know perfectly well that I won’t get the kind of salary I’ve enjoyed at St. Waldorf’s, even if I were a college basketball coach, but I knew all along that coaching basketball at St. Waldorf’s was not what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

Why not? I asked, without thinking. Coach Jensen’s face told me the reason. We stood in the middle of a medieval fairytale, complete with meticulously trimmed hedges, well-pruned trees, dormitory buildings that looked like restored monasteries, and a Byzantine church with stone wings that would have looked proud on a viaduct. His eyes swept our surroundings. The rest of the reason was all around us because not all the luxury imports and limos had had time to spool out of the sweeping, circular driveway. He probably wasn’t tired of his salary, just tired of serving those who signed his paychecks.

Where are you going, sir? I asked, trying to sound exasperated – the way I hoped I looked, not the way I felt inside. Exasperation was a noble way to surrender to the inevitable. Fear was the key that opened the door to defeat. It’s what he used to tell us when he wanted us to try a new play on the court.

Grover Cleveland High School, he said, lifting his eyes as the last stretch limo receded into the distance. He then turned toward me but stared at something well above my head. It must have been more pleasant than staring at me because his eyes crinkled with a little smile.

I rolled the name on my tongue. Grover Cleveland High School. I knew every posh private girls’ academy this side of the Great Divide simply because ten years ago, in addition to Calpurnia’s research, Mother had hired a professional researcher to find and evaluate them all so she would be well informed when the time came to choose a secure academic institution for me – the kind that would gently take me in at grade one level and nurture me all through my formative years until it was time to spit me out on the debutante’s carpet in New York. Of course, spit me out was my estimate of the culmination of my apprenticeship at St. Waldorf’s Academy that, for security reasons, was not listed in a reference manual of private schools. Instead, it was listed under Miscellaneous as the Granford Hill Alternative School, and in its description, there was a mention that the school offered scholarships for gifted students. In six years at St. Waldorf’s, I had never met a student who had been admitted on a scholarship… or a student who had ever walked in public without bodyguards.

I never heard of Grover Cleveland Academy, I said, crinkling my eyes to show him that I still enjoyed the joke he was playing on me.

It’s a high school, not an academy, he said.

Technicality, I thought, and to show him my sentiments, I rolled my eyes.

A public school, he said, his eyes finally leaving whatever he’d found interesting on the building’s flying buttresses and coming to rest on my face.

I don’t know what he saw, but it set him chuckling.

As in a public school high school? I managed to push the words out before my throat shut down.

He nodded. Like I said, it’s long overdue. I overstayed here. In fact, I’ve gone back on my own word…. His voice trailed off as if he just realized he’d said too much. Then he leaned forward and gripped my shoulder, giving it a slight shake. Breathe, Daria, breathe!

He’d used his coaching voice. It was the only reason why I obeyed.

He released my shoulder in the slow, tentative manner of someone who was not sure of the results if he were to let go suddenly. I didn’t sway on my feet, but that didn’t mean the flagstones under my feet felt solid or steady.

Thoughts flashed through my head, all too quickly for me to be able to grasp any single thread and spin it into a coherent sentence. It was not a joke. I had to face reality. The man who was the keeper of my sanity in St. Waldorf’s, my much respected, beloved coach, was leaving for New York. I had to go and Google this Grover Cleveland High School. What could it possibly have to offer Coach Jensen to lure him away and make him forsake a princely salary at St. Waldorf’s? New York high schools had police patrolling the hallways. They were crowded and dirty, and every student locker had a stash of drugs, a weapon or both. I shook my head. I was getting hysterical. Fear-mongering was my mother’s territory. Still, going to coach in a New York high school that could be in Brooklyn’s Flatbush or Canarsie or Eastern Queens was enough to turn my reason to mush.

I’ve seen my moderately religious mother cross herself whenever she heard any of these names spoken in our servants’ quarters. Now and then, I, too, was guilty of flinching when I heard such fearful geography mentioned in conjunction with sports events. I would have to develop better control because I certainly was not going to lose my beloved coach. I’d spent more than six years in the hallowed halls of St. Waldorf’s. I’d spent years spinning around in the basilica, under its majestic stained-glass dome, deciding which teacher to honor with my presence and which class to skip. It was time to make my debut and transfer to the public school system. Of course, the moment had to be right to break this blockbuster news to my parents and Coach Jensen.

I rallied to a degree where I managed to shrug and shuffle my feet. I hoped I looked brave because playing basketball in a New York high school would be on a par with swimming with polar bears.

So, where exactly is this Grover Cleveland High School, sir? I asked, tipping my head to the side to show that I’d not just recovered but was reconciled with the dismal news.

You’ve probably never heard of it, he said with a distinct snicker.

Not just my ideals but my whole world had crumbled in a matter of minutes. I no longer cared to be respectful.

Try me, I snickered back.

He seemed to have recovered and slipped back into his exclusive private school teacher’s role. I’m sorry, Daria. I didn’t mean to be condescending…I just have a lot on my mind…I’ve a lot to do before I can close up shop up here. I’m going to teach in Camden, New Jersey.

You’re right. I never heard of it, I said and turned around. With calm I didn’t feel, I headed for my locker and my laptop. I had to Google the city, though I was pretty familiar with New Jersey. My oldest brother, Cedric, had wanted to choose the state for his company’s North American headquarters. His Board of Directors, however, had voted him down. Apparently, New Jersey was the least business-friendly state when it came to paying taxes. The company headquarters went to the State of Wyoming that sat in the number two slot of the most business-friendly states.

Chapter Two

It was a ten-minute limo ride between St. Waldorf’s and the village of Granford Hill. Calpurnia drove back down to Manhattan with the tape of my great winning shot. Mother would call me tomorrow to congratulate me and to remind me that this year we would be spending the summer on our own, in Madrid, because the economy was keeping my father a prisoner in Manhattan. He would join us…intermittently, as his business worries allowed. On the way home, I asked Ronald to lower his speed limit. I saw his eyes in the rearview mirror and slightly raised my laptop. He understood and slowed down to a crawl. Bethany sat across from me, pretending to be out of this world with her iPod and her earplugs. Ronald raised the soundproof partition so we could have privacy. He was always good that way. Then again, if my mother asked him to spy on my conversations and keep an eye on me, what could he have done without losing his job? I never blamed our staff for smothering me with attention, especially when it was their job.

Fifteen minutes later, when Ronald pulled into the wide circular driveway of our Granford Hill cottage, I knew very little about Camden, New Jersey, in spite of having Googled a dozen websites that featured the city and its state. I knew that if I told Mother that I wanted to become a mortician, it would cause a lot less consternation than what I planned to tell her. Although I knew that I would need an ally or two, I also knew that the less people heard about my wild scheme, the better. And I knew that I could not possibly spend another basketball season on my beloved hardwood court without Coach Jensen and still keep my spirit and soul intact.

There was no doubt about it in my mind. I would transfer to Grover Cleveland High for my freshman year of high school. I would live in Camden, New Jersey, like any other citizen. And I would play basketball.

Mother had always thought it a supreme irony that the announcement of her debut into New York society featured just a few columns over from the obituaries of Coco Chanel. Mostly from necessity, Mother continued to worship Chanel all through the seventies. Still reeling from grief and shock at Coco’s rude departure, two years later, Mother married Gianpietro Formaldi, a race car driver. Six months into their honeymoon, she gave birth to Cedric Fiorello Formaldi. My half-brother was nine months old when his talented but temperamental father took his formula race car to new heights. He landed it poorly, and Mother became a widow with an infant generally carried by his nanny. She vowed to never again marry for love.

At about the same time Mother kept changing out of Chanel’s little black dress, my father was signing a divorce settlement with his Vegas showgirl wife with an impassive face. He parted with millions. The Vegas showgirl parted with an eight-month-old cherub, named Milo for his father, and both considered it a fair trade. In private, my father vowed to never again marry for sex and infatuation.

My parents met at a posh Hollywood party given to celebrate the premiere of Mel Brooks’ Blazing Saddles. Mother was scandalized by the movie. My father was deeply offended. Such wholesome common interests brought them together. And when they discovered that they had in common a lot more than just distaste for crass and vulgar entertainment, and two infants, on December 10, 1974, the wedding bells pealed on both sides of the great divide. In the established tradition of Livingston Smith-Mills, six months into their honeymoon, Mother gave birth to my only wholly biological sibling. Such was the legacy of the permissive and liberated seventies.

My three brothers had finished college when fate decided to cancel my Mother’s transition to menopause. It was 1997. Bill Clinton was our president, Mother Theresa died, Giovanni Versace was murdered, and Princess Diana also departed this mortal world. In short, it was a dismal year when nothing good happened.

Except you, of course. You were a much-welcomed surprise, darling, Mother would say at least three times every year when the issue cropped up. Once during my birthday party, once during her birthday party, and once during our enormous family Christmas Holiday. Her patrician nose always quivered just before she said it. When the great declaration was over, her nose would twitch ever so slightly.

I let it go for six years. Then, on my seventh birthday, I raised my head and stared at her with all the innocence of a puppy and asked, Really, mummy?

I spent the next few months leading to my eighth birthday in therapy.

Dr. Vanya was a Russian-born émigré with a French passport and a private practice on the French Riviera. Mother took me to see her during the winter months that my parents normally spent at our sea-cliff estate in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.

"Cherie, your maman and papa love you very much. Dr. Vanya liked the sound of that so much she said it no less than ten times before the end of our first session. Other than yes" and an occasional head nod, Dr. Vanya did not require much input from me. I liked that a lot. Three sessions later, Mother decided she liked Dr. Vanya, too, and the therapist should live and practice on home turf – namely, ours. That’s how the émigré became the owner of a Green Card.

Up until then, I had been homeschooled, though Mother had long researched all the suitable academic institutions that would accept me as a boarder when she decreed I was ready to leave her watchful eye. Dr. Vanya attended me in our Central Park walk-up. My father’s financial empire included real estate development as well, so we owned quite a lot of acreage in Manhattan. Dr. Vanya didn’t think that such a cosmopolitan milieu was a healthy environment for someone with my affliction.

"She needs to be surrounded by her peers. She needs a peer group in order