The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt (2 page)

So my classmates and I had always known that come seventh grade, we were going to have to make some choices. In a school where the graduating class is eighteen kids, that year’s numbers broke down like this: nine students commuting to Pildrake; two students relocating to their divorced dads; four students attending private day school complete with three-and-a-half-hour round trip bus time; two kids being homeschooled; and . . . me. Boarding school.

It’s called Eaton Academy for Girls. The admissions brochure made it look like a picture-perfect film location from a Victorian movie shoot. All stone and towers, gargoyles and stained glass. It wasn’t far from the high-tech dentist who performed my root canal when I was ten, so I’d actually been driven by it. Mostly what I remembered were the high gates surrounding it, and the vague suggestion of Gothic buildings in the mist. To be honest, it had looked more like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory than an educational institution for girls. But I was only in the fifth grade then, and it never occurred to me that Eaton might be a part of my future.

I was somewhat freaked out about leaving home, though I’d worked through many of my homesickness issues in my five summers at Camp Migawam. I had logged plenty of hours sobbing my way through the night in my cabin, and trying to pretend the noises I was making were all caused by mold and pollen allergies. Eventually I got used to the place. By the time Carson McGillion came along, I was mostly free of the nighttime weepies. Not that he apparently noticed either way. Hopefully it would take considerably less than five years for me to adjust to Eaton. I had promised myself that when a snappy comment came to mind, I would say it out loud, and never stand silently with my mouth open. Plus, I knew for a fact that they had a whole network of practice rooms and a Bosendorfer concert grand piano in the music wing, so I knew where I’d be heading if things got to be too much.

Music was one of the main reasons I was going to Eaton. They were offering me a generous music scholarship, partly because of a piano competition in which I earned top ranking for my interpretation of ten of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. I had played them during my admissions interview for Eaton’s head of music, Mr. Tate, an Alabama native with a shock of wild white hair. I had warmed to him on sight, and he offered me the scholarship on the spot. So school was practically paid for (which left my parents money to pay for the important things in life, like vintage Moxie bottles and Million Mom March tickets, and my college fund, I guess). And the campus was only about seventy-five miles from home. So theoretically I could escape to my house for the occasional weekend, if I wanted. Plus my parents had stressed repeatedly that we’d be doing Eaton on a trial basis. If it was really awful, I’d homeschool the rest of the year while we rethought our options.

What was freaking me out was the fact that here it was at last—my big chance to start over. I was going to a new school where no one knew anything about me. I was a blank slate. If the faculty room at Eaton suffered from Redecoration by Silly String, I’d be as much a suspect as anyone else. For that first day, for those first few weeks, I would have the opportunity to reinvent myself completely.

I see it like one of those reality shows where a team rushes in and rips a bunch of stuff out of your house and completely redesigns it with new stuff in a Unified Look. Except on
my
reality show, instead of my house it would be me that got the makeover—inside and out. The team of experts would change me from a regular person into someone who stood out. Someone unpredictable and effervescent, who spoke her mind (or someone’s mind). A girl you would expect to have a totally unique, vintage name. My reality show would be called
The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt
.

So I had a plan. But I had never taken the time to work out the details. Graduation sort of snuck up on me. Summer flew by even without camp eating up the days. I hung out with the other music nerds, complaining and practicing and comparing notes on our plans. None of them were going to boarding school. I had Eaton to myself.

Now I mulled things over anxiously as I sat in the back of our station wagon, luggage piled high, speeding toward my future personality as my parents made cheerful conversation in the front seat. We weren’t much more than fifteen miles from the Eaton campus, which meant that I had less than a half hour to decide who I was going to be.

Some of the top contenders:

I was comparing and contrasting the qualities of Mysterious Earth Goddess (MEG) versus Detached, Unique, Coolly Knowing Individual (DUCKI) when my mother turned around and said:

“So! There it is!”

There it was indeed. Just ahead lay the iron gates of Eaton Academy, wide-open and inviting us to pass through, like the jaws of a massive mammal. I took a long, deep breath.

The reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt was about to begin.

W
e parked in the crammed visitor’s lot and followed the signs to the main campus. One minute we were on a gravel path shaded by massive trees, and the next minute we had emerged onto the quadrangle of the campus.

I was mildly stupefied. This place looked EXACTLY like the brochure. I felt as if I’d accidentally tumbled into their photo shoot. In all four directions towered majestic Gothic stone buildings, cheerfully covered with bright green ivy. The sky was so blue and the lawn so perfect, I was afraid to take another step for fear of smudging something. Everywhere I looked, I saw healthy, laughing girls and cheerful, neatly dressed parents. Purple and white balloons had been strung from the lampposts, and a banner hung from a window proclaiming that my fellow new students and I were WELCOME! It looked like some kind of convention for content and well-nourished people.

It had to be a trick.

“Doesn’t all this look nice?” asked my father, sweeping his hand toward the vista like Christopher Columbus arriving in the New World.

The sound of his voice reminded me that I had not, in fact, tumbled into a photo shoot. I had arrived at school, and this was my life. Come what may, in a matter of hours my parents were going to leave me there and drive home. My stomach tightened at the thought of being left here alone. The school year was a lot longer than a camp session. I would have to get right to work on my new personality—it would be a good distraction at the very least.

“There are tables set up over there,” my mother was saying. “I’ll bet that’s where we need to go register.”

She was wearing her Save the Tundra T-shirt, which looked slightly faded in the glaring sunlight and appeared from some angles to read “Save the Tuna.” I felt a sudden flash of irritation. Couldn’t she have at least put on a new shirt? She was beaming at me, and her bangs were being blown gently up by the breeze, making her look like a wise and compassionate terrier. I felt twin strands of affection and embarrassment.

The registration tables were set up on the grass outside one of the huge stone buildings with large wooden doors at either end. Cast in shadow and topped by two round towers, the building looked like an Institute for the Criminally Insane—the kind you might read about in a Victorian gothic novel. I hoped it wasn’t a dorm.

I walked over to a plump curly-haired girl seated behind the table. She was wearing a badge that said “Registration Helper.” Below that was printed the name Lori, which had been crossed out. Something like “Mavis” or “Matrix” had been handwritten underneath it. My first contact with an Eaton student. I had to be careful. I couldn’t get too out of control with a new personality while my parents were standing right behind me. I decided to say as little as possible and let my parents think I was just being shy. But as I made eye contact with the Mavix, my expression screamed Detached, Unique, Coolly Knowing Individual.

The girl’s hand shot out so quickly, I actually flinched.

“Hello there!” she barked. “Welcome to Eaton”

She sounded like a drill sergeant. I nodded at her, raising one eyebrow. Yeah, good. That was cool. Eyebrow raising was cool. I was DUCKI.

“I’m here to help you register and get you set to go. Okay? Very good. Let’s find your packet in the file. Name?”

The Mavix really had a knack for making things sound military. I was half afraid she’d assign me a bunk, then pull out an electric razor to give me a crew cut.

“Moxie Roosevelt Kipper,” I said, placing my hand on one hip and giving her an intense gaze. I didn’t smile.

“And I’m Gil Kipper,” added my father, from behind me. I winced. His name sometimes sounds a little cheesy.

“Dallas Kipper,” said my mother. Don’t even get me started on hers.

“Very good,” said the Mavix, like our family names had just passed some sort of high-level security clearance. She rummaged through the file marked
A-K,
and quickly produced a folder with my name on it.

“Here’s your student handbook, a campus map, course book listing, and dorm assignment. You’ll be in third-floor Sage, room 303,” she said, gesturing toward the Institute for the Criminally Insane. “That’s a triple. You’ll have two roommates.”

I had to struggle to keep my face emotionless. New students had to share their room with another person, I knew. But two? Two roommates? I thought that only happened on sitcoms.

“Your student proctor is Kristen Berry. She’s a senior and can help you with any problems that may arise. You’ll find her on the hall now, checking new students in and helping everyone get settled. Any questions?”

The Mavix gave me a look that suggested questions meant weakness. I had been planning on asking where the music practice rooms were, and whether you had to sign up in advance for a piano. Now that seemed dweeby. Instead, I shook my head and shifted my gaze to someplace over her right shoulder. Then I shrugged a little so the Mavix would understand that I was cool—so cool, it didn’t matter where I roomed, because I’d be transporting all my coolness with me.

“Right, then. Good luck.”

Good luck? Did I need it? What did the Mavix know that I didn’t?

I showed my parents the folder, then pointed to the Institute for the Criminally Insane.

“My room’s in there,” I explained, though I knew they’d heard every word the Mavix had said. My mother took the folder from my hands and examined it, like she didn’t believe me.

As we started walking toward the building, something suddenly shot out of a third-floor window and plummeted to the ground with a thud. It disappeared in a sea of green ivy.

I glanced at my parents, but neither of them seemed to have noticed the Unidentified Descending Item. Had I not been so devoted to my Detached, Unique, Coolly Knowing persona, I would have gone hunting through the ivy myself to find out what it was. Instead, I thrust both hands into my pockets and sort of ambled along toward the door. Anyone observing me would logically conclude that I was in complete command of the situation, and utterly unruffled by my new surroundings or plummeting objects. Vintage DUCKI.

But once the thought occurred that somebody might be looking at me, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. With the possibility that a score of new students were watching me from their windows through high-powered binoculars, I began to choreograph my every movement for maximum impact. When we were about five feet from the dormitory’s oversized wooden door, I paused and indicated the entrance with my head, in case my parents somehow hadn’t noticed it. I gazed around nonchalantly, wearing a slightly bemused expression. I began to hum an old Rolling Stones song, because retro is always cool. In the distance a girl with long dark hair dashed out of a door at the far end of the building. She seemed to be headed in my general direction, so I looked away, pretending I hadn’t seen her.

I climbed the one wide step and was reaching for the door when it flew open with a bang. A blur of green hair and combat boots whizzed past. Neither she nor the door actually touched me, but as I stepped back to get out of the way, I lost my balance and started to tip backward. I yanked my hands from my pockets and pinwheeled my arms wildly. In a last desperate move, I kicked one leg high trying to avoid the fall. To anyone watching through their high-powered binoculars, I’m sure I looked like the least talented member of an avant-garde dance troupe.

And it was all for nothing, because I fell anyway. I landed on the sidewalk flat on my butt, making a 100 percent unattractive smacking sound when I landed, like a pancake dropped from several feet onto a hard surface. Through sheer pianist’s reflex, I had flung both my hands into the air to avoid injuring my fingers. My right shoe had come off during the miserable episode. And all I could wonder was
Who was THAT?
But I was too mortified to actually swing my head around and look for the green blur in combat boots.