The Salutatorian Snub

By Pamela VanderWerf

When Miranda McGovern, an anxious, repressed school clerk, takes custody of her sister's daughter Susan, she works tirelessly to ensure that her gifted niece excels academically, determined the girl achieve the top honors she herself was once denied.

A devout Catholic and brittle perfectionist, Miranda clings to a rigid set of rules to ensure Susan’s success and avoid the thread of family dysfunction that ran through her own childhood. Under her vigilant care and careful tutelage, the high school senior is on track to graduate with an Ivy League acceptance.

But when Susan's freespirited mother, Ava, a backup singer touring Europe with a series of rock bands, suddenly returns to the family home after a long absence, their world is upended. Ava's reappearance threatens to derail Susan's success and destroy everything Miranda has built in this novel that examines the fragile bonds of family, duty and the burdens of a shared past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela VanderWerf
• Release date: Feb 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781542601900

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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Permeability of memory is a tricky thing in families — events shift, recall collides between siblings and parents. There is documented evidence that 53% of sibling pairs do not remember their father’s education similarly; 21% of siblings differ on whether their mother worked for a year or more during their childhood. And get this: fully 25% disagree about how old their parents are. But some facts remain fixed — childhood dictums, immutable — and this was ours: We were McGoverns, and we were special, blessed, destined for great things. That’s what our parents told us, what their parents told them. Remember who you are is the phrase that followed us each time we stepped out the door into the larger world.

The first time I was seduced by accomplishment I was thirteen years old. I’d won a full scholarship to Marysville, the prestigious private high school. At the Academic Awards ceremony, my skin prickled with a nervous rash as I followed the sounds of clapping hands to the stage. When I returned to my seat, my mother grasped my gloved hands in her own and whispered, As expected, Miranda. Remember who you are.

All important moments in my life were thus marked, being singled out for possessing the excellence of being a McGovern. Faith and education were the dual pillars that formed the foundation of the McGovern family. We lived our Catholic faith and sought truth, justice, beauty. We were firmly imbued with clear notions of right and wrong and taught to develop a refined sense of morality.

When I was a child, my family observed the calendar year according to the liturgy, marking Ordinary Time, Advent and Easter as other families noted the change of season. Our social lives revolved around the church and its offshoot organizations: the Knights of Columbus, the Holy Rosary Society, the Sodality of Mary. The Sacred Heart Auto Club statuette sat suctioned to the dashboard of my father’s Buick, plastic hands outstretched as we prayed three Hail Marys for a safe trip. A Holy Water font hung just inside our front door; an Infant of Prague statue beamed down from the mantel. While other pre-teen girls babysat for neighbors on weekends, my sister and I worked at the convent, polishing silver and waxing floors for the nuns.

Academic excellence was expected; there were no gray areas. We worked to uphold a standard that was established by generations before us. A grade of B-plus once silenced my mother for a week, her stunned disappointment my penance. The decor in our home, alongside photos of the Sacred Heart, consisted of framed Certificates of Achievement; Pete’s awards claimed an entire half of the long hallway’s wall space. In a family of high achievers, Pete was particularly gifted. Ava and I held our own, but Pete was the shining star.

That’s how I remember my family, and how I reared Susan, after Ava left. Remember who you are.

The last time I felt the thrill of recognition was a few short years back when Susan’s near-perfect score on the Marysville entrance exam produced the same result. It was no coincidence: I am custodian of that excellence, and careful tutoring of Susan’s education has produced results. As expected.

But back to permeability of memory: sibling recall seems particularly vulnerable to this phenomenon. There is also Pete’s truth, and yes, there is even Ava’s truth — though I’m not in the habit of using those last two words together. At the core, we all believed this: We were McGoverns, and we were special. That’s my truth.

But as the years passed and so much that happened — with Ava, with Pete — wasn’t special at all, I began to wonder. But I believed it, once. Remember who you are. Now, I know only this: If there is a special one of us left in this world, it is Susan, my niece and our best hope.

-Miranda McGovern

*   *   *

CHAPTER ONE

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This was not supposed to happen. To others, certainly, perhaps those less carefully reared, those children given free rein.

But they had a plan — a well-ordered plan that aligned with Susan’s skills and abilities. And the plan worked flawlessly, titrating her accomplishments to build one upon the other. That, of course, was the conceit; that Miranda had orchestrated — indeed, willed, her niece’s path to success.

But then, this. Unthinkable.

Miranda gripped the steering wheel, her stomach roiling. She moved mechanically through the morning paces. Apply brake at stoplight, turn left up hill.

Susan slumped in the passenger seat, white blouse untucked over plaid skirt: a sign. The Boomtown Rats’ "I Don’t Like

Mondays," played on the oldies station.

Can we skip today, Auntie Min? She mumbled into her sleeve, an effort that cost her, then exhaled, bone weary.

No reason to — nothing different today, Susan. Only everything. Three days gone. Suspended. Honor Roll Susan.

With a theatrical sigh she tore the top sheet from the Word-A-Day pad stuck to the dash and pushed it toward Miranda.

Word of the Day, September 17: ‘Lissotrichous’ — from the Greek lissos, meaning smooth.

Miranda squinted at the sheet without her readers. Trich, of course, means hair. A shard of sunlight bounced off the sideview mirror.

Susan stared out the window. The sky was clear, the morning chilly. Hmmm. Her breath steamed the glass; she rubbed the spot clear with a sleeve and scanned the pedestrians at the intersection. That lissotrichous brunette on the corner is wearing a cool leather jacket, as opposed to a dorky blazer.

Well done. And as for your uniform— Susan sighed and reached for the radio dial, rolling through the stations. Quick bursts of sound filled the front seat, a staccato rap. Miranda felt the first tiny pulse of a headache beat behind her eye. Turn left up hill. Do not react.

Now, as they pulled onto the familiar drive, approaching the prestigious campus, it felt unreal, a landscape from a disorienting dream that she recognized but could not place. A hazy trajectory loomed ahead, a strange scene with familiar reference points: a stone angel, a steadily processing line of cars. She wanted to hide, slink down behind the wheel.

Miranda steered the car into the Morning Queue lane. This was a Marysville ritual, choreographed with clocklike precision, just as the Sisters of Saint Francis ordered. She had always savored the slow crawl past the rolling lawn and stand of towering cypress, relished the first glimpse of the Admin Building’s brick façade, looming solid and serious above manicured grounds: It gave her goosebumps. The school motto, carved in Latin above the

ivy-covered archway, underscored the purpose and moral standard: Veritas et Virtus. But today, she felt like an outsider, a fraud, watching a scene of shame unspool. This should be happening to someone else.

Do you check in with the Front Office first?

Dunno...never been suspended before.

Suspended. The word hung in the air between them, a charged thing.

Susan gathered her belongings, coiled and ready to jump. Here’s good.

Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you up.

It came out sharper than she’d intended. Susan released her seat belt and moved her backpack onto her lap. Outside, groups of girls in grey plaid skirts and navy blazers stood in huddles under a copse of oak trees. An occasional shrill scream pierced the air.

Is that Mandy Simpkin? asked Miranda, pointing to a girl lounging against the wall, her skirt hiked thigh high.

"Don’t point, Auntie Min."

Of course it was; Miranda spotted her mother at the curb as the car inched into the Drop-Off area. Sheila Simpkin; the half-wit who shared misspelled sentiments via social media. Miranda nodded to her primly.

Bye. Susan bolted from the car in one smooth movement. A scream of recognition went up before she was swallowed by the animated group. When she flipped her hair over her shoulder, a familiar gesture, Miranda saw that she was laughing. Laughing.

She shifted into second gear and began her descent, heading for the Lower School campus, eager to be away. The re-entry: That’s done. That was her late father’s response to most matters, rest his soul, from making a bank deposit to buying a car to burying a loved one. That’s done. She drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Three days. Her own life felt suspended, but never mind that. She still had to go through the motions.

She’d done well: had controlled herself, had not hectored, had not invoked the threat of a permanent record stain. She muttered a default Hail Mary of thanks under her breath and headed down the drive, turning into the staff parking lot.

Freshly planted marigolds lined the beds running parallel to the path, the buds closed tightly against the morning chill. A

September cold snap was unexpected in Southern California; something was off with the weather pattern, that much was clear.

Oh Miranda, don’t get apocalyptic.

*   *   *

CHAPTER TWO

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LONDON

Thank fucking Christ. Ava turned her key in the lock and stepped inside, wheeling her carryon into the foyer. Home. Weary though she was, she managed to notice how striking the flat looked in the morning light, all gleaming metal and polished wood. Her eyes swept up the wall to the vaulted transom windows:  beautiful. Last year, Hello Magazine profiled the couple in their ‘Rockers At Home’ issue.

She bent to pull off her boots and then froze: she smelled coffee. Simon, up and making coffee? Simon — up? He was never out of bed until noon, and then it was strictly Earl-bloody-Grey. Something was off.

She moved across the space like a burglar, tiptoeing toward the smell. The industrial kitchen was massive, a sprawling expanse of concrete and stainless set on travertine tiles; the adjacent guest room had been sacrificed to make way for the restaurant-sized appliances and huge pantry. A large island, complete with sink and warming burners, sat in the center of the room, surrounded by eight barstools. Sound was magnified: a coffee press dripped loud plashings of brown liquid into the glass decanter. Across the room, at the enormous eight-burner range, Simon stood preparing eggs; she could hear them sizzle. From the doorway, she watched him slide the spatula under the egg to flip it. That’s when she knew; a hard knot of fear jammed her throat. She watched him cook, her senses on full alert.

You hate over easy.

You’re back early, luv. He kept his eyes on the pan, barely turning his head.

I hate eggs over easy.

Simon slowly turned and faced her. Marcy likes over easy.

The door to the adjacent loo opened and a slim young woman emerged. In her tight tee and low-slung jeans, she looked like a schoolgirl. I could be her mother.

Hullo, Ava. The girl’s eyes were huge; she looked a waif. Marcy from the club. That Marcy.

Ava could not bring herself to acknowledge her, this girl, in her kitchen. She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. Really. A warm flush crept up the back of her neck. Shitfuckpiss. Not a hot flash. Not now. Forty-fucking six and hit with symptoms of menopause. Peri-menopause. Only slightly less dismal.

Simon brushed bangs out of his eyes. He looked a bit like Rod Stewart with his hair disheveled; on stage, he added gel, to spike it. He blinked his long lashes and fixed her with his most sincere gaze. Sorry, luv.

Ava heard the words he said, but could think of nothing but the eggs: not only did he refuse to eat anything but hard scrambled, dry as a bone, no bits of soft white allowed, but he’d claimed the mere sight of a runny yolk curdled his stomach.

You hate runny eggs. It was an urgent whisper.

He went to her and placed a kiss on her cheek, then took a seat beside Marcy at the counter. Ava watched him transfer a slice of bread from the stupid toast rack to Marcy’s plate, a gesture so tender it left her completely undone.

*   *   *

CHAPTER THREE

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A pencil whizzed across the classroom floor at a clean diagonal, shot through the open door, and landed in the hallway. Susan kept her eyes straight ahead, terrified she would lose it if she glanced up at her friend.

Sorry! Dropped my pencil. Taylor scooted out of her seat and through the door, banging into the audio-visual cart as she passed.

Miss Berntsen looked confused. Pick it up, dear, and take your seat. As she turned back to the board, chalk poised, a large section of hair freed itself from its bun.

The entire class giggled as Taylor made her way back to her seat, moving with luxurious slowness. Her plaid wool uniform skirt was rolled up at the waist, shortening the length to a near mini. Susan did the same when the nuns weren’t around.

When the bell rang, Taylor appeared at Susan’s desk. We’re not supposed to be hanging out. The guidance counselor ‘strongly suggested’ they do not fraternize during school hours.

Oh lighten up, Suse. It’s not like we’re being watched every minute. That was just a suggestion. Taylor picked at her dark maroon nails, prying chunks of polish away from the cuticle area.

Looks chippy. I like it.

Yeah, kinda goth. So, we good for Friday?

Not sure.

"You have to go. It’ll be a blast. Don’s inviting tons of people, and there’s a live goddamn band."

Let me work on it.

Lunch?

Better not. I had, like, 240 for breakfast.

I had Grape Nuts with skim; that’s like 300. I’ll skip, too.

Yeah, I would.

*   *   *

Miranda pulled into her space in the Primary Staffers lot, second from left, Admin Parking.  She was pleased to see the spot was clear today; several times lately, the Buick in the adjacent parking spot had carelessly let a wheel drift over the yellow line, cramping her. She felt nominally better as she walked from the lot, musing that her life was lived on campuses: she dropped Susan at Marysville High each morning, then spent her day working at the lower school. In the evenings, she often returned to the high school to collect Susan after mock trial, academic decathlon, or play rehearsal.

The faculty lounge was chilly, the furnace straining to pump tepid air through the vents. Noreen Arnold pulled a packet of sweetener from her purse and shook it into her mug. She spotted Miranda at the coffeemaker and headed straight over.

So? How’d our girl do? Noreen took a sip of her tea; her lipstick left a pink scallop on the cup.

Greeted like a returning hero. Laughing. Proud. Miranda shook her head.

What did you expect?  Kids don’t do contrite.

Apologetic, tinged with mortified, would have been appropriate.

Come on, what was her crime? Ditching class? Big dang deal. How’d you do?

Followed your advice to the letter — no lectures, no histrionics. I repressed every real emotion I was feeling.

I’m proud of you. Now stop worrying. They’re not going to hold one little transgression against her.

Miranda exhaled, her face a mask of worry. We’ll get back on track, I know. Unless it happens again; unless this is just the beginning, and all our hard work for the past fifteen years has come to nothing.

And how dare Noreen use the word ‘transgression.’

Miranda pulled open the door of the harvest gold refrigerator, a working relic from the ‘80s, and placed her lunch, clearly labeled, on the lower shelf. She rearranged several food storage containers, moving them to the back; some people didn’t bother to remove their personal items, never mind how long they’d been on the shelf.

Smoked turkey today. Miranda sipped her black coffee, trying to forgo half and half. What she really missed was Cremora, with the transfats.

With Swiss?

On ciabatta.

You spoil me. Noreen moved to the sink to rinse out her cup.

Jerry Francis, sixth form History, entered. Morning, Ladies. He looked more agitated than usual as he stepped over to join them.

You okay? asked Noreen.

He tilted a large, geometric head. The freeway slowed, then came to a dead stop at Valley Vista. I sat in one spot for eight minutes, by the watch...

Awful.

Miranda relented and stirred mocha mix into her coffee, watched the fat-free mix turn the black liquid a watery grey. It looked oily and dangerous.

The rudeness — this pissy little Prius, smug as you please, cut me off at the four-way stop.

Poor you. Always tedious, Jerry bored her stupid. Miranda’s attention drifted past him, out the window; the school cat,

Assumpta, studied a blue jay perched boldly on the metal bench. Majestically fat, the cat was nevertheless lightening quick, and deposited regular trophies at the Attendance Office door — a starling, half a lizard, a grey rat. She waited patiently for the kill, her metronome tail counting down the minutes.

Faculty trickled in, mumbling their muted greetings. Sandra Travino entered, along with Adele Moss. Lunches were stuffed into the fridge and jackets removed, the gray weather bemoaned. It was 7:25 a.m.

Donut, Miranda? offered Adele.

Like she’d eat one, said Jerry.

That’s how she stays slim.

Oh, I have my problem areas. It was Miranda’s default response, much kinder than ‘I watch what I eat and exercise.’ Some people had no self-discipline. She squared her shoulders and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear; time for a trim. Jules had suggested highlights, to brighten her face, but the expense.

Noreen gathered her tote and purse, moved in and whispered. So last night’s date — a dentist. I think there could be something there.

I’ll need details.

Warning Bell sounded. Noreen put up a hand. Long story. Tell you later, with all the gory bits left in. Is 6:30 still good?

I’ll have the wine chilled. There’s nothing better than your date stories.

I need help with this one — mixed feelings.

Feelings. Noreen loved to explore feelings — her own, her friends’, a favorite actress’. She would turn a feeling around and around in her hands, like a smooth stone. The inspection would generally conclude with some hard bit of knowledge offered, an empathic gift. It struck Miranda as rubbish; what was the point, really. In the scheme of things, did it matter? Action was the thing, using time well, accomplishment.

Miranda’s method of dealing with feelings was far more pragmatic. The thing was to push the troubling thought from one’s mind, and then grab a bottle of bleach and a stiff brush. By the time the toilet basin and tub were sparkling, her eyes were burning with irritation but not tears. And the bathroom was spotless.

*   *   *

Miranda grabbed her canvas carryall and made her way across the asphalt. The morning sky was thick with clouds, like boiled wool. As she approached the Attendance Office, she noted the Lost and