The Swings At Balfour

By J. Rickley Dumm

Dreams and fears can last a lifetime. They can become interchangeable: the fear of never attaining the dream and the dream of overcoming an intimate fear. The Swings At Balfour is a light, amusing drama about both and the prospect of never finding either.

At a private, all-girls high school located in the northeastern part of the United St

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Mar 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9780996765695

J. Rickley Dumm

J. Rickley Dumm is a graduate of the University of Oregon (GO DUCKS!!), a Sigma Chi, and a former television producer and writer (Magnum, P.I., Riptide, Silk Stalkings, et al.). He currently lives in Southern California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Sixteen-year-old Melissa Stratton sat erect in a straight back wooden chair as if she’d been fused to it at its making. Her senses were sharp and keen, her eyes closed, her facial expression relaxed and gladdened; perhaps she was dreaming, perhaps making a wish. Her hearing was consumed with the ambience of academic administrating: Computer hums and keystrokes, printers and fax machines, hushed phones announcing incoming calls, heavy wood and frosty glass doors opening and closing, murmuring voices, footsteps, and distant young female mutterings and laughter. It was a cacophony of muted electronic and human feng shui, and for Melissa Stratton, it spoke to her in one tongue, a peaceful and welcomed under-exaggeration of any boisterous rigors from which she’d come, and any fears far removed.

Gracing the front perimeter of the large lobby and reception, there was a magnificent, semi-retired, walk-in fireplace with an ornate mantle and a maze-like, conceptualized stone carving above. Obviously, at some point in this building’s past, that fireplace had to have been the centerpiece of the room. Mounted on the wall at either side of the mantelpiece were two large portraits: On the left side, a fair-skinned African man, and on the right, a Caucasian woman.

Melissa’s surroundings had the textured aroma of old wood. There were several replica straight back chairs as the one in which she sat that lined the wall opposite a half-moon, wood and glass enclosed section of the entry and reception in Building-A of the Louisa Beaufield School of Learning. A single, half frosty-glass, half heavy wood door was the only entrance to that administration hub from the lobby and reception area where Melissa waited. Several desks were placed in administration behind the wood-framed glass enclosure, electrical conduit noodling about from the backs and sides of each desk, and where mostly female employees worked, answered phones, typed and scurried from place-to-place. That area took up roughly one-third of what the original size of the spacious main room had been when Building-A was first designed and built. The glass and wood enclosure was added in the 1970s to buffer administrative sounds of typewriters, phones and staff chatter. It eliminated 50% of the clamor then, but with the gradual evolution of electronic technology in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the clatter had been muffled 90%, a level to which Melissa, currently, found acceptably pleasing.

To Melissa’s left was a wide, carpeted grand staircase that connected the ground floor with a double door entry to a second floor, and a balcony, or landing, that to the right led to a hallway, along which were a few classrooms, though unseen from the lobby.

Umike Molongo, Balajah Pravidi and Miriam Rousseau, three foreign students, came through the administration area, hung a left, walked passed the fireplace and the two portraits, and went out the rear south entrance. Melissa’s eyes opened and slowly rolled to the side, following their exit.

Melissa Stratton? A voice interrupted her calming, ambient administrative feng shui.

Yes. Melissa eyes went to a forty-five-year-old lady, Phyllis, standing in the threshold of the door, beckoning her with a wave and a folder in hand.

Melissa stood from the chair. She was about 5’5 and brunette. It’s about time." She murmured under her breath, and approached, following Phyllis through the uncomplicated, organized network of desks to a hallway behind the administration area.

Phyllis stopped at one of those wood and frosty glass doors on which in black, stencil lettering was printed Padric Shorline; below were the words, Dean of Students.

Phyllis handed Melissa the folder. Introduce yourself, hand this to Dean Shorline and take a seat.

Melissa nodded without a word. Phyllis knocked on the glass and left. Dean Shorline’s voice acknowledged the arrival and Melissa entered. She didn’t see anyone behind the desk but found Padric Shorline to her right, standing at a bookcase with a book in his hands. He invited Melissa to take a seat, gesturing to one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk. Melissa did as he’d directed, sat and waited. After a few seconds, Shorline replaced the book and came over with a half-smile extending a hand; they greeted.

I’m Padric Shorline, Dean of Students.

I know, I saw it on the door. I’m Melissa Stratton.

Shorline, fleetingly, reacted to her comment, took the folder from Melissa and went around his mildly messy desk on which was an iMac computer and sat down.

Melissa observed him with a mix of trepidation, skepticism and hesitancy. He seemed pleasant enough, yet she sensed he was just another typical, stuffy academic-type, running a strict, regimented all girls’ school for wayward teens; apparently, she presumed this from his initial body language. She folded her arms at her chest as he opened the folder, putting on his reading glasses.

Padric Shorline was a healthy mid-to-late sixties, attired in very traditional Ivy League clothes — corduroy jacket, tie, striped shirt and button down collar. He was hardly a trendsetter, though neat and presentable.

Melissa glanced about the likewise traditional office of twenty-year-old beige fabric walls and hardwood floors that smelled the same as the reception area. What had she gotten herself into, she must have been wondering? She emitted an awkward smirk as Shoreline scrutinized the folder. Momentarily, his eyebrows rose, peeking over the top of his glasses and folder, gazing at this new student who looked like she didn’t belong there or even wished to be.

Sophomore level. Shorline spoke. Melissa could only see his eyes behind the folder. What happened between grade seven and now?

Two years of middle school and one year at Granada Hills High.

I know, I read that on your transcript. Shorline retorted, putting his remark squarely onto Melissa who quickly caught his reference back. Shorline recognized the folded arms, her active defenses up, and Melissa, perhaps, understood his defenses, hiding behind the folder. In this situation, defense was a losing proposition for both.

Shorline went on. As and Bs to Cs and Ds, and one F. A scant unimpressive, Miss Stratton.

Melissa stared back at him; not even a shrug.

Personal stuff? Shorline explored.

Again, Melissa was silent, intuitively reacting to the query, removing her eye contact. Shorline didn’t press it.

Don’t you have my transcript and application in your computer? Melissa injected, referencing the folder and hard copies. Howcome . . . ?

In fact I do, young lady. Shoreline came back. I like my hands on . . . 

Just then, Melissa’s cellphone chimed; without thinking, she automatically dragged it out of her creased jeans pocket.

 . . . the originals. Paddy gazed over his reading glasses with a polite, though 4-word, look that said, ‘Make the right decision.’

She looked at him. Melissa had probably seen that same look at the dinner table at home, so she tapped-off the call, making the right decision.

Cellphones and hard rock on iPods are not allowed in classrooms or faculty meetings. Paddy instructed. That’s a rule of conduct and a discipline.

But what if . . . ?

Paddy kept going. Yes, Melissa, it’s been bandied about that Louisa Beaufield is the pitiless Goliath that lays to waste, overwhelms, and puts a lid on the fate of teenagers from coast-to-coast.

Shit, this was going to be purgatory, she thought, but Melissa stiffly nodded, not pressing things either. The sparring wasn’t suitable for Shorline who wondered just how much of a toothache young Miss Stratton was going to be to him, his wife, and, perhaps, to the entire student body.

Why did you choose Louisa Beaufield? Why are you here, Melissa? The east coast is a long way from California.

I didn’t choose it; it was John. Melissa responded immediately then stopped.

John. Shorline repeated. She wasn’t giving up much that might be helpful. Melissa Stratton was a tough cookie; the gnawing was like rubber and not so delectable. They ogled it out for a few seconds until she finally volunteered.

My mom’s new husband. She said, and waited for him to respond to that, but nothing was forthcoming from the Dean. John said Lubo was the best place for me now. He said Lubo was the right decision and education for what I aspire to, and how I get there.

And that aspiration is . . . ?

Politics.

Jesus! That threw Shorline into outer space, deciding instead to let that go for now as well, closing the folder, placing it on the desk atop other papers and documents then leaned forward onto his elbows, removing his glasses.

"I know the girls use Lubo as a reference to Louisa Beaufield SOL amongst themselves, but refrain from using it around faculty and staff. Shorline recommended. Or my wife. She’s a true stickler, especially when it comes to conduct. It’s in the missive you were . . . "

I know. I read it . . .  Melissa interrupted.

 . . . sent . . . in the pamphlet. They finished together.

Yeah, your wife, Adele, the head of . . . 

The Dean of, Shorline overlapped her Academics, Scholarships and Conduct. Yes, the very same.

Shorline decided at that moment to forego the verbal hurly-burly, resting back into his desk chair with a cordial grin. He explained to her she could use Lubo in front of him; that was okay as long as it couldn’t be heard for at least five miles in any direction — Shorline pointed in a direction that, unbeknownst to Melissa, was his wife’s office on the other side of the wall a mere twenty feet away — and, he went on with some insistence, no first names were to be directed at faculty or staff. That was to say, Dean Adele Shorline of et cetera, et cetera. Respect. Simple. Melissa began to sense a casual, friendliness in Dean Padric Shorline with that brief orientation. Maybe he wasn’t as stuffy as she’d first thought and surmised.

Politics, is it?

Yep.

" . . . Designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable." Shorline quoted with just a tick of flair.

What? Melissa puzzled.

He friskily waved off his Orwellian paraphrase and went on. Politics too often betrays common sense. We don’t teach politics at Louisa Beaufield SOL.

Good. Melissa unfolded her arms, an encouraging sign to Shorline. You can’t anyway.

Shorline usually had a knack for getting a handle on new students, but not so much Melissa Stratton. She was a self-confident sort, yet she also projected a trace of self-antipathy; she seemed as delicate as a China teacup beneath, yet as tough as titanium on the surface; suffice-it-to-say, to Shorline, this new sophomore might be a morass of toothaches deposited on his campus, but he surmised this sixteen-year-old, however, was no brain droop. Why did she think politics couldn’t be taught? She was definitely alert, but what did she know about politics? Courses could be taught in the arena of politics and the Political Sciences, but one mostly learned the art of politics and its maneuverings and manipulations, empirically, on the stump.

It that a fact? He asked.

Yep. John said it’s like love — you go through it on your feet.

That’s exactly what Shorline was thinking! John’s a politician, is he?

No. John’s an asshole.

Toothache might have been a conservative preliminary diagnosis for this teenage misfit Shorline thought, yet the cuss word didn’t faze him to any discernable degree. He let that pass, too, for now.

Politics is taught in the upper levels of education but not here. Politics will be discussed in several classes, inevitably. The Dean went on. The school and its faculty, however, offer no political position or opinion.

Why?

Shorline continued to size up Melissa, taking some time. After all, he was the Dean of Louisa Beaufield’s students; he’d been in scenarios of varying applications with students before, yet hardly to the impudence and apparent conflicts within young Miss Stratton. He decided to go to the heart of why Louisa Beaufield existed and why the school was there.

We neither ram political philosophy or theory down the throats of our students, nor whip them into a frenzy from which they cannot recover. He described.

Melissa was about to unload on that statement and Shoreline sensed it immediately. Don’t talk, Melissa, just listen.

With an easy rhythm, he deliberated aloud about how most young people, if they were without impenetrable subjective judgment, agreed on most things political anyway, mostly because they, and possibly half of the adult population, simply didn’t know enough or wished they didn’t.

In the classroom, Melissa, the objective is to be objective. For nearly every subject, the faculty introduces facts, which of course, can have varying interpretations; they moderate open student discussion, keeping it on an objective level, so all can think and not theorize unless it leads to further enlightenment and discussion; our desire is to not complicate the process. Am I making sense to you?

Melissa thought it odd that the faculty couldn’t form an opinion on an issue. That’s all she got as a freshman student at her California school. After attempting to converse with Melissa for the last few minutes, Shorline could understand. With the exceptions of mathematics, history and the languages, at Louisa Beaufield, the instructors lay it out and discuss all sides. It was a gratifying way to learn, he told her.

"We don’t teach students what to think; we’re interested in how they think, and why."

Melissa might have been impressed with Shorline’s statement, so she proffered a slight nod and shrug; perhaps, she grasped his explanation. School of Learning; SOL like it says.

Shorline nodded. And as John opined for you, go through it on your feet . . . and learn. Possibly, the slightest connection occurred between them as they gazed at one another before Shorline went on. There must be a desire to learn in order to learn, to carry on in more lofty educational pursuits one chooses, and to those choices one makes in life.

Melissa appeared, to a certain degree, immersed in Dean Shorline; his calm guidance and demeanor was different than she’d probably expected; surely, different than what she may have experienced in California.

Okay, she smirked well, that’s why I came here, what you just said.

For some reason, Shorline wasn’t buying that and Melissa knew it, and he knew she knew it. Perhaps they were connecting.

Why politics?

Because I hate it.

Shorline didn’t know how to respond to that.

The involvement. She clarified for him. My dad taught and explained stuff when I was younger.

Shorline nodded. Admirable. He’d had enough of this initial contact and rose from his chair. Melissa, it’s been enlightening and . . . 

Plus . . .  She overlapped.

He politely sat back down, elbows on the desk; possibly, he quickly thought, she was willing to give up more.

 . . . I’m here because my mom and I are really close except not so close right now. I mean, she loves John but I didn’t and don’t connect with that asshole a penny, and never did anything with him. He’s . . .  She stopped.

You are afraid of him? Paddy boldly asked.

Because of Mom, I don’t know how to stand up to him . . . Yet.

Shorline thought better of pursuing that further; it was quite early in getting to know new students and their travails. "Why don’t you rephrase your appraisal of John and say ‘that twit-a-penny’?" Shorline urged.

Oh. Okay, sorry . . . but he is an asshole.

Profanity, Melissa, is another of those . . . 

For at least five miles things. Melissa jumped in.

He absorbed the whiplash and again leaned back into his chair. Padric Shorline, the Dean of this accredited and esteemed institution, wanted to enjoy her but couldn’t. However, she seemed willing to, possibly, open up, and this was ‘personal stuff’ that might allude to her impertinence, perhaps stemming from a problematic home life, so if she were disposed, he’d listen.

I mean, nothing; he never wanted to do anything with me; or together with me and Mom. I mean I understand that Mom didn’t want to have to choose and maybe piss him off, y’know, so I just agreed with myself to get out of their way, so John suggested Lubo and I agreed with them to come here. Mom’s best friend, Marcy Sunland, married some guy and lives somewhere on this side of the country, so maybe she’d be around if I needed anything or got homesick or whatever, and maybe I’ll see Mom a few times if she visits . . . without the ass . . . the twit, I hope.

Shorline had reacted to the mention of her mom’s best friend. Sunland, you say? S-U-N-L-A-N-D?

I guess. You know them?

He paused. Though scarcely overt, Shorline’s heart skipped a few beats. Of them.

And John made a hefty donation to some fund of yours besides the tuition and my live-in status, so I guess that’s another reason why I’m here . . . Politics.

To Shorline’s chagrin, maybe Melissa, indeed, comprehended the lay-of-the-land, politically or otherwise.

Moments later, Melissa came through the glass enclosed work area where the phones and chatter were much louder than before, and certainly not as feng shui-ish and musical to her ears. She opened the door outward and nearly knocked over a man who was 5’3" in height, matching his age. Melissa apologized for the run-in to which the man insisted was his fault.

The door should open inward. He knew and smiled.

I agree. Melissa returned the smile. The Dean said I should find Big Eddie. Can you point the way?

Eddie tapped his chest with his index finger, pointing the way. He’s here.

Where?

Me.

Oh. She looked a mite embarrassed, looking down at him. Okay, cool. Uh, they put my bags and stuff somewhere . . . 

The boys are taking them up. Big Eddie gestured toward the staircase leading to the second floor where two guys, Bill and Finney, were rolling up two bags and carrying a couple of boxes. You’re Melissa Stratton?

Yeah, how’d you know?

The bags-n-stuff. C’mon.

Big Eddie led her toward the staircase. "You got lucky; you’re on The Floor."

The floor?

You’re not in one of the dorms. Follow me.

At the top of the staircase Big Eddie opened one side of the thick wooden double doors for Melissa to the second floor corridor. It was wide, somewhat ornate and had a high ceiling; there were three rooms on each side, and at the far end was another single door, and off to one side a narrow staircase that led down to the inner campus grounds. Bill and Finney, who both wore overalls, took the bags and boxes into to middle room on the right side.

Melissa looked around, up and over. Wow, Big Eddie, this is big and . . . old.

Building-A was built in 1906. That’s old.

No shit. Oh, sorry.

Nah, but there’s a rule you should . . . 

Five miles.

Right.

Bill and Finney exited Melissa’s room. All in. Bill smiled. I’m Bill, this’s Finney.

Melissa.

Pleasure. See ya. The boys headed out in the other direction, turning at the narrow staircase to the campus.

Thanks, boys. Melissa acknowledged.

Get that sofa to Dorm-C, suite four.

On it. Finney replied.

Believe me, this is a lot bigger and nicer than the dorms, just not as new and modern. Eddie assured her.

It’s so quiet. Melissa observed. Where are the others?

First day back, probably visiting and rekindling. Three came in earlier, the other two haven’t arrived yet. Eddie told her. Good to meet you, Melissa. I’m head of Maintenance; if you need anything, let me or the boys know. Big Eddie turned on his heels and went to the double door to exit.

Thanks, Big Eddie.

Eddie’s fine. He waved and was gone.

The corridor fell silent. Melissa was alone. She closed her eyes and listened. She liked it. After a brief moment, she entered the room in which she’d live for the next eight-and-a-half months at the Louisa Beaufield School of Learning.

CHAPTER 2

The silence had followed Melissa, her two bags and boxes into her room. No frills, a large, high ceiling, clean and nice; bare double, four-poster bed, antique dresser and mirror, a small 3-foot desk with chair and an attached, non-removable desk lamp, two bed stands on either side with a table lamp on each, and two closets. Sure, it was old style but the room came with its own bathroom. That on its own was a luxury. There were a few reproduction landscape paintings on the walls that had an Ansel Adams likeness but were colorful and helped fill the emptiness of the walls’ space. Melissa stood alone in the quiet, taking it in. She felt the firmness of the bare mattress. She liked that, too. This was going to be home for a while, like it or not. After one more perusal of the room, she wore a look of acceptance, turned around and fell spread eagle onto the bed; it was so peaceful, so comfortable. Paradise!

Welcome! Lorna loudly greeted the newbie.

Melissa screamed; paradise lost! Sitting up she met Lorna Jessup, Dawna Morton, and Anna Hyashi.

Scare you? Seventeen-year-old Dawna inquired with innocence.

Oh, no. I was expecting you. Melissa responded with as much sarcasm she could muster while her mind fumbled to replace and massage her beating heart.

She has a sense. Dawna happily said to the other girls.

They came forward as the mood began to lighten and Melissa caught her breath.

Lorna was 5’8, athletic and self-assured. Lorna Jessup, senior. Next door that way."

Anna Hyashi, junior. Dawna and I are across the way. Anna was also 17, cool, energetic and the smartest girl in the school.

Dawna was African-American, big-boned, average height, attractive and loose. Dawna Morton, hi. Junior.

Hi, you guys, thanks. It was so quiet for a few minutes. Melissa stated, standing from the bed as a barrage of information started to come at a rapid pace.

Unpack when you can. Lorna, who was 18, advised. There’s a four P.M. assembly in the Aud for the usual few opening announcements from the stone.

‘Stone’ is Lorna’s bullshit, not ours. Dawna cleared it up quickly.

And intros of the newbies which is you. Lorna informed Melissa, the newbie.

Dinner at 6:30; we all go together. Anna added.

The other two girls on the floor, Jacqui and Connie, are late. Anna continued the onslaught.

The stone’s going to be pissed, too, Mel. Lorna must have known since she was a senior and had been a student at Lubo from her freshman year. Is it alright if we call you Mel?

Melissa had a little smile on her lips, an unspoken memory sparking her. Sure.

Lorna revealed that this would be her second year live-in on The Floor, and it was so much easier than the dorms. As far as she knew, Melissa was the first sophomore to have Building-A floor status.

Really? Did Dean Shorline tell you that? Melissa had to ask.

How’d you get in? How’d it happen? Dawna wondered as if she already knew.

Anna cut in. Mel, you’re not obligated to tell; just curious.

Melissa was feeling a bit intimidated, to say