thing was reserved for the talented.
Katie, who had been at Laurinda since kindergarten, pointed out all the occupied places: this corner was where the musicians hung out, in that stairwell dwelled the debaters, on this patch of concrete were the high-achieving Mediterranean girls (at Christ Our Saviour we called them the Smart Wogs, remember? Yvonne was the smartest of them all), and here and there sat the little satellite groups of Year Sevens, Eights or Nines, who might as well have been invisible.
There was one unoccupied bench, near the rose garden – in fact, with a direct view of the blooms – but Katie steered me away from it. “The Cabinet sit there,” she said. “They’d start a War of the Roses if anyone took their spot.” She laughed.
“What’s the Cabinet?” I asked.
Katie told me how, in the 1890s, Laurinda had been a finishing school for young ladies. After the girls were educated, they were said to be “in the Cabinet” – which meant on display to eligible bachelors who might become their husbands. Those who did not get picked from the Cabinet were left on the shelf, shoved to the very back, where they were condemned never to appear in the wedding announcements of newspapers. Many of them had returned here to teach.
Although most girls these days aimed to go to university, not to sit at home embroidering linen for their glory boxes, the things that mattered then – attractiveness, wealth, personality – still mattered in determining your Cabinet position. Over time the term had evolved to name the unspoken hierarchy at Laurinda: a trio of girls so powerful they were collectively known as “the Cabinet”. It seemed that the Cabinet had always existed, although its members constantly changed, morphing into new faces every few years. They were the ones responsible for keeping the elusive “Laurinda spirit” alive.
This year it was Amber, Chelsea and Brodie, three top-shelfers who were protected like finest porcelain by the administration, and taken out regularly to show off their kiln marks, the stamp of the school’s quality.
But I didn’t understand why it was Amber, Chelsea and Brodie who were at the top, Linh. Sure, they were pretty enough, but (with the exception of Amber) there were a dozen more beautiful girls on campus. Amber and Brodie were also teacher’s pets of a kind, and in any other school that did not lead to high status. But here, strangely enough, it seemed to increase their power.
Amber’s beauty was so distracting that she didn’t need to develop much of a personality. Brodie, on the other hand, reminded me of Tully in her steely ambition and competitiveness. You didn’t want to be a threat to Tully because you’d wound her fragile sense of self – jealousy and insecurity and fear would flash across her face so transparently that you’d feel bad. But I had the feeling that you didn’t want to be a threat to Brodie because she would cut you down.
Unlike Tully, Brodie did not seem assailed by self-doubt over her intelligence, or by the sleepless fear that her future would be determined by her performance in exams. The difference was that Tully wanted so desperately to be in, whereas Brodie was already in. She had been in since she was in kindergarten, and she was determined to keep others out. Brodie did not smile very often, but when she did, it was not an invitation to friendship but a signal to ward off closeness. It seemed that if she looked at you, you had to pay your dues. Other girls were always smiling at her, but I wondered if they were baring their teeth from fear – like animals did when threatened.
Katie and I found some steps outside the maintenance shed, near the side entrance of the school, and that became our spot. We watched as Mrs Grey conducted tours for the occasional visiting families of prospective international students, declaring with expansive hand gestures, “Here is where the girls play tennis,” and, “The young ladies like
Katie, who had been at Laurinda since kindergarten, pointed out all the occupied places: this corner was where the musicians hung out, in that stairwell dwelled the debaters, on this patch of concrete were the high-achieving Mediterranean girls (at Christ Our Saviour we called them the Smart Wogs, remember? Yvonne was the smartest of them all), and here and there sat the little satellite groups of Year Sevens, Eights or Nines, who might as well have been invisible.
There was one unoccupied bench, near the rose garden – in fact, with a direct view of the blooms – but Katie steered me away from it. “The Cabinet sit there,” she said. “They’d start a War of the Roses if anyone took their spot.” She laughed.
“What’s the Cabinet?” I asked.
Katie told me how, in the 1890s, Laurinda had been a finishing school for young ladies. After the girls were educated, they were said to be “in the Cabinet” – which meant on display to eligible bachelors who might become their husbands. Those who did not get picked from the Cabinet were left on the shelf, shoved to the very back, where they were condemned never to appear in the wedding announcements of newspapers. Many of them had returned here to teach.
Although most girls these days aimed to go to university, not to sit at home embroidering linen for their glory boxes, the things that mattered then – attractiveness, wealth, personality – still mattered in determining your Cabinet position. Over time the term had evolved to name the unspoken hierarchy at Laurinda: a trio of girls so powerful they were collectively known as “the Cabinet”. It seemed that the Cabinet had always existed, although its members constantly changed, morphing into new faces every few years. They were the ones responsible for keeping the elusive “Laurinda spirit” alive.
This year it was Amber, Chelsea and Brodie, three top-shelfers who were protected like finest porcelain by the administration, and taken out regularly to show off their kiln marks, the stamp of the school’s quality.
But I didn’t understand why it was Amber, Chelsea and Brodie who were at the top, Linh. Sure, they were pretty enough, but (with the exception of Amber) there were a dozen more beautiful girls on campus. Amber and Brodie were also teacher’s pets of a kind, and in any other school that did not lead to high status. But here, strangely enough, it seemed to increase their power.
Amber’s beauty was so distracting that she didn’t need to develop much of a personality. Brodie, on the other hand, reminded me of Tully in her steely ambition and competitiveness. You didn’t want to be a threat to Tully because you’d wound her fragile sense of self – jealousy and insecurity and fear would flash across her face so transparently that you’d feel bad. But I had the feeling that you didn’t want to be a threat to Brodie because she would cut you down.
Unlike Tully, Brodie did not seem assailed by self-doubt over her intelligence, or by the sleepless fear that her future would be determined by her performance in exams. The difference was that Tully wanted so desperately to be in, whereas Brodie was already in. She had been in since she was in kindergarten, and she was determined to keep others out. Brodie did not smile very often, but when she did, it was not an invitation to friendship but a signal to ward off closeness. It seemed that if she looked at you, you had to pay your dues. Other girls were always smiling at her, but I wondered if they were baring their teeth from fear – like animals did when threatened.
Katie and I found some steps outside the maintenance shed, near the side entrance of the school, and that became our spot. We watched as Mrs Grey conducted tours for the occasional visiting families of prospective international students, declaring with expansive hand gestures, “Here is where the girls play tennis,” and, “The young ladies like
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