The Reinvention of Moxie Roosevelt by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel Page A

appointment book on his desk—“in two days. Don’t think about it until then. And for heaven’s sake, put a nice cold can of Coca-Cola on that Gould recording, or use it as a bookmark, but don’t listen to it.”
    I laughed. “I promise. No Gould.”
    “Mahvelous,” he declared. “And now, I’m afraid I must run off. I’ve been charged with a very important duty, Miss Kippah, and that is to bring a potato salad to the Arts and Humanity faculty meeting this afternoon. Do you know the secret to an acceptable potato salad?”
    I was not afraid to admit that I did not. I shook my head. Mr. Tate leaned forward with the air of someone about to impart extremely confidential and important information.
    “A big blob of good mayonnaise,” he said.
    I laughed again.
    “You Yankees have no sense of what constitutes good mayonnaise,” he declared. “Fortunately, I make my own. I will see you in two days, Miss Kippah. I’m looking forward to working together.”
    “Likewise,” I said.
    I could have stayed in Mr.Tate’s office all morning. I could have listened to his thoughts on everything from harpsichords to what was lacking in Yankee mayonnaise. But that would have to wait. I stood up at the same time he did.
    “Have a pleasant aftahnoon, Miss Kippah,” he drawled, leading me to the door.
    Then he checked his watch.
    “Pahdon me. Have a pleasant mawnin’.”
    I skipped like a third grader all the way back to my dorm, and I didn’t even care who saw.

Chapter Seven
    Though Monday had technically been the first day of classes, they mostly consisted of our introducing ourselves and going over the syllabus. I was taking English lit, bio, French, American history, and algebra. I wasn’t overly worried about most of it, except for the math.
    My attempt over the weekend to review basic mathematical processes had culminated in using my algebra textbook as a practice keyboard.Worse, my algebra teacher, Mrs. Feeny, had the smallest mouth I’d ever seen, and she talked a mile a minute in a soft, high voice. It was frankly a bit worrying to watch the other students nodding each time she asked if she was being clear. I had not retained a single thing she said after “My name is Mrs. Feeny.”
    Today’s class had not gone much better. Mrs. Feeny started right in on algebra, explaining how we found x or y while everybody around me nodded and took notes. Did they really understand what she was talking about? Were they all geniuses? By the end of the forty-minute period, I didn’t think I could find an x or a y if they were painted in DayGlo pink on the broad side of a barn.
    With math safely out of the way for another day, I walked across the quad to Dempsey Hall for my first and last Self-Confidence Through Comedy session, patting my pocket to make sure I had my Personality Log with me. I had been faithfully updating the log, and reviewed my notes for longer than I’d studied for my upcoming American history quiz.
    I saw a familiar face coming toward me as I walked. It was Kate Southington, looking a little too thin in a “Live off the Grid” T-shirt. Something about her whole look seemed mismatched. Her jeans were ripped and looked genuinely grubby, but her boots looked expensive. She had a polyester NYPD ball cap on, but a pair of gold dangly earrings that looked real. We both slowed down as we approached each other, like two alpha male lions at a watering hole. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, for reasons I couldn’t pinpoint.
    “Hey Kate,” I said, immediately deciding that her detachment called for some DUCKIness on my part. “How’s it going?”
    “Is Spinky in her room?” she asked.
    Good to hear it, Kate. Yes, thanks for asking, I’m fine as well.
    “Um, no, she wasn’t a minute ago. Why?” I asked.
    “I was thinking about heading into town to check out Vintage Tunage. I thought she might want to go.”
    I, apparently, did not factor into this equation.
    “Oh,” I said. “We actually went into town