The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen - Delia Sherman [11]
That sounded pretty positive. “Thanks,” I said shyly. “I think being a Poet is pretty cool, too.”
Espresso blushed an uncomfortable red that clashed with her coppery hair. “That’s jive, man. I’d rather groove on giant-slaying.”
I looked at her with surprise. “You’ve slain a giant?”
Espresso shrugged. “I know a poem about one. You want to hear?”
Fortran nodded eagerly. Espresso folded her hands and began to recite.
“Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forehead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I’ll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,
Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.
She nibbled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant’s head off.”
I thought this through. “I don’t quite get it,” I said. “What did she cut his head off with?”
Espresso gave me a look. “It’s a joke, man.”
“I knew that,” I said hastily, and laughed. “Funny.”
“Did you make that up?” Fortran asked.
Espresso shook her head. “That would be a mortal named Ogden Nash. I told you, I’m not a Poet.”
Bergdorf didn’t show up after lunch, so Fortran’s guide, Abercrombie, took both of us to Basic Manners. He was one of Tiffany’s gang—tall, blond, heavily starred, and as snooty as an elf lord. He led us upstairs to a door that looked like every other door. “Welcome to the nursery,” he said, and went away.
Fortran opened the door. “Oh, nuts,” he said. “He’s brought us to the wrong room.”
Looking at the fifteen round, rosy-cheeked little faces turned to stare at us, I had to agree. Except for the gray sweaters and no wings, they looked like a nest of Victorian fairies.
“Eyes front!” We all snapped to attention. It was the tutor I’d met in the hall earlier, the Diplomat. “Clearly,” she went on, “we all need more practice on focus and cultivating a pleasant expression. Neef, Fortran, welcome to Basic Manners. Fortran, you may be seated.” Fortran slipped hastily into an empty desk. “Neef, if you could step to the front of the class?”
I stepped, doing my best to look cool, and bobbed the Diplomat a curtsy.
“Please face the class, Neef. I wish to present you to the other students.”
I turned and watched everyone work on their pleasant expressions. They weren’t very good at it.
The Diplomat folded her hands at her waist. “Neef is a new student,” she announced. “She comes from Central Park.”
Everyone’s eyes bulged with the effort of not reacting. I curved my lips in what I hoped was a friendly smile.
“You’ve all heard about Central Park Folk,” the Diplomat went on. “They’re primitive, backwards, stubborn, uneducated, and violent. Their music is old-fashioned, and they all hate City Folk.”
My smile became a frown. “That’s not fair,” I exclaimed. “How would you like it if I said that City Folk are stuck-up, snotty, stupid, and prejudiced?”
The Diplomat didn’t even blink. “I’d say that snotty and stuck-up are essentially the same thing, and that you’ve left out impractical, self-centered, and unreliable, but you’ve hit most of the high points. I’d also say you need to work on keeping your temper. Thank you, Neef. You may sit down now.”
Seething, I started for the back of the room. “Stop.” I stopped. The Diplomat turned to the class. “Peony, would you like to tell Neef the proper response to a formal dismissal?”
Peony looked like a doll, with golden ringlets tumbling over the shoulders of her Inside Sweater. “You say, ‘Diplomat.’ Or ‘my lady,’ or ‘my lord Genius,’ or whatever. And you nod a little.” She inclined her head a few respectful degrees.
“Gracefully done, Peony,” the Diplomat said graciously. “That is worth a gold star point.”
“Diplomat.” Peony nodded briskly and sat down, grinning.
If I’d screamed or stomped out, I’d just have convinced everybody that everything they’d heard about the Park was true. So I nodded curtly, and retreated to the back of the room.
“What’s a gold star point?” Fortran muttered as I sat down beside him.
“Something we