Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) Page 5
“10 Seconds… do the Iran tease…”
“NEXT... The Iranian Hostage Crisis. Is there any hope for a negotiated solution? Our Middle East correspondent Reggie Belden is up next with… ‘Eyes On’ Iran. For now… From Madrid… I’m Terry Trainor.”
“Aaaaand… We’re clear. Thank God!”
Part 2
Le-Nore
Three
Proper. Elegant. Dignified.
Lenore’s half of the dorm room reflected the supermodel’s characteristic flair for order and precision. Every paper was in its appointed place. Every piece of furniture was perfectly positioned for symmetry and ease of access. Every surface was polished to a high shine. The maroon and gold sheets on Lenore’s bed were wrinkle-free. In her closet, 42 custom-made Shalamar dresses were arranged by season, type of event, and color. On a wide, custom-made, floor-to-ceiling rack, 40 pairs of shoes were arranged by style and color. Even her unmentionables drawer was organized by day and color.
Lenore appointed the wall over her bed and desk with selected paintings and framed posters of the cities she adored. Each picture was hung in an aesthetically soothing location ordered from left to right by her preference for the city. Tokyo. Rome. Paris. Madrid. New York held prominence over her meticulously ordered workspace.
Sitting at her desk and scanning the room, Lenore beamed at the quality of her handiwork. “Everything is perfect! It is so beautiful! I cannot wait for my roommate to arrive! I hope she loves what I have done with our room!”
A knock came at the door.
“Please come in! It is unlocked!” Lenore called.
An Asian woman in a gray business suit and pumps entered the room.
“Are you Señorita De La Fuente?”
“Yes. I am Lenore De La Fuente.”
The woman approached Lenore with her hand extended, a white index card in her grip. “I’m so glad you are here, Señorita! I wanted to let you know… Your roommate finally confirmed this morning. This is her information card. We don’t have much information about her, but I wanted you to know her name before she arrived.” The woman handed Lenore a card with absolutely nothing on it save the name. No hometown, no major, no likes and dislikes. Just the name.
Lenore flipped the card over to see if perhaps there was more information on the back. Nothing.
“Malena Sardi? That is all the information you have?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Señorita. I don’t know anything about her. She just confirmed this morning. I think she’s some kind of an athlete or… Or… Or something. I don’t really know. I’m not into sports. Oh well! Have a nice day!” The dorm parent turned and sped out of the room, getting on with her next move-in day chore.
“Malena Sardi,” Lenore repeated, smiling at the card. “That is such a beautiful name! It flows so beautifully from the tongue! I hope she will be a good roommate.”
The cover girl college freshman decided to fill her time with constructive reading. Lenore rose from her desk, propped the door, and returned to her seat, quietly reading a copy of The Financial Times.
An hour later, Lenore heard the sound of a hurricane storming down the hall. A girl shouted rudely, hunting for her room. “Hey! Does anyone here know where 1426 is? 1426? Anyone? Hey! Do any of you people speak English?”
“My God! 1426! It is her! It is my new roommate!”
Lenore stood to welcome the girl and put on her best photo-op smile. The last-minute admit stumbled through the opening and bashed the door into Lenore’s closet, struggling with two oversized, green canvas duffel's slung low from her broad, muscular shoulders.
Lenore’s first glimpse of the Anti-Lenore gave her a foretaste of the challenges to come. She gasped.
“Dear God! She is not wearing a bra!"
The polar opposite of graceful, elegant Lenore, 18-year-old American tennis star Malena “Lena” Sardi arrived at Paulson with a hard-earned international reputation as a non-stop party. No less beautiful, (when she bothered to prepare herself), equally statuesque at 5’8”, and a muscular size-6, Lena trekked a raw, earthy path. The square-faced, dimpled, Mediterranean beauty presented herself wearing a tight, white T-top, snug, low-rise, boot cut jeans, and tennis shoes. She had her hair up in a haphazard, “Who gives a damn? I’m at college!” ponytail.
“HEY! ROOMIE!” the pony-tailed girl enthused. “Are you Lennie?”
Not amused at the girl’s butchering of her name, Lenore faked a smile and extended her hand in hopeful friendship. “Hello. Yes… I am Lenore De La Fuente. I am pleased to meet you. Are you Malena?”
The new roommate unceremoniously dumped her duffels, kicked them toward her desk, then spun and kicked the door shut. Twirling back toward Lenore on the ball of her right foot, Lena reached out and slapped Lenore’s outstretched hand in a low five. “Mah-lee-na? Who the hell is Mah-lee-na? I’m Lee-na. Just Lena. And it’s nice meeting you, too, sweetie!”
Lena stepped back, crossed her arms, and did a double take. “HOLY CRAP! You look… My God! You’re frigging AMAZING! You’re some kind of a knockout! What are you, Mexican or something?”
Lena’s bold behavior – not to mention her insensitive affront to Lenore’s national pride - confounded the supermodel. The tennis pro represented everything Lenore wasn’t. Uncouth. Unladylike. Uncivilized. The only thing Lenore bonded with was her scent. White Linen. A far more delicate selection than Lenore would have imagined on someone so bold, but one of Lenore’s favorites.
“Well...” Lenore fumbled, “thank you for the compliment, but I am not Mexican. I am Spanish.” Then, being a proper roommate, she added, “Do you have any other bags? May I help you with them?”
“NAH! Don’t sweat it, Lennie! This is all I have. I figured I’d just buy the rest downtown!”
Lena felt like a barroom brawl about to spill onto the street. Lenore quietly considered the possibility of seeking another roommate. “You will encounter difficult people in life,” Armand advised. “The key to success is learning how to make them less difficult.”
Lenore offered an olive branch. “Well… I know of several excellent boutiques near campus. Perhaps I could take you to them sometime?”
“Nahhh… Don’t bother!” Lena assured with a flick of her wrist. “I know all the hot stores downtown!” Lena threw her arms wide and tossed her head back. “Lennie, sweetie, I OWN this town!”
Lenore bristled every time Lena called her, “Lennie.” She could not tolerate another mention of Malena’s choice for her “nick” name.
“Excuse me, Malena, but may I please correct something?”
Confused, Lena pursed her lips into a pout. “What? What did I do, sweetie?”
“My name is Lenore, not ‘Lennie’ or ‘Sweetie.’ Perhaps you read it incorrectly on your roommate assignment card?”
“Hell, no! I saw Lenore and I figured you would go by Lennie… or something besides Lenoooorrre. I don’t know anybody with a formal name like ‘Lenore’ who doesn’t have a nickname she uses with her friends. My mother named me Malena and I always hated it. So I just shortened it to ‘Lena’ when I was six years old. It’s been with me ever since. The only person who still calls me Malena is my Grandma Sardi. And I can’t bust her kneecaps. She’d bust mine back.”
Lena sprinted toward her bed, leapt, twirled, and landed on her back. Her tennis-shoe-clad feet dangled over the end of the bed. “Besides... I figured since we’re going to be roommates for a long time we ought to get to know each other as friends. So I figured I’d call you, ‘Lennie’.”
Lena’s behavior stymied Lenore. In all her travels she never encountered anyone as poorly mannered as Malena Sardi. An undertone of superiority dripped from her response. “Well… Lee-na… I am not 'Lennie'. My name is Lenore. Lenore Consuela Maria De La Fuente. I prefer to be known as Lenore, even with my friends. I do not use… ‘Nick’ names. Ever.” Lenore underscored her point with a sideways slash of her hand.
Lena stared at Lenore, mystified. She never encountered anyone
as uptight as “Lenore Consuela Maria De La Fuente”.
“Oh God. This is going to be a LOOOONG four years.”
“Look… I’m sorry, Len... Lenooore. I really didn’t mean any disrespect. I just figured...”
“Next time please do not ‘figure.’ Simply ask.” Lenore’s face did not betray anger, just stone-cold detachment.
“Okaaaay...” Lena muttered, sitting up in her bed.
Lenore startled, suddenly awakening to the name of the multi-talented girl sitting in the bed across the room. Her face... She’d seen it on a magazine cover. Her body... She’d seen the girl on a multi-million-selling poster, wearing a gleaming white bikini. Lenore snapped to attention.
“Wait a moment… Did you say your name is… Lena Sardi, not Malena Sardi?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Why?”
Lenore’s eyes widened in shock. She whispered her astonishment. “My God… I know that name…”
Lena grinned. “No kidding, sweetheart. You just said it.”
Lenore did not appreciate being toyed with. She shook her head impatiently. “No! I mean… I know your name because you are well known. Are you… Lena Sardi…? The tennis player?”
Lena jumped up and did a mock curtsy. “In the flesh, Lennie Baby... I mean... Lenooorrre.” Lena rolled the "R" heavily with a mock Spanish accent.
Lenore smiled broadly and reached out her hand instinctively, mimicking precisely what Armand trained her to do when she met someone famous or influential. “I am very pleased...” Mid-reach, Lenore remembered she already extended her hand and pulled it back in embarrassment. Lenore’s smile faded and she tucked her head. “Oh… I am so sorry. I already did that.”
Lena released a wall-shaking laugh. “Yo! Relax, sister! This is college! It’s supposed to be FUN. Don’t get all uptight on our first date!” Lena raced across the room and grabbed Lenore tightly in a bear hug. Lenore’s arms went stiff at her side, never having experienced the unbridled energy and enthusiasm of such a free spirit. “C’mon, Lenoooore! Relax, baby! It’s all cool!”
Lena gave Lenore a healthy shoulder-shake, then released her grip just enough to lean back and look Lenore in the eye. “Trust me, Lenoooore! This is going to be fantastic… ROOMIE!” With a quick peck to Lenore’s kiss-ready cheek, Lena backed away.
“Roomies! YES!” Lena fist-pumped, spinning toward her desk. “I love it!”
Lenore, attempting to regain a modicum of composure, dropped to her desk chair and measured the pros and cons of remaining Lena Sardi’s roommate. The “Temper Tantrum Queen,” as she was once called by SI, had a reputation. A bad reputation. A racket-breaking, profanity-dropping, line-judge-abusing, sexy ass-on-a-poster reputation. Armand’s words came back to guide her.
“When you have nothing to lose in a business discussion, be prepared to take a calculated risk.”
“Lena, before you unpack, may I ask you something important?”
“Shoot!” Lena said, plopping herself down in her desk chair. She propped her feet up on one of the duffels.
“Do you believe we have any chance of becoming good roommates? We seem like… Like the characters in that play… ‘The Odd Couple.’ You are like Oscar and I am like Felix.” Lenore paused. A slight tremble swept across her right cheek. “Lena… I am not certain this arrangement will work. We are two very different people. Perhaps we should contact the Dean of Students before you unpack…”
Lena produced an infectious smile, eyes eternally lit with fun. She stared straight at totally uninfected Lenore. “C’mon, Lenore… Of course this is going to work out! You want to know how I know?”
“Yes. Please explain it to me. I am not as confident as you.”
“Because you say what you mean, you mean what you say, and you don’t pussy-foot around when you open your beautiful mouth.”
This triggered a thought in the sloppy-sexy tennis pro. Her lips scrunched, her eyes arched, and she lobbed Lenore a nice, high volley. "HEY! I know! What are you? Pre-law?”
Lenore perked up. “Why… As a matter of fact… Yes I am!”
“SO AM I!” Lena exploded with an exuberant clap of her hands.
Seeing an opportunity to place a sturdy beam into a shaky bridge of friendship, Lenore expressed socially appropriate curiosity in her roommate’s pursuits. “Do you know what kind of law you want to practice, Lena?"
“Not a goddamned clue! I’m making it up as I go along!”
Lenore’s face betrayed her astonishment. Across from the teen supermodel sat a tomboyishly sexy rising star, whose mischievous smile and smokin’ bottom graced tennis magazines the world over. At 18 years old, Lena Sardi ranked 8th in the world. She had memorable, nail-biting, quarter final appearances at all the majors. The youthful fashionista even self-designed and modeled a profitable signature line of teen active wear. She had a racket endorsement worth a reported $1million. With her gleaming smile and boundless energy, Lena Sardi held other athletic product endorsements worth an additional million.
Lena gained entrance to the most prestigious women-only college in the world, planned to study in one of the most rigorous programs in the college, yet had no thought about what she wanted to do with her life after all that work. By all measures, Lena Sardi had it all and seemingly had no idea what to do with “it.”
Seeing the disbelieving look on Lenore’s face, Lena knew she hit the daughter of bootstrap wealth an unreturnable baseline smash. She tossed her right hand forward, waving it in queenly fashion toward the supermodel. “Well… What about you, Lenore? Do you know what kind of law you want to practice some day?”
“Why yes I do. I plan to build a firm specializing in product liability… After I finish at the top of my class at Harvard Law, of course."
A look of dumbfounded disbelief swept across Lena's face. “Yer kiddin’, right?” Lena closed her eyes and gently shook her head side-to-side. “Product liability? Seriously?”
“Well… Yes. What is wrong with my answer?”
“Well... First… And please don’t take this the wrong way, sweetie… BOOOOOORING! Second... May I ask… For God’s sake, WHY?”
Of the dozens of times Lenore offered the “product liability” answer, no one ever asked the simple follow-up question, “Why?” Most people doted over Lenore’s famous face and did not think to press her for a decent explanation to such an obscure answer. Lenore rummaged for a credible response.
“Well... I suppose... I find the field of product liability fascinating. I find the notion that people expect every product to function perfectly somewhat obtuse. There is no perfect product. To sue for excessive damages over a product that fails to perform its function perfectly seems inappropriately excessive.”
Silence. Stunned, mystified silence engulfed the room. Lena stared at Lenore as if she had teleported in from another planet. After a long period of slack-jawed astonishment, the tennis pro took a swing.
“Okaaay… What if the product in question happens to be a kidney dialysis machine? And let’s say the manufacturer learned during the testing phase that there was a tiny flaw that could come up maybe once in a thousand machines, but the one time it came up it wound up killing someone. And what if that manufacturer knew that to fix that tiny flaw would mean going back to the drawing board and it would cost them millions. And let’s say they skipped fixing the flaw because they ran an actuarial review and decided the cost of just one person’s lost life wouldn’t come close to the redesign costs? Or maybe they figured the cost of ten lost lives wouldn’t come close to the redesign costs? Wouldn’t that be a good time to seek punitive damages against the manufacturer just to hold them accountable and send a message to the industry?”
Silence. Stunned, mystified silence. Lenore stared slack-jawed at Lena, considering the slim possibility… The utter improbability… That the unkempt, devil-may-care, wild child of the tennis court might… Just perhaps… Be...
Brilliant?
“Lee-na…?”
“Yes, Lenoooore…?”
“Sure. Ask me anything, roomie. I’ll always tell you the truth.”
“What was your GPA?”
“4.26… On a 4.0 scale, of course,” Lena winked.
“What were your SAT scores?”
“1580 out of 1600.” Lena fell back onto her elbows and winked again. She pulled her hand up in front of her face, blew on her in-turned fingernails, and brushed them against her T-shirt. Lena mock polished in self-delight over her kick-ass academic performance.
“You... You scored 1580… On your SATs?”
“Why? Something wrong with that? Not good enough for ya? You want me to go back and get you a 1700?”
“Lena…?”
“Yeeesssss…” came Lena’s taunting response.
“Who was Albert Camus?”
Lena rolled her eyes, as if everybody and their mother were on a first name basis with good, old, ‘Al Camus.’ “Oh, C’mon Lenore! Really? You really want this now?”
“Yes, Lena. Please. It is important.”
“Oh brother… Well, Albert Camus was a French journalist and philosopher. He was born in the early part of the century and got really famous in the 40s and 50s. He won a Nobel Prize, though I can’t remember what for off the top of my head, so don’t bother asking. If you ask me, though, he was basically a nut job, a real existentialist Negative Nelly. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just a major bummer. I’d rather reread Siddhartha any day of the week compared to Frenchie. Hell, I’ll even take Nietzsche or Kierkegaard or even that wackadoo Vonnegut over Camus! LOVED ‘Slaughterhouse Five’!”
Lenore’s eyes popped. She blinked with astonishment at her new roommate’s perplexing mix of beauty, brain, and brawn. Lena Sardi, the bad seed of the pro tennis circuit, the notorious racket-breaker, she of the obscenely skimpy tennis skirts and post-pubescent pin-up posters, was a… a…