Grace Becker, DSHA '17
Revealing the Riviera
Cursing the blue plaid wool skirt that cascaded to her knees, Carol Wicker plopped into her desk in Mr. Grandy’s third period Shakespeare class practically dripping with sweat.
“I thought basketball season was over!” joked a voice from the seat to Carol’s right. “What class are you coming from, phys ed?”
“I didn’t think it was going to be this hot today!” retorted Carol, jealously admiring the way her best friend’s off-white barrettes perfectly matched the Izod sweater she had gotten for Christmas. Mary Beth, a proud member of the Angelaires and the second girl in her family to attend DSHA, always seemed to have everything together – a fact Carol couldn’t help but remember as she tugged uncomfortably on her knee-highs in a futile effort to air out her legs.
“That’s a good thing! Just think of how much we’ll tan,” said Mary Beth, opening her copy of Hamlet to a perfectly highlighted and annotated page. “Maybe I’ll bring this out with me and read the third act before the quiz on Friday.”
Though she would likely never admit it, Carol was a phenomenal student. She was a sure favorite of Ms. Weiss, the young and vivacious social studies teacher, and Sister Rosaria, the beloved elderly geometry instructor. However, there was one subject in which Mary Beth surely took the lead: English. Ruminating on the time she had spent talking to her boyfriend, Chris, on the basement extension instead of reading about the Prince of Denmark, Carol was quickly called to attention by Mr. Grandy’s enthusiastic “stop your talking!”
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“Aha!” came the joyous exclamation from Lisa Dodds as she triumphantly slammed a quarter onto the lunch table. “I knew it was in there somewhere.”
“I swear, if I eat another one of those cookies, I’ll explode,” moaned Jennifer Donahue as she leaned back in her chair for an exaggerated stretch. “I’m pretty sure Sister Aniceta knows my name by now!”
“Hurry up and buy it so we can go sunbathe!” laughed Carol, as she returned her brown bag lunch to her backpack and pulled out her Walkman. “By the way, I got the new REO Speedwagon cassette!”
“ ‘Wheels are Turnin’’ ? That’s been out since November!” teased Jennifer. “It’s great, though!”
The girls stood up from the table and slung their backpacks over their shoulders as Lisa returned from the cafeteria giddily bearing a warm chocolate chip cookie the size of her hand. Mary Beth, finally glancing up from her Shakespeare just in time to avoid a collision with a preoccupied Dr. Pienkos, led the group to their favorite post-lunch spot: the Riviera.
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“Well, I wanted to go to a drive-in, but he just wanted to stay home and watch Caddyshack. I swear, that boy knows every line to that movie!” laughed Lisa as the girls laid themselves out on the sidewalk.
“Hey, it’s a good choice!” Carol rolled up her skirt until it grazed the top of the shorts she had worn expressly for the purpose of sunbathing and leaned back. “Not quite as good as Animal House, but close.”
“What’s playing at the Starlight this weekend? We should go!” suggested Mary Beth, whose idea of rebellion was to sit on the hood of her parents’ car with her friends, a Coke, and some popcorn.
As the girls chatted and her legs slowly warmed, Carol was lost in thought. She contemplated how much she loved the Riviera, and how it provided a fun, comforting, relaxing place to spend the middle of her day. She thought also of its simplicity: the Courtyard was just a grassy alcove with a stone walkway; how had it been nicknamed after a French coast?
Turning her head to the side, Carol caught sight of a group of senior girls sitting about ten feet to her right, discussing their graduation dresses and plans for the upcoming weekend. One of the girls Carol recognized as Mary Sue Brennan, whose high ponytail and burgundy Sperry top-siders were as attention-grabbing as her flips on the cheerleading team. Provoked by her curiosity and too preoccupied to explain to her friends, Carol stood up and wandered over to the seniors.
“Hey, can I ask you all a quick question? Why do we call this the Riviera?”
Instantly, the girls erupted in laughter. “You wouldn’t believe it if we told you!” insisted Mary Sue.
Before she could press further, girls around her rose to their feet and gathered their backpacks. Sisters Janet Schewe and Jane Eschweiler had come outside to voice their admonishment to the girls for showing so much leg, and most everyone was heading inside. Deciding it was hopeless to ask the seniors, Carol resignedly returned to her friends.
“What was that about?” asked Jennifer as she returned her Walkman to her backpack.
“I want to know why we call this the Riviera. They won’t tell me, but I’m going to find out.”
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The rest of the day came and went as Carol pondered the origin of the Courtyard’s foreign nickname. She wondered who she could ask; if the seniors wouldn’t tell her, who would?
During sixth hour on Thursday, Carol’s curiosity became too much to bear. She shot her hand into the air during Mrs. Azpell’s discussion of radioactive isotopes and headed into the hallway towards the second-floor library instead of the restroom.
Carol pored over yearbooks from years past, flipping through images of bake sales, Sophomore Flings, school musicals, basketball games, and Father-Daugher dances, but could find no mention of the Riviera or its mysterious naming. Just as she pulled a volume called The French Atlantic Coasts off the very top shelf, she was greeted by a sound she’d been dreading: the bell. Carol’s heart sank. She had spent twenty-five minutes in the library, and somehow, she was pretty sure Mrs. Azpell would mind.
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As she sat outside of Sr. Grace Mary Croft’s office, Carol had never felt more dread. She certainly wasn’t the kind of student to skip a class, and if her parents found out this had happened, she could say goodbye to her phone privilege for at least the next two weeks. When Sister opened the door, even the blast of air conditioning couldn’t raise the young girl’s spirits.
“So, I understand your bathroom visit took a little longer than expected,” Sister began.
Carol shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I – well, I went to the library.”
“The library? And what were you hoping to find there?”
The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous the truth seemed to Carol. Could she tell her she was intrigued by isotopes and needed to do immediate further research? Or that she had unfinished homework for seventh period, and the bathroom just didn’t provide sufficient desk space?
As she looked at Sister Grace Mary, mind frantically searching for a plausible explanation, she settled on one she hadn’t expected to use: the truth.
In a small, ashamed voice, Carol admitted, “I wanted to know why we call the Courtyard the Riviera.”
It took a mere moment for Sister Grace Mary to explode into laughter. Carol was confused; she knew her excuse was ridiculous, but she certainly didn’t think it was quite this laughable – at least not to the Dean of Students.
“Oh Carol, you should have come to me!” Sister managed between laughs. “I named it that!”
Carol was agape. “You did?”
“The girls kept pulling their skirts up so high that I once said, ‘This is not the Riviera!’ And, I suppose, the name just stuck!”
As she walked home that afternoon, Carol thought of what she now knew: when looking for answers, one should always first consult a nun. Oh - and keep a supposed bathroom visit to less than five minutes.
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