Free Killer WASPs by Amy Korman Page A

Jenny’s hair—­which probably hadn’t been cut in twenty
     years—­flowed down her back, with some little braids in front keeping it off her face.
     She wore no makeup except for some glittery lip gloss and two silver stars painted
     on each cheek. She once told me she does this creative kind of face painting because
     the stars draw in mystical powers, send them straight through her chakras, then shoot
     them back out to the world. Anyway, Jenny was holding what looked like a large acorn-­shaped
     bookend, maybe eight inches high and five inches wide, with a lot of intricate detail
     and a light patina of age over its silver-­plated surface.
    “We’ve got three of these, which I know is kind of an odd number for bookends, but
     you know how it is in this business. Nothing ever makes sense,” Jenny said cheerfully,
     as if her chakra stars did make sense. “They were made for a school in Bryn Mawr. Isn’t that where your store
     is?”
    “Yes, that’s where I live, and where the store is! Really, they’re from Bryn Mawr?”
     I answered, surprised, as she handed me one of the bookends.
    The acorn-­shaped object was much heavier than I’d have thought at first glance—­it
     must have weighed nearly ten pounds—­and ornate, with the acorn figure set on a solid
     square base. The wide part of the acorn was designed in a crisscross pattern, with
     the narrow end coming to a pointed tip. The object was fantastic, I thought, solid
     enough to give off a masculine vibe and to sit in a library or office, but pretty
     enough to appeal to a female buyer. Given the weight of the acorn, I knew that underneath
     the silver plate, the piece was made of cast iron, according it a pleasing heft.
    “I love them! And I can sell them as a single item, so it’s fine that you don’t have
     two pairs,” I said, inspecting the base, thinking that someone would surely buy a
     single one to put on a mantel or desk. Or all three could be used on a shelf, with
     various books between them.
    The acorn’s base was marked underneath with the stamp of Farrow & Summers, longtime
     Philadelphia silversmiths. Inscribed above the insignia were the words, “From this
     acorn grows a mighty oak: Bryn Mawr Preparatory School,” in a bold, elegant typeface
     that matched the classic style of the bookend. This lettering was old and worn, but
     very legible.
    “This is such a coincidence, Jenny,” I exclaimed. “I went to Bryn Mawr Prep. My whole
     family went there, and so did my best friends Holly, Joe, and Bootsie.” It’s an extremely
     expensive, competitive school these days, but when I attended, it had been basically
     a collection of old buildings out in the countryside, where ancient teachers vainly
     tried to drill Latin into our heads, and boys played on the golf team instead of trying
     out for football. Nowadays, thanks to some mega-­donations over the past decade, the
     Prep has a new gym, a high-­tech science building, and a glossy Olympic-­size pool,
     and the teenage girls there are almost as chic as Holly. Even Holly hadn’t been as
     chic as Holly when she was in high school.
    I turned the bookend around in my hands, inspecting the marks on it more closely.
     I wondered if the bookends were sold or given to alumni as a keepsake. They definitely
     weren’t gifting them to graduates when Holly and I had finished school fifteen years
     ago.
    Whatever the case, they were perfect for The Striped Awning. I could see the Sophie
     Shieldses of the worlds loving these tangible pieces of old Main Line history. To
     top it off, Farrow & Summers had gone out of business in the late 1960s, so the acorns
     had an even rarer pedigree than I’d imagined at first glance.
    “I’d love to take them,” I mused aloud, squinting in the sunlight at the acorn. Annie
     brought out the other two bookends, which were carefully swaddled in newspaper, and
     unfurled the wrapping so I could see them. They were both a bit tarnished, but