Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  “I don’t know the first thing about ballet, but I would be dancing my little heart out, knowing that I was in my senior year of high school. You need something to distinguish you. Rosewood South,” Ms. Desborough continues, referring to my high school, “has an excellent reputation. But your science and math scores and grades are substandard.”

  “I barely understood either daughter’s eighth grade math homework,” says my father. “Maybe your sister Olivia could help you.” I make a face. Livy the human computer is fifteen and is going to be a sophomore at a technology magnet high school. She writes like she texts. I’m not quite sure where she came from, but she’s not like my father or me. He’s been suggesting that she tutor me for more than a year now and I keep refusing.

  “You’re a tricky one,” says Ms. Desborough. “How am I going to brand you, Elisa Tennant? To be frank, your grades and scores aren’t strong enough for top-tier universities or for top liberal art schools that are very generous with financial aid. The type of private universities and colleges you might have a chance of getting into offer less in the way of scholarship money. But I hate for my students to simply consign themselves to a state school without a fight.”

  “Brand me? Fight?” That sounds ominous.

  “Yes. Brand you in the eyes of the college admissions committees. Are you the next track star? The next first- chair oboe on the school orchestra? The next great entrepreneur who will start a business right out of her dormitory? These are all successful examples of student brands. Just like with any marketing campaign, you need to communicate the value you are bringing to the consumer, the school. Especially if you want scholarship money. Do you do any community service?”

  “I walk dogs for the local animal shelter,” I say. “Technically it’s not a volunteer position—I do get minimum wage, but that’s just because I also went through the training program to be able to interview potential adoptees and help socialize some of the more difficult dogs.”

  She sighs. “Last year I had a student who trained Seeing Eye and service dogs for the blind and disabled. And if you’re getting paid, it’s not volunteering, it’s employment.” Her lip curls as she utters the obscenity.

  “I never realized volunteering was a competitive pursuit,” I say. “I just like dogs and helping out. The little bit of money I earn is helpful for gas and things.”

  “Let’s take a collective breath,” says Ms. Desborough. She picks up a dish on her desk. It’s filled with yellow Starbursts. The dish is labeled with the letters PROZAC. “It’s a joke,” she says, following my eyes.

  My father takes a handful and begins unwrapping them and popping them in his mouth. He’s probably thinking he’s not sure when he’ll get home for dinner.

  “So much for the rainbow of fruit flavor,” I say. Or is that the slogan for Skittles? So much for branding.

  “I only like one flavor of Starburst,” she says and smiles. “So that’s the kind I get. Well, Liss, you have your work cut out for you this senior year. First of all, I expect all As, in all of your classes. Including science and math. Your homework from me, before our next session together, is to think about your personal brand. And to study for the SATs, since you will have to take them again. What tutor have you been using?”

  “I study on my own,” I say.

  “Study on your own?” She is clearly appalled. “My students do not study on their own. Most of my students have SAT-specific tutors—I can personally recommend some—and take a preparatory course with a reputable company.”

  “I got the highest score on any standardized test I’ve ever taken on the SAT verbal section. I’m proud of that score.”

  “Studies on her own,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be a test of aptitude?” I ask. “Scholastic Aptitude Test? Like, they’re not testing how much you’ve studied, but your innate aptitude for…college….or something…”

  “No, no, that’s what the letters of the SAT used to mean.”

  “What does SAT stand for now?” I ask.

  Ms. Desborough looks confused. “It’s just the SAT,” she says. “The letters no longer stand for anything. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What about the ACT?” asks my father.

  “While most of my students take the ACT in addition to the SAT, there has never been much of a difference in their scores between the two exams. So you can take both—if you wish to study for both—but I’d rather you just focus on one test. I do remember that the ACT stands for American College Testing, incidentally, since that seems to mean so much to Liss. It contains a science as well as a mathematics section.”

  “I’ll take the SAT again.” Science. Ick. Better the acronym devil I know. Even though SAT is no longer an acronym?

  “Whatever test she takes, she needs a prep course.” I’m now so headstrong and obstinate, she’s just speaking to my father. “She can’t just use her regular academic tutors.”

  “Regular academic tutors? I don’t have tutors, period.” I say. I talk directly to my counselor, even though she’s refusing to talk to me.

  “You mean you don’t have tutors at all?” She’s looking at my father, like, are you both complete bloody savages? Not that Ms. Desborough would phrase it like that, of course.

  “No, I do my own work,” I say. “I’ve never gotten below a B– in any class. Unless I was struggling, why would I need a tutor? I like doing things on my own. Isn’t that what college should be, doing things on your own?”

  We leave with a long list of names of tutors she insists on giving us. And more “homework.” She says, “You must come up with ideas for your personal statement and visit at least one college. I’ve had many students accepted to The Adams Morgan University. It’s not that far a drive to Washington D.C. I think you should take a look at it!”

  “I always dreamed of at least one of my daughters going to an Ivy League school,” sighs my father.

  I groan. “Dad, that’s not going to happen. Not with me.”

  The Ivy League is technically a sports league of universities—Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown, Columbia, Cornell, Dartmouth, and the University of Pennsylvania. But calling the Ivy League a “college sports league” is like calling Jane Austen a “female British novelist of the nineteenth century.” The Ivy League is a group of some of the most prestigious universities in the United States. I have a vision that going to one of them is like stepping into a magical elevator that takes you up, up, up to the very top of a tall glass building. I’m not sure what’s at the top of that building, though, or even if I would enjoy myself very much up there.

  “Well, if Liss could get into one, it would be lovely. Most of them offer very generous scholarships to middle-class students. Liss, with your grades and SATs as they are now…”

  “I see,” says my father.

  “I’m not hopeful,” says Ms. Desborough.

  “Dad, I’m okay with commuting to Rutgers if I can major in English.” That would make Rutgers bearable. I’m praying he drops the economics and business major idea. “We’ll check out Adams Morgan.” I want to get out of here. It’s freezing with the air conditioning blasting. I’ve never understood the point of making an office artificially feel like winter inside when it’s summer outside.

  “The Adams Morgan. They get very upset if you leave out the ‘The,’ so remember it when you go there!”

  As she’s about to close her door on us, Ms. Desborough says, “Most students haven’t started fighting with their parents yet. At least you’re getting a head start!”

  Ms. Desborough’s probably in her forties. She’s very tall and athletic-looking, with a chin-length dark blonde bob that may once have been a natural shade of gold but now looks enhanced. Despite the chill in her office that gave me gooseflesh, she doesn’t seem bothered by it in her plaid madras sundress, like she’s used to a permanently climate-controlled environment. It occurs to me that she makes more money than my father, and I’ll bet she works half as hard.
And she doesn’t care that she hasn’t read Pride and Prejudice. She closes the door quickly, so as not to let any real warm air into the artificially artic environment.

  “Dad, please don’t spend money on a tutor,” I say as we walk to our cars. Ms. Desborough’s office is a room in her house, but the driveway’s so long, we have time to chat.

  “I know you’re very self-reliant, Liss, but I should have put more pressure on you to do better in your math and science classes. I did so badly in those subjects myself, it didn’t seem fair. Kind of like how parents who smoked a lot of grass in college don’t feel as though they can tell their children not to do drugs. I’ve never believed in dictating my children’s learning—I’ve seen how that doesn’t work from years of teaching.”

  “The only thing I’m addicted to are bagels,” I say.

  He grins at me. “I’m lucky I have a great kid.”

  “You mean my math and science genius of a sister Olivia, I presume?”

  We took separate cars because I’m going to dance. I have a little Honda that barely wheezes up to 65 mph. My father has a Subaru with more than 300,000 miles on it.

  We do have some money saved, from the settlement my family got after Mom died. My mom was hit head-on by a drunk driver when I was very young. The money will pay for a little bit of my college tuition and my sister Olivia’s, but my father’s had to use some of that to cover everyday expenses over the years, so it’s not like there’s a fortune on hand. The settlement is also paying for this counselor person, my dance classes, and my sister’s new computer. Luxuries are carefully allocated among all of us in our family. Well, between my sister and me. I don’t recall my father ever spending any money on anything non-essential for himself.

  My dad’s Subaru finally hums to life after a bit of coaxing. “Look, don’t worry about me, Dad,” I say.

  He laughs. “Okay. Just pray for me that no kids come to my class high. You know the joke that a community college is like a disco with books? It’s true in this case.”

  “A disco?”

  “A rave? What is cool now?”

  “I have no idea what’s cool, Dad,” I say. “For all I know, people are going to discos again.”

  I feel lucky I have a dad I can joke around with, who won’t censor my humor. But then he says, “You don’t want to go through what I’m going through for the rest of your life, do you Liss?” He rolls up the window because his air conditioning has finally started working.

  I drive with the windows down. I like the heat. It keeps my muscles warm and supple. The wind caressing my skin makes me feel free, even if I’m not.

  Chapter 2

  Such Superior Dancing Is Not Often Seen

  I finally make it to The Academy of Movement, chugging along in my wheezing, protesting car. My friend Jacqueline is already there. She’s warming up, spread out with her legs in a straight line as unbroken as her steady stream of As in her classes. I can see the little knobs of her spine through her exposed dark skin. Unlike me, Jacqui favors pastels. Today she’s wearing delicate light blue leotard with a plunging back. Jacqui is so thin she can wear anything and it will look modest. Her straightened hair, as always, is pulled back in a bun. I’ve never not seen Jacqui’s hair in a bun or ponytail. I think she irons her jeans. But just like I’m too short to be the model dancer, Jacqui is too tall. Still, we have a similar sense of humor, and that’s all that matters.

  “Nice ass,” I say, because that’s what’s pointed to me. I give her behind a gentle shove with my stockinged toe.

  She doesn’t look up. She knows it’s me. “Nicer than your skinny, flat ass.”

  “Agreed. I have a pancake ass.” Even though I’m not stick-thin, my friend is correct in her description. “But your ass is even skinnier than mine, I hate to break it to you.”

  One of the funny things about dance is that there’s no shame talking about body parts. Non-dancers think ballerinas must be dainty. But a dancer can be talking, rotate her hip, flash her crotch, and think nothing of it. Or bend right over to stretch and stick her butt in someone’s face. The big priority is knowing how to get your body in the right position, not maidenly virtue. Of course, that also means people won’t mind mentioning if you have crooked turnout or your leotard’s pulling some serious camel toe or you’ve gained weight.

  “How did the visit to the college counselor go?” asks Jacqui. Jacqui’s planning on going to Rutgers, majoring in biology and then going on to med school. She wants to specialize in orthopedic medicine, figuring she’s hurt every bone in her body already, why not put her experiences to use? Jacqui knows what she wants to do; she can see a clear path, always, from point A to point B.

  Her parents are nurses. They’re doing well now, but I know that her mom—not to sound harsh, Jacqui will say this herself—grew up in the projects. Her dad grew up in an area not much better. That’s why they moved here, so Jacqui could go to Rosewood South, have a different life. They’ve always wanted their daughter to become a doctor. It’s the next logical step up a kind of ladder. Jacqui wants to take that step with all her heart.

  Unlike Jacqui, I’ve rarely gotten injured, and never seriously, from dancing. I may not have the bone structure of a ballerina but I have a hard, muscular little fist of a body that stubbornly bounces back from punishment. As soon as the studio owner and head instructor, Catherine Fitzgerald, walks through the door, I’ll hear, “Ms. Tennant, you are pronating in first position. Fix that,” even though it’s the natural state of my feet. I’ve been unable to make first position, the most basic position of ballet, look as it should since I began dancing. Then, when Catherine begins class, I’ll hear, “Work those feet through the plié, Ms. Tennant, and stretch up. You’re slouching like a hobbit.” Ballet will keep you humble, as romantic as it may be to dream of being a jewel or a mythical bird flitting through fire. There’s no “good enough.” Only perfect.

  Catherine grew up in some super-WASPy household. She’s said, in one of her very rare confessional moments, that her family didn’t approve of her becoming a professional dancer and relations with her relatives are strained. She certainly has what I’d call a Puritan work ethic when it comes to teaching.

  After dancing for so many years, I can’t imagine being told what to do, by people who know better than me, for four more years. I’ve had enough of that in the dance world. I’m tired of trying and trying to be perfect at something for which I’m not perfectly suited. I’m no more naturally inclined to science or math than I am to lanky, willowy thinness. Plus, just like in dance, in science and math the teacher always has all of the answers. In English, a student can spontaneously experience a unique and unexpected insight even the teacher hadn’t thought of. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  I give Jacqui the SparkNotes of the meeting with Ms. Desborough while I strip off the wrap covering my leotard, take off my jeans, and start to bend and flex my pointe shoes in my hands, a gesture as familiar as breathing or texting.

  “I’m already disgusted with the process. I feel like everything I have any talent in doesn’t matter. I’m going to have to take my SATs again.”

  “I have to as well,” she sighs.

  “Why? You got above 700 on both sections.”

  “Not on the verbal. 680.”

  “Oh God, 680. I don’t understand why you’re just applying to Rutgers and state colleges, Jacqui. You might get some serious money from a better school.” My pointe shoes, like my car, are on their last gasps of life, I think, ruefully. The more worn they are, the more I have to use sheer force of will to hold myself upright. I try to splay out in the same position as Jacqui. With me, flexibility takes effort.

  “If only we could sit next to each other. I could take the math section for you, and you could take my verbal,” says Jacqui.

  “That wouldn’t be a fair exchange. My new counselor says I need a tutor.” I make a face.

  “You always hate asking for help. I know you’d never go to a private college counse
lor if it weren’t for your dad.”

  “True,” I admit.

  “Ugh, I’m so hungry, I think I’m going to pass out,” says Jacqui.

  I reach into my bag and offer her a KIND bar. “I know you prefer the Quest bars, but you’ll have to make do with KIND.” The Quest bars are supposed to be higher in protein and lower in carbohydrates, but they have a weird, chalky artificial taste, so I avoid them.

  As Jacqui eats, I throw my bag in the changing room, go to the barre, and start swinging my legs. Other dancers are starting to filter in. Finally, I can lose myself in something else, not think about college or being witty to conceal the fact I’m kind of scared about what the future will hold a year from now.

  “Ms. Tennant…” I brace myself for a comment about my feet. “I’ve told you before that leotard is unacceptable.” I fiddle around in my bag and put a t-shirt over it. I have a grey shirt in my bag that reads in cursive, To Be Fond of Dancing Was a Certain Step to Falling in Love, with an illustration of Regency dancers on it.

  Catherine is fussing with the music. We have live accompaniment for some classes. During the summer, the accompanist takes a vacation and since we can’t find a sub, we’re at the mercy of Catherine and an iPhone playlist. She’s sweating from being outside—even though she has a lean bowstring of a dancer’s body, she’s the type of person who is always wound up about something. Her leotards get soaked through when she’s just teaching, probably from rage at how incompetent the class is; we’re collectively exhausting.

  By the time I return home, my muscles are aching too much for me to care about college, at least for a little while. My sister Olivia is making dinner. Her laptop is still sitting on the kitchen table, to let us all know that she won’t be talking much when we sit down to eat.

  “What gourmet delicacy tonight, Livy?” I ask.

  “Dad’s in the shower,” she says. I sit down. I’ll use it quickly after he’s done. I don’t care if there isn’t any hot water. “We have zee Mac and zee Cheese for our eating pleasure,” she drawls, putting on a fake French accent. “And zee broccoli on zee side.”