by Mary Pagones
I’ll sprinkle some Parmesan cheese on the broccoli to make it palatable. I like pungent things. My dad, on the other hand, puts ketchup on his noodles and never eats anything green.
My sister has the long legs I once prayed for and is thinner than I am but without effort: a dancer’s body void of any desire to dance. She’s always in the ninety-ninth percentile on all of her standardized exams, which is how she got selected for her special high-tech magnet school. I will admit she doesn’t brag about her quantifiable accomplishments, maybe because everyone at her school gets high scores. It’s no more remarkable than respiration.
At dinner, my hair still dripping cold water, I graciously plate Livy’s yellow and green food. I was mindful to lay out the silverware, paper towels we use as napkins, and all the necessary condiments in their correct places.
As we eat, my father looks over his notes for the class he’s going to teach tomorrow morning, Livy works on something that sounds like she’s starting World War III on her laptop, and I check out The Adams Morgan on my phone.
“Dad, annual tuition at the school Desborough recommended is like, over seventy grand,” I say over the squirting sound of his ketchup.
“But do they give scholarships?”
“Some. Like, for first-generation college students.”
“None for the children of ridiculously over-educated adjuncts?” asks my father.
“Students from historically discriminated-against minority groups and students who are majoring in STEM. So they do try to help some kids out. But it’s not need blind.” Need blind means that the school doesn’t take into consideration the fact it may need to give you money when it admits you. Not need blind, in other words, means if you can write a blank check, it might help your chances. “I don’t think Desborough understands our situation.”
“Maybe I can sell a kidney,” says my father.
“What will happen when I have to go to college, then?” asks Livy. “You need at least one kidney to function.”
“Dad, with all the salt you eat,” I say, looking at him shoveling down the Kraft mac and cheese with ketchup, “no one wants your kidneys.” He puts more salt and ketchup on the noodles in response.
“If only I’d known when I was eating all of that ramen in graduate school,” says my father. “I think it’s too late now.”
“I could sell my plasma,” I say.
“You weigh under one hundred ten pounds,” says Livy, which is true (I’m just over five feet tall). “You’re under the weight limit to give blood.”
“Both of us are so worthless, we can’t even sell our bodies for spare parts,” I say to my father.
He laughs. “We’ll figure something out. Can’t hurt to look at Adams Morgan.”
“Pardon me. The Adams Morgan.”
“I guess the The is why the school can demand seventy grand a year?”
“Who is Adams Morgan?” asks Livy.
“It’s the neighborhood where the university is located. The school website says, ‘We believe in experiential, team-based learning.’ Sounds cozy.” I zip through a bunch of links. For the business undergraduate classes, kids get paired off and do projects together where they pretend to run organizations and construct marketing campaigns. Kind of like work, rather than school. Only students are paying to do work and get graded by a professor, versus being paid to do work like in the real world. All of the kids are carrying laptops in the photos, not real books. No wonder Ms. Desborough likes it. No knowledge of Pride and Prejudice required. I surf over to the English department website. It looks pretty boring and Spartan. No photos, just a list of required classes. They offer classes in business writing and writing for the World Wide Web. Not a single faculty member lists Jane Austen as an area of expertise. Appalling!
Times like this I’m jealous of Livy and Jacqui, because of their genuine, unforced love of the sciences and math. There’s no magnet school in my area for students in love with creative writing and literature. Certainly no leadership conferences or awards I’m aware of, if a high school student is fluent in Regency-era vocabulary. I mean, I know there are Jane Austen conventions where people get dressed up in period costumes, but Jane Austen societies don’t give big scholarships to college. Sometimes it even makes me feel like a bad feminist that I’m not gifted in STEM, though I’ve loudly and (I’m told) annoyingly proclaimed that I’m a feminist in just about every class where the subject has come up (and some where it hasn’t) since I was in grade school.
The best part of the day is the very end, when I take out my phone and go to the closed Facebook group Pemberley. It’s the only reason I’m on Facebook.
Pemberley on Facebook has thousands of members from all over the world, and a little transparent lock indicating that what’s posted there is private. Thank goodness. I can let my Jane Austen freak flag fly.
I begin a new thread. I write: I’ve always wondered about the plain sister, Mary Bennet. What happens when the Wickhams come to visit at Longbourn? You know George has lost interest in Lydia even before P&P has come to an end. I can totally see something happening between Wickham and Mary. Delicate Kitty is too busy coughing and is too close to her sister Lydia. Mary and Lydia—the tension between them is thick.
I press “enter” to post my thoughts, attaching a photo of the actress who played Mary in the BBC miniseries to get people’s attention. I lie back in bed, take out the sacred text itself. It’s my favorite edition, the one with pen-and-ink illustrations in which Elizabeth isn’t too pretty but has quick, dark eyes, and Darcy is very tall and wears a monocle.
I’d like to write a romantic story about Darcy. But he’s just so perfect. Not that he doesn’t have any flaws. Yet his issues—his social incompetence and his complete inability to lie about anything (“did you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?”)—are actually why he’s able to act on his completely unselfish desire to help Elizabeth become her better self. He just likes to be with people who make him feel comfortable, that’s all, and Elizabeth is one of the few people he thinks “gets” him, which is why her first rejection hurts him so much. That’s pretty much all I want in a guy—it’s not the money or Pemberley. A guy who “gets” me. Just like I want to go to a college where people “get” me. It’s hard to imagine that existing anywhere outside Pride and Prejudice. Which is why I keep reading the book over and over again. To figure out the secret.
Livy bursts in the room as I contemplate. “What do you think of my dress?” she asks.
She’s wearing a plain short-sleeved dress in navy blue. It would look dowdy on my short frame, like a Catholic girl school uniform, but Livy’s so tall and thin it looks sophisticated in an understated way. It’s kind of like how in the novel, even Mr. Darcy’s younger sister Georgina was taller than Elizabeth, and Lydia was the tallest of all the Bennet sisters although she was the youngest. I remind myself Elizabeth didn’t have a willowy figure, just fine eyes and wit.
“Scandalous,” I gasp.
Livy looks confused.
“I’m joking. It looks nice, actually better than nice,” I say.
“It feels weird, wearing a dress. Peter and I are going to the movies tonight. It’s too hot to wear jeans and I hate feeling the theater seats on my legs when I wear shorts.”
Livy’s been dating her boyfriend Peter for more than a year now. Another reward for being a science nerd, although the guys at her school are so not my type I’m not exactly jealous. Peter and Livy are inseparable. The fact that they’re both huge geeks makes their joined-at-the-hipness even more unsupportable in the eyes of an about-to-be-senior sister in high school who has only had fantasy boyfriends from the Regency period.
I look back on my phone. I’m already getting notifications from Pemberley.
I like the idea of Mary having an affair with Wickham. Maybe she has a bit more spark to her personality once the elder sisters are married. So she won’t go around quoting moralistic books all of the time and trying to impress pe
ople with her music.
The person’s user profile image is a cup of tea. Probably a middle-aged woman, I think. My primary hobbies are reading, dance, and Jane Austen fangirling. Not the best ways to find friends my age. Or dates with eligible young men. With large fortunes or otherwise.
Looking up at my sister I type: You know those intellectual girls go wild when they get a chance. Mary’s not Wickham’s usual type, which might be exciting. She’s a challenge.
Someone with Elizabeth Bennet as her profile picture adds: I always thought Jane Austen gave Mary short shrift.
I agree. I type, still looking at my sister.
Another user, with a photo of Elizabeth Bennet as her profile, counters:
Mary’s not intellectual. She’s the kind of person who wants to impress people with her knowledge and her talent so much it’s painful. It’s not that in the book Mary is stupid or even that horrible a musician, but she quotes clichés at inappropriate times and plays and sings inappropriately serious music. All because she’s trying to make up for the fact she’s not pretty. Can’t stand her.
I observe: Jane Austen had the insight that someone can be book-smart but not people-smart. So that was very wise of Ms. Austen.
A person with Mr. Darcy as a profile picture types: Elizabeth isn’t people-smart either. She’s witty, and that’s not the same thing.
Chapter 3
I Know Little Of The Game At Present
When we visit The school Ms. Desborough recommended, the incoming freshman class is moving in, since it’s the day before freshman orientation. It’s pretty chaotic, with a “Netherfield Park has been let at last”-level of excitement in the atmosphere. But the student giving the tour doesn’t seem fazed. He navigates the milling and seething bodies with such ease walking backward, I’m impressed by his coordination. “Are you a dancer?” he asks me, catching me off-guard.
I blush. I know it’s my turned-out way of walking and the fact my hair is braided up into a bun, the only way I can make my long, coarse, curly hair look less wild. “Yes I am,” I say. “I’ve been dancing for most of my life.”
“I have a ballerina in one of my classes. Well, a former ballerina. None of the biz school students have much time for extracurricular activities, since the program is very structured,” the guy says, grinning. I look at his name tag. It’s in all caps, like he’s shouting at us. HELLO MY NAME IS TOPHER! WELCOME!
The buildings don’t look like English country manor houses, which is how I pictured college in my dreams. More like Tupperware plastic circles without edges. Some summer classes are still going on. All of the kids use laptops and tablets in the classrooms. The teacher’s flipping through a PowerPoint as our tour threads through the back of one room. The slide reads: Starbucks: Evolution of a Brand, accompanied by a photo of a Frappuccino.
Backwards walker TOPHER takes us to the dorms. Girls’ rooms are decorated with mounted prints, stuffed animals, and fluffy pastel coverlets. Parents are carrying furniture nicer than I have in my real room at home, even though the dorms already have desks and beds. It’s hot, and most of the parents are out of shape and out of breath.
I’m not into ruffles and pink. Ballet has given me an allergy to the color. At home, I have black sheets and a tapestry-like coverlet. Black and red candles sit on my desk and table. A lamp that looks like a chandelier, which I discovered at a thrift store, is suspended from the ceiling, although my father won’t let me hook it up for fear of setting the house on fire. I like dramatic, sharp edges when it comes to my personal style. Truthfully, I think the real Jane Austen liked sharp edges, too.
One of the framed photos hanging in a The Adams Morgan dorm room is of a piece of sheet music, a rose, and a single ballet slipper. There’s no actual evidence the owner of the room dances, like beaten-up ballet shoes, large bottles of ibuprofen, and a big tube of the generic drugstore version of Icy Hot.
Clothes are piling up on some of the narrow little dorm beds. Burberry, Prada, Hermès.
The views from the windows of the dormitories are stunning, offering sweeping panoramas of the city. The dorms are like fishbowls, beautiful glass fishbowls.
“You notice everything looks sparking and clean,” says TOPHER. “Some of your parents are probably thinking, ‘I’m sure it won’t stay that way.’ But we have maid service once a week—vacuuming, taking out trash, cleaning the bathrooms. So it doesn’t get too disgusting.”
TOPHER takes us downstairs, to one of the dorm basements, where there’s a food court with an Au Bon Pain and a Sbarro. I suppose that’s how the school tries to save a bit of money, using only second-rate chain bagel and pizza vendors?
Next, TOPHER shows us the state-of-the-art gym. We walk through a yoga class. I will say, it’s not like everyone here is perfect-looking when they’re stripped down. Plenty of the dancers at my studio would say that the kids in the yoga class were fat, or snigger at the awkward stiffness of their postures. But all the kids seem pretty confident, even when they’re obviously getting it wrong to my critical eye. The treadmills have special consoles so kids can use their iPads while they work out.
“Do you want to stay for an interview?” asks my father. Prospective students can sign up for an on-campus interview at the admissions office.
Cars are whizzing by us. We’re standing right outside of the central common area. It’s a manicured green rectangle lined with buildings. Everything is surrounded by a black metal picket fence, like the college was any other tourist attraction in our fair capital.
“Waste of time,” I say.
“Just for the experience, Liss? Maybe?”
I shake my head.
My father and I find a luncheonette a couple of blocks away from campus. It’s known for its chili hotdogs. My father has feelings for hotdogs similar to mine for bagels.
“I think you need to be more open-minded about this search,” says my father. “You might qualify for financial aid at The Adams Morgan.”
“The school just seems so…pre-professional. And there weren’t any professors in the English department who excited me, when I looked at the website.”
My father stares at his chili-slathered hotdog.
“Don’t sell a kidney, Dad. Look, I know you want to put ketchup on your hotdog, go for it.”
He does, slashing a thin bloody line across the crisp, white chopped onion.
I go on. “College is not about being in a city without a single green tree on campus and learning about how companies make money selling overpriced coffee drinks.”
“Livy loves Frappuccinos.”
“The correct order at Starbucks is a grande-sized cup with two bags of Earl Grey tea. Whole milk. No sugar.”
My father laughs. “Very well, your royal highness.”
I’m having a Diet Coke right now, but I stick out my pinky finger as I pick up the glass. “The correct address for the Queen is not ‘Your Royal Highness’ but rather ‘Your Majesty.’ After which, ‘Ma’am’ is perfectly acceptable. Instead of all those fancy buildings and the gym, I don’t see why they can’t invest in scholarships. For the poor. Like me.” I pronounce poor like I’ve heard the word said on British television programs, like it rhymes with lure.
“We’re not poor, Liss,” says my father, sighing and taking a big bite of his hotdog.
“Okay, but I need scholarship money more than a maid service for my room and Au Bon Pain on my meal plan. I can clean my own room and find my own bagels.”
“It’s important to make connections. I read about all of the internships and summer jobs kids have at this school. It’s very impressive.”
“I’m sure they’d get those internships regardless of what university they attended. Their rich parents probably know everyone, everywhere.”
“I have a feeling if we sat in on a class reading Jane Austen, you’d have stayed for the interview.”
“I have a feeling that if Jane Austen were alive today, she’d have been itching to sink her satirical claws into The Adam
s Morgan.” I take a big bite of my hotdog to avoid answering for a bit. “Okay, then I’d like to go to Pemberley University. Only dark, tormented male students with no social skills admitted.”
My image of college resembles a British estate. Lots of big, stone houses and erudite discussion about literature. Dancing and fencing lessons (for me as well as the gentlemen).
Pennington College would be fine, though, I think but don’t say.
Chapter 4
Any Savage Can Dance
The next morning, my car wheezes rather than chugs into my dance studio parking lot. It makes a rattling sound, which is not comforting, but I need to get to class, so I figure I’ll worry about mechanical things when I get home. As long as the brakes work and the car still accelerates, I’m hoping that whatever is wrong isn’t dangerous.
Class doesn’t start until ten in the morning, but I’m here well before that hour because I always have to plan ample time for my old Honda being quirky. It’s absurdly hot this morning, even by my standards. I’m already sweating, although I had all the windows rolled down to make up for my car’s nearly nonexistent air conditioning.
There’s a guy standing outside of the studio, about my age. That’s not totally unusual. With the weirdness that is strip-mall parking lots, the other businesses flanking The Academy of Movement (I’m more conscious of the The after my adventure at The Adams Morgan) are a sub shop and a fro-yo place. Lots of times you’ll see people who are obviously not dancers milling about. But the stores that attract those types of people are still closed.
“Can I help you?” I ask the guy, politely. He looks lost (although not particularly perturbed about the fact). I think he’s my age. Tall, thin, vampire-pale. His black hair’s shaved up the back of his neck, his bangs are hanging in his eyes. His glasses have thick black frames and he has some slight stubble. The stubble may be from traveling, because he’s slung a black carry-on bag over his shoulder and there’s a big black suitcase on wheels next to him. His ensemble is complete with checkered black-and-white flannel, black ripped jeans, and black Converse sneakers.
