by Mary Pagones
At least Hugh and I have all of our morning classes together and he seems to like me—or at least he keeps talking to me. It might be I’m the only person he knows.
He’s not in my early lunch, though. I eat with Jacqui. “You’re going to have to help me with pre-calculus as well as SAT math. I’ll help you with the SAT verbal section.”
“Only if you do all of my assignments for AP English. I’m considering dropping Advanced Placement and just taking normal English at this point.”
“English is a major subject, you can’t wimp out,” I say.
“You’re not taking calculus.”
“You speak English,” I say. “Je ne parle pas le calculus.” I’m taking French for one more year. I like it, and I like the idea of speaking French (another “accomplishment”) although I know I’m not assured an A in that class.
Noel walks by and grins at Jacqui. I give her a meaningful look. Noel is hot. Really hot. He’s also the president of the National Honor Society and probably going to be valedictorian. None of those facts are huge turn-ons for me, but Jacqui and Noel were in the same math and science classes last year. They had to do some project together for AP Physics, and all I heard was Noel this, Noel that. Of course, Jacqui is so shy that unlike me, she never acts on her feelings. Put a guy she actually likes in the room and she immediately shuts down.
“We’ve been texting over the summer, mostly about which colleges he’s applying to and how hard AP Calculus BC is going to be,” she says, speaking to her lunch tray rather than to me. AP Calculus BC is, like, the hard level of calculus, even beyond normal AP Calculus AB. “Noel and I are an evolving situation.”
“Language often used to describe a hostage-taking.”
“Very funny,” she says. She fans her cheeks.
“Breathe. Breathe and eat your fish nuggets,” I say.
“I’m going to regret this lunch when I have to suck in my gut for dance, but I don’t care, it’s my favorite,” she says. Today’s cafeteria special is fried fish nuggets, corn, and a brownie, which Jacqui has paired with low-fat chocolate milk. Her stomach is convex; she’s just joking about having to suck it in.
Calvin sits down next to us holding the same lunch as Jacqui, only without the corn and with two brownies and two chocolate milks. He’s talented at sweet-talking the cafeteria ladies into personalizing his lunch. He reeks of cigarettes. It’s illegal to smoke on school property, not that he cares. It will be a miracle if this boy lives ’til thirty.
“Okay, I swear I’m not stressed about Noel but I admit I am totally stressed out about the personal statement for my college applications as well as the SAT. Plus all that reading we have for Clarke’s class! Everyone knows he’s the toughest teacher in the school. I’m not like you—I don’t like writing,” says Jacqui.
Calvin imitates me. “Oh, Mr. Clarke, Mr. Clarke, please let me quote Shakespeare for the class.”
“I merely identified the passage from The Tempest.”
“I merely identified the passage. Christ, Liss.”
“Pretentious and proud,” I grin. “I’m kind of looking forward to Clarke’s class.”
“You are a sick, sick woman,” says Calvin.
Charlotte Holland joins us at our table. Or rather, joins Calvin, since she’s his friend. “I was hoping Clarke wouldn’t come back from his leave of absence,” she says, as a kind of greeting. I’ve never eaten with Charlotte before. I’m a bit shook that Charlotte is talking to me at all. But she does make eye contact with me, not just Calvin and Jacqui. She’s always deigned to speak to Jacqui, of course, because of my friend’s astronomical GPA.
Charlotte’s one of those pretty blonde girls who always seems to get perfect grades. Her mother, Dr. Holland, is a very active member of the Princeton Alumni Association and interviews kids from Rosewood South and the surrounding area applying to Princeton. Dr. Holland is a dermatologist; Charlotte’s father is an attorney and also went to Princeton undergrad. According to Calvin, the Hollands met at Princeton and even got married in the Princeton University Chapel.
Today, Charlotte’s sporting a creamy V-neck blouse, a Burberry plaid skirt, and cognac-colored leather knee-high boots. It kills me to admit I’m jealous of clothes that are so preppy, but I am. I mean, it’s British. I’d love a Burberry something, even though I’d end up wearing it with my pleather jacket or plain black wool peacoat. Her tasteful rose gold jewelry—a thin chain around her neck and a discrete bracelet on her narrow wrist that winks and glitters in the sunlight—begs my eyes to stare.
The need to vent about Mr. Clarke outweighs any social reservations Charlotte might have about speaking to me. I’m not sure I’d call her snobby, though. She doesn’t have a ton of friends. She’s the kind of girl who always ends up being the treasurer of school clubs, the boring job no one else wants to do. The person who always asks if something is going to be on the test, when the rest of the class is mute in fear. I know she studies and studies and tries and tries. I almost think the reason she gets such high grades is because teachers know she’ll freak out if she doesn’t get an A. She’ll contest every single answer marked wrong after she gets her assignment back. Or she’ll get her mom to come in and complain. I’ve seen Dr. Holland hovering at the principal’s door on many occasions. It’s not unusual for parents, especially mothers who don’t work (although Dr. Holland does) to be very “involved” with their kids at Rosewood South. Even if my father had copious spare time, I’d run myself through with a sword before I’d let him act in such a manner.
Charlotte went to the junior prom with Calvin last year; I would have asked Calvin if I knew he was free. I was kind of hoping he would go with Mark. I thought at least by the end of the year, Mark would be comfortable about coming out. I know Calvin was hoping the same thing. I will say that Calvin and Charlotte looked handsome together. They have the same coloring, the same lanky height, and Calvin’s silver ear piercings and sarcasm prevented them from seeming too insipidly perfect.
“I need to get an A in English this year; I only had a B+ average in the subject last year. I’m applying Early Action to Princeton and they’ll only see my first marking period grades. You see, I have to go Early Action to take advantage of my legacy status.” Charlotte’s words pour out of her in a rush. Like she wants us to feel sorry for her that she’s under such pressure, to cash in on her Ivy League legacy.
Legacy status means that one—in Charlotte’s case, both—of a student’s parents went to a particular university. I don’t know why, but it can help you get admitted. It’s like you’re born into academic royalty if your parents went to a college you might want to attend. It’s especially helpful, according to Ms. Desborough, if you take advantage of an Early Decision or Early Action option and you’re a legacy, since that means the admissions committee knows it’s your first choice school.
Pennington College offers applicants an Early Decision option. If you get admitted Early Decision, you hear by December if you’re accepted or not. If you are accepted, you agree to withdraw all other applications and only go to that school. Going Early Decision is a major, genuine commitment, like agreeing to marry the school without considering the offers of other prospective partners, versus a serious flirtation. Because Princeton University offers Early Action instead, it’s technically a nonbinding offer (you could go somewhere else if you wanted to) and since you don’t need to let the school know until May, it gives you more time to apply elsewhere and compare financial aid packages. But I’m sure Charlotte will go to Princeton if she gets in, and I know financial aid isn’t a factor, regardless.
“You’re in lots of clubs and activities, you’re involved.” I don’t know what else to say, so I simply make factual, truthful observations.
“Everyone has the grades, high SATs, and is involved who is applying.”
“Speak for yourself about the grades and standardized test scores,” I mutter.
“Well, I meant everyone who is applying to Princeton, of course. Sorry.�
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I bite my lip. “I like the books we’re going to read for English. I think I’ll do well in that class, at least—I’ve always gotten As in English. Why did Clarke take a leave of absence? That’s unusual unless a teacher is pregnant. Which I assume wasn’t the case.” I take out my lunch, which is a sesame seed bagel spread with vegetable cream cheese, carrot sticks, and pineapple juice.
“His wife had cancer. He took a year off to care for her at home, and she was in hospice for ages,” says Charlotte matter-of-factly. “Or so my mom heard.” She’s brought a salad in a plastic spaceship-like container. It’s crammed with avocado slices and yellow cherry tomatoes. She pours some oily dressing on it from a squeeze packet. “This is so yummy,” she says, taking a forkful. “Avocado is my favorite.”
“Is his wife okay now?” I ask.
“Oh, she’s dead, she died late in the summer,” says Charlotte, continuing to eat. “At least, that’s what my mom said.”
“That’s horrible,” I say. “He came right back after she died? She couldn’t have been that old.” I’m guessing Mr. Clarke’s in his late fifties. Despite his paunch and eye bags, he doesn’t look like he has one foot in his grave, especially when he gets energized about something like Beowulf, which was what he segued into after the Germanic origins of the word “fuck.”
“My mom said breast cancer I think? He’d never missed a day before in all his years of teaching before she got sick. Lucky, lucky us.” Charlotte’s mom always finds out everything. Dr. Holland resembles Charlotte—blonde, willowy, straight hair; the two of them together look like palomino horses hitched to the same wagon in one of my favorite costume dramas. Rosewood South has gotten a bunch of kids into Princeton, I know. But with my scores and my math and science grades, I don’t have a prayer. Although Princeton has a wonderful English literature department.
“Clarke can bring it. Do his worst,” I proclaim.
“You say that now, but English isn’t like studying for math or even history,” says Charlotte. “The teacher can pretty much give whatever grades he wants, which is why it’s such a ridiculous subject to be graded on.”
“Okay, I grant that the grading is more subjective but that’s what I like about it! I can have unique thoughts, it’s not like what’s in the book is automatically the only correct thing to think or say!”
“Which reminds me. Speaking of college and grades. We have a mutual friend. Ms. Desborough is my private college counselor, too.”
“Yes, I just started seeing her this year.”
“She’s the best, just the best,” says Charlotte, smiling, as if I’ve ratcheted up in her esteem by several notches, just by being in Ms. Desborough’s presence. “But if you think about it too hard, this whole college application process is just so silly. Having to suck up to teachers who went to mediocre schools, so we can get into acceptable colleges and get actual, decent jobs. When they’ve obviously taken a wrong turn. I mean, look at Clarke. The man drives a Honda from 2005 and his shirts from Walmart are probably just as old.”
“I drive a Honda,” I say. A 2008 Honda Civic, for the record.
“Yes, Liss, but you’re still in high school. The 2005 Honda is where he ended up in life.”
“You do realize my father is a teacher, Charlotte,” I say.
She gets a bit flustered. “I’m so sorry,” she says, giggling, and touching her hand to her mouth with her napkin, as if to suggest it was all a joke. But I’m not sure if she’s sorry for possibly offending me, or sorry that my father is who he is. “At least your father is a professor.”
Later that week, I have a meeting with my actual school guidance counselor, Ms. Sargent. She hands me a computer printout of a list of schools. “The University of Nebraska? The University of Idaho?” I ask. I know it’s just a computer program the school uses to suggest schools based upon my grades and scores, but I can’t help feel offended, as if I’ve just been given a middle finger by an algorithm.
When I ask Ms. Sargent if she has anything to add to the list, she says, “Rutgers is a fine school.”
I don’t think she means fine in the sense that Mr. Darcy says he likes women with fine eyes. More like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on store-bought white bread is fine for lunch. She’s ready to eat lunch and bring our meeting to a close. There’s an acai bowl on her desk and a banana, the latter of which makes her office smell ripe. She knows me as a series of numbers. Based upon those numbers, I’m not exactly an academic powerhouse, although I’m not in academic jeopardy, either. I’m not being recruited for athletics or applying Early Decision or Early Action. I’m a low priority. It would be easier from the guidance office’s standpoint if I just applied to Rutgers and some other state schools with uncomplicated applications.
“Here is your senior packet. It instructs you how to file the Common Application, how to request transcripts be sent to your different schools. There’s a form you need to fill out so I can write your guidance counselor recommendation.” Because I don’t know you, we both collectively think as we lock eyes. At least we’re on the same page there.
“I am applying to Rutgers,” I assure her. “And several other schools, mostly liberal arts colleges.”
At least Pennington accepts the online Common Application. All of the schools I’m thinking of applying to do, except Rutgers, which has its own, separate online form. I can just press a button and submit the same application to all of the Common App schools. Which makes things easier, logistically, even though it dials up the pressure to make my Common Application essay impressive.
“I’m glad you’re applying to Rutgers. You might get some merit-based scholarship money from them.”
“Thanks. I know.”
“It’s nice not to graduate with too much debt in student loans.”
“Very helpful advice.”
“The University of Idaho,” I say to Jacqui later. I prop my leg up on the barre and turn my body out slightly. Then I crack my hip, a satisfying sound. “Her computer program recommended the University of Idaho.”
“I also got the University of Idaho, so don’t feel hurt,” says Jacqui. “Maybe she has the same printout for everyone. I mean, would we know if she did?”
“Charlotte Holland would impale Ms. Sargent with a sharpened Princeton lacrosse stick, if she got a printout with the word ‘Idaho’ on it. Jacqui, your grades and SATs are way better than mine, so the computer program is screwed up if you got the same schools.”
“Do you think the program tells kids in Idaho to go to Rutgers? Maybe they’re having the same conversation we are right now.”
“Anyway, the computer also suggested other schools like…Davisson, which sounded promising because it’s a small liberal arts college. Then I checked the website and it’s nothing but kids who look like Vineyard Vines models, super-preppy types in Nantucket red, and that awful whale on everything.”
“It’s technology, it’s cold and impersonal. A computer doesn’t know how many people have piercings, wear lots of black, and like to read Jane Austen on campus.”
“Plus, I hate having to fill out the guidance counselor recommendation form and write paragraphs on my activities, classes, and then select three words that describe me. It’s all so fake. Why do schools ask for a guidance counselor recommendation, anyway?”
“Maybe at some schools the counselors actually talk to the kids?”
“Three words that describe me…witty, vivacious, fine. As in eyes.”
“Tolerable. Not. Tempting.”
“Jacqui! Such shade! But I’m proud you remember that from seeing Pride and Prejudice with me.”
“Couldn’t resist.”
“I’m kind of impressed.”
Jacqui gives a little curtsy. She’s wearing a ballet skirt, which I never bother to use, unless it’s required.
Catherine strides through the door. She’s scowling and dressed all in black, even her leg warmers, which is never a promising sign. Unlike me, who always wears dark colors, Ca
therine color-codes her mood. She looks like a woman on a mission. “Flatfooted, diminutive, and flabby,” I say, thinking of how she’d describe me. That’s also three words.
Chapter 7
Obstinate, Headstrong Girl
During the next meeting with my private college counselor, I learn I’ve failed a critical character test. “I’m sorry you didn’t like The Adams Morgan. Most of my students fall in love with it at first sight.”
“Pennington College is more my type of school,” I say, obstinately.
My father suggests Princeton University. I shudder. I know not everyone there is like Charlotte; the one girl who got in there last year seemed normal enough. But still.
Ms. Desborough frowns. “Princeton would be an enormous reach for us. I do have one student applying Early Action there this year. Do you know Charlotte Holland? What a lovely girl. So involved. Treasurer of the National Honor Society. And the Key Club.”
“Pennington College has an incredible English literature department,” I say wistfully.
“It’s difficult for Liss to let an idea go,” explains my father.
The next morning my car doesn’t start. My father’s long gone to one of his teaching gigs, so he can’t give me a jump. I’d promised my sister a ride to her school. She has to transport some tomato plants for a school presentation. The plants have been sitting in the bathroom, the warmest room of the house, for several days. I’m surprised Livy hasn’t put a scarf and earmuffs on them, she’s so protective of their health.
“I’m glad they won’t be staring at me through the shower curtain anymore, like some psycho stalker. But you’ve got to find some way to get them there without me.”
“I guess I’ll have to take—the bus,” she says, and makes a face. Although she’s at a geeky high school, there’s still a stigma to public transportation. Plus, she’s got a box of six big plants with weird experimental mold treatment encrusting their leaves. It’s supposed to protect the plants from aphids. I don’t blame the aphids wanting to keep their distance.
