Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  “I’m sure Ms. Desborough will have opinions about what you should write.”

  “Look, Liss, I know. I know. But would it be better if no one did stuff like this at all? At least I’m trying to help.”

  “Or the Indian orphans are helping you get into college?” Charlotte starts eating more quickly, stares at her salad. They don’t give us much time for lunch. I attack my pizza more vigorously. “Orphans in the developing world need more than hand sanitizer.”

  “I can’t solve all the world’s problems. That’s why I’m supposed to go to college, to figure out how,” says Charlotte, piously. I can feel her warming up to a topic sentence.

  “I’d like to think we’re all already woke to the fact that moisturizer can’t fix the world’s problems,” I counter. Charlotte’s mom is a dermatologist; I wonder if Dr. Holland got the facial cleansers at a discounted rate.

  “I took action and went over there. I didn’t just drop a donation in the mail. Can you save all the dogs you help at the shelter? No. But at least what you do is a start.” The essay is unfolding as we speak.

  I take a breath to compose myself before I continue. “That’s different. I’ve been working there for years. I clean out the dogs’ cages and get to know them as people, I mean, dogs. I help interview prospective adoptees. I walk the dogs. I don’t care if a college is impressed by what I do or not.”

  “I would want to help people all over the world even if I wasn’t applying to college! Wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course I would, that’s not the point. I’m just giving you my non-expert opinion that what you said sounds like a cliché. I mean, I assume you realized even before you went to India that most people in the world don’t live as we do.” Right now, I feel guilty about my own whining about how poor I am.

  There’s a long silence.

  “So I’m a cliché? Oh well, I guess there isn’t anything interesting about me.”

  “That’s so not true, Charlotte,” says Calvin. He stops eating to touch her shoulder. They have a moment. Then Calvin unlocks his eyes from their gaze and goes back to looking for more chunks of bacon in his salad.

  “I didn’t say that you were a cliché, only the subject,” I backpedal (a bit).

  “I’m not like you, Liss. I’m not the creative type. I’m not making this sound right.”

  “I’m not a creative type, I just like to read and write.” I feel my face flush. I finish up my pizza. I’m not going to eat the weird Jell-O stuff. I have some taste.

  “I don’t understand where you find the time to read novels, Liss. I’m so busy I barely have time to sleep with all of my schoolwork and activities,” Charlotte says. “In fact, sometimes I don’t have time to do even that.” She rubs her eyes. “Which is probably why I don’t have any patience today.” She takes a small mirror from her backpack to make sure she hasn’t smudged her eye makeup.

  “I make time,” I say. “Because I love reading.”

  “It’s because Liss is a pretentious weirdo,” says Calvin, grinning.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “There’s no more condescending cliché than, ‘I’m not like other girls,’ Liss,” says Charlotte. Her glossy mouth is so taunt it’s a slit.

  “Are you going to eat your Jell-O?” Calvin asks. “Green is my favorite flavor.”

  I shake my head, slide the cup in his direction. “I obviously don’t have anything against people donating to orphanages. But giving money and toothpaste doesn’t make you more qualified for Princeton than anyone else. I’m being honest. I’m not applying to Princeton, so I’m not trying to screw up your chances. It’s your application. Write whatever you want.”

  “I’m sorry I ever mentioned India at all.”

  “Jesus, will the two of you stop fighting about nothing,” says Calvin. He’s actually eating the Jell-O. Jesus H. Christ Superstar, he certainly does have no standards at all.

  Jacqui and I sputter to dance class in my little Honda. Catherine is there already, uncharacteristically early and ready to teach in her leotard and her leg warmers. It takes me longer to change than usual because I’m wearing a dress, lace-up boots, and very delicate fishnets. There are already a few other girls on the floor warming up by the time I’m done.

  “Liss, come over here,” Catherine says. I brace myself and walk to the front of the class, careful to turn out my toes like the perfect dancer. I’m all in black today, from leotard to leg warmers, but unlike Catherine, who only wears all black when she’s in a foul mood, I wear black because I like it. Unfortunately, my black tights make my imperfect, pale, pink-encased feet stand out even more. “I’ve been in conversation with the director of The Nutcracker,” she says.

  The Academy of Movement is small, so for our winter production (which is, of course, The Nutcracker), we work with a local professional company. The professionals dance the leads, and Academy students dance the chorus parts. We take the roles of party guests, chocolate, coffee, candy, and mice. Because of my height, I’m always a mouse.

  “We’re going to allow some of the younger students to participate.”

  I nod. I’m not entirely sure what this has to do with me. Some of the middle school dancers Catherine’s been teaching are unusually strong and committed. I know because I help out with her kids’ classes during the summer.

  “We won’t need all the senior girls this year. Including you.”

  Things have suddenly gotten very quiet. Catherine has no real indoor voice. I look around. This is a pointe technique class. It’s mostly older girls. But she’s talking to me personally (sort of). I guess the translation is that I’m the only experienced senior ballerina here not being allowed to take part.

  I bite my lip. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s not my decision.” I’m not sure if I believe her or not. I look at my shoes. They need to be replaced. Catherine continues. “With the little girls, we just have too many short dancers. The Mouse King can have only so many mice soldiers without the stage getting overrun by vermin.” I stare at myself in the mirror, as if observing a stranger, although I’m all too familiar with the sight of my short legs, short arms, and long torso. Although technically I’m slightly underweight for my height, I’m acutely aware that because more of my bulk is in my upper body, I look heavier than I actually am. Of course, Catherine has told me that’s all the more reason to be careful about my diet.

  How I loved being a warrior mouse with a sword, fighting off the Nutcracker’s army! “Well, I guess I have enough to keep me busy. I have to work on my college applications and visit schools,” I say.

  I tell myself it will be nice not to sit for hours in a drafty theater as they fuss with the lights and blocking. I expect my teacher to spout some platitude about being sorry and how hard I practice. I underestimated her. “There are no participation trophies in dance,” she says.

  I crawl to the barre.

  Class passes in a blur. “I can’t believe I’ve been demoted from mouse,” I mutter to Jacqui. “Slam the door, I don’t want the other girls to hear me.” There are a couple of lanky flamingos lingering outside, the girls who have visible hip bones and rib cages that pop out through their leotards.

  “Do you think it’s because you’re dating Hugh?” asks Jacqui. “I swear, Liss, none of the dancers at The Academy has the perfect ballet body. No one has your feel for the music. You’re always a hilarious mouse.”

  Feel for the music is a polite way of saying funny-looking in ballet. “Oh well,” I say. “At least I don’t have to wear that stinky mouse head again.”

  “Dad, I’m not going to be cast in the The Nutcracker this year.” I notice that Livy is making dinner again tonight. She actually likes to cook; she says it’s like science. Which is enough of an excuse for me to hate it. “That sauce better not be made with the leftovers of your moldy tomatoes,” I say. Livy licks the spoon, threatening to put it back in the pot. “If you do that, you’re buying dinner.”

  “It’s just doctored-up Prego. Extra sp
ices and some Parmesan thrown in.” She throws the licked spoon in the sink and takes a new one.

  “Liss, why on earth would they cut you from The Nutcracker?” asks my father. For once, he’s not at the kitchen table grading papers. He’s sitting on the couch, reading a book with the ominous title of Colleges That Change Lives. “You were so funny last year when you were one of the mice.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s part of the problem,” I say. “I should have tried to blend in more.”

  “Do you want me to talk to Catherine?”

  “It wasn’t just her decision. It’s a professional company, and they don’t cast to make people feel better. I’m sure it was totally objective.” Actually, I’m not, but I don’t want my father to speak to Catherine. I hate it when kids bring in their parents to whine for them. If I must, I can quite capably whine for myself.

  “This means I don’t have to see it this year. Yes!” says Livy. She gives a fist-pump with her free fist.

  “Liss, do you think this will look bad for college? That you didn’t do The Nutcracker your senior year?”

  I’m a little bit taken aback that this is his reaction. I expected him to be disappointed that he wouldn’t see his daughter perform, or that I’d lost an opportunity to do something I enjoy, not to be worried about my résumé. “I’ll still take jazz and modern classes. I help out with the chorography of the school play. It’s not like I’m abandoning dance. I’m just finished with ballet. I’m quitting pointe.”

  “I’m annoyed, after all the time and money I’ve invested,” he says. “I should get to see my daughter dance on stage her senior year. She should get to put it on her college résumé for all four years.” Now I’m more irritated by him than by Catherine. This Nutcracker is a professional production—it’s not like it’s designed to gratify the ego of participants or parents. It was an honor to perform, not an entitlement. His reaction makes me all the more determined not to protest and to bow out gracefully.

  As I wait for Livy to serve the food, I check the Pennington College website to see what classes I can sit in on, since prospective student day is coming up. I start screaming.

  “Score! Domesticity and Desire: Jane Austen and the Origins of the British Novel!” Then I notice my father doesn’t look as excited as I am. “Oh, Dad, you understand that I have to check out this class. I mean, even if I major in something else, I just have to go to this one class, this one time.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I’m more excited about this than I would be doing The Nutcracker,” I explain. But then he looks even sadder.

  After dinner, I work on my novel.

  Mary had no natural defenses built up against Wickham’s entreaties. Other young ladies, such as her sisters, had been repeatedly told they were beautiful since they were very young. Such ladies, inured to poetry exalting their perfections, might elect to make a conscious choice to accept compliments with moderation and decorum, or to fling themselves with wild abandon at the first redcoat in their paths. Mary, never having been praised for her beauty, only knew what the word “virtue” looked like on a page. She had studied virtue by rote and copy. Her conviction in chastity’s value was purely philosophical and had never been tested by opportunity.

  Poor Mary, plonking away at her piano and copying extracts all those years, hoping to make up for not having a pretty face. At least I have things going for me other than music.

  Chapter 9

  I Send No Compliments To Your Mother

  “I’ve been thinking about you, Elisa,” Ms. Desborough intones, as my father and I settle into our respective chairs.

  “Liss,” I say.

  “Dance may be too ‘done’ as an essay topic for your Common Application essay.”

  “Actually, I think I’m pretty done with ballet.”

  “You’re not bowing out of dance your senior year!”

  “I’m going to be taking fewer dance classes. I’m focusing more on my writing. Fiction writing, I mean. I’m writing my personal statement about Jane Austen.”

  “Your personal statement for college shouldn’t be like a school assignment. That’s why they call it personal.”

  “Elizabeth Bennet is a personal role model. Jane Austen is like a personal friend.”

  “I was thinking of something closer to home. Your mother, Liss. Losing her at a young age must have been so hard for the family.”

  From the corner of my eye I can see my father stiffen up.

  I feel like it’s my responsibility to answer and to give my father a moment to recover. “My mother died when I was five years old. Look, what does this have to do with college?” I can’t bring myself to say how she was killed in a car accident in front of my father. I know he feels guilty she was driving alone that night. I don’t want to say the truth, which is that I don’t remember my mother all that well. My family has always been my dad, Livy, and me.

  “The loss of your mother helps explain who you are.”

  “So do lots of things.” The idea of being able to be easily explained enrages me, as does the idea that a college counselor would know me better than I know myself.

  “You must have had to take on so many responsibilities for your sister. Like a mother.”

  “Ms. Desborough, my sister and I have a sisterly relationship. It’s not like I’m her mother. If you’ve ever met Livy, you know she does what she pleases. My father is the parent.” Although the air conditioning isn’t blasting now that it’s fall, Ms. Desborough doesn’t have the heat on. I’m shivering, a bit with cold, a bit with anger.

  “The point is, the colleges…”

  “The point is, you’re telling me a story about myself that’s not true,” I say.

  “If you think it will help to get Liss into the right college and some money…” says my father.

  “Dad!” I’m mortified for us both.

  “Look, Liss, I’m sure Ms. Desborough knows more about this process than either of us. Your mother would want…”

  I know what he’s going to say, that my mother would want the best for me, that she wouldn’t mind. I know I’m supposed to miss her every moment, but the little bits and pieces of memory don’t quite add up to a whole person. Pretending that I’m always thinking of my mother would be worse than Charlotte Holland claiming to save India’s orphans singlehandedly with liquid soap.

  “The college admissions process is brutally competitive, and we need to maximize our advantages.” Again, Ms. Desborough and her royal “we.”

  “Do I have so little to offer a school that I have to make them feel sorry for me? And not even for a reason that affected my grades?” I ask.

  “You have to understand,” says Ms. Desborough. “This is a buyer’s market, and the colleges are the buyers. They have all of the power. They have the power to admit you and offer you as much or as little money as they desire. Your only power is in saying ‘no.’”

  “Like a Regency marriage proposal? Besides, that isn’t true.”

  “How, Liss?”

  “I have a choice in how I choose to play their game. It would be one thing if…if my mother had died when I was in high school and that had changed my life in the here and now. I refuse to pretend I’m some lost, orphaned waif who gets locked in the attic or a cupboard at night.”

  I admit I locked Livy in the bathroom many times on purpose when we were little kids because she was being annoying, but that’s a different thing altogether. That ended when she learned how to pick the lock. She was always adept at mechanical activities.

  “So, I have another question for you. I see on your résumé you’re a member of your high school’s Gay-Straight Alliance.”

  She pauses, clearly uncomfortable. I lean back, enjoying her discomfort. I debate in the silence whether she’s going to ask me if I’m gay or bisexual or, better yet, suggest I pretend to be gay or bisexual to improve my chances at getting admitted. Instead, she just asks why I chose to join the club.

  “Because gay people are
being discriminated against, are even committing suicide, and kids get bullied at my school. It’s not easy to be out. People need support.”

  “A very popular cause right now. Many of the most elite schools seeking greater diversity allow students to write supplemental essays about their experiences being LGBT,” says Ms. Desborough.

  I’m sure Calvin would consider having to write an extra essay additional persecution. “The club holds fundraisers. It’s not saving the world. The point is, it exists and hopefully if it exists long enough, more gay students will feel okay about being out.” And straight kids will feel less okay about being assholes, Calvin would add.

  “Maybe you have a friend with a personal struggle you’d like to write about? Who inspired you?”

  “I’m not using someone else’s story to get into college,” I say. “Besides, even though I do have friends who are gay, that’s not the only reason I’m in the Alliance. I’m a member because I know the cause is just, not because I’m going along with what my friends say.”

  Ms. Desborough looks frustrated by my responses. Again, there is an extended, painful silence. “Let’s table the personal statement for now,” she says. “Let’s talk about schools. First of all, given your situation, it behooves you to apply to as many as possible. Some of my students apply to as many as twenty schools.”

  “Twenty! There’s no way I can research twenty schools,” I say.

  “The more schools to which you apply, the better your chances of negotiating an attractive financial aid package. I assume you don’t want to go Early Decision. It obviously gives you less flexibility in negotiating aid.”

  “Charlotte’s applying Early Action to Princeton,” I say. If a school offers Early Action, which isn’t binding like Early Decision, theoretically a student can apply elsewhere and compare financial aid packages. But I know that Charlotte’s family isn’t even bothering to apply for financial aid. “Pennington only offers Early Decision.”