by Mary Pagones
I watch her eat her bagel. She eats the soft part, then eats the skin. Jacqui consumes everything in a logical and orderly fashion, just like she tackles studying. This makes me feel she must know what she’s talking about, as much as I hope what she says about Noel is not true.
Calvin sits down with us, gives me my bagel with plain cream cheese and takes out his own. “I’m living on the edge and going with the Funfetti spread,” he says.
Plain cream cheese is perfect; the bagels are tasty without all the sugar. Calvin was kind enough to cut mine into quarters. When I thank him, of course he says, “I know you have a small mouth. Literally not metaphorically, of course.”
“Thanks, but that fact’s never bothered anyone.”
“I’m learning so much about Hugh,” he says. He takes a big bite of his bagel and a lump of pink cream cheese dotted with hunks of pastel falls onto his jeans. “Fuck, now it looks like a unicorn came all over me.”
“This type of scandalous talk is too much for my delicate and ladylike sensibilities,” says Jacqui. “I think I need to put on a bonnet and some little white gloves, then read Jane Austen. Get me my smelling salts!” She touches her cafeteria napkin to her lips.
Calvin laughs so hard he almost chokes on his bagel, which he’s still stuffing into his mouth even as he’s trying to wipe off his jeans. I use this as an excuse to pound on his back.
“Look, I’ve told you, people who think Jane’s just about tea and pretty dresses don’t get Austen at all. There is actually quite a lot of sex in her books. It’s just very subtle.” I feel I’m on uncertain ground on the subject of Noel, so I cling to the rock of what I know.
Calvin’s teeth have turned pastel from the princess shades of his Funfetti cream cheese. “Don’t get mad, Liss, you don’t need to defend Saint Jane. We’re just jealous that you’re the only one who’s getting any.” Jacqui looks down at her food a bit sadly and continues to eat her bagel skin.
“Did you hear about your audition?” I ask, skillfully switching subjects.
“Why, yes I did,” says Calvin. I can tell by his face that the news wasn’t what he wanted.
“No Lancelot?”
“Nope.” Unbelievable. It wasn’t even close, based upon what I saw. I want to throttle every single kid in the auditorium who laughed.
“King Arthur?”
“You’re shitting me. Rob’s Arthur, of course. You know the drama teacher Ms. Palumbo’s in love with him.” Rob’s a big, jocky guy with a decent singing voice. But he can’t do a British accent to save his life.
“So what part did you get?”
“Mordred, Arthur’s evil, bastard son.”
Jacqui snorts with laughter. “So, not much of a stretch?”
“He has one song, plus it’s more of a patter song, not a show-stopper.”
Charlotte throws her lunch bag away in a nearby wastebasket (ignoring the one closest to her table) and walks over to us. “I heard you didn’t get the part of Lancelot,” she says to Calvin. How does Charlotte find everything out, practically before the person involved knows? “I’m so sorry.”
Calvin’s struggling to keep the disappointment off of his face. He rearranges his mouth into his usual sidewise grin. “It could be worse. I could not have been cast at all. At least Mordred’s not as villainously gay as Captain Hook. He’s only a moderately gay villain.”
“Maybe if you didn’t wear so many pentagrams, you wouldn’t always get cast as a villain,” says Charlotte, sounding worried. “If only other people could just see past all of that.”
“I don’t think it’s the pentagrams,” I mutter. Calvin is right. Nine out of ten people are assholes. Homophobic assholes. Even some teachers.
“Can you complain to the school?” asks Charlotte. “Or can your parents?”
“You don’t do that sort of thing in drama. You just don’t. You have to suck it up. Besides, that wouldn’t be fair to the guy who was cast as Lance. I wouldn’t want the part taken away from him now. I’ll just have to make the most of Mordred,” says Calvin.
I can sense Charlotte doesn’t trust this logic, but she nods, blinks her big blue eyes, and says, “Let me give you a hug.”
Calvin tells her to be careful of the unicorn ejaculation on him, and they meld into a mutual squeeze. He’s unusually vulnerable today. Charlotte whips out a tiny water bottle from her purse and uses it to help him get the last of the cream cheese smear off of his pants. I notice her long, pale fingers linger just a bit too long. “Now I’ll smell like cream cheesy spunk the rest of the day,” he says. Even after Charlotte finally leaves us to return to her table, she keeps looks back at Calvin, as if checking to make sure he’s emotionally stable.
Calvin says to me, “Not to put the pressure on you, but all I’m looking forward to is your film. I don’t care if I’m playing a gay guy. At least I know the part will be decently written. And not totally evil. And a big one. Hint, hint.”
“I’ll give you all of the most heart-wrenching lines, I promise,” I say.
Chapter 11
The Improvement Of The Mind By Extensive Reading
Other than fearing that my car might sputter and die at any minute, I find the ride to Pennington College as relaxing as it is beautiful. I watch the Garden State Parkway’s familiar exit signs and rest stops ebb away into green grass, cows, and horse farms. Like going back in time and space to a simpler, more peaceful…England. I’ve never been there, but it’s what I imagine England to be like.
The information session for prospective Pennington students doesn’t formally begin until much later. The Jane Austen seminar I want to sit in on starts at 11 a.m., so I get there early.
I introduce myself to Professor Crosby. She’s wearing all black, has a short buzz cut that’s so cropped I can’t tell if her hair is light brown or dark blonde, and greets me with a firm handshake. I was a little nervous she’d ask me to leave, because the suggested classes for prospective students are all introductory-level classes. But when she sees I brought the Complete Annotated Jane Austen, she realizes that I’m not playing around. I explain, “I am a diehard Janeite.”
They’re discussing Northanger Abbey and Pride and Prejudice today. Early Jane versus Middle Jane. Even some people on Facebook’s Pemberley will rip into Northanger Abbey, calling it juvenilia and saying it’s not worth bothering to read. But I’m totally into Mr. Tilney, the book’s hero. He’s adorable and loves to read novels. Of course, I’m not going to volunteer that opinion during class; I can tell Professor Crosby wouldn’t appreciate an analysis of Austen heroes’ relative desirability in relation to one another.
She begins: “Northanger Abbey’s Catherine Moreland receives very little instruction, or rather poor instruction, from her parents. A parallel with Austen’s Elizabeth Bennet. Moreland doesn’t learn to be a critical reader. She takes Gothic romances at face value. Austen loved these novels—otherwise she wouldn’t be so clever at spoofing them. For Austen, unlike the Romantics, an uneducated young woman was a dangerous creature: dangerous for her family and to society as well as to herself.”
There’s a long silence, and she seems to be waiting for someone to make a contribution. I raise my hand. “Mr. Tilney, in the book, says he likes Gothic novels. He just doesn’t believe they are realistic. In Pride and Prejudice, one of Austen’s most ridiculous characters, the clergyman Mr. Collins, says he never reads novels. People who don’t read, or just pretend to read to flirt like Miss Bingley, are silly. Although Mr. Bingley’s a kind man, the fact that he has so few books in his library isn’t a promising sign. It’s why he’s so easily swayed by his sisters and Mr. Darcy: Bingley hasn’t learned to have independent opinions. So reading, including reading novels, is important. But like you said, characters need to learn to read novels in the right way.”
I’ve broken the ice. A guy with his hair in a man-bun immediately sticks up his hand. “Mr. Bingley is new money, that’s what his lack of books signifies, because Darcy has an extensive library b
uilt over generations, a marker of his higher social class.”
“The Bennet girls are said to have read novels from circulating libraries, which reflects their middle-class status,” adds my professor, supporting his analysis. She seems eager to help students develop their ideas, unlike Mr. Clarke, who is always on the attack. There’s no whiteboard in this room, no place to outline a battle plan of color-coded notes.
The girl next to the guy with the man-bun has a lip ring and is wearing a baby-doll dress and combat boots. I’m close enough I can smell the essential oils she’s doused herself in—vanilla, lavender, and something else. The odor’s not unpleasant, just very strong. She chimes in. “Jane often mentions what her characters read. Mary’s always going on about those lines from ladies’ etiquette books. Mr. Collins reads Fordyce’s sermons. Mr. Bennet likes to read, but he is seen reading alone—he uses reading to avoid his family responsibilities.”
Professor Crosby nods vigorously. “Bingley has access to a library because he has money, but he lacks the desire to apply himself. Mary has access to books, and does apply herself, but lacks the depth of mind and spirit to use the knowledge in social situations, as is evident when she spouts clichés about female virtue after Lydia elopes with Wickham. Mr. Collins doesn’t enjoy reading, but he reads Fordyce’s sermons aloud as a way of making a social display of piety. Mr. Bennet, well, we all know what happens because of his free-range parenting style!”
I try to thank Professor Crosby for letting me sit in on her class afterward, but she’s too busy discussing something with one of her students. I don’t want to interrupt.
Man-bun approaches me as I walk out of the building. “Thanks for getting us started in the discussion today,” he says. “I haven’t seen you here before. Are you a prospective?”
I nod. My mouth is still cottony from speaking aloud.
“Prospective student showing us all up,” says the girl beside him.
“I’m still a little bit rough from last night, so it took me awhile to get in the right headspace,” says the guy. “I love this class, but the 11 a.m. start time is brutal. If you’re still in high school, you must be used to be getting up at the crack of dawn. I don’t miss that.”
“I was just grateful to be able to participate,” I say. “What an incredible discussion.”
I have clearly found my people.
My heart’s fluttering inside. Even more than when I saw Hugh last.
The atmosphere at the admissions office meet-and-greet for prospective students is completely different from The Adams Morgan. There’s a library of worn books adorning all four walls of the conference room. Unlike Mr. Bingley’s Netherfield library, the spines of these books look creased and well-read. Tables are adorned with silver flasks of tea and coffee next to plates of cookies and cut fruit. Some of the cookies are vegan and gluten-free. There are little hand-written signs in calligraphy on every plate of food. I go with the non-vegan matcha shortbread and my usual Earl Grey with whole milk. We all sit on cozy chairs. I’m in my best short black Empire-waist dress, fishnets, and my newest pair of fancy green Doc Martins to match my emerald nose stud. I cross my ankles as I listen to the presentation.
“We believe in the value of a liberal arts education,” are the first words out of the head of admission’s mouth. Her name is Annabeth Smyer, but she doesn’t wear a sticker announcing that fact, trusting that we can remember her name. She talks about how Pennington College was founded on a spirit of intellectual inquiry. There aren’t any requirements, just encouragement for students to study a variety of subjects. Classes are small. Students have gone on to do everything from writing Broadway musicals to working on Wall Street. She stresses the school’s commitment to diversity and inclusiveness.
I sip my tea, feel the buttery shortbread dissolve on my tongue. Between this and the Jane Austen discussion, I’m in my personal version of heaven. When Ms. Smyer mentions how one student double-majored in English and dance, then choreographed an all-woman period dance as her senior thesis project after doing an internship over the summer with a dance company in New York City, the only thing that makes me sorry is that I’m not going to be the first person to do this.
I text my father.
I love it here. This could be my second home. I could die of happiness as an English major at this school.
I know this isn’t quite the home that my father wanted me to find.
As I leave the building, I see a group of students dressed in armor and long, Renaissance-type gowns. Both the men and the women are carrying swords. They can see that we’re just visiting and some of the parents are weirded out, so one of them volunteers, “We’re the Society for Creative Anachronism.”
I want to join. Immediately.
After the tour, I have an interview with a woman named Amy Lesser, who works in admissions. Even though she’s wearing a Charlotte Holland-style outfit of a plaid skirt, knee-high boots, and sweater—all in soft, golden fall colors that complement her very dark, flawless skin—her body language is relaxed enough that it doesn’t look like she’s modeling the preppy ensemble. She tells me to call her Amy and says she’s Pennington graduate. Then she greets me with, “I’m so glad I get to interview you! I asked to interview you specially!”
I don’t know whether to be alarmed or happy. “Wow, thank you! But I hate to disappoint you…I’m not a famous person.” Has she mistaken me for some celebrity actor’s daughter or something? Because I know Pennington has had quite a few of those attend as well.
“Oh no, I went to Rosewood South, too! Back in the Dark Ages, of course.”
No way! “That’s wonderful.” I can breathe again, and relax.
Amy runs off a list of teachers. Some of the names I recognize, some I don’t. “Well, it’s been ten years, so I’m not surprised many of my former teachers have retired. I don’t suppose Mr. Clarke is still there?” The way she says it makes me wonder if he’s a bit older than I first suspected. He looks younger when he’s teaching, but older first thing in the morning when he’s still drinking his coffee at his desk.
“Still there,” I say. “He’s intense. A hard grader but fair.” I make that subtle point, for when she sees my transcripts.
“Tom Clarke is the reason I became an English major at Pennington. His wife, Elaine Clarke, is a pretty incredible woman, too—a professor of literature at Rutgers—even though she doesn’t have his cool British accent,” Amy laughs. “Mr. Clarke offered me his wife’s email address so she could answer some of my questions for a research paper I was writing. I reworked the article when I was at Pennington and actually got it published in a small academic journal. Mr. Clarke has a PhD, but he ended up teaching high school. Academia’s loss was our gain, I guess.”
Before she can continue for too long in her happy reverie, I have to interrupt and say. “Um, I think his wife passed away, quite recently. Just this summer.”
“Oh, no. No. They seemed like such a cute, tweedy little couple. I came back to visit and have lunch with them when I was still a student at Pennington. They used to finish each other’s sentences and everything, get into adorable little play fights about which novel was Jane Austen’s greatest.” She looks shaken.
“I heard she died of breast cancer.”
“Please, please give my condolences to him.”
It’s difficult to turn our conversation back to the usual interview questions Amy has to ask. As our dialogue concludes, I ask Amy questions about Pennington. Ms. Desborough says that’s necessary to show interest and engagement during an interview. But since Amy’s been so open, I forget some of Ms. Desborough’s advice and become blunt.
“Pennington is my first choice,” I say. “But…I’m not going to lie. Financial aid is a significant factor in my decision.”
“Of course! I was in the same position!” Amy says. “We can’t estimate your financial aid package until we build the rest of the incoming class. Unfortunately, as a small regional college, Pennington’s ability to giv
e financial aid is more limited than say, a Harvard or a Princeton. Or even a Williams or a Wesleyan. But you’ll never know if you don’t apply.”
I can’t argue with such wisdom. “I wish you offered Early Action as an option, which would allow me to apply to other schools and see what financial aid packages they offered. Other schools do, like Princeton and The Adams Morgan…”
“If it were my decision, Pennington certainly would! I agree that Early Decision gives too much of an advantage to students who don’t need financial aid by forcing applicants to commit to a school before they can see what others might offer, money-wise. Pennington tries to make itself accessible to students of all backgrounds. Diversity is important here, including socio-economic diversity. Still, Pennington’s resources are limited. One of the drawbacks of being so small.”
“I want to be an English major like you, so I have to be realistic about how much I’m going to earn after I graduate.”
“Trust me, I totally get it. I was lucky to get this job at Pennington right after I left school! So what books are you reading right now, besides what’s required for school? Or don’t you have time?”
“Time? Oh, I make time. Time has no meaning when I’m reading Jane Austen. I swear this isn’t a prop, but…” I whip out my copy of The Complete Annotated Jane Austen. “I sat in on Professor Crosby’s class. She’s…” I’m trying to think of the right words. “A force of nature.”
“Well…” Amy whips out the very same edition from the shelf behind her. And…” This is followed by the brandishing of an annotated volume of Jane Eyre.
“The great debate between all lovers of nineteenth-century romance literature,” I say. “Team Darcy versus Team Rochester.”
