Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  “Are you on Team Darcy or Team Rochester?”

  “Team Darcy all the way, obviously.”

  Amy counters, “I prefer Jane Eyre’s first-person narrative style. I love how Jane talks to the reader. ‘Reader, I married him.’”

  “True,” I say, getting warmed up. “But look how much Darcy gives up for Elizabeth. His pride, for one thing. He helps a man he utterly despises and becomes connected with Elizabeth’s, um, questionable family. Settles Wickham’s debts, which would be an absolute fortune in today’s money.” More than a college education at a private liberal arts school, I think, which is saying a lot. “Plus, there’s the whole issue of Mr. Rochester having his first wife declared insane and locking her up in his attic. Then he tries to enter into a bigamous marriage without telling his fiancée Jane. Major dating red flags right there.”

  Amy is laughing. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to date either hero. I’m sure Mr. Rochester wouldn’t like me. I’m more his madwoman-in-the-attic type. So perhaps I’m really on Team Attic Wife? I only meant I find Jane Eyre to be a fascinating text. Partially because it’s so problematic in regards to its representations of race and colonialism.”

  “Team Bertha Mason represent!” I agree, although I’m still secretly on Team Darcy, first and foremost.

  I’ve found my groove, talking about literature. The interview lasts longer than it’s supposed to, and I conclude by talking about wanting to open up a chapter of the Jane Austen Society of North America at Pennington. “I’ve learned so much reading Jane Austen—and the Brontës,” I say. “That’s what I love about Pennington. It supports reading these types of books and shows they’re still relevant.” Although this is kind of putting a bow on the interview’s closing, like Ms. Desborough advised, I say this because I do believe it, and it doesn’t feel forced at all.

  In fact, it’s almost more like Amy’s trying to sell the school to me, rather than the other way ’round. She tells me that she interned over the summer at the Jane Austen Centre in Bath when she was a student. I’m already planning my entire four years at the school. Other schools only brag about how kids intern at investment banking firms or shadow doctors. Pennington is special.

  I have to call, not text, Jacqui when I get home, I’m so excited. “The dorms, library, and science center all look like they could stand in for buildings on Darcy’s estate. The smaller classroom buildings look like quaint English cottages! The class I sat in on was so inspiring. On Pride and Prejudice. Of course.” I can see myself wearing a Regency gown, hanging out with the Society for Creative Anachronism already. “Amy was very generous with her time.”

  “She likes Jane Eyre and told you to apply. I’m not sure I would consider that helpful financially. Look, don’t hate me, but I’m visiting The Adams Morgan soon. There’s a special prospective weekend at the school, just for minority students majoring in the sciences. The school offers a number of special scholarships for science and pre-med majors I’m eligible for; I figured it would be fun to see DC if nothing else. I don’t expect to get in, much less get money.”

  “I don’t hate you for going to The Adams Morgan to check it out, Jacqui! I just said it’s not my type of school. You kill me with this not-getting-in business, because if you’re not getting in anywhere but Rutgers with your grades and SATs, then there’s no hope for me. You need to have more confidence.”

  “Okay, phew. I thought you were going to be mad. Or think less of me.”

  “I think The Adams Morgan is hateful if they don’t accept you and give you a huge financial aid package, though.”

  “It’s just hard for me to even picture myself anywhere but Rutgers.”

  “I have enough imagination for both of us. Just don’t do anything too wild, hanging out with those science types for three days.”

  “I promise not to do anything Jane Austen wouldn’t do.”

  “Don’t go full Lydia Bennet on me and elope with a cad.”

  “I promise never to go full Lydia Bennet. The only CAD I plan on seeing all weekend is a computer-assisted design demonstration.”

  I decide to work on my personal statement, since I’m feeling fired up about applying to Pennington. As I’m about to begin, I hear a knock on my bedroom door.

  Livy walks in. She’s wearing her glasses and purple pajamas decorated with images of planets from the solar system. So I can’t help laughing when she says, “Liss, I think I want to break up with Peter. I’ve outgrown the relationship. I’m trying to figure out how to do it kindly.” She sounds so serious.

  “Oh no, the two of you were such a sweet couple.” I almost say ‘cute, geeky couple,’ but I don’t want to offend her. “What did he do?”

  “I just don’t feel that way about him anymore,” she says, sadly.

  “Wait, did he…” Because I was just talking about Lydia Bennet, that’s my first thought.

  “No, he’s not pressuring me to do anything I don’t want to do. I’m just…I don’t know. Bored. Like I know what he’s going to say before he says it.”

  “You know what’s best for you,” I say, shifting to wiser older sister mode.

  “I’m just not sure another guy will ever like me. I mean, a guy that I like back. Who doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

  I can’t exactly guarantee she’ll find a different kind of guy next week. Especially since all of the guys at her high school are so, well, Peter-like. Eventually I say, “I personally don’t believe in settling.”

  “Sometimes being a girl at a science and math magnet school bites.”

  “Yes, well, the dance world is worse. No guys at all.”

  “You have a boyfriend. You have nothing to complain about.”

  “Took me long enough to find the right guy, didn’t it? Look, I’m sure Peter wouldn’t want you to stay with him because you felt bad for him.”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure he cares. He just wants a girlfriend. Any female would do.”

  “That’s your answer, then. You have a lot going for you. You’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re interested in stuff guys like. Like robots and Star Wars.”

  She shrugs.

  After my sister leaves, I crack my knuckles and turn my attention back to my laptop.

  My closest personal friend, confidant, surrogate mother, and second sister is someone I’ve never met, I begin. In fact, technically, she’s dead. But I, just like her legions of fans, bring her back to life, every time I open one of her books. Her name is Jane Austen…

  Five hundred fifty words later, I reflect that it’s probably not enough of a tear-jerker for Ms. Desborough, and it’s certainly not an orphanage in India. But it sounds like me. And it’s the truth.

  Now I can go back to my novel. I’m feeling less stressed.

  Mary did not look forward to her sister’s visits to Longbourn. She dreaded the anticipated comparison with an elder sister who had made such a fortuitous marriage. Unlike Mary, Elizabeth was a creature of unbounded vivacity and wit. Lizzie was a great walker and a superior dancer.

  I delete “superior dancer.”

  Elizabeth was a great walker, although also a great reader.

  I smile. That will make Mary Bennet even more jealous.

  I want someone to read over my first draft of my personal statement. But I don’t trust Ms. Desborough.

  “Mr. Clarke,” I say after class the next day. “I have a favor to ask of you.” His head jerks up from his desk; he was starting to grade the brief quiz he gave us at the beginning of the period. “Would you look over my college personal statement?”

  He frowns. “Ms. Tennant, I teach literature.” He seems appalled that I would encroach upon his time in such a manner. “I’m happy to give additional feedback on class assignments, but I’m not a guidance counselor.”

  I’m blushing. I didn’t expect him to refuse, much less get offended. “I just wanted to know if it’s well-written. It’s about Jane Austen.” Now I feel ill. The one time I ask for help, I’m rebuffed. Figures.

&n
bsp; Mr. Clarke looks tired. He always has a silver flask of coffee with him and I can see the open thermos is drained dry, despite the early hour. The bags under his eyes are more strikingly colorful than usual. I picked just the wrong moment.

  For the first time, I notice that Mr. Clarke still has a gold wedding band on his left hand, despite what Charlotte said about his wife being dead. My father has dated on and off over the years. I know he keeps his wedding ring in a box in his bedroom; he doesn’t wear it. It’s not easy for my dad with two kids plus all of his teaching jobs. He doesn’t have much spare time, and he’s not seeing any woman seriously. But my dad has moved on. Mr. Clarke, I guess, has not.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I say.

  “You aren’t the first to ask me for assistance, which is why I have a general policy not to critique admissions essays.” His tone is polite, but I hear him subtly implying his great generosity in calling such works essays.

  I nod and prepare to slink out of the classroom. “Oh, Ms. Tennant, before I forget.” He hands me a flyer.

  “Austen-Fest?”

  The flyer features a photo of dancers in Regency gowns, jackets, and waistcoats. I open up the brochure. The first words that jump out at me make me wrinkle up my nose.

  It Is a Universal Truth that Every Janeite Must Be in Need of a Place to Celebrate Jane Austen

  “Universal truth?” Again, the incorrect use of the ironic first line!

  “I know, I know. But it’s a mercifully small, local event run by people who have a scholarly background. They offer classes on Regency dress, food, and dance. I thought you might be interested.”

  “Do you have to be a member of the Jane Austen Society?” I remember reading about how some members of Pemberley on Facebook did a meet-up at a conference run by the Jane Austen Society of North America (JASNA). It sounded very elaborate and lasted for more than a week.

  “My wife and I were members of JASNA and we went to some of their gatherings, but no, Austen-Fest is not affiliated with the Jane Austen Society.”

  “Are you going?” It would be weird to go to the same non-school social event as a teacher, especially a teacher like Mr. Clarke.

  “Not this year.” Despite his refusing to read my college essay, the fact that he accompanied his wife to JASNA meetings ratchets him up many notches in my respect. “Don’t worry, I never wore a costume to any events. That would have been terrifying.”

  “For you or for the spectators?” I blurt out.

  To my surprise, he laughs. “Both! But my wife managed not to look foolish in a Regency dress. I’m not sure how she managed that feat.”

  “Did you dance?”

  “That would not have ended well. My wife danced. I spectated.”

  I’m a bit nervous about lingering and asking more questions, although I have some. “Were there many men there?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Mr. Clarke! You did not dance, even though men were scarce! How very ungallant!”

  “Stepping on my wife’s feet, ripping her dress, and crashing into other dancers would have been more ungallant than not dancing at all. I’m afraid dancing is not one of my talents, Ms. Tennant.”

  “I’ve helped choreograph the school musical the past two years,” I brag, shamelessly. “As long as someone knows his left from his right, I can teach him to dance. Sometimes even if he doesn’t.” Let’s just say some of the pirates and Indians in Peter Pan had red ribbons discretely tied on their left ring fingers for a reason. Camelot may be even more painful; the male dancers are wearing quite elaborate weaponry.

  “That sounds suspiciously like a threat, Ms. Tennant.”

  “Oh, before I go…I interviewed at my first choice college and a former student from Rosewood South was my interviewer. She told me to say, ‘Hi.’ Amy Lesser.”

  “Of course, I remember Amy! How is she?”

  “She seems to like her job,” I say. “She was very nice. We argued about Mr. Rochester.” Now why did you say that, Liss? You know Mr. Clarke’s going to think you’re an idiot for talking about Mr. Rochester like he’s a real person.

  But Mr. Clarke says, “Amy was the student I mentioned. She had a paper she began researching in my class published in an academic journal. I was a bit sorry when I heard she didn’t become a professor herself. I think her paper was on Mr. Rochester.” He sounds proud to have taught her.

  “I’ve never understood the appeal of Mr. Rochester,” I say.

  “Frankly, either have I. Then again, I’ve never understood the appeal of Mr. Darcy.”

  The late bell rings. I don’t have time to argue. “I assumed you loved Pride and Prejudice,” I say. “The posters…”

  “Oh, I do—Jane Austen is my favorite author. But fans of her work fall into two camps: those who appreciate Austen the romantic and those who appreciate Austen the social satirist. I fall into the latter category. I do like Elizabeth Bennet. She is unique in English literature. She’s what makes the novel so wonderful, not Darcy. I look forward to reading your thoughts on Pride and Prejudice, Ms. Tennant.” I can see he’s being sincere, not ironic. I actually feel warmly towards him until I leave. Then it sinks in that I’m writing a paper for the hardest teacher in the school on his very favorite author of all time, on her most famous novel.

  It’s an unusually nice October day, so Jacqui and I bring our lunches outside, to the picnic benches near the basketball courts. “Jacqui, we have to go to Austen-Fest. Forget Homecoming. Forget Prom. This is going to be the most exciting weekend of our high school lives.”

  “Liss, Black people don’t go to those things.” I assume she’s joking, sort of, since Pennington’s Amy Lesser is African-American, a Brontë expert and enthusiast, and interned at the Jane Austen center in Bath. I know Jacqui won’t feel out of place, if I can just get her to come.

  “I’m not a typical Janeite either. Jacqui, you’re an incredible dancer—way better than me—you love to get dressed up, and you’ve enjoyed all the historical movies we’ve seen together.”

  “It seems kind of dorky, no offense.”

  “It’s incredibly dorky. Who cares?” I’ve cracked her façade of reserve, I can sense it. “Maybe you could ask Noel. I already asked Hugh to go, but he thinks it’s weird.”

  “Once again, I don’t mean to alarm you, Liss, but…a twenty-first century American teenager dressing up like a character from a Jane Austen novel is weird.”

  I ignore her protests. “Hugh’s struggling with his classes. I’ve tried to help him in English, but it’s been a hard transition from his progressive school in the city.”

  “I love how if a school doesn’t teach poor people anything, it’s failing, but if a school is very expensive and doesn’t teach rich people anything, it’s progressive.”

  “Hugh does know lots of things!” I say. “Like filmmaking. We’ve been working on the script together, for his college film submission. I’m writing the words, but he’s the one who decides if a shot is going to be a close-up, and who to focus on at any one time—that sort of thing.”

  I have a complete draft for Hugh’s film. It begins with The Girl (me), heading to see The Boy (Calvin) at his college. I saw lots of rainbow chalk drawings on the pavement at Pennington, so it’s in the script that those same kinds of drawings will be there. I figure we can bring chalk with us when we shoot, just in case the markings are gone. It’s set on National Coming Out Day. The drawings will be foreshadowing, even though The Girl doesn’t know it. The Girl in this film is obviously much more naïve than I am.

  “How goes your SAT studying?” asks Jacqui.

  I make a face.

  “I’ve been reviewing some of my practice tests with Noel, and he’s been extremely helpful,” she says.

  I snort.

  “Liss, stop it! I didn’t bring it up because I knew what your reaction would be. Noel’s been taking SAT prep courses since, like, before high school. He even got a national award for getting a high score on the test whe
n he was still in middle school. I can try and help you in the math with some of his process-of-elimination tricks.”

  “I’m an anomaly. Supposedly, according to Desborough, hardly anyone does better on the verbal section than the math. I’m so beyond hope in math. I may just pray and go with ‘none of the above,’ whenever it’s an option. I don’t have any tricks for the verbal; I just get high scores on that because I read so much.”

  I see Hugh and Noel walking together in the distance. Noel has a basketball under his arm. Hugh strolls over and kisses me. I feel a tiny bit mean, like I’m flaunting the fact that I have a boyfriend and Jacqui doesn’t. Jacqui and Noel make eye contact. She looks away.

  The guys start playing one-on-one. Hugh is clearly way too into the game and overmatched. It’s not surprising. I mean, Noel is on the basketball team, and while Hugh is tall, my boyfriend’s still several inches shorter. Noel gives Hugh some tips even as he scores point after point, seemingly without effort.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen Hugh move faster than a slow lope,” I say. The fact Hugh is in his heavy leather engineer boots doesn’t help his game, of course. I start to giggle.

  “Jesus, Liss,” he says, looking over at me. I can tell I’m getting on his poor nerves.

  Then Hugh gets hit in the face. His glasses clatter to the pavement.

  “Oh my God! Are you hurt? Are your glasses broken?” He picks them up, looks at them. I inspect his nose. I don’t even see a bruise. “’Tis but a flesh wound, I think you’ll live,” I say. I return to the bench and whisper to Jacqui, “Don’t mind him, he went to a progressive school.”

  She laughs so hard she almost spits out the water she was sipping. She says, louder than me, “I guess they didn’t keep score where he played basketball before. Everyone was a winner.”

  “Progress reports after each game, no scoreboard,” I murmur.

  Noel makes another basket.

  “I love you no matter what,” I shout at him. I nearly shouted, “I love you, even if you suck,” but fortunately I managed to check my inner Calvin.