Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  “You mean, the gay type?” says Franklin. He seems more amused than offended by the fact that Charlotte’s all over his boyfriend, which in a way is nice, I guess. He and Calvin already seem pretty secure together.

  “No, more the fact that Charlotte is so preppy and stressed out about school all the time and Calvin is not, which I mean as a compliment.”

  Calvin lights a cigarette. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Franklin says.

  Calvin shrugs and continues to puff away. “She knows I’m gay. I’m just her friend. Franklin knows I’m just her friend,” says Calvin. “I think she likes me because I don’t give a shit about any of the stuff she cares about, like college and grades. Unlike you, Liss, who just pretends not to care.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You freaked out when you didn’t get an A on your English assignment. Don’t lie,” says Calvin. I shut my mouth because he’s right. “Charlotte’s not all bad. Look at the people who dump dogs at the shelter, or every other word out of their mouth is ‘faggot.’ Those are bad people.”

  I nod, even though I suspect that the reason Charlotte’s not like that is she’s too self-involved to be so horrible.

  Calvin goes on, “All I’m saying is that there’s no malice in Charlotte.”

  No malice? Ask Mr. Clarke.

  Chapter 17

  An Active, Useful Sort of Person

  Early December is tech week for The Nutcracker, so I hardly ever see Jacqui outside of school. Since she’ll hear from The Adams Morgan this month, it’s probably for the best she has something else to focus on besides checking her phone a million times a day for emails, which is how The Adams Morgan notifies students. It’s hard for Jacqui to forget every crazy story she’s ever heard, like how one year the university sent out acceptance emails to the wrong group of applicants. Hugh, on the other hand, is totally chill about Pennington, so I find myself in the situation of constantly calming Jacqui down and resenting how blasé my boyfriend seems about my dream school.

  Rutgers, like many state schools, operates on a rolling admissions basis, which means it admits students as the applications “roll” in over the course of the year. Calvin applied early enough to learn he’s accepted. In fact, he got in everywhere he applied. He’s resigned to the moderate amount of financial aid he was awarded based upon need. It’s what he expected.

  Much as I hate to admit that Charlotte was even in the teeniest tiniest bit right, I do wonder if maybe Calvin should have applied to one or two more competitive schools. The real reason Calvin didn’t apply to a reach school may be because Calvin hates to be rejected. He’s been refused so many acting roles he’s wanted, despite his superior talent. It has had a subconscious effect, despite his surface nonchalance. Plus, Mark breaking up with him burned him. Maybe Calvin’s fear of rejection is the real reason he doesn’t want to pursue acting professionally and says he’s just going to major in business (“something easy, like marketing”) so he can make lots of money after he graduates. Calvin would never admit to being afraid of anything, though, so I don’t ask.

  About a week before Christmas break, without requesting permission, Charlotte stands up in front of our homeroom before Mr. Clarke has taken attendance. She announces that the day after Christmas, the National Honor Society is hosting a 5K run/walk to raise money for breast cancer research. She invites the entire class to participate. “It’s a great way to burn off all those holiday treats,” she proclaims, launching into her patter. “For those of you who haven’t applied Early Decision or Early Action, you can list it on your college résumé as an extra volunteer activity.” She doesn’t say anything at all about the disease. She’s wearing a pink, looped ribbon on her deliberately ugly Christmas sweater. All of the members of NHS are wearing such sweaters today; it’s supposed to be funny and ironic but in a way I doubt Jane Austen would approve.

  I don’t like Charlotte, but I’m cringing in embarrassment for her. And not because of the hideous Rudolph sweater. None of the other kids around me seem to remember that Mr. Clarke’s wife died of cancer. They flip through their books, stare off into space.

  Mr. Clarke fiddles through some papers as Charlotte speaks. I know her grade on the Hamlet paper she was so angry about was raised to a B. The other (easier) English teacher who read it gave it a much higher mark. The department head averaged the two grades.

  We’ve moved on to the Romantics and “La Belle Dame sans Merci.” Mr. Clarke says the poet John Keats died at age twenty-five. I doubt I’m going to die so young, but it’s still weird to think about. How little time that would leave me to write anything of significance! Ms. Desborough would have approved of the level of pressure Keats put on himself to compose great poetry. Incurable consumption will do that for you, I guess? But not the fact Keats was born poor but gave up the idea of being a doctor to write verse. No one does that in our century.

  I’m inspired to do more work on my novel about Mary Bennet, after spending the afternoon and much of the early evening helping out with the school play. Since I’ve quit ballet, I’m enjoying doing the choreography for Camelot and my modern, lyric, and jazz classes more. When I’m not constantly being reminded of my hopelessly misshapen body, I seem to have more energy to dance.

  Calvin being Calvin, my friend always finds reasons to walk by when I’m rehearsing with the dancers in the school hallway. He makes faces at me only I can see (crossing his eyes and suggestively rolling his tongue), especially during the most dramatic, serious moments.

  Hugh says that his father and mother are briefly returning to the family’s New York City apartment for Christmas. Hugh will be in the city to celebrate the holiday. He invites me to come up and meet his parents and his half-sister Felicity from his father’s first marriage.

  Oh, and Catherine is also going to be there. Which will be awkward. But I can cope.

  Chapter 18

  He Is A Pleasant Fellow, And Would Jilt You Creditably

  Jacqui gets accepted Early Action by The Adams Morgan and they award her the scholarship she needed. I understand this as soon as I get the phone call, even before she speaks actual words. Jacqui is crying, I hear her mother crying, and her father is trying to calm her mother down in the background.

  Hugh gets deferred from Pennington, which means he didn’t get in Early Decision, but they’ll reconsider his application with the other Regular Decision candidates (like me). He’ll learn what Pennington’s final decision is by April (again, just like me). He emails Amy Lesser for more information about how to improve his chances. She answers that his film submission was excellent and the writing was unusually sophisticated for someone his age. But his grades his senior year are substandard. He needs to pull them up, especially his English grade, since the film major is offered through the English department.

  Hugh’s getting a B– in physics, which is sort of impressive, given how little hard science he’d taken at his past, progressive school. Livy is an apt tutor, I guess. Hugh got an A– on the test she helped him with, and I’ve never seen an A on any of my science assignments in my life. If only I could be with Livy in the same room for more than five minutes without wanting to kill her when she tries to be my tutor.

  I give Livy the news about Hugh’s grade. She says he already texted her thanks. “I hope he wasn’t too annoying,” I say.

  She ignores my question. “Look what we did in robotics club.” She shows me a video of a little bot that looks like a more souped-up version of George. He spins in the middle of the floor and makes a basket.

  “I admit, he’s got the moves,” I say.

  “The day is getting closer when he’ll be able to play a game with a fellow robot.”

  “I don’t even know how to play basketball that well as a human,” I say. “Hugh’s terrible at basketball as well,” I say. I can’t help but mention him. “Completely useless. But I love him.”

  Livy shrugs.

  I’m pulling a B+ in Mr. Clarke’s class. Everyone’s impressed, but f
or a former straight-A student in English, I consider it a personal failure. Even though it’s an AP.

  Almost a week after she gets into her dream school, I find Jacqui sitting in the corner of the school library crying, but in a different kind of way. “Oh my God, what happened?” I ask.

  Jacqui takes out a Kleenex that looks like she ironed it and wipes her nose and eyes, instinctively careful to avoid smudging her eye makeup.

  “I’m sorry, Liss. I’m just over-emotional because I’ve been staying up so late. The director of The Nutcracker is this new, crazy Russian director who used to dance for the Bolshoi.” I take a half-second to thank the dance gods that I dodged a bullet this year by getting kicked out of the production. “But that’s not why I’m crying.”

  I wait.

  “It’s Noel,” she says. “You know he didn’t get into The Adams Morgan.”

  I do. We all do. Thanks to Charlotte Holland’s amazing fact-finding ability, we’re all aware of where everyone in the senior class is applying, who went Early Decision and Early Action, and if they got in, got deferred, or got rejected in the first round. “I can’t believe Noel didn’t at least get deferred. He was rejected.”

  I channel my inner Ms. Desborough. “Jacqui, Noel is a nice guy, plays basketball well enough, is president of the National Honor Society, and has high grades. But he’s kind of…boring from an admissions perspective, even if he isn’t from a prospective girlfriend perspective.”

  “How can you say that?” Jacqui is so overcome she actually crumples up her Kleenex to blow her nose. I realize that she’s crushed because she won’t be going to school with Noel next year, but this seems excessive.

  “Your grades and scores are almost as high, and you’re able to deal with a crazy Stalinist ballet director breathing down your leotard. Plus, you want to be a doctor. Noel just likes doing well on tests.”

  “When I went over to Noel’s house to study for calculus, like we’d agreed upon before he got the rejection email, he was so cold to me. He originally said I could borrow his sister’s old skis for the ski trip. Then he was all, ‘Oh, I forgot, we dropped those off at the Goodwill.’”

  “Maybe they did forget. I’m sure Noel comes from the type of family where buying or renting skis is just no big deal.”

  “But his mother…I heard his mother say on the phone, ‘He’s studying with that girl. Of course, she got in. Of course,’ she said.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh.”

  Long silence.

  “Jacqui, if that’s the case, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  Jacqui starts to cry again. I put my arm around her. We’ve helped one another stretch out so many times, but neither of us are very touchy-feely people outside of dance class. It’s weird, so I withdraw my arm, then put it back. “Jacqui, you have so much to offer. Think of how proud your parents are; don’t let some stupid guy ruin this moment.”

  Jacqui nods. She wipes her nose.

  “Call Martin. That will make you feel better.”

  “Martin did get in,” she admits. “That made me feel worse, actually.”

  “Jacqui! Martin is what, like, performing surgery? Noel isn’t even in his league.”

  “Shadowing a doctor,” she says. But she laughs.

  “Martin sounds more interesting to me, anyway. So what if he goes to a different high school? Our high school is not the world, you know?” I mean, I was lucky to have found Hugh here, but that’s not typical. “Sometimes relationships take work,” I say. I suddenly feel very old and wise, which I like. I’m surrounded by books. The library is my happy place, my comfort zone where I’m confident of what I know. I even love the smell of the printed page.

  But then Jacqui says, “I work so hard. I work so hard and it’s never enough,” in a way that chills me, because I’ve never heard her sound like this before.

  I think of all the times she’s practiced and performed whilst injured in ballet, pushing past the point of even the average dancer’s pain threshold. I’ve never seen Jacqui look so tired.

  She gives her face another dab with her Kleenex and takes a sip of water from the reusable flask she always has carefully stored in a side pocket of her backpack. She smooths the Kleenex out flat. She’s herself again. Or at least the self she feels comfortable presenting to the school. And, I reluctantly admit, to me.

  The next time I find myself lying beside Hugh in his cell—I mean, his room—I can hear Catherine raising her voice upstairs loud enough it’s a distraction.

  “Would you be offended if I asked you a very personal question using some very un-Jane-Austen language?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Why is your aunt such a bitch?”

  Hugh laughs. “Catherine is something special, isn’t she?” Her boyfriend’s voice grows quiet; her voice grows louder. “I guess he wants to make sure he gets some tonight, so he’s making nice.”

  “Isn’t he a little old for her?”

  “He’s loaded.”

  “I guess that’s my answer.” I spend the next few minutes listening to the couple above, imagining aloud what I think they’re saying, based upon the inflection of their voices. It’s like writing a script. Hugh does bring out the creative side of me, in a nasty way.

  Chapter 19

  The Inferiority Of Your Connections

  On the train, on my way to Hugh’s apartment, I look over the schedule for the Christmas weekend Jane Austen conference. I’ll spend the night at Hugh’s, then head downtown for my Regency affair. I’m even more excited about going to this one because it’s run by the Jane Austen Society of North America (JASNA). It’s official. I’m a real Janeite.

  For Christmas, my father gave me my own prop Regency sword and scabbard and a black-and-white Regency dress, just like Elizabeth wears in my favorite version of Pride and Prejudice.

  “I got the smallest size. I hope it fits,” he said. He was clearly uncomfortable to have gotten his teenage daughter clothing.

  It did. Usually, I’m extra-small in everything, except dance clothes. In leotards, I’m a medium, because it’s assumed if you’re a dancer you must be flat-chested and teeny tiny.

  “You didn’t need to get me all of this, Dad, on top of paying for college stuff.”

  We eventually decided upon eight schools for me to apply to; that’s ten fewer than most of the other students from Rosewood South. It’s around seventy bucks per application, plus fees for sending in my test scores to some of them.

  I wish I’d been able to apply Early Decision and already knew where I was going. Like Charlotte Holland, who knows she’s going to Princeton.

  Speaking of which, the Hollands are vacationing in London for all of Christmas break to celebrate their daughter’s admission to their alma mater. At least they’re not taking Calvin. I’m not sure I could stomach the jealousy.

  Calvin was both chilling and funny as Mordred in Camelot. The rest of the cast was pretty much what you’d expect of a high school production. A swing broke during the “Lusty Month of May” on one of the nights I was in the audience, but my choreography seemed to be easy enough for everyone to follow. More importantly, none of the dancers got impaled on a prop sword. Charlotte was in attendance on opening night, gave Calvin a single red rose, and asked him to sign her program. So excessive. Then she gave him a hug and kissed him on the cheek. He refused to laugh when I started teasing him after she left, though.

  I swear, actors and their egos. They’re so hungry for praise, regardless of where it comes from. Ugh! Calvin even put the rose in a plastic water bottle like a vase. For the Nutcracker, in contrast, Catherine would always watch all of us and give us a full debriefing about our many mistakes after every performance. Even the most talented dancers could never get too proud. She asked parents to not send flowers to the dressing room to avoid cluttering up the professionals’ space.

  I put away the JASNA conference materials, open up my laptop with a satisfied sigh, and resume work on my Mary/Wickham novel. My new sword is
nestled in my suitcase. My father wasn’t crazy about me bringing my weapon; he’s afraid I’ll get stopped by security or something in Penn Station, but it’s pretty obviously blunt.

  While I’ve gone to New York City before on my own, I’m always a little bit worried about getting on the wrong subway line. Hugh’s apartment is on the Upper East Side, in the seventies. According to Google maps, it’s about three miles away. I like walking, so I opt for that instead.

  “I’m here to see the Fitzgeralds.” The apartment has a doorman. He’s in a green coat with brass buttons, top hat, and white pants.

  “Oh yes, the Fitzgeralds,” he says. Although his voice is affable, I detect a bit of verbal eye-rolling in the way he draws out their surname. His tone is much more polite over the intercom when he is speaking to one of the Fitzgeralds, asking if I should be allowed in.

  The elevator is mirrored and has a thick, plush carpet. It’s a newer building. There are so many windows, I can gaze at the expanse of the city sprawling out in front of me when I get off at the ninth floor. It’s just high enough to appreciate the beauty but not so high as to be dizzying. “Wow,” I whisper.

  My hand is shaking when I touch the doorbell. My black fingernail polish is chipped. I’m flushed from the walk, and my hair is blown all over the place. I can only hope my eyes are brightened from the exercise to make up for my dishevelment. Fortunately, my boots are sturdy and I didn’t have to walk through the manure and mud of the English countryside to get here.

  A woman probably in her mid-twenties answers the door. “Hugh, your little girlfriend has arrived,” she says. She’s frail and blonde. I can see a slight resemblance to Hugh in her cheekbones. “Very little,” she says, as though he should return me immediately for someone taller. Like Hugh and Catherine, she’s quite leggy. Hugh comes out of his room, puts his arm around me and kisses me. He’s in his usual ripped-to-shreds jeans, stubble, skull belt, and a black clingy t-shirt.