Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  “This is my sister, Felicity,” he says, introducing her. Felicity’s even paler than her brother. She is wearing a crisp white shirt, red cardigan, very high heels to accentuate her height, and black pants. Simple and classic. In my battered black Docs (I don’t even have my nice, green pair on), black miniskirt, fishnets, and tattoo, I feel awkward next to her, as if I’ve stumbled into the wrong story. Even though I’ve worn my very best diamond nose stud.

  Felicity asks me how I got to the apartment. Before I answer, Hugh and his half-sister have a long discussion about what’s the best subway line to take from Penn Station. They spout letters like N, R, W versus F and Q, like this is very important to know and a fundamental test of my character.

  “I walked,” I say. “I like walking and I didn’t want to get on the wrong line by accident.” Hugh seems disappointed, even offended.

  “Keep Calm and Read Jane Austen?” Felicity reads the slogan on my t-shirt.

  “Liss is like, a Jane Austen freak,” says Hugh.

  Felicity wrinkles up her nose. “Oh, Jane Austen. I think one of her books was required in a course I took my freshman year of college, but I never read it.”

  “All Liss does is read novels,” says Hugh. “And dance.”

  Catherine emerges from another room. “Not as much as before, correct, Liss?” she asks. Despite the fact I’ve known her since I was a child she regards me coldly, like I was a stranger. She clearly doesn’t feel as if her dance student belongs at her family holiday supper. She’s in a black dress with a plunging back, and heels.

  My courage rises at this attempt to intimidate me. “Well, some people would consider modern and jazz classes three times a week to be pretty intense. Plus, I helped choreograph the school play this year,” I say.

  “I didn’t mean it as a slight, Liss. It takes obsession to be a real dancer. Not many have that level of dedication,” says Catherine. “It demands not just practice but perfect practice, every time you put on a pair of pointe shoes. Even then, the body often fails.” She looks down at herself, clearly reproaching her body—as lean and muscular as it is—for failing her in middle age, despite her perfect practice.

  The apartment is decorated for Christmas. There are red and green candles on some of the tables, and a small, fake green tree with white lights and tiny red balls. It looks more like a store display than a home.

  “What did everyone get for Christmas?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “I got a new camera,” says Hugh.

  “To put it to use, you need to get accepted to a film school that doesn’t mind your crappy senior year grades,” says Felicity.

  “Hugh’s been working hard. We’re both in difficult classes this year,” I protest. “My sister has been tutoring him in physics.”

  Hugh looks uncomfortable.

  Felicity sits down and picks up what looks like a very full glass of white wine. “Liss…is that your name?”

  “Everyone calls me Liss, but my given name is Elisa,” I say.

  “Would you like some wine, Elisa…Liss?”

  “Um…I’m not much of a drinker,” I say. “And I’m underage.”

  Hugh picks up a glass of red wine near him. “Everyone’s drinking, Liss,” he says.

  “It’s the only way we’ll survive,” says Felicity. She laughs as if to make light of her statement, but the laughter sounds forced.

  I notice that Catherine, who is usually so ostentatious about her healthy eating, holds a squat, clear glass rather than a wine glass. I assumed the liquid in it wasn’t alcoholic, but then she says, “When you’re dining with our family, it’s acceptable to hit the gin with very little tonic before three in the afternoon.”

  I accept a glass of white wine. I take a very delicate little sip.

  “Do you think you’ll get into college anywhere, Hugh?” asks Felicity.

  “He better get in somewhere—he’s not staying another year at my house,” laughs Catherine. “I’m sure the girlfriend is tired of skulking around in the basement, pretending I don’t hear the two of them.” Her voice sounds looser, freer than I’m accustomed to hearing.

  My wine may be white, but my cheeks are now flushed pink. Even the whipping winter wind didn’t make me this rosy when I was walking.

  “I think I’ll get into Pennington during the next round,” says Hugh.

  “But you got deferred for Early Decision,” says Felicity. “I assume that’s not a promising sign.”

  “Then there’s Columbia, NYU, the California schools I applied to…”

  “Hugh, dearest, you don’t have a prayer of getting into Columbia, even if Dad teaches there. If you did, you and I both know you would have applied Early Decision in the first place. Do you think an admissions committee will believe you wrote that film you submitted?” snorts Felicity. She takes a gulp of wine before she continues. “The language is a bit too polished and clever for someone who’s barely pulling a C in English.”

  “Fess up, Hugh, your tutor wrote that script,” says Catherine, laughing. She takes another swig from her glass.

  “I should never have shown the film to you,” he says. He puts his arm around me, kisses my neck.

  “Don’t the two of you look adorable?” says Felicity. “She’s so tiny, what are you, under five feet tall, Liss?”

  “Five feet exactly. Perhaps 5’1” if I stretch,” I say, politely. I take another nip of wine, then I put down my glass.

  “Liss is short for a dancer, although I wouldn’t describe her as tiny,” mutters Catherine.

  “This pinot grigio is delicious. So much better than that chardonnay swill Dad buys. I was very careful to bring my own wine this year so as not to suffer through mouthful after mouthful of cheap vanilla and oak,” says Felicity.

  “Dennis and Margaret are out buying dessert,” says Catherine, draining her glass, “in case anyone was wondering. Not like Margaret will eat anything.”

  “The girlfriend looks like she probably will,” says Felicity. “Plus, Hugh.”

  “I’m a growing boy, I can’t help if I have an appetite,” he says.

  I don’t have an excuse for needing to consume food to stay alive, so I say nothing. Thus follows a long, uncomfortable silence that’s eventually filled when Felicity turns on the television. She flips through the channels, stumbles on some sort of reality television program. Everyone starts to laugh at the people on the screen. They say some of the lines in unison with the actors, as if they’ve seen this episode before.

  I just can’t get into it. It all looks very unreal, in a way that the Pride and Prejudice adaptation I watched on Thanksgiving with my family didn’t. The point of watching it seems to be to feel superior to all of the silly things people are saying.

  I get out my laptop and begin to work on my novel to pass the time, until the show is over.

  “Surely your high school doesn’t assign homework over winter break?” asks Felicity, looking at me.

  “This isn’t homework,” I say. “It’s my novel.”

  I suddenly realize everyone is looking at me. “You’re writing a book?” asks Felicity. She puts the television on mute.

  “Yeah, it’s weird, based on a Jane Austen story,” says Hugh.

  “How did you know it’s about Austen?” He knows I’m writing a book but has never asked to see it, or asked me anything about it.

  “When you were doing other homework, I read it on your laptop. It’s like, Jane Austen-type language. My English teacher this year, Mr. Clarke, practically gets a hard-on every time he mentions Jane Austen in English class, and I recognized some of the characters.”

  I can feel my cheeks flushing.

  “Oh, Liss, you write fan fiction, like Fifty Shades of Grey?” sniggers Catherine.

  “It’s not like that,” I say. “It’s a sequel to Pride and Prejudice.”

  “I read it fast looking for the dirty bits,” says Hugh. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing hot and steamy, so I don’t think my girlfriend’s novel i
s going to be made into a film any time soon.” He puts his arm around me. I flinch and he withdraws it.

  The women seem to find this hysterical. “I’m sure you can help her spice it up, Hugh,” says Felicity, laughing.

  “It’s told through the perspective of one of the other sisters, from Mary Bennet’s point of view,” I say. “Mary is the serious sister.” I feel very prissy and Mary-like right now, talking about the pleasures of a good book.

  “I have a torrid idea for a novel,” says Felicity, yawning, “and I’m sure it would sell, but who has the time to write it all down?”

  “I’m sure I could write a novel if I had the time,” agrees Catherine. “But I don’t have time to even read novels.”

  Felicity reaches over and turns up the volume of the television. The woman on screen is very animated about something. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” the television woman drawls.

  I try to write, but the other people in the room and the shrill voices on the TV are too loud. Mary’s, Elizabeth’s, and Wickham’s voices grow silent in my head.

  So I check my messages, let my father know I’ve arrived, and text Jacqui. She’s visiting Martin and I feel bad writing anything depressing under her happy, burbling little monologue about how wonderful he is and the kindness of his parents.

  But I have to vent: Well, I have arrived at the Fitzgerald residence on the Upper East Side. The apartment is a sight to behold. But Hugh’s family. They’re

  I accidently send the text before I can finish my sentence. completely fucked up

  I stare at that little text bubble of— completely fucked up—hanging in space, all by itself. The visit has only begun.

  I decide to sit out on the terrace and take in the view of the city at night. “Felicity had Christmas dinner with her mother,” explains Hugh, joining me, “So this is our second Christmas dinner.”

  “Boxing Day is today,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s what they call the day-after-Christmas sales in the UK.”

  “It used to be when people would box up things for the servants, in thanks for their efforts on Christmas Day, and give them the day off.” I say.

  “Figured you’d know something like that,” says Hugh. I start to shiver in the cold. We go back in.

  Professor Dennis Fitzgerald and Margaret enter the apartment brandishing a small, white box tied up in red-and-white string. “It was hell on earth out there in Midtown,” she says. “New Jersey tourists, wherever the eye could see.”

  “You must be the girlfriend,” says Professor Fitzgerald.

  “A pleasure, sir.” I shake his hand firmly but politely. I’m not sure if I should call him “professor” or “mister.” There’s something remote and academic about his demeanor, even though this is supposed to be a small, rather casual family dinner. He looks like an older version of Hugh, without glasses, only his mop of untidy dark hair isn’t shaved up the back or sides of his head.

  “A pleasure? Where did you find her, Hugh?”

  “In front of a strip mall in New Jersey,” says Hugh, and laughs.

  “Yes, that’s where we met, Catherine’s dance studio,” I clarify.

  “Do you dance?” Ms. Fitzgerald extends her hand. It’s very thin and bony. Even though I have small hands (“your port de bras make me shudder,” I remember hearing all too often), I feel like I’m crushing this woman’s hand when I apply my normal pressure to her fingers. Her waist is as narrow as some people’s thighs. She has close-cropped light brown hair, tanned skin, and brown eyes. The most striking thing about Hugh’s mother is her startling thinness.

  “I take modern and jazz dance classes. I also dabble in some Regency period dancing.”

  “Liss took ballet with me for years but she had to quit. She didn’t have the right body type, as you can see,” says Catherine. She’s mixing herself another gin and tonic.

  Dinner is a cold meat and cheese spread with olives, pickles, crackers, and sliced bread. It’s tasty, but I’m afraid to take too much because there’s very limited portions of everything. The plates look like arrangements of precious, expensive jewels, only with fatty salamis and pimento-stuffed olives rather than rubies and emeralds. Everyone’s moved onto more alcohol, even though I’m still hauling around the same glass of wine they poured me earlier. No one seems to be drinking any non-alcoholic beverages, so I get up and pour a wineglass full of water for myself from the tap to quench my real thirst. People seem more interested in wine than food. I feel like I’m eating an enormous amount in comparison, although I’m still slightly hungry at the end.

  Professor Fitzgerald goes on about the professors he’s been working with while doing his research. He doesn’t seem to like them much; he imitates their accents in a really exaggerated way. I want to ask him questions about living in the UK, but I’m too scared I’ll say something gauche.

  When Hugh’s father does talk about England outside of his job, what he says isn’t very nice. Like, “Well, of course, what can you expect of British food, it’s not the City?” I doubt he’d say, “Well, of course, what can you expect of British food, it’s not American?” Because he says “the City,” meaning New York City, trashing London isn’t supposed to sound provincial. I guess. Even though, technically, New York City is in the United States. Ms. Fitzgerald says some nasty things about the way British women dress I don’t understand. I know what fashions kids wear at my school, but I haven’t heard of the designers she names or why she finds London so lacking in style.

  After waiting for a suitable break in her brother’s monologue about how he can’t wait until the tiny food trend dies and how he loathes sharing little plates when he’s eating, Catherine stands up, slightly unsteady. “I have an announcement. I’m getting married. To Bernie.”

  “The real estate developer you’ve been seeing?” asks Professor Fitzgerald.

  “Of course Bernie the real estate developer, who else would I be marrying? Who else have I been seeing for years?”

  A long silence falls over the table.

  “He’s just so…”

  “Crass? Not your type, Denny? Well, you’re not the one marrying him. You won’t be able to hold anything over my head ever again. I’m sick of it.” Catherine’s slurring her words. She staggers up from the table. I hear her slam the door to a room.

  Dinner is apparently over.

  Ignoring my rumbling stomach, I put on my wool peacoat and sit outside on the terrace with Hugh. He’s sporting the real leather jacket that I envy. The streetlights are shimmering below us. We’re on a low enough floor that I can see people walking hand-in-hand. Though there aren’t any commercial buildings on this quiet street, there’s a distant café visible blocks away. The outside tables are empty, but the metal fence surrounding the sidewalk dining area is wound in colorful Christmas lights.

  “When my grandfather died, you know he left everything to my father,” explains Hugh. “So there’s always been tension.”

  “I can understand why,” I say. “That sounds positively… I hate to say it, Hugh, but like a nineteenth-century novel.”

  “My grandfather told Catherine he’d do it if she didn’t go to college. Catherine said that she had gotten accepted into some ballet company in Kansas City, of all places, and she didn’t want to give up the spot. I mean, Kansas City.”

  “Honestly, Hugh, that’s horrible. Dancing is something you have to do when you’re young. If you know anything about dance, the Kansas City Ballet is an excellent company. Even if it is in Missouri.”

  “Wait, it’s not in Kansas?”

  “No, it’s in Missouri.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where Kansas City is?”

  Hugh clearly doesn’t approve. “They don’t even understand geography in the Midwest,” he says. “Besides, my grandfather was right. My aunt didn’t make it, did she? Catherine ended up teaching little kids, just like every other bunhead. If she’d done what my grandfather said, she could have at least had the money
.”

  “He could have left her the money anyway, and then she could have more easily gone back to school after she’d given dancing a try. It sounds like your grandfather was trying to control her rather than steer her in the right direction.”

  “My father has helped her out for years. He’s always taken care of her. He promised he’d take care of her. But they’ve had conflicts. He doesn’t like her boyfriend, for example, and he thinks she’s a totally incompetent businesswoman.”

  “I can understand a grown woman not liking the fact that she’s accountable to her own brother for all of her life decisions,” I say. “Even though I’m not very fond of her. Because she’s not very fond of me.”

  Hugh laughs and doesn’t deny what I say. “You’re still taking classes with her.”

  “I respect her dedication. She took a risk when she was young to pursue dance, even if it didn’t work out. That doesn’t make her a failure.” I don’t add, I’ve begun to understand the source of her shaky social skills, after meeting the rest of the Fitzgerald family. “Besides, you’re going into film; you should be sympathetic. Art is art.”

  “But I’m going to make it. I do have what it takes.”

  My eyes gaze at the pinks, blues, reds, and greens of the street Christmas lights in the distance. I deliberately make them a blurry kaleidoscope, then sharpen them in my vision.

  “I hate tacky colored Christmas decorations. With rents as they are in this area, you’d think people could have the decency to put up some aesthetic white lights,” Felicity murmurs, as she joins us.

  After dessert and more drinks, the family heads to bed. I worried Hugh’s parents would make a fuss about the two of us sharing his room, but they were too busy fighting with Catherine to notice. I’m just trying to stay out of everybody’s way. Hugh just sort of ignored the yelling, saying that he was used to it. He seemed to expect the fight with the same certainty he expected the tiny pieces of bitter, rich, alcohol-soaked chocolate torte served after the charcuterie.

  I lose consciousness for an hour or two, wake, then fall into a state between waking and dreaming. The house is very cold, but I’m only one who seems to care. I decide to work on my novel. Silence will make it easier to be creative. I hear Hugh muttering in his sleep. We talked and made out a little bit before bed, kissing and touching.