Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  “Calvin, I’m so happy to hear that,” I say. “It was honestly killing me to think that you weren’t going to continue acting.”

  “Hey, I guess even I have to balance out my cynicism every now and then and follow my dreams. But with a plan.”

  Franklin comes down the staircase, looking worried, and says that Calvin better have a look at Rachel. He says she feels nauseated.

  “You’d better leave now, Liss,” says Calvin. “This may get ugly and involve projectile vomiting. Or exorcism.”

  I offer to help, but Calvin assures me he can handle it.

  I hear from him later, though, when I’m checking notifications from Pemberley.

  So I’m at the hospital now, he types.

  No! Is Rachel that sick?

  She’s going to be okay just has a high fever. Upside is that my boyfriend probably saved her by making me take her to the ER so wasn’t a bad way to come out to my parents

  Wow. How did they react?

  Better than I expected they were so worried about Rachel and so grateful Franklin was there but I always brag that my sisters never died on my watch and nearly broke my record tonight

  I type a little heart emoji and press send. I hardly ever use emojis, but I don’t know what to say.

  I feel bad but the girls get on my nerves

  Calvin, you help out at home more than anyone I know. Truthfully, I’ve always thought that Calvin’s parents imposed upon him quite a bit. He complains, he curses, but in the end, Calvin always dutifully fulfills his responsibilities.

  It’s going to be a long next four years living at home as a commuter. Ugh

  Indeed. Ugh!

  Now I’m not sure if I’m talking about Calvin or myself.

  Chapter 23

  Reputation Is No Less Brittle Than It Is Beautiful

  A few weeks later, I get my acceptance from Rutgers—with a full-tuition scholarship. My father buys a small, round cake from the supermarket to celebrate, the perfect size for three people. “I’m sorry about the pink frosting. I know you hate the color because of…” He doesn’t even mention the word “ballet” around me. My father didn’t take the extra time to get my name (or nickname) written on the cake. I can tell he’s not excited. When I get into a school he actually wants me to go to, he’ll get me a nicer cake.

  “At least it’s chocolate,” he says. “Now you’re in a position to negotiate for more financial aid with another school. I raised a great kid,” he says.

  I know he expects me to say, “Yeah, Olivia.” But I don’t.

  An acceptance is an acceptance, though. Cake is cake. My father might view Rutgers as just one of the many schools where he teaches introductory-level classes, but I know I’m lucky my grades in English and history, my high verbal SAT score, and the academic reputation of my high school secured me such an offer. So I eat my cake with relief. Livy and I are still not speaking unless my father is in the room. She eats the cake as well. We don’t play-fight over the flowers like we usually do, just consume the pink frosting in a mature and respectful way. We’ve been going through the motions at dinner when we eat together, but our interactions are as mechanical as one of Livy’s robots. Fortunately, both of us have enough schoolwork that we can legitimately look buried in it when we’re sitting at the table.

  I’m rereading Persuasion. I’m going to do my second semester project for English on it. It’s my least favorite Austen, but I want to figure out why Mr. Clarke thinks it’s better than Pride and Prejudice.

  I decide to go and check out Rutgers over the weekend and sit in on an English class or two. I ask Mr. Clarke for suggestions and he seems happy I’m thinking of going. He congratulates me on my full scholarship without any of my father’s reserve.

  Mr. Clarke comes to work in a suit and tie on a daily basis and is always neatly, if awkwardly, dressed. Every now and then, though, he’ll let himself get stubble for a few days, and once or twice he’s looked (and smelled) decidedly hung over (but sober). It never affects his teaching; he grills us as if his life depended upon it; as if this was the highlight of his day. I know he got called to the principal’s office to “discuss” another of Charlotte’s grades and she lost that particular battle. Yet he doesn’t treat her any differently in class.

  Hugh has apparently become much more popular in recent weeks. I hear Catherine is hardly ever home; she’s always at her fiancée’s. Hugh’s been able to invite people over for parties, even during the middle of the week. I guess he now has more access to the house beyond the confines of his basement cell, plus Catherine isn’t demanding silence so she can get up early to teach dance. It occurs to me, if she’s been seriously dancing all of her life, this is as close to a wild adolescence she’ll ever have.

  It will kill me if Hugh gets into Pennington in April and I don’t. Maybe that’s spiteful. But while I don’t believe in the existence of a real Mr. Darcy anymore, once my good opinion is lost, it’s lost forever—if you’re dating me and you hook up with my younger sister.

  Calvin and I sputter up to the Rutgers University Open House for admitted students in my little Honda. “If our schedules coincide maybe we can carpool sometimes, save on gas,” he says. Calvin drives his parents’ old minivan to school. Not only is it ugly, it costs almost as much to fill up as one of Charlotte Holland’s outfits (slight exaggeration). It looked even worse before he scraped off his mom’s bumper stickers for Christian radio stations.

  As soon as we hit the highway, Calvin cranks up the volume on the soundtrack for Hamilton and starts singing along to “My Shot.” I’m relieved he doesn’t opt for Les Misérables. Not that I don’t love Les Miz, but Calvin can’t contain himself from making very expansive gestures to Javert’s song “Stars.” He has long limbs and I have a tiny car.

  Still, I have to warn him, “Easy on the jazz hands.”

  He gives an exaggerated fake sniff. “No sadder words were ever spoken.”

  “I’m lucky you can sing. Otherwise the drive would seem even longer.” Calvin takes out his pack of cigarettes. “Don’t even think about it.” He puts them away.

  “You know who I caught smoking in the bushes near the back of the cafeteria, by the delivery door? Mr. Clarke.”

  “Yes, I know he smokes,” I say. “I…I ran into him outside of school. He’d quit for many years but started again. Let that be a lesson to you.” It occurs to me that Mr. Clarke must not be doing well, since he was at least able to master himself enough not to smoke in front of a student when I happened upon him in Central Park.

  “He told me he’d understand if I turned him in, since it’s illegal for teachers as well as students to smoke on school grounds, ‘and I wouldn’t think less of you if you did, Mr. Jenkins.’”

  “Classic Clarke.”

  “I told him I wouldn’t say anything, because I was looking for a place to smoke myself. I can’t help but like the annoying bastard. He is entertaining. His teaching keeps me awake. I’m actually pulling a B in his class, which is surprising for me in an AP and weirdly enough, better than I’ve ever done in any English class before.”

  “I’m shocked, Calvin, shocked you’ve admitted to learning in school, and even more so, to enjoying it.”

  “He wouldn’t give me a light, though. I guess we have to sit on an English class here for you as well as a business class for me?”

  “There’s a class on feminism and women’s nineteenth-century literature I’m going to check out. You’re welcome to come along. I’ll pass on your marketing and advertising.” Branding? I’m done with it.

  “Liss, it wouldn’t hurt to know about business stuff. You will have to take some general classes. Besides, look at Catherine—she’s marrying some asshole she probably doesn’t even like and her studio went bankrupt because she has no financial sense. Even writers and dancers live in the real world. I’m not saying you have to major in math, but you don’t have to actively avoid seeking out knowledge about money.”

  “Catherine lost her studio
because she’s a horrible person.”

  “I thought her classes were pretty crowded, from what you said.”

  I go with Calvin to his business class.

  It’s kind of boring, but I stay until the end.

  I like the lecture on women’s fiction. Even Calvin proclaims it “not painful.” The professor is less intense than Professor Crosby from Pennington and looks like someone’s mom. She wears a patterned scarf around her neck. Maybe so kids in the very back can see her? I miss the small, intimate atmosphere of Pennington, the personal attention and debate. The vibe in this room is mixed. There are some hipsters and Goth types, some normal-looking kids taking copious notes, and some kids who text on their phones in the back and might as well not be there at all.

  When we return to my car, I find a ticket on the windshield. All nearby cars sport parking tickets as well. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of commuting for social reasons, but the confusing parking rules make the prospect even less appealing. Since we already have a ticket, I decide to go visit one of Mr. Clarke’s old professors. I’ve already looked up her office hours. Calvin leaves me to find a place to buy a pack of cigarettes and a place to smoke in peace.

  Professor Noble is tiny and fragile, with white hair in a loose (i.e., non-dancer’s) bun and a nose that dominates her entire person, not just her face. She doesn’t seem happy that a recently admitted student’s come ’round to chat and ask questions, even though I wait in line for a half hour to do so. She’s polite but apologizes and says current students need to discuss their theses, research papers, and failing grades. They have priority. They’re sitting on the benches and the floor in front of her door. I nod and manage to mutter something about Mr. Clarke speaking highly of her.

  His name gets her attention. “Oh, of course. Elaine’s husband. He was my student, the same time as Elaine. She later became my colleague and an institution at Rutgers. Her Austen scholarship is very much missed. So sad. Well, that’s cancer. It respects no one and nothing.” She sounds like she’s reproaching cancer for daring to deprive the world of Professor Elaine Clarke’s Jane Austen articles rather than for taking Professor Elaine Clarke herself. Professor Noble selects a photo frame from the crowded bookshelf behind her. I notice the professor has a near-constant tremor in her hands. “This was taken about two years ago at a faculty picnic.” She flashes the image at me.

  The only woman in the photo is small, delicate, and fair. She’s wearing a light brown polka-dotted dress and she’s smiling at the camera. She’s much prettier than I thought Mr. Clarke’s wife would be. The woman isn’t young, exactly, but has a kind of elfin, ageless quality. I try to conceal my surprise, but Professor Noble gives a little laugh and says, “Yes, the way Tom looked at her, it was like he couldn’t believe she was real, much less his. She was a porcelain doll. Of steel.”

  Professor Noble returns the photograph to its original place and continues her reverie. “Elaine Clarke was a very charismatic lecturer. Her students loved her.”

  As tired and harried as Professor Noble seems, perhaps eager to avoid rush-hour traffic, she asks me to sit down while she writes a note of condolence to give to my teacher. “I was surprised Tom didn’t find an academic position at a university. For his accent alone, you know. I used to ask him to read aloud in class just to hear him speak. I know he became a citizen, but he never really…assimilated. That happens sometimes—Brits who live abroad become more British than they would be had they stayed at home. Anyway, the couple decided to remain in New Jersey after Elaine got a job here. It’s very unusual for graduate students to be asked to stay on to teach and become full-time professors. I forget where Elaine was from originally. Indiana? Ohio? So Tom got certified to teach secondary school in New Jersey. Then again, he was always more of a generalist.”

  I look confused and she tries to explain. “In academia, after a certain point, you need to specialize in a fairly narrow area of study. Tom seemed to enjoy instructing students about all eras of British literature to an excessive degree. A true eccentric,” she says wryly.

  I’m not sure I understand. I nod as if I do.

  “Well, welcome to Rutgers! We’re delighted to have you! Do give Tom my best.” I lift up the note to indicate I will, and thank her.

  I head out back into the hallway. I feel a bit less awkward, warmed by Professor Noble showing a human side, despite her impatience at what looks like a line of students worthy of the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) waiting room outside her door.

  My father is all too familiar with the Rutgers campus and doesn’t ask any questions about my day there. He has more pressing subjects on his mind. “You need to make peace with your sister. I know you think I haven’t noticed the change. I don’t know what the fight is about, but it can’t be that bad. It has to end.”

  I reflect for a moment. Truthfully, for whatever reason, the constant tension in the home has made it hard for me to write about Mary and Wickham. I’m not sure I believe in the reality of the world of Jane Austen in quite the same way, but it’s all I have that feels truly mine, and special, and I can’t let it go, even as fantasy.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” says my father. “Is the fight because Livy’s going away to MIT this summer?”

  “No, we haven’t…we haven’t properly spoken since Christmas,” I admit. “I didn’t know anything about MIT.” Now I’m curious.

  “Livy got a scholarship to go to a robotics summer program,” says my father, proudly.

  “Isn’t Livy a bit…naïve…to be living on her own?”

  “Oh, she’ll be living in the dorms and supervised. And Livy is even more sensible than you.”

  “Um…”

  “I was wondering…well, frankly if you were jealous of Livy, because I know you’re worried about getting a scholarship for college.”

  “I accept Pennington’s not going to be doable unless I get a massive scholarship. But I don’t begrudge Livy her robots.”

  “I wish I had been able to save all of the settlement for your girls’ schools and nothing else. It’s what your mother would have wanted.”

  “She would have wanted us to turn out okay and for you to keep teaching. And that’s what happened,” I say, to reassure him. I guess we did turn out okay. Okay enough.

  “Dad told us to make up. If you want to apologize, I’ll accept it.”

  “I’m sorry. I hate fighting,” Livy says, looking up from her computer. She sounds sorry about the fighting part, not the Hugh part.

  “’Fess up, you did Hugh’s work for him. You didn’t help him study,” I say, since I feel I came across her at a vulnerable moment.

  “I did his homework and helped him make little cheat sheets to hide in his palm for the exam,” she admits. “No offense, your school is pretty easy.”

  “God, he’s such a lazy, entitled weasel. What did I ever see in him?” I ask. “I’m so sick and tired of how he gets other people to do his work and no one seems to notice or care. In fact, I think I just insulted weasels.”

  “Weasels serve a vital ecological function in keeping down the surplus population of rats. Are you going to turn him in?” Livy looks worried.

  “I have some little faith that he’ll get his just deserts in the end, without my intervention. But I do have something to say to you. I know that you’re going to be on your own this summer. Don’t be stupid about guys and let them take advantage of you like Hugh. Dad isn’t worried about you because he thinks you’ll be with robotic nerds, but I can only imagine what a bunch of high school kids left to their own devices will do.”

  “Liss, you’re my age. Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m about to become a college student. I’m your older sister. I was tempted to tell him not to let you go because of what you did for Hugh.”

  “Liss! You wouldn’t! How am I ever going to improve future generations of Georges? This is bigger than the both of us!”

  “I didn’t say a word. I know you want to
go to be with your robots, not just to hook up with guys. Although I’m sure you’ll do plenty of that, too.”

  A pretty savage thing to say. But true. On one hand, Livy’s a scientific genius who can build her own basketball-playing robot and tennis ball catapult. She’s also a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore who desperately wants to seem cool and doesn’t think she’s pretty even though she is. It’s a dangerous combination in so many ways. Yet I can’t live my sister’s life for her. I don’t want to deny her an opportunity to learn about science. I can only warn her and be grateful we aren’t living during the Regency.

  Chapter 24

  I Am Afraid He Has Turned Out Very Wild

  My car doesn’t start one fine March morning. I ask my father for help. There isn’t any compelling reason for it to die. It’s not cold or raining.

  “I hope we don’t have to put it out of its misery and go car-shopping,” I say. Silently, we acknowledge a student commuting to Rutgers must be in want of a car. Like I need enough plasma in my body and my father needs at least one kidney.

  “I’ll look at it when I get home this afternoon.”

  “I’m walking dogs, but I should be home early enough to help you.”

  I dig out my bicycle from the shed. It’s a nice morning; I don’t mind the exercise.

  Calvin tells me he turned Charlotte down for prom. Now that he’s out to his parents, he’s spending less time with her and more with Franklin, although he still occasionally accompanies the Hollands to New York to see musicals (most recently, Dear Evan Hansen), eats lunch with Charlotte, and lets her walk around the school with her arm around his waist. “Franklin and I are going to the prom together,” he says. “Unless…”

  “No ‘unless.’ Unless what, Charlotte’s pre-prom party begins at a Broadway musical? I wouldn’t put it past her to tempt you.”

  “Do you have a date, Liss? Franklin’s a sophomore, so he would understand if we went together. I felt terrible last year when I learned at the last minute you didn’t have anyone to go with for junior prom.”