by Mary Pagones
“Given that Noel cheated on a bunch of tests, I’d say Davisson is a gift,” I say.
“He’s going to try to transfer after a year,” she says. I shrug. “Where’s Calvin?”
“He’s selling cookies during the lunch shift for the Gay-Straight Alliance,” I say.
“Should I buy him lunch?” asks Charlotte.
I’m shrug. “He said he was just going to eat the broken cookies we couldn’t sell,” I say.
Calvin, of course—between packing his younger sibling’s lunches, getting them out of bed, and getting them to school—never has time to make his own food. This morning he was complaining his family was out of peanut butter and jelly and juice boxes. So he had to send his three sisters to school with nothing but butter sandwiches on white bread, bags of pretzels, and cans of Coke. “On the bright side, maybe if I’m lucky, child protective services will take at least one of them away,” he rationalized.
“You’re feeding him scraps of food? Like a dog?” asks Charlotte.
“Broken cookies, and dogs can’t eat chocolate,” I say. “It’s Calvin. You know he eats anything. He’s not picky.”
“I’ll get him some real food, or for what passes for real food here,” huffs Charlotte. “I can’t believe you abandoned him without getting him lunch. He’s doing something for charity. He deserves to eat.”
“He’s selling food,” I protest.
Jacqui says, as soon as Charlotte leaves, “She’s so into him.” As I look at Charlotte, who is walking purposefully to the lunch line, I think, wow, Jacqui’s right. Charlotte Holland truly does have a serious thing for Calvin. Yes, Charlotte uses stupid acronyms like GBF. Yes, she uses her parents’ money to buy his friendship with trips and Broadway tickets. But she seems weirdly proud she’s the only one of us who thought to buy lunch for Calvin. I remember how she hugged him after he lost the part of Lancelot. The rose she brought him after his performance. It never occurred to me that Calvin might like or need something so extra. But maybe he does.
I think of the way Charlotte looked at Calvin when she asked him to sign her program after seeing him in the school play. I know that adoration, that validation means something to Calvin; it’s not something I or even Franklin would ever willingly give him in a serious fashion. Charlotte’s not put off by Calvin’s family, his jokes about being white trash, or his attitude. It’s hopeless, she knows it, and she still showers him with constant, unconditional acceptance. She can’t get anything out of it. Calvin isn’t particularly popular or well-liked. It’s disturbing how this messes with my image of her.
“How sad,” I say.
“Very sad,” says Jacqui. There’s a moment of silence. I try to think of something funny to say about Charlotte or the situation, but I can’t.
I change the subject. “Sadder than the fact that Noel is going to Davisson. I’m sure it won’t affect his life prospects too much, though maybe he’s hurting a little bit because there’s no ski resort within driving distance.”
“Liss!”
“I’m sorry, I’m just bitter because Pennington offered me next to no money.”
“Loans aren’t the end of the world. That’s how my parents paid for college.”
“Yes, but they had a plan to pay them off. They knew they could get a job with their degrees after they graduated. I realize they love what they do, but I’d be a terrible nurse. As long as I can read and write, no matter where I go, I’ll be happy. Books will never let me down, unlike boys,” I say.
“Liss, don’t say that. I’m sure you’ll find your Mr. Darcy someday, like I’ve found my Martin,” she says, smiling. “And I know you, you’ll find a way to make Pennington work. You’re a perfect match for that school.”
“I’m not sure I can count on finding a suitcase filled with cash on my doorstep when I get home,” I respond.
Charlotte comes back to scarf her bagel and iced tea (both nestled in a crisp white paper bag) and sit beside her Princeton backpack. “Calvin was happy to get lunch because he didn’t eat breakfast,” she says, as if accusing me of neglecting the human vacuum cleaner, which I was.
“I don’t suppose you know…if Hugh got in…anywhere?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t like to spread gossip…” says Charlotte. She blots her lips with an ivory napkin, leaving a subtle, brownish pink tinge on its surface.
“Charlotte, you know and I know that you know where everyone got into college.”
“It’s a sensitive issue…” Charlotte says, taking a bite of her bagel. She’s having whole wheat and plain cream cheese today. Unusually Spartan by her standards.
“Okay, I admit it. Hugh is my ex. I’m curious.”
“Waitlisted at Pennington, NYU, and Columbia,” she answers. “I bet Columbia is more of what they call a courtesy waitlist, because his father teaches there. In other words, he didn’t make the cut but they don’t want to outright reject the child of a professor and alumnus. Given that he failed one of his English papers, his final GPA for his senior year is not going to help his chances of getting into a competitive school.”
I smile. I try to make it a tiny smile.
“If he doesn’t get into Pennington or NYU, he’s going to do a summer film program at UCLA, then a postgraduate year at the prep school Phillips Exeter to improve his résumé for college,” says Charlotte.
“A postgraduate year?” asks Jacqui.
“You can do a fifth year at some of the best preparatory high schools in the nation, to bolster your résumé for college,” explains Charlotte. “There’s always a fallback strategy.”
“If you can afford one,” I mutter. We get up, toss our trash, and begin to leave the cafeteria.
“It’s better than the alternative,” says Charlotte.
“Which is? Rutgers? You do know Calvin is going there? I might as well. It’s what most of us can afford.” I know Jacqui feels guilty about her scholarship when I blurt out my resentment, but I can’t restrain myself. Fortunately, Jacqui exits the hallway into the door of her next class.
Charlotte is still attached to my hip, in her apologizing- but-not-apologizing mode. “I didn’t say Rutgers specifically, Liss.”
The two of us pass Calvin selling the cookies for the Gay-Straight Alliance. At least it’s gratifying to see a long line of kids lining up to buy them. But I’m not under any illusions. Some of these kids would still giggle if they heard Calvin as Lancelot singing about being pure and not loving a woman, like the people who screwed up his Camelot audition.
Calvin’s sporking the school lunch tater tots and nuggets Charlotte bought him down his throat. There’s only so much sugar one man can take, I guess. She turns around and gives him a cute little wave. I roll my eyes at him. He ignores me, waves back at Charlotte like a normal person, says, “Thanks for thinking of me, Charlotte,” kindly but not flirtatiously, and goes back to handing out the cookies and making change.
I remember what he said to me, about having class. Calvin may call himself white trash, but sometimes I think he has more class than any of us combined. Including myself, despite my Regency dress hanging in my closet, and all my Jane Austen editions on my shelves.
Chapter 27
Vanity Had Given Her Application
Amy Lesser left me a message while I was in school. When I arrive at the shelter, I call her on my cell.
“I’m doing the best I can, Liss,” she says. “I explained about the full scholarship offer from Rutgers. We’ll have a final meeting in a couple of weeks to review the financial aid packages. We want to make this happen.”
“Pennington has always been my first choice,” I gulp, “but would require me to take out a massive amount of loans. I know I’m not in the best position to give an ultimatum, but if I’m not offered more in the way of scholarship money....”
“I completely understand and sympathize,” Amy says, sounding genuinely sad behind the programmed language.
I remind myself it’s stupid to whine or even fe
el regret, since this is what I expected. “I’m sure you’re busy. Thank you for taking the time call me.” I sit down on the steps outside. I know I’ll need a moment to compose myself before going in.
“That is the Pennington way, Liss. I know it’s a lot to take out in loans if you don’t get additional aid, but Pennington will make a commitment to providing you with the best education it can offer. We’re like a family here.”
Just a very expensive one, I think. But not bitterly. She’s been kind to me, above and beyond the call of official duty. “Jane Eyre is your favorite novel, but unfortunately I don’t think I have any distant relatives in very poor health who might unexpectedly leave me a massive inheritance. Nor am I being courted by any heirs to Pemberley.”
“I hope you find a way to come,” she says. “Just make sure to keep your grades up, and send in any supporting material to bolster your application for additional scholarships in the meantime.”
Alas, I don’t think my Mary/Wickham novel is going to be finished and become a bestseller in a few weeks.
I decide to focus on the dogs for the next hour or two. When I go to walk Wentworth, I see he’s gone. I run to my supervisor. “What happened to Wentworth? Is he okay?”
“Didn’t you know he was adopted?” she asks.
“No one told me,” I say. I’ve been away for the past few days because I’ve been organizing the cookie fundraiser and had so much schoolwork.
Miracles do happen. Of course, more dogs have already arrived—some beagles from an overcrowded shelter in the South we need to evaluate, plus two majorly matted golden doodles (the result of a couple’s divorce). But there is hope in the world, because Wentworth has been adopted.
On my way home, I drive past a man walking a dog. It occurs to me that the little brown smear at the end of the leash was a miniature wirehaired dachshund. In a flash, my mind makes the connection.
“Mr. Clarke, oh my God, you didn’t,” I shout, pulling over to the side of the road. Thank goodness the street is relatively quiet. I’m so overcome I can barely park before flinging myself out of my vehicle. “You adopted Wentworth. You’re still going to call him Wentworth?” I know lots of people rename dogs when they adopt them. “Oh, thank you, thank you!”
Clarke’s still in the same clothes that he wore to school today, minus the tie. But he’s not smoking, and he looks like he actually has a little bit of color on his face from being outside. Or he’s embarrassed. “Yes. He’s a very nice little chap, Liss. No trouble at all. No need to thank me.”
“Mr. Clarke, you must allow me to tell you how much I admire you for doing this,” I say.
“I needed some motivation to start walking again.” He quickly changes the subject, perhaps afraid I’m going to say how much I love him, if for no other reason to complete the full quote from Darcy’s first awful but heartfelt proposal to Elizabeth. “Have you heard from any other universities?”
“I did. Rejected from some of my reach schools like Wesleyan, but I got into what was my top choice, my dream school Pennington College. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going to be able to attend. Pennington didn’t award me enough financial aid. So Rutgers it is. I can’t justify turning down a full scholarship.”
“You sound disappointed, Liss. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“There’s still a chance though. Pennington is reviewing my financial aid package in a few weeks.”
“I am biased, but I think you’ll like Rutgers’ English program.”
I nod. “Thank you so much for saving Wentworth. I was so worried about him.”
“We had been meaning to get another dog after our last dachshund passed away.” I know without asking that “we” refers to his wife and himself. “Speaking of Wentworth, I enjoyed your paper on Persuasion. I was curious if you liked the novel more?”
“I do. Persuasion is quite romantic. I’m even less convinced that you only appreciate Austen the social satirist.” Mr. Clarke averts his eyes. This would not be noteworthy when speaking to most human beings, but he always won our other undeclared staring contests. I don’t glory in my victory and continue. “Pride and Prejudice remains my favorite.”
“Now all you need to worry about is the prom.”
“I don’t care about prom, although it will be fun to hang out with my friends,” I say, shrugging. “Since I’m going solo.”
“Alone?” he looks surprised. Maybe for some reason he thinks I’m the sort of girl who has an easy time getting dates. Misreading me, despite all of his ability to quickly make sense of literature. Then again, a serious reader isn’t necessarily an equally astute student of the human character.
“No Mr. Darcy for me at prom.”
“At prom? Not the prom? I’m rather disappointed you omit the definite article, Liss.”
“Language changes and evolves, Mr. Clarke. Anyway, I wasn’t even able to snag a proposal from a Mr. Collins at the last minute. I suppose I sound very pathetic, but it’s my senior prom and I wouldn’t want to spend the night away from my friends and not go at all.”
“Quite the opposite of pathetic,” says Clarke. “Just to warn you, I’ve been enlisted as a chaperone this year, so I will be keeping you all in line. Don’t plan on having too much fun. All agony, no hope.” He smiles and turns to go.
I watch the dog and the man stroll down the street. It’s a warm day but windy. A cloud of tiny leaves and delicate pink petals from a nearby tree blows in a swirl behind them. What a beautiful, fragile sight.
My father and I discuss my options. He tries to nudge me to consider a different major, but I point out that even if I did study economics, there’s no guarantee that I would be working on Wall Street after graduation. I know some Pennington graduates became entrepreneurs and sold their startups for serious money, but that’s not where my passion lies. “I’m majoring in English because I can’t think of anything else to study; I want to improve my creative writing.”
“I think you’re a pretty decent writer now,” says my father.
“I’ve gotten better this year,” I admit. “My English teacher’s been pretty rigorous. And critical.”
My father hesitates. “Liss, I hate to bring this up, but only a very, very few people are able to make a living as novelists.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather do something with words for a living, and have time to write novels in my spare time.”
My father calls my sister in and tells her we’re waiting on the Pennington financial aid package. She’s still going to the summer robotics camp at MIT. Even if she makes stupid decisions about guys, it’s for the best. As much as I love books, there is a limit to what they can teach. Jane would agree with me, I’m sure.
Chapter 28
In Vain I Have Struggled
I wake at my usual school alarm time to such a beautiful Saturday morning, I can’t go back to sleep or even lie in bed reading. I go for a bike ride, stopping at a 7-11 to get an iced tea to sip as I ride. My favorite park has a wonderful bike path with steep hills and valleys. I love the burning sensation in my calves as I pump my way upward, and the thrill of catapulting down with as little control as I dare. Now that I’m not in ballet, I don’t need to worry about my calves looking too muscular.
When I’m coasting down the narrow strip of asphalt, I suddenly see a woman in front of me, walking, talking on her cellphone, in the middle of the path. “Out of the way, on your left!” I shout at her, but she’s too busy yakking. “On your left!” She hasn’t left me enough room to navigate to her left or right, so I’m forced to come to a stop. I have to skid off of the bike path and nearly run into a tree. I grip the bars in rage. The corpse of my drink is lying at my feet, beheaded of its plastic top.
I recognize the face behind the dark sunglasses. “Ms. Desborough!”
“Elisa Tennant!” she greets me. “I’ll call you back in a minute,” she says to the person she was speaking to on her phone. “I was nearly killed by a rogue cyclist. How have you been faring in regards to c
ollege acceptances?” She seems unconcerned about my safety.
I toy with the idea of countering her impertinence with more impertinence. It’s too early in the morning and the caffeine hasn’t recharged my brain sufficiently, so I resort to the truth. “Rutgers offered me a full scholarship, and I’m negotiating my financial aid with Pennington.”
“Ah, I recall Charlotte mentioning that to me. We’re so excited about Princeton.”
“I’m sure the Hollands would have been prostrate with grief if Charlotte hadn’t been admitted.” And never made another generous alumni contribution to the university again.
“I hope there’s no hard feelings between the two of us, and you’re pleased with how things turned out.”
“As long as I can study English literature and creative writing, I’m content.”
“Of course,” she says. “Have a positive attitude! For example, I recently had an emergency consultation with a very talented student from Rosewood South. He did not get into any suitable schools, but he had written a very moving short film. We were able to secure him a place at a summer program in cinema studies. He will then take a postgraduate year at Phillips Exeter to bolster his candidacy.”
“Happy thought indeed,” I say.
We part and she continues to walk down the bike path, blocking my way, resuming her conversation on her phone. I turn the other way and bike back, all uphill. My heart is still hammering in my chest thanks to my close encounter with the tree. It’s throbbing in time to the pounding of my caffeine headache. Perhaps Mr. Clarke is right and I should wear a helmet. Hubris isn’t helpful for heroes or heroines who have to fend for themselves.
Chapter 29
She Has Exposed Herself In Some Public Place Or Other
