Tiny Imperfections

by Alli Frank

  I will see you at our scheduled time, 1:00 p.m. sharp.

  Your Head of School,

  Nan Gooding

  HEAD OF SCHOOL

  FAIRCHILD COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL

  About mid-admissions season Nan sticks her head out of her oak-paneled office decorated with portraits of past school heads to meet with me for an admissions status update. The moment always reminds me of a gopher sticking its head out of a ground hole checking for predators to make sure it’s safe to come out and scurry about. I wish I could say after a few years her directive e-mails wash right off my back, but I’d be lying. Every single e-mail that comes my way I want to clap back with:

  Nan, I know you ain’t talkin’ to me like that, did you mean to send this to someone else?

  But I do like my job, and after checking my bank account balance last night I know I need this job. So I reply politely that I look forward to meeting with her.

  And then show up at 1:04 p.m.

  Our brief biyearly admissions updates have, without fail, gone something like this the past six years:

  NAN (CLEANING HER GLASSES): How are the numbers looking this year, Josie?

  ME (STICKING TO SCRIPT): As strong as last year.

  NAN (NEEDING MORE): Stronger than when Dr. Pearson was here?

  ME (RECOGNIZING WHEN AN EGO NEEDS TO BE STROKED): Absolutely, Nan, I never saw numbers like this under Dr. Pearson.

  NAN (PLAYING WITH HER SILK NECK SCARF): Good, good. Admissions has always been one of my strong suits as head of school.

  ME (NOTHING)

  NAN (A BIT LOST IN SELF-CONGRATULATIONS): Not that I care, but the board of trustees will want to know the admissions numbers.

  ME (IN MOCK AGREEMENT): Yes, yes, for the board of trustees.

  NAN (RETURNING TO HER ALL-BUSINESS TONE): Here is my list of three “must accept” families. They will need to go through the full admissions process like all families, of course, but will be accepted to Fairchild no matter what. And I may have a fourth.

  For thirteen years as a student and for my first six years as an employee in admissions, I had never known any head of school other than Dr. Pearson. For generations of students and their families, there hadn’t been a Fairchild without Dr. Pearson. For thirty-eight years the school was his life aside from his wife, Della, who was as loved as Dr. Pearson by the student body, with her warm, reassuring presence and the sacks of tulip bulbs she planted with each incoming kindergarten class in the fall.

  As far as anyone knew, Dr. Pearson had no children, no friends, no hobbies, and no interest in travel. He had Della and he had Fairchild. That is probably why, under Dr. Pearson’s leadership, the school endowment grew to sixty million dollars. Even through two dot-com busts, the campus gained four new state-of-the-art buildings, a couple of playing fields, and a parking garage. And, along the way, Fairchild became the most competitive private school in the Bay Area. From tech billionaires living in Presidio Heights to moody, persnickety chefs planted firmly in Mission Dolores, the one thing they had in common, aside from their Range Rovers, was the desire to have their kids attend Fairchild.

  In the fall of my fifth year working as an admissions assistant, Della passed away suddenly. The whole community was sure Dr. Pearson, who was healthy as a horse, would follow shortly thereafter from a broken heart. A secret head of school search committee was formed to make sure the school was fully prepared to find an exceptional new head for when that fateful and devastating day came.

  Dr. Pearson took off the month of November. The board offered him more paid leave through the winter holidays even though he probably could have taken off two full paid years given the amount of unused sick time the man had accumulated during his tenure. But Dr. Pearson kindly declined the offer and returned to school the Monday after Thanksgiving vacation looking tanned and fit. Still, the community stayed braced for him to drop dead any minute.

  But then the one-year anniversary of Della’s passing came and went and Dr. Pearson showed no signs of slowing down. The school thrived and, oddly, Dr. Pearson began to show up at school looking younger and appearing more vital than ever, mentioning dinners at San Francisco’s trendiest restaurants. It seemed Dr. Pearson was going to go on forever as head of Fairchild Country Day and that was just fine by me because in that time of personal renaissance he promoted me to director of admissions. For the first time, I felt like I had some financial wiggle room. By no means rolling in cash, I could at least start to pay down my NYU loans and not have to choose between rent, groceries, and new ballet shoes for Etta. I had finally been given a break in life, and I was ready to coast a little bit.

  The spring of my second year as director of admissions, Dr. Pearson was discovered by Fairchild’s upper school’s dean of students, pants down around his ankles in the art supply closet with Señorita Flores, the Spanish teacher. This in and of itself may not have been that big of a deal. In fact, most of us would probably have been rooting for him, knowing he was getting a second chance at love. That was until Bea Cornwall, Dr. Pearson’s long, long, longtime executive assistant went batshit crazy and destroyed his office with the new nine iron he had her pick up for him since his late-in-life interest in golfing developed. She put that nine iron right through his head of school portrait. It turned out all these years Dr. Pearson had had a hobby: Bea Cornwall. It also turned out that Bea Cornwall had simply been biding the appropriate amount of time (whatever that is) after the Della era for Dr. Pearson to pick up the pieces and ask for her hand in marriage. By the end of the Week of Love all three were gone from Fairchild and the middle school art supply closet had been emptied, disinfected, and restocked. What remained of Dr. Pearson’s thirty-eight-year legacy was a Greek tragedy that would haunt the next head of school, Nan Gooding, and Fairchild’s reputation for the first couple of years of her headship.

  I went from being an admissions assistant in May to director of admissions in July to acting head of school eighteen months later while the board scrambled to find a new head late in the private school hiring cycle. Why me? you may wonder. Why not the CFO or the assistant head of school like all the other private schools in the country would do when they are in need of an immediate interim head of school? I have a two-word answer for you—white males. Dr. Pearson was not the only administrator in our school who enjoyed a good striped bow tie from Brooks Brothers or Thomas Pink. The board of trustees thought, given the nature of Dr. Pearson’s sudden departure from Fairchild, that a woman in the head’s role would be a nice change of scenery. I was a twofer, being black and all. The hope was that any memory of the old guard—khakis, cuff links, wandering penises—would be erased from short- and long-term memory when I was in charge. I represented a new era for Fairchild.

  Only I had no idea what I was doing. Luckily, it was April and admissions were complete. New parents had signed their enrollment contracts and put down their deposits mere days before the private school gossip wires were set aflame.

  I still remember watching Dr. Pearson pack up his office. Ms. Cornwall was already checked-in to a “retreat” in Napa, her nerves unable to survive the public embarrassment of losing her marbles and losing her lifetime-coveted love. Her desk sat as she had left it before being tranquilized and hauled away by paramedics post face-off with Señorita Flores. The front office went from a bar brawl to a ghost town in a matter of hours. The board of trustees wanted me present as Dr. Pearson packed up almost four decades in his office to ensure there was no extraneous funny business.

  While I understood why Dr. Pearson had to go, my heart was conflicted. Here was a man who had always believed in me and held me to high standards of academics and conduct. He was the first to brag about me to anyone who would listen and then he welcomed me home to Fairchild, no questions asked. Dr. Pearson was the closest thing to a father I had ever had and letting him go, even given the circumstances, proved difficult.

  In qui
et moments throughout my life, I wondered if having a father would have improved my luck with men. I fantasized about my dad being something like Dr. Pearson, graying temples and a tweed jacket even on warm days. When I was nine I made the mistake of telling Aunt Viv. Her boisterous voice shook the apartment walls as she repeated, “Tweed? What black man have you ever seen wearing tweed?” and then she would break out in hysterics all over again slapping her velour-covered knee at my ignorance. “Girl, you’d do better imagining an Afro and some shoes that need resoling as fast as he skipped town!” At my disappointed expression, Aunt Viv softened a bit and reached for my hands, “Don’t worry about it, baby girl. Tweed or no tweed, that daddy of yours is gonna be mighty sad he ever walked anywhere away from you. No man will ever do that to you again.” But here was Dr. Pearson in his best tweed jacket preparing to do just that. And a handful of years later, Michael walked out on me, too. This was officially a pattern I had no interest in repeating.

  I was only acting head for five draining months before Nan Gooding arrived at Fairchild to save what some speculated might soon be a sinking ship without Dr. Pearson. And thank God she arrived when she did because I knew within a few short hours of my first day as interim head, I had no desire to ever hold the position permanently. Turned out, I loved being director of admissions! Being around families on their Sunday church behavior as the director of admissions, having them shower you with compliments and delightful conversation—all good cheer and gratitude—is where I shine. Easy, I know. Give these same people five minutes in the front door of a new school year and some of the best and the brightest parents of a generation turn into cold, complaining, sniveling shells of their formerly optimistic selves. After only two phone calls and six e-mails as head, I couldn’t deal with the entitled and disgruntled customers coming at me from all grade levels. Who knew serving corn on the cob with hamburgers on a gorgeous spring day in May was too many carbs in one meal, thus why Charlie Taylor in third grade was unable to make it through his select soccer tryouts? Apparently Fairchild was to blame for his spiked insulin followed by a carbohydrate crash. Little Charlie’s father did a three-way call between him, Charlie’s pediatrician, and me to make sure I understood the severity of the mishap. What I understood was that Charlie had a dad out to single-handedly dismantle the tradition of the great American picnic. To say I was beyond ecstatic when Nan was hired, and a start date was confirmed, would be an understatement. I looked forward to the moment I could return to my office in Colson Hall, where the loudest complainer was Roan after a spray tan gone awry.

  From the get-go, I think my relationship with Nan could best be described as frosty. I’m not sure how it spiraled downhill so fast. My two-cent speculation is that Nan didn’t grow up with many girlfriends. Any girlfriends. I think she grew up seeing other capable, competent girls as enemies who had to be edged-out for her to earn the accolades and get the boys. Trying to be head of a private school only fertilized these nasty characteristics. In an industry that is at least 80 percent male and still discriminates against hiring women into head of school positions, female candidates can quickly become, as Aunt Viv loves to say, women with sharp elbows.

  Funny thing is, of the three finalists, Nan was my favorite candidate. She had done her homework on the history and current state of Fairchild and had reputable research to back up her personal philosophy on education and leadership style. The two male candidates tried to skate by on charm, cronyism, and white male privilege.

  Nan, unfortunately, viewed my enthusiasm for her appointment and imminent start date with a healthy dose of skepticism. I shared with her my gratefulness to turn the reins of the Fairchild wagon over to her and even pointed out the big piles of horse crap to watch out for as she took the old wagon on her first spin. Somehow Nan took my offer to share some advice as a vote of no confidence and she’s been working hard to prove her exceptionalism and superiority ever since. I just wish Nan could get off the power trip she’s been on for six years. One would imagine she’s tired from all that travel.

  With each passing year she seems to leave the security of her oak-paneled office less and less and rely on commanding e-mails and sporadic public displays of self-congratulations more and more.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s 1:27 p.m. on Thursday and our admissions check-in is coming to a close. True to Nan form, she throws me a curveball.

  NAN (SWEETENING HER TONE AS I’M ABOUT TO EXIT OUR ADMISSIONS CONVERSATION): Oh, one more thing, Josie, I’m thinking of throwing a fiftieth anniversary party for your aunt Viv in late February or early March-ish. She is the longest standing employee Fairchild School has ever had since founding Head of School Balthazar Fairchild, so I think we should celebrate her tenure. I want it to be a party like Fairchild never experienced under Dr. Pearson. Of course, I will need Viv to do the food, but everything else Elsamyassistant can take care of.

  ME (BEING THE AUNT VIV EXPERT IN THE ROOM AND KNOWING SHE WILL HATE THIS IDEA): Well, Nan, that’s a very kind offer, but Aunt Viv is not one for a big fuss. I’m not sure a massive party is how she’ll want to celebrate being at Fairchild for fifty years. What about dedicating the cafeteria to her with a lovely plaque and maybe a gift certificate to her favorite Cajun restaurant?

  NAN (WANTING TO PROVE ONCE AGAIN SHE KNOWS BETTER THAN ME, EVEN ON THE SUBJECT OF AUNT VIV): Nonsense. Of course Viv will love a party. I will deliver a speech that honors her well.

  ME (TESTING THE LIMITS OF MY PATIENCE): I know you would, but given her recent heart attack and need to take it easy, I’m not sure making food for hundreds of people for her own party is a great idea. I want her to have a good couple of months to recover without added stress.

  NAN (DISMISSING MY RESPONSE WITH A WAVE): It will just be heavy apps, which we both know Viv can whip up with her eyes closed.

  ME (GRASPING AT STRAWS): That’s true, but you always talk about how important it is for faculty and staff to take care of their health so they can perform to the best of their ability at school.

  NAN (IGNORING ME): We will invite alumni families, faculty, and staff from the past fifty years as well as the current community. And perhaps my four top choice families for the incoming year. I’m thinking black tie—you know, do it up right, make it extravagant—there hasn’t been a formal party in the grand entry of the school since Dr. Pearson left. Yes, yes, the more I think about it the more the community will love a good excuse to get dressed up. I think you will be surprised by how much Viv will enjoy herself and appreciate the gesture. Trust me, Josie, I’m certain I know best on this one.

  ME (KNOWING AUNT VIV WILL SHOOT THE MESSENGER WHEN SHE FINDS OUT ABOUT THE PARTY. I PUT THE TARGET ON NAN’S BACK): Well, it’s such a generous offer, and since it’s your great idea, I think you should be the one to tell Aunt Viv. She’ll love to hear the news directly from you, and don’t leave out a single exciting detail. Particularly the part about it being black tie.

  NAN (QUITE PROUD OF HERSELF): You’re right, she should hear it from me, her head of school. It will mean so much more coming from me. I’ll send her an e-mail.

  ME (NOW ENJOYING THE ONCOMING DISASTER A LITTLE TOO MUCH): Nan, I think Aunt Viv will want to hear news this exciting in person.

  NAN (SHAKING HER HEAD IN CONTEMPLATION, A BIT TENTATIVE NOW): Okay, I’ll head over to the cafeteria right now. Ummm, Josie . . .

  ME (OFFICIALLY DONE WITH THE CONVERSATION AND IT’S 1:30 ON THE DOT): Yes.

  NAN (SLIGHTLY SHEEPISH, BUT TRYING NOT TO SHOW IT SO HER DOMINANCE ISN’T DIMINISHED): Where’s the kitchen office?

  TWELVE

  The picture windows of my office are bordered with colored Victorian lead glass. Intricate cutouts frame the thick swirling fog outside, which blocks any distractions that might normally keep me from focusing on my work. Oh goody a text.

  TY

  Aunt Viv promised me her special apple crumble coffee cake
at our parent interview with you next week. BTW I know you call me Golden Boy.

  9:52 A.M.

  I knew I shouldn’t have let Aunt Viv go to her post–heart attack checkup on her own. I thought she was going to see her primary care doctor, but apparently the rendezvous was with Dr. Golden. She came home flushed like a teen in lust and began scurrying around the kitchen singing the praises of her Golden doctor and explaining that a man that charming could only be from the South. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the application says he’s from Omaha.

  JOSIE

  I didn’t realize she was your aunt, too. And the coffee cake, I’m thinking that’s a recruiting tactic and in this admissions office we play by the rules. I can’t speak to Aunt Viv’s unethical behavior.

  10:02 A.M.

  TY

  I saved her life, thus the moniker of affection for Aunt Viv. What have you done other than share a bit of DNA?

  10:05 A.M.

  JOSIE

  I ruined her prime adult years by showing up on her doorstep at age 4 needing a mother. Then I showed up again on her doorstep during her golden years needing help raising my daughter. You get to call someone your aunt when you single-handedly ruin her life not once, but twice.

  10:11 A.M.

  TY

  Touché. So that was your daughter in the hospital room?