by Alli Frank
FROM: Josephine Bordelon
DATE: February 16, 2019
SUBJECT: RE: Liu Twins
TO: Yu Yan (Helen) Wu
Dear Helen,
If I had a dollar for every time a parent wanted to buy us a mansion in exchange for admitting their kid to Fairchild I could damn near pay for my three plane tickets to New York City. But wait, I just reread your e-mail and Mr. Liu does not want to buy us a mansion he wants to buy himself yet another mansion and rent it back to us at ridiculous San Francisco market prices because one of his childrens’ several nannies didn’t like the looks of our campus. Please tell Mr. Liu to save his money; his children will need it to continue their personal passion to build the world’s largest teen Louis Vuitton collection.
All my best,
Josie Bordelon
DIRECTOR OF ADMISSIONS
FAIRCHILD COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
With my finger hovering over the keyboard I consider that this is one rant I really should send. I could send it in the vein of wanting to help the Lius become culturally competent in the ways of the American private school system. Or at least give a boost to Helen’s education consulting business—you know, educator-to-educator, woman-to-woman. I’ve got to tell her this is not the way to go about getting your clients into top American schools and increasing your personal placement batting average.
“Are you a richist?” Roan has snuck up on me and helped himself to an eyeful.
“What’s that?” I ask Roan after he finishes reading my e-mail. I want his opinion if I should send it, even though I know the answer.
“You know, it’s like a racist, but you hate rich people.”
I spray my coffee all over my keyboard. “How can I hate rich people, Roan? My body, mind and, soul revolve around fulfilling their greatest parenting fantasies.”
“Well, the dads’ maybe.”
“And a few butch moms.” Both of us crumble into exhausted laughter. We have been working six days a week since winter break and it’s starting to wear on our base-level humanity.
“Okay, got it. Message received.”
DE-LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-TE.
Roan offers me his elbow. “Alrighty then, shall we go meet the six little wonders of the world and their momsters and fathers who are eagerly awaiting our arrival?” Moms always get a bad rap.
As we head into Fairchild’s grand foyer to greet today’s group of nervous parents and their offspring, it’s nice that the first faces I see are Daniel’s and Ty’s. Holding hands between them, Gracie is a budding hipster in her skinny jeans, red Converse high tops, plaid shirt, and mini horn-rimmed glasses. Her helmet of brown curls clearly hasn’t been touched in days. “Hi, my name’s Gracie and my daddy says if I do everything you say and shake your hand nice he will buy me a pair of Uggs.” I look up at Daniel who is rigid in disbelief that he’s been outed in the first minute of the audition. I can tell Gracie and I are going to get along just fine. I like an honest woman. I reach out to shake her extended hand.
I brush by Ty and whisper through my classic admissions director grin while making eye contact with the gathered parents in the room, “After the visit date I need you to hang back a minute. I have a big favor to ask you. And before you even ask, no, the weights have not made it off the coffee table.”
“I’m intrigued.” He leans in to whisper back.
“Don’t be,” I say with a reassuring pat on his shoulder. It’s as sculpted as I remember from our lunch at the vegan food truck.
In my opinion, the visit dates have always had a striking resemblance to horrific reality TV kid beauty pageants. Whoever’s child can look the freshest, stay clean the longest, come across the smartest, and not completely melt down and show their true selves, wins.
There’s a little boy sitting by himself in khakis and a mini blue blazer with a vintage Superman T-shirt peeking out. It looks as if the gold blazer button may pop at any moment from the pressure of his belly chub. He’s glancing through Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar, one of my personal favorites. From a distance I think I may be in love. As I get closer to introduce myself I know I recognize this little boy. Then his mother turns around.
“Good morning, Josie, and a most glorious New Year to you,” Meredith says loudly, giving me an air kiss on each cheek. I know this move; she’s trying to intimidate the other parents by acting chummy with me like we’re lifelong family friends and she has a secret key to the Fairchild kingdom that no one else has. It’s so admissions 2008. I do have to admit that Meredith is looking radiant from the inside out. She must have managed to get herself to an early morning yoga class, showered, juiced, and slipped into the Burberry quilted jacket that I’ve been coveting for years in the same amount of time it took me to get up, pour a vat of coffee, and make it to work.
“Nice to see you and Harrison. I see you’re looking at one of my very favorite books,” I say, turning away from Meredith to focus on my new little friend. Harrison beams me a smile and returns to his hungry caterpillar.
“Oh, he’s most likely reading it, his tutor has him running phonic drills at home. Isn’t it wonderful that you and Harrison already have so much in common, a love of the same literature.” Meredith gives a forced laugh and I decide, out of common courtesy in a public space, to not tell her that all kids love The Very Hungry Caterpillar; that’s why it’s considered a classic.
I give Meredith a thumbs-up because I don’t have words. I try to walk politely away when Meredith grabs me by the wrist. “Oh, and Christopher sends his regrets for not being here. Poor darling, it’s just tearing him up inside that he’s missing all the admissions fun. His flight out of Istanbul was canceled, but Harrison’s education . . .”
“I know, Meredith, is of utmost importance to him. That’s how all the parents here feel. In fact, it’s how all the families who apply to Fairchild feel. Everyone wants the best for their son or daughter.” Meredith gives me a slight “hmpf,” perturbed that I have lumped her in with the rest of the parents. Or it could be that she’s not used to someone who looks like me putting a woman who looks like her in her place.
Antonia Grimaldi is on the corner bench picking her nose and wiping it on her bite-sized cashmere sweater. Her father is reading out loud to her from the Wall Street Journal. Amani and Dev Shah are sitting on their mother’s lap chewing something gummy. I go over and give Priya, the boys’ mother, a big hug that includes the kids. The Shahs are a Fairchild family favorite. Their twin girls graduated from ninth grade last year and are now at Thatcher for boarding school. Priya calls her one-in-a-billion second set of twins her “happy mistake.” Arjun calls them the party favors from a friend’s over-the-top wedding in L.A. It seems silly to make them go through the whole Fairchild admission song and dance with Amani and Dev, but since the first set of twins are no longer at Fairchild the second set are not given sibling preference. True to the Shah family, Priya and Arjun don’t mind doing the whole routine all over again. Clearly, it’s all for show that the rules and protocols are 100 percent followed. Amani and Dev and Priya and Arjun are shoo-ins given their reputation for being completely normal, down-to-earth parents. Next to being a potential million-dollar donor, being normal, rational parents in an era of parenting through irrationality, will earn you a spot in any number of private schools. If more of the parents applying to Fairchild understood this fun little fact my job would be infinitely easier.
I know there is one more child who is supposed to be here for the 9:00 a.m. group. I look around the room and I spy two eyes peeking out from between her father’s knees. Dad is trying to move her around to the front of him, but she’s having none of it. I sit down on the floor right in front of Dad’s kneecaps. My mystery student closes her eyes and rattles her cornrows back and forth signaling to me that she’s not coming out. Dad tilts his head down and tells me her name’s Ruby.
“Ruby, do you know
that you are named after the most beautiful gemstone in the whole entire world?” The cornrows shake up and down with a rattle. I count a nonverbal “yes” as progress.
“Ruby red is such a beautiful color. It can be the color of a crayon, the color of a heart, the color of lipstick, the color of a big bouncy ball I have for us to play with in the gym.”
“My little sister’s name is Opal. It’s an ugly color,” says Dad’s knees. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Can you hold my hand and show me something in this room that looks like the color opal? I’m not sure what color that is.” I slide my hands between Dad’s knees, knowing he thinks I’m either a miracle worker or feeling him up. Ruby takes my hand and pushes her dad’s legs apart to come out and greet me.
The emotions that wash over me when this milk chocolate bunny appears are startling. I’m suddenly transported to the day fourteen years ago when Etta and I sat in this exact foyer waiting for our kindergarten visit date to begin. It was her first of many auditions and Etta could sense my hopes and fears for our future. She refused to come out from under my skirt, so I had to walk with her and the other kids to the playroom like Mother Ginger in The Nutcracker since Etta was busy trying to crawl back into my womb. When we got to the playroom, I quickly lifted my skirt, flashed my underwear to the crowd of teachers, pushed Etta out, and ran for my life, shutting the door behind me before Etta could make a run for it. After that embarrassing display of parenting I figured at best we would be put on the waitlist and, at worst, the Fairchild director of admissions, who was soon to be my boss, would be calling CPS.
In the midst of all these new parents christening their children’s educational journey today, it occurs to me that in a few short weeks Etta and I will be back where we started—trying out for admission to a highly selective school with rigorous standards and hundreds of applicants richer than us and perhaps more talented than Etta. We aren’t going to New York for a Bordelon family vacation; we’re going to try out for Etta’s future. And even though I don’t want Etta to go to Juilliard, if they judge my baby based on one performance and a few essays and she doesn’t get in my heart will shatter and I will demand answers, if not someone’s head served to me on a platter. From professional experience, I know that someone’s head will be the director of admissions. As uncomfortable as it makes me to admit, I know I’m like every other overbearing and unbearable parent in this room. I shake my head and blink aggressively one, two, three times and pull myself back to my current reality, twelve little eyes staring eagerly at me.
“Ruby, Amani, Dev, Antonia, Gracie, and Harrison, can you come sit in a circle with me? Your big people will stay standing by the wall not far from you, but I would love it if you could come find a seat on the carpet with me, and I’m going to tell you about the fun we are going to have.” Ever so slowly six children tentatively make their way from their parents to the circle. Harrison is the last one to arrive, finding it difficult to part with his book.
“Today you’re going to follow me and my friend Roan to a room that has all sorts of toys in it and a few more super fun grown-ups. In that room you are going to get the chance to do lots of interesting things with letters and numbers and drawing and blocks, and there will be some surprise toys, too. Then Roan will read you a story, and finally you will get to go outside and into the gym and run around and be silly. While you are having so much fun I get to spend some time talking with your parents in a big-people room. But I promise you, your parents are not far away, in fact, when you are on the playground if you look up I bet you will be able to see us in the window! How does that sound?”
Five heads nod okay, Gracie looks a bit like a deer in the headlights.
“So, before we take you all over to the playroom, does anyone have a question they would like to ask? I want to make sure everyone feels comfortable with the plan and the adventure we are all about to have.”
Amani raises his hand.
“Yes, Amani?”
“Ummm, when you’re playing on the slide and it’s cold outside does your pee pee tickle?”
And just like that, in thirteen years of doing this job I can still be asked a question I would have never thought of in a million years.
“Why yes it does, Amani. It really does.” It’s always best not to argue with a five-year-old and I’m pretty sure none of these parents are looking for me to launch into an anatomy lesson. Amani seems satisfied with my answer.
As I lead the line of kids from the foyer over one building to the playroom I feel a small hand slip into mine. I look down and see Ruby gazing up at me. I smile, and we hold hands in silence the rest of the way to make sure everyone concentrates on walking. I haven’t had a broken bone or a lawsuit at an admission visit date yet and I’m not about to start now.
When we get in the room, I tell all the kids to take off their jackets and hang them on the hooks. Roan quietly shuts the door, not wanting to startle the kids into thinking they have been locked in a kid clink. Ruby refuses to let go of my hand. She pulls two times on it and wiggles the index finger of her free hand signaling me to bend down. “I don’t have a mommy.” I take a moment to process this information. I don’t want to say the wrong thing.
“There’s another thing we have in common. We both think the color Ruby is beautiful, and I don’t have a mommy, either.” Ruby’s eyes light up with surprise.
“Is your mommy up in the clouds watching you, too?” Ruby’s same index finger points to the ceiling.
“Your mommy gets to watch you every minute of every day? That’s a lucky mommy.” I’m willing tears not to start trickling.
“That’s what my daddy says, too, but I sure wish my mommy could be here to watch me.”
“I bet she wishes that, too, baby. Wouldn’t she be so proud to see you being a big girl at a school visit date?”
“My mommy and daddy used to make funny noises in their bedroom. Did your mommy and daddy do that?”
“Yes, at some point they certainly did.”
“Help, Josie, we got a runner!” Roan yells and dashes through a now-open playroom door. For all his baby chub, Harrison certainly is lightning-fast.
After the visit, I get an almond milk chai latte from the Starbucks at the opposite end of Laurel Village from Peet’s Coffee. Groceries are in the car and it’s 3:08. I’m just going to do a quick walk by the oversized windows of Peet’s Coffee on my way to the Wells Fargo cash machine next door. I legitimately need cash, sort of. Etta better be well dressed, no leotards. I’m hoping Aunt Viv was home to give her a once-over.
I pull a baseball hat from my purse and put on my oversized sunglasses. A believable disguise for a sunny day. I pick up the pace as I near Peet’s, ready to move swiftly but staring with laser focus. Turns out I don’t have to look too hard. Etta is sitting at the window counter with a white man much older than she, who I assume is doing the interview. I guess, for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I thought a black alumnus would interview Etta. If for no other reason than to prove that it’s not only white folks or black athletes who end up at Duke. I crouch down quickly so I’m below Etta’s eyesight level, but I’m intrigued by who this older gentleman is. I back up, cross California Street, walk one block down toward the Jewish Community Center, then cross back over to the same side of the street as Peet’s so I can see Etta in her interview from the opposite view. As I approach the front door to the coffee shop I rip off my glasses in disbelief. Etta, is indeed having coffee with an older gentleman—JEAN GEORGES! I don’t even take a momentary pause to cool down the mom fire that has been lit. I throw open the door and in six swift steps I’m standing between Etta and Jean Georges, surprisingly unable to say anything I’m so angry.
“Josie,” Jean Georges says in a measured, nonplussed tone. Etta ceases to blink.
“I know why you’re here, Etta, or at least I thought I did. What I don’t know is why you’re he
re with Jean Georges. What I’m hoping is that it’s mere coincidence you two ran into each other here, at the exact time you’re supposed to be having an interview for Duke. And the second part of that story best be that your interviewer texted and he’s running late. Is that what you want to tell me, Etta?” I’m flexing my hands together behind my back to keep my fingers from wringing Etta’s neck.
“Mama, why are you here?!?!?” Etta whines through clenched teeth.
“I was at Cal-Mart picking up some groceries for Aunt Viv, as I promised her I would do. And as you know, Bordelon women follow through on their promises to their family members. And then I realized I needed some cash.” I’m definitely relieved I had my cover story worked out beforehand. It holds serious weight in the middle of this sting operation. “So tell me, is your interviewer early or late?” Silence.
“EARLY OR LATE, ROSETTA FAYE BORDELON?”
“There’s no interview.” Etta says, barely audible, not meeting my eyes.
“Come again? ‘There’s no interview,’ why not?”
“I canceled it.” I take a big, deep breath at this news I was not expecting from my rule-following, perfection-seeking daughter. Peet’s is a small coffee shop with not-so-great acoustics, so if I lose my shit and start screaming it will certainly reverberate off the walls.
“You better pray to God that I think the reason you canceled that interview is a good one. You have ten seconds to convince me. Go.”
“I wanted to review my performance choices for my Juilliard audition with Director Martin and this was the only time he could do it this week.”
I hold my hand up and take a step back. “I need a moment to process without any more information input.” Silence hangs in the air, again. “Just so I’m perfectly clear, there is no Duke interview.”
“Umm-hum.”
