by Alli Frank
“What was that. I can’t hear you.”
Etta replies in a small voice, “Yes, that’s right Mama, but I still have a chance of getting in. The interviews aren’t required, they’re optional.”
“Oh, yes, I know. BUT any student who WANTS to go to Duke does everything in their power to make sure they have an alumni interview. Only uninterested, unqualified applicants are stupid enough not to have an interview.” At this point I need to calm myself down, ’cause I’m getting heated. “It’s called ‘building your admissions case,’ of which you now have none. So now you have not only disqualified yourself from any kind of early college action or decision due to your juvenile first round of essays, but now we can also cross Duke off your college list.”
“I never put Duke on the list, you did.”
“Excuse me?” My voice is rising, again. I’m no longer accountable for what may happen.
“She said it was you, not her, who put Duke on her college list,” Jean Georges offers snidely.
“Director Martin, yet again, you’ve offered unsolicited counsel to our family. This coffee date is over. Etta, get your backpack, we’re heading home to review how you have successfully managed, before even graduating from high school, to narrow your life choices. That’s something even I didn’t do.” I swivel my neck to glare at my next target. “And you, Director Martin, go find another ballet protégé to lead astray ’cause I swear I’ve never laid hands on a soul in my life . . . don’t you be the first.”
“Au revoir, Etta,” Jean Georges says, standing to pick up his fedora and meticulously place it on his head. “Her ballet arrangement for Juilliard is incredible, Josie. Just remember, it’s human nature to put effort into the things we really care about, the things we really want. Be the mother who knows what’s best for her daughter because she knows who her daughter is down deep in her core and what it is she wants most out of life.” Swiftly Jean Georges pivots on his toes and heads out the door, leaving me with my lying teenage prima ballerina.
Etta would have looked so good in Blue Devil blue.
TWENTY
FROM: Josephine Bordelon
DATE: February 18, 2019
SUBJECT: My aunt, Vivian Bordelon
TO: Beatrice Pembrook
Dear Beatrice,
I hope this e-mail finds you happy and healthy and enjoying our beautiful weather. If I remember correctly, Dash finished law school and is now working in Boston. He must be enjoying the city; it’s a fun place to be in your twenties.
I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but my aunt Viv is celebrating her 50th year at Fairchild School. While Nan has been kind enough to plan the Viva la Viv party for her (I hope you and Ethan will be able to make it), there’s one specific thing Aunt Viv would like most to commemorate her fifty years at the school.
I looked at Aunt Viv’s finances and between the two of us we can put together $1,000 a year to contribute to a Vivian Bordelon tuition assistance scholarship to support a single parent who is applying their rising kindergartener to Fairchild. The school was so generous to Aunt Viv when she was raising me. Then, a generation later, the school stepped up and has been equally kind as Aunt Viv and I have raised Etta. Aunt Viv would like to pay it forward to another parent who is working hard to do it all on their own and wants to provide an education of a lifetime for their child. I am hoping to start the Vivian Bordelon Scholarship.
One thousand dollars a year is not going to make much headway in a tuition payment. I’m writing to ask, with great humility as I know you have already been overly generous with Fairchild, if you would be willing to do any sort of match with us to help me bring Aunt Viv’s scholarship closer to life. Again, I know this is an unusual ask and one that under other circumstances would come from the head of school, but given that this is my aunt Viv, I would like to establish the scholarship myself.
This is a surprise to reveal to my aunt Viv at her party so please keep my request between the two of us. I thank you for considering a $1,000 matching donation and if you are unable to make a gift at this time but have some advice on how I may go forward trying to build the Vivian Bordelon Scholarship, I would greatly appreciate it.
Warm regards,
Josie Bordelon
DIRECTOR OF ADMISSIONS
FAIRCHILD COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL
My finger hovers over the send icon knowing when Nan gets wind of me going around her to ask Beatrice Pembrook to fund a scholarship in honor of Aunt Viv, she’s going to hit the roof. Nan is the monarch of our small nation, but all the buildings and portraits occupying her land feature men who have instrumentally forwarded the mission of the school. NEVER would Nan allow the first female publicly named anything on the Fairchild campus be for a woman other than herself, particularly not for a cook. Her story will be one of a woman who played with the big boys at Fairchild—and won. If I hit send, Nan will see my e-mail as a complete and total act of insubordination and toying with her legacy. If I don’t hit send, Aunt Viv will think I was blowin’ smoke at her request. It’s an ugly choice either way.
Send.
I mumble a small prayer, asking whoever is up there listening to make sure Nan doesn’t learn about the scholarship before the one minute she has allotted for my remarks at Aunt Viv’s party. Fifty-nine seconds is long enough to present Aunt Viv with the surprise scholarship as long as I talk quickly and take minimal breaths.
Nan has made it clear since the beginning of her tenure that only she and the director of development can approach the monied families of Fairchild to ask for cash to fund a project. And if it’s the director of development who does the bidding, Nan still gets credit. Nan has always held the Fairchild purse strings tight and I imagine Beatrice is on her short personal ask list for her STEAMS program or maybe an unnamed TBD legacy project like a Gooding Art Gallery. I know if the Vivian Bordelon Scholarship takes a dime from any Nan initiative I’m toast at Fairchild. Hell, I may be toast at the school simply for not telling Nan that I’m doing this, but if I don’t get the scholarship up and running as I promised Aunt Viv, I’m toast at home. Rock, meet hard place.
I’m momentarily drunk with power from sending one e-mail. I’m sick of Nan man-, well, woman-handling commemorating Aunt Viv’s fifty years of dedication to Fairchild when she has only been around a small fraction of that time. Really, I’m just sick of Nan and her disregard for the hard work of everyone at Fairchild. Yes, me included. I want ownership back over the Bordelon destiny. I want . . .
Ding. Shit! Is that Nan already? How does she know?
TY
I swear I was intrigued by your mystery favor yesterday, but my beeper went off and I had to head to the hospital immediately. What can someone like me do for someone like you?
2:42 P.M.
Whew, not Nan. I wasn’t quite ready to text fight with her so soon. Plus, what am I crazy? She’s not Oz. How would she know about my e-mail to Beatrice in twenty seconds or less?
JOSIE
You know you could make some serious money teaching straight men how to text flirt? Might even be able to give up that lame doctor gig you got going on.
2:44 P.M.
TY
But then what would l do with all that extra sleep I’d be getting? My body would be confused if it weren’t in a perpetual state of stress and exhaustion.
2:46 P.M.
JOSIE
Well now I feel guilty asking you my favor since you’re so busy making the world a better place . . . but here goes. Fairchild is throwing a big party for my aunt Viv who has worked at the school for fifty years. She hates parties, so you can imagine how thrilled she was when I told her about it. After a rough round of Josie-bashing Aunt Viv agreed to go if you were invited and you agreed to show up.
2:49 P.M.
TY
Are you asking me out on a date?
2:50 P.M.
&nb
sp; JOSIE
No, Aunt Viv is.
2:50 P.M.
TY
You’re going to be there though, right?
2:51 P.M.
JOSIE
Yes, of course. Aunt Viv will make sure I suffer alongside her or she’ll make me the coat check girl; not sure which one.
2:51 P.M.
TY
Then I’ll be there. Gotta go—someone’s heart just fell out of their chest.
2:52 P.M.
Ty really does give good text, lucky Daniel. Back to e-mail. Ohhh, look at that, Nan’s not online, but Beatrice is.
FROM: Beatrice Pembrook
DATE: February 18, 2019
SUBJECT: RE: My aunt, Vivian Bordelon
TO: Josephine Bordelon
Dear Josie,
I feel so privileged that you thought to ask me to join you in supporting the Vivian Bordelon Scholarship. When I was a child my mother was traveling all the time and your aunt Viv acted as the mother I never really had. She made sure I had treats to bring to my class when it was my birthday and she came to all my school band concerts (which, trust me, was an act of love because I was a terrible flute player). She was even the one to take me to the dentist when I knocked my two front teeth out climbing the jungle gym. My own mother was in Morocco, but Viv was right there holding my hand.
Is $30,000 a year enough or would you rather do $35,000? I’m not sure what tuition is these days. Whatever is necessary to make this happen, let’s do it and do it right.
With much appreciation for being included,
Beatrice
I run a victory lap around the kitchen table, raisin’ the roof. Aunt Viv is going to bust a gut when I present her with the Vivian Bordelon Scholarship at Viva la Viv. Who’s the master negotiator now, Aunt Viv? Me, that’s who! Well, I really didn’t have to negotiate much to make this happen. Okay, I didn’t have to negotiate at all. Beatrice Pembrook is, in fact, the gem that Meredith Lawton rambles on and on about, I have to give her that. I push to the back of my brain how I’m going to need to explain this to Nan when her permanent lockjaw drops to the floor at the party. Instead I call Lola. The Nan conundrum can wait for another day.
* * *
• • •
Monday mornings are my drop-off duty at Fairchild. I enjoy standing in front of the school welcoming students to a new week as they tumble out of their Teslas. As I walk through the grand foyer to the front doors this Monday morning, I see Nan slipping into her office. I pop my head in uninvited and unannounced by Elsamyassistant. Early this morning after an extra-large cup of inspirational coffee I decided I’m going to bury Nan in kindness and compliments in the days leading up to the party. If I’m on my best behavior now, perhaps there’s a chance she won’t go ballistic on me later when she finds out about the scholarship in front of the Fairchild community. That’s all I got for a viable Nan-handling strategy, so now is as good a time as any to kick it off.
“Hey, Nan, I’m heading out front for drop-off duty, you want to tag along with me?”
“Wha—!” I startle Nan unintentionally. “Did Elsamyassistant tell you to come in unannounced?” Nan asks flustered as she sets her weekly peonies arrangement down on her desk. “I need to talk with her about protocol. She’s been particularly loose on her duties as of late.”
“Elsa isn’t out front, Nan, I just thought you might like to come say hello to some students with me. Come on, hanging out with the kids is the best way to start a Monday morning.” Already the hard work of being fake nice is exhausting me.
“Well, I don’t know, there’s so much for me to do here . . .”
“If you come with me I’ll tell you what I found out about the valuation of the Stuarts’ company. Remember, they’re on your acceptance list.”
“I just knew I picked the right families for next year! I swear I have a sixth sense for who will truly be able to help Fairchild become the best day school in America.” Nan bangs her fist on her desk, the exclamation point to her perceived personal triumph.
“Let’s go, I’ll give you all the juice out front.” Not even the strongest of educators can resist a little gossip; Nan concedes.
“Alright, ten minutes, but then I must catch up with Elsamyassistant to review my hectic week.”
Nan and I push open the heavy eighteenth-century bronze double doors that serve as the main entry into Fairchild Country Day. Originally a mansion from the Gold Rush, as the school grew, Dr. Pearson did a beautiful job adding modern wings to the historic home. Nan likes to trash talk the multiple renovations Dr. Pearson did, but Architectural Digest has twice written articles that beg to differ.
“Good morning, Annie, have a great day at school! Myles, I can’t wait to see your presentation on Islamic art. Sean, how’d the lacrosse tournament go this weekend?” Nan watches as I greet each of the children who stumble over growing feet in a rush to embrace best friends, and hustle along the stragglers who are taking their own sweet time getting to their classrooms.
“You seem to know a lot about these children,” Nan states—an observation more than a compliment.
“For me, that’s the fun of working in a school, being around the kids and learning all about who they are. Kids are pretty hilarious and entertaining.” How you become a head of school if you don’t enjoy the company of children is beyond me. Nan shifts uncomfortably in her Ferragamos.
“I prefer to focus on the parents. Now, tell me, what is it that you know about the sale of the Stuart company that I don’t?”
“Give it a try, Nan, chat up one student for kicks and giggles and then I’ll give you all the intel, promise.” I can almost see dollar signs in her irises.
“Fine. I think I recognize these two girls coming up the stairs now. Good morning, ladies, I trust that you slept well, had a good breakfast, and are ready to work hard today?” Nan smiles tersely, keeping her distance, so it’s understood there will be no physical contact.
“Nan, this is my daughter, Etta, and her best friend, Poppy. They’ve been here since kindergarten.”
“Oh, yes, well, I knew I recognized her,” Nan strains out, nodding to the three of us. “Now, back inside, Josie, so we can talk. Can’t waste time chitchatting on the front steps of school all day, can we?”
“I’m right behind you, Nan.” I shake my head in defeat.
“Mama, when I leave next year I don’t wanna hear on TMZ about some crazy lady who offed her boss and tossed her in the Bay. If I do, I’ll know it’s you,” Etta warns me, even though she knows she isn’t exactly at the top of my favorite people list right now, either.
“Yes, well, I can’t make any promises.”
TWENTY-ONE
It’s the end of February, the homestretch of admissions season and I’m exhausted. “I can’t take it anymore. The kids are too cute and the parents too absurd,” I confess to Roan, thunking my head on a pile of admission files. I’m sick of looking at the four walls of this conference room, and the roof of my mouth is raw from an excessive amount of cinnamon gummy bears. “What happened to a family trip being camping in Yosemite where the biggest excitement is someone getting carsick on the way down?”
“It was swapped for hot-air balloon rides over the Serengeti or master junior chef pasta classes in Tuscany,” Roan lobs back, only half paying attention to my mouth ailment and to me.
“I can’t even spell Serengeti,” I huff. Why’s Roan not playing along with my superficial rage at the good fortune of others?
“Okay I’ve gone through this pile of twenty-five applicants and here are my seven acceptances.” Roan hands them over to me and then stands to twist and stretch his back. The committee has narrowed it down to one hundred admissible children. Roan and I flip through the files as I have the final, final jurisdiction.
“Ummm, Roan, we can’t have a class solely comprised of budding Mr.
and Miss Americas. Is there substance behind the surface of these seven Gap Kids models?”
“Between the seven of them they speak eleven languages, practice four religions, play five instruments, were born in three different countries, know how to share and touch their toes, all can wipe themselves, one is a Taurus—go bulls—and three of them gave me compliments on my shoes during their visit dates. Oh, and only one has a mom we red flagged, but I think she travels a lot for work so it’s worth the risk.”
“Excellent work, Colonel Mustard. Did you find these applicants in the library with the candlestick?”
“HA, Ms. Scarlet! Don’t be a hater ’cause you lost the game.”
“Alright, put them in the acceptance pile with Harrison Lawton, Antonia Grimaldi, and the Shah twins. Oh, and Ruby Vassar. She will be a nice calm energy to balance out the Joan Rivers–meets–Amy Schumer–wannabe I noticed you have in the yes pile. What about Gracie Golden? She must be in your pile; she’s not in mine.”
“I don’t know. She really didn’t interact with any of the other kids, kept to herself, and refused to share the dinosaurs. And she wasn’t much interested in working with the teachers at the math and reading stations. Oh, and look in her file at her self-portrait.” Before I can grab the file, Roan pulls the drawing out for me.
I snort laugh so hard my Diet Coke stings my nostrils. In front of me are two big pink nipples and an oddly anatomically correct drawing of a vagina. Clearly Gracie has a doctor for a father who has already explained the importance of these unique attributes of the female body. “Well, she certainly knows she’s a girl. And, I might say, possesses a passion for biology and anatomy.”
“You know she’s going to be the one in third grade spreading all the wrong rumors about where babies come from.” I look a little more closely at the picture.
