Jane Austen in Scarsdale

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  1.Scientific guessing.

  “To guess or not to guess, that is the question!” Art would intone, before proceeding to teach an elaborate series of probability formulas. In some cases, the calculations regarding when to guess were more difficult than the problems on the test, so that students came away from his courses knowing more math than they had learned in four years of high school.

  2.Linguistic tonality.

  “Listen for the voice of the test,” Art would advise, as if teaching a high-level course in poetics. “Anything that sounds too right is probably wrong and anything that sounds too wrong is probably wrong too. Keep away from any answer that has that smug teacher’s tone—they’re trying to trip you up. And don’t ever choose an answer that reads ‘a kind of liqueur.’ The underpaid social studies teachers who like to pretend they own a country estate and a smoking jacket like to throw that one in.”

  3.Motifs and patterns.

  “All life,” Art opened this section of his course by saying, “is built on pattern. The SATs are no exception. Remember, the guys that write these tests usually only know one or two things well. Maybe it’s predatory animals. Maybe it’s precipitation. Maybe it’s the life cycle of the fruit fly. Whatever it is, once you get hold of the motif, hang on and you’ll start to see the pattern. It’s like a game of concentration. Any kindergartner can do it.”

  4.Practice.

  “At the heart of good test-taking,” lectured Art, “is practice. No one likes to practice; it’s boring. But with the SATs, remember: the more bored you are, the better you’ll do. You want to take the test over and over again. In time, you begin to think like the test. Fortunately, I’ve only known a few cases where this thinking persists beyond high school, and those people go into politics.” Art’s biggest disappointment with regard to practice was when the SATs eliminated score choice. “Used to be I’d send these kids in to take the SAT IIs six, seven times if their folks could afford it. There’s nothing like the adrenaline rush of sitting in a big overcrowded classroom with some kid farting in front of you and some Nazi in charge of watching the clock. Eventually, no matter how lamebrained you are, you get the hang of it. Now, all the scores show up on the transcripts, so you can’t take the test more than three times, max. It’s a shame. I try to simulate the test situation for their practice tests—but let’s face it, there’s only so much I can do.”

  5.Keep the five SAT commandments.

  “If you don’t do anything else, you can get a 600 on a section if you keep my commandments,” Art said, gesturing to a list in Gothic font posted over the Ping-Pong table in his basement. Art often closed his sessions by expounding a bit on each commandment:

  •Thou shalt not eat junk food the night before the test.

  “Who can do quadratic equations with gas?”

  •Thou shalt not clutter thy brain.

  “The night before the test, watch TV, listen to really bad pop music, play Candy Land with your little brother. Don’t under any circumstances read a book or engage in substantive conversation. The key to SAT-taking is not to think; the people who write these tests don’t and you want to keep on their level.”

  •Thou shalt not forget Kleenex.

  “You’ll never get through those long, boring reading samples with a runny nose.”

  •Thou shalt not let thy eyes wander.

  “Seeing that hot girl in the cutoffs will make you forget all about the Constitutional Convention. Plus you never know when one of those mean gym teacher types who’s monitoring the test will get bored and want to accuse someone of cheating. Don’t let it be you.”

  •Thou shalt not read the questions too closely.

  “The key to SAT-taking is to skim. If you start to concentrate on what the questions really mean, you’ll realize how stupid they are and never get anywhere.”

  Since Art’s teaching of the SATs was connected to a deep-seated contempt for their content, Anne sometimes wondered if it was advisable for kids to take his courses. But in the end, she concluded that his approach was not so much against the system as in the interests of the students. Indeed, his sympathy for the downtrodden and scruffier element of that population gave him a special status as the Robin Hood of SAT review, especially since he was willing to waive the fee if a student couldnt afford it. As he explained to Anne, “SAT review isn’t just a job, it’s a calling. Everyone should have the chance to work the system, not just the rich and powerful. My dream is to have every kid who slept through half of high school ace the test.” Even if Anne did not find this the most laudable goal, she had to admit that Art was one hell of a good teacher.

  “I have about a half dozen kids I’ll be steering your way this term,” said Anne, after Art had given her the flyers and the spiel about “Why I Love My Dog.” “Two of them are financially strapped.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Art waved a hand. “You’re a good man, Art.”

  “No. I’m just in love. Do I have a chance?” “I’m afraid not.”

  “I guess your heart’s already taken. Just my luck.”

  Anne looked away, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, and Art, who was smart enough to know he’d hit a nerve and kind enough to be sorry about it, said gruffly, “Don’t worry, it’ll work out.” He hesitated, considered saying more, and decided against it. (“If you really haven’t got a clue about an answer, leave it blank” was his advice to his students.) He stood up and arranged the pile of Wiley Way flyers carefully on the desk. “Just tell those kids to give me a call,” he said gently. “I’ll fit them in sometime next week.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ANNE SAT FOR A MOMENT AT HER DESK, WONDERING WHAT HAD gotten into her. Someone says a few words about the state of her heart and she starts “boo-hooing,” as Winnie might say. “Pull yourself together,” she scolded herself, “you’re not sixteen.” She wiped her eyes and put on some lipstick. Then, remembering that an “Athletic Scholarship Information Session” was about to begin in the auditorium, she got up and left the office.

  If one segment of the Fenimore student body was focused on SAT prep, another was focused on athletic prep. The idea— increasingly prevalent as competition for college admission had heated up in recent years—was that muscles offered an alternative to brains in getting into college.

  This morning’s talk was by one Ted Wackowski, a former coaching pal of Vince’s. Ted had founded Blitz Athletic Recruiting, a consulting firm aimed at what he liked to call “the non-academic athlete”—more commonly known as the dumb jock.

  The audience consisted of a group of befuddled parents who were hoping to turn their kids’ ability to throw balls or wave around sticks to some sort of advantage. Over the years they had been told that these athletic activities were invaluable: that they would build character, hone leadership skills, and develop judgment. If pressed, however, they would have admitted that what their kids had mostly learned was how to take Tylenol without water and wrap an Ace bandage at record speed. Meanwhile, their homework had been forced to take a back seat, squeezed into the small window after the knee had been iced and the uniform put in the dryer. As a result, many of these kids needed all the help they could get, and their parents were eager to hear more from Blitz Athletic Recruiting.

  Ted opened his PowerPoint presentation with a colorful graphic of a youth throwing a ball through a hole in a mortar board, over which was superimposed the slogan, “Blitz Your Way to College.”

  “Now, if your guy is NFL or NBA material, then he doesn’t need me,” Ted clarified at the outset. “And if he’s got good grades and scores, he doesn’t need me either. I’m here for all the other guys—and gals too (with Title 9, there’s a goldmine in this for the ladies). Your kids want to go to college because, hey, they don’t want to spend their lives working in McDonald’s, and, more important, because they want to play college ball. I can make it so they can do that without costing you, Mom and Dad, an arm and a leg.”

  The parents nodded hopefully—this w
as precisely what they were after: not paying an arm and leg to send their kids off to play college ball.

  “What we at Blitz do is simple,” continued Ted. “First, we collect the names of all those schools you never heard of that can’t afford to scout for players.” Ted clicked on the PowerPoint presentation so that the screen read: Compile list of schools no one heard of. “Then,” continued Ted, “we get those lesser-known schools interested in your kid.” Ted went on to the next PowerPoint: Get lesser-known schools interested in kid. “We do that,” explained Ted, “through personalized, individualized letters.” Again, he clicked: Write personalized, individualized letters for kid’s signature. “We write these personalized, individualized letters so that the coach thinks your kid wrote them,” Ted spelled out. “This piques the interest of the coach.” He clicked to the final PowerPoint screen: Peaks interest of coach.

  “This is terrible,” Anne whispered to Vince, who was standing with her in the back of the auditorium. “He’s suggesting something blatantly dishonest. And he can’t spell.”

  “For God’s sake, Anne, why can’t you give the jocks a break for a change,” responded Vince with surprising vehemence. “I don’t think Ted’s doing anything the Ivy packagers don’t do, only he’s being more simple and direct about it. Besides, he’s a nice guy and just trying to make a living.”

  Anne thought Vince had a point and kept her mouth shut for the rest of the presentation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  AFTER LEAVING THE BLITZ RECRUITING SESSION, WHERE A GAGGLE of parents had crowded around Ted, trying to ascertain whether a modest talent for soccer or basketball might indeed qualify their son or daughter for a scholarship to a school no one had ever heard of, Anne escaped to the faculty cafeteria where she found Marcy staring at her Caesar salad.

  “I can see about ten kids actually taking advantage of Blitz Athletic Recruiting and getting themselves a scholarship somewhere,” Anne launched forth as she sat down. “Then, I figure we have about ten more elite athletes likely to get commitments from the better schools over the next two weeks. That’ll leave a mere 130 to thrash things out based on brain power alone. Some of these won’t pose a problem. They’ll simply choose schools for the predictable reasons: location—skiers to Vermont or Colorado and surfers to California; tradition—wherever Mom and Dad went, even if it’s Southwest Boondocks State; then, there are the financially savvy who will opt for the best financial aid package, even if it means going to a Bible college in Wyoming. That leaves maybe seventy-five who will drive me nuts for the next few months looking for a designer school— which is to say, the right decal for their car.”

  Anne thought this was a pretty good riff, but Marcy wasn’t listening. She wasn’t even picking the croutons out of her salad. Something was definitely bothering her.

  “A guy named Curtis Fink called me yesterday,” she finally said glumly. “He asked if I was up for writing a reference letter for Trevor Hopgood.”

  “Really?” Anne looked surprised. “I didn’t realize Trevor did well in history.”

  “He didn’t,” said Marcy. “I told this guy that Trevor got a B-minus in my American history course last year and he’s not doing much better in Euro history now. So I wouldn’t be in a position to write a very strong letter.”

  “And he said?”

  “He said I should think again. He could give me some points about how Trevor marches to the beat of a different drummer or something like that.”

  “I see,” said Anne, remembering that Curtis Fink had mentioned such a sound bite to her. “And you said?”

  “I said I didn’t feel comfortable saying that,” said Marcy. “I haven’t really seen Trevor marching anywhere. He just sort of sits in class and mumbles sometimes.” She paused. “And then this Fink person said that maybe I should think again—that I might want to help the Hopgoods out—given my problem.”

  “Your problem?”

  “Yes,” said Marcy, sighing. “He seemed to know all about my food issues. That I spaz out if anyone eats anything, say a cookie, in my class.” (Fink, who did extensive research to “verify” potential references, had obviously gotten wind of Marcy’s unresolved anorexia and tried to use it to some sort of advantage.)

  “He said that!” exclaimed Anne. “The nerve of that—Fink!”

  “Well, I do tend to spaz out when someone eats a cookie,” said Marcy sadly.

  “And if you do, what business is it of his? How dare he try to blackmail you!” When, Anne wondered, had blackmail become such a pervasive tactic in the admissions process?

  “So you think he’s going to tell the school board that I spaz out over a cookie?” asked Marcy despondently “If he does, we’ll report him!” asserted Anne. “To whom?”

  “I don’t know—the school board. Or we’ll sue the pants off him. Very tight ones, I should add. But you’re being silly. What do you care what Curtis Fink says? You have tenure; the kids like you; and you have a record for high AP scores, which speaks volumes to the parents. So you have a problem with food. Half of Westchester has a problem with food.”

  “That’s true,” acknowledged Marcy, “Self magazine says nine out of ten women have a problem with body image, though some of them want breast implants. That’s never been my issue.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Anne, pleased to see Marcy returning to her old self.

  “I probably could listen a little better to Trevor Hopgood,” acknowledged Marcy. “I think I may have dismissed him too quickly. He does try to participate, only he mumbles.”

  “Well, tell him to speak up,” advised Anne. “But ignore Curtis Fink. If you were single, he’d probably hit on you. That’s what he tried with me.”

  “Really?” said Marcy, perking up. “Was he cute?”

  “Marcy!” exclaimed Anne. “I can’t believe you’d want me to go out with a blackmailer like Curtis Fink. Besides, I already have some romantic prospects.” She knew this was a surefire way to get her friend’s attention.

  “Really? Why didn’t you tell me? I want to hear every detail!” Marcy grew animated and began to pick excitedly at her salad. “Did you say ‘prospects’—are you speaking in the plural? Where did you find them? Did you try J-Date, like I suggested? Or did you meet them in the supermarket? I read in O that the

  supermarket is a good place—it’s unthreatening, and there’s the conversation piece of the food. You can ask, say, what kind of mustard he recommends, or whether he’s ever tried the extra-lite virgin olive oil.”

  Marcy had forgotten Curtis Fink and even Anne’s romantic life, as she fell into a reverie about what you could find in the aisles of the supermarket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  WHEN ANNE RETURNED FROM LUNCH, SHE FOUND JODI FIELDS’ mother, Mandy, in the guidance waiting room, deep in conversation with Cindy. Cindy had admired Mrs. Fields’ Louis Vuitton backpack and had thereby opened up a cornucopia of topics relating to designer goods and where they could be purchased at so-called discount (though still exorbitant) prices. Along with the Louis Vuitton backpack, Mandy Fields was outfitted in a pink cashmere jogging suit, a pair of pink-and-gold flip-flops, and a matching diamond necklace and bracelet—routine casual wear in certain parts of Westchester County.

  After Mrs. Fields had jotted down the addresses of several designer discount outlets for Cindy, she followed Anne into her office and perched excitedly on the edge of the chair: “Guess what?” she announced, “Jodi has ADD!”

  “Excuse me?” said Anne.

  “ADD! You know. Attention Deficit Disorder.”

  Anne said she knew what ADD was.

  “Well, Jodi has it!” exclaimed Mrs. Fields.

  “Are you sure?” Anne asked doubtfully. Jodi Fields did not seem like someone with ADD. She seemed like an average underachieving student, for whom studying fell somewhere between depilating leg hair and putting on makeup.

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Fields assured her. “She definitely does. We just had her tested.”
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  “But why did you wait till the fall of her senior year to have her tested?”

  “We were hoping she’d outgrow it. She’s such a fun-loving girl, we didn’t want to bother her.” “But didn’t the ADD bother her?”

  “Oh no, it was no bother at all,” said Mrs. Fields, as though the disability were a guest that had behaved well. “If it weren’t for Jodi’s grades and test scores, we would never have known.”

  Anne would have liked to explain the difference between ADD and old-fashioned sloth, but she feared that Mrs. Fields would not follow such an explanation. It was possible that Mrs. Fields was the one with ADD. Still, her response was understandable. The diagnosis carried well-known advantages, and Mandy Fields was simply doing what she thought was best for her daughter.

  Anne recalled the Corcoran case, the sine qua non of what a Westchester family was capable of in working the system on behalf of its progeny. Several years ago, Faith Corcoran, daughter of a wealthy and influential local businessman, had received an entire phalanx of disability diagnoses late in her sophomore year that had given her access to special tutors, extra SAT time, and exemption from gym (a non-honors course that would have lowered her GPA). As a result, she had graduated first in her class, forcing the class’s genuine genius, Melinda Wong, into the salutatory position. During graduation, a near riot had developed, in which Faith, in the middle of her valedictory address, had been pelted with eggs hidden under the caps of the graduating seniors. The result had been humiliating and messy, with the Corcorans suing the school for pain and suffering to the tune of two and a half million dollars. Fury over the suit (with its likely effect on property taxes) had sent a posse of parents to the Corcoran home to throw eggs at it too, causing the family to sue the township for an additional $3.5 million. Princeton University where Faith had been admitted, apprised of the situation by an outraged Fenimore citizen, had revisited her application and discovered that her essay on the plight of itinerant tobacco farmers in California had been lifted wholesale from a back issue of Progressive Labor. The admission had been rescinded and the Corcorans’ suit against the school settled out of court for a lesser sum that left nothing to speak of for the Corcorans once the lawyers had been paid, but still raised taxes in the district by 2 percent. The Corcorans, fearing for their lives, had decamped the town and were rumored to be living in Tuscany, where Faith was enrolled at the University of Siena.