by Karen Quinn
“My father was Jewish and my mother was Greek Orthodox. We ate a lot of lamb.”
So he’s not a vegetarian, I deduced. “Well, for me, eating chopped liver is a spiritual experience.”
After spreading the liver on a cracker, he popped the whole thing in his mouth and began chewing. I watched him closely, looking for a sign of approval, gagging—anything.
“It’s got an interesting flavor and texture,” he pronounced. I was gobbling up cracker after cracker even though I was stuffed from lunch at Kratt’s.
Philip turned out to be civil, possibly even friendly. He was so low-key that it was hard to judge.
He told me he was a writer who did his best work afternoons and evenings. This did not bode well for my daughters’ outdoor playtime. I asked him what he wrote. He’d published a book and written a screenplay, he said. These days, he was writing short stories until he settled on an idea for his next novel.
“I’m sure I’ve seen your book,” I declared. “Reading is my hobby, and your name is so familiar. What have you written?”
He told me.
“Didn’t Resolution win some big award? The Pulitzer Prize?” I asked.
“No, it got the National Book Award,” he said.
“Still, that’s not chopped liver,” I said. Ha ha. I wondered if he was impressed with my extemporaneous ability to make jokes. It’s my second-best talent after singing.
“No, you’re right. I’m proud to have won it.”
“I read they’re making Resolution into a movie. Is that true?”
“They are. That was the screenplay I wrote.”
As I talked to Philip, I realized who he was. Young, hip, attractive author whose celebrated debut novel made him a media darling. I’d read about him. I’d seen his picture in Newsweek, People, and the New York Times. A hardworking, intensely private writer who worked seven days a week and never partook of the city’s hip party scene. What was a guy like that doing living under me? Suddenly, I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“What about you? What do you do?” he asked.
I talked about the new business I was starting. He said he couldn’t believe parents would actually pay someone to get their kids into kindergarten.
“I hope you’re wrong,” I said.
“Why should someone hire you?” he asked. “What are your qualifications?”
That was a good question, and it reminded me that I needed to come up with a new spin on my biography. I wondered if I could make my position at Myoki—marketing credit cards to debt-burdened consumers—sound like a qualification for this job. What was this, if not helping parents market their children to private schools drowning in applications?
“With my marketing background, I can help parents package themselves and their kids so the schools will find them attractive,” I explained.
“That’s sick,” Philip said. “No offense.”
“Do you think?” Hmm, I guess I’d better not use that line with clients.
“So, how are we going to let your daughters play and me work at the same time?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t want them to bother you, but they’re noisy by nature. Do you have any ideas?”
He sighed. Not a pissy sigh. More like a thoughtful one. “I prefer working in the back of the house because it’s quieter there—at least it used to be. But it looks like I may have to move my operation to the front.”
I was floored. “Thank you.” My chopped liver had done its work. “I appreciate how decent you’re being about this.” Uptown, there would have been complaints, fines from the board, a lawsuit. Then it hit me. South of Houston Street, neighbors brought food. The dress was casual. People made eye contact. This was the anti-uptown. We were most assuredly not on Park Avenue anymore.
6. Admission Impossible
I knew I couldn’t advise parents on schools without having toured each one myself. I also wanted to meet the admissions directors so I could understand how to influence them. A small, clubby group of women who knew what big deals they were, each was capable of bringing the city’s most powerful pooh-bahs to their knees.
Despite Tipper’s warnings as to how schools felt about advisers like me, I decided to call a few, introduce myself, and see if they might offer a tour. Maybe Tipper was exaggerating. Besides, I couldn’t think of a good ruse to get in the door.
“Are you mad? Families don’t need to hire private admissions advisers to get four-year-olds into kindergarten. They’re fine on their own. You’ll be fanning the flames of hysteria that already make this experience so stressful. I have no interest in meeting you.” Click.
“I’m sorry, but we’re committed to giving each family an equal chance to get into our school. We simply can’t support someone whose only goal is to tip the scales in favor of people who pay them. What you’re doing is unethical. Shame on you.” Click. This, from the school where Faith and Steven would be paying $500,000 for Mae’s spot.
The direct approach was a bust. I needed another way in. I considered borrowing a friend’s child and applying to all the schools, using the kid as a Trojan horse. But that would be too expensive—application fees were $50 to $100 apiece and there were sixty-five schools. You do the math.
I turned to my friend Young Mi. She’s one of the two women I fired when I left Myoki. Young Mi had plenty of time on her hands and I had an idea on how she, as a Chinese American, could help me get inside. She was happy to play along.
“Hi, I’m Young Mi Shin, a reporter with New York magazine. We’re doing a cover story on the progress New York City private schools have made toward creating racial and cultural diversity. We know how committed you are to honoring differences at your school, and we wanted to profile your success in our article. We were wondering if it would be possible for us to meet you and to tour the school as well?”
Come on down! With the promise of a cover story, the directors couldn’t have been more welcoming. Using my computer, I scanned the magazine’s logo and created business cards and official-looking press tags for each of us. Young Mi, our reporter, asked the questions while I took photographs. Admissions directors gave us tours, showed us their curriculum, invited us to audit classes, and were surprisingly open about what took place behind the closed doors of their offices, providing insights that would have taken me years to learn. They were all so generous that I felt like a first-class heel having to write and tell them that our editor had killed the story.
7. Party Pooper
With the school year coming to an end, we decided to throw an early birthday picnic for Skyler in our new backyard. Last year, we’d given her the $18,000 Fifth Avenue Ultimate Sleepover Adventure party at FAO Schwarz. There had been a treasure hunt, movies, a shopping spree, toys coming to life, characters in costume, a dessert orgy—you name it.
This year’s celebration would be more modest, but no less important because it would be one of the last times she’d see her private-school friends. It’s only natural for kids to lose touch with classmates who move away. All the girls were coming, and Michael, bless his heart, offered to bake the cake and supply the food. Archie, the Naked Carpenter, volunteered to sing. “Oh, that’s way too kind of you,” I said. “I couldn’t let you guys go to so much trouble.” But let’s get real here. I could and I did.
The phone started ringing the night before the party.
“Ivy, hi, it’s Kathleen. Listen, I have such bad news. We decided to go to the Hamptons this weekend, so Lauren won’t be able to make Skyler’s party after all.”
“Ivy, it’s Topsy. Günter didn’t know about the party and he bought Chloë matinee tickets for The Lion King. Anyway, he wants to take her because he spent so much for the seats. You understand.”
“Ivy, it’s Barbara. Victor just upgraded his Gulfstream, and we decided to fly to the Cape this weekend. Rachel is so sorry to miss Skyler’s party. Tell her ‘happy birthday’ for us. Kiss, kiss.”
By Saturday morning, every gir
l in her class except Lourdes had cancelled. The whole thing struck me as odd. I called Celerie, Lourdes’s mother. Celerie and I had been in the same dorm at Yale. She married a partner at Goldman Sachs after college, retired, and had children right away. Every time I saw her, I couldn’t get over how she looked exactly the same as she had almost twenty years ago. What were the odds of that? If anyone would level with me, it was Celerie.
“Ivy, I wasn’t going to say anything, but Sassy called all the parents and advised us that you’re living next door to a crack den in the downtown projects. She said she couldn’t let Bea go to Skyler’s party for safety reasons. Meanwhile, Bea was so crushed about not going to Skyler’s that Sassy decided to throw her own horseback-riding party at Claremont Stables, you know, the indoor ring? Lourdes is dying to go, but I didn’t want to abandon you like that. Do you really live next door to a crack den?”
“No.” My heart dropped into my stomach. If I tried to talk, I would cry.
“Ivy, are you there? Are you there?”
“Mmmm.”
“Would it bother you terribly if I let Lourdes go to Bea’s party? Lourdy will be such a pill if I make her go to a backyard picnic when she could have been riding at Claremont.”
“Mmmm, it’s okay,” I said, hanging up quickly.
Michael knocked on the door and presented me with a magnificent two-tiered birthday cake topped with eight candles, plus one to grow on. Archie was carrying his guitar and the rest of the food.
“What’s the matter?” Michael asked.
It must have been obvious something was wrong. I told them what had happened. “What kind of mother could be so cruel to a child?” Archie wanted to know. Michael just shook his head; he couldn’t believe it. Welcome to my world, I thought.
Skyler walked in and started clapping when she saw her cake. “It’s so beautiful, thank you,” she said, hugging Michael. Turning to me, she begged, “Mommy, can I get dressed now, pleeeease?” We had gotten her a new Paul Frank outfit for her party, and she was dying to put it on.
“Skyler, honey,” I said. “Look outside, it’s gonna rain for sure. I just called all the girls and cancelled the party. We’ll reschedule it for a sunny day, what do you say?”
“Aaaaaaw. I want my party. Can’t we do it inside?” Her lower lip was trembling.
“Skyler,” Michael said, taking her hands, “how about we have our own indoor party today, and after, we can go out on the town together? Then you’ll have two parties. This one, and the one you’ll reschedule with your friends for a sunny day.”
“Yeah, honey, I promise we’ll do it again. And maybe next time you can invite some of the new girls you meet in the neighborhood,” I said.
Skyler nodded glumly. We called Kate to join us and made the most of a sucky situation. Later, Michael took us to the American Girl Place off Fifth Avenue where Kate and Skyler took part in the Doll Hair Salon Spectacular. Then we joined eighty or ninety ethnically and historically diverse dolls, all strapped in their booster seats, for tea at the Cafe. The girls loved it, but it gave me the willies. I felt like I was in a Bride of Chucky movie taking place at It’s a Small World. And that’s just weird. Michael seemed to enjoy the meal. His kindness elevated him to a whole new level in my eyes, I can tell you that.
8. Agony on the Upper East Side
I was just about ready to open my doors for business. But first, I needed to get the inside scoop on what really took place during admissions. I suspected that the schools were giving me the official story and that it was the parents who would dish the dirt. I was right. With the exception of one mom, who burst into tears and hung up on me after proclaiming the season she applied for her son “worse than the year I had fungal disease,” mothers and fathers all over Manhattan eagerly spilled their guts.
They described the admissions experience as a harrowing ride on an emotional roller coaster. Parents were forced to apply to ten or twelve schools just to get one or two acceptances. Their hearts ached watching their four-year-olds subjected to such intense scrutiny and outright rejection. Thousands, perhaps millions of dollars were spent annually for psychotherapists by anxious Manhattanites whose egos took a severe beating during the experience.
“Why do you think they wanted to know if I’d had a difficult birth?” one mother asked. “Whether or not we had a summer house was none of their business,” a father complained. “When they asked about my father, I wasn’t sure if they wanted to know his pedigree or if they cared what kind of man he was,” another man said.
Nursery-school directors, who often had more than thirty children applying to kindergartens, were forced to become brokers. They had to juggle the placement of every child, often playing favorites and selling out one family in favor of another. “The Michaelsons wouldn’t take a place if you offered them one, but the Sandlers would. And just between you and me, the Sandlers are one of my ‘A’ families. The Michaelsons are ‘B’ at best. Can I interest you in Canyon Sandler?”
Before they’d make an offer, most admissions directors wanted parents to put in writing that their school was the family’s first choice and promise to enroll if offered a place. In the end, after making the monumental effort of applying to ten schools, parents felt compelled to put all their eggs in one basket. Four-year-old best friends who were applying to the same schools were forbidden to play together by their competitive parents. It was just too tense.
Applying to private school was the single most dreaded activity of New York City parents. If Faith was right, this could be a gold mine. Yippee! I do have a future, I thought.
9. Try, Try Again
I sat at the kitchen table behind a pile of bills. Electric. Telephone. Water. American Express. Visa. Medical insurance. I couldn’t get over how quickly my severance had run out. Let’s see, if I pay the minimum on each bill, that should keep me afloat until I have income. Then I realized I couldn’t afford the minimum.
I stooped to calling Cad. “I need you to send me some money.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand would help.”
“Ten thousand! Are you crazy?”
“Cad, you haven’t given me anything for the girls since we broke up. A thousand a month for each child sounds reasonable.”
“Ivy, you know I’m not working . . . Ivy? Ivy, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“If I was working, I’d give it to you. I just don’t have it.”
“You could sell your Porsche. I sold my car.”
“No one would buy it. Someone ruined the paint job . . . Ivy? Ivy?”
“Look, Cad, I know you have money and I need you to send me some. Liquidate your IRA or 401(k). I don’t care. Just send something for the kids.”
“I can’t do that. The tax consequences . . .”
“Cad, screw the tax consequences. Your children have to eat. Jeez.” I banged down the phone.
I dialed Faith’s number, intending to ask for a short-term loan. Then I hung up. Better save that for when I’m desperate.
Aha! I’ll get cash on my Visa card and pay American Express, insurance, and the phone bill. Then I’ll call Con Ed to work out a payment plan for electric. I don’t think the government lets single mothers with children lose their electricity.
There was no getting around it. I needed clients and I needed them yesterday.
Faith promised to start telling her rich friends about me. Still, I had to let other people know about my service. How would people learn about me? There wasn’t even a section in the Yellow Pages for kindergarten admissions advisers. Prostitutes had their own section, but my specialty didn’t. Go figure.
I decided to advertise. Radical. Never seen it done before. But I couldn’t think of any other way to get the word out.
With wealthy clients as the target, I looked for publications that appealed to the rich. After researching the options, I tested a few headlines in small ads placed in the New York Observer, 5th Avenue, and Big Apple Parent:
Getting your child into a top NYC kindergarten is overwhelming. Let Ivy Ames advise you behind the scenes. 212-555-3427.
The right kindergarten could be your child’s ticket
to the Ivy Leagues.
Let Ivy Ames help make it happen! 212-555-3427.
You’ll need to earn over $750,000 to pay for your child’s private school. Shouldn’t you hire Ivy Ames to get it right? 212-555-3427.
The ads ran. I waited.
I waited some more. And more.
Two weeks after my ads hit, the business phone finally rang. Whew. I was starting to worry.
“Hello, Ivy Ames speaking.”
“Is Sam there?”
“Sam?”
“Sam Harrison.”
“I think you have the wrong number.”
Damn.
Maybe I needed bigger ads. I made flyers and posted them on trees in playgrounds and on bus stops near nursery schools. I scheduled a workshop for September called Surviving Private Kindergarten Admissions. With luck, the attendees would become clients. I posted ads for my workshop in children’s stores, day-care centers, Mommy & Me locations, and the like.
The phone rang again.
“Hello, Ivy Ames speaking.”
“Hi, I saw your ad and I wanted to see about getting help. My daughter’s applying to kindergarten next year.”
Yesssss! This one’s gonna bite. I could taste it.
“Certainly, let me tell you how I work. First, I’ll meet with you and your child. Do you have daughter or a son?”
“I already told you, I have a daughter, Lizzie.”
“Oh, right. I have two daughters myself. Anyhow, we’ll meet, and based on our conversation I’ll recommend schools you can apply to, and I’ll help you complete your applications, including essays, and I’ll get your daughter ready for her ERB, and I’ll prepare you and your daughter for interviews, and I’ll help you leverage your connections, work with your nursery-school director, write thank-you notes and first-choice letters, and I’ll advise you through the wait-list process.” I spoke like one of those telemarketers who don’t take a breath between sentences so the customer won’t hang up.
