“Yes.” He nodded. “Absolutely, yes. I really am sorry, but I think I need to get back to my post. We have a few end-of-year meetings next week, and then I’m free. Can I call you?”
“Can you ride your heifer over the mountain?” She smiled.
“Yes, exactly.”
“I don’t see why not. But when you meet my mom, I’d maybe lose the gentleman farmer getup. You know what snobs radical women can be.”
“I’ll come with my copy of I’m OK—You’re OK.” He grinned. “I know how to get on her good side.”
He didn’t seem surprised to be swatted in response to this.
“You don’t want to just say hello to Jeremiah?”
Portia turned. She looked for him again and saw that the game was over. Nelson already had drifted off, rubbing an elbow. Jeremiah and another boy were taking down the net, pulling up the stakes. His black hair lifted in the breeze. He seemed to be laughing at something. She wondered what he was laughing about but understood that she could live with not knowing. For today, it was enough that she loved him. Merely loving him—that felt miraculous.
Portia opened her car door. “Another time,” she told John. “But congratulate him for me, would you? You’re right, it wasn’t a straightforward thing, but I don’t think I’ve ever admitted anyone I felt so confident about. He’s going to be amazing. He’s already amazing. You should be really proud.”
John shrugged. “Just a little nurture. He already had the nature, wherever it came from.”
He said this in a distracted way, as he was simultaneously pulling her against him, in farewell or in greeting, she wasn’t sure. Portia closed her eyes. A number of surprisingly cheerful things occurred to her in rapid succession, but she said none of them out loud. Instead, she hugged him back and said, “Come see me soon.”
He laughed. He said: “I’m on my way.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Admission is a work of fiction. With the exception of the Princeton location, all of the events, people, and stories depicted in this novel are wholly products of my imagination. Apart from the not insignificant qualities of integrity, capability, and dedication to the very complex and difficult work they do, none of the admissions officers in the novel have counterparts at the real Princeton. Any similarities, therefore, are entirely coincidental and not to be considered real.
I would like to thank, in particular, the admissions officers I worked with at Princeton, in my capacity as outside reader, during the 2006 and 2007 admissions seasons. Former Director of Admission Chris Watson (now Dean of Undergraduate Admission at Northwestern) answered my many questions with openness and humor and once told me that everyone who leaves admissions writes a book about it—why shouldn’t mine be a novel? Keith Light (Associate Dean of Admission at Princeton and now Associate Director of Admission at Brown) and Assistant Dean of Admission Chris Burkmar were great supervisors. My fellow outside reader Suzanne Buchsbaum sensitively thoughtfully read the manuscript. Former Dean of Admission Fred Hargadon provided a historical perspective and was so generous with his time. Finally, I am very grateful to Dean Janet Rapelye for hiring me; I truly loved the work and regard her as the embodiment of grace under pressure.
Others across the admissions landscape gave me their time and insights. I thank Bob Claggett (Dean of Admissions at Middlebury College), Maria Laskaris (Dean of Admissions at Dartmouth College), Holly Burks Becker (Director of College Counseling at the Lawrenceville School), Maggie Favretti (history teacher, Scarsdale High School), and Eli Bromberg (Assistant Dean of Admission, Amherst College) for their time and perspectives.
Lisa Eckstrom donated her close reading, great friendship, and add-a-pearl tales of life with a philosopher. Gideon Rosen, professor of philosophy at Princeton, cheerfully supplied nearly everything in this novel that implies a knowledge of matters philosophical. (Who knew that zombies had anything at all to do with philosophy? Not I.) I can never adequately thank Debbie Michel, the Florence Nightingale of plot, for getting me out of tight places and being such a spectacular reader, writer, and all around individual. Suzanne Gluck, the best of all possible agents, and ably supported by assistants past (Georgia Cool) and present (Sarah Ceglarski), has beautifully represented this book. I am incredibly lucky to be in her orbit. I have waited precisely twenty-one years to work with Deb Futter. What can I say? It was worth the wait. (Thanks, too, to her great assistant, Dianne Choie.)
Of the many books on college admissions I have read over the past several years, I particularly admired and made use of two: Jacques Steinberg’s The Gatekeepers: Inside the Admissions Process of a Premiere College (still the best available depiction of how the process currently works) and Jerome Karabel’s The Chosen: The Hidden History of Admission and Exclusion at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton (an exhaustive and fascinating history).
Anyone who manages to get their hands on a copy of the 1928 Harvard Yearbook will find a class poem very like the one referred to on page 192. The poet was Charles Cortez Abbott (1906–1986), who would go on to write several books on finance and found the Darden School of Business at the University of Virginia, but not—alas—to publish his poetry. His poem has resonated for me since I first read it, thirty years ago, and I still find it terribly current.
Finally, as the dedication reflects, my greatest thanks must go to my parents, Ann and Burt Korelitz, who have waited far too long to have a book dedicated to them, and who—as they would be the first to tell you—could not have cared less where I went to college.
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