“And?”
“She turned down Yale and went to Princeton.”
“Wow.” Gideon Blanchard finished his wine and set the glass down. He looked out at the rain. “I don’t think there are mushrooms in the Gold Coast.”
“That’s not really my point.”
“No, I know it’s not,” he said. “I know.” She watched his thoughts shift away from Sadie; his mood brightened, and he turned back to her. “And what about you?”
“What?”
“What about you?” he repeated. The question had an unseemly pressure behind it, like fingers. “What’s your passion? Is it this? Working on college applications? Is this the thing you’ve chosen for your life? Your one wild and precious life? That’s from a poem by Mary Arnold.”
“Oliver.”
“What?”
“No, nothing.” She shook her head.
“Because I’ve been thinking.” He waited for her to meet his gaze. “You know that I’m a lawyer.”
They both smiled, she captive, at his joke.
“I do.”
“And I don’t know if you’ve even thought about the law, but I think you should. Just the way you present, I . . . think it could be a splendid fit. Textual interpretation, attention to detail, questions of social justice. Have you considered it?”
“I was an English major,” she told him, meaning, “Of course I’ve considered law school.” It was the standard penance for wasting your late adolescence in novels.
“And?”
“Law school’s expensive.”
“That’s why you make lots of money after you graduate.”
“Hard to get into,” she blurted.
“Not for you, I hope!” he said.
She smiled at the table. “Fair point.”
“Because I see in you, if you don’t mind me saying so, a young woman with a lot of intelligence and talent who is in need of a little direction.”
Well, how dare you, she thought. But instead she said, “Thank you.”
“Which is why I wanted to spend some time. To figure this out. I’m not sure if it means you should come try a paralegal post at the firm, or something else. But I thought maybe I might help you find that thing, that passion, that you’re talking about with all these teenagers. I can open doors, Anne.”
She was amused for a moment to think that he’d somehow understood this idiosyncratic detail about her—and that what had seemed a setup for an embarrassing seduction was actually a pitch for an internship. It was the way to Anne’s heart, absolutely. How did he know this?
Still Anne saw the hook was barbed. She could not be seen to be uninterested in her students, when his own child was among them.
“You’re very kind,” she said, sounding completely insincere. “I really appreciate the offer to help. But I’m doing great. I like what I do.”
The disappointment was plain on his face.
“Anne, let me try this a different way, because I know you’ve got a full plate today and certainly I do.”
She nodded brightly.
He said, “Cristina, she’s a very impressive girl.”
“Cristina?”
“She’s a damn impressive kid. I’m all set to make some calls and change her life. But I’ve got a daughter applying, too, and, you know, the first thing these people are going to ask me is, ‘Gid,’ they’ll say, ‘Gid, how is that Sadie?’ ”
“Of course.”
“And I want to be able to say, ‘She’s terrific.’ Even better, you know, I don’t want to have to say it at all. Because her file will make that so clear. Am I making sense?”
“She’s going to have a great application,” Anne said. She still didn’t see what he was driving at. But she was alarmed at how tempted she was to become whatever it was he was looking for: adviser, colleague, conspirator.
“Is she? That’s good. Because if I’m going to be sending in two applications, as it were, one for this other girl and one for my own daughter, I don’t want there to be—how shall I put it?—an incline. A differential. A matter of comparison.”
Anne considered Cristina’s transcript and scores next to Sadie’s. “There’s only so much I can change.”
“That’s exactly my point,” he said, and leaned back. He smiled. “That’s what I’m saying. And I think that, if you’re able to make that change, then it will be a really good step for all of us.”
My God, Anne thought. Write your daughter’s essays and you’ll give me a job. Is that it?
“You want me to write them,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t say that. Far from it.”
“Sometimes I have taken a strong hand, I guess,” she admitted. “But only in critical situations,” she added, “only with a phrase here or there, you know, a conclusion at eleven fifty-nine on the day of a deadline . . .”
“So, good,” said Gideon Blanchard, looking pleased. “Who doesn’t like a strong hand? And we’ll see to Cristina’s needs, meanwhile, and Duke will have two excellent incoming freshmen to celebrate. It’s such a pleasure to help, as of course you know.”
“Of course,” Anne said. She felt mugged. She touched her hands to her sides, pressed on her belly, as though something had gone missing from her pockets. Nothing, she told herself, I’ve promised him nothing.
“And we’ll have to do this again,” he said, signaling for the waiter. “In the New Year, when all of this is behind us. To talk about you. I’ve got ideas for you, Anne. I think you have really great things awaiting you.”
“That’s very kind,” she said.
“And next time, you’ll eat something.”
“Ha.”
He continued to issue a stream of vague ideas as they gathered up their coats. “Maybe you’re interested in educational issues at large?” he offered, holding open her raincoat. She rolled sleeve to sleeve and stepped away quickly. “Maybe you’d like to consider a job at city hall, the department of education. Have you given that any mind?”
As Anne followed him out of the restaurant, fielding his wild offers of jobs and leads, she considered that the problem with old boys’ networks wasn’t who you needed to know, it was that you needed to know what to ask for. She was searching for yet another new demurral when she was stopped short by the sight of Martin leaning alongside the elevators, an unlit cigarette on point in his fingers.
He smirked at her. “Torrential,” he said, referring to the rain. “Had to come inside.”
“Gideon Blanchard,” said Blanchard, extending a long arm. “Pleasure.”
“Oh, of course,” said Martin effortlessly. As though he recognized him. Though maybe he did, Anne thought. Who knew what these men knew about one another, even across fields, across cities? “Martin Waverly.”
The elevator opened. Both men reached to hold the doors, one on either side. Anne passed through. “Thanks,” she muttered.
She stood at the back and watched their shoulders—Martin was much broader—and how Mr. Blanchard squared and resquared himself a few times, as though unconsciously measuring. “Working with my daughter, lucky girl, whole process so wildly out of control . . .” he was saying, and Martin was replying in supplicant terms: “Indeed, absolutely, amazing, lucky girl.”
“Well, lucky you,” finished Blanchard as they stepped into the lobby. He unsnapped the tail of his valet’s umbrella and grinned at Martin, then at Anne. To her he said, “Give it some thought. I’m not finished with this.” She understood he was referring to the problem of her career, and she felt the cryptic pronouns rile Martin, who drew closer. Blanchard lifted his chest and released his giant umbrella, a pin-striped peacock, and swept out onto the sidewalk.
Martin stopped her at the doors. “What the fuck was that?”
“I told you. He’s a client. I’m working with his daughter.”
“The little retarded girl.” He popped open his umbrella and raised it over them both. They stepped out.
“Stop it,” Anne said, into the wind. She duck
ed closer under Martin’s arm. “She’s very sweet. And perfectly bright.”
“Yes. She just has—what was it? Dis-test-ia? Dis-homework-ia?”
“Discalculia.”
“Ah, right. Dis-it’s-just-fucking-school-ia. So math is hard. This is not news. They don’t give a Nobel in, you know, language arts.”
“You know, they sort of do,” answered Anne, thinking of Toni Morrison.
“No,” he said. “They don’t.”
“Actually, Martin, it’s math that they don’t . . . Well. Anyway, it’s a real thing, the inability to keep numbers straight.”
“Sure it is.”
“It is!”
“I can’t believe you buy into that. Does lunch at Spiaggia come with it? Some vino? Awfully nice grub. Do they have one star now or two?”
“I don’t buy into anything,” she said. “She’s been to a learning specialist, she’s been diagnosed, and that’s all there is to it. My job isn’t to assess her, it’s to help her handle this along with everything else. Which doesn’t matter anyway, because that guy you just met is chair of the board of trustees.”
He stopped and turned to her. On the sidewalk pedestrians broke right and left around them. “And they need you why?”
“Well, they don’t. But they want Sadie to have some support. To be honest with you, I think I was just asked to write her essays for her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Well then, do it! Save you a crap load of time. Go home, write them up, ask for your check, and be done with it. Sounds good to me.”
“No, Martin. I can’t do that, and I won’t.”
He shrugged wildly. “Why the hell not? Don’t be so damn earnest, Anne. It’s not attractive.”
“Because it’s not right,” Anne said. She was too proud to add, Because my work is real. And because it would break Sadie’s heart.
“Oh, but it’s right for her to have you holding her hand all freaking fall? And it’s right for her to get out of every math test since the fourth grade?”
“I can only deal with my part, Martin, Jesus. I want to help her write her essays on her own, and I want them to be decent.”
“Which they wouldn’t otherwise be.”
“Well, no. Not really.”
“Like I said. The little retarded girl.”
Anne didn’t bother to object a second time.
“So do all the dads take you to lunch?” Martin pressed.
“Not usually.”
“He’s not to be trusted.”
“No shit.”
“I’m not talking about essays, Anne.”
Anne felt a thrill run across her shoulders. Not the reality, but the risk; the thought that she might be the uncertain one, for once, the one who might not be where she said she’d be.
“He’s married,” she explained. “To a very powerful woman. That’s not a concern.”
“Bullshit,” said Martin, giving her an incredulous smile. “And have you seen that woman? She’ll probably hit on you, too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They have children.”
“Grow up, Annie,” he huffed, sounding annoyed. Jealousy did not please him the way it sometimes intrigued her. He had no patience with sharing. “The man’s a creep and you should not be accepting free spaghetti from him. Don’t do it again.”
He reached for her hand as he said this, clamped it tightly in his fist, and propelled them forward.
“I won’t,” she said.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Anne,
Here’s my common application essay for Harvard (so far). I’ve written three versions of it, and I’m going to send them through to you later unless you tell me not to (Mom says you may not want to read all three?). This is the best one, I think, but it’s all over the place and Dad isn’t sure of the point of it. Anyway, let me know what you think. Questions:
* Is it okay if Mom is just “homemaker” on the common application part about parents’ occupations? Or should she put down that she works too? She’s always doing stuff but it’s not really paid?
* Do I have to submit the supplemental essays at the exact same time as the common app? If so, how do I do that? Do we use two computers? Or do I do one and then the other? Which one first?
* Is it okay if the credit card I use to pay the application fee is my dad’s and not mine? I don’t have one.
* I don’t want to wait until Hallowe’en to send it in, but I’m worried if I send it too soon they’ll think I didn’t work hard enough on it. What do you think? Should I wait extra days just so they know I was really careful?
* Is it okay if I ask my teacher recommenders to address the envelopes themselves, or should I address them for them? Handwriting or typed?
* I have taken several AP tests. Is it okay just to put down all the 5s I got on the common app or do they need me to send them some sort of proof of this?
* Is it lame to title my essay?
Thanks! Hope to hear from you soon!
ALEXIS GRANT’S THUMB
One afternoon soon after I began tutoring Somali refugees at a local non-profit, I brought a map of the world so that we could all study together the country my students came from. After all, I’ve never been to Africa (though I very much want to go!) and I had to admit I had no idea where literally in the world these kids had been born and raised. I commented on the shape of their huge nation and how some of the boundaries are as straight as rulers while others are bumpy and jut out, and a counselor made a joke about “Churchill’s thumb,” which the kids smiled at, so I knew it wasn’t the first time they’d heard it. Apparently it is said as a legend that when the English partitioned Africa after WWII they tried to take into account rivers, lakes, deserts, natural tribal patterns and other issues but some of the drawing was so arbitrary that one imagines the men leaning over the big map and just tracing around their fingers—leading to the protrusions, and the joke about Churchill’s thumb. I don’t see anything obviously hand-like on today’s map of Africa, but it doesn’t take the presence of dozens of Somali refugees in my town in Minnesota to tell us that the process of partition and the movement away from colonialization has hardly been a successful one.
Twice a week, when I bike home from my tutoring sessions, I think about these kids and what it would be like if the tables were turned. What if I were the one who had been transported to an entirely new place, where it was hot all the time when I was used to snow, where I didn’t speak the language and had no job or school to go to, where my belly always hurt because I had to eat things I’d never seen before? Add to that the consideration that my family most likely had fled a war or worse, and it makes me wonder, riding down the streets that I know so well, what virtue there is in notions of nationality or, for that matter, statehood in general. It seems to me that boundaries are drawn by those in power, and rarely in the consideration of those not in power. Does it matter to someone in my town where the state line of Minnesota is? Well, no, not to me—I could bike over it and not notice that the sidewalk suddenly belonged to Wisconsin (or to Canada, for that matter), but I understand that governmental bodies require an understanding of their domain—the limits—so they know what is theirs to take and what is theirs to take care of. In school I’ve had the chance to study various forms of government and community-building, ranging from Native American tribes here to the trials of the US Civil War and the fight to avoid secession of the Southern states. On the one hand, when I think of the Native Americans and how the process of expulsion and confinement to reservations decimated that great people, I am full of sorrow to think that the requirements of a collective state are, paradoxically, the privatization of everything. If land belongs to everyone, to all our children and their children and so on, then is there really any need to declare, This is mine and This is yours? If we can barter successfully to acquire the things we need to survive, do we need a central government
to support a currency and a marketplace? On the other hand, I read of the intention of the Southern states to build their own nation based on slave labor, and I realize that it has been critically important in history that the government of the Northern states refused to tolerate this move and were willing to send thousands to die to protect their vision of a better nation.
As in all political issues, I am learning, there is the dream and there is the reality. The dream of an independent Africa exists but the reality is in part the little kids I’m teaching to read on Tuesdays and Thursdays, who are freezing their tails off in Minnesota in search of a better life. These are big ideas, I realize, and I am idealistic to think about tackling them. But it is my highest hope for the next several years of my education to learn more about the requirements of the successful modern state and the challenges posed to the development of young states around the world. If there is a way for people to live mostly in peace by virtue of drawing and maintaining boundaries, may we learn to create boundaries where they naturally fall, rather than imposing our own images like shadows across the earth. I believe in the goal of our common humanity, and I hope one day to work to ensure the success of all nations by understanding more fully the ways people must draw lines in order to be more free.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
“You must be joking,” I told my parents. “There is no way.”
I think I laughed out loud when my mother told me I was going to spend one month of my summer on a field trip investigating the “American West By Page and Range” with the English teachers from my school. It was just one of her latest ideas for my college application, I thought, and there was no way I was going to forfit my summer for that.
“I am not joking” mom told me “you are already signed up.”
Early Decision Page 14
