The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  It is heavy, important, the way Alice says “out of the country, ” as if my expected reply is supposed to be, “Oh, really.”

  But I have no idea what my correct response should be except to say that I didn’t know she was planning to go on vacation this week.

  “She wasn’t. She left yesterday on the spur of the moment. Hint. Hint.”

  Hint, hint?

  “You mean, she’s not traveling for work?”

  “Nooooo. Guess again.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that, Alice? I’ll catch you later.” And I hang up.

  Hint, hint, indeed. Here’s a hint: Alice needs more work to occupy her day. She could start by cleaning up my desk, which is a mishmash of memos, Post-its, clipped magazine articles, and files. All stuff I’d left in disarray to meet Steve for drinks and a game of pool on Friday.

  Friday seems so faraway now, such a sweeter, simpler time in my life. On Friday, I hadn’t yet lied to my family and friends. On Friday, I was still under the impression Hugh and I were a couple never to be split. Look.There’s my calendar.“Hugh’s back!” excitedly written in red ink on the day he is to return from England.

  I twirl my chair around to survey my framed photos. And there Hugh and I are behind glass, blissful and in love.

  I keep a select group of photos on a low bookshelf so students being interviewed will glean that I am a human being and not an automaton.There’s a deceptively normal group shot of my family, windblown and tan on Cape Cod, that does not display the beers my parents are clutching behind their backs. Another of Jorge in someone’s lap, before he became clinically obese. A picture, for some reason, of just Jason and Lucy (probably because they frame and send so many photos of themselves, I’m overloaded at home). And exactly two pictures of Hugh and me.

  One is of us at Thanksgiving, still glowing from our nor’easter snowbound lovemaking weekend in Hugh’s apartment. He is kissing my red cheek and I am smiling broader than I think is possible for my mouth.

  The other is of the two of us on a ski slope in Vermont. Hugh is wearing a totally ridiculous yellow and chartreuse cap that he refused to take off. And I am looking positively terrified at the prospect of heading down that mountain. My eyes are bugging out, my jaw is to my feet, and I am clutching Hugh, the expert skier, who is laughing good-naturedly.

  Applicants love that photo.They can relate to abject terror.

  Applicants.Yes. Must get to work. I cannot sit in my office all morning mooning over what might have been. I suppose I could check my messages, but that would involve facing the possibility of hearing Hugh scold me. And scolding would interrupt my Zen tangents.

  I open the file that Cory, one of our zillion admissions clerks, prepares for us every Monday. It is filled with the latest statistics about how various “indicator” high schools across the country scored on a bunch of tests, including subsections like AP math and AP history and AP biology.There’s a bit about the incoming class at Swarthmore (another alleged rival school), an article about Harvard doing away with early admissions, and then a memo from the dean—another—in a series I like to entitle Calling All Dicks.

  Because boys, boys who score high and play sports and participate in civil projects and don’t run their cars into telephone poles, are akin to holy grails for small liberal arts colleges.We have a crisis in this country of under-performing, verbally challenged men and this does not bode well for all the over-performing, verbally superior women I see coming through my door. Unless these smart gals don’t mind hanging out with guys who are stumped by instructions on how to wash their hands before returning to the Burger King fryer, they are going to have a hard go of it.

  I have a theory, like everyone else, about the dumbing down of men, and that’s this: Most video games are geared toward males. There are precious few written for females. So while the video game industry has taken off (taking our boys with it), the girls are outpacing them on grades, tests, and extracurricular activities, though their skills at Halo 2 suck.

  Coincidence? Don’t think so.

  Knock, knock. My door opens before I can say “Come in,” which means it’s Alice. And she still has that stupid smirk on her face as if she knows something I don’t. “Busy?”

  There’s nothing I love more than gossiping with Alice—unless I’m currently faking my engagement.“I kind of have a lot of work to do.”

  “’Cause I’ve got a kid downstairs, Adam Crawler from the Bronx, New York, who has a nine thirty appointment with Kevin. Kevin was really eager to meet him, only he’s stuck in a conference with Bill in Boston. I’d pass him off to Connie, but, you know she’s ...” Alice wiggles her penciled eyebrows suggestively.

  “Out of the country. You told me.” Well, at least Adam Crawler won’t be asking me questions about where she went. “I’ll see him.”

  “You’re a star. Here’s his file. I’ll give you five so you can act like you’re prepared.And I’ll get you some coffee.This kid is high-test. You’ll need it.”

  Quickly, I flip through Adam Crawler’s file looking for the pertinents: SAT score—2380. Almost perfect score. Grades? Pulling a 3.9 average. I scan for where he “screwed up” and see a B in Domestic Science. Couldn’t flip a pancake, huh? Extracurriculars: tennis, chess, and bowling.That’s brave. Organizations: Math Club; Debate Club; president, Star Trek:The Next Generation Official Fan Club, Mid-Atlantic Chapter.

  That he had either the guts or the naïveté to include that last one says volumes. Oh, what about his essay: “Why Thoreau College?” Good. He personalized it. That’s a check in his corner. Admissions counselors everywhere despise mass essays prepared by professional college counseling services. So, what does our friend Adam have to say about Thoreau?

  Why Thoreau?

  Why not?

  At the end of the day, what does it matter which college I get into? Sure, there might be a difference between MIT and Cedar Crest School for Girls, but both can teach the complete works of Shakespeare, right?

  It’s not financial aid that will drive my decision—though I wouldn’t reject a nice package, if you get my drift. Nor is it the teacher/student ratio or how many undergraduates go on to pursue advanced degrees.

  For me, where I go to school for the next four years all comes down to one issue:What are my chances of getting laid?

  This job never ceases to surprise me.

  For that reason, Thoreau is my first choice.

  Ratio of females to males: 3:1.

  Percentage of incoming class that are virgins—72.2%—as gleaned by anonymous sources on the Internet.

  Really? Where’s he getting his information?

  Moreover, for a New England college, a notable number of your female student body comes from rural areas in the Midwest. While most prospective students would find that a turn-off (who wants to be in a class with a bunch of cow tippers?), my analysis suggests that girls from, say, an Indiana farm might find a guy from the Bronx to be exotic. I even plan on purchasing several pairs of tight-fitting sleeveless white T-shirts (I believe the vernacular term for them is “wife beaters”) and some of that hideous “man” jewelry, also known commonly as “bling.”

  What does Thoreau get in accepting me?

  A much-desired male student who will not only excel off campus, but also on. A future alumnus who will be a millionaire by age 25 and a multimillionaire by age 30, looking for a nice nonprofit institution in which to sink some of his tax-deductible wealth. (The Adam J. Crawler Institute for Advanced Sexual Studies has a ring.)

  Also, I am short of stature and do not take up much space.

  I look forward to meeting with members of the admissions staff and discussing that financial aid package further.

  Until then,

  Adam Crawler.

  Unreal. I toss the essay aside. If it were my call, I’d accept him early admin sight unseen. No wonder Kevin was eager to meet him.

  Alice enters with a boy in an ill-fitting blue suit and yellow tie that only a geek like t
he kid who wrote this essay would have chosen. He’s right. He is short. As Alice places a cup of coffee on my desk, she points at my blinking phone.

  “You have a message.”

  “I know.”

  “It might be Hugh.”

  I nod at Adam to take the leather chair opposite.

  "Yes. Well, then ...”

  “It might be important. He said it was.You know, that insanity business.”

  I give her a meaningful look, the kind someone as smart as Alice would easily understand as time to go.

  "All right, Alice,” I s ay. "Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

  "Either that or it could be the Publicity Department. They’re writing up a press release about Hugh and they want you to call extension 504.”

  I smile at Adam, who is surveying my small office with disdain, as if trying to figure out if he’s been passed off to a lesser admissions officer. “Right. I’ll give them a call as soon as I’m done here.”

  At last Alice leaves and I sit down to face the already infamous Adam Crawler.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, retrieving his essay from the edge of my desk. "So, let’s talk about this essay and your reasons for choosing Thoreau.Very unorthodox, wouldn’t you say?”

  Adam pushes up his glasses. "Who’s Hugh?”

  Ah, yes, the old let’s-create-a-personal-relationship interview technique. Seen it many times before.“Hugh is my boyfriend.There.” I point to the pictures behind me and turn back to his file. “Aside from getting laid, as you put it, do you have any idea what other academic activities you’d like to pursue if you are accepted here?”

  Adam is squinting at the one of us at Thanksgiving. “That’s Hugh Spencer, the writer. Mom’s all thrilled that he teaches here.”

  “Yes.” I smile politely. What were the chances? “Did you read Hopeful, Kansas?”

  “God, no. But Mom did. Cried all the way through and made me watch him on TV Saturday night. I was stuck in a hotel room with her so I had no choice.”

  A hotel room? “Then I assume you’re going on a tour of colleges. Any others that have caught your fancy?” I take a bogus note and pray Adam went to the lobby to swim or play arcade games before Barbara Walters signed off.

  "Didn’t he . .. ?”

  Oh, brother. Here it comes.

  “Didn’t he ask his girlfriend to marry him?”

  Just my luck. First applicant of the day, and he’s a total loser who watches bedtime TV with Mother.

  “Did he ask her to marry him? I’m not sure that’s exactly what he did.”

  “You mean that was bull? It was all staged? I knew it. You could tell. I told Mom that he did that just to sell books and she said I didn’t know what I was talking about. I knew he was a complete phony.”

  "No, no. Hugh’s not a phony.” Cripes.This kid is smarter than I thought. “That was a genuine proposal. He asked her to marry him.”

  “He asked her to marry him.” He sits back and grins. “You mean he asked someone else and that’s why you’re not returning his messages.You got served, cold, on national TV.”

  My hand under my desk involuntarily balls into a fist. Adam Crawler I’m not liking so much now, even if he is a precocious genius. Of course the guy can’t get laid.Tossing aside his essay, I turn to his file and run my finger down to the B on his transcript.

  “Now, Adam, your parents didn’t drive you all the way here from New York to talk about me.We’re here to talk about you. So, how do you explain this B in Domestic Science?”

  “You must have wanted to punch his lights out. I mean, I’ve been served by girls lots of times, but not on national television. Whew.That’s gotta be, what? Two million people.”

  Four point one.

  “Or is it that he dumped you long ago? And you can’t let go and you keep his picture there, which, you know, is megapathetic. You should get help, man.”

  I hear a snap and look down at the two pieces of yellow Ticonderoga number 2 in my hand. Adam should be glad it wasn’t his neck.

  To hell with it. “Okay, Adam. Here’s the skinny. Hugh and I are getting married. I said yes and that’s that. Now, we’ve wasted a lot of time discussing my life, which happens to be none of your business. Let’s try to fit in yours, starting with this transcript. ” I tap his transcript so hard I make a dent in the paper. “An A in Algebra II. Not an A plus? What, were you slacking off that semester?”

  “Then where’s your ring?” He absolutely will not let this go.

  “We haven’t picked it out yet.”

  “Right. I believe that.” He shakes his head. “What does it say about our society when an aging spinster has to invent a fiancé?”

  Aging spinster!

  “What happened to individual self-fulfillment, women’s liberation?”

  I check my watch as my temper is about to explode the top off Billings Hall.“Whoops.That’s it. I’ve got another appointment waiting.” And before Adam can so much as argue that the standard admissions interview lasts twenty minutes, not five, I have buzzed Alice to retrieve him.

  “I hope you won’t hold our conversation against me,” he says cockily as Alice leads him out the door.

  “Not at all.” And, in fact, I mark up his folder with incredibly flowery praise. Far be it from me to be accused of bias. I’ve been an admissions counselor long enough to know that backing me into a corner was likely his strategy all along. Lucky for him the corner was so ready and waiting.

  "How did it go?”Alice asks, getting Adam’s folder.

  “Fine. Fine young man.”

  “Really? ’Cause he seemed like a snot to me.You gonna pick up that message? If it’s bad news, you might as well get it over with.”

  Alice is right as usual. I should just get it over with.

  I wait until she leaves to press the message button and type in my code. Five messages.The first is from my mother, who is in some sort of fluster about ordering invitations and registering and securing a church and then a club for the reception. I have no idea what I was thinking, letting her get involved with planning this bogus wedding.Talk about enabling!

  The second is from Todd, apologizing for being so hard on me the night before and hoping I’m not mad at him for what he said about my loser life. (Right.Will do,Todd.)

  In a weak attempt to make amends, he ends the message by inviting me to the Bob Dylan contest he enters every year that is hosted by my friend Steve, who, in addition to being the lead singer of the Wily Coyotes, is also an absurdly popular disc jockey at FM 107.

  “A whole bunch of people are stopping by to see me do ‘Rainy Day Women,’ ” Todd says, proceeding to list a whole bunch of people I’ve never heard of until he gets to Nick. “He specifically wanted to know if you were coming. Said he had to ask you about this information he found about something called pure-method house building, whatever the hell that is.”

  This gives me pause. Maybe there really is such a thing as pure-method house building? Maybe Hugh told me about it and I filed it deep in my subconscious. Either that or Nick knows I was bullshit-ting and he has plans of embarrassing me at the Dylan contest.

  Ha! Let him try. I’m not giving up that easily to a man who refuses to let himself be bested by a woman.

  Steve has left the third message, also an invitation to the “It Ain’t Me, Babe” Fifth Annual Bob Dylan Be-Alike Contest. Poor Steve is constantly inviting me to his “gigs,” as he calls them, though I rarely accept. I hate to disappoint him again by not showing up.

  Also, I need to support Todd, even if that means facing off against Nick. Oh, well. Such is the sacrifice I am called to make in the name of sisterhood. If I have to spar with a mortal Greek god, then spar I must.

  The fourth message is from Giles in Thoreau Publicity, looking for an interview.

  And, finally, Hugh. I breathe deep, preparing myself. “Genie.” He is crisp, efficient. “I’ve just received some alarming news from Pippa, who’s house-sitting for my parents while they’re in Italy f
or the summer, something about a Mr. and Mrs. Michaels calling up from the States claiming that you and I are getting married.

  “Now, lookit, Genie. I appreciate your support. I always have and I can’t tell you what this Barbara Walters interview has done. My publisher expects another good run on all the bestseller lists and Miramax is speeding up the film production. I’m sure you’re as thrilled as I am.”

  I’m thrilled all right.

  "Still ...”

  Here it comes.The big warning.

  “If your family is confused about whether I’ve actually asked you to marry me, I believe it is your responsibility to disabuse them of this notion immediately.”

  You do, do you?

  “I mean, having to explain the whole mess to Pippa, a dear old friend, was humiliating enough. Especially with you know who there.”

  No.Who? I have no idea who you know who is.

  “Because by now I’m assuming you’ve found out who she is and I would—we would—vastly appreciate your tact at the office. I’m sure you can understand, even if you are hurt. Really, Genie, it’s better this way.Years from now we’ll look back and—”

  “Oh, bugger off,” I say out loud, before hanging up. If there’s one advantage to this breakup, it’s that I no longer need to obey Hugh’s constant and frequent “corrections.” Life is too short to listen to a man tell me how to live it.

  That’s when it occurs to me that maybe being dumped by Hugh might not have been the worst thing in the world.

  In fact, it might have been the loveliest parting gift ever.

  Chapter Eight

  Okay. I’m pretty sure there is no such thing as pure-method house building. I’ve searched the Internet and even asked my father and the guys down at Coolidge Hardware (who gaped at me like I was an alien invader). No one’s ever heard of it.

  I am screwed.

  Then again, I do have the advantage over Nick in that I’m a woman. Most men, I’ve learned, can be easily distracted by a flash of leg, a bit of cleavage. They’re like apes, really, a half a notch up the evolutionary scale when it comes to all things sexual. Show them the merest hint of a nipple and their brains instantaneously go to mush. It’s not very feminist of me to say, but I seriously think Condoleezza Rice could solve the Middle East crisis with a decent boob job and a quality Wonderbra.