Admissions

by Nancy Lieberman

  Michael smiled at Shirley and then glanced at Helen, who was also grinning falsely. Zoe kicked Michael under the table.

  “Helen. You’re an art critic? How fascinating! We have a wonderful art program here. Would you be interested in doing some lecturing? Many parents often volunteer to do that and enjoy it tremendously. We are very open to that kind of parental involvement. My husband, Chauncy, is a horticulturalist, and he gives a lecture every semester on the . . .” She talked nonstop for the next five minutes about her husband and his breakthrough research in the field of orchid hybridization. She stopped to take a breath, and just as the Dragers thought she was about to give them a chance to tell her something about themselves, she looked at her watch, stood up, shook hands, thanked them for a wonderful interview, and said goodbye.

  As the door closed behind them, they looked at one another and covered their mouths to stifle their laughter. Helen shushed them until they were outside.

  “Okay, I know I haven’t had much experience with this kind of thing, but was that the most ridiculous interview either of you have ever had?” Zoe asked her parents.

  “I wouldn’t even call that an interview. It was a monologue performed by a compulsive egomaniac,” Helen responded with a combination of disgust and amusement.

  “I want to see her write-up on us. What could she possibly say?” Michael asked.

  “That we’re good listeners?” Zoe said with a straight face, eliciting more laughter from her parents.

  “I told you, Mom, bare midriffs are totally in. All the girls dress that way. You saw Katrina,” Zoe, who was more interested in assessing The Safety School’s dress code than its academic attributes, complained as they walked uptown.

  “You couldn’t miss her. Michael, what did you think?”

  “About Katrina’s tattoo?” he asked.

  “Glad you noticed. So did Mr. Cobain. What I meant was, what did you think about The Safety School?”

  “Let’s compare notes tonight. I’ve got to get to the office. I’m late for a meeting,” Michael said. Quickly kissing his wife and daughter, he rushed off.

  When Helen dropped Zoe off in front of The School, she felt a distinct sense of relief; its familiarity was comforting after the morning’s journey into alien territory. She then wended her way to the Nouveau Russe Gallery on Madison Avenue to review an exhibition of contemporary glass sculpture for one of the monthly art magazines.

  The exquisite little gallery occupied a ground-floor storefront on Manhattan’s Upper East Side gold coast, with a rent so astronomically high that the proprietors were under constant pressure to sell just to break even. The space was designed to emphasize the delicacy and exclusivity of their goods, with several locked glass cases built into the walls displaying a selection of delicate breakables and a long velvet-covered surface on which the objects could be examined. Two satin settees were strategically placed in the center of the room, inviting the clientele to linger while, in the best of circumstances, contemplating a purchase.

  Helen was surprised and delighted by the stunning complexity of the works on display. As she examined the pieces, she jotted in her notebook, “Egglike shapes. Colors—deep, iridescent, translucent. Inspired by Faberge.”

  “Fab-u, aren’t they?” Her concentration was disrupted.

  “Donald, hello!” She walked over to him, and they air-kissed on both cheeks—the prescribed way of greeting in this sort of shop, where touching was not allowed.

  “What a spectacular show! When I was assigned this review I had no idea what to expect! The pieces are absolutely phenomenal. I see you’ve sold quite a few.” She smiled, pointing to the red dots on the exhibition price list that indicated that a piece had been sold. She noted the lofty prices and thought that Donald and his partner, Josh, must be doing rather well.

  He giggled and said, “And eight more pieces are on hold. We’re in the money,” he sang à la Ethel Merman. “Joshie,” he called out, “Look who’s here. It’s Helen Drager!”

  Once the same kiss-kiss routine was out of the way, Josh asked, “How’s that adorable little girl of yours?”

  “Zoe? She’s not so little anymore,” she laughed. “And your children?” Several years ago Donald and Josh announced they were acquiring twins—by what means she wasn’t certain—and now the twins were almost five years old.

  “They’re precious as can be,” Donald swooned.

  “And if I remember correctly, Zoe goes to The School, right?” Josh asked.

  “She’s graduating this year,” Helen answered, and reluctantly gave them a brief, sanitized version of her admissions plight. “And what are you doing about school for the twins?” she asked politely.

  “We’re in the process of applying to kindergartens all over town. You can imagine, it’s doubly complicated with two.” Donald dramatically pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.

  “Coinky-dinky, The School is our first choice. When we go for our interview in a few weeks, can we say we are friends of yours?” Josh asked.

  “It won’t do you much good, but by all means mention it. Sara Nash is a friend, and I’ll put in a word for you.” Helen offered this tidbit, but no more. She saw a look of disappointment creep across Josh’s face; he was hoping for more from her. But she hardly knew them well enough to offer a full-blown recommendation, particularly since she had never even set eyes on the children. She pointedly returned her attention to her note taking.

  When at last she had finished and was saying goodbye, Josh blurted, “One last thing. Would you say The School is gay-friendly?”

  “The School’s colors are pink and gray,” Helen answered with a laugh, and opened the door.

  “Just like Vassar’s. Say no more,” Josh hooted, and waved her out.

  Walking home from the gallery, Helen stopped along the way to look in shop windows, particularly those containing footwear. She hated to admit it, but she had a thing for shoes, and she marveled at how particularly sexy this year’s designs were. A pair of pumpkin suede slingbacks caught her eye and drew her in to try them on. As she was studying her feet in a mirror, a salesperson sidled over.

  “And of course you know that pumpkin is the new black. You can wear it with absolutely everything.”

  “Really?” She pretended to seriously consider this inane statement.

  She wondered whether Michael would like them and then reminded herself that he rarely noticed what she was wearing these days. She was sure Zoe would say they were “phat” and would probably want to borrow them. As she contemplated the purchase, she recalled her calendar for the upcoming months, and all she could envision were school tours, interviews, and tutor appointments; therefore, she decided she couldn’t justify the purchase, and left the store empty-handed, reminding herself to polish her navy pumps before the interview next week at The Fancy Girls’ School.

  The Belzer-cum-Einstein family was the first of the back-to-back interviews Sara had scheduled for the day. After briefly meeting the son, Sam, Sara sent him down the hall to be vetted by a Kindergarten teacher while his parents, Marsha and Alvin, slowly plodded into her office. Huddled tightly in the middle of her sofa, they formed one lump sum, an amorphous blob of characterless hair, skin, polyester, and rayon, frayed at the edges, faded and dull.

  Interpreting their cleaving as a sign of nervousness, Sara attempted to help them relax with a standard icebreaker.

  “It’s been a beautiful fall, hasn’t it?” she asked.

  “It’s been nice,” Marsha replied flatly.

  “Have you gotten out of the city to see the foliage at all?” she tried again.

  “No. But I took the crosstown bus through the Park yesterday,” Marsha answered.

  “Oh, the Park is lovely this time of year, isn’t it?” Sara persevered.

  “It’s nice,” Marsha answered.

  “Sam looks like a very big boy,” she changed tack.

  “He is tall for his age. He’s in the ninety-sixth percentile for weight and th
e ninety-eight for height. And his head is enormous. Apparently, according to the neurologists we’ve consulted, that’s quite common in children of Sam’s superior intelligence,” Alvin explained.

  “You said in your application that you think Sam is, quote, “a genius.” I’m wondering if you meant to say that you think he’s literally a genius, that is, of extraordinary IQ, and if so, what has led you to this belief?”

  “Of course there are many intelligent children around, but you must understand, Sam is exceptional,” Alvin began. “He reads newspapers, medical journals, car manuals, court transcripts, whatever he can get his hands on.”

  “It’s not that unusual for a five-year-old to read that voraciously, but there’s the question of comprehension. Have you explored that with Sam? Does he understand what he’s reading?” Sara probed gently.

  “Why would he continue to read these things if he weren’t getting something out of them?” Marsha questioned defensively.

  “Maybe he receives a lot of praise and positive reinforcement from you both,” she said. And constantly hears you bragging to anyone who will listen, she thought.

  “That’s not the case,” Alvin responded defensively while Marsha cringed with embarrassment. “He’s also solving complex mathematical problems and doing intricate scientific analysis,” Alvin emphasized, speaking loudly and slowly, as if Sara couldn’t possibly understand the magnitude of Sam’s accomplishments.

  “That’s wonderful.” Sara backed off. “You mentioned in the application that you feel Sam is immature in certain areas. Could you elaborate on that?”

  Alvin hissed to Marsha. “You wrote what?”

  Sara saw Alvin pinch Marsha’s thigh and hated to imagine the bruise that would result. Poor Marsha was going to hear from him about this when they got home.

  “What I meant was, despite his brilliance, Sam acts like a normal five-year-old . . . most of the time. That’s really what I meant,” Marsha finessed.

  “There is a wide range of behavior that is considered normal for this age group. I wonder if what you call ‘normal’ falls within the range of what The School calls normal. Take, for example, toilet training. There are differing opinions as to what qualifies as normalcy in this area, but The School has a strict requirement that all children must be toilet trained before admittance to Kindergarten. Will this be a problem for Sam?” Sara watched Alvin jab Marsha’s thigh again. Aha, that was the stickler.

  “It shouldn’t be. We’ll give him a copy of Dr. Spock. He’ll toilet train himself immediately,” Marsha insisted.

  Alvin strategically changed the subject. “What kind of gifted program does The School offer?”

  “None. We feel our program is sufficiently challenging for all of our students. And every teacher is trained to offer enrichment projects for students who are asking for more stimulation. I can assure you, Sam would not be bored,” Sara explained.

  “Humph,” Alvin grunted.

  “If you’re partial to gifted programs, you might want to explore other options,” Sara replied tersely. I defy you to find one that doesn’t require toilet training, she thought.

  She wrapped up the interview, escorted them to the door, and pointed them down the hall to where Sam was waiting.

  Before her next interview she pulled aside the Kindergarten teacher who had met with Sam, and asked, “What was your take on Einstein?”

  “He seems like a pretty angry kid of average intelligence. Who decided he’s Mini Mensa?”

  “Who do you think? Mr. and Mrs. Mensa.”

  “That’s typical. He was actually quite uncooperative and fidgeted the whole time we were together. I kept asking him if he needed to use the toilet, and he told me to ‘mind my own beeswax.’ I’m pretty sure he soiled himself,” she reported in the objective manner she had been trained to use when evaluating children for admissions.

  “Eeeww,” moaned Sara. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “It wasn’t the first time that’s happened in my classroom,” the teacher replied.

  Fifteen minutes early and not accustomed to being kept waiting were the Von Hansdorffs, the “Hapsburgian” family from Simone Savage’s “developmentally oriented readiness program.” In contrast to the decidedly off-the-rack Belzers, these people were straight off a page of Schloss Rhinelander, the Bavarian equivalent of Town and Country. Sporting multiple layers of expensive plaid woolens, pastel cardigans around shoulders, blond hair, and icy blue eyes, the Von Hansdorffs personified “Teutonic.” The Herr held one of those boxy little leather purses that only European men can get away with; the Frau, a custom-made handbag that cost more than Sara’s monthly take-home pay. Their daughter was outfitted in the standard upper-class-child-on-school-interview uniform: navy blue quilted jacket with plaid lining, pleated gray skirt, and velvet hair band. While feasting her eyes on their Aryan perfection, Sara overheard the mother’s strict orders.

  “Greta, dear, be sure to tell Miss Nash how much you like de drawing of de bunny you saw in der front lobby. And remember vat Ursula taught you—sit up straight and look directly at der lady ven you speak to her. And don’t forget, just like at home, speak only ven spoken to.”

  Sara invited the parents into her office and closed the door while Miss Stubinsky, the room C Kindergarten teacher, invited Greta to “play”—the term used to describe the process of interviewing a four-and-a-half-year-old who had no understanding of why she was there, what she was expected to do, or why her parents seemed so apprehensive.

  Greta’s “playtime” with Miss Stubinsky was not a whole lot of fun for either teacher or child. Greta did everything she was told, was careful and tidy, said please and thank you, but initiated no activity or dialogue and never once cracked a smile, even when Miss Stubinsky showed her the sloppy finger painting on the bathroom door and said, “Look at the silly tushy that Jason painted.” In fact, Greta blanched when she saw it, and Miss Stubinsky had a moment of worry over the possibility that she could be accused of behaving unprofessionally if Greta were to report to her parents that “the teacher said a naughty word.”

  She had Greta put together a puzzle, stack some blocks, sew a giant button onto a piece of felt, and perform other equally challenging and compelling tasks, all of which Greta completed willingly and silently. Miss Stubinsky decided she needed to probe if she hoped to learn anything about Greta.

  MISS STUBINSKY: Greta, what is your favorite thing to do at home?

  GRETA: Watch Ursula make strudel.

  MISS STUBINSKY: What fun! Does she let you help?

  GRETA: No. Mother says it’s messy.

  MISS STUBINSKY: Oh, that’s too bad. Do you and Mommy do things together?

  GRETA: Only on Sunday.

  MISS STUBINSKY: Why only Sunday?

  GRETA: Ursula go away on Sunday.

  MISS STUBINSKY: And what do you and Mommy do on Sunday?

  GRETA: Go to church.

  MISS STUBINSKY: Is that fun?

  GRETA: No.

  Miss Stubinsky could have simply described Greta Von Hansdorff as “not a happy camper” and Sara would have known exactly what she meant. But because she was obligated to write her two-hundred-word report in Educanto, the universal language of the admissions world, she described Greta as “a noncommunicative perfectionist with a negative affect who would greatly benefit from a stronger attachment to her mother.” Miss Stubinsky’s report essentially downgraded Greta from a possible to a probably not.

  On her way home that evening Helen realized that her family hadn’t eaten together all week. The other day she had been stuck waiting in her dentist’s office and, driven by boredom, opened a parenting magazine. She’d been utterly captivated by an article about how kids who ate dinner with their families scored higher on standardized tests, and had resolved to make this more of a priority. Now, making good on her vow, she stopped into the local gourmet shop to pick up pasta and salad greens so they could enjoy what the article called “a healthy, conversation-stimulating meal as
a family unit.”

  Once her family was assembled and the meal was underway, Helen began brightly, “Why don’t we take turns bringing each other up to date on each of our lives!” exactly as the article suggested. After shooting each other worried looks, Zoe and Michael complied, and soon all three were happily chattering away about work, school, friends, colleagues, and, naturally, admissions. They laughed again about the absurdly one-sided so-called interview at The Safety School and about the other families in their group, particularly the Encyclopedia Browns. At first, Helen didn’t react when Zoe mentioned the “clingy girl with the handsome father,” but when she added, “I guess I would be insecure, too, if my mother had recently died.” Helen failed to disguise her curiosity.

  “Oh, how terrible. How do you know that?”

  “I heard her father telling the admissions dude.”

  “Poor girl,” Helen tsked sympathetically, and then casually added, “Did you happen to catch her name?”

  “Catherine something. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just good to know who we’re up against. The devil you know is better than the enemy you don’t.” Helen was prone to the unintentional malapropism.

  “You mean the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know?” Michael corrected, chuckling.

  “Whatever.”

  In bed that night Michael suggested they make love. Helen responded with a huge yawn and a promise to do it the following night.

  “Do I need to confirm my reservation with you tomorrow morning?” he asked facetiously.

  “Before noon,” she joked, and rolled over.

  Even though she was tired, she had trouble falling asleep. She couldn’t erase the image of the motherless girl and her dishy widowed father. The thought of the two of them navigating their way through the perplexing admissions maze without the support of a mother seemed tragic. She couldn’t imagine how Michael and Zoe could possibly manage to get the laundry done if she weren’t in the picture, let alone get Zoe into high school.