Admissions

by Nancy Lieberman

  Instead of counting sheep, she counted all the motherless girls in literature she could think of, starting with Emma Woodhouse, Eliza Dolittle, Scout Finch, Cordelia, Lady Chatterley, Nancy Drew . . . and finally fell asleep.

  Sara walked into her office the next morning just in time to field a call from the irrepressible Simone Savage, who insisted on knowing how the interview went with the Von Hansdorffs. Searching for something positive to say about a family she found to be as frigid and impenetrable as a polar ice cap (before global warming), Sara finessed with “Greta’s posture is flawless.”

  “Greta has had only the best and is proof of how effective a good governess can be,” Simone replied with the confidence of one who had extensive experience assessing domestic help.

  “I wasn’t aware that anyone still refers to child care providers as governesses.”

  “Anyone doesn’t. The Von Hansdorffs do. Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “I am more impressed when I see a strong parent-child attachment counterbalanced with an appropriate level of independence. In their case, I saw neither,” she answered, and hurried on to give Simone no opportunity for rebuttal. “We can discuss Greta further once her file is complete and the KAT scores are in.”

  Reviewing her list of appointments for the day, she was puzzled when she saw that Oscar Whyte, who had been on her list, had been crossed out. She called Brandi to ask her whether the Whytes had rescheduled or had canceled the appointment entirely.

  “Felicity called yesterday to say that the Whytes will be interviewed by Pamela today,” Brandi told her.

  “Get me Felicity’s extension right away . . . please,” she demanded angrily.

  Sara took three deep breaths and then called Felicity and, as calmly as possible, asked why Pamela was going to be conducting the Whyte family interview. Felicity repeated what Pamela had told her—that the Whytes had requested that Pamela interview Oscar because of the difficulty he was having understanding the American language.

  “How will he manage with the KAT test? It’s an oral examination, in case you didn’t know,” Sara countered huffily.

  “As I understand eet, Pamela told zee Whytes zat she would waive zee KAT,” Felicity said cautiously, as if aware that Sara was not going to be pleased when she heard her response.

  She was correct. “Are you kidding me?” Sara shouted. So much for centering oneself through breathing.

  “She said something like, because zee KAT has no equivalent in zee British educational system it was useless for Oscar to take eet,” Felicity tried to explain, but lacked the vocabulary even to fake it.

  “He’s only five! He knows no education system, British or otherwise!” Sara was shouting now. “I need to discuss this with Pamela before they arrive.”

  “She’s not in today,” Felicity calmly informed her.

  “But their interview is today. Aren’t they coming?”

  “No, zey are not. Pamela is going to zem. She said a home visit is appropriate under zee circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Zair recent arrival in America and zee child’s fears,” Felicity explained feebly.

  “They’re from England, for Christ’s sake, not New Guinea! I have applicants right off the boat from third world countries that manage to get it together to come in for an interview. What’s wrong with these people?” She didn’t wait for an answer and slammed down the phone.

  It dawned on Sara that the Whytes were the first people she had ever met—or, for that matter, had ever heard of—who had some connection to Pamela’s past life. And she had a sneaky feeling that the Whytes were aware of some skeletons that Pamela would prefer remained closeted, which would explain why she was going out of her way to make sure that Sara had absolutely no contact with them.

  But she had no time to dwell on this now. She had an appointment for an interview with a disabled mother who was having trouble maneuvering her wheelchair through the door of the admissions office. She could hear the woman threatening Brandi in a menacing voice, “This school isn’t handicapped-accessible? Do you know you’re in violation of the Disability Act? I could get this placed closed down like that”—she snapped her fingers.

  How the hell could Pamela have overlooked this detail? Sara shook her head in disbelief, then rushed out to do damage control.

  A flotilla of Town Cars and Range Rovers jammed the street in front of The Fancy Girls’ School, making it difficult for the Dragers’ taxi to deliver them to their destination. When they finally reached the entrance to the school, they were introduced to their tour guide, Morgan Striker, an immaculately groomed and coltish twelfth-grader who had the most evenly tanned and muscular calves Helen had ever seen, and, miraculously, thighs of the same circumference.

  I never looked like that, even at seventeen, Helen thought.

  Morgan was articulate and knowledgeable and, while conducting the tour, managed to offhandedly let them know she was the captain of the field hockey team, editor of the yearbook, and had applied early decision to Princeton. As they clambered through the halls behind her, they passed several other little tour groups led by girls who looked a lot like Morgan, all in The Fancy Girls’ School uniform of short, short blue skirts and white, white collared blouses. By some fluke of nature, they all had the same long, straight, shiny blondish hair, light eyes, and full lips suggesting either that homogeneity reigned supreme at The Fancy Girls’ School or that they were all related. They waved to one another and called out as they passed in the halls, “Hey, Taylor,” “Howzit goin’, Jordan?”

  “Don’t you hate these surnames for girls?” Helen whispered to Michael, making a mental note to discuss the sociological implications of this trend with Sara.

  “Yeah. What happened to Ashley, Brooke, and Tiffany? I liked those names,” he whispered back.

  As they shuffled through the well-scrubbed halls, Morgan drew their attention to the bulletin boards lining the walls, each of which served as an information center for the school’s many clubs. They looked closely at the ski club’s hub and saw a sign-up sheet for a December ski trip to Cortina d’Ampezzo that generously invited nonskiing Italian-club members to tag along. The sheet was surrounded by notices posted by students selling ski paraphernalia, including a sign advertising a twenty-five-hundred-dollar fur-lined ski jacket, on which the seller had scribbled, “just the thing for a weekend in Gstaad!!!” Proceeding down the hallway, they came to the film society’s board, which featured an invitation to preview this year’s Academy Award-nominated films in a student’s private screening room. The final board on the hallway was that of the gourmet club. Instead of the expected posters for the high school version of the Pillsbury Bake-Off, there were six different sheets to sign up for two-hundred-dollar prix fixe dinners at four-star restaurants, a petition protesting the serving of the endangered Chilean sea bass in the school cafeteria, and, tucked discreetly into the corner, a promotional brochure for a summer cooking program in Provence, on which someone had scribbled, “Frampton Sucks.”

  Next Morgan took the Dragers to the school’s gargantuan library, with wall-to-wall carpeting, mahogany bookshelves, and plushly upholstered easy chairs that beckoned even the least bookish student to enter. The three gymnasiums accommodated a huge variety of sports and athletic activities and were decked out with banners celebrating victories over the many rival schools. The science and computer labs contained all the latest equipment. But it was the music department, with its faculty of accomplished musicians and singers and a full twenty-four-track recording studio, that most impressed the Dragers. If Zoe should be inclined to continue her musical education, this was certainly a place to support her efforts.

  At the appointed time, Morgan deposited the Dragers in the auditorium, where they would witness a well-choreographed presentation by The Fancy Girls’ School’s top brass. Two ample women were seated on the stage, waiting impatiently as dozens of hopeful applicants scurried about, trying to snag the most advantageous seats
in the house.

  “It’s the big skirts,” Michael said, pointing discreetly to the women on the stage.

  “Teletubbies,” Zoe giggled.

  “Interesting how little they resemble their nubile students’ bodies,” Michael whispered to Helen, who, in mock exasperation, swatted him with the school catalogue.

  When the audience was finally seated, the program began with the standard welcoming spiel delivered by the head of The Fancy Girls’ School, the éminence grise of New York City’s girls’ schools. Reputed to be a superb educator and respected theorist on feminist adolescent psychology, she exuded an air of gravitas, an attribute that served her well in a school with such a high-powered parent body and a star-studded board of trustees. Her speech began with some statistics about her students’ superb performance on the SATs and their high percentage of Ivy League acceptances, with a quiet mention of the few girls who had gone on to slightly less prestigious colleges but, of course, for justifiable reasons like athletic scholarships. Having gotten the critical facts and figures out of the way, she eased into some psychobabble about emotional intelligence, self-esteem, body image, teen cruelty, sexual responsibility—all the universally agreed-upon justifications for single-sex education. The audience was SOLD. With a few cleverly worded phrases, she had convinced them that they would unequivocally get their money’s worth if their daughters were lucky enough to be accepted. After an enthusiastic round of applause, the head introduced Justine Frampton, director of admissions of The Fancy Girls’ School.

  Justine was tall, buxom, and bottom-heavy, with the longest hair Helen had ever seen on a professional woman over the age of forty. Her sallow complexion was exacerbated by excessive pigmentation, and as a result, her dark eyes receded deeply beneath her simian brow. When she perspired, droplets of moisture beaded on the dark growth of hair that fringed her upper lip, and she was often seen fanning herself with a school catalogue while muttering, “Pardon me, it’s my private summer.” Helen was surprised that no one had told her that her slip hung about two inches below the hemline of her skirt.

  “I’m so pleased to see so many enthusiastic faces. If after tonight’s presentation you’re still interested in The Fancy Girls’ School, please submit your applications as soon as possible and then call my office to schedule interviews for yourselves and your daughters. That will give us a chance to get to know you while you’re getting to know us.”

  As Justine rattled on, Helen looked around the room to see who else was there from The School. She saw the Winters seated front and center and was struck by how wan and ashen April appeared, as if a slight gust of wind (or the hot air blowing off the stage) could knock her over. Dana appeared captivated, eagerly trying to make eye contact with Justine while hanging on her every word. Patrick Winter, on the other hand, was using his new Internet-access cell phone to track his stocks while getting an up-to-the-minute forecast on the weather at Pebble Beach. Helen continued to scan the crowd, noting a few other familiar faces and then a face she recognized from their visit to The Safety School. It was the yummy daddy, looking even yummier than she remembered. Was it the light? His clothes? New haircut? Propped lightly against him was Catherine, also looking even more ethereal than she remembered.

  Justine wrapped up her superficial remarks and asked if there were any questions. The first person she called on was an elegantly dressed African-American woman whom Helen recognized as a former principal dancer with the Alvin Ailey dance ensemble.

  “I haven’t seen much evidence that this school supports diversity. In fact, I haven’t seen a single person of color in the entire place. I’m curious, what is your position on racial integration?” the woman asked confrontationally. A hush filled the room.

  Deftly sidestepping this minefield, Justine invited her boss to answer the question. Always ready to tackle this one, the head delivered a long-winded treatise on their commitment to diversity and then apologized for the fact that none of their MANY African-American students were present today. She explained that they were all attending a conference entitled: “The Race Race: Manhattan Schools Compete to Diversify.” She graciously invited the woman to attend “our magnificent all-school Kwanza celebration in December.” The woman nudged her daughter and rolled her eyes.

  “They’re in,” Helen whispered to Michael.

  Next, some brave soul asked the one question to which everyone wanted to hear the answer—“Exactly how many applicants will be accepted for grade nine?”

  Justine was prepared for this one. She tittered and proceeded, “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and even I don’t know the answer.”

  Bullshit, Helen thought.

  Justine continued in this insincere vein, “It will depend on so many factors. I only wish I could tell you there is a place for each and every one of you. But I can assure you, in the end it will all work out for the best.”

  “What a politician,” Michael murmured.

  “Bush league,” Helen answered.

  As the Dragers walked out of The Fancy Girls’ School, Helen hooked her arm through Zoe’s.

  “So what do you think sweetie?”

  “It’s a pretty incredible place. And the music department looks amazing,” Zoe answered.

  “What was your impression of the girls?” Helen asked.

  “Hot,” Michael said with a leer.

  “Maybe you should apply,” Helen laughed. “But I meant Zoe’s.”

  “I don’t know. They all sort of looked the same. You know, that Upper East Side, summer-in-the-Hamptons kind of look. That was kind of scary,” Zoe said tentatively.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. But I’m sure they’re not all like that. And the fact is, you’d have no trouble fitting into that kind of crowd. You’ve pretty much got the look down,” Helen replied brightly, hoping to spark Zoe’s enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, if I dyed my hair blond and went to a tanning salon,” Zoe said sarcastically.

  “And she’d have to change her name to Spencer or Blake,” Michael added.

  “But anyway, I’m still not convinced I even want to go to an all-girls school,” Zoe added.

  “We haven’t even had our interview here yet. Let’s wait until we see all the schools before we get into that debate. We don’t have to make any decisions, now,” Michael answered, raising an eyebrow towards Helen to say, “right?”

  “Good idea,” she added.

  They all kissed goodbye on the corner, and as Michael and Zoe went off to see the Knicks play at Madison Square Garden, Helen went to meet Sara for dinner in Chinatown.

  All week Helen had been looking forward to seeing Sara; except at the Toppler party, she hadn’t seen her friend for almost a month. They had made plans to meet at the Shanghai-style seafood restaurant on Mott Street with the enormous fish tank in the front window that allegedly contained the creatures that ended up on the customer’s plates.

  “I’m so happy to see you. We haven’t had a good smooze in ages,” Sara said, giving Helen a warm hug.

  “Or a good shmooze, either,” Helen laughed.

  Sipping cosmopolitans, they caught up on events of the past few weeks and then rolled up their sleeves and dug into a heaping pile of crabs. Up to their elbows in shells, scallions, and ginger sauce, they cracked and picked and licked their fingers while having a side-splitting, no-holds-barred hen session in which none of their mutual acquaintances were spared.

  They each ordered a second cosmopolitan, and Helen changed the conversation to a more serious topic: “Not to be a downer, but I’m a little worried about Zoe. She’s been withdrawn lately. I’m not sure if she’s stressed out by the admissions stuff or if it’s just typical adolescent moodiness. I’m wondering if she’s been this way at school. Have you noticed anything?”

  Just yesterday Zoe had asked Sara if they could talk and ended up crying in her office. She confessed that she was feeling completely overwhelmed by the pressure she was getting from her mother, who, as Zoe put it, “is ac
ting nutso about admissions,” and she wanted some advice from Sara on how to cope. Sara consoled her and advised her to let Helen know how she was feeling. If she didn’t think she could do that, Sara suggested she speak to her father.

  Careful not to betray Zoe’s confidence, she replied, “I think she is stressed about admissions. There’s good reason to be. I see this with all the eighth-graders and their parents. My advice is, if at all possible, lighten up. She’s under enough external pressure. She shouldn’t be getting it at home, too.”

  “I wasn’t aware that she was,” Helen said defensively.

  “Trust me. She is. Even I can sense your tension every time the subject comes up.”

  “I just want to do everything I can to make sure she ends up at a good school.”

  “Helen, the bottom line is, all of the private schools in New York are good schools. Why don’t you let Zoe decide what’s best for her? She’s the one who’ll be going every day, not you.”

  “Okay, okay. I get the message,” Helen said abruptly, sorry to have brought up the subject in the first place. It was just that it seemed to be on her mind almost all the time, even in Chinatown, with two cosmos and a half-dozen ginger-scallion crabs under her belt.

  They ordered a third drink, and as Sara talked about how impressed she was with Zoe’s role in the choral group and her extraordinary musical talent, Helen lapped it up. She certainly hadn’t gotten positive feedback like this from Pamela in years.

  “I interviewed your friends today,” Sara said, slowly stirring her drink with a chopstick.

  “Really? I didn’t know I had any friends applying to The School. Who’s that?”

  “Donald Roman, Josh Kirov, and their two children.”

  “Professional acquaintances, not friends. Pleeease. They own a gallery that I frequently visit. That’s the extent of our friendship.” Helen insisted on setting the record straight.