Tally seemed satisfied with Sara’s answer. “So can I assume that The School would be open to supporting MOTBOB’s initiative to celebrate Turkey Baster Baby Day on Thanksgiving?”
Sara was saved by the bell. Literally. Class was dismissed, and Brandi and Quentin were returning with Montana.
“Did my little butterball like The School?” Tally asked as she smothered her prodigal son between her prodigious breasts. Montana nodded eagerly, and Tally beamed at Sara, shaking her hand warmly as she headed off with her son. “Oh, don’t forget about Rafael!”
“Rafael?” Sara repeated, horrified. Surely she hadn’t been calling Tally’s son by the wrong name this whole time!
“I’ll have my assistant call to set up an appointment for shaping. The man works absolute wonders! Bye, now!”
Nervous about the traffic, the Dragers had arrived early for their interview at The Fancy Girls’ School. One of Justine’s associates greeted them and then whisked Zoe to another room to have a “chat” and do “a little work”—a euphemism for the in-house test they administered, which, in addition to the SAPS, was yet another method of separating the wheat from the chaff.
After an inexcusably long interval, Helen and Michael were ushered into Justine’s chintz-filled inner sanctum and offered a seat on a pouffy sofa, where they were kept waiting another five minutes. Michael thumbed through the yearbooks and student newspapers (the standard admissions-office fare) while Helen, who was more interested in what was on the walls, inspected a small grouping of botanical prints, each of which was embellished with a flowery Latin inscription identifying the plant’s genus and species.
“Nymphaea virginalis.” Helen laughed as she noted the name of one of the flowers. “It’s probably the official school flower.”
Justine finally rushed in, all blustery and out of breath, and then, taking a few more moments to tuck a few stray hairs into her ridiculously long braid, at last set herself down before them. The whole performance had been carefully orchestrated to impress the Dragers with the fact that, having received an unprecedented number of applications, she was unimaginably busy and was selflessly working day and night in order to give them the fair chance they so deserved.
“Well, at last. Here we are. Welcome to The Fancy Girls’ School. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you are applying for . . . Zoe . . .” She looked down again. “. . . for grade nine.”
“So now . . . I see . . . Zoe likes to cook. She wrote in her essay that her father taught her how to make profiteroles. Ah, a girl after my own heart. Michael, are you in the food service industry?”
Come on, Michael, take the bait, Helen prayed silently.
“Yes, I guess you might say I have an interest in the culinary arts. I’m a producer for the Cooking Network.”
As if the Pavlovian dinner bell had just rung, Justine’s posture suddenly shifted from an indifferent slump to an upright state of alert as she flung her braid over her shoulder.
“I watch the Cooking Network every chance I get!” she squealed, then added, catching herself, “which of course is not often.” A woman in her position could not possibly appear to have enough time to, of all things, watch television.
“I just love it, especially when the show features exotic locales. You’re probably not aware of this, but I own a cooking school in Provence. I spend every summer there. Oh I forgot, you may have heard about it from Pamela. She has come to stay with us several times!” Justine enthused.
The Dragers pretended that this was the first they had heard about Justine’s school, and then oohed and aahed over how wonderful it must be to spend every summer in such an enchanting part of the world. Hating herself for the sycophantic tone, Helen even went so far as to tell her they would love to look into attending one summer.
Operator that she was, Justine was three moves ahead.
“Come in June! I would love for you to see our place. It’s just beautiful. Come to think of it, my home in France would be the perfect place to produce a program on Provençal cooking! I don’t think such a show exists. Do you know of one?” She turned frenziedly to Michael, and becoming red-faced and rather damp, began to fan herself with their application.
Helen looked at Michael and thought, Don’t blow it, buddy; she’s offering us a deal, and then, not taking any risk, preempted him.
“Michael, what a great idea! You’ve been on the lookout for a new French show ever since Julia retired. This sounds like an excellent prospect.”
Michael was slow on the uptake and stammered, “Was I? Uh, yeah, I guess I was. Hmmm. Provence, could be good.”
“Let’s continue this conversation soon over a pot-au-feu. Once I’m through with interviews, I would like nothing better than to sit down and talk puff pastry with you.”
“Yes, that would be lovely,” Michael responded politely.
They finished the interview and headed towards the lobby to meet Zoe, whom they found bubbling with enthusiasm.
“How’d it go, sweetie?” Helen asked, pleased to see her daughter’s smile.
“Miss Bradford was really nice. She sings in a gospel chorus in Harlem every Sunday and invited me to come hear them. Can we go sometime?”
“That would be really fun,” Helen answered cheerily. “What else did you talk about?”
“She asked me how I felt about going to an all-girls school after having been in a coed school for so many years.”
“And you said . . . ?”
“Of course I was totally positive.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know. I kind of got into the idea while I was with her. She’s a graduate of The Fancy Girls’ School and she seemed very cool.”
“What else?”
“She asked me a lot of questions about my school. Do you think The School has a good reputation?”
“Absolutely,” Helen answered automatically. At least, it used to, she thought. “What was the test like?”
“A little bit of math, which was pretty easy. And then I had to write a short essay describing a person who has influenced me in some important way.”
“And you wrote about . . . ?” Michael and Helen both asked eagerly.
“Sara,” she answered, disappointing them both. “I wrote about how she’s taught me how to meditate and find inner peace.”
Icchh, that’s not gonna score big points at this school, thought Helen as they walked out in silence.
Once they were a safe distance from The Fancy Girls’ School, Helen took Michael by the arm and whispered, “Do you get what happened in there?”
“No, what happened?” he asked. Zoe looked confused.
“The cooking school, location, shoot. What part don’t you get?” she probed.
“You mean Frampton volunteering her cooking school as a location for a show I have no interest in?”
“Well, you’ve just got to get interested, or at least figure out how to fake it. Don’t you see? It’s so obvious. She’ll accept Zoe as long as she thinks there’s a possibility that you might produce a show at her school.”
“Was I in the same meeting? Did I miss something?” Michael asked. He honestly had no idea how Helen had come up with such lunacy.
“Do I have to read you the subtitles?” she demanded impatiently.
Zoe looked perturbed. “Can someone fill me in on what’s going on here?”
“Sweetie, it’s just some adult nonsense. Believe me, the less you know about it, the better.”
“Mom, how can you say that? How can it be better for me not to know what happened in YOUR interview when presumably it was about me and will determine where I’ll be going to school next year? If you don’t tell me what happened in there, I won’t tell you what happens in my interviews. Ever again.” Zoe was inconsolably angry and refused to speak to her mother, while silently holding Michael’s hand the entire way home.
As she walked two steps ahead of them, Helen wondered how much of the behind-the-scenes scheming they should be shari
ng with their daughter. After all, as Sara kept succinctly reminding her, “This is about Zoe.” Choosing a school was about her, but getting her in was another matter. From the beginning, Helen had followed her maternal instincts and tried to shield Zoe from the underbelly of the admissions process, but today she had been blindsided by Justine Frampton’s proposal, and now chastised herself for being so callous as to mention it in front of Zoe. She remembered the way she and Michael used to use spelling when they didn’t want Zoe to know what they were talking about—a practice they foolishly continued long after she learned how to read. Like asking each other whether it was N-A-P-T-I-M-E at times when Zoe was cranky. Today she might as well have just spelled out B-L-A-C-K-M-A-I-L for all the sensitivity she’d exercised. Sara was right—she was being way too intense about this whole thing.
At breakfast the next morning, Helen informed Zoe that she would be picking her up after school to take her to Bertha’s.
“Mom, that’s ridiculous. I can go alone. She won’t let you stay anyway, so what’s the point of your coming?”
“Okay, okay. But I need to pay her, so I will meet you there at the end of your session,” she invented an excuse.
Once her family had left and the beds were made, Helen sat down and sent an e-mail to Pamela.
Pamela,
We had our interview yesterday at The Fancy Girls’ School and all came away feeling very positive. Zoe is much more open to all-girls than I expected and even thinks the uniform is cute! You may be right after all! Interview went well. Justine was very enthusiastic. Please let me know what feedback you get.
Thanks,
Helen
That out of the way, Helen spent the day at home working on an exhibition proposal. As the afternoon approached and it was time to pick up Zoe, she changed clothes, spending more time selecting an outfit than she normally would for a pickup. After careful consideration, she chose a pair of olive-green wool slacks, the side zipper accentuating the flat stomach she’d honed at her thrice-weekly Pilates workouts, and a lemony V-neck sweater that revealed her well- defined collarbones and long neck. A pale-green quartz necklace tied the outfit together, she was pleased to note, both stylistically and coloristically.
Next she wrestled with her hair, pulling it into a loose French twist and then spritzing it with three of Zoe’s hair products: one for hold, one for shine, and one for volume. What ever happened to the old-fashioned hair spray that held the answer to all three problems in one can? This seemed like either regressive technology or an inge-nious marketing ploy. Bored with her own cosmetics, she rummaged through Zoe’s makeup drawer and, finding a few flesh-toned creams and powders, applied several, hoping they would go undetected in daylight. Looking for a mascara, she came up with six choices; some were called lash builders, others called lash lengtheners—what was the difference? Selecting a lipstick was even more complicated; there were thirteen options that ranged from gloss to glistener, matte to shiny, neutral to vermilion. How did Zoe afford all this crap? She needed to have a talk with her about curbing her consumption, maybe establish some sort of cosmetic nonproliferation treaty.
A final glance in the mirror and she was ready to go.
There. Maternal chic, she thought as she grabbed Zoe’s denim jacket and green plaid scarf. Or is that is an oxymoron?
Helen arrived at Bertha’s a few minutes before the end of the session and let herself in. Zoe was hard at work on a math exercise, with Bertha right beside her, suggesting strategies for increasing speed and accuracy. When they finished the problem, Bertha delivered another rave review, music to the ears of a mother who had spent two hundred dollars for the session.
“I bet your services are in great demand, Bertha. You must have dozens of clients at this time of the year,” Helen said to make conversation, delaying their departure.
“Hundreds,” Bertha corrected her.
“We must know some of your other students. The other day when we left, your next appointment was arriving . . . a girl named Catherine?”
“Catherine Cashin?” Bertha asked.
“I guess so. We recognized her from a few school visits.”
“Oh, yes. She’s a lovely girl, very bright and creative. Nice, too. Poor thing. Her mother died last June, and now she has to go through this. I predict she’ll receive preferential treatment, not to mention the sympathy vote, from our friends in admissions. Her mother’s death will end up working in her favor.”
How crass can you get? Helen thought, but suspected that Bertha was probably right.
“How’s her father handling all this?” Helen ventured.
“Couldn’t be better. Dad is divine. Not hard to look at, either,” Bertha winked at Zoe, who was becoming impatient and embarrassed by her mother’s probing. “Too bad. No eye candy today. They have an interview.”
“Really, where?” Helen tried to conceal her disappointment.
“Mom, can we go now?”
When they returned home, Helen checked her e-mail. There was one from Pamela.
Helen-
Justine was comme ci comme ca about your interview. She said Zoe is a “reasonable” candidate and will remain on her “under consideration” list. She also said something about a television show that Michael wants to shoot in Provence. Come see me to talk about it. Tomorrow morning is good. Ten-ish.
Pamela
Scheduled to lead an admissions tour at The School at ten thirty, Helen arrived a little early, figuring that would give her time to speak to Pamela first.
“She’s not in yet. I don’t know what her schedule will be once she arrives. There are two other appointments on her calendar for this morning, and if she’s late coming in, I’m not sure how her day will fall,” Margaret explained politely.
Helen was annoyed. It was ten o’clock; school started at eight, and the head was missing in action.
“I would assume she’s somewhere where she can be reached,” Helen stated tersely.
“Uh, no, not really,” Margaret answered haltingly.
“What would happen if there were an emergency? What if the kosher boy in the fourth grade accidentally mixed meat and milk at lunch and had a psycho-Semitic reaction that required emergency treatment? It wouldn’t look good if Pamela were nowhere to be found, would it?”
Margaret was shocked. She had never known Mrs. Drager to be the confrontational type and wondered what was bothering her. There were plenty of other parents who behaved this way, especially parents of eighth-grade students who were caving under the pressure of the admissions process or whose psychopharmaceuticals needed tweaking. But Mrs. Drager had usually understood when meetings were postponed and was generally flexible about rescheduling.
Why the change in attitude? Margaret wondered. I never pegged her as the Zoloft type, but this admission thing seems to make everyone crazy. Maybe a small dose of St. Mom’s wort would help.
Margaret knew exactly where Ms. Rothschild was this morning. She had left a voice mail message saying that she would be going to a dressage clinic at ten o’clock and might be in by eleven. She instructed Margaret to cancel her morning appointments and, by all means, tell no one where she was. Margaret was resentful; placating irate parents was not the way she had hoped to spend her day. She was tempted to confide in Mrs. Drager but restrained herself, knowing Ms. Rothschild well enough to know that could result in her losing her job. So instead she said, “She will be calling in. Is there a message I can give her?”
“Just that I was here, at ten-ish, as she suggested, and was surprised to not find her in,” Helen said softening her tone.
After all, it wasn’t Margaret’s fault.
Dust mites, molds, pollen, airborne viruses, pollutants, and their deleterious effect on their daughter’s immune system were the tedious subject of Sara’s interview with the parents of the highly allergic girl, Silvia. By the end, she decided to “file them under ‘never,’” but then wondered whether that decision could be construed as being discriminatory.
/> When Helen arrived to give them their tour and the couple was out of hearing range, Sara grabbed her arm and whispered, “Is allergic considered a disability?”
“Better check with legal on that,” Helen replied. “These days you never know.”
Sara introduced Helen to the Clarins and, as the three of them meandered down the hall, she returned to her office.
Leafing through the applications on her desk, Sara came across Oscar Whyte’s. On a whim, she decided to call Benjamin Whyte to see what she could learn about the Manchester School, where he and Pamela had taught together many years ago.
“Hello, Mr. Whyte? This is Sara Nash from the admissions office at The School.”
“How lover-ly to hear from you,” he replied hyperamiably.
“I gather you have had your interview with Ms. Rothschild?”
“Oh, yes. She insisted that we do it at home so as not to discommode the wee one. So very considerate of her, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. She always knows what’s best for the child,” Sara replied, going to great lengths to veil her sarcasm.
“But it is a bit odd that we haven’t yet seen The School,” he said.
“I’m sure Ms. Rothschild will arrange for that soon,” she assured him. “But I’m calling about another matter. I thought you might be able to give me some advice to pass on to one of our teachers who is moving to Manchester. She’s interested in finding a position there and knows very little about the schools.”
Fifteen minutes later she had heard more than she ever wanted to know about the Manchester school system, and Whyte still hadn’t mentioned Pamela. She segued clumsily, “So the last school you mentioned, The Manchester School, is the one where you and Ms. Rothschild met, isn’t it?”
Admissions Page 13
