Helen coughed all the way to the third floor and, remembering the tour she recently conducted of The School’s ventilation system, shuddered to imagine the objections that Germophobic Father would raise here.
They arrived at their destination, and Soledad ushered them into a dank chamber that smelled and looked like the inside of a cement mixer. The walls, floor, and ceiling were speckled with grayish- colored clay, requiring them all to walk on tiptoes to avoid the slime. Helen was very sorry that she had worn her new suede shoes.
“This is where the high school program begins—the core of our curriculum, if you will,” Soledad began. “At the start of their first semester, each student is taught how to throw a pot on the ceramic wheel.” She pointed to one of the filthy round devices in the middle of the room. “When the student is able to successfully center a pot, she is ready to graduate, if you will, to the second phase of the curriculum.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Where do academics fit into this, ah, curriculum?” Helen asked innocently.
“Usually by the start of the second year, what is traditionally referred to as the sophomore year, the student begins the transition from the studio to the learning center. By spending the first year with the wheel, we insure that all of our students are centered, if you will, like a pot. We believe that students are not ready to tackle abstract concepts until they get in touch with their cores. The year in the clay room is the time and place where this happens. Let’s go to the learning center now.”
“She’s kidding, right?” Helen whispered to Michael.
They traipsed back down the fetid staircase.
I’ll have to have my suit dry-cleaned after this, Helen thought to herself.
They arrived on the second floor of the building, where the “learning center” was situated. The floor was divided into what Soledad described as “virtual classrooms,” where small groups of students were assembled around large tables, conversing with teachers they called by first name only. Soledad explained that the academic program was “seminar-based” and that the students decided each week what the subject of the seminar would be. This way, she told them, the curriculum remained “vital and relevant at all times.”
Gathered in one of the “virtual classrooms,” they listened as a ponytailed teacher asked a group of students for their thoughts on the threat of global warming.
“I was really worried about it but, like, now that I know there’s nothing I can do to stop it, I’m not letting it, like, ruin my life or anything,” was the first response offered.
“That’s one approach,” the teacher said resignedly.
The Dragers quietly slipped out and declined Soledad’s invitation to listen in on another “seminar.”
“Are there papers, tests, homework, grades—any of that old-fashioned stuff we associate with high school?” Helen asked sarcastically.
“If the students decide they want to write papers or have tests, then, yes. Grades, no.”
“So college admissions are done . . . how?” Michael asked.
“Oh, very successfully. All the progressive colleges know and love our students. It’s not a problem at all.”
“Oh, great. Zoe can choose between Antioch and Hampshire,” Michael said under his breath.
Or The Rocky Mountain College of Underwater Basket Weaving, Helen thought.
They finished their tour and met Zoe, and as they were leaving the building, a male student in a Stone Temple Pilots sleeveless T-shirt and with a safety pin in his nose sidled up to Michael and whispered, “Want to score some bud, dude?”
Michael looked to Helen for guidance, not wanting to do anything that might humiliate Zoe.
“Keep walking,” Helen said through gritted teeth.
Once they were out of earshot of the loitering students, Helen announced to both Michael and Zoe, “If The Progressive School turns out to be our only option, I swear to God, we’ll be home-schooling.”
A few days later, while painting posters for an upcoming choral performance, Zoe reported to Julian about her visit to The Progressive School and about her tour guide, Violet.
“Do you think most high school kids are, you know, having sex?” she asked. “Violet talked like they all do stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Julian asked curiously.
“I’m not sure. It was hard to tell from the way she was talking whether she meant, you know, all the way or just oral sex,” Zoe asked uncomfortably.
“I’ve heard everybody gives blow jobs in high school. It’s not such a big deal,” he explained.
“Do you think girls have to do that to be, you know, popular?”
“You’re not gonna be popular if you don’t do it, that’s for sure,” he told her. “I’m not sure about going all the way, though. I think maybe you can just do blow jobs and get by,” he explained patiently. He knew that Zoe wasn’t what would be called “fast” or a “slut,” and he knew that was probably one of the reasons they were such good friends. While many of the other eighth-grade girls at The School were usually in some stage of either looking for a boyfriend, maintaining a boyfriend, or breaking up with a boyfriend, Julian was grateful that Zoe was content to spend most of her free time with him, particularly since there weren’t many boys in his class that he considered friends.
With all this swirling around in her head, Zoe was developing a growing sense of dread about high school, magnified today by her visit to The Progressive School, which really turned her off. She was afraid that she was a total nerd compared to the kids there, especially Violet, and wondered if she was incredibly immature for not jumping for joy over all the “righteous” stuff Violet showed her, like the condom machine in the bathrooms and the make-out couch in the utility closet. She knew she didn’t fit in there; she would never be happy in such a dirty, weird place surrounded by such freaky kids. Then there was The Fancy Girls’ School. Did she fit in there? She was afraid she would always feel like the poor stepsister of all those superrich debutantes. And The Safety School was nothing to get excited about. It felt like the consolation prize. The Bucolic Campus School might be a possibility. She hoped she would like it when they visited next week. From everything she had heard, it might just be the best place for her.
“Why so blue?” Julian was concerned that their little sex talk had upset her.
“The whole school thing. It really sucks,” she answered, and they both started to giggle at her choice of words.
NOVEMBER
A palpable frisson radiated from The School’s auditorium as several hundred eager parents poured in for the annual open house. Every parent who was applying was advised to attend, as much to learn about The School as to further demonstrate their ardent interest.
As was the tradition, the evening program featured Pamela Rothschild in her award-winning dramatic role as Best Head of School. This was where Pamela truly shined, as she captivated her audience with a bravura, Power Point-aided show-and-tell that left even the formerly skeptical applicant praying for admittance. A long-term veteran of the open-house, Pamela knew that her audience was riddled with fear and doubt, a remarkable fact in light of their high professional status. She scanned the room, taking a quick inventory of CEOs, notable authors, tenured academics, and scions of society. As was her intent, her presentation managed to simultaneously assuage and fuel their collective insecurity.
Sara was relieved to play merely a supporting role at the open house; her only obligation was to stand up, smile, and tilt her head when introduced by Pamela at the conclusion of her performance. She was never one to enjoy the limelight and, in fact, had a pathological fear of public speaking. She knew she would need to get some coaching if she were ever to become head of School, a job for which a commanding presence was a prerequisite. In exchange for the exorbitant tuition, parents wanted assurance that there was an able commander in chief leading their little soldiers into battle.
Sara looked around to see if Tally Easton was present, not really expecting her
to be, and instead spotted the Von Hansdorffs, sprechenzing with the Konigsbergs, the bony German lit professor married to the roly-poly Weimar scholar. Scanning the crowd, she caught Judith Ehrlich, a principal partner at Dickenson and Trollope, furtively sneaking a glance over her shoulder to the back of the room, where Abigail Groomer stared stonily ahead. Sara had recently learned that, as two of only a handful of women to hold senior positions in leading merchant banks, Abigail and Judith were often competing for the same deals. Just last week she had caught a segment on Money Market about the two women and how, for the first time in their careers, they had cobrokered the hotly contested $5.6 billion megamerger between Totco Ltd. and Kidzbiz Inc. But when it came to admissions, they again found themselves in enemy camps and resumed a contentious stance by sitting at opposite ends of the auditorium.
Felicity Cozette was also making a command appearance; Pamela had instructed her to attend with the promise of a “special something” afterwards that Felicity was hoping meant dinner at a very good restaurant. Pamela had taken to listing these dinners as “faculty development” on her monthly expense report, but oddly, Felicity was the only faculty member to be the beneficiary of these expenditures.
As President of the Parents’ Association, Helen was required to make a cameo appearance in the role of most ebullient parent, a stretch given her current frame of mind. Year after year she had religiously attended these open houses, and she was tired of the formulaic palaver and the almost standardized question-and-answer segment. The play never changed, but the audience was becoming noticeably more demanding, like theatergoers who used to affably trot their young to The Paper Bag Players but now were satisfied with nothing short of the phantasmagoria of Cirque du Soleil.
As Pamela approached the podium, she adjusted her black and white faux ermine capelet, the one she wore when trying to look regal, though Helen thought it looked more like something out of Cruella De Vil’s closet. She spent a moment posing grandly and then began her well-rehearsed presentation.
The audience was captivated by the rapid succession of schmaltzy slides: the rainbow coalition of children on the jungle gym, the two children pushing the disabled child in a wheelchair, and the handsome male teacher assisting an enraptured group of girls in a science lab. Helen didn’t recognize any of the children or the teacher and wondered if the pictures came from some online educational image provider. She wouldn’t put it past Pamela. Next up was a chart that allegedly diagrammed the student-to-teacher ratios, broken down by subject and grade, with dollars spent per child as a percentage of total tuition. Who cared that it was incomprehensible? It looked convincing. Pamela then asked the audience for questions, and a dozen hands shot up.
“Many of us will be sending our children to school for the first time and are concerned about their ability to separate. How does The School handle this transition?” a mousy woman standing in the back of the room asked.
Pamela knew the type: one of the “mothers who care”—so much that she had never spent a night away from her child, believed in the family bed, and was still nursing her four-and-a-half-year-old.
“One of our primary criteria in making admissions decisions is school readiness. Your readiness.” The audience laughed as Pamela looked directly at Miss Mousy.
“This was not said in jest,” she added sternly. “If we have any sense that you’re not ready for school, then we’re not interested in your child coming here.” The audience giggled nervously, still not sure if she was serious.
“When it comes to separation, your children are taking their cues from you. I find that ‘letting go’ is usually more of a problem for the parent than the child. We provide a safe, inviting learning environment. It is up to you to model a positive attitude and give your child the message that you approve of this new place. If you cry, your child will cry. If you express enthusiasm, your child will, too. A smooth separation is up to you. Next question.” She pointed to the slicked-back hair in the third row, a man who still thought American Gigolo was a great fashion moment.
“Could you speak on the subject of homework? The School has a reputation for having a heavy load in the early grades. What can we expect?”
She got this one every year. “Homework begins in first grade, with a fifteen-minute daily assignment, and increases by fifteen minutes each year thereafter. I personally monitor each teacher to make sure their assignments do not exceed that limit.”
The parents whispered amongst themselves, counting on their fingers in an attempt to calculate the total time required of their homework-resistant children by the time they reached eighth grade.
What a crock, thought Helen, who knew without counting that Zoe was spending at least three hours a night on homework by seventh grade.
Another father asked, “How involved should the parents be in the homework?”
Helen found it odd that the fathers were asking about homework. Since when was Dad the designated homework monitor? Certainly not in her house. Probably just a ploy to appear involved.
“Let’s just say, the minute you ask your child, ‘How did we do on the math test today?’ you’re too involved,” was Pamela’s response every year.
That always got a big yuck. Next question.
“What are the expectations regarding fund-raising. Will we be hit up the minute we are admitted?”
Yup, thought Helen. She knew that a solicitation letter went out within a matter of weeks after The School received a signed contract and deposit.
“I hate to think my development office is doing any hitting—it’s not permitted in school,” Pamela tittered. “We strive for one hundred percent participation but make no demands as to amount. A small gift is as highly valued as an enormous gift.” As if this group believed that.
“Could you speak for a bit about admissions out? What is your track record for getting all the graduates into the top high schools? I think it’s safe to say that if we send our children here we’re counting on that. Is that a fair assumption?” Mr. Belzer asked aggressively.
Sara singled them out of the group just in time to see the wife squeeze his knee and thought, These two are painful to watch. Their love life must be really unpleasant. But then, who am I to criticize their love life? At least they have one! Witnessing so many couples at their absolute worst had made Sara extremely cynical about the state of marriage, and she partially attributed her single status to this. She longed for a child of her own but was so repulsed by the behavior of so many of the couples she interviewed every year that it was hard for her to imagine entering into holy matrimony. After meeting Tally Easton, she wondered if maybe she should give some serious consideration to joining MOTBOB.
Pamela was prepared for the Belzer question. It, too, came up every year but, in the last few, had taken on a new level of urgency.
“Our top students go to the top ten high schools; others to second-tier schools; some even go to public school.” There was rumbling in the room as parents readjusted both their positions and their expectations. “I can safely say that every child who graduates from The School goes to high school,” Pamela added.
Oh, well put, Rothschild, Helen mused.
“What is The School’s philosophy regarding learning differences? Do you have support for children with special needs?” asked Flora, the former nanny, now stepmother, of the Barton twins, who, Sara noted, was sitting alone.
“‘Vive la différence’ is my philosophy,” Pamela proclaimed.
Oh, God, thought Sara, here she goes.
Pamela continued. “Children learn at their own rates, in their own ways. We respect those differences and support them . . . to a point. There may be a time when we may recommend a specialist for your child, but that would be a last resort. Most learning problems are manageable in-house—ours, not yours”—(titter, titter)—“and are often the result of laziness on the part of the child. A swift kick in the pants is often all that is needed.”
The audience was hushed. They would have liked t
o believe this, but it certainly didn’t jibe with much of the current literature. They all knew someone whose child was receiving help for some learning problem or another. But wouldn’t it be nice if she were right?
Pamela wrapped up her presentation. “I invite all of you to stay for refreshments, which were made especially for you by our fourth-graders, who are studying the food chain. And feel free to introduce yourselves and chat with some of the members of our close-knit team,” and then she introduced each one by name. “And make sure you meet Helen Drager, the president of our intrepid Parents’ Association. She can tell you all our dirty secrets, tee-hee.”
Nothing would give me more pleasure, thought Helen as she caught Sara’s eye and shot her a sly sneer.
Sara spotted Clarissa and Benjamin Whyte, and just as she was about to say hello, Pamela appeared out of nowhere and, steering both by the elbows, gushed, “I’m just dying to show you the Jubilee cheese tray that Fiona Baggbalm sent me. You remember Fiona . . .”
Helen was cornered by the Swansons, who were bubbling over with excitement about Miranda’s budding ballet career. They couldn’t wait to tell someone that they had received a callback for a second audition for The Nutcracker, the pinnacle of achievement for a toe-shoe-and-tutu-toting mother.
“Should we let Ms. Nash know about this, or will you?” Mrs. Swanson inquired.
“I’ll take care of it,” Helen answered, as if it mattered after Miranda’s swan dive last month.
“How many children do you have in The School?” Mrs. Swanson asked. How novel! An applicant who was interested in talking about a child other than her own!
“Just one. Zoe. She’s in eighth grade, so this is our last year here.”
“So you’re involved in admissions now, too. How’s that going?” Mr. Swanson asked.
“I’m sure it’s the same for us as it is for you. Challenging. But we’ll all get through it,” Helen answered calmly.
Admissions Page 16
