“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Dana replied curtly. Denise looked annoyed as she scribbled a question mark on her list.
“And of course, The School’s famous six-course Provençal dinner for twelve prepared by our own Pamela Rothschild!” Like a game show host, Denise ratcheted up her voice with each item.
Compliments of Le Bon Take Out, Helen said to herself. She knew for a fact that Pamela cooked none of the food she pawned off as her own at her celebrated dinner.
“Who will the auctioneer be this year?” someone asked.
Pamela responded instantly. “The same as last year—I got us Alasdair MacIntyre from Christie’s,” once more taking credit for something she didn’t do. Through a friend at the auction house, Helen had been able to convince Alasdair to return—a minor miracle after the humiliation he suffered last year when an inebriated parent repeatedly badgered him about what he was wearing under his kilt.
“Can we ask him to wear a royal naval officer’s uniform this year instead?” Denise asked, anxious to maintain her theme throughout.
Helen, sensitive about wasting time, let it pass. “We still need volunteers for all of these events. Please, everyone let the committee chairs know what you can be counted on to do. Before we finish up, is there any new business?” Helen asked, looking directly at Dana Winter.
Dana began, “I want to thank everyone for the outpouring of support I have received since my daughter’s, ahem, accident in gym class yesterday. I am happy to report she’s absolutely fine. The diagnosis is a teensy-weensy case of anemia, and she’ll be back at school next week. Several members of The School staff performed admirably, and I am grateful to those individuals.” Her sphincterlike lips tightened into a constipated grin. Pamela’s saccharine rat-on-me-and-April-gets-in-nowhere smirk wasn’t lost on Helen, who thought that there was no doubt—these two understood one another completely.
Brandi was out at a chiropractor’s appointment that morning, leaving Sara alone to field calls from the dozens of applicant parents who, looking for ways to distinguish themselves from the pack, phoned with flimsy queries.
MS. FIFE: I just wanted to make sure you got our thank-you note.
SARA: Yes, I did. Thank you.
MS. FIFE: You did realize Lukie wrote it himself, didn’t you?
SARA: That was pretty clear.
MS. FIFE: Had we told you that he does calligraphy?
SARA: You call that calligraphy? Who are you kidding? No, I don’t believe you had mentioned that.
MS. WONG: Did you get a chance to listen to the recording of Timothy’s piano recital?
SARA: Not yet.
MS. WONG: I think you’ll enjoy it. That is, if you like Beethoven sonatas.
SARA: I do generally enjoy Beethoven. Particularly when it’s played well.
MS. WONG: Timothy’s teacher said he’s ready for the Junior Philharmonic.
SARA: Really. Who’s his teacher?
MS. WONG: Mr. Wong.
SARA: Oh.
Thankfully, Brandi finally arrived, relieving her to attend to her interview with the thrice-rescheduled globe-trotting Dondi-Marghellettis.
“I’m glad to finally meet you.” Sara warmly shook their hands and ushered them into her office.
Fashionisti personified, the couple were dressed and accessorized head to toe in haute couture. Despite the chilly November weather, he was sockless in alligator loafers, and she was bare-legged in open-toed mules. Her delicate feet and tan legs were those of a woman half her age. And was that a toe ring? How risqué! Even their eyewear approached new heights of chic: his blue and architectonic, hers magenta and feline.
I would look like a complete dork in those glasses, Sara thought. But it was their lustrous dark hair that Sara admired most as she reached up and stroked her own coarse, dry locks. There must be something to that Mediterranean diet, she thought, and began the interview.
“You are quite a peripatetic family, aren’t you?”
“Si, si molto peripatetico,” Livio laughed warmly, flashing his dazzling teeth. “We like very much to travel.”
Great smile, she thought. “Do you see yourselves settling in New York now that Aurora will be starting kindergarten? We wouldn’t want her to enroll at The School if you don’t intend to stay here, at least for a while.” She spoke more slowly this time, not sure about their English.
“No, no, of course not,” Guiliana responded at a fast clip to demonstrate her fluency. “We have just purchased the Palazzo Hotel on Fifth Avenue. Livio and the children will live there, and I will do most of the traveling alone. Livio loves New York, even more than Roma,” she added enthusiastically.
So he’s a stay-at-home husband? wondered Sara. Or is it a stay-at-hotel husband?
“New York con i bambini is verry gooood,” Livio added.
“Tell me about Aurora,” said Sara.
“Ahhh, Aurora,” Livio began in the tone of a completely smitten and overindulgent father. “Mi angela. The sweetest girl to ever walka de earth.”
Guiliana, the pragmatist, knew that wasn’t a good answer, and added, “She is bright and creative. Warm, loving, and, oh, happy as can be. Extremely sociable as well. The moment anyone meets her, it is love at first sight. When we go to Milano, Capri, Genova, Portofino . . .”
Sounds like the complete line of Pepperidge Farm cookies, Sara thought.
“Tell me a little about Aurora’s language skills,” Sara probed, concerned that with the parents’ predilection for peppering their English with Italian, Aurora might not be conversant enough to communicate with her peers.
“She is absolutely trilingual: Italian, French, and English,” Guiliana answered.
“She speaka Italian a casa, with mama, papa, and baby Bruno. She learna de French froma de concierge. And English, well, she speaka English with you.” Livio smiled broadly and gestured with both hands, palms up, as though offering his firstborn to Sara, which, in essence, he was.
Between Livio’s charm, Aurora’s excellent language skills, and Guiliana’s direct manner, Sara ended the interview with a positive view toward the Dondi-Marghellettis, assuming that Aurora performed well on her interview and KAT. Pamela would be pleased. She had a long-standing desire to enroll a child of hoteliers, for reasons both personal (vacation freebies) and fund-raising (auction donations). And then there was Simone Savage, who was pushing hard for both this family and the Von Hansdorffs. Sara already knew she would accept only one, and with all else being equal, the choice between the uptight Austrians and the happy-go-lucky Italians was a no-brainer; why opt for Sturm und Drang when she could have la dolce vita?
So far, April’s only visitors had been her parents, who had been hanging around, wringing their hands and coaxing her to eat, as though all that was needed to restore her to good health were an infusion of calories. Throughout the day they had taken turns venturing out on foraging missions, each time returning with baskets of fruit, boxes of fancy chocolates, and platters of sandwiches, all of which had so far gone untouched.
Later that afternoon, when the Winters were finally called into a meeting with the docs and shrinks, and Julian and Zoe arrived unannounced, April seemed genuinely pleased, telling them how relieved she was “to at last get a break from the parental unit and their tedious attempts at force-feeding.”
Like most normal kids, Julian and Zoe were ravenous after a day at school, and at April’s urging, they gorged themselves on her assorted goodies. She secretly planned to pretend to her parents that she had eaten all the food while they were away, thinking that would get them off her back.
Zoe was disturbed by April’s appearance. The hospital room’s harsh fluorescent lights highlighted her waxy skin, colorless, thin hair, and grayish teeth. Her collarbones protruded angularly from the open neck of the pale-blue hospital gown, and her scrawny arms lay lifelessly by her sides, barely able to support the intravenous needle attached at her wrist. It was hard to believe she had even been standing upright on the vol
leyball court just yesterday.
As they ate and drank, Zoe and Julian made a concerted effort to cheer April up by recounting the events of the day.
“Heather and Kevin broke up during lunch,” Julian offered.
“Wow, really. They’ve been a couple forever,” April responded, the flatness of her voice belying the feigned interest she professed.
“Yeah, since, like October,” Zoe agreed.
“Oh, we have to tell you about history class today,” Julian said, trying hard to come up with a humorous tidbit that might amuse her. “Mr. Heller was lecturing about the Roman Empire. Every time he mentioned Julius Caesar he looked at me and accidentally said ‘Julian Caesar.’ Michael Connor passed a note to Bobby Lehane that said: ‘Heller’s got a hard-on for Toppler,’ and Mr. Heller intercepted it. He was so freaked out, he dismissed the class.”
“I feel bad for him,” April sympathized with the teacher, not finding the story at all amusing.
“You’re right. That was really mean of Connor,” Julian answered, sorry he brought it up.
“Oh, did you hear that John Bushman was suspended yesterday?” Zoe changed the subject.
“No, what happened?” April looked worried.
Zoe pressed her knee against Julian’s. This was hard work. She forgot how humorless April had become in the past year or so.
“He stole a copy of the algebra test, made copies, and then tried to sell them. Marissa squealed on him and he’s out for the rest of the week,” Zoe giggled, but April looked upset.
“It’s not like it’s the first time Bushman’s been suspended. Remember the time last year when he came to the seventh-grade dance blotto?” Julian and Zoe laughed, and April stared.
“When do you think you’ll be back in school?” Zoe inquired, tired of trying to be entertaining.
“It depends. The doctor from the psychiatry department told my parents I should go to a residential program for a few months, but since they refuse to accept the fact that I have an eating disorder, I don’t think that will happen. The emergency-room doctor told them I fainted from anemia, which is true, so all they’re interested in discussing is how to raise my iron levels.”
“Well, you know what they say: de Nile is not just a river in Egypt,” Julian quipped. Zoe forced a laugh, but April didn’t crack a smile.
“I’m a little scared about what will happen if I go home,” April confessed in a voice so low Zoe had to lean over the bed to hear her.
“What do you mean?” Zoe asked.
“My parents are pressuring me so much about high schools, and with the SAPS coming up next month, I just feel like I might freak out completely,” she quavered, and started to sob.
Julian took her hand and stroked it. “Believe me. When it comes to feeling pressure from parents, I can totally relate.”
Zoe watched Julian with admiration, realizing he had a much better handle on this than she did. Her parents could be pains but were nothing compared to the pressures these two were dealing with.
“Maybe you should tell them you can’t handle it and need some therapy. If you don’t get in anywhere, you can always spend an extra year at The School. A few kids have done that in the past,” Julian suggested.
“My parents would sooner I die,” April whispered, turning her gaze towards the wall.
“I don’t know. The school stuff just seems so irrelevant if you’re sick,” Zoe offered, remembering what her mother had said.
“April, you’re skeletal. You weigh less than eighty pounds. You can’t be expected to go through this now. The pressure is intense,” Julian added emphatically.
“How are you guys handling it?” April whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes.
They looked at each other before answering. “Depends on the day,” Zoe answered. “It’s a roller coaster. I have a good interview, like last week at The Bucolic Campus School, and I get psyched and think it’s going to be fine. Then I take a sample SAPS test and do poorly and think there’s no hope.”
“Mine is a lesser-of-two-evils situation,” said Julian. “First I visited Extrover Academy and felt like a yeshiva boy at a Cape Cod clambake. And my gay-dar registered a total zero—not one queer on campus. Then my dad tells me he’s getting his partner to push for me at Mannington—you know, the school that put the ‘M’ in ‘machismo’—and I get totally suicidal,” he said, and then immediately regretted his choice of words.
“Well, my mother is fixated on The Fancy Girls’ School. Ms. Rothschild said they have only one opening, but my mother is convinced they will accept me ’cause we went to some pathetic cooking school last summer that’s owned by their fat-ass admissions woman,” April explained.
Zoe was startled. She’d been considering The Fancy Girls’ School as well and hadn’t known there was only one opening. But if April dropped out of the picture, the spot could conceivably be hers. Zoe was ashamed she’d let such an evil thought even enter her brain, especially at a time like this. She leaned over and gave April an impulsive compensatory kiss on the cheek as she wished her a speedy recovery.
“What a surprise!” Dana Winter squealed as she returned to find April with her friends.
“We were just leaving,” Zoe said, anxious to avoid conversation with the nosey Mrs. Winter. “’Bye, April. Take care.”
As Zoe and Julian were walking home, they ran into Zachary Harmon, a normally laconic friend of Julian’s from camp who was a freshman at The Bucolic Campus School. The three stood and chatted for a few minutes and, of course, talked schools. When Julian told him that Zoe had applied to his school, he suddenly became highly animated.
“The Bucolic Campus School kids have the most awesome parties. Too bad you weren’t there in seventh grade for the Bar Mitz-vahs. Julian, did I tell you about Jake Moskowitz’s? His was the one at the Trump Lloyd Towers. There was tons of caviar, a sushi bar, a crepe station, a deli counter, hot dog stands, a Slurpee machine. It was like, you name it, they had it. They had a live band and a DJ. There were fortune-tellers, an amazing magician, face painting, a casino, all kinds of video games. Some of us snuck in some booze and got totally wasted. It went on until like two a.m. It was totally awesome.”
“Sounds like a blast,” Zoe responded sarcastically. She was both offended and intrigued by the concept of these lavish parties. The most extravagant Bar Mitzvah she had ever attended was Ben Wachtel’s black tie at Tavern on the Green. But it didn’t begin to approach that level of coolness, especially because her parents had attended, too.
“But you’d be there for the sweet-sixteens! They’re supposed to be stellar,” Zachary added.
“Can’t wait,” Zoe said flatly.
Both Michael and Helen were at home to witness Zoe’s stormy entrance. She threw her coat and backpack on the floor of the living room, dove onto the sofa, buried her face into a pile of throw pillows, and started to whimper, quietly at first, and when no response was forthcoming, upped the ante to full throttle. Helen glanced at Michael and, with a mere raise of an eyebrow, asked “Whose turn?” and he pointed to her. She went over to the sofa and slowly rubbed Zoe’s back. The heaving sobs gradually subsided, and Zoe sat up and wrapped her arms tightly around her mother, reminding Helen that despite all signs to the contrary, Zoe was in many ways still her little girl.
“Was it upsetting to see April?” Helen asked gently as she stroked Zoe’s hair.
“No. Yes. But that’s not the problem. The problem is a jerk named Zachary Harmon.”
Both parents logically jumped to the same conclusion about Zachary, but while Michael was instantly ready to hire a hit man, Helen was all ears. So that when Zoe caught her breath long enough to tell them about the orgiastic Bar Mitzvahs, Helen was able to respond constructively while Michael was still talking about going to the mat with Zachary for making his daughter cry, regardless of the actual reason.
“So you’re upset because you think this means that all the kids at The Bucolic Campus School are decadent party animals?” Helen
asked gently.
“That and lots of other stuff. I just keep thinking that there’s no school that’s right for me. Or that will accept me,” and the sobbing began anew.
“Sweetie, you know that’s irrational. Everyone finds a place that’s right for them. One boy’s report on one outrageous party shouldn’t color your whole opinion of The Bucolic Campus School. That might not be your crowd, but I’m sure there are plenty of kids there who are more your type. C’mon, you’re smarter than that. Let’s stay focused on making sure you do everything possible to get into all of the schools, and then you’ll be in the position of having a choice.”
“Talk about pressure,” Zoe said, wiping her nose on her mother’s shoulder, reminding Helen of all the years she had unknowingly walked around with stains on her shirt when Zoe was a regurgitating infant.
“Mom didn’t mean it that way. She meant that if you can possibly manage to maintain a positive attitude, we’ll all feel better throughout this process.”
“No, I didn’t,” Helen said angrily. “I meant that Zoe needs to work as hard as she can for a few more months to get what she wants. It’s not about making us all feel rosy; it’s about directing her energy in a positive direction. Once she gets in, then she can decide where she wants to go. Zoe, it’s not worth getting worked up each time you meet some jerk or hear some scuttlebutt.”
Both Michael and Zoe were silenced by Helen’s harsh directive. A few seconds passed, and then Zoe picked up her backpack, dragged it by the straps across the floor to her room, and closed her door, not quite slamming it, because that violated house rules, but loudly enough to make her point. Helen exhaled audibly, and Michael scratched his receding hairline.
Admissions Page 20
