Admissions

by Nancy Lieberman

  Before she could respond, he was kissing her on the mouth, softly but with enough passion that there was no question as to its meaning. Returning the kiss, she murmured, “And I you.”

  But so what? she wondered. This means nothing, right?

  “You are so beautiful. I haven’t had any feelings for a woman in such a long time. It’s like I’ve been sleepwalking. I didn’t know if I would ever feel this way again. I must thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I guess you could say I’m your wake-up call,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. It had been so long since she had felt this way, too. It was not just the kiss. She and Michael kissed all the time: hello, goodbye, as stage one to foreplay. But not like this—kissing for kissing’s sake—complete with eye contact, tender strokes, and compliments from the most gorgeous and interesting man she had met in years. Oddly, it was not the thought of Michael that was preventing her from melting into his embrace; it was the “don’t do it, Mommy” look that Zoe had given her as they were leaving the Cashin mansion. Or was she projecting? Either way, whether it was coming from Zoe or her own unconscious, which, given their shared DNA, were almost one and the same, she read the message loud and clear.

  “A wake-up call. That’s funny,” he smiled. “We haven’t even slept together.”

  “No. And we probably won’t,” she responded softly.

  “That’s disappointing,” he answered, kissing her again.

  Extremely disappointing, thought Helen.

  “But understandable under the circumstances,” he added in a gallant display of his moral backbone.

  Oh, God, he’s perfect, she thought.

  “Here we are,” he said as he held the door for her. He closed the umbrella and stuck it into the waiting brass stand in the entrance of the Gallery Nouveau Russe, where the contemporary glass that Helen had reviewed last month was still on exhibition. No sooner had they shaken the excess water from their hair and sleeves than Josh Kirov darted towards them.

  “Mr. Cashin,” he gushed. “I didn’t expect you to come out in this weather.”

  “I knew it was the final day of the show, and I had promised to take one last look.”

  “Of course. We’re holding three pieces for you. And Helen! Are you two together?”

  Careful to dispel any notion that they were together together, she responded, “Our daughters are friends, and Phillip knows I have expertise in this area, so he asked me to come along.”

  “Oh! So you’re doing some art advisory work these days?”

  “Just in a friendly capacity,” she answered. Josh was visibly relieved that he wouldn’t be having to offer her a commission.

  As Josh guided Phillip around the exhibition, Donald waved and then beckoned Helen to the back office.

  “I didn’t know you were friendly with Phillip Cashin,” he whispered, sounding far too impressed for her taste.

  “There are lots of things you don’t know about me, Donald,” she whispered, purposely sounding mysterious.

  “Phillip Cashin is major,” he replied. “Hubba hubba,” he added, crassly moving his pelvis forward and back, which, with his love handles, looked more latter-day Elvis than the Ricky Martin effect he sought.

  “Major how?” she asked. She knew exactly what he meant, but didn’t want to miss an opportunity to learn more about Phillip.

  “Oh, you know, major moolah, major collector, MAJOR good-looking—but I hardly have to tell you that, do I?” he snickered. “And MAJOR ladies’ man, but I probably don’t have to tell you that, either.” Donald was giddy.

  “He was major married until last spring, you know,” she added bluntly, jumping to Phillip’s defense.

  “That’s common knowledge, sweetheart. But it doesn’t mean bubkes,” he responded knowingly.

  Doesn’t it? she wondered. He certainly didn’t seem the type to cheat on his wife.

  “Helen, could you come look at these? I’m trying to decide which to get as a gift for my mother-in-law for her seventy-fifth birthday,” Phillip called from the gallery. She walked over and examined the three pieces under consideration.

  “Hmmm. For mother-in-law . . . Definitely not this one. Too sexy,” she said, pointing to the green one with the ripe-fig-pink interior. “This one is a bit too edgy,” she said, holding up the jagged ruby crystalline piece. “This third one has a lot going on. It’s very complicated. Would that suit her?”

  “She is complicated. As is our relationship. But which is your favorite?” he asked her.

  “I like the green one,” she answered without hesitation.

  “The forbidden, libidinous one,” he teased.

  Josh and Donald exchanged glances.

  Phillip spent a few more minutes contemplating the objects, picking each one up, running his hand over the surfaces, and then carefully placing them back on the shelf. Since each piece was priced at around twelve thousand dollars, it was not unreasonable for him to take his time.

  “I can offer you a twenty percent discount if you take all three,” Josh offered, hoping to consummate the sale today.

  “Thanks Josh. I’ll call you on Tuesday. I have to sleep on it,” he answered distractedly.

  Josh looked defeated. Helen, still bristling from Donald’s tacky comments, was glad that Phillip resisted the aggressive sales tactics. Now she just wanted to escape before one of them began the deadly admissions conversation.

  Too late. “Mr. Cashin, where is your daughter in school these days?” Donald inquired as they were buttoning their coats.

  “She’s at The Community School. But it only goes through eighth grade, so we’re in the process of applying to high schools.”

  “We’re in the same boat,” Josh replied, trying to delay the departure. “Except we have twins. You know we have twins, don’t you?”

  Not waiting for Phillip’s response, Helen walked out the door. He dutifully followed right behind. Since the rain had let up and they were no longer compelled to huddle closely under the shared umbrella, Helen made a point of maintaining a polite distance as they walked.

  “I can’t set foot in that gallery without having a conversation about schools. I have to remember not to go in again until after February,” she said to explain her annoyance.

  “I wouldn’t have minded talking about schools,” Phillip responded, not understanding why she seemed so perturbed.

  “Well, I would. I’ve already done that with them, and ever since then they have been bugging me about using my influence at The School to get their twins in.”

  “And you’re not comfortable doing that?” He seemed genuinely bewildered.

  “No! I’m not!” She looked at him incredulously. “Would you do that for them?”

  “Maybe. But they didn’t ask me.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” she replied shortly.

  “It’s not such a big deal to make a phone call.”

  “Whose side are you on?” She realized she sounded ridiculous the minute she asked, and then struggled to amend her comment. “I mean, you’re just so relaxed about the whole admissions thing. How is that possible?” she asked, implying that he was at fault for not displaying sufficient angst.

  “I just know it will all work out. Besides, worrying about it is not going to help.”

  “And you’re probably used to always getting everything you want,” she said sharply.

  “Not always. Like now,” he said softly, taking her in his arms again for a kiss. This time she turned away. “I’m sorry, Helen. I’ll stop pushing.”

  Don’t stop, she thought, and stepped away, relieved to see they had reached his house. She refused the invitation to come in, and they agreed he would send Zoe home in a cab after dinner.

  “Thank you. I had a lovely afternoon,” she said awkwardly. “Lovely afternoon” seemed such a flimsy choice of words to describe their time together.

  “I should thank you for lending me your eye,” he replied, but despite his warm tone, his words also sounded
superficial. The awkwardness of the moment passed when Helen leaned over and gave him a friendly goodbye kiss on the cheek and quickly departed. As she reached the corner, she turned around and saw he was still standing in front of his house. But she didn’t wave.

  By the time Zoe returned from the Cashins’, the rain had started up again, and the night was colder than predicted. They agreed that an evening at home was preferable to going out, and changed into pajamas, made a pot of hot chocolate, and set up a game of Scrabble on a lazy Susan on the bed.

  Competitive by nature but mindful of the fact that Zoe was not, Helen restrained herself from playing the cutthroat game she would normally have, had her opponent been anyone other than her daughter. But she made sure to keep the game lively nonetheless.

  “‘Quart,’ for thirty-six points.” Helen both put the “Q” and the “T” on triple-letter squares.

  Zoe took her time and then laid down a “Z” to make “quartz,” and then built “glaze” horizontally, for forty-four points. She won the game.

  “Excellent. I love playing with you. It’s a win-win for me. I’m happy when I do well in the game, but even happier when my daughter wins.”

  “Catherine said her dad says the same thing when they play tennis. He’s ecstatic if she wins a few points.”

  “I guess it must be one of those universal parental responses.”

  They were both quiet as they scooped the tiles into the drawstring bag and packed the board and racks into the box.

  “What do you think of Phillip Cashin?” Zoe asked. Helen took her time answering, knowing how carefully Zoe would be listening.

  “I think he’s handsome, rich, charming, and very spoiled. He’s a man who’s used to getting his way. What do you think of him?”

  “He’s obviously rich, handsome, and charming, but I think he’s kind of depressed. He’s not nearly as much fun to be around as Daddy,” she said pointedly.

  “That’s very astute of you. He’s pretty serious,” she agreed, understanding that Zoe was asking for her to be critical of Phillip. “It’s really important to have fun in a relationship. For me, a sense of humor is key.”

  “For me, too,” Zoe agreed with a certitude that Helen found endearing. She was pleased that Zoe’s perceptions about men were filtered through her experience with Michael. Helen knew that the father generally represented the ideal against which all the men in a girl’s life were judged.

  “I met this really cute kid at The Public School the other day. His name is Max Kupka. I think he probably has a good sense of humor.”

  “I love his name. Tell me about him.”

  “He’s very cute, has a great voice, and was really friendly at the rehearsal. He even remembered my name after hearing it only once. That must mean something, don’t you think?” Zoe asked.

  “Absolutely. So you’ll see him again next week, right?”

  “I think so,” Zoe answered. “We rehearse again on Thursday. He has a solo part, too, so I’m hoping we might even have a few extra practices together.”

  “That would be nice. You might get a chance to talk a little if that happens. Get to know him a little better.”

  “Yeah,” Zoe replied dreamily.

  Helen was touched by her daughter’s unfettered enthusiasm for a boy she barely knew, and she supported it wholeheartedly, thinking that Zoe was probably ready for a little romance. But in the depths of her maternal psyche, she had to admit she was a tad envious of Zoe’s youth, innocence, and, even more, her freedom. Ah, to be fourteen.

  DECEMBER

  December was the cruelest month for those who worked in the trenches of the New York City private schools’ admissions offices. While the applicants were busying themselves with their holiday plans, the admissions directors were working sixty-hour weeks reviewing test scores, fulfilling requests for eleventh-hour applications from desperados who had missed all previous deadlines, notifying applicants about missing materials, scheduling last-minute interviews, and dealing with whatever other unanticipated problems developed along the way.

  Sara was completely absorbed in reading the KAT reports, which were filtering in at a rapid clip. She was particularly intrigued by Sam Belzer’s. It bore out what she had suspected all along.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Student: Sam Belzer

  Age: 4.9

  SELF-CONFIDENCE:

  Sam refused to greet the examiner. He was resentful and hostile when asked basic questions. Refused handshake and avoided eye contact. Poor posture. General lack of confidence.

  UNDERSTANDING OF TASKS:

  Did not listen carefully to directions, so consequently failed to grasp expectations. Was anxious when moving from activity to activity and grumbled “I don’t work for you” when asked to sit, and “Who died and made you God?” when asked to draw a triangle.

  LANGUAGE SKILLS:

  Sam demonstrated some outstanding verbal skills. He has a wealth of information about the world and broad knowledge of facts. But when it came to answering direct questions about himself, he floundered. He has poor social judgment and lacks common sense for everyday situations. Formulated lengthy, complex definitions for words. Relationship between thoughts and words is interesting. When asked to complete the rhyme “Hey diddle diddle . . .” he responded, “. . . the cat made a piddle.”

  VISUAL-MOTOR SKILLS:

  Alertness was erratic. At times Sam was engaged, e.g., when stacking blocks. But when asked to sequence pictures he was confused by the request and threw them at the examiner. When asked to identify the missing element in a picture, his response was “That’s a stupid question.”

  MOTIVATION:

  Selective.

  OVERALL IMPRESSION:

  Sam is a troubled young boy with distinct disdain for authority. This examiner recommends family therapy, as Sam’s problems appear to be parental in origin.

  Poor Sam, thought Sara. If I didn’t think his parents would be a total pain in the ass, I might actually be inclined to accept him. He needs all the help he can get. She was interrupted by Brandi, who, announcing that Simone Savage was on the phone, placed the Greta Von Hansdorff and Aurora Dondi-Marghelletti reports on her desk and transferred the call.

  “Sara, dahling, how are you?” Simone greeted her unctuously.

  “Just fine, Simone, and you?”

  “Pins and needles. I always get tingly when the KAT reports start to come in. It’s very exciting, don’t you think?”

  “‘Exciting’ is one word for it. So can I assume you’re calling to discuss your two candidates?”

  “Of course, dahling, and you have to agree, two more shining stars have never passed through your galaxy, have they?”

  “They are both bright. Let’s see . . .” She opened Greta’s file first. “Picture completion, ninety-ninth percentile; block design, ninety-eighth percentile; object assembly, ninety-ninth percentile; arithmetic, ninety-seventh percentile; vocabulary, sixty-fourth percentile. Pretty impressive. But I’m concerned about the vocabulary score. Let’s see what the examiner’s report says about her language skills.”

  Sara read from the report, “‘Greta was extremely reserved and would only speak when spoken to. Her shyness borders on aberrant and indicates a certain degree of repression. It was difficult to accurately measure her vocabulary and language skills as she was unwilling to use either in the presence of the examiner. She did sit up straight, made good eye-contact and followed directions precisely, indicating good comprehension.’”

  “She sounds like a teacher’s dream, wouldn’t you say, dahling?” Simone offered optimistically.

  “Quite the contrary. At The School we encourage our students to communicate openly. I hate to break it to you, Simone, but I think that Greta is not a good fit,” she said. “Not a good fit” was commonly understood in admission’s parlance to mean “no go.”

  Simone was not pleased with Sara’s assessment but, being the consummate operator, immediately switched gears and went to bat for h
er second candidate. “The Dondi-Marghelletti child. Now she is special, is she not?” Implying that if Sara rejected Greta, she couldn’t not accept Aurora.

  “She is an attractive candidate,” Sara responded flatly. Since all parents perceived their children to be “special,” any enlightened educator understood the emptiness of the “S” word.

  “Let me take a look at her report. Hmmm . . . “Picture completion, ninetieth percentile; block design, ninety-fourth percentile; object assembly, ninety-fifth percentile; arithmetic, eighty-fourth percentile; vocabulary, ninety-ninth percentile. Quite good.” She was favorably disposed but not ready to give Simone the verbal commitment she so wantonly craved. “Let’s see what the examiner’s overall impression was.” And she read, “‘Aurora is a highly personable child. She is warm, friendly and strives to please. She communicates successfully in three languages and makes seamless transitions between all three.’”

  “Quite a cunning linguist, wouldn’t you say?” Simone tittered.

  Sara laughed. “I will do everything I can to find a place for her”—tossing Simone a small bone on which to gnaw.

  “Lovely, Sara, dear. I’m sure you will do your best,” Simone said, meaning, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  In the twenty years that he had been employed in television, Michael had never approached an audition with this much dread. As if the whole production were not convoluted enough, it was now further complicated by two ironic twists: the network executives had unanimously decided that Provençal cooking was the next big thing, and Michael’s direct boss, Xavier, was inexplicably gung ho about casting Justine Frampton in the starring role. All of this meant that rather than the standard ten-minute taped audition, Michael was producing a full-blown thirty-minute pilot, currently titled “La Cuisine de Justine.”

  As corporate interest in the show mounted, it seemed as though the care and feeding of Justine’s ego grew proportionately. Even Michael’s consistent and dependable crew was reaching its breaking point and had begun, behind his back, to question his motives. From what they were seeing, this Frampton woman was one taco short of a combination plate, and they couldn’t understand why their normally levelheaded boss had become her champion. On Michael’s orders, they had all put in overtime to fulfill Justine’s endless litany of demands. Roland, the production assistant in charge of procurement, was aghast at the specificity of Justine’s shopping list and her recalcitrance when faced with his suggestions for substitutions. When he proposed the more readily available fleur de sel in place of the impossible-to-find sel gros, she dug in her heels and insisted on the latter.