“Thank you, Max, that was lovely,” Sara said as he finished the piece.
Yes! Helen cheered to herself. Good choice, Zoe.
Max grinned as the group applauded, and then it was Zoe’s turn. Helen’s heart raced nervously any time her daughter was on stage; she suffered from the common maternal syndrome known as “performance anxiety by proxy.” As Zoe sang a bluesy rendition of a maudlin Christmas favorite, Helen beamed, proud that her daughter had the talent to successfully reinterpret such a stodgy old classic. As Zoe finished and the group applauded, Helen found herself welling up with tears (another symptom of the syndrome).
The rehearsal was over, and as the kids were gathering their belongings and making their usual ruckus, Helen approached Sara and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
“They sounded terrific,” she said enthusiastically, giving a squeeze.
“Your daughter rocks, don’t you think?” Sara smiled appreciatively.
“Absolutely. And that Max has quite a voice,” she said, and then, cupping her hand around Sara’s ear, whispered, “plus he’s cute as a button.”
“I think Zoe thinks so, too,” Sara whispered back.
“I think you’re right,” she replied, following Sara’s gaze to the far side of the room, where Zoe and Max were conversing in a corner. Even from twenty feet away, Helen could see that Zoe was smitten.
“It’s good to see you. I’ve been desperate for a Helen fix lately. I’m in dire need of a good long shmooze,” Sara confessed. “I got it right this time, didn’t I?” Helen laughed, and then wondered if Sara’s need to talk meant that she knew something.
“I would love to get together soon. What’s your schedule like?”
“Nuts. Between admissions and the holiday choral rehearsals I don’t think I can commit to anything before the break. Are you around during the vacation?”
“Zoe will be off building houses in Cuba with Huts for Humans, which means Michael and I will most likely be staying home. Her trip is probably all we can swing,” Helen replied.
She and Sara had often joked about the elaborate holiday vacations taken by many families in The School and how, in January, there was never any question where they had been. There were the skiers, identifiable by the lift tickets dangling from parka zippers, many of whom also came back hobbling on crutches. There were the island hoppers, identifiable by their beaded cornrows, an affectation Helen found particularly offensive on Caucasians and blamed on Bo Derek. But the worst were the international shoppers, identifiable by the Fendi and Prada they bought in Italy, where they allegedly went for cultural enrichment but in fact spent most of their time raiding designer outlet stores, where the current must-haves could be bought at a fraction of their retail price.
“How about you? Do you have any plans?” Helen asked.
“I was hoping to take a few days up at the yoga retreat, but it’s looking like I’ll actually have to work through most of the vacation,” Sara replied.
Hmmmm, Helen thought, and wondered whether that meant she was involved in the transition, and if so, how.
“So let’s try to spend some time together then,” Sara added.
“Perfect,” Helen replied. By then they would be free to talk openly and finally break down the awkward barrier that had been building all semester. “I’ll look forward to it. Gotta get going. I hear homework calling.”
As Helen and Zoe walked home from the rehearsal, it was as though they had reversed roles; Zoe was giddy and loquacious, Helen terse. Helen’s usually exemplary posture was slack; Zoe, walking on air, held her head high.
“Isn’t Max adorable? I think he’s soooo cute. Don’t you think he has an amazing voice? Don’t you love his glasses?” She didn’t wait for her mother to answer. “He’s going to come with me to Catherine’s party on Saturday night.”
“What party?” Helen asked abruptly.
“I told you about it the other night. Or maybe I told Dad. Anyway, she’s having a bunch of friends over from her school and invited me and Max.”
“Will her father be home?”
“I guess. I didn’t ask,” Zoe answered.
“You know the rule. You are not allowed at a party at a friend’s house unless there’s a parent present. Will you please call Catherine and find out?” Helen requested more sternly than the situation called for.
“Why don’t you call him? It’s not like you don’t know her father,” Zoe shot back. Helen thought she detected a hint of sarcasm.
“All right. I will,” Helen answered as they arrived at their building.
“You know what?” Helen softened her tone. “I think it’s been three days since you took the SAPS. Here, hand me your backpack,” she offered, slipping the straps off Zoe’s shoulders, her arms straining under the weight. “Why don’t you check the mail?”
Having closed the mailbox, Zoe stuffed the envelope that had arrived from the testing service into the pocket of her jacket.
“I get to look at it first,” she announced.
Helen, having come up with no rational reason to disagree, rode up the elevator in silence, heart beating nervously, annoyed but also impressed by Zoe’s self-control; she would have torn the envelope open right then and there. The minute they entered the apartment, Zoe went into her bedroom and closed the door while Helen busied herself by emptying the dishwasher. A few minutes later Zoe emerged and, expressionlessly, handed Helen the report.
Vocabulary 88 percentile
Reading 86 percentile
Reasoning 87 percentile
Mathematics 74 percentile
As Helen stared thoughtfully at the numbers, Zoe watched, eager for some sign from her mother indicating whether or not she thought the scores were satisfactory.
“It looks good to me, sweetie.” Helen carefully meted out the flow of praise. She wanted to respond positively, but not with false overenthusiasm. The results were not the resounding success she had hoped for, but were by no means disastrous; they fell somewhere in between, neither here nor there.
“How do you feel about it?” Helen asked gently.
“I’m not thrilled. But I guess it’s okay. I don’t know . . .” Zoe was obviously confused, too.
“Why don’t you go call Daddy and tell him. Use the phone in your room. I have a few calls to make.”
This was one of those moments when she wished there were an admissions god—a higher authority she could count on to tell her that everything would be all right. It should have been Pamela, and in past years, at least according to those who believed in her omnipotence in the realm of admissions, it was. But now that Helen knew for a fact that Pamela had lost all contact with reality, there was absolutely no solace to be gotten from a conversation with her.
“Bertha. I’ll call Bertha. She’s the next best thing to a god,” Helen decided. She got her on the first ring.
“Birdie. Hi. It’s Mom.”
“Mom who?”
“Sorry. Drager. Helen Drager. We just got Zoe’s scores.”
“And? Are ya celebrating?”
“Not exactly. I’m not quite sure how to react,” and Helen read her the results.
“An 83.75 average.”
“You figured that out quickly,” Helen admired.
“It’s my business, Mom. These scores aren’t bad at all. They’re what I call cliff-hangers.”
“I was hoping maybe you’d shoot off some facts and figures, like what the average scores are for students accepted by the schools we’ve applied to. Something we can hang some hope on.” Helen was practically pleading for some reassurance.
“Three years ago I could have given you that. These days, all bets are off. The schools are so inundated with applications from high scorers that it’s impossible to know what the cutoff points are. There’s no way to predict. As the saying goes, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”
“Oh, great,” Helen replied sarcastically. “So I take it, by the ‘fat ladies’ you’re referring to the admissions
directors?”
“You got it, sweetheart,” Bertha concurred.
Talking to Bertha provided no comfort. All she wanted was someone to tell her it would all work out, that is, someone other than Michael, who, when it came to Zoe, had no capacity for objectivity.
“Mom, I talked to Dad and he was really pleased when I told him the scores,” Zoe announced, leaning against the frame of her bedroom door.
With nothing to be gained from disagreeing she replied, “That’s great. I’m glad Daddy feels that way. He usually has a pretty good sense of things.”
“Yeah, I really trust his judgment,” Zoe said resolutely. “I have tons of homework,” she said, returning to her room, and then over her shoulder she added, “And don’t forget to call Catherine’s dad. I have to go to her party on Saturday.”
The Dragers had a rule that Zoe was required to provide them with details of her evening plans, specifically, at whose house, until what time, and verification that at least one parent would be home. This seemed to be an established practice among most of Zoe’s school friends, and it was not uncommon for the parents to call one another to confirm that the plans had met with everyone’s approval. But recently, keeping tabs on Zoe was not so simple, as her social circle was expanding to include kids from other schools, who lived in other parts of the city and moved around more freely. And with these new friends came new parents, most of whom Helen had never met. Like Max’s, for example.
A party at Catherine’s posed a different problem; after their romantic interlude, she was afraid that Phillip might interpret a call from her as an overture. And even though a part of her was still bristling over his wife’s pedigree, there was also part of her that was excited by the thought of speaking with him.
As she dialed the number, her pulse quickened.
“Hello, Phillip? This is Helen Drager,” she stated plainly, careful to keep her voice emotionally void.
“Helen, hi! I’m so glad you called,” he answered so warmly that he instantly melted the anger she had been harboring all day.
She was unsure how to respond. Fortunately, he continued.
“I’d been thinking about you all day. I just finished reading your article, ‘Cocktales.’ I thought it was brilliant.”
“You mean British brilliant or brilliant brilliant?”
He laughed. “Brilliant brilliant, which by my standards is a compliment. Unlike some people, I don’t use the term loosely.”
“Well, then, thank you,” she softened.
“I thought the analogy you drew between the violence of the cockfight and the competitiveness of contemporary society was very insightful. You also raised a few psychological issues that have been on my mind lately.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Oh, like the universality of aggressive male behavior, for starters. I’m afraid I could be accused of that at times.”
She was silent as she wondered, Hmmm, does that make me a cock-tease?
“But how have you been?” he fortunately changed the subject. “I miss seeing you now that the SAPS are done. Did it work out well for Zoe?”
“Pretty well. How about Catherine?”
“She did all right.” He was equally ambiguous.
“I’m sure her scores won’t matter,” Helen said abrasively. Phillip either chose to ignore her innuendo or missed it entirely.
“I would love to see you some time soon, but I’m not sure how,” he said gently. “I realize there are, uh, complications.”
She supposed “complications” meant “your marriage.” But despite the “complications,” the sound of his voice triggered a longing.
“But you called me,” he said.
“So I did. I gather there’s a plan afoot to have a bunch of kids invade your house on Saturday night. I just wanted to make sure you had approved before I gave Zoe permission to go.”
“Of course. For weeks I’ve been encouraging Catherine to have a party. It will be the first time since her mother died that she has asked to have a group of friends over. I thought it would be good for her.”
“I also wanted to make sure that you plan to be there,” she said.
“Absolutely. Will you join me? You’re probably more experienced with this sort of thing than I am.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. First of all, I’ve had almost no experience chaperoning boy-girl parties. And second of all, Zoe would kill me. But could I ask you to do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Would you mind keeping an eye on her for me? Apparently, she managed to get Catherine to invite the new man in her life. A boy named Max. He’s her first serious crush, and she’s very excited about the prospect of seeing him at the party.”
“Do you approve of this Max?”
“He seems like a decent kid, but who knows? I’ve only met him briefly. If you could just let me know if it looks like things between them are going too far, I would be highly appreciative.”
“What’s your idea of too far?” he asked provocatively.
As far as we went? she thought, and then said, “I’ll leave that up to you to decide.”
Having been summoned to Pamela’s office, Felicity teetered in on three-inch stiletto heels. Much to Margaret’s amazement, she was braless, her skintight white spandex sheath leaving nothing to the imagination.
“Felicity, ma chérie, come, sit, make yourself comfortable, if it’s possible in that getup,” Pamela welcomed her. “I have some very exciting news to share with you. After our trip to St. Barts, I’m thinking that I might not be returning to The School.”
Tears welled up in Felicity’s eyes. “How can zat be? I don’t understand!” she cried.
“I have been positively hounded by headhunters in the past few months, and they are all telling me I am in great demand. The time is right for me to make a move. There are several offers on the table, all of which are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, and I am under tremendous pressure to make a choice immediately. You can’t imagine how conflicted I am. The minute I make a decision, you will be the first to know. The board is being so understanding. They’ve always known that my days here are numbered, that I am destined for greater things, so they have kindly agreed to release me from my contract as soon as need be,” Pamela improvised mawkishly.
“Mon Dieu! What will I do?”
“You will carry on here. I need you to head The School. If you don’t, they will get that awful Sara Nash to do the job. That would be ruinous. I couldn’t bear to see that happen to our beloved school.”
“But I can’t head Zee School. I don’t know the first thing about how to run zis place,” she whimpered, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“It is only temporary, until they hire someone new. If you don’t step up to the plate, then Nash will, and if she becomes the interim head, there is a good chance they will make her permanent. We can’t take that chance, can we?” she said in the imperious tone she reserved for such portentous speeches.
Felicity looked confused. “Why not? I don’t see why zat would be so bad.”
Pamela picked up her riding crop and twitched it menacingly close to Felicity’s face. “Because, mon enfant, she is . . . she is . . . ,” she sputtered, “an opportunistic, granola-eating, two-faced New Age admissions wonk! She doesn’t know the first thing about running a school!”
“And . . . I . . . do?” Felicity quaked.
“You have been my protégé for what? Three months? You have had the distinct advantage of learning at the foot of a master. That counts for a lot.” She paused. “Well, something anyway.” Pamela’s brio gave way to defensiveness.
“Three months, eet is not so long,” Felicity suggested.
“Deal with it. Find the courage to act authoritative for once in your life. And by the way, that oh-la-la getup won’t cut it in the oval office. You may act twittish, but take it from me: dress British. It will enhance your image immensely. And while you’re at it, your roots could u
se a touch-up,” she advised, and with a flick of her wrist, she shooed the pouting Felicity out the door.
“Have you seen the December issue of Tally Ho?” Brandi cried, running into Sara’s office while brandishing an open magazine.
“No. I haven’t been to a nail parlor recently. That’s the only time I see it. Why?” Sara replied.
“You’re gonna hit the roof when you read this,” she predicted, plunking the glossy magazine on Sara’s desk. The cover featured a full-body shot of Tally Easton in a floor-length, black-belted crimson velvet gown, trimmed at the neck and wrists with white fur, no doubt intended to be some sort of feminist commentary on the patriarchal institution of Santa Claus. Impishly peeking out from behind her immense red skirt was Santa’s little helper, an elfin Montana Easton decked out in green velvet.
Sara opened the magazine to the page marked by Brandi with a yellow sticky tab and read Tally’s monthly column, “Tally’s Dallies.”
My dear Sisters and Mothers,
As you know, I believe that the greatest gift we can give to our children is the gift of a good education. So it is with enormous joy that I begin this holiday season. I have just received news that my little gobbler has been accepted into next year’s Kindergarten class at The School, one of the best New York has to offer. I encourage each and every one of you to celebrate the yuletide season as I have, by giving your children the greatest gift of all—the gift of learning.
And don’t forget, if you are a member of MOTBOB, do as I do every year—thank the blessed baster who delivered our darlings to us.
Godspeed,
Tally Easton
“I think I’m going to be sick!” Sara yelled, and threw the magazine across the room, hitting a hanging fern so hard that Brandi had to dash over to steady it before it crashed to the floor.
“What about it is making you sick? The style or the content?”
“Both. But I can hardly hold the style against her, can I? It’s classic, sanctimonious Tally. The content, on the other hand, confirms what I’ve been suspecting for months. Pamela has WAY overstepped her boundaries. She’s lost what little sense of morality she ever had. The woman has come unhinged!” Sara raged. It was the closest Brandi had ever seen Sara come to a full-blown temper tantrum, and she thought her boss needed a belt of whatever the New Age version of a drink was. Tension-tamer tea? Kava kava? Or better yet, a ginseng martini?
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