Admissions

by Nancy Lieberman

  As they all leaned over the rail, futilely scanning the inky blackness for a glint of the discarded treasure, they were suddenly knocked off their feet as the ship, with an enormous thud, lurched backwards. The stateroom doors burst open, and hundreds of terrified people came stampeding onto the deck, tripping over deck chairs, pushing and shoving and screaming, “Life vests! Everyone grab a life vest!”

  “Man the lifeboats! Man the lifeboats!”

  Two heroic lower-school fathers tore the tarpaulin off the first lifeboat, uncovering a disheveled Gia Hancock in a rapturous embrace with Peter Newman.

  “I guess we’re not going down tonight,” he quipped as she scrambled into her skivvies.

  A siren blared over the loudspeaker. The captain’s voice came shouting out of the mounted speakers: “Do not panic. I repeat, do not panic. Move in an orderly fashion to the aft. Move slowly to the aft of the ship!”

  “Michael! Michael!” Helen called out. As she was swept along by the panic-stricken hordes, she clung tightly to Sara’s hand. They finally reached the rear of the ship, where they were handed life vests, and as they stood shivering, awaiting instructions for boarding the lifeboats, Helen could see faint lights in the distance. Suddenly, through a transitory opening in the dense blanket of fog, she just barely made out what looked to be the Staten Island ferry terminal. The Spirit of New York had run aground no more than thirty feet from the southern tip of the Island of Manhattan.

  It was truly a night to remember.

  By the time the Spirit of New York was towed to a vacant pier, and all the passengers were safely on solid ground, it was three a.m. By the time the exhausted and shivering Dragers reached home, it was nearly dawn. Having piled their damp clothes on the bathroom floor, they drew the drapes, crawled under the covers, and slept until noon. Zoe was startled to find them still in bed when she returned in the early afternoon from the Doyle-Gillises’, where she had spent the previous night.

  “How was the auction?” Zoe asked brightly, plunking herself down on their plump duvet.

  “Coffee. I can’t possibly function until I’ve had coffee,” Helen blearily answered.

  “You deserve breakfast in bed,” Michael said, hauling himself up and heading towards the kitchen.

  “Tell me, tell me,” Zoe asked playfully.

  “It was a crazy night,” Helen began, and told Zoe an abbreviated version of the Spirit of New York running aground.

  “That’s so scary! You must have been terrified!”

  “Only for a moment. As soon as I saw the lights of Manhattan, I knew we were safe. From a fund-raising point of view, the evening was a great success. I don’t know the final figures yet, but we definitely exceeded our goal. People were bidding wildly, and a few lots sold way above the estimate,” Helen explained.

  “Really? What was the highest item?” Zoe asked.

  “Are you ready for this? Forty thousand dollars for the Rothschild dinner.”

  “No way!” Zoe was stunned. “Who in their right mind would have paid that?”

  “Who said the buyer was in their right mind?” Helen teased.

  “Who was it, Mom?”

  “Guess.”

  “John Toppler? It had to be him. Nobody else is that crazy with money.”

  “Close. He was the underbidder. He lost out to a nasty redhead—scowler, squinter, daughter April . . .”

  “Dana Winter! Why would she have done that?”

  “It’s too long and complicated to explain right now, but I promise, I’ll tell you the whole story soon,” Helen hedged.

  “What story?” Michael asked, returning with a tray.

  “The story of the auction. Zoe, listen to this! You won’t believe what Daddy bought as a present for my fortieth birthday. The week at the villa in Tuscany!”

  “That’s so cool!” Zoe exulted, and then spent the next few days preoccupied with planning the month she thought they should spend in Europe the following summer, including a week in Prague.

  The Dragers all knew that Tuesday was February 12, but in order to conceal their apprehension, they went out of their way to adhere to their normal morning routine as closely as possible. As usual, Zoe and Michael left the house together, and Helen followed a few hours later, having a meeting and lunch date with one of Sir Basil’s associates at the museum.

  As Helen was pulling on her coat, Sara called.

  “Hi. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “I’m good. What are your plans today?”

  “I’ll be out for most of the day. Why?”

  “What time does your mail usually get delivered?”

  “Two-ish, but I probably won’t be home until three or so.”

  “You’ll call me the minute you have any news, won’t you?”

  “No. I’ll call Pamela first. What do you think?”

  “Just checking. I’ll be in my office all afternoon.”

  Helen finished up at the museum at around three and, anxious to be the first one home, made the short trip quickly by taking a taxi.

  “Is the mail in, Carlos?” she asked the doorman as he helped her out of the cab.

  “Yes, Mrs. Drager. I believe Mr. Drager took it upstairs with him,” Carlos answered matter-of-factly. He didn’t think it was appropriate to let on, but he’d been working in the building for twenty-odd years and had figured out what February 12 signified.

  “Honey, I’m home,” Helen called out as she let herself into the apartment, her eyes immediately lighting on the four envelopes lined up across the Mackintosh table. Without bothering to remove her coat and gloves, she called out again, “Michael, I’m home!”

  He waltzed out of the kitchen. “If these mean what I think they mean, we have something to celebrate!” he said, glancing at the envelopes—two thick eleven-by-fourteens and two thin four-by-nines. Since the envelopes were all addressed to Zoe Drager, there was never any question of their opening them. But it didn’t take X-ray vision to know what they contained.

  “Not until Zoe gets home,” Helen said, smiling.

  “I know, I know. But I’m getting ready to celebrate. I’m chilling a bottle of champagne, and I’ve opened the can of caviar I bought at the duty-free shop in Paris. I think we should let Zoe have her first glass of champagne today, don’t you?”

  “She’s only fourteen. I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”

  “C’mon, Helen. Loosen up.”

  “What are we going to do if, after she considers these acceptances, she still wants to go to public school?”

  “We celebrate her decision. We’re obligated to do that whether we agree or not. Right?”

  Helen hesitated. “I would have a hard time with that. I think we would want to revisit the options with her and . . .” she stopped when she heard Zoe’s key in the lock of the front door. “Hi, sweetie!”

  “Hi, Mom. Dad, what are you doing home?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Slow day at the office. You got some mail. It’s over there.”

  Zoe threw down her backpack and ran over to the table. She waited a few moments before making a move.

  “Don’t they say size doesn’t matter?” she asked, biting her lip to stifle her nervous laughter.

  “Come on! The suspense is killing us,” Michael said, and Zoe ceremoniously ripped open the first and most important of the four envelopes.

  “Yeeess,” she said quietly, consciously working to temper her enthusiasm. But from the quiver and turn of her upper lip, Helen could tell that she was elated. She handed the letter of acceptance to Helen, who read it aloud.

  “Congratulations, sweetie. You did it! You got into The Bucolic Campus School!” Helen said, hugging her daughter.

  “Great job, Zoe,” Michael said, hugging her so exuberantly that he lifted her off her feet.

  Zoe opened the second of the thick envelopes. “Wow, how weird is this? An acceptance letter from The Very Brainy Girls’ School. I didn’t like this school at all a
nd for sure didn’t think they liked me, either. Boy, did I read them wrong.”

  “I think we all learned that there’s no way to predict how this process works,” Michael philosophized.

  “That’s for sure,” Helen agreed. But rubbing shoulders with the right people certainly didn’t hurt, she thought.

  “Are the other two envelopes what I assume they are?”

  “Wait-listed at The Safety School,” Zoe answered, opening the first of the thin envelopes. “And rejected by The Progressive School,” she announced ambivalently, having opened the second. “And the great thing is, I don’t feel bad about that at all.”

  “You shouldn’t. As everyone says, it’s all about finding the right fit, and we all knew that was not the right fit. And wait-listed at The Safety School is nice because that says that they didn’t want to reject you, because they knew you were well qualified, but didn’t want to accept you, because they knew you weren’t that interested in them.”

  “That makes me feel really good,” Zoe replied.

  “It should.”

  “By the way, did you notice you didn’t get a letter from The Fancy Girls’ School?” Michael asked gently, remembering that he and Helen had irresponsibly neglected to tell her about the withdrawn application.

  “I’m not going to an all-girl’s school, so it doesn’t matter if I get in or not. Right?” she replied.

  “Right,” he answered, and welcomed Helen’s affirmative nod. “Let’s pop the cork and have a toast,” he suggested.

  “Wait, wait. I promised Sara we would call her as soon as we had news,” Helen remembered.

  “I’ll call her,” Zoe said, grabbing for the phone. When she reached Sara, her parents listened attentively to her side of the conversation.

  “Thank you. Yes, I’m really, really happy. Getting into The Bucolic Campus School is wonderful. I never expected that to happen. Yes. Uh-huh. Yes. Uh-huh. I will. Thank you so much for everything. Okay. Here she is.” She handed the receiver to her mother and followed Michael into the kitchen.

  “Congratulations! You must be thrilled!” Sara gushed.

  “Thrilled and relieved. Now she just has to make a decision between that and public school,” Helen said.

  “She already has,” Sara replied.

  “Has she?” Helen answered.

  “She made it weeks ago. From the time you all visited The Bucolic Campus School, she’s wanted to go there. But she smartly explored the public school option, partially as a way of asserting herself but also as a defensive measure. We have Pamela to thank for undermining her confidence and convincing her that her chances of getting in anywhere were slim to nil. So really, Helen, in the face of that, you have to give Zoe tremendous credit for formulating her own backup plan. I think it was incredibly pragmatic of her and shows great maturity, don’t you?” Sara urged.

  “You’re absolutely right. I just wish she could have shared those thoughts with us,” Helen said, slightly miffed that Sara presumed to know more about what had gone on in her daughter’s head than she did.

  “I was under the impression that she tried but that you weren’t particularly receptive,” Sara offered gently.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Helen conceded. “Oh, Sara, I’m so glad it’s over!”

  “You should be so proud of her, Helen. She handled the whole thing beautifully.”

  “I am. Sara, thank you again for everything,” she said tearfully. “By the way, you looked amazing last night.”

  “I have you to thank for that.”

  “I’m more than happy to do anything I can to help you with your new job. Here comes Michael with a glass of champagne. I wish you were here with us.”

  “Me, too. Here’s a hug,” Sara said warmly, and rang off.

  The Dragers stood closely together and raised their glasses. “To Zoe,” Michael toasted.

  “To Zoe,” Helen added, taking a sip.

  “Icchhh.” Zoe crinkled her nose at her first taste of champagne and put the glass down on the Noguchi table. “Max should be home from school by now. I’ve got to call him,” she announced sheepishly, and kissing her smiling parents, excused herself, and softly closed the door to her room.

  Helen and Michael raised their glasses again.

  “To you. My brilliant, ballsy, slightly wacky wife,” Michael said warmly.

  “To you. My honorable, faithful and . . . highly obedient husband,” she laughed. “But seriously, don’t you think there must be a lesson to be learned from this ordeal? I’d like to think we benefited from this experience in some way.”

  “How about this? We make a promise that in three years, when it’s time for Zoe to apply to college, we remain sane.”

  “That depends. What’s your definition of sane?” Helen asked.

  “The opposite of the last six months,” Michael replied.

  Admissions resolved, the Dragers raised their glasses.