Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  At least I have Hugh. Even if he’s not into the same kinds of writing and films I’m into, at least he’s into some kind of art and film. At least I have one person in the world who understands me inside and out.

  Chapter 13

  Is Not General Incivility The Very Essence Of Love?

  I knock on the door of Livy’s room. She tells me to come in but to be careful. I brace myself for the sight of moldy vegetable plants and explosive devices.

  My sister is sitting in the middle of her floor, surrounded by mechanical bits and pieces: wires, giant octagons, hexagon screws, a few shiny circuit boards. In her lap she’s cradling what looks like a robot head. That and two plastic grey arms with claw-like hands beside her are the only things I can identify, because they are recognizably human.

  “It’s for my robotics class,” she explains.

  “So I see.”

  “His name is George. He’s a work-in-progress.”

  “What does George do?”

  “As of now, nothing. He’s supposed to pick up what I tell him to and put it back down.”

  “You know, Wentworth the dachshund can do the same thing. And he has a cute, waggy tail and a cold nose.”

  “Your motivations are so transparent,” says my sister.

  “I’m sorry to intrude upon you and George but I need to ask a favor of you. Would you play the female lead in a short film? It’s for Hugh’s college application—and mine. He’s directing it; I’m writing the script. Hugh’s being all weird because he thinks that it’s autobiographical. So I’d rather not play the lead.”

  “You know I hate speaking in public, Liss.”

  “This will only be to the camera. Your role is of Calvin’s best friend, who had a crush on him throughout high school. She drives to his college—we’re going to use the campus of Pennington as the setting—to tell him that she’s in love with him. But then he comes out to her as gay before she can say anything, and she has to be supportive...and realize true love’s not all about her needs.”

  “But you don’t feel that way about Calvin.”

  “It’s fiction.”

  “So why is Hugh jealous?”

  “Because he’s an idiot.”

  “Where did you get the idea for the script?”

  “My imagination! And Pride and Prejudice, of course. Where did you get the idea to create your robot?”

  “They’ve been doing quite a bit of research on this type of sensor for many years, actually. George is just a very primitive version of a much more sophisticated model I’m working on with the actual robotics team.”

  “So, will you help us out?”

  I don’t say this to her, but the fact that Livy comes across as so naïve is another reason I want her to play the role, not me. It’s hard for me to believe, looking at my face in the mirror, that I could be completely clueless about a guy. I’d have to cover up my tattoo, take out my nose ring, dye my hair a less shocking shade of blue-black. Cast off some of the armor I’ve donned to defend myself against the world. My little sister just naturally exudes this puppy-dog trust, even though she doesn’t trust dogs. Everything about her is always on the surface. She may hate to read, but I’m convinced I can read her like a book. “Okay, if Hugh needs it that badly, I’ll do it,” she says.

  As I drive to Pennington with Hugh, Livy, Calvin, and Hugh’s equipment (which takes up more room than an extra person), Calvin goes off on Camelot. “Lancelot can’t sing. I mean, if Ms. Palumbo was going to cast someone with no voice in a major musical role, at least she could have given him the part of Arthur, who just kind of talks his way through his songs. Oh, but then she couldn’t flirt with Arthur-slash-Rob at every frigging rehearsal. It’s dire. And sad. I mean, the woman’s old enough to be his mother.”

  “You were equally pessimistic about Peter Pan around this same time last year,” I observe.

  “My part’s going well. Unfortunately, it’s at the very end, so probably half the audience will have left.”

  “Parents are a captive audience. No one will leave. Our father made it through The Nutcracker year after year,” I observe. “Even Livy did for many years, until she was old enough to stay home by herself.” Livy is checking messages and makes a face at me.

  “Yes, but the main Nutcracker dancers must have been actually, you know, good, if they were professionals,” says Calvin.

  “With her mouse head, I could hardly tell who Liss was on stage, except for the fact she was the shortest. There wasn’t much point in the family going, unless they liked ballet irrespective of who was dancing in the chorus,” yawns Livy, looking out the window.

  “At least I will be away this upcoming weekend,” says Calvin.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Disney World.”

  “Seriously, where are you going?”

  “Seriously Disney World. Charlotte invited me. Her parents were worried she was getting too stressed and they’re taking her on a quick vacation. They said she could invite a friend. C’est moi.”

  “Is Charlotte going to save Indian orphans at Epcot Center?”

  “Look, Liss, she was kind of hurt by the whole poverty tourism accusation. Charlotte’s very insecure, and she’s under a lot of pressure.”

  “Every person in this car is under the same kind of pressure. Stop making excuses for her.”

  “Her mom even lets her have extra Adderall so she can stay up late and get her homework done.”

  “So she doesn’t have to go to the trouble of buying it illegally so she can snort it like the rest of the addicts at our school?”

  Calvin makes a meowing sound.

  “Calvin, that’s so, so…misogynistic.”

  “What?”

  “Women-hating. To imply that just because I don’t like something Charlotte has done or said, I’m in a catfight with her. I have reasons—”

  “Liss, I’m sorry, but you are savage about that girl. Even by my standards.”

  “Does Charlotte understand you’re gay?”

  “Of course! You know she knows. Charlotte knows everything about everything.”

  “Everything except Chaucer.”

  “I mean, everything worth knowing.”

  “You mean gossip. She doesn’t always act like she thinks you’re gay. She flirts with you and you let her.” Calvin shrugs. “And you let her take you to Disney.”

  “We’re friends, okay? She needs a real friend badly. All of the other tools in the National Honor Society aren’t truly her friends. Okay, Jacqui’s not a tool, but she’s just nice to everyone. She doesn’t like Charlotte in particular,” says Calvin.

  “I wish I could afford to go to Disney World and take my friends every time I got stressed.”

  “Thank fuck you can’t because that would be absolutely fucking torture for me,” says Hugh. “I hate Disney.”

  “Disney World’s the happiest place on earth,” says Calvin. “Or so they say. It’s my first time. Yes, the truth is finally revealed. I’m a Disney virgin.”

  “It’s not the happiest place on earth if you’re there with Hugh. He can suck the happiness out of an entire theme park, I’ll bet.” I grin, lean over, and kiss him.

  “Eyes ahead,” Hugh says. I can tell he’s a bit nervous.

  “Such a non-driving New Yorker,” I grin.

  “Hey, my driving is getting better,” Hugh says. It is. He’s comfortable at speeds up to thirty-five miles an hour and even dealing with one or two cars on the road.

  Calvin cracks a window in the back. “Don’t you dare smoke in my car,” I say. I know him too well.

  “I wanted some fresh air.” He defiantly rests his fingers on the edge of the open glass.

  “I’m rolling up the windows, Nature Boy, just to warn you,” I say. He withdraws his hand. I seal up my car like a fortress.

  “I can’t help that I have an addiction,” Calvin pouts.

  “Just to prepare you, I don’t think there are ashtrays on any of the rides at D
isney,” I say.

  Hugh chooses a scenic park bench near the Pennington campus. He lets me look through the camera. I admire his visual instincts. The framing is perfect, slightly off-center.

  Calvin nails it on the first take. Livy just looks at Calvin. I know she has no idea what she’s doing. She’s never even been in a school play; they don’t have theater at her school. But the fact she looks so confused and vulnerable is perfect. I can see Hugh getting excited behind the camera, watching her face. “Cut,” he says.

  It’s amazing how sweet Calvin seems, saying my lines. In his actual life, he always has an armored shell on, as spiky as his many silver rings and piercings. He itches his stomach and I realize he’s gotten a new hole in his bellybutton. Not that I’m judging, because I’ve been wanting to get another raven tattoo and a hole or two more in the cartilage of my lobes. I also like to have a bit of metal embedded strategically in my body, to distract people from the rest of me. Calvin and I do know each other too well, which is why I can write for him so easily.

  “Was I okay?” asks Livy.

  “You were great,” I say, even though she was looking at Hugh. Calvin lights a cigarette as he waits for the next take.

  “Elisa Tennant!” I turn around and see Amy Lesser, my interviewer. She remembers me! I’m famous! Okay, not famous. But at least memorable.

  “Ms. Lesser—Amy, I mean. My friend is shooting a short student film set on a campus, so we were borrowing this park bench. I hope that’s okay. I just thought Pennington was so beautiful, it was the perfect location.”

  “Well, technically, you do need to get permission to film on campus. But also, technically, this bench belongs to the township and just having the school in the background isn’t a violation of any rule. At least, none that I know of. I only work in admissions!”

  “This is my friend, Hugh,” I say. “He’s the director. And my sister Olivia and my friend Calvin are the actors.”

  “I was just thinking of you, Liss,” she says. “I’ve started rereading Pride and Prejudice, thanks to our conversation.” I notice she calls it a conversation, not an interview.

  I’m so excited I’m almost breathless. At what other school would an interviewer care so much, and be so moved, by a prospective student’s interest in books? I’m dangerously close to going into full Mr. Collins fawning mode, wanting to praise everything, including the spacious, single Pennington dorm rooms with generous closet space available even to freshman. Plus, the attractive offerings of gluten-free pasta with vegan sauces at the school cafeterias, though I’m neither gluten-free nor vegan myself. Even the fact that West African dance is offered at the fitness center, as well as the expected yoga and spinning classes.

  “Pennington has an excellent filmmaking program,” Amy Lesser says to Hugh. Hugh’s itching to do another take, but in deference to me, he’s listening politely.

  This is the best and most validating day of my life. I love everyone and everything. Even my sister.

  I take Calvin, Hugh, and Livy on a tour of the Pennington campus after we’ve stowed Hugh’s equipment back in my car. “It’s pretty theft-proof,” Hugh observes, noting the contrast between the little rusty silver body and the nearly new Subarus, Fords, Toyotas, and Hondas in the lot. But the students’ cars are sensible and ecologically friendly, I see. Sturdy SUV hybrids for the most part, they’re covered with bumper stickers proclaiming COEXIST and NAMASTE.

  On the way back, Hugh says, thoughtfully, “You know, I can see why you like the school so much. It’s artsy but doesn’t resonate with a total dirty, stinky hippy vibe.”

  “I’m so relieved I remembered to put on deodorant today. You just liked the fact there were all those blown-up posters of ’70s gangster films in the media center.”

  “Admittedly, yeah. Liss, is this too weird but, would you mind if I applied Early Decision to Pennington? Because my grades this year aren’t so great, I’ve been looking for a school where I get the advantage of applying early but isn’t as competitive as Columbia and I…hands on the wheel!”

  But I’m totally capable of kissing my awesome, talented boyfriend and driving 65 mph at the same time. Sadly, my car refuses to go any faster than that. Otherwise we might be in trouble. “I knew you would love it!” I squeal. “I knew it!”

  “Are you applying Early Decision to Pennington, Liss?” asks Calvin.

  I sigh. “I wish, I wish. I need to see how much financial aid I might get from the other schools I’m applying to first. Pennington only offers an Early Decision option, and that means making a commitment to go to one school, regardless of how much aid other schools offer you. I’d have to pull my applications everywhere else if I was admitted Early Decision. But I need to see if other schools offer me more money. I need negotiation leverage, in other words—and a backup plan if Pennington won’t give me any kind of scholarship at all, no matter what.”

  We all know that Hugh, unlike the rest of us, doesn’t have to worry about things like student loans. It’s a silent dividing line between him and us. Him and me.

  Still, I’ve sold him on Pennington. And that makes me weirdly proud.

  The thrill of hearing my words spoken by other people, and the fact that Hugh wants to attend the same college as me, coupled with the encouragement from Amy Lesser, sustains me through the rest of the week. On Friday, I have another session with Ms. Desborough.

  In her office I notice that the bowl of PROZAC is still filled with lemon Starburst squares. There’s a new bowl, filled with pink Starbursts labeled ADDERALL. I guess her candy bowls are Ms. Desborough’s attempts to relate to her students.

  “I thought you only liked lemon Starburst,” I say.

  “Well, some of my students like the pink ones best,” she says, smiling. “Charlotte mentioned that pink is the most popular flavor. I aim to please. Of course, attention deficit disorder is a serious illness, as is depression, but I try to keep the mood as light as possible.”

  She may be smiling, but I can tell Ms. Desborough is getting more and more upset I haven’t taken her suggestions. When she hears I didn’t get a tutor for the SATs, she’s outraged. “You don’t understand,” I explain. “My friend Jacqui’s brilliant at math, and she’s helping me. Jacqui’s going to be a doctor.”

  “Ah, Jacqui from the National Honor Society. Charlotte mentioned her,” says Ms. Desborough. “But you can’t expect someone who is your competition to help you. I told you, admissions is a blood sport.”

  “Jacqui isn’t my competition. She’s my friend. We’re not applying to the same schools, except for Rutgers.”

  “Not that you know of. Besides, your friend Jacqui has some advantages you lack.” She says advantages as if we’re sharing some coy bit of intimacy.

  I refuse to get the joke. I say, innocently, “I assume you’re referring to the fact Jacqui has one of the highest GPAs in the senior class,” even though I know that’s not what Ms. Desborough means at all.

  Nope, she’s not going to spell it out. Instead, she switches topics. “Have you improved your scores on your practice tests?”

  “Um, still two hundred points higher on the verbal multiple choice than the math. But I got a 780 out of a possible 800 on the multiple-choice verbal section on my last practice test. That’s happy news!”

  “Liss,” asks my father gently, “Why are you so stubborn about the tutor thing?”

  “Because I don’t think the tutor will help. I’ve always been weaker in math. And not only do I have dance, schoolwork, the Gay-Straight Alliance, and the dogs at the shelter, I’m working on my own writing. Shouldn’t I focus on my strengths?”

  Ms. Desborough shifts gears again. “Liss, there’s something I’ve wondered about you. Have you ever been tested for dyscalculia?”

  “Pardon me? Dyslexia?” I ask.

  “No, dyscalculia. It’s like dyslexia…a bit. But with numbers.”

  The word sounds vaguely familiar. I know plenty of students at Rosewood South have been diagnosed with an ex
otic zoo of learning disabilities. “I don’t see numbers backwards. I wish I could. That might make math more entertaining.”

  “It’s not seeing numbers backward, it’s…”

  “It’s being better at verbally oriented subjects and calling it a learning disability?”

  “Liss, I’ve counseled many students with dyscalculia over the years. It’s a very real thing.”

  “I know that learning disabilities are very real, which is why I’m not keen on pretending that I have one when I don’t.”

  “Have you ever been tested?”

  “My highest score ever is 580 out of 800 on the math, and that isn’t disabled. I’m pulling a B– in pre-calculus. I know that’s not impressive, but ‘not impressive’ is different from having a disability. Or is STEM so important that actually liking to read better than doing math is now a mental disorder?”

  “I can’t help your daughter,” says Ms. Desborough, turning to my dad. “She refuses to be helped.”

  “Is there a particular flavor of Starburst that cures dyscalculia?” I ask.

  “I’ve never seen such…”

  “Conceited independence?” I volunteer.

  “I’ll refund you part of the fee, based upon the amount of time I’ve spent with her. Frankly, if a student is not receptive to my help, it’s not worth working with them. I have a reputation.” Her voice has suddenly become very sweet, almost hushed. “Perhaps it would be best if Liss did go to Rutgers. Not every student needs or wants a highly competitive school.”

  “Look, Ms. Desborough...” My father is usually fairly unflappable, thanks to years of teaching all sorts of students in all sorts of settings. I can sense even he is losing his patience. But I can handle the situation. He might have unwittingly thrown me into this lion’s den. But I can get myself out of it.

  “I set high standards for myself when it comes to important things,” I interrupt him. “Like writing, like the novel I’m working on.”