by Mary Pagones
“You didn’t tell me you were writing a novel, Liss!” Ms. Desborough looks interested. “Do you have a publisher? An agent?”
“It’s not ready to be published,” I say. “Writing a novel takes time; it’s not going to be ready by the application deadline.”
“Well then, it doesn’t exist, as far as I’m concerned.” Ms. Desborough leans back in her chair, looks at her Universal Truths poster, as if to reinforce what she is saying. “Last year, one of my students had a novel she’d written optioned to become a major Hollywood film. That’s the college admissions market today.” She sighs. “She was accepted to Brown, of course. “
“Was it well written?” I ask.
She looks confused. “She was admitted to Brown.”
“I meant the novel. If it was optioned when she was seventeen, she must have written it when she was very young.”
“That was part of the appeal. She published it when she was only fifteen.”
“What was it about?” I ask.
“I don’t know. As I’ve said before, I don’t have time to read novels. The point is she published it when she was only a sophomore. Even schools like Brown, that like that sort of thing—the arts—you have to show that you can deliver results before the application deadline. Which you have not.”
“Isn’t it better to take the time to write a book that’s worth reading, versus writing a book that’s noteworthy just because the author finished it at age fifteen?”
“Please focus, Liss. I’m not getting through to you.”
“Between my getting kicked out of ballet and being rejected by a college admissions counselor before I even apply to college, I’m saving you a lot of money this year,” I say to my father on the drive home. (Since I don’t have dance class today, we drove in the same car).
There is a long, uncomfortable silence.
“Liss, I don’t believe in forcing my children to do anything they don’t want to do. But you know it’s not normal to do everything yourself nowadays. Study, apply to college, I mean.”
“But I wasn’t kidding. I like to be independent. I do things my own way.”
“Elizabeth Bennet only had to walk three miles through mud and pig dung when she was being conceited and independent, not apply to college.”
“And the difference is…?” I ask.
“I was only trying to help.”
“I know.”
I feel my father is trying to apologize for the Ms. Desborough debacle but can’t quite bring himself to do so.
To ease the tension, I explain why I’m feeling confident (as opposed to conceited). I think I have an advocate in the Pennington admissions department. I tell him all about Amy Lesser, how she admires the fact I’m into writing and Jane Austen and she went to Rosewood South way back when. He tells me not to write off all of my other schools just yet.
I spend the weekend studying with Jacqui for the SATs. Periodically, we check Calvin’s Instagram, which keeps getting updated with photos of Charlotte, Dr. and Mr. Holland, and himself all over Disney.
“I can see some selfie stick action in that one,” I say. “Perfect distance from the camera.” Calvin and Charlotte do actually look cute together, much as it disgusts me to admit it.
“Of course, Charlotte has a selfie stick,” says Jacqui. “You would be disappointed if she didn’t.”
“I wonder if snorting Adderall before going on the teacup ride makes for a better theme park experience?” I ask.
Charlotte certainly looks less stressed, that’s for sure. She’s tan and smiling, and in one photo she’s holding Calvin’s hand. I know Calvin’s family has hardly ever gone on vacation except for the occasional camping trip (which he hates). Even then, Calvin had to watch his sisters so it was more of a vacation for everyone else. I shouldn’t begrudge him this trip. But still, Charlotte Holland? Seriously, Calvin?
Hugh’s taking the SAT the same weekend as us but unlike Jacqui, isn’t stressed about it. Hugh never seems super-stressed about anything. Ever. Which is why when I go over Catherine’s house after Jacqui’s one night, I get nervous that Hugh looks worried about something. “Is someone ill?” I ask.
“It’s the requirements for the schools I’m applying to for film,” he says. “I’m supposed to have done everything involved in all the actual behind-the-scenes work. Including the writing.”
Oh. After a long silence, I say, “My writing’s very important to me, Hugh. I was hoping to list my film script on my college applications.”
“But you have other writing credits?”
“Nothing like writing an independent film,” I say.
He kisses me. “But this is all I have, this film. I need this so badly.” I feel his hand on my breast through my To Be Fond of Dancing Was a Certain Step to Falling in Love t-shirt. He runs his tongue behind my ear near a very sensitive place on my neck. “It’s just I can’t use the film for my application if I say that you wrote the screenplay.”
“Then I can’t use it for my own application. Shouldn’t you have checked the requirements before, Hugh? Or did you and not tell me?”
“You know better than anyone that even Pennington’s going to be hard for me to get into because my grades suck this year.”
I think about it. I want him to get in. I want to be with him. I’m writing other things, including a novel. And there’s also the cold, hard truth we both don’t say—that even if I do get into my dream college, I might not be able to go, if I don’t get a large enough scholarship. Hugh definitely will.
“Fine, then. Just submit it with your name on it,” I say. “I won’t claim credit for the script on my application.”
“Liss, don’t get mad.”
“I have to go home,” I say. “I have more studying to do, and I get distracted here.” He laughs and kisses me again, like we’re all good.
My car takes two turns with the key to start. The first time, when it’s dead, I find myself letting out an involuntary dry sob. Then I breathe, compose myself, and the engine turns over. Don’t get over-dramatic, Liss. You still have your novel. You still have Jane Austen. It was just a little stupid film and Hugh did most of the work, anyway. You just wrote the dialogue. Film is a visual medium. Words don’t matter. Writing doesn’t matter.
I can’t help wondering what Elizabeth Bennet would do in this situation. I just know she wouldn’t have let this happen. If Darcy asked her to do this, she’d tell him this was not gentlemanly behavior. She wouldn’t cry and feel confused and think, wow, he’s my first real boyfriend and the first guy I can talk about film and fictional characters with, a guy who’s not obsessed with grades or sports.
I drive to the shelter rather than home. I spend an hour with Wentworth the dachshund, throwing tennis balls. Slowly. It’s sweet. He has short legs and not many teeth. But he adores running for the ball, carefully and deliberately picking it up, and then depositing it at my feet. His special talent. He doesn’t care if he’s the best or not; he just wants to know he’s loved. I wish I were so simple.
Chapter 14
The Usual Practice of Elegant Females
Time passes. Livy’s robot begins to take shape and learns how to pick up new objects. Pens, pencils, even a small basketball. She begins to assemble a catapult in the backyard.
The Early Decision and Early Action applications get submitted, Hugh’s to Pennington, Charlotte’s to Princeton. And Jacqui’s to The Adams Morgan, along with her scholarship application, which requires five additional essays. I help her proofread them. As well as correcting her punctuation and tightening up her sentence structure, I remind her of things she’s left out she’s done in dance and school. “But I don’t want to sound conceited and brag,” she protests.
We work together in a corner of the school library, because there’s no way to do this with Charlotte around without getting an earful of advice. Calvin sits with us, tapping his fingers and humming to whatever song he’s listening to through his earbuds.
“Jacqui, it�
��s a college application essay. You’re supposed to tell them about yourself,” I say.
Calvin takes out an earbud. “I don’t see why all the schools ask the same boring questions, like why do you want to go there. I’d begin by asking ‘who’s your favorite Schuyler sister,’ personally.”
“Schuyler sister?” asks Jacqui.
“They’re characters in Hamilton. Ignore him,” I say.
“Then again, the correct answer is obviously Peggy, so that wouldn’t be much of a test,” says Calvin, and puts back his earbud.
“If I’m admitted without the scholarship,” sighs Jacqui, “I won’t be able to go there. But at least The Adams Morgan offers Early Action, so I can see how much money other schools offer me. I’ll hear in December, and I’ll have until May to decide. It would be nice to know where I’m going as early as possible. If they do accept me and I do get the scholarship, I will accept. I just loved how focused the students were.”
“You’ll get accepted and the scholarship,” I say. “If there is any justice in the world.”
“Which there isn’t,” says Calvin.
“I feel confident that come August, you’ll be eating horrible Sbarro pizza at The Adams Morgan food hall with the rest of the incoming class,” I proclaim.
My latest SAT scores aren’t much of an improvement. I go up ten points in the verbal and go down ten in the math. Jacqui goes up fifty points in both sections. I still have a higher verbal score, but her math score is nearly perfect. She must have missed only one or two questions.
I don’t regret not hiring a professional tutor. There’s only so much I can overcome of seventeen years of not quite understanding or caring about the subject.
“Are you sure you don’t have a learning disability?” my father asks me when he sees my scores at dinner. He sounds hopeful.
“No. I told you. I’m mediocre at math. I admit it and we’ll have to live with it.”
“Maybe just a tiny one?”
“Positive. Besides, all that having a learning disability could do for me is get me extra time on the test, which seems more like punishment than assistance.”
“It might make the difference in your math and verbal scores more understandable, and I thought an Ivy League school wouldn’t want to discriminate against someone who was, you know…”
“You know what?”
“Disabled!”
“Dad, what were your grades in math and science in high school? Or are you disabled now, too?”
He sighs. “Maybe? I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” and goes back to grading his students’ essays while eating his chili. Every now and then, he expertly wipes sauce or meat off the corner of a page.
“Apples!” says Livy. “That’s a great idea for something new to load up in my catapult. I’ve been using tennis balls, but they’re very bouncy. I keep losing so many of them.”
“Thanks, Livy, for the sympathy.”
“Did you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your SAT scores?” she asks, calmly, and whips out her phone to check her messages. I hear my father suppress a snort. He tries to make it sound like coughing. I flick a spoonful of chili at Livy and temporarily regret allowing her to watch the BBC Pride and Prejudice with me on multiple occasions.
“Liss, please avoid flinging steaming hot sauce at the expensive electronics,” says my father, quickly composing himself. He accidentally dumps a large splat of meat on the paper he’s grading.
“I guess you’ll have to give that student at least a B,” I say, “Especially if she’s a vegetarian.”
What I got on the math section isn’t horrible, it’s just average. It’s acceptable for Rutgers, and I can just apply to score-optional schools for the rest, I think. Standardized tests are never going to be what “sells” me to Pennington College.
Things still aren’t happening between Jacqui and Noel. I actually am kind of hoping that she’ll go for that Martin guy who’s shadowing a doctor in New Brunswick. Martin’s cute and not president of a society that rejected me. Jacqui mentions Martin from time to time, how he’s texted her about college stuff. Yet Noel has one distinct advantage that Martin does not—Noel’s right in front of Jacqui, every day. Despite the fact that distance (just like a redcoat) can make the heart grow fonder—or at least that’s what Jane suggests in many of her books—sometimes when something’s right in front of your face, it’s hard to resist. Like square, greasy school pizza.
Plus, Noel apparently wants to go to The Adams Morgan and is applying early. So there’s a chance he could go to the same school as Jacqui, just like Martin.
Jacqui says one day at lunch, “Noel’s president of the ski club, and he mentioned to me that they have a beginner slope at the resort they’re going to on their next trip. So I’m thinking of tagging along.”
“Oh, that’s so romantic! Hot chocolate, fireplaces, Noel teaching you how to ski!” I may not think Noel’s all that, but I like the image.
“Me breaking a leg.”
“Don’t mention you’re going skiing for the first time to Catherine, otherwise she’ll kill you, what with The Nutcracker coming up.”
“You could cover for me.”
“Are you kidding? She’d rather let a leggy eight-year-old cover your part than have my presence pollute the stage. Maybe just let a real mouse run across the floorboards and hope the audience didn’t notice.”
“Ha! I’m playing a party guest in the first scene and coffee in the Land of Sweets.”
“So Catherine could just put a Starbucks cup in the middle of the stage and call it an updated version. Easy enough.”
“My mother cried when she saw my SAT scores, she said she was so proud. She’s just been crying at everything recently. If I get in to The Adams Morgan, I think she’ll cry her eyelids off.”
“I think my dad wanted to cry when he saw my math score, but in a different way.”
A week before Thanksgiving break, I submit my paper on Pride and Prejudice to Mr. Clarke. He grades assignments quickly, as a rule. Despite the fact that our papers had to be fifteen pages long, minimum, this batch is no exception. I learn a few days later that I got a B+ , which I feel is miserable for a book to which I’ve devoted my entire life. Pretty much every paragraph has something written on it in red. I feel my stomach tighten as I read. At least the final comment is positive: Reading this certainly didn’t aggravate my poor nerves!
I’m not sure if my teacher’s ability to quote Pride and Prejudice while giving me less than the A I feel I deserve should enrage me or not.
Jacqui and Calvin both get a B–. I’m surprised that Calvin’s grade is relatively high (for him). When I ask, he says he took Clarke’s suggestion to write his paper on The Taming of the Shrew. Because Calvin was in the musical version—Kiss Me Kate—two summers ago at his community theater group, he was “not totally bored” by the Shakespearean version. “Weirdly enough, I’m doing slightly better in the class than I have in my previous English classes,” he says. “I’m managing to stay awake, in a first-period class no less.”
Charlotte just storms out of the room at the end of class after she gets her paper back. Her cheeks are bright pink, and she’s too overcome to appear at lunch. She reappears the next day at our table to complain. I’m eating a miniature salt bagel spread with peanut butter and drinking bottled iced tea, so I feel bold enough to interrupt her monologue early on. I’d rather enjoy my perfectly unbalanced meal in peace. I even have leftover Halloween candy for dessert to share with my dining companions. “Why did you choose to do your semester paper on Hamlet when you hate Shakespeare?”
“I hate everything we read for class, so I figured I’d pick something hard to impress him,” says Charlotte. “Not that it worked. What did you get?”
Hard? Hamlet? Hamlet is not hard, Hamlet is the most universal play in the world…I open my mouth, then close it. Don’t be a jerk, Liss. My higher Elizabeth Bennet self stifles my lower, Mean Girl Miss Bingley self.
“Doomed, we’re all doomed, if Jane Austen herself can’t merit an A,” says Jacqui. My sister would be so proud: Jacqui’s quoting C-3PO from Star Wars.
“Speak for yourself, Jacqui,” says Charlotte. “This isn’t over. I’m far from doomed.”
“I’d sell my soul for a B+ in any AP class, Liss,” says Calvin. “Cheer up.”
“Your soul? What soul?” I ask.
“Everyone has a soul, Liss,” says Calvin piously, putting his silver-ringed hands together in prayer. I can tell he’s mocking his mother. The pentagram glitters.
“Your soul isn’t worth five black jelly beans, this fun-sized Snickers bar, and pocket lint,” I say. I flick the Snickers bar over to him from the pile of candy next to me. He eats it in one bite.
“For competitive students,” says Charlotte, “Anything less than an A is failure.”
I look at my tiny bagel. I know she’s talking about students applying to the most elite colleges. Calvin isn’t offended. So why should I be when I’m not even competing with Charlotte to get into a school like Princeton? Still, what Charlotte says stings.
Calvin knows what I’m thinking. As if to prevent his friends from sparring, Calvin adds, “I guess I’m the only one who is pleased with my grades. Who knew that actually reading the play could make such a difference? Or maybe my guess Clarke’s straight is wrong; maybe he plays on both teams, and my irresistible sexiness won him over. There’s hope for you, Charlotte, if you wear a lower-cut sweater.”
“Ew, that’s so disgusting I can’t even contemplate it,” she says, snorting. Calvin’s the only person who can make Charlotte laugh in a real way.
Chapter 15
That Kind Of Elegance Which Consists In Tormenting A Respectable Man
I look at my list of schools I’m going to submit for my official school guidance counselor’s approval. I know it’s pretty much a rubber stamp process. Ms. Sargent might remind me of what the computer spit out as suggested colleges, but as long as I have one school I’m sure to get into (Rutgers), she’s done her duty. She’ll wish me luck, copy whatever I wrote onto her generic recommendation form, and send out my transcripts. At times like this, I almost miss Ms. Desborough’s meddling—but not enough to have any regrets.