Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

I finally get to meet Martin on the night of senior prom. When I enter Jacqui’s house for our pre-prom get-together, I see a glass vase sitting on the countertop filled with a dozen pink roses. Jacqui’s wearing a long, pale pink slip dress with a slit that shows off her long legs. She recently got her hair cut. Since she no longer needs to pull it back for ballet, she’s stopped straightening it and is wearing it close-cropped to her head. Short hair makes her neck look even longer and more swan-like than before.

  Martin’s in a simple, sophisticated navy blue tux. He’s tall and lanky like Jacqui so it hangs on his frame perfectly.

  “For Martin’s prom, I dressed funkier, with a seventies-style vintage gown,” Jacqui explains. “I thought I’d go more traditional for this prom.” That’s right, Jacqui is going to two proms this year. Just rub it in.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” says Martin.

  “Good things, I hope,” I say.

  “Jacqui says you want to be a writer. That’s so cool. She really loved the Jane Austen conference you dragged her to.” I know Martin goes to a science magnet school like my sister. He sounds genuine when he says writing a book is cool, but also like, “better you than me.” Of course, that’s how I feel about becoming a doctor. My not becoming a doctor or a nurse is a gift to the safety of modern medicine.

  Jacqui’s father has a fancy camera and he takes photos of the couple in the backyard under the trees. Jacqui is beaming.

  The conversation switches to colleges. I talk about how I’m a bit stressed because I’m still waiting to hear about my Pennington financial aid package.

  “I don’t handle stress well, so I understand. I hate uncertainty,” says Martin. Jacqui and Martin have already contacted their roommates at The Adams Morgan via social media and know their freshman class schedules. They’ve started planning where they’ll eat and study on campus during the day, to maximize the value of their downtime. I think but don’t say, “How adorable, you and Jacqui can be control freaks together.”

  Calvin and Franklin show up a little bit later. Calvin’s in a black tux with black-and-white checkered canvas sneakers. His nails are painted with a fresh coat of shiny black polish. Of course, he’s wearing all of his rings. Franklin’s sporting a grey tux and has more normal-looking brown shoes on. They have matching yellow roses pinned to their lapels and different patterned vests beneath their jackets.

  At least I don’t have to coordinate what I am wearing with anyone else. My nose stud hole has long grown in, but I got two new piercings in my ears to make up for it, and the second raven tattoo I always wanted, this one a bit higher up on my opposite breast. I’m wearing a very dark, very short, crushed red velvet dress with an Empire waist, a black ribbon choker, fishnets with garters, and heels as high as I can stand. And twice as much eye makeup than I usually wear to school.

  The grill is fired up and we eat hotdogs and burgers, accompanied by chilled potato salad and coleslaw. Jacqui’s dad tells us ribs are his specialty, but his daughter said that was too messy to eat before prom. I refuse to pose for formal pictures since I don’t have a date and I think it will look dumb. Jacqui’s parents head into the house to put away the uncooked meats and salads and bring out dessert; Calvin takes a photo of me delicately stuffing a hot dog in my mouth, my gloves folded on my lap and my ankles crossed. “You’re such a lady,” he says. “I hope what you’re doing is as good for you as it is for that hotdog.” I’m about to give him the finger but Jacqui’s parents return with ice cream.

  I comment that Calvin hasn’t lit up a cigarette for hours. “Some people,” he says looking at Franklin, “don’t approve, and so I may have promised not to smoke for at least the duration of prom. The phrase ‘kissing an ashtray’ may have been said.”

  “I’m glad,” I say.

  “I’ll have to quit someday,” he says. “Don’t want to end up a geezer who smokes like Mr. Clarke. There’s nothing uglier than that.”

  “He said he was going to start walking, now that he has Wentworth. Perhaps he’s trying to live a healthier lifestyle,” I protest.

  “He can still walk a dog and smoke at the same time—trust me, I know,” says Calvin. “Old people don’t change.”

  I think that Calvin’s being a bit too cynical. For once.

  We take a limo over to the hotel where the prom is being held. It’s the kind of generic chain hotel where businesspeople go to conventions. The ballroom is decorated with a million pink, blue, and silver balloons. Teachers are everywhere, patrolling the doors, to make sure no one enters drunk or slips out to get alcohol.

  A professional photographer in the foyer of the ballroom takes staged shots of the couples in front of a fake backdrop.

  “Liss, join us in our prom photo,” says Calvin. Before I can protest, Calvin picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. So the photo is Calvin with his hand on my red velvet-encased ass, and his arm around Franklin, as if this is totally normal for prom.

  “Put me down!” I squeak while the photo is being taken. His bones are digging into my diaphragm. So Calvin drops me on the floor after the photographer has finished.

  “I’m sorry, Liss, I don’t know what gets into him,” says Franklin, and gives Calvin a gentle shove.

  “You’re such a jerk,” I say to Calvin.

  He bows. “C’est moi.”

  I get up, dust myself off, and put back on the one shoe that fell off. My feet already hurt. I hate wearing heels, but I figured it was prom, so I could tolerate pain for at least one night. Now I’m not so sure. I catch a glimpse of Charlotte giving me some serious side-eye. She doesn’t look disapproving, as if she thinks we’re just being dumb (which we are). She looks…jealous.

  I notice that she’s arm-in-arm with Hugh. Oh well. I guess when she realized Calvin wasn’t going with her, desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “That’s the girl from the National Honor Society I eat lunch with who got into Princeton,” says Jacqui, pointing her out to Martin.

  “Two students from my school got into Harvard, one got into MIT, and another got into Stanford,” explains Martin. “But no one got into Princeton. It’s an uphill climb to get in there, if you’re from New Jersey.”

  “None of us applied. We’re the outliers,” I say.

  “That girl must be very smart,” says Martin, admiringly.

  “Both of her parents went there, she’s a legacy,” I say, as if I’m just making conversation. Deep breath.

  Hugh has more stubble than usual and is wearing a tuxedo jacket, ripped jeans, a black t-shirt, and his engineer boots. I can’t imagine that Charlotte’s pleased with her date’s ironic take on prom attire; he looks even messier than Calvin. She’s in an elegant, muted tangerine-tinted dress with a low (but not too low) neckline, and high (but not too high) gold heels. Her long blonde hair is in an elaborate upsweep. A necklace of rose gold tightly encircles her throat. Her skin sparkles with bronzer. She looks as if she got a style consultant for prom. Charlotte probably didn’t trust herself to pick her own clothes. A minute gold-and-black sequined clutch in a tiger print pattern is in one of her perfectly manicured palms. Her selfie stick, I note with satisfaction, is in the other. But she’s not the only one here holding one.

  Most of the early songs played at the prom are cheesy pop rap. The teachers chaperoning the dance kind of huddle in corners during the rap. They look slightly confused by our enjoyment. Some of the guys get into the beat and fling themselves around. Martin graciously partners Jacqui and tries to protect her from the flailing limbs. Of course Hugh and Charlotte don’t dance at all; Hugh would never stoop to such silliness.

  Calvin and Franklin dance together most of the time. People look and whisper, but the two of them just ignore the chatter. During a slow dance, Franklin lays his head on Calvin’s shoulder. It occurs to me that Franklin will be in high school for two more years. But he doesn’t care. Although he’s much quieter than Calvin, for all of Calvin’s bravado, Franklin radiates a kind of courage that Ca
lvin has lacked…until now.

  Franklin takes a break to dance with a girl. I start dancing with Calvin. Hugh and Charlotte are taking photos of themselves at their table with her selfie stick and their iPhones.

  I’m about to tap Calvin on the shoulder and make him look at what he’s missing. Then I drop my hand, just relax into him. It doesn’t matter. Let Charlotte have her fun, or what passes for fun with her.

  “You know what,” I blurt out, “you should probably dance the next song with Charlotte.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, her douche of a date doesn’t dance,” he says.

  “Never,” I say. “Total lazy white boy.” The music stops. I release Calvin. I’m sure it will make Charlotte’s night.

  The DJ puts on a swingy tune. Clearly a couple’s dance. I start to feel my loss of a partner. No one is dancing alone or in a group. I kick off my heels, leave them with my purse, and scan the ballroom with my eyes.

  “Mr. Clarke!” My English teacher actually looks…decent. He’s in a dark suit, and his hair is cut and combed properly. His glasses are clean. “I never forget a threat.” Unencumbered and treading flat on the ground where I belong, I stride to where my teacher is lurking by the door. I stick out my black-gloved hand.

  “Really, Liss…” He looks around nervously.

  “I insist. Gentlemen are scarce and I have no partner for this dance.”

  “Dancing is not part of my job description as chaperone.” He seems to be trying to blend in with the darkness and the wallpaper of the hotel ballroom. I’m delighted because I’ve genuinely caught him off-guard. He does look embarrassed. All of the intellectual armor he uses in class to protect himself is suddenly meaningless.

  “Come, Mr. Clarke, I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.” I notice that the other teachers nearby are stunned by my use of the word “stupid” directed to a teacher not noted for his informality around students. Mr. Clarke knows exactly what scene and to whom I’m referring in Pride and Prejudice.

  He allows me to lead him by the hand to the dance floor. The swing dance that’s playing, I figure, is as close to Mr. Clarke’s type of music as we’ll hear at prom.

  Much to my complete shock, he’s actually a good dancer. I mean, he’s not terribly athletic, but he has a sense of rhythm and is a considerate partner. No toe-squashing, despite my unshod feet, and he’s short enough to be the perfect height for me. Mr. Clarke doesn’t try to be cool or funny like some middle-aged men at bar mitzvahs or weddings; he just dances normally, and he knows what he’s doing.

  “I’m so, so very disappointed,” I say. “You’ve been lying to me all this while. You know how to dance perfectly well.”

  “You’re being very generous, Liss. But I like to encourage my dance partners to have low expectations. That way, by merely being adequate, I manage to impress them,” he says.

  “A technique I should employ in regards to my writing but never do,” I say, and give a deliberately exaggerated sigh.

  “I sent a recommendation to the Pennington admissions office, via Amy Lesser, to support your request for financial aid,” says Mr. Clarke. “I hope that carries some weight.”

  I come to a dead stop. “Mr. Clarke…I’m speechless. They know your reputation because of Amy.”

  “My reputation?”

  “As an…insanely hard grader, stingy with praise.” We resume dancing.

  “I assume that’s a polite version of what students have been saying about me in private, like nasty, old…” he pauses at the end of his sentence and extends his arm as I lean back as part of the dance.

  “Anglo-Saxon,” I volunteer, springing back. “With a bit of Germanic thrown in.”

  “I was about to say ‘git.’ I wrote that you have a witty and vivacious prose style and noted you take the craft of writing seriously, which is rare in students today. And that you are capable of accepting criticism and incorporating it into your work, which is even rarer.”

  I’m in shock. I know he’d never say that if he didn’t believe it to be true. I can’t move.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, I don’t give empty praise. I’m sure it will come out right for you in the end.”

  I guess it is true: there are some things that money can’t buy, like how I feel right now. “I’ll have to live up to your recommendation,” I say. “But my courage rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

  Part III: A Personal Statement

  “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”

  —Elizabeth Bennet, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 58

  “Till this moment, I never knew myself.”

  —Elizabeth Bennet, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 36

  Chapter 30

  Jane Only Smiles, I Laugh

  Reader, I am attending Pennington College. Given that Amy Lesser was so influential in enabling me to get enough financial aid so I could justify going there, I feel it’s only fair to make reference to her favorite novel, Jane Eyre.

  Of course, I am not looking for my Mr. Darcy at Pennington. In fact, I may have said the words, “I’m a fan of Jane Austen the social satirist, not Jane Austen the romantic,” in Professor Crosby’s seminar Austen versus Brontë: Humor, Horror, and the Heart in Nineteenth Century Women’s Fiction. Professor Crosby seemed pleased.

  I am seeing a guy for coffee in a few hours. I’ve gotten into several arguments with him in the above-cited seminar. He didn’t proclaim me not handsome enough to tempt him on sight, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any old high school girlfriends locked up in an attic. Still, I’m keeping an open mind.

  Jacqui’s gotten all As so far at The Adams Morgan. She misses ballet but says that yoga’s a big stress relief. Then she texts me after every yoga class stressing about how she didn’t do all of the postures correctly.

  Livy is a junior, now. I’m no longer mad at her for hooking up with Hugh. She’s moved on with her robot-building; she’s currently at work on George II. She enjoyed her time at the MIT summer program and didn’t elope with any worthless redcoats (or worthless guys from Harvard Summer School). My father is still teaching and feels secure enough about my scholarship to continue to salt all of his food.

  I have my novel about Mary and Wickham saved on my laptop. But I’ve begun a new one, a romance set in the contemporary era. The goal is to finish the draft of this new novel by the end of the year, but if I just make progress, I’m okay with that.

  Calvin already got cast in a leading role at Rutgers. Not on the main stage, but still quite a coup for a freshman. Granted, it’s as Iago in Othello, one of the most evil characters ever written. Calvin admits, “I guess occasionally paying attention in English class last year was useful.” He likes all of his professors, even the ones teaching advertising and marketing.

  Maybe I will take an economics class at Pennington. Someday.

  Calvin often sees Mr. Clarke walking Wentworth around the neighborhood. Recently, Mr. Clarke stopped my friend when he saw it was Calvin behind the wheel, “to ask how you were doing.” Calvin adds, “It was weird, Clarke said, ‘Tell Liss that I feel the warmest gratitude towards her for uniting me with Wentworth.’ I assume that’s a reference to some book.”

  “It is. The last line of Pride and Prejudice. Which is not as famous as the first.”

  “That’s why I called rather than texted. I wanted to make sure I got the words right, since they seemed so important to him. Is this supposed to be funny in some way I don’t get?”

  “No, actually, the last line isn’t ironic. Not at all.”

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, I must thank my editor Amy Spungen, who has edited not only this work, but also the most recent books in my Fortune’s Fool series Stars Hide Your Fires, Crawling Between Heaven and Earth, and Give and Hazard All.
Amy is a fan of Jane Austen as well as a fellow equestrian. Secondly, I must thank Bonnets at Dawn, which is a Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook community and a podcast (which you should really subscribe to on iTunes). The conceit of the podcast is so brilliant I wish I’d thought of it myself. Every week, representatives of Team Jane Austen are pitted against representatives of Team Bronte Sisters. I can’t think of a better way to sum up the two opposing yet complimentary impulses that lie within the heart of every writer and reader. Thirdly, I must acknowledge the inspiration of another great online community and podcast known as Drunk Austen. Anyone who thinks that Jane Austen fans are stuffy should be prescribed a daily dose of Drunk Austen on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook in addition to the hosts’ hilarious (sober) reflections on the podcast.

  Right along with Bonnets at Dawn and Drunk Austen, I’m also on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook as Mary Pagones. Please give me a follow, as well as review this book! Much like Mary Bennet, as I lack the beauty of the other Bennet sisters, I am always impatient to display (tweet) my knowledge and accomplishments. Also like Mary Bennet, I lack any real sense of taste, but that quality has proven to be more of an asset than a liability on social media.