Small Admissions

by Amy Poeppel

  “Sure, yeah, I hear you.”

  “We’re going to our house in France for spring break, just to recover from all the stress! Has Dillon made a decision?” Tess asked, jogging in place.

  “Nah, I’m not pressuring him, you know?”

  “Right, but the deadline is coming. What’s he leaning toward? Hudson?”

  “I’m sorry,” Silvia said, “but can you stop jumping around like that? You’re making me spizzy. Dizzy.”

  Tess stood still and stared at Silvia.

  “I’ve had a flu,” Silvia explained.

  “You poor thing,” Tess said, taking a step backward.

  “And I really don’t care all that much about the school stuff. I mean, fuck it, you know?”

  “Wow, okay. I wish I could be so cavalier. I just want us to pick the right place for Annie. Dillon got into Hudson, right?”

  “He did, but somehow they lost my metal in the mail. Lost my letter the mair. I need to call them.”

  “The schools did email acceptances. Annie got her acceptances at nine a.m. sharp on the day. Same as everybody else.”

  “Well, I mean, he’s in, obviously. They told me so to my face when we were there. I don’t really need it in writing.”

  “My God, Silvia. That’s really . . . That’s the weirdest admissions story I’ve heard all year. Have you paid your deposit? And what about the contract? You need to sign the contract.”

  “I’m going to talk to them,” Silvia said. “I called them already.”

  “And what did they say?” Tess asked.

  “Nothing. I left a message.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re an alum there. I mean, you should go talk to them about it. Get some answers.”

  “I know!” Silvia said suddenly and way too loudly.

  “Even if it turns out . . . I’m sorry, I’m still confused, though,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “Where did Dillon get in exactly?”

  “Where did Annie get in exactly?” Silvia said, crossing her arms and mimicking Tess’s voice.

  “Silvia!”

  “Tess! Ya big show-offy bitch.”

  “Okay,” Tess said, holding her hand out in front of Silvia’s face. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re a little scary, and you’re wearing bedroom slippers, okay, so I really don’t know what to say to you. Ah, here comes Annie. I’ll see you.”

  “Annie,” Silvia scoffed as Tess started to walk away. “Puh-lease.”

  “Excuse me?” Tess asked, taking Annie’s backpack from her, while Annie started baby-talking and kissing all over the dog.

  “No, nothing,” Silvia said. “It’s just that, Annie’s not as awesome as you think she is.” Silvia nodded, letting that sink in. “She’s not all that special, you know? Hate to break it to you, but someone had to.”

  “What?” asked Annie, eyes wide, looking up with the little dog in her arms.

  “I beg your pardon?” Tess asked.

  “I think someone should tell you that Annie’s got a very weird-shaped head. Look at that thing. It’s always bothered me, since first grade. I just thought you should know, in case a doctor didn’t tell you already, you should get her checked out because she’s borderline syndromish.”

  “Mommy,” Annie said, starting to cry.

  “Silvia! What? What is wrong with you?”

  “Oh, pooh, take a joke. Ha! I have to go get Dillon down off the jungle bars. He just loves playing, you know. You could learn a thing or two from him, like you shouldn’t be so fucking serious all the time.” And she walked away, leaving Annie in tears, and Tess in a pink-faced rage.

  The previous September, on the day he interviewed Kate Pearson, candidate for the assistant director position, Henry talked about her in great detail with Pat, whose opinion he valued greatly. Pat was wise in a way that he wasn’t, could see things before they happened. Henry appreciated that about him and brought his problems home to him every night. He figured if he were president of the United States, Pat would be one of those First Spouses who advised him on matters like foreign policy, and he’d be criticized for it, but he would ask for his advice anyway because his judgment was spot-on.

  Pat was the guidance counselor at a large public school, so his world, although also in education, was nothing like Henry’s. Some people may have thought it was strange that they both worked in schools, having never had children themselves. They spent their days with other people’s kids, they had their evenings to themselves, and they never felt they’d missed out on anything. They both looked young because they didn’t have children to age them prematurely. They slept well, and they had money to spend on vacations. This past summer they had taken a trip to Italy; they had seen it all and done it all, from the Duino Castle near Trieste to the vineyards in Tuscany.

  When they returned from their trip, rested and ready to begin another school year, Henry had gone into work to find the following letter on his desk:

  Hey Henry,

  I hate to do this to you last minute, but I quit. I spent a lot of time soul-searching over my break and decided I can’t hack another season. I don’t know how you and Maureen do it. All the judging, rejection, and injustice have left me drowning in a cesspool of negative energy, and I owe it to myself to be in a healthier place in my head. I still have recurrent nightmares about losing that child.

  I wish I had Maureen’s ability to make jokes about the kids and keep it light. You guys are able to keep a healthy distance from it all, and, hey, whatever works, man. But I can’t be down with that; it’s not who I am. I have to honor my feelings and step out of this profession.

  I’m moving in with my mother so I can get my degree in computer programming. As you would say, it’s a better fit for me.

  Peace

  Nathan

  Having to fill Nathan’s position on such short notice was the worst possible way to start a new year. Hudson’s online student application would be going live in a matter of weeks, so there was barely enough time to post the job opening, review résumés, and schedule interviews. Henry spent a few days seeing a handful of applicants, none of whom was even remotely qualified, and one of whom was a registered sex offender.

  When Henry came home the day he interviewed Kate, his final applicant of the batch, he walked into the apartment utterly defeated and said, “What am I going to do?”

  Pat picked up two sets of hand weights and suggested they discuss it during their walk around the reservoir in Central Park; the temperature had finally dropped below 85 degrees, and they could talk while they enjoyed a beautiful fall afternoon, getting their heart rates going at the same time. Power walking was a new activity. Before their big trip to Italy, Pat and Henry went for their annual checkups, and Henry’s ECG showed a weird dip in his T wave, an inversion, an abnormality. He was sent to a cardiologist for a follow-up, and Pat went along because if Henry was having a heart problem, he needed to know how to fix it.

  The doctor prescribed daily aerobic exercise, whole grains, low fat, and Lipitor, all part of what she called “necessary lifestyle adjustments.”

  “How’s your stress level?” she had asked. “Are you sleeping?”

  “No stress at all,” Henry had said. “I’m on vacation, actually, heading to Italy in a few days.”

  “But when you’re not on vacation?” she pressed. “Do you eat well? Exercise?”

  “No,” Pat said, “he doesn’t.”

  The doctor frowned. “That’s going to have to change.”

  “And his job is very stressful. There are three people in his department, doing the work of five.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Henry said.

  “I didn’t say it was bad. I said you’re overworked.”

  “I always sleep well.”

  “You have to start taking better care of yourself, Henry,” Pat insisted. “Tell him.”

  “He’s absolutely right,” the doctor said.

  Henry started to feel ganged up on.
/>   “Your ECG shows some kind of cardiac episode,” she went on, “and it may be an anomaly, but you should take it as a warning sign. You need to lose ten to fifteen pounds, get at least thirty minutes of exercise every day, and take your medication.”

  “I’m fat?”

  “And don’t overdo,” Pat added.

  Henry liked Pat’s attention and concern, but he didn’t like the idea of being told to alter his habits or food intake. He didn’t like the idea of getting old.

  “This interview was actually funny,” Henry said as they headed out to the park for their brisk walk, pumping their weights by their sides. “I don’t mean good funny. She was so bad, it was laughable, or at least that’s what Maureen said. I’m in such a panic, I can’t even be amused by it.”

  “Don’t be mean,” Pat said. “What was so wrong with her?”

  “I wish you’d been there. Maureen made fun of her all afternoon. I nicknamed her the Kate-astrophe, but Maureen calls her Nervous Nellie. Or Seventeen.”

  “Why Seventeen?”

  “That’s how old Maureen thinks she is.”

  “You and Maureen are vicious.”

  “It gets us through the season. And we need nicknames; how else can we keep track of the hundreds of people who walk through the door every year?”

  “So what actually happened?”

  “Aside from shaking and sweating and talking about nudity, using the word ‘asshole,’ and wearing a skirt that’s too short? Not a thing. She was fabulous. Ideal.”

  “Sarcasm,” Pat noted. “Nice.”

  “Well, she’s out. I’ll start over again tomorrow and try to find someone tolerable before things get too busy.”

  “Because she used a bad word?”

  “Among other things.”

  “I hate to remind you, but you need to find someone in a hurry. You can’t possibly do without a third, so before you rule her out, you better at least give me a good reason.”

  “She’s too young,” Henry explained, “too self-deprecating, and frankly too . . . flustered.”

  “So?”

  “Pat, she was terrible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was rambling.”

  “What’s wrong with being talkative? You’re rejecting this woman because she was flustered? And young?”

  “I was with her for quite a while. Believe me, I gave her a chance.”

  “It sounds to me like she was just anxious.”

  “No. I mean yes, she was, but it was the content of what she said.”

  “Like what?” Pat asked.

  “She was inappropriate, politically incorrect, and incapable of lying even for the right reasons. She’s totally inexperienced. I’d have to teach her everything.”

  “Training someone can be much easier than retraining,” he said. “Can she pick things up quickly?”

  “Maybe,” Henry admitted, “because she must be at least a little bit smart.”

  “Sensible smart or brainy smart?”

  “Brainy smart, but it doesn’t matter—this was without a doubt the worst interview ever in the history of interviews.”

  “Hyperbole.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but she said things that no one in her right mind would say when trying to get hired.” He could feel himself getting winded already. “She got very sweaty at one point. Like drippy sweat. It was painful to watch.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Do schools smell like bologna sandwiches to you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This girl—Kate—actually said outright that she’s unqualified for the job. Oh, and that she’s not even punctual! Who admits to that?”

  “Either someone who doesn’t really want the job or someone very honest.”

  “She wants the job. She practically begged.”

  “Huh. Would parents like her?” Pat asked.

  “She’s smiley and chatty. Attractive. Yes, I think they’d like her, especially the lecherous dads.” He reached his arm out in front of Pat as a bike went by fast and uncomfortably close.

  “How do you know she’s smart?” Pat asked.

  “She’s Seven Sisters summa cum laude smart. That’s why I interviewed her in the first place.”

  “Really?” he asked. “Impressive. That must have come across.”

  “Mixed in with the nonsense, she said a few observant things, about fit, about the kind of kid who would do well at Hudson, even something about uniforms. Out of curiosity I called her only reference—her undergraduate thesis advisor at Wellesley. She was a dual anthropology/psych major and wrote a senior thesis that got published in an academic journal. This professor raved about her intuition, her keen observational skills, her sophisticated writing style. He used the word ‘astute’ about a hundred times.”

  “Why does she want a job in admissions?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “She said she needs a chance. Something about walking dogs and coming out of a funk. Being disconnected. What does that even mean?”

  “Something or someone threw her off track,” Pat said. “An illness? A death in the family maybe?”

  “It’s almost impossible to reconcile the girl the professor described—reliable, perceptive, confident, full of potential—with the one who showed up for the interview.”

  “Psychology major, huh?”

  “Here we go,” Henry said.

  “No, think about it, Henry. I think she sounds great. Perceptive? Intuitive? That’s a glowing reference. She’s clearly capable of doing excellent work.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “She got a solid education, and best of all, her academic background is in two departments that focus on what it means to be human.”

  “Now you’re just reaching.”

  “I was a psych major, and it certainly helped me.”

  Henry looked over and saw that Pat had barely broken a sweat. He was tanned from their trip, and he looked like a boy in his fitted T-shirt.

  “In your case, the connection between psychology and your job is a little more obvious,” he told him, “and fitting.”

  “In your job, too, don’t kid yourself. You assess and evaluate personalities all day long. Anyway I don’t believe in writing off a young woman with potential just because she didn’t come across as perfectly polished,” Pat said. “And please keep in mind that if you don’t hire someone soon, you’re going to start the year a whole month behind. You and Maureen can’t possibly do this on your own.”

  “I don’t know if she could do the work.”

  “It’s not brain science,” Pat reminded him.

  “No, but it’s relentless and exhausting. Is she good with details? Planning? Communication? Because according to her, she isn’t good at anything.”

  “She’s insecure. Somewhere along the way, she lost her confidence. You asked me what you should do. I think you should take the risk and hire her.”

  “Seventeen couldn’t handle it,” Henry said bluntly.

  “My God, you’re acting like you need a NASA engineer to do the job. Be fair, Henry. She’s plenty smart, so she can learn your little admissions process.”

  “ ‘Little’?”

  “She’s young, which means she’s energetic and knows how to use a computer a hell of a lot better than you or Maureen. She’s eager to get back on track, so she’ll work hard because the last thing she wants is another setback. She published something, so she can obviously write well. And—best of all—she’s inexperienced, which means you can tell her to do things exactly the way you want them done. And think about it this way: she wants the job so badly, it made her sweat. You should hire her.”

  “No, no, no, no,” Henry said, “you weren’t there. You didn’t experience the Kate-astrophic, flop-sweating debacle firsthand like I did.”

  “Something or someone damaged a promising, smart young girl, and then you demean her and call her names? Shame on you, Henry. How soon can she start?”

  “Im
mediately.”

  “Perfect. Take her under your wing, get her back on her feet. She may need extra support, so tell her what a good job she’s doing at least twice a day. Treat her like a grown-up, an equal. Invite her to working dinners to discuss strategies for the year. Let her know you trust her opinions and instincts. If she does well, she’ll be grateful to you for the rest of her life, and she’ll bend over backward to do a good job for you.” Pat stopped walking and put his hands on Henry’s shoulders. “I don’t want you wearing yourself out this year, okay? You have to be around next summer to take me to Scotland, or I’ll kill you.”

  “I’ll be around.”

  “You better be. Hire that girl.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “Entirely. If I’m wrong about her, you can let her go in the spring.”

  “So—for the record—you’re encouraging me to work with a young, unqualified, troubled, sweaty person? Maureen will think I’ve completely lost my mind.”

  “You and Maureen could use a shake-up. I bet she’s going to do you both good.”

  April

  One year ago, George and I met at a conference on hunger in Washington, D.C. It was a beautiful spring day, and we were assigned to the same breakout group in one of the afternoon sessions on the impact of food stamp cuts on working-poor families. Every time I looked over at him, I caught him watching me. When the conference ended, we took the same bus back to New York together, and from then on everything moved smoothly and very quickly. This relationship was easy. It wasn’t fraught with conflict; it was perfect for me. We came into it with such balance. Our thoughts on topics across the values spectrum were perfectly in tune:

  Religion—atheist

  Politics—progressive

  Finances—almost equal amounts of debt and almost equal salaries (high and low, respectively)