The Kindergarten Wars

by Alan Eisenstock

  Then, suddenly, she feels the sweat.

  It’s this stupid hat, Trina thinks. Why did I decide to wear this thing? Now I’m stuck with it. I can’t take it off. I’ll look like Don King in the rain.

  The sweat is no mere rivulet leaking under the brim of her brand-new purchase, a lime green straw sun hat, the perfect accessory to her slightly darker green sundress. The sweat is pouring onto her forehead, forming a freaking pond. She should bolt into the restroom to regroup but she has already been in there twice. The receptionist, that frosty twenty-five-year-old with the perfect skin, will probably report to Elizabeth Marx, Meryton’s director of admissions, that her two o’clock kept running into the bathroom, probably to do a line of coke. Feeling the lake on her forehead, Trina considers that she should just stand up, make some excuse, and flee.

  I’ve made a giant mistake applying here, she thinks. First of all, I’ve made a giant mistake with this outfit. A hat? Nobody wears hats anymore. It’s a good thing I didn’t go for the gloves, too. That would have been the topper. I mean, who am I, fucking Eloise?

  Trina swipes her forehead with her hand and examines her sweat-soaked palm. Without thinking, she dries her hand across the couch cushion. She looks up and catches the receptionist’s eye. Trained on her. Frowning.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Trina lies. “It’s just kind of hot in here. With the wicker and all.”

  “Can I get you some water?”

  The receptionist is up from her desk and out of the room before Trina can answer. Her forehead is flooding. This time, screw it, she wipes the sweat and presses her palm into a page of Cicada. The receptionist appears and hands Trina a bottle of Arrowhead.

  “Thank you,” Trina says, and in one motion chugs half the bottle. “I’m sorry.”

  “No worries,” the receptionist says, back at her post, rewired to a headset, an eye on the flat screen in front of her.

  “I’m not usually like this,” Trina says.

  The receptionist smiles. A reassuring smile. Part of her job, Trina knows. To be reassuring. And sympathetic. They probably asked her to smile as part of her job interview. Give me your best reassuring smile. That’s good. Now give me sympathetic. No, that was kind of condescending. Good. That’s it. You’re hired.

  Trina drains the bottle. She stifles another big sigh. “I’m really not,” she says.

  The receptionist looks up, squints. “Excuse me?”

  “Like this. Nervous. I don’t get this way. I don’t have a lot of stress in my life. There used to be. But I got control of it. Made some good choices. Career and personal. Yeah. Pascal and I live a pretty stress-free existence, all things considered.”

  “That’s good.” That smile.

  “Oh God,” Trina says and buries her head in her hands.

  Breathe, she says to herself. Just take your time and breathe. Trina closes her eyes and takes a slow cleansing breath, the way she learned in yoga. She exhales and begins to count . . . one, two, three . . . hold . . . one two three . . .

  When she opens her eyes, the receptionist is staring at her. Her once reassuring smile has become a gape of alarm.

  “Do you want to breathe into a paper bag?”

  “I’m okay,” Trina says softly. “I’m breathing okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Trina closes her eyes. Breathes. Exhales slowly.

  “You know what it is?” she says, her eyes still closed. “I feel so vulnerable. I’m sitting here, waiting for this interview, and I’m thinking, why am I even here? Meryton doesn’t accept anybody. I’m never gonna get in. You know? I mean, you do know. It’s silly. I’m here for one of five spots and you have a thousand applicants. What the hell am I doing here? What is Elizabeth Marx going to see in me? That’s what I’m thinking. And that’s why I’m sweating.”

  Trina D’Angelo opens her eyes. Standing in front of her is Elizabeth Marx, a short, round woman in her fifties with graying hair, high cheekbones, and deeply set blue eyes. She wears a light green sundress and a matching straw hat, nearly identical to Trina’s.

  “Seems like we have the same good taste in hats,” Elizabeth says. “I’m Elizabeth.”

  “Trina.” Somehow, some way, she is on her feet, feeling light-headed but shaking hands with Elizabeth Marx.

  “I’m a wreck,” Trina says.

  “You’re gonna be fine,” Elizabeth says.

  Trina nods, on the verge of tears. Elizabeth Marx puts an arm around her as if Trina were her elderly grandmother or a mental patient and leads her down a hallway, into her office, which is yet another celebration of wicker.

  Trina lands on Elizabeth’s couch, takes another deep breath, and is jolted when Elizabeth sits down next to her. But then Elizabeth asks where she bought her hat and they are off and running. They go from talking about hats to talking about parenting books. Trina reads them religiously and she and Elizabeth discover that among her favorites are two Elizabeth endorses. Only then do they move on to Meryton, the school’s philosophy, and their philosophy of life in general. Elizabeth mentions a couple of current parents who have put in a good word for Trina. Trina relays a story about how she and one of the moms met in a parenting class for single mothers. At this point it’s as if Elizabeth and Trina are dear friends out for a drink.

  When Elizabeth brings up Pascal, it’s almost as if she is talking about a student who is already enrolled in Meryton. Trina wonders if this is merely a tactic, the way Elizabeth makes every prospective parent feel, when in fact there is no hope whatsoever of getting in. Trina can’t be sure. She does feel as if Elizabeth genuinely likes her. To seal the deal, she tosses off a mention of her Mexican heritage.

  “I know,” Elizabeth says. “I actually read your application. I also like that you’re not from the wealthiest neighborhood in town. We have enough elite of the elite.”

  “Oh, Pascal and I provide all kinds of diversity. Ethnic, economic, cultural. All wrapped up in one family.”

  “One-stop shopping.”

  They begin laughing, so loudly that they don’t hear the soft knocking on the door. The door inches open and the receptionist pokes her head in.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but your three o’clock is here.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be another five minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth reluctantly wraps up the interview.

  “I really have to go. I can’t keep those poor people waiting any longer.”

  She stands. Trina scrambles to her feet.

  “It was so lovely talking with you, Trina. I mean that.”

  “Same here. And I’m sorry I was such a basket case in the beginning.”

  “You were freaked out for no reason.”

  Elizabeth offers Trina a shy, almost conspiratorial pout, then spontaneously the two women hug. The brims of their straw hats mash into each other momentarily, then snap back into place when Elizabeth and Trina pull apart.

  “I will definitely be in touch with Gracie at Bright Stars.”

  “Great.”

  Elizabeth grabs both of Trina’s hands and holds them. “I want you to do me a favor, okay? Relax. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. Okay?”

  Trina nods. “Okay.”

  The moment she gets into her car, Trina calls Katie on her cell. On Katie’s hello, Trina screams into the phone.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  “What?”

  “The Meryton interview. I killed.”

  “What?”

  “It was amazing. Elizabeth Marx is in-fucking-credible. I love her. And you know what’s even better? She loves me!”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I am not kidding you. She loves me!”

  “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

  “I don’t know what to say. The whole thing is a blur. I was so nervous. I was sweating and practically crying and then we talked and we hugged and—”

  “You hugged?”
/>   “Yes! We fucking hugged! I was in there for an hour and fifteen minutes.”

  “This is unbelievable. You are in!”

  “I am in,” Trina says. “She gave every indication.”

  “I told you. Did I not say that you would get in everywhere?”

  “You did. But now I’m having like this wave of doubt. I mean, Meryton? Do I belong there? Elizabeth probably just gives great interview. You know what? It’s all up to what Gracie says. They don’t even meet the kid. It’s so weird. Probably a good thing. Pascal would probably blow it.”

  “But the interview went that well? You could really tell?”

  “Oh yeah,” Trina says. “You can tell. You’ll see.”

  For Katie, applying to Meryton has always felt like a formality.

  “I feel like it’s a waste of a hundred bucks,” Katie says. “I can’t really afford to throw away a hundred dollars. But I guess I’m looking at the whole Meryton application process as practice for Hunsford.”

  In fact, Meryton has already put her off. After mailing in the application, Katie expected to receive a postcard acknowledging that they had received it. After waiting two and a half weeks and hearing nothing, she called the Meryton admissions office to find out if they’d gotten her packet. They never called back.

  “Those rat bastards,” Katie says to Trina on their Sunday morning power walk. “They can’t even call me back?”

  “Maybe the postcard got lost in the mail,” Trina says, elbows up like wings, jabbing at the air with her fists.

  “With our old mailman, a distinct possibility.”

  “The crack addict?”

  “We’ve got a new guy. He comes every day without fail between three and six. But at least he comes every day. That’s a big improvement.”

  On Monday, Katie receives a letter from Meryton assigning her a Wednesday 10 a.m. interview time.

  “I wanted to push it off a week. Give us a chance to prep,” she tells Trina. “I called them and the assistant said, ‘You could really help me out by taking this time.’ I figured what the hell. It’s before Hunsford so this will be like our practice one.”

  The night before the Meryton interview, Katie picks out her clothes. She has planned a different outfit for each interview, something appropriate for each school.

  “I’ve taken marketing classes and you learn that, say, when you’re doing telemarketing and you hear somebody answer the phone with a southern drawl, it might not be such a bad idea to start talking with a southern accent yourself. Because people feel they can relate to something familiar. For Hunsford, Brianna wears smocks. I don’t really have anything like that, but the other women I’ve seen around her all tend to wear black sweater sets. So I’m pulling out my black sweater set for Hunsford. For Evergreen, Connie wears button-down blouses a lot. I have a button-down shirt all set for that interview. For Meryton tomorrow? Still haven’t figured that one out. I heard that Elizabeth wears a suit usually, but she crossed me up with that whole sundress thing. I’m not wearing a suit. And I’m not showing up in a sundress and hat like Trina. I don’t know. I go back and forth. Now, Miles wears the same thing every day, a pair of chinos and a T-shirt. Since it’s the fall, he can wear a button-down shirt, chinos, and shoes, not sneakers. He’s not wearing a suit or anything like that.”

  Katie goes to bed the night before the Meryton interview with only a vague idea of what she is going to wear. This lack of a specific plan is unlike her, but in the case of Meryton, her test case, she is willing to play it by ear.

  In the morning, Katie is, as she says, “put together” in a white blouse, black pants, black shoes, and a little scarf, just because there’s a bit of a morning chill. She stands at the counter in the kitchen taking one last hit of coffee when Miles comes in wearing chinos and a white T-shirt.

  “What are you doing? What is that?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t wear that. You have to wear a button-down shirt.”

  “Why?”

  Katie throws her hands up in the air and rolls her eyes at an invisible person standing next to Miles. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Katie, I’m not trying to impress anybody.”

  “It’s not that you’re trying to impress them. It’s just that you want to look like you’re a presentable”—she struggles to match the right phrase with her rising anger, fails—“upstanding citizen.”

  Miles shrugs. “Bruce Springsteen doesn’t wear a button-down shirt.”

  Katie stares at him. She blinks once, then speaks in the same slow, overly patient tone she uses with Alex when she is out of her head exasperated. “You know what? You’re not Bruce Springsteen. You don’t have that luxury. We’re just regular people who want to show that we’re respectful here.”

  She storms out of the room. Miles waits until she is out of sight, then mutters, “Really looking forward to the fight we’re gonna have before Hunsford.”

  He rinses out her coffee cup, stacks it in the dishwasher, then goes upstairs to change.

  They drive to Meryton in separate cars, Miles in the Volvo, Katie in the SUV. Right after the interview, Miles will leave for work and Katie will pick up Alex at Bright Stars and probably take her out to lunch. She has begun to prime Alex for her upcoming interviews. She is trying subtly to steer her in the direction of Hunsford.

  “Daddy and I are going to visit a school today,” she explained to Alex at breakfast.

  “Which one?”

  “It’s called Meryton. We’ve heard it’s very nice but we’re not sure. That’s why we’re going there today. We want to talk to them and find out. But there’s another school called Hunsford that I really like. I’ve visited there three times. The kids seemed so nice. They have a great playground, and oh, listen to this, Alex. They have a bunny. A pet bunny. Wouldn’t you like to go to a school that has their own bunny?”

  Alex shrugs.

  “I wish I could’ve gone to a school like that,” Katie says, turning to wipe off the counter with a clump of paper towel. Alex eyes her mother suspiciously.

  “The hardest part of my job,” Elizabeth Marx says as Katie and Miles settle into the wicker couch in her office and she pulls up a chair across from them, “is that there are so many fabulous families and so few spots.”

  Well, so that’s it, Miles thinks. Should I just get up right now, say, ‘Nice meeting you,’ and get the hell out of here? Because we’re not getting in here. She just told us that.

  Instead, he nods in mock sympathy. Elizabeth smiles and opens a blue folder she holds on her lap. She is wearing a black-and-white blouse and dark slacks, not unlike Katie’s outfit. She leans forward in her chair.

  “Let’s start by talking about Alex,” she says, looking inside the folder. “I want you each to give me three adjectives that describe her.”

  Katie frowns. She wasn’t prepared for a word association test to start off the interview. She searches her memory, tries to call up three words she used on the application. She hears herself say, “Charismatic, expressive, and charming.”

  “Energetic, cool, and hungry,” Miles says. “And when I say hungry, I don’t mean about food. I mean about life. She has this insatiable curiosity.”

  “Let’s talk about that,” Elizabeth says and, tilting her head toward Katie, warns, “and I want to know why you said ‘charismatic.’”

  For the next ten minutes they discuss Alex, elaborating on the words they chose. To Katie’s surprise and, frankly, delight, Miles does most of the talking. When Elizabeth asks, “What are your biggest challenges with Alex?” Miles jumps right in.

  “She can be very persistent if she doesn’t get her way. She doesn’t give up if you tell her no. She’s going to try another tactic. She can be tough that way. Also, because she is so verbal, we can forget sometimes that she’s only four. She will express herself so articulately that in a weird way it can be a problem on occasion. We want to challenge her and not be disrespectful of who she is as a person, but sh
e is still only four.”

  “I get it,” Elizabeth Marx says, nodding enthusiastically and writing something down on a form inside the folder. Then she asks, “What kinds of things do you guys do as a family?”

  It clicks in then for Katie that Elizabeth is asking them a standard set of questions. She is not really engaging them in conversation; she is going through the motions, ironically, just the way Katie is.

  “You could tell that we weren’t really contenders,” Katie says later. “It was kind of formal, kind of rote. Maybe if we had come in there bursting, saying, ‘We just want you to know before we start that Meryton is our first choice,’ it would have been a different type of interview. But we didn’t. It was what it was.”

  Forty minutes in, after asking a few more questions about Alex, mainly in connection with her current school experience, Elizabeth closes the folder. Katie expects her now to get personal, to ask about them, their interests, their jobs, try to get to know them a little bit. Instead, she asks, “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “I actually did prepare a few questions,” Katie says, stuffing her hand into her purse and quickly retrieving her notebook.

  “I also wrote down a couple of anecdotes and a few little notes about Alex,” Katie says afterward, on the way to the car. “I wanted it all down on paper because, quite frankly, sometimes I choke. Sometimes my mind goes blank. I was thrown off by how formal Elizabeth was, so by the book. She was nice and all but . . . I don’t know.”

  Katie scans the questions she wrote under the heading Meryton. She decides to go for question number three.

  “Everybody talks so positively about Meryton. You have such a great reputation. Do you ever get complaints? What don’t people like?”

  “Lice.”

  Elizabeth holds for a moment, than laughs.

  “That was a joke. Every school has lice. I’m sure Bright Stars—”

  “Oh yes, we went through that as well,” Katie assures her.

  “Okay, let’s see. Complaints. Well. I would say getting enough diversity. We are considered an elite school. We have no problem attracting families of means, people who can afford the tuition and more, but we’re always trying to expand, to be inclusive of all sorts of people. That is a constant goal for us.”