The Kindergarten Wars

by Alan Eisenstock

  “So glad you could make it,” Miranda trills, squeezing Katie’s left biceps in greeting.

  “Well, I wouldn’t miss it,” Katie says, which is not party talk but the deepest truth.

  “This is a wonderful opportunity to ask any questions about Hunsford that you never had the chance to ask before and to spend some quality time with Brianna. And there will be a short PowerPoint detailing the Hunsford curriculum. That alone is worth it.”

  That I can do without, Katie thinks.

  “You, of course, know Brianna?” Miranda says, her eyes blinking rapidly as if she is in the midst of a college REM experiment.

  “We’ve met. I don’t know if she remembers me. She interviews so many parents.”

  “Come. Let’s get reacquainted,” Miranda croons, her hand now on Katie’s elbow steering her across the room as if she were a blind person.

  Before they even approach striking distance, Brianna swivels toward them, eager to disengage from Pinstripe. She extends a bony hand to Katie, who grasps it warmly, firmly, careful not to apply too much pressure or to, God forbid, unknowingly crush her fingers.

  “Katie Miller. Not sure you remember—”

  “Of course I remember. Your daughter’s Alex, right?”

  Well, that’s all it takes. Mention the kid and the smile is a sunburst.

  “I remember her very well,” Brianna continues. “She had a wonderful visit. So sweet.”

  “Thanks,” Katie says. “We like her.”

  She laughs, Miranda giggles, then winks at Katie and veers off to intercept a confused-looking latecomer. Brianna smiles, allowing Katie her opening. She doesn’t need more than a sliver. She is off and running, diving into an eight-minute conversation, Katie will estimate, that includes the discussion of a wonderful parenting book Katie has just read, which Brianna recommended during their interview, the increased traffic flow in the city, thankfully not a problem for Katie because she’s only five minutes away, climaxing with Katie’s stating again, for the millionth time, that Hunsford is far and away her first choice. Two other parents, a couple suited in matching charcoal silk, smelling of wealth, appear, and Brianna shifts away from Katie to them, signaling the end of their time together with a subtle finger wave. Bonding-wise, the rest of the evening is uneventful, the PowerPoint providing a rehash of Hunsford’s philosophy, but the presentation is so slick and professionally accomplished that it actually amps up her desire for the school even more.

  The evening ends on a high note, a moment that makes it all worth it. On behalf of the Hunsford Parents’ Association, Miranda thanks the thirty prospective parents for coming to visit Hunsford again, “on a school night,” an expression that evokes a larger than deserved laugh. Thank-yous all around and Katie, seeing Brianna again painted into the corner, decides she will not leave without saying a proper good-bye. She makes her way through a cluster of stragglers and smiles at the director of admissions, who smiles back.

  “It was so nice talking with you,” Katie says.

  “Likewise,” Brianna says. “We’ll see you soon.”

  Driving home, Katie ponders Brianna’s words.

  “She said, ‘We’ll see you soon.’ Was that a reaction, a reflex, like something innocuous you say to somebody when they’re leaving, or was she giving me a little hint? I don’t know. But she knew my name. I can’t believe she remembers everybody’s name, unless she’s letting you in. Or unless she’s giving us the boot.”

  Katie bites her lip. “Three weeks from tomorrow. I think I’ve hit the wall. I just want to know. Why do they wait so long to send out the letters? They drag it out forever. It’s torture. I feel like I can’t even go back to my life until I know where my kid is going to school. I’m in limbo.”

  She drums her fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Limbo Woman,” she says. “That’s who I am. Just tell me. Put me out of my misery so I know what I can embrace.”

  On Friday, March 25, the day the letters arrive, Katie decides to host a party for herself, “Katie’s Acceptance Letter Bash,” she calls it. The guest list is small and exclusive. She invites only Trina and her close friend Erika, who has a son entering kindergarten in her local public school. Since her mail doesn’t usually come until four o’clock at the earliest, Katie calls the party for three-thirty, just to be safe. She considers chasing down the mail carrier the day before and tipping him twenty dollars to guarantee a four o’clock delivery, but he is nowhere to be found.

  “You never know when the mail’s gonna come,” Katie says. “Could be four, could be five. I really don’t know. In any case, be prepared to imbibe large amounts of alcohol. Champagne, if the news is good, vodka, if it’s not. Either way, I plan to drink heavily.”

  Trina calls her Friday morning just after eleven. “My mail came,” she says. Her voice is flat.

  “Tell me.”

  “You were right. I got into all three.”

  “My God, Trina! That’s great. I am so happy for you.”

  “I’m kind of amazed, actually. I honestly didn’t think—”

  “Trina.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry . . . Katie, do you really think the Mexican thing helped?”

  “Duh.”

  “I’m not so good at this getting-what-I-asked-for thing. I’m much better at being pissed off and cynical.”

  “I can’t believe Pascal will be among the elite at Meryton. Score.”

  Trina rubs her forehead. She feels a dull ache pulsing over the bridge of her nose. “Actually, I’m thinking about sending him to St. Mary’s.”

  “You were serious about that? Trina, nobody turns down Meryton.”

  “I know. I just think St. Mary’s might be better for him. Meryton has the great reputation of coddling the kids, taking care of them, all of that. I think Pascal needs more structure and—I can’t say this to anyone but you—more discipline. He really does.”

  “It’s such a drive.”

  “That’s the least of it. I’ll do it. He’s my kid.”

  “You should sleep on it.”

  “I know,” Trina says. “I have some time. I’m definitely going to sleep on it.”

  But Katie knows Trina has already made up her mind.

  “Four-fifteen and I’m mail-less,” Katie says Friday afternoon, leaning against her kitchen counter. Her friend Erika Nahagian, a dark-haired, husky-voiced beauty wearing a white T-shirt, jeans, and a somber expression, stands propped against the oven. Delayed, Trina has called three times on her cell. In the midst of errands, she and Pascal are tangled in traffic on the east side of town and are not expected for another hour.

  “This is exasperating,” Erika says. “Mail should arrive by three o’clock at the latest.”

  “I’m pouring myself a drink,” Katie says. “Want one?”

  “Yes, please,” Erika says. “Is there vodka?”

  “Vats,” Katie says.

  “We’re saving the champagne,” Erika announces.

  Katie pours two fingers of vodka, straight, no ice, no chaser, into two glasses. Erika takes one of the glasses and holds it at eyebrow level.

  “To getting in,” she says.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Katie says. She plunks her glass against Erika’s, takes a long swallow, and smacks her lips.

  “Mommy.” Alex, dragging a tattered teddy bear by its ear, staggers into the kitchen. She pops her thumb into her mouth.

  “What, baby?” Katie says, crouching down to her daughter. “Are you tired?”

  Alex nods, rests her head against her mother.

  “We got home from my in-laws’ at like two in the morning,” Katie explains. “She’s wasted. Come, let’s chill, okay?”

  Katie lifts Alex into her arms and carries her from the room. Erika sips her drink, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “This is a phenomenon, in a way,” Erika says. “I mean, I live in a neighborhood that’s fancy. A lot of wealthy people, well-known people. We all send our kids to public s
chool. Getting into Hunsford or Meryton is a prestige thing, like wearing the right label. Meryton is—”

  She waves a hand high above her head, a gesture that implies that Meryton exists in some other dimension.

  “I don’t think the kids at Meryton are getting a better education. Or if they are, it’s certainly not twenty thousand times better.”

  Another hit of vodka. Erika peers into her glass, tries to conceal her look of amazement that half her drink is gone.

  “What I do like about the process, though, is that when you think about it, it’s kind of democratic. You go, you interview, you try your best to impress each of the schools, and everybody has a chance, no matter where you live. So even if you don’t have a good public school, you do have the opportunity to go private. Being so close with Katie, I feel like I’ve gone through the whole thing with her. I feel so sorry for her. It’s been a roller coaster.”

  Katie returns to the kitchen, makes a beeline for her drink. “I put Alex down. She may take a short nap.”

  Katie takes a quick gulp, slides the glass onto the counter. “I heard what you said about your public school. I started there, thought that I could make ours work for Alex. But there were so many things that bothered me. I wanted public school. I went to public school, Miles did, why shouldn’t our kids? Well, everything’s changed.”

  “I think you should’ve called in all your favors. That’s the only way to get into some of these schools,” Erika says, her point about the process being democratic blurring in an apparent vodka haze.

  An hour passes. Alex naps fitfully for fifteen minutes, stumbles out of her bed, gets into a fight over some toy with Nick. Katie referees, settles them down, comes back, then steps outside to search for the mail truck. Erika deals with her kids, who are restless, bored, and perhaps hungry. Five-thirty approaches. Nobody expected the mail to be this late. At five-forty, a dog barks, a signal, and Katie and Erika, both buzzed, in the living room now, run for the front door. Katie flings it open, shields her eyes with her hand.

  “It’s here.”

  “Finally,” Erika says, her hand a visor, too.

  “Of all days,” Katie says.

  “I’m dying,” says Erika.

  “You’re dying?” Katie laughs, loudly.

  A kid screams somewhere in the back.

  “Shit,” Katie says.

  “Mine,” says Erika. She heads off. Katie stays cemented to the front walk, her hand shading her forehead. She sways slightly. Waiting.

  “Maybe I should go over to him, get the mail myself,” she says. “Screw it. I’ve waited this long. What’s two more minutes?”

  Erika, kid quieted and banished to the backyard, returns to an empty living room. She hurls herself onto the couch. “My heart is beating. I’m really nervous.”

  A moment later, Katie comes in holding a small pile of letters, a magazine, and one large envelope.

  “Only one big one,” she says, brandishing the envelope.

  Silence.

  “One big one?” Erika says. “From where? From where?”

  “Evergreen.” Katie’s voice has flatlined. She speaks as if someone has died. She tosses the Evergreen envelope onto the coffee table. It slaps onto a small stack of Times and Newsweeks, bumps into an unopened bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  “From Evergreen?” Erika, searching for the right tone, failing, her disappointment leaking out. “Did you get everything?”

  “I think so,” Katie says, her voice hitting a high note, out of control. She holds each of the remaining four admissions letters, weighing them in the palm of her hand. “Okay. Meryton is no. Hunsford is no. Warwick is no. Bingley is no.”

  “Are you sure? How do you know for sure?”

  “That’s what it says.” Katie’s voice an alien lilt now.

  “It says no on the front?”

  Katie, all patience, as if explaining to Alex, says, “No. Look.” She picks up the large Evergreen envelope, stabs it at Erika as if it’s a weapon. “This is the welcome packet. I didn’t get in anywhere else.”

  After a beat, Erika says, “Let’s make sure. They might say congratulations.”

  Katie bobs her head slowly in a kind of yoga motion, then rips open the Hunsford envelope, pulls out the letter, and reads, “I am pleased to offer you a place—”

  “YESSSS!” Erika screams.

  “In our waiting pool.” Katie stares at the letter and says, “Fuck you.”

  “Aw fuck,” Erika says. “Why do they start with ‘I am pleased’? That’s so unfair. The waiting pool.”

  Katie doesn’t look up from the letter. She reads it once, then again, perhaps trying to will it to transform into different words offering a different conclusion.

  “Yep,” she says finally, still not looking up. “The. Waiting. Pool.”

  “Shit,” Erika says, then, softly, “Are you sad?”

  “I’m . . . disappointed,” Katie says. Eyes still fastened on the letter, her fingers clinging to the margins.

  “You’re not going to open Meryton’s?”

  “No. Why should I? It’s the same thing. All the little ones are the no’s.” Still holding the Hunsford letter, she reaches over and tears open the letter from Bingley. She reads the letter rapid-fire, refuses to articulate any of the words.

  “You have bumbumbumbumbumbum. Yeah. Waitlist. Okayyy.”

  “Well, at least you made the waitlist,” Erika says, not daring to look at her.

  “Evergreen offered us a space. Warwick? Another little one.” Katie doesn’t even bother to open that one either. A pause.

  “I’m disappointed,” Katie says, her voice trembling. This time disappointed is clearly code for devastated.

  “I would be heartbroken,” Erika says.

  “This is a vodka day,” Katie says. “Fuck the champagne.” She rips open the remaining two letters, speed-reads through them, and says again, “This is really disappointing.”

  “Are you going to go to Evergreen?”

  “No,” Katie says. “I don’t think so.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She reaches for the Evergreen packet, opens it, and pulls out a contract. She nods, confirms that they have indeed invited Alex to become a member of their incoming kindergarten class, shoves the contract back inside the envelope. “I’m gonna call Miles.”

  She stands up, teeters for a second, eyes the champagne bottle with some combination of rage and sadness, and leaves the room.

  “I don’t like the ‘I am pleased,’” Erika says. “That’s unfair. I got excited for a second.”

  Erika sighs, sifts through the four letters scattered on the coffee table, remnants of destruction. She picks up one, reads it briefly, puts it back onto the pile. “I know they loved Alex. How can they not love her? How can they not want this family?”

  Katie returns, a cordless phone attached to her ear. “It just says waiting list. There are no numbers. It’s a wait pool. I don’t know if it’s random or not.”

  She picks up the Hunsford letter, looks it over again, then reads it aloud into the phone. “It opens with, ‘I am pleased to offer you a place in our waiting pool at Hunsford School.’ Isn’t that crazy? Anyway, I just wanted to call you and let you know. I’ll speak to you. Okay. Bye.”

  Katie clicks off the phone and tucks herself into the corner of the couch. Her outside hand reveals a freshly poured glass of vodka, this time three fingers on the rocks.

  “Oh well,” she says.

  “You can still try the lottery at my public school,” Erika says.

  “How am I gonna get in there? It’s impossible.” Katie reaches down and picks up the Hunsford letter. She reads it through again, nods as if digesting the news for the first time, and throws the letter into the air. It flutters to the floor, three feet from the couch.

  “Can you believe this? I’m stunned. I’ll tell you what made me think I had a chance at Hunsford.”

  “They loved
Alex,” Erika says.

  “Actually, it was Evergreen that loved Alex. I can still go to Evergreen. That’s the thing. But the reason I thought I had a chance was at that coffee Brianna said to me, ‘We’ll see you soon.’”

  Erika lowers her eyes, sips her drink.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Katie says. She pounds back a third of the vodka. Approaching cartoon tipsy, she begins to slur her words. “I know that in the past, a lot of stuff gets shifted around. People get a yes from Hunsford and they end up going somewhere else. And they say no thank you to Hunsford. However . . .”

  Another sip. Katie winces, allows the Grey Goose to slide down her throat.

  “However,” she repeats, the words working their way out in near slow motion, “this year it was so many people’s first choice.”

  “No, but I think they’re lying,” Erika says. “I do. I think everybody says that every school’s their first choice. I know that if I were doing it, I would.”

  “Yeahhh,” Katie says, adrift, not in any condition to argue. She looks out her living room window. She is floating, wondering . . .

  “I would say it to every single school,” Erika says. She rims her glass with her finger. After several seconds of stone cold silence, she asks, “Are you gonna call them?”

  “They’re not here. They’re on vacation. That’s why they do it this way. Everybody’s gone.”

  Katie exhales massively. A sigh of pain, of grief.

  “I have heard of people who get in, though,” Erika says. “I mean, at the last minute.”

  She is trying. She never expected this. She came here thinking there would be celebration and champagne.

  “I’ve heard about a lot of people that happened to,” Katie says without much conviction. “People who got a call after they’d already sent in their deposit somewhere else. You don’t get your deposit back. Well.” She pauses. “Let me put my mail away. It’s not the best mail.”