The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  “What do you expect? She’s not a show dog,” Faith said.

  “Faith, I’m on your side. Anyway, your friends should ask the schools to give Mae’s application special attention, and they should promise that if she’s admitted, Steven would serve as the chairman of the annual fund committee. Just tell Steven that he has to do this for you. He will.”

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “Of course it will. You just haven’t been rich long enough to naturally think this way. Trust me, helping each other’s children get ahead is a time-honored tradition among the wealthy. Remember Tipper Bucket, who used to work in Consumer Debt Marketing?”

  “I think so. Young black woman?”

  “Yes. Well now she’s assistant director of admissions at Harvard Day.”

  Faith lowered her voice. “Is it true Harvard Day’s the feeder school to Harvard University?”

  “No, that’s what they want you to believe, but they’re not even connected. Anyway, Tipper told me that schools can be bribed as long as it’s done tastefully and everyone pretends it’s a donation. She says it happens all the time.”

  “Who knew? Okay, Ivy. It’s a plan,” Faith said. “God, what a nightmare. I feel worse about getting Mae into kindergarten than I did about getting shingles when Rodney turned gay on me.”

  “Faith, don’t say that. Remember the pain you were in?”

  “Yes, but I had more control in that situation,” Faith said firmly. “I’d take shingles over getting my kid into private school any day.”

  The Balmoral School auction was promoted as a community builder, but I didn’t feel welcome. I’d budgeted $100 to spend. I know that was nothing compared to the indecent amounts other families would fork over, but I wanted to contribute in the piddly way that I could.

  Faith and I walked around examining the smaller items for sale—paintings, autographed baseballs, theater tickets, that sort of thing. The organizers had written in suggested first bids, with most starting at $250. Finally, I found a pair of doggie sunglasses for Sir Elton from Mary Kate and Ashley’s new pet accessories line. I penciled in my $100 offer and hoped there would be no bidding war.

  Later, they were holding a live auction where terminally privileged parents would fight over one-of-a-kind items. This year there was a penthouse suite on the Crystal Symphony for a seven-day Italian cruise, a small part in a Martin Scorsese movie, one thousand copies of your child’s book published by Doubleday, a dinner date at Rao’s with George Clooney, and a chance to have Kevin Kline recite postprandial sonnets at the winning bidder’s dinner party.

  “What are postprandial sonnets?” Faith whispered.

  “You obviously never went to private school, or you’d know what those were,” I told her.

  “No. I attended the fine public schools of Paterson, New Jersey.”

  “Right, I forgot you were from New Jersey. No wonder you don’t know what postprandial sonnets are.”

  “Do you know what they are?” Faith asked.

  “Hell, no.”

  Faith and I sat together at the dinner catered by the executive chef from La Tour d’Argent, who had flown in from Paris for the occasion. At first, no one at our table talked to us, and I pretended not to care. Then, Bitsy Frakas recognized Faith as Steven Lord’s wife. I heard her whisper to Dolce de Nagy, “Why didn’t someone tell me she wasn’t a nobody?” From that moment on, Bitsy, Dolce, and all the other wives got cozy with me in hopes of befriending Faith. Organizers made sure wine flowed freely to loosen parents up before going in for the big auction kill. The same group of twenty high rollers bid on everything, showing off for each other and the rest of the community. I know I was impressed.

  When the date with George Clooney came up, Faith raised her paddle. “It’ll be your birthday present,” she whispered.

  10. Park Avenue Penniless

  “Are you crazy?” I said to Faith. “I can’t go out with George Clooney. He’s the sexiest man alive.”

  When the bidding got up to $10,000, I insisted she stop. “I’d rather have the postprandial sonnets. Please get me those.”

  “Not a chance. Kevin Kline’s married. Besides, you’ve had a rough time, and I want to get you something special this year. You’re going on a date with George Clooney if it’s the last thing I do.”

  The bidding was fierce. Dinner at Rao’s was so famously impossible to come by that most people were vying for the meal, screw the date with George. An eleven-table Mafia-friendly restaurant open just for dinner, closed on weekends, Rao’s has but one coveted seating a night. The only way to get a reservation is to know an insider who “owns” a table, either a big shot like Tommy Mottola or a regular Joe from the neighborhood who just happened to grow up with Frankie Pellegrino, the owner. The President of the United States couldn’t get seated at Rao’s without the right connections. The place had become even hotter since Louis “Lump-Lump” Barone whacked Albert Circelli in the dining room for insulting a guest who got up to sing “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” In the end, Faith’s $35,000 bid—not including food—prevailed.

  On Monday, I interviewed at Citigroup. Vice President of Debit Card Marketing. They liked me. I could tell. But I was already bored with the work and I hadn’t even taken the job. It was along the lines of what I’d done at Myoki, with more responsibility, a smaller staff, paying 30 percent less than before. Still, it would mean a regular pay-check and benefits. I had to consider it.

  Meanwhile, next year’s tuition bills arrived from the girls’ school. Skyler’s came to $25,950 and Kate’s was $24,950—a bargain because she was younger. I also held in my hand the annual fund solicitation I’d been sitting on. They would expect at least $5,000 per child if we were to have our names listed on the bottom ring of the giving tree. I couldn’t bear the thought of contributing less and having our donation appear under the roots. Sadly, I realized I could no longer afford to keep the girls in their first-class, luxury school. The magnificent beaux arts mansion where they spent their days dressed in perfect little uniforms, lined up in two straight lines like Madeleine’s class—it would all have to go.

  Embarrassed, I called the head of admissions and told her we would probably need to withdraw next year. I explained that we loved the school but were experiencing an economic downturn. “Is financial aid a possibility?” I inquired. “No, what little we have is already committed. Just let me know by next week if you want your spaces,” she said. “I have to replace the girls if they’re not coming back.” She was cold and uncompassionate. Clearly, it didn’t matter that Skyler and Kate had to leave. All that talk about how we were a community wasn’t meant to include families who were down on their luck.

  Drayton, that bottom-feeder, made a lowball offer for our apartment, contingent on my writing a glowing recommendation on behalf of the entire Bird family for his co-op board package. On principle, I should have refused. But I didn’t have the stomach to put scruples before my overdrawn bank account. The market had softened. There was no bidding war, just one other bid. And after that deal fell through, Drayton’s paltry proposition was our only possibility. With that, I would clear enough to give Cadmon half the profits and rent a small apartment in a semi-bad neighborhood.

  I signed a lease on a place near Orchard and Delancey—the Lower East Side. The area had become trendy of late for its true grittiness and complete lack of hip, but so far the landlords hadn’t caught on. Bargains could still be had. It was where my grandparents, like so many others, came when they immigrated to America. Then it was a neighborhood of pickle shops, pushcarts, tenements, and synagogues. In more recent years, there had been an influx of Latino and Chinese settlers. The elementary school in the neighborhood was terrible, but there was a charter program nearby that savvy parents clamored to get their kids into.

  When I got to the registrar’s office, she handed me a bunch of papers. “The good news is we have open registration beginning tomorrow at noon.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “I�
��ll fill these out and bring them back.”

  “Wait, you didn’t hear the bad news.”

  “The bad news?”

  “Yes. Do you see the line that starts at our front door?”

  “The one that goes clear to the Bowery? What’s it for?”

  “That’s the line to register.”

  “There’s already a line to register?”

  “Yup.” She lowered her voice. “I suggest you get on line right now or you won’t get your kids in.”

  “You expect me to wait in that line for”—I looked at my watch—“twenty-eight hours?”

  “Only if you want to get your kids in.”

  I thanked the woman and ran like a mugger to claim my space. Then I called Faith and asked her to pick up the girls and Sir Elton and keep them overnight.

  “Ivy, you’re not going to spend the night on the street, are you?” she asked. “That’s dangerous.”

  “I most certainly am if it means getting the girls into this school. But would you do me a favor? Would you send over a pillow and blanket before midnight?”

  “Ivy, girls like you don’t stand in line all night for anything,” she said. “Why don’t I send one of our drivers to stand for you? You can take his place in the morning.”

  I looked around at the moms and dads waiting in front of me. They were prepared with bags of food, blankets, pillows, pee bottles. Some were playing cards, others were reading; still others were talking on their cell phones. Parents were yelling at their kids to stay close by. The little ones were attracted to an albino man with a parrot on a leash. “No,” I told Faith. “I think I’d better do this myself.”

  As the sun was setting, a stretch limo pulled up to the curb. A uniformed maid stepped out of the backseat with a feather pillow, a blow-up mattress, and a down quilt. Then the chauffeur emerged, carrying a wicker picnic basket overflowing with fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, rolls, brownies, and bottled water. There was wine for later, bagels with cream cheese for breakfast, and a Thermos with hot coffee-light, prepared just the way I liked it. Faith thoughtfully included a portable blow-up potty that zipped shut after every use. When the limo pulled away, the other parents circled like buzzards.

  A plus-sized mama led the charge. “What the hell’re you doing taking up a space in this school? Don’t you know how many poor people, with nowhere else to go, want their kids here?”

  “Yeah, go back to private school, you rich bitch,” a nerdy guy who was emboldened by the crowd said. Others voiced similar sentiments, and not very politely, I might add.

  I was completely out of my milieu, unfamiliar with the etiquette required to calm an agitated mob. In other words, I was fucked.

  11. Nouveau Bitch

  Surrounded by angry parents, I held up my hands to quiet them. That didn’t work. So I closed my eyes and sang “Close to You” like I meant it. Singing is a talent I have. Really, I have a captivating soprano voice. Everyone says that, not just me. Most people find “Close to You” so painfully sappy that I thought it might shut the crowd up. It did.

  Why do birds suddenly appear

  Every time . . . you are near?

  Just like me, they long to be

  Close to you-oo-oo . . .

  I took advantage of the mob’s stunned silence to explain myself. “Thank you,” I said. “Please hear me out. I need to get my children into this school as much as you do. I’m not wealthy. I can’t afford private. It just happens that my friend married a rich guy on the Upper East Side. She knew I’d be standing on line, so she sent things to make the wait easier. Do you think I’d be doing this if I didn’t have to?”

  The crowd mumbled. Then the nerd who called me a “rich bitch” piped up. “If your friend’s got so much money, why don’t you ask her to send your kids to private school?”

  The other parents shouted, “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Even I have my pride,” I said. “So would anyone like something to eat? I’m happy to share,” I added, trying to ease the tension.

  No one took me up on my offer. Fine, be that way, I thought. Finally, Plus-Sized Mama broke the ice. “So,” she said, “you got a girl or a boy?”

  “Two girls, six and almost eight. You?”

  “My boy’s five. My girl’s eight. I’m takin’ them out of the I’ve Got a Dream School.”

  “What’s wrong with the I’ve Got a Dream School?”

  “No library. No PE. Parents don’t care,” she said. “School of the Basics is the third-best public school in the city. Their PTA’s real active.”

  “Maybe we can work on a committee together,” I suggested. “I’m Ivy Ames.”

  Plus-Sized Mama couldn’t resist my natural charm. “I’m Louise Fernandez,” she said, peering into my picnic basket. “So, are those brownies homemade?” By midnight, we were exchanging recipes and singing “Funky Cold Medina” to pass the time.

  The line began moving at noon. By four, I’d registered the girls for their new school. I wondered which was better, waiting in line for thirty-two hours to sign your child up for public school or going through the string-pulling and scrutiny of applying to private school. Then I realized that the question was meaningless. This was how the world worked. Regular people stood in line and privileged folk took part in elaborate rituals designed to separate the wheat from the chaff. As Cad used to say, “It is what it is.”

  On Friday, I joined Skyler’s class for a field trip to the Martin Beck Theater on Broadway. I would miss being available to chaperone school outings like this when I went back to work.

  Her class was performing in an assembly about the human body in April. Each child had been assigned an internal organ to play. They had to research the function and, in the character of their heart or liver or gallbladder, present a monologue on its role in the human body—a combination science/drama project. Harrison Ford’s ex-next-door neighbor arranged the field trip. Her child, Harrison’s goddaughter, was in Skyler’s class. As a favor to the little girl, he had generously volunteered to teach the kids some basic acting techniques. I wanted to be there for Skyler, of course, but I also secretly fancied Harrison. I decided that if there was even the slightest chance he would throw Calista over for me, I had to introduce myself.

  “I’m going to be a bile duct,” Skyler had told me a few days earlier. “Will you help me research what a bile duct does?”

  “A bile duct? Why in the world did they make you a bile duct? There are so many more interesting body parts.”

  “I was supposed to be a colon,” Skyler explained. “But when I wasn’t looking, Bea talked to Mrs. Hatcher and said she wanted to be the colon, so Mrs. Hatcher took it away from me. All that was left was the stinky bile duct.”

  How very like her father that Bea Bird was.

  “Well, bile ducts aren’t so bad. We’ll make it interesting,” I promised.

  My luck, Sassy also accompanyed the class on the field trip. She kept her distance and pretended I wasn’t there.

  “Pee-puull, pee-puull, be your body part,” Harrison shouted. “Electra, I want to see some beating from you. Hearts beat, you know. Skyler, open and close, open and close, let the bile in and out, in and out. Bea, dance like a spastic colon, let me see some movement. Elena, in and out, in and out, feel what it’s like to be a pair of lungs. Michaela, you’re not looking very brain-like, I want to see those synapses connecting,” Harrison said as he quickly snapped his fingers. While he directed, Mrs. Hatcher walked around and corrected the girls’ positions. Harrison was so busy with the kids that he didn’t pay attention to the mommies. That was a blow. I’d spent hours making myself gorgeous, while looking like I hadn’t tried. That’s not as easy as it sounds.

  To our mutual chagrin, Sassy and I found ourselves seatmates on the bus going home.

  “Aren’t we lucky our girls are at Balmoral?” Sassy asked. “Where else would they get acting lessons from one of America’s top stars?”

  “Yes, where else? You know, I think I’d like
the school better if there was more diversity,” I added, attempting to set the stage for our impending departure to the Lower East Side. The Ames girls didn’t leave because of financial problems. Heavens, no! Ivy wanted the girls at a school with more diversity.

  “How can you say Balmoral doesn’t have enough diversity? Some parents have jets, others have yachts. Some girls are royal, others are common. Some families inherited their wealth, others are self-made.”

  I was silent, wondering whether or not Sassy was serious. Given the earnest expression on her face, I guessed that she was.

  “And of course,” Sassy stage-whispered, “there’s that adorable little black girl in their class, the one whose father plays for the Knicks. Not that her skin color matters, not that I even notice things like that. By the way, Skyler makes a wonderful bile duct.”

  “Sassy, don’t even go there. You know as well as I do that Skyler was supposed to be the colon.”

  Sassy let out a nervous gravelly laugh. In addition to her perfect face and figure, Sassy had one of those sultry Kathleen Turner voices. “Did you hear Drayton was promoted?”

  “No, congratulations.”

  “He’ll be an EVP. He’s playing in the majors now.”

  “You must be proud.” Gosh, I didn’t think he was handsome enough to rise that high at Myoki, I restrained myself from saying.

  “How’s Cad?” she asked.

  “Fine, I suppose. I only talk to him when he picks up the girls.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. I’d received several late-night calls from Cad suggesting we try to patch things up. He swore he would never be unfaithful again. We’d had many good years together and Cadmon wanted to try to recapture that. I, on the other hand, knew there was nothing left to salvage, at least not for me. I’d never be able to move beyond his betrayal. Dad promised Mom he’d never cheat again, and then went on to break her heart and mine. “I’m sorry,” I’d tell him. “I don’t want to be your wife anymore.” In fact, I was already interviewing lawyers.