The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  “Are you in touch with Cad?” I asked Sassy.

  “Oh, no. That was just a short-term fling. It was purely sexual. It never should have happened. Plus, frankly, his penis is rather small, don’t you agree?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “His penis. You know, he has one of those teeney-weenies. Just like two grapes and a gummy worm,” she giggled.

  I glanced at Sassy. She returned my look expectantly. What? Was this supposed to be a girlfriend moment? Did she think we would bond over Cadmon’s shortcomings? Yes, let’s be best friends and make fun of your lover’s—my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s piddly little pleasure pickle. Won’t that be fun? I don’t know what happened. I’m usually such a controlled person. But at that moment, riding in that stuffy old school bus with no shock absorbers, I couldn’t contain the rage I felt toward this ill-bred ninny. I could not—no, I would not let Cad’s cockus erectus go undefended.

  “No, Sassy. I don’t think. CAD’S PENIS IS NOT SMALL. It’s AVERAGE.”

  “ALL RIGHT,” she said. “Don’t be so sensitive.”

  Oh, dear. We were speaking rather loudly. Everyone on the bus was staring. Mrs. Hatcher was giving us a disapproving-teacher look. “Sorry . . . so sorry everyone, forgive us, please,” I announced. “Next time we’ll use our inside voices.”

  12. Closet Envy

  Returning home from Skyler’s field trip, I found there were two messages. Susan from Citigroup Human Resources called and so did Faith. I rang Susan back first and she made the offer I expected. It wasn’t the dream job I’d hoped for, but there were no other options. I accepted it indifferently and we agreed I’d start in one week. I walked over to Faith’s to tell her the news.

  Her head of security escorted me upstairs.

  “I’m in here,” Faith shouted. “In the closet.” Faith was referring to her dressing suite. It was about half the size of my apartment. There was the marble bathroom, with its bidet, eucalyptus steam, aromatherapy pool, shower, Roman Jacuzzi, and cold pool. There was the wet-treatment room for wraps, scrubs, and hydrotherapy. The beauty salon was outfitted with anything a hairstylist or makeup artist would need to render Faith charity-ball ready. The massage and facial room was pure Zen. The dressing area itself was wall-to-wall mirrors, with a treadmill, elliptical machine, and bike in case Faith was too rushed to exercise in their downstairs gym. Faith’s clothes, arranged by color and season, hung on motorized racks like they use at dry cleaners. She owned pieces by every la-di-da designer in the world. Four walls held floor-to-ceiling perfectly organized shoes by Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Chanel, and other purveyors of strappy bejeweled footwear. Each pair was in its own box with a photo attached. In two other closets, hundreds of obscenely priced bags were lined up. Faith had come a long way from her days as an assistant manager at Myoki.

  “Hi, Ivy. Over here.” Avi was blowing out Faith’s hair while she talked to a geeky guy with a buzz cut. “This is Vladimir Kahn, my closet director. Vladimir, this is my friend, Ivy Ames.” Faith had to speak loudly over the sound of the blow-dryer. “Vladimir’s creating a computer catalog of everything in my closet. Now I’ll be able to go on-line and look through photos of my clothes organized by color, designer, degree of formality—whatever I want. When I pick an outfit and press ‘enter,’ it’ll be delivered up front. Show her, Vladimir.”

  Vladimir pulled up a photo of a Marc Jacobs flowery print dress. Below it, images of six pairs of matching shoes and six bags popped up. “Which accessories, Mrs. Lord?” he asked.

  “The Helmut Langs, definitely. And the Oscar de la Renta bag,” Faith answered.

  Vladimir selected the three pieces, and the racks in Faith’s closet started whirring and moving. Within seconds, the chosen items were assembled and waiting for her in the mirrored dressing area.

  “Is that cool, or what?” Faith said.

  “Cool. Except isn’t that a Ralph Lauren dress?” I asked.

  “Oh, my God. As if I would ever combine Ralph Lauren and Oscar de la Renta. Vladimir!”

  “I’ll fix it, don’t worry.” Vladimir turned to me. “We’re still working out the bugs, but when we get this up and running, it’ll cut Mrs. Lord’s dressing time in half,” he bragged.

  Avi put the finishing touches on Faith’s hair. Christophe, Faith’s stylist, came over to consult on tonight’s makeup and outfit. He was holding a gorgeous cocktail dress. “I’m seeing you in emerald-green Dior tonight, darling. With your Lucite stilettos and ruby red lips, you will be taboo, my love.”

  “Whatever you say, Christophe. Now, everybody but Ivy, out. Out. I need to talk to her.” The room cleared before Faith finished the sentence. “Ivy, I’ve got the best news. Your idea worked!”

  “Which idea was that?”

  “You know, getting Mae into private school. We got the wink-nod from two directors that if Steven chairs the annual fund and donates five hundred big ones next year, Mae’s in. It’s not official, but we were assured personally by both development heads that there’s nothing to worry about. Not only that, they’re falling all over each other to get us. We’re being wined and dined like the King of Siam. That’s why I’m getting all dressed up tonight. The head of St. Mary’s is taking us to Masa!”

  “And you only have to donate five hundred dollars. That’s great,” I said.

  “No, five hundred thousand. But it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely, definitely worth it. You must be relieved, huh?”

  “I am. I mean, I hate that she’s getting in this way. But with her behavior at the school visits, my cheesy essays, and Steven not coming to the parent interviews, I don’t see that we have a choice. Did I tell you she bit a girl at her Brearley visit? Drew blood.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  Christophe poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, gorgeous, but which jewels?”

  “My emerald necklace from Cartier,” Faith answered.

  Christophe looked like a broken man.

  “What?” Faith asked.

  Christophe’s expression was grim. “You will break my already fragile heart if you show up at Masa looking like you’re trying too hard. You want to impress this headmaster, yes, but in a way that says ‘I couldn’t care less what you think, fatso.’ What does that call for, my little pupil? Think. Think.”

  “Christian Tse!” Faith said.

  “Eg-zaaaactly,” Christophe said as his head disappeared from view.

  Faith stood up. “Ivy, there’s something I want to show you.” I followed her into the master suite. Faith dug through a stack of magazines in her nightstand and handed me last week’s New Yorker. “Did you read the article about that man who charges families forty thousand dollars to get their kids into college?”

  “Uhm, I read it,” I said. “He calls himself Dr. Margolis, right? He’s a doctor of law. Like that has anything to do with college admissions. I can’t believe anyone would pay so much.”

  Faith and I retired to the sitting area. She pressed an intercom button and ordered up a snack. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation last week. I would have given anything to have an expert like Dr. Margolis help Mae get into kindergarten. Why don’t you start a company that does that? The advice you gave me was perfect. You could do the same for other people.”

  “What would you have paid someone to help you?”

  “Hell, we’re paying half a mil to guarantee Mae a spot. If you’d been advising us all along, we could’ve done it on our own. I’m sure we’d have paid thirty or even forty thousand,” Faith said. “Not to sound like one of those neurotic parents, but if you don’t get your kid into the right kindergarten these days, you can forget the Ivy Leagues.”

  “Faith, most people aren’t in your tax bracket. I don’t think you could charge more than ten thousand for kindergarten.”

  “Well, think about it,” Faith said. “If you decide to do it, I’ll help you get clients. A bunch of Mae’s friends are applying next year, and these paren
ts would pay anything for an advantage.”

  There was a knock at the door and a server brought in refreshments, which were more elegantly presented than high tea at the Plaza.

  “Faith, your idea sounds tempting, but I just accepted an offer at Citigroup,” I said with no passion in my voice.

  “Oh, well, that’s wonderful,” Faith said. “Congratulations, really.”

  “You are such a liar,” I said, throwing my crustless cucumber sandwich at her. “You and I both know what a drag this’ll be. But I have to think of the girls. I have to be practical, right?”

  “I guess. I mean, you are completely desperate,” Faith said.

  “Yes, I am. Unless, of course, you and Steven want to adopt me.” Faith gave me a strange look.

  “I’m just kidding,” I said. Sort of.

  There was a hesitant knock at the door and Faith’s closetkeeper stuck her head in. “Your bath is ready, Mrs. Faith.”

  “Thanks, Virginia.”

  I followed my friend back to the dressing room, where her oversized Jacuzzi was steaming, filled with red and yellow rose petals. It smelled delicious. Near the bath was an exquisite basket of roses from Steven. He sent a magnificent bouquet to Faith, and smaller ones to Mae and Lia, every single week. In a perfect world, I thought, every woman would be married to a man like Steven Lord. Then I thought about mandatory sex three times a week. Would it be worth it? Glancing around Faith’s dressing suite, I knew the answer.

  13. Fired Becomes Her

  I spent the next week lining up a part-time babysitter for the girls. I’d need someone to pick them up after school, help with homework, make dinner—all the fun mommy things I’d gotten to do for the last few months. Charles, an art student at Columbia, applied. I decided to give him a try. The girls only saw Cad every other weekend, so a little more testosterone in their lives would be healthy.

  He spent the day with us on Friday, in training. Here’s the girls’ school. Here’s our nearest playground. Here’s Sir Elton’s dog run. Here’s our favorite sushi place. Here’s where you buy fish food for Beverly. Handing over the baton was depressing, but necessary.

  At 5:30 that evening, the phone rang.

  “Hello, is your mommy home?”

  “My mommy?”

  “Your mommy, Ivy Ames.”

  “This is Ivy.”

  “Oh, Ivy, I’m sorry. You sounded just like a child.”

  “No, it’s me. I have a youthful voice.”

  “It’s Susan from Citigroup Human Resources. You aren’t going to believe what I have to tell you!”

  “What?” I asked. You decided to increase my pay by 50 percent? You’re putting me in charge of the whole department? You want to train me to be an investment banker? I couldn’t imagine why Susan was calling.

  “They’ve eliminated your job,” she said.

  “What? I haven’t even started yet,” I complained.

  “I know. I’m so embarrassed this happened, but I had no idea it was coming. There was a reorg announced yesterday and your box went away,” she explained.

  “Do I get severance? I should, for all turmoil you’ve put me through.” Feel guilty. Feel guilty. Feel guilty, I telepathically divined.

  “You can’t be serious,” Susan said. “Anyway, we’ll keep your résumé on file, and I’ll call you if anything else comes up.”

  “You do that.”

  What do you know? They fired me before I even started. What pricks! Unfortunately, I would have to do the same thing to young Charles.

  With no other prospects and little left from the Myoki severance, I decided to go into the private-school-admissions business. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. I could do it. Innovation is often born of desperation. Well, I was desperate. I was beyond desperate. My only other option was to become a barista at Starbucks. That was out of the question. I have an MBA from Yale, for God’s sake.

  There was a slight problem with the admissions business. I had no experience. Does that really matter? I wondered. No one knows what a kindergarten admissions adviser does. I could make it up. There were no licenses to get. No degrees required. No barriers to entry. I could become anything I pretended to be. People in New York re-create themselves all the time. Rudy Giuliani. Monica Lewinsky. Donald Trump. Why not me?

  On Sunday, when the girls were with their dad, I wrote a plan. Approaching my future this way had worked in the past. Before I got married, I mapped out a strategy to acquire a handsome husband with good earning potential. Those were my requirements (I was young; what did I know?). In less than six months, I met Cadmon Ames III, and he fit the bill. I snared him by implementing Section B2—joining a share house in the Hamptons. Cad and I met at a group dinner during my first weekend in Sag Harbor. The rest, as they say, was history. I must remember to dust off that plan.

  On second thought, given recent events, maybe not.

  I set two goals. First, become an expert on New York City private-school admissions. Second, find twenty clients willing to pay $10,000 each. To my surprise, I was excited about work. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that way.

  PART 2

  Educating Ivy

  1. Kindergarten Wars

  The path to enlightenment would be rocky. There were no books, no classes, no masters to bestow their wisdom on little Grasshopper.

  Theodora “Tipper” Bucket, who used to report to me at Myoki and now worked at Harvard Day, offered to give me a tutorial on admissions. We met in a booth at the back of The Barkin’ Dog diner in Queens, where I barely recognized her beneath the Yankee baseball cap and cheap aviator sunglasses.

  “Tipper?” I asked doubtfully. “Tipper Bucket?”

  Tipper smiled. “It’s me. Only it’s Bouquet now, like a bouquet of flowers.”

  “Bouquet! How fancy.” From what I could see, Tipper’s face was the same, quite beautiful in fact, but she’d gotten fat. I mean really fat. Her butt covered two thirds of the bench. It was a tragedy.

  “How are you?” she said, holding her arms out for a hug. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Me, too,” I said, hugging back, feeling guilty that I’d secretly judged her for getting fat. Well, she wasn’t fat as one normally thinks of fat. No, she was her same willowy self, but now there was a Volkswagen-sized mass attached to her butt. Listen to me. What kind of shallow human being mentally mocks another for her imperfections? Immediately, I vowed to fast next Yom Kippur for being so cruel in my heart to Tipper. “What’s with the disguise?” I joked.

  Her eyes darted left and right. “Now that you’re going into this line of work, I can’t be seen with you. There are others like you, but nobody knows who they are. Their names are discreetly passed around among prominent families, and I’m sure they make decent livings. But they have to stay underground or admissions directors like my boss, Cubby, will crush them like bugs.”

  “Oh, my God,” I exclaimed. “I had no idea. What do they have against us?”

  “They say everyone should have an equal shot at getting their children into private school. They don’t want advisers to learn their secrets and game the system.”

  “But everyone knows it’s not an equal playing field,” I said. “People with money and connections have a huge advantage. If you’re a normal white upper-middle-class lawyer or banker, you’re screwed.”

  “I know, I know,” Tipper conceded. “But we have to act like everyone has a fair shot. Even when someone gives us a big donation to get their kid in, we pretend we don’t make deals for admissions. But the child is always accepted—on his own merits, of course. We have a maniacal focus on ethics at Harvard Day—it’s our number-one value, so it’s critical that we maintain the pretense.”

  The waitress appeared. Tipper jumped. “Oh, my God, you scared me,” she said. We asked for coffee and a piece of chocolate cream pie with two forks.

  “Frankly, I think you’re nuts to become an admissions adviser. It’s an ugly game. Think about it, Ivy. Wh
o lives in Manhattan? The wealthiest, most accomplished human beings on the planet. They’re sharks. And these are their children. They don’t just want to get their kids into the most exclusive schools; they think they’re entitled to it. Why would you choose to get involved with that?”

  “You did.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be serving them. They have to suck up to me. If you start the business, I can never be seen with you again. Tonight I’ll tell you everything I know, but after that, don’t call me. If anyone asks, we never had this conversation.” Tipper spoke in a loaded and mysterious voice.

  “Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of putting your job at risk.”

  “Cubby is the most powerful woman in the private-school community. If she knew I’d breathed a word of inside information, I’d be blackballed from the industry.”

  Tipper started out by telling me what I already knew—that there were five official elements to a child’s application: test scores, parent essays, the child’s visit, the parent interview, and the nursery-school report. A problem with any one of those could mean the difference between receiving a thin envelope or a thick one. Being the sibling of another student, or being a “legacy”—the child of an alumnus—improved a kid’s odds enormously. Who you knew and how adamantly they advocated for you helped. Donations carried weight, of course. Diversity was good, especially the visually obvious kind. Tipper was one of only two women of color on Harvard Day’s staff, and her job included recruiting minority students for the school.

  The chocolate pie arrived and we dug into it with fervor. I was still dieting, so I left the last piece. Tipper ate it shamelessly.