The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  The cop motioned for us to get in the van and said he’d drive us. Thank the Lord. I was soaked and exhausted by then. I’m not sure I would’ve made it to 87th Street on foot.

  When Philip and I arrived at the church where the workshop was to be held, we were astonished. Sitting patiently on those ass-numbing folding chairs that can be found in every church basement across America were thirty wet and disheveled parents, ready to master the intricacies of private-school admissions.

  I introduced myself to the group and announced that class was cancelled. “Come back next week, same time, same place, and we’ll do it then.”

  “Wait,” one father said. “We went through hell to get here in this storm. Look at us. We’re drenched. We’re exhausted. But we’re here. Please don’t cancel. We need the information you were gonna give us. If we don’t get our Trinity and Horace Mann applications in, we’ll be shut out. I have to insist that you do the workshop tonight like you promised. You took our money. Now give us the class.” The other parents nodded their heads yes emphatically. I wondered if they were about to turn into an angry mob.

  “Are you people out of your minds? We’re in the middle of a hurricane. You abandoned your children, risked your lives. For what? For a class about getting kids into private schools! Get some perspective, man,” Philip said. God, he was sexy when he took charge.

  The dad leading the group seemed unsure of what to do next. A small woman who resembled a wet Siamese cat tried to negotiate a compromise. “Prease,” she said. “We’re here. It’s too dangerous to go outside now. Why don’t you teach as much of the workshop as you can? Someone can watch the weather and when the eye of the storm passes over and it’s safe to go out, you can stop. That way, we can get started on our apprications. We can reconvene next week to finish—what do you say?” She curled her lower lip down, tilted her head, and made the universal sad-puppy-dog mmm-mmm-mmm whimper. I looked around at the other parents, who sported similar needy expressions and also made pathetic sound effects.

  Ooooh, this was dramatic. It was up to me to save the day. I glanced at Philip, who rolled his eyes skyward. How could he possibly understand how important this was to these parents? How abandoned they’d feel if I let them down? “Okay,” I said courageously. “I’ll do it.” I’d never experienced such a natural high. For the first time, I was helping people in need, and it felt good. I made a note to myself to think about becoming a volunteer firewoman as soon as I lost more weight and got into fighting shape. As the deadly winds blew outside, I bravely lectured on, telling these devoted mothers and fathers how to write killer application essays. Philip watched the weather and reported back to the class when the eye of the storm passed over. All the parents except two hustled home before the next surge of wind and rain began, buoyed by my pledge to return next week and guide them through the rest of the admissions process.

  A pasty old gazillionaire approached me after everyone had left. How did I know he was loaded? One need only look at his trophy wife, who was decked out in vintage Chanel and Manolo Blahniks and carrying one of those wait-listed black Hermès crocodile bags. I saw one on eBay recently for $27,000, not that I was looking. You’d definitely have to be rich to wear designer in a hurricane.

  “Before we go, would you mind taking a look at our son’s ERB scores?” the man asked.

  Philip appeared anxious to leave, but I agreed to take a quick peek. They both seemed nervous. The moment I saw the boy’s results, I understood why. In every category of the test, the kid had scored below 50 percent.

  “We’re raising a moron, aren’t we,” the man said sadly.

  “No, don’t be ridiculous. Fifty percent is average. Lots of kids don’t test well. That doesn’t mean they won’t be successful in life,” I explained. “Don’t you dare look at your son any differently because of this. I’m sure he’s a terrific child.”

  “But is he terrific enough to get into Harvard Day or Horace Mann?” the woman asked. “Would they take him with these scores?”

  “It’s unlikely, I’m afraid.”

  Tears dripped down the woman’s cheeks and she began beating her husband’s chest. “Why? Why did this happen, Sidney? What’s wrong with Ethan? Is this our fault? Call somebody. Pay someone off. How are you going to fix this, Sidney? How, how?” Sidney just stood there, numb. It was all very theatrical.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, handing him my card. “If you’ll call me, I’ll give you more advice, maybe suggest some alternative schools to apply to. But for now, I think we’d better get out of here before the weather changes.”

  “Can we give you a ride?” Sidney offered.

  “That would be great,” I said. “Would you drop us at Philip’s house downtown?” I had an image to protect, so I couldn’t reveal that I lived there too.

  Thanks to Sidney and his Chanel wife, we were chauffeured home in a Bentley. I took that as a sign of good fortune ahead. Not for Ethan, who was doomed to disappoint his parents, but for us.

  9. The Plot Thickens

  By October, Lilith Radmore-Stein was a woman obsessed. She was convinced that influence would be the key to Ransom’s acceptance at Stratmore Prep, the only school she really wanted. som’s acceptance at Stratmore Prep, the only school she really wanted.

  Lilith hired Intelligent Choice, a jury consulting company, to investigate and analyze each trustee on Stratmore Prep’s board. They would recommend whom she should attempt to sway and how best to prevail upon them. We met at Lilith’s antique marble table with the Louis XVI chairs in her office conference room. Johnny was absent, supposedly playing polo in Argentina. As we assembled, Lilith lavished her attention on Mrs. Butterworth, her Yorkie. As the little yapper dog licked her face, Lilith kissed back. “She’s such a sweet puppy, aren’t you, Baby Butterworth, aren’t you? You’re Mommy’s little girl, aren’t you? Yes you are, yes you are. Yesssssssss!” It was nice to see that Lilith had a nurturing side.

  Once everyone was seated, Lilith asked,“Ivy, how many spaces will Stratmore Prep have for white non-siblings, non-legacies this year?”

  “Gosh, Lilith. I don’t know. Schools never release that information ahead of time.”

  “Ivy, Lilith Radmore-Stein does not understand the meaning of the words ‘I don’t know.’ I want answers,” she said evenly. “Call whomever you need to—the mayor’s office, the Parents’ League, the school itself. Are you up to the job for which I hired you? If so, then get me the fuckin’ answer to my goddamn question. Have I made myself clear?” For a Fortune 100 CEO, Lilith had a real potty mouth.

  “Yes, you’re being clear. I’ll get you the answer right away,” I said calmly. Shit, I guess I’m supposed to know inside stuff like that, I thought. I’ll e-mail Tipper tonight. Maybe she’ll call Stratmore Prep and get me the answer. I hate looking dumb in front of clients.

  Lilith introduced Mort Small-Podd, the president of Intelligent Choice. Mort dove into his PowerPoint presentation, analyzing each Stratmore Prep director while highlighting any professional or personal hot buttons in intimate detail. The consultant suggested the most valuable favor Lilith might bestow on each board member, with the help of her powerful connections, to ensure their full endorsement of Ransom Radmore-Stein’s acceptance:

  Mr. Small-Podd followed up with a series of diagrams blueprinting what Lilith needed to do to put herself in a position to bestow each of these favors. For example, to get the attorney general to drop the tax-evasion indictment against Cornie Nielson, she might threaten to run a story in one of her newspapers exposing the affair the attorney general recently broke off with his son’s sixteen-year-old girlfriend. Mr. Small-Podd emphasized that Lilith needed only one board member in her pocket, as the others would rubber-stamp his recommendation and the director of admissions would comply.

  “What do you think, Ivy?” Lilith asked, scratching Mrs. Butterworth’s head.

  I think I’m in waaaaaaay over my head. That’s what I think. I want to speak to my attorney.

 
; “You knoooow,” I said slowly . . .

  Think. Think. Think. I think this could be against the law.

  “I believe Ransom will test off the charts on the ERB,” I began. “He’s acing all the practice tests I’m giving him, and his improvement on symbols and pattern blocks is nothing short of miraculous. You and Johnny will interview beautifully, of course, as will Ransom. It seems to me that you could rely on the old-fashioned but effective promise of a large donation and call it a day.”

  “Given that approach, Ivy, what chance does Ransom have of being admitted—one hundred percent?”

  “The only person in New York City who ever had a hundred-percent chance of getting her children into private school was Caroline Kennedy.” It went without saying that Lilith was no Caroline Kennedy. “I’d estimate his chances at eighty to eighty-five percent with the traditional approach that I suggest. But those are the same odds that any major player has under the best of circumstances.”

  Lilith smiled, showing as much gum as teeth. I wondered if a cosmetic dentist could fix that problem. “Oh, but you see, I want better,” she said calmly.

  “Lilith, influencing Stratmore’s trustees in the way that’s being recommended here is risky,” I said. “It’s one thing for board members to accept donations on behalf of the school, but these are all personal favors you’re talking about. Some people might call them bribes.”

  Lilith looked at me like I’d just fallen off a watermelon truck.

  Lilith turned to Mort. “Mr. Small-Podd, if I follow your approach, what is the percentage chance that Ransom will get in?”

  “One hundred percent, Lilith. I guarantee that if you follow my advice, Ransom will be wearing the Stratmore Prep blue blazer next year,” he said.

  “Fine.” Lilith smiled. “Ivy,” she continued, “you advise us on Ransom’s tests, the essays, and interviews. I will rely on Mr. Small-Podd to guide us through the influencing phase of this project.” With that, she stood up and left, leaving me and Mort Small-Podd alone in her très elegant conference room.

  Oh, so we’re a team, are we? Just like Johnnie Cochran and Robert Shapiro.

  “Ivy, it’s going to be wonderful working with you,” Mr. Small-Podd gushed. “I hope you’ll consider bringing me in to consult with all your other clients.”

  “Let’s see how this case goes, Mort. I’ll absolutely consider it.” Over my dead body, I thought to myself.

  10. Cabby with a Heart of Gold

  After the meeting with Lilith, I grabbed a cab and made a mad dash to the public library. I needed to research whether or not I could go to jail for what Lilith was about to do. In the old days, I would have consulted a lawyer. Today, that was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

  “Forty-second and Fifth, please.” As we headed downtown, I realized that I’d left my Barneys shopping bag in Lilith’s conference room. Damn. “Sir, I forgot something at the building I just came from. Do you mind circling back and waiting for me while I run in to get it? You can leave your meter running.”

  “No problem,” the cabby said. He was a large Indian man with a kind face.

  When I got back into the taxi, the driver said, “You should always make lists so you don’t forget. That’s what I do. I can’t remember anything. See, here’s my list.” He held it up for me to see:• ABC

  • IRS

  • Milk

  • Plane ticket

  • Call Sanjeev

  “Do you have to go to ABC Carpet?” I asked, sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, as usual.

  “No, I have to call ABC News. They are making a documentary of my life.”

  Get out of town! A documentary of a cabby’s life. Will wonders never cease? “What’s so special about your life that they’re making a documentary?”

  “Well, miss, I’ve been driving a cab in Manhattan for twenty years. All that time, I saved my tips, scrimped on dinners, movies, and clothing for my family. Working fifteen-hour days I saved enough to open a school for girls in the Indian village where I grew up, Doobher Kishanpur. In my village, many girls were illiterate. Not anymore. Now they have their own school. It’s named after my mother, Ram Kali, who never learned to read or write. In New York City, I am a hardworking but poor immigrant. In Doobher Kishanpur, I am a philanthropist,” he said proudly. “And ABC News is going to make a documentary about this.”

  “Wow. That’s incredible. That must have cost you a fortune, opening a school.”

  “Money buys much more in India than in New York. I send twenty-five hundred dollars a year to the school. That pays for five teachers, the school building, books, uniforms, supplies. Right now, we have one hundred and eighty little girls, but we’re expanding to open a high school for five hundred.”

  “How do you decide who gets to go there? Do the girls apply?” I wondered if there were any similarities between the application process for girls’ schools in India and those in New York City.

  “If a parent brings a girl to our school, we will take her. If she wants to learn, we will teach her. Our school is simple. The students sit on the floor and write on small chalkboards.”

  “That’s really incredible, Mr. . . .”

  “Sharma, Om Dutta Sharma. We have a foundation now, and others contribute. When I’m ready to retire, I’m going to sell my taxi medallion and give the money to the school. In America, it’s all about getting for yourself. But it’s more important to give to others, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I do. I’d like to give you some money,” I said. “I don’t have a lot on me today, but here’s forty dollars.”

  “That is very generous of you. That will pay a teacher’s salary for a month,” Mr. Sharma said appreciatively. “God bless you. Oh, and be sure to watch the Today show next week. They are doing a segment on me also.”

  When Mr. Sharma dropped me at the library, I asked for his card so I could send more money for his school. As I live and breathe, I never would have expected to meet such a saintly man driving a New York City cab. He must be a highly evolved soul, I thought. Way higher than me.

  I was in the library, surrounded by legal texts that I could make neither heads nor tails of, when my cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Is this Ivy Ames, school-admissions adviser?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “Why, yes it is, how can I help you?”

  “Ms. Ames, there’s a gentleman who wants to speak with you. He’s waiting outside the library in a Rolls-Royce.”

  “Who is this?” I demanded as the speaker hung up.

  11. A Tempting Offer

  Who knew I was going to be at the library? Was someone following me? Could this have to do with Omar Kutcher? I knew I shouldn’t have taken on a mobster client. Was I tied to the family forever? Would he kill me if I tried to leave? Naaaah. You are being so overly dramatic, I told myself. At this point, curiosity got the best of me, so I gathered up my papers and Barneys bag and went outside.

  There was the car. A beautiful Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. The windows were blacked out, so I couldn’t see inside. An elegantly uniformed chauffeur, who obviously doubled as a bodyguard, opened the back door for me. I hesitated. I wasn’t keen on walking through the valley of the shadow of death just yet.

  A handsome, well-dressed gentleman stuck his head out and told me to get into the car. “I won’t bite you,” he said. Well, if you won’t bite me, then by all means I’ll jump right in.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, not moving a muscle.

  “I’m Buck McCall,” the man answered. “Moses McCall’s grandfather.”

  “Oh, why didn’t you say so?” I said as I got in.

  The driver returned to the car and electronically locked all the doors. He made no attempt to turn on the motor, so I assumed we’d be meeting in the locked Rolls. This was rather exciting, I must say.

  “Ms. Ames,” he began. “You’re helping my son and his wife get Moses into school, are you not?”

  I had promised D
ee Dee that our relationship would be confidential. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that.

  “What makes you think I’m helping them?”

  “Greg told me. He also showed me the essay your boyfriend wrote about Moses. Nice,” Buck said.

  How could he know Philip wrote that? Is my house bugged? Does Buck McCall employ Mort Small-Podd?

  “Ms. Ames,” Buck continued. “I know that my son and daughter-in-law want Moses in a Jewish school. If he goes to a Jewish school, my wife, who is already heartsick over their marriage, will lose her will to live. It’s hard enough on us that they’re raising him to be a Jew, but sending him to one of those schools where he’ll wear a yarmulke, speak Hebrew, and grow those girly ringlets . . . well, I can’t let that happen.”

  “But Dee Dee is determined, and Greg wants whatever Dee Dee wants.”

  “My son is a pussy, Ms. Ames. But I’m not.”

  Uh, yeah. That was coming through loud and clear. “Why don’t you try talking to Greg, Mr. McCall? I’m sure he respects you. Tell him how you feel.”

  “No, Greg doesn’t listen to me or his mother. Whatever the wife wants, Greg wants. It means nothing to him that it’s our blood running through the child’s veins. We’ve tried, but we can’t get our son to think like we do. So now I’m asking for your help. I would like to hire you to convince my son and daughter-in-law not to send Moses to a Jewish program and to make sure that he gets into and goes to a top secular school.”

  I sat there, stunned. My lower jaw hung open. Oh, my God. He wants me to be a double agent. I looked around the car. I’m on Candid Camera, right?

  “I’m prepared to pay you well. I know you’re a struggling single mother in the midst of a divorce. I have in my hand a check for one million dollars. The moment Greg enrolls Moses in a secular school, it will be deposited into your checking account. With a million dollars, you could send your daughters back to The Balmoral School, hire a tutor for Kate, pay for summer camp, move to a better neighborhood.”