Admissions

by Nancy Lieberman

  “We have no articulated policy as such. Each application is considered on an individual basis. There are no guarantees. I must encourage you to apply to other schools as well,” Sara said, sounding more aloof than she intended.

  Norit looked infuriated. This wasn’t the answer she had hoped to hear.

  “Relax, Norit. These things always have a way of working out for the best,” Helen added supportively, mindful that as president of the Parents’ Association it was her duty to exercise diplomacy. Sara nodded affirmatively; she just hoped that when it came to Helen’s own situation, she would have the insight to practice what she preached.

  Pamela still hadn’t shown up, and by eight o’clock John Toppler was seething.

  “I’m sick and tired of watching your son play coochie-coo with the guests,” he hissed at his wife. “Jesus Christ! Look at him!” He glared furiously at the sight of Julian tickling Peter Newman’s behind with his feather duster. “Enough, dammit! I’m starting without her!” he growled. He yanked a silk handkerchief out of the pocket of his pin-striped double-breasted jacket to wipe his sweaty palms, grabbed a knife, and clanged it loudly against the rim of a glass. Several people shushed the crowd.

  “Welcome, eighth-grade parents. Tonight, as we say in the legal profession, I’ll be brief, heh, heh. This is a significant milestone for all of us. We have certainly been together for a long time and have enjoyed celebrating many occasions in our children’s lives. I wish everyone here great success in their trials, heh heh, and hope that the jury deliberations fall in everyone’s favor. As we all say at the law firm of Toppler and Whitney, may we all get our just rewards, heh heh. Let’s hope for the best.” He raised his glass to the crowd, and everyone did the same.

  Let’s hope for the best . . . for the children, Sara thought, knowing that what was best for his child was the furthest thing from John Toppler’s mind.

  The next morning Pamela sent carnations to the Topplers, intending for the flowers to be accompanied by a handwritten apology explaining why she had been unable to attend last night’s soiree. However, the florist erred and sent the Topplers the note that was intended to accompany Pamela’s other order—the dozen roses sent to Brooklyn Heights.

  Roses are Red

  Violets are Blue

  I had a super evening

  Et tu?

  When Lauren Toppler read the note and realized it had been intended for someone else, she immediately called her friend Jean MacGuire.

  “I give up. Who’s the lucky man?” Jean giggled.

  “I have no clue. I thought you might,” Lauren responded, fully aware that gossip spread like wildfire in The School and that Jean could always be counted on to fan the flames.

  “It couldn’t possibly be anyone at school. She’d never be that indiscreet,” Jean said with conviction. She had always been one of the true believers who accepted everything Pamela said as gospel, even her order to keep Nathan’s use of Ritalin a secret.

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Lauren said flatly. The truth was that Lauren was actually relieved that Pamela hadn’t attended the party, since Julian’s behavior would inevitably have provoked another unwelcome discourse on discipline. But she sought revenge nonetheless and thought the best way to do that was by providing grist for the rumor mill.

  When John got home that night and saw first the cheesy flowers and then the provocative note, he exploded.

  “That fickle bitch! She was probably out nailing some two-bit polo player. And then she has the nerve to send us this six-dollar piece-of-shit flower arrangement! Who the hell does she think she’s dealing with here? Our donation is history if she doesn’t watch her ass!” he shouted, and stormed out of the room.

  By the end of the second week, Brandi announced that she had fulfilled 556 requests for applications.

  “How many children do you anticipate admitting?” she asked Sara with a worried wrinkle in her normally smooth brow.

  “No more than fifty.”

  “Wow. Pretty tough odds for a gambler.” Brandi shook her head in disbelief.

  “Killer odds for a paranoid parent,” Sara answered.

  Sara was amazed by how quickly so many of the parents had returned their completed applications, some even within a few days. Did these people think that admissions decisions were made on a first come, first served basis or that they would receive brownie points for punctuality?

  Her first year as director of admissions, she had received a whole batch of essays that gave elaborate responses to a question that was not even on the application. Puzzled, she brought them to Pamela, who laughed and said that these parents had gotten last year’s application to prepare for the process over the summer and never bothered to check whether the questions had been altered. Sara had made it a point to change her questions every year since.

  The application essay functioned as a way for the parents to introduce themselves and their child to The School. Sara often wondered whether the essay had any basis in reality, since it often just seemed to reflect a parent’s calculated guess of what The School was looking for. After all, intelligent applicants knew they had nothing to gain by hanging their dirty laundry out to dry—they learned that in Offspring Marketing for Dummies. But by reading between the lines and exercising astute analytical skills, Sara managed to learn quite a bit about both the parents and their children.

  Occasionally an application was straightforward, no-nonsense, and heartfelt, and in these cases Sara looked forward to meeting the families. Unfortunately, they were the exception rather than the rule, and more often the essays were superficial, transparent, and occasionally flat-out hilarious.

  Every year there was a group of parents who weren’t shy about proclaiming their child a budding Einstein. This year’s winners in that category were the Belzers. After explaining that their son Sam was a “genius” and extolling his many brilliant traits, they added:

  But we are happy to report that there are still ways in which he’s still a normal kid and even goes so far as to exhibit a few teeny tiny signs of his youth—he delights in catching fireflies in a jar at our country house, but while other boys his age tire of the game quickly and set their lightning bugs free, Sam keeps them in the jar for days, using the exercise as a method of studying the habits of insects up close. We’re so proud of our budding entomologist!

  Sara was put off by the boy who delighted in holding bugs captive as long as possible whereas other children’s normal compassion compelled them to set theirs free. She continued to read:

  Like many boys Sam’s age, he loves trains, planes and automobiles. But where most young boys possess superficial knowledge of these things, Sam knows the New York subway system inside out. He can recite every stop (express and local) on every line, and the same goes for buses! Last week his grandmother even called him for directions to get from Far Rockaway to Arthur Avenue. We’re so proud of his navigational skills! And I haven’t mentioned his reading ability . . .

  Sara made a note to herself to ask Brandi if this was the parent who asked whether toilet training was a requirement for Kindergarten entry. She had learned that young children who were victims of extreme performance pressure often manifested their anxiety through regressive behavior in the scatological department.

  Another of her favorites was the parent who tossed in a small negative about the child in an effort to make the application seem more sincere. The negative was cleverly calibrated to convey an attribute that any educator knew was a positive, but the parent slyly pretended not to know. This year’s master of this subtle art was Mrs. Mansfield.

  Wyatt is everything a mother could want her child to be—bright, industrious and most importantly to me, honest and humble. A prime example of his lack of airs occurs when Wyatt reads. Sometimes when he is reading to me out loud he comes across a word he doesn’t know. He will struggle for a long time to sound it out. He repeats the word over and over, every which way, until he finally gets it right. It may take a while but
the satisfaction he gets from succeeding, without my help, is thrilling. As you can tell, I have gotten immense pleasure from participating in Wyatt’s early learning and I look forward to a day-to-day partnership with The School as we tackle new challenges together.

  Obviously this parent was counting on the admissions director’s response being something along the lines of “It’s so extraordinary that your child demonstrates such great perseverance! And you. What good judgment and parenting you exhibit!”

  But Sara was far too savvy for that, and in her notes she scribbled, Manipulative and meddling.

  Sara remembered how, years ago, she and Pamela used to spend collegial afternoons together reading the applications, often laughing heartily. It was one of the few occasions when Pamela would let down her regal airs and behave almost girlishly. Sharing these confidential documents with an outsider would have been completely unethical; sharing them with Pamela had been wicked fun. Regrettably, that pastime was now history, and given the current state of their relationship, it was hard for Sara even to imagine spending a few minutes alone in the same room, let alone giggling together.

  Their last real contact had been a dinner in early June at The Bistro, a restaurant that was around the corner from The School. It was one of the many places in Manhattan that served passable, traditional French fare, annually advertised the arrival of Beaujolais nouveau, and staged elaborate Bastille Day celebrations. The special of the day was the bouillabaisse, and they both ordered it. Pamela was critical of the dinner, insisting that bouillabaisse should never be made without native Mediterranean fish, and why anyone would try to do so was incomprehensible. Sara knew her well enough to know not to ask why she ordered it. She just prayed that Pamela would not summon the waiter and demand its removal from the table and the bill.

  It was at that dinner that Pamela had expressed her growing ambivalence about The School.

  “I’m positively sick and tired of the parents and their constant complaining. You’d think they had better ways to spend their time than in endless meetings with me. Do you know, last week I spent over two hours with the Blanchards because they were upset that Anthony’s classmates called him ‘tubby.’ I wanted to tell them that it’s their own fault for allowing their son to become such a fatty. But of course I held my tongue. And then there are the excuse makers. If I get one more call from a parent blaming a lost piece of homework on a new housekeeper, I think I’m going to lose it! Don’t they realize what kind of message that gives their kids? And you won’t believe this! Just yesterday I got a call from that ridiculous Wachtel woman, asking if I thought it would be okay for Telulah to miss midterms so the family could go to the Galapagos Islands before the hurricane season kicked up. I said, ‘Sure, if you don’t mind if she fails seventh grade.’ What did she think I would say?”

  Sara listened quietly. She had to admit, those were legitimate gripes.

  “What I’m about to tell you should go no further. Do I have your word?” Pamela lowered her voice.

  “Of course. You know that.”

  “I’m considering a career change. I’m seriously thinking about making this next school year my last,” Pamela whispered while dipping a heel of baguette in the last of her bouillabaisse broth, clearly having decided to overlook its inauthenticity.

  “Really? But what would you do then?” Sara asked, maintaining neutrality. She had sensed Pamela’s dissatisfaction but had never imagined she would ever actually leave.

  Pamela didn’t answer her question. Instead she droned about how The School was like her child and that leaving it in someone else’s hands was unimaginable, and she moaned about how difficult it would be to find a successor. Sara marveled both at Pamela’s overinflated sense of indispensability and at her arrogance in thinking that The School would perish without her.

  “I really understand how you feel,” Sara sympathized. “I’ve been restless, too, and sometimes think I could use a new professional challenge. Maybe I should apply for your job. You might feel more open to the idea of leaving if you knew you would be passing the torch to me rather than to someone from outside The School.”

  Sara knew she had committed an egregious error before she even finished the sentence. Looking as if she had swallowed a rotten moule, Pamela pressed her napkin to her mouth, coughed a few times, and said, “I’m going to the ladies’. Summon the idiotic waiter and get us the check.”

  Minutes passed, the check arrived, and Pamela still hadn’t returned, so Sara used her own overextended credit card to pay for a dinner that should have been charged to Pamela’s expense account. When Pamela finally waltzed back to the table and saw Sara signing for the check, she said haughtily, “It’s the least you could do to make up for your ludicrous suggestion.”

  However awkward Pamela’s cold-shoulder treatment had been to endure, Sara’s aspirations had not been derailed by that conversation. Quite the contrary: it gave her hope that The School might be seeking a new head sooner than she had ever anticipated. But after such a disastrous interchange, she knew she’d be fooling herself to think that Pamela could be counted on to support her candidacy, and she doubted that she would have any chance without her endorsement. She pushed the whole idea to the back of her mind; it was one of those “we’ll have to wait and see” situations—a phrase she repeatedly used with anxious applicants.

  Getting back to work, she read the next application.

  As a mid-career painter with gallery representation, with the added luxury of financial security provided by my investment banker husband, you can imagine how gratifying it was when I discovered that my daughter Miranda was passionate about “the dance.” Miranda is what’s known in the field as a pre-professional classical ballerina, having received a certificate of recognition from New York Toddlers on Toe. I have taken the liberty of sending you a tape of her most recent performance of “The Prince and the Pauper” at the Prime-A-Donna Children’s Theater. I hope you enjoy watching it as much as we do. You should also know that, if accepted at The School, Miranda would be more than happy to perform in any and all school performances.

  Oh great, one more nascent diva, Sara groaned, promising herself she would read just one more before going home for the night.

  As a single father I have learned so much about myself from my son Shane. It’s odd to think that my five-year-old son could possess so much wisdom and have so much to teach me. When I look at him I see an old soul. I think he may have been here before . . .

  I think he may have, too, Sara thought, in at least forty-six previous applications. It was definitely time to quit, before total cynicism threatened to short-circuit her brain. Tomorrow would bring another deluge, and she needed to be well rested. Her agenda for the next day included a tutorial with Brandi on the ins and outs of scheduling tours and interviews. That could take a while.

  Having received four applications, the Dragers had a family meeting to divvy up their assignments. Each application required both an essay from Zoe and a statement from the parents, which precipitated a squabble between Michael and Helen.

  “Why would you assume that I should be solely responsible for all of the applications?” Helen demanded.

  “Because you’re the writer in this couple?” he shot back.

  “I’m an art critic. I critique art, not our child. You’re as capable of waxing poetic about Zoe as I am,” she replied angrily. “You minored in poetry, for God’s sake!”

  “Well, you’ve got more time than I do right now. We’re about to start production on the new show, and the two chefs aren’t speaking,” Michael was feeling pressure on multiple fronts and did not respond well to that. As a producer for the Cooking Network, he frequently seemed to be in the midst of a calamity. Helen was accustomed to his crisis mentality and had learned not to get nearly as alarmed about each so-called catastrophe as he did.

  “I’m on a deadline, too, you know. I have three articles due in the next month and I haven’t started any of them!”

  “St
op! You sound like the Bickersons,” Zoe yelled. “I can’t believe you’re arguing about who’s going to do this. I thought you both wanted to help as much as possible.”

  She’s right, Helen thought wryly, but she sure is Phi Beta Kappa when it comes to guilt tripping. Catching sight of Zoe’s tear-filled eyes, Helen offered her daughter a hug.

  Zoe’s face was straight out of a Florentine fresco: olive skin, heavy-lidded dark eyes, pouty lips, and lustrous brown hair. When she assumed the mournful look of a distressed Madonna, as she did now, Helen invariably melted.

  “Oh, sweetie, we’re so sorry. Of course we both want to do whatever we can,” Helen soothed. “We’re all just feeling a lot of pressure right now. Michael, I’ll write the essays. You can write the checks.”

  “Out of the joint account, right?” he asked, looking at her with some concern. Even after they were married, Helen and Michael held on to their separate checking accounts, using them to pay for the occasional expenditure they didn’t necessarily want to justify to each other, such as self-indulgent beauty treatments or extraneous pieces of sporting equipment. They maintained a joint checking account for all household expenses and most things that pertained to Zoe.

  “I think it would be fairer if it came out of your account since I’m doing all the work. Don’t you?” she suggested. At fifty dollars each, she calculated that the application fees would be around three hundred. “That way, you can contribute, too.” It was the perfect solution, Helen realized; not only would Michael foot the bill, but by not having to dicker with him over the contents of every application, she would save herself hours of work.

  “Whatever,” he acquiesced, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing about.

  “Zoe, are you happy with the school choices?” Helen asked, remembering her promise to keep her daughter involved.