“About what?” Pamela feigned oblivion.
“Who is Benjamin Whyte?”
“Some milquetoast I once taught school with. I can’t remember a thing about him and would never have known him if he hadn’t so rudely accosted me.”
“Manchester? That’s new. I had a vague recollection you trained at an international school in Switzerland and then taught in London. Where does Manchester fit in?”
Pamela tittered, “You are confused, dear. I taught in Manchester, ever so briefly, before coming to the States. Before that I had been at a boarding school in Lucerne and then was headmistress of an exclusive day school in London. NOW do you get it?”
“He called you Wickham. That’s a name I don’t know. Why would he call you that?” Sara asked, trying to make light of this.
“How should I know?” she replied impatiently.
“He seemed quite certain about it,” Sara pressed.
“What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? I must go. I have an early meeting tomorrow with the Ethics Committee.”
That was the first and last time they ever talked about her past.
The walk helped Sara achieve a modicum of serenity and enabled her to return to the office in an improved state of mind. She asked Brandi if an application had come in for a child named Oscar Whyte, and in no time flat, Brandi had it on Sara’s desk.
We are ever so grateful to Ms. Rothschild for taking little Oscar under her wing. Inviting him to the zoo last weekend was the kindest thing anyone could have done. It did wonders for Oscar’s self-confidence and has made a difficult transition so much easier for us as well as him. The outing with her was so special, so generous, that he feels he is already part of The School community, and he hasn’t even begun! We cannot begin to express our gratitude for this generosity and look forward to enrolling Oscar in The School next year.
Sara stared in shock at the words before her. Pamela had offered carte-blanche admission to the five-year-old son of a former colleague whom, four months earlier, she had disdainfully referred to as a nobody. And she had done so without consulting the director of admissions! And taking the child on a solo trip to the zoo! What was this all about?
Watching a clan of hairy primates expose their pink bums to a crowd of shrieking children is hardly Pamela’s cup of tea, Sara thought, remembering back to the time Pamela nixed a biography of Jane Goodall from the fourth-grade reading list, asking the teacher, “What possible reason can you give me for wasting time reading a book about apes?” When the teacher timidly replied, “Evolution?” Pamela scoffed.
Pamela’s unilateral decision to accept Oscar Whyte did not bode well for the future of the admissions office, and Sara worried about the implications this could have to her job. If this was how admissions were going to be handled in The School, her position had suddenly become untenable. She turned to her computer to vent her frustration.
Helen-
P. is playing games. I feel like I’m about to be led off to the Tower of London. I really need to have it out with the Be-Head of School, but she’s not giving me a chance. I am just spoiling for a fight here, and the longer she puts off speaking with me, the worse it gets!! I am ready to SCREAM!
S.N.
Helen replied almost instantaneously.
Sara-
Please hold off on a confrontation until after Zoe gets an acceptance letter. If P. wants your head on a platter she will want mine too. Knowing her, she’ll find some way to get both of us via Zoe’s admissions. PLEASE PLEASE don’t do anything rash.
H.
Sara was surprised by the tone of panic in Helen’s response, and hurt by her friend’s disregard for her own plight. However, over the past years she had learned never to underestimate Pamela’s ability to wreak havoc on other people’s lives, and realized she couldn’t fault Helen for being concerned. Pamela, in true Machiavellian style, was perfectly capable of intentionally undermining Zoe as a way to simultaneously punish Sara for her insubordination and Helen for her friendship with Sara. Though it seemed far-fetched, Sara knew that Pamela’s arsenal contained just this type of mental torture device.
Deciding she absolutely had to clear the air, Sara called Margaret to see if Pamela was by some remote chance free to meet with her now, and was dismayed to learn that she had left the office and wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.
“Oh, right . . . the head-of-School meeting at The Safety School?” Sara suggested, covertly attempting to get Margaret to reveal her whereabouts.
“No, that’s next Tuesday. She has a . . . personal appointment this afternoon,” Margaret replied with a tightness in her voice.
“Medical?” Sara proposed.
Poor Margaret had lately been suffering from feelings of guilt and betrayal. The truth was, she liked Sara much more than she liked Pamela, and wished she worked for her instead. She was tired of having to be evasive with Sara and was tempted to blurt out, “She’s out at a tack shop in New Jersey, shopping for a new saddle,” but bit her tongue and remained vague.
Leaving nothing to chance in her high-stakes endeavor, Helen had reluctantly requested a meeting with Pamela to review all the steps of the admissions process. Arriving at her office the following morning, she did a double take when she saw the new brass plaque on the door, “Where did that come from?”
“Sir Winston Churchill,” Margaret answered without missing a beat. It wasn’t the first time she had been asked this week.
“Is she free?” Helen asked.
“Why don’t you stick your head in? She’s expecting you,” Margaret answered.
Pamela was seated at her desk, a repository of veddy British novelty items that included an official Fortnum and Mason quilted tea cozy, a Simpson’s on the Strand ashtray (pilfered), a polo mallet autographed by Prince Charles, and the purple Princess Diana Commemorative Beanie Baby Bear. If her desk were seen as an homage to the Union Jack, the walls represented an homage to Pamela Rothschild, with framed photographs of the intrepid head of The School, always front and center, at groundbreakings, ribbon cuttings, awards ceremonies, and horse shows, each a visual testament to her lifelong commitment to self-aggrandizement.
“I don’t have much time. What do you need from me?” Pamela demanded.
“The applications all say to submit the results of the SAPS test no later than January first. Sounds like a test for a sexually transmitted disease,” Helen tried to start off lightly.
Tapping a riding crop against her palm, Pamela shot Helen her dreaded schoolmarm stare. “It’s something far more deadly, my dear. The Standard Assessment for Private Schools is no laughing matter, particularly with a testing record like Zoe’s. You had better get her a tutor, tout de suite.”
What a bitch, Helen bristled inwardly. How dare she imply that Zoe’s test skills are substandard?
“Isn’t that something The School should provide?” she shot back. “I would think that test preparation would be included in the twenty-six thousand we pay for tuition. After all, it seems to be such an integral part of education these days.”
“Absolutely not. It’s certainly not The School’s fault that Zoe doesn’t test well. We have many students who don’t require tutoring. It wouldn’t be fair to use school resources for the unfortunate misérables who need help.”
Thank you, Victor Hugo, Helen thought. Remembering that she could not afford to alienate this woman at this stage of the game, she conceded. “I suppose you’re right. Do you have a particular tutor to recommend?”
“Bertha Kauffmann. Anyone else is a waste of time. Get her number from Margaret and call her immediately. Zoe needs to see her at least twice a week for the next three months.”
“What will this cost?” Helen asked.
“You have no choice.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“The cost is irrelevant. You can’t afford not to. But don’t wait. She books up very quickly. And don’t forget to schedule the SAPS. Book the latest available dat
e.”
“Yes ma’am.” Helen smiled grimly and lowered her knees in a mock curtsy.
That evening, Michael arrived home to find his wife and daughter huddled at the dining room table.
“Tuesdays at four and Thursdays at five forty-five in October, but not during the week of the twenty-third. And then in November, Mondays at five fifteen and Thursdays at four thirty. Yes. We’ve scheduled the SAPS for December tenth. So you’ll let us know if you think she needs to see you up until the last week, right?” Zoe nodded and scribbled in her agenda as Helen repeated the dates she’d been given by Ms. Kauffmann.
“Oh, and by the way, what do you charge? . . . Per month? . . . Per session!” Helen gasped.
Michael leaned over to kiss Zoe and peered into her agenda to see the word “tutor” scrawled here and there.
“What’s this about?” he asked innocently.
“This is about thousands of dollars transferring out of our account into that of some woman called Bertha Kauffmann who claims she will increase Zoe’s SAPS scores by thirty percent.”
“Is there a money-back guarantee?”
“Not funny, Michael. Rothschild said in no uncertain terms that if Zoe’s test scores don’t improve, we’re sunk.”
“That’s just great. First I’m getting all this pressure at home, and now it’s coming from Rothschild, too?” Zoe lamented bitterly.
Michael shot Helen a warning look.
“Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean it. The only pressure you’re under is to try your hardest and do your best. You’re a great kid, and if a school doesn’t recognize that, it’s their loss. The test scores are just one part of the package. Besides, we wouldn’t want you to go to a school that only cares about test scores anyway,” Helen said comfortingly, with an arm around Zoe.
“Yeah, but Mrs. Rothschild does,” Zoe replied in a defeated tone.
“Screw Rothschild,” Michael said angrily.
“If she doesn’t screw us first,” Helen answered wryly.
Zoe slammed down her notebook in exasperation and announced, “I’m going to Julian’s. We’re practicing a scene together for drama class.”
“That’s wonderful, dear. What’s the play?”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
Helen wondered who was playing Juliet.
“Dad and I thought we would go out for sushi. Shall we bring back something for you?” Helen offered.
“No, thanks. I’ll eat at the Topplers’. Their chef makes us whatever we want,” Zoe answered.
“Maybe we should all go to the Topplers’,” Michael teased.
“You’re not invited,” Zoe said, and as she yanked on her denim jacket, she freed her long hair from under the collar with the same flip of the wrist Helen used. In fact, she looked and moved so much like her mother that, from behind, it was becoming hard to tell the two apart. She threw her backpack over her shoulders and walked out.
“Why don’t we have a chef?” Helen asked. “You’re a producer on the Cooking Network. Can’t you trick one into coming home with you? You could say you’re holding auditions in your home to see how well the chef works in a tiny New York apartment. Call it ‘Pullman Kitchen Confidential.’”
“Hmmm. That’s a good idea. I’ll pitch it at the next development meeting.”
“And credit your wife. I could use some credit around here these days,” she said, allowing a note of weariness to creep into her voice.
“And I could use some dinner.”
Whenever Zoe hung out in Julian’s bedroom, she was struck by how tiny hers seemed in comparison. But she actually never felt jealous, because even though his room was enormous, it didn’t feel like it really belonged to him the way that her room did. Even when she was young, she realized there were big differences in the way their families did things. When she audaciously covered her bureau with decals and bumper stickers and tie-dyed her bedspread orange and pink, her dad said it looked cool. When she made the windowsill a permanent home for her snow globe collection, her mother congratulated her on her ingenuity. When she sloppily painted clouds on the blue wall behind her bed, her parents were charmed. So when Julian told her about the time his father, on a rare visit to his room, freaked out when he saw the Judy Garland, Elizabeth Taylor, and Joan Crawford posters, she felt sorry for him. Soon after that discovery, the Topplers commissioned their decorator to masculinize their son’s bedroom as quickly as possible, which was how, almost overnight, it was transformed into something akin to an upscale electronics showroom.
Now in place of the posters were an oversized flat-screen television and a multicomponent music system. On the surface of a very large matte steel table was an unfathomably slender brushed- titanium laptop computer, lit by a high-tech system of halogen lamps. In one corner of the room sat an electric shoe polisher; in another corner, an electronically powered massage chair; and in the closet, an electronic rotating tie rack, which, Julian was pleased to discover, provided a good storage system for his secret collection of feather boas.
“New paint color, too?” Zoe inquired as she looked around the room.
“Wall treatment,” he replied, mimicking the decorator.
“Wow, it’s soft.” She ran her hand over the pale gray surface. “What is it?”
“Cashmere,” he confessed, and then, seeing her confusion, added, “Don’t ask.”
“Oh,” Zoe gulped, quickly calculating what it must have cost based on the exorbitant price of the pink cashmere sweater she had been begging her mother to buy her for months.
As they were reciting the lines from the play, Zoe’s eye caught a stack of school applications on Julian’s desk.
Not recognizing any of the names, she ventured, “I wonder if we’re applying to any of the same schools.” The last thing she wanted was to be in direct competition with Julian. She was one of the few kids in her class who were never comfortable comparing grades, and often invented an excuse to rush away whenever she sensed that one of her classmates was approaching to ask her what she got on a test.
“Doubt it, unless your parents have decided to send you to a boarding school, too,” Julian answered sadly.
“Wow, boarding school. That’s cool. Believe me, I’d go in a heartbeat, but my parents would never let me. They get weird when I go to camp for a month. I think I’ll have to live at home for the rest of my life,” she declared theatrically. Zoe wanted to make Julian feel like the lucky one, even though she knew she would never want to go away to school.
“I look at these and feel like I don’t belong at these places. The kids all look so straight,” Julian commented as he disdainfully flipped through a few of the catalogues, pointing to photographs of ultra buff athletes romping on manicured fields, and well-groomed prepsters huddled around reference-book-laden library tables.
“The catalogues for the city schools look basically the same,” Zoe responded.
“But we know they’re not. You get all kinds of kids at the New York City schools. But these schools cater to another breed entirely.”
“You’re so adaptable. You’ll manage to fit in somehow,” Zoe said encouragingly.
“No, you don’t understand, sweetheart. I’m deathly allergic to WASPs,” he deadpanned.
She laughed. “So is boarding school an option or a final decision?”
“As Dad says, the verdict is in and it’s nonnegotiable,” he answered glumly.
“My mom’s being really bossy about the whole school application thing, too. She keeps pretending like she’s concerned about my feelings but then goes ahead and does whatever she wants. She’s acting like a real Miss Buttinsky.”
“Your mom’s usually so cool. Can’t you tell her to butt outsky?”
“I wish.” Feeling vaguely disloyal, Zoe suggested they get back to the play, and the two eagerly lost themselves in another couple’s troubles.
When they arrived at their neighborhood Japanese restaurant, Michael and Helen were greeted with smiles and bows by two knife-bearing kimono-c
lad chefs, who motioned for them to take a seat at the sleekly varnished sushi bar. Against a backdrop of tatami mats and Japanese porcelain, the Dragers nibbled at yellowtail hand-rolls while sipping warm sake.
“I haven’t filled you in lately on the Pamela and Sara tiff, have I?” Helen inquired between mouthfuls of raw fish.
“Uh-uh,” Michael garbled.
“They seem to be having a bit of a standoff and haven’t spoken in a few months.”
“That sounds like more than a tiff to me.”
“You never know with Pamela. Remember when she didn’t speak to Dana Winter for six months after Dana sent that memo to the board?”
“The one pointing out that Pamela’s salary was higher than that of any other head of school in New York? Whatever happened with that?” Michael asked.
“Nothing. You know how reluctant the board is to ever cross Pamela. The incident passed, and Pamela and Dana seem to be buddy-buddy again.”
“How did that happen?”
“Cavorting together last summer at Justine Frampton’s cooking school in the South of France.”
“She’s the one who’s also the director of admissions at The Fancy Girls’ School, right?”
“Yup.”
“Are we applying to her school?”
“It’s on our list. It’s supposed to be an excellent school, and Pamela highly recommends it for Zoe. Plus, I’ve recently read a lot about the advantages of a single-sex education and, despite Sara’s opinion, still think it makes a lot of sense. How do you feel about all-girls’ versus coed?”
“As far as I’m concerned, the longer we can delay her dating, the better. You know me. I’d be happy if Zoe were a virgin on her wedding day,” he joked.
“Come on, admit it. You’d probably be happy if she never married,” she laughed.
“Or became a nun,” he said teasingly.
“That would solve the school problem. We could send her to a convent.”
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