Admissions
Page 8
She gingerly lowered herself onto a moving hassock and slithered over to Lisa Fontaine, the chair of the board of trustees of The School. Helen relied on Lisa to keep her up to date on board matters and considered her one of the few trustees who were capable of impartiality and levelheadedness. Not inconsequentially, Lisa’s children were substantially younger than Zoe, making it possible for Helen to have a conversation with her about something other than admissions. After the usual pleasantries, Helen broached the subject of Felicity Cozette.
“Outrageous,” Lisa whispered. “The board learned about it the evening after it was announced to the faculty. There are some members who would like to see the decision reversed. I think that wouldn’t be healthy for The School, but I do think Pamela deserves a slap on the wrist. At the summer meeting we discussed the need for a succession plan—you know, in the event something happened to the head. I suppose Pamela assumed that gave her license to make the appointment. But Felicity Cozette?”
“I wonder why Pamela chose her. Any idea?” Helen probed.
“None whatsoever. The only thing I can imagine is the French connection. You know Pamela—our resident Francophile. Let’s ask Dana. They were all together at some cooking school last summer. Dana, you were in France with Pamela over the summer, weren’t you?”
“We were,” she trilled, thrilled to be asked about her vacation. “At the École de la Cuisine de Provence. It was divine. I can’t recommend it highly enough.”
“I thought I heard Felicity Cozette was there, too.”
“She was. In fact, she and Pamela roomed together.”
“How coz-ette,” Helen said, louder than intended. Eager to shift attention away from her snarky remark, she turned to her hostess and asked, “Did April enjoy herself?” fully aware that this was a loaded question.
“Oh, you know, as much as one would expect a teenager to. April’s not much of a foodie,” Dana answered.
That’s an understatement, thought Helen.
Fortunately for Dana, someone directed a question to Denise Doyle-Gillis about The School auction.
“Do you think we will achieve our fund-raising goal for the year, Denise?”
“If certain targeted individuals step up to the plate, we will. Present company included,” Denise replied, looking directly at Dana.
Dana seemed initially taken aback by Denise’s directness, but recovered her composure and answered, “I’m sure we will do our part. We’re just waiting for a few . . . issues to be resolved.”
“And what issues are those?” Denise, the quintessential fund-raiser, never let her prospect off the hook easily.
“Admissions. What else is there?” Dana said slyly. “Right, Helen?” She winked.
Helen pretended not to hear the last question as she tried to plan her escape. Just as she was moving toward the front door, Neal Moore called her name and followed her out. Damn! Trapped in the elevator with the shlub. Neal, a man who wore the same sweatpants and college fraternity T-shirt every day and, as a result, smelled a little moldy, was the couch potato father of one of Zoe’s classmates, Nicholas, and husband of Marianne, a dynamic ob-gyn who delivered at least twenty babies a month. Helen braced for the inevitable.
“How are you doing with your applications?” he inquired, exactly on cue.
“Just fine. They’re almost complete. In fact, I’m in a hurry to get home now and finish up the last of them. And you?” she felt obligated to ask.
“Well . . . Marianne is on call this month, so she put me in charge of the whole mess, and I’m finding it rather overwhelming. Plus, you know, we’re also trying to get Nina into The School, for Kindergarten. I hoped I would be getting a bit more guidance from Pamela, but she failed to show up for three appointments and hasn’t returned my phone calls.”
“Have you tried e-mail?” she suggested.
“I did a few weeks ago, but our Internet provider just went belly-up and I haven’t hooked up with a new one yet,” he whined nasally.
What a wuss, she thought, turning away to hail a cab.
“Are you getting helpful input from Pamela?” he continued, thwarting her efforts to ditch him and end the conversation.
“Input, yes; helpful, I’m not sure. The jury’s still out on that.” Thank God, a taxi. “Bye. Good luck.” She waved and hopped in the cab, feeling just a tad guilty abandoning this sad sack.
She got home and, humming the theme song to Mission Impossible, immediately headed to her computer.
Sara-
Ad-Mission accomplished. The Board is not happy with the appointment and with the fact that they were not consulted. Board doesn’t understand choice of Felicity. I learned that P. and F. were at Frampton cooking school together last summer AND were “roommates”!! Hmmmmmmmmm.
Helen
Sara responded immediately:
H.
Thanks a lot. You rock. Are you implying an incestuous relationship within our royal family? Who’s your source?
S.
Helen wrote back:
Deep Throat.
No big whoop. Half the heads of New York’s private schools are homosexuals, and Helen and I have always suspected that about Pamela, Sara thought. And as Helen always says, that would make her the world’s first lipstick lesbian with no fashion sense. So, Felicity Cozette is sleeping her way to the middle. Hmmm . . . that’s interesting. But she was certainly relieved to learn that the board did not sanction Pamela’s new appointment, and looked forward to hearing what the repercussions of that would be.
Under the circumstances, I think a little schadenfreude is permissible . . . or is it bad karma? she wondered, searching her memory for what it was that the Dalai Lama had said about other people’s misfortunes.
She returned to reading applications. They were still pouring in by the dozens on a daily basis.
Our daughter, Silvia, has a few allergies. She is allergic to peanuts, milk, wheat, eggs, citrus, strawberries, and all members of the nightshade family. We are interested in finding a school that can provide us with assurance that Silvia will never consume any of these foods while she is on school premises. Because Silvia has had to lead such a cautious life, she is an exceptionally sensitive child. She approaches everything she does with the care and concern she has been trained to exercise towards her diet. Consequently, she is a perfectionist in life and in everything she does. For example, Silvia will not even touch a book until she sprays the front and back cover with antibacterial liquid and dries it thoroughly. She will never sit on a chair, bench or toilet seat without first running an electromagnetically charged particle dust cloth over the surface. With this kind of attention to detail, you can imagine what an asset she would be to any classroom. Mrs. Rothschild has told us that The School is peanut free and, from this, we have extrapolated that The School has heightened awareness and sensitivity towards the problems faced by the allergic child. For this reason I am sure you will agree we are the kind of family The School endeavors to serve.
“Uh-oh. I forgot. Brandi, don’t tell anyone I brought a peanut butter sandwich for lunch today, okay?”
“Okay,” Brandi answered with a puzzled look on her face.
Sara stuck this application in a file labeled “Children with Special Needs,” a pile that seemed to be growing disproportionately larger than any other.
The next applicant in her stack was for the son of a major television celebrity—Sara had the eerie feeling she was suddenly in a supporting role on Lifestyles of the Rich and Desperate. Tally Easton was one of the most recognizable faces in America. Her daytime talk show was number one in the ratings. her prime-time specials served as an inspiration both for the working mother and for the downtrodden, stay-at-home mother of eight. She was the role model for millions of women everywhere who quoted her magazine, Tally Ho, like the gospel, wore her line of clothing like a badge, and drank her dietary weight-loss supplement by the gallon. Both an activist and a philanthropist, Tally had recently franchised her support group, M
OTBOB—Mothers of Turkey Baster Originated Babies—whose members included many of her celebrity single-mother friends.
Attached to the application was a personal note from Lydia Waxman, principal of the firm, Ivy Bound Ltd. Lydia was the archetypal New York entrepreneur, who, after educating five difficult children (three biological, two steps) in at least a dozen different private schools, used her personal experience to build a business advising overextended and insecure parents in their quest to enroll their little darlings in prestigious kindergartens. She specialized in challenging cases, particularly postgraduates, those children who were spending an extra year in nursery school after failing to secure a spot in kindergarten on their first go-round. But she was more than happy to work with anyone who was willing to pay her exorbitant fee, which, much to the chagrin of several disgruntled former clients, was nonrefundable even in the event of across-the-board rejection.
Sara,
As you know, Tally Easton is one of the most well known daytime television personalities in the world. It goes without saying that her son, Montana, has lived a life of privilege and luxury that probably exceeds that of any other child in The School. Tally is remarkably down-to-earth and would like nothing better than for Montana to be educated in a school environment where he will be treated like any other child. There is one little caveat I would be remiss if I didn’t alert you to up front—a bodyguard will drive Montana to and from school and must accompany him throughout the day. We assume that The School will find a way to accept these terms and offer Montana enrollment. As compensation for this inconvenience, his mother has agreed to donate one percent of the net profits of one of her mutually agreed upon publications, on an annual basis. I hope this meets with your approval.
See you at the Emmys,
Lydia
Over the years, The School had accepted its share of celebrities’ children, and they generally created a bigger brouhaha than they were worth. The parents usually had such extreme attitudes of entitlement that The School ended up having to bend over backwards to accommodate them, at great cost and inconvenience. In most cases, Sara believed it was in The School’s best interest to reject these applicants; however, protocol mandated that when a celebrity application was submitted, she bring it to Pamela’s attention.
She had a choice: she could either try to schedule a meeting with Pamela or discuss this application with the newly appointed associate head. Viewing this as a prime opportunity to acquaint herself with Felicity, she popped upstairs and found the petite femme behind her desk, busily filing her French-manicured nails. Seeing Sara, she quickly slipped the emery board into her desk drawer and, parting her lustrous lips, flashed a juicy smile. Her laser-whitened teeth, peroxide-blond hair, and preternaturally pert breasts made speculation on the authenticity (or lack thereof) of Felicity’s physiognomy a favorite topic in the faculty lunchroom.
Graciously, Sara congratulated Felicity on her new post and told her how pleased she was at the prospect of working together. As if . . . As she delivered an overview on the state of the admissions department, bandying about terms such as KAT percentile rankings, financial-aid-to-revenue ratios, and minority outreach initiatives, she watched Felicity fidget, confirming what she already assumed was the case: that Felicity was in way over her head. That established, Sara placed the star-studded application on Felicity’s desk and, in the most deferential tone she could muster, said, “I would really like your opinion on this application. I’m not sure what to do with it.”
Felicity read the name and said in her girlish Gallic accent, “Isn’t zis a—how you say—shoo-in?”
“‘Shoo-in’ is not a term I would recommend tossing around in admissions circles,” Sara suggested diplomatically. “And, by the way, our policy states that we use multiple criteria when evaluating every application,” she said, struggling to maintain her professionalism.
“Oh? Do we have such a policy?” Felicity asked, pronouncing it “police-y.”
“Of course we do!”
“Then I will have to ask Madame Rothschild about zis,” Felicity responded shakily.
“Good idea. I’m sure she’ll want to spend some time acquainting you with our admissions ‘police-y,’” Sara said brusquely, and left the office.
Ha! Now she had a pretty clear picture of how things were going to work. She would be reporting to Felicity, who would make no decisions without consulting Pamela, thus permitting Pamela to retain her power over the admissions office, while severing all communication with Sara. If Pamela was in fact still planning to depart, then promoting Felicity was undoubtedly her first step in trying to control the selection of her successor, and it was clearly not going to be Sara.
Screw it, Sara thought as she returned to her desk. By the time Pamela leaves, The School will be scorched earth. It will take years to resurrect it. I don’t even want the job! She slammed her door closed and dug around in her desk drawer, looking for some valerian root extract to calm her nerves. She lit a scented candle, recalling something an aromatherapist recently told her about lavender and anger suppression.
She had just begun to regain her composure when Brandi buzzed to tell her that there was a call on line one from Simone Savage. As the head of one of Manhattan’s poshest nursery schools, or, as the cognoscenti called them, “developmentally oriented readiness programs,” Simone was universally understood to be the grande dame of the kindergarten admissions world. The coveted spots in her pre-K program went to Manhattan’s A-list families, who thereby guaranteed their three-year-old entrée to the city’s most sought-after elementary schools. Each September, Simone presented several “choice” candidates for admission to The School’s Kindergarten class. And each February, The School accepted one or two of the “choicest,” based almost entirely on Simone’s recommendations.
“Sara, dahling, have you had a chance to review the Von Hansdorff application?” she demanded, and then lowered her voice to a barely perceptible whisper. “You know, dahling, they are the real thing.”
“The real what?” Sara snapped. The name didn’t register.
“The Hapsburgian Von Hansdorffs, of course. You remember. They chaired last year’s Viennese waltz at the Wiener Werkstätte Society. They were all over the press.”
“Oh, those Von Hansdorffs. Silly me,” Sara replied, racking her brain to remember whether the Wiener Werkstätte Society provided social services to dachshunds or had something to do with bratwurst. “We’ve been absolutely inundated with applications this year, and I haven’t had a moment to breathe. I’ll look at theirs as soon as possible.”
“And one more, Sara, dahling. The Dondi-Marghelletti family. They are a couple of young, gorgeous Italians in the hotel business. Think Villa d’Este meets Cipriani, you know, Old World—new money, or old money—new economy. Oh, you know what I mean. And their little Aurora is precious beyond words. A true principessa,” Simone gushed.
Sounds more like a Euro-trash version of Eloise, Sara thought. “Lovely, Simone. I can’t wait to meet them.”
“I’ll check in to hear how much you adored them after your meetings.”
“I’m sure you will, Simone. Take care, now.”
“Brandi, would you please pull out the applications for Von Hansdorff and Dondi-Marghelletti,” Sara called as she replaced the receiver.
In an instant, Brandi had them on Sara’s desk. “This is weird. The handwriting on both applications is the same,” Brandi said, and then, sniffing the folders, said, “and they both reek of expensive perfume. Chanel Number Five?”
Sara laughed. “Good nose you’ve got there, Watson.” She launched into an explanation of Simone Savage and her ethically questionable habit of personally writing the applications for all her students.
“And when will we have the honor of meeting these two imperial families?”
Brandi consulted the appointment chart. “I’m waiting for a return call from the Von Hansdorffs’ secretary. She said she would consult with the Frau and get back to m
e with their available dates. And Signora Dondi-Marghelletti faxed from Milano and said she would call once they knew when they were returning from Europe.”
“I so look forward to making their acquaintance, Brandi, dahling, don’t you?”
It was the last day of September, the deadline Helen had set for completing the applications. She sat at the Mackintosh table in the corner of her foyer/dining alcove, which, when she was working, she called her desk; when they were eating, she called the dining room table; and which at all other times functioned as a receptacle for all the junk mail, press clippings, journals, catalogues, recipes, bills, and school notices that cluttered the Dragers’ lives. In a separate pile of high-priority items was her folder labeled “admissions.”
As she reviewed the applications, she was tempted to call Sara, wanting her final approval on the essays. She wondered what Sara’s reaction would be to the style of her writing, her descriptions of Michael, her use of hyperbole when writing about Zoe. But she decided against it, thinking it would be an imposition to ask Sara to spend the time right now, and could even put her in an awkward position if she disapproved of any of Helen’s tactics.
The most difficult essay to write was the one for The Bucolic Campus School because that one asked for a description of the parents. Helen spent days weighing the desirability of various parental profiles. Should she go for creative Helen/successful Michael, or intellectual Helen/athletic Michael, or nurturing Helen/comedic Michael, or some other combination? She settled on a carefully worded blend of professionally oriented Michael and emotionally available Helen, implying that Zoe’s home life was perfectly balanced and that all her physical, emotional, and material needs were met.
Another application asked the question “What are you looking for in a school for your child?” and Helen was glad that she was able to modify an essay she had written for another school, which asked her to “describe your ideal school.” With a little creative editing she was able to keep her essay writing to a minimum.