Admissions

by Nancy Lieberman

“But you’ve got the added advantage of the head of School as your advocate,” Mr. Swanson countered.

  Not sure that was an advantage these days, Helen merely responded, “Of course. But all students at The School have Pamela behind them.”

  “At least you don’t have to worry about your daughter doing something along the lines of what Miranda did,” Mr. Swanson joked as his wife blanched, mortified at his reference to her worst nightmare.

  “No. I don’t worry that she will do that,” Helen laughed. “But believe me, teenagers find plenty of other ways to express their anxiety,” she added, rolling her eyes. Like go on a hunger strike à la April Winter, or some other equally self-destructive trick.

  As Sara was busy nodding along to the Belzers’ assertion that Sam’s KAT scores would undoubtedly reflect his high level of intelligence, and telling Mrs. Yu that Daniel would be more than welcome to bring kimchee to school for lunch, Helen quietly slipped out the side door.

  Arriving at The Bucolic Campus School for their tour and interview, it was hard for the Dragers to believe that this verdant sprawl was only a short drive from midtown Manhattan. The campus achieved a dynamic synergy between innovation and tradition through the harmonious coexistence of its neo-Gothic and modern buildings. Admirers called the school Oxford on the Hudson, in reference to its superb academic reputation. Critics called it The Bucolic Country Club, in reference to its enormous athletic facilities, far exceeding those of any other New York City school. In both respects, the Dragers were awed.

  As they visited the brightly lit classrooms, they were struck by how studious the students appeared and how many seemed to be genuinely engaged in the Socratic method of learning, with teachers who taught with greater passion than they had seen elsewhere.

  TEACHER: Claudia, how would you describe Charlemagne’s foreign policy?

  CLAUDIA: Ambitious. Ruthless. Inhumane.

  TEACHER: Jacob, what do you think motivated this policy?

  JACOB: He would say Christianity. I would say greed.

  TEACHER: Christina, do you see any similarities between what Charlemagne was doing in AD eight hundred and twenty-first- century world events?

  CHRISTINA: Recent U.S. foreign policy, perhaps.

  TEACHER: Perhaps. Hannah, would you agree with that statement?

  “Now, that’s teaching,” Michael whispered as they snuck out to visit the art complex, an enormous new building containing multiple theaters, music studios, photographic darkrooms, video editing facilities, and anything else a creatively motivated student could possibly desire. The Dragers spent a particularly long time in the music department, in conversation with a delightful faculty member who spoke with equal zeal about Prokofiev, Charlie Parker, and Liz Phair. They were particularly impressed with the schedule of performances and were excited by the prospect of Zoe’s getting caught up in the stream of cultural activity.

  But it was the student body that impressed them the most. The kids looked clean-cut and healthy, in clothing and jewelry that unequivocally passed parental muster, and makeup that didn’t require modification by a spittle-soaked, tissue-wielding mother. Tattoos and multiple piercings were the exception rather than the rule, and only a handful of students displayed the adolescent angst that Helen and Michael had come to associate with high school students over the past two months.

  All three members of the Drager family simultaneously reached the same conclusion: that they at last had found the ideal school for Zoe. The question was, would The Bucolic Campus School think Zoe was the ideal student?

  They were sitting in the reception area of the admissions office, quietly speculating about Zoe’s chances, when they heard a burst of laughter emanate from the director’s office. They looked at each other quizzically. The door opened, and a pleasant-seeming couple with their well-groomed son emerged and smiled at the Dragers, who, unaccustomed to such friendliness among competitors, were momentarily caught off guard.

  Vincent Gargano, a Robert De Niro type (with the twenty pounds he gained for Raging Bull ), barreled into the reception area.

  “Nice to meet you folks.” Mr. Gargano extended hearty handshakes all around. “Come with me kiddo,” he said as he escorted Zoe into his office.

  As Michael and Helen waited patiently, each with a book they were pretending to read, they periodically heard a peal of Zoe’s laughter, a low rumble of voices, and another peal of laughter. Michael gave Helen a thumbs-up, and she responded with two thumbs-ups.

  Twenty minutes later the door again opened, and out came a beaming Zoe with a jolly Gargano bouncing right behind. “Dad, you won’t believe what Mr. Gargano has in his office!”

  No, Michael couldn’t imagine. Playstation Mega 6.1? A bevy of lap dancers?

  “So your magnificent daughter tells me you’re a Knicks fan,” Gargano said from his office doorway.

  My daughter, magnificent? Helen wondered if she had heard him correctly.

  “Since I was about thirteen.” Michael grinned broadly. “Been a season ticket holder since ’eighty-five-’eighty-six.”

  “Ewing’s rookie year!” Vinnie enthused. “Then you gotta come on in and check this out.”

  One entire wall of Gargano’s office housed a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which served as his own personal shrine to the New York Knickerbockers. Michael had never seen anything like it, besides the time he took Zoe up to Springfield, Massachusetts, to the Basketball Hall of Fame; Helen was surprised to see so much sports paraphernalia in the hallowed halls of this impeccably maintained academic institution. There were team pennants, authentic game-worn jerseys, autographed balls, and at least twenty photographs of Gargano standing courtside next to several gargantuan pituitary cases. Occupying its own place of honor in the middle shelf was a perfectly minted set of twelve bobble-head dolls. Each plastic figure was molded and painted in the exact likeness of a member of the 1969-70 World Champion Knicks basketball team. Michael was in his element.

  Do not covet thy admissions director’s collectibles. Michael tried to remind himself of whatever Commandment he was breaking. Or was it, “Thou shall not worship false idols”?

  “So, Mike. How many can you name?” Gargano gently elbowed Michael in the ribs.

  “I don’t believe this!” Helen moaned under her breath. “A sports trivia entrance exam!”

  “Piece a cake. No problema,” Michael replied, not at all daunted by the challenge.

  Helen was impressed with Michael’s social dexterity. He usually hated being called Mike, Mikey, Big Mike, and normally made no bones about putting an offender in his place.

  Come on, Michael. You’ve been training for this moment for thirty years, she silently cheered, like the pom-pom shaker she never thought she would become.

  Michael started with the easy ones first. “Reed, Frazier, DeBusschere, Bradley, Barnett, Jackson . . . Riordan, Donny May, Cazzie, Nate the Snake Bowman, Stallworth, Bill Hosket, and . . .” He paused at the bobble-head in the number 16 jersey, causing Helen a moment of fret. “And John Warren.”

  “Way to go, Big Mike.” Vince high-fived Michael. “Most people think it’s Monroe.”

  “They’re probably Nets fans! We didn’t trade for him until ’seventy-one, and he wore number fifteen.”

  “Yeah, but not until ’seventy-two.” Vince threw him a curve. Apparently, the exam was still not over. “What number did Earl wear before he switched to fifteen?”

  “Thirty-three,” Michael said without blinking, “After Cazzie got traded to the Warriors. Then Sly Williams wore it, and after that Patrick.”

  Gargano whacked Michael’s shoulder with admiration. “Your husband’s pretty good,” he said to Helen.

  “Thanks. I think so.” She smiled. “And my daughter thinks so, too,” she said, valiantly trying to turn the discussion to Zoe.

  “Zoe is a terrific kid. Tell me about her.” Gargano pulled up a few chairs and kicked off the interview with a series of thoughtful questions about Zoe’s strengths and weakness
es. He couldn’t have been more engaging and positive, and after twenty minutes of this, the Dragers left with the impression that Zoe’s acceptance was a foregone conclusion.

  In the taxi on the way home, Helen laughed. “If Zoe gets in, I promise, you can get DirecTV, and I will never bust your chops about watching basketball ever, ever again.”

  “I won’t get in! Ms. Rothschild said I have no chance of getting in to The Bucolic Campus School.” Zoe was in tears. She had been stoic until they had left the campus, but once out of range, she broke down.

  Helen, putting an arm around her, said, “I came away with a really good feeling about this school. Let’s think about what we can do to increase our chances. I told you about Sir Basil being on the board and writing a letter. That will help. We can write a first-choice letter if we decide—I mean if you decide—it’s your first choice. That might help. Your SAPS scores will be good. Bertha assures us. And Daddy certainly passed his test with flying colors.”

  Like that matters, Zoe answered silently.

  That night, after Zoe went to bed, Helen sent Pamela an e-mail.

  Pamela,

  We all LOVE The Bucolic Campus School and Vincent Gargano. I’m sending him a thank you note right away. Will you be speaking with him? Let me know what our next steps should be.

  Helen

  “Michael. In the note to Gargano I think I should reference basketball just to make sure he remembers who we are. Give me an arcane little question for him.”

  “I don’t know . . . How about, ask him what Knick players have worn number fifteen since Earl retired.”

  “Earl Monroe is retired?” Helen asked. “Is he in assisted living?”

  While Sara was in her office reviewing the Dondi-Marghellettis’ application before their eleven o’clock interview, Brandi buzzed to tell her that Lydia Waxman was on line five.

  “Sara, how’s it going?” Lydia asked at a fast clip—not one to waste anyone’s time.

  “Uhhch,” Sara responded with the guttural sound she had heard Helen frequently use when referring to something distasteful.

  “Just touching base on the Easton application. Tally just called me with a novel idea! She has offered to emcee a special Thanksgiving Day assembly in honor of all of The School’s turkey-baster children.”

  “Do we have any?” Sara asked incredulously.

  “According to Tally, several members of MOTBOB have children who attend The School,” Lydia answered with the flippancy of someone who has a direct link to the world of celebrity gossip.

  “She would know. But regardless, the answer is NO.” Sara was appalled at the suggestion. “Besides, the older children are going to be serving a turkey dinner to their elderly friends from the senior center.”

  “Octogenarians! Excellent! They’re one of Tally’s largest targeted demographics.” Lydia pulled out all the stops. She worked hard for her clients.

  “Lydia, I’m not interested in using The School’s community service program to boost Tally’s ratings. If and when Montana Easton is enrolled at The School, we can consider Tally’s generous offers. Not before.”

  “So you’re saying that when Montana is enrolled—”

  “Gotta run.” Sara cut her off and hung up as Brandi stuck her head in to tell her that the Dondi-Marghellettis just called to reschedule their interview. Apparently there was a baggage handlers’ strike at Malpensa, and they were stuck in Milan. That was good news. It bought her an hour. Brandi buzzed to tell her Helen was on line one.

  Helen was in better spirits than Sara had heard her in for quite a while. Apparently they had had a very positive experience at The Bucolic Campus School yesterday.

  “Yeah, it’s a great school. If I could come back as a fourteen-year-old, that’s where I would want to go,” Sara responded with unmitigated enthusiasm, relieved that the Dragers had at last found a school they were excited about. Helen had become fairly high-maintenance lately, with her weekly tales of admissions travails, sharp critiques of all the schools, and complaints about her fellow bounty hunters.

  “Then why is Pamela so negative on it for us? She acts like Zoe doesn’t have a chance in hell of ever getting in,” Helen complained.

  “Because she has no influence there. Gargano won’t even take her calls,” Sara began.

  “Why the hell not?” Helen interrupted angrily. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to attack you.”

  Sara let it pass. “A few years ago she twisted his arm to accept one of her students, against his better judgment. Remember Andrew Procter?”

  “The asshole all the kids called ‘the proctologist’? The one who was suspended for putting cat turds in Miss Kohler’s mailbox?”

  “That’s him, the little shit. Pamela totally fabricated his teacher recommendations and whitewashed his school record. Even though his SAPS scores were lousy, she painted him out to be a hardworking overachiever from a very wealthy family. She really did a snow job on Gargano and even implied that the father was a Procter of Procter & Gamble.”

  “I always thought that he was. I guess her propaganda worked.”

  “Well, he isn’t. When Andrew got to The Bucolic Campus School, he was a washout from day one. They finally expelled him last June. Pamela’s credibility with Gargano is shot.”

  “Oh, great.” Helen was leveled by this news. “So why did she push for the kid when she knew he wasn’t playing with a full deck?”

  “Because his parents own a horse farm in Bedford where Pamela mucked about on weekends. They desperately wanted Andrew to go to The Bucolic Campus School, and Pamela promised she would get him in, knowing full well he couldn’t cut it. You know how it goes with her—kid pro quo.”

  “Talk about moral bankruptcy. So where does that leave us, now that we’ve all gotten our hearts set on The Bucolic Campus School?”

  “Just stay calm. If Zoe’s the right fit, Gargano will figure it out. From what I hear, he’s a straight shooter. Just keep Pamela out of the loop.”

  “Oh, no, I already sent her an enthusiastic e-mail.” Helen immediately regretted her efficiency.

  Uh-oh, bad move, thought Sara, but decided against upsetting Helen further. “Don’t worry. She’ll most likely ignore it. She’s occupied with other things these days.”

  “Like what? What could possibly be more important?” She was getting shrill again.

  “I’ve got to take this call. I’ll call you later.” Sara hung up.

  Zoe arrived at the Cashin residence promptly at noon to spend the afternoon studying with Catherine. After a snack of frozen decaf mochaccinos and homemade macadamia nut chocolate-chip cookies, compliments of the Cashins’ luscious blond au pair, the girls ascended to the third floor.

  Catherine’s three-room boudoir was the ultimate teenage girl’s fantasy. An artfully scored suite of pinks and greens, it was composed of unmatched but ingeniously coordinated patterned fabrics, wall coverings, and window dressings. Florals, plaids, dots, and stripes were cleverly mixed to create an abounding cheerfulness that even spilled over into the bathroom and walk-in closets. But in addition to all the froufrou, no modern technology was spared; it was all just well concealed within custom-built cabinetry, retrofitted armoires, and curtained alcoves. The décor achieved a perfection that qualified it for a six-page spread in an upscale shelter magazine with the headline: SWEET DREAMS: A DEBUTANTE’S DREAM SUITE.

  The family dog was curled up on a lime-green floral sofa surrounded by a collection of needlepoint throw pillows stitched with epithets like “Life without poochies? Don’t even think about it!” and “What part of ‘Woof,’ don’t you understand?” The Siamese cat, Mai Tai, was peacefully stretched out on the candy-cane-pink window seat, her steady purr in concert with the whir of the central air purification system that provided just the right level of white noise to obliterate the sound of the bustling city outside.

  On seeing Catherine’s dream suite for the first time, Zoe wasn’t sure whether the strong reaction she felt was more awe or envy. The Cas
hin home seemed like a castle out of a fairy tale. But on the other hand, Catherine seemed in many ways just like her and her less affluent friends: no happier, no more self-assured, no better off socially. Did having so much money mean that life for Catherine was any easier? It didn’t seem to be. She still had to study for the SAPS, she didn’t have a boyfriend, she had a few zits, and she had fights with her dad (at least she said she did). And she had lost her mom.

  “Let’s get to work. We left off on the ‘Ps.’” Catherine opened her vocabulary notebook and began.

  “Pecuniary?”

  “Having to do with money,” Zoe answered without hesitation.

  “Pretentious,” Zoe read, as they took turns quizzing each other.

  “Making an exaggerated show,” Catherine answered.

  “Philanthropy?”

  “Donating, giving.”

  “Prurience?”

  “Having lustful thoughts.”

  “I love this one. Priapic?” Zoe said, stifling a giggle.

  “Oh, I know that. Ummm, phallic, resembling a phallus. Right?”

  While her daughter was working on vocabulary in the ivory tower of the enchanted castle, Helen was ten blocks away, doing research at the museum. Scheduled to pick Zoe up at five-thirty, she packed up her notes and headed south. Catching a glimpse of herself in a shop window, she decided she looked a bit disheveled and would benefit from a fluff-up before making an appearance at the Cashins’. She popped into an overpriced Madison Avenue pharmacy/cosmetic emporium and began poring over a rack of lipsticks, sampling shades on the back of her hand.

  “May I help you?” asked the frosted-haired saleswoman named Rena, her foundation forming tiny fissures as she spoke.

  “I need a new color. Something . . . hmmmm . . . in the terra-cotta family . . . but not too orange,” Helen responded, gaze fixed on the lipstick, careful to avoid eye contact.

  “Let’s try this one. May I? It’s called Sienna Swinger.” Rena wiped the colored tip with a tissue and gave Helen’s taut lips a smear.