“What did you say?” she asked anxiously.
“I said that we were crazy about The Fancy Girls’ School but were told that admissions directors discouraged first-choice letters, and that was why we didn’t send one. I thought I cleverly avoided having to tell her that it’s not our first choice. Don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” Helen’s mind was off in another direction, analyzing Pamela’s motivation for telling Justine that. She was probably still hoping to secure the spot for April in exchange for Dana’s convincing the board to make Felicity the interim head of The School. It would be interesting to see how all this would play out after Pamela’s defrocking.
“What are you working on?” Michael asked, looking over her shoulder.
“The application for The Very Brainy Girls’ School. Not what I expected to be doing this late in the game.”
“But it’s good to have one more iron in the fire, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. Especially one that Pamela won’t have a chance to meddle with.”
The phone rang. It was Sara, sounding so shaky that when she asked if they could possibly meet for a drink, Helen was out the door in less than ten minutes. When she arrived at their neighborhood hangout, she found Sara already there, looking preoccupied and rather distraught.
“Are you all right?” Helen asked with concern as she sat down next to her friend.
“I just came out of meeting with the executive committee of the board. I’m still in shock about it. I’m not sure I should be telling you any of this, but I just can’t carry it alone anymore. You’re my best friend, above and beyond your role at The School, right? I know I can trust you not to tell a soul about anything I’m going to tell you, can’t I?” She was rambling nervously.
“Sara, relax. I can’t even believe you would ask if you can trust me. You know you can. And besides, I think I already know most of what you’re going to tell me. Lisa has been confiding in me for weeks.”
Sara felt betrayed. “I can’t believe you knew all along and didn’t say a word! I’ve been desperate to talk to you about everything that’s been happening. It’s been awful to hold it in all this time.”
“I’ve been dying to talk to you, too, but I’d been sworn to secrecy. And even if I hadn’t, I didn’t think it was fair to burden you. It would have made working with Pamela even more difficult for you than it already was.”
“It couldn’t have been more difficult.” Sara was still peeved.
“Come on, Sara. The point is, now we can talk, and I, for one, suddenly feel incredibly relieved.”
“Me, too,” Sara said, and pressed her face against Helen’s shoulder to conceal her tears. “I’m sorry. I’ve just had to hold so much in for so long now.”
“Don’t apologize,” Helen murmured, rubbing her back the way she did with Zoe. “Work must have been a horror show for you. I know she’s been driving me to the brink of homicide recently. You must want to wring her neck on a daily basis. I feel like we should break into a verse of ‘Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead,’” Helen joked. Sara sat back, blew her nose, and ran her fingers through her hair.
“Are you aware of everything that happened tonight?” Sara asked.
“Not exactly. I assume they told you that Pamela was going to be discharged as of Friday, right?”
“Right. And they offered me the position of interim head of School.”
“Really?” Helen took a slow sip of brandy, buying herself a minute. “What about Felicity?”
“She claimed to have no knowledge of receiving unauthorized money from The School, which, given her financial acumen, is believable, but then exhibited uncharacteristically good sense in telling the board that she didn’t feel she was qualified to assume the position of interim head. As a result, they decided to let her stay on and teach French for the remainder of the school year.”
“That was a good move on her part. I’ve always thought she was one of those people with a low IQ but a high survival quotient.”
“Strong primal instincts,” Sara concurred.
“But back to you. That’s very big news. How do you feel about it?”
“I’m not sure. You know I’ve often fantasized about heading a school, but not necessarily The School. And the board has made no guarantees that the interim position will lead to that. I would be on trial for some period of time, which could be a setup for failure. The School’s finances are in a shambles, the staff will be demoralized, the children will be discombobulated, many parents will be up in arms, and external relations are already dicey. Which reminds me, are you aware of the Tally Easton fiasco?”
Helen nodded affirmatively. “I spent my morning on the phone with every loony in The School.”
Sara continued. “Admissions are still two months from completion, and who knows what the response will be when the news of Pamela’s departure hits the streets. We may very well see lots of applicants withdrawing. And then there’s eighth-grade admissions, which will certainly be a challenge.”
Helen hesitated and then ventured haltingly, “Honestly, Sara, that’s the only part of your taking the job that I have any question about. I know you’ll make a successful head of The School in the long run. The first year may be difficult, but you’ll get through it. But I have to tell you, I’m really worried about getting through the next two months. Do you really think you can get all twenty-two eighth-graders placed into their first- or second-choice schools? You know that’s the expectation.”
“You mean your expectation. Be honest, Helen, all you really care about is getting Zoe into high school,” Sara said bluntly.
Helen was mortified. In all the years they had been friends, Sara had never been this overtly critical.
“I mean it, Helen,” Sara continued. “Since September you’ve been incredibly self-centered. You’ve been acting like high school admissions is the most important thing in the world. I would never have expected you to be so hysterical about it, particularly for Zoe’s sake.”
“God, have I been that awful?” Helen asked, now on the verge of tears herself.
“Yeah, you have. You’ve been absolutely impossible.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s just that I’m really worried about it all the time. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Of course I can,” Sara said kindly, handing Helen a tissue. “Believe me, I’m worried, too. I would feel terrible if I failed to get all the eighth-graders into school. But I look at it this way: Pamela hasn’t done a thing for anyone this year except maybe April Winter and Julian Toppler, and that’s only because she has some outstanding debts to their parents. She actually wrote their recommendations, and I assume she’s lobbying heavily for them at a few schools. Everyone else has basically been fending for themselves. Margaret told me she’s received calls from almost all of the eighth-grade parents about missing letters of recommendation. So if I’m able to accomplish even a fraction of what Pamela was expected to do, we’ll be ahead of the game. Right?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Helen said halfheartedly. “So you’re going to accept the offer?”
“I think I have to, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess you do.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Sara sniffed.
“I’m sorry. Of course you should accept,” Helen responded with reserve. “And you know I’ll be here for you in any way that I can.” Helen awkwardly placed a hand on Sara’s arm, making a promise to herself to do something special for Sara during the winter break. It was the least she could do to make up for her selfishness over the past few months.
“Thanks,” Sara said perfunctorily. “I’m going to need all the help I can get. And you need to stop worrying so much. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I already feel sick. I’m not sleeping well; I’m getting headaches. Icccch.”
“See? But I guarantee you’ll feel better when you hear Zoe at the Holiday Festival. She’s going to steal the show. She’s just glowing these days.”
“I hate to burst your balloon, but the glow is amorously induced.”
“You don’t think I know that? I’ve been watching them make goo-goo eyes for the last month.” Sara laughed. “But hey, they’re good kids, and they seem to be behaving themselves. Plus, if it enhances the show, so much the better!”
Since the program always included an exuberant chorus of “Let It Snow” it was fitting that, for the first time in the nine years that the Dragers had been at The School, there was a snowstorm on the morning of the Holiday Festival, and the children would actually get the white Christmas of their dreams.
Helen had arrived early to supervise the setup of the bake sale. The volunteer bakers had all delivered their contributions the afternoon before, and the committee had worked into the early evening tying up little bundles of petit fours, wrapping cakes, and packing loaves and tortes in preparation for the morning rush. At eight a.m. sharp, the doors opened, and the customers pushed and shoved to get first crack at the inventory.
“Mason, grab a dozen of the Newman’s rum balls and a bag of those pecan sandies,” Mr. Dixon ordered his son.
“Jen-a-fa! I said only two,” a nasal mother shrieked.
“Are there nuts in these?”
“Is this wheat-free?”
“Penelope, you may select one treat for each of your friends. Okay, one for your imaginary friend, too. Mommy’s your best friend? Well, you’re Mommy’s best friend, too,” Brenda Simpson, as was her habit, articulated loudly so that no one at any time could fail to witness her model parenting.
Helen was always amazed by how many parents felt compelled to wear holiday-inspired garments to this event, or for that matter, how many even owned these absurd articles of clothing. There were the dignified fathers who donned red and green ties, some with patterns of pinecones and holly discreetly embedded in the silk, and others with more blatant motifs like Santas or candy canes. There were always a few Jewish fathers in silvery-blue ties patterned with Stars of David, menorahs, or dreidels. A wackier father might show up in a long, red Santa cap, and every year at least one really out-there guy wore a headband with attached reindeer horns and a red plastic Rudolph nose.
The conservative mothers wore Norwegian sweaters, Tyrolean jackets, or Nordic vests that tastefully depicted wintry scenes of Tannenbaums and snowmen. The more risqué revelers wore hand-knit sweaters featuring Nativity tableaux, or factory-stamped sweatshirts imprinted with cartoonish renderings of Santa’s workshop. There were always a few with strands of blinking Christmas lights around their necks that, every year, left Helen wondering where the power source was hidden. Her only sartorial concession to the holiday hoopla was to wear two tiny Christmas tree ornaments as earrings.
Balancing pastries atop paper coffee cups, the parents made their way to the auditorium, oohing and aahing over the festive decorations, compliments of their little darlings. They pointed and smiled when they thought they had successfully identified the particular angel or sleigh bell that their child had instructed them to look out for. But who knew for sure?
Parents were busily discussing vacation plans, where to find the newest version of the iPod their children had asked Santa to bring them, and the ever-controversial topic of teachers’ gifts. Each year there were always a few parents who broke the rules and gave embarrassingly extravagant gifts to their children’s teachers, one of the worst offenders being John Toppler, who, two years ago, gave Julian’s math teacher a diamond-studded platinum slide rule that was rumored to have cost five figures. But it was generally agreed that he was outdone the following year by Peter Newman, whose gift to the American history teacher consisted of a two-week chauffeur-driven tour of the Confederate Army Civil War battle sites and a three-day reenactment at Appomattox.
The music teacher tapped her stick, and the elementary string ensemble began playing a just barely recognizable rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Minor on their pint-sized violins and celli. The audience was enchanted not only by the music but also by the miracle of the performance itself. Their video-game-and-cartoon- addicted offspring had metamorphosed (for the moment, at least) into credible classical musicians! What a tribute to The School! What a return on their investment!
After two more pieces and a thunderous applause, the musicians were replaced by the elementary chorus, which performed a veritable cornucopia of seasonal melodies, taking multiculturalism to a whole new level: from “Oh, Tannenbaum” to “Oh, Chanukah, Oh, Chanukah,” to “Oh, Oh, Oh, the Muezzin Is Calling.” Next was a Kwanza song, followed by a pan-Asian medley of winter harvest tunes, followed by the requisite snow song that had those with holiday travel plans watching with dread as the snow piled up on the windowsills. Their final song was a roaring execution of “Mele Kalikimaka,” with an audience sing-along made possible by the phonetic Hawaiian lyrics provided in the program.
Once the elementary performance was complete, Sara Nash appeared on the stage and introduced Elizabeth Marcus, the music director from The Public School, and together they welcomed the newly expanded middle school choral group. The program began with The School’s half of the group slowly marching onto the stage, softly singing the first verse of “The Little Drummer Boy.” Next, The Public School choral members followed, joining in on the second verse, seamlessly blending to create a symphony of young voices. They ended the piece with a multipart harmonization and then faded into “pum, pada pum, pada pum.”
“Bravo!” parents of boys shouted.
“Brava!” parents of girls shouted.
“Bravisimi!” opera buffs shouted, all clapping madly.
The program continued, with several equally complex arrangements of holiday favorites, including a round of “Joy to the World” in four different languages.
Next on the program was Max Kupka’s solo performance of “Greensleeves,” a song that Helen never particularly liked but that today gave her goose bumps. Her response was triggered not so much by the song as by Max, whose pale skin, dark eyes, and bee-stung lips reminded her of photographs she had seen of Michael at that age.
The last piece on the program was Zoe’s own arrangement of “White Christmas,” a gutsy interpretation that spanned two octaves and several changes of key. Her solo included a series of improvised scats, and Helen and Michael, who normally wiggled nervously in their seats any time their daughter was on stage, were mesmerized, afraid that if they moved a muscle they would miss a note. As Zoe reached the final chorus, she was joined by the entire group, and all, singing their hearts out, performed a virtuoso grand finale.
Helen and Michael were the first on their feet, and within an instant, the entire audience followed. As each of the performers took a bow, there was deafening and continuous applause for what was, by any standards, a notable musical achievement. Lisa Fontaine entered the stage with two huge bouquets for Sara and Elizabeth Marcus and congratulated them both for what she hoped was “the start of a beautiful relationship.”
“And now, please, everyone, if you could take your seats, I have an important announcement to make.” As she waited for what to Helen seemed an interminable interval, Lisa adjusted the microphone and repeatedly cleared her throat. Once the cacophony had finally subsided, she began.
“The board of trustees has received some very sad news. Today will be Pamela Rothschild’s last day as head of The School.” She paused as the shock waves zigzagged across the dumbstruck brow of every parent in the room. Even for New Yorkers who thrived on institutional drama, this was an unexpected blow. It would be safe to say that every parent in the room was stunned. It would also be safe to say that all the parents in the room were asking themselves the same question: “What does this mean for my child?”
Lisa continued. “Ms. Rothschild has requested that she be given the opportunity to explain her unexpected departure,” she said as she moved aside, making way for the queen of melodrama herself.
In contriving her farewell address, Pamela’s objective was simple—there should not be a dry eye
in the house. In an effort to elicit sympathy, she had come up with what she thought was an inspired idea: invoke the memory of Elizabeth II in the darkest days of her annus horribilis. To do so she wore a pale-violet silk brocade high-waisted dress with a matching three-quarter-length-sleeved jacket and topped it off with a dainty hat and shoes dyed to match. Her hair was tightly styled in a flipped bob, or bobbed flip, depending on the angle, and her makeup was appropriately subdued. Even though her hands were gloved, she made certain that her infamous charm bracelet was visible around one wrist, the strap of a violet handbag around the other.
“I am standing here today at a crossroads in my career. I have had to make a most difficult choice between doing what I love, with children that I love, with people that I love—and that includes all of you—or following my instinct to devote myself to children who are less fortunate than yours. I have been offered an opportunity—received a calling, if you will—from an internationally recognized, highly funded, prestigious world-class organization, whose name I am not at liberty to divulge at this moment, to be their director of education. The unfortunate news is that their needs are immediate. Therefore, it is with a heavy feeling in my heart that I leave you now. With the wisdom I have gained through the privilege of educating your children, I must now go and use that knowledge to benefit others. Please, find it in your hearts to forgive my abrupt departure. Understand I am doing this for all of us. For the future of our world belongs to all the children. Amen and adieu.”
Pamela stood glued to the podium, waiting for a contagious flood of sobs to infect the audience. But no one moved. No one made a noise. At last, Pamela broke the deafening silence by snapping open the clasp of her handbag, extracting a lacy hanky, and delicately dabbing the corner of her eye.
Lisa Fontaine returned to the stage and said graciously, “Thank you, Pamela. We all wish you the very best in your new endeavor.”
With head bowed, her dowager’s hump more pronounced than usual, Pamela skulked off the stage in shame while the room began to vibrate with the murmur of stifled agitation.
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