Claiming it was a misunderstanding, Miss Wickham and Mr. Rothschild confessed to the theft and returned the funds. The school has decided not to press charges.
“That’s quite a story,” she said, downplaying her astonishment. “But not inconsistent with her behavior here.”
“What do you mean?” he asked anxiously.
“Let’s just say, the only thing in this article that comes as a complete surprise is her relationship with Rothschild. I assume she married him, yes?”
“That would seem to be the case, although I did hear that Rothschild has since died. He was an old buffer, at least twenty years her senior. But once they left Manchester, I never had any contact with her. That is, until we ran into her in New York last year. I believe you may have been with her at the time.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Can I assume that you have put two and two together? I’m embarrassed to admit that she bent over backward to assist us because of what I knew about her past. In other words, to keep us quiet. Not that I ever threatened to blow her cover. I didn’t even know she was undercover! I would never have done anything like that. Please, Ms. Nash, you must believe me. We’ve done nothing wrong. As far as we knew, favoritism is standard practice in New York school admissions. We did whatever she told us to do,” he whined pathetically.
She felt sorry for poor Benjamin Whyte. He was one of the many victims of the master manipulator and didn’t deserve to be punished merely for knowing about her past and keeping quiet about it. She decided that the right thing to do was to view the Whytes as a charity case and give Oscar a fair shake. If, after going through the normal channels, he proved to be a reasonable candidate, she would consider him as such.
The lobby of The Very Brainy Girls’ School was lined with campaign posters for an upcoming student council election. However, they were not the garden variety, Magic Marker-on-colored-cardboard kind of posters; they were typeset, multihued photolithographed versions that, anyone could see, cost piles of money to produce. Madeline Gottbetter, the Dragers’ twelfth-grade student guide, wore a large round button imprinted with “Caitlin@kins FOR PRES,” who was, she went out of her way to let them know, in some way related to the diet doctor.
“But her opponent is outspending her ten to one on campaign paraphernalia. You’d be surprised. A lot of the younger girls are seduced by that crap,” she said in a disturbingly blasé voice.
“So much for campaign finance reform,” said Helen. Only Michael chuckled.
As they wound their way around the imposing building, Madeline subjected Zoe to the third degree. “Where do you go to school?”
“The School?” Zoe answered in the form of a question.
“Never heard of it,” Madeline replied. “Is it private?”
“Yeah?” Zoe again answered with the inflection of one who’s asking, not telling.
Don’t sound so insecure, thought Helen.
“Do you wear a uniform at The School?” Madeline inquired.
“No.”
“As you can see, we do. But we manage to work around it. If you come to school here, that is, if you’re one of the lucky few to be accepted, you’ll learn that it’s important to express yourself through accessories. I can tell a lot about a girl from her shoes, what kind of bag she carries, her jewelry—you know, the accoutrements,” she said with an accent that made it clear she had studied at least five years of French.
“Oh, great,” Zoe mumbled.
“Like I can see right away, accessories aren’t a priority for you,” Madeline sneered, her laser-sharp brand scan of Zoe having registered a single-digit number.
“So what’s your IQ?” Madeline asked as they walked up the stairs.
“I have no idea,” Zoe answered. Helen’s glance at Michael asked, “Does this call for a rescue?”
“That’s weird. Everyone here knows her IQ. How’d you do on the SAPS? You must know that.”
“I do, but I don’t think I want to share that with you,” Zoe replied with dignity.
Good girl, thought Helen.
“Where do you think you want to go to college?” Madeline wasn’t fazed and continued her interrogation.
“Uh, don’t know yet,” a beleaguered Zoe answered.
“FYI, I got into Yale. Early decision,” Madeline volunteered.
Just then a girl came bolting out of a classroom in tears, scrunched a piece of paper into a ball, threw it on to the floor, and fled down the hall. Madeline picked it up, and unfurling it, said with an air of ennui, “B minus. No wonder she’s upset. I would be, too.”
Helen, noticing that Zoe’s lower lip was trembling, put a protective arm around her but was summarily rebuffed.
“Madeline, what kind of social life do the girls have here? Do you have some sort of reciprocal arrangement with any of the boys’ schools? Do you have any organized opportunities to socialize with any of them?” Helen thought that if she took control of the conversation, she might be able to neutralize it.
“There is some of that. I don’t know much about it. I’m a lesbian,” she answered distractedly.
“Oh,” Helen answered. “Is there an active gay community here?”—thinking that it was important to let Madeline know she was all right with this.
“Pretty active. But a lot of them are LUGs.”
“What’s a LUG?” Michael asked.
“Lesbians until graduation,” Madeline answered flippantly.
The Dragers all looked at one another and made a collective decision to leave that one alone.
Madeline had led them to an impressive chemistry lab, where a small group of girls was gathered around a teacher, avidly jotting notes as he poured blue liquid from one test tube into another.
“Mr. Bunson. MIT. Undergrad. And grad,” Madeline informed them as they moved on to the next classroom. “A.P. Physics. Ms. Pushkin. Undergraduate, somewhere in Moscow. But she did graduate work at Princeton.”
“What a relief,” said Helen sarcastically.
The last thing she showed them was the gymnasium, where the ninth-grade girls were playing a ferocious game of basketball against a team from The Fancy Girls’ School.
“Our biggest rival. It doesn’t matter the sport—when we play their team, we play to win,” Madeline said. “We even compete with them on college admissions. We always have at least ten percent more students admitted to the Ivy League than they do.”
“So would you describe The Very Brainy Girls’ School as highly competitive?” Helen asked naïvely.
“Wouldn’t you?” Madeline stared accusatorially. “It’s commonly understood that we’re the best at everything. Academics, sports, debate, college admissions, even fund-raising. We certainly have the most high-powered parent body in New York. A former secretary of state, the head of the World Something-or-other, a future SEC chair, editors of big newspapers—you know the type.”
“And what do your parents do?” Helen asked a question she would normally never have posed, but with this girl it was no-holds-barred.
“They’re divorced and I rarely see my dad. He’s the most important U.S. ambassador in Africa. My mother is the head of plastic surgery at the Hospital for Facial Reconstruction. Ever since she donated a nose job to our school’s auction a few years ago, lots of the girls here have gone to her for work. She’s done at least six rhinoplasties, two breast reductions, and three augmentations in my class alone. They all say she’s the best.”
Helen was horrified. “Well, you must be proud of her.”
“It certainly seems that The Very Brainy Girls’ School prides itself on its excellence,” Michael said with an edge.
“It’s the best school in New York, and probably the entire country,” Madeline added definitively. Period. End of discussion.
She deposited the Dragers in the lobby and instructed them to wait. A few minutes later, Eva Hopkins, the very formal and stuffy director of admissions, appeared and informed them that she would meet with only Zoe. Here the parents were
spared the interview; The Very Brainy Girls’ School collected the only two pieces of parental data they wanted solely from the application: parents’ education and current professional status (use of the word “status” duly noted).
The agonized look on Zoe’s face as she followed Ms. Hopkins out the door left them feeling as guilty as if they were committing her to four years of boot camp, or in this case, sentencing her to four years of running laps in Manolo Blahniks.
Twenty minutes later, when Zoe exited the interview, her dour expression said it all: “Get me out of here and don’t make me ever come back.” They all felt as if they couldn’t escape The Very Brainy Girls’ School fast enough.
“So, I guess this isn’t our first choice,” Helen teased as they hailed a cab.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Zoe added morosely. “I can’t believe Catherine wants to go there.”
“Does she really?” Michael probed.
“You don’t even know Catherine,” Zoe snapped at Michael.
“Look, I think if we had had a more amiable, less obnoxious guide, we would have had a very different experience. Madeline embodied the worst of The Very Brainy Girls’ School. But there’s no question that the education is excellent. I’m sure if Catherine ends up there, she will manage to make it work for her.”
“If that’s really THE BEST school,” Zoe said, imitating Madeline’s pronunciation of “the best,” “then that’s where Catherine belongs. She’s one of them—a girl who has grown up with ‘the best’ of everything. For all I care, she can have it,” she said with a degree of anger that caught Helen off guard.
“I have to agree, I found Madeline’s qualitative judgments totally offensive. There’s no absolute best. What’s best for Madeline might not be best for Zoe. Or for Catherine, for that matter,” Michael weighed in. As they rode home in the cab, they all asked themselves some version of the same question: Will Zoe end up in the “best” school for her?
The next time Helen checked her e-mail, there were several pertaining to school business. The first was from Sara.
TO: All eighth-grade families
RE: Admissions
As we head into the final stretch of the admissions process, I wanted to touch base with all of you on a few points:
1.Please call Margaret in the next few days to set up an appointment for your family to meet with me to discuss the status of all of your applications. It’s important that I know where each of you are in the process and at which schools you would like me to make the strongest push.
2.Please call each school and double-check that your applications are complete. Before the winter break there was much confusion surrounding letters of recommendation, and I want to make sure that nothing falls through the cracks.
3.Please feel free to call me or drop in with any questions, suggestions or comments.
4.Bear with me, as I am learning as I go. I assure you, I consider successful eighth-grade admissions to be my number one priority.
The next was from Denise.
Helen,
A few last-minute questions before the auction catalogue goes to press.
First question: The Marxes have offered a day at the races. They own a slew of thoroughbreds and have arranged for a group of four to join them in their box for a champagne breakfast and a special race. One of their horses won the Triple Crown or something like that one year so I think they’re pretty big time. I’m not sure it’s appropriate since there’s gambling involved. What do you think?
Second question: Toppler came through with something really tacky. He’s offered to donate his legal services to set up an off-shore corporation, something he claims to have extensive experience with. I’m not comfortable with this. What do you think?
Last: What do you want to do about the Rothschild dinner?
She had no time to answer these now. She had been assigned three reviews, all due the following week, and she hadn’t yet seen the shows; she had a Pilates class, a haircut appointment, and had to shop for the dinner with Max they had scheduled for the following night. The School would have to wait.
Sara had arranged for Oscar Whyte to be interviewed by Laura Sue Charleston, the new Kindergarten teacher from Alabama, while she met with his parents. Miss Charleston was chosen because she had never conducted an admissions interview, and Sara thought it was important to give her a trial run. As Brandi led Oscar down the hall, she put her index finger to her mouth to shush a group of children she caught giggling at him. But even she had to admit that with his nubby hand-knit sweater and his Prince Valiant pageboy, he fit in better on the Isle of Wight than the Isle of Manhattan.
“And so do his parents,” she thought when she returned to the admissions office and considered Benjamin and Clarissa, both of whom were dressed in burlappy fabrics and homespun tunics, looking like a couple of modern-day Druids on their way to view a solar eclipse at Stonehenge.
“Miss Nash will be with you in just a few minutes,” Brandi said politely. “Would you like some coffee while you’re waiting?”
“That would be lovely. With milk, please,” Clarissa answered.
Sara kept the Whytes waiting for over ten minutes, something she had been loath to do when she was the director of admissions, but was now forced to do with some regularity. She was stuck on the phone with the long-winded Eva Hopkins from The Very Brainy Girls’ School, who had called to discuss Zoe Drager and the two other girls from The School whose applications she was considering. Brandi knew not to interrupt Sara after her recently issued edict: “Without exception, admissions directors take precedent over applicants,” or, as she pragmatically explained, “We’ve got to move out the merchandise before restocking the shelves.”
When she finally freed herself and apologized for her lateness, Clarissa countered, “No, no, no. We’re the ones who should be apologizing. We’re so embarrassed about the way this was handled and are ever so grateful to you for your willingness to even consider our application.”
These people are so not New Yorkers, thought Sara, finding their self-deprecating manner as well as their Cotswold Cottage fashion sense endearing.
“I’m happy to help. I understand the difficulty of moving to a new city, and I certainly know how intimidating the admissions process can be. So tell me a bit about Oscar.”
“Kiddywinks?” Clarissa beamed.
“Our little kipper!” Benjamin chimed in affectionately.
“Before you came to New York, had Oscar attended any kind of preschool program?” Sara realized she needed to be more specific.
“Oh, my, yes,” Benjamin began. “You see, I am a Montessori-trained teacher.”
“And I teach the Rudolf Steiner method,” Clarissa added. “Oscar attended a preschool in Manchester—a sort of hybrid, a blend of the two educational philosophies: The Steinessori School. It was a marvelous place. Have you heard of it?”
“That’s a new one,” said Sara. “Can’t say that I have. But, of course, I do know the two methods individually. Didn’t Pamela have some affiliation with Montessori?” she asked. Even though she knew it was unprofessional, she couldn’t resist the temptation to wheedle more information about Pamela out of the Whytes.
“She claimed to be a certified Montessori teacher and even stated so on her resume. But after she left The Manchester School, which, by the way, was strictly Montessori, it was discovered that she had no certification.”
“Wouldn’t her lack of training have been evident?” Sara asked.
“Not to four-year-olds,” Benjamin replied with an awkward grin. Clarissa giggled.
“But to her colleagues or the school’s administration?” Sara couldn’t believe The Manchester School would have been so lax.
“Don’t forget, she was . . . how shall I put it . . . ?” Benjamin stuttered as he searched for the right euphemism.
“Oh, just say it, Benjamin—she was shagging the headmaster,” Clarissa said impatiently. Her husband blushed, and Sara bit her lip.
&nb
sp; “It seems old Harold Rothschild was willing to turn the other cheek . . . so to speak,” Ben snickered, apparently having decided to let his hair down.
“Ben-ja-min,” Clarissa scolded, laughing.
Sara giggled, remembering that the only thing the British enjoyed more than bathroom humor was bedroom humor.
Clarissa suddenly turned to Benjamin and asked, “Did you tell Miss Nash why Pamela was . . . made redundant at The Manchester School?”
Sara sensed Benjamin’s fear and hastily interjected, “I learned what happened in Manchester from, ah . . . another source.” Benjamin looked at her gratefully.
Meanwhile, Oscar Whyte was cheerfully playing with the Kindergarten class hamster, Fribbles, while Miss Laura Sue observed and scribbled notes.
“So tell me, sweet pea, how do y’all like New York?” she drawled.
“It’s okay,” he answered. “But I like Manchester better.”
“I betcha do. I miss my hometown, too. But ya get used to New York real fast. It only took me ’bout two weeks.”
“You mean a fortnight,” Oscar corrected.
“A what?” She was befuddled. “Let’s take a look at a book, darlin’. You pick one out,” she said, plunking herself down on one of the miniature chairs. This was the part of teaching Kindergarten she was finding the hardest. With weak knees and an excess forty pounds, maneuvering up and down all day was an occupational hazard. Some days, to avoid having to repeatedly lower herself onto the floor, she had taken to crawling around the room on all fours, sometimes prompting a child to climb on her back and play horsey, which only made matters worse.
“I’ll go fetch one from the Mother Hubbard,” Oscar said, skipping over to the cupboard where the books were stored. Choosing a basic primer, he had no trouble reading every word, “See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Jane called Spot. Come, Spot, come.”
“Why, you went through that faster than Grant went through Richmond, sweet potato,” she crooned. “You must have read this one before?”
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