Small Admissions Read online

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t. Because there’s no slowing things down at that point. There’s only going ahead as planned or coming to a complete halt, and he didn’t want to go with the plan. Let me tell you something, Annie, you feel pretty foolish for taking an expensive Berlitz class and giving up a lease in Manhattan along with all prospects for what was supposed to have been a serious and fulfilling career in academia to move to Paris to start a new life with a guy who ends the entire thing out of nowhere in the middle of an airport terminal and refuses to give you a reasonable explanation. Am I right?”

  “I guess.”

  Kate took a big breath. “So anyway,” she said and exhaled in an effort to get back on track. “What classes do you like this year?”

  “You asked me that already.”

  “Oh yeah, water and all that.” Kate looked up to see Annie smiling, just enough to notice. “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hmm. ‘What do you like most about your current school?’ ” Kate read. “ ‘And what would you most like to change?’ ”

  “I like my teachers and friends the most. I like being challenged in my classes and working in groups. And if I could change anything? . . . I’d like the boys to be less rowdy, and I guess I’d like to be able to leave school for lunch. There are a lot of good restaurants in the area. I want to be able to step out for sushi.”

  “Aren’t you too young for that?”

  “Some schools allow it.”

  “We don’t.”

  “Well, I can always go to Starbucks with my friends after school gets out.”

  “What else do you do when you’re not in school?”

  “I ride horses and paint.”

  “Simultaneously?”

  Annie raised her eyebrows up her colossal forehead and spoke slowly. “I go to my stable in the Hamptons every weekend. I take an art class at the Met on Wednesday afternoons. Painting is my favorite way to express my creativity.”

  “That’s great. Really. And I assume you have loads of friends. Get along with everyone?”

  “Yes, I’m very popular, and I love my friends.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I can be myself with them. I like girls who make me laugh and who listen to me.”

  Vomit, Kate wrote. She was getting bored. “And is there anything you would like to ask me?” she asked.

  “Why didn’t you just move to Paris anyway?”

  “About the school. Is there anything you would like to ask about the school?”

  “How many arts classes—”

  “But since you asked, I obviously couldn’t stay there since I had nowhere to live. I had no job, no friends there. What was I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know. Stay at a nice hotel and go shopping for some new clothes? Why couldn’t you move there on your own? That’s what I would have done.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not France’s fault that your boyfriend broke up with you.”

  That afternoon, Kate wrote up her thoughts on the interview:

  Annie Allsworth is a know-it-all, Neanderthal-headed brat. She is incapable of thinking outside her own experience; zero ability to put herself in the shoes of others, which I know would make her a lousy community member at this school. I hated this girl and think she is probably a bad friend. Clearly a mean girl. And a fake. I don’t want her to come here, as I will likely shoot myself if I ever have to see her again. No way. No fucking way.

  Kate read the paragraph over, and then held down the delete key. Why was it so pleasurable to direct her irritable mood at horrible Annie Allsworth? And why was she feeling so grumpy anyway?

  “You think too much,” Robert used to say to her when they were first dating. “Must you always be so cerebral? You know, eeet’s not at all sexy.” And “I like you best, chérie, when you’re not feeling ze need to express every thought running through your pedantic mind. I was never before involved with a woman so . . . so ruminative.” And finally, “When you laugh more and talk less, you are quite nice to be with.”

  She attempted to be more airy and impulsive and found he liked her much better that way. This change in personality flew in the face of her upbringing, of her nature really. “Cogitation is digestion for the brain,” her father always said. “It’s an essential bodily function for someone like you, Kate.” But Robert had tried his damnedest to put a stop to that. Why had she been so willing to comply?

  She looked at her blank screen, carefully considering the interview she’d had that morning, and tried again:

  Annie is a bright girl who can probably memorize facts and please her teachers quite easily. My guess is that her grades will be close to perfect. However, in terms of true intellectual ability, she is, I believe, stunted by an inability to go a step further with those facts and apply her knowledge to making real discoveries and insights. Furthermore, she has never experienced hardship of any kind, so while I do not doubt that she has the smarts, skills, and motivation to do the work here, I worry that her lack of empathy might stand in the way of her making serious connections with students and teachers. I also think it will hurt her ability to make thoughtful observations in her academic work, about characters in literature, for example. This is a girl who would tell Oliver Twist to stop asking for so much food all the time and just order something in from Seamless. Annie did not come across as genuine, even when discussing her interest in reading and riding horses. Everything about her felt staged. Since I never got to see the real Annie, I can only go by what she presented to me.

  Her mother, Tess, put on the exact same display; she bragged incessantly and seemed incredibly phony. It is hard for me to see Annie as a good fit here, and, based on her “performance” during the interview, I cannot recommend her for admission.

  Albert the security guard knocked on her door and leaned in, handing her a box of macaroons from a fancy store on Lexington Avenue. “They’re from that same girl who brought you the Halloween candy.”

  “She’s so sweet,” Kate said. “Here, have one. Have two.”

  “I guess you’ll be working late a lot now,” Albert said, taking a macaroon and a seat. “Entering the dark time.”

  “That’s what Maureen keeps saying.”

  “You know she covered your ass yesterday,” Albert told her.

  “What?”

  “You forgot about a family she scheduled, and Maureen came running out to the lobby before Henry knew about it and rescheduled them for some other day.”

  “Where was I?”

  “I don’t know. Lunch?”

  “Oh shit.”

  She went to Maureen’s office and put the box of macaroons on her desk with a sticky note that said, “Sorry I screwed up yesterday, it won’t happen again.”

  Later Maureen put the note back on Kate’s desk, flipped upside down, where she wrote, “It probably will, but don’t worry about it.”

  Thanksgiving was a time to enjoy the company of family (or “loved ones,” as some people called them), and Nancy didn’t. She liked her daily routine, and along came Thanksgiving to throw everything out of whack. Sam and Gus were under foot and making themselves at home in rooms that were normally her own private spaces. Her cleaning lady took the afternoon off. And worst of all, her gym was closed. Nothing was as it should be, and she found herself incapable of pretending she was having a good time.

  When Sam’s mother arrived at the town house, Nancy was supposed to act like she was happy to see her, but she simply couldn’t do it. Sam’s mother was an impeccably dressed, stone-cold bitch, and she never missed an opportunity to impose. She came every Thanksgiving for what she called a long weekend when it was in fact five days. She planted herself on a Swan chair in the living room and commented on things she saw around her: “Your cleaning lady comes every day now? I couldn’t bear having help around the house that much, but th
at’s just me.” “With the way you and Sam spend money, you might want to think about getting a job.” “I suppose poor Gus knows he’ll never have a brother or sister?” “My word, Nancy, you catered the entire Thanksgiving dinner? Why spend all that money on a new kitchen when you don’t even cook?”

  When she was newly married, Nancy would do all kinds of stealthy maneuvers to get prepared foods refitted into her own Le Creuset cast-iron baking dishes and hide the foil pans. But with age came confidence, and now she owned her way of doing things, proudly announcing the time that the caterer and waitstaff would be arriving. “Hope everyone’s hungry,” Nancy said, “because this meal is costing us an arm and a leg.”

  And speaking of arms and legs, Nancy made a pledge to be disciplined this Thanksgiving so that she didn’t undo all the hard work she was putting in with her nutritionist and trainer; her body had never looked better. It wouldn’t be easy given all the temptations in the house: wine, potatoes, and warm bread with butter. And then there were the desserts the nanny was whipping up just to keep Gus occupied throughout the day. At least someone was using the new kitchen.

  “Gus’s been in there all day,” Sam said, looking disgusted. He had changed into exercise clothes.

  “So?”

  “Can’t that lady do something else with him?” He got down on the floor and did a set of push-ups, grunting and counting under his breath.

  “Use a mat, Sam. You’re sweating all over the carpet.”

  “Why is she even here?” he asked.

  “Your mother?”

  “No, the babysitter.”

  “She’s the nanny.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “She lives here. And it’s not like you don’t know her name.”

  “Olga. Whatever. Why is she here?”

  “Where exactly would you like her to go?” Nancy asked.

  “I assumed she took time off every so often.”

  “Not today. I’m not going to entertain him. Are you?”

  “For once can’t he do something normal,” Sam asked, “like sit on the couch and watch football? She’s got him wearing a goddamn apron.”

  “What do you care?”

  “He’s weird. They’re in there having a whole discussion about gnomes, for Christ’s sake. I’m buying him an Xbox for Christmas with every violent game I can find. Jump-start his testosterone.”

  The day went from bad to worse. Nancy was expecting fourteen for dinner, and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, Sam had randomly invited some politician and his young wife without telling her.

  “The table seats eighteen. What’s the big deal?” he asked. A question that didn’t even deserve a response.

  The caterer broke the turkey platter, and they had to find an alternative, which meant digging around in cabinets since Nancy had no idea where things like that could be located. While she was rummaging around, Sam showered, primped, and got an early start boozing it up. Nancy had chosen a spicy, whiskey-based martini as the evening’s signature fall cocktail; Sam tasted it, made a face, and then started messing around with the caterer’s recipe. By the time the guests arrived, he was in full jackass mode, acting the part of merry host, son, husband, and father. He played bartender, in spite of the fact that they’d hired a professional, gave toasts, and slapped all the men repeatedly on their backs. He got flirty with the ladies.

  “Son!” he yelled loudly. “How about you and me go toss a ball around after dinner?”

  Gus, sitting on the couch with a book, looked up at him like he didn’t know who he was.

  They somehow got through the meal and through the day. As Nancy went upstairs to settle into bed that night, with a glass of wine on her nightstand, the terrible truth hit her: it was only Thursday. She had three more days of family togetherness to endure.

  Just having Sam around at all was difficult and wore on Nancy’s nerves. He was out of town so much of the time, and Nancy liked her schedule without him. Wake up, let in the housekeeper, drink coffee, say good morning to the nanny, watch her morning show, go to the gym for an hour and a half, shower, take a ride with the driver to a self-improvement appointment (hair, nails, waxing, laser, psychiatrist, dermatologist, reflexologist, spray tan, fake lashes, massage, or facial, depending on the need of the day), lunch with a friend, do an errand or two, come home, open the wine, and get ready for bed or a night out on the town. It was a lovely life really. Then Sam would come back, smelling like airplanes, cologne, and Sam, and Nancy would find everything—from his comb on the bathroom counter to his sweaty exercise shorts on the closet floor—an intrusion.

  There was one reason only that Nancy needed Sam around this weekend: to go over Gus’s applications and discuss their upcoming school visits. There was no room for error during the interview. Mel, the placement specialist, had said they needed to present themselves as a united front, as a solid, loving, supportive family, and Nancy wasn’t even sure what that might look like.

  Friday morning, after an hour on the treadmill, she saw she’d missed a call from a woman she barely knew. They’d met at a yoga class, and it struck Nancy as odd that she would call her on Thanksgiving Day. A little too personal. “Hi, Nancy, it’s Angela. We met at yoga, remember? Happy Thanksgiving! You mentioned that you’re looking for schools for your son, Gus. I’ve still got a few years before all that starts for us, but I thought I’d let you know that my sister, Kate, works in the admissions department at Hudson. In case you’re looking there for Gus, let me know. I can call Kate and give her a heads-up. Maybe we can grab a coffee next week. Call me.”

  Hallelujah! A connection! A connection just landed—boom—in her lap. Now that was something to be grateful for.

  Dear Admissions Committee,

  Thank you for my tour and interview at Hudson Day School. I appreciate the time Ms. Pearson took to speak with me. Our conversation was interesting, and I learned so much about her (and Hudson) during my visit. I believe that your school would provide me with challenging educational and extracurricular opportunities.

  I have many goals for my future, and Hudson Day could help me reach my aspirations.

  Yours truly,

  Annie Allsworth

  Angela sat on the uptown 1 train, anxious about her evening with Vicki. First there was the obvious issue—they only knew each other through Kate, so it felt awkward to be meeting without her. But also, they had so little in common. Vicki had the single, hip, money-to-spare thing down. Every time Angela saw her, she was manicured, pedicured, and put together in a way that was very “this season.” Angela, on the other hand, was currently at that awkward stage of pregnancy: big enough to look fat, but not big enough to be obviously pregnant. And even when she wasn’t in maternity wear, she dressed from a closet full of timeless, proper, often expensive work clothes, so when it came to dressing down for the weekend or for a night out, she was lost. What did people wear to look casual-sophisticated-cool? She couldn’t pinpoint why exactly, but she knew her jeans were dated. She had the same haircut from ten years ago and didn’t know what was wrong with it, but something was. For years, she’d gone for a look that she thought was classic but was now reading as frumpy, and while she could see it, she didn’t know how to fix it. She liked the idea of changing her style, of shaking things up, but who has the time and money to keep up with these things? Apparently Vicki.

  The nerves also came from being out of practice; as embarrassing as it was to admit, Angela didn’t go out at night anymore. Her friends had stopped asking. Few of them had children, and they never seemed to fully appreciate the limitations in Angela’s schedule. They would suggest meeting for happy hour, which in Angela’s world meant dinnertime. Angela was making an effort to cultivate some new friendships with women who had children, with women who would understand how hard it is to juggle work, yoga, and family. With women who would know what being a mother was all about.

  But Vicki? What would she and Vicki have to talk about?

  Doug was looking
forward to a father-daughter evening; he was always so steady, balancing out Angela’s tendency to jump at things, to wind up. “She feels warm to me. Does she feel warm to you? Did you feel her head?” Angela asked.

  “Just go, have a nice time,” he’d said, half covering his eyes, pretending not to see Emily hiding in plain sight across the room. When she jumped out from behind the floor lamp, she knocked it over. “Whoopsy-daisy,” he said and went to stand it back up again. “Take a banana with you,” he suggested, as Angela was leaving, “just so you don’t get too hungry.”

  “I can’t put a banana in my clutch.”

  “A sandwich, then.”

  “What? No. It’s not like I have to eat all the time.”

  Doug made a face that Angela understood immediately. “Don’t make me feel like more of a cow than I already am,” she said in a huff.

  Vicki had suggested meeting at her place, so Angela got off at the Christopher Street stop in the West Village, a grittier, younger, and louder version of her own neighborhood. She walked west past pretty little restaurants, all of which were packed full, and past stately brownstones, some of which had single buzzers next to their massive front doors. She found Vicki’s building and double-checked the address with the one Vicki had texted. Above the door the street number was written clearly, along with a garish sign for the ground-floor store, “Village Vibrator.” Well, Angela thought, how convenient.

  Vicki greeted her warmly. Such a hostess. She took Angela’s coat, smiled at her stomach, and offered Perrier. She was a woman who owned her space, who handled things in a practical way. Angela remembered Vicki’s calm in the cab on the way to JFK to pick Kate up.

  “How could he? How could he?!” Angela had shrieked.

  “We don’t know what happened yet. Let’s just wait to talk to her.”

  “But what a fucking asshole! Who does that? Who does something so cruel?”

  “Let’s just take care of Kate,” she had said, patting Angela’s hand. “Robert isn’t the problem. We don’t have to fix him, but poor Kate must be so humiliated,” and she turned and looked out the window, deep in thought. Angela had admired her ability to eliminate Robert from the equation, to put the attention on the real problem, on her broken, miserable little sister.