Small Admissions Page 18

  “You can’t write him off like that.”

  “Well, I have—I haven’t spoken to him even once since he broke up with her, and I don’t plan to.”

  “That would hurt him so much, to hear you say something so hateful. He adores you and misses you terribly. Won’t you even hear him out, try to be a little more understanding? He forgives you, you know. Will you at least put down your bag?”

  “Forgives me? What did I do?”

  “He called you that night, and you let him down,” Victoria explained. “He was going through something pretty wrenching and didn’t know how to end it with her, and he called you because he needed your help. And you—let’s face it—you totally dismissed him, and you let Kate get on that plane. You set them both up for more pain than was necessary.”

  “I’m not God,” Chloe suddenly said, “and I’m not responsible for his actions. Or yours, either.”

  “God?” Victoria asked. “No one thinks you’re God, Chloe.”

  “What you’re doing—it’s awful. You’re going to hurt Kate for nothing because this will never last. He’s going to put you down and chip away at you until you don’t know yourself anymore.”

  Victoria had to laugh at that. “I’m not exactly the kind of girl who gets ‘chipped away’ at by a guy. You should have a little more faith in me than that.”

  “He has a mean streak,” Chloe insisted.

  “Well, he has a nice side, too, and you know he does. Besides, Kate and I are nothing alike, and I would have thought you understood that.”

  “What’s your problem with Kate?”

  “There’s no problem. I’m just sick of all the fuss everyone makes about her. You should have seen her brother-in-law, leaping to her defense, jumping over a couch to throw poor Robert out the door.”

  “It’s called loyalty.”

  “It was a ridiculous display.”

  “Why do I have to be stuck in the middle of your mess?” Chloe asked.

  “Why are you making this about you?”

  “Fine. You would be better off alone than in a relationship with him.”

  “You and I are different, Chloe. Just because you get all of your satisfaction from saving the world, you should at least acknowledge that the rest of us might want to have some companionship and sex. It’s called ‘having fun.’ ”

  “Fun? You think it’s going to be fun? He’s not going to turn into a different person for you.”

  “I would never want him to,” she said, “but I will get him to behave. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with this,” Chloe said. “I don’t want to hear about it or talk about it. You’re the one who has to live with yourself, knowing what this will do to Kate. You’re being a bad friend, Vicki.”

  “Victoria.”

  Chloe had crossed her arms and said nothing.

  “They broke up over a year ago,” Vicki said. “Kate’s moved on, and over time she’ll understand. Actually, you should be the one to tell her. How did you know we’re dating anyway?”

  Chloe turned around abruptly, still holding the wrapped present, and walked out of the apartment. Victoria figured she was going straight to Kate to tell her everything. Even if they were both mad at her for a while, it would be a relief to have her relationship out in the open.

  Victoria wasn’t naïve. She knew Robert was a challenge, but it was one of the things she liked most about him; at least he wasn’t boring. Victoria understood completely how his relationship with Kate had spun out of control when Kate started getting needy, suddenly willing to give up her whole life in New York. It was terrifying for him, and he hadn’t known how or when to stop it. When he’d encouraged Kate to follow her heart, he hadn’t meant she should follow it to Paris.

  With Victoria and him, it was different. They had chemistry. They were alike. They looked good together and kept each other on their toes. He wasn’t a perfect boyfriend, but Victoria planned to train him, no matter how much work she would have to do.

  Turning her attention back to her work, she flipped through the new logo options for the bourbon label and took her time to determine which was the most appealing one, the sexiest. She narrowed in on one that was masculine and smoky, qualities she associated with Robert, and decided it would make even a non–bourbon drinker want to buy it. She wanted to talk to him. To call him. To text him? Or no, better to wait. It was his turn to get in touch, and she certainly didn’t want to come across as needy. Victoria was not needy, never had been. Needy was unattractive and revealed a lack of independence, and Victoria was decidedly independent. She would wait to hear from him.

  As the day wore on, she noticed an unfamiliar, sour feeling in her stomach. She was agitated, checking her phone every few minutes and snapping at people who came in her office to talk to her. She calculated the time difference in France and thought, He should be home now, in bed maybe. Or out. Out where? Out with whom? Who is he with? Is she pretty?

  She closed her eyes. Call me. Call me. Call me, she willed. She opened them and checked her phone again. Nothing. The silence felt punishing. This was a game of some kind. An unpleasant game. And games are stupid. She was a grown woman, and she could certainly get in touch with a man she was sleeping with if she wanted. This was the twenty-first century. She wouldn’t wait for him. Why should she?

  Finally she sent a text that took over an hour to compose. She threw out the following drafts:

  Thinking about you.

  Miss you. Day okay?

  Where are you? Can we talk?

  Hope you like this pic, real thing when you get here.

  Hey, how’s it going?

  Let’s Skype. Sometime tomorrow?

  It all sounded pathetic. She decided on:

  Must see you. Next week works for me.

  She held her breath and pressed send.

  Silvia Blake stood at the gates of West Side Elementary, back to the wind, fur coat buttoned up, waiting for dismissal. She rarely had the chance to pick Dillon up because her work made it impossible, but when she had a free afternoon here or there, she would text the babysitter and go get him herself. She enjoyed taking him somewhere fun, like Shake Shack, or buying him treats at his very favorite place, Dylan’s Candy Bar, and even reminding him to do his homework, which was a daily battle. But what energetic, sporty, fifth-grade boy doesn’t fight homework? And what boy wants to sit down and write application essays and thank-you notes all weekend long? It was torture for him.

  “Silvia! Hi!”

  She turned to see Tess Allsworth, the mother of one of Dillon’s classmates, running toward her with a panting little dog on a leash.

  “What a surprise!” she said. “I never see you at pickup.”

  “Well, when you work full-time,” Silvia said, “it’s kinda hard to just take off in the middle of the day.”

  “I bet. So how’s it going?” Tess asked. “Is the stress of all this admissions stuff just killing you?” Glowing with health from her run to the school, she stood on one leg and stretched out her quad. Lululemon, head to toe. Unlike Silvia, Tess didn’t work; she worked out. While Silvia might have envied the bodies of women like Tess, she accepted her own wider ass in exchange for her wider life experiences. She was a wife, a lawyer, and a mother—she was one of those women who truly managed to do it all.

  “I’m not letting it get to me,” Silvia said calmly. “I know it’s a lot to deal with, all the interviews, the applications, but at the end of the day, those admissions people will make the right decision. And I just want Dillon to be happy.”

  “Super attitude! Woo! I just keep reminding myself it will all be over soon. But it’s always something. The testing! Oh my God! We got Annie’s scores back. I can’t say I’m too happy.”

  Silvia wanted to believe that everyone was taking this whole testing thing way too seriously. Even Kenneth was getting worked up about it. She told him that in Dillon’s case, the other parts of his application would simply outshine his test score
s; the admissions departments would focus their attention on Dillon’s many wonderful qualities: personality, talent, athleticism, to name a few. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” she said. “I don’t think schools weigh test scores that heavily. They’re children, after all.”

  “But it depends on who you talk to, though, right?” Tess said, switching to stretch the other leg. “Some say one thing, some say something else. Who knows? But I sure hope you’re right because Annie really didn’t do as well as we thought she would.”

  “Don’t feel badly. Dillon didn’t, either.”

  Tess jumped up and down lightly to keep warm. “Annie cried when I told her she got eights on the verbal sections. She was inconsolable. I was, too, although I tried not to show it. At least her math scores were higher, thank God. How’d Dillon do?”

  Silvia felt her briefcase strap digging sharply into her shoulder, and she shifted it to the other side. “Dillon,” she said, “well . . . Dillon was about the same. Sevens, eights.”

  “Annie was so happy to get nines in math.”

  “Nines. Good for her.” What an unbearable show-off, Silvia thought. The problem with mothers of daughters, Silvia had figured out long ago, is that they just don’t understand boys at all. People like Tess were oblivious to how much more challenging it was to raise a boy, how difficult it could be to make a boy sit still to take a test.

  “Yes, well,” Tess said, “Annie’s our little mathematician. She just gets it, you know? But you’re legacy at Hudson, right? That’s like a guarantee, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, but our real advantage is that Dillon interviews really well; he’s such good company, and it’s impossible not to like him. I’ve been told by a lot of people that it’s a real strength for him, and the interview is pretty much the most important part of the process.”

  “So important! I mean it’s that and the transcripts, right? And the recommendations? Oh, the things we put our kids through. And to lose their teacher halfway through the year? Nightmare! Was Dillon upset that Ms. Millner left? Annie was positively crushed! We went to the Hamptons, and she just cried the whole time we were there. She misses her so much.”

  Oh, the drama. Girls and their emotions, always so over the top. That was a problem Silvia didn’t have. “No,” she told Tess, “Dillon really didn’t mind at all. He’s sort of unflappable about that sort of thing. Just rolls right off him.”

  “How does he like the new teacher?” Tess asked.

  “He doesn’t. He says she’s mean and overly strict and is always singling him out. She makes him stay in almost every recess, which is just cruel, I think, to do that to a boy. Boys need to run around, you know? Ms. Millner did that also, made him stay in and do math problems, like she just wanted to torture him.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Poor Dillon! Annie loves the new teacher. Loved Ms. Millner, too, but, well, she just loves teachers. That’s just Annie. Give her a book to read and when she’s done, she’ll sit down and write a report about it for fun. Teachers adore her.”

  “It’s harder for boys,” Silvia said, deciding right then and there to call the teacher and advocate for her misunderstood, mistreated, marginalized son. In spite of her strict, at times sadistic, teaching method, the teacher had surely highlighted Dillon’s strengths in her letter for him. Isn’t that the point of a recommendation after all? “Some teachers really discriminate against them. It’s very unfair.”

  “How awful! I wouldn’t know, but I guess boys can be a handful, though, right? A little on the exuberant side? Rambunctious? At least that’s what Annie tells me. A lot of them just can’t sit still to do the work. Not Dillon, but I just mean some of the boys. Ahhh! Here’s my girl!” Annie walked up to her mom, handing over her backpack and kissing her. Another boy-girl divide: Dillon had made it clear that there was to be no kissing in public, and Silvia grudgingly respected that.

  Annie dropped down to the pavement, hugging the stupid little dog and talking to it in a baby voice. Silvia noticed for the first time that it was wearing little pink bows on its head.

  “I wonder where Dillon is,” Silvia mumbled.

  “Playground,” Annie told her.

  “You see?” Silvia said. Case in point. “That’s Dillon for you. I’ll have a heck of a time getting him off the monkey bars.”

  Letter of Recommendation: Dillon Blake, applicant to 6th grade

  I was Dillon’s homeroom teacher until Thanksgiving when I made the unexpected decision to retire early for personal reasons. Dillon is now in the capable hands of my replacement who asked me to complete this form given that I have known him longer. Dillon’s new teacher is less experienced, but her young age will be an asset, as Dillon has enormous energy. At my age, it was a struggle to harness his boundless zip, and I found myself eagerly waiting for the day to end so that I could go home and lie down.

  At recess, Dillon is often a leader of various games, telling the other children what to do and then evaluating their ability to do it. He has a robust competitive instinct, which must help him tremendously on the soccer field. As I am not his coach, I do not know how he is as a “team” member. He can be creative when telling stories during share time, and while friendships often come with conflict, he seems to enjoy the company of other children. He is less receptive to the company of adults (i.e., me), as he does not like to be directed from what he wants to do to what is required (i.e., class time).

  Math is a particular challenge although he certainly improved in his computation skills this fall. While subtraction was initially impossible for him, he was able to complete simple tasks using manipulatives (such as blocks or tiles which I borrowed from the first-grade classroom). His initial impulse was to “shut down” when confronting a difficult problem, but with firm guidance and input, he could rise to the challenge. Addition became quite easy for him over time, and I was proud of him for working with me on this important skill and becoming more independent when solving problems.

  This was to be my thirtieth year in the classroom, and teaching Dillon was a standout experience. He provided me with endless opportunities to seek new ways to explain concepts, and new ways to engage a student for longer than, say, a few minutes at a time. I wish Dillon all the best for his middle school years.

  Ms. Millner

  Former 5th grade teacher

  February

  Now I had two relationships to keep secret from Kate—easy since she was too busy to see me anyway, but stressful in that I worried about it all the time. When we talked on the phone, I never told her anything about George and me, about our joint checking account, our sex life, or even our rescue dog, Carter (as in Jimmy), who was a mix of Labrador and everything else, a breed George had dubbed “dogador.” And I certainly didn’t tell her the ugly, shocking news about Vicki and Robert. Once again, I was sitting on information. Why me?

  “Victoria”? I couldn’t call her that. And anyway, I liked the old Vicki better. I’d spent a whole summer traveling with her back in college, back when she was still my unpretentious, eager friend from Nebraska who’d never left the U.S.A. before, who was so gung ho to take trains all over Europe, staying in cheap, one-star youth hostels and getting by on forty euros a day. We were broke and without a plan, getting lost, sharing clothes, and meeting random people who would do absurdly generous things like invite us for dinner in their homes. In Munich we met cute German boys, and Vicki got bombed at a beer garden with them, while I tried to force-feed her big fat pretzels to get something in her stomach, to no avail. I zigzag staggered her back toward our cruddy room, and as we stumbled along, Vicki, without warning, went from laughing to crying.

  “Oh no,” she sobbed, burying her face in her T-shirt, which meant showing her bra to anyone walking by.

  “You’re okay,” I told her, trying to pull her shirt back down. “Are you going to throw up?”

  “I love you so much.”

  “Ohh, I love you, too. Keep going. We’re almost there.”


  “Why do you like Kate more than me?” she asked.

  “What? No, that’s silly. I like you both.”

  “I’m a better friend to you, but you wanted her to come instead of me,” she cried.

  “No, I wanted you both to come, but this is great. It’s the best trip ever. Aren’t we having fun? You and me?”

  “You don’t even care that she always puts us last.”

  While it was probably true that Kate didn’t put us first, we certainly were never last, and anyway it didn’t bother me the way it did Vicki. That summer, Kate chose an archaeological dig in Mexico over our girlfriend trip to Europe, and while I may have been disappointed that she didn’t go with us, I also knew it wasn’t personal. If you wanted to spend time with Kate, you had to work a little harder for it. I would text her from outside the psychology building on a pretty day. She’d come out, blinking in the sunlight, and I’d have a coffee for her; we’d sit somewhere and talk for a few minutes. I would ask Vicki to come along, but she resented it when I indulged Kate that way. She thought Kate should come to us, not the other way around. “You’re just encouraging her,” Vicki would scold me. I couldn’t understand why my relationship with Kate hurt her feelings.

  Later it became hard to imagine that Vicki’s feelings could get hurt over anyone. She changed over time, became haughty and cool. “Victoria” would have judged the boys who had bought us drinks and taken us dancing. She would have turned her nose up at the tinny beds and drippy sinks in the corners of hostel rooms. She would have criticized everyone who had reached out to us, offering directions, wine, and even sex, all of which we accepted at one time or another during those three months.

  At the end of our trip, we went to Paris and stayed with Robert in his studio apartment in the 6th, not far from the Pont Neuf. I was excited to see him, but I remember warning Vicki, “My cousin can be a bit of an asshole. If he says something mean, just ignore him. That’s just how he is.” I was more than used to Robert’s personality, having spent most of my summers in France with him when we were growing up. When I stayed with his family, we were inseparable, in spite of the fact that we had loud, vicious fights so often that one time my aunt declared that she couldn’t take it anymore. She’d had it with us. She made me pack up all my stuff, and she put us in the backseat of the car with my luggage, taking us all the way to the airport before she revealed that she was only trying to teach us a lesson. We had physical fights when we were young, like the time he made fun of my French in front of a group of his friends and I punched him in the stomach, and political and philosophical fights as we got older, like the time we stayed up an entire night having it out over the issue of income inequality. I was the voice of the proletariat and he, of course, was the champion of the upper crust. We never resolved who won.